Liaden Universe 18: Dragon in Exile

by Sharon Lee

His mistake was that he didn’t look over his shoulder, too, so he never even saw the rolling pin she brought down on the back of his head with every ounce of strength in her.

  Bosil jumped over to where the thug was crumpled up on the floor, grabbed the fallen gun, then got the guy’s hands bound behind his back.

  “Sorry,” he said then, to the baker, who was standing behind the counter, flour on her forehead, and her mouth pressed tight.

  “Sorry, Ms. Quill; I shouldn’t’ve ducked.”

  “Winda blows up in your face, ’course you’re gonna duck,” she said, still staring at the guy on the floor. “This is my shop. He don’t get to shoot up my shop. And he don’t get to make me a zample. I don’t care if it’s legal or not legal, or what the Boss does or says—I ain’t havin’ it!”

  She looked like she was going to either laugh or cry, or maybe both. Either way, Bosil figured her for mostly all right, so he got on the comm to call the Street Patrol.

  On Delgado, at the house on Leafydale Place which had belonged to Jen Sar Kiladi and which she had, for most of their life together, futilely tried to resist thinking of as “home” . . .

  At Leafydale Place, Jen Sar had planted a garden in the walled yard adjacent to the house. It had been, so he had assured her, a minor affair, as gardens went: a few herbs, some vegetables, and other useful plants to Balance, as he had it, the flowers.

  Being an avid and conscientious gardener, he had tended the useful plants well, and spared nothing to assure their good health.

  But he had doted on his flowers.

  They’d filled the tiny space, overflowing their beds, running wantonly down the walkway, and climbing the rough stone wall that sought, vainly, to contain them. The mingled perfumes had been intoxicating on midsummer days, when sunlight pooled inside the walls, turning one’s thoughts from scholarship to . . . more elemental activities.

  She, born to a scholar mother and raised inside the Wall—she’d known nothing of flowers. Jen Sar’s garden had been a revelation, unique in her experience, and, for everything she had known, in the galaxy.

  But here at the house of Korval, she had found the model for Jen Sar’s tiny walled garden; many times larger, its boundaries marked by the walls of the house itself, its center dominated by an enormous tree.

  There was a tree in their garden at home—a paizon tree, that gave sweet fruit the size of her palm. One of the useful plants, it resembled the giant at the center of Korval’s garden as closely as—as Delgado resembled Surebleak.

  Kamele sighed, and pulled the borrowed sweater closer around her shoulders.

  Certainly, her journey had been educational, and had given insight enough for a lifetime. What remained was to decide how she ought to proceed, now that she had found Daav yos’Phelium, returned to the family he had years ago forsaken, at the end of Jen Sar Kiladi’s sudden abandonment of his scholarly duties . . .

  . . . and his onagrata of long-standing.

  Of too-long-standing, by the mores and custom of Delgado. Kamele sighed again as she followed the path ’round another overgrown curve. There, before her, was a bank of what looked, to her untrained eye, to be bluebells, Theo’s favorite flower in Jen Sar’s garden.

  Pausing, she smiled, and closed her eyes so that she could better enjoy their subtle fragrance.

  The question remained, now that she knew—far from being coerced and held against his will by Clan Korval—that Jen Sar had gone home to stand with his son and family during their time of transition . . . what ought she to do?

  Officially, she was on sabbatical. She could—she should—return to her studies. As much as she would like to see Jen Sar—Daav—again, it had come to her that perhaps he would not feel the same. She had never known him to be careless in his interpersonal dealings. Surely, then, he had ended their relationship so abruptly for a reason. She might guess that the reason had been to shield her from these “enemies” that Kareen spoke of so casually. A man who had lost his mother and a favorite cousin to foul play, and who had seen his lifemate murdered, might be careful of the safety of any others to whom he had formed . . . an attachment.

  Intent upon her role of Avenging Scholar, she had undone his good work, and exposed herself to danger. Best, then, to fade back into academia, where she would be one scholar among a host, safe in anonymity. Bestleaze, where the primary sources for the paper she had in mind were located, was not a Safe World, but it was one of the major research universities, charged with the guardianship of many precious documents. No one was permitted inside who was not properly credentialed. She would be protected, there.

  Perhaps she could ask Kareen to write her, when . . . Daav yos’Phelium returned home from the care of Korval’s “allies.” He had been wounded; she would like to know that he had recovered well. That he was . . . happy.

  . . . or perhaps it was best not to know. Best, perhaps, to begin, however belatedly, to heal herself of what Ella had maintained all along was an unnatural fascination.

  Yes, she thought. It was time to let Jen Sar go, fully. He had made it quite clear that their lives were no longer running in parallel. Perhaps she would take a new onagrata, when she returned from her sabbatical. The house was too big for only her and the cats.

  Or perhaps she would ask Ella to live with her . . . that might be best of all.

  First things first, however. She should inform her hosts of her intended departure, which meant researching the ships due in to Surebleak Port and which might be going . . .

  “In a green study, Scholar?” came a voice lately very familiar to her.

  Kamele opened her eyes, and turned on the pathway to smile at Kareen yos’Phelium.

  “In a sense. I was thinking that, my concerns having been put to rest, it’s time for me to continue with my studies, and leave the house in peace.”

  Kareen tipped her head, her dark eyes quizzical.

  “I had not observed any lack of peace generated by your presence. Indeed, it may be said that the honor of caring for a guest has imposed a certain degree of . . . cohesiveness in the face of our changed circumstances. And—forgive me!—was it not your purpose to speak with my brother?”

  “It had been,” Kamele admitted. “You must understand that his departure was very irregular and not what I’d come to expect from him. In my ignorance, I became concerned that he had been . . . coerced, or otherwise stood in need of a friend. Now that I’ve seen that he chose to return, and is in no need of—of a rescue . . .”

  She faltered, her cheeks warm.

  “Though he may yet stand in need of a friend,” Kareen murmured. “However, it is perfectly comprehensible that you may find time hanging upon your hands, when you have been accustomed to having occupation. Indeed, it is precisely that realization which moved me to come in search of you. I wonder if you might accompany me into the city.”

  “Certainly, if I can be of use . . .”

  “I believe that you may be,” Kareen said, offering her arm. They turned toward the house.

  “The case is that I intend to set up my own establishment, such as I have been accustomed to having on Liad. My son believes that this is unnecessary; and in any wise has been too busy with his duties to assist in locating something suitable. The fact remains that I am inconveniently fixed here, if I will continue my work, which I certainly must do. I therefore applied to an associate for her assistance. Today, she sends word that she believes she may have found something which will answer my needs, gives an address, and proposes to meet me there in two hours, local.

  “I wonder if you would do me the honor of bearing me company, and also of giving me your opinion of this house that Audrey has found.”

  She had, Kamele thought, been wanting to see more of the city. Such as it was.

  “I’d be delighted,” she said.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Bedel

  “Are these enough grapes to make wine?” Memit asked, eying their small arbor doubtfully.

  Rys laughed; a m
istake that made his bruised face ache.

  “No, not nearly enough. For wine, there must be an excess of grapes—five kilograms will yield about four liters.

  “However, we have enough to give to Jin, to make jelly, or to offer raw, as part of the evening meal.”

  Memit nodded, her eyes on the arbor, and her mind obviously on the subject of grape production. “Will the harvest increase?”

  In truth, he doubted it. He had doubted the packet of vines that Memit had found, engineered for quick growth in poor soil, would yield grapes at all. He had been wrong in that; the vines had grown quickly, putting forth pale red fruits almost too heavy for them, whereupon he and Memit built the arbor to support the fragile tendrils. He had still half expected the fruits to kill the vines. That they had managed a harvest at all was notable, and Rys suspected that one harvest was all the engineered plant was capable of producing.

  “Grapes,” he said now, “are difficult. I told you how my clan grew row upon row of grapes, halfway up the side of a mountain. They were a special grape we had nurtured, that loved the mountain soil, and the cooler air. There were other grapes that loved the heat and the dry soil of the near desert. Each variety had its preferences; each yielded its own flavor, and chose its own form.

  “The desert grapes were small and green and tart; ours, children of the mountain, were round and red. The desert grapes made a white wine that tasted as fresh as the clouds in a summer sky. The wine that came from our vineyard was as red as heart’s blood and as sweet as love.”

  Memit had turned to look at him, a soft smile on her thin, hard face.

  “Our Rys bids fair to become a poet.”

  He felt his cheeks warm, and shook his head, carefully.

  “I fear I am eloquent only on subjects dear to me.”

  “Well, that’s as should be, isn’t it? But tell me now, Rys Silvertongue, are these grapes jam or are they supper?”

  “There’s only one way to be certain.” He reached up and plucked a small bunch, and offered it to Memit. She took two, and he did. He raised his as if they were a glass and he offering a toast. Memit copied him, and they each tasted of the pale fruits.

  It was as he had feared; the skin was strong, the pulp grainy, and the taste . . . bland. Even had they produced enough to make the attempt, there was no heart in these grapes; nothing from which to make any wine worth drinking.

  Nor were they table grapes. Oh, they could be eaten at table well enough, but they would scarcely provide counterpoint to a salty cheese.

  He sighed, and looked up to find Memit watching his face.

  “Jelly?” she asked.

  “Raisins,” he said definitively. “I will speak with Jin.”

  Memit nodded.

  “Maybe,” she said, “there are other vines—vines like your family knew, or even the desert vines—to be found.”

  “Maybe there are,” he said, “but we have neither a desert nor a mountain.” He hesitated. “It was said to me that Surebleak ought to have its own vintage.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “It may be. I must . . . dream upon it.”

  Memit nodded at this prosaic answer, and dusted her hands off on the knees of her pants.

  “Well,”—she used her chin to point at the cluster he still held—“might as well bring that along to Jin.”

  “Yes,” he said. He added the grapes to the harvest basket and swept it to his shoulder, grimacing slightly at the protest of hard-used muscles.

  He and Memit left the garden together.

  They were at the edge of the common when they were joined by Kezzi, Silain’s apprentice. For a wonder, her braid was neat, and her clothes not much askew.

  “Rys, the luthia sends that you should have dinner at her hearth.”

  He paused, looking into the child’s brown face. A summons from the luthia, of course, was not to be ignored.

  “Say to the luthia that I will gladly come to her as soon as I have brought the basket to Jin,” he told Kezzi.

  “I’ll take the basket,” Memit said brusquely. “Don’t keep the luthia waiting.”

  “The raisins—”

  “I’ll give her the grapes and tell her what you told me. After the luthia, you can talk to Jin about raisins. Kezzi, are you going with Rys?”

  “No, I’m to take the meal at Jin’s hearth.”

  Memit gave him a stare, as if this were significant. He surrendered the basket to her, and turned his steps to the luthia’s hearth.

  “Grandmother? You wished to see me?”

  Silain looked up from the tangle of beads and ribbons on her lap.

  “Rys, my child. It comes to me from Pulka that you were attacked in the World Above yesterday. I wonder why you did not tell me yourself.”

  He knelt at the edge of her rug and looked into her face, spare and beautiful with her years.

  “It was late, and I had taken no lasting harm; there was no reason to break your rest. Rafin made sure of my hand, and my leg, before Udari returned and we retired to our tent. This morning, we went early Above, to find meat for the evening meal, then I was promised to Memit, in the garden.”

  “You are tender of an old woman’s rest.”

  She raised her hand and touched light fingers to his face. He flinched, then sighed when a gentle warmth eased his bruises.

  “You have experienced no ache in the head, or confusion of your purpose?”

  “No, Grandmother.”

  “That is well, then. Will you share the meal with me?”

  “I am glad to share the meal. Shall I fetch it from Jin’s hearth?”

  “No need; Jin sent a basket early. It’s in the warming box. If you’ll serve it out, I’ll put these away.”

  “Certainly,” he said.

  Carefully, he brought the bowls out from the box, and carried them to the hearth. Silain’s he gave to her; his, he placed by his rug while he fetched tea, in two metal cups.

  “Ah, that is well!” Silain said appreciatively, using a piece of flatbread to scoop up the saucy ground meat.

  Rys tasted his, and agreed. He had doubts, when he and Udari had found the joint. It had been dry, and tough-looking, which accounted for its place near the back of the butcher’s bin. It had been a large piece of meat, and Udari had no doubts at all, so it came back with them, to the kompani, and was given to Jin, who had frowned, and said, “Stew.”

  Apparently, it had been too tough even for stew, thus the coarse grinding and mixing with spicy sauce.

  “Tell me,” Silain said, scooping up more meat, “about this attack.”

  He obliged her, seeking to be matter-of-fact, and neither downplay nor overstate his danger.

  “It troubles me that these men knew of a city below the warehouses,” he said.

  “It troubles me, as well,” Silain said serenely. “Alosha has spoken to me of men who loiter near this gate—looking, waiting. So, not all of our secrets are known, but it is worrisome that any have escaped. Alosha thinks that new gates will buy us time. He ponders the question of whether these men might be let inside, to meet with ghosts and monsters.”

  “That might not be . . . wise, for that would assure them that there is something beyond the gate.”

  “So he also reasoned. The headman will do nothing rash.”

  The headman was, in Rys’s opinion, a thorough thinker. He would dream, and talk to those of the kompani, and dream, and think until he had found a solution.

  “What else have you been about?” Silain asked.

  “I have spoken with Droi. She tells me that we have made between us a daughter. She will have curly hair.”

  Silain laughed softly.

  “Droi’s Sight rarely deceives her. What took you Above, yesterday?”

  “I wished to find what there was to be found,” he said. “I had intended to come to your hearth this evening, or perhaps tomorrow. I found a thing for you, and another thing for Kezzi.”

  In fact, one of the readers he had found had be
en broken during last night’s affair. The unbroken one, he had decided, upon learning of this casualty, would go to Kezzi. He could easily find another, for himself, the next time he was in the City Above.

  “I look forward to receiving your gift,” Silain said gently.

  She set her plate aside, and he did the same.

  “Grandson, there is a thing that I want you to do.”

  He looked up into her eyes.

  “I will be pleased to do whatever is required of me.”

  She smiled, and extended a hand to touch his knee.

  “You’re a good boy,” she said indulgently. “It’s not so much of a burden. I only want you to dream for me, Rys.”

  He blinked. The Bedel archived their knowledge and their skills in dreams; thus, to dream, was to learn. In the time since he had been returned to his soul, given back his life, and been accepted as a true son of the kompani, he had dreamed many dreams, including the Bedel language, and the mysteries of those devices that Pulka constructed, that his brother Val Con dignified as Old Tech, with a certain edge of . . . distrust. In order that he become a more able assistant to Memit, among the plants, he had dreamed vistas of indoor gardens, which had led him to pursue dreams of lighting systems . . .

  . . . which had sent him again to Pulka, dragging his unwilling brother to the garden level to discuss light tubes and gamma tuning . . .

  Hastily, he brought his attention back to the moment.

  “I will be pleased to dream as the luthia directs,” he said.

  Silain smiled. “That’s well. But you must know that these dreams I would have you dream must be anchored in your waking mind. So, you will also come to me every day.” She paused, as if considering, then smiled. “You see that I heap new burdens upon you. Have you taken your turn escorting your sister Kezzi to her brother’s house?”

  “Not yet, luthia. Shall I?”

  “Yes. Beginning tomorrow morning. You will tell your brother Vinchi that the luthia has put this upon you.”

  “Yes,” he said, wondering how walking Kezzi to catch the car to school would net him a lesson with Silain.