Adventures in the Liaden Universe. Collaterial Adventures (liaden)

by Sharon Lee

  “You got that,” the man admitted after a moment, and turned a rather more respectful gaze on Er Thom.

  “OK, doll. You got a first class card, too?”

  “I do not.” He showed his license, gripping it as firmly as he might with the tips of his fingers. The doorman sighed.

  “Second class. How old are you?” He held up his big hand. “It don’t make no difference to whether you can go in—your friend’s got that pat. Call it curiosity. I don’t peg Liaden ages too good, but I’m damned if either one of you looks more’n twelve standards.”

  Er Thom slipped his card back into its pocket, glanced at Daav and looked back to the doorman.

  “I have fourteen Standard Years,” he said courteously.

  “And I,” said Daav. “Good day to you.” He moved toward the door, Er Thom at his shoulder, and the doorman let them go.

  Inside at last, they paused, blinking at the muddle of noise, lights and people. The spinning wheel was one large, high-ceilinged room; perhaps at some former time it had been a warehouse. The games of chance were strung out across the thickly carpeted floor, each surrounded by a tangle of players in modes of dress from dock worker coveralls to full eveningwear. People were also in motion, drifting between this table and that; still more were busy with the gambling machines lining the back wall.

  In the very center of the room was a lighted golden wheel reaching nearly to the ceiling—the device that gave the casino its name. And the cluster of people around that table was equal, Er Thom thought, to the entire crew roster of the Dutiful Passage.

  Er Thom’s heart sank. How were they to find one man—one man whom neither had seen before—in this crush? He glanced at his brother’s face and was curiously dismayed to find that even Daav looked daunted.

  Er Thom bit his lip. “Perhaps there is a message board?” he suggested, almost certain that there was not. “Or a paging system?”

  “Perhaps…” Daav murmured, almost inaudible over the din. “I wonder…”

  “You kids looking for somebody?” The woman who asked it was Terran, tall and willowy; elegant in a red shimmersilk dress. Her hair was yellow—very nearly the same shade as Er Thom’s—her eyes a piercing dark brown.

  “In fact, we are,” Daav said, making his bow as visitor to host. “We were sent here to find Rod Ern pel’Arot.”

  For a moment, the woman hesitated, and Er Thom was about to despair. Abruptly, her face cleared, and she snapped her fingers.

  “Is the week half-gone already?” This was apparently a rhetorical question, since she rushed on without giving either of them opportunity to answer. “The Scout, right? I didn’t see him come in, but it’s his day, and he hasn’t missed one since I’ve been hostess. He’ll be upstairs in the card rooms.” She cocked a cogent eye. “You know what he looks like?”

  Daav smiled at her. “Like a Liaden?”

  The woman laughed. “Sharp, are you? Yes, like a Liaden. A brown-haired Liaden, going gray, with three fingers missing off his left hand.”

  Daav bowed. “I am grateful.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said cheerfully and pointed across the crowded, noisy room. “You’ll find the lift over in the far corner, there. See where there’s a break in the line of bandits?”

  “Yes,” said Daav, politely, Er Thom thought, if without perfect truth.

  The woman nodded. “Have a good time—and hope the Scout’s winning today.” She swept off, the red dress swishing against the carpet.

  “Well,” said Daav. Er Thom turned to meet his brother’s amused eyes. “Still game for the adventure, darling?”

  “How could I beg off now?” Er Thom asked. “I’m all agog to meet this Scout of yours. Especially if he’s winning.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Daav said, moving slowly out onto the main floor. “It might prove more informative to discover him at a loss.”

  Frowning, Er Thom followed.

  It was rather like wading through a particularly sticky river, crossing that room. Lights flashed beneath the surface of a table where the dice struck, drawing the eye. Horns blared, uncomfortably loud, announcing a winner at a second table, and claiming the attention of all within earshot. The giant golden wheel in the center of the room clack-clack-clacked as it revolved, lights flickering along its edge, the wager marks a bright smear reminiscent of the attenuating light one might glimpse in the second screen in the instant before one’s ship entered Jump.

  Er Thom paused, captivated by the effect. Gradually, the great wheel slowed, its attendant noises spiraling downward into subdued clack, clack, clacks, the wager marks discernable as individual symbols once more. Released, Er Thom’s eye fell upon the throng of bettors pressed up against the wheel’s table, and caught sight of a familiar badge on the sleeve of a jacket. He followed the sleeve up and discovered the face of Mechanic First Class Bor Gen pin’Ethil, thralled with anticipation, gray eyes pinned to the progress of the wheel, which clack… clack… clack…CLACKed to a halt, the lights around its edges flickering like a case lot of lightning bolts.

  “Yellow Eleven!” someone called out—possibly the keeper of the machine, but Er Thom was watching Mechanic pin’Ethil, and saw his face change from bespelled to horrified.

  “House wins!” called the keeper, and Mechanic pin’Ethil’s shoulders sagged within his crew jacket, then firmed. Almost stealthily, he reached into his pocket.

  Er Thom went a step forward—and found his arm grabbed.

  “There you are!” Daav snapped, bearing him along in his wake with embarrassing ease. “Here I thought you’d been taken by child-stealers between one step and the next, when all that had happened was that you allowed yourself to be caught like a rabbit in a light by that thing!”

  “I didn’t—” Er Thom began a hot denial, then swallowed it. After all, it had been the lights that had pulled him to a halt. He had only seen Mechanic pin’Ethil after.

  Daav pulled him onward, past the rest of the tables and the row of mechanicals with their attendant players, straight on to the lift-bank. He punched the summons, keeping a firm grip on Er Thom’s arm.

  “You may,” Er Thom said, with what dignity he could muster. “Release me.”

  “And have you wander off like a kitten after a butterfly and land in some sort of horrid scrape?” his brother inquired. “I think not.”

  He was saved from having to answer this not altogether unjust assertion by the arrival of the lift. They stepped inside together, Daav punched the button for the next floor above and released Er Thom’s arm.

  “Mind you, stay by me,” he snarled, which really was too much.

  Er Thom spun to balance snap with snarl—and stopped.

  Daav’s face was pale, his lips pressed into a thin line, his brows drawn tightly together—signs Er Thom recognized all too well. His anger melted and he touched his brother on the sleeve

  “I hadn’t meant to frighten you, darling,” he said softly. “I swear I won’t stray from your right hand.”

  Daav sighed and glanced away, then looked back and assayed a smile. “Very well, then.” The lift doors slid open, showing a sweetly lit room paneled and carpeted in the first style of elegance, the tables placed with an eye to discretion and art.

  Most of the tables were empty. Daav squared his shoulders and left the lift, walking sturdily toward the table where three Terrans in local formal wear played piket with a grizzled man in scout leathers.

  Three paces short of the table, at a position equal with the scout’s left shoulder, Daav stopped. Er Thom stood at his side, and recruited himself to wait.

  They were fortunate that the round had nearly been done. When it was, the Scout excused himself to his companions, pushed back his chair and stared them both up and down.

  “I expect you’re the Dragon cub,” he said at last, and none too courteously.

  Out of the side of his eye, Er Thom saw Daav’s face go entirely bland, in an expression at once unfamiliar and chilling, before he bowed to the scou
t—junior to senior—the timing coolly precise.

  “Daav yos’Phelium Clan Korval,” he said, in the High Tongue’s mode of introduction. “Do I address Scout Pilot Rod Ern pel’Arot?”

  The Scout inclined his head. “You do. I hear you want a ride back home. Why choose me?”

  “One’s instructor had recommended you as a pilot from whom a novice might learn much,” Daav returned, his voice colder, perhaps, than even the High Tongue required.

  The Scout cocked his head in what Er Thom read as mock interest. “Now, here’s a puzzle. Who teaches you piloting? Boy.”

  Daav drew a deep breath. “I have the honor of receiving instruction from Master dea’Cort.”

  Both grizzled brows lifted, and the scout inclined his head this time with something nearer respect. “Well. And dea’Cort sends you to me.” He flicked a glance at Er Thom’s face, then looked back to Daav.

  “Baggage?”

  “One’s brother, sent as Captain’s escort.”

  “Wants to make certain you’re in good hands?” His glance this time was longer; and he spoke directly to Er Thom.

  “Well, Trader? Is he in good hands?"

  Er Thom frowned, then bowed briefly. “Sir. I hear that my Delm has seen your name on the list provided by Master Pilot dea’Cort, which she then approved. How, then, shall your care of my brother be other than excellent?”

  The Scout stared, absolutely still, then gave a shout of laughter and slapped his two-fingered hand on the card table.

  “Dragons dice early, I learn! Well said.” He looked back to Daav.

  “These gentles and myself have some business to conclude. I will find you in an hour at the main eatery, belowstairs. They serve a tolerable nuncheon. Tell them you’re on the Scout’s ticket.”

  Daav bowed, and Er Thom did, too. “One hour, in the main restaurant,” Daav murmured, but the Scout had already turned away, and was reaching for the cards.

  * * *

  THEY PAUSED ON the threshold of the casino’s restaurant and embraced without speaking. Daav raised a hand as they let the hug go, and ran his fingers, feather-light, down Er Thom’s cheek.

  “Keep you safe, denubia,” he said, light-voiced, as if he did not stand on the edge of parting from his brother—his second self—twice in one scant lifetime, and grinned with more courage than mischief. “Beware of idiots seeking to chain you to a dummy board.”

  Er Thom smiled, matching Daav’s courage, then exceeded it, by taking one step back and raising his hand. “Keep safe, Daav,” he murmured, and spun, perhaps too quickly, on his heel and strode off, alone, across the clattering busyness of the casino.

  Daav watched him go—a slender, yellow-haired boy in trading clothes and well-made boots, the sleeve of his jacket bearing Korval’s venerable Tree-and-Dragon—until he lost him among the tall crowd of gamesters. He bit his lip, then, and blinked hard a time or two to clear his eyes, then went into the restaurant and asked for a table overlooking the floor.

  * * *

  SHOULDERS STRINGENTLY level, Er Thom went across the noisy room. He looked neither left nor right—and most especially he did not look back, being wise enough to know that his fragile seemliness would never withstand the sight of Daav standing at the entrance to the restaurant, watching him safely out the door.

  Clack… clack… clack—as before, the sound drew the ear as insidiously as the flaring lights pulled the eye. Er Thom allowed himself a glance to the left and up, observing the Wheel as it clack… clack… clacked to the end of its course and was still, dark, but for a single wager-mark.

  “Blue Seven!” called the croupier, and flourished his wand across the betting table, collecting the losing wagers in a single, precise sweep.

  Er Thom discovered that he had stopped walking and frowned, remembering the formidable list of errands he had yet to accomplish in the high town for his parent. He put one foot forward, but his eye had been caught, precisely as before, by the Tree-and-Dragon sigil on the sleeve of Mechanic Bor Gen pin’Ethil’s jacket. As he watched, the man reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin, his shoulders rounded as if he stood under some unbearable weight.

  Hesitating, Er Thom tried to reckon the time that had passed since he had first passed the Wheel and its cluster of avid players, and then shook himself, crossly. What business was it of his, how a crewman on leave chose to amuse himself?

  Bor Gen pin’Ethil placed his coin on the table, his fingers hovering near, as if he might at any moment snatch it away.

  Er Thom frowned again, liking that round-shouldered pose of misery less with every heartbeat. He had been several times over the last months assigned to the repair bays, and more than once to Mechanic pin’Ethil himself. A gentle, sweet-natured man, Bor Gen pin’Ethil, skilled in his work and an able teacher, besides. The man who stood with his neck bent at the base of the wheel was as unlike Mechanic pin’Ethil as—as Chi yos’Phelium was unlike her twin.

  Er Thom hesitated, and in that moment the croupier extended his glowing wand to the Wheel. Thick scarlet sparks flared wetly and the wheel began to spin, picking up speed until the rimlights were but a foggy smear against the far indigo ceiling.

  Alone among the crowd at the table, Bor Gen pin’Ethil did not gaze, entranced, upward into the seductive flare of light. He looked down, staring, or so Er Thom fancied, at the place where he had set his coin.

  Er Thom bit his lip. Clearly, something was wrong, and the mechanic was a crewman. His crewman, if it came to that; he being the yos’Galan present.

  Mechanic pin’Ethil is ill, he decided. In such case, his duty as crew-mate and as yos’Galan was plain. He moved a step toward the man who stood, staring bleakly down at the table.

  Clack… clack… clack. The Wheel came to rest, rim-lights darkening.

  The crowd ’round the table sighed as one, saving only Bor Gen pin’Ethil, staring, steadfast, at his coin.

  “Yellow Eleven!” called the man with the wand. “The House wins!”

  Bor Gen pin’Ethil picked his coin up and turned away from the table.

  The thing was done so deftly that it took Er Thom, with his attention close upon the man, a moment to understand what he had seen. Alas, the croupier’s wand was more observant.

  It began to glow a steady and unalarming amber. The croupier raised it high over his head at the same time directing a courteous. “Your pardon, sir. A word with you, please,” at Mechanic pin’Ethil’s back.

  The mechanic did not heed the gentle summons, but moved steadily away from the table. Heart in mouth, Er Thom plunged forward, certain now that something was earnestly amiss. Even he, the rawest of halflings, knew that a wager once placed upon the table was sacrosanct. The House had won with Yellow Eleven. Mechanic pin’Ethil’s coin, covering Green Eight, was forfeit, by all the rules of honor and of play.

  He needn’t have hurried. The crowd parted for two tall Terrans in formal wear. One reached down and gripped Bor Gen pin’Ethil’s arm, holding him still. The second went to the table, carrying another wand to the croupier.

  “Malfunction?” she asked, taking the amber-lit wand with a rueful smile. “Ah, well. A spin on the House for everyone.”

  The croupier bowed and bent, reaching into his tray for coins to put into the questing hands of the players. Er Thom turned away in time to see the other Terran urging Mechanic pin’Ethil forward.

  The mechanic balked and twisted, trying to break the Terran’s grip. He failed, which could not have been unexpected, and sent a swift, panicked glance about him. Er Thom leapt forward, the man’s eye fell upon him, and his face closed, becoming the calm, courteous face of an elder crewman. Deliberately, he turned back to the man who held him and inclined his head.

  “Hold!” Er Thom had reached the mechanic’s side and stared up into the face of the man who held him, and spoke in rapid Trade. “Release him. We will come with you willingly.”

  “Certainly, I will,” said Mechanic pin’Ethil. He drew a deep breath, looked calmly int
o Er Thom’s face, and murmured quickly in Liaden, elder crew to younger. “Halfling, this is not yours. So now, you should not be in this place.”

  “These persons will want Balance, will they not?” Er Thom snapped, as if he spoke to Daav, rather than an elder. “Who else from your crewmates is here to support you?”

  “No one, gods be praised,” the other returned. He paused before inclining his head. “Your actions do you honor, but you must believe me—you want none of this.”

  “What’s the hold-up?” The female Terran was with them, the glowing amber wand cradled in her arm. She glanced over to her mate. “Who’s the kid?”

  “I am Er Thom yos’Galan,” he answered, in his slow, careful Terran. “This man,” he used his chin to point at Mechanic pin’Ethil, “is of my crew.”

  “He is, is he?” She looked briefly amused, then shook her head and turned on her heel. “People are staring,” she said over her shoulder to the man who held Mechanic pin’Ethil’s arm. “Bring them both.”

  “Right.” The man walked after her. Perforce, Mechanic pin’Ethil walked with him, Er Thom keeping pace on his opposite side.

  Calmly, the man never loosing his grip on Mechanic pin’Ethil’s arm, they walked through the throng of gaily dressed people. Er Thom searched the faces in the crowd, but saw no one he recognized. Apparently of all the Passage’s off-shift crew, only Bor Gen pin’Ethil found the spinning wheel to his taste.

  They passed a knot of Liadens in formal evening wear, the ladies’ jewel-toned dresses echoed in the gemstones worn by their escorts. A flicker of black moved at the edge of Er Thom’s eye and he turned his head to track it, thinking Daav, thinking—but there was no thin, fox-faced boy in scout leather staring at him from the depths of the crowd. Only heedless strangers, intent upon their own pleasure.

  Back toward the bandits and the lift bank they went, then turned sharply to the left, went down a short hallway and entered an office, where at last Mechanic pin’Ethil was released by his escort.

  Standing beside his crewman, Er Thom heard the door slide closed behind them, looked upon the stern faces of those who awaited them, and wished that he had taken Mechanic pin’Ethil’s hint and run.