Liaden Universe 18: Dragon in Exile

by Sharon Lee

  Quin frowned. Moraldan was a Liaden outworld with . . . pretensions. It was a favorite destination for the ne’er-do-wells and the disaffected. Over the years, those sorts had evolved their own hierarchy and society and dared to declare it superior to the homeworld’s social climate. It had its own council—called the Moraldan House Council—but still seated a representative on the Council of Clans on Liad.

  Moraldan dared not quite break all the way with Liad, for there was no likelihood of its making its own way; after all, it depended upon the homeworld for its comforts and luxuries. One or another of the clans who had seated themselves there could possibly have contrived to set up as traders, or at least negotiated with an existing firm to make it the official trade line of Moraldan.

  However, that, Quin thought, would have been far too much like work. Work was not a Moraldan virtue.

  “As to what it’s doing here,” said his copilot, having pulled Lalandia’s packet, “they’ve come to observe Clan Korval’s banishment.”

  “What?”

  “See! The Emerald Casino, a gem of the first water, owned by Pat Rin yos’Phelium, himself a master gamester!” Tess read.

  “Sample the pleasures on offer at Audrey’s House of Joy, home to the most skilled hetaera on the planet!

  “Walk the streets tamed by Boss Conrad.

  “Tour the fabulous Jelaza Kazone, walk the inner gardens, and lay your hand upon the trunk of Korval’s Tree!”

  Tess shook her head.

  “Guess Boss Conrad got himself a piece of the action.”

  Quin gasped, stung.

  “My father is not a party to this!” he snapped, even as he wondered if Father was not only involved, but had hatched the scheme for some obscure reason of his own. Or, if Uncle Val Con . . .

  “The Emerald and Audrey’s House are open to anybody wants to come in the door,” Tess pointed out. “Same like walking Conrad’s turf. Nobody’s gonna tell ’em to move on, ’less they’re making a public nuisance.”

  “But Jelaza Kazone and the garden are not public places,” Quin countered.

  “So, Okay,” Tess said. “Might be the Road Boss got some action outta it, then. Why not?”

  Because Uncle Val Con would surely not open the clanhouse to strangers, nor the gardens . . .

  But there his thoughts faltered. The relocation to Surebleak had been a strain on the clan’s resources. And . . . Uncle Val Con had not done it, himself, but it had long been done that public rooms and the front garden were opened to the curious on viewing days—all of the Fifty Houses had done so, to display and enhance their melant’i.

  In the case of Jelaza Kazone, which had no one save the caretakers living there, Grandmother had stood as host, and answered questions about the house and Korval’s history.

  Were finances so tight that Uncle Val Con would have negotiated with a cruise ship out of Moraldan for a percentage of the profits? It seemed at once like, and entirely unlike, him. What—

  “Galandasti,” came the voice of Surebleak Control, “we have your approach scheduled. See the figures we’ve supplied—plan is to put you in a low polar orbit for one go-round, have you drop in over the pole next time, direct to your south-end hotpad. All good with that?”

  “All good,” Tess said, at Quin’s nod. “Thank you, Control.”

  They were in the ruckus room with Lizzie when the alarm sounded, and Jeeves’s voice spoke quietly, but firmly, from the ceiling tiles.

  “An unauthorized vehicle, containing in excess of eighteen persons is approaching the main gate from the Port Road. House Security declares a Level Two Emergency. Repeat: we have a Level Two Emergency. All staff remove to emergency positions, now. Children and cats to the secure rooms, now.”

  Miri looked at Val Con.

  “Called that right,” she said.

  “If they believe they have purchased the right to tour the house and garden, why would they not come?”

  “No reason, I guess. I just sort of hoped that we wouldn’t have to do this.” She shook her head. “They ain’t bringing in excess of eighteen people up here in any town taxi, though. Where’d they find a bus?”

  “Perhaps they brought it with them. Tours to frontier worlds often carry their own transport.”

  “Frontier world.”

  Miri sighed and came to her feet.

  “Help me catch Lizzie and let’s go throw some tourists out.”

  “I am perfectly capable of throwing tourists out,” Val Con said, still sitting cross-legged on the floor, “if you would prefer not to be part of this.”

  “We agreed it had to be both of us when we first got wind of this thing. Besides, you knew I liked trouble when you married me,” she told him, and blinked thoughtful grey eyes. “Point of fact, I got the specific idea that’s why you married me.”

  “You have many qualities,” he said, coming to his feet in one fluid unfolding.

  “Nice dodge.”

  She walked to the right of the rug on which their daughter had paused in her four-legged perambulation around the room, and Val Con swung to the left.

  “Talizea,” he said, teasingly.

  She looked up and Miri swooped in. Lizzie shouted laughter, and Miri grinned as she settled the small body against her.

  “While I must admit that both of us are regrettably fond of trouble, it seems to me that Talizea has a gentler, more reclusive nature. Perhaps she might wish to join her cousins in the basement?”

  “Weren’t you the one who told me it was never too early to start learning how to be delm?”

  “Did I? That was inept of me.”

  “Water under the bridge. If she’s gonna be throwing herself in front of busses as a regular thing, she might as well bag her first one now.”

  Val Con bowed lightly, accepting her judgment in this, again, and straightened.

  “Jeeves,” he said. “Please close the gate.”

  There was scarcely room to move in the Emerald; every card table was full, and the High Stakes Room stood with doors open. The bettors were three deep around the Wheel, and the smaller backup Wheel, which had been set up near the bar, enjoyed a similar popularity.

  There were some vacant stools at the bar itself, and most of the custom there were locals and Terrans, Quin saw, pausing to overlook the room. There were extra servers on, carrying drinks to the card tables, the Wheel, and the dicing stations. The players there were almost entirely Liaden, many in evening dress though it was barely local twilight. He craned his head, but the room was too full for him to see the Sticks table, and he had, within the necessities of his recent lift, lost the particulars of Villy’s schedule.

  “Drink, sir?” asked the bartender—Herb, his name was—and, then, “Sorry, Mr. Quin, didn’t recognize you in the leather.” He grinned. “Truth is, might not’ve recognized you in the usual; it’s been crazy busy ’round here since that tour ship come in, an’ I’m a little muzzy in the brain.”

  “I can see that it is very busy,” Quin said, frowning slightly. Herb worked day shift, he recalled. His wife worked night shift and there were children who needed to be looked after.

  “Are you beyond your time?” he asked.

  “Little bit; little bit. Thing is, we’re short-staffed—well, not for reg’lar, but for this. Need two ’tenders on-shift to keep up with this, and it ain’t slowed down—not even early mornings. We only got the four of us trained.”

  “I see there is extra wait staff,” Quin said.

  “Yeah, we called in the friends of friends to fill in the gaps. But ain’t none of them trained ’tenders, an’ this crowd is asking for some doozies. Almost like it’s a test.”

  Indeed, Quin thought, but did not say. A test of Pat Rin yos’Phelium’s melant’i.

  “Sarath tends bar sometimes,” he said instead, having caught sight of that senior wait person moving among the crowd with her tray.

  “Sure she does, but she only knows the wines.”

  “Your second on-shift is—?”
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  “Woody. Just now come on, a little ahead of his reg’lar time. Me, I’ll stay some late, then Lorn’ll come in and I’ll go home.”

  Which still meant that Herb was doing close to a double shift. Quin wondered who was watching his children, or if his wife was giving up hours at her job, but it wasn’t his place to ask.

  What he could do, however, was suggest.

  “Why not pull Sarath off the floor and have her fill wine orders only? Woody can oversee, and make the more complicated drinks.”

  “An’ I can go home to my kids, who’re watchin’ themselfs, which you’re too polite to ask.” Herb closed one eye, which meant that Herb was thinking. Quin waited. Herb nodded.

  “That’ll do it. I’ll just run that past Woody t’make sure he’s good with it.” He grinned, tiredly. “Thanks. I shoulda thought o’that.”

  “In this din?” Quin asked, making light.

  Herb’s grin got a little steadier.

  “It’s a sight, ain’t it? ’Fore I go, you want a drink?”

  “No, thank you. Though I wonder—who is on Sticks?”

  “Villy went home couple hours ago,” Herb said. “He’d just pulled two-and-a-half shifts his own self, and the floor boss threw ’im out to go get some rest. That puts ’em down to two Sticks tables, and we got complaints. Don’t guess you wanna open up?”

  Quin blinked. He had occasionally overseen the Sticks, when the Emerald was crowded, but . . .

  They’ve come to observe Korval’s banishment, Tess had said of the cruise ship.

  Well, then; best they did not observe Pat Rin yos’Phelium’s heir dealing Sticks.

  At least until he had talked with Father, to learn how melant’i was best served.

  “I think,” he said to Herb, “not presently. Is my father upstairs?”

  “Sure is.”

  “Thank you, Herb.” He touched the man’s arm, very gently. “Remember to clear the change with Woody.”

  “On my way, Boss,” Herb said, and moved off down the bar.

  Father was behind his desk when Quin arrived in the office. He rose with a smile that was nearly as weary as Herb’s grin.

  “Quin! Welcome home! How was your flight?”

  “Entirely unexceptional. Pilot Lucien declared, often, that she would fall asleep at her board.”

  They embraced, cheek to cheek, and Quin stepped back, holding his father at arm’s length as Father had used to do with him, when he was younger, and home from school between terms.

  “You are exhausted.”

  “Not quite completely spent. You arrival, in fact, is timely. Natesa will be joining me within the hour. When she does, she and I will go among our guests and inform them that the Emerald will be closing for cleaning and restocking, and will open again in eight hours, local. The regular staff is in need of downtime; the games must be reset, and maintenance must be done. I am also informed that sweeping the floor becomes much simpler when one can see the floor.” He shook his head.

  “I fear for the state of the cellar. We may need to offer local fruit wine when we reopen.”

  “How long?” Quin asked.

  “Well . . . eighteen hours? Twenty-two? Surely, Lalandia only came to orbit three local days ago. The portmaster insisted upon a staged embarkation, in order to spare the port, so we have only seen the most of it within the last sixteen hours.”

  “I sent Herb home,” Quin said. “Woody is fresh as ’tender and Sarath is to come off the floor and pour wine.”

  “That is well thought, thank you. We will have temp staff to assist the regulars when we reopen, but this . . . visitation . . . took us unaware. At least I had wit enough to find Scouts willing to stand as translators on the floor.”

  “This tour,” Quin said. “To observe Korval in exile?”

  “Diverting, is it not?”

  His father, Quin thought, did not look very amused.

  “This was not . . . arranged, then? Uncle Val Con—”

  Father gave him a sharp look and then laughed.

  “Ah, you thought the delm had gone for a piece of the action? It is my belief that the clan’s finances are not yet dire, and even then it is my very strong belief that you will not in your lifetime see Val Con yos’Phelium selling tickets for views of the Tree.”

  “It had seemed . . . not quite like us,” Quin said slowly. “But one wonders, then, why are they here? Are there no greater wonders in the galaxy than Korval on Surebleak?”

  “Perhaps they wish to assure themselves that we are properly chastised, brought low as we must have been.”

  Quin shook his head, and finally grinned.

  “If they are here for the scandal, shall I provide one? Herb tells me that the floor boss sent Villy home, leaving only two Sticks tables open for play, and our worthy patrons complaining.”

  “Do you wish to do so?” Father asked. “Certainly there is nothing amiss in my heir presiding over a Sticks table.”

  “Unless you need me to do something more useful, I am certainly able to deal Sticks for an hour.”

  “Then go. Mr. McFarland is on the floor. Natesa and I will not be long behind you.”

  “Finally!” the voice was carrying; the accent Solcintran; the mode High, and from elder-to-youth.

  Quin had been counting the drawer—the total of rolled and signed bundles was eight: five of the local so-called Quick Sticks, and three Palaz Dwaygo—the classic Solcintran style. If Father’s promised hour was firm, he need not call for more. Surely even the worst Sticks player conceivable, playing the local variation, which produced a shorter game, could not lose in less than a quarter hour.

  But—

  “Finally one comes to challenge my skill!” broke his thought and he looked up into the thin, flushed face of a person who was surely no older than he. Which was to say—old enough to have finished one’s schooling. He might expect elder-to-youth from a man of Father’s age.

  However, Father never inadvertently insulted. Looking at the glittering eyes in the flushed face across the table, Quin wondered if the insult had been inadvertent, after all.

  “There were other tables open, sir,” Quin said, keeping his voice mild, and in the mercantile mode.

  “The tables were open, but there were no dealers present,” the lordling told him. He was, as were most of the others of the tour, in evening dress. Very ornate evening dress that included several ribbon bouquets placed about his person, in hues of green and gold.

  In, Quin thought suddenly, Korval’s colors of green and gold. He took a deliberate breath and ran a pilot’s mental exercise, to calm his temper.

  “If you come to Surebleak, sir,” Quin said, “you must expect to find Surebleakeans at the Sticks table. I have two bundles on offer: the local variation of twenty-four Sticks, plus the pick; and the full Solcintran bundle with which your lordship is of course very familiar.”

  The emphasis on your lordship came straight out of Terran; it was badly done of him; and the patron was not so drunk that he did not understand that he had been made the object of a private jest.

  His already flushed face flushed more deeply.

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “The Sticks dealer, sir. Will you have a game?”

  “I will know the name of the man who thinks he may laugh at Ran Dom vin’Aqar.”

  Grandmother says that well-bred people do not allow their temper rein, Quin told himself. She probably thought you were intelligent enough to understand why.

  He gave Ran Dom vin’Aqar a small, and proper, bow of introduction, between equals.

  “My name is Quin yos’Phelium Clan Korval.”

  Ran Dom vin’Aqar pulled himself up as straight as the drink would allow, and tried to look down his short nose at Quin, who was the taller. Father could bring that manner off—Quin had seen Father look down his nose at Cheever McFarland many times.

  Let it be known that Pat Rin yos’Phelium need not soon fear Ran Dom vin’Aqar’s superior grasp of mode or melant�
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  “There is no Clan Korval!” the drunk lordling stated, loudly enough that all the Liaden speakers in the room stopped talking at once, and all the non-Liaden speakers looked nervously toward the door.

  “You are clanless!” Ran Dom vin’Aqar continued, his voice edging upward. “Avert your face!”

  Almost, Quin laughed.

  Almost, he slapped the silly lordling’s cheek.

  Having overridden both of those disastrous impulses, he lifted an eyebrow, and stated, as one informed to the uninformed.

  “I am not clanless; merely my clan has been banished.”

  “Korval has been written out of the Book of Clans!” the lordling shouted.

  “That is a matter of record-keeping concerning the Liaden Council of Clans,” Quin said calmly. “Korval and Korval alone decides when or if the clan exists.”

  He leaned forward over the Sticks table and looked down at Ran Dom vin’Aqar.

  “Clan Korval exists.”

  “Yes, exactly so,” his father said.

  He came forward on Natesa’s arm, he in Liaden evening dress, and she in something utterly inappropriate for Surebleak, though entirely appropriate to Natesa. Quin thought that it might be the dress of her own never-discussed homeworld. It was bright yellow, and spangled with what might have been diamonds; it clung to her slender shape, baring one strong, supple arm, covering the other, cascading to the floor, where a slim, tawny leg was alternately revealed and hidden as she walked.

  “Barbarian,” snarled Ran Dom vin’Aqar.

  Quin took a breath—and let it out, carefully

  Natesa turned black eyes upon the lordling, and slowly examined him, from head to boots, the very faintest hint of disgust on her fine face, as if he were a particularly loathsome sort of beetle.

  Then she looked beyond him, and smiled in perfect delight.

  “Quin! Welcome home.”

  “Mother,” he said, the first time he had given her that. “I am glad to be here.”

  “We must to home in truth, however,” Father said, and turned his head to speak to those about them.

  “The Emerald Casino is closing for maintenance and restocking in twenty minutes. Please cash out now, and visit us again, in eight hours, local. Quin, will you come?”