Halfling Moon

by Sharon Lee

  "I'll have news of the doings, when I get back. Big changes, you know. Big changes!"

  His brother's last words to him, "Big changes!"

  Yulie shivered, more from the memory than the weather. Mud, mud, mud! His old grandfather'd been a spaceman and that was the worst thing to him about being on a planet -- the dirt and the mud and the rain -- and here he was, the last of his Grampa's line as far as he knew, what with Rollie dead in the city, down the road.

  That reminded him that he still owed a fetch of onions and maybe some grassnip to the lady, but he'd been pretty well shook to a standstill recently, and the debt was his accounting and not hers, anyway.

  The debt-letter was still in the house, walked up from Boss Melina Sherton's closest tollbooth by a kid with a swagger. It felt like weeks ago, not like a year, like it was. Some things stick with a man, some things don't.

  "You relative to Rollie Shapers?"

  He'd nodded, standing at the door, annoyed enough to insist -- "Shaper, that'd be. Don't sizzle at the end of it."

  The kid had shrugged, unslung his daysack, pulled out a letter and a bag. He handed over the letter, held onto the bag, eyeballing the cats around the field edge before bringing his attention back to Yulie.

  "Down to the big whorehouse they had these to send on up -- 'spose to be for you, I guess. If you can write, I ought have your name here on this line to give back to Miss Audrey so she know I done it."

  So Yulie had gingerly taken the big fancy pen and signed the proffered clean white sheet of real paper Yulian Rastov Shaper. He did know how to read and write, because Grandpa had made that rule for all of the family. If he'd had kids he'd teach them. Rollie -- he'd been Roland Yermanov Shaper. He'd not much been interested besides half-day gardening with side trips to The Easiery or girlfriends -- he'd also known how to write, and sometimes Yulie came across odds and ends of notes on recipe cards and such, notes that weren't from Grampa or Emily or Susten or -- any of his ladies, so it must have been Rollie.

  He handed the signed sheet to the kid, who'd sealed it in one quick finger rub into a certiseal, his thumb hard on both sides before negligently dropping it into his pack, and handed over the bag.

  Inside the bag, Yulie'd been given a big fancy sealed brown envelope, with a return emblem at the top of "Miss Audrey's Deluxe, Port City, Surebleak." It wasn't an address he recognized but he'd never really been deep to the city, so that names weren't much connected.

  Inside the envelope was a letter, hand writ, with a date and the same return address as the outside, that started "Dear Kin or Friend of Rollie Shaper."

  He'd got that dread feeling then because hardly anyone wrote to him, ever -- mostly just folks requesting extra greens or hoping for something out-of-season -- and Grampa had spoke about how he'd had to write kin-letters more than once, and how hard they were to write even if there really wasn't much to say.

  Sometimes he could push that dread back so he could see, and that's what he did, pushed it away hard.

  Dear Kin or Friend of Mr. Rollie Shaper, the letter went, Rollie was a patron at Portside Deluxe some days ago and on expiration of his room rental his effects were collected and placed in storage, where we have them now. Unfortunately, it later became clear on evidence that Mr. Shaper was the previously unidentified victim of an altercation, and had died of his injuries before medical assistance could be sought. The block clean-up committee's report should be attached; they had a working med-tech known to me with them who certified the negative results of revival tests and the clean-up committee's standing disposal instructions were followed, with ashes included in the weekly south garden run.

  The letter went on of course, and he'd read it through, requesting him to come on down to the city to pick up the effects. What would they be? Could his Grampa's Musonium still be there? The good blade that Rollie'd always carried though it was supposed to stay at home? Cash in bits or dex or maybe gold weights? Her name was at the end, and business-like as it was, the lady's signature was bold and delicate at the same time.

  He'd had to think a moment about the ashes, because it was a strange thought, that sweaty noisy busy Rollie could be something other than he'd ever been, but they said so, and had bothered to write to him, which was probably proof enough. The south garden, that was one on the far side of the port itself, down toward the flat of the land. He'd never been there, but the maps and Grampa both said that's where the small gardens were supposed to be back before the spaceport was plopped dead center on the best growing land the continent had, on account of it being convenient.

  Then he'd started to look at the report, but it wasn't something kin wanted to see, really, about how many cuts and -- so he folded it in, and held himself a second or two, knowing that he wanted to know and that he didn't want to know, knowing that he'd seen something like that once, entrance wounds and exit wounds and --

  The feeling was building as the boy stood there, the feeling that something was going to happen, that more bad was going to happen, that the clouds held weight beyond rain, and that something really really bad --

  When it hit, the panic, it was solid, like a crashing wall of rock falling on reason, to the point that he saw that gray nothingness where vision should be, where if he concentrated and stared hard he found his shoes and his hands fearfully far away, like looking the wrong way through Grampa's optical telescope.

  He'd held on, still, so he wouldn't run. He'd stood there long enough for the kid to ask "You got anything to send back? Got any smoke or …"

  But as much as Yulie'd gotten to feel his breath run out, as much as he'd felt his hands go numb, and his eyes begin to search for the way out, that much so, with all that, he'd managed to scrape together the proper and secure, "We don't got smoke here, boy, nor want it. Got something for your trouble, though, and something for Miss Audrey."

  For Miss Audrey, the spice herbs, prime grassnip, just picked. They'd been going to go to the city on Rollie's next walk down the road, so they might as well go now, anyhow, and then he'd picked up two of the prettiest spudfruit he'd seen in awhile -- easily a meal or two for the kid and his family -- and he'd handed them over.

  "For your trouble," he'd said, "but you better go now."

  The kid heard a warning, grabbed the offerings and packed out, and Yulie'd managed to get the letter and report inside, grabbing at the door, grabbing at the table, scattering cats, scattering thought, the panic rising so bad …

  And then he'd given it direction, and lumbered out the door, knocking shoulder on door frame and on the door, gathering speed, running across what Grampa had named the meadow, and heedlessly over the small bed of field beans and through the bluefruits, entirely without thought for the value, or for anything but getting away, of running, of --

  He'd run so far and so fast he almost ran off the edge they called World's End, which wasn't the end of the world, after all, but the carved cliff a hundred times his height and more, the first place the mining company had stripped bare with the mining machines to tug out the tiny veins of timonium in their matrix of junk rock and near uranics.

  Below, the suddenly tempting vista of scrag rock, rubble, sand, and several twisty, barren streams of water. The colors of the lip of land he trembled on were the scrawny green and yellow of the local ground-grass, a touch of thatch, the dark flutter of a blowing leaf. Below was shadowed rock and water the color of the cliff walls and … nothing else, a scar a century and more unhealed.

  He'd stopped, sweating, barely able to catch his breath, barely thinking, starting to think that maybe this time, this would be the time -- but no, not now, he couldn't. The nuts would need harvest, and the -- and -- but what would he do? Rollie'd always taken the stuff down road once Mom had gone away. Rollie'd always --

  Dead. Rollie was dead. He'd took all their money and used it -- used it at the whorehouse without telling him! -- and now he was dead and dust!

  Rage then. A black leaf spun past into the gorge, and he'd kicked a rock unsteadily a
t the abyss, and almost slipped in his breathless weakness, and the fear rose in him again, and now he was afraid of World's End, and of himself.

  He'd run, as best he could then, in the back of his mind recalling that kid game where they'd counted, "four thousand big steps from the stoop to the end of the world!" His run was sometimes no more than a heedless willful stumble in the right direction, gathering scratches and bruises, feeling afraid of the sky, feeling afraid of the road, feeling like he couldn't find breath, knowing that he couldn't find breath. He'd skinned his shins crossing the stoop, falling into house, and barely shouldered the door shut, locking it three times behind him.

  It was three days before he'd managed to get outdoors again, two of them spent huddled in the threadbare bed, staring, thinking, letting impossible things and small noises frighten him into stiff, senseless panic, closed eyes worse than open. That first night, only Nugget, the frail very skinny cat, had come to sleep with him, and then not really sleep, but sit at the bottom of the bed with big eyes, worried and unpurring. On the third day, Yulie managed to eat, and then to remember that the crops would need in, real soon.

  Some days he kept track of time, some days he didn't. The crops and the cats and the auto-calendar helped him keep up, mostly. Almost a year to the day since Rollie was gone, and things still needed doing.

  Today . . . today he'd actually contemplated walking all the way down to the first tollgate, but then the searchers had showed up while he was in the field, and he'd fled.

  Stretching, finally, letting the leaf-fall and rough browning grass comfort him, Yulie curled his head on his arms against a wind-breaking rock.

  * * *

  Mr. pel'Tolian's note, franked as it was with a pristine Korval seal, looked out of place amid the piles of local paper, envelopes, and mismatched inks. He'd moved it aside several times, knowing that it could wait, knowing that the business of Boss Conrad of Surebleak was far more pressing than the business of a Pat Rin yos'Phelium, man about town on the distant and increasingly inhospitable world of Liad. The note had arrived on the overnight, likely brought in by a scout ship or a Juntavas courier; possibly it had arrived via Korval's own packet vessels. Surely it was not more than a day or two out of Solcintra Port, unlike many of the items in these piles which had taken days to travel up from the port or down Blair Road, hand to tollbooth to hand to end up here, with him, in a pile. A pile which had waited patiently while he was away to Liad, but which demanded attention now that he was returned and despite that he'd rather be walking arm in arm with his lady to his casino, or even just having lunch with his planning committee.

  Piles -- piles were his bane. Back home -- on Liad -- his mail came in neat bundles, a few paper newsletters and such, invitations more frequently, business items -- rarely more than a piece or two -- and already sorted by likely priority by the early and steadfast action of Mr. pel'Tolian himself. The mail and news came self-sorted into the proper channels and databases of his day screen, where it could be added to his carry book or not.

  Here, there were piles. And in the piles . . .

  Some were letters on paper to begin with, others were letter size now because anything of on-world interest that needed to be shared beyond his own staff likely would need to be in paper format to facilitate that sharing. And paper format needed to be logged, signed, notated, carried, stored, lifted -- and piled.

  Once that happened, of course, and items were acted on, there was a multiplication rather than reduction of piles --

  Pat Rin sighed. Across the room, Silk, the resident cat, stirred, and opened one eye enough to check on the Boss and his work. Ensconced on a pile of paper land records from the old days of the mining company, his work was going fine, thank you.

  For himself, Pat Rin stretched, pleased that there was neither pain nor ache when he did. He was aware, too, that his family included Healers…and that a recent three-breath, closed-eye hug from Cousin Anthora, followed by a smile and a simply-said "You've been taking chances, Cousin. I knew you could." meant that she'd gathered to him healing that a month of Surebleak clinic could not.

  Well, then.

  Now in hand, Mr. pel'Tolian's note had more weight to it than he'd expected. Unsealing it, he saw it contained not only a letter but several visiting cards. He laughed -- ah yes, Shan would have no doubt much enjoyed dispensing these -- after all, they still carried the soon to be eliminated Trealla Fantrol address.

  Lord Pat Rin, the letter began without flowery preamble, this day I received in your name a visitation by the yos'Galan lifemates and Miss Anthora in the pursuit of the final removal, as we previously discussed. I have secured passage for myself as well as the entire contents of your Nasingtale Alley establishment. In keeping with our ongoing arrangements, I include Mistress Miranda in these travel plans and am assured that she will find the trip comfortable; rest assured she will travel in my suite and will not be paraded about the ship.

  Your clan rug was rightfully of special interest to your guests and my bindings on it were checked by all. Miss Anthora and Lady Mendoza also did a "security walk-through" inasmuch as there have been several efforts by the curious to obtain a glimpse of the interior since your shot to the capital. Miss Anthora located several items long missed by Master Quin; these have been included in his desk, which is sealed for shipping. The final containers for the more precious items have also arrived. After some discussion, I have permitted Lord yos'Galan to take several cases of the finer bottles of your Lordship's sherry and port for safekeeping in Dutiful Passage's own wine cellar. Several bottles travel with me, and the rest will be in the general safeguarding of the Passage, which will carry nothing but Korval's own household goods and necessities this trip.

  Odd, it was though written the words carried the weight of pel'Tolian's voice with them. Odder, perhaps, was how welcome that voice had been when Pat Rin had stood shoulder to shoulder with Val Con and Miri, accepting visitors the second evening after the blast. On the door were scouts as security, in the corner were scouts and pilots of Korval, all armed, all dangerous, and into this midst, unbidden, had come pel'Tolian -- through the security, through what surely was a madman's pattern of traffic and confusion leading to Korval's valley.

  "Lord Pat Rin, Nasingtale Alley stands firmly with you."

  Of a moment, he'd nearly doubted the voice, for the irony of having his houseman declare for him and for his actions was not lost on him. Neither was the man's rapid appraisal of the pilot's jacket Pat Rin wore, and of the flawless faux delm's ring he wore on the wrong finger, a ring now a fixture, against all odds. The fact that his man had come armed to this reception of allies, friends, and spies -- but yes, Pat Rin had heard the tales of the dea'Gauss taking on the enemy. Why should he be surprised that the man who'd made sure young Quin ate when his father was not to home should be prepared for such duty?

  His own bow had been crisp with acceptance.

  "How fares the Alley, my friend?"

  "As always, Lord Pat Rin -- we have a quiet neighborhood. Should you require, we are ready this evening to drive you home ourselves and . . ."

  The laughter from Miri was unexpected, but --

  "All honor to you," had come his cousin's voice. A step and a bow had brought Val Con into the conversation. "Even such a secure place as Nasingtale Alley is at risk in these times, Mr. pel'Tolian. In addition, his Delm has need of Lord Pat Rin's expertise at immediate hand until matters settle somewhat. Be assured that we do the best we may at feeding and housing him!"

  pel'Tolian's bow had been as precise as any could want: acknowledging a delm's right to order things yet prepared to press for his own necessities and those of his employer. If . . .

  "Surely the situation is not so dire?"

  That was Miri, of course, in her best Solcintran accent. He'd discovered the delmae something of a wonder, speaking Terran like a mercenary, commanding the respect of an Yxtrang, and catching the fine points of Liaden -- and able to do all with a sense of underlying good natur
e.

  "Your employer is also our kin, and his presence is both welcome and an honor. May one inquire if you've ever used that?"

  Miri's point, not to the hand gun sealed beneath a weather guard on pel'Tolian's belt, but toward his offhand pocket --

  His man hesitated visibly, proving he was more a houseman than a gambler, and bowed a simple yes.

  "My grandfather's," he said, "now mine."

  "Too large for a pocket, sir. It is a good plan, but it needs refinement. I firmly suggest you speak to the very large man over there," here she'd pointed out the Yxtrang! "-- and tell him the Captain sent you -- see if he's got something more portable for local carry. Else ask Pilot Cheever."

  And then there'd been more people to meet and deal with -- a matter of confirming landing access on Surebleak for a retired scout and -- but Pat Rin managed to convey his appreciation, and his concern, and to confirm that pel'Tolian was not interested in staying on Liad, or in leaving his service. Later Nelirikk was pleased to give as his judgment that pel'Tolian was alert and dutiful; fully worthy of carrying a weapon in Korval's troop.

  Thus did pel'Tolian increase his worth even as his station altered -- from a fribble's houseman to majordomo of a back-world dictator's prime establishment.

  Well, yes, that was true, the Boss told himself. It was only true.

  I look forward to arranging the new house to best advantage.

  Vesker pel'Tolian.

  Pat Rin folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket:

  "Changes, Silk, and soon. I'm afraid we will no longer get by with the modest guidance of Natesa and Mr. McFarland. I assure you that Mistress Miranda and pel'Tolian will not consider our current unruly arrangements sufficient, and will insist you work for your living."