Liaden Unibus 02

by Sharon Lee

  Daav stepped forward, black eyes serious.

  "Though he is perhaps not as conversant with the basic coord book as might be desirable, it is my estimation as a master pilot that Pat Rin yos'Phelium is worthy of the license he carries." He fell back a step, cocking an eyebrow at Andy Mack, lounging against the wall. The lanky pilot shook his head, white hair moving softly across his shoulders, and took a sip of his beer.

  "Been sayin' it, ain't I? Boy's a pilot. Tell by lookin' at him."

  Shan stepped forward. "It is my estimation as a master pilot," he said seriously, "that Pat Rin yos'Phelium is worthy of the license he carries." He fell back a step, and Priscilla came forward, then Nova, Cheever and at last Natesa, who made her declaration with the cool, emotionless intonation of a Judge, then smiled at him and stepped forward to take his hand.

  "You did well, Pat Rin," she murmured.

  "In fact," said Clonak, "he did. I say this as one who doubted the damn' dance would work out at all, but young Shadow carried the day. So." He looked sharply at Pat Rin. "In my estimation as a master pilot, having observed the whole of the testing, Pat Rin yos'Phelium is worthy of the license he carries and I'll thank you to stop doubting yourself, you young whippersnapper! Between you and your lady mother, you're a devil's brew, make no mistake!"

  Pat Rin blinked. "My mother?"

  "It happens," Priscilla said surprisingly, "that Lady Kareen is, after all, of the dramliz. She appears to have only one talent, which is rare, but not unknown."

  Pat Rin looked at her, foreknowing . . . "And that talent is?"

  Priscilla smiled at him. "She may impose her will—to a very limited extent—upon the unwary." Her smiled deepened. "And now that you are warned, you are armed."

  His mother a dramliza? It was only slightly mad, Pat Rin thought, considering the facts of Shan and Anthora in the present generation. But that one talent . . .

  "I think you are saying that it was my mother's influence that kept me from qualifying as pilot?"

  "At first, boy dear," Luken said, gently. "By the time you had failed two or three times, you were quite able to fail all on your own." He smiled, sadly. "It was my sorrow, my boy, that I could never allow you to see anything other than your own unworthiness."

  Pat Rin blinked against tears; Natesa's finger's tightened around his. "You did so much else, Father . . ."

  A small pause, and then was Val Con abruptly before him, raising his hand so that Korval's ring gleamed.

  Pat Rin lifted an eyebrow. "Korval?"

  "You will," Korval stated, "arrange time to study with Clonak ter'Meulen. You will learn the core coordinates, and such protocols as Scout ter'Meulen finds worthy. You will come to your delm inside of one local year and submit to such verification as may be demanded."

  "Ah. And my streets? My duties as boss?"

  Val Con smiled, and put his hand on his lifemate's shoulder.

  "You'll think of something," he said.

  Pat Rin drew a breath—to say what he hardly knew, or perhaps he meant only to laugh. The opportunity for either, however, was snatched from him by Cheever McFarland.

  "Right then," the big man said. "Time to finish it up."

  * * *

  THE FIDDLER PROVIDED a sprightly, skipping little melody as they filed into the parlor and took up position on a clear space on the rug, Val Con leaving them at the last to tend his 'chora once more.

  Pat Rin stood in the first row of pilots, Natesa on his right, Luken on his left, Daav directly behind. The room was quiet, all eyes on them. Especially, Pat Rin saw, were Lady Kareen's eyes on them, from her position between Audrey and Penn Calhoon. His mother's face betrayed the faintest hint of boredom, as would perhaps be worthy of an adult who had been teased into attending a gathering of halflings.

  The fiddler finished her tune as Cheever McFarland and Miri Robertson stepped up before the rest them, mercifully blocking Pat Rin's view of his mother's face. From behind, the 'chora began to whisper a faint line of a tantalizingly familiar song. Pat Rin strained his ears, trying to identify the music—then forgot about it as Cheever began to speak.

  "I'm going to impose on your patience once more, here, if Ms. Audrey'll let me," he said.

  In the first row, Audrey laughed, and called out, "It don't strain my eyes any looking at you, Mr. McFarland! Speak on!"

  "Thank you, ma'am." The big man bent a little at the waist—a bow, Pat Rin thought, Cheever McFarland style— then raised his voice so that it carried to the far corners of the room—and likely the rooms abovestairs, as well.

  "Now, I know you all heard me say that pilots is competitive, and you might've thought that just meant that them who missed their steps had to drop outta the dance. But there was a little more to it than that. We was also looking to judge who among the pilots dancing had danced best, according to their level, their flight time, and their training. Miri here—you all know Miri's partnered with the Boss' brother, right? And when there's a question comes before either of them, they got this arrangement where both are understood to answer? Makes the family business run smoother. Anyhow, Miri here's gonna announce the winner."

  Whistles, hoots, and stamping filled the room. The drum tried to bring order, without success, until—

  "PIPE DOWN!" Miri ordered, loud enough to make Pat Rin's ears ring—and silence fell like a knife.

  "That's better," she said, in a more conversational tone. "I won't take long. Just want to say that it's the judgment of the master pilots we assembled here to watch that the winner of tonight's competition is—Boss Conrad!"

  More noise erupted, shaking the rugs hung against the walls, and he walked forward to stand between Miri and Cheever. Smiling hugely, Villy danced forward with a bouquet of dried leaves tied with bright ribbons and presented it with a bow.

  Pat Rin inclined his head, received the offering, and stood while the cheering went on, his eye inexorably drawn to the place where his mother stood, silent and bland-faced.

  She met his eyes, her own as hard as stones—and turned her face away.

  Pat Rin took a breath—sighed it out, and looked up with a smile as his lady came to his side.

  "Shall we go home, love?" she asked, slipping her arm through his.

  He looked into her face, and then around the room, heard the drummer begin his count—and looked back to her.

  "I believe," he said, smiling. "That I would like to dance with my lifemate. There are still some hours until dawn."

  —End—

  NECESSARY EVILS

  Adventures In

  The Liaden Universe® Number Eleven

  First Published In 2005

  By SRM, Publisher

  Necessary Evils copyright 2005 by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller

  The Beggar King copyright 2005 by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller

  Necessary Evils

  The House of vel'Albren

  Jectova

  "There is someone new among the vines," the eldest rasped, though the speaking cup was between Pinori's palms, and half-raised to her lips. Being no fool, the youngest paused before she drank, and sent a frown to their middle sister, Katauba.

  She moved her fingers slightly, signing that Pinori should wait. It was rare enough this while that the Old One spoke at all, even with the cup in hand. That she spoke now, and out of turn, indicated a level of alarm that must engage her sisters' closest attention. Still, there was protocol and—

  Unbidden, Pinori leaned forward and offered the cup. The Old One received it, her gnarled fingers caressing the worn ceramic, and raised it to her lips, drinking deeply.

  "Someone new, Auntie?" Pinori asked, which was according to their custom, now the cup was in the proper hands. " 'mong our own vines?"

  "If she were anywhere else, what care would I have for her or her doings?" the Old One snapped. "Deep in my own fief I saw her, snipping and thinning, as if she had the right and the duty of it!"

  "Trimming!" Katauba stared, for that was a clear breach of the ancient
agreement between themselves and the House. "How—"

  "But who was it, Auntie?" Pinori interrupted ruthlessly. "One of the Family?"

  "Do I know the face and name of every bland human with ties to the House?" the Old One asked peevishly, then sighed, turning the cup in brown fingers and staring down into its depths.

  "Truly, child," she said, more temperately, "she appeared a stranger, with pale hair and quiet hands. It seemed to me that she had the heart of a gardener, for the vines balked and drew blood as I watched, but she made no complaint, nor handled them with aught but care. The row she worked was one I had myself marked to trim, so she has done no harm. Thus far. However, those vines are mine, to protect and to nourish, and I did not ask her aid. Nor do I wish for it."

  "Well, then," Pinori said soothingly, " 'tis likely only some small oversight which has sent this gardener into the wrong quarter. We should speak to the House and remind them of our accord."

  Katauba stirred. "It is perhaps not well to recall our presence to the House," she murmured.

  The Old One inclined her head, and raised the cup in salute. "In these days and times, I agree. The vines are ours, the wine which the grapes produce is ours. We are charged with protection and nourishment. Therefore, the punishment of this intruder clearly falls to us."

  "But, if we punish her, the House will surely take note of us!" Pinori objected.

  "And it is possible," Katauba added, slipping the cup out of the Old One's hands "—even, as our sister says, likely—that there is honest error here, either on the side of the House or on that of the gardener, herself." She paused to sip, savoring the spicy red wine.

  "Perhaps," she suggested, "our duty might extend to instruction."

  "Instruction?" The Old One considered her out of port-red eyes. "And how shall we instruct her?"

  "Why, we will ask our sweet sister Pinori to seek the stranger gardener out upon the morrow, whereupon she will make her known to those vines which fall within the House's honor—and warn her away from those which are in our care." Katauba extended the cup to the youngest of them all, with a smile and a lifted brow.

  Sighing, Pinori took the cup, though she did not drink. "Why must it be me?" she asked, irritably.

  "Because, of we three, it is you who look most like the Houselings," the Old One cackled.

  "True," Katauba said briskly, seeing mutiny in the youngest's face. "And so you are less likely to cause alarm, if indeed this strange gardener is not of the House, but some mere employee who has misunderstood her orders."

  "The plan our sister proposes is prudent," the Old One stated, leaning back into her bower, with a rustle and a wave of a hand. "Let it be done as she has said."

  Pinori frowned, as if she might stamp her foot and allow her temper rein. After a moment, though, she only sighed again, drank, and inclined her head.

  "Let it be done as my sisters suggest," she said, though more snappish than conciliatory. "Tomorrow, I shall seek out the stranger and speak with her."

  * * *

  The damned vines had a will of their own.

  Seltin vos'Taber swallowed a curse as she considered her lacerated fingers. Anyone would think that the plants didn't want to be trimmed.

  Sighing, Seltin took a firmer grip on her shears. Trim, was the order, and take the samples back to the lab, whereupon she was required to analyze vine, leaf, and fruit, keeping a log of her findings until—

  Until, she thought, one hand rising involuntarily to her throat, unsteady fingertips caressing the ceramic threads woven into her skin . . . Until my master gives me other work.

  She bit her lip, fingers curling into a fist. As a general rule of life, it was not well to look too far into the future. Certainly, it was beyond folly for a bond-slave to do so.

  Indeed, it were best for such persons to cultivate a short memory indeed, and an indifference to all except her master's pleasure—especially those who found themselves bonded to a master whose pleasure derived chiefly from another's pain.

  Well.

  Once again she bent to the vines, taking a firm grip just below the node and bringing the shears to bear. She could swear that the plant writhed in her fingers, seeking escape. Not impossible, according to the stories whispered here and there. For though House vel'Albren had made its considerable fortune in wine and custom blends, it was whispered that in the not-so-recent past they, like others of the formerly Closed Houses, had also specialized in the production of . . . custom organisms. Given that her master's character seemed representative of the character of his House, it was not—unfortunately—impossible to imagine that the vines did object to being trimmed, and that such action gave them pain.

  Which consideration, fact or fancy, had nothing, she thought sternly, to do with herself. Her sole concern was to avoid such personal pain as she might, and endure what she could not avoid. If trimming the vines gave them pain, well, then, it—it was the master's will. She was nothing more than a tool of the master's will, as devoid of choice as the shears in her hand.

  The vine was severed with a snick, the sample dropped into the basket at her feet. Two more snips and she was done with the day's sampling. She slid the shears into their holster, lifted the basket, turned, and—

  "Eeep!" Her voice quavered upward in surprise, and she jumped, feeling the vengeful talons of the vine she had just trimmed gouge her back through her thin shirt.

  The woman before her tipped her head, pale eyes puzzled in a grave, pale face.

  She extended a small, neat hand as if to offer assistance, and moved a step forward. Seltin stood her ground, feeling more than a little foolish.

  "Oh!" the woman said, her voice so soft it scarcely made itself heard over the din of breeze through leaf. "I did not want to frighten you."

  Seltin had her breath back now, and some measure of her wits. She threw herself to her knees and bent her head, keeping withal a firm grip on the basket.

  "Mistress," she said, humbly, for everyone here—and elsewhere, for that matter—was her better. "Please forgive me."

  "Ah!" The other clapped her hands, in irritation or in summons, Seltin knew not. She kept her head low, and her back bent, and tried not to think.

  She felt pressure, then—light, not hurtful—on her head. It took a moment to realize that the other must have placed her hands so, as if in benediction.

  "You show proper respect," the woman said, in her soft voice, and the pressure was gone as she took her hands away. "That is well. Truly, you are forgiven, child. But you must not come again to these vines which are under our care. We shall do what is needful here. And you shall turn your ministrations to those vines which are under the care of the humans of the House. Is it agreed?"

  What?

  Kneeling, Seltin blinked. Kneeling still, she dared to raise her head and look up into the other's face.

  Pale she was, but not unnaturally so; her eyes of so light a green they appeared nearly colorless. Her hair was an extremely light brown, fine as cobwebs, silken strands rising and dancing in the small breeze. She wore, not the heavy purple robes which were the standard dress of the House, nor yet the crimson shirt and tights of a slave, but a drift of iridescent fabric from shoulders to mid-thigh. Her arms and legs and feet were bare, and she wore no rings or other ornaments. She was young, and comely, and in all ways desirable.

  "Forgive me," Seltin said again, hearing her voice crack. "I am commanded to trim here and in other places specifically shown to me by my master." She moved an unsteady arm, meaning to indicate the vines among which she knelt, and beyond, to the east and the south.

  "Not so," the other woman said, gently. "That is in violation of our accord. Go you and say to your master that the Kapoori yet tend what is theirs."

  There was something—very compelling about those colorless eyes, that pale, emotionless face, and it was only with a major application of will that Seltin was able to look aside, her fingers rising of their own accord, to touch the marks of her slavery.

 
; "Forgive me," she whispered, for a third time. "My master's instructions were extremely clear. If I say to him that the Kapoori warn him away from what is theirs, he will only—beat—me and have me back here tomorrow."

  Silence, long enough for Seltin to reflect upon her status as a bond-slave—and wilt where she knelt in the dirt.

  Cool fingers fingers slipped beneath her chin, turning her face, gently, but with unexpected strength, until she looked up once more into those still, peculiar eyes. The fingers moved, brushing the threads woven into her throat. Seltin shivered, and bit her tongue, lest she cry out.

  "Your master is harsh, if he will beat you for carrying a message," the other commented. "What are you called, child?"

  "Seltin," she whispered. "Seltin vos'Taber."

  A frown marred the smoothness of the other woman's face. "That is no name from within the House," she said. "What is your craft?"

  "I am—I was a chemist, with a specialty in exotic foodstuffs and—and inebriants."

  The frown deepened. "One would believe that the House has an overabundance of chemists, and no need to add more." She moved her shapely shoulders, as if to cast off curiosity. "What is your master called, then?"

  "Zanith vel'Albren," Seltin answered, hating even to speak the syllables.

  "And that is a name from within the House, in truth, though he who bears it is unknown to me."

  She stepped back, her hands falling to her side.

  "This bears consideration," she said solemnly, and moved a hand toward the house. "Go thou, and trouble our vines no more this day."

  That, at least, she was able to do. Seltin bowed until her forehead touched the ground and she breathed in the smell of humus and leaf.

  "I will, lady," she stammered—and dared to look up. "Lady, what is your—" she began, but the words died in her mouth.