by Sharon Lee
It had occurred to her, after they had sat companionably together for some time, that perhaps he was concerned, lest she was thinking of throwing herself from the catwalk to the bottom of the bay—a considerable distance. Nor would such a fear be entirely beyond his scope; Kunkle’s Repair had at that juncture only recently lost a team-member to a fall into the bay, which was how the temp-slot had opened for her.
“A bad dream,” she had murmured, to ease him; for Sal of course stood senior to her, and was in addition “floor boss.” It was a bad policy, to have a supervisor concerned of one’s fitness for work.
She’d felt him nod, in the dark.
“Know all about bad dreams,” he’d said, and said nothing more.
She resettled her chin on her arm, and stared down into the darkness until her eyes grew heavy and her thoughts sluggish. She’d pushed to her feet, then, staggering slightly, and found Sal’s hand there to steady her.
“G’night,” he’d said. “No dreams for either of us, ‘til morning.”
And so it had been, just as he said.
Alas, his dominion over dreams did not extend for more than a night or two, and it transpired that they met often, after the others were abed and long asleep. The catwalk was the usual meeting place, she sometimes finding him there before her. Later, after the team had voted to accept her fully; after she had seen her true name vanish inside the Terran “Bethy”—when she had built some small melant’i within the team—then, some few times, on very bad nights—his or hers—they walked out into the Night Port until they found a bakery or other eatery open on dark-license. They talked, on such excursions. She told him of Grandfather, a little, and how he had been cheated of his last cantra by persons who had been his allies, who he had trusted—and whose break of trust and simple theft, there had been insufficient resources to allow her to go for first.
He told her of his life before he’d come to Casiaport. He’d lost kin on his home world, in a repair accident. The insurance company had refused to pay on the claim, citing some safety deficiencies at the shop, and so Sal was made homeless, who was already kinless. He had signed on with the Kunkle Franchise, and had assisted in setting up repair yards on two worlds before Casiaport, which was when the Franchise vanished, and the Set-up Team became Kunkle’s Repair. Sal had been third senior, then; he, with the two above him in rank, had taken Kunkle as their surname, and filed for a family business license, which Casiaport granted.
Sal was second senior now, behind Nan, Robert having sold back his share and taken a crew berth on a tramp the year before she joined the team.
“Second in line and the bidness in the black,” Sal had said during one of their recent Night Port rambles. “Time to expand operations, settle in an’ get married.”
It had been, she thought at the time, a joke, and she smiled. They joked now; shared commonplaces, and Sal had become . . . Sal was . . .
Sal was trustworthy, she told herself. A valued comrade.
Which Rijmont certainly was not.
She received her cereal with a nod of thanks, moved down the caf line, drew tea, and passed out into the larger room, slipping into a table for two near the wall. In a moment, Sal joined her, smiling, though his eyes looked as heavy as hers felt.
“And your own rest?” she asked him.
“Excellent, what there was of it.” His smile deepened and her heart constricted, as it came to her that Sal might not have been joking, and that a bed-friend might be the reason for both the excellence of his sleep and its brevity.
And what was it to her, she thought in the next heartbeat, if Sal should have a bed-friend—or a dozen such! He was a well-looking man, though Terran, and the subtle strength of his manner, which she thought must recommend him as a lover.
“Can’t talk about it—not yet,” he said, spooning cereal. “It’s looking good though, Bethy—better than—well. Once it’s firm, you’ll be the first to know.”
Breakfast, never particularly flavorful, suddenly sat ill on her tongue. Truly, the cook must have burnt the grain. She put the spoon down and sipped her tea, searching for an excuse to rise from table, so that she need hear no more.
“Better have that,” Sal said, nodding toward her bowl. “Nan’s gotta line on a repair upstairs. Waiting on the earnest hitting the account and and ack on the go-ahead. Should be ready by the time we hit the shift. You in a mood to fly?”
Her blood quickened. When was she not in a mood to fly? And, truth told, though her value to the crew lay in her second-class license, it was rare enough that an opportunity to exercise her skill came forward.
“Where?” she asked, picking up her spoon again and attacking the cereal with a will.
“Long orbit.”
She smiled.
“Thought you’d like that,” he said, with satisfaction.
He put his empty bowl on the tray; she finished her meal in a rush that would have earned a scolding from Grandfather. But—a lift to long orbit! Such adventures did not come to her every day, nor even every relumma! Even Grandfather must have—
She aborted that thought, and looked to Sal.
“Who comes with me?”
“Dorlit, Jon, Marsel, and Kei.”
“Not you?” she asked, disappointed, for the crew never misbehaved when Sal was there.
He shook his head. “Gotta stay close,” he said, again with a hint of that secret smile.
“Who will be crew boss?” she asked after a moment, as if she had not seen the smile.
“You,” he said, and she froze with her cup halfway to the tray.
“I?”
He nodded, setting his empty cup aside. “It’s time,” he said, which she couldn’t very well argue, since it lay within his melant’i to decide such things. Still, she was aware of a certain trepidition.
“Dorlit’ll back you up,” Sal continued, and she breathed easier. Dorlit was sensible; even Rijmont respected her. And, really, the thought came, rumbling in her head like Grandfather’s voice—why should she be trepidatious? Was she not Cyrbet Meriandra Clan Jabun, a pilot of the line? It was her destiny to order her lessers.
Undoubtedly this was true, for Jabun Himself had taught her so. Still, she admitted to herself, it was good that Dorlit would be there, as back-up.
“Time to go,” Sal said, pushing back his chair. “Not good to keep the client waiting.”
“No,” she agreed, rising. “Nor the ship.”
He had dressed, not in the finery required of one who came as an emissary of Korval, but as a pilot—leather jacket over dark shirt and tough trousers.
Anthora, tousled and fresh from her shower, considered this ensemble with head tipped to a side. He thought that she would make an argument, though the ether displayed no such brewing storm.
After a moment, she nodded.
“Surely, it is neither a shame nor a wonder, that one of Korval should arrive as a pilot,” she said calmly. “Will you call for a car, love? I’ll be another moment, only.”
The car, having brought them from the port into the city, now drew to the curb. The back door slid open. Ren Zel touched the intercom, murmuring, “Wait,” to the driver, before he swung onto the walk, and bent down to offer Anthora his hand.
She did not require his assistance, of course. But she put her hand in his as she rose lightly to his side.
Together, they turned—and it was then that his heart utterly failed him.
Confronting them—was nothing but a short walkway, and a fence, high and white, with a gate set center to the walk. Beyond, one saw the tops of small trees, such as trees grew on Casia, and beyond those a hint of the house, roof line taller than the trees, and the wink of a window, down below.
Obrelt’s Clanhouse. He had grown up here—on this street, inside that fence, within the House, protected by clan and kin.
Until neither had protected him, at the last.
His chest constricted, the fence, the gate, the house blurred out of sense, and it was hard to breath
e. He remembered—he remembered walking out of the gate, down the walk, to the empty street—incompletely healed, grieving, stunned—alone.
Cast out.
Nothing.
Dead.
It was true, he thought, breathless: The dead did not live again.
Despite everything Korval might do.
He could not—gods, he could not face this. Dead—twice dead—but for the kindness of Terrans, and the meddling of Dragons.
Three times dead, if he could not get air into his lungs, or calm the frenzied pounding of his heart. Perhaps someone spoke; he thought—but there was the roaring in his ears.
Quick or dead, he was a pilot—and in his need he reached for a pilot’s calming exercise. The familiar discipline shattered on the rocks of his pain, leaving him lost in a disorienting blackness, chest laboring now, and it was desperation, or instinct, that threw his will into the ether, where there was silence, and the weaving of fine golden threads, calming, and . . . correct—correct beyond logic, or the designs of men, or the principles set out in the Code.
Ineluctable, the weaving stretched as far as he could compass—farther, in space, time, and beyond—with nary a thread out of place, nor any disruption of purpose.
Peace filled him; wit returned. He cast about, as one did in this place, and perceived nearby a complexity of silver and azure, lightly stitched with ebon and scarlet.
So did Anthora manifest in the ether. His lifemate, his soul, she for whom he would do anything—even live, if she required it of him. He felt a wave of tenderness, wrapped her in it, felt her love fill and strengthen him.
It required an active application of will; he opened his eyes once again.
The fence was in repair, he noted coolly, and had recently been painted. The trees and the roof were in good order. He sighed and felt a burden he had not known he had carried fall from his shoulders. Obrelt prospered. Jabun had honored, at least, those conditions of Balance. The clan had not foundered into poverty on his account.
He took another breath, felt Anthora’s thought touch him, questioning, and nodded.
“Lead,” he said softly, “and I will follow. My print no longer opens the gate, and the House may yet recall that I am forbidden.”
Chane dea’Judan sat in what had become her favorite chair in the solar at the back of the house, reading. She had since her retirement rediscovered the joys of fiction, surprising herself by finding that her taste ran to tales of high adventure and high melant’i, with improbable twists based on obscure points of the Code.
She had been for many years thodelm, Obrelt’s working hand, as the vernacular had it, as if the delm had not, indeed, worked tirelessly for the clan and the well-being of all, until one evening he had simply sat down in his chair during the hour before Prime and declared that he was rather tired.
When she had come to wake him, just a half-dozen minutes before the hour, he had already left clan and kin far behind.
In the solar, Chane sighed over her book. Even in death, Arn Eld left Obrelt’s affairs in good order—the nadelm had been working at his side for more than a year and knew the status of every bit of the clan’s business. She had stayed with the new delm until it was plain that the child was steady, then stood aside for her own successor, likewise well-trained and able.
Not that her retirement afforded her endless days of reading. An elder of the house taught the youngers, listened to the halflings, counseled the working adults, and commiserated with her age-mates. All that, and there was still time to read in the sun, vicariously tasting adventure.
From behind, there came a small noise, as if someone scuffed uncertain boots on the warm stone floor.
“Yes?”
“Excuse me, Grand-aunt,” Den Ton, who at eight years local was standing his first shift as doorkeeper, said breathlessly. “There’s a lady—a pilot. She asks for your kind attention.”
Her kind attention? Chane frowned slightly, then made her expression serene, lest the child think that he had erred.
“Come to me,” she said calmly, and when he had done so, asked gently, “Has the pilot a name?”
“Indeed, she sends her card.” He produced it, relatively unrumpled, from his pocket.
Chane glanced down—and blinked; in that first moment, the clan sign was everything that she saw. Tree and Dragon.
She took a breath. And what had Korval to do with Obrelt, save what they had already done? It had been a Korval Master Pilot who had so enraged Jabun that Obrelt must need forfeit not only their sole pilot, but a clan member of strong melant’i, a tolerant brother, an affectionate nephew, giving to the youngers, full of life, blameless—oh, without a doubt, blameless.
. . . Which Korval had known, and having done damage, repaired what they might, taking Obrelt’s dead up into their lead trade ship—no less than Dutiful Passage—under the hand of that very same Master Pilot, so came the tale from out of the Port.
Alas, that had been the last tale touching them to come out of the Port, and the delm had forbidden her to seek further, for fear, at first, of what further ills Jabun might visit upon Obrelt. Later, when Jabun’s fortunes had turned, and Arn Eld had gone beyond care, it was fear for the boy himself that had restrained her, for whatever—if anything—Korval had contrived, it surely would not suffer a stranger’s hand upon it.
And it had been so . . . very . . . long. Surely, whatever further doom awaited the innocent dead had long since fallen.
“Grand-aunt?” Den Ton asked, his voice uncertain.
Chane swallowed old anger and sorrow, smoothed her face and looked again at the card, now quivering a little in small, uncertain fingers.
Anthora yos’Galan Clan Korval the legend ran. Not the Master Pilot, then. Or, at least, not the same Master Pilot.
“She asked first for Obrelt,” Den Ton said. “But the delm is from House. Then it was you that she asked to see, Grand-aunt.”
Chane sighed. “The lady perhaps works with an out-of-date book,” she said. “In the delm’s absence, you must offer the thodelm, child. Where have you placed the pilot?”
“I asked them of their kindness to wait in the visitor’s parlor,” he said, which was perfectly correct. “But, Grand-aunt, I did say that the thodelm was to House, if she pleased, and she said that she wished to speak a word to Chane dea’Judan, if the House permitted.” He swallowed, his cheeks flushing.
“I ought to have gone to Wil Bar in any case, oughtn’t I?” he asked, voice trembling.
“When a stranger comes unexpected to the door and asks for one of the clan by name, yes, my child, it is correct to bring the matter to delm or thodelm.” She glanced again at the card, took her decision and slipped it from the child’s fingers, closing her book as she rose.
Den Ton looked up at her, mouth sightly open. “Grand-aunt?”
“I will see the lady,” she said quietly. Wil Bar would only have to call her, anyway. After all, the tragedy which bound Obrelt to Korval had happened on her watch.
The repair job had gone well, the crew working in harmony and with goodwill. Not a little of that goodwill had to do with the bonus promised by the client, should the business take no more than forty-eight Standard Hours, which deadline they handily met. This was entirely due to Kei’s Satchel, which he had insisted on bringing, despite the protests of both Jon and Marsel, both of whom swore that their kits were complete and they needed no such ragtag collection of odds and ends as resided in the Satchel.
Only, the ship under repair had not quite the standard locking mechanisms, and it had seemed that the bonus and the contract, too, would falter on the lack of a particular nut, absent by age from both Marsel’s kit and Jon’s, but present very near the bottom of Kei’s.
That circumstance had seen the job complete an hour before the client’s deadline, and the bonus had been transferred with the repair fee before they undocked and began the long spiral in to Casiaport.
She trusted that the lesson was learnt—and was certain of it w
hen Marsel joined Kei in the galley, and asked how he chose the contents of the Satchel.
Later, when they were returned to Kunkle’s small yard, and she had locked down the board, herded her crew to the office and signed the job complete with Nan, since Sal was not to hand—after all that was done, she walked cross-port to the Guildhall—the Liaden Guildhall—to show her card and file her hours.
“The record will relay from the Terran hall,” said the clerk on duty—a man she did not know from previous visits.
“I prefer to come here,” she answered, sharply. “Is there a problem?”
He stared at the screen for a long moment; the screen where he would see, in addition to her piloting record and Guild information, her name.
“No problem,” he said softly, and pulled the card from the reader, offering it to her on the tips of his fingers. “Pilot Meriandra.”
“Thank you,” she said, snatching the precious thing. She turned, her temper unsettled, and looked up by habit, to the ship board.
Kunkle’s vessel, being registered to the Terran side of the port of course did not display, but—
“Korval, here?” asked one of those nearby who was also perusing the board, perhaps of the room at large.
She frowned and stared up at the board on the tradeship side, thinking that it was come at last and again, as it had once before—Dutiful Passage, which had rewarded the enemy of her clan. Her heart began to beat faster, her hands curling into fists.
“Courier,” someone else said, and her eyes jumped, found the name in the middle of the third column—Dragon Song—and the name of the pilot who sat as first.
Ren Zel dea’Judan.
Chane dismissed Den Ton to the doorkeeper’s station and continued alone to the visitors’ parlor. She paused a moment outside of the closed door to compose herself and to still a sudden qualm upon the realization that the costume she wore was more suited to the comfort of reading in the solar than greeting High House guests.
