Liaden Universe Constellation Volume 3

by Sharon Lee

  Well, she thought, smoothing her sleeves, if Korval would call unannounced, demanding speech with one of the clan, then Korval could take what was found—and well it was that she had not been working the garden this noon!

  One more deep breath to center herself, then she slid the door aside and stepped through.

  At first glance, the parlor was empty—second glance found two evenly matched silhouettes against the sun-filled window through which the pilots doubtless admired the small garden planted just outside for the pleasure of those who waited.

  Pilots. Chane hesitated, then recalled that the boy had said he had put them in the visitor’s parlor.

  Even as she recalled it, one of the two turned, and came forward into the less dazzling center of the room, where she paused, and bowed.

  Deeply.

  Chane had been schooled in the forms; Casia might be an outworld, but that did not mean the Code or proper manners were lost. Having thus been properly and thoroughly schooled, Chane recognized that the bow was of one acknowledging a debt too great to Balance.

  Precisely, in fact, the bow she had been about to offer the lady who was now straightening.

  “Anthora yos’Galan Clan Korval,” the lady stated, in a voice like rich, dark velvet. She gave Chane her whole face, a bit wide in the cheek, with a strong nose, and a chin that was frankly pointed. Not approaching a beauty, this Korval. Which fact one entirely forgot upon meeting her wide silver eyes. Eyes and face were solemn, for all the world as if the lady were an erring halfling awaiting her elder’s judgment.

  Her elder, in the meanwhile, recalled her own manners, and bowed, not as she had intended, but a civil welcome to the House, and said, gently, “Chane dea’Judan Clan Obrelt.”

  She straightened. “How may I serve you, Anthora yos’Galan Clan Korval?”

  The eyes smiled.

  “To serve me,” she said, “you need only greet my lifemate, and, of your very great kindness bestow upon him your kiss.”

  Her heart constricted painfully and for a moment she thought she might follow Arn Eld, on whom—save one—the burden of the death had lain heaviest. It had been his decision, that the clan could not sacrifice itself entire for the life of only one. His decision, too, to thwart Jabun as much as might be done, within the line and letter of the Code, though he would never after hear praise for that.

  “Ren Zel?” she scarcely knew the voice for her own, rough as it was with tears and loss.

  The silhouette that had remained at the window turned now, slowly, and walked deliberately forward, stopping at the lady’s side, his face set and closed.

  It was a man’s face she saw, honed by the events of a dozen Standards. A man’s eyes, wary, but steady on her own. His shoulders had broadened, filling the jacket he wore with a pilot’s easy pride.

  A death wounds all it touches, Anthora yos’Galan said—or did she? It seemed that the words had the quality of her own thought, and yet—

  This can be Healed.

  Of a certainty, Chane thought—can be and should be Healed. Arn Eld had taken the worst wound to himself, as a delm must, for the best good of the clan. But the clan—knowing that their safety was bought with life of one of their own? It had made them timid, that death; it had lessened them and made them aware of how fragile a thing was honor.

  “Ren Zel,” she said again, and reached to him, her hand shaking as her fingers brushed his cheek. “Child.”

  Her vision blurred; she felt her fingers caught in a strong grip, and the warm pressure of his lips.

  “Aunt Chane,” he whispered. “I’ve missed you so much.”

  It was some few moments before she composed herself sufficiently to allow the child of her heart to seat her, and accepted a handkerchief from his lifemate’s hand.

  “Shall I call for tea, ma’am?” that lady asked gently, and Chane half-choked a laugh.

  “You will terrify the kitchen, if you dare,” she said. Ren Zel knelt beside her chair, her hand held between his palms. She blinked the last of the tears away and looked up at Anthora yos’Galan.

  “In a moment, I will call for refreshments, and the thodelm, but first, if you will, what it is that Korval wants of us?”

  “For of course Korval must want something,” the lady said ruefully and sank to her knees at Chane’s other side. She folded her hands on the arm of the chair and rested her pointed chin on them.

  “And yet, as it happens, Korval does want something,” Ren Zel murmured.

  “True enough,” the lady agreed, and slanted her eyes whimsically at Chane’s face.

  Ren Zel, thought his aunt, must find life interesting with such a charming scoundrel at his side. Anthora yos’Galan laughed, merrily, but with no cause that Chane detected. There were rumors, she thought, recalling them now, that the youngest yos’Galan was not quite right in her head . . .

  “You must forgive my lady,” Ren Zel murmured. “She is from time to time flutter-headed.” He glanced at the lady in question. “Are you not, beloved?”

  “Indeed I am,” she answered. “I will also allow quicker to school than to be schooled.” She smiled, sweetly.

  “You were,” Ren Zel prodded softly, “charged by the delm to speak.”

  “So I was.” Anthora yos’Galan sat back on her heels, folded her hands onto her knees like a good, obedient child, and inclined her head gravely.

  “I am to say, on behalf of Korval, that Obrelt’s loss is three times Korval’s gain. Korval therefore seeks Balance between our two clans. That custom does not allow us to sign contract and compensate Obrelt rightly for its treasure, we are aware. However, Balance may be achieved in other ways, if Obrelt is willing.” The lady paused, her head tipped, as if she regarded a written page before her.

  “There is,” she said, looking to Ren Zel, “a list of arrangements and accomodations that might be made and met, but truly, beloved, I think those best left for Obrelt or for dea’Judan’s thodelm.”

  “I think so, too,” he said gently. “Aunt Chane? We had heard that the delm was away . . .”

  “So she is.” She felt him start, and extended her free hand to stroke his hair. “The years bring change,” she said softly. “Farin is delm now; and Wil Bar stands thodelm.”

  “And Uncle Arn Eld?” he asked softly.

  “Arn Eld embraced peace,” she answered, and saw the sweet mouth tighten.

  “I had wished,” he said, glancing down, “many times I had wished to thank him, for having contrived so well on my behalf. To have managed it so that I kept my license . . . I would have died in truth, had he not been so bold.”

  “So I told him, again and again,” she said. “Perhaps he would have believed you.” She took a breath and looked back to Anthora yos’Galan.

  “The delm will return by Prime. Will you wait?”

  “Gladly,” the lady said. “And Ren Zel may renew the acquaintance of his kin.”

  She charted a rambling course through the port until the horn sounded for Night Port. The racket of day-side security screens going down, while night-side screens rattled up had roused her from thoughts that had only gotten more tangled the longer she walked.

  Night Port. She should go home. Sal would be worried. No, she reminded herself, Sal was not there. Likely, he was engaged more pleasantly, a thought that did nothing to lighten her mood or ease her thoughts. And who was she, she thought angrily, to begrudge Sal joy? If she truly valued him as a comrade, she would rejoice in his good fortune.

  The crew-room was empty when she pushed the door open. Night Port though it was, it was not so late as that. Her crew had worked hard and on long-shift—they might well have gone upstairs to the dorm. Or they had gone out to celebrate the bonus by drinking it, though surely Dorlit would have—

  “Stop that!”

  She turned, seeing the door to the back office standing ajar, which it surely should not be, now that Day Port had turned.

  There was a confused sound from the dimness beyond the door, as if of boot
s scuffed on the ’crete floor, a sharp cry and a low grunt.

  “Stop it!” the voice came again—“I don’t want to!”

  She threw herself across the room, slamming the door open with one hand, and hitting the light switch with the other.

  It was Rijmont she saw first; Rijmont with his back to the door, his weight pinning Lorin against the wall.

  “Don’t want to, is it?” he snarled. “You wanted hard enough just a minute gone!”

  “Stop!” Lorin twisted. Rijmont grabbed her chin in his free hand and forcibly tilted her face up, bringing his lips down on hers.

  Cyrbet moved, grabbed the man by his shoulder, spun him ’round and slapped his face so hard he staggered back, away from Lorin. She put herself in front of the girl, and stared at Rijmont, who stared back, the mark of her hand livid on his pale cheek.

  “Lorin said no,” she said, hearing her voice steady and hard. “Leave.”

  “She said yes, too,” he spat, his hands curling into fists. “Which one should I believe?”

  “You should believe no,” Lorin shouted, and Cyrbet inclined her head.

  “You should believe no,” she repeated. “Leave, Rijmont,” she said again, and added something she had heard Sal say, when tensions ran high, “Take a walk.”

  “Well, I don’t wanna take a walk, Bethy. I wanna finish what I came in here for, and it ain’t no bidness of yours. Who named you crew boss?”

  “Sal did,” Dorlit’s shadow moved in the door. She stepped into the office, Jon, Marsel, and Kei filing in behind her.

  “Bethy,” she said, with a respectful nod. “Need us to do some clean-up?”

  The thodelm, his cousin Wil Bar, had cannily handled the matter of introductions to the larger House by presenting Anthora yos’Galan Clan Korval and her lifemate. It was, strictly, proper, and gave those who could not meet his eyes leave to look elsewhere.

  Of those who was his sister Eba, her distress overflowing into tears and a wordless, hasty retreat into the depths of the house.

  His eldest sister, Farin, now Obrelt Herself, had no such difficulty. She embraced him, cheek to cheek, as she had sometimes done when he had been more regular, and gave Anthora full honor as Korval’s representative. Nor was she behind in the news.

  “One hears that the Council banishes Korval from the homeworld,” she said, having heard Korval’s greeting from Anthora’s lips. “Forgive me if I seem pert, but this does seem an odd time to be pursuing new alliances. Surely Korval must look first to themselves.”

  “Korval has always counted allies above cantra,” Anthora responded—an answer that had become rote for them both over the course of their journey. “And before you protest that we are not allies, ma’am, only consider that Korval and Obrelt are bound together by two events—a death, and a lifemating. We have the opportunity, now, to decide which of those events will inform the future.”

  He had scarcely to speak at all, it being very quickly settled in principle that Obrelt and Korval would turn their faces together toward the future.

  Anthora then presented the delm’s list, which Farin received, prudently requesting time to consider the various items in light of the best good of Obrelt. This, his lady readily agreed to, and so they went down to Prime,

  Any awkwardness at table was handled simply enough by seating him, with Anthora, at the top, bracketed by delm, thodelm, and Aunt Chane. This left those lower down-table free to talk among themselves, which they did, so the ether told him, with considerable relief.

  As Anthora was speaking with Farin and Wil Bar, he applied himself to Aunt Chane. She asked what his life had been like, after he had left Casia, and he truthfully told her that it had been well enough in terms of work and health and friendship.

  “How strange, all that came of us wishing to see you properly wed, and the clan enriched by your child,” she said pensively. “And how much better for all, had we never gone down that road.”

  “No,” Ren Zel said softly, casting a glance into the ether and the orderly waltz of the threads. “No, that I cannot allow. Had you not done as you did, I might never have met, and been joined with, my lady.” He smiled at her frown and dared to place his hand over hers, where it lay near her plate.

  “Indeed, Aunt Chane, you have contrived to make me happy beyond anything I could have known to hope for. I thank you, with all my heart.”

  Marsel and Jon stayed with Lorin, while she, with Dorlit and Kei, took a rather bruised Rijmont to the port proctors. There he would be held until Sal came to arrange his release, or eighteen local hours had elapsed, whichever came first. She had Rijmont’s Kunkle ID and pass-keys in her pocket; they would be turned over to Sal when she saw him.

  But Sal was still absent when they returned. Nan said, worriedly, that she hadn’t thought it would take so long . . .

  “It?” she asked, but Nan only pressed her lips together and shook her head.

  “Boss bidness,” Dorlit said, around a sudden, wide yawn. “I’m beat.”

  There was a mutter of agreement from those present, and a movement toward the stairs to the dorm. Dorlit stopped with her foot on the bottom step and turned.

  “Coming, Bethy?”

  She shook her head. “I’ll wait for Sal.”

  “See you in the morning, then.”

  The footsteps faded. She heard the dorm’s door cycle, and sighed. It was not conceivable that she would be able to sleep until she had told Sal what had transpired, given over the things from Rijmont’s pockets, and heard what he thought of her actions.

  That she had done well in the main—she did think so. Though taking one of the crew to the proctors, she thought, carrying a cup of strong tea to the table—bringing the port into a dispute between comrades—perhaps that had not been best done. Had there been any room, closet or cubby inside Kunkle’s where they might have confined him without the possibility of mischief . . . but not even Kei could think of such a place.

  The more she thought on it, the more it sat ill with her. Kunkle’s crew held itself close, meted reward and punishment within the terms agreed upon by the crew. It was as if she had called the proctors into their rooms to restrain Grandfather during one of his tempers. Such a thing would have been improper. Disloyal.

  Sighing, she nodded over her cup, half-dreaming and half-remembering . . .

  She remembered Grandfather drilling her with the weapon, striking her when her aim was less than true. Once, the blow had landed more heavily than he had intended; she had fallen and struck her head—and awakened, moments or hours later, in Grandfather’s arms, his tears falling hot on her face as he called her over, and over, “Elsu . . .”

  She shook her head, rousing to drink some tea. Out on the port, a horn sounded the half-night.

  Sal had still not returned.

  It was familiar, this sitting in the dark alone. For a moment, she wondered why—and then she remembered. Before Grandfather had died, when all the rooms except the kitchen, the informal parlor, and the study had been sealed . . . she had often sat late alone, nodding over a cup of tea, listening to the night-sounds, thinking of death and duty.

  That Ren Zel dea’Judan was the author of all the misfortune that had befallen Clan Jabun in the years following her mother’s death . . . by then, she no longer believed. The clan had shrunk to herself and to Grandfather; her elder kin escaping as they could into apprenticeships, alliances, partnerships off-world, where Jabun was not a curse, nor Meriandra a threat.

  After, when Grandfather, too, had gone, leaving his debt and his anger for her to resolve, she took her license, her ring, what coins were hers by right, and walked out of the great, empty house; down to the port, intending to buy passage or find work.

  Her coins had not been enough to buy her way off-world in emulation of her cousins; and her second-class license did not trump the peril of her name. It was then that she sought the Terran side of the port, and put her name on every available employment list.

  So at last she had com
e to Kunkle’s, accepting the comradeship of Terrans; the doubtful camouflage of Bethy.

  But she was not Bethy—a Terran with neither past nor melant’i. She was Cyrbet Meriandra Clan Jabun, the last of her clan, and by that fact, the delm. The last possession of the clan, saving herself, its instrument, was a debt. A debt she had never thought she might see Balanced. Until now.

  Ren Zel dea’Judan had returned to Casia.

  She could redeem everything. No more dishonor. No more nightmares.

  She needed only to rise, and to act.

  In their cabin aboard Dragon Song, Ren Zel waked of a sudden, certain that someone had called his name. Anthora lay with her head on his shoulder, her breath deep and regular. He looked into the ether, thinking that she might have inadvertently engaged him into one of her dreams, as had happened once or twice—but it seemed not. Her pattern on the ether was consistent with one who was profoundly asleep, glowing yet with the aftermath of energetically enjoyed lust.

  And, yet, it had been so clear. A woman’s voice; his name; a sense of—

  He laughed, softly. Perhaps, he said to himself, it was you who dreamed yourself awake? Have you become so accustomed to the strange that you fail to consider the commonplace?

  Amused, he closed his eyes, settling his cheek against Anthora’s hair . . .

  Ren Zel dea’Judan.

  This time he opened his eyes to a cabin shimmering with gold.

  He blinked, trying to return himself to everyday sight, for surely he needn’t see this now—when the business with Obrelt was done in all but detail, and Korval, in their wisdom, had begun a healing long delayed.

  His daily sight did not return, however, and the threads began to beguile his sense, so that he found himself following this one and that one—and that one, which was oddly kinked, hot—feverish.

  Ren Zel frowned, reached—and snatched his awareness back to himself. It was not lightly done, to interfere with the threads. Indeed, it were best to have nothing to do with them at all, which he would not, excepting that it was his gift, to be Sighted in this way—and a blessing it was, for it allowed him to share fully with Anthora.