Dragon in Exile - eARC

by Sharon Lee

  “Everything’s changing—you’re right. The chairman believes that change is opportunity, and that there’s no time better to make significant policy changes. With everything else in flux, now’s the time to re-examine the reasons why that agreement was made, ’way back when, and ask ourselves if those reasons are still valid. Or, if recent events have so altered the fundamentals of how we do business that now, now what will serve our mutual interests best won’t be avoidance, but alliance.”

  “Alliance,” Val Con murmured.

  The High Judge gave him an opaque look.

  “We’re prepared to go a step further,” he said. “Now, this isn’t just me; like I said right out at first, Chairman Reallen’s on-board with this, and everything I’m bringing to you has her seal on it. I got the corners nailed down tight on everything I offer; all we got to do here is fell out what’s going to work best for all. Right?”

  “I understand,” Val Con murmured.

  “Good. Now about that step further. The Juntavas is prepared to bring you in—that’s to say, to bring Clan Korval right into the organization. Not alliance; you’d be us and we’d be you. Family, is what we’d say.”

  “Indeed, we would describe such a situation as family, also,” Val Con answered. “But, sir, you cannot have considered the ramifications of bringing us in. Surely, you will not want Korval reforming your organization from within, in order to suit ourselves.”

  “Well, but if we’re both us, and there’s no them…”

  Val Con was shaking his head. The Judge paused, and spread his hands, in what might have been intended as go on.

  “Sir, I give you my cousin—” he moved his hand in a graceful wave that made Pat Rin feel rather exposed. “He conceived a need for a planetary base of operations and in a very short time indeed, had subverted an entire planet and its population to his purpose. That was one Korval adult, acting in accordance with his necessities.”

  “Had some Juntavas help, there,” the Judge pointed out.

  “Indeed. Though it was given, as I understand the case, for personal reasons.”

  “Some of this, some of that. People are complex.” The Judge looked to Pat Rin, eyes narrowed. “I set Natesa on you as protection, sir.”

  “Yes, she had said as much,” Pat Rin acknowledged.

  “She tell you why?”

  “Because a galaxy without Korval was a galaxy in which the Juntavas would find it significantly more difficult to do business.”

  “That’s it. All the rest of Korval had fallen off the map, so I figured we’d better take real good care of the one we could see.” He nodded and turned back to Val Con. “So, we’ll step back to alliance. I’m not going to lie; I think—and the chairman thinks—that an alliance with Korval will be risky—risky for us; risky for you. But, I think you’ll find that the Juntavas is significantly less risky as an ally, than, say, the Uncle.”

  Val Con adopted quite a believable expression of perplexity.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  The Judge smiled, and leaned back in his chair, shaking his head and holding up his hands, palms out.

  “Now, see, this is what we’re good at. We been running the analytics. It’s taken us this long because, like we all keep saying, things are changing everywhere, for everybody. That aside, we finally do know who Theo Waitley is—and that she was a courier for the Uncle before she picked up that really…interesting old line ship. Looks like something the Uncle might have on hand—or Korval would. And she pulls the cleanest escape out of the tightest box any of us ever saw, without even singeing the ship in the next lane over—” He paused, and seemed to gather himself around some tangential point.

  “I’m also authorized to purchase that trick Jump engine—specs, or working model. You can name your price.”

  Val Con laughed.

  “As much as it pains me to throw away a handsome profit, I must tell you that there is no trick Jump engine involved! I have been assured by an interspatial mathematician that the ability to Jump in crowded situations are matters of tuning and data-loading. There is a custom navigational system aboard Bechimo, which calculates more quickly than standard navcomps.”

  The Judge nodded, looking wise.

  “Interspatial mathematician, is it? That’ll be the Caylon. We finally got info out of Nev’Lorn, too, speaking of tricks that aren’t easy to pull off. Analytics confirms it was Aelliana Caylon’s ship, Ride the Luck, that broke the offense there. And I’ll just mention that it was packing some significant firepower.”

  “Indeed it was. When my mother created her courier business, with my father as her co-pilot, he insisted that the ship’s protections be upgraded. I believe he made it a condition of flying with her.”

  The Judge nodded again.

  “Brings up another point. Word’s around that Korval ships are seeing some trouble at certain ports—even ports where they’re known. Now, here’s where an alliance with the Juntavas is going to benefit your interests. We can arrange for trustworthy escorts, so there will never again be a move like was made against Bechimo. Korval ships will get to their proper markets. We’d also advise increasing the firepower on each ship, as they come up for service—your own yards can handle that…”

  “Sir, we really cannot mount military weapons pods on tradeships. You must see that such a move would give credence to those who would have us be planet-killers and pirates.”

  “You mounted weapons on Dutiful Passage,” the Judge said.

  “We did, it was necessary, and I have regretted both the necessity and the action every day since it was done.”

  Val Con sighed, picked up his cup, sipped, and returned the cup to the table before he again confronted the Judge, a wry expression upon his face.

  “The truth of the matter, sir, is that, unlike the Juntavas, Korval is finding itself too much at change. We must hold firm somewhere, or we will be entirely cut adrift. The longtime agreement we have enjoyed with the Juntavas is an anchor of our existence. Allow it to comfort us, if only for a short time longer. The House must settle, and find its new place in the order of the galaxy. Please—assure Chairman Reallan that Korval has taken no offense at her proposal. Indeed, we are warmed by her care.”

  “A galaxy without Korval is a galaxy where the Juntavas would find it harder to do business,” the Judge said. “That’s still true. The chairman’s right to concern herself. Do you mind if I consider this the beginning of a conversation, sir? Might I—or another of the chairman’s proxies—contact you in a Standard, with the intention of sitting down again and reassessing our positions?”

  Pat Rin expected a demur, for what use could be had from a second such conversation? But Val Con inclined his head in agreement.

  “Certainly,” he said. “A Standard may, indeed, show some clarity with regard to our directions and necessities.”

  “And in the meantime,” the Judge said, jovially; “it’s not like you don’t have protection. There’s enough mercs on this planet to start a war. Or end one.”

  Val Con did not smile. Neither did Pat Rin.

  The Judge’s smile faded somewhat.

  “Right,” he said. “Well. Chairman Reallan did want me to extend the offer of a beam-code, to be used at your discretion. There are no strings attached to this; it’s a gift. May I give it?”

  Again, Pat Rin expected a graceful decline.

  Again, his cousin—his delm—surprised him.

  “I would welcome the gift of such a beam-code,” he said.

  The High Judge nodded, and produced a small red envelope from his outer pocket. Val Con shook the lace back from his hand, and received it with a modest, seated bow.

  “There’s one more thing that I really ought to tell you,” the Judge said, settling back into his chair; “then I’ll move on with the rest of my business on-world—including those freelancers you mentioned, Boss Conrad.

  “New Juntavas policy, straight from Chairman Reallan: Whenever the Juntavas meets with operatives of th
e Department of the Interior, we’re taking them out. They’re no good for anybody’s business, in our opinion, and the galaxy’s better without them.”

  Val Con nodded.

  “Thank you, sir. You have Korval’s support of this policy.”

  The moment was upon them.

  Pat Rin rose, and Val Con did, and the Judge did, less than a heartbeat behind them.

  “Thank you, sir, for coming today,” Pat Rin said, holding out his hand, and pressing the foot-plate under the table.

  “My pleasure. Thank you for seeing me, and for your frankness.”

  They shook, and the Judge turned toward Val Con, taking his hand in turn.

  “Thank you, sir. I’m already looking forward to our next talk.”

  “And I,” Val Con said.

  The door opened to reveal Gwince, serious and efficient.

  “Gwince, please see the High Judge out, with his bodyguard.”

  “Yes sir, Boss.” Gwince stepped aside. “Just follow me, Mr. Meron.”

  * * *

  Bon Vit Onida was sitting in a chair by the window, his face turned into the sun. He wore the high-necked sweater that had become the off-worlder’s first line of defense against Surebleak’s climate. His hair was fair, and long enough to brush the red shawl he wore ’round his shoulders.

  He turned at the sound of the door closing, but did not rise.

  “Master Healer,” he said, courteously.

  “Master Onida. I have brought you Ren Zel dea’Judan.”

  The pale gaze swept Ren Zel’s face, and Bon Vit lurched to his feet, as would one whose knees perhaps pained him.

  “You are the one who gave me life!” he said, his voice warm. He swept a bow, as one acknowledging an unpayable debt, and that Ren Zel could not allow.

  “Indeed, not!” he cried. He stepped forward and caught the other man’s hands, urging him out of the bow. “Do not, I beg. I am the one who has killed you.”

  Bon Vit straightened, holding Ren Zel’s hand in a hard grip, while ice blue eyes searched his face.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  And so he told it, as well as he might when mere words could not adequately express what he had seen, or with any exactness, his actions.

  And when he was done, Bon Vit Onida released his hands and bowed as one acknowledging an unpayable debt.

  “Dramliza, I honor you,” he said straightening slowly. “Yours is a bright and terrible gift. I do not think that I could bear the weight of such a gift. The Department…is wily and subtle. It has subverted many by treachery and torture. That you were able to act quickly to prevent it from sending its poisons afar…”

  He smiled.

  “I had been bound away from myself, my life lost. You, and your lifemate, and Master Healer Mithin—you have given me my life back. If it is shorter than it might otherwise have been, how can I find you at fault?”

  “You are too kind.”

  “Ah, no, there you are wrong,” Bon Vit said, and his pale eyes were suddenly as chill as Surebleak’s winter sky.

  “I have been sitting here thinking what I would do with my life, now that it is mine again, and I, like you, believe that the Department must not prevail. What one man might do…”

  “Four,” Ren Zel said.

  Bon Vit blinked.

  “Your pardon?”

  “We have brought four, including yourself, out of the dream, and back into life.”

  “Have you, indeed?” He laughed, and caught Ren Zel’s arm.

  “Dramliza, you are a marvel! When may I meet my comrades? I would know if we are of the same mind.”

  “You are still in need of rest and Healing,” the master healer said, from his place by the door. “Another of your comrades also requires additional interventions. A local week, I believe, will see all of you recovered…enough.”

  “Ah, ah—so long! But I bow to you, also, Master Healer. I would—very much!—rather know myself to be whole and complete, then to endanger any but those who deserve my Balance.”

  “Just so,” said the master healer, and bowed gently to Ren Zel.

  “If Pilot dea’Judan would leave us, we may have a session now, and speed your day forward.”

  “Let it happen! Pilot dea’Judan—you have my love, sir; and your lady and Master Mithin. Please, convey my gratitude to them.”

  “I will, gladly,” Ren Zel said, and bowed. “I leave you now. May you heal quickly and completely.”

  He closed the door behind him, and walked to the end of the hallway, where there was a small window, and a chair set into the corner.

  There he sat, and turned his face from the world, and wept until his tears ran dry.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Office of the Road Boss

  Surebleak Port

  He didn’t necessarily want it a matter of public observation, that he’d gone and paid a visit to the Road Boss in her Portside office, so Smealy perched himself at Jakob’s Juice Bar, where he had a good sight of the door. He sipped a tall glass of gwiffa juice, and watched streeters go in and out, ’til he’d had his fill of gwiffa juice and the guy behind the counter had started staring at him.

  He paid his tab, plus some, threw down a line about being stood up, and sauntered out onto the port.

  The Road Boss kept a short day—six hours open to all streeters—and it was getting close to quittin’ time. Smealy’d have to make his move soon, and never mind who saw him. And, now that he thought some more on the subject, it could do his cred some good to be seen goin’ into the office, all bold and easy-like. Man had a right to call on the Road Boss concerning Road Bidness, din’t he? Wasn’t that the whole reason for this office, here at the port?

  He turned his saunter around right at the door to the Emerald, which maybe wasn’t expected, because Zimmer was usually better than getting seen when he was following somebody.

  So, the rest of the committee had decided to keep an eye on him. He’d known they’d lost confidence, but it seemed he’d miscalculated as to how much. Sending Zimmer to watch him—that was bad.

  The Road Boss’ office was just ahead. Smealy took a deep breath, got his shoulders level, checked his carry, right there in his outside right-hand pocket, and swung on out like a man without one worry on his mind.

  That girl’d better be willing to do bidness.

  * * *

  Miri glanced up as the clock gave out with the half-hour warning. So it was true what they said about time flying when you were having fun.

  “Captain,” Nelirikk said from the reception desk.

  “Heard it,” she told him. “Had a lot of company today. Wonder what stirred up the wind?”

  “Captain, it may be that the streeters have come to know that you are a sage commander, and are coming to depend on you.”

  Miri blinked.

  “Why, Beautiful, I think you might be developing a silver tongue.”

  “Captain, I only offer the most likely possibility,” Nelirikk said. He might’ve said more—Miri got the impression he was warming to his topic—but the door bell rang, cutting him off.

  “Good afternoon,” he said, and Miri looked to the screen.

  “Afternoon,” the guy answered, with a nod. He was something of a dandy, by Surebleak standards; clean khakis with a crease in them sharp enough to cut bread, and a bright yellow sweater without a smidge of dirt on it. His hair was middling brown, brushed back from a broad, handsome face, and curling over the sweater’s collar, down-back.

  “I’d like a word with the Boss.”

  “May I know your name?” Nelirikk said, going by the book.

  “Sure thing. Lionel Smealy, representing the Citizen’s Heavy Loads Committee.”

  Miri frowned.

  Apparently Smealy didn’t know when it was in his best interest to stay thrown out. Her mistake had been assuming he’d at least gotten the standard issue of basic common sense, so she hadn’t given Nelirikk his name as somebody to deny—and here he was, rising up to his full h
eight, a process that Smealy followed with interest, but no visible alarm.

  “Follow me, please.”

  Miri stood up from behind her desk.

  Easy, Robertson, she told herself. Let the man say what he come to say. Might be he’ll surprise you again and produce an apology.

  The door opened, Nelirikk stood to one side, and made the announcement.

  “Lionel Smealy, representing the Citizen’s Heavy Loads Committee.”

  He breezed in, big, showy grin on his face, and one hand out to shake. It might’ve been the grin—too wide, and just a touch self-satisfied—but she didn’t put out her hand to meet his. Instead, she gave him a proper Liaden nod, like might be exchanged between business associates who weren’t on particularly cordial terms.

  “Mr. Smealy, I’m Miri Robertson. I hope you won’t take offense if I ask you to make it march. The office’ll be closing up for the day in a couple minutes.”

  “Sleet, what I got to say won’t take but one minute,” he said affably, leaning his hands on the back of the chair. “The Citizen’s Heavy Loads Committee wants to come to a ’rangement with you, as Road Boss, to give exceptions to heavy loads. We got a couple dozen small truckers signed up and ready to roll just as soon as we nail down the Road Boss’ percentage. I was thinking thirty percent’d look really good in your pocket. You might have another number in mind, though, and if you do just put it out here on the desk where we can both take a look at it.”

  So…not an apology, after all.

  “Smealy, does stupid run in your family?”

  He blinked, the grin fading out.

  “Hey, now, what kinda way is that to talk about a honest bidness ’rangement?”

  “Didn’t my partner already tell you we ain’t selling exceptions?”

  “He din’t seem to take much of a shine to the notion, not being local and unnerstanding the way we do things here. You, though—”

  “Me, though,” Miri snapped, furious as much for the stupidity as the effrontery. “Me, though, I’m local, so it’s reasonable to expect I’d take a deal my partner already told you was no deal, and what—keep it quiet from him? That’s not how it works, Smealy; if one of us says no, you just take it that both of us said no. Now!”