by Sharon Lee
"It was even more distracting," Daav concluded amiably. "Perfectly understandable. Point of information: Normal procedure in such circumstance includes engaging the secondary comp."
She looked abashed, the brilliancy of her eyes dimming a fraction. "I had no notion there was a back-up navcomp, sir."
"Daav. Ships of this class carry a primary navcomp and one back-up as standard. Most pilots will install a second back-up. Some prefer more. It is wise to check before dropping to manual, especially if you are running solo."
She bowed her head. "I will remember."
"Good," he said and retracted the webbing. "Lessons being done for the moment, I suggest we wait upon Jon."
"A BEAUTIFUL LANDING!" Jon dea'Cort announced, raising a large, heavy-looking tea mug. "Not at all like some I've seen, where the ship comes in upside down and backward, eh, Daav?"
Clonak, the pudgy Scout with hair on his face—"A mustache," Pilot Daav had murmured in Aelliana's ear, at her initial start of surprise—laughed aloud and made an ironic, seated bow. "You shall never outlive it, Captain."
"So it seems," Pilot Daav returned placidly and looked back to Master dea'Cort. "What about that navcomp, Jon?"
The older man took a hearty swig from his mug. "I'd say replace it."
"Replace—Oh. Oh, no." Aelliana slid off the stool Jon had insisted she take and stood, hands knotted before her. "Navcomps are—Master dea'Cort, Ride the Luck is not a wealthy ship. I intend to work her, but until work can be found, expenses must be held to a minimum. You have been very helpful—indeed, generous, in the refitting, but I—" She stumbled to a halt.
A pair of humorous amber eyes considered her. "Spit it out, math teacher. We're all comrades here."
She drew in a breath, trembling as she met that gaze. "I cannot afford to replace the navcomp."
"Well." Master dea'Cort took counsel of the ceiling.
"Regs are pretty clear," he said eventually. "Navcomp's got to be online while the ship is in use within Port-controlled space. Unless you can afford fines and temporary suspension easier than a replacement comp?"
"It—it needn't be off-line for an instant!" Aelliana cried, the plan taking shape even as she spoke. She leaned forward, cold hands twisted into a cramped knot, eyes on Jon dea'Cort's face.
"I'll engage the navcomp, sir, I swear it! It will be—I can learn to ignore it, use override and merely run manual, as I did today. Then, when there has been sufficient work—" Something moved in the man's face and she stopped, gulping.
Clonak broke the small silence, voice hushed.
"Daav, I'm in love."
"What, again?"
The sound of his calm, deep voice recalled her to a sense of duty left undone and she spun, not quite meeting his eyes.
"I am remiss. You did very well, pilot, to keep the pace. I am—I am grateful for your assistance and the gift of your expertise."
Trilla, seated beside Clonak, gave a shout of laughter. Jon grinned. Clonak popped off his stool and bowed full honor.
"We shall make a pilot of you yet, oh Captain!"
Aelliana gasped in dismay. She had not meant to hold him up to ridicule before his comrades, but to thank him sincerely for his aid. She felt her cheeks heat.
"No, I—"
But Daav was already making an answering bow toward Clonak.
It was a pure marvel, this bow, swept as if the work leathers were the most costly of High House evening dress. One long arm curved aside and up, holding the imaginary cloak gracefully away as the sleek dark head brushed one elegant, out-thrust leg.
"You do me too much honor."
"Well, that's certainly likely," Jon declared, and shot a glance aside. "Clonak, sit down or go away. In either case, be quiet. Daav, descend from the high branches, if you please. Math teacher, pay attention."
She turned to face him, hands clasped tightly before her.
"Yes, sir," she said humbly.
"Huh." He glanced to the ceiling once more, then back, eyes and face serious.
"Nobody here says you can't run the board by hand forever without a mistake. But there's nobody here who hasn't at least once made a mistake, and been glad there was a double-check to save 'em. We're master class, each one of us." He used his chin to point: Trilla, Clonak, Daav, and tapped himself on the chest with a broad forefinger.
"Master class. The ship don't fly us, which is the case with the chel'Mara. We fly the ship. But blood and bone gets tired, math teacher—even Scouts have to sleep. Say you were hurt and needed time in the 'doc—do you leave the ship to a glitched comp, or do you sit that board and hope you don't pass out?"
She licked her lips. "Surely, in Solcintra. In local space—"
"The luck is everywhere—for good or for ill—and it's best not to spit in its face." Jon leaned forward on his stool, one arm across a powerful thigh.
"We're not talking regs, child. We all agree the regs are expendable—given sufficient cause. What we're talking is common sense. Survival. You understand survival."
"Yes," she whispered and swallowed hard in a tight throat. "Master dea'Cort, I cannot afford a replacement navcomp. I cannot afford to be grounded. Ride the Luck is a working ship and I intend that we—that we earn our way."
"That being the case," Daav said from behind her, "commission Binjali Repair Shop to replace the navcomp and drop in two back-ups. Jon holds the note and you pay as work becomes profit."
Jon looked at her seriously. "That's sound advice, math teacher."
"Daav has very sound judgment," Clonak chimed in, irrepressible as Var Mon, "though I grant you wouldn't think so, to look at him."
"I—I can't ask—hold a note for a replacement—for three replacements? Master—"
"No choice in the matter," Trilla said in her blunt, Outworld way. "Need a working comp to lift. Need work to finance the comp." She grinned. "You might take a loan against the ship, of—"
"No!"
"Huh." Jon again. "Sounds settled to me. I'll hold the note for my cost, plus labor. You'll pay me as able. In the meantime, if I have something to lift, you take it at your cost and we'll call that the interest. Agreed?"
There was, as Trilla said, no choice. Still, Aelliana struggled with necessity a moment longer. A debt of such magnitude would surely increase the time she must stay upon Liad, thus increasing the chance of discovery. And yet, it was required that the ship be able, if work was to be gained.
She inclined her head, vowing to pay this debt as quickly as she might.
"Agreed, Master dea'Cort."
"Good enough. When's your shift end, Daav?"
"Midnight."
"Glutton. Take Clonak and go pull that comp. I'll find the replacements." He smiled at Aelliana. "We'll have you up to spec by tomorrow mid-day, math teacher. I'll leave a complete accounting in your ship's in-bank."
"Thank you," she said, feeling tears prick her eyes. She ducked her head. "I am grateful."
Jon slid off his stool and stretched. "Same as we'd do for any of our own—no gratitude demanded."
"Clonak, old friend, your skills are in demand!" Daav had a tool belt over one shoulder and was holding out another.
"And I with a thought to dinner," the pudgy Scout sighed. He turned as he passed Aelliana and performed an absurdly ornate bow.
"For you, goddess, I forgo even food!"
"Nor like to starve of it," Daav commented.
"Cruel, Captain."
"Merely honest. Come along, dear." Black eyes found hers, though she made an effort to avoid the glance.
"Pilot Caylon, it was a rare lift. I hope to sit second for you again."
"Thank you," she stammered and felt she should say more.
But Daav was gone.
"NAVCOMP PULLED, SEALED and dispatched to the Port Master via Pilot ter'Meulen, who swears he's for a sup and a glass, lest he die of starvation."
"Well enough," Jon allowed, pouring the dregs from the pot to his mug. He glanced over his shoulder at the slender man perch
ed on the green stool, Patch sitting tall on his knee.
"Pastry?"
"Thank you, no."
"Not stale enough for you?" Jon speared a iced dough-ring for himself and carried tea and snack over to his accustomed stool.
"Too stale, alas. My cha'leket insists upon fresh pastries for his table, and you see how his decadence affects me."
Jon snorted and had a bite, followed by a swallow of tea.
"I wonder," Daav said pensively, rubbing the cat's ears. "Who certified that navcomp at refitting?"
"Checked it myself," Jon said, somewhat indistinctly. "Sang sweet and true." He paused for more tea, and pointed a finger.
"Occur to you to wonder how it is the chel'Mara, who never piloted anything other than a groundcar on manual in all his life, isn't splattered from here to the inland sea, running automatic with an insane navcomp?"
"It did." Daav sighed. "I spent an hour looking for a meddle, but if it was there, it was very cleverly tucked away."
"Don't have to be there now," Jon pointed out. "I checked the log—suspicious old man that I am—and you looking to become another such, if I may say so." He finished off the dough-ring in two bites.
"Log says that on the night he played pikit with our math teacher and lost his ship by way of it, Vin Sin chel'Mara—that's Lord chel'Mara to you—stopped by the shop and entered his once-was ship, to clear out his personal effects. Didn't take him long. In fact, turns out he left quite a number of very expensive—and portable—items behind."
Daav said something impolite in a language native to a certain savage tribe some fourteen zig-zagged light-years out from Liad. Jon grinned.
"No proof. Not that I don't favor it myself, for personal reasons. The chel'Mara's very careful of his melant'i. Doesn't do a man's melant'i any good to lose his ship, true enough. But you might be able to recoup something from the debacle, if she were straightaway seen to crash it."
"Which she might have done," Daav said, so heatedly Patch jumped to the floor. "If she had been any second class provisional, making her first sling-shot when that comp went bad—" He took a hard breath. "Your pardon."
"Nothing to it." Jon grinned. "A rare wonder, our math teacher, eh?"
Daav moved his shoulders. "I'd like to know who beats her."
"I'd welcome news of that, myself. At least they didn't send her here battered and bruised-up today, small grace." He finished his tea and looked up into the younger man's eyes.
"Good idea of yours, me holding the note."
"I can guarantee the loan, if you like it," Daav returned quietly. "Or tell me the account and the price and I'll make the transfer now."
"Don't be an idiot. She intends to work that ship, and I'll tell you what I think. I think what our math teacher puts her mind to do is good as done. I'll hold her note."
"If it becomes a burden, old friend, only tell me. There's the Pilots Fund, after all."
"So there is. Well." He bounced to his feet and stretched with a mighty groan. Daav slid lightly from the stool and stood looking down at him, affection plain in his sharp, clever face.
"Hah." Jon smiled up at him. "You coming in tomorrow?"
"Perhaps the day after."
"All right, then. Glad you were to hand today. Matters could have gone ill, even if she is a wizard at the board."
"She wouldn't have attempted the sling if I hadn't suggested—demanded—it." He hesitated. "She's a natural, Jon."
"Is she?" the older man said, with vast unsurprise.
Daav laughed and bowed. "Good-night, Master."
"Good-night, lad. Convey my highest regards to your cha'leket."
Chapter Fourteen
A Dragon does not forget.
Nor does it remember wrongly.
—From the Liaden Book of Dragons
"MASTER DEA'CORT SENDS you his best regards, brother." Daav and his cha'leket were strolling arm-in-arm across Trealla Fantrol's wide lawn, angling more-or-less toward the wild garden and the river.
Er Thom sighed sharply. "Whatever have I done, to earn Jon dea'Cort's notice? We have scarcely exchanged a greeting in twelve years, so seldom do our paths cross, yet I cannot be abroad these last few relumma without hearing news of his regard! Only yesterday, Clonak ter'Meulen crossed Exchange Street at the Port's busiest hour to bring me Master dea'Cort's wish for my good health!"
Daav laughed. "Why, I suppose you've won his admiration, darling. Is it burdensome?"
"Merely bewildering, since I go on quite as usual, with the exception of succeeding to yos'Galan's ring, and I cannot for my life see what that should have to do with Jon dea'Cort!"
"Nothing at all—and you are correct in supposing a man's coming into his intended estate would utterly fail to win Jon's interest, much less his admiration. No," Daav murmured, "I believe it is your lifemating which has bought his heart."
Er Thom stiffened and shot a brilliant violet glance into Daav's face. "My lifemating, is it? A subject which falls well outside his reasonable area of concern."
"You are severe," Daav said, stroking the stiff arm soothingly. "Recall that Jon is a Scout. He expresses the greatest admiration for Anne's work. For yourself, he admires your—moxie, as he would have it."
"Moxie?" Er Thom frowned after the Terran word.
"Courage," Daav translated, rather freely. "It is not every Liaden, after all, who might lifemate a Terran, flying in the face of custom and—some would say—good sense."
Er Thom laughed softly. "Indeed, there was hardly a choice!"
"Yes, but you mustn't let Jon know that!" Daav said earnestly. "Allow him, I beg, to continue believing you and Anne lifemated because love was stronger than custom!"
"Of course—" He caught himself with another slight laugh. "Let Jon dea'Cort believe what he likes, then! I only wish he will give over such lavish regard."
"You might send him a token in Balance, if you find his esteem a burden." Daav grinned. "In fact, I believe I know just the thing! Have you a tin of that particular morning tea Anne favors?"
"'Joyful Sunrise'? Certainly. I can easily part with a dozen, if you feel it might answer."
"One tin should suffice, I think, and a card inscribed by your lady, desiring Master dea'Cort to enjoy the beverage as she does."
"Hah. It shall be done this evening!" Er Thom smiled, then sobered. "What word from Pilot tel'Izak?"
Daav lifted an eyebrow. "Word? No, no, darling—you mistake the matter entirely! It is I who ought to be about sending word. The lady believes me at her feet." He sighed lightly as they passed through the gap in the hedge. "And means, I fear, to have me remain there."
On the other side of the hedge, Er Thom stopped, rounding with such a look of outrage that it was all Daav could do not to laugh aloud.
"You at Samiv tel'Izak's feet? She has audacity, I see."
"Merely self-consequence." He slanted a glance into Er Thom's indignant eyes and fetched up a doleful sigh. "You have taken her in dislike."
"Indeed, how might I take her in anything at all, when she kept High Mode the evening through and refused to give one sight into —" Er Thom's mouth tightened. "This is a joke."
"Ah." Daav caught the other's arm and turned him gently toward the wild garden. "Alas, it is not a joke, but plain observation. The pilot considers that Korval's solicitation of herself exposes vulnerability." He paused. Er Thom's eyes were still stormy; he stood on the knife's edge of taking the lady in extreme dislike, on Daav's account.
And that, Daav thought suddenly, was neither seemly nor kind. For a time Samiv tel'Izak would be his wife, bound by the terms of the contract to live apart from the comforts of clan and kin, surrounded by strangers upon whom she must depend for what day-to-day gentleness one human being might have from another. To enter thus unprotected into a House where so substantial a person as her husband's cha'leket held her in despite—no, it would not do.
"The assumption is doubtless original with the lady's delm, and is not altogether shatterbrained," he sai
d, looking gravely into Er Thom's eyes. "Only think: All the world wishes to marry Korval—and Korval chooses Samiv tel'Izak. Those of Korval wed pilots—and she is a pilot. But there are other pilots, who are not Samiv tel'Izak, and who remain unchosen."
Er Thom's eyes were somewhat less stormy. "True enough," he allowed, though brusquely.
"True enough," Daav murmured and shaped his lips into a gentle smile. "Think again, brother. It was you urged me stand away, if I did not like the match. We are Scouts and traders—odd folk by any count. We might think of turning our face from custom—even at the risk of our delm's displeasure, eh?"
Er Thom laughed quietly.
"Yes." Daav allowed his smile to grow to a grin. "But consider one who is without our resources—to whom custom bears the weight of law—desired by her delm to come forth and take up duty. She must accept her delm's elucidation of circumstance: The Dragon offers for Samiv tel'Izak because none but herself will do." He moved his shoulders. "Shall we deny such a small comfort to one who will be so short a time among us?"
There was a pause.
"Certainly the lady is welcome to what comfort she may make for herself," Er Thom said softly. "I had been angered because it seemed she held you cheap."
"My lamentable sense of humor," Daav said ruefully and offered his arm. Er Thom took it and they continued their walk along the artful wilderness, talking of this and that, until Daav turned them, regretfully, back toward the house.
"The Council of Clans devours the remainder of my day," he said.
"Another meeting?" Er Thom frowned. "They proliferate."
"Geometrically," Daav agreed. "A land dispute has arisen between Mandor and Pyx. I think it a matter requiring the skills of two or three qe'andra, rather than a full Council."
"Why not offer Mr. dea'Gauss as arbiter?" Er Thom murmured, naming Korval's own man of business.
"Pyx has already taken up the melant'i of victim," Daav said, "and chose the Council as offering the widest scope for spite." He sighed sharply as they passed through the hedge.
"Had you heard that Vin Sin chel'Mara lost his ship in a game of pikit?"
"The Port speaks of nothing else," Er Thom replied. "The detail that remains unclear in the reports I have heard is the name of the winner. Some say a pair of Scoutlings, some others say a professional sharp-player from Chonselta City."
