by Sharon Lee
“This means that the inception of your clan has not been properly recorded with those in whom authority and law invests.”
“Nothing you can do, is there,” Cantra said, as the pause got longer, “if they ain’t answering comm?”
“Indeed. However, one attempts to honor propriety and to fulfill the tasks for which one’s service was engaged.” He finished fussing with the envelope at last, and put his palm flat against the seal.
“The new council—they call themselves the High Houses, and thus put on a suit which they cannot properly wear. Yet, what choice had they? Lacking the archives and the law, they now stumble to create arrangements and protocols for which there exist no precedent.” He gave her one of his straight looks, this one maybe not so much bold as tired.
“Though the new council has seen fit to disbar me and mine, citing our ties to the old order, I am able to report that they have acknowledged the right of Clan Korval to come among them, to treat and be treated as an equal member of the council.”
He bent, pulled his satchel up onto the desk, and stowed the envelope in an outside pocket, taking care with the seal.
“It is possible that we who remain on-planet during . . .”
Cantra blinked, shot a question-look at Tor An, and took receipt of a baffled stare.
“Hold that orbit,” she said, bringing her attention back to the accountant.
He paused with his hands on his satchel, and inclined his head, “Korval?”
“You’re planning on staying on-planet, is what I’m hearing you say.”
“That is correct.”
She frowned at him, which he bore with patience. He looked as sensible a man as she’d ever seen, but, yet, she supposed it might be that he hadn’t been able to hold the thought of what was coming toward them—
“You understand,” she said carefully, “that Solcintra won’t likely exist at the end of the action Captain Wellik’s told us is coming?”
“I have heard this, yes. We will, of course, attempt to lift what ships there are . . .”
“No.” She waved the hand that wasn’t full of black-and-silver book, cutting off the rest of whatever he’d been going to say.
“This ship here—you drew up the contract! This ship here is set to take on all the members of the Service Families that now style themselves High Houses. There’s a place here for your and yours, never fear it, though you’ll be needing to sleep—”
And what, she thought suddenly, if that were it? If dea’Gauss for all his sense and his steadiness and his firm, bold gaze was afraid of slow-sleep . . .
“I have not made myself plain,” he said, and inclined his head. “The case is that the new council has disbarred Family dea’Gauss. We are seen as holding allegiance to those who have deserted us, and the new council would choose its own—”
From the tree came a sense of sudden, rushing wind—
The wind was real, whipping her hair and fluttering the sleeves of Tor An’s tunic—and then it was gone.
THIRTY-TWO
Quick Passage
THE WIND FELL as suddenly as it had risen, leaving the one known as Rool Tiazan standing disheveled and breathless within the confines of the pilots’ tower.
“What has gone forth?” he cried, as much frightened as angry, or so Tor An thought. He raised a hand and scraped the wild red curls away from his face, the black ring on his first finger winking quick and cunning as a living eye.
“Problem?” Cantra yos’Phelium asked, one winged eyebrow lifting in unmistakable irony.
“You may perhaps allow the close attention of the Iloheen—your pardon, the sheriekas!—to be a problem,” the other snapped, less breathless now, and with anger perhaps ascending over fear. “And how could they fail to focus upon such a gaudy display of energy and—” He stopped, his gaze having fallen from the pilot’s face to that which she yet held in her hand.
“I . . . see,” he murmured, and extended a hand. “May I—”
It was, to Tor An’s shame, dea’Gauss who moved first and placed himself between the clan’s primary and the potential threat.
“The book belongs to Korval and to none other, sir,” he said coolly. “It is not for out-clan to—”
Rool Tiazan turned his hands palm up and smiled at the accountant. “Peace, peace, Ser—dea’Gauss, is it?—I—”
“Indeed, it is dea’Gauss, though I stand not so high as ‘ser.’”
“Ah. Forgive my lapse; I meant no discourtesy, either to yourself or to—Korval. It is merely that—”
“Quiet!” Pilot Cantra ordered, loudly, and perforce there was quiet. Rool Tiazan bowed with neither irony nor temper, and properly to Korval’s honor, followed by Mr. dea’Gauss, who did not, however, retire from his position between pilot and dramliza.
“Now, here’s what I thought,” Pilot Cantra said briskly, and the Rim accent was more noticeable than it had been during the ceremony. “I thought I was captain on my own ship. I thought I was talking with somebody. I didn’t think I’d set off any look-at-mes in the direction of the Enemy nor hadn’t done anything more remarkable than carry out ship’s business. If you got information touching on that, say it out, straight and quick.”
“Captain.” Rool Tiazan bowed slightly and seriously. “My information is this: As I was observing actions brought by certain of the free dramliza directly against the Iloheen, suddenly I was snatched, against my will, and with naught I might do to deny it, here, born on the wings of such a maelstrom of luck and possibility as I have never experienced. Something has altered event, noisily. Something has shifted the pattern of the lines of what will be, and the luck swirls not merely about the environs of this star system, or, more nearly, this planet, but here,” he stamped, his soft slipper waking an unlikely ring from the decking. “On this ship.” He inclined his head. “I suspect that what has been bound into that book which you hold is the cause of these . . . unexpected alterations.”
He inclined his head. “May I see and hold the book, Pilot? It is necessary.” He turned to the accountant. “Mr. dea’Gauss, I swear to you that I am an ally.”
“He’s right,” Pilot Cantra said briskly. “I ‘preciate your concern, Mr. dea’Gauss, but you can stand down. He’s twelve kinds of twisty, and you’ll do well to weigh everything he tells you, but I vouch for him.”
The accountant bowed, and retired, face grim.
Tor An stepped to his side. “Thank you, sir,” he whispered, “for your quick action on behalf of the clan.”
That gained a startled glance, and the beginning of a smile. “You are quite welcome, your lordship.”
“Nay—” he began, but there was Rool Tiazan taking the clan book into his slim hands, and he found his feet had moved him forward again, his own hand lifting as if to snatch the precious object back.
Firm fingers encircled his wrist and held him close. “Steady, Pilot,” she murmured. “Let the man look.”
If he looked, it was with senses other than his eyes, yet one could not but be gratified by the reverent stroke of palm across the surface of the cover.
“Yes. What we have here . . .” Rool Tiazan sighed. “What we have here is just such an event as cannot be predicted nor planned against. There is a purity of purpose which can only act to confound the Enemy.”
He opened his eyes and held the book out across his two palms.
“It is done and done well,” Rool Tiazan said, and there was a odd resonant sound to his voice, as if his words echoed against the stars. “Prosper, Korval. May your name shine and your deeds endure.”
Pilot Cantra received the book properly into her hands, and inclined her head. “May that be true-speaking,” she murmured, the accent of the Rim entirely absent.
“Mr. dea’Gauss,” she said abruptly, and the Rim accent was back, and thicker than ever.
“Korval?”
“Comes to me that a brand-new and hope-to-be-respectable clan like we just got through setting up’s going to need somebody to overs
ee our contracts and ‘counts. You willing to work for us?”
The man’s face took fire, hope blazing in his tired eyes. “Korval, I am.”
“Good,” Pilot Cantra nodded toward the fold-out table. “Sit yourself down and write up the contract—short and simple, mind you, ‘cause I got some other things I want you to do.” She held out her fist, thumb and first finger extended. “First thing, get your family up here. Second, I want the word out on the port that this vessel is taking on passengers, whether or not they’re attached to any of the so-called High Houses. Got those?”
“Yes,” the accountant said, fervently. “Korval, I do.”
“Make it so,” she said crisply, her hand fluttering out of its counting fist and into pilot hand-sign: acceptable?
Tor An smiled and inclined his head. “Most acceptable, Pilot,” he said.
“That’s good, too.” She turned her attention back to Rool Tiazan.
“So we got the Enemy’s attention,” she said, as if it were the merest nothing. “What’ll we do with it?”
Rool Tiazan smiled. “An excellent question. Perhaps we—” His smile faded into a frown and he lifted a finger.
“Problem?”
“Anomaly, rather. I feel energies aligning . . . strangely . . . and random event approaches.”
“Whatever that means,” Pilot Cantra said. “You were going to tell me—”
The door to the pilots’ tower slid open, to admit Lucky the cat, strutting, tail high.
CANTRA SIGHED. “Who let the cat in?”
“I did, dear Pilot Cantra.” Liad dea’Syl guided his power-chair carefully into the tower. After him came a small parade. Several looked to be beggars, others were kempt enough to maybe be panhandlers, day jobbers, pawnsters, thieves, joy-workers . . .
Cantra handed the clan book to the boy. “Stow it safe,” she said quietly, and he moved off without comment. She went forward to meet the power-chair and its escort, Rool Tiazan at her side.
“Ser Tiazan, it is well that you are here,” the scholar said pleasantly. “I have framed the last set of equations. I believe you will approve—and the pilots, as well.”
“Certainly, that is welcome news,” Rool Tiazan said—
“But,” Cantra interrupted ruthlessly, “bringing strangers up to the tower without clearance, Scholar. I’ve gotta disallow that.”
“Of course, of course.” The old man smiled at her. “Permit this to be an unique case, if you will. They came first to me, and invoked M. Jela as their motivator. That being the case, I thought it best to bring them directly to Jela’s heir for parsing.”
She considered the bunch of them, huddled close to each other and to the chair, as if maybe they were having second thoughts about their chosen course—all save a tiny and trim red-haired woman with clever eyes and a gun in her sleeve.
“You,” Cantra said to her. “Talk.”
“With pleasure,” the woman answered, standing forward and sending a quick, appraising look around the tower. She parted with a cool nod in the direction of Rool Tiazan, but her eyes lingered on the tree.
“I see that the mission was a success, after all. We had some doubts, though it was later reported the pilot had able back-up, outside.”
Cantra thought back on the tale she’d finally teased out of Jela concerning that night’s work—the night they’d met and everything had changed.
“This would be on Faldaiza,” she said to the little woman. “And I’m thinking you’re the gambler.”
The other woman bowed. “Gambler, if you will, Captain, or runner-with-luck.”
Rool Tiazan stirred; the woman’s cool gaze touched him.
“No need, Elder Brother,” she said. “We had known you were here and that others gather.”
Cantra looked between the two of them. “You’re counting this one as kin?” she asked the gambler.
“Soon enough, after we pass through that which comes.”
“If,” Rool Tiazan said, “we indeed emerge, which has not been Seen.”
The gambler laughed. “Tush, O Mighty Tiazan! We who are at the mercy of the lines and the matrices, and most likely to be bruised by those winds which bear you high—we sight low, and see—somewhat. On this side of the event which your cleverness has shaped, we see strife, death, loneliness—and soon. Very soon.”
“And after?” the dramliza persisted. “What do your small arts show you on the other side, Young Sister?”
The gambler smiled. “Why, strife, in some measure—but also life, and opportunity.”
Rool Tiazan bowed, and folded his hands.
The gambler looked back to Cantra. “Captain, the Solcintrans will renounce us, for we embody that which they most fear. Elsewhere, we have learned to remain hidden, for the groundlings say we are dangerous, and perversions; they call us sheriekas-spawn and they kill us out of hand.”
“And are you?” Cantra asked her, seeing dragons dancing at the back of her head, tasting mint along the edge of her tongue. “Sheriekas-spawn?”
“Captain, our talents are perhaps born of those forces which the sheriekas and the dramliza manipulate with such easy contempt—I have heard it argued thus. But we ourselves are human. Ask the Mighty Tiazan’s lady if this is not so.”
“She speaks sooth,” Rool Tiazan said, in that voice which was not his own. “They are what we shall become, formed in a far different forge.”
The gambler smiled, and leaned forward slightly, one hand out, fingers curled.
“Captain, I have with me healers, true-dreamers, seers, finders, hunch-makers, green-thumbs, teachers—treasure beyond counting for the days beyond. Grant us passage, and you may call upon us for any service, so long as Jela’s tree survives to bind us.”
The dragons in her head danced faster, and she’d swear she smelled salt on the air . . . She rubbed her eyes and looked to where the boy—the head of her clan’s subordinate line, and her co-pilot, she reminded herself forcefully—to where Tor An yos’Galan stood at watch, quiet and alert.
“Call it.”
He bowed.
“It is plain. The Founder did give his oath to work in the best interests of life, therefore we, his heirs, are bound by that same oath. And the tree, as we can see, is in favor of the petition.”
Pay your debts, baby . . .
Cantra nodded.
“I agree.” She turned back to the gambler. “You and yours’ll need to travel asleep, same as most of the passengers; and give up your weapons to the armory-master, to be returned when we find safe port.”
“Agreed,” the other woman answered, and behind her there was a visible relaxing ‘mong her mates.
“Right, then. Pilot yos’Galan here’ll escort you, first to the armory, then to the sleep-rooms. He’ll stand between you and hurt, if it’s offered, and you’ll accept his protection and his judgment.”
“Agreed,” the gambler answered once more, and bowed, as cocky and exuberant as if she was going for a stroll down the street.
“Pilot yos’Galan, lead on! We place ourselves wholly into your hands!”
THIRTY-THREE
Spiral Dance
Solcintra
DANCER WOKE, opened eyes and ears, and commenced to pull down data. The main-brain opened a window on the second screen, displaying a list of self-checks completed, and the nav-brain launched a preliminary query to the pilot for lift-times and destination strings.
The pilot—the pilot sat, eyes closed, in her chair, listening to the sounds of her ship. Sitting there, fingers hooked ‘round the arm rests so they wouldn’t shake so much—sitting there, she supposed she’d been a trial and a bother more often than a comfort and true comrade in the years they’d been together, with Garen, and then just each other. But the ship—the ship had never stinted in its care of her, not since the day Garen brought her aboard, out of her head with the pain of dying.
“Never stinted.” She repeated the thought, hearing the echo of her voice come comforting and right off the familia
r walls.
Despite Dancer could’ve called out to the Enemy twelve dozen times or more and brought destruction and worse down on them—she’d never done that. And as Cantra knew, deep down and personal, it was those things you didn’t do, maybe more than those you did, that counted out a true comrade and friend.
A tickle at the back of her mind, and then a picture, forming slow and not so ept—and suddenly there was Jela, his face grimy and sweaty, back and shoulder muscles rigid with strain, as he struggled to lift and cut, the sending so clear she could swear she heard him breathing . . .
“That’s right,” she whispered. “You remember him just as long as you can. He’d want that, so he would.”
The comm sounded and she bent forward, her finger finding the right switch without a fumble.
“Spiral Dance.”
“Captain,” said the deep rumble that was Y. Vachik, uncharacteristically subdued. “We’re on the count, here.”
Right. They were all on the count, now, weren’t they?
“Keep ‘er ready, Pilot,” she said into the comm. “I’ll be there directly.”
She flicked the switch and opened her eyes, fingers already inputting lift and course. The nav-brain—she gave it leave to do anything it liked in the service of fulfilling those coordinates, and called up the wounded-pilot protocol. A flick of her finger set the timer—not giving herself a lot of room to tarry—and she was up out of the chair. Once the protocols engaged, Dancer was on her own, until the pilot took over again.
Or forever, whichever came first.
One more thing before she left—a touch of finger to fragile leaf, and a quick test to make sure the dirt-filled box gray-taped to the co-pilot’s board was firm.
From the barely sprouted pod came a hopeful vision of dragons, and the scent of sea air.
“You’ll do fine,” she told it, and cleared her throat. “Jela’d be proud.”
Then she was gone, running, as the timer counted down to lift-off.
