by Sharon Lee
The dueling master had scarcely given his sign before the sodden young man had snatched up his second balloon—somewhat less robustly—and hurled it in Daav’s direction.
It was a good throw, only missing by twelve or fifteen inches.
Daav weighed his last balloon in his hand and considered deloping.
“A duel with toys and water,” Jen Dal del’Fordan called from his position. “Korval takes good care that it spills no blood for honor.”
The balloon was airborne before Daav had taken conscious thought. It sped, hard and true, and struck his opponent precisely in the nose.
Jen Dal howled, dropped his remaining balloon and bent double, both hands rising to his face. Med-techs rushed in from the sidelines and the dueling master raised his hands above his head.
“Lord yos’Phelium has drawn first blood! The duel is done!”
* * *
“HOWEVER DID YOU hit upon water balloons?” his mother inquired some time later, in the privacy of Jelaza Kazone’s upstairs parlor.
“Something I read of Terran custom,” Daav said hazily. “You know what Scouts are, ma’am!”
“Indeed I do,” she replied, sipping wine and looking out into the peaceful night-time garden.
Abruptly, she turned from the window. “Daav, I am persuaded you did right to speak to the Delm about your worthiness to stand Korval.”
He froze, heart rising into his throat. She had seen! Observing the duel with Korval’s Own Eyes, she had seen his error. She understood that at the moment of decision he had not acted for the good of the Clan but from his own sense of injury, exacting a Balance—a Balance brutal of a halfling’s dignity.
Worse, he had gained an enemy of his own rank—for he had heard, later, that Jen Dal was Etgora’s heir—who hated him now, and would surely hate him when they both came Delm-high. All his mother’s careful work, undone. Undone, because Daav could not put the good of all before his own bad temper.
It must be Er Thom, now, he thought. With Er Thom as Korval, Etgora may deal without malice, saving only I’m kept sanely out of sight…
Belatedly, he became aware of his mother’s eyes upon him, and bowed. “Ma’am….”
She raised her hand. “Speak not. I will tell you that the Delm has reviewed her Decision, based on what she has seen of your understanding and judgment this evening. You acted as well as inexperience might, preserving both Etgora’s heir and the peace between our Houses. with age will come… tidier… solutions.” She smiled faintly.
“You are na’delm, my son. Korval-to-be. I trust you will not feel it necessary to revisit the matter. I doubt you will find the Delm so accommodating again.”
He stared, speechless. She had seen with Delm’s Eyes, but she had not understood. Korval Herself had erred in a matter of Clan. He moved his head, trying to clear his vision, which was abruptly indistinct.
His mother moved forward, smile deepening. “Don’t look so stricken, child,” she said gently. “You’ll do very well.” She raised a hand to cup his cheek. “Or at least as well as any of us have.”
Changeling
Adventures in the Liaden Universe #6
2000
ISBN 1-59787-090-8
THE FIRST THING THEY told him when he emerged from the catastrophic healing unit was that his wife had died in the accident.
The second thing they told him was that her Clan was pursuing retribution to the fullest extent of the Code.
They left him alone, then, the med techs, with instructions to eat and rest. The door slid closed behind them with the snap of a lock engaging.
Out of a habit of obedience, he walked over to the table and lifted the cover from the tray. The aroma of glys-blossom tea rose to greet him and he dropped the cover, tears rising.
He had not known his wife well, but she had been pretty and bold and full of fun—one found it inconceivable, newly healed from one’s own injuries and with the scent of her preferred blend in the air, that she was—that she was—
Dead.
The tears spilled over, blinding him. He raised his hands to cover his face and wept where he stood.
His name was Ren Zel dea’Judan, Clan Obrelt. He was twenty-one Standard years old and the hope of all his kin.
* * *
THEY WERE SHOPKEEPERS, Clan Obrelt. It scarcely mattered what sort of shop, as long as it wanted keeping. In the hundreds of years since the first dea’Judan took up the trade, Obrelt had kept flower shops, sweet shops, hardware shops, book shops, wine shops, green groceries and shops too odd to mention. The shops they kept were never their own, but belonged to other, wealthier, Clans who lacked Obrelt’s genius for management.
Having found a trade that suited them, Obrelt was not minded to change. They settled down to the work with a will and achieved a certain reputation. Eventually, it came to be Obrelt managers that the High Clans sought to manage the stores the High Clans owned. In the way of commerce, the price that Obrelt might ask of Clans desirous of employing their shopkeepers rose. The House became—not wealthy, not in any Liaden terms—but comfortably well-off. Perhaps not nearly so well-off by the standard of the far homeworld, Liad itself; but comfortable enough by the easy measure of outworld Casia.
A Clan of shopkeepers, they married and begat more shopkeepers, though the occasional accountant, or librarian, or Healer was born. These changelings puzzled the Clan elders when they appeared, but honor and kin-duty were served and each was trained to that which he suited, to the increase and best advantage of the Clan.
Into Clan Obrelt, then, in the last relumma of the year called Mitra, a boychild was born. He was called Ren Zel, after the grandfather who had first taken employ in a shop and thus found the Clan its destiny, and he was a normal enough child of the House, at first, second and third counting.
He was quick with his numbers, which pleased Aunt Chane, and had a tidy, quiet way about him, which Uncle Arn Eld noted and approved. No relative was fond enough to proclaim him a beauty, though all allowed him to be neatly made and of good countenance. His hair and eyes were brown; his skin a rich, unblemished gold.
As befit a House in comfortable circumstance, Obrelt was wealthy in children. Ren Zel, quiet and tidy, was invisible amid the gaggle of his cousins. His three elder sisters remembered, sometimes, to pet him, or to scold him, or to tease him. When they noticed him at all, the adults found him respectful, current in his studies, and demure—everything that one might expect and value in the child of a shopkeeper who was destined, himself, one day to keep shop.
It was Aunt Chane who first suspected, in the relumma he turned twelve, that Ren Zel was perhaps destined to be something other than a shopkeeper. It was she who gained the Delm’s permission to take him down to Pilot’s Hall in Casiaport. There, he sat with his hands demurely folded while a lady not of his Clan tossed calculations at him, desiring him merely to give the answer that came into his head.
That was a little frightening at first, for Aunt Chane had taught him to always check his numbers on the computer, no matter how certain he was, and he didn’t like to be wrong in front of a stranger and perhaps bring shame to his House. The lady’s first calculations were easy, though, and he answered nearly without thinking. The quicker he answered, the quicker the lady threw the next question, until Ren Zel was tipped forward in his chair, face animated, brown eyes blazing in a way that had nothing tidy or quiet about it. He was disappointed when the lady held up her hand to show she had no more questions to ask.
Also that day, he played catch with a very odd ball that never quite would travel where one threw it—at least, it didn’t the first few times Ren Zel tried. On his fourth try, he suddenly understood that this was only another iteration of the calculations the lady had tossed at him, and after that the ball went where he meant it to go.
After the ball, he was asked to answer timed questions at the computer, then he was taken back to his aunt.
She looked down at him and there was something… odd about her eyes, w
hich made him think that perhaps he should have asked the lady’s grace to check his numbers, after all.
“Did I do well, Aunt?” he blurted, and Aunt Chane sighed.
“Well?” she repeated, reaching to take his hand and turning toward the door. “It’s the Delm who will decide that for us, youngling.”
Obrelt Himself, informed in private of the outcome of the tests, was frankly appalled.
“Pilot? Are they certain?”
“Not only certain, but—enthusiastic,” Chane replied. “The Master Pilot allows me to know that our Ren Zel is more than a step out of the common way, in her experience of pilot-candidates.”
“Pilot,” the Delm moaned and went over to the table to pour himself a second glass of wine. “Obrelt has never bred a pilot.”
Chane pointed out, dryly, that it appeared they had, in this instance, bred what might be trained into a very fine pilot, indeed. To the eventual increase of the clan.
That caught Obrelt’s ear, as she had known it would, and he brightened briefly, then moved a hand in negation. “All very well to say the eventual increase! In the near while, have you any notion how much it costs to train a pilot?”
As it happened, Chane did, having taken care to possess herself of information she knew would lie near to Obrelt’s concern.
“Twenty-four cantra, over the course of four years, apprentice fees for two years more, plus licensing fees.”
Obrelt glared at her. “You say that so calmly. Tell me, sister, shall I beggar the Clan to educate one child? I allow him to be extraordinary, as he has managed to become your favorite, though we have prettier, livelier children among us.”
“None of whom is Ren Zel,” Chane returned tartly. She sighed then and grudgingly showed her lead card. “A first class pilot may easily earn eight cantra the Standard, on contract.”
Obrelt choked on his wine.
“They say the boy will achieve first class?” he managed a few moments later, his voice breathless and thin.
“They say it is not impossible for the boy to achieve first class,” she replied. “However, even a second class pilot may earn five cantra the Standard.”
“‘May’,” repeated Obrelt.
“If he brings the Clan four cantra the Standard, he will pay back his education right speedily,” Chane said. Observing that her brother wavered, she played her trump.
“The pilot’s Guild will loan us his first two year’s tuition and fees, interest-free, until he begins to earn wages. If he achieves first class, they will write paid to the loan.”
Obrelt blinked. “As desirous of the child as that?”
“He is,” Chane repeated patiently, “more than a step out of the common way. Master Pilot von’Eyr holds herself at your pleasure, should you have questions for her.”
“Hah. So I may.” He walked over to the window and stood looking down into the modest garden, hands folded behind his back. Chane went to the table, poured herself a glass of wine and sipped it, recruiting herself to patience.
Eventually, Obrelt turned away from the window and came forward to face her.
“It is a strange path we would set the child upon, sister, to a place where none of his age-mates may follow. He will sail between stars while his cousins inventory stock in back storerooms. I ask you, for you have given him his own room in your heart: Do we serve him ill or well by making him a stranger to his kin?”
And that was the question that needed to be asked, when all considerations of cantra-costs were ended. What was best done for Ren Zel himself, for the good of all the Clan?
Chane set her glass aside and met her Delm’s eyes straightly.
“He is already a stranger among us,” she said, speaking as truly as she knew how. “Among his age-mates he is a cipher—he is liked, perhaps, but largely ignored. He goes his own way, quiet, tidy, courteous—and invisible. Today—today, when the pilots returned him to me, it was as if I beheld an entirely different child. His cheeks glowed, his eyes sparkled, he walked at the side of the Master Pilot visible and proud.” She took a breath, sighed it out.
“Brother, this boy is not a shopkeeper. Best for us all that we give him the stars.”
And so it was decided.
* * *
REN ZEL ACHIEVED his first class piloting license on the nineteenth anniversary of his Name Day. He was young for the rank, especially for one who had not sprung from a piloting House, but not precocious.
Having thus canceled out half of his tuition and fees, he set himself to paying off the balance as quickly as possible. It had been plain to him for several years that the Clan had gone to extraordinary expense on his behalf and he did not wish his cousins to be burdened by a debt that rightly belonged only to himself. That being so, he had the Guild accountant write a contract transferring the amount owed from Clan Obrelt to Ren Zel dea’Judan Clan Obrelt, as a personal debt.
He was young, but he had a reputation among the elder pilots with whom he’d flown for being both steady and level-headed, a reputation they were glad to broadcast on the Port.
That being so, contracts came his way—good contracts, with pay-outs in the top percentage of the Guild’s rates. Often enough, there was a bonus, for Ren Zel had a wizard’s touch with a coord string—or so his elders praised him. Those same elders urged him to go for Master, and he thought he would, someday.
After he cleared his debt.
* * *
IT WAS NIGHT-PORT at Casia by the time he finished shut-down and gave the ship into the keeping of the client’s agent. Ren Zel slung his kit over a shoulder and descended the ramp, filling his lungs with free air. World air tasted different than ship air, though he would have been hard put to say which flavor he preferred, beyond observing that, of world-air, he found Casia’s the sweetest.
At the bottom of the ramp, he turned right and walked leisurely through the night-yard, then out into the thoroughfare of Main Port.
The job he had just completed had been profitable—an exhilarating run, in fact, with the entire fee paid up front and a generous bonus at the far end. A half-dozen more like it would retire his debt. Not that such runs were common.
Night-port was tolerably busy. He saw a pilot he knew and raised a hand in greeting. The other waved and cut across the crowded walkway.
“Ren Zel! I haven’t seen you in an age! There’s a lot of us down Findoir’s—come and share a glass or two!”
He smiled, but moved his hand in a gesture of regret. “I’m just in. Haven’t been to Guild Hall yet.”
“Well, there’s a must,” the other allowed cheerfully. “Come after you’ve checked in, do, for I tell you we mean to make a rare night of it. Otaria’s gotten her first.”
“No, has she? Give her my compliments.”
“Come down after you’ve checked in and give them to her yourself,” his friend said, laying a hand briefly on his sleeve. “Until soon, Ren Zel.”
“Until soon, Lai Tor.”
Warmed, he continued on his way and not many minutes later walked up the stairs into Casiaport Guild Hall.
The night clerk took his license, scanned it and slid it back across the counter. “Welcome home, Pilot.” She tapped keys, frowning down at her readout. Ren Zel put his card away and waited while she accessed his file.
“Two deposits have been made to your account,” she said, scrolling down. “One has cleared, and twelve percent Clan share has been paid. Eleven-twelfths of the balance remaining has gone against the Pilots Guild Tuition Account, per standing orders. No contracts pending…” She paused, then glanced up. “I have a letter for you, Pilot. One moment.” She left the console and walked to the back.
Ren Zel frowned. A letter? A paper letter? who would—
The clerk was back, holding a buff colored envelope. She used her chin to point at the palm reader set into the surface of the counter.
“Verification, please, pilot."
Obediently, he put his palm over the reader, felt the slight tingle, heard the beep.
He lifted his hand and the clerk handed him the envelope. His fingers found the seal embossed on the sealed flap—Obrelt’s sign.
Ren Zel inclined his head to the clerk.
“My thanks.”
“Well enough,” she replied and looked once more her screen. “Status?”
He paused on the edge of telling her “on-call,” feeling the envelope absurdly heavy in his hand.
“Unavailable,” he said, fingers moving over the seal.
She struck a last key and inclined her head.
“So recorded.”
“My thanks,” he said again and, shouldering his kit, walked across the hall to the common room.
As luck would have it, the parlor was empty. He closed the door behind him, dropped his kit and slid his finger under the seal.
A letter from Obrelt? His hands were not quite steady as he unfolded the single sheet of paper. Paper letters had weight, and were not dispatched for pleasantries.
Has someone died? he wondered, and hoped that it might not be Chane, or Arn Eld or—
The note was brief, written in Obrelt’s Own Hand.
Ren Zel dea’Judan was required at his clan house, immediately upon receipt of this letter.
His Delm judged it time for him to wed.
* * *
IT WAS MORNING WHEN the taxi pulled up before Obrelt’s house. Ren Zel paid the fare, then stood on the walkway until the cab drove away.
He had not come quite “immediately,” there being no reason to rouse the House at midnight when so many were required to rise early and open the various shops under Obrelt’s care. And he was himself the better for a shower, a nap and a change of clothes, though it was still not easy to consider the reason he had been summoned home.
Home.
Ren Zel turned and looked up the walk, to the fence and the gate and the tall town house beyond them. He had grown up in this House, among the noisy gaggle of his sibs and cousins; it was to this House that he had returned on his brief holidays from school. Granted, he had come back less often after he had finished with his lessons, but there had been flight time to acquire, techniques to master and the first class to win.
