by Sharon Lee
Stregalaar stretched his wings and stepped into the nest, knowing this dream to be powerful indeed.
The sounds were waves beating against trunk, and the hiss of sea bubbles. The movement was first of the trunk, and then a firm step toward the Tree Master, and then a wingtip stretch that reached his.
“This nest,” Chenalaar clicked with a careful eye to Stregalaar, pulling at an awkwardly placed branch, “will need fresh weaving.”
Shadow Partner
It had been apparent to Ceola for some days that Min was growing bored with her newest beau. She was hardly surprised; she had never understood why her sister had encouraged the young man’s attentions in the first place. Oh, he was pretty enough, though tall, but Min preferred dash, daring, and drama. Shadow was quiet, mannerly, and respectful; so unlike any of Min’s previous lovers as to stand in a class of his own.
Perhaps it had been the novelty of a lover who failed to make unreasonable demands upon her time and person. Or perhaps she had felt sorry for him, sitting one among a half-dozen scouts, all senior to him, and the object of a series of increasingly ribald pleasantries. Min did have moments of soft-heartedness, though they usually passed more quickly than the affair of pleasure with Shadow had done.
Whatever her reasons for attaching him, and then keeping him on her string, the signs soon became clear to Ceola’s experienced eye: Min had grown tired of Shadow as he was and wished either for him to become someone else and enact her a drama, or that he would take himself off.
Of course, she might send him off herself, though it was not Min’s way to put a thing out of one hand until she had something else clasped firmly in the other.
“Elby and I will be going to the new casino this evening.” Min was perched on a stool, her elbows folded atop the counter as she watched Ceola do set-up. “You’ll be able to handle it alone.”
Well, Ceola thought irritably, she had certainly handled the evening shift alone before. Min’s lovers were fond of showing their passion by snatching her away to accompany them to shows, openings, and dinners during the hours when she was scheduled to be on the bar, managing what was left of the family’s fortune. Except for quiet, ardent Shadow, who appeared perfectly happy to sit at the bar or at a sidetable, sometimes in company with another scout, sometimes with a handheld or a book—and wait until Min’s shift was done before whisking her off for pleasure or bedsport.
Which wistful thought reminded Ceola of a thing she had overheard, just a few nights past. She looked over her shoulder at her sister.
“I thought you and Shadow had fixed to go to Noneen’s this evening after your shift was done.”
Min sniffed. “He may go without me, if he cares for such thin stuff. I have company for this evening. Indeed, Shadow need no longer trouble himself to ask after me. You may tell him so, if he comes in tonight.”
If he came! Ceola thought, angrily. As if he were ever other than faithful in keeping his assignations! There had been one instance when duty had dictated otherwise, but he had sent ’round a very pretty note and a flower, which really was—Ceola gasped, Min’s latest dart at last piercing her understanding, and spun to stare.
“I to tell Shadow?”
Her elder lifted bored brown eyes.
“As you will be here, and I will not—who better?”
“Why not she who led him along, and now finds it mete to throw over a kind, quiet lad for a loud popinjay—and break her word, besides!”
“Popinjay!” Min laughed. “Won’t Elby like that!”
She looked at Ceola, suddenly calculating.
“It seems to me,” she said, “that you might add Shadow to your string, Sister, if you value him so high!”
Her string! Ceola drew a hard breath. As if anyone noticed the plain-faced younger sister in the blare and brilliance of the elder’s beauty. She might as well, Ceola thought, be a shadow herself.
Another breath, this one deliberate and calm, reminding herself what Grandmother had often said of Min—that she wasn’t intentionally cruel, but heedless and caught up in the pursuit of her own pleasure. Indeed, with a little patience, she could often be brought ’round to proper conduct, which surely proved that she wished, in her heart, to behave well.
“Only think how it must wound Shadow, to have such a message from me, rather than yourself,” Ceola said, keeping her voice moderate. “I think that—I think that he must truly care for you, Sister. Would it not—”
“Shadow care for me! What an idea! Why, when I said I could not accompany him to dinner Finyal-last, after he had waited all evening—did he act as if that mattered to him, or behave in the least bit put out?” She tossed her hair. “A cool bow and a chaste good-night, that was how much Shadow cared to lose my company! You might term him kind, Sister, but Shadow cares for nothing save his own scheming. He deserves neither courtesy nor gentleness from me!”
Ceola stared. Had Min not seen the slight droop of those level shoulders; the frown that had tightened the corners of the generous mouth? Of course he had been disappointed—deeply so, as Ceola had read it, though too gentle to rebuke one for whom he surely harbored the tenderest of feelings. Only someone whose heart was engaged, Ceola thought, with a sad lack of sisterly kindness, would tolerate the abuses Min had heaped upon him.
Min slid off the stool, and shook back her plentiful black hair.
“Do what you like with Shadow. You’ve been wanting a tutor in bedskills.” Ceola’s cheeks heated. Min laughed, sweetly malicious.
“I must prepare for Elby,” she said, strolling toward the backstair that led to their apartment. “Good evening, Sister.”
Custom was brisk at the start; when it slowed, near mid-Night Port, she looked around the room and discovered him sitting quietly at a sidetable. His companion this evening was the handheld, and he was wholly concentrated on it. Ceola paused for a moment at the edge of the bar, considering the clean lines of his face, and the errant lock of dark hair that fell across his forehead. Even as she watched, he raised a long-fingered hand and stroked the silky strands away from his eyes, his attention never leaving the screen.
The streetdoor opened and Ceola turned, only to see the potential customer step back, his voice sharp, then muffled as he spoke to a companion outside.
“Not here. Let’s try across—”
The door closed. Ceola sighed and walked over to Shadow’s table.
He looked up at her approach and tendered a grave smile.
Ceola felt her cheeks heat, and silently damned Min’s taunting. What was she to say to the man: my sister is a beautiful fool, but I, the plain and practical, find you fair? Chilly comfort there.
She made shift, then, to answer his smile and stepped nearer, her hands tucked tightly into the pockets of her apron.
“The usual this evening, Scout?” she asked, because that was commonplace and comforting and gave her a moment to tidy her disorderly thoughts.
The usual was the red wine, which their mother had kept on inventory to please her old and very great friend, Scout Lieutenant tel’Juna.
In the way of such things, Lieutenant tel’Juna had brought his scout friends to drink with him, and they, too, enjoyed the red. As they had good custom from the scouts, so they stocked more of the red, until it came to a solid quarter of their sales.
“I think perhaps,” Shadow said in his soft voice, “that it may not be a usual evening.” He tipped his head. “I hope your sister enjoys her usual robust health?”
Ceola’s cheeks warmed further. “I—yes,” she stammered, looking down at the worn tabletop. “She is quite well, thank you.”
“I’m glad,” he answered. “I had feared the worst, with you so troubled.”
She looked up at him. “Are all scouts mind-readers?”
He grinned. “Muscle-readers, say; and most have a happy ability to guess well.”
“Happy,” Ceola repeated and forced herself to meet bright green eyes.
“Min left a message, Shadow. I—” Sh
e gulped.
She heard him sigh, very softly. “Did she? Then I propose that we will all be served best by a speedy delivery.”
Ceola sighed then, more deeply than he, and kept her eyes on his face. “Perhaps that’s so,” she said, unhappily. “I—that is, Min, wished you to know that she has . . . chosen to terminate the alliance between you.”
There, she thought, it was said, as quickly and as fairly as one might. For his part, Shadow neither flinched nor wept, though one well-marked brow slid slightly upward.
“I see,” he said; “and has she left you to mind the house by yourself?”
Ceola blinked at him. “Well . . . yes. But that doesn’t signify! I often run singleton.”
“Do you?” He frowned, more, Ceola thought, like an elder brother annoyed with a flutter-headed youngling than a shattered lover. “I hadn’t . . . observed that.”
“Oh!” She moved a hand. “That was because you waited for her to finish here before—before . . .” She cleared her throat and added, somewhat inadequately, “Others are not so patient.”
Both eyebrows were high now, and Ceola began to worry that she had not acquitted herself as well as she might have done on her sister’s business.
“I—Min is heedless, sometimes, Shadow. But, truly—”
“If you would have me understand that her heart is good, I will undertake it, for your peace,” he interrupted. The streetdoor opened, admitting a group of three, talking loudly, and more coming in behind them.
“It would seem that the next wave is upon us,” Shadow said lightly. He thumbed off his handheld and slid away it into some inner pocket of his jacket, rising as he did so.
“Come, I shall stand your second.”
She gaped up at him. “You, wait bar?”
One eyebrow rose, whimsical. “I know the difference between wine and ale,” he said mildly.
“But—you’re a scout!” she protested.
He looked suddenly forlorn, shoulders drooping and fingers limp. Green eyes sought hers from beneath absurdly long lashes. “I had made sure that you would not care about that, Ceola!”
In spite of herself, she laughed. “Scouts are welcome here, sir, and well you know it!”
“Barkeep!” Someone called from the counter and Ceola turned, measuring the room with a practiced eye. Half-full already, and still more coming in the door. It was a tall crew—taller even than lanky Shadow. A Terran freighter just in, then. It would hardly be the first time Terrans had drunk at The Friendly Glass. Situated as they were on the tenuous border between Mid-Port and Low, they were grateful for what custom they got, rough as it ofttimes was.
“Ale, over here!” a woman shouted in Trade from one of the tables. From the corner of her eye, Ceola saw Shadow move toward her, shoulders squared and step firm.
The woman looked up at him from her chair, then ’round at her mates. “Ale, ’tender,” she said, in more moderate tones. “My team an’ me ’re parched.”
Shadow nodded, and it came to Ceola as she slipped behind the counter that he would know the difference, too, between good coin and bad; and between exuberance and mischief.
The door opened and more tall, rough bodies pushed in, calling greetings to comrades already in place.
She worked her way down the bar, taking orders, then worked her way up, filling each. Shadow came and went, drawing ale, pouring wine, dropping coins and occasionally port scrip into the till.
Their throats slaked, the freight crews took themselves off in clumps and clusters, in search of food or other entertainment. Some lingered, while a few of the regulars came in, drank their dram and left. Ceola sighed and stepped into the little space behind the casks. She wiped her face with a sleeve, and looked up suddenly, warned perhaps by a movement in the air.
“All’s well?” Shadow asked. If he was weary, it colored neither his voice nor his face.
“All’s well,” she confirmed and inclined her head. “Thank you, for staying.”
“No need to thank me,” he answered lightly. “I like to be busy.”
“Well, I hope you can find some rest before duty calls you,” she said frankly. She scraped her hair back off her face. “I can finish up here. It can’t be long until—”
A long yodel cut her off. Already? She spun out of her alcove to check the clock over the bar.
The yodel came again, signaling the end of Night Port and the beginning of Day.
Closing time.
* * *
The alarm sounded. Ceola came up onto a reluctant elbow and groped in the general direction of the tea maker. Her fingers connected and she brought the cup to her lips, sipping the hot, bitter beverage and recruiting her determination. She pushed the coverlet back and eventually came to her feet. Her back hurt a little, and she eyed the clock grumpily, sipping.
Don Sin would be around within the hour to change out empty kegs for full. She ought to snatch a quick shower and a quicker sandwich before going down to open the back door. It was her regular chore to oversee the exchange and sign the chit.
But really, she thought with a return of the previous evening’s temper, why shouldn’t Min take that duty today? She had not worked an overfull house last night—and thank the gods Shadow had offered his help, while the owner was out on the Port, frolicking—or who knew where it might have ended?
Tea cup refilled and temper high, Ceola walked down to the hall to her sister’s room. The door was closed, which might mean that Min had company, but Ceola found that she didn’t care. Let dramatic Captain Elby be roused from his doubtless well-deserved slumber, and sent scrambling for his trousers! It might teach him something about how bills were paid.
She rapped sharply, waited for the count of twelve, then pressed the button next to the speaker.
“Min?” she said, her voice sounding raspy and sharp, like a weary kitchen knife. “I need you to take the delivery today.”
There was no answer, not even a moan of sleepy protest.
Ceola frowned, pressed the button again, and repeated herself at a slightly increased volume.
No answer.
Well, then. She pushed down on the latch, expecting it to be locked. It gave, and she danced two steps into the bright blare of her sister’s room, tea sloshing over the rim of her cup and onto her hand.
Muttering, she sucked her fingers—and only then noted that the bed was empty, untumbled; and that the curtains across the window looking out over the service alley were open.
Min had not come home last night.
Ceola stared at the bed, trying to sort her feelings. She identified dismay, certainly; and an additional flare of anger—stuck with all the work again!—but of worry, there was very little. Min, Ceola thought, could take care of herself. Indeed, had she been in a slightly more charitable mood, she might have found it in her to spare some concern for Captain Elby’s well-being.
Her eye struck the clock then, and she cursed again. The deliveries!
She quit her sister’s room at a run.
* * *
Min had not returned by opening time, and Ceola, hair still damp from a hasty shower, owned to herself that she was . . . beginning . . . to become concerned.
While it was true that this was not the first time that Min had stayed away all night and into the next day, such complete disregard for kin and the business that fed them both was . . . more unusual than not.
She wondered if she ought to register a lost person claim with the port proctors—and immediately decided against. The less the proctors had to do with The Friendly Glass, the better for all. If one of the scouts came in tonight, she told herself, she’d ask them to inquire along those special routes known to scouts. She sighed then, knowing that she had very little hope of that scout being Shadow.
Ceola shook her head. Kindness was owed kin, surely, and the greater portion of one’s affections. But sometimes, it was difficult not to think hard of her sister.
The door opened and she looked up, putting her hands flat
on the bar to indicate her willingness to serve.
Two men in the rough, grease-stained coveralls of dock workers entered, walking quickly, as if they had a task in hand. Ceola’s foot, hidden behind the bar, moved on its own wisdom, touching the switch that would summon aid from the security company.
The men came on, one slightly in the lead. Ceola turned, too slow; he lunged, grabbed her arm and dragged her toward him across the counter.
She snatched at the underside of the bar with her free hand, screaming, while his partner raced past to the back of the counter. It was the till they were after, much good it would do them. She’d made the deposit—
Her captor yanked cruelly on her arm, the edge of the bar cut into her frantic fingers; her grip held—and the other man bent to snatch the box from its shelf beside her.
“Here!” he called.
His voice was—oddly familiar. Ceola had no time to chase the memory though. She twisted and kicked, her foot in its sturdy shoe unfortunately missing the unkempt head, though it did connect with his shoulder.
“Clanless bitch!” He came up, box in hand, and drove an elbow violently into her ribs.
Breath left her lungs in a thin cry. Weakness roared through her, and ribbons of color distorted her vision. Where was the security team? She couldn’t breathe! Her grip loosened, her captor’s fingers crushed her arm and she flew across the bar into a rough embrace, face pressed against fabric reeking of filth and engine fluids.
“Go!” He shouted, and she heard hasty footsteps making for the door.
The man holding her twisted his fingers in her hair, releasing her as he yanked her head back, his free hand whipping ’round to strike her, hard, across the face.
Pain exploded; she spun, thoughts spangled into chaos, and fell heavily, stools scattering like twelve-pins.
