Korval's Game

by Sharon Lee

  It was a simple enough plan, on its surface, but Hazenthull believed that a man who had engineered the theft of three Yxtrang fighter craft from the very fields of the Fourteenth, envisioned a more complex undertaking than she, in her youth and ignorance, could apprehend. Still, it would be a welcome thing to close with an enemy—and the scout’s plan, simple or complex, promised action.

  Weapons checked and plan reviewed, Hazenthull hesitated on the edge of her next duty—but it was a duty, and one she had shirked, for reasons she did not care to study too closely.

  Squaring her shoulders, she walked across the room, to where Nelirikk Explorer, Hero and aide to Captain Miri Robertson, sworn to the descendants of Jela’s blood, sat over a piece of fancy work.

  He looked up as she came forward, his eyes blue and noncommittal, as befit a Hero. Hazenthull hesitated—which was her weakness—steeled herself and spoke in the explorer’s dialect.

  “You asked a question, before, and I gave you no answer. We are on the edge of action and I may find glory upon the morrow. I would tell you, now, between ourselves, why explorers marched with the common troop.”

  He used his chin to point at the chair opposite him. “Sit and speak.”

  Sit she did. Speak—that was more difficult.

  She mustered discipline, aimed her eyes forward and just over Nelirikk Explorer’s right shoulder.

  “We—Gernchik Explorer and Hazenthull Explorer—were assigned to march with the common troop in a disciplinary action following Hazenthull Explorer’s field report in which Major Shevnir Quartermaster was named as keeping slack discipline, which had lost for us several interesting and irreplaceable specimens. Gernchik—would have written a different report. I believed that an explorer’s duty outranked a major’s pride.”

  She stopped, then finished it, though the section of wall she had been staring at was starting to blur.

  “The senior died because I am a fool, and not worthy—never worthy—of his teaching.”

  Silence followed this, which was oddly comforting, though she would not have hesitated if Nelirikk had ordered her to draw her sidearm and shoot herself through the ear.

  “Your answer is heard,” he said, which was the old, familiar explorer’s acknowledgment. “Now that your senior has gone to glory’s reward, it comes to you, as his junior, to perform your duty as he would have performed it. It is no light charge, for Gernchik was an explorer of the first rank.”

  Hazenthull blinked. “He was that,” she said hoarsely.

  “Go now,” Nelirikk Explorer told her. “There is an hour for rest before Commander Lizardi calls us.”

  She did not feel like resting, but Gernchik would not have argued the point. Hazenthull stood, saluted and went over to her bunk, where she stretched out beside her weapons and her pack, and closed her eyes to think.

  ***

  “YOU LEFT HIM!” Anthora shouted.

  On days other than this one, her emotion was such that teacups would have trembled against their saucers and wine glasses chimed their cheeks against each other. It was not entirely impossible that a stool might have become spontaneously airborne.

  Today was a day like no other. Anthora stood in the middle of Jelaza Kazone’s back kitchen, dirty and draggled; tears of anguish and of fury cutting rivulets of cleanliness down her grimy cheeks, and was reduced to stamping a foot for emphasis.

  “You left Merlin among our enemies and I ordered you to stop!”

  Jeeves’ head-ball flickered soft orange lightnings; his wheels rumbled against the floor as he rolled over to put a kettle on for tea.

  “Miss Anthora, you are aware that I have priorities. The highest of those is the protection of the human lives of Clan Korval. I must insure your safety at any cost, no matter how high.”

  Anthora scrubbed at her face, widening the muddy streaks. “But you and Merlin are—friends.”

  “Old friends,” Jeeves agreed. “Merlin was among the first to make me welcome when I came to be yos’Galan’s butler.” There was a pause, the flickerings in his head-ball increased in rapidity—and all at once ceased.

  “Perhaps it will ease you to learn,” the robot said slowly, “that Merlin has undertaken a task in coordination with Jelaza Kazone. In essence it is a guerilla action, which carry a high factor of risk. But Merlin is old and skillful. I have confidence that he will succeed in taking the war to the enemy.”

  Anthora closed her eyes. “You say that Merlin goes ahead, to pinpoint our enemy’s location so that more . . . concerted action may be brought against them.”

  “That is the core of our strategy, yes.”

  “We have no army to call upon, Jeeves. Only yourself, and me—and the Tree.”

  “Well,” said Jeeves, lifting the kettle from its ring and pouring tea into a tall, workmanlike mug, “that’s a start—and you must not discount your lifemate, who seems, if you will allow me to say so, a wizard to reckon with.”

  She blinked, and fell suddenly still, the way of Ren Zel’s walking through hyperspace suddenly and most shockingly clear.

  “Yes,” she said, softly. “He is a wizard to reckon with. And so, of course, is the Tree.”

  ***

  ALONE IN HIS CABIN, Ren Zel staggered and grabbed the wall.

  It came again—a cool, green rippling across his vision, longer this time, deeper, almost displacing the reality of the walls around him. He closed his eyes, and the green resolved into an image of the vast Tree in Korval’s garden, seen as if he were looking up into the branches from below.

  Good evening, elder, he heard her voice in his mind’s ear. I wish to undertake a journey.

  “Anthora,” he whispered, and had the sense that she heard him—though it was impossible that she could, with the Passage in hyperspace and her standing in the free air of her garden. “Anthora, what are you doing?”

  Beloved. Jeeves tells me that Merlin has been sent ahead into the heart of our enemy’s territory, to act as our scout and our trojan. I go to his side, to rescue our servant, and to confound our enemy.

  “Our enemy? Who is—” Memory rose and spilled over, flooding him for a moment or a lifetime, and when he at last shook his head free and gasped a deep lungful of air, he knew everything that she knew of the Department of the Interior, of Merlin’s probable whereabouts—and dea’Gauss’, too.

  Yes, he heard her in his mind’s ear, now.

  “No!” Ren Zel yelled, waking echoes from the metal walls, but he was too late.

  The image of the garden and the Tree faded, leaving only gray.

  CLUTCH HOMEWORLD

  AELLIANA WALKED the circumference of the ship in company with Handler as Daav searched his memories of Diary and scout lore and went over, again, and again, what they had said to the Elders. She admired the home star on the horizon and calculated orbits and probabilities, considered the carefully placed moons, and considered, too, the new crystal knife worn at their hip . . . .

  “Go,” the voice had come up from the depths of that strange room buried six thousand paces deep in the hillside. The room’s shape was such that whispers could be heard, one end to the other, and half-a-dozen flickering flames enough to give each of the dozens of Elders substance as they . . . sat . . . motionless the while. How long that while had been . . . was difficult to fathom.

  They had asked. They had asked of clan, they had asked of the nature of lifemates, they had asked of the Tree, and of Jela, and of the Tree and Jela, from the Diaries, about Daav’s suppositions regarding Jela, about Val Con and Miri, about the Tree, about the seed pods and, once again, the Tree and how it shared—and then they asked about Aelliana and Daav.

  Finally, they had asked about seed pod distributions and the known locations of the children of the Tree . . .

  And then, they had said, “Go. Thank you for the gift of your time, Elders of Korval. Go.”

  “Daav, one comes—”

  It was Edger, moving quickly.

  “Aelli and Daav, you must come with me,
“ he said. “The Elders have decided.”

  DAY 53

  Standard Year 1393

  Surebleak

  IT WAS LATE. His household, saving the night guards, slumbered about him. He had risen from his own bed some hours ago, taking great care not to awaken his lady. Now, he sat behind his desk, Silk the cat a coiled, heavy warmth against his belly, writing in the log book.

  He had long since given over trying to reproduce the original Diaries—his memory was too desperately incomplete. Rather, he had summarized what he knew of the crisis which had brought Korval-pernard’i to invoke Plan B, related his encounter with the agents of the Department of the Interior; and then meticulously noted down the minutia of Boss Conrad’s days, taking great care to show how these actions had bearing upon the finality of the clan’s Balance. He was disciplined, and wrote every day, so the book was fully caught up to event.

  Indeed, it was somewhat in advance of event, as he had already written of the departure of four mining ships and a pleasure yacht for the homeworld, there to exact Balance from the enemy.

  He had recorded the names of the pilots who were sworn to fly in this mad venture: Master Pilot Cheever McFarland, First Class Pilot Bhupendra Darteshek, First Class Pilot Andrew Mack, First Class Pilot Dostie Welsin, First Class Pilot Jonni Conrad. He also listed the names of their ships: Diamond Duty, Timonium Core, Crystalia, Survey Nine, Fortune’s Reward. He had paused a moment, then, listening to the cat purring sleepily on his lap, and meditating over the list of stalwarts.

  Pilot Darteshek had been a surprise enlistee; Pat Rin had expected him to return to the Juntavas, now that he had delivered his package and satisfied his curiosity. But, no. He had stayed behind while Vilma Karparov returned to their employer, and Pat Rin’s inquiry into the matter had won him the pilot’s thin smile—and nothing else.

  He had no doubt it was Natesa who had arranged for the courier pilot’s presence among what Cheever McFarland had dubbed, with no apparent irony, the “strike team.” He had not found it necessary to ask. If it comforted her to know that there would be a Juntavas pilot by him during ithe upcoming affair, then surely it was no more than simple kindness to accept both her talisman and her hope.

  For himself, he saw . . . some hope. That his hand had been forced and his timing thrown askew—well, what choice had he? The Department of the Interior had located him easily. He did not do them the disservice of believing that they would hesitate for an instant to hold Surebleak at hostage. He preferred to go to them on his own terms, using what advantage might come from consternation.

  He closed his eyes, going over his arrangements once more.

  “Pat Rin?”

  He opened his eyes and turned his head, finding her, a shadow in the shadowed doorway.

  “Inas,” he said, feeling Silk shift against him in protest. “You should be asleep.”

  “And you should not?” She came forward, shadow taking substance, the flame-stitched gauze robe blazing as she crossed into the light. “I do not lift in six hours. Indeed, should it suit me, I may sleep the day away.”

  “Indeed you might,” he said cordially. “And did you say that you would do so, I should certainly put off my lift in order to observe this miracle for myself.”

  She laughed, low and musical; and leaned against the desk at his side. The gaudy robe illuminated her dark beauty, and flowed tantalizingly along her slender shape. The sash was done but loosely at her waist, and her dainty feet were bare.

  “You will freeze,” he told her, but she shook her head lightly.

  “Not if you come back to bed and warm me.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Underdealt, my lady.”

  “Do you think so? I merely wish to bid you a proper farewell. How am I in error?”

  It was the word ‘farewell’ that caught his ear and sent his glance to the log book, sitting open in its pool of light, pen ready to hand beside it.

  “No error at all,” he said slowly, and lifted his eyes to hers. “Inas . . .”

  She returned his gaze calmly. “Yes, beloved. What has gone amiss?”

  “Amiss . . .” He looked away, and bent forward to lay his hand on the book. The movement disturbed Silk, who leapt to the floor with a sleepy protest.

  “This becomes yours—as my—as my lifemate and—my heir. If I do not return . . .” He shook his head. “In the back of the book, I have written . . . somewhat . . . of our kin. If any should come here, calling for aid, they must be cared for . . .”

  She placed her hand over his on the book. “As your lifemate—and your heir—I will honor the book and study it. I will write in it every day, as you do, for the instruction of those to come. And in the meanwhile, should any of our kin find their way here, I will care for them as best I am able, until your return.”

  Pat Rin cleared his throat. “The dice may fall with whimsy,” he softly. “I may not return.”

  “That is not acceptable,” she replied, and lifted her hand from his, sliding her fingers caressingly under his chin and turning his face up to hers.

  “You will return,” she said. “Swear it.”

  Tears filled his eyes. He blinked them away and smiled for her.

  “You hold my heart,” he said. “If I am able, I will return to you. I swear it.”

  She smiled then, knowingly. “Liaden,” she murmured, and kissed him, not at all gently.

  DAY 54

  Standard Year 1393

  Solcintra

  Liad

  THE DISTRESS SIGNAL blasted through the Tower, bringing the technical crew scrambling back from its tea-break, slapping up emergency screens, pulling in satellite feeds—and swearing, softly, and in several different languages.

  “Kynak-on-the-Rocks, we have you located,” the traffic controller murmured, her hands busy across her keyboard. “State the nature of the problem, and whether you are able to assume orbit.”

  “Shit no, we can’t assume orbit!” Irascible Terran erupted out of the speakers. “We’re holed, damn you! Nothing other than plain and fancy piracy. I call upon the Department of the Interior to Balance the damage it has deliberately dealt to Mercenary Unit Higdon’s Howlers. I want a representative of that Department to meet me when we land—and we are landing, Tower! Give us an approach!”

  There was a hurried consultation between the scan tech and the assistant Port Master on Duty—

  “We’ve got leakage,” he muttered, upping the magnification of his scans so the rest of the crew could see it.

  “We’ve got a ship approaching Port on a dangerous course, claiming damage and an oxygen emergency,” the traffic controller snarled, fingers flying over her board. “They’re coming in, no matter what. I’m giving them to Mid-Port general yard. Comm-tech, call the proctors and get a squad over there! Who knows what this Department of the Interior is? Call them, too!” She subsided into silence then, excepting the occasional mutter featuring mercenary ships landing in Solcintra Mid-Port and that had better be two squads of proctors . . .

  The comm-tech swung ’round to her board, alerted the proctors; then accessed the planetary directory. Department of the Interior was not listed. The tech bit her lip, and shot a query to the incoming Terran.

  “How the bloody hell do I know how to get hold of them?” the same hugely annoyed voice snarled. “All I know is that they claim to be in charge of Liad and that they’ve holed my ship, damn their eyes, and they will pay for it—and pay handsome well!”

  Proper enough, thought the comm-tech, if the Department—whatever it was—had damaged the Terran’s ship, as he seemed certain. And the Department claimed to be “in charge” of Liad? The comm-tech was Liaden, and knew of only one entity that could remotely be supposed to be “in charge” of Liad.

  She punched in the code for the Speaker of the Council of Clans.

  ***

  “THE DEPARTMENT of the Interior is not represented by this Council,” Speaker for Council told the port comm-tech testily.

  “Request
assistance in locating this Department, Speaker,” the tech sent back, one eye on her screen, where the Terran transport was growing larger and more dismaying by the moment. “Incoming ship cites a matter of Balance with the Department of the Interior. I allow it to be Terran, ma’am, but the captain further informs us that the Department of the Interior is ‘in charge’ of Liad.”

  “That is absurd,” Speaker stated. “Its wits are wandering.”

  “Yes ma’am, possibly so. However, it is crying Balance. Someone must answer, else they may sit here for as long as they like, using port resources and paying nothing, contingent upon receiving an answer.”

  There was a pause, long enough for the comm-tech to reconsider the wisdom of teaching law to Speaker for Council.

  “Very well,” Speaker said. “Please convey to the captain of the Terran vessel the compliments of the Council and inform him that, in order to pursue his claim of Balance we must know the name of an individual representing the Department of the Interior.”

  “Yes, Speaker,” said the comm-tech, with no small amount of relief. “I will pass that message.”

  “They want a name, do they?” the Terran demanded of the comm-tech. “Fine, here’s a name you can give them: Bar Vad yo’Tornier. He calls himself Commander of Agents.”

  SOLCINTRA

  Liad

  THE PRISONER WAS not young. He was not Scout-trained. He was—no longer—armed. He inspired neither fear nor the premonition that he was both a danger and a threat to the organization—and to the completion of the Plan.

  In fact, the prisoner was old. He sat quietly in the tiny holding cell, the dim blue light casting strange shadows along his face. From time to time, he spoke—numbers, most often. Sums. Account identifiers. Dates. Followed by such elucidations as, “account confiscated,” “permissions rescinded,” “account inactive.” There were few surprises, there.