Constellation

by Sharon Lee

  “No need,” his companion replied. “Indeed, I am much in sympathy with the boss. I infer, then, that there was some lapse of time before you were appointed to take her place?”

  “There were a couple others sent first, by that sector boss I was telling you about. They didn’t manage to survive too long. Staff tried to hold the line, but things started slipping with nobody at first board, if you take me. Most of what I’ve been doing since I got here is showing the flag to the locals and tightening up systems that slipped due to lack of repair. Like this one.” The tracker shook against his wrist, and he reached out to put a hand on Daav’s sleeve, stopping him.

  “This is my gig, all right? You’re here to witness and report back to your boss—delm.”

  “Agreed,” Daav answered, and it might have been the truth. Clarence hoped so; he didn’t warm to people much, but he found himself liking Daav yos’Phelium.

  * * *

  There were passed through to the room where Zara Chance was held, secluded from the others that Clarence’s people had surprised and secured. She looked up as they came in, and smiled when she saw Daav.

  “So, Pilot,” she said, her voice husky and languid. “Want to buy some luck?”

  “I believe you may wish to husband what you have,” he answered. “But I thank you for your concern.”

  Her laugh was cut off as Clarence stepped forward, her expression shifting toward disgust.

  “Terran,” she spat.

  “That’s right,” Clarence said, calmly. “Nice to meet you, too. I’ve got some questions for you, and I’m going to give you a chance to answer them on your own. If you don’t want to play nice, then Mr. Urel here will be happy to introduce you to our particular brand of happy juice. I’m told it’s sometimes unpleasant, but not fatal.”

  Zara Chance stared at him, but did not respond.

  “Listen close. I’ve got a list of ten pilots gone missing out of five gambling houses; four were seen with you on the nights they vanished.” Clarence jerked his head toward Daav. “This pilot here has similar data linking you to the disappearance of pilots. You’re made, is what I’m saying. Now, what I want from you is the name and location of your boss, your access codes, and the details of what happened to those pilots, as far as you know them.”

  “Is that all?” she asked politely, and Daav saw her shudder, minutely. “Alas, I am not able to—”

  “Poison!” He snapped and jumped forward, reaching for the kit that wasn’t on his belt. He grabbed her shoulder. “What is it?”

  She laughed again, breath suddenly short, and stared up at him in defiance.

  “Why, it is fatal, Pilot. What . . . else . . . would you have of poison?” Her face was sheeted in sweat, and she was gasping in earnest now. “Soon, you will know your reliance on the Code for the culture . . . idiocy . . . it—”

  She gurgled, eyes rolling up in her head. Daav caught her, and eased her body to the floor.

  “Dammit!” Clarence swore behind him, and Daav reached out to close her eyes.

  “Indeed.”

  * * *

  “I . . . see,” his mother said slowly. “So, my son, you tell me that your errand is unfulfilled?”

  “It is the judgment of Mr. O’Berin and myself that we have but cut off one head of a hydra,” he admitted.

  “Thus warning the others to be more circumspect,” his mother said tartly, and Daav inclined his head.

  “Alas, that is also our conclusion.” He sighed and reached for his cup. “Mr. O’Berin professes himself to be alert for new disappearances, though he believes—and I agree with him—that there will be a period of waiting, in the hopes that he will become busy with other of his business, and that Korval will turn its eye elsewhere.”

  “I see.” She tapped the disk he had given her lightly against her knee. “And the contact information for the so-excellent Mr. O’Berin is made available to me. I assume that mine has likewise been made available to him.”

  “It seemed reasonable,” Daav said, “especially as I am soon to return to the scouts.”

  “Just so. Well, we do not always succeed at the first outing.” Chi yos’Phelium sighed and slipped the disk into her pocket before picking up her cup and sipping her tea. “Your impression of Mr. O’Berin seems largely positive.”

  “I found him organized, level-headed, and committed to his duty,” Daav agreed. “I could wish to find his like on my next team.”

  “Hah. Recall to what he owes his allegiance, my son, and tread warily. I will own to a certain—respect—for Mistress Toonapple, and I flatter myself that she returned my regard. Had our situations been otherwise, it is perhaps not too far afield to say that we might have been friends. Alas, the old agreement between Korval and the Juntavas must forever stand between such relationships.”

  “Of course,” Daav said, and rose to make his bow. He dropped a kiss on her cheek as he passed her chair.

  “Goodnight, Mother.”

  “Goodnight, Child.”

  * * *

  Clarence came ’round his desk with his hand out and a smile on his face.

  “Come in, sit down. Got a couple things to clean up here, then we can go to lunch, if you’ve got time.”

  Daav returned the smile, and met the hand willingly, relishing the other’s firm grip.

  “Not this time, I think,” Daav said seriously, “as some matters are pressing.”

  Clarence’s smile dimmed thoughtfully.

  “This because you can’t be seen with a Terran? Can’t be seen with the—what did you call me? The Beggar King?”

  Daav laughed softly.

  “Forgive me, please; it was not meant as an insult. I’m told that I am too harsh on Liadens and too lenient on the entirety of the universe otherwise. And as it happens to call you the Beggar King was a lapse of accuracy, for on some worlds thieves and smugglers are guilded and acknowledged rather than hidden. Indeed, a city lacking a Beggar King is a poor one and likely more violent and dangerous as a result. If only the Council of Clans would give over its playacting . . . but there, you see—I am a scout, after all, and far too aware that the Clan grandmother was a smuggler.”

  Daav mused on that a moment, continued.

  “I, of course, do have that heritage, and the necessity to care for pilots; the others on Liad are . . . passengers, if you will. Almost wards. And until I am Delm and able to make the clan’s own direction closer to mine own, if I may, until then the city and the port will run as they do, with only the most minor meddling on my part. I do not despise smugglers and thieves as long as they are not bent on stealing my Clan’s goods and smuggling them away . . .

  “And thus it is not politics nor society standing in the way of lunch. I am, alas, on my way to my posting and only stopped by to give you this.” He produced a disk from his vest pocket and held it out.

  Clarence gave it due consideration before accepting it and stood weighing it in his hand. “More contacts?” he asked, and Daav inclined his head.

  “Indeed. The portmaster, the scout commander, the Master of the Pilots Guild. With Korval general House passwords. If you have need—use them.”

  Clarence tipped his head, and sent a blue glance as sharp as the edge of a knife into Daav’s face.

  “What’s the Balance?”

  Daav laughed, delightedly.

  “Asked like a Liaden! The Balance is only this: keep your ears and eyes open—which you and I both know you will do. If you hear or see anything that might have bearing on the . . . continued harmonious flow of business—more pilots disappearing, eh? An incipient riot, rumor of an Yxtrang invasion—let those contacts know, would you?”

  “Yxtrang invasion,” Clarence repeated. “You get those often?”

  Daav moved his shoulders. “It’s a rich world. The defense net ought to be sufficient, but—ought to isn’t always is.”

  Another period of silence while Clarence communed with whatever loyalties and pressures of duty weighed upon him, then he nodded
once, crisply, and moved over to the desk, slipping the disk into a drawer, and locking it with a thumbprint.

  “I can do that,” he said, straightening. “So, where are you off to that you can’t stop for lunch with a friend?”

  Daav hesitated, lifted his hand, let it fall.

  “Clarence, your duty and my own lie at odds. We cannot be friends.”

  “If you say so. Where I’m from, though, what I do on my own time is my business.”

  “Ah. I will meditate upon that during my next tour of duty. To answer your question, though, I am returning to the scouts, and will be gone for . . . a few years, if the gods smile. Perhaps, in fact, you will have moved to a more convivial posting by the time I return.”

  Clarence snorted. “I think you’ll find me right here,” he said, and held out his hand again. “If you’re on a deadline, don’t let me keep you. Until again.”

  It was a farewell such as he might have had from one to whom he had ties. And, Daav thought suddenly, meeting that wiry hand again with a will, he and Clarence were tied, dark to light, each the mirror image of the other.

  “Until again, Clarence,” he said, and smiled.

  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 are 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.