by Sharon Lee
“Release me, you wretched brat!”
“And be struck in the face? I think not.”
Min took a hard breath, lashes fluttering, and looked Ceola in the eye. “Sister, I beg your pardon,” she said, sweet and low. “My last few days have been an adventure, and my temper is perhaps not what it should be. Truly, it is imperative that you come with me to a very short meeting, quite nearby. I won’t keep you from your duty above an hour. You know I would not ask it of you, if it were not important.”
It was everything that was gentle, and surely it should have melted a heart of adamantine—had that heart not been mated to eyes which had observed this very behavior many, many times in the past. This was Min, playing every trick to her hand, in order to get her own way.
Ceola saw a movement from the corner of her eye, and looked to see Jas Per, peering worriedly ’round the door frame.
“Is all well, Mistress?” he asked.
Easy words rose to her tongue; assurances that all was well, a mere misunderstanding between kin. On the edge of speaking them, Ceola pressed her lips tight.
When she opened them again, three long heartbeats later, it was to speak words that were . . . infinitely . . . more difficult.
“Please escort my sister out, Jas Per,” she said and each word tore painfully at her throat. “I will cover the counter.”
“Yes, Mistress,” he said expressionlessly, and stepped in to take Min’s arm.
* * *
Don Sin had come and taken the empties, leaving new kegs in their place. It was late afternoon, Day Port time. In another hour, she could expect Jas Per, and shortly after that she would leave for her assignation with Shadow.
Alone for the moment, Ceola puttered, racking glasses, straightening stools, wiping down the bar that Jas Per had seen gleaming before he’d gone off-shift. The unexceptional tasks gave her comfort while she struggled to understand Min’s visit.
A meeting? And her presence urgently needed? It made less sense in the wan light of afternoon than it had last night. She was youngest; all contracts made for their small family would be signed by Min, the eldest. All contracts made on behalf of The Friendly Glass must likewise be signed by Min, as owner. What other reasons might there be for a meeting?
Ceola stopped polishing the bar, and stood frozen in thought, staring down into the glossy black surface.
Their mother had left the bar to her daughters jointly. There was one reason that the youngest’s presence might been urgently required at a sudden and mysterious meeting.
Min meant to sell The Glass.
“No,” Ceola breathed. “She can’t.”
Surely not even Min would be so flutterbrained as to cast off their livelihood! Did she think the sale would make her wealthy? A rundown Mid-Port bar, in need of numerous upgrades? True, they had a healthy clientèle, but the money was so slender . . .
Or, Ceola thought, remembering the outflooding of cash identified by Tonith, perhaps the money was not nearly so slender as she had always supposed. What if Min had been taking off the top for . . . some time? Yet, if she had, on what did she spend the money?
Something banged in the back, startling her so that she dropped the cleaning rag.
“It’s only Don Sin, who’s forgotten to tell me something,” she muttered, moving down-counter.
There came another bang, and the sound of hurried footsteps. Not Don Sin, then.
Ceola looked about her. She was in a box, which was not good. On the other hand, if whoever was coming up the hall tried to close with her, they, too, would be in a box. She took a deep breath, as Shadow had taught her, and settled flat-footed to the floor, knees flexed, her weight evenly balanced.
The footsteps acquired a shadow as they approached the end of the hall—and the shadow speedily acquired a face, slightly flushed and not nearly as affable as it had been the last time she’d seen him.
“Elby,” she said, marveling at the cool tone of her voice. “Did you break the door?”
“Your opinion of me, Ceola!” he chided her, the jovial tone at odds with his face. “Why must it always be so bad?”
“What have you done to make me think well of you?” Ceola asked, even as she heard Shadow’s soft voice in memory: The best outcome is no engagement. Do not bait your accoster.
“You do not need to think well of me,” Elby said, and his voice was not jovial at all, now. He took up a position at the top of the bar, completing the box that contained her. Reaching into his sleeve, he withdrew a sheaf of papers, which he placed on the bar. “The only thing that is required of you is a signature, Ceola. Surely, that is little enough.”
Not bait him, Shadow? she asked silently, and lifted her chin, meeting Elby’s angry eyes.
“I will not sign a contract of sale for The Glass,” she stated calmly. “Nor will I agree to waive my right of refusal.”
Elby sighed. “I do not have time to argue with you, Ceola. You may sign this contract now, or you will sign it not very much later.”
Ceola felt her heartbeat increase, and took a breath, seeking her center.
“No,” she said.
“Very well. Your sister said that I might find you unreasonable.” He came forward, walking heavy, his hand coming up almost casually, swinging toward her—
If your opponent engages, end it as quickly as possible, Shadow coached her.
She moved her head to one side, grabbed his wrist, and twisted, letting his own momentum hurl him into the bar.
“Oof!” Certainly the move surprised him, but it neither incapacitated him nor opened the way for her to flee. Indeed, he seemed to bounce forward from his encounter with the hard edge and his strike this time was meant to do harm.
Ceola ducked, shifted her center to her left foot and brought her right leg up between his legs.
Elby howled and crumbled to the floor. Ceola leapt over him and ran, whipping ’round the end of the bar and heading for the front door, meaning to scream the proctors to her rescue.
The door opened when she was two steps short, and Jas Per stepped in, pocketing his key. Unable to stop, Ceola crashed into him, her nose against his chest.
Strong arms gripped her, holding her upright until she regained her balance, releasing her the instant she had done so.
Jas Per looked over her head toward the bar from which groans still emanated.
“We must—call the proctors,” Ceola gasped.
Jas Per spared her a quizzical glance, as if she had spoken in some language he did not comprehend, and strode to the bar. He stepped behind it, bent—and the groans were abruptly silenced.
Ceola started forward—and relaxed as Jas Per hove into sight, Elby held over one shoulder like a particularly irritating sack of sand.
“What should I do with him, Mistress?” he asked.
“Take him to the proctors,” she said. “He attacked me. I will go myself—”
“No need,” Jas Per interrupted. He put his hand on the counter and took it away, a gleam remained against the wood when he did. “This was in his shirt pocket. Looks like the key to our backdoor to me.”
“So it is,” she said unsteadily. “Jas Per—”
“I’ll handle it,” he said, interrupting again, which for Jas Per was an event of epic proportions. He moved ’round the bar, seeming to mind Elby’s weight not at all. “You’ll be all right?”
She considered, surprised at how very well she did feel. Endorphins, she thought, but so what? She smiled up at Jas Per.
“I will be all right,” she assured him. “Hurry back.”
He grinned. “Yes, Mistress,” he said, and moved past her, out the door, and into the street.
The signal for Night Port sounded as the door swung shut behind him.
* * *
It was, as she had expected, a bill of sale for The Friendly Glass, building, furnishings and clientèle, made out to one Clarence O’Berin. The buy-out was . . . a significant sum, to her eye, but no such riches as might keep Min in idle l
uxury for much more than a few Standards.
That being so, still it must be assumed that her sister knew what she was about, for there was her signature on the last page, and a blank line, awaiting Ceola’s.
There being as yet a lack of custom, despite the changing of the Port, Ceola unracked a glass and poured two fingers of the red into it. She flipped back to the first page and read the terms again, sipping. The wine was so dry it puckered the mouth, sharpening the sense of taste. Alas, it did not perform a similar service for her mind, which refused to focus on the question of what she was to do now. She did not think that Min would wish to be paid over time.
And, she thought—and it was surely the wine’s genius this time—was she even certain that it was Min’s wish to sell? It had, after all, been Elby who had brought the paper. Could he not have coerced Min as easily as he had—
The streetdoor opened. Ceola glanced up as Hantem entered and moved slowly down to her usual place. Quietly, she slipped the contract into her sleeve, put her glass below the counter and took a deep breath.
* * *
It was well into Night Port and Jas Per long since returned, freeing her to the alcove office, with the contract and the computer, accounts open on the screen before her. A quiet step brought her out of her chair—
Shadow lifted an eyebrow, leaning his shoulder against the door. “Good evening, Ceola, are you well?”
“Well? Of course—” Her hand flew to her mouth. She had forgotten!
“Shadow—I do beg your pardon! So much has occurred . . .”
“Yes, so Jas Per tells me. It does a teacher good to hear that his lessons are heeded so well. What has happened, though, if you may tell it?”
She plucked the contract from the desk and silently held it out to him. He leaned forward and slipped it out of her hand, glanced down the first page, flipped to the last, read the second, and handed the whole back to her.
“I take it that you have withheld your agreement, and that this was the cause of Captain Elby’s . . . annoyance?”
“Yes,” Ceola said. “I have been sitting here trying to think what to do . . . ”
“Surely, it is obvious? Buy your sister’s share from her.”
Ceola waved at the screen. “Yes, but it was how that I was just now trying to solve. We—cash is not flowing. I think,” she said slowly, “that this is a temporary situation that will soon resolve itself . . . ” as soon, she added silently, as Min is locked out of the financials.
“I see,” Shadow said. “Perhaps—” He stopped, head turning slightly, and now Ceola heard it, too—soft footsteps coming from the back.
“One moment, by your leave,” he murmured and faded out of the doorway.
Ceola rose, hands fisted. From the hallway came a gasp, a murmur, and the sound of footsteps, approaching . . . somewhat less stealthily.
She was not really surprised to see Min enter the room, propelled by Shadow’s hand on her shoulder. The scout positioned himself in the doorway, face so neutral it might have been carved from gold.
Min threw a no-doubt beseeching glance at him over her shoulder but his expression did not alter. Ceola cleared her throat.
“If you are come after Elby, I am afraid that Jas Per has taken him to the proctors.”
“I know,” Min said quietly. “I am come to beg you, Ceola. Sign the contract.”
She stared. “Min—does he compel you? You need not accept it, you can—”
Min laughed. “Compel me? No, he does not compel me! I compel myself! This—business, as you call it, as our mother did, as if it were some shining gift for which we ought always to be grateful while it demands our efforts and destroys our strength! It is a stone ’round my neck. I strangle because of it! Sign the contract, Sister, and let us both be free!”
“I do not find it so . . . burdensome as you,” Ceola said, wondering. How could she not have known how much her sister hated their livelihood? “I—I wish to buy your share.”
Min sniffed. “Mr. O’Berin offers cash. Time payments do me not one whit of good.”
Ceola felt her stomach clench. She had guessed as much, and yet—
“Therefore, payment shall be made in cash,” Shadow spoke up from his post in the doorway. “What is required is the name and direction of your agent in this matter.”
Min turned to stare at him. “I will receive the money myself and sign whatever Ceola would have me sign.”
It seemed to Ceola that Shadow . . . hesitated, perhaps to take himself in hand. When he spoke again, it was in that same quiet, measured tone. “The thing will be done properly, or it will not be done at all. Will you go to the Council of Clans with this?”
Ceola nearly choked. Bring it to the Council? The expense would ruin them all!
Min paled, as well, but she accorded Shadow a bow.
“As you will. I shall . . . locate an appropriate agent and send the information to Ceola tomorrow. Is that acceptable?”
Shadow looked toward Ceola, who swallowed and inclined her head, feeling foolishly formal.
“That is acceptable, Sister. I thank you.”
* * *
The next day came, and the information regarding Min’s agent with it. Ceola sat behind the bar and sipped tea, waiting for Shadow.
He was to bring the money and the contract naming him as her “silent partner” in the business of running The Friendly Glass. The contract was at her insistence; he had suggested an honor loan, but she would have none of it.
“It will be done properly,” she had told him, “or not at all!” And managed a wobbly grin when he laughed.
But when the hour of their appointment came, it was not Shadow who strolled into The Glass, but Tonith, bearing a small bag. “Goodday, Ceola!” the scout called cheerily. “I beg that you will accept me as a substitute for the captain, whom duty has called.”
Ceola frowned. “Called where?” she asked.
“Off-world,” Tonith answered, as if it were perfectly reasonable. “And who can know when he might return—you know what first-ins are!”
As it happened, she didn’t. Indeed, she had no idea that Shadow was a “first-in”—whatever that might mean among scouts. Tonith dropped the bag on the bar and hitched a hip onto a stool. Leaning forward, she placed a coin before Ceola.
“Might I beg a glass of the house’s finest?”
“Our license is for Night Port,” Ceola said sternly, and pushed the coin back across the bar. Then she looked up and smiled. “However, I am perfectly within my rights to share a glass with a friend.”
Tonith laughed. “Let us, then, by all means share that friendly glass!” She waved at the packet. “The captain sends this; his tale was that you would know how best to dispose of it.”
Ceola poured two glasses of the red, shared the first sip, then excused herself to the alcove office to open the packet.
He had sent cash; more cantra pieces than Ceola had ever seen. There was a note, too, begging her pardon for leaving her to handle the last details by herself, and citing duty as the reason for his absence.
There was no contract.
* * *
Ceola stared up at the newsfeed which had been restored to The Glass, along with the security contract and a dozen other small niceties. The story she followed detailed the results of a skimmer race, paying particular attention to the losing team. The news service provided formal clan photos, identifying the white-haired pilot as Shan yos’Galan, and the dark-haired co-pilot as Val Con yos’Phelium, Thodelm and Nadelm, respectively, of Clan Korval. It was the co-pilot who engaged Ceola’s attention, particularly. It was difficult to be certain, with the Nadelm dressed in High House splendor and holding his face close, yet—
“It’s him,” Jas Per said from behind her. “Captain Shadow himself.”
Ceola turned to look at him. “Did you know?” she demanded.
He shook his head. “I thought my luck beyond wonderful, that I’d caught the attention of a scout. Korval?” He laughed an
d gave her a bow. “See how we are both honored!”
“All very well for you to laugh,” Ceola said irritably. “Laugh again when you recall that there is an honor debt between us and—and Nadelm Korval.”
To his credit, Jas Per did not laugh, though his grin did not fade.
Ceola sighed and looked back to the newsfeed, which had left the race behind.
“I am going,” she told Jas Per, “to the Little Festival.”
* * *
Araceli had won the day, and its crew stood in the Winner’s Circle, surrounded by well-wishers.
Contract in her pocket, Ceola had started down to the Winner’s Circle—and stopped short, abruptly and burningly aware of the enormity of her proposed action. To march up to Korval-in-future and publicly demand that he sign her contract? The mere notion was madness.
She had, from where she stood, feet rooted to the path, a most excellent view of the winners. The dark-haired pilot in his bold orange cloak—she could see his face now, and his motions—there was no doubt that this was Shadow, whom Min had slighted; who had taught Ceola to protect herself, and helped her win free to her heart’s desire.
Who am I? Ceola asked herself. He had his reasons for not wishing to sign the contract, who am I to force him to my will? Why, he has probably forgotten all about us—Min, The Glass . . .
She took a deliberate breath, centering herself.
I am Ceola tel’Denvit, she thought calmly, owner of The Friendly Glass. I do business properly or not at all.
And, really—who but a madwoman would allow one of Korval to buy in to her business without a contract to contain him?
She took another breath, and moved one step down the path.
The dark-haired man in his bright orange cloak looked up from his conversation with a lady, and saw her. Ceola imagined his eyebrows rising. He leaned over to speak to the tall white-haired man, and then stepped out of the Circle.
Ceola hesitated as he came briskly up the walk.
I should bow, she thought, but she never had the chance.
A warm arm swept ’round her waist, turning her with him, orange silk billowing, as they moved up the path, toward the confectioneries and the pleasure tents.
