by Sharon Lee
He could not risk her–would not risk their child. His rejection was scarcely formed when he heard her sigh over his head.
"My feelings are hurt. But have it your way." Her hand left his shoulder. He rolled to his feet and helped her to rise, pulling her into an embrace.
"I will take Nelirikk with me," he whispered into her ear, and felt her laugh.
"That's a good idea," she murmured. "Glad you thought of it."
"Indeed." He hugged her tight, and stepped back. Slipping Korval's Ring from his finger, he handed it to her.
She shoved it onto her thumb and closed her fingers around it.
"Get your kit," she said. "I'll call down to the pilot and give him the good news."
* * *
It was a good thing, Hakan thought sourly, that he'd come to university to study guitar. The storm winds knew what they might have made him do, if he'd come to study walking. Lie on his stomach and march on his elbows, legs dragging in the dirt behind him, probably.
"Zamir Darnill," Zhena Teone, his music history professor, inquired crisply from the front of the classroom. "Is there a problem with your zamzorn?"
Besides it being the most useless instrument in the scope of creation? Hakan thought. A flute made from a full horn, with a range of only an octave, its point sharp enough to stab unwary fingers? No wonder the thing had been abandoned for the ocarina by the serious musicians of two hundred years ago. He sighed to himself and looked up.
"A little trouble with the fipple, Zhena," he said quietly. No matter his own feelings about flutes cut from ox horn, Zhena Teone doted on the thing; and if he'd learned nothing else at university thus far, he had learned that the wise student didn't provoke his professors.
"Zamir Darnill," his teacher said sadly. "The zamzorn represents an important part of our musical tradition. I fear you are giving it neither the respect nor the attention that it deserves."
"I'm sorry, Zhena," he muttered. "Flute isn't really my–"
"Flute? Flute indeed!"
Her pause was worth a fortune of concern, and when she spoke again it was obvious that she was keeping her voice level.
"Zamir, the king has seen fit to send you here, and you will have the goodness to learn. I suspect you have not been carrying the zamzorn on your person, as you have been told this last ten day, so that it stays at the proper temperature for playing at a moment's notice. In the past the only thing closer to a musical zamir than his zamzorn, was his zhena. So carry yours at all times, yes?"
She caressed the instrument in her hands, producing a subcurrent of stifled laughter in the room.
"You will have ample time to pursue your interest in stringed instruments–" she made it sound like a disease, or at least an unpleasant habit that shouldn't be mentioned in polite company– "after you have absorbed the lessons that history has to teach us. Now, then. Has your disagreement with the fipple been resolved?"
There was an outright titter from the front row, and Hakan felt his ears heat.
"Yes, Zhena."
"Good. I direct the class's attention once more to the jig on page forty-five . . ."
* * *
"A green and pleasant world," Nelirikk said, as they broke their march for the meal local time decreed as dinner. "Is it always so chill?"
"Never think it," Val Con answered. "In fact, I am persuaded there are those native to the world who would pronounce today balmy in the extreme, and perfect for turning the garden."
Nelirikk sipped from his canteen. He was, Val Con thought, a woodsman the like of which Gylles had rarely seen: bold in black-and-red plaid flannel, work pants, and sturdy boots, with a red knit cap pulled down over his ears in deference to the chill of dusk.
The big man finished his drink and resealed the jug. "This . . . error the captain sends us to correct," he began.
Val Con lifted an eyebrow. Nelirikk paused, and was seen to sigh.
"Scout, I do not say it was the captain's error."
"Nor should you," Val Con said, surprised by the edge he heard on his own words. He raised a hand, showing empty palm and relaxed fingers.
"The situation–which might, in truth, be said to be error–is of my crafting," he said, more mildly. "It was I who chose to land on an interdicted world. Saying that I did so in order to preserve the lives of the captain and myself does not change the decision or the act. Once here, we inevitably accrued debt, which must of course be Balanced. All of which is aside my decision to See Hakan Meltz. At the time, I stood as thodelm of yos'Phelium, so it was not a thing done lightly. And yos'Phelium abandons a brother even less readily than Korval relinquishes a child."
Nelirikk was sitting very still, canteen yet in hand, his eyes noncommittal. Likely he was astonished at such a rush of wordage. Val Con gave him a wry look.
"You see how my own stupidity rankles," he said. "I should at least have taken my boots off before leaping down your throat."
A smile, very slight, disturbed the careful blandness of Nelirikk's face.
"We have both made errors, I think," he said. "If ours are larger, or knottier, than the mistakes of the common troop, it is because our training has given us more scope."
Val Con grinned. "Anyone may break a glass," he quoted. "But it wants a master to break a dozen."
There was a small silence while Nelirikk stowed his canteen.
"What I wondered," he said eventually; "is if we will be able to remove these infiltrators without raising questions in the minds of the natives. There are, so I'm told by the Old Scout, certain protocols for operations on forbidden worlds. If we simply eliminate the enemy . . ."
"If we simply eliminate the enemy, Clonak will have both of our heads to hang on his office wall," Val Con said. "No, I fear it must be capture and remove."
Nelirikk frowned, doubtless annoyed by such inefficiency. "If they've established themselves, any removal will cause comment among the natives," he pointed out.
"Indeed it will–and the least of the sins I must bear for choosing survival." Val Con stood and stretched. "If you are rested, friend Nelirikk, let us go on. Our target is only a short stroll beyond those trees."
* * *
The presentation was already underway by the time Hakan arrived at the Explorers Club. He slid into a chair in the last row, wincing when the point of the zamzorn he'd crammed into the inner pocket of his jacket jabbed him in the chest.
"Wind take the thing," he muttered, shifting. His chair lodged noisy protest, and the zhena beside him hissed, "Shhhhhh."
Hakan sighed and subsided. It wasn't bad enough that he was late for the meeting because of having to attend remedial class on the stupid thing, but now it was outright trying to kill him.
He tried to ignore his irritation and focused his attention on the front of the room. Tonight's lecture was entitled "The Future of Aerodynamics," a subject which at first glance seemed more alien to the interests of a guitarist than even the wind-blasted zamzorn. Hakan, however, had acquired an obsession.
Every free hour found him in the library, perusing the latest industry magazines and manuals. That a good deal of the information he read was so much noise to his untutored mind deterred him not at all. To the contrary, the realization that he had much to learn inspired him to begin attending an entry level aeronautics course, as an observer. He soon found that the acquisition of even the most basic concepts unlocked the meaning of some of what he continued to read.
Unfortunately, this heady taste of knowledge only made him thirstier.
He began to audit an advanced math class on his lunch hours, neglecting guitar while he stretched to encompass this new way of describing the world.
At mid-semester, frustrated by the slow place of the basic aeronautics course, he considered dropping music altogether and applying to the technical college. It was only the realization that he would have to explain his reasons to Kem that had, so far, deterred him.
It was at mid-semester, too, that Zhena Cahn, the aeronautics instructor, called h
im to stay after class to talk with her–unprecedented for an observing student. And she had told him of the Explorers Club, and said that he might find the meetings of interest.
In fact, he had found them of interest. Even though he kept himself to the edges of the company during the social period, listening to the conversations of people much more learned than he; and even though almost half of the presentations were beyond him, he continued to go to the meetings, and to audit his extra classes.
Little by little, he began to understand, to grasp concepts, to extrapolate . . .
The zhena at the front of the room–he'd missed her name–was not a gifted speaker, but even her dry recitation could not close his mind to the marvels of jet-assisted flight, or heady imaginings of air speeds in excess of two hundred and fifty miles an hour.
All too soon, the zhena stepped down from the podium. The rest of the audience, held as rapt as Hakan, shifted, stood, and sorted out into separate human beings, each heading for the refreshment table.
As was his custom, Hakan took some cheese and a cup of cider–his dinner, this evening, thanks to the remedial session–and wandered the edges of the group, stopping now and then to listen, when an interesting phrase tantalized his ear.
He had almost completed his circuit, and was thinking, regretfully, that it really was time to be getting on home, when he caught the quick flicker of gold-toned fingers, deep toward the center of the crowded room.
His heart stuttered, then slammed into overtime. He put his cup and plate on the precarious edge of an overfull bookshelf, took a breath and dove into the crowd.
* * *
It was not quite full dark. Overhead, the few stars were dulled by a high mist. Val Con moved carefully, all-too-mindful of the guards–of the garrison!–nearby. His choice would have been to wait until the sluggish early hours for his infiltration. Alas, that he had no choice.
He'd left Nelirikk at the entry point, to stand as guard and watcher, under orders not to interfere with the soldiers' duty, unless their duty moved them to interfere with the captain's mission. His own progress was by necessity slow, as he wished to avoid not only discovery, but tripping over the odd spade, hoe, or burlap bag half full of manure. So far, he had managed well enough, but he could only guess at the perils which awaited him as he drew closer to the target.
The terrain had changed considerably since his last visit, and it was difficult to get his precise bearings. His internal map told him that he should be within a few steps of the scuppin house, though he neither saw–nor smelled–that structure. He did, however, blunder into the soft, treacherous footing of a newly turned garden patch.
He wobbled, and prudently dropped to one knee. It wouldn't do to call attention to himself, no–
But it appeared he had gained someone's attention after all.
Val Con kept himself very still as a shadow detached itself from the deeper shadows to his right, and moved toward him with deliberation.
* * *
"Borrill! Wind take the animal, where's he gone to now? Borrill!"
The old woman stood on the back step, staring out into the night. There were lights, of course, at the barracks and the guard stations, but she'd asked that her yard be kept more-or-less private, and they'd done as she'd asked.
With the result that it was black as pitch and her dog with his nose on a skevit trail, or, if she knew him, asleep in the newly turned garden patch.
"Borrill!" she shouted one more time, and listened to the echoes of her voice die away.
"All right, then, spend the night outside," she muttered and turned toward the door.
From the yard came the sound of old leaves crunching underfoot. She turned back, leaning her hands on the banister until, certain as winter, Borrill ambled into the spill of light from the kitchen door, his tail wagging sheepishly, a slim figure in a hooded green jacket walking at his side.
She straightened to ease the abrupt pain in her chest, and took a deep, steadying breath.
"Cory?" she whispered into the night, too soft for him to hear–but, there, his ears had always been keen.
He reached up and put the hood back, revealing rumpled dark hair and thin, angled face.
"Zhena Trelu," he said, stopping at the bottom of the stairs, and Borrill with him. "I'm sorry to come so late. We should talk, if you have time."
"Well, you can see I'm still up, thanks to that fool animal. Come along, the two of you and let an old woman go inside before she catches her death."
He smiled, and put his foot on the bottom stair. She stepped into the kitchen to put the kettle on.
"Where's Meri?" That was her first question after he'd closed the door and hung up his coat.
He turned to face her, green eyes bright. There was something . . . odd about him, that she couldn't put her finger quite on–not just the subtly prosperous clothes, or the relative neatness of his hair, something . . .
"Miri is at home, Zhena Trelu. She sends her love–and I am to tell you that we expect our first child, very soon."
She looked at him sharply. "You left her home by herself when there's a baby due? Cory Robersun, you put that coat right back on and–"
He laughed and held his hands up, like he could catch her words.
"No, no! She is surrounded by kin. My sisters, the zhena of my brother . . . Miri is well cared for." He grinned. "She would say, too well-cared-for."
Zhena Trelu snorted. "She would, too. Well, you tell her that I expect to have a visit from that baby, when she's old enough to travel."
Cory inclined his head. "I will tell her, Zhena Trelu."
The kettle sang and she turned to the stove, busy for the next few moments with the teapot. When she looked up, Cory was at the far side of the kitchen, inspecting the molding around the doorway.
He turned as if he felt her looking at him, and gave that strange heavy nod of his. "The King's carpenters, they have done well."
Zhena Trelu sighed and turned her back on him, pulling cups off the rack. "Put it back good as new," she said gruffly. Except the piano in the parlor wasn't the instrument Jerry had loved, Granic's books and old toys no longer littered the attic, the cup his zhena had made was smashed and gone forever . . .
"Sometimes," Cory said softly, "old is better."
The teapot blurred. She blinked, sniffed defiantly, and poured. He came to her side, picked up both cups, and carried them to the table. She turned, watching the slender back. New clothes were all very well, but the boy was still as thin as a stick.
"Hungry?" she asked. He glanced over his shoulder.
"I have eaten," he murmured, and pulled out a chair. "Please, Zhena Trelu, sit. There is something I must say to you, and some questions I should ask."
"Well, then." She sat. From the blanket by the corner of the stove came a long, heart-rending groan. Cory laughed, and sat across from her. He raised his cup solemnly, and took a sip. Zhena Trelu watched him, giving her own tea a chance to cool–and suddenly gasped.
"The scar's gone," she blurted, forgetting her manners in the excitement of finally putting her finger on that elusive difference.
Cory bowed his head gravely. "The scar is gone," he agreed. "I was . . . brought to a physician."
Hah, thought the old lady, lifting her cup for a cautious sip. She'd heard of skin grafting for burn victims; likely there was something similar for scars. New-fangled and expensive treatment, regardless. Well, maybe the hero money had paid for it. And none of that, judging from the level, patient look he was giving her, was what he wanted to talk to her about.
"All right," she said grumpily. "Out with it, if you've got something to say."
"You are well-guarded here," Cory began slowly. "That is good."
She opened her mouth, then closed it. Let the boy talk, Estra.
"It is good because there are some . . . people. Some people who are here, maybe, only because I– we–were here. It is possible that these people will wish to question those who gave us shelter. Who gave
us friendship." He paused to sip some tea, then gave her a serious look.
"These people–they are not very careful. Sometimes, they hurt people, break things, when they ask questions." He tipped his head, apparently waiting for her to say something.
Zhena Trelu drank tea and reminded herself that, while Cory had always been a little odd, that had been due to his foreign ways. He wasn't crazy, or dangerous. Or at least, he hadn't been.
"I ask, Zhena Trelu," Cory murmured, apparently taking her silence for understanding. "Are there strangers in town? Who have perhaps come to Gylles for no apparent purpose, who have been–"
"There's Zhena Sandoval and her brother," she interrupted him. "Haven't talked to 'em myself, but–they'd fit your description. Both of 'em got more questions than a three-year-old, from what I've heard."
"Ah," Cory said softly. "And their questions are?"
She shrugged. "You'll want to see Athna Brigsbee for the complete rundown. She's talked with the boy–Bar, I think the name is. From what she told me, he was all over the map, wanting to know about the Winterfair and the music competition, Hakan Meltz and I forget whatall. Athna said she might've thought he was a reporter maybe out of Laxaco City, but turns out he didn't know anything about the invasion, or the King making half the town into Heroes."
Cory frowned slightly. "It is possible . . . I cannot be certain unless I speak to the zhena or her brother, myself."
Zhena Trelu considered him. "Are you going to do that? I thought you said they were dangerous."
He gave her a slight smile. "Bravo, Zhena Trelu," he murmured.
She glared. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He moved his shoulders, his smile more pronounced. "I said these people were . . . not careful. You make the leap to dangerous. Yes. These people are dangerous. The care you gave to us puts you in danger." He paused to finish his tea, and set the cup gently on the table.
"Another question, Zhena Trelu?"
"Why not?" she asked rhetorically. "There's plenty of tea in the pot."
That got her another smile. "The last one, I promise. Then I let you go to bed."
Behind them, Borrill gave up another groan. Cory laughed, and Zhena Trelu felt herself relax. She'd missed that laugh.
