A Liaden Universe Constellation: Volume I

by Sharon Lee

  “It is good. Now, take the T’carais’amp and attend him. Later you shall tell me how he came to be in danger!”

  The Broodmother came forward, hand extended for her charge, who set up a squall and clung to his soft friend.

  Val Con shifted away, prying clutching fingers from his arm. “Gently, child,” he murmured in Trade, “you’ll break me . . .”

  The Broodmother added a few quick words of her own on the subject and the T’carais’amp was borne away. Edger looked at his brother Handler.

  “Find you our brother, Selector, and choose a worthy blade from the Room of Men.”

  Handler inclined his head; turned to the man.

  “I am proud to have gained so valiant a brother, Val Con yos’Phelium Scout,” he said formally. Then he, too, went away.

  Val Con turned to Edger, brow up. “I do not understand, T’carais. You slew A’jliata—not I. Why honor me?”

  Edger blinked. “I hurried what you had contrived. A blind creature in the wild is already dead. I but showed it the mercy one accords a worthy foe. You gave it death with your light.” He slumped, leaning on the lance; it was not necessary to feign tirelessness with this, his brother.

  “Will you gather the objects of your name and subsistence, Brother? It is past time that we were home, and I understand men to require some time of sleeping every moontime.”

  Val Con stood for a long time, as men measure such things, squinting up at the T’carais. Then he smiled and turned toward the ship.

  “I will not be long.”

  “So be it,” said Edger, settling to wait. He considered the T’car and sighed gustily.

  “Aaii, and they called me hasty anon!”

  A Day at the Races

  THE SKY WAS nearly Terran blue overhead, shading to a more proper Liaden green toward planetary east. Shadows were beginning their long evening stretch across the lawns, from the topiary maze to the house.

  Up the drive came a slender young man in the leather vest and leggings of a spaceworker. Despite the peremptory summons from his sister, he had walked from Solcintra Spaceport, enjoying the taste of natural air.

  He paused by the cumbersome landau parked messily across the drive. The crest of his aunt, the Right Noble Lady Kareen yos’Phelium, Patron of the Solcintra Poetry Society, Founder of the League to Preserve the Purity of the Tongue, and Chairperson Emeritus of the Embassy of Form, glittered in the fading light.

  Scout Captain Val Con yos’Phelium sighed. Perhaps it was not too late to turn about, catch the evening shuttle to Chonselta City, and thus avoid any contact with his father’s sister, a course he had pursued whenever possible throughout his childhood and halfling years.

  He sighed again. No, he decided, better to attend to the business at once and have done.

  Thus virtuously armed, he continued up the drive and let himself into the house.

  Standing in a small sidehall, he listened, marking the sound of two voices. The first was unmistakably Aunt Kareen, the measured tones of the High Tongue ringing in bell-like purity. The answering voice was lower in pitch and inflection: his fostersister, Nova yos’Galan.

  Val Con sighed for yet a third time and slipped silently down the hall to the large parlor. He bowed to his aunt and kissed his pale sister lightly on the cheek.

  “Summoned, I obey,” he murmured in her ear. Then, turning, “Will you drink, Aunt? I see you are unrefreshed.”

  “Thank you,” said that lady austerely, “but no. I am unable to take a crumb of sustenance; nor even a thimbleful of wine.”

  Val Con blinked and darted a look at his sister, who avoided his eyes. No enlightenment from that quarter. He moved silently to a chair near his aunt. Perching on the carved arm, he shook his head.

  “That sounds very bad, I must say. Have you consulted a physician?”

  The Right Noble sniffed. “I am quite well—physically. Thank you, my Lord. Your concern warms my heart.”

  Score one for Aunt Kareen. Val Con hastily schooled his face to that expression of distant interest considered proper when speaking with other members of Society.

  “Forgive me, Aunt; I meant no disrespect. The difficulty is that I have only recently returned to Liad. My sister’s message met me at Scout Headquarters, and I obeyed her instructions immediately. You will understand that this left me no time to discover the nature of your trouble.

  “I am ready to hear,” he concluded, most properly, “and feel certain that all may quickly be resolved.”

  “That is very good, then,” said Aunt Kareen, greatly mollified. “It grieves me that the cause of my distress is the First Speaker, your—kinsman—Shan yos’Galan. I am aware of the regard in which you hold him, my Lord; and on a minor matter I would not, of course, approach you. However, this case is such that I am certain it is no less than one’s duty to bring it to the attention of yourself, who will lead Korval next as Delm.” Her eyes sharpened. “If you will ever bestir yourself to take the Ring, of course.”

  Val Con resisted the temptation to look at Nova again. With effort, he maintained the proper expression, though one eyebrow did slip upward, just a little.

  “Has Shan slighted you, Aunt? It does not seem like him. He is very conscientious in his duty as First-Speaker-in-Trust. It is true that his manner is not quite . . . polished . . . but his heart is good and—”

  “He is an outrageous rantipole and a disgrace to the Clan!” snapped his aunt. She took a bosom-lifting breath and dabbed at her temples with an orange silk kerchief.

  “Forgive me. It was not my intention to speak thus of a kinsman you hold so dear, though I am certain my feelings on Lord yos’Galan’s past . . . adventures . . . have not escaped notice.”

  “I am,” said Val Con dryly, “aware of your antipathy for my brother. You are obviously agitated. I make allowance.” He removed his eyes to the Clan sign above the fireplace: Korval’s Dragon hovering protectively over the Tree.

  He looked back at the Right Noble, both brows up.

  “You have not yet informed me what my brother has done to offend you—this—time, Aunt.”

  She drew herself up. “He is—racing!”

  Her nephew achieved a new peak of self-discipline and contrived not to laugh.

  “Is he? Racing what, I wonder?”

  “Skimmers,” said Nova unexpectedly, frowning slightly when he turned to face her. “A new thing off the Terran tracks . . .” She sighed. “They are dangerous, Val Con. Stick and throttle—no electronics, no safeties.”

  “Ah.” He considered it; smiled at her. “But he’s not likely to hurt himself, is he? He’s quite an excellent pilot.”

  “Whether or not he does himself some trifling injury is not the essence,” announced Lady Kareen. “Consider the scandal, my Lord! The First Speaker of Clan Korval—racing, like a common—” words failed her.

  “Pilot? Individual? Rantipole?” He caught Nova’s Terran-style headshake and allowed the spurt of anger to subside.

  “Aunt Kareen,” he began again, more smoothly. “I ask you to consider what you say. Consider what has made Korval great—” He pointed to the device above the mantle. “‘Flaran Cha’ment’i: I Dare’. My brother carries on an illustrious tradition—”

  “Your cousin,” she snapped, “does not care a broken cantra for tradition! You speak of his concern for duty. I say it is wonderful we are not already the laughingstock we are doomed to become, unless you, my Lord, very soon take your place at the head of this clan and—”

  “Is it so bad a thing,” Val Con overrode gently, “to laugh? Better to laugh—even be laughed at—and continue to strive, rather than run away . . .”

  “Korval does not run away!’

  “No?” He tipped his head. “And yet my father—your brother—abdicated his position, left the clan—ran away. Shan would far rather give over the duties of First Speaker. It would better suit him to return to the Passage and the trade route. But in fact he is First Speaker at this present, and thus remains upon L
iad, taking what harmless amusement he may to ease his time here.” Val Con rested his eyes, bright green and very angry, on his aunt’s.

  “Shan does not run away,” he concluded quietly.

  “I see,” said the old lady, with brittle calm. “I infer that you will not speak with him. Therefore, since someone must speak to him, I shall dispatch your near-cousin, Pat Rin to—”

  Val Con held up a slender hand. “I did not say that I would not speak with Shan, Aunt. Do not trouble my kinsman, your son.”

  For a long moment they stared, old eyes measuring young. Lady Kareen rose.

  “Very well, my Lord. I thank you for your condescension. No—do not trouble yourselves. No one need show me out.”

  She bent her head briefly to the room at large and swept out. Nova went after, grimly intent upon courtesy.

  Returning to the parlor several minutes later, she found Val Con slouched in a hearth chair, legs thrust out, winecup held loosely in his left hand. He appeared to be studying the toes of his boots.

  Nova sat on the edge of the chair across from him.

  “I apologize for calling you home so summarily, Brother, but the truth is I was at wit’s end . . .”

  He glanced up, eyes still very bright, and pushed the dark hair from his forehead.

  “How long has she been at you?”

  Nova sighed. “She’s been here every day for the past three months, demanding that ‘something be done’ about Shan.” She shook her head. “Then she began threatening to send Pat Rin to bring him away—and you know that would never do, Val Con . . .”

  “Pat Rin would say something pompous and Shan would ignore him,” Val Con murmured. “So of course Pat Rin would become more pointed in order to ensure that his thick-headed kinsman had the right of things—”

  “And Shan would bloody his nose,” finished Nova.

  “Imagine me, I implore you,” said Val Con, rediscovering his wine and sipping, “fining the First Speaker his quartershare for engaging in fisticuffs with another clan member.”

  Nova frowned. “But you would not—unless . . . Do you mean to be delm now, Brother?”

  He shook his head. “I most certainly would be able—my privilege and duty, as delm-to-be. The reference is Penlim’s Protocol. Very dusty reading. Best you check it though, Sister, since the trusteeship falls next to you.” An eyebrow slid upward. “How long do you think Shan can hold out?”

  She set her lips primly. “I will go before the Council of Clans as First-Speaker-in-Trust at the end of the month and Shan will be free to return to the Passage.”

  Val Con nodded. “None too soon, eh? And then skimmer racing may slide away into the past.” He tipped his head. “There is more, perhaps? You are still distressed.”

  “It is a small thing . . .” She looked at him worriedly. “Yesterday she railed at me for nearly two hours—she even missed a session of the Poetry Society!” She sighed. “It is the Terran blood, you see, that makes Shan so wild and threatens to disgrace Korval forever.”

  “It is fantastic, is it not,” said Val Con, “that my aunt holds such opinions? After all, she was offered the Trusteeship when my father abdicated—and refused it, even as she refused to care for his son, leaving all to yos’Galan. At this moment she could be First Speaker.”

  “Gods forefend,” breathed Nova, bringing fingers to lips too late.

  Val Con laughed. “So I think, as well.” He lifted an eyebrow. “She does well for one unable to take sustenance.”

  “Ah, you haven’t spoken to her cook.”

  “Nor have I any wish to do so.” He was on his feet, moving with Scout silence across the short distance that separated them. Bending, he kissed her cheek.

  “I’ll speak with Shan, since I have said it. Will you tell me the location of the racing park?”

  THE WIND SCREAMED and the skimmer bucked and slithered. Shan fed it more power, leaned right to correct the slide, kicked the throttle to the top and was over the finish line in a burst of breathless speed. He slewed in a half-arc for the joy of it and slashed the power, gliding to a halt by the timer-tower.

  “Twelve minutes, forty-two seconds,” the mechanical voice informed him.

  “Damn,” said Shan, heading sedately for the garage. Two minutes to shave at the very least, or he might as well leave Araceli home on Trilsday and watch the race from the stands.

  Most skimmers carried a crew of two; he’d been foolish to think he could run singleton. He needed another pilot for second—and where was he to come up with one in so short a time? Worse, how to find time for proper training?

  “Damn,” said Shan again, yanking off the goggled helmet and dropping it to the floor. He locked the board and jumped out.

  Perched on the fence directly opposite was a young gallant: fine white shirt and soft dark trousers; a pilot’s leather jacket thrown negligently across the fence at his side. He held a glass of wine in his hand.

  Shan stretched his long legs, grinning in welcome.

  “Well, this is a surprise,” he said in Terran. “How long have you been here?”

  “I saw your run,” Val Con replied in the same tongue. “Wine?”

  “Thanks.” Shan said and sighed. “I didn’t know you were a racing enthusiast.”

  “I heard there was something new,” Val Con said. “A pilot likes to keep abreast . . .”

  “Always nice to learn,” agreed Shan. “And an education can be had in the oddest places. Staying at the spaceport, are you, Val Con?”

  The younger man lifted an eyebrow. “Do I pry into your affairs?”

  “Well, now, that’s what’s odd. Normally you don’t. But here I am, where I have taken care not to announce myself, out of respect for our more proper relations; and now here you are—”

  “For which I should be thanked,” Val Con interrupted. “Aunt Kareen is quite upset. She was on the brink of sending Pat Rin to fetch you home, and was persuaded to allow me to come instead. My aunt,” he added earnestly, “thinks you an outrageous rantipole.”

  Shan snorted. “I’d rather be a rantipole than a pompous ass.”

  “Yes,” soothed Val Con, “I know you would.”

  “Cultivating an edge, Brother?”

  “It is also to be recalled,” said Val Con dampingly, “that we are but cousins.”

  “Dear me!” Shan cried. “I apprehend that Kareen was in the throes of a Mood!”

  He sipped, sketched a bow. “Forgive the sermon, denubia. Better you than Pat Rin, whatever news.” He laughed. “Gods, only imagine the scene! And you would have had to fine me, too! Or I would have had to fine me—and very angry I’d have been at myself.” He raised his glass. “Brother, I salute you: you’ve saved me a rare chewing out!”

  “No less than my fraternal duty.”

  “But you didn’t come all this way,” pursued Shan, “just to report Kareen’s opinion of me? If so, a wasted journey.”

  “My aunt’s health is in decline from worry over the scandal,” Val Con said. “Fear of the damage you do Korval’s reputation will allow her to neither eat nor drink. One understands the cure for her pitiful condition is for you to come home and behave yourself. She’s been at Nova for weeks—with variations upon the theme . . .”

  “She’s what? At my sister? In my house? By what right? She’s not yos’Galan.”

  “For the good of the clan,” Val Con said, lips twitching.

  “Bah, what nonsense!” cried Shan, and fell silent, sipping. After a time he looked up, white brows drawn over light eyes. “And what does our sister say? Or you, for that matter? It seems I’ve heard too much of what Kareen thinks and nothing at all of what Nova and Val Con think.”

  “Nova has given me a double-cantra to lay upon the race Trilsday-this—Shan yos’Galan to take any of the four highest honors.”

  “Did she?” Shan grinned like a boy. “We’ll make a human being out of her yet, Val Con. And you?”

  “I?” He lifted a brow. “I’d like a ride in your skimme
r, please, Brother.”

  WORDS SCROLLED across the screen set into the table. Nova read and sighed, breakfast forgotten before her.

  “Araceli,” the race report continued, “piloted and comanned by Shan yos’Galan and Val Con yos’Phelium, Clan Korval, earned distinction by turning in the slowest finishing time on the day. Neither team member is a professional racer and the time-loss taken when a nerf from first-placing Tolanda sent Araceli off the course was never regained. It is to the amateur team’s credit that Araceli remained upright during the mishap and, due to a bit of quick readjustment by the secondman, was able to return to the course . . .”

  “It’s that stupid braking system,” Val Con said over her head. “All very well to have no electronics onship, but why the brakes must be the most primitive of hand-turned vents is a mystery.”

  His voice was edged with wry irritation. Nova turned her head, but he was at the buffet, clattering covers and pouring tea.

  “How’s your arm?” she asked.

  He glanced over his shoulder, smiling. “Better a bruise than tumbling out of control. And not bad enough to bother with the ’doc.” He gathered up cup and plate and sat down across from her. “It’s an odd thing, Nova—the craft is so light that my hand on the ground was sufficient pivot-point. If there were a more efficient way of braking . . . As it’s arranged now, the pilot may either steer or brake. And he may not brake quickly.”

  She glanced up at him. “Where is Shan, by the way?”

  “At the park, seeing to Araceli’s packing. He plans to race at the Little Festival.”

  “He does?” Dismay sounded clearly in her voice.

  Val Con lifted a brow. “No faith, denubia? It’s not a bad little craft—and Shan is very good. If we could only resolve the braking—Ah, no! Before breakfast?”

  Nova followed his gaze out the window and stifled a groan as she saw the too-familiar shape of Lady Kareen’s landau come to rest across the drive.

  “Does my aunt read the racing papers, do you think?” Val Con asked, eyes glinting mischief over the rim of his cup.