by Sharon Lee
Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, felt his feet on the ground, the knapsack on his back, the growing breeze on his face. He opened his eyes, slowly, and stretched.
Overhead was the new moonlet, bright and motionless in the light, larger maybe than it had been, but, motionless.
That, of course, was unlikely. Anything that size in low orbit should visibly move. He craned his neck and saw no evidence that it moved.
He closed his eyes again, staggering when he opened them, and the moonlet remained there.
The other option was that the moon was larger than he believed, and in the synchronous orbit, always to remain overhead.
He faced forward, looked up.
No change.
He held no confidence in the idea that the moonlet was hovering, but—
He shook his head, saw his shadow, looked to the sky where a small cloud’s shadowed underbelly came between him and the moon. And then revealed the moon, giving the momentary sense that the thing was moving . . . but then as the cloud distanced itself, it was clear that again, the moon was not moving perceptibly.
He felt like bolting, like hiding and covering his head until everything went away. That hadn’t worked though, and he’d gotten behind—
“Doing something is better than doing nothing,” Grampa had told him more than once.
He’d been doing something. He better just do it.
Keeping his head level, eyes forward, he snugged the knapsack and took a step. Then another, a little faster, and then another, faster, not quite coming to a trot. The cats needed him.
* * *
The kitchen was tidy, if one ignored the cat on the countertop. Pat Rin had been trying to ignore it, but it was large enough to do damage if provoked, and who knew what might provoke it, as skittish as it was, and the landowner alike.
His eyes were brown and wary, and he had a right to be wary. His movements were disturbing in some odd way—skittish. Like he suddenly might jump for the door, or for the gun on the wall, or for Pat Rin himself. It was by main force of will, Pat Rin thought, that the man Yulie sat at all.
“Melina told me about you,” he said. “She told me I should send to you. She told me I ought to go see you, but I didn’t. She said you were an even-handed boss, the best she’s seen.”
Pat Rin spread his hands slowly, turning the extremely modest bow he’d started into a nod.
“I’m pleased she speaks well of me,” he admitted. “It makes one feel worthy of being boss. Boss Sherton told me of you as well,” he said. “Of your holdings. Of you, as a farmer. She speaks highly of you and that is why I am here, you see, because I have taken it upon myself to hold the road open, with the help of the other bosses. It is good for farmers, it is good for the bosses, and it good for the port.”
“But this thing about the road—”
Pat Rin nodded.
“Yes. I have asked you if you are fond of the old ditch, and you tell me no. I repeat that what I need, as boss and as member of Clan Korval, is a place for my kin to live. It will be a change for you, to have such near neighbors, I know, but understand, these are neighbors who will appreciate your right to privacy. In addition, they will assist in the upgrading of the road, and they will assist in Boss Sherton’s plan to take the road, starting at the farmers market, toward the sea.”
He’d begun, had Pat Rin, as soon as the man’s cat had stopped stropping at his legs, as soon as the man had managed to catch his breath in front of the low house, with the baldest statement of his mission he’d been able to formulate on the bouncing ride.
“I am Boss Conrad, also known as Pat Rin yos’Phelium. I come as both to purchase access through your land to the abandoned pit, for my kin. Your own lands and fields will be untouched.”
They’d stood in a tableau for some moments, both aware of the unnatural moon hanging above, neither admitting it was there until finally the cat had stretched to Yulie’s hand, seeking a head rub. Gwince remained around the car, talking complaints into a recorder, saying things like “quarter panel scrape passenger side, gonna need filling. Door gonna need . . .”
The man had glanced at Gwince, and pointed toward the house, saying, “And I’m Yulie Shaper. I guess we better talk. Come on in.”
There were on the table ten cantra pieces, all of which had been examined minutely, and two tested with a knife, and there were two cups, one of which held coffee of a very potent scent, and the other, which held a fragrant tea.
“Melina Sherton never told me you was crazy.”
The laugh came unbidden, a natural and not a social laugh, and Pat Rin nodded the point.
“Nor did she say that you were. It appears that the times make us crazy, Yulie Shaper.”
Yulie’s skittishness lessened, which put the cat at ease. The cat retracted feet until it rested like a furry log on the counter, eyes on Yulie.
“That’s real money,” said the farmer, touching the coins again. “Out there, that’s World’s End, and that’s real. How’s anybody going to live there? Nothing there but old bedrock and streams that don’t go nowhere. Let’s look at the reality of the situation. How can ten cantra be Balance for all that empty?”
“That empty, as you put it, that is precisely what is needed since Clan Korval has contrived, with the assistance of relatives and friends, to bring the house itself, much as the company brought here prefabbed units, growing chambers, stasis storage bins—”
Yulie sat straight, bringing the cat to sit straight as well.
Pat Rin raised his hands away from the table and looked the farmer directly in the eyes, speaking soft-voiced.
“Yes, we do have those records—we know—but it is of no matter. Please understand that I am far too involved with other matters . . .”
The calm voice seemed to help, and Pat Rin spread his hands, ring bright. He tapped the ring thoughtfully.
“Mr. Shaper, had I personal designs on being a farmer, I’d have thought no better place exists on Surebleak. You have the lands that were prepared with excellent soil by the company to sell stock, the equipment meant to hold food for ten thousand workers, and likely active grow sheds and prep rooms . . . and I come to you and request you sell access because building other access routes would be difficult, and unpopular. Personally, I have no designs on being a farmer, and farming has never been a family business. You might inquire of Boss Sherton, who is assured I have no interest in holding farms given the many I might have owned by now all in the hands of those who know what to do with them.”
The man settled, nodding. The cat settled, too.
Pat Rin sipped at the surprisingly good tea, no doubt due to those stasis bins he’d mentioned. Yulie Shaper sipped at his fragrant coffee.
“Your world will change somewhat, when the house is . . . installed. For some measure of traffic, there will be traffic, but it will be passing traffic. The clan is not large, and historically we spend much time in travel. But the location of that empty is perfect for us, and I think for you.”
“Suppose I want to sleep on it?”
Pat Rin declined to put on his card-player’s face, and kept Boss Conrad as tightly controlled as he might.
“That would be unfortunate from my viewpoint, as my kin are in transit, along with the house. The clan’s ships are arriving even now . . .”
“Saw that,” Yulie nodded. “Big ship orbiting. Did you use that to figure out the spot?”
Pat Rin sighed lightly.
“We used that to bring the clan and possessions. We used it to leave our home world and come here. Mr. Shaper, the only practical place for the clanhouse to go is someplace very close to the road, yet not in someone else’s territory. Boss Gabriel tells me he has no plans for the place you call World’s End. Boss Sherton says the same. Your claim here is perhaps the strongest claim on a piece of land on all of Surebleak, the port notwithstanding. It is impractical for us to move the port, as you must know. We tried to reach you sooner, but you were not speaking with visitors.”
“This is sudden—”
He stood up, did Yulie, jerkily, pushing away from the table with a clatter. Pat Rin wished he’d brought Anthora or Shan, or Priscilla, all of whom were healers. Clearly, there was need here for calm—
Yulie spun around, touched the cat. There was a pause, and Pat Rin wondered if the gun on the wall could actually be loaded, since the man looked at it, touched the cat again, before he sat down heavily in the chair, pulled it to table, eyes staring into the distance, troubled.
The fist that hit the table was firm, and not impudent.
“Didn’t answer,” Yulie said.
Pat Rin bowed. Boss Conrad sighed.
“Mr. Shaper, my kin will be taking over that location. They will put the clanhouse and all that comes with it there. And they will do it soon. What we ask is for an access road. The contract is clear: ten cantra now and one per Standard Year in the future to lease access as long as the clan uses it.”
He paused, suppressed the pilot’s clear-the-board hand motion, continued.
“If you say no, the clan will put the house there and take away a hill or hills and do whatever else is necessary to reach the city over on the farside, through wastelands.”
“Why don’t you just take it?”
Pat Rin sighed then.
“Mr. Shaper, I have done many things to make Surebleak workable. I have taken things. What I wish to do is to make things work well, and to deal honorably with the world. I wish not to take it. I wish to trade for it, just as you wished to trade your cabbages for what you need.”
Yulie was holding on to his coffee cup now as if he was afraid it would jump from his hands, a lucky thing that he’d had so much of it already.
Pat Rin stood up, bowing.
“I will not just take it,” he said so quietly that it might have been for his ears rather than Yulie’s, and reached for the pile of cantra on the table.
Now it was Yulie’s turn to show placating hands. Pat Rin saw them, left the coins where they were while Yulie’s unschooled face showed decision crossed with doubt before finally giving way to words.
“Promise me—write it in the contract—that your people won’t shoot my cats. And I want you here when they put the house in, and you’ll tell them so there won’t be any—accidents. Write it and sign that, and I’ll sign it.”
Pat Rin glanced up at the cat on the counter, thought about Silk, thought about Jonni, who some called his son . . . and nodded.
“I can do that, Mr. Shaper. I may need a moment or two in order to compose it, of course.”
“Take your time. But when do you think you’ll be back?”
Pat Rin lifted an eyebrow.
“Be back?”
“Yes. When will they put the house in?”
Pat Rin lifted a hand to stay the query as he wrote, and then signed with a flourish, which became an offer of the stylus.
“Here, Mr. Shaper, do you agree as well, if you would.”
Yulie read the words several times and mumbled “Good cats,” or something like, after reading “welfare of cats shall not be imperiled” and nodded, and signed a scrawling hand that nearly filled the bottom of the sheet.
“Good, here.” Yulie handed the sheets back as if they were precious, then asked, “When will they be here—I should move some of the rocks on the edge and . . .”
“When? I expect just before dusk.”
“But when? What day?”
“Oh, I expect before dusk today, Mr. Shaper, today.”
* * *
The rock, the moon, was almost down now; they’d followed it bright in the day, and then seen it shine through from behind light clouds. Now it was half-enveloped as the light faded, and so close that it seemed it might crush them all were one wrong move made by the pilot.
Sounds came randomly: booms of lightnings from planet to moon, echoes of the winds, crackling noises as small portions of the moonlet were shed in puffs of dust. Surebleak had few birds, but they all appeared to have gathered in welcome, the preternatural light of a setting star bounced off a descending moon giving the birds’ shadows the length of an avenue.
The word from the city was that all was quiet; which was good—the news that Boss Conrad was in charge was unreasonably accepted as evidence that there would be no problem, no matter the appearance of a moon falling ever so slowly on the upcountry tilt of land that supplied the city with food.
Boss Conrad himself stood in a crowd of cats—several dozen by his estimate. He’d been warned that the proximity of the clutch drive might have unexpected effects, and certainly the sudden appearance of so many cats, streaming from the fields, from the sheds, from the rocks—was unexpected.
Also unexpected was the absolute calm Yulie Shaper exhibited, as if whatever demons he usually had to deal with were exorcised by the drive’s beneficent fields.
Pat Rin, for his part, was well-traveled; as passenger and pilot, he’d been shipboard many times when approaching foreign worlds, satellites, and stations, and he found the experience just barely containable: there were no walls, no comforting calls of station managers, nothing ordinary whatsoever about this vision. He knew more than most what the size of things were and the size and expanse of this was beyond his knowledge. Something that size should not move, that was what he knew. The moon nearly touched the planet’s surface, the wind rushed and carried odors of space and time and strangeness with it.
Whatever downward progress had been made, it all paused at once, though stones and ice, dust and clouds continued to fall. Something very strange was happening now, as the bottom surface of the moon appeared to vibrate and—but there was no human word for the process, which occurred within their sight over the yawning chasm of the place they both now called World’s End.
An earthquake’s worth of sound beat at them, the ground shook, trembled, bellowed, vibrated—and was calm.
For a moment or two, the only sound was that of cats, huddled now near the people in as much awe as they were, and then a hiss, and more wind, and the surprisingly familiar odor of wood and leaf.
Almost imperceptibly, the moon-thing that filled their vision and covered the land rotated, spinning very, very slowly on an axis and then it was rising . . . rising, rising, the sounds of falling dust and noisy birds and earth trembles giving way to a rush and almost a thunderclap as the moon, disgorging the impossible thing within it, lifted, and spinning more strongly, wafted away.
Amid the haze and winds stood a massive new tower of green, the upper fronds of the tree catching the failing light as the base was in shadow, the whole seeming now to have been too big to have landed within the moon, far too alive to have come through space. The birds, still alight from the rising of the moon, swirled toward it, their calls echoing from the land and sky.
Pat Rin yos’Phelium Clan Korval, bowed to the clan’s still-astounded new neighbor.
“The tree’s roots grew with the bounds of the house, you see, and so we brought both. Necessity, sir, necessity.”
Using his chin, Pat Rin indicated the low structure beneath the branches. “The house is there, where the dust settles even now.”
Pat Rin sighed, waved his hand toward the lip of World’s End, now full to within paces of Shaper’s land.
“I believe that, if we start walking now, we can explain the rules of the contract to my kin very soon. As a clan, we’re somewhat familiar with contracts.”
Skyblaze
Solcintra, Liad
It was perhaps a nonsense phrase, but around fares and administrivia, Vertu dea’San Clan Wylan, who was in fact Wylan Herself, Delm of her small Clan, allowed it to amuse for most of the early shift, finding the ease with which it shifted between Terran and Trade, with at least some meaning attached to it, an instructive counterpoint to the utter inability to phrase it properly in any of the modes Liaden provided.
Somebody ought to do something.
It was the “ought” of course, providing the information that melant’i required
an action without indicating in which direction it flowed, nor from which necessity, nor from which source, the “somebody” being a particular problem for the Liaden sensibility.
The phrase had become common recently, the port being unusually beset by Terran travelers left behind or inconvenienced by this or that ship, change of schedule or sudden rerouting—and had today intensified with the sudden advent of a large vessel full of boisterous mercs with only the most modest of language resources among them.
Not that they—tourists and travelers and mercs every one—weren’t good for business, especially at the hours when they were the only business, but they tended to want something to be done about signs in Trade or Terran where clearly they were on a Liaden port and should expect Liaden custom to prevail.
It was, Vertu acknowledged to herself, true that the two places most likely to be accessible to non-Liaden speakers were the elegances of High Port, and the depths within the shadow of the Tower—Low Port, where small businesses, some barely above begging shops, trembled to bring in every last coin, not disdaining Terran bits or other Terran custom.
This insight came to her as she finished a bowl of noodles and cheese with the last sip of wake-up tea from the corner shop that supplied her meals whenever she had the shift—the insight that she, too, did not disdain Terran bits.
For that lack of disdain, she supposed she would forever be among the last and least to receive invitations or acknowledgment from the Council, but there—she was Wylan, and would remain so for some time, and in that she was secure. She did her best to keep the clan, and if it had meant that over the relumma she’d opted to add respectable Terran and Trade lettering to her vehicles, and to choose the larger rather than the most elegant, and if Most Serene Travel Experience became Wylan’s Port Taxi in translation, so be it. That the High Houses disdained her survival was not her concern. That they expected her to bow to them out of other than necessity was absurd.
Well, perhaps she ought to bow, just for practice.
