Liaden Universe Constellation Volume 3

by Sharon Lee

  Again, he considered that odd thread, bringing his awareness close, subjecting it to minute study.

  The thread pulsed, shedding flakes of gold, showing a core of molten red, like a raw wound.

  Ren Zel bit his lip. That was . . .unnatural. That, he needed to deal with.

  Tenderly, he slid Anthora’s head from his shoulder to the pillow, and slipped out of bed, rapidly dressing in the glow of golden threads.

  “Love?” Anthora muttered sleepily from the bed. “What—” Her voice sharpened, no longer sleep-drenched. “Ren Zel! Where are you going?”

  “I am going out on the port for a moment,” he said softly. “Sleep, beloved; I’ll be back soon.”

  “Stay!” she cried—a Command, spoken with all the power of an extremely powerful dramliza. He felt the disruption it made in the ether, extended his will and batted it aside as he exited the cabin.

  Behind him, Anthora scrambled out of bed and snatched up her clothes. It was a matter of moments only, but he had already descended the gantry by the time she reached the hatch.

  Swearing, she ran after, following his signature in the ether.

  The gun was heavy—heavier even than it was in the dream—but she had no care for that. Was she not Cyrbet Meriandra Clan Jabun? She could bear any burden, save dishonor.

  No, that was wrong—no, it was right! Grandfather had used to say so, and Grandfather was right. He had been delm, had he not? The delm was always right.

  Now, she was delm. And she would also be right.

  How noisy it was on the port this evening. She could scarcely hear herself think.

  “Bethy!” The voice was familiar—beloved, she admitted it. On this night, she would finally and entirely be truthful with herself. She slowed briefly; he caught up and put his hand on her arm.

  “Bethy, hey, I’ve got something to tell you. Said you’d be the first, didn’t I? I’m sorry it took so long to get the papers signed, but—”

  “Sal . . .”

  “Are you OK?” He extended a blunt hand and brushed her hair from her brow—tenderly, as if she were a child. “Bethy, listen, I’ve got news. Good news.”

  “Good news?” She stared, seeing the smile, the happiness in him, then turned and resumed walking.

  “Hey, aren’t you interested?” Sal cried, running after her.

  “I am interested—after,” she said. “Sal, I have a duty. Please, when I return, you will tell me everything—this good news.”

  He cocked an eyebrow and kept pace with her, his eyes shrewd now.

  “Something heavy in that pocket,” he noted. “You ain’t after beaning Rijmont with one of my good wrenches, are you?”

  It was a joke. She was expected to laugh. She shook her head. “The proctors have Rijmont,” she said.

  “’Bout time. Bethy, you’re scaring me,” Sal said, and grabbed her arm. Her hand slid out of the pocket, showing the gun.

  Sal’s fingers tightened. He stopped and pulled her to a stop beside him in a pool of light.

  “Sal, let me go.”

  “Hell I will! Bethy, where’re you going? This like that dream you told me about? The one about your grandfather and that burden he put on you? Give me the gun.”

  “No.” She tightened her grip and looked into his face. It would be easy, to give Sal the gun, to let him turn her from this. Bethy might do so. Delm Jabun . . . could not.

  No. She straightened. Delm Jabun would not. She would have Balance. For the best good of the clan.

  “Release me,” she said, as gently as she might. “Sal, I have duty.”

  “Any duty involving a gun needs some close examination,” Sal said grimly. “Bethy . . .”

  “My name is not Bethy,” she told him, sharply now. “It is—”

  “Cyrbet Meriandra,” a man’s gentle voice said out of the shadows before them. “Clan Jabun.”

  Sal’s grip loosened in surprise. She took advantage of his lapse to pull her arm free.

  “Show yourself,” she snapped, wrapping both hands around the gun’s grip.

  The shadows moved, reshaped themselves into a pilot in plain port leathers. His hair was brown, his face calm and comely.

  “Ren Zel dea’Judan,” he said, with a nod that was courteous, between pilots. “Clan Korval.”

  “If I was you, I’d run,” Sal said frankly. “Bethy’s a little off her head right now.”

  The pilot smiled, and shook his head; she could feel the weight of his attention on her and squared her shoulders, the better to bear it.

  “You called me, perhaps, Pilot?” he asked.

  “Perhaps I did,” she replied. There was a small sound in the night, and she looked to Ren Zel dea’Judan’s right, where another pilot stepped out of the shadows, dark hair stirring about her head, though there was no breeze on-port tonight.

  “Ren Zel,” she said, her voice soft and strong.

  He raised a hand and she took a breath, folded her hands before her and said nothing more.

  So, then. Cyrbet raised her chin and looked into his eyes.

  “You killed my mother,” she said. “My grandfather never forgave you.”

  “It is a terrible thing,” Ren Zel dea’Judan said, “to lose a child.”

  Cyrbet licked her lips.

  “You ruined Clan Jabun,” she said, continuing the litany of those things this man had visited upon them. “My grandfather hated you for that.”

  The pilot bowed his head; said nothing.

  She raised the gun, slowly, as Grandfather had taught her, until she still practiced what she must do, in her dreams.

  “He taught me,” she said. “He taught me to hate you. He taught me to use this, so that I would, one day, achieve Balance.”

  The other pilot, the woman, moved sharply, and subsided at once, a hand fisted at her breast; she saw it from the corner of her eye. Ren Zel dea’Judan never looked aside, his face calm, as if the gun had no meaning for him.

  “I am here, now,” Cyrbet said, going into the High Tongue for the correct phrase, “as Jabun’s delm and the instrument of my grandfather’s will. He last wish was for Balance with Ren Zel dea’Judan. I hereby fulfill his Balance, for the best good of the clan.”

  She reversed the gun and extended it to the brown-haired pilot, butt-first.

  He stepped forward to receive it; held it with the muzzle pointed toward the ground.

  Gently, he bowed.

  “Lady, we are in Balance. Your grandfather’s will is achieved; Jabun’s honor is restored. Let there be peace, and let all wounds heal.”

  It was done.

  Cyrbet felt her knees begin to tremble; felt Sal’s hand come under her arm, supporting her.

  “All done, now?” he asked, his voice careful.

  “All done, now,” she agreed, and nodded to Ren Zel dea’Judan and his second.

  “Good e’en, Pilots.”

  “Good e’en,” said the woman, coolly.

  “Good e’en,” said the man. “Sleep well.”

  “Let’s go, Bethy,” Sal said, turning her back toward Kunkle’s. “You had a long day and a busy night, and you ain’t told me yet if you’re gonna marry me.”

  “Did you ask?” she inquired, and the two of them walked away without a backward look.

  Anthora stepped to his side.

  “That,” she said, “was extraordinarily dangerous. Please do not expose yourself so, beloved! What should I have done if you had been killed?”

  “But how could I have been, when you extracted the pellets?” he murmured, slipping the gun into his pocket and turning to offer her his arm. “Where are they?”

  She extended her fist, opening the fingers one by one to show six pellets lying in her palm—and suddenly laughed.

  “All for naught. The young delm was wiser than I guessed.”

  Ren Zel sighed, looked into the ether and smiled.

  Eleutherios

  This story was written for Baen.com, in advance of the release of Necessity’s Child, in wh
ich the Bedel play an important role. The word “eleutherios” is an epithet of the Greek god Dionysus; it means, “the liberator.”

  It had been many years since the organ had last given voice. Friar Julian had been a younger man—though by no means a young man—then, and had wept to hear the majesty brought forth by his fingers.

  Godsmere Abbey had been great, then, before the punishments visited by earth and air. Now it, like the city surrounding, was . . . not quite a ruin. Just . . . very much less than it once had been.

  Though it no longer worked, Friar Julian cared for the organ, still, waxing the wood, polishing the bright-work, dusting the keys, the bench, the pedals. As the organist, it had been his duty to care for the organ. Duty did not stop simply because the organ was broken.

  Indeed, it was all of his duty, now: The care and keeping of odd objects—some whole, some broken, others too strange to know—and odd people in similar states of being. The odd people brought the odd objects, for the glory of the gods and their consorts, and the Abbey sheltered both, as best it might.

  It seemed fitting.

  Before the earthquake, before the Great Storm, Godsmere Abbey had the patronage of the wealthy, and the high. Witness the walls: Titanium-laced granite that withstood the quake damage-free, saving some very small cracks and fissures; the roof-tiles which had denied wind and rain; the rows of carven couches in the nave—why, the organ itself!

  They were gone now—the high, the wealthy, and the wise. Gone from the city of Collinswood, and from the planet of Fimbul, too; gone to some other, less contentious place, where they might be comfortably safe.

  In the meantime, there was no lack of work for those few friars who remained of the once-populous spiritual community of Godsmere. With loss and want, their tasks had become simpler—care for the sick, feed the hungry, nurture the feeble; and curate the collection of artifacts that filled the North Transept, and spilled into the South.

  From time to time, the Abbey accepted boarders, though a far different class than had previously leased the courtyard-facing rooms, seeking tranquility in the simplicity of their surroundings, and the sloughing off, for a time, at least, the cares that weighed their spirits.

  A bell rang, reverberating along the stone walls: The call to the mid-morning petition.

  Friar Julian passed the dust cloth over the organ’s face one more time before tucking the cloth into the organist’s bench.

  “I will come again,” he promised it, softly, as he always did.

  Then, he turned and hurried down the steps, out of the organ niche, to join his brothers in faith in giving thanks to the gods and their consorts for the dual gifts of life and conscience.

  Later in the day, another bell rang, signaling a petitioner at the narthex. Friar Anton stood ostiary this day, and it was he who came to Friar Julian in the kitchen, to say that two city constables awaited him in the nave.

  Friar Julian took off his apron, and nodded to Layman Voon, who was peeling vegetables.

  “Please,” he said, “call another to finish here for me. I may be some time, and the meal should not be delayed.”

  “Yes, Friar,” Layman Voon said, and reached for the counter-side mic, to call for Layman Met, which was scarcely a surprise. Voon and Met had vowed themselves to each other in the eyes, and with the blessings of, the gods and their consorts, and worked together whenever it was possible.

  Friar Julian and Friar Anton walked together along the back hallway.

  “How many?” asked Friar Julian.

  “One only,” replied Anton.

  That was mixed news. They had been without for some number of months, and while one was certainly better than none, two—or even four—would have been very welcome, indeed.

  On the other hand, it was true that supplies were low in these weeks between the last planting and the first harvests, and one would put less strain upon them than four. Unless . . .

  “In what state?” Friar Julian asked.

  “Whole.” Anton was a man of few words.

  Friar Julian nodded, relieved that there would be no call upon their dangerously depleted medical supplies.

  They came to the nave door. Anton passed on to his post at the narthex, and the great, formal entrance, while Julian opened an inner, passed through it into the clergy room, and thence, by another door, into the nave itself.

  Three men stood in the central aisle, among the rows of gilt and scarlet couches. Two wore the dirt-resistant duty suits of the city constabulary. Out of courtesy, they had raised their visors, allowing Father Julian sight of two hard, lean faces that might have belonged to brothers.

  The third man was shorter, stocky; dressed in the post-disaster motley of a city-dweller. His hair was black and unruly, his face round and brown. Black eyes snapped beneath fierce black eyebrows. An equally fierce, and shaggy, black mustache adorned his upper lip.

  He held his arms awkwardly before him, crossed at the wrist. Friar Julian could see the sullen gleam of the binder beneath one frayed blue sleeve. He turned his head at Friar Julian’s approach, and the cleric saw a line of dried blood on the man’s neck.

  “Just one today, Fadder,” called the policeman on the prisoner’s right. “He’s a sly ’un, though.”

  Friar Julian stopped, and tucked his hands into the wide sleeves of his robe.

  “Is he violent?” he asked, eying the man’s sturdy build. “We are a house of peace.”

  “Violent? Not him! Caught ’im coming outta Trindle’s Yard after hours, wida baga merch on his shoulder. Problem is, nuthin’ caught ’im going in, and t’snoops was all up and workin’. ‘Spector wants a vestigation, so you got a guest.”

  “There’s something strange with his ID, too,” said the other policeman, sternly. “Citizens Office is looking into that.”

  “But violent—nothin’ like!” The first policeman took up the tale once more. “He ran, sure he did—who wouldn’t? Nothin’ to be ashamed of, us catching ’im. And he’s smart, too—aincha?”

  He dug an elbow into the prisoner’s side. It might as well have been a breath of wind, for all the attention the man gave it. The policeman looked back to Friar Julian.

  “We put the chip in, then stood back, like we do, so he could make a run fer it and get The Lesson. ’cept this guy, he don’t run! Smart, see? We hadda walk away from ’im ‘til he dropped off the meter and got the zap.” He looked at the prisoner.

  “Gotta have The Lesson, man. That’s regs.”

  The prisoner stared at him, mouth hidden beneath his mustache.

  “Not very talkative,” the second policeman said, and opened one of his many belt pouches.

  “The judge says board for two weeks,” he said. “If the investigation goes longer, we’ll re-up in two-week increments. If it goes shorter, the next boarder’s fee will be pro-rated by the amount of overage.”

  Friar Julian slipped his hands out of his sleeves and stepped forward to pick the coins off of the gloved palm.

  “Yes,” he said calmly, fingers tight around the money, “that is the usual arrangement.”

  “Then we’ll leave ’im to ya,” the first policeman said. “Arms up, m’boy!”

  That last was addressed to the prisoner, who raised his arms slightly, black eyes glittering.

  The policeman unsnapped the binders while his partner walked across the nave to the safe. He used the special police-issue key to unlock it, and placed the small silver control box inside. Then he locked the safe, and sealed it.

  He looked over his shoulder.

  “Ponnor!” he called.

  The prisoner pivoted smoothly to face him.

  “You pay attention to this seal, now! It’ll snap and blow if you try to get in here—that’s the straight truth. The blast’ll take your fingers, if it doesn’t take your head. So, just sit tight, got it? The friar’ll take good care of you.”

  “I have it,” the man said, his voice low, and surprisingly lyrical.

  “Right, then. We’re gon
e. Good to see you again, Friar.”

  “May the gods and their consorts look with favor upon your efforts,” Friar Julian said, seeing Friar Anton approaching from the direction of the North Transept. He had been listening, of course. The ostiary always listened, when there were policeman in the nave.

  The policeman followed him out, leaving Friar Julian alone with the man named Ponnor.

  The garda left them, escorted by the gadje who had admitted them to this place. Niku rubbed his right wrist meditatively, and considered the one who would take good care of him, Fadder Friar.

  This gadje holy man was old, with a mane of white hair swept back from a formidable forehead. He had a good, strong nose, and a firm, square chin. Between chin and nose, like a kitten protected by wolves, were the soft lips of a child. White stubble glittered icily down his pale cheeks. His eyes were blue, and sad; far back, Niku perceived a shadow, which might be the remnants of his holiness, as shabby as his brown robe.

  It was, Niku reflected, surprising that even a gadje holy man should accept the coin of the garda. Niku had no opinion of gadje in general, but his opinion of holiness had been fixed by the luthia herself. And among the blessed Bedel there was no one more blessed than the luthia, who cared for the body and soul of the kompani.

  Well. The luthia was not with him, and he had more pressing concerns than the state of any single gadje’s soul. It could be said that his present situation was dire—Niku himself would have said so, save for his faith in his brother Fada.

  Still, a man needed to survive until Fada could come, so he looked to the holy gadje, produced a smile, and a little nod of the head.

  “Sir,” he said. Gadje liked to be called sir; it made them feel elevated above others. And the garda had shown scant reverence for this one’s holiness.

  The holy gadje returned both smile and nod.

  “My name is Friar Julian,” he said. “I am the oldest of the friars who remain at Godsmere, and it is my joyous burden to bring the prayers of the people to the attention of the gods and their consorts.”

  Niku, to whom this was so much nonsense, nonetheless smiled again, and nodded.