by Sharon Lee
"Scholar Caylon! Good evening, ma'am. Have you come to beat the house?"
"Beat the house?" she repeated stupidly, wondering how she might explain her late homecoming, when Ran Eld was already watching, eager for a chance to pain her.
"Certainly! Have you not taught us that there is no such thing as a game of chance? For every mode of play there is a pattern which, once recognized, may be manipulated according to the rules of mathematics. You recall the lecture, Rema, I know you do!"
"I do," his friend said shortly, and without sparing him a glance. "Scholar, please. You are plainly far from well. Allow one who holds you in highest respect to offer aid."
"Not well?" Var Mon sent a brilliant glance into Aelliana's face, then tapped Rema's shoulder with an authoritative forefinger. "She's wet, is all. Anyone would be, standing around in this stupid mist. I'm getting wet myself, if it comes to that. Glass of brandy will set her right." He pointed down the length of golden sidewalk to a cascade of gem-lit stairs crowned by wide ebon doors.
"Nearest source of brandy's right there—not to mention shelter from the weather. There's room at our table for the Scholar. After she's warmed herself she can give us some advice on winning against the random and we'll see her into a cab before we start back to Academy. Everything's binjali, hey?"
Binjali—a not-Liaden word enjoying currency only among Scouts, so far as Aelliana knew—meant 'excellent' or 'high-grade'. She forced her fuddled brain to work. Something must be done to disarm Rema's all-too-apparent concern. Scouts were observant, many were empathic, as well, though of a different skill level than an interactive empath, or Healer. Perhaps a glass or two of wine, and a lecture on practical math in relation to games of chance. . .
"That sounds a good plan," she said, looking past Rema's grave eyes to Var Mon's mischievous face. "I am damp and would welcome a chance to dry."
"Good enough," the boy returned with a grin. Without more discussion, he spun on his heel and moved away down the crowded sidewalk, obviously expecting that they would follow.
"Scholar?" murmured Rema, but Aelliana pretended not to hear and pushed away from the friendly wall, following Var Mon's leather-clad back through the glittering crowd.
Chapter Five
Remember who we are.
We are not Solcintran.
We are not derived from the Old Houses.
We are Korval
Keep the Contract, protect the Tree, gather ships, survive.
But never, never, never let them make you forget who you are.
—Val Con Yos'phelium,
Second Delm Of Korval,
Entry In The Delm's Diary For
Jeelum Twelfthday
In The Fourth Relumma
Of The Year Named Qin
THE LADY HAD EXPECTED a more costly jewel.
Not that she was so ill-bred as to actually say it, but Scouts are skilled in reading the language of muscle and posture: To Daav, her disappointment could scarcely have been plainer had she cried it aloud.
He was stung at first, for it was a pretty piece, and he had expended time and care in its choosing. However, his innate sense of the ridiculous soon laid salve upon injured feelings.
Come, Daav, he chided himself, where is the profit in contracting Korval, if not in having extravagant jewelry to flaunt in the face of the world? Being so little fond of jewels yourself, this aspect of the case doubtless escaped you.
He had a sip of tolerable red. No matter, he thought. The marriage-jewels shall be more fitly chosen, now her preference is known.
Beside him, Samiv tel'Izak gently replaced the troth-gift in its carved wooden box and set it on the table. Daav felt another twinge of regret. He had carved the little box himself—not, it must be admitted, with the lady at all in his thoughts, but rather as a means of calming mind and heart on a day some years past. Still, the feel of hand-carving must be unmistakable against her fingertips, odd enough to earn at least a second glance.
Samiv tel'Izak took up her glass and lifted grave eyes to his face.
"I thank Your Lordship for the grace of your gift."
It was said with complete propriety in the mode of Addressing a Delm Not One's Own. There were several other modes she might have chosen with equal propriety—and greater warmth: Addressing a Guest of the House, Adult-to-Adult, or even Pilot-to-Pilot, though that approached the Low Tongue, and might be considered forward-coming.
Samiv tel'Izak was not forward-coming. A solid daughter of a solid mid-level House, Daav suspected that her delm's instruction held her to a loftier mode than she might have chosen on her own: Addressing a Delm Not One's Own was taking the High Tongue high, indeed.
In balance, Daav should make answer in Addressing One Not of His Clan, which came uncomfortably close to Nonkin. He chose instead to set an example of good fellowship in this, their first meeting alone, and hope well-bred manners would force her to follow his lead.
"To give the gift is joy," he told her in Adult-to-Adult, then offered a branch of active friendship: "Joy would be made greater, did you consider yourself free of my personal name."
Long, mahogany-colored lashes swept coyly down, while shoulder muscles shrieked aloud of triumph and some daring.
"Your Lordship is gracious."
Daav's eyebrow twitched, which warning sign she did not see. He sipped his wine, blandly considering the studied curve of her neck.
So I'm to be smitten, am I? he thought sardonically—and then thought again. Perhaps, instead, he was punished for giving so paltry a gift? He wondered which would become annoying soonest, gloating or greed.
"One learns that your contract with Luda Soldare commences somewhat sooner than expected," he murmured, keeping stubbornly to Adult-to-Adult. "When do you lift?"
"The Master Trader was pleased to amend the route," she replied, keeping just as stubbornly to her own choice of mode. "We break orbit tomorrow, Solcintra dawn."
First Class Pilot tel'Izak had signed an employment contract with the captain of the newly commissioned trade ship Luda Soldare just prior to her delm's receiving notification of Korval's interest. This previous commitment was the reason that this evening Samiv and Daav signed a letter of intent rather than a contract of marriage.
Once signed, they were bound to each other by the terms of the letter, which further stipulated that the actual marriage commence not more than three full days after Luda Soldare released Pilot tel'Izak from her duty. There were the usual buy-out clauses on the side of Bindan. As the clan seeking the marriage, Korval waived right of termination.
"And has the master trader also been pleased to alter the tour?" Daav wondered, watching his soon-to-be-betrothed closely.
Her face remained properly grave, though the breath on which she answered was slightly deeper than the one before it.
"On the contrary, the master trader counseled one to plan the signing of one's marriage lines on the third day of the coming Standard Year."
Three Standard Months—a very prudent time for a new vessel's shakedown voyage. Daav inclined his head and, obedient to the promptings of his lamentable sense of humor, offered the lady a sardonic compliment:
"I shall count each day as three, until you are returned."
"Your Lordship is gracious," she murmured, and he detected neither irony nor pleasure in her voice.
He was saved the necessity of forming a reply to this rather uncommunicative statement by the entrance of the butler, come to summon them to the signing room, where Delm Bindan and Er Thom had been arranging things this age.
Samiv tel'Izak rose immediately and bowed, allowing him to proceed her, which was the privilege of his rank. He stifled a sigh as he followed the butler down the hallway and decided that, before either greed or gloating did their work, propriety would drive him mad.
THE TABLE WAS LARGE, crowded and boisterous. A place was made for Aelliana between Rema and Var Mon, the shortage of chairs being remedied by a bit of deft piracy from neighboring tables.
Brandy was called for—"A double for the Scholar!" Var Mon ordered—and arrived amid a chef's ransom of food platters. At once, Rema snatched up a filigreed plate and began loading it with exotic savories.
Aelliana had a cautious sip of brandy and watched the Scout in awe. Her own appetite was never robust and it seemed such an amount of food would serve her needs for a week. Yet Rema clearly intended this laden plate to be a mere snack or late-night luncheon.
She assayed another sip of brandy, relishing the resulting sensation of warmth. Brandy was not her usual beverage—indeed, she rarely drank even wine—but she found it pleasing. She had a third sip, somewhat deeper than the first two.
"Of your grace, Scholar." Rema again. Aelliana lowered her glass and regarded the plate the Scout set firmly before her with a mixture of astonishment and dismay.
"The house brandy is potent," Rema murmured. "You will wish to eat something, and minimize the effects."
Having thus issued her instruction, the Scout turned away and leapt willy-nilly into a spirited discussion taking place at the opposite end of the table. As less than half the comments were rendered in Liaden—and none in Trade—Aelliana was very soon adrift and perforce turned her attention to that dismayingly over-full plate.
Mizel laid a simple table and Aelliana was not such a pretender to elegance as her elder brother, to be always dining at the first restaurants. Of the foodstuffs chosen for her, she could reliably identify cheese, fresh vegetables and a thin slice of fruit-bread. All else was mystery.
Well, she thought, brief moments ago brandy had likewise been a mystery, and only see how pleasant that encounter had been.
Indeed, the brandy was displaying ever more beguiling charms. She not only felt warmed, but rather delightfully—unconnected, as if the terrors that had driven her from Mizel's Clanhouse only hours ago had someway ceased to exist. She sighed and reached for a flagrantly unfamiliar morsel, biting into it with a will.
It took very little time, really, to empty the plate of all its delightful mysteries. Sated, Aelliana leaned back in her chair, now and then sipping brandy, and drowsily watching her tablemates, paying no heed to their conversation, even when they happened to be speaking a language she understood.
It occurred to her that she felt relaxed, a state she dimly recalled from girlhood, when her grandmother had been alive, before Ran Eld Caylon had discovered the way to bring down the most dangerous of his siblings.
I believe, Aelliana thought, assaying another sip, that I could come to be quite fond of brandy.
"Warm now, Scholar?" That was Var Mon. She turned to look at him, shaking her hair back from her face and squarely meeting his eyes.
"Quite warm, I thank you," she said courteously, and saw his wide brown eyes go somewhat wider.
Before she had opportunity to wonder over that, he rose and stepped back with a light bow.
"Will you walk with me? A tour of a gaming house on your arm can only be instructive."
Well, and why not? Such opportunity to observe the laws of her study area operating under field conditions was not to be lightly set aside.
"Certainly."
Putting away her glass, she came easily to her feet, muscles moving sweetly, unencumbered by fear. Some unfamiliar, brandy-created sense told her that Rema had also risen, and she nearly smiled at the Scout's continuing concern.
She wondered if Rema knew about the healing effects of brandy. It seemed likely, Scouts being privy to just such odd knowledge. That being the case, Rema's continued vigilance suggested there was something in the nature of brandy-healing that was perhaps not entirely salubrious.
The thought should have disturbed, but Aelliana allowed it to flow away as she followed Var Mon through the restaurant and into the first of the playing rooms.
THE MOON WAS FULL, shedding more than enough silvery light for a Scout with excellent night vision to find his way through the familiar branches of the Tree.
A steady ten-minute climb brought him to a wooden platform firmly wedged between three great branches.
Daav sat with his back against one of the branchings, carefully folding his legs. Er Thom and he had built this sanctuary as children, a double-dozen years before—it had seemed a vast space indeed, then.
He leaned his head against the warm wood and sighed. As if in echo, a breeze stirred the branches around him. Something fell with a sharp thunk to the board by his hand. He picked it up: A seed-pod.
"Thank you," he said softly to the Tree and opened the pod, cracking the nuts in his fingers and solemnly eating the minty-sweet kernels.
"Oh, gods." He closed his eyes, allowing the tears to rise. Here, there was no one—no thing—save the Tree to know, if he wept.
His coming marriage—that was the smallest source of pain. If the lady were greedy and venial and held him no more than his rank, it was nothing other than he had expected. It was only required that she provide him a healthy child. Did she perform that one service, she might gladly have from him all the jewels and expensive gidgets her heart wished for.
His own child, held warm and safe in his arms—that image filled him with a longing so intense he felt nearly ill with wanting. His own child, upon whom he might lavish the love that threatened to sour, locked up as it was in the depth of his heart. His own child, who might replace the love Er Thom's lifemating had stolen away—
No.
Er Thom loved him no less, and to that mainstay of his life was added Anne's true affection, as well as the rambunctious regard of young Shan, Er Thom's heir. It was no drawing back on Er Thom's part—no slighting on the side of his lifemate—that fed Daav's loneliness. Truth was far more melancholy.
There, with his back against the Tree, Daav owned himself jealous of his brother's joy, and wept somewhat, that he should not be a better man and receive his beloved's joy as his own.
The tears soon spent themselves, for he was not a man who wept often, and he remained leaning against the Tree, his mind open and unfocused.
It was not meet that the new child bear the burden of all Daav's love. Did he discover himself so ill a parent, the child would be fostered into Er Thom's care immediately, there to be loved and disciplined in moderation.
Nor was it reasonable to expect Er Thom—with a lifemate, an heir, and the duties of master trader and thodelm to absorb him—to provide everything his more volatile cha'leket required of human contact. Another solution must be found, else Daav would grow bitter, indeed.
For the good of the clan, he thought, yawning suddenly in the cool, mint-tanged air.
He might have dozed—a few minutes, no more—and woke with the shape of an answer in his mind.
He smiled as he considered it, for, after all, it was an obvious step, and one he should have undertaken for himself ere this.
"Thank you," he said once more to the Tree and fancied the leaves moved in slight, ironic bow.
Then, he let himself over the platform's edge and began the climb down.
Chapter Six
Your ship is your life. Stake your air before you stake your ship—and your soul before you stake either.
—Excerpted from
Cantra yos'Phelium's
Log Book
PLAY WAS DEEP AND as usual Vin Sin chel'Mara was in the deepest of it, pulling cantra from the pockets of the young fancies-about-town like a magnet pulling iron filings to itself.
He was a wizard with cards, was the chel'Mara, any of his cronies would say so. And it took either a god-kissed or an innocent to sit across from him at the pikit table and lay hand on deck to deal.
The universe being itself, there was no shortage of god-kissed for chel'Mara to fleece, innocents being something rare in the neighborhoods he frequented. Yet it seemed that tonight one had muddled into the depths of Quenpalt's Casino, and stood watching the play with wide, misty eyes.
She was utterly out of place in the jewel-glitter, silk-whisper crowd of players. Her quilted shirt was large and shapeless, fastened tight aro
und her fragile throat. Her only adornment was an antique silver puzzle-ring.
Her hair, dark blonde or light brown, draggled too close around her face, and her eyes, thought yo'Vaade, who saw her first, were gray, or possibly a foggy green.
She stood quiet as a mouse at the side of the table, flanked by two halflings in Scout leather, foggy eyes intent in the thin, hair-shrouded face.
At first he thought it was chel'Mara she was after, so raptly did she watch his play. And why not? He was a well-looking man, and of good Line, though that would matter less to her than the cantra piled before him. The chel'Mara would never consider something so dowdy, yo'Vaade knew, but what harm to let the mouse dream?
Then he saw that it was the cards she was watching and frowned to himself. Fastidious as he was in bedmates, chel'Mara would play against any who sat to table. But surely, thought yo'Vaade, a ragged girl, with scarcely a cantra for her quarter-share, if he was any judge—
"You find the game amusing?"
chel'Mara's query hovered on the edge of Superior to Inferior—proper enough for a High House lordling out of Solcintra when addressing a mouse of unexalted birth. It would have been more gentle to bespeak her otherwise, he being a guest in her city, but the chel'Mara was not a gentle man. He gathered in his latest winnings and stacked the coins before him in careful towers of twelve, hardly sparing a glance at the mouse's thin face.
"I find the game interesting," she returned in an unexpectedly strong voice, and in the mode of Adult-to-Adult. "And I cannot for the life of me, sir, understand why you continue to win."
chel'Mara raised his eyebrows in elegant amusement. "I continue to win because my line of play is superior."
"Not so," she returned with such surety that yo'Vaade openly stared. "It is a badly flawed line, sir. Indeed, a solid loser, over time."
chel'Mara leaned back in his chair and gazed blandly up into her face.
"How very—interesting," he purred and moved a languid hand, showing table, cards and cantra. "We have before us the means to test your theory. "
