Liaden Universe Constellation Volume 3

by Sharon Lee, Steve Miller

  “He cannot beat me tonight, I warrant!”

  Quin saw his father stand straight, suddenly. His face went formal, and there followed an intricate bow, a bow of—of a request for calm. Of a request to agree to dignity. Of acknowledgment of . . . something.

  “I hadn’t known that story was still current,” his father said mildly. “However true it may be, that was in other times, on another world. Here there are rules to enforce, and we do not allow gun play in the Emerald. We cannot allow it! We’d fetch proctors in an instant and both end up in the hoosegow.”

  Quin paused, realizing that, of course, the Rules were posted. No gun play. And that his father was now being somewhat—amused.

  Amused? What could . . . Quin stood taller, and half a step forward to press the issue, Villy like glue at his side.

  The Boss went on, with gentle voice, close, for his ears, with a bow and hand motion indicating stand down.

  “And yes, I did shoot that duel in Tey Dor’s. I won it, too. And, I admit, you can probably beat me at any game you name tonight—I’ve been up eighteen hours or more and you’re full on the luck, as I can see.” The Boss raised his hands palm-up in a Terran gesture, a request for reason. “If the luck is on you, likely no one here can beat you! But you have stayed, and we will meet and have a meal. If you please.”

  Quin sighed, looked to Villy, who was watching him with some amaze—

  “I told you I had a meeting . . . my party has arrived.”

  From nearby, there was a rumbling that was not a ship on launch but a grumble of a voice, deep and getting louder.

  “I see it now, you’re all in this. A trick, it was a trick!”

  Villy heard the man behind him, felt the crowd jostle and sway as they were pushed first toward the playing table and then against a large body, in angry motion. He heard complaints and then turned to see The Coat pointing at him and pushing in his direction.

  “He’s a sharp, a thief, he stole my money, him and his boyfriend connived it from me. They conned me. Give me my money!”

  The Coat moved with more speed than Villy would have credited him with, sweeping cards from table and throwing chairs to both sides, cursing, moving forward.

  Villy braced, felt a tug on his arm—

  “Halt!” someone cried, and the tug powered him out of the man’s path as the pilot sidestepped in and noise rose all about him. The crowd, depending on their type, ran toward or away from this sudden action and a distant bell went off; in the confusion someone in the crowd pushed and then someone else shoved and both the pilot and The Coat were bowled over.

  “Stop!” That was someone in security.

  The Coat was yelling and Villy saw him clambering over a half-dozen people, after him, “My money, give me my money!”

  The pilot grabbed at The Coat’s legs, knocking him down, half-against Villy and then Villy saw the ominous black grip in The Coat’s hands, and he reached for the gun while the man worked it out of the inner lining and—

  The noise went on but the action on the floor froze.

  The pilot was on his knees at The Coat’s head, very shiny gun held steadily at the man’s face.

  “Drop the gun,” he said in perfectly clear Terran, “or I’ll kill you.”

  Villy heard and believed, his breath ragged.

  The Coat looked into his face and Villy begged him, “Just let the gun go or he’ll do it!”

  The noise was falling off now and Villy saw hands reaching in, a foot pinning The Coat’s gun arm, and then arms and hand stripping the gun away, and then . . .

  The pilot had to lean on him to get untangled, and rose, his gun disappearing as if it had never been drawn. The Coat was held now, Cheever McFarland’s grip supplemented by others of the casino staff, and both Natesa and the Boss had their guns out, only to put them away.

  The pilot—

  Villy was awkwardly pulled up by strong warm hands, the pilot pushing a chair out of the way and helping him stand straight. Villy grasped the arm for support, getting his breath back, looking into the pilot’s face to be sure he was unhurt.

  “Stand down, man, stop struggling!” That was McFarland, who continued with, “Call the watch. I’ll hold ’em, someone frisk him.”

  Villy felt a touch on his shoulder, ignored for now, as the pilot got his breath back and managed a wan smile. The touch on his shoulder grew firmer, and Villy glanced around, startled to realize he’d been ignoring Boss Conrad, who was smiling, and giving him an odd bow.

  “Villy, please unhand my son. What you do on your time is yours, but for the moment, I owe him dinner and consideration, and something to do besides being a roving gambler.”

  Villy realized he still had a grip on the pilot’s arm, but heard himself saying around his still somewhat ragged breath, “Your son?”

  The Boss looked sidewise at the pilot—

  “You two haven’t been introduced? Villy . . .” He paused, then bowed between the pair of them in some formal way, “Villy Butler, I present to you one’s son and heir, Quin yos’Phelium, Assistant Boss.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Villy managed, finally relinquishing his hold on the pilot’s arm, reaching out automatically for the handshake, the while feeling stupid, oh, stupid. It was there in the face—in the attitude!

  “Best pleased to be introduced!”

  Quin’s hand was firm but gentle, the shake honest and confident. Villy let go reluctantly, accepting and returning the nod. “Doyodo.”

  Quin’s quiet “I’ll be looking you up soon!” surprised Villy, but then the Boss bowed to Quin, bowed to Villy—

  “If you’ll excuse us, Villy, we’ve a dinner waiting.”

  Villy nodded, watched them move toward the back rooms, and sighing, wondered when soon began.

  The dinner did not, as Quin had more than half-expected, include Natesa, who’d last been seen discussing the scrum at the table with Mr. McFarland. McFarland, for his part, had offered Quin, “That Villy’s got a lot going for him. Went for the gun, right away. Saved us shooting the nitwit—saved you blowing his brains out!”

  The Boss had agreed, bowed, and had interposed himself between Quin and the Hubbub.

  “This way, Quin, my son, if you please,” said his father and guided him down a hall and into a room Quin hadn’t seen before, a plain and stainfree room, floor shining and walls proclaiming new.

  There was a small desk, pushed somewhat aside to accommodate a dining table and chairs, opposite each other across the table, and ordinary settings from the Emerald’s kitchen gracing a flawless green tablecloth.

  In the quiet, then, they stood at a proper Liaden distance from each other, his father’s face changing expressions, far too mobile for Quin to decide what to do, and though it seemed as if his father didn’t know what to say, either. His father was known for his address!

  After too long a pause, his father bowed an unadorned bow of welcome between equals, and with a self-deprecating chuckle said, “The day was to have been simple and orderly, my son, and I discover that it has not been. Please, be seated. Dinner will be with us shortly.”

  Quin bowed acceptance, albeit warily, and seated himself, his father sitting quickly, and pouring a glass of wine for each of them.

  They toasted the Tree-and-Dragon, and his father sipped with a ceremonial solemnity. Quin didn’t recognize the bottle but knew it was excellent fare, and he nodded and heard himself sigh at it.

  His father smiled, took another sip.

  “Indeed. Indeed. Anthora gave me several of this bin, said to be a gift from Trealla Fantrol. How this might be so, I do not inquire, though I do not doubt.”

  Again a pause, and then . . .

  “It strikes me, my son, that I have been . . . too busy. It strikes me, as well, that you have been busy at being busy. We must solve some of that, and soon. I hope you will hear me out.”

  He looked at the glass, put it down, and Quin put his down as well.

  “Natesa has brought to me the conside
ration that you’ve been shunted about. We dragged you from your schooling, isolated you at Runig’s Rock, then isolated you again at Jelaza Kazone. I thought it best to bring you to town so that we could begin preparing you for your role here as my heir—I told you that I would do so, in fact, but I did not ask if you wished it.”

  Quin bowed acknowledgment, carefully without irony.

  His father sighed.

  “Yes. I became Boss without asking Surebleak, and you are as caught in this as you were in Plan B.”

  Quin saw concentration flow across his father’s face, and perhaps concern. The distant look became focused—focused on him.

  “In the way of such things, my son, we are caught in the web of the world. You—you already have the skills to escape it one day, if that is your wish. In the meanwhile, we are here, and we are subject to the delm, because that is what we will.”

  Quin nodded—“Indeed, caught by the world, caught by history.”

  His father focused again, took a sip of his wine, then talk was suspended as dinner was wheeled in and set out.

  “And here,” his father said when they were alone again, “is where we vary, my son. The delm, in their wisdom, has put your grandmother to work on a very important project, a project important to us as a clan, to Surebleak, and to each of us, personally.”

  Quin allowed inquiry to show in tipping of the head.

  “Kareen yos’Phelium Clan Korval,” his father continued, “has been tasked to study—and if necessary, to advocate—the future shape and duties of Clan Korval, and those dependent on and from it.”

  Quin sat back into his chair, felt questions rising.

  “But the Code. The Code tells us these things!”

  His father showed a wan smile, and shook his head, Terran-style, in the mild-denial sense, and answered.

  “The Code explicates proper behavior for Liadens. As a Liaden, with the consent of the delm, I was permitted to spend my life as a roving gambler. As long as I was an honest gambler, I was provided with a ship and a pilot, and could wander where I willed. My quartershare was deposited in my accounts on schedule—as they still are. And onworld and off I was constrained by the Code used by Liadens.”

  Quin felt an emptiness, a gone feeling, not fear, but unease writ large.

  “And now that we have been cast away, we are no longer Liadens?” he ventured. “But surely the Code . . . does it not hold?”

  “Shall I expect it and enforce it? Shall you?”

  The question lay between them as his father began removing the covers from his meal.

  “If the Code is in force, you would need impose Balance on the Terran who mishandled Villy—he called you in collusion, the pair of you. Instead, according to Surebleak’s Code, he goes to the hoosegow, and you and he are done. Balance is thus achieved, though by Liaden lights it is no Balance at all.”

  His father looked up as he moved the plates around, offered across some bread. “Per the Delm’s Word, I have left behind all of my Balances on Liad. As you should, though I doubt you have any of moment. And I say to you that Kareen yos’Phelium studies the question of what is proper behavior for Surebleak. If any should discover such things, it will be her.”

  Quin nodded a bow of acknowledgment: Grandmother was a legend in such matters!

  “And so far,” his father went on, “the fruit of her search brought back to the delm and to the clan is that imposing the Code as we know it on Surebleak is indefensible.

  “But here, before the meal cools, let me tell you that the delms intend the clan to continue until or unless they discover it should not. If it should do as Surebleak does, as many Terrans do, and become a family instead of a clan—they will see to that.”

  Quin felt somewhat better, began removing his own covers, dared a sip of wine, which was still excellent. And he—they—were not going to be simply clanless . . . and that also was excellent.

  “And today, my son,” his father said, “among all the other activity required for having the Port recertified and also—by the way, upgraded three levels—today we had arrivals. New in orbit today, brought by Surebleak’s fleet from deep storage, were three ships. One, named LucyBug, belongs to Cheever McFarland. Rarely has a man been so pleased!”

  He looked up, saw the smile on his father’s face, felt his own grow. His father dipped a hand in his jacket pocket, and held keys toward Quin. Ship keys.

  “The other two arrivals are recently refurbished ships of the clan, Galandasti and Mestro Tour. Padi being away, you may look them over and choose which of these Jump ships you wish to fly as your own, when your duties and studies permit.”

  Quin nearly dropped the pair of them. So light and yet so weighty, he held them above his dinner in awe, looked into his father’s face, found no words.

  His father smiled. “How you will choose between them I do not know—they are of the same yard and year, and I’d swear the same polish.

  “I do hope, as your father and as the Boss, that you will not choose to go a-roving quite yet. I do hope that, Code or not, you will continue to acknowledge our connection.”

  “Of course, Father, how could I not?” he paused, found his voice gone and then returned—“I am proud, Father, to be of the clan. I see difficulties, but the clan—Grandmother, Grandfather, the delms—all, yes, all I cherish!”

  Without thinking or looking, he closed his hand around one set of ship keys and handed the other back, and saw it accepted with a nod.

  “The clan does well by us, Father, and you do. I can only hope I can do as well by the clan, and by you. I am pleased to be your son. Of course I shall wait on my roving.”

  King of the Cats

  In 1985, when this story was written, our joint writing career consisted of two published stories about Kinzel, an inept wizard who improbably held a Staff of True Power, and a science fiction novel entitled Agent of Change, which was making the rounds. At that time, Steve made part of our living by running weekend chess tournaments. So it was that Sharon was left alone one weekend, with only a typewriter and a ream of paper for company. The result of these circumstances was a non-canon story that mixed two universes with nothing in common, save a belief in Balance.

  The most important man in the universe sat at ease behind his desk-counter while a pair of leather-clad mercenaries moved toward him, bags in hand. He shook his head, and was annoyed when they continued forward. The effrontery of such creatures, he thought, moving his foot toward the pedal that would summon Security, expecting to be rented a room in his Hyatt!

  “You’ve got a suite reserved for us,” said the woman, dropping a bag onto the polished countertop. “Name’s Robertson.”

  Secure in the knowledge that no one on staff was stupid enough to have taken such a reservation, he replied coolly.

  “I am certain you must be mistaken. Of course we have no—” For effect, he let his eyes touch the reservation board—and stopped in mid-sentence.

  It was there: ROBERTSON, in cheery yellow letters and—the deskmaster barely contained his rage: They’d rented the most expensive suite for an entire week! He’d not have his hyatt turned into a rowdy, drunken love-nest for—

  “Hey, not today fella, OK?” said the red-haired woman in her low-class Terran accent. “Just give us the card.”

  “I am sorry—madam,” he said in his most condescending voice, “but it is my policy not to permit mercenaries here. Our illustrious patrons . . .”

  “Will be honored by our presence,” said the startlingly mannered voice of the man. “Please, our card.”

  The manager’s toe touched the silent switch; in seconds Security would rid him of this nuisance.

  The woman’s hand moved, and a coin landed, spinning, on the counter.

  The deskmaster gulped.

  On many worlds a Liaden cantra is equivalent to an average yearly income. Settling slowly before him was a twelve cantra piece.

  “We won’t mess up your playground, pal. And if we do, we got enough to cover
the damage.” She swept the coin up. “Now. My name’s Robertson and I got a reservation. Card, accazi?”

  Security arrived then and was summarily waved back by the deskmaster.

  Hastily, he produced the card in question; pressed a key to summon busbots.

  “We’ll carry our own,” said the woman and the pair hefted their belongings, leaving the mechanicals scurrying in bewildered circles.

  The most important man in the universe was still staring at the spot where the coin had been when his shift relief arrived.

  Red-haired Miri Robertson sighed deeply as she walked into the center of the suite’s parlor. Behind her, she heard the door slide shut and a faint chime as Val Con coded the lock.

  She turned and grinned.

  “Ain’t every day you meet somebody that important.”

  “True,” he said, lips twitching. “I hope you were impressed.”

  “I hope he gets fired. Almost worth buying the hyatt for the pleasure of doing it myself.” She yawned suddenly. “I’m beat. Next time we go off to save somebody else’s bacon we’ll have to put in a shut-eye requisition. Gonna sleep for a month. You coming?”

  “On your heels,” he murmured, reaching to his belt and unhooking the pellet gun. “Though perhaps not an entire month—?”

  “Yeah, well, if you wake up first, order breakfast and call me when it gets here. Just don’t—Val Con.”

  He glanced up. “Yes?”

  “You’re fading.”

  His dark brows pulled together. “Fading, cha’trez?”

  But she was moving at a dead run from across the room and he braced himself to absorb the shock of impact—

  He did not hear her scream his name, nor see her brake to a stop, eyes wide and disbelieving on the pellet gun that lay abandoned on the rich dark carpet.

  There was a poof! of displaced air and an instant when the world seemed to slip slightly out of focus. Kinzel blinked at the sudden person before him.

  Who stared back, green eyes very bright, face wearing a look of wary outrage, body braced like a warrior about to engage.