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Advance praise for Lee and Miller's I Dare!

"Followers of the Liaden Universe in particular and aficionados of
intelligent space opera in general will be thoroughly entertained by
Lee and Miller's latest episode in the far-future, star-spanning
adventures of Clan Korval on the planet Liad. In this immediate
sequel to Plan B (1999), which is recommended reading for those
who wish to get the most out of this one, the action is nonstop from
the first page, as the members of Clan Korval, fleeing from the
Department of the Interior, aid their allies of Clan Erob in defeating
the invasion of the Yxtrangs, a nasty militarized culture with
overtones of ancient Sparta.

"Purely escapist this book may be (perhaps not a bad thing at this
moment in history), but the authors' craftsmanship is top-notch,
recalling the work of Elizabeth Moon and Lois McMaster Bujold, as
well as, at a less exalted level, the military SF of writers like Robert
Frezza." —Publishers Weekly November 26, 2001 .

"Even though this is the seventh and concluding volume of the
Agents of Change sequence set in the Liaden Universe, it's
enticing enough to captivate readers new to Lee and Miller's
series. The members of Clan Korval are so far-flung and out of
touch owing to battles and politics that it's impossible to know
where anyone is or if anyone is still alive. Val Con yos'Phelium
fights for his life in a catastrophe unit while his lifemate finds their
link slipping away, but salvation may be in the hands of two giant
turtlelike beings. Pat Rin yos'Phelium's adventures on a backward
Terran planet are the easiest to follow as he cleverly takes control
with the help of two hired guns. Any reader familiar with the series
will definitely check this out, and new Lee fans will seek previous
volumes to find out how this remarkable family got into its enticing
adventures. The combination of wit, relationship, and space opera
may appeal to readers of Lois McMaster Bujold." —Booklist
December 15, 2001

"Sharon Lee and Steve Miller are so good it's scary."—S. L. Viehl,
author of the Stardoc series

"I Dare lives up to its title as a perfect blend of adventure, intrigue,
suspense, and wit, crisply written and deftly plotted. For those
already addicted to Clan Korval, be warned: you had best be in a
comfortable position when you sit down to read it, because you
aren't moving until it's done, and it's like just one more potato
chip—you'll end up wanting another one. For those who have yet to
fall under the Lee & Miller spell, you have an even bigger treat in
store—you get to go back and read the others.

"These authors consistently deliver stories with a rich, textured
setting, intricate plotting, and vivid, interesting characters from fully-
realized cultures, both human and alien—and each book gets
better."—Elizabeth Moon, author of Speed of Dark

"The Liaden Universe novels offer that rarest of blends— rousing
SF adventure with a mystical undertone. These books are
irresistible, fast paced, and packed with unforgettable
characters."—Janny Wurts, author of the Wars of Light and
Shadow series

"In I Dare, the fourth book in the Agent of Change Sequence, Miller
and Lee, gather up half a dozen major story threads and weave
them into, not only a complex and exciting whole, but a truly
satisfactory ending. Or possibly beginning…"—Tanya Huff author
of The Better Part of Valor, DAW 2002

"When I first met Miri, Val Con, Shan, Pricilla, and the other
characters populating the Liaden Universe, their personalities were
so sharply drawn and their adventures so breathtaking that I found
myself thinking about them as if they were real. I Dare is a book
I've anticipated for along time. Now I can stop worrying about the
characters I love, celebrate resolution in their lives, and begin
nagging authors Miller and Lee. More, please! And
hurry!"—Maureen Tan author of Run, Jane, Run

"Sharon Lee and Steve Miller have a marvelous ability to weave
powerful characters, intriguing world-building, and swift action into a
rich, compelling tapestry, and they're at the top of their game in I
Dare, the exciting conclusion to their Agent of Change sequence.
The conspiracy against Liad and Clan Korval is vast and ruthless,
and a full range of characters both old and new are needed to
survive, and triumph. Heroic storytelling at its best!"—Mary Jo
Putney, author of The China Bride and The Spiral Path

"Imagine Georgette Heyer crossed on James Bond in a universe
of starships and psychic wizardry, and you'll have something like
the Liaden novels of Sharon Lee and Steve Miller—nobody else in
the field combines space opera and comedy of manners with the
same deftness and brio as these two."—Debra Doyle, co-author of
the Mageworlds novels

"This novel concludes the sequence, and manages to conclude
many intricate plot lines spawned in the previous books. Romantic
attachments are resolved or strengthened, new characters are
introduced and developed, old ones pass through more trials and
become stronger. The plot is fast and exciting, and many favorite
characters play enjoyable roles. While the book succeeds very
well in its difficult task of concluding the intricate series, the
necessity of accelerated plot show up in action smoother…than in
the previous books.

"…this book is excellent and very satisfying to the fans of the
series. Major changes take effect, several previous mysteries are
resolved, the sequence is concluded while life and adventure
clearly goes on (sequels are possible but not required). Liad and
Korval are changed in major ways—for the better.

This is, above all, a space opera. The novel features colorful,
likable, and occasionally improbably talented characters, some
strange (but benevolent) aliens, barely sketched but highly evil
villains, and plenty of combat and piloting where personal skills
matter more than technology. There is humor, romance, courage
and incredible rescues.

While new readers would be better off starting with Partners in
Necessity, existing fans will be very happy with I Dare."—Other
Worlds September, 2001

"The latest SF novel in the "Liaden Universe" series, this wraps up
the "Agent of Change" sub-series, featuring Val Con, heir to Clan
Korval, who in earlier volumes was brainwashed by the sinister
Commander of Agents and his Department of the Interior. Val Con
broke free of their influence with the help of his lifemate Miri
Robertson, and now the pair hopes to take the battle to their
enemy—while the rest of Korval has gone into hiding under the
long-standing Plan B. One clan member, however, is unaware that
Plan B has been activated: the gambler Pat Rin, who is led to
believe the rest of his family is dead. There's definitely a fantasy
feel to parts of this exuberant space opera, with such characters as
wizards, a sentient tree, and even a cat who walks through walls,
but it's a fun mix…and a multitude of characters who refuse to fade
into the background. Once the plot starts rolling…the fun
snowballs, with a gloriously mixed ending that settles the current
problem nicely—while promising more such entertainment yet to
come."—Locus December, 2000
An introduction to I Dare
L. E. Modesitt, Jr.

I must confess that, before being contacted by Kevin Murphy and
Stephen Pagel, I had never read any of the Liaden Universe
books. I had seen a web site about the Liaden Universe, and, even
after paging through it, wondered exactly what it was all about. So,
when Kevin asked me if I would read I Dare, I certainly came to the
worlds of Sharon Lee and Steve Miller with absolutely no
preconceptions. And I gulped down all of the titles, in addition to I
Dare, in something like three days.

Almost immediately, I noticed that Sharon and Steve did one thing
that I appreciate tremendously in authors—they don't simplify into
idiocy. Of course, alas, that also may be why they don't have the
readership they deserve… They also represent the "universe" as I
have found it to be. By that, I mean that when matters look like they
can't possibly get much worse, such matters almost inevitably do.
Sharon and Steve also seem to understand that life is not a mere
series of adventures, but that what moves life are the dreams and
the hopes of determined people, and that those dreams are
purchased most dearly, with blood, sweat, and tears—and usually,
that's just the down payment.

I have my own favorites among the characters, naturally, and one
of them is Pat Rin, the Liaden who is almost an outcast among
Clan Korval because he seems to lack the talents necessary for
piloting. My identification with Pat Rin may be because I was a
Navy pilot to whom piloting did not come naturally for a long time,
much as I wanted it to, and I could certainly understand spending
all that time in the second seat before finally becoming a command
pilot. But then, there are others, such as Priscilla and Edger…but
each reader should find his or her favorite.

Put plainly and simply, I liked the Liaden books, and I Dare in
particular, for a whole slew of reasons. In the end, however, the
reasons don't really matter. What matters is that more people
should be reading what Sharon Lee and Steve Miller have written.
L. E. Modesitt, Jr.
Cedar City, Utah 2001


I DARE by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller
Day 276
Standard Year 1392
Master Jenn's Workshop
Neglit

They had doubted his skill, laughed at him, by Erlady! Took leave
to believe him a once-was—a ten-thumbed, aging Terran, half-
blind; incapable of bringing the table silver to luster, never mind to
copy a ring.

That had been before the Liadens.

They were Liadens, right enough, with the pretty cantra pieces
dandled like candies 'tween their slender elvish fingers and sweet
words of flattery in their mouths.

Truth owed Erlady, it were the cantra pieces spoke loudest. A man
and his grandson, with three cantra pieces to draw against, lived
well, for a year or six, here on backworld Neglit.

And they promised him three cantra more, when they came to
collect the ring.

The ring. Now, there was a beautiful piece of work. In his young
days, he would have snatched the job up for the challenge of it, no
thought of payment in his head.

He'd aged out of that nonsense—paid he would be. Well-paid. And
still he had the delicate, brutal trial of the work, the result of which,
polished and re-polished until the intarsia-work gleamed like water
in the beam of his work-light, proved he was yet a master of his
craft.

They'd sought him out, the canny Liadens. Him, Jen of Neglit
Center, though they surely had all the fabled master jewelers of
Solcintra to choose from. Yet they traveled to an outworld, sought
out an old and fading Terran master, commissioned him to make—
to remake—their ring. And why was that?

The tale they'd spun for Terran wits was simple enough. The
original ring, a family heirloom, had gone missing, and must be
replaced before certain elders of the house noticed its lack.

Such things happened, drain pipes and gambling games being
universally hazardous to jewelry. And mayhap the jewel-masters of
Solcintra gossiped 'mong themselves, and a whispered word
might waft to the ear of the stern elder, to the dismay of his pretty
patrons.

Mayhap.

He was canny enough not to question them too nearly. He had no
ambition to risk his six cantra, though he might have balked, if they
had wanted paste or light-gold or glass.

But they were keen in their instructions: he was to use only pure-
gem, true-gold and emerald. A replacement, that's what they
insisted on: full duplication of the ring that was lost.

A replacement, exact in every detail, is what he had made for them.

He picked the ring up, turning it this way and that, admiring the
simple power of the design. Caught in fluid perfection, a bronze
dragon hovered, wide-winged, above a tree in full green leaf.
Smiling, he set it against the holopic they had given him of the
original.

"I witness ye'd deceive the master who made yon," he told the
copy fondly.

"Indeed, it is remarkable work," said a strongly accented voice at
his elbow.

The master jeweler started badly and jerked around on his stool,
frowning down at the pale-haired Liaden in his costly leather jacket.
"Enough to give a body his death, sneak-footing behind one!" He
caught himself up, looked from his visitor to the workroom door,
with the bell hung above it, that jangled when one of his rare
customers came in from the street.

He looked back to the Liaden's smooth, emotionless face. "How
came ye?"

The Liaden gestured behind him, to where the inner door stood
ajar. "Through the house."

Fear—the tiniest spark of fear—flickered in the master jeweler's
heart. The boy was his last treasure. He did not think these were
child-thieves, yet—

"I have distressed you," the Liaden said gently. "It was not my
intention."

"Well." Mindful of the three cantra yet to come, the master jeweler
moved his hand, smoothing the fear out of the air, and spoke
moderately. "Understand ye, it's late. The boy needs his rest."

"Of course," said the Liaden and a shadow moved at his shoulder.
The master jeweler looked up, meeting the still eyes of the female
Liaden.

"The child was asleep," she said in her soft, emotionless voice.
"We did not wake him."

He ducked his head, relieved to look away from her eyes.
"Thank'ee."

"Surely," she said, then moved forward. Her partner stepped aside,
giving her clear view of the worktable. She paused, face as
ungiving as ever, studying holo and reality, sitting side by side in
the work-light.

"Excellent," she said at last, no faintest lilt of appreciation in her
voice. She raised her cold eyes to his face, and went toward the
table, her path forcing him to turn somewhat on the stool. The male
Liaden had vanished into the shadows of the shop.

"You are indeed a master jeweler," the woman said. She extended
a hand and plucked the ring up, turning it under the light, then
lowering it to compare against the holopic. Trapped on his stool,
the master jeweler watched her, seeing neither pleasure nor relief
on her cold, comely face.

"Yes," she said finally, and dropped the ring as if it were a common
trinket into the pocket of her jacket. The holopic went to the other
pocket, from out of which came three cantra coins, shining across
her palm like moons.

"You have earned your fee, Master Jen," she said, extending her
hand, the coins glowing, murmuring comfort and ease and
schooling for the boy. He leaned forward, felt a sharp pain at the
base of his skull.

The Liaden woman stepped back and let the body fall to the floor.
Her companion took the polishing rag up from the work-table and
used it to clean the gore from the wire-blade before slipping it
away into an inner pocket. From another pocket he drew forth a
vial, and anointed the corpse with its contents. Then he recapped
the container, and wiped it, too, with the polishing rag before
returning it to its place.

The woman raised her hand and turned, walking unhurriedly down
the dim, cluttered room. He followed her back into the house, past
the still figure in the small bed, through the forced door and out into
the night.

They were five minutes gone when the first flames licked to life,
feeding on the lines of accelerant left to nourish them. Five
minutes more found house and workshop both engulfed in fire so
fierce the water from the firefighter's cannon sizzled and
evaporated before it ever touched flame.

Five hours from the start, the fire was out, having consumed
house, shop and contents, leaving not so much as an ash on the
scoured stone floor of the basement.
Day 283
Standard Year 1392
McGee Spaceport
Fortune's Reward

"How many times you figure on firing me?"

Pat Rin yos'Phelium sighed. "Refresh my memory, Mr. McFarland.
How many times have I succeeded in firing you thus far?"

The big man grinned. "OK, that's fair. But, see, I thought we had an
understanding. I ain't only your pilot; I'm your backup. This idea of
yours—to cash up and go to ground—not a thing wrong with it. In
fact, it's a great idea, even considering how much you bothered to
tell me, which I really ain't dumb enough to think is the whole story.
Only thing wrong with it is you're planning on going in without
backup, and that just ain't bright. How you go to ground—you go
easy and smooth, making just as few ripples as you can. But you
go with the certain knowledge that no matter how smart you are, or
how low you keep your head, something's gonna happen—most
likely having to do with blind stupid luck— and you're gonna be
needing back up.

"You gotta suppose they're gonna find you, and be ready for it. You
go in thinking anything different and you might as well take a pistol
right now and blow your own brains out. Save everybody some
trouble."

Such eloquence. Pat Rin raised an eyebrow. "You intrigue me, Mr.
McFarland. I wonder how you became such an expert in going to
ground."

"Someday I might tell you," the big man said, shortly.

It occurred to Pat Rin that he had annoyed his pilot quite as much
as his pilot had annoyed him. He took a fresh hold on his temper
and inclined his head.

"Forgive me, Pilot. I did not intend to cause you pain."

"You didn't," Cheever said, still tending toward short. "Unless you
count a headache." He sighed, gustily. "Look, we been through
this. Covering you is part of the deal between me and Shan. Do me
the favor of believing I ain't dumb enough to go back on my word
to a Liaden, OK? You got a problem with the arrangements, take it
up with him next time you two are in the same room together."

"Ah." Pat Rin considered that. Such solicitude was…unusual; his
cousins every one being younger than he, and accustomed all their
lives to seeing him set his own course. What had persuaded Shan
this time that Pat Rin might meet with difficulties large enough to
warrant a Cheever McFarland? Unless…

Shan was a Healer, not a prognosticator. However, Shan's
youngest sister, Pat Rin's cousin Anthora, was a dramliza of some
note—including among her talents the ability to foretell event. Pat
Rin had once witnessed Anthora in the throes of her gift, and did
not doubt that the ability was genuine. Perhaps she had foreseen
the cold shadow of the clan's danger even as he was preparing to
leave planet, and whispered a word in her brother's ear?

And, in the end, what matter? Pilot McFarland was correct. It lay
well outside the scope of Pat Rin yos'Phelium's melant'i to disturb
an arrangement between Shan and another.

He sighed, and favored the pilot with a straight look.

"I am counted quite a good shot," he said, with what mildness he
could muster. "I offer this as a point of information."

"Yessir, I don't doubt it. But you gotta sleep sometime."

And that, thought Pat Rin, would appear to be that. He inclined his
head, granting the point as much to Shan as to Cheever
McFarland.

"Very well," he said. "Since you insist upon remaining in my
employ, I will tell you that I require a dawn departure."

The big man favored him with a stare. "You do."

"Yes, I do," Pat Rin said, rather sharply. "Have I made a demand
which is impossible for you to meet?"

"No. Would've made things a easier on us both, though, if you'd've
thought to call the tower and have us moved to a hotpad."

It was Pat Rin's turn to stare. "In order to accept a hotpad hook-up,
I would have had to file my license number with the tower," he said,
wondering if the pilot had returned from his leave just a little drunk,
after all.

Cheever nodded. "Yeah, but my card's already on-line. You
could've filed the request manually, direct into the queue, an'
nobody'd known it wasn't me on the board."

"Pilot McFarland—"

"Cause you know the protocol for accepting the hook-up, right?
Just like you know the rest of the board? I tell you what, it beats hell
outta me why you won't sit second. I don't think I ever seen
anybody as hungry for the boards as you are—and I sure could
use the help. Back-up, get it?"

"Mr. McFarland, I am not a pilot. Placing my hands upon that
board—"

"What's the protocol for accepting a hotpad hook-up?" Cheever
demanded.

Pat Rin glared, goaded. "The keys to accept the hotpad hookup
are twelve-green-right and the appropriate ship axis is north-south-
east-west—that assumes one has a matching power-source, which
we do else the power light would indicate blue-blue-red rather than
the blue-blue-blue presently showing, and we would be using
converters, at a cost of an additional half-cantra the Standard—pro-
rated to the Terran minute—for the service." He drew a hard
breath, and attempted once more to leash his temper. That a mere
hireling should challenge him on so basic a drill! Did he look like a
fool?

The Terran nodded. "Right. So you coulda done it, though they
woulda likely hit you up for a higher charge unless you
remembered to tell 'em to orient from ventral instead of dorsal,
since this is a pre-1350 ship and they'd've mistook your protocol
'cause the lines look so new." He nodded again, possibly to
himself.

"If you got that much, you can move us around when we're locked
on to an outside bay in orbit somewhere. I'd right appreciate it if
you'll sit second for me, 'case we might need an extra pair of
hands or eyes somewhere down the road. Boss."

Pat Rin sighed, chilly in the sudden absence of his anger.

"Mr. McFarland, I am not a pilot, and my hands on the board would
be sufficient to frighten any honest ship-handler into an early
retirement. Yes, I know the protocols. Nearly all my kin are pilots. I
was myself tested for pilot. And I failed. Repeatedly. I am at a loss
as to how I might make this circumstance any plainer to you."

"Done just fine," Cheever assured him. "You're wanting me to
understand that you know what to do, you just don't do it fast
enough. That it?"

"Yes."

"OK. But there's stuff you could be helping me out with—to both
our benefits. You know your equations, don't you?"

Gods, but didn't he. When he was a child, he had thought it a
game—Uncle Daav, Cousin Er Thom—even Luken!—would throw
out a partial piloting sentence and applaud lavishly when he
completed it properly. On those occasions when he missed his
line— often, at first—they would gently recite the correct response,
and applaud again when he told it back without error.

He had done the same with his own child; teaching him the nursery
rhymes of pilots…

Pat Rin looked up at the bulk of Cheever McFarland. Master Pilot,
he reminded himself, and sighed. "I know my equations, Mr.
McFarland. Yes."

"Good. I can't force you to do it, but I think it'd be best for the
ship—my judgment as Master Pilot, while we're being clear on
stuff—if you'd sit second for me."

The best interest of the ship must carry all before it. Pilot or no, the
care and keeping of ships was bred into his bones. Korval, after all,
was ships.

Pat Rin bowed, novice to master.

"Very well, Mr. McFarland, as you feel it is a matter of ship's safety,
I will sit in the second seat."

"Great," Cheever said, and stretched, arms over his head, hands
brushing the ceiling of the ship. "I'm gonna go get a shower and
some caffeine. Meanwhile, you call the tower and get us moved to
a hotpad, OK? Don't forget to tell 'em about that orientation to
ventral."

So saying he turned and exited the bridge, leaving Pat Rin glaring
at nothing.

After a time, he sighed, and moved over to the board to input the
request to the tower.
Day 283
Standard Year 1392
Liad
Department of Interior Command Headquarters

Satisfied, Commander of Agents closed the field report.

Korval's strengths—that it husbanded—one might say,
hoarded—ships; that it valued the skills and reactions of pilots
above any other skill a clanmember might possess; that they
deliberately bred for pilots, thus propelling themselves to a
pinnacle of the type…

Those strengths had hidden a notable weakness.

Pat Rin yos'Phelium, heir to Kareen, elder cousin to Val Con, who
should by all right of blood and kinship, now stand as Korval
Himself—excepting only that he was not a pilot.

Crippled, in Korval's eye, he had been cast aside, dismissed to a
wastrel life of spoilt self-indulgence.

The Department of the Interior, however, knew just how to value
Pat Rin yos'Phelium, and his place within the Plan.

Commander of Agents smiled slightly and lay his hand on the
closed folder.

Despite that the Department found it necessary to its own success
to remove Korval from the board, yet it was true that the world, in
some measure, required Korval. Lose a clan which held controlling
interest in a triple-dozen industries on-planet, which controlled the
pilots guild, funded the Scouts, which owned outright fifteen trading
vessels and unnumbered smaller craft, not to speak of the yards
which serviced them? The planetary economy trembled at the
whisper of such calamity. Why, Korval owned the very dies from
which cantra pieces were struck, only leasing them to the
Moneyers Guild in twelve-year renewals stretching back to the time
of the first Val Con yos'Phelium, Cantra's heir.

In any wise, it was no part of the Department's Plan that Liad
should be made bankrupt. It was all to the Department's good that
Liaden economy flourish and expand.

Thus, if the economy demanded a Korval, then a Korval there
would be.
Day 284
Standard Year 1392
Departing McGee

Cheever McFarland bulked large over the controls of Fortune's
Reward, hands delicate and sure, nearly caressing in their motions.
Despite his size he sat comfortably in the pilot's chair, which was
locked at the rearmost limits of its track. At this stage in the flight
his attention was securely on the board—with its dozen of lights,
meters, knobs, and switches—and on the screens ahead.

The pilot's choice of screens for the main board was sparse:
centered was local space forward, with radar ranging imposed over
the combined straight visual and near infrared view; rear view was a
super wide angle in radar encompassing everything not on the
front screen at half-size below it. Some few of the screens were
surprising—especially the left corner screen, showing a double-
deck transcription of the last 144 syllables of Com One's radio
communication in Terran—incoming on top, outgoing on the
bottom.

The co-pilot's board was live, and Pat Rin yos'Phelium sat, ill-at-
ease, in the chair before it. He scrupulously avoided the controls,
concentrating instead on the Jump equations he was engaged in
framing for the pilot's approval. As if in testimony to the fact that he
sat second by the pilot's whim alone, instead of the proper view of
space outside the ship, the screen above his board showed a
mosaic of thumbnails: every system on the ship represented in an
order known only to the pilot.

Pat Rin finished his last calculation and filed it. Leaning back in his
chair, as far away from the board as he could reasonably sit, he
watched the screens as Cheever McFarland threaded Fortune's
Reward through the crowded spaceways of near orbit.

From time to time Pat Rin saw a pause, a decision point, pass
through the pilot's hands. At the third such he glanced up and saw
a new window open on the left.

"I'm watching for long-range interception," the Terran said, calmly
matter-of-fact, "cause in here, with all this mess, the normal thing to
do is be worried about the next 72 seconds or so, then the next
720 seconds, and not much beyond because so many of the
orbits are tight and the maneuvering's hectic. But if someone was
looking for us to be Jumping from a particular point, more or less,
they'd likely be close to an interception trajectory somewhere down
the line, like three hours or so when a ship like ours might normally
be expected to Jump."

A lesson in piloting, forsooth. Pat Rin moved a hand in
acknowledgment.

"And so right now, there's a ship moving parallel, but that ain't a
problem—I doubt anybody'd be trying to chase us with an ore-ship.
There's also one summat behind that got underway from the repair
docks about the time we hit orbit. Shows up fine on visual but the
beacon on it's a bit funny and out of adjustment, I'd say. They been
tuning their orbit something fierce, just like a ship right out of dock
might."

Pat Rin moved his hand again as Cheever checked in with control
once more, confirming by voice his destination and learning that,
"due to heavy traffic," the Portmaster requested all ships add
another quarter planetary diameter to Jump run-up.

"Damn," Cheever said under his breath and hit the com button.

"Control, can we stay on original schedule? I've got a novice here
calculating that Jump for all he's worth and we'll be in your way all
day if he's gotta start over!"

The delay might have been due to more than the crawl of light
across space; the answer was a half-chuckle. "Oh, aye, that's a stet
then, Fortune's Reward. And I'm to tell you your novice owes a
drink to the submaster next trip through."

"To hear is to obey, Control. Fortune's Reward out."

Pat Rin glanced at his pilot quizzically.

"I could have recalculated those equations—the quarter diameter
is scarcely a—"

A Terran headshake.

"Sure it ain't. But now we got an excuse when we Jump a bit ahead
of time with all the wrong energy levels, just in case we're being
snooped."

And so they were prudent, on the off-chance that Korval's enemy
had found him. Cheever McFarland was a man who took his own
advice, then, and built plans upon worst-case projections.

"Tell you what," the pilot was saying, "once we Jump I'll adjust that
side and you can shadow me inbound to Teriste. I'll probably ask
questions to see if you're paying attention."

Pat Rin bit back a sharp retort. It was never good luck to argue with
an elder willing to teach what was needed—especially with Plan B
in effect.
Day 50
Standard Year 1393
Lytaxin
Erob's Medical Center

The names of their kin had gained them entrance to the house and
a rapid and willing guide to the place where their sister lay,
recovering from her wounds.

It was well, Edger thought, following Alys Tiazan Clan Erob, Cousin
to Miri Robertson Tiazan Lady yos'Phelium, that they had not
tarried, but had descended to the planet surface with all haste and
come directly to this dwelling-place.

Truth, it had been Sheather's disquiet that had spurred them to
seek their kin so speedily. Yet Sheather had studied Miri
Robertson to a depth that none other of the Clutch had yet studied
an individual of the Clans of Men, and Edger had been willing to
heed his brother's impatience.

Nor was this impatience found to be excessive, once the door to
Clan Erob's house had been opened to them. The news given by
Alys Tiazan was alarming in the extreme and Edger hoped most
stringently that they had arrived with speed enough, and skill
sufficient for the tasks which bore their names.

Before him, the impossibly frail person Alys Tiazan ran. Her red
hair, so like his sister's, was made into double braids that lifted a
little in the wind of her own passing. Walls barred her way, then slid
silently and swiftly aside, allowing her, and, quickly after her,
themselves, into a short, quiet hall, where a single man wearing the
clothing and sidearm of a mercenary soldier stood at guard before
a door.

He looked up as they bore down upon them, frowned and moved a
few steps forward, holding up his many-fingered hand, palm turned
to them.

"Hold it," he said to Alys Tiazan. "You ain't taking them in there, are
you, kid?"

"Indeed, I am," she returned, somewhat breathlessly. "They have
kin-right. My cousin will wish to see them immediately."

He was a well-grown male of the kind which named themselves
"Terran," yet he did have to look up quite some distance to survey
both Edger and Sheather.

"Kin right?" he repeated, eyes squinted a little.

"The child speaks truly," Edger answered. "Miri Robertson Tiazan,
Lady yos'Phelium, Captain Redhead, as she is known here, is
sister to myself and this my brother. We are likewise kin to he who
is named here Val Con yos'Phelium Scout."

The soldier frowned down at Alys. "Orders was, kin visits only, and
as few of them as possible. Cap'n Redhead ain't hardly eight hours
outta the 'doc, kid. She gets too tired, the techs'll stick her back in
the box, and you can depend on it she won't like that."

"In fact," Sheather spoke up, with a forcefulness much unlike his
previous diffidence, "we are here precisely because we have
heard alarming reports of our sister's health. It would ease us,
could we see her, speak with her, and make our own evaluation of
her condition."

"Oh." The soldier chewed his lip, then appeared to take a decision
with a sharp nod of his head. "OK, I can see where you'd want to
make sure she's on the mend. I can let you in for a quick look, but
like I said, there ain't no profit to anybody in getting her tired out to
where the techs take an interest. Especially not with her partner in
the state he's in."

Edger blinked. "We have heard that our brother's situation is dire."

"Well," the soldier said judiciously, turning to lay his hand on the
door-plate, "he ain't as bad as he was six days ago, but I sure
wouldn't want to trade places with him." The door slid open and he
stepped aside, waving a casual salute.

"There you go. Remember what I told you, now."

"We will remember," Sheather said, and followed his brother into
the room where their sister lay, convalescent among the songless.

Red-haired Miri Robertson, lately captain of the Lytaxin Irregulars,
lay against a mountain range of pillows, eyes closed. The room
was full of sound—usual sickroom stuff: the bubble and babble of
the machinery; the occasional rustle from the med tech there to
tend them—and her. Funny, she thought, somewhat muzzily, how
sickrooms always sounded just the same, Terran or Liaden,
planetside or space based.

Sighing—quietly, otherwise the tech would be after her to take a
nap, like she just hadn't spent six Standard Days unconscious in an
autodoc—sighing, she marshaled her attention, deliberately
blocking out the too-familiar sounds of the sickroom, and focusing
on the place inside her head where she'd gotten used to finding
the— ah, hell, call it the life force, call it the soul-shadow, or just call
it the pattern, of her lifemate.

Previously, this edifice had been scintillant, brilliant with color,
cunning in its complexity. A little more recently, she had observed it
fading, the clever interlacings unraveling with regal, horrifying
precision. Val Con had been dying, then, of various wounds, the
most serious being the bullet he'd taken off an Yxtrang Elite Guard
while in the process of stealing an atmospheric fighter craft the
guard had considered, reasonably enough, belonged to his outfit.

Elite Guards used bullets with a smorgasbord of
loads—explosives, hallucinogens, and other not-so-goodies. The
bullet that had nicked Val Con had carried nerve poison. He hadn't
taken a full hit, which was the good news, a full hit being something
that could drop a full-grown Yxtrang soldier, and probably melt your
basic "a bit over average height—for a Liaden" on the spot.

So, Val Con hadn't died, though at that his luck was mixed on the
day. They'd managed to share his other injuries between them so
that she ended up in the 'doc for days, being healed of wounds
she'd never taken, and he was still sealed in a crisis unit, not quite
out of danger yet. Shan had explained it to her—all right, he'd tried
to explain it to her, but she had a feeling she was going to have to
get him to go over the tricky bits again, like how exactly she came
up with acceleration injuries when her body had been passed out
cold on the ground, miles away and below the plane she'd brought
in when Val Con—

Never mind, Robertson, she told herself. There ain't any may to
make sense outta it. Just stipulate it happened, OK? No use
banging your head against the impossible.

Banging her head against the impossible was also getting in the
way of checking up on Val Con. She ground her teeth together and
concentrated, feeling the sweat break out on her face. Chest tight,
she craned inward, seeing nothing but gray, nothing but—it hadn't
used to be this hard!

Abruptly, she had it—the pattern flared, bright and coherent,
burning away the swirling fog.

Miri swallowed.

No doubt that this was Val Con. No doubt that he was alive. But
there was—a division—a rift—interlockings sundered, portions
isolated from the whole; here and there colors fluttered, pale, while
other patches showed nearly translucent.

"Oh, gods," she whispered and bit her lip again. She absolutely did
not want the attention of the med tech for the next while. She
needed time to study this, to try to figure out just exactly what she
was seeing.

And what, if anything, she could do to fix it.

Carefully, she brought her whole attention to one flickering sector,
noticing what seemed to be fault lines—

"Cousin Miri!" a young voice shrilled, which would've been enough
to get her attention, without the med tech doing her bit for peace
and quiet by snapping a High Liaden order to, "Remove yourselves
at once!" while a voice big enough to rattle all the aching bones in
her convalescing body boomed, "The songs are all of discord,
brother!"

Miri opened her eyes, took in nine-almost-ten Standards old Alys
Tiazan, hair neatly braided and hands on her barely-existent hips,
glaring at the med tech, while two large, shelled people moved with
ponderous purpose toward the wall of instruments.

"Remove them immediately," the tech ordered, but Alys was
having none of it.

"They are kin and have the right to be here! Yon lady is my cousin
by blood-tie and I myself will—"

"PIPE DOWN!" Miri yelled, or tried to yell. The 'pipe' was pretty
good, though not up to her best. 'Down' suffered from her voice
squeaking out into a cough. Still, she managed to achieve the
desired effect: Everybody got real quiet and all faces turned to her.
She glared at each in turn, trying to ignore the sweat running down
the side of her face, and the way her pulse was pounding way too
hard against her eardrums.

"What the hell's the matter with you people?" she snarled,
somewhat faintly. "Don't you know there's a sick person in here?"

"Cousin…" Alys began.

"I said pipe down," Miri interrupted, then dropped into ragged Low
Liaden, in case the kid hadn't caught it. "That means: Be still, child,
and don't dispute your elders."

Alys looked stubborn, but managed a creditable bow. "Yes,
cousin."

The med tech was sputtering. Miri ignored her for the moment and
looked up at the tallest of the two tall non-humans.

Eight foot high and bottle-green, the room's soft light waking
gleams of malachite and cobalt among the tiles of his magnificent
shell, eyes as big as dinner plates, yellow and slitted, like a cat's;
four hundred pounds, if he weighed an ounce—her brother,
Twelfth Shell Fifth Hatched Knife Clan of Middle River's Spring
Spawn of Farmer Greentrees of the Spearkmaker's Den, The
Edger. May the gods have mercy on her soul.

"Glad to see you, Edger," she said.

"Sister, the song of my heart achieves fullness in your presence."

Wow. She looked to the second, smaller, and less grandly shelled
Turtle. It struck her that he looked worried, though she'd've been
hard put to say how she had formed that opinion.

"Sheather. What's bugging you?" She moved a hand against the
coverlet. She'd meant to lift it and give him a high sign, but it was
too much effort.

"Sister. The songs within this room irritate me. More, they interfere
with the progress of your healing. If kin may say so, and with
apologies, should I speak too briefly—I fear most strongly for you,
wounded as you have been, and surrounded by discord. More, I
fear for our brother, the mate of your heart, for it has been told us
that his wounds are more serious than your own, leaving him more
greatly vulnerable to the ill effects of wrong singing."

She blinked at him, sagging back against her battalion of pillows,
the breath burning in her chest like she'd run an obstacle course
with a full field pack on her back. She closed her eyes and wearily,
warily, looked inside her head, at the broken, flickering pattern that
was Val Con. The mate of her heart.

"Lady yos'Phelium," the med tech said, "allow me to call the House
to your assistance. These…persons…tire you dangerously and—"

"One must be the judge of one's own danger," Miri said, more-or-
less hitting the High Liaden mode from boss to hired hand. She
opened her eyes and looked from Sheather to Edger.

"You're telling me that you got a better way to heal Val Con than the
autodocs and the monitors can do?"

"Sister," Edger said solemnly, "we do."

"OK," Miri said, and took a couple minutes to chew on that, not that
Edger or Sheather would notice. The Clutch did not lie. Especially,
they didn't lie to kin, and they had the same rule as Liadens did
about the duty of kin caring for kin. Which didn't mean that they
couldn't do as much damage as the next guy in, all from good
intentions. She moved her head against the pillows and sighed.

"Can you gimme a demonstration, before we move on to
something life-and-death?" she asked. "Understand, I trust your
word, but it seems to me there's room for reasonable doubt and
honest error, especially since we're talking across species. Things
just might not…match up," she finished, somewhat lamely.

"Our sister is prudent," said Sheather, and exchanged a longish,
yellow-eyed stare with Edger, who eventually looked back to her
and spoke.

"There are those among the clans of men who are more sightful
than the common run," he boomed, his big voice shaking the bed
she lay in. "These sighted ones may see into the soul of their
fellows, touch the strands of their being and, sometimes, cure the
ills that afflict the spirit. Should such a one be brought to us, we
might show them our intention and our technique."

"That is quite ridiculous," stated the med tech.

"No it ain't," Miri said, way too tired now to deal with the tricksy
modes of High Liaden. She managed to get her hand up and
pointed at the kid. "Call Shan and get him down here."

Alys frowned while she worked her way through the Terran
sentence, then she smiled, walked over to the house phone, and
punched the call button.
Lytaxin
Erob's Grounds

They had passed the first sentry and were well on the way to
raising the second, moving along the paths and wooded ways like
the shades of dead soldiers. Not a leaf rustled, nor stone turned,
not a branch broke by reason of their passing.

Nelirikk's heart soared with pride, that he walked at the head of
such a group, equal, among peers. Swift and silent, that was how
an explorer walked.

It was also, of course, how Liaden scouts walked, which his three
companions were. They were an oddly matched trio, more gaggle
than Troop, and very easy with banter among themselves— which
reminded him forcefully of the manner often kept between the
captain and the scout to whom he was sworn.

"How much farther to this house of yours, Explorer Nelirikk?" That
was the shorter of the two elder scouts, called Clonak ter'Meulen,
who wore a Terran-like mustache beneath his snub nose.

"We must be passed by one more sentry," Nelirikk told him.
"Shortly after, the wood will surrender to field. From there, if we
continue at the current pace, we will raise Erob's house in
approximately twenty-five Standard minutes."

Clonak sighed gustily. "So far? Shadia, my delight, run ahead and
beg the house to send a car. I am far too frail for all this traipsing
about in gravity."

The youngest scout laughed. "Yes, of course. I can see the
wobble in your gait. Poor old Clonak."

"Well, I don't know that I like that theme," the mustached scout
commented. "I was thinking more along the lines of 'dear, delicate
Clonak,' myself."

"I'm certain you were," Shadia said cordially, deftly ducking
beneath a wickedly taloned branch.

"I don't see you running ahead to the house," Clonak pointed out.

"Nor will you," Shadia returned with spirit. "Send a car, indeed!
Come, Clonak, it's a lovely day for a stroll. Even with the gravity."

He sighed. "What a desperate failure of discipline we see among
the ranks of our juniors, eh, Daav?"

Daav yos'Phelium, he who bore the Tree-and-Dragon device that
proved him in service to Clan Korval, raised an eyebrow. "Now, I'm
puzzled. It seems to me that Shadia merely displays a—naturally
regrettable!—lack of respect for an elder. How do you find a failure
of discipline?"

"I outrank her," Clonak began—and between one step and the next
fell both silent and still, the others doing the same, until they might
have been three leather-clad boulders scattered along the
pathway.

Likewise frozen, Nelirikk craned his ears, hearing the small sounds
made by the sentry standing his post, just 'round the next bend in
the trail. Nelirikk's regard for Clonak increased, even as he relaxed.

"It is well," he said, keeping his voice low. "Only the guard at his—"

"Halt!" the sentry shouted. "Who goes there?"

The brush to Nelirikk's left and slightly in advance of his position
erupted into noise, as if some large animal was crashing back and
forth, perhaps trying to free itself from one of the plentiful thorny
bushes.

"Halt!" the sentry shouted again. "Give me the word or I shoot!"

The brush grew silent, then rustled more courteously, branches
shivering as a large figure pushed through to stand in the very
center of the path. He was holding a Soldiers General Duty Long-
arm in two hands, aimed up into the blameless sky. Slowly, he bent
and placed the weapon on the ground. He straightened with even
more care, went back two steps, and held his hands, palm out, at
belt-level.

"Capan Meery Roberzun," he said, and Nelirikk felt the hairs on the
back of his neck lift.

"Captain Miri Robertson," Daav yos'Phelium said in a stage
whisper, loud enough to be heard ahead.

"Identify yourselves!" The sentry snapped, wisely remaining at
cover. Nelirikk stepped forward, hands visible and very empty, one
eye on the Yxtrang soldier who stood, patient and open-handed, in
the path.

"Lieutenant Nelirikk Explorer, Lytaxin Irregulars." The soldier in the
road did not react to the Terran words, as of course he would not.
Troop were not taught Terran. Only squad leaders were given
Trade.

"Aide," Nelirikk finished, for the benefit of the hidden sentry, "to
Captain Miri Robertson. The word is sardonyx. I escort three
scouts to my captain."

Out of the edge of his vision, he saw the soldier's lips move, saw
his eyes go wide.

"Capan Meery Roberzun!" he repeated, voice too loud with
excitement. He pointed at the rifle on the ground, and his next
words were in Common Troop. "Sir, we have come to offer the
Hero Captain our weapons and our lives." He swallowed as Nelirikk
faced him squarely, possibly unnerved by the lack of vingtai on a
face so plainly of the Troop.

"Have I the—the honor to address the Hero Nelirikk Explorer?" He
stammered.

"What's that guy want, Lieutenant?" the sentry asked, but before
Nelirikk could reply, Daav yos'Phelium stepped forward, claiming
the soldier's attention with a hand-wave.

"We?" he snapped in the tongue of the Troop, his accent only
slightly more rancid than Val Con yos'Phelium's. "Produce this we!
Immediately!"

"Sir!" The soldier's fist hit his shoulder with a will and he spun on
his heel to address the bushes, from which there issued no
immediate reply.

"Dammit!" the sentry abruptly shouted. "Where did you come
from?"

"The airfield, most recently," Clonak ter'Meulen replied in cheery
Terran. "Before that—well, you'll appreciate that I can't tell you
everything, even though you are carrying some very impressive
firepower. I'm one of the scouts being escorted to Captain
Robertson by the Lieutenant over yonder."

"He really is," Nelirikk called over his shoulder, anticipating the
sentry's next question.

"Yessir. But what is he doing here?" wailed the sentry.

Clonak tsk'ed. "Why, only making certain you don't decide that it
would be best for all to shoot the charming young person asking
after Captain Robertson's health. It happens that the scout
standing next to dear lieutenant Nelirikk is kin to Captain
Robertson, and very tender of her possessions."

"Possessions!" the sentry sputtered.

On the path, Daav yos'Phelium moved.

"Well?" He snapped at the bushes, crossing his arms over his
chest. "Am I blind? Am I a fool?"

The bushes offered up no reply. .

The scout snorted.

"Hero Captain Miri Robertson has no use for cowards.
Lieutenant?"

Nelirikk came to attention and glared into the soldier's stoic face.
"Captain Miri Robertson accepts only the bravest and most skilled
into her troop," he snarled, taking up his cue with a will. "This is the
captain who attaches a scout to her troop! This is the captain who
keeps an explorer as her aide! The captain who broke the back of
the Fourteenth!"

"Show yourselves," Daav ordered the bushes, and swept forward
in a graceful lunge. He came up holding the long arm at ready. "Or
die."

Still the bushes were silent, the branches melting away from the
one who came forward, hands out and empty.

"There is one who is wounded," she said and looked over the
scout's head to Nelirikk. He read the mark of an explorer on her
cheek with a feeling of inevitability. Of course: A mere Rifle
infiltrate the first line of guard, intent on giving his battle oath to
Captain Miri Robertson? Common Troop did not behave—could
not behave—in a manner so contrary to command. An explorer,
however, like a scout, was required to think beyond the boundaries
of the common. An explorer, like a scout, could easily claim the
service of a Rifle, who would no more question her commands
than he would the commands of any other officer.

"Hold!" he snapped at Daav, but the scout had already lain the rifle
down.

"I do not shoot scouts," he said in calm Liaden. "Unless they give
me cause."

The explorer looked down at him. "No cause," she returned, her
Liaden halting and modeless. "Wounded, one's senior.
Wounded—" She moved her hands in frustration and looked again
to Nelirikk. "He is at glory's gate," she finished, in Troop tongue.

"Shadia?" Daav said quietly to the bushes.

"Here, Captain Daav," the youngest scout's voice came from the
bushes at the explorer's back, a bit breathless in the Liaden mode
called 'Comrade'. "He doesn't look the picture of health, truth told."
There was a pause and a low groan. The explorer twitched, and
stilled, her eyes down turned.

"Tell the sentry to send for a field 'doc," Shadia said flatly. "This
man's dying."

"We need a 'doc, quicktime," Nelirikk heard Clonak tell the sentry.
"There's a man down and critical."

"Mister, those're 'trang soldiers and all the 'trang I've seen lately
want to die," the sentry argued.

"Yet you will observe that these particular Yxtrang soldiers appear
to wish to live. They're behaving appropriately, aren't they? They've
put down their guns like good children and they're being very
seemly, by my standards, at least," Clonak's voice hardened. "Call
for an emergency team. Now. You really don't want the scout over
there on the pathway angry with you."

"Embroider my legend, do," Daav called, over the sound of a
comm unit being engaged.

Nelirikk watched the explorer, seeing her eyebrows pull tight as
she strained to follow the conversation.

"Medical assistance is being called for your senior," he told her in
the language of the Troop.

"Yes." She shot him a look of challenge. "You are Nelirikk Explorer,
lieutenant in the troop captained by Miri Robertson. Will you take
our oaths and receive us into the Troop in the captain's stead?"

Certain as he was that the captain—and most certainly the
scout—would welcome explorers into their service, and as well as
he understood the dilemma behind the question, it was beyond the
scope of his duty to stand as oathtaker in the captain's place.

"I will not," he said, wishing the Common Tongue possessed even
so minor a word as "alas".

"What's amiss?" That was Daav yos'Phelium, speaking yet in the
mode used between comrades, his bright black eyes darting from
the explorer's face to Nelirikk's.

Nelirikk sighed. "She—they—came to give an oath and
be…welcomed…into a troop, with a proper captain, to give their
lives form and, and duty. We—the 'doc…" He stammered to a halt.
Both of Daav's eyebrows were well up, but he waited with explorer-
like patience for the matter to be made plain.

"It is cultural," Nelirikk achieved at last. "A matter of—appropriate
behavior. They wish to—they must—offer their oath only to the
captain or one who stands oathtaker in her stead. I— I cannot take
oaths in keeping for the captain. And they cannot accept anything
from the enemy."

"Ah." The black eyes gleamed. "And your own oath—to Line
yos'Phelium, was it?"

"Yes."

"Yes. I believe we may contrive." He stepped toward the watchful
explorer.

"I will have your name," he snapped in his awful Yxtrang.

She lifted her chin, "Hazenthull Explorer."

"So." The language shifted to Trade. "Hazenthull Explorer, I offer
you compromise. I am kin to the Hero Captain Robertson— blood
ties, eh?"

Her mouth tightened, but she gave a short jerk of the head. "I
understand."

"Good. Understand that Captain Robertson's duties are manifold,
including a position of command over the kin unit of which I am a
genetic member. The name of the kin unit is line yos'Phelium.
Captain Robertson accepted the oath of Nelirikk Explorer in the
name of this kin unit." He tipped his head. "Do you understand
this? I do not wish to trick you."

Once again, she jerked her head. "I understand."

"Excellent. Attend me closely, now: The customs of kin allow me to
take from you an interim oath."

Hazenthull frowned. "Inter—a temporary oath?"

"Just so. In the service of your senior's life. The 'doc which has
been called for is his only immediate chance of survival—Shadia
does not use the word 'dying' lightly. I do not willingly watch scouts
perish, as I believe I said. I require of you an oath that you and
yours will serve Line yos'Phelium, in the person of Daav
yos'Phelium—that is myself. In turn, I will give you my oath to bring
you to Captain Robertson herself, so that she may make what
judgment that a captain must, for the good of her troop." He
paused, perhaps awaiting a question. Hazenthull remained silent.

"The term of our oaths," Daav continued, "shall be concluded when
the captain has given her judgment. Can you agree to this?"

There was a long silence. Nelirikk saw the explorer's eyes narrow,
as if she were turning the proposed oaths round in her mind,
seeking the trap that she knew must be there.

Nelirikk could have pointed out the ambiguity attending the precise
expiration of term, but it was to the Troop's benefit to acquire the
services of other explorers, if it could be managed, and so he held
his tongue.

Finally, Hazenthull Explorer gave another of her terse nods. "We
are free to offer and to honor these oaths."

"Splendid." Daav waved at the patient soldier. "Explain the matter
to him." He flicked a look to Nelirikk. "Assist her, please,
Lieutenant."

"Scout." Nelirikk bowed slightly and stepped to Hazenthull
Explorer's side.

Some distance up-trail, he heard the sound of a jitney engine,
growing rapidly louder.
Lytaxin
Erob's House

"…grace of the Mother we came through well and whole," Priscilla
was saying.

The transmission was remarkably clear, considering that it was a
jerry-rig replacement for the planetary communication net the
Yxtrang had shredded. And it was beyond joy to be able to hear his
lifemate's voice, after these long, eventful days of separation. Still,
Shan thought, wistfully, it would have been ecstasy, to behold her
face, to run his fingers into her curly black hair, to stroke her
creamy cheek, to put his lips—

"Shan?"

He shook himself. Do strive for some breeding, Shan, he told
himself, will you scorn her voice because you may not have the
rest?

"Forgive me, Priscilla, I was entranced by the mental image of you
doughty warriors, knives caught between your teeth—"

"Shan…"

"Priscilla, you really must spend less time with my sister," he told
her earnestly. "You have her inflection exactly, there."

From their ship, high in Lytaxin orbit, she laughed. Shan, seated at
the desk in the guesting room Erob had ceded him, smiled wryly
and stroked the comm's plastic face.

"Let us make plans for your stay on planet," he said. "Leave now
and I'll be at the spaceport to greet you."

The beam hummed empty for a moment, then gave him Priscilla's
sigh.

"Love, you know I need to be with the ship. Ren Zel is able, but—"

"But Ren Zel is not of Clan Korval," he finished, knowing the
necessities as well as she. "Gordy of course is of Korval, and also
possesses all of nineteen Standard years. Too young by a year or
so to stand command of a starship orbiting a world enduring
postwar conditions."

"True," she said, her voice soft across the distance that separated
them. "And you cannot leave Miri and Val Con while they are so ill."

"Miri is out of the 'doc," he said, suddenly recalling that he had not
told her that. "Weak as a kitten, of course. Val Con…" His throat
closed and he shook his head, as if she could see him.

"The techs still believe he'll be…impaired?"

"Impaired." He grinned without humor. "Yes, they do believe that,
and quite ill-natured I find them for it, if you will have the truth."

"I'm sure you do," she said gently. "I—when he is out of the 'doc
and an evaluation is made, perhaps—"

Shockingly, the portacomm on his belt buzzed. Shan jumped,
swore, and thumbed the receive.

"One moment, Priscilla—yos'Galan," he snapped into the portable.

"Shan—Lord yos'Galan—it is Alys Tiazan. I am in the recovery
room with Miri my cousin and two of the Clutch who are her
brothers."

Yes, of course, Shan thought. The situation had only lacked eight
foot turtles.

"How delightful for us, to be sure. I shall be down directly to
make—"

"Their Wisdoms," Alys interrupted, with a refreshing lack of
deference for his station; "Their Wisdoms say that the songs of the
machines are harming my cousin, your sister. They say that the
autodoc may be preventing Val—preventing Lord yos'Phelium—
from healing completely. The med tech is—" she paused,
apparently decided that he could judge the med tech's state of
mind for himself, and finished in a rush. "Cousin Miri says to get
you down here." The last four words were in Terran, pronounced in
tones so authentically Miri-like that Shan grinned, even as his heart
trembled.

"One moment," he said to Alys, flicking the 'mute' toggle. He
glanced at the desk unit. "Priscilla?"

Her answer came slowly. "It is possible," she said, "that the rhythm
of the machinery is interfering with total healing. It has been known
to happen. Rarely." She was silent, then burst out. "Who knows
what may harm them? They are linked, heart and mind, by
that—edifice!—no more simple humans than—than the Clutch are.
No," she corrected herself, more calmly. "More human than the
Clutch are. And the Clutch may see truly—for their own kind."

"Then it appears my task has been laid out for me," Shan said and
flicked the portable on.

"Please allow my sister to know that I am on my way to her side,"
he told Alys Tiazan. "Ask her, as she loves me, to stay her hand
from the med tech until I arrive."

There was a small snort, as if Alys had half-strangled a laugh, then
a demure, "I will so inform my cousin, sir." The line cleared.

"Priscilla, my love…"

"Until soon, Shan."

"Until soon. May your Goddess send it very soon."

He thought he heard a soft sigh before the connection light went
out. Sighing himself, he stood, and left the room at brisk walk.

A short time later, he turned smartly into the hallway containing
Miri's room, and nodded to the guard on duty.

"I am summoned."

The merc shook his head as he turned to put his hand against the
plate. "They call this rest? She might as well hire a band and call it
a party."

The door slid open and the guard waved an impatient hand. Shan
strolled across the threshold and—paused.

Immediately before him, two very tall, green persons wearing a
truly impressive quantity of tilework across their shoulders and
down their backs, confronted an average-sized Liaden
woman—which is to say, her nose was not quite level with the
equator of the shorter tile-bearing person. That the woman was in
high temper was obvious even without the abrasion of her passion
against his Healer sense. The Turtles—were invisible to his Healer
sight, in contrast to the rather irrefutable physical evidence. Shan
glanced aside, locating Alys Tiazan, strategically placed between
the med tech and the bed in which Miri wilted against an
oppression of pillows, long red hair snarled across one shoulder,
eyes closed in a face as white as salt…

Ignoring the med tech's anger, Shan focused on Miri, catching the
shine of mayhem along her pattern, and a fear bordering on terror.

"Cousin Miri," Alys said. "Lord yos'Galan is here."

The woman in the bed opened fierce gray eyes and gave him a
ragged grin.

"What took you so long?"

"I had to shave."

The grin widened, briefly, then one hand wavered more or less
horizontal, index finger almost pointing at the taller of the two green
persons.

"Edger," she said, hoarsely. The finger moved perhaps the width
of a thought. "Sheather." Her hand fell back to the coverlet. "This is
Val Con's brother, Shan yos'Galan. He's a Healer. Tell him what
you told me."

"What they told you," the med tech snapped in a mode perilously
close to superior to inferior, "is arrant nonsense! The machines are
needful! Your heartbeat must be monitored! Your air must be
filtered! Your blood pressure and body temperature must be
monitored! Shut down the machines and risk doing yourself
needless, preventable harm, Lady. To even think of removing your
lifemate, damaged as he is, from the catastrophe unit…"

"Quiet."

One word, quavering on the broken edge of a whisper—terrifying
from a woman who could make herself heard amidst the
pandemonium of a battlefield.

"…is to kill him outright!" the med tech continued unabated.
"These—persons!—are not of Erob's house medical staff!
They—"

"Silence!" Shan snarled, in all the force of Command. The tech's
anger flared and he countered it, barely heeding what he did;
merely casting out a glamour of cooling, like a handful of snow-
flakes. The med tech fell silent, passion melting, bowed and went
over to sit in a chair.

"Very good." He transferred his attention to the turtles, who were
yet standing patiently, watching him out of yellow cat eyes.

"Shan yos'Galan," the turtle on the right—Edger, Shan
remembered—boomed in what was recognizably the Liaden High
Tongue, though exactly which mode was a bit difficult to determine
at this volume. "It is a joy to speak with the brother of my brother."

"It is an honor to meet one of whom one's kin has spoken, often
and with affection," he responded in the ritual stiffness of the High
Tongue, in the mode of meeting the kin of kin.

"Allow me, also," said the turtle named Sheather, in Terran, "to
express my joy at making your acquaintance, Shan yos'Galan."

"I'm delighted to meet you, as well, Shan replied in the same
tongue. He glanced over to the bed, saw Miri rigid against her
pillows; once again caught the edge of her fear against his Healer
sense.

"Please forgive me if I force the topic too quickly," he said to the
turtles, in blessedly quick, modeless Terran, "but I cannot help but
see my sister's distress. The med tech seems to believe that you
would have her—and my brother as well—separated from the
healing units."

"These devices are all in discord!" cried the turtle named Sheather.
"They interfere with the truesong of my sister's self. We hear that
our brother is more grievously damaged still. I fear—in my heart, I
fear—that the machine which imprisons him, helpless and unable
to communicate his own needs, may also slay him."

Shan frowned. "And yet our sister has come successfully out of a
similar machine, healed of her injuries and only needing to regain
her strength. Many—" What had Val Con said the Clutch called the
family of humankind—aha! "Many of the Clans of Men do exactly
that, every Standard Year. It is how we heal ourselves of physical
wounds."

"Yet, as my younger brother will have it, we hear discord emanate
from yon devices and know too well the damage that may be done.
Our sister is surrounded by those things which leach her strength,
and make her path to full vibrancy into a perilous journey, uncertain
of a happy outcome." Edger blinked his eyes solemnly. "Our sister
tells us that you are one who may see into the fabric of others, and
who may reweave somewhat that which has become unwoven."

"I am a Healer," Shan said slowly. "But I have no skill in mending
physical hurts—only common first aid, which this med tech will
trump, without a single machine to aid her."

"It is your skill in seeing that we would harness, for the lives of our
sister and our brother," said Sheather. "We have already observed
the skill with which you silenced the medical technician and
soothed her anger before she became a danger to herself."

He had what? Shan looked over to the med tech, sitting peacefully
in her chair. Carefully, he extended his regard and brushed her
pattern, encountering an overlay of cool patience, beneath which
the rest of the woman's…essence…appeared to slumber.

Oh, gods, he thought in consternation. Shan, you idiot, what have
you done?

"I will have to confess," he said, looking up into Sheather's
enormous eyes, "that I am not entirely certain that…whatever…I've
done to this person has been in her…best care."

Edger turned his massive head and—sang, one high, whispery
note that was gone before Shan could quite—

"She takes no harm. She reposes in calmness and heals herself of
her distress. It is well done," Edger stated.

"They said," Miri rasped from the bed, "that they could do a demo,
like, and let you decide if what they thought was best would kill us
or not."

He looked at her. "I'm to decide? How delightful for me! Val Con
did mention to you that I'm his heir, didn't he? This is the perfect
opportunity for me to murder you both and grasp Korval for
myself."

"Sure it is," Miri said, agreeably. "Look, whyn't you turn off the
monitors for a couple minutes while the tech's having her nap, and
let Edger sing you a couple bars, OK?"

"My sister's plan has merit," Sheather said.

Miri turned her head on the pillow and addressed Alys, her voice
almost steady in the mode between kin. "Cousin, you are wanted
elsewhere. What we undertake now is Korval's affair, and nothing
that should trouble the sleep of one who belongs to Erob."

For a moment it seemed that Alys would protest, then she bowed,
as kin, to the woman in the bed—"Cousin Miri"—and as housechild
to the turtles and Shan alike—"Wisdoms. Lord
yos'Galan."—before walking away, with chilly dignity, and letting
herself out into the hall.

Shan met Miri's eyes down the room. "You're certain you want to try
this?"

She gave him a lopsided grin. "Hate to break it to you, but I've
breathed unfiltered air before and didn't take no lasting harm."

He sighed. "I'll take that as a 'yes'." He moved over to the wall and
threw the first switch, then the other five in quick succession.
Across the room, the med tech sat, dream-eyed, in her chair.

The last unnatural hum faded from the air and the room filled up
with quiet. Sheather filled his lungs, tasting the various scents on
the confined air, soothed by the absence of discord. His work at
the wall of instruments completed, Shan yos'Galan returned to
them, his hair pale as the light of the homeworld's lesser moon; his
eyes the color of the substance Men named silver.

"Very well," he said, his voice pleasing in its conservation of power.
"I have a subject for a test, if you are willing, sirs."

One's brother blinked down at the man, tasting, Sheather was
certain, of his power and his courage. "Say on, Shan yos'Galan."

The white-haired man bent and touched his right knee lightly. "I
very foolishly wrenched my knee—it's too trivial a thing for the 'doc,
but I will confess that it does irritate one." He straightened and
looked from one to the other of them with his sightful silver eyes.
"Is this the sort of thing one of you might put right, while I watch?"

One's elder brother signed that he would undertake this minor bit
of healing. Thus released, Sheather moved away down the room,
to stand by the bedside of his sister, Miri Robertson.

"Understand, this will be a very small thing, in comparison to what
we propose on behalf of our brother and sister," Edger said.

"I understand perfectly, sir. What we wish to prove here is the
concept. If my leg shatters under your care, it is an inconvenience,
quickly put right by some time in the 'doc, and we have our answer
without risk to either our brother or our sister, both of whom are as
precious to me as I know they are to you." He paused and tipped
his head. "I hope you won't be offended by my screams, if it
should happen to occur that my leg does shatter."

"I believe you will not find it necessary to scream, Shan yos'Galan,"
Edger said solemnly. "I ask you now to open your eyes and hold
yourself to silence."

Shan yos'Galan straightened and closed his outer eyes. Sheather
heard the song of his power intensify even as Edger opened his
mouth and sang the two notes required.

Shan composed himself and dropped his inner shields, watching
with Healer's eyes.

At this exposure, the turtles stood revealed as systems of all but
intolerable complexity, informed by a method entirely outside of his
understanding, stretching far beyond his ability to read, yet
tantalizingly familiar, as if…

All at once he had it: Himself, just home from Healer Hall and quite
vain of his new-trained powers, striding up to Korval's Tree, the
redoubtable Jelaza Kazone, and flinging his shields down like a
dare.

Immediately, he had been swept into a long, slow, greenness that
spiraled on—forever, or so it seemed to his shortsighted eyes.
Every turn of the spiral was unique, rich with nuance and surprise.
Ensorcelled, Shan hung, and watched, and was delighted—until
Val Con knocked him into the sodden grass, and lay across his
chest, shouting in his ear that it was "…raining, and our mother has
been looking for you everywhere!"

Val Con.

Shan took another breath, deliberately imposing calm, sternly
refusing the impulse to enclose himself in puny protections. This
was for Val Con's life; he dared not make an error—of any kind. His
knee ached, a little; Healer eyes saw the irritation as an angry red
glow. He allowed the minor pain to remain within his
consciousness.

Faintly, a note sounded. He heard it as the warm wash of rain
against his naked skin; saw it as a bell tone, attenuating…The first
note was joined, complimented, enlarged, by a second, inspiring
the gentle shower to rain in earnest as the tone coalesced into a
ball that grew dense, denser, dense to the point of implosion…

The music was ended. His knee was pain-free. A quick scan
showed an entire absence of the angry glow of injury that had
surrounded it.

Shan opened his eyes.

"Well?" Miri rasped.

He turned to look at her.

"Perfectly well," he said, and took a harder breath, deliberately
strengthening his hold on the physical world. Slowly, he brought his
protections up; and found himself saddened to lose sight of the
turtles' vast incomprehensiveness.

If they can heal Val Con of the effects of the poison. If he can walk.
If he can fly…he thought exuberantly; and then, more soberly. If it
fails, we may lose both.

He stepped to the bed and bent down to take Miri's thin, cold hand
between two of his.

"I give you the judgment of your thodelm, Korval," he said, in the
mode used when addressing one's delm.

She blinked. "I ain't Korval."

"The Code teaches us that lifemates are one melant'i in two
bodies. Val Con is nadelm—Korval-in-future. You are true
lifemates, bound by the soul. My own father died of his lifemate's
death-wound. You speak for both of your lives in this—and for
Korval entire."

She paused, her eyes losing a little focus, as if she consulted her
memory of the Code, which was ridicul—

Her gaze sharpened. "It is," she said, her voice pure and firm in the
High Tongue, "as you have said. I decide as Korval in this, for the
good of Korval. Let Thodelm yos'Galan render his judgment."

"I believe it to be—the best gamble for the clan, to allow these your
brothers to attempt their peculiar form of healing. I say gamble. I
have heard the judgment of the medical technicians; in best case,
my brother will emerge from the 'doc able to care for himself, to
speak, to reason, and to walk, for some limited distances. Your
brothers offer a potential for a greater win—and a greater loss.

"I may not convey what I have seen, just now. However, as a
Healer, I approve both the method and the results." He paused,
then added in Terran.

"It could work."

She was utterly still for a moment, limp and white-faced against the
pillows, then nodded.

"That's a go, then," she said in Terran.

Shan released her hand and straightened. "As Korval wishes."

"It is therefore decided," Edger proclaimed, and fixed Sheather in
his eye. "This my brother will remain and sing our sister into
harmony. Shan yos'Galan and I will make haste to the side of our
brother and discover us the song we must craft for his whole good
health."

"Sounds like a plan," Miri said, and gave Shan another of her
ragged, heart-stopping grins. "Take the med tech with you, and
drop her someplace to sleep it off, OK? I don't want her waking up
halfway through the proceedings and getting her nose outta joint all
over again."
Day 50
Standard Year 1393
Liad
Department of Interior Command Headquarters

Commander of Agents closed the file and leaned back in his chair.

He was not one to indulge optimism out of season; however, he
allowed the plans lain for Clan Korval's confoundment to be…
adequate.

Of necessity, the plans of action were several, for Korval
presented several fronts to the offense.

There was, first, the on-going effort to recover Val Con
yos'Phelium, rogue agent and Korval's delm-to-be. A breakthrough
had been made on this front, in the form of a gene-match program
run against the supposed "Terran mercenary," Miri Robertson. The
odds that yos'Phelium was on Lytaxin, sheltering with Korval's
oldest ally, Clan Erob, now approached certainty. Recent reports
of Yxtrang activity near or on the planet, followed by a rumor of
hurried retreat, and other rumors of a strangely behaving vessel
seemingly carved from rock—these reports only added weight to
the prediction of the odds.

So, a team of four full Agents of Change had been dispatched to
Lytaxin, to recover Val Con yos'Phelium—alive. Alive, he yet had
value to the Department he had betrayed. Alive, he would serve as
both bait and bridle to the remainder of Korval, for surely his kin
would do nothing to endanger the life of the one who would be
delm? Surely, they would do all they were bidden, in trade for a
guarantee of his safe return?

Commander of Agents was prepared to guarantee Val Con
yos'Phelium's safe delivery back into the midst of his kin. Val Con
yos'Phelium, after all, had been an Agent of Change, fully trained
by the Department. And those who had once been trained could
be retrained.

The second object of the Department's attention was Anthora
yos'Galan, the sole member of Clan Korval remaining upon Liad.
She had prudently withdrawn from yos'Galan's line House, Trealla
Fantrol, and established herself at Jelaza Kazone, Korval's ancient
stronghold.

It was…daunting…that the masters of the dramliz, despite
repeated testings, had failed to measure the limits of Anthora
yos'Galan's abilities. According to one confidential guild report,
she was not merely the best of the current depleted population of
wizards, but the most puissant dramliza to manifest since Rool
Tiazan's death, forty years after Cantra yos'Phelium brought her
passengers safe to the planet they would name Liad.

Wizardly power, however, is but a matter of degree. The results of
research done some years earlier and set aside for lack of
relevance suddenly proved illuminating. It had been found then that
certain modifications to a standard stasis box produced interesting
reactions in a dramliza confined therein, not the least of which was
an effective neutralization of wizardly abilities. Commander of
Agents had ordered such a box constructed, and rendered mobile.
It was even now in the final stages of testing. When it was
completed, Anthora yos'Galan would give up her residence at
Jelaza Kazone, from which base she might provide unknown, and
potentially disastrous, assistance to her scattered kin, and live at
the pleasure of the Department.

It was possible that Korval's wizard had value to the clan, though
the clan left her alone and unguarded upon Liad while the rest fled
to safety—somewhere. The Commander accepted that Anthora,
too, might hold value as a hostage. It might be—should Val Con
yos'Phelium not survive his recapture—that his half-Terran foster-
sister would fulfill the roles intended for him, even to the ultimate
destruction of the clan. Commander of Agents allowed himself
some flexibility on this point of planning, pending clarity from the
team sent to recover yos'Phelium.

Commander of Agents allowed himself a small smile before he
pushed back from the desk and rose. Strike at the heart—once,
twice, thrice—and Korval would fall.

It was well.
Lytaxin
Erob's Medical Center
Catastrophe Unit

Med Tech Per Vel sig'Zerba jumped to his feet as the door to the
catastrophe unit slid open.

"Sir, I regret," he said to the white haired man who entered. "This
area is forbidden to—" He stopped, staring quite open-mouthed at
the second…person…to violate the area—all two-and-a-half
meters of…it—magnificently shelled and bottle green, luminous
eyes as round and as yellow as moons.

The door slid closed. The med tech, with difficulty, returned his
attention to the white-haired man.

"Sir—Lord yos'Galan. We had discussed this matter, sir. The
catastrophe room is forbidden to all but medical technicians. The
instruments are very delicate and the life of your kinsman depends
upon their unimpaired function. It is natural to wish to stand close to
kin who are in such desperate case, but, truly, sir, he cannot know
whether you are here or elsewhere. You best serve him now by
recruiting your strength and preparing yourself to show him a calm
face when he emerges from the unit."

"These machines, also, sing of discord," the large green person
rumbled. "Where is the device which imprisons our brother?"

Med Tech sig'Zerba blinked. "The catastrophe unit is there." He
moved a hand toward the black rectangle, its domed lid bristling
with readouts, monitors, alarms, and regulators. He looked again to
Shan yos'Galan and bowed slightly. "Since you are here, I will tell
you that the latest data has been analyzed. Repair has been
successful on many fronts. Cerebral function has been stabilized,
so we may put the fear of seizures and random states of alt behind
us. Blood systems and the functions of the organs are as they
should be." He hesitated.

"And the damage to the nervous system?" Shan asked quietly,
tasting the man's reluctance almost as his own. "How goes the
repair there?"

The tech sighed. "Not well, alas. Repair may only occur where
some system remains. Regeneration…has met with variable
success. The latest analysis yields an estimate of forty-five
percent function." He inclined his head.

"This means that your kinsman will not be able to pilot a spaceship,
an airship, or a landcar. With practice, he will very likely regain his
ability to walk, to grasp objects, and to throw them." He took a
breath and met the white-haired man's intense silver gaze. "This is
not so bad, if your Lordship will but recall the state in which his
kinsman entered the unit. We had all despaired of his life, then.
That he has regained so much is…cause for joy. That he has lost
some things which he will never regain—that is…"

"Not to be tolerated," the large green person said, in a voice that
made every dial in the room jiggle and jump.

Med Tech sig'Zerba jumped, too, and stared up into the huge,
luminous eyes. "I…1 beg your pardon, ah…?"

"This is Twelfth Shell Fifth Hatched Knife Clan of Middle River's
Spring Spawn of Farmer Greentrees of the Spearkmaker's Den:
The Edger," said Lord yos'Galan. "He also claims kin-right to your
patient. He has heard distressing reports regarding our kinsman's
course of treatment, which your latest analysis supports. We had
come here because of those reports. There is a…Clutch healing…
that we propose to try."

"Propose—" Per Vel sig'Zerba took a hard breath, and retained his
hold on calmness. "Lord—Sirs. The condition of your kinsman is
precarious. This is not the time to 'try' alternate healings, but to
allow the known method to stay its course. The time for alternative
healings is when we have brought the patient safely out of his crisis
and back into daily life. Then, after study and analysis, a regimen of
rehabilitation and additional measures will no doubt be prescribed.
Now, however, we must bow to proven methods, for the best
eventual health of your kin."

"With all respect to yourself and your craft," Edger said, while the
instruments jittered in their places, "the method now employed
dangerously leaches my brother's strength." The big head turned.

"Open your eyes, Shan yos'Galan, and look at our brother. Does
he seem to you to be mending as he should?"

Shan frowned and widened his perceptions, ignoring the orange
and yellow flutterings of alarm that were beginning to infuse the
med tech's pattern, and waited for the familiar and well-loved
pattern of his brother to appear.

Moments passed. The med tech's alarm showed more orange,
less yellow, and a spike or two of red.

Shan opened his shields wider still, caught a glimmer of Edger's
seductive intricacy, but yet nothing remotely resembling Val Con's
precise complexity or—

"Sir—" Med Tech sig'Zerba began and Shan held up a hand,
hurling aside his shields entirely, desperate now to find his brother,
his outer eyes on the readouts fixed into the roof of the
sarcophagus, which told of him being alive…

Suddenly, he had it—a hint; nothing more than a faint touch of
acerbic sweetness, as familiar to him as his brother's face. Sternly
keeping himself to a Healer's discipline, he followed the hint,
slowly, and with an eye to peril.

And found Val Con at last: diminished, lackluster and fragmented,
surrounded by a sticky gray quag. Distantly, and engrayed, like a
dirty rainbow, he could see the bridge that linked Val Con's soul to
Miri's.

"No!"

"Sir! I really must insist that you both leave. Now. You are doing
your kinsman no service by becoming overwrought on—"

"Stop." Shan opened his outer eyes and fixed them, with difficulty,
on the med tech's face.

"What have you done to my brother—cerebral function has
stabilized, you said. How was it found to be unstable?"

The tech blinked. "Why, there were—surges. One might almost
say power surges. Also overactivity; extreme excitability, in what
should have been an at-rest state. These anomalies led the
seniors to suspect damage—not unexpectable, in light of other
traumas. Steps were taken to normalize brain activity, and those
efforts have been successful. We need no longer fear debilitating
seizures or fatal lapses of attention."

"You…" Shan took a breath, for once at a loss for words.

"What distresses you, Shan yos'Galan? Does our brother not thrive
beneath the known method of healing?"

"They have—In their care to normalize they have weakened the link
between our brother and his lifemate—the same link which allowed
him to survive his injuries until the field 'doc received him. They
have—he is fragmented, without form…" He looked at the tech.

"I myself told the seniors that this man is lifemated," he said, his
voice sounding thin in his own ears.

The tech inclined his head, nervously. "Indeed. It is so noted in the
file. However, normal cerebration is not—"

"Out," said Shan.

The tech blinked. "Sir?"

"You will leave," Shan repeated and heard the power echoing
within each word. "You will not return here until Val Con
yos'Phelium has departed the area. You will not report this to your
superiors. Go!"

The tech's face wavered, eyes going cloudy. He bowed, precisely,
and walked briskly down the room and out the door.

Shan slapped the lock up as the door closed and strode back to
the brooding black unit and the enormous, patient turtle.

"I am able to end the healing cycle," he told Edger. "Some time will
elapse before our brother may be removed from the unit, for
systems need to cycle down in an orderly manner."

"I understand you," Edger rumbled and looked about him. He
raised one three-fingered hand and swept it toward the wall with its
profusions of equipment. "And are you able to silence those, as
well?"

"Yes." Shan was already at the unit's control panel, flicking
switches, turning knobs; withdrawing sensors, shutting down the
flows of drugs and nutrients, canceling the muscle toners. When
every light on the panel was dark, saving the master, he went over
the wall of instruments.

Gods, gods—normalizing cerebral function? Fools! And if Val Con
were crippled because they had denied him his lifemate…Shan
took a breath, deliberately leashing his anger, and threw the last
switch, then cast about him for—there.

He rolled the cot over to the healing unit, shook out the blanket, and
took a moment to master an urge to pick up the nearest heavy
object and have at the delicate instruments lining the walls.

"While we await our brother's release," the Edger's voice rumbled
him out of his thoughts of mayhem and despair, "there is a matter
we must undertake."

Shan looked up at him. "Yes? And this matter is?"

"A thing—you might perhaps call it 'fine tuning'," Edger said. "Your
sight, your love and your understanding will aid me in what work I
undertake, for the best health of our brother. You will guide the
song—and deny it, should it wander from its purpose or reach
beyond its bounds. Before we meet together in the field of mutual
labor, it is prudent to test our partnership and strengthen that which
may not be as strong as will be required."

"A dry run," Shan said, and nodded. "I understand the concept.
What would you have me do?"

"Only listen, while I sing, with the scales behind which you shield
your seeing eyes put aside."

Yes, of course. Shan took a deep breath in preparation, focused
and brought down his shields, completely, as Priscilla had warned
him not to do, his inner self exposed entirely, so that any with
eyes—or other senses—to see might find him revealed in all his
faults.

"Ah." A sound like the purr of an impossibly large cat. "You are a
blade to behold, Shan yos'Galan. Who crafted you may be justly
proud of his work. Hear me now."

The first note was an iron-tipped bolt through the living core of his
heart.

The second note was a dash of acid across his eyes.

The third note flung his essence out into the snarling winds of
Fortune and Mischance. Harried by their teeth of ice and iron, he
struck back, willed walls and walls there were—stone walls and a
stone floor on which he knelt, doubled over and sobbing, making
no sense of the hand held down to him, until a stern female voice
scolded him.

"This is no safe haven—and well you know it! Rise now and return.
Quickly!" -,

Long strong fingers closed around his wrist. He rose, whether by
her will or his he could not have said, and stood looking into the
chill blue eyes of a raw-cheeked blonde woman no longer in her
youth.

"Priscilla." How he was certain that this woman was she—but
certain he was. "Priscilla, the song is changing me."

Her face softened. She let go his wrist and cupped his face in her
two hands.

"The song changes us all," she said softly. "Do not fear it. Now
go." She kissed him, the stone walls faded, and he straightened,
his face wet with tears and his mouth warm from her lips, to face
Edger the Clutch turtle in the room of catastrophes.

The turtle blinked his enormous eyes, once, and inclined his body
as far as the shell would allow.

"All honor to you, Shan yos'Galan."

Stiffly, Shan returned the bow, equal to equal. "May our work
together return perfect health to our brother," he said, his voice chill
in the High Tongue, and turned to open the lid of the sarcophagus.

The interior lit itself, dimly, casting cool blue shadows across the
slender, naked body of a man. Shan unsnapped the locks and
lowered the front wall of the box. The pallet slid out of twilight and
into brightness; the man was revealed as gold-skinned and
unscarred; lean muscled, and somewhat longer in the leg than the
average run of Liadens. His chest rose and fell with the blessed,
unhurried regularity of deep sleep. His face was smooth—achingly
innocent, in repose—the well-marked brows at rest, firm mouth
tightly closed, long dark lashes smudging golden cheeks. And
Shan saw with an absurd feeling of relief that the gash which had
disfigured his brother's face had been erased by the 'doc's scar-
canceling program.

"Time passes, Shan yos'Galan," a big voice rumbled behind him.
"And I fear that haste must be made."

"Yes, of course." Blinking away tears, he slid his arms gently
beneath his brother's shoulders and knees and lifted him from the
pallet to the cot. Val Con sighed and nestled his cheek into the
pillow, his lips relaxing into what Shan dared to call a smile, but did
not approach true wakefulness. Shan spread the blanket tenderly
over the slim body and looked up into Edger's eyes.

"Now what?"

"An excellent question," the turtle said. "Let us ascertain. Your
whole attention is required in this time and place, Shan yos'Galan.
Do you place your regard upon this our brother and guide me in my
exploration."

"Guide?" Shan stared at him. "How am I going to guide you?"

"I subvert my will to yours: Should the song go beyond its bounds,
only will me nay and I will contain it. Should it quicken that which is
best left sleeping, your touch will give it back to hibernation. It must
be so, for the best health of our brother."

Shan inclined his head, glanced down at Val Con's sleeping face
and, for the third time in a single day dropped his shields
completely, focusing his entire attention on the murky disorder of
his brother's once scintillant pattern.

"First, we question," Edger boomed, and formed a series of three
short, interlocking notes. Watching with Healer's eyes, Shan saw
fires sequentially awake and die within the murk, illustrating a
pattern both broken and feeble—the damaged nervous system.

Edger sang again, and Shan saw a quickening of color, a sparking
of passion, fading almost immediately back into the ambient
grayness, displaying the med tech's proudly achieved normalized
cerebration.

A third time Edger sang and the lifemate bridge blazed in glory,
alive with the force of two willful, passionate souls, joining each to
the other in—muddy melancholy.

"What," Edger inquired, his voice approaching a decibel level that
Shan thought might pass for a Clutch whisper, "was that last?"

"The bridge that connects our brother and our sister, soul to soul
and heart to heart."

"Those who heal by machine dared tamper with this?" Edger
demanded, albeit rhetorically. "They are fools, Shan yos'Galan."

"I'm inclined to agree," Shan said, more than half of his attention
still on Val Con's mired pattern. "They have forgotten what
'lifemated' means—what it had meant, in the past."

"This joining is not…usual among the Clans of Men, I know. Is it
more usual among your Clan Korval, or among my sister's human
clan of Erob?"

"Erob bred mighty wizards, once," Shan said, dreamily. "Korval has
always been—Korval. Wild cards, pirates, and random elements.
The luck moves roughly about us."

There was a pause, long enough for Shan to register as too long,
in his stretched state astride two worlds, and then a gusty sigh.

"I am ever more in awe of these my kin, who live with such passion,
creating thereby an artwork the like of which has not been seen in
my lifetime! I am—I will seek the words, betimes; they elude me at
this present. Mayhap I must learn new words to describe new art
and encompass new endeavor. In this time and place, however,
we have before us a work of love and artistry. May we sing as truly
and with passion akin to those we would serve. Are you able, Shan
yos'Galan?"

Gods, was he? Was anyone?

A flash of panic fragmented his inner sight. He took a hard breath,
fighting for balance, and heard his father's voice from years gone
by, stern and sweet and beloved.

"We do the best that we are able, my child. We make the best
decision we may, dependent upon our experience and our training.
It is what we owe to kin and to those who reside under our care. If it
were true, I would tell you that necessity makes us wise. What I will
tell you is that we all do our best; that we all make errors; and that
those who love us will forgive us."

Shan gasped, and deliberately drew a calming breath into his
lungs; another; and a third. Centered once more, he opened his
inner eyes and beheld his brother, injured as he was and with only
Shan to stand between him and a Clutch turtle's fearsome singing.

"I am able," he said, keeping his regard upon Val Con; only upon
Val Con, whose future depended upon his brother Shan, and who
would forgive him, if he failed.

Edger began to sing.

Miri lay back on her damp pillows and looked up at Sheather.

"Guess we better get dancing, in case the med tech comes back
with her boss."

Sheather blinked his eyes, first one, then the other, solemnly.
"Perhaps we will dance in a future time, you and I. It occurs to me
that I would learn much from such an exercise. But, for now, I ask
that you merely listen to the song I have crafted for you."

Right. Miri bit her lip, trying to remember that Shan hadn't looked
like anything had hurt during the little song that Edger had sung his
knee. Hadn't looked anything but surprised, really, and
kinda…dreamy, like Val Con looked when he was deep into playing
the 'chora.

"You need have no fear," Sheather said, in what passed for soft
from Clutch. "I am your brother. Your heart has spoken to my heart.
I will not cause you pain."

Which, come to think of it, sounded suspiciously like a Liaden
promise. Miri sighed. What's wrong with you, Robertson? Gettin
squeamish in your old age? If Sheather wants to cut your throat, his
knife's 'way too sharp to hurt.

"Sister?"

She grinned up at the long green length of him. "s'okay. You sing;
I'll listen. Fair division of labor."

"Just so," said Sheather and paused. Miri sagged against her
pillows and closed her eyes. Eventually, she heard something that
might have been a note, or possibly just the wind, combing through
leaves…

It was spring, and she was in a garden, strolling along a stone-lined
pathway. It was a meandering path, all but overgrown in some
places by effusions of flowers. In the branches just over her head,
birds sang, oblivious to the passage of a stranger through their
garden. The perfume of growing things was an intoxicant.

The path spiraled in, ending abruptly at a glade. She paused on the
last stone, looking across a stretch of blue-green grass at the trunk
of an enormous tree.

The glade was dim under the vast lattice work of branches, and
she blinked, then grinned as her adjusting vision made out the slim
form of a man leaning against the massive trunk. Unhesitating,
grinning wide enough to crack her face, she started across the
springy grass.

The man stepped away from the tree and came forward to meet
her. He was wearing a beat-up black leather jacket open over a fine
white shirt, soft dark trousers and comfortable boots. His hair was
dark brown, his eyes were green, and the grin that split the
beardless golden face was every bit as wide as hers.

"Cha'trez." The soft, beloved voice caressed her ears and she
laughed for the sheer joy of hearing it.

"Val Con." She grabbed his hand and stood holding it like an idiot,
too damn happy to think of anything to say.

"You look good," she did say, finally—which sounded funny until
she remembered that she knew he was in the catastrophe 'doc,
being healed of injuries that should have killed him.

"Looks deceive," Val Con murmured, which was a joke. He tugged
on her hand, urging her to walk with him back to the base of the
monumental tree. "I am very glad you came here, Miri."

"Yah?" She slanted a glance at the side of his face. "Mind telling
me where here is?"

"Not at all," her lifemate said. He stepped right up to the tree and
turned to face her, laying his free hand against the trunk.

"This is Jelaza Kazone—the safest place in the galaxy."

She'd've pegged that as another joke, normally, because neither
one of them put much stock in "safe." But she felt a stroke
of…certainty…come right out of the core of him and into the core
of her.

It took her balance, as such things still did, though the gods knew
the strands of them were so tangled together it was by no means
certain which one would fall down, if either caught a pellet. She felt
Val Con's fingers tighten on hers and she flung her free hand out to
brace against the tree.

Welcoming gladness overfilled her, an embrace of green
joyousness so vivid that she staggered, vision whiting, ears
roaring—and might have fallen, except her partner was there to
catch her and ease her down to sit with him on the soft grass, their
backs against the Tree.

Slowly, the jubilation faded. Miri blinked the glade into focus, ears
registering the racket of bird song once more. She sighed and
closed her eyes, settling against the trunk that tangibly warmed her
back in a sort of physical smile.

"Cha'trez?" Val Con's voice carried an edge of worry.

She shook her head and looked at him. "It behave like this often?"

His smile glimmered. "Only when it likes you."

"Lucky me," she said and leaned her head against the warm bark.
"You know, of course," she said to Val Con's bright green eyes,
"that all this is only a dream."

One eyebrow lifted. "As much as it must naturally pain me to
disagree with my love and my lifemate—"

"A dream," Miri repeated, interrupting him ruthlessly. "I got out of
the 'doc this morning. You—" She put her hand over his heart,
feeling its firm beat against her palm.

"You're broke into six dozen pieces, Boss. They figure to get you
outta the Last Hope sometime in the next week, Standard." She
sighed.

"I wish you'd stop pulling these damn fool stunts," she said, trying
to sound severe. "You're gonna get yourself killed."

"I'm sorry, Miri," he said meekly and she laughed, flinging forward
suddenly to hug him.

"I'm sorry, too. Gods, I miss you. Miss you enough to dream you
this hard…"

"This is not a dream, Miri," Val Con breathed in her ear, his arms
tight around her. "This is Jelaza Kazone."

"The safest place in the galaxy," she said against his shoulder.
"Right." She sighed and straightened out of the embrace. "We
won, by the way."

He stared at her blankly for the beat of five before understanding
dawned in the green eyes.

"Ah," he said, "the Yxtrang. That is good."

"You could say." She shook her head. "Happens reinforcements
showed up in orbit just about the time we was finishing that
business at the airfield. I ain't got all the details, but Shan and
Beautiful sketched it in for me. Long and short—our backup is
Suzuki and every merc who happened to be at liberty when the call
came through, plus a Clutch rockship, captained by Edger." She
grinned, remembering something else. "Edger and Sheather are
here—there. Wherever. Got a serious problem with our course of
treatment. Threw the tech outta my room and—hold it." She closed
her eyes, trying to focus.

"Miri?"

"Wait, wait. I—" Her memory abruptly came through with the
gruesome details of the last hour, and also a spike of pure terror.
She opened her eyes and looked into his face, which she couldn't
be doing, and there was more, worse, than him just being bust
up…

"The techs say you're not going to be able to pilot," she said,
hearing her voice waver. "They say—the nerve damage—you
might not be able to walk, at first, and there's something the matter
with— with my… seeing… you. They—''

"No." He caught her hands in his. "Miri, think: Edger and Sheather
are come, and they have thrown the med techs out. And then?"

"Then…" Then what? Right, she had it. "They sung Shan's knee
better and said they could fix us up all right and tight. Edger and
Shan went off to sing at you. Sheather—Sheather must be singing
to me right now." She sighed, sharply. "My head hurts."

He grinned at her. "No, it doesn't."

"Know all about it, do you?"

"More than I had used to do," Val Con said seriously. "I— whatever
happened that…allowed you to pilot that craft after my body failed
me…" He reached out and touched her cheek, eyes shadowed.
"Miri, I don't know what we are become."

"Greater than the sum of our parts?" she asked and saw him frown.

"That is—?"

"The whole is greater than the sum of its parts," Miri recited.
"Maybe what happened—however it happened—is that we built an
us-pattern which is…stronger than either you or me alone."

The green eyes gleamed. "Together," he murmured, "we are hell
on wheels."

Miri grinned. "Like that. Maybe. Least it gives us a theory to play
with."

Val Con tipped his head. "It does not distress you, this…new
intimacy?"

"Person can get used to the damnedest things," she said, shaking
her head. "I wouldn't trade what we got—whatever it is—for a Class
A Jumpship."

"There's no need to make that trade," Val Con commented. "Korval
owns several Class A Jumps. Only tell me which you choose to
reserve for your use and it is done."

She stared at him, then grinned, slightly lopsided. "I keep
forgetting how rich you are."

"Now, there, you are out. yos'Phelium is not nearly so wealthy a line
as yos'Galan—they being traders, you see, and yos'Phelium tied to
administration."

"And mayhem," Miri added.

"From time to time," he agreed. "One must do something to relieve
the tedium. However, Clan Korval itself is…influential. We own
yards, and ships, houses, businesses…dea'Gauss will reveal all,
when we are arrived home. My information is several years out of
date, but I don't expect that Nova has run us off our legs."

"We going back to Liad?" Miri asked, watching him.

"Eventually, we must. The Department of the Interior—that must be
Balanced, and not only on Korval's account. I have a duty, as the
Captain's heir, to keep the passengers safe from peril. The
Department preys on all of Liad, and on all Liadens. That will end."

Miri frowned. "Captain's heir? What captain?"

"Eh?" He blinked, then shook his head, rueful. "I have forgotten
that you have not yet read the Diaries. The Passage carries a
complete transcription. Ask Shan, when you are returned, to
provide them to you. You will need to know our history and the
decisions which have gone before ours, when we are delm."

Right. "We likely to be delm soon?"

He sighed and took her hand. "Soon, yes. Nova holds the Ring in
trust, and has proved herself able on many paths. But she cannot
Balance the Department of the Interior. That, cha'trez, is for us." He
glanced up suddenly, brows pulled together, as if he had heard
someone call his name.

"Ah. I must return." He stood, and bent to offer her a hand. She slid
her fingers into his and rose smoothly, then stood looking into his
eyes.

"Val Con—" Her throat closed, and it was all she could do to blink
the tears away.

He stepped forward and slid his arms around her, hugging her tight
as her arms slipped 'round his neck.

"It will be well, Miri," he whispered in her ear. "Gods, time
runs—give me your kiss to bear away."…

She raised her mouth, hungrily. Scant heartbeats later, they
relinquished the embrace with equal reluctance, and Val Con
turned toward the pathway.

"Until soon, Miri," he said.

"Until soon, Val Con," she whispered, and watched him move away
across the grass, quick and silent and graceful. She turned her
face aside for a moment, and when she looked up, he was gone.

Alone, she stood in the glade, listening to the birds and to the wind,
gently combing the moist, spring leaves.

They had seeded the fragmented nervous system with a double-
dozen crystalline notes, and turned to the larger problem of
weaving the unraveled pattern whole. Shan saw himself within a
gray, ill landscape, Edger's song ranging somewhat before him,
seeking, as would a hunt-beast, and wherever it passed, color took
root and began to glow.

Up ahead, the song snagged on a sullen, dusty outcropping,
disturbing murky complaints of burnt sienna and umber. Shan
extended himself and caught the note, holding it frozen while he
examined this anomaly.

It had the taste of something constructed, yet it reacted when he
put his will upon it, hissing in a febrile hostility that said wrongness
to his Healer senses.

He widened his area of perception, seeing how it was laced,
haphazard, into his brother's soul—laced twice, now that he looked
more closely, with some of the original rough bindings broken and
replaced by stuff somewhat finer and recognizable as the same
material of which the rest of the pattern was formed.

Carefully, he put his will against the edifice, felt it snarl and jerk, like
a half-tamed dog, straining against the newer, finer lacing. Wet red
numbers flared, foretelling doom and dire consequence. Shan
reached forth and shushed them.

Once more, he brought his attention to the newer bindings,
recognizing Val Con in the knots and redoubled lacings. So. His
brother valued this thing, whatever it was, but did not care to trust it.
Well and good.

He cast his will over the edifice, calmed its hostility with a kiss, ran
his hands along the shape of it, smoothing away the kinks of
falsehood, closing the access ports of strangers, draining off the
poison pooled at its core. Then he withdrew to the place where
Edger's note reposed in patience and contemplated the results of
his efforts.

Its color was better—richly topaz, with glints of copper—its shape
more pleasing, less intrusive, nor did it snarl when he touched it
with his will, but merely held itself in readiness. It would do.

He hoped.

He removed the compulsion from the note in progress, allowing it
to swell forth and encompass the thing—whatever it was— and
mold it irrevocably into the totality of Val Con.
Day 286
Standard Year 1392
Teriste MidPort
Panake House, Field of Fire, Speculator's Trust

As it transpired, Cheever McFarland knew Teriste, though not the
side that Pat Rin knew. Cheever knew the repair shops, both large
and small, and had offered to arrange to have the modest Tree-
and-Dragon sigil on the ship removed, or covered; which offer Pat
Rin refused after some moments of consideration.

Fortune's Reward already appeared on the day-board, and was
registered with the portmaster, and while it was true that it would
very soon be desirable for it to become another ship entirely,
registered to a fictional owner from a far outworld, it would perhaps
be best to have those adjustments made in a place somewhat
less…popular…than Teriste.

Pilot McFarland also knew numerous local eateries catering to
Terran or mixed crews, and it was to one of those they repaired
before they moved forward with the various tasks of the day.

At the Panake House, Cheever's jacket—or perhaps his face—
won them entry into the roomy and more comfortable inner
sanctum with a cheerful, "This way, pilots!" from the beaming host.

The menus were on the table and coffee poured before Pat Rin
could refuse.

The offer to "stow those bags" was waved away, politely
acknowledged, and followed by a "back in two" as the waiter
hurried to refill the cups at another table.

The menu, for all that it was in Terran—a language Pat Rin read
well—was next to incomprehensible. The "slabs" and "stacks"
offered for his delectation were meaningless, as were the
supposed qualifiers: thick, short, full…

He needn't have concerned himself. His companion intercepted
the waiter with a wave of his big hand.

"Two Morning Specials; double medium slices, and c-juice."

This repast, when it arrived, proved to be a stack of flatbreads
which one—taking Cheever McFarland as one's model—doused
with various liquids and jams; recognizable eggs; and several
patties of ground or pressed meat, each about the size of one the
flatbreads.

Warily, Pat Rin sampled the various offerings. The juice drink was
familiar enough; the other flavors pleasantly spicy. He had a bit
more of each.

"This here," Cheever said, around a mouthful of flatbread. "This is
a hard-working port. This place here is always open, and pilots
always get the best tables. Take whatever they got on special and
you'll get a good, cheap meal."

Pat Rin glanced up from his plate. "However, I am not a pilot."

McFarland forked a meat patty into his mouth and chewed
thoughtfully.

"You can pass though," he said eventually. "We get you a jacket
and nobody'll doubt you know Jump."

He emptied his coffee mug, waved it in the general direction of a
waiter, then shook it gently at Pat Rin.

"If we're going low or something, you're gonna have to learn to
drink this stuff like you mean it."

Pat Rin raised an eyebrow, looked at his nearly untouched mug,
and smiled slightly.

"I see that I face greater hazards than I had thought," he said in
quiet Terran. Deliberately, he picked the mug up and took a long
slow sip of the dark beverage. He sighed slightly, wishing for some
quiet morning tea, and sipped again as the waiter hove into view,
bearing a oversized carafe.

"Nah, now this isn't too bad," said Cheever. "If we get to a place
where I only drink a sip, you can pass…"

"Pilot, I see many lessons ahead for both of us!"

Cheever only nodded as the waiter warmed both their mugs from
his pitcher, and offered news of fresh pastries and doughnuts to
finish the meal.

Pat Rin's name gained them entry at Field of Fire, where the
hostess was pleased to find them a place in the members only
section as guests of the house.

The hostess also offered to waive the range fee in return for his
signature in the guest book. It was seldom that a Liaden shooter of
his caliber called on a Terran establishment such as this, and the
signature of the reigning champion of Tey Dor's would enhance the
melant'i of the house. Whether he could afford to indulge the
house in this, Pat Rin left for later, merely bowing polite
acknowledgment of the offer.

They were then walked down a long, transparently walled hall, the
hostess intent on convincing Pat Rin of the joys of the
establishment. As they passed several dozens of lanes, some
lighted and occupied, some lighted and empty, and some dark, all
with a variety of targets visible, she continued her spiel, explaining
that Field of Fire was not the largest range in number of shooting
lanes on planet—no. But it was the best equipped, certainly,
holding a complete set of house weapons from light to heavy,
including dueling pistols of many calibers. There were also tuning
and repair smiths on duty at all times, and instructors.

She paused there, recognizing a potential faux pas, and covered
by extravagantly sliding a keycard into a section of wall marked
"Club Members Only."

Beyond the door there was better lighting, upgraded carpeting, and
a small canteen, manned by an alert looking young man. The
individual lanes fanned away from this concourse, eight on each
side of two small central shooting theaters capable of
accommodating four marksmen at once.

Only one of the single lanes was occupied, and through the thick
plastiglass a man could be seen laboriously packing an armored
travel bag with an array of small pistols. On the floor next to the
shooting stand was an identical bag, sealed.

Their hostess escorted them past the semi-circle of observer's
seating to the theater on the left, activating the keyplate and lights
with a card and—after the door slid soundlessly aside—motioning
them down the ramped entranceway to the sunken shooting floor
with its equipment benches and controls. She made no attempt to
descend to the floor herself: only shooters were allowed in the fire-
zone.

"I think you gentlemen will be comfortable here," she said. "The
range isn't scheduled until this evening. You're cleared for up to
three hours of shooting; the timer starts with the first shot or when
you invoke the tracking computer, whichever comes first. Once
again, we will be pleased to waive all charges, should Lord Pat Rin
care to sign our guest book."

Pat Rin accepted the keycard and the code as she left, and in
short order he and Cheever McFarland had arranged their
equipment, donned the club-supplied ear protector headsets and
began the straightforward testing-and-truing of what the Terran
termed "the hardware".

On Cheever's bench sat two massive chemical LaDemeters and
several dozen cartridges, a much smaller and also chemically
powered double-barrel derringer-style boot-pistol with its bright
shells next to it, and a brace of standard pellet pistols, three extra
charges for each sitting by. In his hand was what appeared to be a
large— even for a Terran of Cheever's not-inconsiderable
size—survival knife. Before each of his three shots with it he turned
and glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching,
and as soon as he finished the third shot he carefully reloaded it,
sheathed it, and immediately slipped it back into his boot.

He moved on quickly, though not as stealthily, to the derringer,
squeezing off shots quickly and accurately, the gun almost hidden
in his big hands. The noise of its firing—like that of the knife-
weapon— was a sharp snick, even through the ear protectors. The
chemicals left a slightly smokey haze and an acrid odor, which was
quickly cleared away by the air filtering system.

Pat Rin was still working with his first weapon, a standard caliber
Liaden dea'Nobli pellet pistol. While the caliber may have been
standard, the pistol itself was a work of art, with filigree metal work,
a custom jay-bead quick-sight, and grips of lovingly hand-shaped
kreel-horn. Each shot produced a quiet whap through the ear
protectors, though the accompanying magnetic whine seeped
through without hindrance. His "show gun," the dea'Nobli was more
accurate than many clans' dueling pistols and more costly than
most.

The targets varied from stationary bull's-eye, to gallery-like mythic
creatures, to moving human silhouettes, chosen by the shooter's
whim. Satisfied with the dea'Nobli against the bull's-eye, Pat Rin
was about to bring up something more challenging when the
rhythm of his companion's shots altered—and stopped.

The big man's hand motion was discreet but clear. Lowering his
gun, Pat Rin turned and saw that they'd drawn a pair of observers,
who were lounging in the chairs on the other side of the plastiglass,
mugs and food on the table before them.

The man was certainly Terran—not quite perhaps of Cheever's
size, but larger than the average male of the race, with the dark and
beginning-to-wrinkle complexion of one who has been
overexposed to solar radiation. An ex-mercenary perhaps, or a
native of one of the back-worlds, his face was strong-featured,
square jawed, and not overly intelligent.

The woman was…most likely…Terran, and also dark, though it
appeared her complexion was of birth rather than burn. Her hair
made a black silken cap 'round her neat head, her features were
fine, and she had quick ebon eyes, which at the moment rested
upon himself with more than casual interest.

"Just sat down," Cheever said, sotto voce. "He's muscle, but if she
ain't a pilot I'll eat my license. They both got bags, but she's…"

"She is carrying a gun under her right arm," Pat Rin finished for
him, "which is why the vest seems a bit bulkier than one might
expect on so warm a day. The man is, as you say, a bodyguard."

The woman raised her hand, perhaps indicating that they should
feel free to continue with their practice.

"I believe it is time to take a break, Mr. McFarland. Please do me
the honor of saving our records. Then we shall see what we may
discover of our visitors."

"Gotcha."

Pat Rin engaged the safety on the dea'Nobli and left the pretty gun
lying ostentatiously on the bench, feeling the accustomed weight of
the hideaway in his right sleeve as an unexpected comfort.
Cheever McFarland at his back, he touched the keypad and
stepped out into the concourse.

Cool air assailed them, and the increasingly familiar odor of coffee.

"There was no need to disturb yourselves on our account, Master,"
the woman said in lightly accented Liaden as they approached.

Seated, she bowed, gracefully approximating the mode of novice
to master, which was surely flattery. "We will be using the other
theater in a moment, but it is rare for us to see such shooting
here."

Pat Rin inclined his head. "We had not intended a demonstration,
and I fear the shooting may not have been up to our best. We have
been some time traveling."

"Ah, all the more impressive!" The dark eyes measured him, then
she turned, motioning to her companion, bespeaking him in Terran
no less mannered than her Liaden—"Julier, my manners have
failed me. Please—fetch our guests coffee and a snack—or
perhaps tea for the master."

Pat Rin eyed the woman speculatively, and held up a hand. "Allow
me to send Mr. McFarland, as well," he said, following her into
Terran. "He understands my taste in coffee."

She gave him a half-smile and shrugged a proper Terran shrug.
"Of course you will wish to send someone to attend your interests."

Pat Rin glanced to Cheever.

The pilot nodded, waiting for the bodyguard to rise. They walked
side-by-side to the canteen, not quite bristling, like two strange cats
thrown together on unknown turf.

The woman leaned toward Pat Rin, inclined her head in a motion
that became a formal bow.

"Master, it is urgent that we speak—alone. I am Natesa. I believe
our interests coincide."

The two big men fidgeted, uncomfortable in their sudden roles as
spectators, as the door sealed with a slight hiss.

"They are nervous of this," Natesa said as she walked with him
down the ramp to the shooting floor. "It speaks well of them."

"I suspect we all four have some concerns," Pat Rin murmured,
picking the dea'Nobli up from the bench. "Mr. McFarland tells me
that you are a professional shooter and likely a first class pilot."

"Ah, and my guardian informs me that you are a better shot than
you appear."

Pat Rin sent an exasperated glance toward the two-man audience,
and Natesa laughed, soft and musical.

"I thought you might appreciate the level of assistance I am
equipped with when the locals insist. Julier is a good man in a
barroom brawl—as I suspect Mr. McFarland is—but he is perhaps
in the second tier, both of shooters and of intellects, unlike Mr.
McFarland." She smiled, and pointed. "I shall take the blue side."

Pat Rin appraised her coolly as she finished unloading the
weapons from her bag. These disposed to her satisfaction upon
the bench, she turned to face him fully, raising one hand, fingers
spread wide, in the old, old, gesture of peace.

"By your leave, Master. I should test these as well."

From beneath her vest she pulled a palm gun, laying it carefully on
the bench, its muzzle aimed, without a doubt, down the lane. The
design was not familiar; and it was unclear from its lines whether it
was a chemical weapon. Natesa reached beneath her vest once
more and brought forth a tiny and strange weapon—which was
immediately recognizable, despite that he had held one only once,
and that many Standards in the past.

He raised an eyebrow, and she inclined her head, not without irony.

"I thank you for your care; you may rest assured that I know this is
not a toy. It is best that we be plain with each other. I am called
Natesa the Assassin—among other things—and that"—she
pointed—" is a triple caliber pellet weapon. A single shot. Very high
energy. Perhaps the equivalent of one of Mr. McFarland's special
loads."

So. Pat Rin drew a careful breath, conscious that the stakes had
risen, though not, or so he thought, out of all reason.

"I am not," he said to the woman's intelligent dark eyes, "a
professional. Certainly I carry nothing to…"

She raised her finger to her lips with a sibilant Terran shush.

"You are correct, of course," she said, with a brisk nod. "Neither of
us can be expected to display all of our weapons and backups.
However, you should know that I see two of your hideaways."

He inclined his head, coming the lofty lordling. "My thanks."

Her lips twitched, and she bowed once more.

"Shall we say best of fifty?" she asked. "Mixed targets? I have here
a match in caliber for your pellet pistol."

"Of course." He checked the charge on his weapon as she
checked hers.

"Shall we alternate? Use the same targets? Or shoot duo?" He
asked, automatically looking at the floor to be sure of his footing.

"Duo," she said promptly, and moved a hand toward the targeting
switch. "I choose this. You choose the targets."

And that, Pat Rin thought, was a gambit. The gamester in him rose
to the challenge: the best refutation of a gambit is acceptance.

He reached to the controls, punched his choices in, and held his
finger on the press tab as he looked over to her.

"We shall have duplicate heavy game. The pace to be energetic.
The distances to vary identically. If you agree."

She nodded rather than bowed, her face merely comely. "Indeed,
heavy game. An excellent choice."

He raised five fingers to indicate the delay to start, activated the
press tab, and stepped back to the line.

Numbers flickered on the ceiling, counting down. The lights
dimmed. The targets came up.

Heavy game.

The first target swung out of the floor, at the far end of the alley, a
crouching image of a man bringing a sighted rifle to bear. Pat Rin's
shot was quick, and automatic. One shoots between the arms,
below the stock, as close to the throat as one can. The target spun
away, replaced by something out of the left wall—two men, side by
side, with pistols, followed by a young girl with pistol, skip the
young boy with the flowers in his hand, try the head shot on the
figure with a gun sheltering by a tree trunk.

He was aware that in the other lane the targets came out at the
same time, and that it seemed the sound of her gun was overlaying
his…but the targets came on.

Pat Rin was sweating, the dea'Nobli's charge near exhausted, the
targets each taken down in their turn, allowing the boy with flowers,
the old man with his broom, the couple with their ice-licks, and the
two tiny creatures—perhaps they were dogs?—to hold their
ground.

In a moment, the scores.

Natesa whistled lightly. Blue side: 297 points. Green side: 298.

"May I?" she asked, reaching toward the controls.

Pat Rin bowed, and the assassin brought up the fine scores.

"So, Master. We each have fifty live targets. We each score fifty
respectable hits. My times were—see here—slightly faster. Your
shots were exceedingly accurate, if slower. Mine were all good
enough."

Pat Rin bowed. "Your shots were all quicker than mine, and with
heavy game, this is important. I will tell you that I noticed you
overcorrecting a drift to the left at the end. Without that, you would
have certainly had the three hundred."

She laughed then, and bowed lightly.

"Master. You see well enough to watch both our targets. And why
the drift to the left, if you can tell me?"

He looked at her carefully, raised a finger and indicated that she
should spin about. She shrugged and did so, coming to rest facing
him, dark eyes quizzical. He moved his finger again, miming a
slower spin, which was perhaps an error: he was momentarily
distracted by her shape; and the tilt of her shoulders and head
made it plain that she had noticed.

"I believe it is clear," he said in Liaden—in the mode of master to
master. "Your vest bound you slightly as you worked. It is that very
flat item above your left kidney that is the problem."

"Ah." For an instant only was Natesa the Assassin nonplused, then
she bowed, deeply, in the mode of novice to master. "I am
instructed."

She straightened and gave him a serious look.

"Let us inspect weapons a moment," she said, "and speak looking
down the alleyway so that none behind us may read our lips."

Now it was come. Whatever it was. Pat Rin bowed agreement and
proceeded to field strip his pistol.

"Master of Tey Dor's," she said softly, her hands busy and sure at
her own weapon, "please consider me at your disposal. If you have
need of transport, or a safe house; for additional bodyguards, for a
cash advance—" She shot him a quick, dark glance. "Understand, I
have discretion. More. I have jurisdiction. Much may be contrived, if
you have need."

"And you offer from the goodness of yourself, no doubt…" he
murmured, glancing across to her.

She raised her head and looked fully into his face.

"If you like, you may consider this a formal offer of the
Juntavas—an extension of the aid-and-comfort you may perhaps
have heard." She paused.

That she was a Juntava did not surprise him—he had supposed as
much. That she came to him with this generous and open offer of
aid was—distressing. Still, it was best to hear her out, so that he
might know what protections he might need to find—elsewhere.

Bland-faced, hands steady on his weapon, he inclined his head—
courteous invitation to continue.

Natesa sighed. "Ah. I feared you would see it thus. Master, hear
me—I repeat it: our interests coincide. I know, I know—the old
agreement. But many things are… not as they have been." She
held up a hand, her face earnest.

"So, I will tell you: the Juntavas discovers that there is something
very wrong on Liad. Korval-in-person disappears from the breadth
of space, but for you—perhaps you are the bait in a trap?— and
the silly young cousin. Korval ships ply their routes, but we note the
changes in long-established patterns, the captains redistributed,
the crew-members put ashore, the heavy weapon pods mounted.

"In other sectors, confusions begin to grow, which seem to our
analysis related to the…alterations in Korval's behaviors. We hear
of—certain people one is wise to avoid; of some of those who
have dealt with particular Liadens turning up—not ruined or
shamed—but dead."

Plan B, thought Pat Rin, and then said it, softly: "Plan B is in effect.
Korval is beset, Natesa the Assassin. We have gone into hiding."

"Yes?" Her eyes gleamed. "But you have not gone into hiding,
Master. And the Juntavas has made a study of Korval. We do not
expect that the dragon is meek in its exile. We anticipate decisive
action, from an unexpected quarter—and that soon." She paused,
her eyes yet on his face.

"Understand me, Pat Rin yos’Phelium. As a Sector Judge I am
able to provide what you may need. Whatever you may need. And
if you should lead us to your kin, that the Clutch turtles may be
satisfied that the Juntavas treats with honor, so much the better for
us all."

"Sector Judge?" he repeated the unfamiliar title quietly, slowly
fitting his gun back together.

"Yes, yes." Impatience was evident in her voice. "I am—a power.
When there are disputes over territory, or of proper ownership of
particular objects or properties, I am called in to find the answers,
to make things smooth again. And if there is a problem which
cannot be solved by discussion, I am empowered to solve it as I
may." She paused as she concentrated on something finicky within
her weapon.

"This is why I walk with Julier, who is a gift of the local boss while I
am on planet. The boss wishes to be certain that I will agree with
him when need be."

She glanced at him as the snick-click of the new charge going
home broke the silence.

"The old agreement—that the Juntavas does not meddle with
Korval. That Korval does not meddle with the Juntavas…" Pat Rin
said, softly, so softly. "You counsel me to set it aside, you
argue—persuasively!—that circumstances have altered so entirely
that the boundaries of wisdom—the boundaries of mutual
survival—have been re-drawn, placing the Juntavas and Korval
side-by-side in the face of a common enemy." He moved his
shoulders, of a sudden very weary.

"You know who I am. It is not within my scope to set aside clan
policy. Certainly, not this, of all possible clan policies. No matter
what the need."

She was silent. He stood and backed away from the work bench,
his gun pointed specifically away from her. He glanced along the
alley, and moved to the target console.

"Shall we shoot?" he asked, fiddling with the settings. "One
hundred targets, descending from standard size and distance to
one sixth size and double distance."

"You are certain?" she asked, and, indeed there was a tentative
note in the soft, cultured voice.

Pat Rin glanced over his shoulder, saw her standing, gun
reassembled and aimed at the innocent floor, slim and deadly and
very comely, indeed. "Why should I not be certain?" he asked
lightly. "A cantra to you, should you best my score."

She laughed then. "You are a gamester, aren't you? But no, I'll not
put you out of pocket. Rather let us agree to part amicably." She
bowed, lightly and with whimsy.

"And yes, Master, I would be very pleased to shoot again."

They disposed of the hundred targets in short order, failing yet
again to find one of them ascendant over the other. Natesa had left
him, then, with a graceful bow. He let her out of the theater to rejoin
her gift bodyguard, and re-admitted Cheever McFarland.

"We will be departing Teriste earlier than anticipated, Mr.
McFarland," he said as the big man loaded his second LaDemeter
and stepped up to the line. "When we finish here, I will call at the
bank. It would be best if you take leave this evening."

The pilot looked at him, wearing an expression between a grin and
a grimace. "Got a date?"

"Mr. McFarland, I do. I must to the casino, else we arrive at our
destination without enough cash to buy into a game."

"Oh. Yeah. But she's something, ain't she, Boss?"

"Pilot?"

"That Natesa. A bit of a looker and she shoots like a champion.
She ought to, 'cause she's the reigning champ in this club."

"I am informed, but not surprised." Pat Rin stepped up to the line
and squeezed off his first shot.

"Juntavas, huh?"

"You are apparently aware."

"The boy she was with had a half-dozen tell-tales on 'em. Tattoo
here, 'nother one there. Carries official Juntavas ordinance— what
that Natesa don't do—even wears the damn ring! Got no style at
all. I gotta tell you, if he's a friend of that lady I'll be surprised."

"Indeed. I believe her to hold you in much higher esteem than that
enjoyed by Julier."

"I sure hope so. He's about as subtle as a drunk merc at a nude
beach."

"Mr. McFarland, if you think to spoil my aim by distracting me or by
making me laugh, you're quite off the mark."

"Well, a guy's got to try. You're two whole shots up on me with
twenty to go."

"Shoot, Mr. McFarland. If you continue, you may match Natesa's
score."

"Guess she was distracted, huh? I think she likes you, Boss."

"Mr. McFarland…"

"Yeah. Right. Gotcha. My shot."

The private accounts manager was new since the last time Pat Rin
had accessed his funds at Teriste Speculator's Trust. The former
manager had been male, soft-spoken and respectful.

The new manager was female, breathless and provoking.

"I very much beg your pardon, sir," she dithered, her fingers
stuttering over her keyboard. "I don't seem to find that account.
I—oh, here! Ah, no. No, that's not it."

Pat Rin swallowed a caustic comment, counted to twelve and
pointed out that the paperwork he had provided listed not only his
name and his account number, but the first of his two pass
phrases, which really should be all she needed in order to locate
his funds.

"Yes, yes, of course, you are quite correct, sir!" she babbled. "It is
only that—well! I see that I will need to bring the branch manager
in. Only a moment, sir, of your goodness. I will return
immediately—" She leapt up from her chair and fled, the door
sealing behind her.

Pat Rin bit down on his annoyance. Really, this was preposterous.
There should not be the slightest difficulty in accessing his
account. The manager had very likely miscoded the request;
indeed, it was a rare wonder that she had been able to type at all,
as badly as her hands had been shaking.

And why had her hands been shaking? He wondered abruptly. He
was hardly a fearsome individual, after all; and his request had
been merely commonplace.

Frowning, he got up and walked 'round the desk. The screen was
still active, awash with red lines and danger-signals. In the center of
it all was the code for his private account, showing a balance of
some ninety-six cantra; followed by an unfamiliar code, also in red.

Just so.

Absolutely calm, he retrieved his paperwork from the desktop,
folded it into the inside pocket of his jacket, rounded the desk and
lay his hand against the door. It slid open at his touch, which
surprised him somewhat, but he rather thought that the new
manager was unused to dealing with dangerous clients.

Walking quickly, he went down the hall and through the discreet
common office, heading for the door to the street. Behind him, he
heard a clatter of heels and a gasped, "Sir? Sir, a moment,
please!" He did not turn his head, but swept out the door.

Gaining the street, he strode on, despite the fact that his knees had
developed a disconcerting wobble. He had scarcely gone six
steps before he was joined by a large man carrying a pair of gun
bags.

"Business concluded, Boss?" Cheever asked.

"Concluded," he said, rather breathlessly, "but not to our
advantage. I was not able to withdraw funds. Worse… Mr.
McFarland, I fear I may have alerted someone…unsavory…to my
presence."

"Bound to happen, I guess," Cheever said philosophically. "Time
to lift?"

Pat Rin walked on, somewhat less quickly now, and forced himself
to focus. Panic was never a winning hand.

"No. I must attempt the casinos. With the ship's fund and my
personal accounts beyond reach, the need for money becomes
desperate."

"If they know you're here, they'll be watching the casinos," Cheever
pointed out, reasonably enough.

Pat Rin moved a hand in agreement. "They will. But the casinos
have security on-staff and an investment in maintaining the safety
of their clients. I may be seen, but it is unlikely that I will be
importuned." He sighed. "The risk must be accepted in any case.
We must have cash."

There was a short pause, then a sigh.

"If that's the way it's gotta be, then we go with it," he said. "I'll be
coming with you."

It was perhaps indicative of his state of mind that Pat Rin felt not
annoyance at this presumption, but relief.

"Thank you, Mr. McFarland," he said. "I will be glad of your
company."
Teriste Casino District
The Practical Statistician

"Lord Pat Rin—a moment, if you will!"

The beautifully dressed gentleman did not look up at the hail. He
received the dice, shook them briefly and threw with an expert's
snap of the wrist, rings flashing richly in the table lights. The dice
struck the felt-covered end wall, rebounded, rolled twice and
stopped; the first and second die each showed one pip, while the
third displayed five. The gentleman stood quietly, dark head
tipped, calmly awaiting the House's judgment.

"Seven called and seven rolled!" the croupier announced, deftly
separating three coins from the bank and placing them before the
winner. "House pays three gold to the gentleman with the blue
earring." The dice rattled to the cloth beside the coins. "Roll again,
sir?"

The gentleman took a moment to consider, as well he might,
gambling at gold level, with the House's three and his own two
riding the toss.

Jewels flashed as shapely fingers spread above the coins. "Hold."

"The gentleman with the blue earring holds his line," the croupier
cried. "Who rolls against the House?"

The dice passed to a brassy-haired lady in an inexcusable scarlet
coat, who shook them with great energy. The gentleman with the
blue earring deftly palmed his five gold and left the table, moving
away from the area from which the most unwelcome hail had
come, and toward the table at which Cheever McFarland had last
been seen.

No sooner had he cleared the crowd surrounding the dice table
than his sleeve was snatched and held by a sharp-faced man of
extraordinarily nondescript dress.

"Lord Pat Rin?"

He lifted an eyebrow. "Yes?" he murmured, and glanced
significantly down at his mangled sleeve.

Alas, his captor was wholly intent upon his own business and failed
of taking the hint.

"Sir, there is one who would speak to you. Most urgently." The
man's fingers tightened. Pat Rin frowned.

"You will," he said, softly, and yet unmistakably in the mode of
Command, "release me."

Startled, the stranger did just that, dropping back a step, his dead
eyes leaping to Pat Rin's face.

"Your pardon, sir. I meant no disrespect. But there is one who
has—"

"Urgent need to speak with me," Pat Rin finished, all of his
attention seemingly upon smoothing the creases out of his abused
sleeve. "Just so. I do not desire to leave my amusement. If
your—employer—must speak to me as urgently as that, he will
come to me."

The stranger gaped, then bowed, abruptly and muddy of mode,
spun on his heel and vanished into the crowd, leaving Pat Rin to
stare at the place where he had been and damn himself three
times for a fool.

Careful to display neither haste nor concern, he crossed the room
to the Smaller Wheel and insinuated himself into the crowd 'round
the table. There, sheltered on all sides by tall Terrans, he tried to
think.

That the sharp-faced man belonged to the Juntavas, he doubted,
though the possibility could not be rejected out of hand. It was
conceivable that the local boss sought to gain advantage over the
Sector Judge who had been thrust upon him. And yet…

The sharp-faced man had been Liaden. Plan B specifically warned
him away from Liad—and from Liadens. And, truth told, there was
that about his recent captor which made the Juntavas— most
especially the Juntavas in the person of Natesa—show honorable,
wholesome and foursquare for clan and kin.

There was a disruption in the crowd of spectators to his left. Pat
Rin half-turned and looked up into the very welcome face of
Cheever McFarland.

"Well met, Pilot," he murmured, for his companion's ear alone. "I
believe it is time for us to leave."

They were not—not quite—taken unaware.

They left together by a side door, at Pilot McFarland's insistence,
and made rapid progress toward the distant shine of a taxi stand.

The night was busy with wind, damp with the threat of rain; and it
had taken Pat Rin a few moments to be certain that the small
noises and the motions of shadows were concerted action and not
simply the random pattern of people on the town.

And by then, it was clear that they were both shadowed and
outnumbered. Cheever flipped his pocket lightly and Pat Rin
muttered under his breath, "Not yet, we have no plan."

They had continued moving in the direction of the transport kiosk,
hoping against the odds for the timely appearance of a taxi or a
shuttle, but the interception went smoothly.

"This way, please," the pale-haired man who drifted in beside them
said in Liaden, and then in accented Terran, "There is no need for
alarm."

The place to which they were taken was not far from the casino
district, down a windowless alleyway and into a court where several
vehicles were parked. Surprisingly, there were a smattering of
trees and bushes here, as if some effort at landscaping had been
made.

They were ushered past the trees, into a somewhat smaller and
dimmer alley. Several of their escort peeled off to take up what Pat
Rin thought must be guard points. A few more steps along the
second alleyway and they came to a rough-walled building. The
door stood open; the pale-haired man bowed them within. He
entered after, his bodyguard sealing the door behind all.

The man led them down a thin and lowering hall, then, and into a
sparsely lit, irregularly shaped room.

The room smelled of old dust and the floor was uneven, as if the
building had shifted and created tectonic ridges in the tiles.

The leader motioned toward a rude table attended by two ruder
chairs, set near the center of the gloom. He took for himself the
chair nearest the door, his second standing behind him.

They took this as a model: Pat Rin in the chair; Cheever McFarland
behind.

"We are messengers," the pale-haired man murmured, soothing
the air between them with a gesture one might more reasonably
expect to encounter at a High House dining board than at a rough
plastic table in a badly lit, abandoned storeroom. "Merely
messengers, sir. Bearing news from those who wish you, not harm,
but only well."

"News," Pat Rin repeated, liking the matter no better, and fervently
grateful for the formidable bulk of Cheever McFarland standing
behind his chair. He took a breath, keeping his face calmly
neutral—the old, the familiar, gambler's mask—and inclined his
head.

"Of course," he said, matching the man's soft tone, "one welcomes
news, when one has been heedless upon holiday."

The man across inclined his head gravely, his gun-sworn standing
at stiff attention behind his chair.

"Of course," he agreed, and put his hands palm down against the
table, meeting Pat Rin's eyes squarely.

"I bring news of your clan."

Yes? Pat Rin flicked a glance downward, looking for the Tree-and-
Dragon token held discreetly between two of the man's quiet
fingers. He was not…entirely…surprised to discover it invisible.

He looked again at the man's bland, mannerly face. "One is ever
joyful to have news of one's kin," he said softly.

"As who is not?" the other replied according to the proper formula
and leaned forward abruptly, his curiously flat eyes pinning Pat
Rin's gaze.

"Your kin are dead," he said, as if it were the merest pleasantry; as
if he imparted nothing more startling than an unlooked-for change
in the weather.

Behind the gambler's mask of calm neutrality, Pat Rin froze,
hearing again that calm, uninflected sentence, not quite making
sense— His kin. His kin—dead? All his kin? Quin? Luken? Nova?
Shan? His mother? Dead? Ridiculous.

"Ridiculous," he heard his own voice state, dispassionately.

The other man inclined his head. "I understand," he murmured. "So
large a change in Korval's fortunes—in your own fortunes. Of
course, so skilled a player as yourself would wish proof. As it
happens, we have proof." He dropped his eyes deliberately to the
tabletop.

Pat Rin followed his gaze, saw the sinewy golden hands lift up and
away, leaving alone upon the scarred plastic a smallish thing that
glittered even in light so low; a thing he had reason to know well,
having seen it upon the hands of several of his kin, most lately on
the hand of his cousin Nova, who held Korval in trust for Val Con.

And who would have surrendered Korval's Ring to the man who sat
before him only in the extremity of her death.

He forced himself to blink, to look up from the impossibility on the
table before him; forced himself to speak calmly to the man
opposite, who sat watching with his flat, predator's eyes and his
curiously immobile face.

"There are," he observed, as if the thing upon the table were the
merest bauble, "others before me. Indeed, I believe that there are
children not yet halfling and at least one Terran far-kin to whom the
Ring would fall before ever it came to me."

The man smiled gently. "They no longer impede you. Nova
yos'Galan, Anthora yos'Galan, Shan yos'Galan, Kareen
yos'Phelium, Luken bel'Tarda, Val Con yos'Phelium, even Gordon
Arbuthnot. All have been swept from the board."

Hearing the names of his kin—his dead kin—but the man had not
named the children! Pat Rin grasped that thought, insisting that his
mind work. The pale-haired man had not named the children, but
his mother and Luken—by every iteration of Plan B he had ever
memorized, Luken bel'Tarda and Kareen yos'Phelium were
responsible for the safety of the children. If his mother and Luken
were—dead…

No. It—they could not—it was not possible…

Blindly, he reached out, plucked the Ring from the table and stared
at it, eyes tracing the familiar lines of Korval's Tree-and-Dragon,
the bright enamel-work, the perfect emeralds framing the boldly
scripted Flaran Cha'menthi.

"Who did this?" he asked, eyes on the dragon, on the emeralds.
Two perfect emeralds…

"It is necessary," the pale-haired man said in his soft, mannerly
voice, "from time to time to remove from play those who impede
the work of the Department of the Interior. Thus it was with those
who had been your kin. And, now, through the efforts of the
Department of the Interior, you rise to your proper estate."

With an effort, Pat Kin lifted his eyes to stare at the man opposite,
who inclined his head deeply—a seated bow of profound respect.

"Korval," he said.

Pat Rin could not quite control the shudder as he placed the ring
back in the center of the table. He took a breath.

"The Department of Interior will require some…service, in payment
of its efforts on my behalf," he suggested gently.

The pale-haired man moved a hand in that curiously soothing
gesture. "You need only mind the Department's interests with the
Council of Clans. Advisories and information will be delivered to
you at the appropriate times." He smiled. "Small enough payment.
You will find the Department is a staunch defender of its allies."

"Ah." He took a hard, sudden, breath, raised a hand as if to shield
his face, and all at once recalled himself, snapping the arm down
as he glanced aside. "Your pardon," he gasped, as the hideaway
slid from his sleeve into his hand.

"Of course," said his enemy. "You will wish time to assimilate—"

Pat Rin brought the little gun up and shot him through the right eye.
The body of the man collapsed forward, face flat on the table, his
gun-sworn snatching at her sidearm as he fell. The boom of
Cheever McFarland's weapon and the rain of blood from the
gaping hole in her chest were simultaneous.

"You OK, sir?"

Pat Rin took a breath which failed to fill his lungs, and tried another,
finding his voice at last, remarkably steady, though somewhat light.

"I am perfectly well, Mr. McFarland, thank you." Absently, he slid
the hideaway back into his sleeve and stood.

"You'll have to leave your jacket," Cheever said apologetically.
"The blood."

"Of course." He unfastened the seal and stripped the garment off,
dropping it into the merciful shadows along the floor. For a
moment, he stared uncomprehending at the square of cloth
Cheever silently held out. Clean-silk. It came to him, then, that his
face might not be…perfectly…clean. He plucked the cloth up and
used it thoroughly, then dropped it, too, into the shadows.

"Is that Nova's ring?"

He looked up at the big pilot, then turned and plucked the thing off
the table. Two perfect emeralds. Fools. And, yet…

"Mr. McFarland, I fear we're in a scrape." He held up the
counterfeit. "This is not Korval's Ring, though those—" he swept
his hand at the dead without looking at them—"claimed that it was.
They also claimed that all of my kin are—are dead." His voice was
not doing so well, after all. He swallowed and forced himself to go
on.

"They named names, Mr. McFarland. And—we are neither of us
children. Or fools. We both know that a man who tells one lie does
not necessarily tell two."

Cheever's face in the dim light might have been hewn from wood.

Pat Rin inclined his head. "Just so. Balance is owing." He slid the
bogus Ring onto his left hand—onto the second finger of his left
hand—and held it up to catch the sullen light.

There was a brief silence before Cheever nodded his big head.
"Gotcha. Now, let's get outta here before their buddies wonder
what all the noise was about."

At the door to the alleyway, Cheever held up his hand. Pat Rin
obediently slipped into the shadows at the edge of the doorway,
gun ready, as the big Terran moved silently out into the dark.

Shivering in his thin silk shirt, Pat Rin counted to twelve, to twenty-
four—to thirty-six, and the alley gave up neither sound nor light nor
Cheever McFarland. Forty-eight, and Pat Rin began to consider the
likelihood of alternate exits and how they might be guarded. Fifty-
seven—and gravel scraped in the alleyway, as if purposefully
scuffed beneath the heel of a boot.

A heartbeat later, Cheever McFarland himself materialized,
showing empty palms.

"We're clear, sir. The guards are accounted for."

Soundlessly and quickly. Pat Rin slipped his gun away. "Your
work?"

Cheever grinned and lowered his hand. "I ain't that good." He
jerked his head to the right. "Your girlfriend did us a favor."

Girlfriend? There was the very slightest of motions in the shadows
at the right. Pat Rin turned, and Natesa the Assassin allowed him to
see her, bowing profoundly in her dull black leathers.

Behind her Pat Rin caught glimpse of a face, a body in the
weeds—the man who had accosted him at the casino…

"Master. I hear there was a disagreement inside. Perhaps we may
assist you."

She straightened, showing him a face expertly darkened, in which
her eyes shone like ebony waters.

"I understand that you have already assisted me," he replied, and
bowed in acknowledgment of the debt. "Have you taken any harm
from it?"

Amusement, rich and subtle, was conveyed in the curve of one
leather-clad arm. "No harm in the least. They were unwatchful and
arrogant."

He moved a hand, describing the building behind him. "There are
two dead persons in the room at the end of that hallway. It would
be best if they were not found."

"Housekeeping will deal with it," she said calmly, and bowed once
more. "Again, I offer transport and whatever you might require."
She straightened, eyes gleaming. "Master, there was no need for
you to be in that room at all."

"There was every need," Pat Rin corrected, and raised his hand.
What light there was skidded off the bright enamel work, and
Korval's ancient sigil flared like a star in the alley. The assassin
drew a breath, pulled the most obvious weapon from its holster
and offered it to him across her two palms.

"Service, Korval. I would stand at your back."

Pat Rin closed his eyes. Cantra's own words, from the very Diaries
of Korval, burned bright against the inside of his eyelids: In an ally,
considerations of house, clan, planet, race are insignificant beside
two prime questions, which are: 1. Can he shoot? 2. Will he aim at
your enemy?

Pat Rin opened his eyes and bowed, acknowledging his receipt of
her oath.

"Service accepted," he said, and turned to his pilot. "Mr.
McFarland, we are enroute."

The big man nodded and touched the butt of the gun thrust through
his belt. "Yessir. I see that we are."
Day 287
Standard Year 1392
Departing Teriste

There was a Juntavas safe-house somewhere on Teriste; Natesa
had wished to take him there. Which offer he of course refused,
insisting that they—or at least he—return to Fortune's Reward.

"I will not leave my ship untended when there are enemies to
hand," he said, reasonably. At least, he thought he was speaking
reasonably, survival dictating that one ought to speak
reasonably—in fact, with all courtesy—to a Juntavas assassin.

She considered him for a moment in silence, black eyes
unreadable in her darkened face. She bowed then, honor to the
delm, and Pat Rin felt a frisson run his spine, which she certainly
saw— and it would not do to show weakness before such a one,
when he must display only strength and absolute certainty—when
he must be ruthless in the pursuit of his Balance…

"After all," Natesa murmured, "Korval is ships." She looked to
Cheever, who nodded.

And so they three had returned to Fortune's Reward, though in an
order dictated by Cheever McFarland, who took to himself the task
of ascertaining that enemies had neither subverted the ship-codes
nor awaited them within the shadows of neighboring vessels.
When the all-clear came, Pat Rin went forward, Natesa slightly
behind and to his left, and thus they entered his ship.

Cheever was already at the board, chatting with the tower as if the
entire universe had not been altered in its course over the last
hour—but, of course, for Cheever, the universe maintained. The
two of them had been beset by cutthroats, whom they had
dispatched with speed and efficiency. They had thereby gained a
rather…irregular…ally, but Cheever seemed to hold the Juntavas in
neither awe nor loathing, regarding them simply as another fact of
life. And life went on.

So it did.

Standing in the center of the piloting chamber, Pat Rin took a
careful breath, and turned toward the waiting assassin. His
oathsworn.

"I was unfortunately naive prior to raising this port," he said,
speaking in the mode between equals. "I seek now to correct an
error."

She inclined her head. "Master, I am at your service."

"Then you will tell me if it is possible—or when it will be
possible—to alter the name, ID, and port of origin for this vessel."

She pursed her lips, considering; indicated the busy pilot with a
subtle move of her head. "Pilot McFarland already files an
amended flight. He is wise in this, I think. We have this evening
discommoded a player of whom I am insufficiently knowledgeable.
Ignorance being an active threat to survival, it is wisdom to retire to
a less volatile location.

"So. If you will allow me, there is a station within this sector where
the modifications you mention may be made, easily and
professionally."

"And the price?" he asked, which was only prudent, when buying
from the Juntavas.

Natesa's dark eyes gleamed with amusement. "I have jurisdiction
there. The legitimate expenses of a Judge on assignment are
charged on account."

"I see." He had taken her service, he reminded
himself—necessity. And if, through her, he had also taken service
from the Juntavas entire?

Necessity.

He took a breath, deep and calming, and looked down at his
hands. Bright and bogus on the second finger of his left hand—the
finger on which Korval-pernard'i had worn the true Ring, and, gods
willing, wore it still—his newest adornment quite cast his usual
jewels into the shade, as if they were mere paste, instead of…

Instead of cash. Pat Rin shook himself, recalling that his earnings
on the evening were slight, and all accounts closed to him. He
looked up, to find Natesa watching him closely.

"Something else," he said, showing her his right hand, all a-glitter
with gemstones. .

She inclined her head. "It would be most profitable to sell those
here. If you will, I may summon one to conduct the appropriate
transactions. The money will await you at the service station we
spoke of."

And he had only to trust her, he thought, and very nearly laughed.

"Of your kindness," he said, instead, and had the things off,
jumbling them into her waiting palm. He hesitated, then, and raised
a hand to the blue earring. His trademark, by which he would be
known.

"Hold," the woman said, softly. "The rings are enough for now,
Master. That—it is worth too little, if it must be sold without
provenance."

He considered her, both eyebrows surprised into lift, but she only
smiled, and bowed, and moved to the board, murmuring a request
that the pilot open a comm line for her.

"We got lift scheduled inside the hour, sir," Cheever McFarland
said over his shoulder, face as calm as always. "Any idea where
we're going?"

"First, we must undertake certain renovations too long ignored—
Natesa has the coords for the…preferred shop in the sector."

Unflapped, Cheever nodded. "And after that?"

Well? Pat Rin asked himself, interestedly. And after that? He
looked at the big man steadily.

"After that shall depend upon necessity, pilot." He moved a hand
toward the hall leading to his quarters. "If you have no need of me,
I shall retire now, and meditate upon my…requirements."

"Right." Cheever nodded again. "I'll give you a heads-up when we
raise the station."

"Thank you, Mr. McFarland," Pat Rin said, softly. He inclined his
head, and walked away from the busyness of the piloting chamber,
down the hall and into his quarters.

Asked, if any were bold enough to do so, Pat Rin would have said
that he was not a fond man. Of course, one had preferred
acquaintances—even preferred kin—but one was not, after all,
clan-bound. Certainly, he was no such weeping heart as might
overload his personal databank with images of his kin, in all their
faces and seasons.

Indeed, a most thorough search of that same databank produced
precisely six images, all unsatisfactory in the extreme.

Six.

Carefully, he arranged them on the screen, side-by-side, top-to-
bottom; enlarging each as if he would read every line and nuance
of the digital faces.

Here: Shan, Nova and Anthora grouped, laughing, around the
ubiquitous Jeeves. The picture was not recent—Shan was wearing
Korval's Ring in trust, which he had assumed upon Cousin Er
Thom's death; Anthora looked the merest halfling, and
Nova—Nova scarcely looked older.

Here was Quin, his own heir, caught in the midst of a race against
his cousin Padi, Shan's daughter. This image was of more recent
vintage, though still some years behind the calendar.

The next picture—that was recent, and Pat Rin spent some time
looking into the faces of the two most dear to him in all the worlds.
Luken bel'Tarda, his foster-father, sandy hair gone to gray,
shoulders square in his second best coat, and Quin, who had gone
from hooligan to young gentleman in the space of one image,
standing before the hand-knotted Pasiryki carpet which was
Luken's pride and sole extravagance. Fortunes had been offered
Luken, in exchange for that rug. Alas, fortunes interested
Luken—not at all. Quin was dressed in traveling clothes, his dark
hair painfully neat, the opal blue eyes which were his legacy from
his mother wide and guileless. A kit-bag sat at his feet. After the
picture was taken, Pat Rin recalled, finding it suddenly difficult to
breathe, he had escorted his son to the excellent private school
that now—that had had him in its keeping.

Another: Not recent, though not as old as the image of his cousins
and their housebot. His mother at study, various editions of the
Code laid open on the table around her workstation; her face intent
upon the screen.

Another: His cousin Val Con, slouched in a chair before the
fireplace in Trealla Fantrol's family parlor, his legs thrust out before
him and crossed at the ankle, a glass of wine held loosely in his left
hand. He was looking directly into the camera, and gently smiling,
eyes as brilliant as the emeralds in the counterfeit ring on Pat Rin's
finger.

The last image was the oldest of all, blurry with the photographer's
lack of skill. It showed four persons in formal tableau, paired two-
by-two. On the left, tall Anne Davis, kind-faced and smiling, her
hand resting on the shoulder of a yellow-haired man of
extraordinary beauty—Er Thom, her lifemate. Beside Er Thom,
lean and dark and diabolic—Uncle Daav himself, holding the hand
of a slight and elegant lady, her tawny hair caught back from her
face by a carven comb, her green eyes aglow with joy. Aelliana,
Daav's lifemate. Val Con's mother. Dead—they were all four dead;
had been dead long before Plan B had been called. It was a
portrait of ghosts he studied so intently, and had been so for
years…

Six images, incomplete and old—which, if the representative of the
Department of the Interior was to be believed, was all that he had
now, of his kin.

He sat for some time, staring sightlessly at the screen, trying to
think of a way—any way—to gain news of his kin without
endangering those who might yet remain unmurdered.

Fortune's Reward carried a pinbeam. He was in possession of a
beam-code, meant for use in the irregularly scheduled roll calls, as
well as other codes, which in happier times would rouse Luken; the
Dutiful Passage; Nova; dea'Gauss; and the master computer at
Jelaza Kazone.

He dared invoke none of them, he decided after a period of cold
and close reasoning. The Department of the Interior had located
him, offered their preposterous deal, and their messenger had
died as a result of their impertinence. These facts in no way
guaranteed that the Department's interest in himself had likewise
died. Indeed, he rather thought that their interest might grow
significantly warmer, when it was discovered why their messenger,
and his team, had not reported in.

Certainly, the Department of the Interior was monitoring his
accounts. Certainly, they monitored Korval's known bands and,
perhaps, if only one adult had fallen to them, the lesser known
bands, as well.

Pat Rin shivered, closing his eyes. He dared attempt to call— no
one. More: he dared not be taken by the Department alive, to then
be compelled to betray whomever yet remained at large.

And, above all, he must not allow his desperate desires to blind
him to the possibility that the Department's messenger had indeed
told him nothing more than the plain truth, and that he, Pat Rin
yos'Phelium, was the last of his clan.

He opened his eyes, blinked several times to bring the faces of his
kin into focus, and pulled the keyboard to him.

He left the images on the primary screen, opened a second
screen and, typing uncertainly with fingers that were none too
steady, began to compile a list of…Korval's…necessities.

They heard him out—the pilot and the assassin—as he outlined his
requirements and his plan. When he had finished, the pilot
whistled, long and low.

"So, you're gonna vanish, and build up reserves?"

Pat Rin inclined his head. "In essence."

"It is a bold plan—and difficult, " the assassin said in her turn, her
slim fingers woven together upon the table. "I wonder, Master,
about the necessity of a working spaceport. I wonder—will a
primitive port—even, a very primitive port—serve you? You might
then shape it to your needs."

He thought about that. A spaceport was necessary—he would
need ships; he would need to build, dock, and maintain ships. And
yet, spaceports invited the galaxy, and it was equally imperative
that he remain beneath the range of Korval's enemy. Until he
should reveal himself, at a time and place of his choosing.

"A primitive spaceport has some advantage to us," he told her.
"But not so primitive that it may be not be upgraded—quickly."

"I understand." She looked down at her hands, then into his eyes,
her own as deep as starless space.

"Let us then posit a world which is primitive in many ways, yet its
barbarism allows—opportunity for manipulation. A strong-willed
person, capable of conceiving and implementing a plan, might do
whatever he wished, eventually." She sighed, which he thought was
not like her. "I know of such a world."

Pat Rin glanced at Cheever McFarland, who waved a big hand,
indicating that he was attending the conversation, but had nothing
to add.

So.

He considered Natesa the Assassin, her quiet hands and unquiet
eyes.

"I believe you are not entirely pleased with this world," he said
softly. "Why not?"

She moved her shoulders—closer to the fluid and ambiguous
Liaden gesture than an honest Terran shrug. "I have—no
jurisdiction there," she said, matching him soft for soft.
"I—perhaps— have contacts there, tenuous contacts, at best. I
know the language, as do you. I know of a…relatively secure
landing place, so that we need not alert the port to our
presence—but jurisdiction?" She met his eyes squarely. "No one
has jurisdiction there."

"Ah." A world that was alike protected from the so-called
Department of the Interior, and the Juntavas—perfect.

Pat Rin inclined his head.

"I believe that is—desirable."

She nodded, as if she had expected no other answer. As perhaps,
Pat Rin thought, she had not.

"What's the name of this place?" Cheever asked from his corner of
the table.

Natesa turned to look at him. "Why, Surebleak, pilot. Have you
heard of it?"

Surprisingly, the big man threw back his head and laughed.

"Oh, I heard of it, OK." He transferred a wide grin to Pat Rin. "She's
right, Boss. If there's a world where anything can get lost and never
looked for, it's Surebleak."

"Good," Pat Rin said, and inclined his head to both. "Then it is
settled."
Day 50
Standard Year 1393
Dutiful Passage
Lytaxin Orbit

The shift was more than half done. First Mate Ren Zel dea'Judan
finished the last report in the queue and leaned back in his chair,
reflecting that it was odd that the paperwork of war and the
paperwork of trade should be so similar.

Though, he thought, reaching for his cup, to be precise, they were
no longer at war, but rather stalled in some halfling state between
the usual and the unthinkable, waiting for the gods knew what.

Ren Zel sipped, found the tea tepid, sighed and drank it anyway.

The reports provided by the mercenary forces on the planet below
spoke of the "mop up phase" of the on-going military operations,
and indicated that the present hostilities between the mercenaries
and those Yxtrang soldiers remaining were sporadic and
disconnected, ranging over considerable geographic area. Clan
Erob's airfield, which had been a point of contention before the
Yxtrang warships had abruptly withdrawn from orbit, abandoning
thousands of soldiers to their deaths, was secure. What was left of
Lytaxin spaceport was also secure.

The captains and mates of the ships now surrounding the
Passage—officers old in warfare—gave as their expert opinions
that it was extremely unlikely that the departed Yxtrang would return
with reinforcements to retrieve the soldiers they had left behind.

Ren Zel shuddered, and not because his tea was cold. To be
abandoned by one's ship among hostile strangers, the last duty
remaining one to die well…

It struck too close to the heart, that, and set uneasy memories
snarling. To have one's death recorded and made fact before ever
one had lain down and—

"Have done!" he told himself sharply and stood.

He wanted tea. Fresh, hot tea, and an end to the nattering of ill
memory. He was clanless—dead to kin, outside the laws of Liad.
Dead in truth, had Shan yos'Galan not put forth his hand, and
declared that he and his crew welcomed pilots of ability and steady
will. Here, on Dutiful Passage, Ren Zel dea'Judan, deceased of
Clan Obrelt, had comrades, and a place, and work—as pilot and,
now, as first mate, under Shan yos'Galan's lady lifemate, Priscilla
Mendoza. His wealth exceeded, by many orders of magnitude,
anything another clanless might hope to achieve—aye, and many
who were clanned, as well.

Tea. He moved to the refreshment console—and the comm unit on
his desk beeped.

Pilot-quick, he was across the room, finger on the button.

"First Mate."

"Hi there, First Mate," Radio Tech Rusty Morgenstern said brightly.
"Got a call on the priority channel for the officer in charge. Want it
now?"

Priority channel? "Certainly."

"All yours," Rusty said. There was a click as of a second line being
opened, then Rusty's voice again, almost painfully respectful.
"Here's Pilot dea'Judan, ma'am—officer on shift."

"Thank you, Mr. Morgenstern," said a cool feminine voice. "Pilot
dea'Judan?"

"Yes, ma'am," Ren Zel agreed in his careful Terran. "May I know to
whom I have the honor of speaking?"

There was a slight pause, as if the lady were taken aback to find
one who did not know her.

"I have the honor," she said, abruptly and icily in the High Tongue,
in the mode of announcement, "to be Korval-pernard'i. My personal
name is Nova yos'Galan. I will be arriving at Docking Bay Two in
one-half hour, Standard. My necessity is to meet with the captain
immediately upon my arrival. Am I plain?"

"You are extremely plain, my lady," Ren Zel answered in the mode
of oathbound to lord, which was precise, as even the laws of Liad
must acknowledge, while disputing his right to speak at all to a
living Liaden lady. "Arrangements will be made to welcome you at
Bay Two in one-half hour, Standard."

"That is well," said Nova yos'Galan and signed off. Ren Zel
frowned.

Nova yos'Galan, first speaker in trust for Clan Korval, was the sister
of Shan yos'Galan. He had met the lady once, standing protected
and anonymous within the shadow of his captain's melant'i. That
same captain who casually brought his sister's reputation a whisper
from ruin by introducing Ren Zel, in Terran—"Pilot dea'Judan,
sister. Ren Zel, my sister Nova, also a pilot."

Now she came, Korval-pernard'i, riding a double wave of danger,
and demanding to see the captain of Dutiful Passage. By whom
she could only mean her brother, who was…no longer aboard.

Ren Zel leaned over the desk and punched in a quick sequence,
barely glancing at the keypad. The second remote trill was cut off
by the deep, resonate voice of Priscilla Mendoza, who had been
first mate before him.

"Mendoza."

"Pray forgive me for disturbing your rest," he said in formal Liaden,
scarcely heeding his own speech. "Circumstance requires."

"Appalling circumstance, apparently, to have kicked you back into
the High Tongue," said Priscilla in light Terran. "What tragedy has
overtaken us, friend?"

Ren Zel smiled slightly and amended his language. "I pray
forgiveness," he said carefully. "One has just now closed
conversation with a lady of high mode, indeed." He glanced at the
clock on the wall beside the refreshment unit. "In precisely twenty-
eight minutes, Standard, Nova yos'Galan, Korval-pernard'i, will
arrive at Docking Station Two. Her desire is to enjoy an interview
with the captain, immediately upon her arrival."

Priscilla said three hard-edged words in a language neither Terran
nor Liaden. Ren Zel blinked.

"I beg your pardon," he said, as gently as Terran allowed him.

Her sigh came clearly out of the speaker. "No, I beg your pardon,"
she said, equally gentle, "for I must send you into peril alone, and
for no better reason than I cannot face the upcoming interview with
Korval-pernard'i on an empty stomach."

She sighed a second time. "Please do me the favor of meeting
Lady Nova at Docking Bay Two and escorting her to my office."

"I?" Ren Zel bit his lip. "Priscilla, I am—"

"Pilot, first mate, and crewman of good standing on this ship," she
interrupted. "Lady Nova knows how to value such things."

And he had, after all, Ren Zel reflected wryly, received his orders
from his captain. He inclined his head, as if she could see
him—and who knew that she could not, dramliza that she was? "I
will meet Lady Nova and bring her to you in your office."

"Good," said Priscilla.

His hand moved toward the disconnect—and stopped as she
spoke his name.

"Yes?"

"It will not be necessary," she said, "to tell Lady Nova that her
brother is not presently aboard."

The ways of the dramliz were mysterious, Ren Zel thought, but the
ways of Korval were stranger still. Again, he inclined his head.

"I understand," he said, and the connection light went out.

The status light went from red to green, and the hatch slid open,
revealing a tall blond woman wearing the leather jacket of a Jump
pilot over serviceable dark shirt and trousers. Her face was
comely, as he had recalled, and fell easily into a frown, though he
had taken care to be in place several minutes beforetime, so that
she would find him neither tardy nor breathless.

He bowed, oathbound to lord, which might have waked a question
in her mind, had she been less focused upon her own business.
As it was, she returned his courtesy with an inclination of the head,
and a brief, "Pilot."

"Lady," he murmured, straightening in proper time and keeping his
gaze decently averted. "I am sent to bring you to the captain."

"So I surmised," she answered drily, the accent of fabled Solcintra
gilding her words. "If the captain has likewise desired you to lead
me the long dance, I pray you will allow yourself to be persuaded
otherwise. I do know the shortest route, and will have no difficulty
escorting myself."

Well, and Captain yos'Galan had been known, upon occasion, to
issue such orders to those sent as escort, Ren Zel allowed, and
bowed again.

"The captain was off shift," he offered, softly, "and required time to
prepare."

"Of course," said Lady Nova and swept a slim hand toward the
corridor. Korval's clan ring flared briefly in the light, silver and
green. "My business with the captain is urgent."

"Certainly. If your ladyship will accompany me…"

All honor to the lady: She did not insist on the shortest route,
through the narrow service corridors. However, the pace she set
through the public corridors was swift enough to discourage
conversation, which Ren Zel could only feel was to his benefit.

Soon enough, the bright red door of the captain's office came into
sight. The lady broke her step, courteously allowing Ren Zel to lay
his palm against the plate. The door slid silently open and he
preceded the guest across the threshold, as protocol required,
saw his captain sitting tall and proud behind the desk and swept a
low bow as Nova yos'Galan stepped past him.

"I bring—" he began, and then halted, as Priscilla's voice overrode
his, speaking mild Terran.

"Well met, sister. Will you have wine?"

Ren Zel straightened. Sister. What came next was between kin. He
had no business here. He moved one careful step forward. Both
women looked at him, but he kept his eyes on Priscilla's face.

"Captain, shall I take your place on the roster this shift?"

She smiled. "That will not be necessary, first mate. Please, pursue
your rest shift."

He bowed—"Captain"—again—"Lady"—and resisted the impulse
to back out of the office.

The door slid shut behind the brown-haired pilot. Nova took a
deliberate breath, and glared at the woman behind the desk. "So.
Sister and captain, is it? Where is my brother?"

"Planetside," Priscilla said in her deep, calm voice, and raised a
hand as if she felt Nova's cry of protest rising. "It was an accident, I
swear. We had taken damage and he insisted on being part of the
repair crew. The enemy attacked and separated him from the
ship." She paused, then added, "Seth Johnson gave his life to
protect his captain and his ship in that action. I think you knew him."

Nova bowed her head, recalling with the vividness that was her gift
and her curse the long, rat-faced Terran pilot. "Who are we, that
people die for us? All honor to him."

"All honor to him," Priscilla repeated softly. Nova looked up. "First
mate rises to fill the void in command, when the captain is
separated from the ship. It is understood. Now—sister?"

"Shan and I have declared lifemates."

Nova closed her eyes. "With recourse to neither law nor first
speaker."

"The clan was scattered; our enemy in pursuit," Priscilla murmured.
"I refused to leave the ship to be safe, and he was too wise a
captain to order his first mate away."

Nova opened her eyes. "Ah, I understand! A sacrifice upon the
altar of duty! How like Shan, to be sure!"

Priscilla threw back her head and laughed. After a moment, Nova
sighed and moved forward to take a chair. "I believe I will have a
glass of the white, if you please. Sister. And then you may tell me
how my brothers fare, planetside."

"Shan," said Priscilla, moving gracefully across the room to the bar.
"Fares well. Val Con fares…less well." She poured two glasses of
white wine and carried them to the desk. She handed Nova a glass
and sat again behind the desk, her own glass cradled in long,
slender fingers.

Nova's mouth tightened. "How much…less well…stands my
younger brother?"

Priscilla raised her glass and almost laughed again, to catch
herself employing one of Shan's delaying tactics.

"Val Con was desperately wounded in the strike that broke the
back of the Yxtrang on-world. He remains in the catastrophe unit at
Erob's medical facility. The med techs there are divided in their
predictions of the final percentage of his disability."

The color drained from Nova's face, leaving it a sticky beige color;
her distress slammed across Priscilla's inner senses with the shrill
force of a scream.

"Nova—"

Her lifemate's sister raised a slim, golden hand, and turned her
face aside. "A moment, of your kindness. Val Con—" Her breath
caught. "If he is not able to fly…"

If Val Con were not able to fly, Priscilla thought, following Nova's
logic effortlessly, then he could not, by Korval's own law, be delm.
And Korval needed its delm now as never before, with Plan B in
effect, and enemies on all sides.

"Val Con's lifemate is out of the 'doc and by all reports will make a
full recovery," she said to Nova's stricken eyes. "She will be able to
fly. Korval has its delm."

"Lifemate," Nova repeated flatly, and had recourse to her glass,
eyes half-closed.

"Lifemate," Priscilla asserted. "Shan says—lifemates in the fullest
sense, shadowing the link that your parents shared."

Nova closed her eyes. "Gods be merciful," she murmured. She
had another sip of wine and opened her eyes. "I will be leaving for
the planet surface as soon as I have cleared descent with the
appropriate commanders," she said, with a forced and brittle calm.

"There are Yxtrang on the planet surface," Priscilla pointed out,
though she had very little hope of turning Nova from her course.
"You will be placing yourself in peril."

The other woman stared at her for a long moment, violet eyes
unreadable.

"I acknowledge the possibility of peril," she said, slowly. "However,
the report I have from the mercenaries is that Erob's House is no
longer in immediate danger of attack and that the Yxtrang have lost
heart. I am Korval-pernard'i. Necessity exists."

And that, Priscilla thought with an inward sigh, was that. She knew
better than to try to talk any Liaden out of an action that had been
found, by some fey balancing of duty, desire, and melant'i, to be
"necessary."

"May I ask you a thing," Nova said suddenly, "as captain of this
vessel?"

What now? Priscilla wondered, but kept her face and voice serene.
"Yes."

"I wonder how you came to name a clanless first mate?"

"Ah." Priscilla leaned back and sipped her own wine, her eyes
drawn upward, to the glittery frivolous mobile Anthora yos'Galan
had given her brother Shan. "Ren Zel is able; mere hours away
from master pilot. He is respected by his shipmates, and—" She
brought her eyes down to meet Nova's gaze. "And, he is
not…entirely…clanless. This ship—this crew—are his kin. He will
fight to keep both safe, with his last gasp of life."

Nova sat for a moment, then inclined her head. "It is well-reasoned.
I thank you." She stood, leaving her empty glass on the corner of
Priscilla's desk. "If I may have the use of a comm?"

Priscilla rose. "You may use this one, and welcome," she said. "I
am wanted on the bridge."

"Thank you. Sister." She smiled, then, sudden and genuine. "I am
glad to be able to say it."
Liad
Department of Interior Command Headquarters

The box was approximately five foot square, matte black and, on
casual inspection, seamless.

Commander of Agents, completing an inspection that was not at all
casual, paused before the door and looked to the hovering
technician.

"I would examine the interior."

"Certainly, Commander." The tech removed a cylinder no longer
than his forefinger from a pocket and depressed a section of its
black surface. There was no sound, but when Commander of
Agents again faced the box, it was to discover that one wall had
slid away. The interior was very dark. Commander of Agents
produced a hand light from his pocket, flicked it on and stepped
into the box.

Its interior dimension was somewhat less than the outside led one
to expect; the ceiling short enough that Commander of Agents
needed to duck his head and round his shoulders. A taller person
would not have been able to stand at all, but would need to kneel
upon the ungiving metal floor.

"The apparatus," the technician murmured from the doorway, "is
enclosed in the floor and the sidewalls. If one braces oneself
against a wall, or kneels or lies down on the floor—the lethargic
affect is far greater. The test subject has been able to experience
the weakening of his abilities, which was not expected, but which
may prove useful. In the short term, the perceptible ebb of power
has been observed to awaken panic to the verge of hysteria in the
test subject."

Commander of Agents played his light around the interior of the
box, noting with satisfaction the smooth, nearly featureless metal
walls. There were a series of small, vents—33 holes altogether,
the report had said—on the immovable wall. These were for
ventilation, or for the introduction of gasses, as necessary. On the
very center of the "ceiling" were several indentations—these the
microphone and speakers for communicating with the inmate, or
for introducing sounds as might be required. An uncomfortable
place, altogether, in the normal way of things, but for those of the
dramliz—a torture.

"You lost a subject, I believe?" he said over his shoulder to the
technician.

"Commander, we did. The first dramliza understood her
circumstance very quickly and was able to raise sufficient power to
hurl a fireball at the apparatus beneath the floor."

The Commander's little beam of light danced across the floor,
found a black smear rather like a grease stain on the floor nearly at
his feet; a similar stain ran half-way down the wall he faced.

"Did the mechanism take harm?"

"Tests immediately after the incident indicated that the apparatus
remained fully functional," the technician said. "The material, you
see, is highly reflective of that energy utilized by the dramliz. The
bolt was thus sent back to the subject from the floor and all the
walls, immolating her. An unfortunate loss of an interesting subject.
I very much regret the waste."

"There is some waste in all experiments. You have found the
second subject less volatile, I understand."

"It was understood that proper testing required that we utilize
dramliza of greater rather than lesser ability, and the present
subject, like the first, is very strong. He is, however, young; and we
hold his cha'leket hostage to his cooperation. Also, I took care to
show him the stains you have found, sir, and explain in depth how
they came to be there." The technician paused. "There was, of
course, some danger that he would attempt to suicide, using this
proven means, but he is, as I have said, young, fond of his
cha'leket, and inclined to believe in the possibility of rescue."

Hunched, the Commander backed out of the box and flicked off
his light. Straightening his cramped shoulders, he looked again to
the technician.

"You planted the belief that he might expect a rescue?"

The tech inclined his head. "It seemed the best strategy, given the
need to conceal our development from the dramliz."

The Commander took a moment to consider this. Ordinarily, he did
not tolerate such innovations from mere technicians. In this case,
however, given, as had been said, the need to conserve
resources…He inclined his head.

"You have done well," he said. The technician bowed profoundly. "I
will wish to speak with the subject in"—he glanced as his
chronometer—"four hours, Standard. I suggest he spend the time
before our meeting in there." He flicked a negligent hand at the
box.

The tech bowed again.

"Commander, it shall be done."
Lytaxin
Mercenary Encampment

Clonak was on the camp, engaging in poker with as disreputable a
half-dozen card sharps as Daav had been privileged to behold in at
least twenty years. He hoped, though without much optimism, that
Clonak would allow them to retain their dignity, if not their pay.

Shadia, sensible woman that she was, had retired immediately
after their release from Commander Carmody's dinner party.

Nelirikk—or Beautiful, as Commander Carmody had it—had
chosen to remain with the fearsome duo he referred to, with no
irony that Daav could detect, as "the recruits". The Rifle—one
Diglon—appeared of a phlegmatic nature and would very likely
follow Shadia's sensible schedule. However, the winsome and
biddable Hazenthull had been another kindle of kittens entirely. She
had been most displeased to find that she was not to be allowed to
sit sentinel by the autodoc enclosing—and gods have mercy,
healing—her senior, and had only reluctantly accompanied Nelirikk
and Diglon to quarters.

Which left Daav, wide awake and content to be alone, sitting cross-
legged on the bench by the 'doc containing the wounded explorer,
eyes closed against the darkness.

It was at times like this that he could feel her sitting next to him, her
knee companionably pressing his; her silence sanctifying his
disinclination to talk. Aelliana, his lifemate. Dead these last twenty-
five Standard years.

Daav sighed in the dark, and felt Aelliana lay her hand,
comfortingly, on his thigh.

It came to him that he was as much a ghost as she: his brother was
dead, and his brother's lifemate. Who of Clan Korval would
remember Daav yos'Phelium, so long absent from kin and hearth ?
Certainly not the so-formidable son referred to, by explorer and
mercenary commander alike, as "the scout"—as if there were only
one in all the galaxy. The small boy he had given, weeping, into the
care of his cha'leket had in some way become a man revered as a
lesser god by the Yxtrang soldier he had bested in single combat;
lifemate of a red-haired rakehell no less beloved of Jason
Carmody.

"What may we bring to these feral children, our kin?" he murmured
into the darkness.

"Why a working Rifle," Aelliana answered, her voice warm inside
the whorlings of his ears, "and a brace of explorers. It seems a gift
they will know how to value."

Daav smiled and resisted the temptation to pat the hand that could
not be touching him. "Why, so it does. And how fortuitous to have
met them upon the road, to be sure."

Aelliana laughed softly and it was all he could do, not to open his
eyes and turn to look at her. Instead, he smiled for her, and sighed,
just a little.

"Commander Carmody has promised to send a message to our
son's lady, desiring her to visit at her earliest convenience," he
said. "Perhaps we may meet her soon."

"Will she accept the Yxtrang, do you think?" asked Aelliana.

Daav sighed again. "Commander Carmody thinks it…possible.

And we see that she has allowed our son to persuade her to one
Yxtrang already…"

"Singularly persuasive, this scout of yours," she teased him.

"You will hardly blame him whole cloth upon me," he said, with
mock severity. "Not only did I find you an enthusiastic participant
during construction, but saw you thoroughly besotted with the
result."

"You, of course, never named him 'little Dragon', nor recited
nonsense verses for hours on end to lull him to sleep."

"A man of my honors and position? I should think not."

"False, oh false, van'chela! A man of your dignity, indeed."

"Oh, and now I have no dignity?" He forgot himself and spoke
aloud, rousing the tech on duty.

"Everything OK over there?" she called.

"Yes—" Daav began, opening his eyes, and then came to his feet,
staring at the 'doc, which ought to be—which had been— aglow
with readouts, and status lights.

"Something's wrong," he called to the tech.

She ran to his side, took one look at the somber 'doc and shook
her head with a sigh.

"Nothing wrong," she said. "He's just dead, is all."
Things that Go Bump in the Night

The house lay shrouded in pre-dawn, its rooms at rest.
Abovestairs, a woman slept uneasily in a bed beneath a silvering
skylight, her hair a dark wing across the pillows. A gray cat, his pre-
dawn nap disrupted by the lady's restive habit, sat at the foot of the
bed, meticulously washing his whiskers.

"Necessity," the woman said clearly, her voice full of unshed tears.
The cat paused in his ablutions, paw poised by cheek, ears ticked
forward, as if reserving judgment on the truth of her assertion until
he had heard the whole.

"Necessity, captain," Anthora yos'Galan moaned, twisting beneath
the knotted blankets. She gasped and abruptly sat up, silver eyes
wide, staring toward the cat, but seeing something entirely else.

"Yxtrang," she gasped. "Suicide craft. Gods, oh gods—the
Passage…" She blinked, eyes focusing at last on the cat, who met
her gaze, looked away, and completed the suspended pass at his
whiskers.

Anthora threw back the blankets and swung to the floor, the ribbons
of her bed shirt fluttering with the speed of her movements.
Barefoot, she went across the room, snatched up a white silk robe
and shrugged it on, knotting the sash as she moved.

"Lord Merlin," she called as she passed from the room.

The cat shook out his paw, jumped to the floor and followed.

He had barely closed his eyes when the battle-dream formed,
horrific as ever, shaking him out of slumber, as it did every third or
fourth sleep shift. Lina, the ship's Healer, assured him that the
memory would fade in time and leave him in peace. Until that time,
however, Ren Zel was left to devise his own strategies for
outwitting the demon and gaining his rest.

With the room lights cycled to their brightest, he pulled a bound
book of Terran poetry from the cache next to his bed.

The volume was a collection of lyrical poetry on the theme of
sensual delight; a gift from one Selain Gudder, with whom he had
enjoyed a liaison of pleasure three trade trips back. He smiled with
remembered fondness and, opening the book at random, soon
lost himself in the rich, evocative language.

Eventually, lulled by images at once alien and comfortable, he
caught himself nodding and waved a hand to extinguish the light.

He fell immediately into sleep. At once his sleeve was snatched
by—well, he was not precisely certain who, save that the touch and
the voice seemed—familiar—and whose evident distress had root
in the same horrific incident which haunted his own sleep.

"Peace, peace," he soothed her, for she was crew—she must be
crew, mustn't she, who had such a memory upon her? It was no
less than his duty as first mate to ease her.

"Peace," he said a third time, as she thrust the dream forward,
shrilling a warning of disaster to come.

That brought him up for a moment, then he saw that she must be
caught yet in the throes of the thing, where past and present were
as one.

"We are beyond it," he told her, in the mode of Comrade. "We are
safe. The battle is over. The war is ending. All is well." He
extended a hand and touched her shoulder, lightly, as a comrade
might. "Sleep now; you have no cause for worry." And with gentle
firmness, he pushed her away.

He half-woke, then, sighed, and subsided into dreamlessness, the
book slipping from his fingers to the floor. A few hours later, he
drifted toward wakefulness once more, roused enough to feel the
cat kneading his chest. Drowsily, he raised a hand and stroked the
creature, feeling the plush fur warm against his palm, and the
vibration of a purr—his eyes sprang open in shock.

"Caf?"

The room lights came up at the sound of his voice. There was no
cat on his chest; no cat glaring at him reproachfully from the floor,
or the comm shelf or the desk. There was, however, a long white
whisker caught in the weave of the coverlet. Ren Zel worked it
loose and stared at it for several heartbeats before throwing back
the covers and swinging out of bed…

There was no cat under the bunk. There was no cat in the 'fresher.
Truly, his cabin was catless. As it should be.

And yet…

He held the whisker up to the light, admiring its length and its
sturdiness, then went over to his locker. A moment's rummage
produced a thin glass sampling vial—another reminder of Selain—
with a re-sealing top. The whisker slipped easily into the vial. He
resealed it with care and glanced ruefully at the clock.

Two hours 'til the start of his shift; too late to court sleep a third
time. Well, then, a shower and an early start, he thought
philosophically, moving toward the 'fresher.

He showered longer than was usual for him, invoking the cold,
needling cycle twice, but the cat whisker was still in its vial when he
emerged.

The song was everywhere; it filled the room, the planet, the infinite
cup of space itself. At once a single note and wholly aside the
song, Shan observed the bold, improbable and eminently correct
pattern that was Val Con yos'Phelium.

In the course of the Healing, they had come across other leavings
of the interloper responsible for the insertion of the calculation
program. When they did, Shan had reached forth his will and made
the interloper subservient to the greater pattern of his brother. Now,
as the song rested within itself, he inspected the work, tested the
bindings and the connections, observed the brilliant shine of
integration, and was satisfied.

Shifting his regard, he considered the arc of living power flowing in
unending waves of iridescence to and from the guarded center of
the pattern, where Val Con kept his soul—and found it beyond
anything he had ever before observed.

The thing is done, he decided; and it is good.

Gently, he brought his attention to the song, signaling completion.
The note stretched, altered, quickened, and stopped.

Shan shook his head and blinked his eyes, focusing first on Val
Con, covered with a thin blanket and deeply asleep, and then
across and up, into the luminous eyes of the enormously old being
called Edger.

"It is done," he said, feeling his voice rasp in a dry throat.

"It is done," Edger returned, and lifted a three-fingered hand in
what seemed a salute. "And done well. All honor to you, Shan
yos'Galan." He blinked. "Our brother sleeps now and will wake
when the time is appropriate. We two should likewise seek our
beds."

"That," Shan said, abruptly aware of aching back and the grate of
exhaustion immediately behind his eyes, "is a wonderful idea." He
hesitated, glancing at the figure asleep upon the gurney. "Should
we—?"

"I believe we may leave him here in all safety," Edger boomed,
moving toward the door. Shan hesitated a moment before bending
and kissing his brother on the cheek.

"Sleep well, denubia," he murmured, and followed the turtle down
the room.

Once, in a teasing moment, Anthora had asked her brother Val
Con how scouts were able to persuade savage persons to divulge
sometimes quite secret information about their world and culture,
all without being ritually murdered and eaten.

"Oh, there's nothing to that," Val Con had assured her, green eyes
dancing. "It's only a matter of asking the right questions."

She had laughed then, as she had been meant to do. And it had
only come to her slowly, over a course of years, just how often
success in any endeavor hinged upon asking the right questions.
Even when one was a dramliza at the height of her not-
inconsiderable powers.

Especially when one was dramliza.

Now, as she sped along the path to the garden's center, horrific
visions of the Passage beset by countless numbers of mine-
bearing Yxtrang in tiny craft, she berated herself for her stupidity.
Every evening since she had removed to Jelaza Kazone, just
before retiring, she had gone out to the heart of the garden.
Leaning thus cosily against the Tree, she had, bumblebrained,
asked the question, "Are those most dear to my heart alive?" and
flung her mind out into the void.

Every evening, she counted the fragile, brilliant flames of her kin,
and was thereby comforted.

And never once had it occurred to her to ask who—if any—
reposed in danger, who was their enemy and if there were any
means known to the dramliz, or hidden in her own untapped talents,
to aid them.

Of course, it was true that they all reposed in danger, with Plan B in
effect. To Anthora's mind, however, there was danger and there
was danger, into which latter category attacks by armed and
desperate Yxtrang plainly fell.

The stone pathway ended at a glade dimly illuminated by the night-
blooming friatha. Anthora did not slacken her pace, but sped
across grass that chilled her feet and soaked the hem of her robe,
straight to the faintly phosphorescent enormity of the Tree. She lay
her hand against the warm bark.

"Good morning, Elder," she said, though she hardly needed to
speak aloud. "I'm an idiot."

Above her head, leaves rustled in a light chuckle, though the air
elsewhere in the glade was still. Anthora sighed.

"Yes, all very well. But the Passage will be—or perhaps already
has been!—under attack by an Yxtrang force. I must warn them,
or—" She broke off, biting her lip. What if the attack were past? If
the Passage was already an Yxtrang war prize; Shan—and his
Priscilla, too—dead or dying of unspeakable tortures?

She felt a soft, reassuring pressure against her shin and glanced
down, finding Merlin in the shadows at her feet. She looked up into
the dark, attentive leaves.

"I must warn them," she said again to the Tree. The leaves directly
over her head were still, though there was a commotion higher up,
as if a squirrel had thrown a small stone forcefully groundward.
Anthora stepped back and a seedpod struck the turf by her right
foot.

"Thank you," she murmured, warmed. Bending, she gathered up
the gift, skritched Merlin's ear and straightened. She cracked open
the nut and ate the kernel, savoring the minty taste. Then, she set
her back firmly against the trunk of the Tree, closed her eyes, and
brought before her Inner Eye the construct of emotion,
intelligence, and power that was uniquely in this galaxy known as
Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza. Priscilla was a Witch, with talents
and abilities uncannily close to those Anthora held, as one of Liad's
few remaining wizards. If any on the Passage had the ears to hear
her message, Anthora thought, it would be Priscilla.

Thought was swept away in the tide that drew her from herself into
timelessness. light flickered in tongues like flame, and there was
wind, upon which souls strange and unsought swirled like so many
alien leaves. Within the maelstrom, Priscilla's pattern flared,
brilliant.

Anthora exerted control—but, instead of making the expected
contact, she hurtled past her target, tumbling out of control—no.
Control was there, abrupt and rather startled, as if she had
someway stumbled and landed in the arms of a stranger, who now
took care to set her gently upon her own feet. Puzzlement
emanated from the one who had caught her; puzzlement and a
dim, sweaty horror, doubtless the residue of an ill dream.

Anthora snatched at that hint, trapped it, wove it to her own
dream—and even as she wove saw it shaken into another image
entirely, accompanied by a brief, warm touch of comfort.

Contact was broken then, and not by her will. Blackness swirled,
thick and comforting as a favorite blanket.

Anthora sighed, opened her eyes and discovered herself all a-
tangle at the base of the Tree, her head resting on a moss-
covered root, and Merlin staring down into her face.

Painfully, she sorted her limbs into seemliness and sat up, her
back against the Tree. Across the glade, sunlight touched the bank
of night-bloomers, which were folded tight in daytime slumber.

She had been asleep, Anthora thought in disbelief. Asleep for
hours.

Beside her, Merlin settled, chicken-fashion, atop the moss-covered
root, his eyes slitted in satisfaction.

Anthora let her head fall back against the Tree and spoke aloud,
her voice breathless.

"It was not a foretelling—it was a memory. I don't know who—held
like a babe!" She bit her lip, hard, curbing her baffled indignation.
To be held like the merest novice, and then dismissed— put to
sleep—as if her will were nothing—

"The battle is over," she continued, more or less calmly. "The
enemy has been vanquished. The Passage is safe, and I—" Her
voice broke here and not even she was certain if the cause was
hysteria or fury—"I am not to worry?"
Lytaxin
Mercenary Encampment

They were granted quarters by Commander Carmody; good
quarters, with a shower in one corner and a corporal before the
door.

Nelirikk, who knew the order of the Gyrfalks and how the soldiers
were distributed in camp, understood that they were well-
contained, surrounded by watchers, in case there should be
trouble.

He did not anticipate trouble, himself. Less so, after watching the
gusto with which the recruits wolfed the sandwiches sent from the
mess tent—explorer no less ravenous than Rifle.

It was, largely, a silent meal. After, the recruits made use of the
shower, brushed out and put on their battle leathers.

Clean and fed, Diglon Rifle sat unconcernedly on the floor, his
back against a cot, and rolled out his kit, preparatory to stripping
and cleaning his weapon. Nelirikk approved—it was a common
soldier's duty to care for his weapons, as much among Terrans as
among the Troop. More, the familiar task would soothe the Rifle,
who must know as well as Nelirikk did that he was a single soldier,
surrounded on all sides by those not of his troop, who had no
reason to trust him.

No, thought Nelirikk, sitting on his own bunk, a piece of fancy-work
in his hands, the Rifle was not his most pressing problem. His
problem was Hazenthull Explorer.

She had argued against Daav yos'Phelium's order that she bunk
with her troop, leaving her senior alone and vulnerable, in the care
of those who had been their enemies. It spoke much for the
abilities of the scout's father, that he had been able to enforce his
will and see his order carried out, however reluctantly, while raising
neither his hand nor his voice.

Now, denying herself the simple solace of caring for her
weapons—or even of sleep, though he could read exhaustion in
the muscles of her face—Hazenthull Explorer, dressed and ready
for combat, prowled the quarters from end to end and corner to
corner.

On her third circuit Diglon Rifle looked up from his task, tension
growing. "Explorer?" he said, respectful and soldierly. "Duty?"

Hazenthull checked.

Head bent above his work, watching from the side of his eye,
Nelirikk saw her understand the danger. Surrounded by those who
had defeated them in battle, oathbound to a Liaden, soon to offer
oath to another—it was unthinkable that these things be so. And
yet, incredibly, they were so. It was the duty of command to accept
these impossibilities as commonplace, with no breath of unease.
For the good of the troop—large or small.

So. "At ease, Rifle," she said, firmly, but not too firmly.

Comforted, he saluted, and returned to his weapon.

From the corner of his eye, Nelirikk saw the explorer take a breath,
turn cleanly on her heel and walk down the room, to where he sat,
setting careful stitches in the gift he was making for Alys Tiazan.

For seven or eight heartbeats, she stood over him. Nelirikk
continued his work without looking up. At last, she moved
soundlessly back, folded her legs and sat on the floor before him.
He raised his head and met her eyes.

Surrounded by the tattoos describing her honors and
accomplishments, her eyes were dark brown; the shade, Nelirikk
thought, of his captain's favorite beverage. She jerked her chin at
his hands.

"What work?" she demanded, in the tongue of the Troop.

Nelirikk smoothed it on his knee before holding it up for her to see.
Her eyes widened as she recognized the device he was working
into the patch—the device of the troop that had broken the back of
the Fourteenth Conquest Corps.

"There is a young soldier in the House of the captain," he said, also
in the Troop tongue, "who is worthy of this."

Hazenthull's mouth thinned. "Soldier."

Nelirikk returned to his work, plying the needle with care. "As much
as I am. Or you are." He glanced up, switching to the dialect of
explorers, in consideration of Diglon Rifle's comfort. "Why do
explorers march with common troop?"

Her eyes shifted. "Command had left planet. We fell in—"

Nelirikk tied off the green thread. "I meant," he said, interrupting her
ruthlessly, "why were explorers fighting alongside common troop?"

She glared at him. "That is for the senior to tell."

As chain of command went, she was correct, Nelirikk allowed,
threading his needle with crimson. It was…useful…that soldierly
behavior made it impossible for Hazenthull to answer a question
she would rather not; explorers not being always at one with
soldierly behavior. Still, Nelirikk did not begrudge her the
stratagem.

Needle at the ready, he glanced up.

"The captain will require things. Things that run counter to the order
you know." He moved his head, a short jerk toward the busy Rifle.
"Far out of the order that one knows."

Hazenthull sighed. "She will take us out of context," she said,
sounding as weary as she looked. "She is fortunate. Half her work
has been done for her."

For what context was there, Nelirikk thought, for being abandoned
to the enemy—the victorious enemy—while Command ran to save
itself? He bent a moment to his work, concentrating on keeping his
stitches small and even.

"The captain will require that the vingtai be erased." He raised his
head again, giving her a plain sight of his naked face. "As you see.
The healing units have an erasure program." He stopped short of
telling her that the procedure was painless, though that was the
truth as he knew it. Acquiring vingtai was excruciating; it seemed
somehow wrong that they could be effortlessly and painlessly
wiped away during the course of one brief sleep inside the healing
unit.

"The captain requires this because her troop is the enemy of
Yxtrang," Hazenthull said slowly, working out the process of
Command's thought, as explorers were taught to do. "Soldiers who
think they are Yxtrang, who wear the rank marks and hold the
traditions of the Troop, will not fight strongly against Yxtrang." She
frowned.

"Explorers can backtrack the captain's thought and understand the
requirement. But, he—" she cocked her head toward her
Troop—"he is only a Rifle. He will not understand."

''You are second in command," Nelirikk told her ruthlessly. "It is
your duty—or the duty of your senior, if he is able—to make him
understand. I suggest that the best strategy is to lead by example."
He saw her draw a sharp breath, but did not allow her to speak.

"Captain Miri Robertson does not accept mediocrity. She expects
superior performance. Occasionally, she demands more. You will
adapt—"

"Or die," Hazenthull snarled, as if it were a challenge, and not a
truth they both knew in their bones.

"Or die," Nelirikk repeated, calmly.

Hazenthull looked down, possibly at her hands, folded tightly
together on her knee.

"The senior…" she began, and paused, throat working. "Protocol
linked us, junior and senior—you know how it is done. Before it did,
he had been twice across the sea of stars, marking many worlds
for the future conquest of the Troop."

"He brought much glory to the Troop," Nelirikk said, when he had
set an entire row of stitches and she had not spoken again.

"Much glory…" she repeated. "I am junior to him in all ways— in
glory, in knowledge, in understanding. When the order came down
that we should accompany the Fourteenth as…when we had the
order, he first sharpened his grace blade, and had me sharpen
mine, and while we sat together over this task that we hold in
common with all soldiers, from creche to command, he talked to
me of battle. He said that a soldier must always be prepared to die,
that—that duty demanded that the death not be wasted, but served
the living good of the Troop." Another silence, not as long as the
first, then a rapid burst of words.

"The senior—that he has not received the Starburst—regardless,
he is a Hero. To allow him to…just die, when Command had
betrayed us, would be to go against everything he had taught me. It
is not to the good of the Troop that such a soldier die, uselessly
and in defeat, when there is so much more…"

From outside the door came the sound of the corporal's voice,
issuing challenge.

"Scout Captain Daav yos'Phelium," came the reply.

Hazenthull came to her feet, face toward the door, muscles
betraying eagerness. Nelirikk put his work aside and had also risen
by the time the scout's father entered.

His face was bland; his muscles betraying nothing more than a
reasonable alertness, yet Nelirikk felt compelled of a sudden to
move within restraining distance of Hazenthull Explorer.

The scout paused, and looked up into Hazenthull’s face, his hands
folded together at belt level.

"I'm sorry, child," he said, in Terran. "He's dead."
Day 307
Standard 1392
Blair Road
Surebleak

It was Insurance Day in Boss Moran's streets, and Jim Snyder, the
boss' new second-hand man, made it a point to hit the pavement
early, collar turned up against the cold morning wind. He'd been
third-hand man last Insurance Day and while the events of that day
had resulted in Jim's elevation, he was determined to learn from
the downfall of his predecessor.

And what he had learned, first and above everything, was that the
boss expected Insurance Day to go easy and smooth, no
problems, no short-pays, and no excuses.

Bosses in general were a touchy breed, which only made sense,
when you thought about it. Bosses had all the responsibility of
keeping order on their turf, collecting the insurance, putting the
bouncers on the borders, setting the tolls—and seeing that
collected tolls was turned in—it was a job of work being a boss, no
argument there, and anybody took it on, in Jim's opinion, had a
right to be a touch irritable.

It could be that Boss Moran was a thought touchier than most. Jim
couldn't precisely say: he'd been just a tad when Boss Tourin
owned these streets, and Boss Randall hadn't lasted long enough
to make much of an impression. Boss Vindal had held on couple,
four years—Jim'd run a toll-booth under Boss Vindal. It hadn't been
bad; he couldn't off-hand remember her shooting anybody for
shorting on the tolls. But, push come to shove, maybe she hadn't
been such a good boss, 'cause when the smoke cleared off their
meeting, it was Boss Moran standing and the late Boss Vindal
being carted off to the crematory…

Sometimes, all the fatcats would meet on neutral ground and
rework the boundaries, trading around this business street for that
manufacturing block. It was important to have a strong boss
protecting your interests when that happened—even though it
hadn't happened lately. Give her a couple beers and Jim's Aunt
Carla could tell stories that would raise your hair right straight up on
your head, about the days when she'd been just a tad and lived on
Boss Henrick's turf. That was before the fatcats had one of their
meetings. Boss Tourin had got made at that meeting, and
everything from Blair Road over to Carney—part territories from
Boss Henrick and Boss Tiede— got swopped out and called his
turf. There'd been a period of shakedown, and one of the
bosses—Aunt Carla switched between Henrick and Tiede when
she told it, depending on how much beer she'd had—got to
thinking he'd been cheated when he sat down after the meeting to
do the math. Lot of guns on the streets back then, as Aunt Carla
had it, and the crematory'd done real well.

But they didn't have them kind of problems no more. Not on these
streets. Boss Moran had held the turf for going on three years and
if he occasionally shot his second-hand for a minor screw-up in
addition, or made a public example of some shopkeeper who'd got
behind on his insurance payment—well, that showed he was a
strong boss. And you needed a strong boss to protect your
interests, else some other boss would make a move on the
turf—and there wasn't no percentage for anybody in that.

First stop on the morning was Wilmet's grocery. Jim opened the
door with a shove, and the bell hung on the wire overtop clanged in
protest. Old Wilmet came hurrying out from the back, and stood
twisting his fingers together while Jim made a leisurely circuit of the
place, on the spy for any improvements to the premises, or new
equipment. He helped himself to a pretty good apple, and kept on
inspecting, til he'd eaten all the fruit expect the brown spots. He
dropped the core to the floor and nodded at Wilmet like he'd just
noticed him.

"Insurance day," he said, hooking his hands in his belt. He saw the
other man's eyes dart down, following the motion, saw him look
real hard at the gun on Jim's belt, before he looked up and
nodded, quick and sort of jerky.

"So it is," he said, and his voice sounded a little jerky, too, Jim
thought. That was good. It was important that the streeters kept a
healthy respect for the boss—and for the boss' 'hands.

Making a show about it—stretching it out just a little—Jim reached
into his pocket and pulled out the Book. The grocer was looking a
little grey around the mouth. Jim licked his finger and leisurely
leafed through to the right page. It took him a couple minutes to
review the payment schedule—Jim could read, but it wasn't a
strong point—nodded, and looked up. The grocer was sweating
now. Jim let himself smile on one side of his mouth, like the boss
did when he wanted to make you squirm. Useful tactic; and Jim
knew personally that it worked a treat.

"So," he said to Wilmet. "'at's twelve, cash, this month, and the
boss'll have the rest in chocolate, sugar, 'toot, and pot meat. Case
lots—you know the play."

The grocer's face was so gray now that Jim kind of wondered if the
man was going to pass out. He did pull a stained rag out of his
pocket and mop his forehead with it.

"Twelve cash, sure, yeah. Just a sec." He scurried into the back.
Jim helped himself to another apple, not as good as the first one,
but the best he could find in the basket.

Wilmet was back, bills clutched in his hand, and counted them out,
one through twelve, right there between the carrots and the
potatoes.

"The kid'll take the goods to the boss' house," he said, looking
down at his money. "Everything delivered before lunch, Mr.
Snyder."

Jim nodded, dropped the unfinished apple to the floor, fished the
pencil out of his other pocket, and made a tick-mark on Wilmet's
page. Then, he put the book and the pencil away, picked up the
cash and stowed it in the folder the boss had given him, slid that
away, gave the trembling grocer a cheery nod.

"You're covered 'til next month, Wilmet. Profit to the boss."

"Profit to the boss," the man repeated, at a whisper.

Jim grinned and strolled out, slamming the door so hard the bell
tore off its wire.

By mid-morning, Jim had called on and collected from all the
streeters listed in the Book, except for the hardware store, which
he'd deliberately left 'til last because it was just a couple doors up
from Tobi's, where he figured he'd grab a bite and a brew before
taking the day's receipts back to the boss.

In no real hurry, feeling kind of warm and peaceful in the pit of his
belly, Jim strolled 'round the corner, heading on down to the
hardware store.

Something bright and colorful pulled at the edge of his vision and
he glanced across the street, expecting to see maybe one of
Audrey's Scarlet Beauties, out on an early job.

What he did see rooted his feet to the ground and left him staring.

It was—a store. Jim guessed it was a store. But it was like no other
store he'd seen in his life. The big front window was not only
unshuttered, it was clean, so you could see right into the brightly lit
insides, and count—one, three, eight, nine, twelve rugs, some
hanging around the walls, some laying down on the scrubbed
plastic floor. Rugs in colors Jim had no name for. Rugs woven in
patterns so complex his eyes crossed trying to look at them.

As if that big, bright, risky window wasn't enough, the door to the
joint stood wide open and a thin little rug showing vines and flowers
in dark red, bright blue and yellow was laying half on the store's
floor and half on the crumbling walkway, where anybody who went
into the store would walk on it. Standing just inside the doorway
was a man Jim might have mistaken for one of Audrey's, if he'd
seen him maybe at Tobi's: Darkhaired and on the short side,
almost girl-slender, he was dressed in a pretty blue jacket, with a
gleaming white shirt under it. His britches were a darker blue than
his jacket and fell smoothly to the break of his shiny black boots.
He was standing with his hands behind his back, gazing out at the
street as if the view of the crumbling tarmac and shuttered, dusty
storefronts was—interesting.

Looking at him, Jim found himself counting backwards, trying to
remember exactly when he'd changed his shirt last.

As if he'd felt the incredulous weight of the stare on him, the little
man looked up, meeting Jim's eyes across the street. Jim
clamped his jaw and glared, so the guy would know he was lookin'
at somebody important on the turf.

The little man—he sort of bowed, inclining from the waist an inch or
two, then turned and walked into his store. His impossible store.

"How the sleet long has that been there?" Jim demanded of Al, the
hardware guy, a couple minutes later, jerking his thumb over his
shoulder in the general direction of the rug store.

Al shrugged. "Couple days."

"Couple days?" Jim boggled, remembering the storefront as he
had last seen it—empty, 'course, its previous occupant having
been a streeter Boss Moran had used as a public example, three,
maybe four Insurance Days ago. As third-hand man, Jim had been
in charge of the clean-up crew that stripped the joint—shoe store, it
had been. He remembered, now. He glowered at Al, trying to
regain some of the vanished feeling of warm accomplishment.

Al shrugged again, and looked up at the ceiling, like maybe the
date the rug store had opened was written on one of blackened
beams above Jim's head.

"Yeah, let's see. Day before yesterday, him and the big guy come
in right while I was opening. Needed board, hammers, nails, paint,
brooms, soap, buckets, wet mops, cleaning cloths, heavy gauge
wire— didn't I have a time digging that out!—and a buncha eye-
hole bolts. Talked soft, paid cash. Went back over there and
started in. Looked out around lunchtime and they had the shutters
off the window and he was out there with a wet mop an' a bucket of
soapy water, scrubbin' away. Heard some hammerin' from inside
and saw a couple of the extras in and out—guess he had 'em
runnin' errands for him. Anyhow, they was still at it when I locked
up. And when I come in yesterday morning—well, there it was, just
like you see it now, and the big guy, he was out front sweeping the
sidewalk."

Sweeping the sidewalk. Jim closed his eyes.

Now, strictly speaking, the situation was out of his hands, the rug
store not being notated down in the Insurance Book. Jim having
come up through Toll, instead of Insurance, he'd never even seen
a store set up, much less done it himself. But one of the couple
hundred things that Boss Moran didn't have no patience with was
'hands who were light on initiative. Set a high price on initiative, did
Boss Moran, and as Jim was as eager to show well to the Boss as
he was to not follow the previous second-hand man to his final ash-
pile, he considered that he had no choice but to cross the street
after he had concluded his business with Al, and demonstrate to
the fancy little man in his pretty blue jacket just who was a big dog
on the turf.

So thinking, he pulled out the Book and read off Al's
premium—fifty, cash, and nothing in goods. Al pulled the bills outta
his drawer and paid without comment.

Jim made the tick-mark in the Book, folded it and the pencil and the
money away, turned—and turned back.

"So, what's his name?" he asked.

Al shrugged for the third time on the visit, trying for deadpan, but
Jim thought he saw the man smile.

"The big guy calls him 'boss'," he said.

The bright-lit showroom was empty when Jim swaggered in
through the open door a couple minutes later. He had just enough
time to figure out that the big rug hanging on the back wall showed
a bunch of naked people, doing things to each other that Jim felt
pretty confident even Audrey's Specials hadn't mastered, when it
was pushed aside, revealing a doorway, and the pretty man,
entering the main room with a slight smile on his face.

"Good-morning, sir!" he said, and his voice was soft, like Al'd said
it was, but clear, for all of that, and not at all jerky. "Doubtless you
have come to take advantage of our grand opening sale."

Jim stared at him hard, and hooked his hand in his belt near the
gun. The man glanced at the gun, but didn't seem exactly
bothered, which a man who was naked—that is, who wasn't
carrying—really oughta been. Up close, his blue jacket showed a
nubbiness that Jim vaguely associated with silk, having seen a silk
pillow upstairs at Audrey's, once. The shirt beneath was white
enough to hurt a man's eyes, and he was wearing a blue stone in
one ear—it matched the color of his jacket.

"In what way may I serve you?" he asked, and there was
something funny about the way he talked. Not that he was hard to
understand, or anything like that, but there was smooth kind of feel
to the way he said the words, like he'd carefully polished each one
and taken all the burrs and sharp edges off.

Jim frowned and did his best to harden his glare.

"It's Insurance Day," he said. "You owe Boss Moran for the month."

The man inclined his head, gravely courteous. "Thank you, but I
have my own insurance." He moved a hand that glittered from the
big ring on his second finger, showing Jim the cluster-fuck rug. "I
see that you have some admiration for this specimen, here. Now,
this is a very interesting carpet, of a type not normally found
beyond the world of its weaving."

Following him to the back wall, Jim stared up at the frolicking
people. "Why not?" he asked.

"Ah, because they are done as penance, you see. The weaving of
the carpet is imposed by temple upon adjudged sinners, who are
required to weave in an open square, where all may see them and
know their shame. After the carpet is completed—and a value
affixed to it by the temple—the penitent is required to purchase it
and display it in the public room of their home for the rest of their
life. So, you see how rare it is to come across one of these. Look!"
He lifted the edge of the rug, and turned it over to display the
underside.

"See these knots? One hundred twenty to the inch! Truly, sir, this is
a carpet that will give you many years of enjoyment." He flipped the
edge right-side-up and ran his fingertips over the projecting
backside of an amazingly curvaceous lady.

"Feel this nap. Imagine walking barefoot on this carpet."

Jim extended a hand—and jerked it back, pulling his glare on, big-
time.

"I ain't here to buy no rugs. This Is Insurance Day. You're on Boss
Moran's turf and you owe on the month."

"No, no, please," the little man said, rubbing his fingertips over the
lady's bottom once more before looking up at Jim. "Put yourself at
ease on that account, sir. My insurance is entirely adequate." He
moved a hand, drawing Jim's eye to the corner of the room. Jim
looked—and blinked.

He thought he knew every pro gun in the surrounding three
territories, but she wasn't nobody he'd ever seen before. Not all
that much taller than the guy, she was slim, except for some really
interesting curves, her skin dusky and soft-looking. She wore a
dark vest, dark shirt and dark trousers. A pistol with silver-chased
grips showed in the holster on her belt—and she stared at him
outta black eyes as cold and as pitiless as a dead winter night.

It took some effort to look away from those eyes and back to the
guy, but Jim managed it.

"Boss Moran don't let nobody else sell Insurance on his turf."

The man inclined his head. "I understand. There is no difficulty.
This lady is in my employ."

What that had to do with the way business was done, Jim couldn't
have said. He was beginning to think maybe the little guy was a
couple snowflakes short of a blizzard. Not that it mattered.
Insurance was Insurance, and it had to be paid, every first of the
month. That was how business was done under Boss Moran, no
exceptions, no problems, no short-pays, and no excuses. Unless
somebody had an ambition to be made a public example of.

Any case, the situation was outta Jim's hands. He'd tried—even the
boss would have to admit that—and done as much good as
anybody could, trying to reason with a nut-case. It was up to the
boss to decide what to do with the little guy now.

Jim frowned regally down at him. "I'll be reporting to Boss Moran
right after I leave here," he said. "You got a present or something
you wanna send along?"

A good present—say, something along the lines of that amazing
rug on the back wall—might actually help keep the boss' temper
down to a non-life-threatening level. Which you'd think even a nut-
case could figure out.

Not this one, though. He wriggled his shoulders under his pretty
blue jacket and murmured.

"Alas, I have nothing that would be…appropriate, I think."

Jim shook his head.

"OK," he said, ominously. "If that's how you wanna play it, it ain't no
skin off my butt."

It struck him that this was a pretty good exit line, so he did,
stamping hard on the little rug in the doorway. Once on the
sidewalk, he turned right, toward the boss' place, rather than going
down to Tobi's for lunch, like he'd planned.

Somehow, he wasn't real hungry.

From behind him came a sound remarkably like a hiss. Pat Rin
turned and looked at Natesa, both eyebrows up in inquiry.

She shook her head, black eyes snapping.

"There was no need to provoke him."

"No? But, as I understand it, our whole mission here is one of
provocation, with violence as the pay-off."

That Natesa knew this, he had no doubt. They had planned as best
as they were able, choosing the victim and the turf with care. For
Pat Rin to succeed—for his Balance to succeed—he must
establish himself as a power—a "fatcat"—and the territory he
annexed must be on the Port Road.

There were two paths by which one might arrive at the pinnacle of
fatcat. One might, for instance, perform a service for an existing
boss which required territory and status to balance it. This was a
potentially bloodless path, but time-consuming.

Natesa herself had argued, persuasively, for the quicker way—
elevation by assassination. This was the traditional path, and one of
the primary sources of Surebleak's multitude of ills. Cheever
McFarland had offered it as his opinion that the sooner Pat Rin
established himself, the quicker the real job could get done, which
had also been persuasive—and so Pat Rin had allowed himself to
be persuaded.

Now, however, the Juntava appeared to be having second
thoughts. Pat Rin spread his hands, averting his gaze from the
false glitter on his left hand.

"We will shortly have callers, if all goes according to plan," he said,
softly. "We have provoked," wisely or no, following the plan—
wisely or no. If you have found a flaw in my intentions, now is the
time to speak."

For a moment, Natesa stood silent, her eyes on his face. Then,
she bowed in the mode of student to master.

"I would ask that you not expose yourself," she said, slipping into
High Liaden. "Master, it is not needful. There are Mr. McFarland
and myself to receive and…entertain…these callers."

"Ah, I see. My oathsworn are expendable, but I am not."

Again, she bowed. "Master, it is so."

"I disagree," he returned, his tone rather more acidic than the
mode allowed. He sighed, and moved his hand, soothingly.

"Come," he said, going back into Terran, "let us not argue. The trap
has been set, and we as much as Boss Motan are caught in its
unfolding."

She appeared to consider this, sleek head slightly to one side,
then shrugged .

"As you say." Light as a dancer, she glided out of her corner, using
her chin to point at the rug hanging on the back wall.

"Is the manufacture of this carpet truly as you described it to the
boss' hand?" She asked.

"Of course," Pat Rin said, walking toward it with her. "Surely, you
don't think I would misinform a customer regarding the value of his
potential purchase."

"But…" her brows pulled together. "How did it come to be at
Bazaar?"

"I suspect that someone who did not like warmth retired from the
kitchen," he murmured, extending his hand to sample the pleasant
nap again. "I paid a cantra for this carpet. Were we selling out of
Solcintra—and with certification from a merchant more
experienced than myself…There are customers of—that I know,
who would offer twenty cantra, sight unseen—not because of its
subject matter, but because of its rarity." He moved his shoulders,
considering what he had thus far seen of Surebleak. "Here, we will
be fortunate to recover our cantra."

He stood for a moment, the Juntava—his oathsworn—at his side,
considering the thing that had come to him, over the weeks of their
association, weighing his necessity against the likelihood of erring
against custom. He had performed this exercise more than once,
over the last few days, and had learned that his necessity was
greater than his natural wariness of Juntavas custom.

So.

"I am doubtless lacking in courtesy," he said, very gently, "but I
wonder if you will tell me your name."

Beside him, he felt her shift, and quickly turned to face her,
schooling himself so that he neither stepped back nor went for his
weapon, but only faced her, and met her eyes, equal to equal.

Her face was composed, her eyes bottomless.

"You know my name, Master," she said, matching his gentle tone.

"I believe I know your gun name," he replied, wondering at the
strength of his need to know this thing. "I ask that you honor me
with your personal name."

There was a brief silence; the composure of her face unbroken,
then, a quiet, "Why?"

He inclined his head. "I hold your oath, which means that I have
certain obligations toward you. As I am certain you know. The path
we embark upon is chancy. Should there be need, I would wish
to…properly inform your kin."

"Why, as to that," she said, lightly—too lightly. "You need merely
inform the Juntavas that Sector Judge Natesa, called The
Assassin, has ended her career under conditions described
hereunder." She extended a hand, as he had done, and stroked
the nap of the Sinner's Carpet. "To file such a report is to fulfill your
obligation as oath-holder, completely and with honor."

So he was rebuffed, Pat Rin thought, as he might have known he
would be—and very gently answered in his impertinence, too.

"Very well." He bowed slightly, to show that the subject was closed.
"Will you join me in a cup of tea before our visitors arrive?"

Boss Moran counted the take while he listened to Jim's report. He
put the bills down when Jim got to the sudden new store and the
streeter who had his own Insurance, and sat staring at him, his face
starting to take on that purple tinge that meant somebody,
somewhere, was gonna get hurt.

"Who's the Insurance?" he asked; Jim shook his head.

"Don't know her. Pro, though." He frowned, trying to remember
what the little guy'd said.

"Told the streeter he couldn't buy nobody else's Insurance, but he
said everything was warm, 'cause she worked for him." Jim
remembered something else. "Hardware guy says the rug-man's
'hand calls him 'boss'."

"Yeah?" The boss' face was the shade it had been when he'd up
and shot his former second-hand, his eyes all glittery and narrow.
Just about the time Jim started to have some serious concerns
about the length of his own lifetime, the boss slammed both hands
down flat on the table and shouted for Tony.

Jim relaxed. Tony was head of the publicity committee. The pretty
little man—and his pretty little store—was about to become a
public example.

Five of them walked across the red-yellow-and-blue rug and into
the brightly lit store, Jim and Tony first, then the boss, then Veena
and Lew. Barth and Gwince took up position outside, showing
serious weaponry.

The store was empty, just like it had been earlier in the day. The
boss looked around, walked over to the rug hanging on the right-
hand wall, picked up a corner, and let it drop.

"Rugs," he said, and shook his head. "How much is he sellin' these
things for?"

Jim bit his lip, suddenly aware that not having asked the little man
this question demonstrated a lack of initiative on his part. He was
about to blurt out a number—four hundred cash seemed
expensive enough—but the smooth, rounded voice of the streeter
who owned the joint cut him off.

"That particular carpet is a little worn toward the center, as I am
sure you have noticed," he murmured, walking forward with his
empty hands in plain sight. "However, such wearing must not be
thought a defect, rather, it is a badge of authenticity. We do, of
course, have its papers on file. So, this carpet," he extended a
hand and stroked his palm across the material, like he was gentling
a restless dog. "This carpet, I am able to sell to you for one
thousand cash."

"One thou—" Boss Moran stared at the little guy, who stared right
back, cool as a water-ice despite the presence of five armed
people any one of who was bigger, heavier and meaner than he
was.

"You know who I am?" the boss asked. The guy moved his
shoulders in that snaky shrug of his.

"Alas. However, I feel certain that you are about to tell me."

"Damn straight." The boss used his extended fingers to hit him,
hard, in the shoulder. "I'm Moran. I'm the boss from Blair clear on
over to Carney. You set up on my streets, you follow my rules. Got
that?"

"I confess to having had a similar tale from this gentleman, here—"
The hand sporting the big, flashy ring swept gracefully towards
Jim. "I believe he also wished to sell me insurance. I was
unfortunately not able to accommodate him, as I have my own
insurance, which is entirely adequate to my needs."

"You set up on my streets, you take my Insurance," the boss told
him, and brought a rolled weed out of his pocket. He snapped his
fingers and Jim jumped forward to light it with the industrial strength
flame-stick the publicity committee had loaned him.

The boss drew in a deep lung full of smoke and blew it down into
the little man's face. Give the guy credit, Jim thought, remembering
his first face full of the boss' smoke, he didn't flinch and he didn't
cough, though he did fold his hands, neatly, in front of him.

"Could be you don't understand about Insurance," the boss was
saying, conversational-like. "Lemme 'splain it to you." He waved the
weed at the thousand-cash rug, its business end hovering above
the cloth by no more than a baby's hair. "Now, see, without
Insurance, somethin' terrible might happen to your stock, here. You
got nice stuff—it'd be too bad if it all burned up, say, in a fire."

The little guy inclined his head. "Thank you, I understand the
concept of insurance very well."

"Good," said the boss. "That's good. But there's worse things
could happen, if you wasn't to have Insurance. You—you could get
hurt. Happens alla time—guy falls, breaks his leg. Or his neck." He
brought the weed up and had another long draw. The smoke this
time missed the little man's face, though Jim couldn't have exactly
said how—or when—he'd moved.

The boss looked around, eyes squinted at the rugs on the wall, on
the floor, counting…

"I'm figuring your insurance payment is ten thousand cash. Per
month. You can pay Mr. Snyder, there."

The little guy spread his hands. "Regretfully, I must once again
point out that I hold my own insurance, with which I am perfectly
satisfied."

The boss nodded, looking serious. "Right, you did say that. Not a
problem. Bring her out. I'll get rid of her for you."

"Ah." He turned his head slightly and spoke over his shoulder.
"Natesa."

"Sir?"

Jim whipped around, staring—and sure enough, there she was, all
in black, like before, the fancy gun glittering in its holster. Behind
her, standing just in front of the clusterfuck rug, was a big, rugged
looking guy, his arms crossed over his chest, eyes half-closed,
looking slow and sleepy and stupid, like really big guys usually
were. If he was armed, his vest was covering the weapon.

"Natesa," the little guy was saying, moving his hand to show her the
boss. "Here is Mr. Moran. He represents himself as someone able
to be rid of you."

"He is," she said composedly, "in error."

"Are you certain?" The little guy asked. "I wish us to be plain,
Natesa. I had understood that our contract was exclusive. If I find
that you are also in the employ of Mr. Moran, I shall be most
displeased."

"I have never seen Mr. Moran in my life," the pro answered, still in
that completely composed voice. "Nor do I wish to see him again."

The boss' face went purple, but he only nodded again, and said to
her, real serious, "We can deal. Tony."

Tony was the quickest shot on the boss' staff. Jim saw him go for
his business piece—and 'way too many guns went off.

There wasn't any time to draw, no time to really understand what
had happened, before it was all over.

Jim was standing, arms held out from his sides. Natesa the pro
was standing, too; her pretty pistol pointed at him. The big guy was
standing, not sleepy-looking at all, holding a cannon in one hand,
the business end covering the street door. The pretty man with the
blue earring was standing, palm gun also pointed at Jim. There
wasn't a mark on any of 'em—the little guy's jacket wasn't even
wrinkled.

The publicity committee hadn't done so good.

Tony was on the floor at Jim's right. There was a neat little hole
centered between his eyes. His gun was still in the holster.

Boss Moran—former Boss Moran—was in a heap under the rug
he'd threatened to burn. His weed was crushed, like somebody'd
stepped on it, a couple sad little curls of smoke twisting up from it.

Jim swiveled his eyes, made out an arm and a loose gun on the
floor, which was probably all that was left of Veena and Lew.

"Your compatriots are dead, Mr. Snyder," the little guy said, and his
voice was kinda breathless, like maybe he'd run a couple blocks.
The gun, though, that stayed steady, and even if it hadn't, the pro
wasn't havin' no trouble at all with her aim. "If you attempt to draw a
weapon, you will join them. Am I plain?"

Jim licked his lips. "Yessir."

"Good. Now, I have a proposition for you—"

"Company," the big guy interrupted quietly. Jim turned his head
cautiously, and saw Gwince in the doorway. It didn't take her long
to figure out what'd happened. Jim saw her take stock of the three
holding guns, her own pointed peaceably at the floor. She nodded
at the big guy.

"Boss?" she said.

He jerked his head to the left. "He's the boss."

If Gwince thought she'd never seen anything in her life lookin' less
like a boss than the fancy guy in the blue jacket, she didn't say so.
Instead, she nodded to him, and said again, real respectful.

"Boss. I'm Gwince." She frowned at the mess on the floor. "You
want we should get rid of that for you?"

"Shortly, perhaps." The boss' voice was back on the smooth, not
breathless at all. "First, however, you and your partner have a
choice to make. Please bring him inside and close the door. Take
care not to rumple my carpet."

"Yessir," she said, and leaned outside, keeping one foot in the
store. "Hey, Barth! Boss wants ya!"

He came quick enough, which is how you stay alive, in the employ
of bosses, checked on the edge of the doorway, eyes flickering
around the room while Gwince moved behind him, closing the door
real slow, so as not to muss the boss' rug.

Gwince was no dummy, and Barth was some quicker than her. He
wasn't in the room two heartbeats before he had the situation
scoped and the little guy pegged, with a nod and a soft, "Boss."

"Barth," the boss returned, softer. Then, considerably sharper.
"Please tell me if any of the deceased had kin."

Barth's forehead rumpled and he shot a look at Gwince. "Kin?"

"Family," the boss said, even sharper. "Brothers, sisters, mothers,
fathers, children—anyone who valued them—and who will miss
them, when they are discovered to be absent."

"Well…" said Barth, "Tony had a girl, I think…"

"Not anymore," Gwince interrupted. "Smacked her around once too
often, and she went and found somebody else to pay the rent."
She frowned down at the bodies on the floor.

"Veena—understand, I don't know if it's her or her money he'll
miss—but she always sent some of her draw to her brother.
Lew—" she shrugged. "Lew ain't got nobody that I ever heard
about. The boss…" Her eyes flicked to the little guy's face. "Beg
pardon, sir. I meant to say, Moran—might be some of the other
fatcats'll miss him. I don't run at that level."

"I see," the boss said. "Do you know how to contact Veena's
brother?"

"Yeah, I do. You want I should break the news to him?"

"Eventually, perhaps I shall. We will also wish to take her
possessions to him and to discover the sum he was accustomed
to receiving from her, so that a payment schedule may be
arranged."

Gwince blinked. "Payment schedule? Boss, unless I read this
wrong, Veena went down shooting at you and your crew, here."

"Indeed. She died in performance of her duty. Her pension shall
be assigned to her brother, as her surviving kin. These others…"
The boss glanced to Natesa, who inclined her head. "We shall
publish their names in the newspaper, and also an announcement
of the…change of administration."

"Newspaper?" Jim shook his head, keeping a careful eye on
Natesa's gun. "We ain't got a newspaper."

"We did though," Barth said, excited. "Sleet, musta been eight,
nine years ago. Only thing Randall did before Vindal come along
and promoted herself was shut down the gab-rag and make the
guy who owned the print shop into a public example. Vindal, she
got busy with building up the border guards an' all…"

The boss held up a slim, pretty hand, his big ring glittering like
something alive. Barth gulped into silence.

"Is there a printer in this territory?"

"Oh, well, sure," Barth said, nodding. "Sure, there is, Boss. Just
she ain't never done a gab-rag, is all."

"But she may be able to adapt herself to the concept. Very well."
The boss lowered his hand, and moved his eyes. "Mr. Snyder."

Here it come. Jim squared his shoulders and tried not to look at the
pro holding the gun on him. "Yessir."

"I believe that you are a man who values his life, Mr. Snyder. Am I
correct?"

It took Jim a second to figure out what he was hearing, but once he
did, he nodded enthusiastically.

"Good. Then this is what we shall do. You and I are going into the
back room. I will ask you questions and you will give me truthful
answers. When my questions are satisfied, I will arrange for you to
be escorted across the border."

Jim goggled. "You're sending me outta the territory?"

"I am. I don't wish to seem discourteous, but, since the two of us
are dealing in truth, I must confess that you are not at all the caliber
of citizen I wish to tenant my streets. However, you did not draw on
us, and so you have earned your life. Conditionally."

The boss sure did talk a twist. Frowning, Jim worked out his
meaning, and arrived at the theory that the new boss valued
initiative just like the old boss had, and that Jim hadn't shown all
that well.

"Hey, it ain't so bad over on Deacon's turf," Gwince said cheerfully.
"You'll do just fine, Mr. Snyder."

Easy for her to say, Jim thought. Nobody was talkin' about throwin'
her off the turf she'd grown up in. On the other hand, looking at
Natesa's gun and cold, patient face, it didn't look like he had much
of a choice.

"OK," he said to the boss, trying to sound like moving turf was
nothing. "We can deal."

"I am delighted to find it so," the boss said, and pointed at the back
wall. "Please go with Natesa. I will join you very soon."

Natesa moved her gun, inviting him to walk ahead of her. He did
that, and the big guy lifted the rug away from the door so they could
pass.

"Mr. McFarland," the boss said when the big man had dropped the
carpet back across the doorway.

"Sir?"

"You will please ascertain if Gwince and Barth have value to my
administration. If they do not, or if they choose not to remain in my
employ, they may also be escorted to the border and passed
without toll. If they wish to remain, and you find them valuable,
please consider them attached to your department."

"Yessir," the big man said easily. "I'll get right on it."

"Thank you, Mr. McFarland," the boss said, and left them.

"OK," the big guy said. "My name's McFarland, like you heard.
Which of you don't wanna stay on? Sing out, now; don't be shy."

Gwince looked at Barth and Barth looked at Gwince. They both
looked at the deaders on the floor and then back to big Mr.
McFarland. Neither one said anything.

"Right, then." He put his hand-cannon away in its holster and
nodded at the floor. "First job we got is to clean out those pockets.
Then, we'll straighten up and put everything back neat, the way the
boss likes it."

"Yessir!" they said in unison, and in matching tones of relief, and
moved forward to tackle their first job for the new boss.

The woman Gwince was the key that gained them entry into the late
Mr. Moran's so-called 'mansion', much more than those on the ring
retrieved for him from the dead man's pocket.

By the time Pat Rin had met and taken provisional allegiance from
the house staff; spoken to the printer, hastily summoned from her
shop, covered over with ink and ill-concealed terror, regarding the
necessity of a newssheet and the contents of the first issue, which
would—"yessir, Boss, no problem at all"—be available on the
street tomorrow at no later than one hour beyond dawn; and
located the boss' private office, it was dark on the—on
his—streets. Natesa and Cheever McFarland were engaged in
other parts of the house—Natesa on a "security check" and
Cheever interviewing others of the staff. Well enough: Duty
awaited him as well.

The office was on the second floor, a dank and dismal
chamber—cold, as it was cold everywhere on this wretched
planet—the walls of which had once, perhaps, been painted white.
The desk was rust-colored plastic, the filing cabinet was red
plastic, the two chairs—one behind the desk, one in front of
it—were blue plastic and yellow, respectively. The floor was also
plastic, and in need of a scrubbing. The rug—for there was a rug in
this room that otherwise showed him neither books, nor comm unit,
nor teapot, nor potted plant, nor any other human comfort—the rug
was nothing short of astonishing. Merely, it was a primitive of tied
and woven rag, rectangular in shape, yet made with some artistry,
so that it was cheerful without being over-bright; pleasant and
easeful on the eye.

Pat Rin gasped, his vision suddenly clouded. There was
someone—someone within the few ghastly blocks of this
wretched, filthy city that he was now pleased to call his—some one
of his people had heart enough to have produced a thing of
beauty. He shook his head, banishing ridiculous tears, and walked,
somewhat unsteadily, over to the file cabinet.

He pulled open the top drawer with difficulty, and stood staring,
confronted not with a row of neatly labeled files, nor even a
disorderly mess of papers. No, the top drawer of Boss Moran's
cheap, unlocked filing cabinet was filled to capacity with cash of
every denomination, mixed all helter-skelter, as if it had just been
flung within, and the door slammed shut.

The second drawer held a similar outrage. The bottom drawer held
coins.

Pat Rin closed it and straightened. Idiot, he thought. Not even a
safe? Sighing, he crossed the room to the desk

The blue chair was grubby, the plastic mesh seat stretched, the
plastic legs bowed alarmingly. Pat Rin pushed it to one side.

There was a small book lying in the center of the desk; for one
mad instant he thought he had discovered Moran's personal debt-
book—but, there, Terrans did not keep debt-books. Most
especially, he suspected, recalling his researches into the
place—not to mention the tales he had from Natesa and
Cheever—did the worthy citizens of the planet Surebleak fail of
keeping debt-books.

He picked the thing up and opened it, frowning as he riffled the
pages. Very quickly, he ascertained that what he held was Moran's
Insurance Book, listing all the businesses in the territory, what they
owed and what they had paid.

It was a singularly frustrating document, written with some blurred
and blurry charcoal-like substance; the notations ranging from
barely lettered to indecipherable. Pat Rin emerged from his study
not much informed on the topic of the profit to be had from
Insurance sales on Surebleak, and with a nasty ache over his eyes.

Sighing, he rubbed his forehead and deliberately sought out the
cheery, unassuming little rug on the dirty plastic floor.

The pain in his head flared, and he was seeing—not the floor in the
office of the vanquished Moran, but the floor of his store in the
aftermath of the gunplay, the gleaming plastic surface littered with
the bodies of—the bodies of his kin.

There—Anthora, her arm blown off at the shoulder; here, Shan, a
pellet hole between his frost-colored eyebrows; there again! Quin,
half of his face torn away—

Retching, Pat Rin raised his hands before his eyes, blocking out
the horrific sight; and hearing again the pale-haired man's inflexible,
emotionless voice: "Your kin are dead. Nova yos'Galan, Anthora
yos'Galan, Shan yos'Galan, Kareen yos'Phelium, Luken
bel'Tarda…"

There was a sound in the doorway, audible even over the voice of
his enemy, chanting the names of his dead. Pat Rin spun, the gun
coming neatly into his hand, and in one smooth motion, he raised it,
aiming—

At Juntavas Sector Judge Natesa, called The Assassin.

It spoke well of her skill, that she neither went for a weapon nor
drew his fire by assuming the attitude of prey. Merely, she paused
in the doorway, black eyebrows arched above black eyes, and
inclined her head.

"Master," she murmured in the mode of student to teacher. "It
pleases me to find you so well guarded, as I was just now coming
to scold you for deserting your oathsworn."

Pat Rin lowered the gun, heartbeat roaring in his ears, stomach
roiling. He fussed over the placement of the palm gun in his
sleeve, and answered her without looking up, in Terran.

"I had thought my oathsworn intent upon their own business."

"Certainly, Mr. McFarland and I were performing our various duties,
to insure that the house would keep you safe," she said, keeping to
the High Tongue. "Yet Mr. McFarland tells me he had left Gwince at
your back."

Another word from her in the language of home and he would—he
would do something irreparable. Pat Rin took a deep breath and
found the courage to meet her eyes.

"If you please. I prefer to converse in Terran."

Something moved in the black eyes; she inclined her head before
he could identify it and murmured. "As you wish."

"Yes." Pat Rin cleared his throat. "Gwince stood her duty well.
When I had done speaking with the staff and with the printer, I
dismissed her to her meal, and perhaps to her bed." He glanced
away, resting his eyes cautiously on the rag rug. "She has taken
losses today."

"To hear her tell it, perhaps not," Natesa said drily. "However, you
may be pleased to learn that she rose to meet Mr. McFarland's
expectations of her. It could not be expected that she would refuse
a direct order from the boss, but she did seek out her department
head to inform him of her dismissal."

"Whereupon you were dispatched to scold me," Pat Rin
concluded, and moved his shoulders. "Well, I am pleased that
Gwince proves herself able. But I do not intend to live with a
constant guard at my back."

"Then you do not intend to live," she said, leaning gracefully
against the doorframe and crossing her arms beneath her breasts.
"I am disappointed."

He inclined his head, eloquently ironic. "I am, of course, grieved to
hear it."

Natesa sighed, sharply. "Illuminate my error, that you draw on me
twice inside a single conversation."

And it was not, he thought, her error, but his own. Error understood
too late, with his feet irrevocably upon a path that demanded he
deal violent death to people who had never heard of Liad, or Clan
Korval; Plan B, nor even the Department of the Interior. People
who had brothers. People who might live well for several years on
the profit made in selling the piece of trumpery he wore upon his
finger—provided they weren't murdered for gain in the meanwhile.

"I beg your pardon," he said to his oathsworn, being certain that his
tone was inoffensive in offering the unaccustomed Terran phrase.

"That is no answer, Master," she chided, her eyes intent upon his
face.

Indeed, it was not—and Natesa was wise enough in custom to
know he owed his oathsworn more than pettishness and ill-temper.
And yet, what might he tell her that would not reveal he who held
her honor in his hands as the madman he undoubtedly was?

Sighing, he showed her empty palms. "I beg your pardon," he said
again. "I—people have lost their lives today, for nothing more than
my necessity. Shall my Balance go forth as it must, more will
die—and those before ever I lay hand upon my enemy." He
moved, suddenly restless, pacing 'round the desk to stand staring
down at the rag rug. From Natesa he felt a vast patience, which
soothed him oddly, and moved him to speak more fully.

"Balance—you understand that Balance must go forth. This—
Department—must be answered."

"Certainly they must," she said, softly, from the doorway. "Your kin
have died at their hands."

Almost, he laughed.

"Yes. But that is not why the Department must be stopped," he
said to the rug and looked up to meet Natesa's eyes.

"I am old enough to know that Balance does not bring back the
dead. If I murder worlds—slay the galaxy—yet my kin will not
arise—" Tears, however, were arising, and he had been—must
continue to be—very careful not to weep before his oathsworn. He
closed his eyes, breathed deeply and calmingly, and again met
Natesa's black gaze.

"However, Korval has—a contract. An ancient and explicit contract,
which requires the one who wears this—" he showed her the ring
on his finger, "to protect the population of Liad. Such assumptions
as the representative of the Department of the Interior made, such
policies and procedures as he revealed to me— Liad is in danger.
If Balance does not go forth—and that with precision—innocents
will be enslaved or worse." He found it somewhat easier to
breathe, thus retracing the chain of duty and right action he had
laboriously forged in the aftermath of the Department's… offer… to
himself.

The silence stretched, not uncomfortably, then Natesa spoke in her
quiet, sumptuous voice.

"I understand—and I thank you." She straightened, and stretched,
cat-like and supple.

"Last seen, Mr. McFarland was attempting to convey the notion of
vegetable to the cook," she said. "I doubt he succeeded, but it is
not unlikely that we have some sort of meal awaiting us."

Food. Pat Rin's stomach clenched—and yet he must eat and
remain healthy, so that he might see his Balance precisely placed.
Once again, he looked up at Natesa.

"I have taken your point regarding the necessity of a guard. I bow
to the wisdom of my oathsworn."

"Ah." She smiled. "We will endeavor not to leave you too often with
strangers." She moved an arm, gracefully inviting him to proceed
her out of the room. "We mustn't keep the cook waiting."

There were vegetables—a mess of indeterminate green leaves
boiled with a piece of fat. As a dish, it was a failure—even Cheever
McFarland scarce ate more than a fork full—yet at that it was not
the worst of the offerings brought forth for the new boss'
delectation.

The meat was old—a fact that the cook attempted to disguise by
using a heavy hand with hot-tasting spices. Cheever didn't even
manage a fork-full there, and neither Pat Rin nor Natesa bothered
to take a portion onto their plates.

On the other hand, the rice was quite good, and the butter not, as
Pat Rin had certainly expected it to be, rancid. He satisfied himself
with a plate of rice, well-buttered, smiling as he saw Natesa do the
same. Cheever manfully worked his way through the table, a fork-
full here, a half-spoon there.

The choice of beverages were three: a uniquely undrinkable hot
brew that the serving girl had whispered was, "Tea, Boss;" beer,
which Cheever drank without gusto; and plain cold water. After one
disbelieving sip of "tea," Pat Rin had water; Natesa again following
his lead.

"What they're calling coffee ain't no better," Cheever said. "Worst
excuse for 'toot I ever smelled in my life. Didn't even bother to try
and drink it." He shook his head at Natesa. "We're gonna have to
figure out something about provisions."

"Security first," she said, and he grinned at her, good-humoredly.

"Boss, this woman don't know how to live high. OK—security." His
big face got serious.

"We ain't in too bad a shape, everything considered. The old boss
put a high price on his hide, so we inherited some good systems."
He used his fork to point at Natesa. "Not as good as she can do for
us, but we don't got to be worried about being overrun while she's
doing the upgrades. People…" He put the fork down and reached
across the table to break off a piece of hard brown bread, the
meal's other outstanding success.

"Got some decent people. What I mean by that is, they can be
trained. Old boss doesn't seem to have made himself real popular
with the hired-ons, so we're going in with them feeling grateful to us
for doing them a favor. Gwince has the instincts of a pro. Barth's
probably steady as long as we don't ask him to do too much work."
He buttered his bread.

"Any one of 'em'll sell us out to a high bidder, 'course—that's the
way they do business here. But we ain't gonna see a high bidder 'til
folks catch their breath—longer, if we don't give 'em any reason to
feel abused." He grinned. "Which Boss Moran also made real easy
for us."

Pat Rin pushed his empty plate away and reached for his water
glass. "How—" he began, and the door opened to reveal the
doorman—one Filmin—and a young red-haired woman enclosed
from throat to ankles by a tolerably good black velvet cloak. To her
feet were strapped the daintiest of silver sandals.

"Girl's here, Boss," Filmin announced, and, obviously feeling that
he had fulfilled his duty with utmost propriety, departed, closing the
door loudly behind him.

The girl, rather quicker than Filmin, checked, her eyes sweeping
the room. Pat Rin raised his hand, the ring glittering in the dull light.

"I am the boss," he said. "May I know your name?"

Her eyes were ginger brown, her gaze straightforward and not at all
afraid. "I'm Bilinda, Boss. From Audrey's House."

Audrey, so he had gathered from the excellent Gwince, was the
owner of the most profitable business in Pat Rin's new territory. He
thought that whorehouses were often so.

"I see," he said gently. "But, do you know, I did not request a
companion for this evening."

"No, that's OK," Bilinda told him easily. "It's all written down on the
schedule. I can write it out for you, if you wa—" She stopped, her
rather pale face suddenly ablaze, and her gaze not— quite—so
fearless.

Pat Rin frowned at her, wondering what the difficulty might be, then
recalled the unlettered entries in the book he had found above
stairs.

"I can read," he told Bilinda, and saw the fear edge out of her eyes.

"However," he continued, "I am not thin of company this evening.
Nor do I foresee a need to follow the former boss' schedule."

Bilinda frowned. "You don't want me?"

Pat Rin raised his hands soothingly. "It is a matter of business," he
said gently, "and nothing whatsoever to do with you, yourself. I
regret that I did not know of the existence of the schedule and thus
exposed you to the dangers of traveling at night." He glanced at
Cheever, who was sitting almost absurdly still.

"Mr. McFarland will escort you to Audrey's House. Also, if there is a
fee—"

Bilinda blinked. "Fee? For me? Nossir, Boss. That's all part of the
arrangement. This is how Ms. Audrey pays her Insurance." She
hesitated, then said, rather breathlessly, "I don't mean no offense,
but—if you ain't gonna hold with the arrangement, does that mean
Ms. Audrey's outta business?"

Across the table, he heard a slight sound, as if Natesa had
sneezed. Pat Rin gave the girl a slight frown. "That is between Ms.
Audrey and myself." He inclined his head. "I apologize for the
inconvenience, to yourself and to Ms. Audrey. Have a pleasant
evening, Bilinda. Mr. McFarland?"

"On my way." Cheever came to his feet and grinned at the girl.
"OK, Bilinda, time to go home."

There was, as the vernacular went, no percentage in arguing, which
Bilinda was quick enough to understand. She gave Pat Rin a nod,
and, on reflection, Natesa, too, and allowed Cheever to usher her
out. The door closed—softly—behind them.

Pat Rin closed his eyes, abruptly very, very tired.

"Master?"

He opened his eyes. "I believe I will retire for the evening," he said
with a languid wave of the hand. "The exertions of the day have
quite exhausted me."

It was meant to ape the manner of the more insular and annoying
High Houselings, but Natesa did not smile. Merely, she inclined her
head and rose.

"I will escort you to your bedroom and make certain that all is
secure."

Someone had been at the bedroom. Here, as nowhere else in
Boss Moran's narrow, tawdry house, the floor was clean, the walls
washed, the bed linens spotless. There was a rag rug akin to the
one in his office next to the bed. He stood near it, watching Natesa
make her circuit about the room.

When at last she was satisfied, she moved to the door, paused on
the threshold and inclined her head. "Master. Sleep well. One of us
will be close by."

"Do not cheat yourself of sleep to guard mine," he said, and she
did smile, then, by which he knew she would not obey him.

"Sleep well," she said again, and stepped into the hall, pulling the
door behind her. Within an inch of closing entire, the panel paused,
and her voice wafted to his ear.

"My name is Inas Bhar."
Day 50
Standard Year 1393
Lytaxin
Erob's House

The breeze subsided so gradually she couldn't have said when it
quit completely. She noted its absence; in so noting decided she
had slept long enough—and awoke.

For a moment she lay, eyes closed, listening to the silence, feeling
the jubilant singing of blood through her veins, the sweet passage
of air through her lungs. She stretched, luxuriating in the smooth
slide of well-toned muscles. Sensuously, she stretched her mind
as well, reaching out in that undefinable, definite way, to the pattern
that was her perception of Val Con's self.

The pattern blazed with lucent purity, its byways and inroads fully
integrated, absolutely, entirely and unmistakably Val Con; joyously
intact. Throat tight with the beauty of him, Miri extended herself and
stroked him, raising a crackle of startled lust, and a flicker of the
particular bright green she understood to be laughter. Then,
slowly—very slowly, as if relishing every instant of contact, she felt
his fingers stroke down her cheek, and across her lips. Miri sighed,
reached—and found him abruptly absent, though she saw his
pattern as plainly as she ever had.

Regretfully, she opened her eyes to Erob's sickroom. The wall of
medical gizmos was dark and silent; the tech's noteboard standing
blank and ready in its place, though no tech was in evidence. Nor
was there any sign of the largish green person known to them both
as her brother Sheather.

Throwing back the quilt, Miri bounced out of bed and strode over to
the door to check the lock. Locked, all right, and from the inside,
too. She tried to figure out if that worried her, or ought to, then
decided the hell with it: The door was locked from the inside, and
Sheather, who had presumably arranged for that circumstance,
was conclusively not in the room with her. Therefore, Sheather was
on his own inside a Liaden clanhouse. That might've been
worrisome, had the House in question not recently survived both a
civil uprising and an Yxtrang invasion. At this stage in the
proceedings, nobody was likely to get too upset about a little thing
like a Clutch turtle wandering the halls.

Which, come to think of it, sounded a whole lot more entertaining
than sticking around a deserted sickroom. She wasn't sick. If she'd
ever felt better in her life, she couldn't at the moment recall the
occasion.

She did feel a trifle grubby, which could be remedied by a shower,
after which she intended to go for a walk, unless somebody came
up with a compelling reason why she shouldn't.

Decision taken, she moved briskly in the direction of the 'fresher,
stripping off her nightshirt as she went.

The shift had thus far been quiet. Ren Zel had run routine systems
checks, and done some general housekeeping. His mind did
wander, now and again, to the impossibility of the cat in his cabin
and the irrefutable evidence of that long, white whisker. At last,
knowing what he would find, he pulled up the current roster of the
pet library.

As he had expected, there were no cats currently on file in the
library. Certainly, there was no ship's cat, free to wander the
vessel, earning its passage by dispatching vermin. Useful as such
creatures were, they had a tendency to get into unchancy places,
resulting in fouled machinery and, more often than not, a dead cat.

And even if the Passage did harbor a cat, who had let the creature
into his quarters?

He sighed and closed the roster.

It was a puzzle, certain enough, and the only other possibility that
occurred to him was that a crew member had smuggled a pet
aboard. Though how they had kept it secret from all was another,
just as knotty, puzzle.

He sighed again and considered taking the whisker to the ship's
Healer, to see what she might scry from it. Lina was a Healer of no
small skill, her lack of success with himself having to do with some
sort of 'natural shielding' that he possessed. He understood that
this was not entirely unknown. Unhappily, the shielding prevented
him being Healed of the nightmares of battle, and the pain of his
dying. Though he thought he was healing of that last wound on his
own, if slowly.

So, then, he thought. At shift-end, he would take the whisker to
Lina. That was the best course, surely.

Someone had been kind enough to lay in a couple shirts in her
size. The same someone, Miri supposed, newly showered and
thoroughly air-dried, who had been forethoughtful enough to shine
her boots and make sure that her leathers were clean.

The arrangements had a certain feel of Beautiful to them—the
Compleat Captain's Aide, Miri thought with wry gratitude, sealing
the cuffs of her shirt. She stamped into her boots, put her hand
against the plate and left the dressing room. Half a step into the
main room, she checked, turned and frowned at the man lounging
in the chair next to the tech's station, his legs thrust out before him
and crossed neatly at the ankle. He was dressed like she was, in
working leathers, and boots buffed to a mirror finish. One
irrepressible eyebrow rose at her frown.

"The door," she said, trying to sound severe, "was locked."

"It was," Val Con admitted. "And it is locked now. I hope you don't
think me lax in such matters."

It took a major effort of will not to laugh out loud, which was, of
course, what he wanted. Instead, Miri managed quite a credible
sigh while she surveyed him.

He looked like his pattern, she thought—new-made and shiny; so
beautiful it made a body's throat close up and her heart start acting
funny. In fact, he looked miraculously well for a man she'd been
told was going to have to devote some considerable time to
relearning how to walk. Val Con raised his other eyebrow.

"Is there something wrong, cha'trez?"

"Depends," she said. "We having another one of those dream
sequences?"

"Dream—Ah. Jelaza Kazone." He smiled. "I believe it safe to
assume that we are now both present in…contiguous reality." He
tipped his head, considering. "Mostly contiguous reality."

"Mostly's more than we had last time," she allowed, drifting over to
his side. She cleared her throat. "You don't happen to know where
Edger and Shan are, do you?"

"Alas. Must we locate them immediately?"

She looked down into his face. "You got anything better to do?"

"Yes," he said. She saw familiar lightning weave through his
pattern, and shivered.

"Yes, is it?" Her hand rose, not entirely on her order. Softly, she
stroked the well-marked, mobile eyebrows, ran her fingertips along
the high line of his cheek…

"Cha'trez?" His voice was not quite steady. Miri stroked his cheek
again.

"Scar's gone, boss," she murmured, tracing the place where it had
been.

"Many scars are gone. I am—Miri…" He took a hard breath. "Miri,
let us make love."

"Here?" she asked, teasing him, like her own blood wasn't hot with
desire.

He reached up and captured her hand. "Why not?" he murmured,
and kissed her fingertips before slanting a glance of pure mischief
into her eyes. "The door is locked."

It was the custom of Emrith Tiazan, Erob Herself, to take a turn or
two through the atrium prior to seeking her bed. As this had also
been the custom of her father who had been delm before her, the
room's cycle had long been set opposite the day-night cycle of the
outside garden, where the seedling of Korval's Tree held
dominion.

Here, there were more convenable plants, mild-mannered and
conducive of an easy sleep. Korval's Tree promoted madcap
dreaming, of a kind unsuitable in old women who had lost a third of
her House in the late warlike disturbances.

Alone with her thoughts and her dead, she ambled along the
sweet-smelling ways, pausing now and again to admire the
progress of certain favorites. Her shoulder muscles began to
loosen under the suasion of the mock sunlight; her houseboots
made a soft shuffling sound against the shredded bark path; the
first notes from the singing waters wafted 'round the next curve,
teasing her ears. Comforted by all that was gentle and usual,
Emrith Tiazan's face relaxed into a smile.

She followed the path around, and the full song of the waters
rushed to greet her. She paused, as she always did, face turned
up toward the false sun, eyes closed in pleasure, before moving
across the little stone bridge to her especial spot, a stone nook,
surrounded by simple rock plants, enchanted by the joyous waters.

Which was this evening filled very nearly to overflowing by two
large, green…things.

Emrith at first thought them twin boulders, brought in and disposed
by some well-meaning but mad gardener. Then she saw the
extended foreleg of the smaller, culminating in a three-fingered
hand. She walked closer, discovering other details—beaked faces
with nostril slits, horny green hides, and a shell-like substance
partially encasing each large torso. Both appeared asleep. Or
dead. Emrith Tiazan stared at them a long time, by her lights. She
didn't even wonder where they had come from—to whose orbit,
after all, did any of the strange, uncomfortable or dangerous
oddities of the universe attach themselves?

Eventually, she sighed and did something that she had done only
once before in this garden—she reached in her pocket and
thumbed on the remote.

"My delm?" An Der sounded startled, as well he might, she
thought, sourly.

"Find Shan yos'Galan," she said, striving for an appropriate
calmness. "Bring him to the singing waters in the atrium. I believe I
have found that which belongs to his House."

As agreed, the majority of their party waited in the side garden
while Nelirikk went ahead to alert his captain to the presence of
both scouts and recruits.

The hour was far advanced, and he was certain that the medical
technician currently in a position of authority over the captain would
find his visit unseemly. Had he been in pursuit of an Yxtrang
commander in similar straits, Nelirikk would simply have put the
technician aside and given his report; a soldier's duty came before
all: illness, pleasure, sleep, or food…

Liadens held to another ordering of duties, and the necessities of
soldiers were not always at the top of the list. Which is how it came
to pass that a mere medical technician could order a captain.

Nor was it appropriate, according to the complex net of rule and
custom in which Liadens ensnared themselves, for a captain's aide
to lay hands on a med tech for the purpose of gaining his captain's
side.

It was thus necessary to have a reason for speaking to the captain
at once that the tech would accept as sufficiently urgent to disturb
her rest.

Wrestling with this conundrum, Nelirikk turned a corner—and
slammed to a halt, staring.

Two people were walking toward him—two people he had reason
to know well. The woman was none other than his captain, who he
had last seen that morning, lying pale and weak against pillows;
med tech on the hover. The man was no one less than the scout
himself, who certainly should not be walking—not so soon, if ever
again.

Regardless, here they came, strolling hand-in-hand down the
center of the hallway, to the uninformed eye, as vulnerable and as
guileless as children. Nelirikk frankly stared.

"Hey, Beautiful," the captain called. "How was your walk?"

"Captain." He recalled himself and came to attention, saluting. "My
walk was…interesting."

"Yeah? You didn't seen any Clutch turtles, did you?"

Clutch turtles? Nelirikk managed to stifle the shiver, while fervently
hoping never in his lifetime to see a Clutch turtle, enemy of the
Troop, slayer of fleets.

"Captain," he replied, somewhat stiffly, "I have not. I have,
however, seen scouts, and together we have—"

"Scouts?" The man murmured. "Are you certain?"

Nelirikk frowned. "Are there others among Liadens who walk silent
and woodwise and arrive on-world in a scout class ship?"

"Actually," the scout said surprisingly, "there are."

Nelirikk thought about that, then looked to the captain, who was
watching him out of ironic grey eyes.

"Two represent themselves as scouts: Clonak ter'Meulen, scout
commander; Shadia Ne'Zame, scout lieutenant, first in. The
third…"

He looked from grey eyes to green. "The third did not say he was a
scout, though the others treat him as a peer—and at times defer to
him. The lieutenant addresses him as 'captain'. He bears a Tree-
and-Dragon—" He touched the matching symbol on his collar, "and
gives his name as Daav yos'Phelium."

The scout's eyebrows rose. "Does he?" He glanced at the captain.

"Odds he's the genuine article?" she asked. He moved his
shoulders.

"It would be difficult to fool Clonak, even at this remove; he and my
father trained together. Later, he was a member of the survey team
of which my father was captain. Uncle Er Thom said the two of
them were great friends—even though Clonak had been in love
with my mother." Again, he moved his shoulders, and smiled into
the captain's eyes. "If it's odds you're after, my lady— then I am
compelled to say that I have too little data and must see the man
for myself."

"Sure you are," she said resignedly. The scout grinned and Nelirikk
gave a start, the sense of wrongness about the other man's face
crystallizing all at once. The green eyes moved; pinning him.

"Yes?"

"I—" Nelirikk cleared his throat. "Scout, your nchaka is—gone."

"Ah." The smaller man inclined his head. "The Troop remembers."

"The Troop remembers," Nelirikk affirmed and looked back to his
captain.

"Captain. In addition to scouts, my walk produced recruits."

She shook her head. "The Irregulars are outta business; ain't taking
recruits. Point 'em at Commander Carmody."

"Commander Carmody has given medical care, food and quarters,
so winning himself a place in the camp-tales. However, if the
captain pleases, these recruits will give their oaths and their
weapons only to Hero Captain Miri Robertson, who vanquished the
Fourteenth."

She sighed. "You're talking about Yxtrang recruits?"

"Tales of your prowess echo throughout the ranks of two armies,"
the scout murmured. "A hero to Yxtrang and mercenary alike,
you—"

"Can it," she told him and frowned up at Nelirikk.

"How many?"

"If the captain pleases. One Rifle and an explorer—two in total.
The third—a senior explorer—has gone to glory's reward."

"Yeah? Two of you have an argument?"

"Captain. I had not the honor to know Gernchik Explorer before he
died. He was wounded in a rear-holding action, to allow the officers
time to escape. Seeing that his condition was serious, and
unwilling to use the grace blade, his junior—Hazenthull Explorer—
attached Diglon Rifle to her command, and marched the three of
them here, to present their weapons and offer you their oaths."

"And to get her senior into an autodoc, quicktime." She nodded.
"How's she taking his death?"

This was the joy of serving a captain wise in the way of the
common troop. Nelirikk saluted. "Captain. She is at the
moment…docile. Daav yos'Phelium gives it as his opinion that this
condition might change, quickly and catastrophically."

"He does, huh? Then I hope you got her someplace where she
can't do too much damage."

"Captain. She is in the garden attached to the side of this wing."

The captain blinked. She looked at the scout, who lifted an
eyebrow.

"Nelirikk," she said, mildly.

He swallowed and came to full attention. "Captain."

"Have you lost your mind?"

"No, Captain."

"You're sure about that?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Right." She looked up at him. "You want to tell me what you was
thinking?"

"Captain. It was the thought of Daav yos'Phelium that Hazenthull
Explorer should be brought immediately to give full battle-oath to
the captain. He fears that the interim oath he holds from her is not
strong enough to bind, if her grief overcomes her reason. He was
supported in this by the scouts."

"Daav yos'Phelium holds temporary oaths from an Yxtrang
common trooper and an explorer?" She asked

"Yes, Captain."

She shook her head and looked again at the scout. "This has got to
be your father."

"He does appear to have something of the familial sense of
humor." His face was bland.

"Is that what you call it?" She sighed. "What else, Beautiful? Might
as well spill it all."

"Captain, there is no more. Your recruits await you, accompanied
by scouts."

"The Irregulars're out of business," she repeated, but it was scout
she was speaking to. "I don't guess it would be good form for line
yos'Phelium to hold a private troop."

"There is," murmured the scout, "some precedent."

"Great. I suppose the House routinely hires Yxtrang soldiers to
guard its piggy-bank. No—" she raised a hand—"don't tell me."

"As the captain wishes."

"No respect, that's your problem." She fell silent then, frowning at a
space somewhere between Nelirikk's left elbow and infinity.
Eventually, she looked up.

"OK. Get on back. We'll be there soon."

Nelirikk saluted. "Captain. Thank you, Captain."

"Think you'd know better than to thank me by now," she said, and
her voice sharpened. "If the explorer decides her oath ain't
binding, shoot her dead. If her trooper's reasonable, you can stop
there and wait for me. If hell breaks, I expect you and the scouts to
be standing when it's done. This is an order."

Nelirikk saluted once more. "Yes, Captain."

"Right. Get outta here."

Another salute and he was gone.

Miri waited until the sound of his footsteps had faded to nothing
before looking into her partner's speculative green eyes.

"How much precedent?" she asked.

The child is going to break, Daav thought, stifling a sigh. Behind his
eyes, he felt Aelliana stir, though she offered no comment.

To casual—that was to say, non-scout—eyes, Hazenthull was the
picture of well-mannered docility. She sat where she had been
directed, on a wide stone bench beneath a fragrant tree laced with
fairy lights, Diglon Rifle at her side.

The garden was largely shrouded in night, pierced gently here and
there by the spangle of decorative lights. Shadia was invisible
between the bench and the outside gate, on the alert for trouble.
Clonak had disappeared into the shadows nearer the house,
guarding the door against the possibility of an Yxtrang rush.

As oath-holder, Daav occupied the position of greater peril, leaning
against an artfully place boulder directly before the stone bench
occupied by his oathsworn. He crossed his arms over his chest,
which put his right hand on the butt of the pistol riding hidden in his
vest.

Gods, he thought, I don't want to waste a scout.

"Nor ought we to endanger the House." Aelliana's tone was more
than a little acerbic, which was, Daav owned, no less than he
deserved, who had placed Erob's House in peril by insisting upon
this mad course.

If the captain comes quickly…he thought. Yes, and if Hazenthull
could but hold scout-sense against the rising tide of rage—that the
solution which was to have bought her senior's life had failed,
leaving her and her dependent trapped and in the power of the
enemy…

"She depended upon her senior to find the way clear, once he was
healed," Aelliana said. "She did not plan fully."

How could she? He replied, reading the change in Hazenthull's
muscles, malleable under the growing warmth of her rage. His
survival was the essence of her plan.

On the stone bench, Hazenthull shifted, her muscles bunching as if
for the charge. Daav's hand closed around the hidden pistol.

"Explorer." Unexpectedly, Diglon Rifle leaned forward. "Explorer,
the captain comes."

She turned on him, face set in a snarl, and started badly when the
house door snapped open, admitting the person—and the
voice—of Nelirikk Explorer.

"Prepare for inspection!" He commanded, in the Yxtrang common
tongue.

Diglon Rifle rose at once, marched over to the pool of light spilling
from the open door and dropped into parade rest.

Hazenthull Explorer sat, as a woman turned to stone, staring, her
face beneath the tattoo work beginning to crumble.

"Explorers kept discipline, when I was in the corps," Nelirikk said,
acidic in the extreme; and then snarled, "Prepare for inspection!"

The command voice sent a little thrill even along Daav's scout-
trained nerves. Diminished as she was, Hazenthull was in no
condition to resist.

Sullen, but obedient, she stood, walked out into the light and
assumed parade rest slightly in advance of Diglon Rifle, as befit
her higher rank. Nelirikk placed himself to the right and slightly
forward of both, eyes front.

Daav sighed and stood away from the boulder, hands at his side,
pistol nestled yet in its secret pocket, and wondered how soon the
captain might arrive.

Wonder was speedily answered.

"Troop! Attention!" Nelirikk bellowed, and all three straightened as
the empty doorway framed a slender woman in working leathers,
her white shirt laced with silver cord, her red hair neatly braided and
wrapped three times around her head, like the crown of a barbarian
princess. At her back, not immediately noticeable, walked a man,
dressed as she was, in working leathers, his shirt black, his hair
dark.

Daav took a careful, quiet breath. The scout, is it? he thought.
Aelliana, behold our son.

His vision slipped, the images going ghostly, as it did when she
was actively using his eyes, rather than merely depending upon the
data he gathered for both of them.

"A scout sublime," she murmured. "No more substantive than a
thought, and the edges of him so sharp he fairly glows. Though I
think that he would not be quite so invisible if his lady did not
deliberately draw the eye to herself." She paused. "A formidable
pair of children, to be sure, van'chela—and aptly joined, leaf and
root." His eyesight blurred; became his own once more. "We may
be proud."

Or terrified, Daav amended, and heard her laugh before she
vanished from his awareness.

Straight up to the waiting troops walked the red-haired lady, and
stood before them, hands behind her back, chin up. She took her
time considering them; the man at her side glanced casually 'round
the garden, unerringly picking out the positions of the three scouts.

Apparently satisfied with what she saw, the lady deigned to speak.
"I am Captain Miri Robertson, field name Redhead." Her voice was
firm, her Yxtrang slow, but robust, her accent, Daav noted wryly,
neither native nor quite as ghastly as his own. "I am in command
here. Lieutenant, present the recruits."

"Captain." Nelirikk saluted, showily, and barked out. "Candidate
Hazenthull Explorer, stand forward for inspection!"

For a marvel, she did so, and saluted, somewhat faintly, her stance
eloquent of disbelief as she gazed down upon a captain two-thirds
her height and less than half her mass.

"Captain," she said, warily.

"Explorer." The captain's tone was cool

"Candidate Diglon Rifle!" Nelirikk ordered. "Stand forward for
inspection!"

He did, saluting with energy. "Captain!"

"Rifle." Slightly warmer, there, accompanied by an infinitesimal nod
of the head. "Why do you want to enlist under me?"

"Captain." He saluted, looking bewildered, as well he might,
thought Daav. Why was not the concern of mere Rifles.

"Captain, soldiers need command. We are…abandoned in place,
without orders, except to resist the enemy until we die." He
paused, brow furrowed, tattoos rumpling. "Captain, I would rather
live than die."

Captain Miri Robertson, field name Redhead, smiled. "So would I."
The smile faded.

"Hazenthull Explorer."

"Captain."

"Why do you want to enlist under me?"

There was a pause, possibly longer than was quite considerate of
the captain's honor.

"Captain. Soldiers need command."

The captain shook her head, Terran-style. "But explorers—like
scouts—chafe under too much command. As I well know." She
paused, then snapped in full command mode.

"Explain!"

Hazenthull jerked, and saluted, hastily. "Captain. It was known that
the Hero of the Battle for the Airfield had recruited an explorer. It
was thought that such a captain might attach more explorers to her
unit. The Fourteenth Conquest Corps has deserted us. Without
command we are dead and without honor. Under a Hero captain
we may serve with honor and die with glory. For the good of the
Troop."

There was a small silence before the captain nodded. "Better."
She glanced at the silent scout, perhaps gaining some information
from his face that was invisible to Daav. She brought her gaze back
to the two Yxtrang.

"Before I ask for your oaths," she said slowly, "I will tell you that the
troop you came to join, the Lytaxin Irregulars, was a field troop, its
ranks filled by survivors from the first wave of the invasion and a
few old soldiers who had been separated from their home troops.
Having done duty, the Irregulars have—honorably and without
prejudice—been disbanded. The survivors have returned to rebuild
their homes. The old soldiers, many of them, have been
reattached to their home troops, which came in as part of the
counterattack. Those who have not are temporarily attached to
mercenary units here. They will take transport when the mercenary
forces lift and will rendezvous with their home troop out of
headquarters. Understand this. I hold rank as a captain of
mercenary soldiers, commissioned by Commander Carmody
himself, but at this time, I have no command."

She paused. Neither recruit made a sound.

"In addition to my rank as captain," she continued, "I owe
allegiance to a kin-group—Clan Korval. This kin-group has
acquired a worthy and cunning enemy. In order to fight this enemy,
we will need soldiers. The sub-group Line yos'Phelium stands
ready to receive your oaths, if you wish to give them, but you must
understand that this service will be different. You will be required to
learn languages other than the tongue of the Troop; cultural study
will be required. I expect this of explorer and Rifle, alike. Worse,
you will serve not one captain, but the leaders of the sub-kin-group,
who are two and equal." She put her hand, palm flat, against her
chest; then likewise touched the man beside her.

"This is Val Con yos'Phelium Clan Korval. He is, among many
other things, a Liaden scout and my lifemate." She tipped her
head, and asked a question in Liaden. "Do you understand
'lifemate', Hazenthull Explorer?"

"If the captain pleases. As we are taught, it is an arrangement of
sexual convenience, with implications of exclusivity."

"Oh, my," Aelliana murmured.

She's young, Daav countered. And I will own, my lady, were we
both embodied…

"True."

The captain's eyebrows had lifted. She glanced at the man beside
her.

"Hear that?" she said in Terran. "Convenient."

He moved his shoulders. "The interpretation of custom is uniquely
subject to error, as even the most careful scholar will confess."

Hazenthull stirred. "If the captain pleases," she managed in her
ragged Terran. "Does this mean that 'lifemate' is not a sexual
architecture?"

"In general, it is," the captain said slowly. "In specific, it's a lot
more. Nelirikk'll fill you in, and you can mince it up into Rifle-size
pieces. If you wanna go through with it, that is. I wouldn't blame you
if you didn't want to have nothing to do with swearing to line
yos'Phelium. Nelirikk can fill you in on that, too."

Hazenthull's eyes moved, questioning.

"The scout who stands beside the captain is of Jela's own blood,"
Nelirikk said in the tongue of the Troop. Daav saw Diglon start and
lean forward, face intent.

"The Line the captain asks you to give oath to is the line to which I
have myself given oath. When the captain and the scout go against
the enemy of their blood, I will be at their backs. If there is a place
or a service of greater glory in all the galaxy, I have not heard of it."

There was silence. Hazenthull looked to Diglon Rifle, not as if she
were seeing him, Daav thought, but as if she were weighing the
burden on her soul. She sighed, and saluted.

"Captain. We came to offer ourselves and our weapons to Captain
Miri Robertson. That has not changed. If a captain so wise in war
will accept our oaths and weapons, we will serve her until our last
bullet is spent."

The captain nodded, glanced aside—and Daav found himself
pinned in a feral gray glance.

"If Scout yos'Phelium will relinquish the short-oaths he holds in my
name, this man and I will take your oaths to line yos'Phelium."

yos'Galan had been roused from his bed, Emrith Tiazan surmised,
not without a certain satisfaction! Not that he was rumpled, mis-
buttoned, clumsy, or in any way unseemly; but the silver eyes were
heavy, and the charade of the voluble fool was missing entirely.
Indeed, one might almost say the bow he accorded her was…
terse.

"Erob."

"yos'Galan." She inclined her head, merely, not bothering to rise
from her seat on the edge of the stone bridge; and pointed at the
giants slumbering in her quiet place.

"Those are yours, I believe?"

He sighed. "In fact, they are not, though they stand kin to my
brother and his lifemate."

She sighed in her turn. "How else? Well, no matter. Korval's kin-
lines are not mine to tend. Thank the gods. Remove them.
Immediately."

The thin white eyebrows lifted. "I failed to notice the location of the
pneumatic hoist when I came in. Perhaps you would be good
enough—?"

"Or perhaps I would not. Wake them, yos'Galan, and remove them.
Understand me, I would not require it of you, were your cha'leket or
his lifemate able. However, my information is that both are
convalescent, so the duty falls to near-kin."

"They are," he said slowly, "guests of your House."

She stared at him. "I beg your pardon? Who admitted them?"

"Surely that information is in the door-log."

Well, and so it would be—later just as much as now. And she was
far too wily an old woman to be found in doubt of an assertion
made by one of Korval. She sighed again and looked at the large,
unmoving bulks of them, sprawled all over her comfort place.

"And I suppose this is just like home?" She raised a hand. "No,
leave it. Only tell me how long they will sleep."

"Forgive me, but I am ignorant of their customs and their habits. It
may that my brother's lifemate will know the length of their sleep
cycle, though I hesitate to disturb her own rest."

"Yes. Well." Creakily, she began to rise from her seat on the edge
of the bridge, and was agreeably surprised to find a large brown
hand extended to her service. She slid her hand into his and
allowed him to help her rise, then walked with him, companionably
side-by-side back across the bridge and toward the door.

"This is a pleasant garden," yos'Galan said, smiling at a colorful
bank of gladoli.

Well, and it was that, Emrith allowed, when it wasn't being invaded
by giant turtles. She inclined her head.

"I thank you," she said calmly. "It is one of the joys of—"

The remote in her pocket gave tongue. She snatched it out,
thumbed 'receive' and snarled, "Who dares?"

There was a moment of terrified silence, or so she devoutly
hoped, before An Der spoke, respectfully.

"Your pardon, my delm. I relay a message from the door. Lady
Nova yos'Galan has arrived claiming guest-right and requesting the
comfort of her close-kin."

"Has she," said Erob, and directed a glare at the lady's brother.
"Pray conduct Lady Nova to the guesting suite in the garden wing.
Her brother will be with her shortly. Should she have any other
requirements, the House exists to serve her." She closed the
connection.

yos'Galan spread his big hands. "Surely you can't blame me?"

"Oh, can I not?" Emrith Tiazan snapped. "She is your sister!"

"But more than that," he said soothingly, "she is Korval-pernard'i, in
which face she strongly represents a force of nature. A brother— a
mere thodelm!—hardly commands her arrivals and departures."

She drew a deep breath, but he was bowing, gracefully, and with
more than a touch of irony.

"However, since the House has promised my sister the comfort of
her close-kin, I should betake myself to the guesting suite in the
garden wing with no further delay. Good evening, ma'am." And so
he left her, seething.

"Lieutenant, please take the troops to the staff cafeteria inside and
wait for me there," Captain Robertson ordered. She turned her
head, looking out across the dark garden.

"Shadia Ne'Zame."

The darkness shifted, and coalesced into a woman in scout
leathers, bowing the bow between equals. "Captain Redhead?"

"Do me the favor of lending your countenance to the troop," the
captain said, and her Liaden bore the very accent of Solcintra. She
switched to Terran. "Stay out of trouble, got it?"

Shadia grinned. "Got it." She waved a hand at Nelirikk. "After you,
Lieutenant."

"Troop, about! Single file! Follow me!" Nelirikk marched into the
House of Erob, followed by an explorer, a Rifle, and, lastly,
skipping, a scout, who lightly touched the control as she passed
over the threshold. The door slid shut behind her.

Daav shifted, and found himself caught in the regard of two pair of
eyes—one gray, one green.

"Clonak," the scout said, without turning his head. "Grant us half-an-
hour."

There was no reply, merely a subtle disturbance in the air, then the
slight sound of the gate at the end of the garden, opening—and
closing.

Daav waited.

Surprisingly, it was Miri Robertson who spoke.

"Any ideas what we ought do with you?"

The tone was more than a little ironic; the dialect street-rat Terran.
Daav shrugged, deliberately Terran.

"I don't know that you need to do anything with me," he said, in his
most finicking, professorial accents.

She snorted. "Got the proper respect for command," she told the
green-eyed man at her left shoulder.

"Ah," he said, eyes and face bland. She shook her head and
looked back to Daav, an expression of mingled exasperation and
amusement informing her mobile features.

"Wanna tell me under what authority you took those oaths?"

"Blood kin," he said, more sharply than he had intended. "I couldn't
very well take oaths for the House, you know—especially as I
rather think my name has been written out of the roster of lives and
into the lists of Korval's dead."

"No," the scout said in his soft, murmuring voice, "it has not."

Daav met the green gaze and waited.

The scout's left eyebrow slipped upward a fraction. "Surely, you
don't think your brother gave over hope of your eventual return—or
that your son did?"

"My brother," Daav said slowly, "perhaps not. What my son might
do is—alas—beyond my ability to predict. He was so young when
we parted, you see."

"Precisely," the boy murmured. "It will perhaps amuse you to know
that your son did not strike your name from the book of the living,
nor did he ever give over hope of your eventual return. He had
several pointed questions to ask you, as I am certain you will
understand."

"My understanding is perfectly engaged," Daav assured him,
"since it was the very need to ask pointed questions which drew
me out of my Balance and sent me back toward Liad."

Something flickered in the green eyes. The boy inclined his head.
"I regret to inform you that Er Thom your brother has died during
your absence. He survived his lifemate by only a Standard."

It still sent an electric chill along his veins, the knowledge that Er
Thom was gone; that he would never again see his brother's face,
or hear the rare, sweet music of his laughter. Daav took a hard
breath, inclined his head in turn, and dropped into High Liaden for
the perfectly correct response.

"I thank you. Clonak had previously informed me of these things,
but I had not yet had it from kin."

He straightened to find the captain looking over her shoulder at the
scout.

"Well?"

"Well," he returned.

"Right." She looked at Daav, gray eyes serious now. "You want
back in or is this just a visit?"

He had discussed this very choice with Aelliana, several times.
She was of a mind to become re-clanned, pointing out that he
could not reasonably expect to resurrect Professor Kiladi on
Delgado and would thus need to establish another character
elsewhere, over another period of years, before he might take up
his Balance once more.

"And truly, van'chela," she had said, "I believe this phase of
Balance complete. Now it is time to gather allies and to pool what
is known."

Sound advice it was, and well-argued, yet there was a certain
disinclination to return to the confines of Liad after having for so
many years enjoyed the easy customs of the Terran worlds.

Miri Robertson grinned. "Tough call, ain't it?"

"Surprisingly so." He smiled at her. "I am guided in this by my
Lifemate, who I am persuaded would wish me safe among kin."

"Safe among kin ain't what we're offering this quarter," she told
him, very serious indeed. "Be sure you know that."

Daav raised his eyebrows. "I know it now, I thank you. The
condition is not so different from my life away."

"OK, then. First things first." She moved one step back, which put
her shoulder-to-shoulder with her Lifemate.

Daav took a sharp breath, and felt Aelliana, awake and aware, and
very interested in the matter at hand.

Miri Robertson lifted her chin and looked him in the eye before
spreading her arms in the ritual gesture.

"We see you, Daav yos'Phelium," she said, the High Liaden
phrase ringing against the darkness. "Come forward and be
reunited with your House."

Throat tight, and eyes misted, he stepped forward. He had to bend
a trifle to accept his Thodelmae's kiss; not at all to receive the
Thodelm's. He did not entirely anticipate the embrace that
followed—as perhaps his son had not, judging by its abruptness
and the rough, anguished whisper in his ear:

"Father, where the hell have you been?"
Day 308
Standard Year 1392
Blair Road
Surebleak

Despite a natural desire to please one's oathsworn, Pat Rin did not
sleep well. Indeed, his exertions toward a restful slumber were so
little rewarded that he arose from his celibate, sagging bed after
only a few hours of tossing and turning, and made hasty use of a
shower which could at best be coaxed to produce tepid water.
Thereafter, Natesa at his back in defiance of a direct order to seek
her own couch, he had another tour of his new property, yanking
open every drawer in every room, ending—unfulfilled, frustrated,
but considerably warmer for the exercise—in the so-called "parlor,"
where he was in good time to greet the printer.

That worthy came, as she had last evening, ink-stained and
breathless, with the addition this morning of a fistful of flimsy gray
sheets, which she thrust at Pat Rin with a broad grin.

"On the street, Boss. Got a couple of mine from the shop and
some of Audrey's on the corners, reading 'em out, with extras to
give the ones who can read themselves."

"Well done." Pat Rin shook one sheet loose and passed it to
Natesa, took another for himself, and put the rest atop the chest of
drawers he had been, fruitlessly, exploring.

It was, he saw at once, the paper that was gray; the printing itself
was remarkably crisp and resisted smudging. The announcement
of the change in administration was set top-and-center, with no
alteration in his original text. That was good. At the bottom of the
page was a boxed advertisement, announcing the grand opening
sale at the Carpet Emporium on Blair Road, directly across from
Al's Hardware.

"We will want one of these put out every morning," he said to the
printer. "I will give you news from the boss' office. It would please
me, however, if this effort were to develop into
an…honest…publication, imparting news of interest and
importance to everyone who lives on these streets."

The printer nodded. "I was talking to one of mine last night, while
we was setting the type on this. Old fella. He remembers 'way
back, and he says we usta have a—a daily gab-rag. Told me how
to set it up. We're gonna need couple people on the street, finding
out what's up and who's doin' which. They'd write it up and we'd set
it—and every morning, early, it's on the street, free. Free" she said
again, emphatically, though Pat Rin had made no demur. "Reason
we can give it away, is we sell these boxes like you got here to the
joint-owners—like Al and Tobi and, hell, Ms. Audrey. Sounded
weird to me, but Laird—that's the old guy—Laird says the owners
paid up, and were glad to do it. The percentage is that they got
more traffic through their joints, especially if they'd do a— a special
on something everybody needs—sugar, say. Sell it low instead of
high to—"

Pat Rin raised a hand, and the printer chopped off in mid-
sentence, eyes showing white in her ink-smudged face.

"I am familiar with the concept. It is precisely what I propose and I
am delighted that you have an advisor to hand. Do you find yourself
able to undertake this project?"

"I'm in," she told him. "I need to know what your piece is so we can
price up the boxes right."

Pat Rin frowned. "My…piece. I—Ah." It was expected that he take
a profit from the printer's endeavor, while absorbing nothing of the
risk. Gods, what a hideous place. He sighed.

"My piece will be taken in advertising space," he said, showing her
the flimsy sheet. "A box, precisely as you have it here, with words
that will alter at my discretion. Three times a week, I will have such
an advertisement from you."

She blinked. "That's it?"

He lifted his eyebrows, consciously adapting a High House
hauteur. "It is sufficient."

"Yessir," she said hastily, and cleared her throat, looking around
her. "Well, if you're not—"

"Hold." He extended a hand, and she froze as if he had turned her
to stone. "There may be another service you may perform for me. I
will pay," he said sternly, "for this service."

The printer glanced aside, possibly trying to gain something from
Natesa's face. In this, she was apparently frustrated, for she
looked back to Pat Rin with a jerky nod. "Sure, Boss. What can I do
for you?"

"Pens," he said.

"Pens?"

"To write with. Ink pens. Black ink, by preference, or blue. But any
color will do—I apprehend that I may not be able to afford to be
proud. Have you such access to such things?"

She swallowed, her eyes sliding toward Natesa again, before
being forcibly brought back to his face. "Yessir. I can get you pens.
Black ink and blue. Got red, too, and green. Purple…"

"Black," he said firmly, and added, after taking thought. "And red. A
dozen each, if you have them in such quantity. If not, as many as
you can bring me today, with the balance due when they are
available."

She nodded, jerkily. "Right, Boss," she said, her feet sliding
against the plastic floor, preparatory to taking her leave—and froze
once again when Pat Rin raised his hand.

"One last thing," he said. "A—a logbook."

"Logbook, Boss?" There was genuine puzzlement on the woman's
face.

Pat Rin sighed. "A bound book, with the interior pages blank, so
that one may—may make notations. Of a good size…" His hands
moved, squaring it out in the air between them. "The binding of
some durable material—leather, perhaps or—"

"Got it!" The printer's face lit. "Can do, Boss. Got just what you
need. I'll send it over with the pens."

"And an invoice," Pat Rin cautioned her. "I will purchase these from
you."

"Sure, Boss. Whatever you say." She moved her feet again, clearly
aching to be gone.

"Thank you," Pat Rin told her. "You have done well. Natesa will see
you out."

"Right. Uh-r-you're welcome. Boss." She darted after Natesa and
Pat Rin closed his eyes, wishing most heartily for a cup of tea.

Pat Rin put the tin down on the kitchen table, not quite able to
repress the shudder, and stood, head bent, striving for patience.
Once, the tin before him had contained a perfectly unexceptional
blend of afternoon tea. Now…

The cook, who had been hovering, hands twisting in his apron,
sighed.

"Bad, huh? he said almost wistfully.

"On several counts," Pat Rin told him, with really commendable
calmness. "First, it is old. Second, it is damp. This sort is a dry leaf
tea." He took a careful breath. "Well. We shall have to purchase
more. When—"

The cook was shaking his head vigorously. "No, sir. Or, at least, not
if you're after more that look like that tin there. Got a bunch of 'em
in the pantry."

"Which are of like age?" Natesa murmured.

Pat Rin moved a shoulder. "The age perhaps does not matter so
much," he said. "This tin had been stasis-sealed. If the others have
not been breached, there may actually be something in this house
worth drinking." He waved a languid hand at the cook. "Take me to
the pantry."

The man blinked. "Ain't no need of that, Boss. Won't take me a
minute to fetch 'em out for you."

"Yes, but you see," Pat Rin explained gently, "eventually I will wish
to partake of a meal, and I am afraid that the quality displayed last
evening must improve. Rapidly. So, I am interested in what else
might be in the pantry in addition to tea; and if any of it is eatable, or
may be made to be eatable." He fixed the man in his eye and
frowned. "In short, I wish to ascertain whether I need a new pantry
or a new cook."

"Oh," the cook said. "Gotcha." He unwrapped his hands from his
apron, and pointed. "Right this way, Boss."

Pat Rin followed, Natesa at his back. The pantry was at the end of
a narrow hallway, behind a heavy wooden door. The cook pushed
this portal open and brought up the lights, revealing half-a-dozen
orderly shelves of tinned stuffs, and bags that announced their
contents in letters and pictograph: salt, sugar, flour, rice. To the
right of these were a few bins, covered over with old blankets.
Above, suspended by cords from the center beam, were perhaps
a dozen round, waxy balls.

The cook stood respectfully aside as Pat Rin toured the room.
There were more empty shelves than full, which struck him as odd
in the house of a supposed Power—but, then, much about the late
Boss Moran's house struck him as odd. He perused the stocks
leisurely, finding first ten stasis sealed tins of the same
unexceptional blend as that which had been spoilt. He picked one
up and stood with it cradled in his hand, reading the labels of the
other tins.

It appeared that he was wealthy in tinned fish, tinned crackers, and
two or three varieties of tinned soup. Next to these things were
perhaps half-a-dozen glass jars, vacuum-sealed, each bearing a
hand-lettered label: Jam. He took one of those, too, and carried it
and the tea-tin in the crook of his arm as he moved over to inspect
the contents of the bins, Natesa to his right, and a step behind.

Further to the right, within the shadows cast by of a row of empty
shelves, something moved; at the door, the cook gasped, and
stiffened. Beside him, Natesa drew, fierce and fluid—

"Do not!" He flung a hand out, and she whirled, staring at him out of
obsidian eyes that must surely have done damage— had done
damage…He shook away the wound and pointed. "It is only a cat."

She looked down the line of his finger and the cat obliged him by
strolling out into the greater light, sparing the two of them a yellow-
eyed glance of utter boredom before trotting off down the room, to
be lost once more in the shadows.

"I… see," Natesa said, on a long sigh, slipping her weapon away.
She looked back him, eyes considerably less sharp, and inclined
her head. "Master."

"Surely, merely lucky?" he responded, deliberately flippant, and
looked over to the cook, standing clenched and slightly pale by the
door. "I have some…familiarity…with cats."

"Yessir, Boss. Boss Moran, he liked to shoot cats."

"Yes, well. I prefer not to have mice." Taking a deep breath, he
continued to the bins.

Leaning over, he flicked back the blankets. Bin One contained a
goodly number of some sort of tuber, still wearing their native soil.
Bin Two was wholly given over to pungent-smelling bulbs—
possibly the local equivalent of onion. Bin Three was filled near to
overflowing with large orange fruits, which appeared to be of a
robust habit.

Pat Rin turned to face the cook, and pointed up at the center
beam.

"Cheese?"

"Right you are, Boss. Best cheese in the city."

"Ah. As it happens, I am partial to cheese."

The cook smiled. "We'll getcha a slice off the one in the kitchen,
when we go back. Man who likes cheese'll find it a friend."

Pat Rin eyed him. "I infer from this that Mr. Moran did not care for
cheese?"

"Nossir. Boss Moran, he didn't like much, 'cept to hoard his money.
And makin' his 'hands crawl—he did get a heapin' cup o'pleasure
outta that."

"I wonder that you stayed with so unsatisfactory a master," Pat Rin
commented, but the man only stared at him. Sighing, he jerked his
head toward the bins.

"Those tubers—are they a local specialty?"

The cook nodded. "Jonni grows 'em up on the roof. He takes care
of 'most all the vegetables."

"I see. Yet when Mr. McFarland particularly desired vegetables for
last evening's meal, you sent in a mess of leaves. I wonder why?"

"After greens, is what he told me. We're too early in the season for
greens. Froze some stuff, end of last growin' season, but it's gone
now, too."

"I see," Pat Rin said again, and used his free hand to motion the
cook out into the hallway. "Let us repair to the kitchen. I am very
much in need of tea, and perhaps some of your excellent bread,
with jam on it."

They were seated 'round the kitchen table sometime later when
Cheever McFarland arrived, all three supplied with a beer tankard
filled with a gently steaming pale green liquid. Plates before each
bore the sticky remains of toast-and-jam sandwiches. Pat Rin and
the cook had their heads together, apparently engaged in
producing a grocery list, while Natesa looked on, her eyes heavy,
and faintly amused.

"Mornin'," he said to her, and pointed at the wreckage. "Any more
of any of that left?"

She moved her head in a subtle nod toward the counter. "There is
tea, and there is jam, and there is bread. Toast is made on the
grill."

"Right." He considered her. "Long night?"

The fingers of her left hand flickered in the sign-language known as
Old Trade, letting him know the boss hadn't slept—and neither had
she.

"Right," he said again. "I'm on shift now. Get some rest. I'll sit on
him."

She smiled faintly. "I wish you good fortune, but I believe you will
find yourself bested," she murmured, easing out of her chair. At
the sink, she emptied what was left of her tea, rinsed the beer mug
and set it to be washed.

She looked back as she left the kitchen. Pat Rin yos'Phelium and
the cook were still deep in their plans; the cook laboriously writing
down the boss' suggestions.

"Don't look like the ad's drawing so good," Cheever commented at
about half-past lunch. "What say we shut the store for an hour and
go on down to Tobi's for bite?"

Pat Rin glanced up from the battered notebook he'd been studying
for most of the morning. "We do not appear to be awash in
customers," he allowed, courteously. "Nor have I properly attended
the hour. By all means, Mr. McFarland, provide yourself with lunch."

Cheever sighed mightily and shook his head. "I thought we'd got
the concept of 'security' through to you. I ain't leavin' you here on
your own, even if you probably are the best shot on the planet." He
swung a hand around, impatiently. "Think about it! What if five guns
come in through the front door right now and you was alone?"

The Liaden smiled, politely, like Cheever'd maybe told him a
slightly off-color joke. "Why, then, Mr. McFarland, I should
immediately be out the back door."

"If I believed that—which I don't—how'd you plan on dealin' with
the two they sent 'round to watch the alley?" He frowned, as ugly as
he knew how. "You ain't making things easy for your security, Boss.
My copy of the plan don't include the part where your head gets
blown off."

"Ah." He closed his eyes. Cheever considered him, letting the
frown go, and allowed as how he was worried. The plan—because
there was one, hammered out between the three of them long
before they raised Surebleak—was only good to a point. Taking
over Moran's territory—that had been according to plan. They had
to have a planetary base, and while Moran's streets weren't exactly
convenient to the spaceport, they had been the nearest most
accessible target. From here, they could consolidate, and figure
out how to get past the more powerful fatcats who controlled the
territories surrounding the port.

He'd considered that they'd be using their guns more than once,
'cause that was how business was done on Surebleak, and didn't
think much more about it.

Since yesterday, though, he'd thought about it a lot.

Pat Rin…Pat Rin wasn't a pro. Oh, he was a good shot; he walked
the walk, and that cool, pretty face of his didn't give away much, but
that was gambler bravado—plus a measure of pure cussedness,
give the boy his due—and nothing like what marked Natesa out as
a gun to fear.

Pat Rin had a revenge to accomplish. Cheever understood that. In
fact, he sanctioned it. And he didn't doubt—if the boss had to
personally shoot every fatcat and loyal 'hand on Surebleak to do it,
that the job would get done. What worried him, considerable, was
the question of what would be left of Pat Rin yos'Phelium at the
end of the campaign. He'd already taken a hit that would've
unhinged most Liadens, as Cheever understood it. Pat Rin hadn't
come unhinged—at least, not so you'd notice—but he was starting
to show some strain. Even as he sat there in his chair, eyes closed
and restful looking, Cheever could see the tension in his muscles,
and new lines starting to etch in around his mouth. The success of
the game depended on this man, Cheever thought—and came
suddenly to the realization that nobody—maybe not even Pat Rin
himself—knew what Pat Rin would do next.

"Well." The Liaden opened his eyes and slipped the little book
away into his jacket. "One does not build an entire day's labor upon
a jam sandwich." He stood, a shade less graceful than his usual,
which Cheever thought was the sleepless night starting to show.

"Let us have lunch, Mr. McFarland."

Come down to it, Cheever hadn't expected to win the argument,
and he wasn't sure he liked the idea of the boss in Tobi's
surrounded by workaday streeters, now that he had the victory.
Still, they had to show their faces around town—that was the point
of the rug store, after all. As if to enforce this line of reasoning,
Cheever felt his stomach rumble an order for a brew and a
sandwich.

That being settled, he followed the boss into the store proper just
as the first customer on the day walked in off the street.

She was a sight to behold—on first glance as out of place on the
street as Pat Rin himself. Second glance found the silk to be
second-grade synthetic; the jewelry light-gold set with mine-cut
stones. Still, she bore herself as would-a-person of melant'i, come
to call upon an equal.

Accordingly, Pat Rin bowed.

The lady considered him out of clever blue eyes, and shook her
pale, elaborately coiffed head.

"I won't even try to duplicate that," she said, and her voice was high
and sweet. "Let's just consider that I done what was polite."

"Indeed," Pat Rin said, smiling. "Let us do so. Have I pleasure of
addressing Ms. Audrey?"

She nodded, unsurprised. "Expecting me, were you? Well, I guess
you shoulda been, after last night. I was out on business, or I'd've
tried to set things straight then. I'm hoping we can come to an
accommodation today, if you got time?"

"Mr. McFarland and I were on our way to lunch. If you would care to
join us…?"

"Great minds think alike," she said, with a grin. "I was hoping you'd
see your way clear to having a bite at my place. Not as public as
Tobi's, and the food's better."

Pat Rin considered her, noting a certain tension—which was
certainly expectable in one come to call upon the new and
unknown quantity to whom one owed allegiance—as well as a
certainty of her own worth. The clever eyes met his with frankness,
which was rare in this place where he found himself. She was not
by any means in her first youth, and struck him as both competent
and commanding.

In fact, she was just such a one as he would need by him, if they
were able to forge an alliance built on mutual profit.

He inclined his head. "Almost, you persuade me," he murmured.
"Mr. McFarland?"

He felt, rather than heard the big man sigh. "Sounds great," he
said. "Tobi's ain't the kind of place to do business, Boss."

So, Pat Rin thought grumpily, I have cleared the matter with
'security. ' behold me, virtuous.

"Well, now, that's—" the lady began, and cut herself off, frank gaze
going over Pat Rin's shoulder.

"Will you look at that," she breathed, reverently. "I ain't ever…" She
brought her eyes back to Pat Rin's face with a visible effort.

"That is one hell of a rug."

"So it is," he agreed smoothly, slipping into his merchant's role. He
moved a hand, inviting her to make a closer inspection. Nothing
could have been more to her liking.

At his direction, she sampled the nap, her fingers as reverent as
her voice, and obediently inspected the underside, admiring the
precious, hand-tied knots.

"Who'd make something like this?" she asked, when he had done
and stepped back to allow her to commune with the carpet.

"Certain…members…of a particular sect," he replied, with perfect
truth. "It is very rare to find such things for sale."

She looked at him, blue eyes shrewd. "Why's that?"

"Because, upon its world of origin, this carpet is a religious artifact,
and the rules of the sect did not allow of them being sold."

"So, how'd you get this one?"

He smiled, liking her more and more. "Naturally, I must protect my
suppliers. Let us say that it was offered for sale from a licensed
dealer, who had paperwork sufficient to convince me of the
carpet's authenticity."

She sighed, stroked the carpet one last time and moved a regretful
step back, her eyes still on the pattern of the joyous revelers.

"How much does something like that put a body back?"

"That carpet—being a uniquity, you understand—may be
purchased for eight thousand cash—" He raised a hand,
smoothing away the protest he saw rising to her lips. "Or, it may be
leased, by the Standard month, or the Standard year."

"Leased." She frowned, the clever eyes showing puzzlement.
"What's that?"

"Ah. It is an arrangement whereby a customer will agree to pay a
set sum which is significantly lower than the cost of the carpet, plus
a refundable amount of earnest money, in order to have the use of
a particular carpet for a month, two months—a year." He moved his
shoulders, and raised his hands, showing her empty palms. "In that
case, there are papers to be executed—agreements to be made.
The customer would pledge to protect the carpet from spoilage, to
keep it safe from theft, and to return it, intact, upon the day
specified. If the customer failed of meeting the terms, he would be
seen to have purchased the carpet, and the full retail price would
then be due."

Audrey considered him with interest. "So, how much to lease it,
say, for a month?"

Pat Rin frowned slightly while he did several lightning calculations.
Of all the mad starts, he scolded himself—and yet he was certain
that he needed this woman's goodwill. Not that he would buy
her—in fact, he doubted that he could buy her—but that he would
show good faith, and a willingness to negotiate—yes, that he must
do. Equal to equal. So…

"I ask two thousand cash, plus earnest money of an equal amount.
But, you see, it is not efficient—for either of us—to lease for a
month. I must ask a higher rate, because I must move it, twice, in a
very short time. The most efficient arrangement for both is one that
allows the carpet to rest in one place for a period of a few months.
Should you wish to contract for three months, for instance, the
monthly rate falls to one thousand cash; six months, and the rate
falls again—to eight hundred cash. A year's lease may be had for a
mere six hundred cash per month, plus the deposit of earnest
money."

She grinned at him. "That's quite a scheme. Let's see…" She was
quick at her numbers. "If I lease from you for a year, you'll see a
return of seventy-eight hundred cash—two-hundred cash less'n the
full selling price."

"Precisely so. However, the carpet will not be available as an item
for sale during the period of its lease, and I must cover my
potential loss."

It was a laugh this time, full-bodied and attractive. "Sure you do!
And you get the rug back at the end of it to sell. Or lease. Seems
to me that leasing's more profitable."

"On certain items, of course it is. I am fortunate that the carpet
under discussion is durable as well as difficult to stain or to singe.
However, it is a unique item and thus vulnerable to theft. And if it
were stolen, I should not have it to sell ever again."

"There's that." She looked at him thoughtfully. "OK, I came to invite
you to lunch, and your 'hand there's lookin' about ready to eat one
of the rugs, which can't be good for business. Let's go over to my
place, and talk."

"Certainly," he inclined his head. "After you."

Smiling, she turned and led the way out, though she did pause for
a moment on the threshold, to look back over her shoulder at the
Sinner's Carpet, and sigh.

Ms. Audrey's house quite cast the late Boss Moran's "mansion"
into the shade. Most likely, Pat Rin thought, as he followed his
hostess through wide rooms and broad hallways, before
embarking upon its career as a whorehouse, it had been three
connected houses, and had required extensive remodeling to
achieve its present state of relative sumptuousness.

It was a well-occupied residence, to judge by the number of
brightly dressed young people they passed on the way to the
"private dining room." The urge to understand it as a clanhouse
was very nearly overmastering—and a temptation that he must at
all costs resist.

The "private dining room," achieved at last, proved to be a cozy
interior chamber. A long table at the far wall supported various
tureens and platters. A smaller, round, table sat on a rag rug of a
kind he was coming to know well, in the center of the room. Three
places were set with what appeared to be silk napkins and silver
utensils. A glass at each place was filled with a faintly amber liquid.
In the middle of the table sat an artful and modest bowl of flowers.

"Here we are," Audrey said, cheerfully. "Gotta serve ourselves, but
we can talk private."

She ushered them to the buffet, removed the lids from the tureens,
and proceeded to serve herself, which was certainly her right, in
her own house. Pat Rin picked up a plate, as she had, and
followed her down the table, taking a mite from every unfamiliar
dish. When he reached an end, he followed his hostess to the
round table, situated his plate, pulled out his chair and sat.

"Elegant little thing, ain't you?" she said wistfully.

In the act of unfolding his napkin, Pat Rin froze. How dare—
Slowly, leisurely, he turned his head, and met her eyes, frowning.

It could not precisely be said that a frown of disapproval from Pat
Rin yos'Phelium caused seasoned gamers to swoon. However, it
was generally agreed among those who had reason to know that it
was no easy thing to bear, that frown, nor that it brought forcibly to
mind the recollection that Lord Pat Rin shot first at Tey Dor's— and
had done so for a number of years.

Ms. Audrey laughed, quite merrily, and shook her napkin out.

"Now, no offense meant—it's a habit of business, like you doing a
quick-and-dirty assess on my poor old rag rug, first thing you walk
in the room." She sighed, and looked up to bestow her pleasant
smile on Cheever McFarland and his well-filled plate.

"That's right, " she said comfortably. "Man your size has got to
have his food. Enjoy yourself."

"I intend to, ma'am, thank you," Cheever answered easily. He
shook his napkin onto his knee, picked up a fork and fell to.

Not entirely mollified, Pat Rin finished with his own napkin,
extended a hand to his glass, raised it and essayed a exploratory
sip.

It was a new wine, and a sweet one, with a faint, enchanting note of
something reminiscent of ginger beneath. Pat Rin had a second
sip and set the glass aside.

"The wine is pleasant," he said to his hostess. "May I know the
vintage?"

Audrey smiled. "We just call it Autumn Wine. It comes in from the
country in lots of six, and I generally buy a couple dozen, if that
many pass through. Some of our clients are partial, and some of
the staff. We've got a few left from last season's buy; I'll be
pleased to give you a bottle."

A gift of wine. Pat Rin felt absurdly pleased as he inclined his
head. "Thank you, I would like that."

She nodded, and had an appreciative sip from her own glass.
"That's good," she murmured, and shook her head. "Understand,
this wine'll turn, if you keep it too long into spring, and what you'll
have then is some nice smellin' paint remover."

"Ah, then I will remember to enjoy it soon, with warm memories of
your hospitality."

For a heartbeat, she stared at him, her mouth half-smiling, then she
shook her head and returned to her meal.

At long last did Pat Rin address his own plate, and found the
unfamiliar viands good—even very good. Nor did he wonder when
Cheever McFarland rose from his place to refill his own plate.

"I wonder," Pat Rin said softly, "if you know who makes the rag
rugs. I have several in…my…house, and would be pleased to have
more—or even to purchase some for trade."

"Well, for that, Ajay Naylor makes 'em—has for years. But buying
'em for trade—there's no profit there, Boss. The rugs is how she
pays. Strictly barter, is Ajay."

"Is she? But the trade I had meant was not necessarily local."

"Gonna sell 'em at the port?" Audrey frowned at her plate
consideringly. "Might do, I guess."

"Do no ships come through the port?" Pat Rin murmured.

"Oh, well, ships. Sure they do. Once in a summer snowstorm. The
trouble with trying to sell things to the ships is you gotta deliver the
full order on time. Which means you need a safe road from here to
there. Which you ain't got."

"And yet there is the Port Road, which runs through this territory
and straight to the port," Pat Rin pointed out.

"That's right. And there's six different territories between here and
there. That's a lot of toll—and assuming there ain't a turf war goin'
on in one—or more!—when you gotta pass—not the way to bet,
not with that bunch. Also assuming that somebody up an' comin'
don't decided to knock you over and make your profit his."

"I see." Pat Rin sipped his wine. "Then we will need to work to
secure the Port Road, so that all may have equal access to trade."

Audrey blinked at him. "Sure we will," she said politely, and
Cheever McFarland laughed.

"Don't egg him on, ma'am," he said, pushing his plate aside and
reaching for his glass. "He'll do it just to prove you wrong."

"Thank you, Mr. McFarland," Pat Rin said coolly, and turned back to
his hostess.

"You will understand that I have not had much time to go over such
records as I have…inherited…from the late Mr. Moran, so I wonder
if you might tell me if there is a bank within my territory?"

Her eyebrows pulled together in a puzzled frown. "Bank?"

It was seldom that Pat Rin had cause to question his abilities in
Terran, but she was so plainly at a loss, and that over an inquiry
after an institution that must surely be well known to so astute a
businessperson…Hurriedly, he sifted his vocabulary for the correct
word to convey his meaning—and the word was bank".

"Bank," he said again, softly, certainly—but her puzzlement did not
abate. "Forgive me. An…institution…which keeps large sums of
cash in trust for customers, which makes capital loans, receives
collateral, pays out interest—"

"Oh!" Understanding dawned. "Gotcha. Pawn shops. Sure, you got
two established and one making a start." She frowned, briefly.
"Pays out interest, now—that's opposite the way it's been done.
The shop charges you interest, see, to keep your item instead of
selling it. No percentage in them paying out interest, when they
gotta store the stuff, too."

Beside him, Cheever McFarland shifted, but when Pat Rin looked,
the pilot was found to be gazing raptly at the artful arrangement of
flowers.

"A pawn shop is a different enterprise entirely," Pat Rin said
carefully. "The institution that I envision holds cash in trust for
members, and loans cash to other members, to whom it charges
interest. The institution then pays interest to its depositor-
members, in payment for its use of their funds." He was about to
go on to elucidate the more arcane functions of banks, but he saw
from her face that he had said quite enough. Audrey obviously
thought he was raving.

She had recourse to her glass, and sat holding it in her hand,
looking at him out of considering blue eyes.

"OK," she said at last. "Just who would be running this joint— this
bank?"

Pat Rin raised an eyebrow. "A board of trustees."

"Uh-huh. And the reason they don't take all the free money and leg
it for Deacon's turf would be?"

Ah. You have forgotten where you are, he told himself, and sighed
ruefully.

"Ordinarily," he answered Audrey, "1 would say, because of the
contracts and laws binding upon them. I quite see that such
contracts and laws would be unenforceable under…present
circumstances."

"It'd be tough," she allowed. "We don't have much to do with
contracts and laws—not here, an' not on any other turf I ever heard
of." She frowned and had a bit more of her wine.

"I like the idea," she said slowly. "I can see how it could work. But
these trustees of yours—they'd have to be people who weren't
tempted by big stacks of cash, and that ain't anybody I ever met."

"Many people are tempted by large sums of money." Pat Rin
frowned. Surely, he thought, there was something, some
mechanism, aside from law and honor, which would insure the
safety of the investors, and the honesty of the trustees?

"How if," he murmured, his eyes now on the flower arrangement as
well, but seeing something rather different—Mr. dea'Gauss seated
in his office, holding forth on the structure of a particular fund that
Pat Rin had wished to invest in, outlining the various failsafes and
protocols…

"How if the procedures required the keys of at least three trustees
in order to access the money itself? If the trustees are all
businesspeople of consequence…"

"And, better yet, if they all hate each other," Audrey said, suddenly
smiling. "This could work. It could work. It'll take some planning and
some finagling, but it might be possible." Her smile widened into a
grin. "Just moved from the Impossible pile to the Maybe pile. You'll
be a trustee, yourself?"

"Indeed I will not. The bank—best call it a—a mercantile
association—it should have nothing to do with the boss or the
boss' office. Ideally, it should be a separate entity, protected by
those laws and contracts we have both agreed are unenforceable
at the moment."

She stared, then laughed, and looked aside to Cheever McFarland.
"He like this all the time?"

"No, ma'am," Cheever said seriously. "Some days he's downright
ornery. He sleeps, occasional. And, from time to time, he likes a
game."

"Does he?" She looked back to Pat Rin with interest. "Cards?" she
asked, then corrected herself, "No, you're a boxman, ain't you?
Dice."

Pat Rin sighed, and spared a glare for Cheever McFarland, who
was once again studying the flowers. To Audrey, he inclined his
head, slightly.

"I am…familiar…with most types of gaming and gambling
practiced in the galaxy."

"Well." She finished her wine and put the glass down. "What're you
doing here?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Rusticating."

She didn't smile. "Plan on sticking around?"

"Surely that's my business."

"Was," she said, her voice almost stern. "But then you set yourself
up as boss. That changes the rule of play." She raised a hand, as if
she'd felt his outrage.

"Hear me out, just hear me out. Nort Moran was a stupid, selfish
animal, and the whole territory's best off without him. Vindal—that
was the boss before—she was smart, but she wasn't tough. Word
was she didn't even try to pull when Moran walked in on her.
You—you're smart and you're tough—and we need you. You're
gonna be good for business—this bank idea of yours, for one; and
putting the gab-rag back on the street. That's for day one. Who
knows what you'll come up with by the time you're on the street a
week?"

"Who, indeed," Pat Rin said politely, sternly suppressing the
shiver. For the second time in his life, he was being offered a Ring.
Gods. At least, this offer was made with honor—or so he thought—
perhaps leavened with a healthy dose of fear.

Audrey nodded. "Right. Right. You're the boss. An' I'm outta line."
She sighed, and pushed back from the table. "Just—think about it,
OK?"

Apparently, their luncheon business was concluded. Pat Rin
inclined his head and rose. "I will think about it. My thanks for a
most delicious and convivial meal."

"You're welcome," Audrey said, matching his formality. "I hope it'll
be the first of many." She glanced up to Cheever McFarland. "Mr.
McFarland, my pleasure."

"No, ma'am. My pleasure," the pilot assured her, gallantly, which
won him an easy laugh before she led them back through the
hallways and spacious rooms to the main entranceway.

There were rather more people about now, the clients obvious by
their less grand—and more concealing—clothing. That several of
the clients took him for a new addition to the house was plain from
the stares of interest he intercepted. He sighed to himself, and
followed his hostess, coming up to her side when she stopped a
sleek young man dressed only in a pair of scarlet synth-silk
trousers, and a purple sash. The young man favored him with a
wide smile.

"Villy, love, run down to the pantry and bring a bottle of Autumn
Wine up for the boss," Audrey said, quite loudly enough to be
heard across the room. In fact, several heads turned in their
direction—clients and residents alike.

The young man's smiled dimmed considerably, but he nodded
briskly enough. "Sure thing, Ms. Audrey. Back in a sec." He was
gone, running lightly on bare feet.

"He's a good boy," Audrey said comfortably to Pat Rin. "Your wine
will be here in a flash."

"Ms. Audrey," he said, softly, but with genuine feeling. "You must
remind me never to dice with you."

She laughed, and patted his arm. "Let them get a good look at
you," she said, her voice as soft as his. "Your security's right
behind you. Besides, it's been a long time since anybody was
stupid enough to draw in my house."

There was a light patter of feet against floorboard, and Villy was
back, bottle in hand. He presented it to Ms. Audrey with a flourish
and prudently faded away.

"OK." Audrey presented the bottle with a similar flourish, smiling as
he took it from her hands.

"Thank you," he said, pitching his voice to be heard.

"Glad to be able to oblige," Audrey assured him, also in carrying
tones. She smiled impartially around the room and they went on.

In the entrance hall, Cheever opened the door and examined the
street.

"Clear," he said, over his shoulder. Pat Rin bowed to Ms.
Audrey—the bow between equals—turned.

"Oh," she said. "One more thing."

He looked back, eyebrow up.

"I'll lease that rug from you for six months. Can you have it here
tomorrow?"

Throughout the afternoon they entertained a steady trickle of
customers—most, so Pat Rin thought, come to look the new boss
over. It was peculiarly unnerving, to be thus on display, and it
required every bit of his considerable address to carry through,
moving unhurriedly among his customers, answering questions
with gentle and attentive courtesy.

Beside himself, the Sinners Carpet was the item of most intense
interest. He lost count of how many times he displayed the knots;
elucidated the fabric; told over its curious history—and revealed
that, beginning on the morrow, it was on lease to Ms. Audrey, for a
period of six months, Standard. Often enough, this led to a
discussion of the concept of "lease," as it had with Audrey.

When at last Barth arrived to take up his post as night guard, Pat
Rin felt he had been, in the idiom of Shan's mother, spin washed
and hung out to dry. His head ached, and he wanted the study of
his house in Solcintra, with its comforts of books, and comm
screen, and a chair that cherished the contours of his
body—wanted it so fiercely that his sight misted and he bent his
head, biting his lip.

It is gone, he told himself, grimly. "Everything and
everyone—gone, dead, destroyed, unmade. Believe it. Make your
balance your focus, or you will surely go mad.

"You all right, sir?" Cheever McFarland's voice was soft, for a
wonder, and carried a strong note of concern.

Pat Rin straightened. He must not display weakness before his
oathsworn. He took a breath. "I am perfectly fine, Mr. McFarland,"
he said coolly and strode up the sidewalk, toward the "mansion" he
called his home.

The door was opened to them by Gwince, grinning good-naturedly.

"Evening, Boss. Mr. McFarland. Natesa said to tell you, Boss, that
the work you wanted done is in process. Cook asks when you want
to eat supper. Printer's boy brought a package for you. Natesa put
it in your office."

Pat Rin closed his eyes, there in the tiny vestibule of his house,
and tried to recall what tasks he had particularly wished Natesa to
accomplish. Ah. That would be the upgrading of Boss Moran's
security arrangements. Very good. News of the delivery from the
printer was also welcome—he had two persons of honor on the
day, which surely found him richer than yesterday. What had been
the—yes. Supper.

"Please tell the cook that Mr. McFarland, Natesa and I will dine in
one Standard Hour. Mr. McFarland has a bottle of wine, which we
will wish to drink with the meal."

She took the bottle from Cheever, eyebrows twitching in what
might have been surprise, but she merely murmured a respectful,
"Yessir, will do."

"Thank you, Gwince," he said and began to turn away, then swung
back. "I wonder, do you know Ajay Naylor?"

Gwince looked surprised. "Sure, Boss. Everybody knows Ajay."

"Alas, not everyone," Pat Rin murmured. "I have not had the honor,
an oversight that I wish to rectify. Do you think you might ask her to
call on me at the store tomorrow, mid-morning?"

Now, Gwince looked puzzled, even faintly alarmed. "Sure, I can do
that." She sent a glance into Cheever McFarland's face, but
apparently found nothing there to ease her distress.

"Urn, Boss—just so you know. Ajay's like four hunnert years old.
She ain't—well, she ain't—" Gwince stumbled to a halt, regrouped,
and produced a rather faint, "She makes rugs, see? And trades
'em out for stuff she needs."

Gods, what a filthy place! Pat Rin thought, furiously. As if I would
murder an old woman—His fury flamed out, leaving him cold and
shaken. While it was true that he had not yet murdered an old
woman, who could say where the necessities of his Balance might
take him? Gwince was within her rights to be wary of his reasons
for wanting Ajay Naylor. He sighed and met her eyes.

"I have business to discuss with Ajay Naylor," he said, mildly, and
was absurdly pleased to see the alarm fade from her eyes.

"Right," she said, briskly. "Mid-morning tomorrow, at the rug store.
I'll tell her, sir."

"Thank you," he said again, and walked down the short hallway,
Cheever McFarland a large and ridiculously comforting presence
at his back—and paused on the threshold of the front parlor.

Last seen, this chamber had been very nearly as grubby as the
printer he had interviewed there. This evening, while the furnishings
must still dismay any person of taste, other matters had undergone
a change for the better.

The floor, for instance. This morning, it had been a dull and slightly
sticky gray. It now flaunted its true color for all to see—a pale, and
not unbecoming blue—and showed a small, repeating pattern of a
darker blue—flowers, perhaps, or some sort of decorative insect.

The walls, which had this morning been of a dinginess in
competition with the floor, had been washed, revealing that they
had, at some all but forgotten time in the past, been painted a blue
to match the floor. The ceiling, likewise relieved of several years of
grime, was discovered to be white, the central globe-shaped light
fixture yellow. The effect was unexpectedly pleasant—rather like
walking into a sunlit sky.

"Well," he murmured, and heard Cheever McFarland grunt behind
him.

"Thought she was going to sleep."

Pat Rin glanced at the big man, eyebrows up. "You think Natesa
did this?"

"Well, sure, don't you?"

"No," said Pat Rin, looking 'round the room and considering its
possibilities. "I think she had it done. I wonder what else has gone
forth, as we were whiling our hours in pleasure?"

"Guess we could take the tour and find out."

"We could," Pat Rin conceded. "Or we could ask Natesa, which
would be much less fatiguing." He turned to look up the big man.

"Mr. McFarland, I am going to prepare for dinner. I don't doubt that
you are heartily sick of the sight of me and wish a few moments to
yourself. I give you my word that I will not be assassinated before
the dinner hour."

Surprisingly, Cheever grinned. "Dismissed!" he said cheerfully and
nodded. "See you at dinner."

Blessedly alone, Pat Rin took one more look at the blue room,
reminding himself to congratulate Natesa on the result, and went
upstairs to dress for dinner.

The meal arrived in a surprising two courses. The first consisted of
a plate of tinned soup for each, and a communal platter of crackers
and cheese. This was removed by a main course of baked tubers
under a spicy brown sauce accompanied by thin slices of meat
braised with onion; fresh bread, butter, tea, and Autumn Wine.

"Much improved," Pat Rin murmured, and heard Cheever
McFarland chuckle.

"Improved ain't the word. I'm thinking that the cook was after
poisoning us last night, eh, Natesa?"

"Possibly," she answered. "Just as possibly, he was frightened
enough to have been thrown off his skill." She sipped the wine
cautiously, and Pat Rin saw her eyebrows lift.

"This is pleasant," she said. "Have we a winery?"

"Alas. The bottle is a gift. And we are instructed that it is a fragile
thing, not to be held far into the spring." He moved his shoulders.
"We are further told that this vintage originates in the country, and
that sometimes as many as two dozen bottles make it into this
territory, whereupon they are purchased by Ms. Audrey."

"Ah." Her face lit. "You called upon Ms. Audrey?"

"Rather, she called upon us. We had a very pleasant discussion
over lunch in her house."

"Where the boss here sweet-talked her into startin' a bank—no,
hold it, a mercantile association—since pawn shops ain't good
enough for him, and she tried to get him to promise to be boss for
life." Cheever forked a slice of tuber and looked at it meditatively.
'"Course, that's how it works here, anyhow, but she seemed of the
opinion that his life was gonna be longer than most. Right taken
with him, she was. Thought he was elegant."

Natesa laughed.

"We have also," Pat Rin murmured, "placed the Sinner's Carpet at
lease for six months', Standard, at a rate of eight hundred cash per
month."

"Ms. Audrey, of course," Natesa said. "No one else could afford it."
She paused, her head slightly to one side. "Indeed, I am surprised
to hear that she can afford it."

"A test of trust," he said softly, finishing the last of his meal with
real regret. "She must know if we can work together—which is what
I must know, as well. Also, I believe that her smuggling operation is
profitable." He moved his shoulders. "So, we have progress upon
the day." He pushed his plate aside and reached for his wine.

"I have noticed the improvement in the front parlor," he said, which
phrase would have been entirely appropriate in the High Tongue,
but struck the ear oddly in Terran, almost as an accusation.

However, Natesa, who spoke Liaden, seemed to have heard the
commendation he intended to convey. She inclined her head
politely and murmured that she would inform the staff of his
approval.

"How's house security?" Cheever asked then.

Natesa turned to him. "like the meal, much improved. We are not
impregnable, of course, but we are difficult. If tomorrow's work
goes as well, we will be formidable."

"That's good. What about the overheads? I can help out tonight, if
you need it."

"Thank you; assistance would be most welcome. There is also
a…device…in the sub-cellar that I would like to have your—"

The door to the dining room opened just enough to admit a thin
person dressed in what appeared to be the street standard: Ill-
fitting trousers and shirt, with a second shirt worn over the first, as a
jacket. This particular specimen also had a shapeless cap
crammed down over his ears. He came two steps into the room, a
flicker of shadow at his heels, and froze, eyes stretched wide in a
pointed brown face.

Pat Rin tipped his head, considering this apparition. He was
young—a boy only; at a guess, several Standards younger than
Quin—and bore himself with the tentativeness one might expect of
a smaller and weaker "extra"—those who loitered in crowds on
street corners, and were available for such day-labor as might
manifest.

"Good evening," he said gently to the wide, frightened eyes. "I am
the boss."

The boy nodded vigorously, and abruptly reached into his pocket.
Pat Rin tensed and forced himself to relax, which was wisdom, for
what came out of the pocket was a tuber. The boy held it up, and
then touched it to his chest.

"What the—" began Cheever, but Pat Rin held up a hand, watching
the wide eyes watch him, watch his face, with such intensity that—

"Wait," he said. "I think that this is Jonni, who gardens on the roof."

The boy nodded so vigorously this time that his cap came off his
head and tumbled to the floor between his boots. He made no
move to pick it up.

"And I also think," Pat Rin continued. "That Jonni is deaf."

The boy nodded again, his snarled black hair, released from
captivity, flopped in his face.

"Deaf?" Cheever blinked. "But they can implant—" He cut himself
off on a sharp sigh. "Right. Surebleak."

"Indeed." Pat Rin frowned. There was something he had heard,
once—perhaps from Val Con?—that the deaf on low-tech worlds
often developed a sign language for use among themselves,
which, while diverse as to culture, were each built along the lines of
Old Trade, with its emphasis on the concrete over the
philosophical.

Tentatively, he moved a hand in the ritual greeting.

Jonni cocked his head, his eyes suddenly on Pat Rin's hands,
rather than his face. His own hand—the one not holding the
tuber—rose, touching fingertips to lips and descending, palm up,
and stopping at chest level.

Not the sign he had used—not quite. He repeated the boy's
truncated version, and earned himself another enthusiastic nod.

"So." He sighed, and moved his hand again, showing first Cheever
and then Natesa. He said their names, clearly, keeping his face
turned toward Jonni, so the boy could read his lips, then drew a
circle in the air with his index finger, signing "protection".

Jonni frowned briefly at that, then suddenly grinned. He dropped
the tuber into his pocket and used both hands to mimic pistols.

Diverse as to culture, indeed, Pat Rin thought, and tried the sign for
"service".

But this proved beyond Jonni's ability to translate; and after a few
frowning moments, he gave it up with an exaggerated shrug.

"Just so," Pat Rin said, slowly and distinctly. "Why have you come
to me?"

That met with comprehension, and produced a veritable storm of
signs, the single one Pat Rin recognized having to do with
growing—or growing things. Quite possibly the unfamiliar signs
were technical terms, invented to describe specific plants.

Pat Rin held up a hand, palm out. Jonni's hands faltered; fell.

"Tomorrow morning," he said. "We will go to the garden and you
will show me. Is that soon enough?"

Jonni nodded.

"Good. Tomorrow morning at…" He ticked the time off on his
fingers and heard Natesa sigh behind him.

Once more, Jonni nodded, then offered what was apparently his
version of "good-bye"—a mere reversal of "hello"—recaptured his
cap with a swoop, and vanished out the door before Pat Rin could
return the courtesy.

"Tomorrow morning at two hours past dawn?" Natesa asked,
resigned.

"It would be best to tend to it before I leave for the store," he told
her earnestly. "And tomorrow will be an early day because of the
necessity to deliver the Sinner's Carpet to Ms. Audrey's house."
He tipped his head. "You needn't come with me, you know. He
scarcely looks able—or inclined—to hurl me off the roof."

"True. However, he may easily have friends who are very able and
desperately inclined." She rose, and sent a meaningful glance at
Cheever. "Mr. McFarland, if we are to tend the overheads, now is
the hour."

"Yes'm, I see that's so." He frowned at Pat Rin. "Gwince is your
security this shift. Try not to do anything to scare her, OK?"

Pat Rin inclined his head, stiffly. "I will do my humble best, Mr.
McFarland. Within reason."

The big Terran just shook his head, and followed Natesa out of the
room.

On the verge of following, Pat Rin paused, his eye drawn…

The cat was sitting upright beneath one of the extra plastic chairs,
tail wrapped neatly 'round its toes, ears forward-pointing and
interested, eyes glowing like molten gold.

"Well," said Pat Rin and went gracefully to one knee, extending a
finger in greeting.

The cat considered options, leisurely, and at precisely the moment
Pat Rin thought to withdraw his hand, stretched up onto its toes,
walked from beneath the chair and touched the proffered finger
with a flower pink nose.

It was, Pat Rin saw, the precise cat that had startled Natesa in the
pantry that morning: Brown, with several broad, uneven stripes of
black down its washboard sides, and another down its spine. Its tail
was slightly fluffy, as was the rest of the cat, and also stripped
brown-and-black. It was not by any means a handsome cat; rather
a brawler, if its ears were to be believed, and Pat Rin all but wept
with joy to behold it.

"Well," he said again. "I don't doubt but that you've come to thank
me for protecting you from Natesa's skill."

The cat blinked, strolled forward and stropped forcibly against Pat
Rin's knee. Lightly, prepared to snatch his hand back at the
suggestion of a claw, he stroked the brown-and-black back. The
tail went up, the cat arched into the second stroke, and there was
heard a momentary grinding sound, as if someone were drawing a
whetstone down a blade. Pat Rin smiled, stroked the cat a third
time and, reluctantly, arose. The cat looked up at him, yellow eyes
molten.

"Duty calls, and her voice is stern," Pat Rin told it. "I must to the
office. You may come with me, if you like, or you may return to your
own duties, in the pantry."

So saying, he departed the dining room, collected Gwince from the
other side of the door and went upstairs to his office, where Natesa
found him, some few hours later, having resolved both the
overheads and the matter of the device in the sub-cellar.

He was slumped over the desk, his head resting on an open book,
pen fallen from lax fingers, an ugly brown and black cat curled on
the floor by his knee, eyes slitted and yellow. Natesa drew a sharp
breath, heart squeezing, then saw his brows pull together in a frown
at some upstart dream, and sighed. He was asleep, nothing more.
Silent as an assassin, she went forward.

He had been writing—black ink across the grayish pages of his so-
called log-book. She glanced at the left-hand page, expecting to
see code-words, or some arcane language of symbol and
nuance…

He had chosen to write in Trade, very simply, the smooth lines of
his hand drawing her eye even as she told herself that this was not
hers to read.

Surebleak, Day 308, Standard Year 1392

My name is Pat Banyos'Phelium Clan Korval. I write in Common
Trade because I do not know who you will be, or from what world
you will hail, who will come after me. I will begin by describing the
circumstances immediately preceding my residence upon this
planet. I will delineate the Balance that must go forth, and the
reasons for its going forth. I will put down, as best as I am able,
those things from other log books and diaries that may illuminate
my actions and necessities.

Let it begin.

On the planet Teriste, in Standard Year 1392, Day 286, a
messenger of the Department of the Interior brought me word that
the entirety of my kin were killed—murdered by agents of this
Department.

I will herein name the names of my kin, lest they are forgot, and I
will say to you, whoever and whenever you may be, that it is only I,
Pat Ban, the least of us all, who is left now to carry Balance to
fruition…
Day 50
Standard Year 1393
Dutiful Passage
Lytaxin Orbit

Lina had agreed to meet him over tea in the library at the end of his
piloting shift. The necessity of retrieving the whisker from his
quarters put Ren Zel a few moments behind the appointed time,
and he found her at table ahead of him, teapot steaming and two
cups standing ready.

"Well-met, shipmate," she said with a smile, that having become a
joke between them, over the years of their acquaintance. Despite
the concerns he brought with him from his shift, Ren Zel felt his
mouth curve upward in response.

"Shipmate," he responded, slipping into the chair opposite her, and
inhaling the fragrance of the tea. "Ah." His smile grew wider. "Shall
I pour?"

"If you please. I find myself remarkably indolent this hour."

To find Lina indolent was to find an impossibility. Ren Zel filled a
cup, and passed it to her. She cradled it in her hands and lifted it to
sample the aroma. Ren Zel poured a cup for himself, and leaned
back in his chair, likewise enjoying the sweet steam, and then
taking a bare sip, teasing his tastebuds with the complex notes of
the beverage.

"So," said Lina eventually, putting her cup aside. "How may I assist
you, shipmate? Have you been dreaming again?"

"In fact, I have," Ren Zel murmured, setting aside his own cup and
reaching into his pocket for the sampling tube. "And, when I woke,
I found that dreaming had produced—this." He placed the tube
before her on the table, then sat back, with an effort."

"I…see." She picked the tube up and turned it this way and that in
the light. "A singularly handsome specimen. Found in a dream, you
say?"

"In the aftermath of a dream," Ren Zel said, slowly. "I woke— or
dreamed I woke—and felt the weight of a cat on my chest. I raised
a hand to stroke it—and realized of a sudden that a cat was—not
possible, so that I woke in truth." He waved a hand at the tube.
"And found that whisker caught in the coverlet."

"I see," Lina said again, her eyes on the whisker. "And was there a
dream before the dream of the cat?"

"Two," he said promptly. "First was the battle-dream. I woke from
that and read until I nodded. There was another dream, then.
Within it, a…shipmate had come to me with the same dream, of
the fleas and the—solution we undertook to save ourselves. I
soothed her as best I might and sent her to her own rest. And
then—"

Lina raised a hand. "Did you recognize this shipmate?"

Ren Zel considered that, then shook his head, Terran-wise.
"Indeed, it was only that she had the memory upon her, and stood
so very distressed, for ship and crew…" He moved a shoulder.
"But, after all, it was a dream."

"Just so." Lina touched the tip of her forefinger to the tube's seal.
"May I?"

"Certainly."

And so she had the whisker out, and settled back in her chair with it
held close between her two palms, and her eyes closed.

Momentarily ignored, Ren Zel retrieved his teacup and sipped,
recruiting himself to patience.

"I know this cat…" Lina murmured, her voice slightly slurred, as if
she spoke in her sleep. Ren Zel froze, cup halfway to his lips,
unwilling to break the Healer's trance.

"I know this cat," she said again, barely more than a whisper. "It
is…" Her face changed, tightened; her eyelids flickered, flew open.
She sighed and shook her head gently. "To my knowledge, this cat
has never been on the Passage."

With which, she picked up the tube, reinserted the whisker,
resealed the top, and leaned forward to place the whole before
him.

Ren Zel lowered his teacup, looking from her careful face and
opaque eyes to the tube and its captive wonder.

"It had seemed," he said eventually, and with utmost care.
"That…trance had produced more information regarding this cat."

"Had it?" Lina recovered her cup and sipped.

And whatever that information might have been, Ren Zel dea'Judan
was not to be made a gift of it. He bit his lip, staring down at the
tube, concentrating on breathing. He had counted Lina among his
friends…

"You think me cruel," she said. "Friend, acquit me."

He looked up, saw sympathy in her eyes and raised a hand. "Then,
why—?"

She shifted, setting her cup down. "Tell me, has there been a
return of that phenomenon such as Shan reported, when he found
you on Casiaport?"

He blinked, bought a moment of thought by putting his cup down.

"Certainly not. Why should there have been?"

She moved a hand, soothing the air between them. "Forgive me; I
meant no offense. It was merely that Shan had said you were in
trance, and foretelling…"

"I was wounded," he said, more sharply than he had intended, "and
raving."

She was still for a moment, then inclined her head. "As you say,
Pilot."

Ren Zel flinched. "Lina.

"Ah, no—" She bent forward and put her hand over his where it
rested next to the damned tube. "Peace…peace. Friend, you must
understand that it is…difficult to know the correct path to take with
you. We have on this ship three not-inconsiderable Healers—one a
full dramliza—and you remain beyond the touch of all, shielded so
well that none of us may so much as reach forth and give you ease
of ill dreaming." Gently, she patted his hand and withdrew.

"With you, we must—we must pilot blind, trusting our training and
an honest regard for yourself to win us through to safe landing."
She sighed and picked up her teacup to sip. Ren Zel, curiously
breathless, did the same.

"So," Lina continued. "I will tell you that the trance did produce
more information. Not," she said wryly, "as much as I would have
desired. Yet more than I will give to you. My training—and my
sincere regard for yourself—tells me that it would be best to allow
you to proceed…unencumbered by preconception. The cat may
never come to you again—or it may reappear often, at the times it
chooses. Cats are like that, after all."

"So they are." He picked up the sampling tube and slid it into a
pocket, rose and bowed, respect to a master. "My thanks, Healer."

She smiled, wistfully, and inclined her head. "Pilot. Good lift."

"Safe landing," he answered, that being the well-wish pilots
exchanged before a journey.

He walked back to his quarters slowly, wondering what sort of
journey Lina supposed him to be on.
Day 309
Standard Year 1392
Blair Road
Surebleak

Natesa had perhaps been correct to protest his choice of hour for
this meeting, Pat Rin thought, as he followed Jonni on a tour of the
rooftop garden. The air was frigid, and the light breeze soon had
him a-shiver and longing for the temperate climate he had been
born to.

Well, he would have a cup of tea soon enough, and in the
meanwhile he was in a fair way to learning the sign-names for
rather a number of vegetables.

It appeared that Jonni's purpose in the tour was to elicit Pat Rin's
advice on the crops to be planted this season. The unraveling of
this would doubtless have proven tedious, if not impossible, as the
beds had lain fallow over the winter beneath tarpaulin shrouds, long
since stripped of their visual aids to communication. But here Jonni
revealed unexpected resources.

Showing Natesa empty hands with fingers spread wide, he opened
a plastic tool chest and pulled out an object inexpertly wrapped in
oilcloth. A few moments later, Pat Rin was holding a spine-shot
paper book entitled How to Grow Food in Small Spaces, and trying
to simultaneously read the descriptions appended to the pictures
Jonni pointed out and attend the boy's hand-talk and pantomime.

So, in the end the planning was only laborious, leaving Pat Rin
feeling that he had personally turned every bed and hand-set every
seed.

"That is good then," he told Jonni, closing the book. "With care, we
will be comfortably supplied through next winter. I depend upon
you to do well for us."

The boy smiled and nodded, and reached rather anxiously for the
book Pat Rin cradled in his arm.

"A moment." He held up a hand, and the boy stopped, smile
vanished and eyes anxious.

Pat Rin sighed. "Only a question, child. Can you read?"

The pert nose wrinkled, and the right hand wobbled in a sign which
was most perfectly plain: So-so.

"Ah." He glanced to Natesa. "I suppose it is too much to hope that
there is a school in this territory?" He asked, foreknowing the
answer.

But she surprised him. "Gwince tells me she learned to read at Ms.
Audrey's house. I do not believe that she was ever employed as a
Scarlet Beauty, so it seems at least possible that Audrey sponsors
a school." Her mouth twitched in a faint smile. "For some definition
of school."

"Well, since I will be seeing Ms. Audrey today, I will make
inquiries." He held the book out. Jonni pounced on it with visible
relief and went over to stow it in the tool chest, first re-wrapping it in
its sheet of waterproofing.

A blade of wind sliced across the rooftop; Pat Rin gasped
shivering renewed, and turned toward the rather fearsome metal
staircase which ascended from the attic to the garden.

"Come," he said to Natesa. "There will be tea in the kitchen."

"Beautiful," Audrey breathed, some hours later, gazing raptly at the
Sinner's Carpet.

It did look well, Pat Rin thought, standing at survey by her side. He
had been at pains to impress upon the extras hired to carry and lay
it that it did indeed matter how the carpet was oriented in the room,
that the edges be straight, and that there be no unsightly wrinkles.
In fact, it had taken rather longer than he had estimated to finish the
thing properly. But the result was well worth the labor.

"I got it all planned out," Audrey was saying, with what sounded to
be genuine happiness. "Real special deal, only for the, you know—
connoisseur."

"I hope that it brings you profit," he murmured politely and she
chuckled.

"Oh, it will. That rug is gonna be good for business." She turned to
him with a smile. "Thank you. Now, let's step along to my office and
I'll hand over the deposit and the first month's rent."

"I wonder if you might assist me," he murmured, as they walked
through halls and rooms much less busy than yesterday. Audrey
threw him a quick blue glance.

"Well, I can try," she said, with appropriate caution. "What's up?"

"There is a child of my house who requires tutoring. He reads, but
poorly. I would have his skill increase."

Both of Audrey's eyebrows were up. "If he reads at all, he's better
off than most of the streeters."

"True. However, he bears the burden of being deaf, and thus it is
doubly important that he learn to read and write well." He tipped his
head, considering. "It would also be good if he were able to learn
basic mathematics."

She snorted, half a laugh. "What d'ya think this is, a nursery
school? Who's the kid?"

"His name is Jonni. He is employed as my gardener."

She stopped, there in the middle of the hall, and turned to stare at
him. Perforce, Pat Rin also stopped, wondering.

"Kid about—what?—thirteen? fourteen?—with a kinda pointy face
and a head full of black hair that just makes you itch to take a comb
and a pair of scissors to it?"

A fair description. Pat Rin inclined his head. "It sounds the very
child."

Perhaps she heard him, perhaps not. Certainly, she continued on
as if she had not—"And deaf. Blizzard, it's gotta be the same kid!"

"I am to understand," Pat Rin ventured when several moments had
passed and she said nothing more, "that Jonni is known to you?"

"Known—" She looked at him, her face set in grim lines. "Look, that
kid used to live here—we taught him what he knows about reading,
and he used to be pretty good at his numbers, too. Not that he
cared about the reading or the sums—but he did care about
growing things, and so he learned what he needed for that.
Then—it's been maybe two years ago, now—an'— well, you don't
need the details. Short of it is a customer walked in here one night
higher'n a spaceship on somethin' that wasn't doin' him no good,
and when the smoke cleared, he was dead, which he
deserved—and so was two of mine, which they didn't." She
sighed. "An' o'course one was Jonni's mom. Kid come strollin' in
from somewhere, took one look and screamed— first time I ever
heard him make a sound—turned 'round and ran out the front door.
A couple of the boys went out after him, but they lost him in the
dark. And, you know, we thought he'd come back, after he got
himself in hand." She sighed. "Hasn't yet."

A bitter tale, indeed, and if the boy could not bear to return to the
place of his mother's murder, who was Pat Rin yos'Phelium to call
him a coward? Yet, he must have his letters and his sums, if he
were to profitably make his way into adulthood. He looked up at
Audrey.

"I will speak with him," he said, and saw her brows lift slightly,
possibly in amusement. "If he will not come here for lessons,
perhaps lessons may come to him." He tipped his head. "If, of
course, you are agreeable to providing tutoring for this child, in
return for a reasonable fee."

She waved her hand, a shapeless, meaningless gesture. "Oh,
sure—got a pregnant girl right now who reads like a house afire.
She'd be glad of the work and the cash. Don't know how she is with
her numbers, but there's Villy to do it, if she ain't able. Patient as
glass, Villy, and real good with the kids."

"Then it is decided in principle," Pat Rin said, with a feeling of
entirely ridiculous relief. "That is good. I will speak with Jonni this
evening and see if I might persuade him here tomorrow. If not, I
will send word and you may dispatch his tutor."

"Suits," she said, and suddenly grinned her wide, infectious grin.
"There you go again, pitching changes into the wind! Let's make
that settlement before you decide it's too cold and install central
heatin' on the streets!"

It was mid-morning when he and Cheever McFarland returned to
the store to find a bent and tattered person at the front window, her
hands and nose flattened against the glass.

So rapt was she that Cheever McFarland needed to clear his throat
three times before she stirred and looked up, blinking, but unafraid.

"I'm Ajay Naylor, Boss. Gwince said you wanted to talk to me."

Cheever shook his head. "I ain't the boss," he said, and pointed.
"He's the boss."

She peered along the line of his finger, and there came over her
face an expression Pat Rin was beginning to know well—raw
astonishment mixed with disbelief.

He inclined his head. "Indeed, I am the boss. Thank you, for taking
the time to come to me. Will you step inside, so that we may talk in
comfort?"

Disbelief increased by a factor of six. She turned back to Cheever.

"This is for real? He's the boss? The one took Moran and the
publicity committee out, like Gwince was tellin' me?"

"This is for real," Cheever assured her. "He's the boss. I'm one of
his 'hands."

She shook her head. "Damn." Her gaze drifted back to the window.
"Pretty things you got there. Boss."

"Thank you. Would you like to examine them more closely? As a
rug-maker, yourself, you will perhaps be interested."

She grinned at that, showing toothless gums. "I'm interested, OK.
Though you can't hardly put my rugs in the same room with them."

"Ah, but I intend to," Pat Rin said, moving to unlock the door. "If the
two of us are able to reach an agreement."

Gwince opened the door with a grin and a nod.

"Evening, Boss. Mr. McFarland. Natesa sends that the work
progresses, Boss. Cook asks when you want to eat supper."

"We shall dine in an hour," Pat Rin answered. "Please ask Jonni to
attend me in my office in three hours."

"Yessir, will do."

"Thank you, Gwince." He moved down the hall, and paused to look
up at Cheever, who grinned.

"Got it. See you in an hour." He strode off, whistling. Pat Rin
continued, more slowly.

The business with Ajay Naylor had been concluded to mutual
satisfaction; she was not adverse to providing him rugs on
commission, though she was less sanguine, even, than Audrey
regarding the possibility of shipping off-planet. The road was the
thing, as he understood it. As recently as Ajay's young
womanhood, the Port Road had been neutral territory, and free
passage guaranteed. That was not to say safe passage, even
then, but caravans had regularly formed to bear items for sale or
trade to the Port and most, if not all, won through.

On the subject of what had changed, Ajay was unclear. There had
been a rumored falling out among several of the bosses of the
larger territories, which resulted in the road being closed, and
abandoned to bandits. Another rumor had the Port itself closing,
the ships withdrawing entirely. But that rumor, Ajay had allowed,
with a certain dryness, had likely been air-dreams—as he
doubtless knew better than she.

Ajay departed, and there had come Al, the keeper of the hardware
store, and their near neighbor. He had chatted for : awhile, admired
the carpets without displaying the least desire to understand them,
and finally brought the conversation around to Pat Rin's proposed
Insurance rate structure.

Upon being informed that Insurance payments were for the
meanwhile suspended, Al looked less pleased than one might
have supposed, and pulled his long chin thoughtfully.

"Gotta have a scheme for makin' money," he said. "No offense
meant, Boss."

"Nor any taken," Pat Rin assured him. "My scheme for making
money is entirely straightforward—I intend to sell carpets. For
cash."

"Yeah, OK," the man said. "Though you might wanna get in some
low-end stuff—I'm not sayin' cheap, just affordable to
somebody—well, sleet, to somebody like me. These 'uns are
pretty, but they're pricey. But that's just the store. You're the
boss—need to get cash somehow."

"For what should I receive funding?" Pat Rin had demanded, rather
heatedly. "Does the boss mend the holes in the street? Does he
fund clinics? Libraries? Schools?"

"Well, no. Not lately. Audrey, she grabbed what she could of
Vindal's clinic and library before Moran torched 'em. You get
nicked, or break a leg or an arm—like that—go to Audrey's house;
they'll take care of you. Can't do much if you're sick with something
high-end, but they're pretty good with the usual. Same way, you
wanna learn how to read—go to Audrey's. Somebody there'll teach
you."

"It appears to me," Pat Rin commented, "that if there is
Insurance—or street tax—to be paid, that it ought to be paid to Ms.
Audrey, who is doing more for the residents of this territory than
any boss."

"Naw, naw, that ain't fair. See—done right, now—forget Moran; he
was a pig—done right, the boss is the one who fixes the problems.
Say I got a problem with Tobi and we ain't been able to work it out.
So we come to you and we say, Boss, we got this problem and we
can't fix it—tell us what to do. And you maybe study on the case for
awhile and then you tell us what to do. Oughta get something for
havin' to do everybody else's thinkin' for 'em. Right? An' then, see,
the boss is the one who keeps the turf together, and makes sure
no other bosses annex us. Ought to get something for that, too.
An', if you was thinkin' about bringing a clinic, or maybe a library out
on the street, to kinda ease the load on Ms. Audrey—you oughta
get cash for that, too." He'd paused here, perhaps a little startled at
his own eloquence, then did his summing up.

"Tell you what, Boss—this little store ain't gonna support alla that."

Nor would it, Pat Rin thought now, climbing the long, chilly stairway
to his room. Properly done, as Al described it, a boss on
Surebleak was near enough to delm. He sighed, irritated with
himself. He had allowed the information that this was a Terran
backworld, brutish and barely-governed, blind him to the fact that
persons of honor naturally strove to form into clans, if not precisely
kin-groups.

Sighing again, he pushed open the door to his room, saw a
shadow move and heard a burble the instant before the brown-and-
black cat hurled itself into his legs, tail high and purring fit to deafen
him.

Smiling, Pat Rin bent down and stroked the animal. Impossibly, the
purrs increased, and the cat threw itself against Pat Rin's legs in an
ecstasy of welcome.

"All very well," he said with mock sternness. "I suppose you've
been lying abed all day, neglecting your duties to the cook?"

The cat burbled again, shifting from side to side and it lifted first
the left front paw and then the right, kneading air.

Pat Rin laughed softly and straightened. "Flatterer. Now, by your
leave, I must prepare for dinner."

Dinner was simpler this evening—a jam pastry removed by a
casserole which took advantage of the pantry's abundance of
tinned fish. Despite its lowly beginnings, the dish pleased.

The conversation was mostly between his oathsworn, on the
arcane lore of security. Pat Rin listened closely, astonished at
those things they considered merely prudent, and marveled at the
tale of protocols and devices that had been put into place, solely
for the purpose of protecting his life.

Pushing his plate aside, he sat quietly sipping tea. There was
eventually a lull in the discussion of protections and defenses,
offensives and attacks, and Natesa turned to him, her eyes dark
and luminous, her face subtle in shadow and nuance.

"Has Ms. Audrey a place in her school for Jonni?" she asked, with
every appearance of interest.

"Curiously, she does, though she doubts he will come to her. He
had used to live in Ms. Audrey's house, until his mother got her
death there, whereupon he ran away. We left it that I shall speak
with him, and if he will not go to her, she will send a tutor here."

"That is well, then," she said, approvingly.

"Well enough," he agreed, and hesitated on the edge of
mentioning his conversation with Al. But—no. That was something
he wished to examine thoroughly himself, weighing his melant'i
well, before he sought the opinion of a Juntavas Sector Judge.

So. "We have a contract with Ajay Naylor for rugs on commission.
She doubts the spaceport, as well, though she tells me the Port
Road had been open and neutral in her youth."

"It had been, until several concurrent tragedies changed the rule,"
said Natesa. "First, there was a turf war between two neighboring
bosses, which ended, not as might be expected—in one boss
annexing the other's territory—but in the subdivision—in the several
subdivisions—of both territories. From there grew chaos, which
might have eventually settled, had it not been for the arrival of an
epidemic virus. There was a vaccine at the Port—Surebleak
belonged to the Health Net in those days, too—and it was to be
delivered by Port personnel. But the Port was short-handed, and,
rather than sending Port personnel, in an armored car, with
appropriate weaponry, they sent several natives, who were
employed at the Port, with a list of territories and the number of
vaccines to be left with each boss."

Pat Rin put his mug down. "They were robbed?"

"Ah, no. But that was only because they sold the entire shipment to
the boss just next the spaceport, and disappeared." She moved
her shoulders, eloquent as a Liaden. "Perhaps they were clever
enough to keep vaccines for themselves. One rather hopes they
forgot that detail. It was, by all reports, a horrible disease, and
thousands died for lack of the cash to purchase the cure."

He closed his eyes. Gods. What sort of world produced such
people? And yet, Al and Audrey, Gwince, Jonni, Ajay, Villy…

"Master?"

He opened his eyes, seeing what appeared to be honest concern
for himself reflected in her face.

"I wonder, " he said, changing the subject brutally. "What are our
options of communication devices? I find no radio, for instance,
among Mr. Moran's former possessions. How do the bosses keep
contact among themselves? Worse, I find no local radios, so that
we might communicate between ourselves—myself to you from
the store, for instance."

Cheever grunted. "Been tryin' to crack that nut," he said. "Got a
couple people on staff who say there's a native equivalent of a
portacomm, but the trade's controlled by one of the bosses out
from here. I'm going down to check on the ship, day after
tomorrow. Thinking about making a side trip to check out the
portacomm trade while I'm over that way." He paused. "Speakin' of
which, the emergency talkies off the ship'll do fine to keep us three
in touch. I'll bring them on back, if you want."

"Yes, do that," Pat Rin murmured. He finished his tea, put the mug
down, and looked up to find Natesa's eyes yet upon him.

"Do the bosses communicate between themselves?" He asked
her.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "My information indicated that the more
powerful bosses, who control larger territories—that there had
been communication between them, arrangements of trade,
alliances. Whether this is still so…I doubt. Matters seem to have
deteriorated badly since the report was written." She sighed,
sharply, and leaned forward, eyes and face intense.

"The difficulty with Surebleak is that the boss system is rotting from
the core. There is no orderly transfer of authority when bosses are
often murdered by a wild gun who aspires only to their power. Such
guns rarely have any notion of responsibility, or of administration,
never mind compromise and mutual profit. So, the territories are
proliferating in number while they dwindle in size, and chaos is
become the order of the day."

"Chaos is what we wanted," Cheever pointed out from his end of
the table.

Natesa nodded. "Indeed, chaos serves us very well in what we
propose to do. But it hardly serves those who live here, and who
cling to survival amidst the slow disintegration of their world. Nor is
it good for business."

Juntavas business, that would be. Pat Rin considered her.

"I would think the Juntavas a supporter of chaos."

"Not so—not so, Master. The Juntavas is a champion of order. We
require certain things so that business may go forth: safe and easy
access; safe and easy egress; steady supply; an economy. And a
consistent structure of command, with which profitable
associations may be forged. Surebleak offers none of these
things. It is a bitter waste—and not only for the Juntavas."

"But if a boss arose who was able to consolidate and hold the
territories—and train a successor to do likewise?" Pat Rin asked.

"Perhaps the rot might be excised," she said slowly. "Perhaps. But
we must first ask if Surebleak is able to produce such a boss."

"Surely, there are honorable people in other territories, as we have
found here?" he said.

"Surely, there are," she agreed. "But, consider the present system,
if we may dignify it so. Did a person of honor and integrity arise, yet
she must take the path to power which is open to her— cold
murder. To unite all—even most—of the territories, she will need to
murder much more than once. And, upon achieving her goal of one
cohesive territory, she must transform herself into a statesman,
capable of compromise, slow to slay even the most intractable
dissident." She shook her head. "I do not know that one individual
could successfully encompass both roles, and yet they are
inseparable."

"Yet, you are yourself both judge and assassin."

She smiled. "I am called Assassin," she said, amusement rippling
her voice. "Would you like to know why?"

"Yes," Pat Rin said seriously. "I would."

But Natesa merely laughed and came lightly to her feet. "Perhaps I
will tell you one day." She glanced aside. "Mr. McFarland, if I may
have a few moments of your time?"

"Sure thing." The big man got to his feet, and looked at Pat Rin,
who raised a hand.

"Gwince. I will try not to frighten her. Thank you, Mr. McFarland."

"Good-night, Boss."

Alone in the dining room, Pat Rin sighed, closed his eyes and
simply sat for the space of a dozen heartbeats. He was tired, gods.
Already he was tired—and there was so much yet that he must do.

"The shortest way to finish is through begun," he murmured, which
was what Uncle Daav had used to say. The Liaden words felt odd
in his mouth, after even so few days of speaking only Terran.
Would he be able to speak Liaden at all, when he at last returned
to the homeworld to destroy Korval's enemy?

Well. One thing at a time—and that was Anne Davis advising him
now. "Er Thom's Terran," according to his mother, but never in
Uncle Daav or in Cousin Er Thom's hearing.

Pat Rin pushed back from the table, gathered Gwince from her
post at the door and went down to the kitchen.

The cook was polishing a soup pot; he set both rag and pot aside
when Pat Rin walked in and nodded politely.

"Evening, Boss. What can I get you?" .

"Nothing just now, I thank you. I merely wished to tell you that I am
pleased with the standard of cooking displayed since yesterday's
dinner."

The man grinned, and shuffled one foot. "That's—thank you, Boss.
I mean to keep the standards high."

"I am delighted to hear you say so," Pat Rin assured him, and
turned to go, his mission accomplished.

Two steps toward the door, he recalled something else and turned
back.

"The brown and black cat," he said to the cook's suddenly anxious
face.

The anxiety deepened. "Yessir. He ain't bothering you, is he?"

"Not at all. I merely wished to know his name."

"Name?" the cook repeated, hands twisting in his apron.
"Well…Cat, I guess. I mean—who names cats?"

Pat Rin paused, then inclined his head. "A personal idiosyncrasy.
Good evening."

"See ya," said the cook.

The office was the next order of business. He left Gwince guarding
the door and went over to the file cabinet to retrieve his log book.

He had written perhaps three pages when Gwince put her head in
the door.

"Jonni's here, Boss."

He glanced up. "That is well. Send him in, please."

She vanished, and a moment later Jonni stepped tentatively within,
his pointed face showing wariness.

"I'm not going to eat you, you know," Pat Rin said mildly, and
motioned at the yellow plastic chair. "Sit a moment. I have a
proposition for you."

Still tentative, Jonni sat.

"Thank you. Ms. Audrey has said that she will teach you to read
better, to do sums and to write. I wish that you will undertake these
things. Do you understand me?"

The boy nodded, insufficiently exuberant—his cap remained on his
head.

"That is good. Now. Ms. Audrey tells me that you may not wish to
go to her house for lessons. If this is so, then she will send a
teacher, and you will have your lessons in this house." He fixed the
child with a stern eye, much as he had done with Quin, by way of
enforcing his filial authority. "The lessons are not negotiable, but
the location is. Which do you choose?"

The boy held up a hand, fingers rippling—wait.

Fair enough; it was bound to be a weighty choice, between honor
and horror. Pat Rin leaned cautiously back in his own chair,
prepared to wait for some time, if necessary.

It was unnecessary. Jonni sat for several moments with his head
bent, contemplating, perhaps, the hole in the right knee of his
trousers, then looked up, eyes bright. He made a sign as
appropriate as it was lewd.

"You will go to Ms. Audrey?" Pat Rin asked, to be certain.

Jonni nodded, placing his cap in peril of a tumble.

Pat Rin smiled. "I am pleased. Be in the front hallway when I leave
tomorrow morning, and you may walk with me as far as Ms.
Audrey's house."

The boy grinned, and nodded again.

"Good. Is there anything else?" .

A headshake, grin unabated.

"Then our business is concluded. Goodnight." He made the sign
that he knew as "farewell".

The boy rose, hesitated and—bowed. It was in no discernible
mode, though it was done with grace and good intent—and
surprised entirely.

Before Pat Rin could clear his throat, Jonni was gone, ghosting out
the door.

Another victory upon the day, he thought, picking up his pen and
returning his attention to the log book.

It was well.

He was running down cold and twisting hallways, gun in hand. The
ones who pursued him also had guns—as he knew to his
dismay—and there were many more of them than his pellets could
account for. He could not do this on his own. He needed help. He
needed kin.

The hallway twisted, right, left, right, and spilled him into a dingy
gray room, where a lone man sat in a chair, legs thrust out before
him, holding a glass of wine. Pat Rin's heart leaped and he ran
forward.

"Val Con! Cousin, you must help me—" He extended a hand,
touched his cousin's shoulder—and leapt back, an unvoiced
scream choking him.

The man in the chair was a skeleton, grinning death into his eyes.

Gasping, Pat Rin awoke. Slowly, he oriented himself, and brought
his labored breathing down. He turned somewhat in his twisted
nest of blankets, and his knee bumped something solid.

Carefully, he put his hand down—felt warm fur and the beginning
vibration of a purr—the nameless brown and black cat.

Smiling, he put his head back down on the flat pillow, his hand still
on the cat.

The rest of his night passed, dreamless.
Day 310
Standard Year 1392
Blair Road
Surebleak

The cat dogged his heels from the bedroom to the kitchen, sat by
his knee while he broke his fast with bread, cheese, and tea; and
trotted, tail high and jaunty, at his side down the hallway to the
vestibule.

It was a strangely crowded vestibule. In addition to Cheever
McFarland, who was entirely capable of filling the small space
without assistance, there was Jonni, and the slender subtlety that
was Natesa.

"Good morning," Pat Rin said to his oathsworn, simultaneously
offering the same greeting in sign to the child.

"Mornin', Boss."

"Good-day, Master."

The child likewise returned his greeting; paused and signed
something else, not, Pat Rin thought, to himself, but to—

The cat.

"Good morning, Boss Silk," he murmured, reading—and captured
Jonni's attention with an interrogative wave.

"The cat's name is Silk?" he asked, imitating the soft, smoothly
flowing sign.

The boy nodded, grinning, and tossed a spangle of sign off his
fingers.

"Ah, did he so? I had thought him a cat of discernment."

"What does he say?" Natesa wondered softly.

Pat Rin shook himself. "Why only that this cat—this Silk—had the
good sense to scratch the late Boss Moran very thoroughly not too
long ago, to the vast amusement of one barbaric and bloodthirsty
child." He tipped his head. "Forgive me if I pry, but am I to
understand that you will be accompanying us today?"

"My business today is on the street, and I thought to walk with you
and Mr. McFarland—and one bloodthirsty child—until my way turns
from yours." She bent her head gracefully, suggesting a full bow in
her favorite mode of student to master.

"Perhaps I am inconvenient."

"Or perhaps you are not," he said dryly. "One merely inquired."

"Cat comin', Boss?" Cheever asked lazily from his lean against the
door.

"I believe that his duties keep him at home," Pat Rin replied, and
looked sternly down at his attendant feline. Silk blinked molten gold
eyes, then turned and flowed away down the hall toward the
kitchen.

"Now is the hour," Pat Rin said. "Mr. McFarland, the door, of your
goodness." He moved a hand as he spoke, alerting Jonni to the
door's opening, and they exited the house a veritable army:
Cheever, then Pat Rin, the boy at his side, and Natesa, silent and
graceful, walking slightly to the rear and the right.

He heard the pellet sing by his ear and Natesa's shouted "Down" in
the same instant, and dropped to the street, gun to hand, a target in
his eye.

It was target practice then—heavy game, and when the targets
stopped showing, he blinked, disoriented, and with a high buzzing
in his ears.

"Stay down," Natesa hissed, from somewhere behind him. "Do not
move. We are awaiting Mr. McFarland's sign."

It was the word "sign" that jerked him back to the reality of the
street, where he lay in the half-frozen mud, staring at the dead man
crumpled at the base of the wall opposite, his blood shockingly
bright on the dingy walk.

"Where…" he began, but Natesa's voice came again, louder this
time.

"We have the sign. I will stand first. Count slowly to twelve. If I have
drawn no fire, stand, but hold your weapon ready."

He sensed her movement and counted to twelve, slowly. Silence
reposed upon the street. Pat Rin rose, gun held ready.

Across the street, a door somewhat down from the dead man
opened, and a woman peered out, then hastily withdrew, the door
slamming into place.

More action across the way. Cheever McFarland slipped out of an
alley that should have been to thin for him, and waved.

"All clear," he shouted and strode toward their position.

Released, Pat Rin spun, looking first at the ground near at hand,
but there was nothing there, save the mud.

"Master?"

"The child," he said, remembering the pellet whine and Natesa
shouting—and of course Jonni could not have heard either.
Though, surely, seeing all of his house going to the ground, he
would—

"The child," he said again, to Natesa's black, black eyes. "Where is
the child?"

Her gaze shifted over his shoulder. He turned and saw the ragged
huddle of cloth, not so very far away, really.

"Gods."

He knelt next to the still, small body; and turned the boy in his arms.
No breath, no heartbeat, no wide, glad smile. Gods, gods…no.

"Master?"

"Who did this?" The High Tongue felt like ice in his mouth.

"Master, Mr. McFarland has found Jim Snyder among the fallen,"
she answered softly. "He believes the others come from Boss
Deacon's turf."

Pat Rin knelt, holding the dead child in his arms, and if he wept now
before his oathsworn, he was lost to shame; lost to all but a vast
and frightening coldness.

This ends, and ends now. No more of mine will be shot down in the
streets.

He raised his face to Natesa, and saw her eyes widen.

"Fetch Audrey," he said. He heard his voice shake—and did not
care. "I will know the name of my enemy. They will answer me.
Fully."

Natesa hesitated at the entrance to the garden, an unaccustomed
shyness rooting her feet to the top stair. Mid-way across the roof,
she saw him, silhouetted against the starry glow of Surebleak's
nighttime sky; seated on the edge of a shrouded garden patch,
shoulders bowed, the cat crouched at his side. Neither seemed to
note the wind, intermittent from planetary north, which added to the
evening's chill.

The child's death—she recalled the face he had shown her then,
mud-streaked and slick with tears, icy with a purpose that
surpassed mere revenge by an order of magnitude, and shivered
with something more than the cold.

"Inas, why are you come?" His voice was soft and mannerly. He
did not turn his head. And who knew what the invocation of her
personal name might mean?

Natesa gathered her courage, lifted her feet and entered the
garden.

"It is cold," she said, matching his tone. "I have come to bring you
a blanket."

"Ah."

Gently, she moved among the shadows of the dormant beds, and
came to stand before him, the blanket draped over one arm.

He looked up at her, his face a golden mask in the starshine.

"Thank you," he said, but made no move to take the blanket from
her. Beside him, the cat straightened from its crouch and settled
into a sit, fuzzy tail wrapped neatly 'round its toes.

Natesa sighed lightly. "Ms. Audrey bade me say that her house is
open to you."

The golden mask displayed no emotion. "I am grateful to Ms.
Audrey, but I do not seek distraction."

The wind gusted, bitter enough to dismay her, though she had
taken care to don a jacket. This close, she could see that he was
shivering, though she doubted he knew that himself.

"Pat Rin." Surely, she might dare his name, when he had
established the mode himself? "Pat Rin, you are cold. The night is
not temperate. At least the blanket, if I cannot persuade you to go
inside." She bit her lip. "You serve no one, if you sicken."

"Very true," he said politely, yet still he made no move to take the
blanket.

Wondering at her own temerity, she stepped forward and draped it
around his shoulders. The cat Silk, sitting tall at his side, blinked
golden eyes in approval.

Something moved in his face. Indeed, he sighed, and lifted a hand
on which Korval's Ring glittered, to touch the fabric of the blanket
and pull it more snugly about him.

"Thank you," he said again, and it seemed to her that there was
more than mere ritual in the phrase. "I am grateful for your care."

"You are welcome." She hesitated, unsure of what now she should
offer, reluctant to leave him here, alone, but for his cat and his
dead, inside the freezing night.

"You will wish to know," he said surprisingly, "that I have decided to
take up the roles you doubt may be acted by a single individual."

She frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

"I will unite the territories," he said, sounding altogether sane. "We
shall have laws and contracts. We shall have free and easy travel
between streets, even to the spaceport itself. We shall rejoin the
Health Net. There will be schools, libraries and clinics. Children and
adults will take advantage of these benefits without fear for their
lives. I will accomplish this thing."

"Pat Rin…"

"We will begin by annexing Boss Deacon's territory."

Natesa shook her head, torn between impatience and pity. "Pat
Rin, Boss Deacon is well-protected. More, his territory lies in the
opposite direction of our goals."

"You have not attended," he chided her gently. "I will unite the
territories. Thus, we will take first he who has dared to deal death to
one of mine. It shall serve as a lesson, and bring us to the attention
of those others with whom we will need to treat."

"And, having done so," she said with asperity, "you will receive
even more assassins into your presence, until one of them
succeeds."

"Inas, we can prevail—not without blood, no. And perhaps we shall
entertain more assassins before we win through. But it can be
done. I see it. I know how to proceed."

Pity overruled impatience. His mind had broken beneath the
burden of his griefs. Had she been other than a Sector Judge, she
might well have cast herself to her knees and sent up a wail to the
heedless gods, which was how one grieved for the dead and the
demented on the distant, unlamented world of her birth.

Instead, she extended a hand and touched his shoulder, lightly,
companionably.

"It is good that you have a plan. Mr. McFarland is below stairs. Let
us go to him and discuss procedures over tea and cheese."

She had not expected to so easily persuade him, but he rose at
her word, slipping the blanket from his shoulders and folding it
neatly over his arm.

"Let us do that," he said, still in that soft, oh-so-sane voice.
"Silk—we descend." He inclined his head, courtesy itself. "Inas,
after you."
Day 50
Standard Year 1393
Lytaxin
Erob's Clanhouse and Gardens

Despite his lack of haste, Shan reached the proper suite rather
sooner than he would have liked, and, stifling a sigh, put his palm
against the plate.

A chime sounded, faint on the far side of the door. The last note
had not quite faded from the ear when the door whipped open,
revealing a Liaden woman of exceptional beauty, golden hair
sweeping her stiff shoulders, violet eyes wide in a face so rigidly
calm it seemed a sculpture, audaciously formed from pure, pale
gold, rather than living flesh. Shan's ravaged Healer senses
perceived the expected anger, twined with equal parts terror and
relief—a volatile combination which did not bode well for calm
discourse between siblings.

Well, nothing for it but to begin, he thought, and swept an elder
brother's affectionate bow.

"Good evening, sister," he said, choosing the Low Tongue, which
was Nova's preferred language, rather than Terran, which was his.
"How delightful to find you here! I trust you had a pleasant
journey?"

Nova's mouth tightened. "A pleasant journey," she repeated, so
flatly as to be entirely modeless. She took a breath and stepped
back, moving her hand in the gesture of welcome. "Pray enter,
brother."

Perforce, he entered and wandered down the room to the wine
table. He picked up a glass and poured a portion of Erob's
agreeable, everyday red into it, which really was too bad of him.
The Code dictated that he wait until he was offered refreshment,
but, then, the Code also taught that informality among kin was
acceptable. In any case, it offered Nova opportunity to be irritated
in a minor chord, and perhaps would leach off a measure of that
explosive mix of emotion.

"Wine, sister?" he inquired over his shoulder. "Erob's red is quite
passable. The canary is a touch sweet and I found the jade musty
the other day—though perhaps that was merely a bad bottle."

"The red, of your kindness," Nova said, calmly, beside him. Shan
sighed inwardly. Well, he had survived the full lash of Nova's
temper more times than he could count; he could doubtless
survive it now. He poured a second glass of red, and handed it to
his sister, who inclined her head and took one small sip.

Shan sipped his wine and counted, slowly, toward twelve.

He had reached nine when Nova abruptly put her glass on the
table, and brought her eyes up to meet his.

"I had occasion to trade news with Priscilla Mendoza just recently,"
she said, conversationally. "She tells me that our brother and Miri
Robertson rejoice in a true lifemating."

"Oh, it's a wizard's match, plain enough," Shan said with false good
cheer. "I can see the linkage clearly—any Healer may, who cares
to risk having their Sight dazzled for hours."

"I see." She paused, tension screaming in every line of her. Still,
her voice was calm and even when she spoke again.

"Priscilla now calls herself captain of Dutiful Passage and allows
me to know that she is come into yos'Galan as a thodelm's
lifemate."

Shan grinned. "Never have I held Priscilla's courage in higher
esteem!"

Nova sighed. "Another true lifemating, brother? One would…dislike
to believe that you set aside your first speaker's word from mere
willfulness."

"Mere willfulness?" He raised his eyebrows. "Are we or are we not
of Korval? We are never merely willful. Surely your study of the
Diaries has revealed that to you!"

"Shan."

He sighed and rubbed the tip of his nose. "I cannot judge. The only
measures I have are what I see between Val Con and Miri—and
what I saw between our parents. I—we—are something—other.
Though what manner of other, I am at a loss to know." Another
sigh, sharper. "I need to see Priscilla." And that, he thought, was a
piece of understatement worthy of Val Con himself.

"She expressed a similar need." Nova picked up her glass and
drank off some wine as if it were a not-very-tasty tonic. "So, I find
both of my brothers lifemated with recourse to neither Code nor
first speaker. We will inaugurate a vogue, and bring runaway
matings into fashion."

She finished the wine in a snap and put the glass back on the table.

"Priscilla's other news concerned Val Con's health," she said,
calm, so calm, while the flames of her dismay and fury suddenly
leaped, fair scorching him. "I am to know that he is desperately
wounded, barely escaping his death, and that he may arise from
the catastrophe unit unable to fly."

Oh, Shan thought. Oh, damn.

"The med techs have," he said carefully, "expressed differing
opinions. Some believe that Val Con will at first be all but entirely
disabled, but that he will, over time, improve, even learning to walk
again. That is the extreme view." He paused.

Nova's face had paled considerably, but she waved at him to
continue.

"The less extreme view is that Val Con will emerge able in almost
every way, except in his possession of the reaction times
necessary to a master pilot, much less a scout pilot. These also
believe that his health will remain fragile for some years, if not for
the remainder of his life."

Nova was now pale to the lips, but she watched his face
unwaveringly, and for a second time waved at him to go on.

"The most optimistic," he said, neglecting to add that this group
was comprised entirely of himself, two Clutch turtles, now soundly
asleep in Erob's atrium, and Miri Robertson Tiazan. "The most
optimistic believe that our brother will awaken to himself complete
and unimpaired."

Nova blinked.

"How can opinions diverge by so much?" she demanded. "The
first and the second are consistent in affect, merely different in
degree. But—that he awaken completely healed? How—"

Shan sipped his wine, deliberately buying time. Nova was going to
like the risk they had taken with Val Con's life even less than the
med techs had. And yet, to deny her hope, when he felt her terror
for Val Con almost as his own…

"You must understand that there are…variables," he said slowly.
"Did Priscilla tell you anything of the nature of Val Con's injuries?"

Nova blinked. "She had said he was grievously wounded. I had
assumed—piloting injuries…"

"There were some of those," Shan allowed. "Acceleration injuries,
broken bones gotten by bouncing around in a cockpit built for
someone twice his size—in every direction…" He sighed and
rubbed his forehead; a headache was building, blast it. "You
understand, there were no ships, so it fell to Val Con and myself
and—another pilot—to take them from the Yxtrang. In the process
of acquiring his ship, Val Con was nicked by an Yxtrang pellet
carrying a load of nerve poison. A full hit would have killed him
more-or-less instantly, as I understand it. The effects of the of the
smaller dose over a longer time are…not well documented.
Additionally, there are…variant methodologies…" He eyed her,
wondering if she was swaying or if his vision was wavering.
"Sister?"

"You—and Val Con," Nova repeated, voice shaking, "stole ships
from the Yxtrang?"

"Well, they had so many, you see," he said apologetically. "It was
necessary to mount an air strike, so naturally—"

"You could have been killed!" Nova interrupted.

Shan sipped wine. "It was war," he said, striving for patience. "I
would have been killed had I huddled in House with the infirm and
the children. And if you think me capable of turning Val Con from
necessary action by an appeal to common sense, you vastly
overrate my powers of persuasion!"

She stared at him for another heartbeat, then inclined her head,
allowing him the point. "Just so. Now—'variant methodologies'?"

Here it came. He finished his wine and set the glass aside.

"In consultation with Clutch turtles Edger and Sheather, Val Con's
lifemate became convinced that there was more effective healing
available—a Clutch healing. I offered myself up as a test subject
and found the healing…remarkably efficacious. Miri then
decided—as Val Con's lifemate and for Korval—that he and she
would undergo this healing. Edger and I labored some hours over
Val Con, and left him sleeping easily, his condition much improved
from when we had him out of the 'doc—"

"Out of the 'doc?" Nova demanded. Shan sighed. Well, and he had
known she wouldn't like it.

"You dared to dice with the life of Korval Himself? When the
medics—when you yourself!—admit that the long-term effects of
the poison are unknown, that—"

"Nadelmae Korval decided," Shan interrupted, somewhat louder
than he had meant to do, "for herself, for her lifemate, and for
Korval entire."

"Nadelmae Korval," Nova spat, "is a Terran-raised mercenary,
ignorant of clan and of Code—"

"No, she's not."

Nova stared. "Explain."

He rubbed his forehead. Gods, he was tired. Quickly, he accessed
a Healer's energizing routine. The expected jolt of vigor was more
like a faint tremble of nervousness, but it would suffice. For a while.

"Miri and Val Con rejoice in a true lifemating—recall it? I'll wager
cantra to kittens that you'll find her just as Code-wise as— why, as
Val Con! And I'll further wager that she's found to fly like a scout.
She knew very well what her decision might mean, and she did not
make it lightly."

There was a long silence, while terror, fury, hope, and exasperation
warred behind Nova's eyes. Finally, she sighed.

"I will see our brother."

Shan shook his head. "That would not be wise. We left him
sleeping, in a state…somewhat akin to trance. He will wake
himself, when he is ready."

"I will see him," she repeated, with barely leashed violence. "If he
is entranced, he will not heed me, and I will have had some ease of
heart." Her eyes glinted. "Surely, I am allowed kin-right?"

Surely, she was allowed kin-right, Shan thought, and truth told, it
would ease his own heart to know that Val Con still slept sweetly,
Healed and removed from all danger.

"Very well," he said. "But a glance, only, and then I will need to
seek my own bed."

Nova inclined her head and turned toward the door.

"Lady yos'Phelium?" The med tech scrambled to her feet. She
was showing a little white around the eye, for which Miri blamed her
not at all, and doing pretty good—after the first, incredulous
gape—about not staring at the patients. Miri inclined her head,
trying for a sort of matter-of-fact haughtiness.

"These, my oathsworn," she said, choosing the High Liaden mode
of employer to employee—which was close enough to true,
considering that she was blood-and-genes of Erob, "require
optimization. They have been underfed of late, and are doubtless
in need of supplements. Also, the tattoo work will be removed. The
med techs attached to the mercenary unit have an erasure
program. Pray contact them and request its transmittal, in the name
of Captain Robertson."

The tech swallowed, hard, and managed a fairly credible bow of
acquiescence.

"It shall be done." She looked up—at Nelirikk, at Hazenthull, at
Diglon—and down—at Shadia, and back to Miri. "Forgive me, but
one is not able in the language of the—of the subjects. One would
forestall an…unfortunate situation, my lady."

"I understand," Miri assured her, and moved a hand, bringing both
Nelirikk and Shadia to the tech's attention. "Scout Lieutenant
Shadia Ne'Zame, and my aide, Lieutenant Nelirikk Explorer, will
stay here to assist you in any way required."

The tech actually looked relieved to hear it, which probably showed
how little experience she had with scouts, bowed again and moved
over to the first 'doc of the three in the infirmary.

"If the…elder soldier…will come forward?"

Nelirikk translated it in terms of an order and Diglon Rifle stepped
smartly forward.

Miri exchanged a look with Shadia, who grinned and gave her a
Terran thumbs-up. "We have everything under control, Captain
Redhead."

"Why don't that make me feel better?" Miri asked, rhetorically, and
went away to find Emrith Tiazan, to tell her what was going on in her
medical center.

Miri had gone to the med center to attend the needs of
yos'Phelium's newest dependents, leaving Val Con alone with his
father.

When he was a boy, he had used to dream of this meeting: His
father would arrive unannounced, and swing him up into strong
arms; his father would be sitting at his bedside one morning when
he woke; he would be called from his studies to attend Uncle Er
Thom in his office, and his father would be waiting for him there…

Child-dreams, which had nothing to do with this moment, in which
he, grown and lifemated, stood in a garden far away from home, in
the presence of a stranger, who smiled at him faintly and said,
"Well."

In appearance, Val Con thought, one's father was the antithesis of
one's foster-father. Nor had the holos of Daav in his youth
prepared one, entirely, for the elder scout standing, serene and
patient, before him in the pre-dawn garden. The holos had been of
a man at the height of his powers, whip-thin and sharp-featured; his
plentiful dark hair confined into a tail; black eyes looking boldly out
of the image.

This man had thickened a little beyond slenderness; his hair more
gray than brown, cut close to the head in a manner subtly Terran.
His face, never beautiful, even in youth, had yet a certain austere
charm, startlingly like Uncle Er Thom; and the black eyes assessed
one with all of a scout's directness.

And, Val Con thought suddenly, he has deliberately engineered
this pause to allow me time to study him. Almost, he grinned in
welcome of this oldest of scout tricks.

Daav raised an eyebrow. "You had some pointed questions to ask
me, I believe?"

"The most pointed I had asked: What have you been about all
these years?" While I waited for you, and Uncle Er Thom did…

Daav's eyebrows lifted slightly. "Surely I made an entry in the
Diaries? Yes, I'm certain of it. I distinctly recall your presence at
the event—there's a blot on the page, where you jostled the pen."

And the other blots, thought Val Con, who knew the page well, are
tearstains.

"However," said Daav, "since the substance of the entry appears to
have slipped your mind—I was about the Balancing of my
lifemate's death."

"But," Val Con heard himself, with no little astonishment, state,
"your lifemate is not dead."

Daav appeared to experience no corresponding astonishment
upon hearing this assertion. He merely raised a hand; the old silver
puzzle-ring flashing like a zag of lightning 'round his finger.

"It was some time before that became clear to me," he said. "Our
arrangement had been…flawed. And—forgive me—I had seen her
die. It was far more reasonable to think I had gone mad from grief
than to believe I was truly hearing her voice." He lowered his hand.

"In any case, since the assassin—say, rather, the one who had
employed the assassin—so earnestly wished me to look to Terra
for my villain, I could scarcely do less than accommodate him."

"Though perhaps," Val Con murmured, "not in quite the way he had
wished."

"Well, what would you? Aelliana would never have wanted me to
start a war in her name—even had it been absolutely certain that
her death was called by Terra. Which it was by no means. The
Code quite clearly states that, in matters of life-Balance, the wishes
of the Balancer are secondary to the wishes honorably imputed to
his dead." He lifted his shoulders in a common Terran shrug.

"My lady would have said that Terra struck because it was afraid,
and that fear arises from ignorance. So, I have been teaching
cultural genetics. To Terrans."

"Ah," Val Con said softly.

"Ah, indeed," his father returned. He tipped his head. "Your lady
captain speaks common Yxtrang very like a scout—or perhaps she
speaks it like the scout."

"I really ought to teach Nelirikk my personal name," Val Con said,
musingly. He moved his shoulders, not a shrug. "I concede that the
Common Troop had not been among Miri's languages
before—recent events."

"Ah, yes! The heroic flight of captured Yxtrang fighters against the
over-advantaged foe, in which action you were wounded unto
death! Pray, do not be coy, sir—tales of your prowess precede
you. Commander Carmody holds you as an object of awe, and
appears to consider you thoroughly deranged."

Val Con laughed.

"Yes, well." Daav shifted a step or two aside and stretched,
carefully, Val Con thought, as would a man who was concerned
that his back muscles might protest.

"Tell me, if you would," he said, settling back from his stretch, "who
is this puissant enemy with which Captain Robertson has beguiled
my poor Yxtrang?"

Val Con lifted a brow. "I thought they were yos'Phelium's Yxtrang?"

"One feels a lingering tenderness," Daav told him earnestly. "They
are such good children."

"You relieve me," he said. "As for the enemy—" He paused, head
cocked; saw his father stiffen, and turn his head. The gate at the
end of the garden swung on its hinges; and very shortly the
shadows relinquished Clonak ter'Meulen.

"Half-an-hour and then some," he said, smoothing his mustache
with loving fingertips. "Morning, Shadow."

"Good morning, Clonak," Val Con replied, considering the pudgy
scout. Something was…shifting…at the edge of his mind, as if the
pieces to an old, old puzzle were snapping, at last and inevitably,
into their proper places.

"Clonak," he said again, hating what he was seeing; knowing that it
must be true; "my father wishes to know the name of Korval's great
enemy, that murdered his brother and his brother's lifemate. You
can tell him that, can't you?"

The older scout tipped his head. "Already did, but I don't mind
repeating it: Department of the Interior. You remember that, don't
you, Daav? Though I'm not certain I'd write Er Thom against their
account; what I heard from Shan was that he had died of his
lifemate's dying."

"Which he would not have done," Daav pointed out quietly, "had
Anne remained among us."

"True…"

Val Con took a step forward, drawing the eyes of both men.

"You fed me to them," he said, and his voice was, perhaps, not
quite steady. "The scouts gave me to the Department."

Clonak stared at him as if he'd taken leave of his wits. "Well, of
course we gave you to them, Shadow! Who else did we have more
likely to trump them than a first-in, pure-blood yos'Phelium scout
commander? Concentrated random action. Would we waste such
a weapon? Would you? I didn't think so. Besides," he finished,
crossing his arms over his chest. "It's the duty of the Captain to
protect the passengers. Er Thom can't have missed telling you
that!"

"As close-kin, I ask that you not kill him," Daav said into the silence
that followed this. "I allow him to be twelve times an idiot. But he is
also my oldest friend, and I value him."

Val Con closed his eyes, ran the rainbow, sighed—and opened his
eyes.

"Very well," he said, imposing neutrality, if not calm, on his voice.
"It was my duty and I was suited to the need. But the plan has gone
awry. The Department continues."

"Yes, it does," Clonak said, as if to a half-wit, "but you are no longer
its creature, eh? I see our weapon returned to us, increased three-
fold; a Captain with an intimate understanding of the danger from
which the passengers stand at peril." He flung a hand out, palm up.
"And scarcely a heartbeat too soon, all doom having broken loose.
The scouts hold themselves ready to receive your orders,
Commander."

Val Con shook his head. "Amuse yourself elsewhere. I've no
patience for it."

"Now, Shadow," the pudgy scout said sternly, "do not, I beg you,
come the kitten. I took losses at Nev'Lorn—and so did you."

Val Con blinked. "Nev'Lorn?"

"Clonak, the lad's been ill and away from the news," Daav's deep
voice was perfectly serious. "He hasn't heard that the Department
of the Interior mounted an armed attack against a scout base and
that dozens of his comrades are dead of it."

The Department had openly attacked scouts? Val Con blinked
again. The thing made no sense. The Department flourished
precisely because it operated along hidden avenues, far removed
from the ken of honest folk, and made no large, overt moves.

"Why?" he asked Clonak.

"Why? Why else but out of concern for yourself!" He sighed,
suddenly and sharply. "Shadia found the mark of a scout in a
derelict orbiting an interdicted world, and filed the report, all
according to regs. She didn't make the connection between
yourself and the mystery scout, though others of us did. The
Department caught the report off our bands and moved in,
apparently having performed the same leap of logic." He
shrugged. "They were that desperate to have you back, Shadow.
Or, at least, they were desperate lest someone else have you."

"You rate me high," Val Con said drily. "Certainly, the Commander
would wish to recover—or neutralize—me before I became a
threat to the Department. But to risk everything in an open strike
against the scouts—" He shook his head. "That is not how the
Commander does his math."

"Might have gotten a new tutor," Clonak offered. "Or perhaps he
finds himself strong enough to commence upon a second phase,
and begins to be bold."

Cold feet ran down Val Con's spine. That, now, was all too likely.
The Department's Plan called for expansion, after all, and it might
well seem the time to move, with Korval scattered to its various
safeplaces. He was about to say as much to Clonak when a soft
sound caught his ear, anomalous in the stillness of the predawn
garden. He cocked an ear, waiting for a repetition, and raised his
left hand in the scout's sign for wait.

Nova set them a brisk pace down the quiet pre-dawn halls of
Erob's clanhouse. Indeed, they were moving so swiftly as they
rounded the corner into the main hallway that they very nearly
knocked over the red-haired woman in working leathers who was
striding in the opposite direction.

Shan checked, boot heel skidding on the waxed wooden floor.

"Miri?"

She grinned. "Hey, Shan. Worked a treat!"

He eyed her, astonished; Healer senses brought him a second
astonishment in the luminosity of her pattern, by which time Nova
had recovered both her balance and her glare.

"I'm speechless," he told Miri, "which my sister will tell you is no
common occurrence. Nova, here is Miri Robertson Tiazan, Lady
yos'Phelium."

Nova's glare solidified into disbelief. "You are Miri Robertson?"

'"fraid so," Miri said, not without a measure of sympathy. She
nodded, easily. "Pleased to meet you."

"I—" Nova began. Shan, deciding that bad manners were the
lesser part of disaster, interrupted her ruthlessly.

"We're on our way to see how Val Con does," he said to Miri's
amused gray eyes. "Would you like to accompany us?"

"Can't—gotta find Aunt Emrith and give her some good news. Tell
you what, though, if you're looking for Val Con, you'll find him in the
garden at the end of the wing. He's having a talk with his father."

"His father?" Shan blinked. "Miri—"

"Daav yos'Phelium is dead," Nova, not to be outdone in any mode,
including rudeness, interrupted.

"No, he ain't. We just did the whole welcome-back-to-the-Line thing
an'" Her eyes lost focus somewhat, and then widened.

"Something's wrong," she said, and was gone, running back the
way she had come.

Shan was after her in the next heartbeat, Nova at his side.

Wrong wasn't the beginning of it.

Miri ran, her head full of gunfire, deadly shadows in the garden and
Daav was down, Clonak beside him, and Val Con—Val Con…

She slapped the doorplate and dove through the opening, hitting
the ground and rolling for the cover of the hedge to the right. Gun
ready, she surveyed the enclosure.

Three dark, utterly still lumps in three widely spaced locations
'round the garden were deaders. A single huddle near the
ornamental boulder in the center was the scout named Clonak
ter'Meulen, working with rapid ferocity over another leather-clad
form. At the opposite end of the garden, the gate swung open on
its hinges.

Heart in her mouth, she walked over to the busy scout.

"How bad?" she asked, as the door cycled behind her. She spun in
time to see Shan and Nova whipping through, neck and neck, for all
the worlds like they were running a race.

"Nothing a 'doc won't put right," Clonak said, sitting back on his
heels, and sighing in plain relief.

"Right. Shan'll help you get him down to the med center." Spinning
on her heel, she checked her inner sense of Val Con, locating him
some distance from where she stood, his pattern a muddle of
horror, stubbornness and sheer crazed adrenaline.

"The Department of the Interior," Clonak said, and she didn't stop
to hear anything else, but ran, ran as she had never run, not even
when Klamath was coming apart around her, out the gate and after
him.
Day 345
Standard Year 1392
Hamilton Street
Surebleak

"Boss Conrad's here to see you, Penn."

Penn—Boss Penn Kalhoon, actually—frowned down at the
balance sheet he'd been working on, and waited for the roaring in
his ears to subside.

Boss Conrad was here. He'd hoped—never mind now what he'd
hoped; it was too late for hope. Reality was that the man who'd
come blazing out of Moran's territory less than a Standard Month
ago—the man the streeters called Boss Killer—was in his
territory—in his house—and suddenly Penn Kalhoon was looking at
ending the day early.

Thera…Thera'd be OK, he told himself. Conrad targeted bosses;
streeters and staff attached to a particular boss' household were,
by report, safe as anybody ever was, so long as they had the good
sense not to draw on Conrad or one of his 'hands.

The exception to that'd been Deacon. Conrad blew the house,
there, boss and crew—but did it so neither of the houses next to it
blew, or took fire. They'd shimmied a little, maybe, when Deacon's
crumbled down into its own cellar-hole.

And, according to Penn's sources, Deacon had bought that special
bit of attention fair and square by doing something stupid even by
his standards, and sending a team onto Conrad's turf to take him
out. The team never made it back to Deacon's territory, but they
managed to screw up good before they all got shot dead: They
killed Conrad's kid.

After consideration, Penn had finally allowed that Conrad'd done
just what he needed to do to Deacon, and not one bit less than
Penn might've done himself, if it'd been his kid killed.

He just wished the guy hadn't gone off his head and decided to
wipe out every other boss on the planet, too.

"Penn?" That was Marj, his second, still standing by the door and
not exactly sounding calm. He sighed, capped his pen, closed the
notebook, settled his glasses on his nose, and looked up.

"OK," he said, voice steady. "Please show Boss Conrad in, and
have Dani bring us some hot tea—I hear he likes tea."

Marj was looking distinctly white around the mouth. "Penn, this is
the guy who—"

"Yeah, I know who he is," he cut her off. "And what I want you to
do—no matter what happens—is cooperate with Boss Conrad. Got
that? You level with him—explain how you're my second and you'll
be glad to show him whatever he needs to see. Be smart, OK?
You seen the reports—the only one he wants is me. He'll be good
for the streets—you seen those reports, too. Be smart, Marj. Tell
me."

She swallowed, eyes wet. "I'll be smart, Penn."

"Great." He nodded. "Now go get him. It ain't polite to keep a guest
waitin'."

The reports all had Boss Conrad peaking at the lower end of
average tall, with brown hair and brown eyes, a blue earring, a
glittery hand-ring, and a liking for pretty clothes. All that was true,
but Penn was still unprepared for the slim and elegant person who
followed Marj into the office, his 'hand walking quiet and solemn at
his back.

The 'hand—it was the woman. Natesa. Penn felt one of the knots in
his gut loosen. Natesa was a pro; he didn't have to worry about a
botched job. She'd be quick and she'd be clean. Not that the big
guy's hand-cannons wouldn't've done the needful, but there'd been
an awful mess left to add to Thera's upset.

Much relieved, he stood up from behind his desk, keeping his
hands in plain sight, and nodded politely.

'"Afternoon, sir. I'm Penn Kalhoon."

Dark brown eyes considered him gravely from an ageless golden
face. The reports put him in his thirties, which he probably wasn't
any younger than. But he could've just as easy been ten, fifteen,
even twenty years older. He inclined his head, more formal,
somehow, than a standard nod of greeting.

"Good afternoon, Penn Kalhoon. I am called Conrad. Please
forgive me for disturbing you at your work." His voice was soft and
pitched in the mid-range, real easy on the ear.

"That's OK, sir. I've sorta been expecting you."

The well-marked dark brows pulled slightly together. "Ah, have
you? I wonder why."

Penn shrugged. "My sources said you was tending in this
direction." That was the truth—wasn't no use lying to the man. He
was gonna need to know the state of things, and best he had it
straight from the one who knew it best. Penn pointed.

"I'd be pleased if you'd sit. Dani'll be up real soon with some tea."

The eyebrows moved again, upward this time. "Tea would be most
welcome," he murmured and did sit, graceful as a girl. His 'hand
took up her post behind him.

Penn sank down into his own chair, wondering what to say now,
and was saved from making an immediate decision by the arrival of
Dani with a tray full of cups, pot, and cookies. She got everything
down on the desk with no spills, which was pretty good,
considering how bad her hands were shaking, and shot him a look
from wide, scared eyes.

"Thanks, Dani," he said easily, like he was having lunch with Thera.
"We'll take it from here."

"Yessir, Boss," she whispered, and fled, closing the door a little
too hard behind her.

Carefully, Penn poured tea into one of the cups, sipped it, and bit
into a cookie.

Having demonstrated his good will, he filled another cup and
passed it across the desk.

"I thank you," Boss Conrad murmured and took a sip, then favored
Penn with a straight look. "I hope that you will forgive me if I come
quickly to the purpose of my call," he said.

Penn swallowed the rest of his cookie.

"Sure," he said, and his voice sounded a little edgy to himself.
"You're a busy man."

"As you are," Conrad said. "So, then—quickly: I am here to offer
you an opportunity to enter into a partnership with me."

Penn blinked, thinking he'd heard it wrong, and dared a quick look
up at the pro. She smiled slightly, and inclined her head.

"Um," Penn said, and had another swallow of tea to clear the
sawdust out of his mouth. "What kind of partnership?"

"A perfectly unexceptional sort of partnership—or so I persist in
believing, despite those who have felt they would rather die than
accept it." Conrad sipped his tea. "I envision free passage and
trade between my territories and your own, and a pooling of our
various resources, for the betterment of all. You will continue to
administer your streets, as you have been doing so ably for these
last ten Standards. I will administer my streets, and hope to do as
well."

Penn blinked again, then shook his head with a half-laugh. "I'm
sorry. See, when you walked in here, I knew my day was done.
Gonna take me a sec to focus." Something struck him and he
looked into Conrad's smooth, calm face.

"You didn't offer this deal to all the—all the other bosses, did you?"

"In fact, I did not. The late Boss Deacon did not impress me as
someone with whom it would be advantageous to associate. The
rest, however—yes. I offered them this precise deal."

"And they turned you down?" Penn rubbed his nose. "How dumb
are these guys?" He waved a hand. "I know, I know. Dumb
enough." He closed his eyes, turning the deal around in his head,
looking at it from this angle and that, seeing profit, growth, and— a
snag.

"I worked hard to make my streets safe," he said carefully. "Some
of those turfs you picked up are pretty rugged, according to my
sources. The tollbooths don't keep all the trouble out, but they
keep it down."

"True enough. We are in the process of developing a street patrol,
which will eventually work to keep trouble to a minimum. In the
meanwhile, we may leave the tollbooths in place, as checkpoints
only. Travelers would be required to stop and submit to a search,
as they are now, but no cash would change hands."

"OK, that's a workaround—we can do that."

"Good. I wonder how you feel about trading people as well?"

Penn froze. "Trading people?"

Boss Conrad moved his hand; his big ring sparkling. "Gently. I only
meant that it might profit you if—for an instance—I were to ask a
master brewer who lives inside my territory to come to you for a
time, to teach the craft to one of yours. Likewise, I am in need of
assistance in the matter of inaugurating schools, such as you
maintain. Now, we have a system of…itinerant teachers, who
wander from street to street, teaching those who would learn how
to read. I wish to do better than this, but I must be taught how."

"I get it," Penn grinned, excited now. "An' if your master brewer,
say, didn't want to leave home, maybe I could send my student
over to him for a while."

Conrad smiled, faintly. "Precisely."

"OK, so far this is easy." Penn looked at the other man seriously.
"What's the catch?"

Another smile, slightly less faint than the first. "The catch is that I
wish to secure the entire length of the Port Road, and I will require
you to guarantee safe passage for all along that portion which runs
through your territory. I will undertake likewise."

The Port Road ran more-or-less through the middle of Penn's turf,
and it was as safe as the rest of his streets. But…

"We're cut off by Ivernet to the north, and Whitman, on the east. I
can hold my piece of road, OK, but there ain't nobody gonna come
walkin' out of Ivernet's turf. Whitman—I can talk to Whitman, if you
want. She's not somebody who snubs a profit, if you know what I
mean. But Ivernet—sleet, Ivernet's crazy."

"Ah. Nonetheless, I will be calling upon Boss Ivernet and offering
him the deal. If the deal is not acceptable, then measures will be
taken."

Penn shook his head. "You're a braver man than I am," he said.

"Merely foolhardy, I believe." Conrad leaned forward to put his cup
on the desk, and came to his feet, smooth and graceful. Penn
stood, too, feeling like his whole body was grinning.

"It seems we agree in principle," Conrad said, inclining his head.
"Natesa."

The woman moved. Penn had time for one sharp spike of terror
before he saw that it wasn't a gun in her hand at all, but a portable
radio.

Shakily, he took it.

"If you need to speak with me—a consultation, an emergency—
simply push the 'four' key. If I need to speak with you for similar
reasons, I will use my radio and yours will emit three tones, from
low to high. Is this acceptable?"

"Acceptable," Penn croaked.

"That is good. And now, I will take my leave and allow you to return
to your work. Good-day, Penn Kalhoon. It is…a pleasure to do
business with you."

"Good-day, sir. Ma'am." He raised his voice, "Marj!"

The door popped open so fast he knew she'd been listening at the
knob. Her face was white all the way to the hairline, but she was
grinning fit to beat all.

"Marj, Boss Conrad and his 'hand are leavin' now. Please take
them down to the door."

"Yessir!" she said snappily, and turned her grin on the man and the
woman. "Right this way, Mr. Conrad."

They followed her without a backward look between them and
Penn sank back into his chair, taking pleasure in the simple act of
breathing.

After a while, though, his brain started in, like it always did, and he
shook his head. Going to call on Ivernet, was he? That Natesa'd
better be a damn' good shot.
Day 345
Standard Year 1392
Jolie's House of Joy
Surebleak

"Houses on Ivernet's turf?" Wyn, their host for the evening, shook
his head regretfully. "There ain't no houses on Ivernet's turf, Mr.
Conrad. We hear there ain't much on Ivernet's turf—least ways, not
much anybody else'd want. Now, if you was going over to
Whitman's territory, we'd be right pleased to direct you to Mirabell's
House."

"Alas," Pat Rin murmured. "My fancy is quite set upon visiting Boss
Ivernet."

Wyn looked over to his partner, the Jolie from whom the House
took its name. She sighed.

"Mr. Conrad, Wyn's right—there ain't anything on Ivernet's turf
you'd want. We had—when was it, Wyn? Two years ago? Three?
When them kids come through?"

His broad forehead rumpled in thought. "Oh, hell, yeah, I
remember them. Three years, it musta been—in the flat middle of
winter."

Jolie nodded, leaned forward and touched Pat Rin's sleeve lightly
with pale fingers.

"Two kids, it was. They made it outta Ivernet's territory just like Wyn
says, in the middle of winter, their feet wrapped in rags and not a
whole piece of clothing between 'em. How they got past the
tollbooths, we never did find out. Lost one right off—she wasn't
nothin' but skin over bone, an' so cold—we couldn't get her warm,
and I'll tell you, we covered her over with every blanket in the
house, with Nuce and Silbey one to a side. Nothin' we did was any
good—she was that worn out with the drugs and bad food and then
running through the snow to get away. To get safe." She turned her
face aside, for all the worlds like a proper Liaden lady attempting to
recover from a too-intimate display of emotion.

"So," she said after a moment, looking back to him, her blue eyes
damp. "The second one hung on a while longer—long enough that
we thought she'd make it. Long enough to tell us how it is over
there." She pressed her fingers more firmly onto his sleeve, and
withdrew.

"Mr. Conrad, it's a hell-hole over there. Saying Ivernet's crazy don't
begin to cover it. There's drugs—something they call 'nirf'— and
most take it because it cuts down on the empty feelin' of not havin'
no food. There ain't no houses, just like Wyn told you. Some work
for whatever they can get—an' mostly what they get is nirf. Nor ain't
there much in the way of business, like we got here in Boss Penn's
territory—or like you got yourself, sir, in your turfs!— 'cause
nobody knows when Ivernet'll blow a gasket and him and his
'hands'll come out on the streets, lookin' to go huntin', like they call
it, and burn themselves down a buncha houses so they got enough
light to see by."

It seemed an apt description of a hell-hole, Pat Rin allowed,
grateful for the patient presence of Natesa, silently supping at his
right hand. Apt enough that, had it been possible, he would have
allowed himself to be persuaded to visit Boss Whitman instead.

Necessity, however, existed.

"I am forewarned," he murmured. "But, as it happens, there is one
thing that Boss Ivernet holds that is of interest to me. The Port
Road runs through his territory."

"Yeah, it does," Wyn said, sitting up a bit straighter, eyes bright with
interest. "You after securin' the Road?"

"I am," Pat Rin said, well-pleased with him. "I intend to have it open
from the center-land to the spaceport, safeheld, with free passage
to all."

Wyn whistled. "You talk to Penn about this?"

"Indeed, it was the purpose of my visit. Mr. Kalhoon and I
discussed the matter this afternoon, and were able to reach a
mutually advantageous agreement," Pat Rin said, and felt Natesa
shift beside him. "Please do speak with him, yourselves, and ask
what questions you may have. I am certain that a boss who
administers as well as does Mr. Kalhoon must speak often with his
people."

"Penn's the best boss in nine territories," Wyn assured him warmly,
and shook his head. "Audrey told us you was a change-maker," he
continued, glancing over to his partner. "We tried, Jolie. Audrey
said he was stubborn, too."

"Yeah. Yeah, she did. And she said he was good for business,
which he won't be, if he gets killed on Ivernet's turf." She glanced
at him, a blush mantling her cheeks. "Not that it's my decision,
really, or to say that Ms. Natesa ain't a pro…"

"I thank you for your care," Pat Rin said, sincerely, "but my plans
are firm."

"And that's why he's a boss," Wyn finished, slapping the table, and
grinning, wide and pleased. "Tell you what, stop over with us again
on your way back out. We'll be happy to see the both of you."

Warmed, Pat Rin inclined his head. Audrey, of course, had
provided the introduction to the house of Jolie and Wyn, as she
had provided introductions to the other six whorehouses in the six
territories that were now either his or allied to his. All the heads of
household had been cordial, but none save Audrey—and now
these—had shown any personal concern in himself. Indeed, why
should they? Bosses came and bosses went, and even a boss
who was good for business was bound to be murdered one day.

"I thank you," he said again, inclining his head. "It will be a pleasure
to renew our acquaintance on my return."

"That's fine, then," said Wyn, coming to his feet, with Jolie at his
side. Pat Rin stood, in respect of the host, and Natesa did, as well.

"It's time for us to go on the floor and make sure everybody stays
calm," Jolie said. "If you want company, just choose who you
like—on the house. There's a morning buffet laid out for the early
guests and the one's who're late going home—you're welcome to
that, too."

"You are gracious," Pat Rin murmured. "I do not myself desire a
companion this evening, though perhaps Natesa might wish to avail
herself."

"Whatever suits," Wyn said. "I'll take you on up to your room and
make sure the doormen know who you are. Staff quarters, up the
back of the house. We don't get much trouble here, but sometimes
a customer'll take a shine to one of the staff and make a little bit o'
noise." He waved a hand, indicating that Pat Rin should walk with
him.

He complied, being very careful not to look back at Natesa, who
after all deserved what joy she might take, here in a place which
was as safe as Surebleak came, on the eve of an enterprise of
surpassing danger, if not outright stupidity.

Which is how he happened to miss the subtle gleam in the night
black eyes thoughtfully considering him as he quit the room.

She came to him naked, which she had not done in his several
dreams upon the subject, bearing a bottle of wine and two glasses.

Pat Rin, roused from his labors with the log book, himself divested
of jacket and most of his weapons, opened the door to her knock
and stood, quite plainly staring.

"Is something amiss?" Natesa's rich voice held an unsubtle note of
laughter.

"Not in the least," he assured her, recovering his address with a
quick mental shake. "I was merely trying to recall if I have ever
before seen you stand weaponless."

"Ah," she smiled this time, and showed him the glasses. "May I
come in? Jolie believes this to be quite drinkable."

"Does she?" He stepped back, allowing her to pass, and watched
her walk to the table, marveling at the subtle beauty of her, slim and
far too alluring in her creamy, soft shirt and form-fitting black
trousers. Forcefully, he moved his eyes, and closed the door.

When he joined her at the table, she had already closed the log
book and put it to one side, making room for the glasses and the
wine.

"But I am not entirely unarmed," she murmured as he came to her
side, "as you are not entirely unarmed." She slanted an amused
glance into his face. "Even in the presence of friends, we are
vigilant. Certainly, we are deplorable."

"And very likely deplored," he agreed, as she produced a wine
knife from her waistband and addressed the cork.

"I wonder why you are here," he said then, watching her long,
clever fingers ply the knife. "Do not mistake me—I am pleased to
share wine with you! It is only that I had thought you destined this
evening for the pleasures of the house."

"Ah, yes." A sparkling glance from black eyes as she extracted the
cork and set the wine to breathe. "That was not well done of you."

"Was it not?" he asked, which was simple idiocy. Better to have
denied having taken any action. Much better to have failed to
understand her.

"No," she asserted. "It was not." She reached for a glass; her
sleeve brushing his—the veriest whisper of cloth against cloth, and
nothing to answer for the bright flicker along his nerves.

The wine was poured, neatly and without fuss. Natesa handed him
a glass. She held the other, but did not yet drink, only stood there
looking at him, her face serious.

"You deny yourself the pleasures of the house, do you not?"

He inclined his head, allowing amusement to show. "Certainly. I am
the boss and there is ever work awaiting me."

"Yes, of course." She raised her glass—a Terran toast—and he
followed suit.

"To our success upon the morrow."

"To our success upon the morrow," he repeated, and they drank.

"Do you have concerns of tomorrow's outcome?" he asked her,
after they had sipped again, savoring the vintage, for true wine it
surely was, and nothing like the mis-named if pleasant Autumn
Wine.

She laughed lightly, and sat, all grace and elegance, in the room's
only chair. Pat Rin leaned a hip against the table, and looked down
into her face. His fingers itched with the desire to stroke her soft
cheek—which was beyond idiocy and well into madness. He had
another small sip of wine, recruiting what sanity remained to him.

"Success is never assured," Natesa said, speaking seriously, for
all her seeming gaiety. "And tomorrow we go against an opponent
who is neither predictable nor trained, which mixes in additional
danger."

"We have known these things," he pointed out, "and made plans
accordingly. We do not go to Boss Ivernet naked; and there will be
back-up within reach."

"All true—and yet we are well-advised to go lightly. Indeed, was I
not already certain of your answer, I would ask you to reconsider
and remain at holiday here while Mr. McFarland and I, with a small
team, go in to smooth the way."

He did not immediately reply, being engaged in a thoughtful study
of her face. She returned his regard, widening her eyes a little, her
lips curving into a slight and unmistakably seductive smile.

He understood then that she meant to punish him for his temerity in
leaving her to the pleasures of the house. He breathed in, deep
and careful, deliberately cooling the growing warmth of his blood.
Balance was her right, as it seemed she considered that he had
transgressed. But Balance did not require him to act the fool.

So, business: "We had gone over this. It is my intention to offer to
deal with every boss; extreme force being reserved for those who
violently refuse. We cannot simply murder a man on his reputation.
It may be that he is…misunderstood—although I grant that seems
unlikely. However, we cannot discount that it may be possible. Shall
we try to number between us those who now believe that Jonni was
my true-son, his dead mother my wife, from whom I was long
separated by malicious circumstance?"

She inclined her head. "True. Yet I would not see you put yourself
in unnecessary danger. If Boss Ivernet is harmless and maligned,
then no harm is done to him by sending an emissary first. If he is
as has been reported, sending a forward team means that your life
is preserved."

She finished her wine and stood. Gently, she set the glass on the
table, and turned to face him, resolution in her eyes.

Pat Rin put his glass down, straightening away from the table—too
late, she had swayed one step and was close, her hip grazing his
side, her hand rising, slowly and stringently in sight, toward his
cheek.

So much for Balance, he thought. So much for honor and right
action. Desire electrified his blood. He looked up into her eyes,
and knew he was lost—knew that he must not lose.

"Inas," he whispered. "Inas, do not."

Her hand paused. "Why?"

"Because—because I hold your oath," he managed, though his
voice shook shamefully. "I would not dishonor you."

Something moved in her face; in his distress, he could not have
said what.

"Ah," she said, softly, her breath warm against his cheek. "I see."
Her hand moved; a light finger touched the gemstone in his ear,
then she stepped back, bowing in the Terran mode, innocent of
nuance.

"Pat Rin, goodnight. Sleep deeply. Dream well."

"Sleep well, Inas," he returned, and watched her go lightly away
from him, and let herself out of his room.
Day 346
Standard Year 1392
Industry Street
Surebleak

Gwince guided the car to what passed for a curb, set the brake and
looked up. Pat Rin could see her worried frown in the reflection of
the rear view mirror.

"Boss, I ain't likin' this street too much."

Which only proved her a woman of superior sense, Pat Rin
thought. In his recent travels, he had seen bad streets—even very
bad streets.

This street was—an affront to the honorable, a blight upon the eye;
a dismay upon the soul.

Burned out buildings lined both sides of the pitted road, broken
windows gaping like fanged entrances to black and bottomless
gullets. There were no trees, nor flowers, as there had been seen
on some of the streets under Penn Kalhoon's care; there were no
people; no vehicles on the street, saving their own.

One house stood, unburned and unbroken, along the whole doleful
thoroughfare: A glowering gray pile, protected by a rusty fence
which had been draped with a glittering net of metallic spikes.

"Very well," he said, steeling himself, and turned to meet Natesa's
eye. She inclined her head, novice to master, with no discernible
irony.

"Gwince, please contact Mr. McFarland and have him bring his
team in close. Natesa and I will see if Boss Ivernet is at home."

Gwince bit her lip. "Boss, it might be a good idea to wait 'til Mr.
McFarland gets here."

"Call now," he said, patient in the face of her concern. "Surely, they
will not open fire without first discovering who we are."

He was wrong.

He had taken precisely fifteen steps up the shattered walkway
toward the house, Natesa at his back, when the first pellet snarled
past his ear. He found his target, fired and leapt in the same
instant, coming down heavily on his shoulder behind a pile of
broken concrete that might once have been part of a wall.

The air was full of pellets, snarling and whining, pinging off his
scant cover. Pat Rin leaned out, found a target, fired and ducked
back, face dusted with concrete. He leaned out again—and froze.

Natesa lay, exposed and unmoving, on the walkway leading to the
house. Even as he stared, disbelieving, a pellet chipped the stone
by her head. He could not tell if she were alive—no, her hand!
Surely, her fingers had twitched toward her fallen weapon?

More pellets stormed and he ducked again, measuring the
distance with his eyes, ignoring the old, self-taunting voice telling
him he was too slow, far too slow. He would not fail in this. He
would not leave her out there to die.

Carefully, he holstered his gun. Carefully, he got his feet under
him. The storm of pellet fire lessened; he focused on the still
figure lying on the broken pavement, took a breath—and ran.

Fleet and desperate, he reached her side, lifted her in his arms
and hurtled back toward the dubious shelter of broken concrete.

He almost made it.
Day 51
Standard Year 1393
Lytaxin
Erob's Grounds

He was too late.

Swearing, Val Con went to his knees beside the still form huddled
beneath the curtain edge of the forest. Carefully, he turned her
over, wincing as he uncovered the contorted face. Beldyn
chel'Mara. She had been a scout, once.

The wound she had taken in the firefight was serious enough,
though not by any means a death-wound. No, the agony recorded
in the dead face told the tale: Agent chel'Mara had understood that
she was being followed—and by whom. Her Loop would have
presented the calculation demonstrating that he would catch her
before ever she reached her ship; and would further have
elucidated her odds of winning an encounter with him, depleted
and panicked as she was.

So she had obeyed the implanted orders, and accepted the
Loop's Final Routine, suiciding to avoid capture.

Damning the Commander to the torments of twelve dozen hells
was futile from this distance—and he had no spare seconds to
waste.

Quickly, fingers swift and steady, he went through the dead Agent's
pockets, belt and hidden pouches, stripping out everything, even
the coins and her licenses. Cramming his harvest helter-skelter into
the pocket of his vest, he rose and backed away. Any moment
now…

"Who is it?" Miri's voice was breathless. He held up a hand,
warning her away, counting: One, two, three, four, five—

Beldyn chel'Mara's body blazed into white radiance. Val Con threw
an arm over his eyes, felt the heat and the stench of burning flesh
wash his face, heard the roar of incineration, and—nothing.

Cautiously, he lowered his arm.

The thin grass upon which the Agent's body had lain was lightly
scorched. Nothing else remained.

"Who," Miri repeated, from the approximate vicinity of his elbow,
"was that?"

He looked down into frowning gray eyes.

"Agent of Change Beldyn chel'Mara."

"Suicide?"

He nodded, and hesitated before he asked his own question,
seeing once more in his mind's eye the gate slamming open,
hearing the first shots snarl over his head as he hit the ground,
rolling; the long body crumpling…

"My father?"

"Clonak's got him in a 'doc by this time. Didn't seem too worried.
My turn to worry, I guess." She used her sleeve to mop her damp
face.

"If we're gonna have this lifemate link—and I ain't saying it's a bad
thing, necessarily—then we need to fine tune some stuff. All I knew
is you was scared, you was mad, and you was gone. Clonak said it
was the Department, and I lit out, thinking they'd managed to
snatch you."

"That argues for fine-tuning, indeed. We have a project to embark
upon during our unencumbered hours."

"Of which it don't look like we're gonna have that many for a while.
These people ain't gonna give up, are they?"

"No," he said, slipping his arm around her waist in a brief, absurdly
comforting hug. "In fact, Clonak's news indicates that, far from
giving up, the Department is moving into Phase Two of the Plan."

"Phase Two? What's that?"

"They move more openly, dispose of their enemies, disband the
Council of Clans, and establish themselves as a government."

Miri's eyes widened. "Are they serious?"

"Very serious," Val Con assured her. "And—much worse—the
odds are good that they will succeed." He stepped back and pulled
the assorted jumble of Beldyn chel'Mara's belongings from his
pocket. "And somewhere in this is… ah." He held it up; Miri
squinted, and sighed.

"Ship key. Great. Now all we gotta do is find the ship."

"That is not a difficulty," he said, depressing the appropriate button.
The device came alive in his hand, quivering with the desire to be
re-united with its ship. Val Con closed his fingers loosely around it,
and spun, very slowly, on one heel. Three-quarters of the way
through his revolution, the key lunged against the prison of his
fingers.

"This way," he said softly, and moved off, the key bouncing in his
hand, Miri walking silent at his side.

"No." Shan said firmly. "We are not going after them."

"Shan, the nadelm and nadelmae of Korval are—"

"What you don't seem to grasp," he said, raising his voice to
interrupt his sister and his First Speaker for the second time in an
hour. "Is that the nadelm and nadelmae of Korval are extremely
fierce individuals. Miri Robertson is a captain of mercenary
soldiers. She has within recent memory led soldiers into war,
survived several battles, retaken an airfield held by a hostile
force—oh, and attached an Yxtrang explorer to her command.

"You will recall that Nadelm Korval holds rank as a scout
commander. While this is not of itself a guarantee of ferocity, I will
tell you that I have it on his authority and on the authority of that
same Yxtrang explorer that Val Con yos'Phelium bested a soldier
twice his size, and desperate besides, in single combat, each of
them armed with a knife."

"Shan—"

"All of which means," he swept on, making his third interruption on
the night, "that the universe is more in peril from them than they are
from the universe; and that the enemies they cannot vanquish with
a glare and a wave of the hand are no one that we want to meet,
out strolling in the dawning forest. Furthermore, Erob has
dispatched actual soldiers in pursuit of the remainder of this
enemy—who and how many they might be. And I will remind you
that you are Korval-pernard'i. As your subject thodelm, referencing
Chapter Eight, Paragraph 15 of the Code of Proper Conduct, I
forbid you to risk yourself while the nadelm is unavailable to us."

He took a deep breath, in preparation of even more forceful
arguments, if need be, but she stood silent, staring at him out of a
face rather paler than usual.

However, if Nova was speechless, there were others present who
were not.

"Bravo!" Clonak ter'Meulen brought his palms together in
appreciative applause. "Well acted, sir! Yes! Well acted! I'll have
the tape, by the gods!"

"Clonak," Shan said, warningly. "I am—"

"No, no, darling, don't speak! You have delivered yourself of a
masterful performance. Recruit your strength. Allow me to carry on
in your stead." He came forward and bowed, all correct and very
High House: Honor to a delm not one's own.

"Lady Nova, how delightful to see you again! Did you enjoy the
war?"

She glared, which deflated Clonak not -one bit. "Alas, that I missed
the more robust episodes. I arrived only hours ago."

"Is that so? Then you will not have met dear Lieutenant Nelirikk! A
jewel of the first water, is Lieutenant Nelirikk. I am persuaded that
you will like him extremely. As you have heard, he was defeated by
your foster brother, the inestimable Shadow, in hand-to-hand
combat, winning, thereby, a place of service to your House. A man
of many excellencies—and so fortunate that he was with us, when
we picked up the others yesternoon. It is of course too soon to
predict their own worth to the House of Korval, but I feel certain that
they will strive to give good service."

"Others?" Shan repeated, stomach suddenly cold. "What others?'

Clonak turned a beatific smile upon him. "Why Hazenthull Explorer
and Diglon Rifle, none other, who have only an hour ago given their
oaths of service to Lord and Lady yos'Phelium."

Shan closed his eyes.

"Tired, darling?"

"Exhausted, if you will have it," he said, and sighed. "Line
yos'Phelium holds service oaths of three Yxtrang?"

"I don't doubt but they'll be found useful to have about the house.
Indeed, Captain Robertson waxed eloquent upon the point." He
paused to smooth his mustache. "I doubt it's occurred to Shadow
as yet, though it will—awake upon suits as yet undiscovered, your
foster brother!—but I'm certain Daav had the possibility of a
breeding pair in his eye." He moved his shoulders. "Well, he
would, you know. We are all but products of our training."

"A breeding pair," Shan repeated faintly, but Nova was after other
game.

"If you believe for one moment that I will accept that man as Daav
yos'Phelium, no matter what sort of hoax you and he have been
able to foist upon my brother—"

"Ah!" Clonak cried, slapping his hand to his forehead. "Forgive me!
You put me in mind of why I had come to seek you out. Wait, I
know I have it here…" He made a show of searching his pockets,
and eventually produced, with a flourish, a much folded sheet of
printout.

"While they had him in the 'doc, I asked the techs to do a gene
match. I knew you would care, dear Lady Nova, and sought only to
put your mind at rest."

Frowning, Nova all but snatched the proffered paper, unfolded it—

"Korval," she read. "Out of Line yos'Phelium."

"Which is precisely as it ought to be," Clonak said, and turned
toward the door. "It has been delightful chatting with you, children,
but I must be off now, to find how Shadia goes on. Ta!"

The door slid closed behind him.

"Just a little arrogant, ain't they?" Miri asked, settling on her belly
under the bush they'd chosen for cover. "No guards, no whistles,
no man-traps. Just…" She waved a hand at the ship nestled
against the wooded hillside, in full sight of anybody who cared to
look for it, now that Val Con had puzzled out the key combo and
turned off the invisibility routine.

"They depended upon the cloaking device to hide it," he
murmured. "And there are no guarantees that the ship itself is free
of traps."

"Huh." She glanced at him. "It's probably set up to report back to
base, ain't it?"

"There will certainly be a trans-light locator, as had been hidden on
Agent sig'Alda's ship," he said, brows pulled together in a frown.
"Also, it will be programmed to dispatch a distress call, if it is left
too long alone. The Commander is not a fool. He will doubtless
have discovered by now that Agent sig'Alda's ship never was in
orbit about Waymart. It may be expected that he has caused this
ship to carry…upgraded security."

"Terrific." Miri glared at the ship, but it refused to dissolve like a
bad dream in the brightening sunlight. "We can't just let the damn
thing sit there—it's a bomb waiting to go off."

"Agreed." He nestled his chin onto his folded arms, eyes on the
ship. "It might be possible to disarm it," he said eventually. "I have
Beldyn's license. Using it, I should easily be able to access
maincomp and initiate a complete systems shutdown."

"The word 'easily' is bothering me, here."

He turned his head to smile at her. "Of course it is. However, I
cannot easily envision another course of action, given that the ship
is here, four of its Agents are dead, and it is almost certainly going
to apply to the Department for assistance when its countdown is
done and no one has reported in." He looked back to the ship.

"I suggest that you await me here, with the most of Beldyn's
belongings. I will use her license to access maincomp. If I cannot
trigger a systems shutdown—if maincomp requires two or more
licenses to validate the order—perhaps I can at least reset the
timer."

"And give us time to get the other licenses and come back to try
again," Miri said. Silently, she went over the plan. It was a nice,
simple plan; it had some play in it, and a built-in contingency
scheme, which the gods knew wasn't standard for either of them.
Still, she didn't like it much and said so.

"Alternatives?" Val Con asked, which she might've known he
would. She sighed and shook her head.

"I can't even think of a good argument to support us going in
together, instead of splitting up," she said. "Must be getting old."

He smiled. "We are decided, then." He looked at her, green eyes
serious. "I will be very careful, cha'trez."

"You always say that," she complained, and sat up, wary of tangling
her hair in the near branches. "Guess we better move on it, then."

"Indeed. The best path to finish is through begun."

He came to his knees, fishing in his vest for the stuff he had taken
off the dead Agent. Most of it, he handed to her, reserving for
himself the ship key, a metal card that was the late Beldyn's piloting
license, and a flattish, notched piece of long metal.

"Interior key," he murmured. "For unlocking chests and inner
hatches in times of disrupted power."

"Right," she said, and pocketed the jumble as Val Con ghosted out
from under their bush and moved toward the Agents' ship.

The hatch rose in response to the key's command, and Val Con
entered the ship of the Department.

The cabin lights came up as he proceeded, alert for traps and trip-
beams. He achieved the center of the piloting chamber without
mishap, and paused there to look about himself.

The board was locked down, screens blanked; the status lights
showed all systems at first level standby—primed to leap into
complete wakefulness at the touch of a pilot's hand. A prudent
measure, Val Con thought, for a pilot who had chosen not to land at
a port, where he might command the luxury of a hotpad, and who
could not know if he would depart hotly pursued by enemies, or at
leisure and in his own good time.

Well. Quick and silent, he went through the rest of the ship,
satisfying himself that he was alone, then returned to the piloting
chamber, pulling Beldyn chel'Mara's piloting license out of his
pocket.

Miri shifted under the bush, her eyes on the ship. The hatch had
come up without any fireworks going off and Val Con had walked
on in. Inside her head, she saw the particular pattern that meant he
was being careful, and thinking in small, tight steps. There was no
sense that he saw anything that struck him as odd, or dangerous,
or—

Silhouetted against the wooded hill, the ship's hatch descended,
inevitably and with dignity. Miri flung herself to her feet, heedless of
the scratches inflicted by her passage through the bush, her shout
swallowed by the accelerating whine of engaged gyros.

The Agents' ship hurtled into the sky.

His hands flashed across the board, calling for an abort. The ship
ignored him.

He slapped up navcomp, which obligingly displayed the laid-in and
locked course, the coords of which were all too familiar.

The Department's ship was taking him to Headquarters.

Val Con bit his lip, letting the force of the ship's rising press him
into the pilot's chair. His hands on the board—the very keys had
recognized his fingerprints, he thought, and gave a wry mental bow
to the Commander, who was, after all, no fool.

The ship hurtled upward. Maincomp allowed him to activate the
screens, so that he could see the ground falling away beneath him,
the bush where he had left Miri already indistinguishable in the blur
of green.

Headquarters, he thought, and then thought of the Commander,
and of the likely fate of one who had broken training, to the several-
times loss of the Department.

Returning to Headquarters was not an option.

Val Con reached to the board and opened a comm line.

A chime sounded. Priscilla, more than half of her attention on the
systems report cluttering her main screen, reached absently
across the board to hit the toggle.

"Mendoza."

"Priscilla, this is Val Con." His voice came out of the speaker, calm
and clear, immediately recognizable, though she had not heard it
for more than three Standards. She sat up, staring.

"Already?" She demanded. "Shan said it would be days yet—"

"Shan was mistaken," he interrupted. "Attend me now. There is a
ship rising from Lytaxin at longitude 76.51.33 west, 39.24.17 north,
at an acceleration of 7.8 local gravities. Acquire it, please."

Her fingers danced over the board. "I have it."

"Good. Destroy it."

She blinked; checked her instruments. "Val Con, you're on that
ship."

"Indeed I am. Fire at will."

"No."

"Priscilla, if you refuse, you will destroy the clan. The ship will not
obey me and the course laid in will deliver me into the hands of our
enemy." Calm, so calm, his voice. It was his very calmness that
convinced her that his order was right and necessary, though,
Goddess, what she would say to Shan…

"It would be best," he said. "If you fire while we are in atmosphere."

She smiled. "Yes, of course it would." Her fingers moved on the
board again, unhesitant and certain. "Beam up," she murmured.
"Target locked."

Miri craned up into the brightening sky, watching the ship that was
taking him away from her. It was at the edge of her vision, now, a
speck against the white clouds of morning. Soon—

Slashing through the white clouds came a slender radiant beam. It
touched the speck, surrounded it, pulsed.

The ship blew up.

Miri screamed.

Ren Zel woke, suddenly and entirely.

A glance across the dark room at the glowing ice-blue digits of the
clock proved that he had been asleep just over an hour. Despite
this, he felt extraordinarily alert, even a bit restless. A walk, he
thought, would be just the thing to put him restful once more.

So thinking, he arose from his bed and dressed rapidly in the near
darkness. Stamping into his boots, he reached out and plucked his
pilot's jacket from its hook. His fingers caressed the worn, scarred
leather, running over the tiny seams that each marked a place
where the leather had been torn and, later, mended.

He smiled, there in the darkness, and swung the jacket up and on.
The next instant, he stepped into the hallway beyond his door and
strode off toward the right.

The hall bent sharply to the left, then to the right. Ren Zel moved
out with a will, senses wide open, more energetic with every step.

The hall bent again to the right. He rounded the corner and walked
into a garden, stepping from carpet to grass and pausing at last,
his face turned up to a sky silvered with starlight. He took a deep
breath of fragrant air—and felt something bump against his shin.

Carefully, he looked down, his vision tainted with silver, so that the
large gray cat making a second, even more robust, pass at his leg
seemed for a moment to be outlined in light.

"Gently," Ren Zel murmured, bending down to offer a forefinger in
greeting. "That leg has already been broken once—and very
thoroughly, too."

The cat blinked up at him and touched its nose, dainty, and slightly
damp, to the offered finger. The demands of courtesy having thus
been satisfied, it pushed its head hard against Ren Zel's hand,
startling the man into a soft laugh, as he obligingly rubbed the
sturdy gray ears.

A small wind moved among the leafy things, bearing sweet,
unaccustomed scents. Ren Zel drew another deep breath, and
straightened with a final chuck of the cat's chin.

"Come now, let me walk through this garden. I have been— long
away—from gardens."

He strolled forward, boots whispering across the grass, smiling as
his sleeve brushed the leaf of a misty night bloomer and released
a scent as sharp and as satisfying as cinnamon. Precisely such a
small treasure might have been found in the garden maintained by
the House into which he had been born, years and worlds away.

Directly ahead, the grassy route he followed dead ended in a
opulent sweep of greenery, but before one reached that, one
came across the roots, and then the trunk, of a monumental tree.

Ren Zel picked his way across the surface roots. Glancing down to
be certain of his footing, he saw that the cat companioned him still,
gliding silently over the irregular ground.

Arriving at the tree itself, Ren Zel steadied himself with one hand
flat against remarkably warm wood, and craned upward.

Above him, he saw shadow, sketching, perhaps, the shapes of leaf
and branch. The stars were quite obscured, and the brilliant, silvery
sky. He squinted into the vastness of the shadow in vain; details
eluded him, though he gained a vivid impression of strength,
of…age…and…warm regard.

From the high branches came a sound, as of something come
loose and falling swiftly groundward. Pilot reactions flung Ren Zel
back half a dozen paces, which was well, else the small
plummeting object would have struck him squarely on the head.

Instead, it smacked in to the dark grass and was immediately leapt
upon by the cat, who planted both white front feet firmly on its prize
and looked up at Ren Zel with unmistakable challenge, as if to say,
Well? I've caught it for you, Master Timid. Are you too fainthearted
even to look at what it is?

Ren Zel stepped forward and bent down, not without a certain
amount of wariness, recalling the antics of tree-toads in the garden
of his youth. The cat stepped back, tail high, and flicked out a
negligent paw, moving the object sufficiently for his eye to find it.

No tree-toad here. Frowning slightly, Ren Zel bent and picked up
what proved to be a seedpod—two seedpods, connected by a thin
branchlet. He looked at the cat, sitting primly, tail around toes, its
gaze very much on Ren Zel's face.

"Your tree is throwing things at me, eh? Am I to infer that I am
unwelcome?"

One quicksilver paw came out, passing gently over the whiskers,
then the cat was walking away, tail high., Ren Zel moved his
shoulders, thought to drop the seedpods, and then did not: they
felt warm and comfortable in his hand and it came to him that he
would have need of them, later.

Halfway across the glade, the cat paused in its purposeful
perambulation and looked over its shoulder. Again, Ren Zel had
the distinct impression that, if the animal could speak, it would this
moment be saying something rather sharp to one Master Timid
Sandfeet and urging him to come along quickly, now.

Thus gently persuaded, Ren Zel stepped forward. The cat
watched him for a moment, then, apparently satisfied that he would
do as he was bid, took up the lead.

Pieces of what had once been a ship fell, tumbling, out of the sky.

Miri, stirring beneath the shelter she did not remember taking,
watched them fall, and gingerly, ready to snatch back at the first
cold shock of emptiness, extended her thought to the place where
his pattern should have been.

It was—there. Pre-occupied right this second, but displaying no
signs of attenuation like she'd seen when he'd been dying on the
Yxtrang fighter. In fact, he seemed quite amazingly busy for a man
who ought to have been vaporized when the beam pierced his
ship.

Carefully, not wanting to disturb his concentration, she pushed her
thought a little deeper into his pattern. Her vision side-slipped
crazily, and she was seeing the ground from high above, turning
gently and rising slowly beneath her as—as?

Escape kite, Val Con murmured in her ear. The manual key
opened the emergency drawer, and triggered the escape hatch.

She closed her eyes, which didn't quite get rid of the disorienting
far-view of the ground. Even more carefully, she withdrew her
thought from his pattern, and opened her eyes to the sky.

High up against the clouds, she saw a long, black wing, spiraling
lazily downward.

The path culminated in a door. The cat stopped and looked at him
over its shoulder.

Ren Zel surveyed the situation. The door was set into a section of
wall. The section of wall was part of a greater wall, which formed,
so he was persuaded, part of the first story of a clanhouse. He
glanced down at the cat.

"I am afraid I'm no use to you. My print will not open this."

The cat yawned, sauntered over to the door, stood on its back feet,
braced itself with one paw against the lower door and stretched
toward the latch with the other. Ren Zel sighed sharply.

"Understand me, it's useless! This is a clanhouse—I am clanless.
There is no door on all the worlds of Liad which will open to my
hand."

The cat stretched higher, its paw questing well below the latch.

"Merely disobliging, am I? Well, the proof is easy enough." He
went forward two steps and snatched at the knob, already hearing
in his mind's ear the blare of bells as the house took alarm from the
touch of an intruder.

The knob turned easily in his hand. The door swung wide, silent on
well-oiled hinges. The cat strolled inside, then stopped and looked
over its shoulder in a way grown far too familiar.

"No." Ren Zel stared down into glowing eyes. "I cannot."

The cat came back, stropped itself one way and the other, soft and
caressing, against his legs, then moved on again, down the dim
hallway.

It was risky—even given the malfunction which had allowed him to
open a coded door. He did know the risk. Yet the house lured him,
with its promised glimpses of the life he had been denied. Surely,
he thought, just a short stroll down the hall, a glance into a room or
two—surely there was no harm in that?

Knowing his peril, Ren Zel stepped inside, closing the door
carefully behind him, and being quite certain that the lock had
caught before he followed the cat into the deeps of the house.

Time and route blurred. He thought they might have crossed a
dark, deserted kitchen, he and the cat, and gone up a thin flight of
stairs insufficiently illuminated by night-dims, and down another
hall, or possibly two…

Time righted itself. They stood before another door. The cat
stroked, long and sensuous, across Ren Zel's legs, then stretched
high on back feet, reaching for the palmplate set far above its
head.

"This is the private apartment of someone who belongs to this
house," Ren Zel said, his voice barely a whisper. "Surely, my
hands are useless to you here."

The cat did not even deign to turn its head. Ren Zel sighed,
stepped forward and put his hand with absolute certainty against
the coded plate. His palm tingled as the house scanned him. His
shoulders stiffened beneath his many-times mended jacket, as if
tensed against the grip of a hostile hand.

Silent and stately, the door slid back on its groove. The cat made a
pleased burble and all but leapt within, tail held tall, fairly quivering
with joy.

Ren Zel took a step back. That is, he meant to take a step back, to
retrace the half-remembered path through private, richly carpeted
corridors, to descend the back stairway, cross the kitchen, and
gain, first, the starlit garden, and shortly thereafter the familiar,
beloved halls of Dutiful Passage.

He went forward another step, clearing the beam, and heard the
door slide shut behind him.

It occurred to him, somewhat belatedly, that he had lost his mind.

Mad or sane, his traitor feet kept on, walking him softly and without
haste through a pleasantly cluttered parlor, 'til he crossed yet
another forbidden threshold, into the very sleeping room of one
who was clanheld, alive, and joyous.

The inner room was spacious, the center held by a bed of noble
proportion, set directly beneath a skylight, from which silver beams
illuminated the rumpled coverlet, and wove stars into the long, dark
hair of the woman asleep against the pillows, one rounded arm
flung high over her head, a frown disturbing the smooth expanse of
her brow.

Sanity returned, quick and cold, freezing his feet to the carpet.
They would kill him, the people who belonged to this house. Truly,
they would kill him—and justly so—a stranger who had forced
himself, alone and uninvited, into the very sleeping room of one of
the clan's precious children.

Biting his lip, he half turned to go—which was the moment the cat
chose to leap upward from the floor, landing solidly on the stomach
of the sleeping woman.

"Ooof!" The lady jack-knifed into a sitting position, snatching the
cat into her arms. "Horrid creature! First, you refuse to share my
sleep and now you refuse me solitary slumber! Unhandsome, Lord
Merlin! I had thought you for the garden all the night—" She
stopped, hearing her own words, so Ren Zel thought, and put the
cat gently to one side, staring across the rumpled blankets
to—himself.

"Oh," she said, and tipped her head to a side, as one puzzled, but
in no wise terrified to find a stranger standing at the very foot of her
bed. "Good evening, Pilot." Her voice was slow, the tone oddly
reverberant. She spoke in the mode between equals.

By the Code, he should throw himself on his face and despoil her
no further while she got on with the business of screaming for her
agemates, or her elders, or her delm to come quickly and dispose
of him.

Ren Zel inclined his head, matching her grave, unfluttered attitude.
"Good evening, Lady."

In the starlight, she smiled, and tossed the coverlet aside, sliding
out of bed and coming toward him on silent, naked feet, her bed
shirt floating 'round her knees.

"Now, to," she said. "I confess I had not expected you. May I know
your name?"

He did bow then, very gently, in the mode of introduction. "Ren
Zel."

She smiled again, and shook her hair back. He thought it threw off
sparks in the starlight.

"A brief name, but well enough." She paused, standing so close
that he could see the color of her eyes beneath the winsome dark
brows—silver, like the starlight.

"My name," she said, "is Anthora." She held out a hand, the lace of
her sleeve falling gracefully back along her arm. "May I hang your
jacket away? We are all pilots here."

"I—" His throat closed. He took a breath. "I should not stay."

"What—when you have come so far? At least take your ease for an
hour before the exertions of the journey back."

She swayed forward another half-step, the silver eyes wide in a
face not precisely beautiful, with its sharp cheekbones and pointed
chin. It came to him, as if from a distance, that he had seen a like
face—then lost the thought in horror as he found his hand rising,
drawn as if by a magnet toward her silken cheek.

Her eyes flickered, following the motion, and he used the moment
to go back a step and to lift his hand higher, displaying the twin
seedpods, still attached by their branchlet.

"A gift," he managed, his voice sounding unsteady in his own ears.
"If the lady pleases."

"A gift?" For an instant she merely stared, then threw back her
head and laughed, fully and without artifice. Ren Zel felt his mouth
curving into a smile, his eyes following the perfect curve of her
throat down to the rounded thrust of her breasts against the thin
stuff of her shirt—his breath caught, blood heating; and in that
moment she met his eye, still grinning, and reached out to pluck up
the pods.

"A handsome gift, I own, and perfectly suited to the occasion!
Come, let us share."

He blinked at her, tongue-tangled with mingled desire and dismay.
"Lady, I do not—"

"No, have a care!" She raised an admonishing finger. "You have
brought the gift; our duty is plain. So!" She broke one of the pods
from the branchlet. It lay for a moment on her open palm, then
neatly halved itself, showing a plump, sweet-smelling kernel.

"Thus, for the guest." She extended her palm, and perforce he
took up the offered nut. "And now for me." Again, the pod lay quiet
for an instant before falling apart in perfect halves. Daintily, she
plucked the kernel from its nest, raised it to her lips, and paused.
Silver eyes slanted up at him, mischievous and gentle, as if she
perfectly comprehended his dismay—and his desire. "Eat,
denubia. I swear that you will find it good."

Denubia. She should not call him so, he thought, plucking the
kernel free of its nut-half. He was no proper recipient of a Liaden
lady's endearments. Carefully, he slipped the kernel into his
mouth—and gasped as a riot of taste exploded along his tongue,
and exploded a second time—and yet again, so that his eyes
perceived strange patterns in the aether and his ears heard music
behind the silence, and his treacherous, traitor body cried out
against its incompleteness.

He gasped again as the sensations faded, though they did not
dissipate entirely. It seemed to him that he could still see lines of
power and probability intersecting in the air all about; and that the
low hum of music trembled just inside his ears.

"Gently…" Her voice was—and her hand was on his arm, which
should not be.

"Lady, cry you mercy…" He could not allow this, whatever this was,
to go on. If he was a-dreaming, he would wake. Now. Closing his
eyes, he drew on—why, in someway on the lines he perceived
about him, pulling this one thus, and this other one so…

"Sit the board serene, Pilot. Sometimes, it is wisdom to do
nothing." She stroked his arm, tracing lines of fire on his skin
through the much-mended leather. He made the error of opening
his eyes and beheld her face before him, silver eyes worried and
teasing at once. The threads he had gathered slipped from his
grasp; the building surge of music settled back to a sweet hum.
Anthora smiled.

"It is well," she said and stepped back, holding out both hands.
"Your jacket, Pilot. You do not need it here."

True enough, he thought, and had it off, placing it in her hands with
a lingering touch.

She held it for a moment, as if considering the weight of the
leather, then looked back to him, her brow knit in puzzlement.

"This jacket carries many wounds."

"Healed," he told her, striving for some measure of lightness. "Both
of us healed, well enough. That jacket saved my life, Lady."

"All honor to it," she said, silver eyes solemn, and shook it sharply,
as if she snapped a rug free of dust, and moved away to drape it
over the edge of a chair.

She was back in the next instant, and it came to him that the room
was growing lighter, for he could see the full curves of her body
plainly through the pale shirt.

"Time grows short," she said, moving close and smiling into his
eyes. "May I have your kiss, Ren Zel?"

He had been born for no other purpose than to give her his kiss.
And he came to her too late: dead and beyond them both to heal it.
He shook his head, realized that she might not understand the
Terran gesture, and murmured.

"No. Lady—I am clanless. You are—I should not be here…" he
finished, helplessly.

"Poppycock," she said in plain Terran and grinned, lopsided and
adorable. "Well. Let us try another face of the fortress. You will see
that I am quite without shame—so: Since I am a lady and may mind
my own melant'i—Would you spurn my kiss?"

He looked into silver eyes and knew that he should lie.

"Never."

Her grin softened as she closed the final distance between them,
setting her naked feet carefully beside his boots. They were much
of a height, and she easily lay her arms about his shoulders. Her
breath was warm against his cheek and he held her waist between
his two hands, cradling her closer still as their lips touched—

And the universe took fire.
Day 349
Standard Year 1392
Hamilton Street
Surebleak

He woke with the echo of gunfire in his ears, and a searing sense
of loss.

"Natesa!"

Someone nearby whispered her name, the voice unfamiliar— thin
and ragged—and yet if there were a friend of hers nearby…

"Dammit, don't you start that again!" That voice was immediately
identifiable: Cheever McFarland, and in something of a pet, to
judge by the volume.

Pat Rin opened his eyes, gaining an immediate view up into the big
Terran's face, which showed more worry than temper, despite the
volume—and, just now, a profound and dawning relief.

"Now, why didn't I think of doin' that before?"

"Doing what?" Pat Rin asked, and heard the unfamiliar ragged
whisper emerge from his own mouth. Other details of his condition
were beginning to emerge: He hurt, comprehensively; and his left
arm was immobilized.

"Never occurred to me to just tell you to shut up," Cheever was
continuing. "Well, o'course, it wouldn't—when in your life have you
ever done what you were told?" He frowned, trying for ferocious.

"You been layin' here for the better part of two days, out cold, and
feverish—which would've been worrisome enough—and you been
talkin' Liaden non-stop, except for the occasional hour when you'd
yell for Natesa. Which is what happened to your voice. What
happened to the rest of you is you took a pellet in the arm and
another one in the thigh, and you're in Penn Kalhoon's personal
house, being taken care of by his personal staff, none of who
speak Liaden, by the way, which is probably a good thing,
considering the little bit of it I could scan."

He did have some memories of…conversations; long, intimate
talks with his dead kin, of the sort they had rarely engaged in.
There had been those things that he had wished to say—most
especially to his son; and also to Shan, with whom he had so often
been out of charity, so often for such little cause…

"It was not my intention to disturb the staff," he managed now, his
ragged voice waking the discomfort of a raw throat. He drew a
breath, which also was also painful, but not beyond his ability to
endure.

"Natesa."

Cheever grimaced and Pat Rin felt again the fiery pain of loss, as
the pilot's face dissolved in a shameful wash of tears.

"Naw, now, don't go jumping to endings.," The other man's voice
was unexpectedly gentle. Pat Rin closed his eyes; the tears leaked
beneath his lashes and left cold, wet trails down his cheeks.

"Listen, Boss, she's gonna be fine. Caught a pellet in the
shoulder—the jacket took most of it. If it hadn't been a custom
load, it wouldn't've stopped her at all. As it is, she's gonna be outta
bed and raisin' hell before what passes for the doctor 'round here
lets you eat better'n oatmeal." He paused, then added, thoughtfully.

"Thing is, Natesa's some peeved about you putting yourself on the
line like that—I ain't exactly happy about it, myself. We're your
security—I'm sure we told you this, couple dozen times, maybe.
We take the chances while you get under cover—which this time,
you did, according to Gwince, but then what'd you have to do but
leave cover and set yourself up as a target nobody who wasn't
drugged outta their brains—which Ivernet's were, your
luck—coulda missed."

"My oathsworn," Pat Rin whispered, eyes closed against the slow
leak of tears, "are not expendable."

"Yes, we are" Cheever said, plainly exasperated. "That's the
point—ahh, never mind. I'll let Natesa pound it into your head.
Maybe she'll have better luck."

He lay there, letting the sense of it sink into his bones. Natesa was
alive. She would be fine. Life went on.

"And Boss Ivernet?" he asked, recalling at last the why of placing
himself and his—gods pity him—his beloved, into such danger.

"Wasn't enough of Boss Ivernet left to take to the crematory after
the mob got through with him." There was a certain grim
satisfaction in the Terran pilot's voice. Pat Rin opened his eyes
and stared up into his face.

"Mob?"

"Right. See, after you went in and practically got yourself killed over
this, wasn't much Penn Kalhoon could do but back you, not to
mention Ivernet's own streeters suddenly understanding that there
might be a way out and joining in…" He shook his head. "Wasn't
pretty. Quick, though—it was that. Especially with the bosses on
the other side of Ivernet comin' in to lend a hand. Turns out
everybody wanted him outta there, but none of 'em could figure out
how to go about it 'til you come along." He shrugged.

"So, you got the turf. Penn's second—Marj Fender—she's sittin' in
the Boss Chair, temporary-like, tryin' to get everything sorted out
and stable. Penn wanted me to make sure you knew they was just
holding it temp, and not making a turf-grab. You bled for it—it's
yours. That's his words."

"All honor to him," Pat Rin whispered, closing his eyes again. He
was, ridiculously, exhausted, his face wet with more than the
unabated run of tears.

"We will need to send word to our other territories and—"

"Done," Cheever interrupted. "Some of us been workin'."

And all honor to Cheever McFarland, who held the course, as a
pilot should, despite near catastrophe.

His ears registered a sudden bustle across the room, and a brisk
female voice, borne closer on the clatter of heels against tile.

"Mr. McFarland! You promised!"

"Sorry, ma'am. Got to talkin'."

"Well, you can get to talkin' with Chim, downstairs," the unknown
woman scolded, "and leave Mr. Conrad to rest up. Even bosses
get timeout for gunshots and fever!" A sharp sound, as if she had
brought her palms forcefully together. "Go on, now— out! That's
enough damage for one day!"

"Yes'm. Boss, I'm within range if you want me, got it?"

"Yes," his voice was barely audible, even to himself. "Thank you,
Mr. McFarland."

The bed shook slightly, echoing Cheever's path across the tiles.
Pat Rin opened his eyes by a raw application of will, and found
himself looking up into the round face of a smiling woman of about
his own age.

"I'm Kazi," she said. "Mr. McFarland says, 'the doctor, so-called.'"
She lay one cool, plump hand against his forehead, tsk'd and
brushed his hair back, as if he were a fractious child.

"Wore you right down to nerves, didn't he? I don't know why, but
people think bosses ain't human, somehow. Well. Let's wash your
face, then I'll check your progress. You were lucky, if Mr.
McFarland didn't tell you—the thigh shot missed the artery and the
bone; it's a nice, clean wound. No problems there. The arm's a little
trickier, but I think you're gonna to be just fine, so long as you're
sensible. Can you be sensible?"

She had produced a bowl and a cloth from somewhere. He
watched her through slitted eyes as she dipped the cloth in the
bowl and wrung it out.

"Perhaps… I… can," he whispered. "I have…not
attempted…recently."

Kazi smiled, leaned forward and used the cool cloth to wipe his
face. "There, that feels better, doesn't it?" She dropped the cloth
into the bowl and put it aside.

"OK, now I'll check the wounds. You can have a nap after—or if
you fall asleep while I'm poking you, I won't be offended. I do want
you to have some broth a little later, but the nap comes first." She
folded the coverlet back from his left side and reached forward.
"This might hurt you some. Feel free to yell and swear."

Indeed, it hurt amazingly, though her hands were light and certain.
Pat Rin closed his eyes and gave his attention wholly to recalling
the order in which the books were shelved in his mother's study,
starting from the topmost of the floor-to-ceiling shelves. He was
just starting on the second shelf when Kazi spoke again.

"They both look good." He opened his eyes to her face. She
smiled and nodded. "Whyn't you go to sleep now? I'll be back in a
while with something like dinner."

Sleep. His weighty eyelids closed. "Thank you," he said— meant to
say—and let the black velvet tide of sleep bear him away.
Day 355
Standard Year 1392
Hamilton Street
Surebleak

"Boss?" Gwince paused in the threshold of the parlor Penn
Kalhoon had set aside for Pat Rin's use. "Boss Melina Sherton's
here to see you."

He looked up from the book he had been reading—a bow to Kazi's
insistence that he "rest" between entertaining callers. Melina
Sherton held a large territory considerably out from his present
location; bordering on the almost-mythic "country", with its fresh
vegetables, fields and wineries.

"Pray show Ms. Sherton in," he said, putting his book aside; "and
ask Dani to bring refreshments."

"Yessir."

Pat Rin straightened in his chair, careful of the arm in its awkward
rigid bindings. A cane leaned against the table at his side, another
concession to the doctor's list of instructions.

He had not, of course, been able to acquiesce to all of her
demands, though he did make a push to be sensible. Behold him,
for an instance, guesting yet in Penn Kalhoon's household, rather
than returning to his home turf, or going on tour with Cheever
McFarland.

Light footsteps sounded in the hall. Pat Rin turned his face toward
the doorway, and inclined his head as his guest came through the
door.

"I hope that you will forgive me if I remain seated," he murmured. "I
mean no disrespect to yourself."

Thin reddish eyebrows arched above tan eyes.

"I think a man who went down with a couple pellets in him six days
ago has a right to stay seated for as long as he wants," she said.

Her voice was strong and emphatic; her person thin of flesh; her
face long and bony. She nodded.

"Melina Sherton. I hold the territory behind Ira Gabriel."

Boss Gabriel had called on Pat Rin yesterday afternoon, one of
three on the day, as opposed to two, the day before. He had
proven himself to be a sensible man, and willing to deal. They had
parted amicably, Ira clenching his portacomm in one outsized fist.

"I have met Boss Gabriel," he said to Melina Sherton. "An excellent
individual."

"He knows what's good for business," she allowed, moving forward
and seating herself in the chair facing him. "I've been dealing with
Ira for almost eight years; he's a man believes in that Road, same
like you do. I guess you talked about that."

"Indeed, we did. And yourself?"

She blinked. "Me?"

"Yes. Do you believe in the Road? I anticipate that holding it open
might cause difficulties for you, with your territory situated as it is."

"Because a road goes both ways, you mean." She tipped her head
to a side, considering him. "I thought about that— thought about it a
lot, if you want to know, because I got an interest in the border
farms, and some trade further in. And what I decided…"

Here, Dani appeared with the tray, which she disposed quickly and
quietly on the table. Hands steady and sure, she poured—for Pat
Rin, who took a sip to demonstrate that the beverage was
undrugged—and for the guest. She departed, also quickly, but
without seeming in haste, leaving the door slightly ajar behind her,
as per his standing instructions.

Pat Rin sipped again and put his cup on the table. "Forgive me," he
said to the other boss, "we had been discussing your decision
regarding the freedom of the Port Road through your territories."

"Right." She held her cup against her knee, and leaned forward, tan
eyes intense. "I decided that it's OK for the Road to go to the Port
and to the country. Sleet, I started in trying to figure out how we
could have more of them—a safe-road out to the coast and back!
Another one up into the hills and back!" She laughed.

"Same sorta thinking that got me in trouble eight years ago, when I
decided the only way to protect our farms was to set up as boss of
the turf next in—act as a kinda buffer zone. That's what it was
gonna be, a safety zone between the rest of the city and the
holdings. Then I got to looking around my streets, seeing what was
needed and who was where. Got in touch with Ira and found him to
be of the same general tendencies…" She shook her head.
"Ancient history. What I'm trying to tell you is, if you're still offering
that deal like you got with Penn, I'll be pleased to sign on and hold
the Road clear, share out info and help settin' up schools and
clinics. Might be some of mine could teach some of yours to grow
eatables in little land-patches, or up on the roofs."

Memory's eye provided a vivid picture of a garden shrouded on a
rooftop, awaiting the touch of the gardener who would never come
again…

Carefully, he took a breath; another—and met Melina Sherton's
eyes.

"That is precisely the sort of partnership we wish to form— a
cooperative of skill and knowledge, which will benefit everyone."

She nodded. "Sure would. And if anybody can hold that kind of
cooperative open, it's you. A boss who ain't afraid to put his life
down on what he believes to be best? I'll team with him."

"Thank you," Pat Rin murmured, reaching for his tea cup. He
sipped at leisure, and turned the conversation to the particulars of
her turf. Sometime later, they found themselves in agreement, with
a date set on which Pat Rin would call on her at home. She
received her portacomm gravely, and Gwince showed her out,
closing the door gently behind her.

Pat Rin wilted against the back of his chair, and closed his eyes.
He could feel the trembling in his legs and in his unbound arm.
Though he was much improved in health, yet even seated
negotiation had the ability to exhaust him, and Melina Sherton had
been his fourth interview on this day.

Seated thus, he might have dozed. In fact, given his weakened
condition, it was inevitable that he doze. The next thing he was
aware of was the light snick of the door being pushed to.

He opened his eyes and beheld Natesa.

Their paths had crossed but seldom in past days. As Cheever had
predicted, she had risen from her sickbed while he was yet
confined by weakness, and set herself to whatever tasks had need
of her skill. It did occur to him that it was anger which kept her from
his side; a notion he had tried—without much success—to put
down to the morbid affect of ill-health.

And now, she was here, having sought him out of her own desire,
whether to throttle him or to mock him remained to be discovered.

"Master." She bowed, elegance itself, and straightened, her black
eyes and grave, sweet face unreadable.

He inclined his head, approximating the bow between equals as
best he might, seated and awkward as he was.

"Natesa. I am pleased to see you, well and dancing."

"I am pleased to see you, also, Master, though it must on the
mend, with the dance yet before you."

He smiled, rueful. "Both Mr. McFarland and Doctor Kazi allow me
to know that I am fortunate to be able to hear the music."

Natesa inclined her head. "You did a very foolish thing; that is so.
Very brave and very foolish. I have often marked how frequently
courage and foolhardiness make partners. I am persuaded that
you have made this same observation."

"Alas, mine has not been an existence where courage is
commonly found, although certainly I have seen fools. The most
recent, in my mirror."

A frown disturbed the serenity of her brow. "No," she said
eventually, as one who had given the matter due consideration.
"No, I would not have it so, though you must, of course, please
yourself." She paused, then bowed once more—oathsworn to
oathholder—and Pat Rin felt his blood chill.

"Master, I have come to ask you for a thing. I hope that you will be
able to accommodate me."

He inclined his head. "I would not be so churlish as to refuse you
anything," he said softly, while he felt his chest muscles tighten, as
if in anticipation of a blow.

"Ah." Another grave inclination of the head, before she looked
directly into his eyes.

"I would have my oath returned to me."

The familiar flames of loss blew high, taking his breath, and his
voice; incinerating what was left of his heart.

He bought time with a stately, seated bow, straightened and raised
his one good hand, palm up, in the gesture of release.

"Your oath is returned to you, honored and unsullied," he said, and
it was the High Tongue that came off of his lips, though he had not
willed it so. "Pray accept my gratitude, for service given well and
without stint."

Deeply, she bowed. "I receive my oath with joy," she said, which
was the proper beginning of the ritual phrase, properly spoken in
the High Tongue. She straightened, and finished, in Terran: "I do
not want your gratitude, Pat Rin yos'Phelium."

He had thought himself beyond any further hurt—thrice a fool!
Gasping, he averted his face, his cheeks stinging as if she had
struck him—and felt her fingers in truth against his cheeks, cool
and soft and soothing.

"Gently," she murmured. "Pat Rin, hear the rest."

He allowed her strong, cool fingers to turn his face, so he looked
into her eyes, inches away from his own.

"I do not want your gratitude," she repeated, the vicious words
transformed by her voice into a caress. "I want your love."

Shivering, he raised his hand and touched her satin cheek. "You
have it, always."

She laughed, softly. "And he asks for nothing in return! Very well,
sir, I will give you a gift."

She bent closer, her breath warm and sweet against his face.

"I love you, Pat Rin," she said, in the mode between intimates. And
kissed him on the lips.
Day 51
Standard Year 1393
Lytaxin
Erob's Clanhouse

Shan sat on a chair in the hallway outside the room where his long-
absent uncle Daav was reported to be in the care of the autodoc.
Nova had gone to Erob, in order to offer what assistance an allied
clan might in the aftermath of the discovery of murderous intruders
in a protected garden.

Having begged off this duty, Shan closed his eyes and
meticulously went through several levels of exercise designed to
raise his energy levels, clear his thinking, and sharpen his flagging
Healer senses. He would of course pay for this indulgence later,
and he would be well-served indeed if he fell flat on his nose just
when he was needed most.

And whether that would be when he was called to identify the dead,
broken bodies of his brother and his brother's lifemate, the gods
alone knew.

Really, Shan, have some sense, he told himself, opening his eyes
with a sigh. Didn't you just explain to Nova that they are very fierce
individuals?

Which in no way meant they were invincible.

Beside him, the door swished open. He turned in his seat and
found himself doubly netted by a straight black glance and the
heart-stoppingly familiar glitter of a pattern that he had last seen in
his childhood.

"Shannie?" The deep, grainy voice was precisely the same. He
came to his feet, feeling his mouth stretch into an idiot smile.

"Uncle Daav. Where have you been?"

He held up a hand on which a ring flickered silver lightnings. "Now,
do not, I beg you, begin! I have done quite enough explaining to
your cha'leket. Apply to him for details."

"If he shows himself, I will," Shan said, suddenly somber. "He and
Miri are missing in the aftermath of your little fracas in Erob's
garden." He tipped his head, Healer senses tracing an anomaly.

"Will my brother also explain the very odd…resonance that I find in
your pattern?"

"Ah, you did come a Healer! Excellent." Daav smiled. "He might
very well explain it, as he deduced both its presence and its cause
with what I would have said was extremely scanty evidence.
However, as you are a Healer, a practical demonstration might be
of benefit to you…" He closed his eyes, and said, quite distinctly,
in the mode between lovers.

"Aelliana, here is Shan, wishing to make his bow to you."

There was a pause; a sense of something shifting. Healer sense
processed the change as a fading and a solidifying; not at all the
expected manifestation of a completely new pattern.

The person before him opened black eyes and smiled—a sweet
and somewhat tentative smile, entirely different from the lightly
edged expression he had been offered moments before. The
muscles of the face were used differently; the shoulders less
square, and more rounded. Healer though he was, Shan felt the
fine hairs lift along the back of his neck. Manifestly, absolutely,
evidentially, the person before him was not Daav yos'Phelium.

He was seeing a ghost.

The soft black eyes widened, and the smile did, too. "Shannie!"
The deep voice was lighter, the graininess softened by the burr of
a Chonselta accent. "Now, shall I come the flutterhead and exclaim
over your gains in height?"

"Aunt Aelli," he smiled at her, as gently as he knew how. "You were
never a flutterhead. Even I knew that."

She gave a peal of appreciative laughter. "Well done! But if you
wish to make a bow, you know, you must do so quickly. It would be
too bad of me to give Daav a headache, which he will have, if I
linger overlong."

"I see." He bowed, affectionately. "Aunt Aelliana, it is good to see
you again."

She extended a hand to touch his cheek. "Thank you, Shannie. I
am glad to see you, too. Take good care, now." She closed her
eyes.

"Well." The voice had returned to its proper depth, the accent of
Solcintra highlighting the grain, rather than softening it. The eyes
opened, black and incisive. "That was a quick chat, for kin so long
apart."

"She wished not to be the cause of a headache."

The smile was soft, but not in the least tentative. "She guards my
health closely." He paused, as one considering the issue from all
sides. "Someone should, I suppose." He moved his shoulders,
something of experiment, or so Shan thought, and nodded, Terran-
fashion.

"Well enough, for an old scout," he said. "Now, what news? Your
brother and his formidable lady have not yet returned from their
pursuit of our enemy, you said. Have they been long away?"

"A few hours. What's worrisome is that the soldiers dispatched by
Erob have not as yet picked them up in their sweep."

"Which only means they've gone beyond, or gone aside, or stayed
within," Uncle Daav pointed out. "A scout commander, as I hardly
need to tell you, is no inconsiderable force in his own right. A scout
commander seconded by Miri Robertson Tiazan…" He shook his
head. "My imagination trembles."

Shan grinned. "Would you like some tales from the late war?"

"I have had tales from Jason Carmody, and from Nelirikk Explorer,
enough to fray the nerves of even an old scout who is well-
accustomed to Clonak ter'Meulen." He lifted an eyebrow. "I
suppose that Clonak is with Line yos'Phelium's newest
dependents?"

Shan shook his head. "Last seen, he was off to confer with the
techs who had charge of the dead, leaving Scout Ne'Zame and
Nelirikk to wait for the others to emerge from the 'docs. When I
looked in, the scout was coaching the explorer on the finer points
of Terran poker. The tech let me know that the two in the 'docs had
fallen on poor times of late and were in need of supplements, in
addition to the cancellation of their vingtai." He paused. "In all
fairness, you should also know that my sister Nova is to house.
Just now, she's with Erob—"

"Which is where we should be," Val Con said.

Shan spun, gasping. "How many times did father ask you not to do
that?"

His brother grinned, and shook the renegade lock of hair back from
his face. "My deplorable manners."

"He forgot," his lifemate said earnestly from his side. "He's never
at his best right after he's blown up a ship."

"I'll remember that." He blinked. "Blew up what ship?"

"Surely, the Department's ship?" Daav murmured.

Val Con nodded, and looked seriously to Shan. "Brother, will you
bear us company? Father?"

"Certainly," Daav said, quietly.

Shan sighed. "I've been doing my utmost to stay out of Erob's
path—and you'd be wise to do the same. The moment you meet
her, she'll be demanding that you remove the Clutch turtles from
her garden."

"Yes? Could she not simply ask them to go? Edger is a courteous
man, and Sheather only one step from timid."

"They're asleep."

"Ah. That does put another face on it." He looked at Miri.

She grinned and shrugged. "Have to risk it, I guess."

"Indeed." He tipped his head. "Hazenthull and Diglon?"

"Still in the 'doc. Now that she has them, the tech refuses to let
them go until they have reached perfection."

"An artist. That is good. Now, which way to Erob?"

"I am to understand that these outlaws, then, were in pursuit of
Nadelm Korval?"

Nova inclined her head. "Erob, it is so. Scout ter'Meulen had
performed a preliminary identification of the three who
were…dispatched on-site. Nadelm Korval and his lady are thought
to be in pursuit of the fourth."

"Scarcely healed and already in turmoil." The old woman sighed.
"If it were not unworthy of an ally, I should insist that you depart,
Korval-pernard'i. This planet has lately endured two military actions.
We need no more peril, just now."

A rebuke, Nova thought, and a just one. She inclined her head.
"Indeed, it was not our intention to burden Erob with our unseemly
disputations."

"However, the dispute in question is not merely Korval's, but of all
Liadens."

Heart in mouth, Nova turned in her chair.

There were four walking into the conference room, but she had
eyes only for one.

Dark hair overlong and a little mussed, as if he had been out in the
wind, the errant forelock falling, as it always had, across the
smooth forehead and almost into the brilliant green eyes, her
brother Val Con stood tall on his own two legs, one hand hooked in
his belt, the other finger-woven with the red-haired woman at his
side.

He might have been a shade too thin for a sister's comfort; the high
curve of his cheekbones a thought too sharp, but he was Val Con,
alive, walking—and even now one well-marked eyebrow was rising,
as it certainly should, with her gawking at him like a half-wit.

"Sister ain't talking to you?" Miri Robertson asked him, while Shan
and a grizzled man in scout leathers paused behind them.

"Alas," he said softly. "I fear I am in disgrace." The eyebrow was
well up, now; the green eyes quizzical. "Come, Nova, cry friends."

"Frien—" the word died in her throat. She took a deliberate breath,
and made another attempt.

"Friends," she said, and then, more sharply than she had
intended—much more sharply, gods, but it was such a relief just to
behold him—"Where the devil have you been?"

Val Con laughed, and bowed, jauntily, still holding hands with the
red haired woman. "A theme, in fact! I fear that a complete answer
will need to wait upon current business." He looked to the woman
at his side.

"Cha'trez, have you met my sister Nova?"

"Real quick, in the hall, right before the little dust-up in the garden,"
she said. She produced a nod and a grin. "Hi, Nova."

"Good morning," Nova told her, quellingly, and was not at all
comforted to see Miri's grin grow wider.

"Good." Val Con moved a hand and the elder scout stepped
forward. "And here is my father, Daav yos'Phelium, joyously
returned to us, and accepted of his thodelm."

Thus introduced, Daav yos'Phelium inclined his head and smiled.
"Good morning, child," he said, gravely. "You resemble your father
extremely."

"So do you," she said, which was true, in some way that she could
not quite quantify.

"Hah. An artifact of our upbringing, perhaps." The black eyes
moved. "Good morning, Emrith," he said to Delm Erob.

"Daav yos'Phelium." She sighed and leaned back in her chair. "It
needed only you."

His eyes gleamed. "I hold neither Ring nor rank. What possible
harm can I do?"

"Do you know," she said dryly, "I was only just asking myself that
same question."

He laughed. She did not.

"Win Den will want to see you. He owes you a cantra, I believe."

"So much? I will be certain to look him up immediately."

"Yes, do that." She looked to Val Con. "So, Korval, what is this
danger which threatens all Liadens?"

"It is called the Department of the Interior," he said, softly. "Four of
its Agents came into your garden last night."

Erob moved a hand. "Korval-pernard'i allows me to know that those
persons were in pursuit of yourself."

He inclined his head. "On this occasion, they were. However, the
Department has taken from every clan. Pilots, scouts, accountants,
scholars—if the Department has a use for someone of talent, it
matters not to which clan that one belongs. The Department
subverts and makes them their own." He paused, green eyes
thoughtful.

"The odds that the Department of the Interior was instrumental in
engineering the domestic dispute which preceded the Yxtrang
invasion borders on certainty. Erob became a target because of its
ties with Korval. I do not hide that from you. They will try again to
cripple you—I do not hide that, either."

She considered him, silently, for some few moments. "You can, of
course," she said eventually, "provide proofs for these assertions."

He bowed. "Proofs may be obtained, yes."

"So. And what is the great House of Korval doing to stop this
terrible enemy of all Liadens? I believe protection of all Liadens
falls within your contract of hire?"

"Indeed it does." Once more he bowed—employee to employer,
as Miri read it, with a movement of the hand indicating both irony
and dedication to duty.

"Korval plans a return to Liad," he said, straightening and looking
directly into her eyes. "We shall take the war to our enemy in his
home."

"We certainly shall not!" Nova surged to her feet, staring at him in
horror. "Have you taken leave of your senses? Plan B is in
effect—do you know it? I refuse to sanction any such madness."
She raised her hand, showing him Korval's Ring. "As Korval-
pernard'i—I forbid it."

"Oops," Miri Robertson said, into the absolute silence that followed
this.

"Precisely," Val Con agreed. Hand-linked, they walked forward,
until they were two paces from where Nova stood, rigid and
outraged.

Together, they bowed honor to the trust-holder. Together, they
straightened. It was Val Con who said the words—his right and his
duty, as delm genetic.

"The Ring passes."

What Nova should have done next, according to the Code Miri had
sleep-learned, was bow in exactly the same mode, repeat "The
Ring passes," and hand the thing over, no muss, no fuss.

Nova shook her head, bright hair swinging around her shoulders.

"The Ring does not pass merely because you have taken a pet,"
she said, scolding, in the mode between kin.

Shan moved forward a step. "Nova…" he began—and stopped
when Val Con raised a hand.

"Sister," he said, very softly, "we are facing an enemy that I know
all too well. I am the Captain Genetic, truly lifemated. We have
made promises and taken oaths, on behalf of Korval and of the
passengers. The Ring passes now because it must. I will tell you
plainly that I wish it fell into any hands but ours."

Nova hesitated for a heartbeat longer while she searched first Val
Con's face, then Miri's. Finally, she bowed as the Code set forth.
Straightening, she announced, "The Ring passes," removed it from
the second finger of her left hand, and held it out in her palm. It
was a massive thing, heavy with enamel-work, taking fire from the
room's dim lighting.

Solemnly, Val Con received it, turned and held it out. "Cha'trez,
please familiarize yourself with this object."

Blinking, Miri took the Ring, and stood frowning down at it.

Brilliant it might be, but up close, it showed its age. There was a
runkle in top of the band, as if somebody had used the edge to
strip wire, or maybe to scratch a message into hull plate. And while
the intarsia work depicting Korval's Tree-and-Dragon was intact,
one of the two emeralds framing the carved Flaran Cha'menthi
showed a dark crack at its heart, and the other, whole, held more
than a tinge of yellow.

"Emerald's bust, boss," she said, turning the Ring around and
peering inside the band for an engraving.

"It has been so for…quite some time," Val Con said.

The inside of the band was smooth; any engraving that might have
been there had probably been worn away by generations of Korval
fingers.

She gave it one more hard stare, then handed it back to Val Con.

"Got it."

"Good." He stood for a moment, his eyes on the thing cupped in
his palm. Then, with an air of decision, he slid it onto the third finger
of his left hand. In her head, Miri heard a snap, as if a something
had been locked tight into place.

There was a funny couple seconds, then, as if nobody was sure of
what to do next.

It was Daav who finally moved, stepping forward and sweeping a
profound bow to the delm's honor, beautifully timed and directed
precisely between the two of them.

"Korval."

They bowed together, delm to clanmember.

"Korval Sees Daav yos'Phelium," Val Con murmured, which was
what the Code stipulated he had to say.

Shan was next, face stern and silver eyes austere. His bow,
deliberate and eloquent of more than mere duty, was in the mode
of thodelm to delm.

"Korval. yos'Galan is yours."

Beside her, she felt Val Con sigh, and then they both bowed, as
they had to, from delm to thodelm.

"Korval Sees Shan yos'Galan, thodelm," Val Con said.

Shan went back a step and it was Nova's turn, bowing simply as
clanmember to delm.

"Korval," she said, softly.

For a third time, they bowed together, delm to clanmember. Miri
caught the shoulder-twitch on the way up, and took her turn.

"Korval Sees Nova yos'Galan," she said, with a seriousness that
went clean through to her soul. Nova had just given them life-and-
death over her and hers—and they had just accepted. Miri didn't
know how Nova felt about it—the other woman's face was a cool,
golden mask—but she felt like bawling.

Nova stepped to Shan's side, and Daav stepped forward once
more, bowing honor to the delm.

It was, Miri thought, a much different bow than his first— plainer by
several degrees of flamboyance, and considerably less bold.
When he straightened, she saw that his face was also considerably
less bold; the eyes wide and soft.

"Korval," he stated, and his accent was different, too.

Biting her lip, she bowed with Val Con, caught the signal again as
they came up and hoped she was right.

"Korval Sees Aelliana Caylon," she said, and Daav went back to his
place beside Nova.

Emrith Tiazan rose from her chair at the table, and bowed the bow
between equals.

"Finally," she said.
Dutiful Passage
Lytaxin Orbit

In receipt of his delm's order, Shan lost no time in repairing to the
spaceport and hiring a lift to Dutiful Passage. Ostensibly, he was
dispatched to insure that all was in readiness for departure, a detail
that could have been retired by a short comm call to the captain of
the vessel. However, his delm had most particularly desired him to
attend to this task personally.

His brother had asked that his affection be conveyed to Priscilla,
which Shan certainly intended to do—directly after he had assured
the lady of his own passionate regard.

In the passenger section of the hired ship, Shan reclined his chair.
He was well asleep before they cleared atmosphere; and woke, as
he had primed himself to do, when they docked.

He sat up, eyes on the amber caution light over the hatch. The
instant it turned green, he was on his feet.

"My thanks," he called to the pilot, and hit the bar, passing from the
shuttle into the blessed familiarity of Docking Bay Six.

Three long strides and he was through the second door and into
the alcove beyond, where she waited for him: tall, beautiful and
stern—a goddess. Almost, he fell to his knees before her.

Even as his stride faltered, the goddess vanished, and it was a
woman before him, her black eyes overflowing with tears given the
lie by her smile, and by the arrow of joy that blazed from her heart
to his.

She came into his arms—or he into hers. What did it matter? They
embraced, neither speaking, allowing the tides of emotion to
sweep between them, open as they were Healer to Healer—and,
somehow, more.

And when the emotion had found its level and the joyful tears had
stopped, Priscilla stirred in his arms, and lifted her hands to cup his
face, her eyes searching his, puzzled, and perhaps a little afraid.

"Shan?" she said, in her deep, thrilling voice. "What have you done
to yourself?"

Miri and her lifemate were on their way to the atrium, along with
Daav and his. Daav claimed never to have seen a Clutch turtle
before, a confidence Miri took with a cellar of salt.

"OK," she said. "Turtles out of the garden, then what? Jase?"

"Clonak," Val Con murmured. "Since he is to house. Also, we
should find how Hazenthull and Diglon go on—for that matter, we
should find how Nelirikk goes on. Then, certainly, Jason." He
pushed his hair out of his eyes. "Haste is necessary. The
ship—were I the Commander, I would have arranged for a direct
beam to headquarters the instant the ship recognized me. We
must assume that they know the trap was sprung—and that the
ship has died. They will assume four Agents dead or out of
commission."

"And they'll send an army right here to Lytaxin," Miri finished,
because they'd hammered all this out 'round the conference table.
"Which is why we gotta grab their interest and keep them busy. I
got all that. What about Edger?"

"An excellent question," Val Con allowed. "I wonder if our father
might be willing to undertake an ambassadorial mission on behalf
of his clan?"

Daav glanced at him, one eyebrow up. "I will of course undertake
any task my delm requires of me. Am I allowed to know what it is
that the Clutch might bring to the effort, in light of the need for
haste?"

"You are sent at a tangent, if you will, on behalf of an ally which may
require…alternative quarters."

There was a slight silence. "You speak of Jelaza Kazone."

"I do. You know our case is desperate—not only does the
Department target Korval, it targets all of Korval's works. If we lose
this throw—which is all too possible—the Department will not rest
until we are eradicated. Even should some of us survive, it would
be chancy in the extreme to attempt to remove the Tree."

"I would call an attempt to remove the Tree from Liad in times of
peace and placid harmony chancy in the extreme," Daav
commented drily.

Val Con smiled. "Which is why you go as our emissary to the
Clutch. I believe that the Elders will find the project appeals—and
falls within their ability to accomplish." He paused, one eyebrow up.
"There must be a scout in it, you know."

"And so there must be," Daav agreed Silence, and a sense, Miri'd
swear, of him consulting with an advisor. Or a lifemate.

"We are able to negotiate on behalf of the clan's ancient ally,
Jelaza Kazone, with the Elders of the Clutch," Daav said eventually.
"My lifemate wishes it known as her heart-wish that any
arrangements for the removal of the Tree from Liad will be found—
unnecessary."

"Yah, we do, too," Miri said, as they passed through the door into
Erob's inner garden. "But hope don't win the war."

"Soldier Lore."

They were in the captain's office, wine to hand and a ravished tray
of eatables on the side table. Shan had told the story of Weapon
Hall, and his meeting there with his other self.

"The most dangerous thing in the Hall," Priscilla said now. "What
possessed you to take it?"

"Lute gave it me—he said I'd need it, and that it wouldn't weigh
very much." He sipped wine. "I believe my reasoning may have run
along the lines of, 'Well, am I likely to lie to myself except for a very
good reason?'"

Priscilla closed her eyes, and it was fear he saw, in her face and in
her pattern—fear of the man he had allowed himself to become.

"I can put it back," he said, tentatively.

She shook her head. "No," she said, her sorrow tugging at his own
heart. "You can't."

It was rare you saw two creatures so completely asleep, Miri
thought, considering the somnolent bulk of them, tucked all tidy
and peaceful into a pretty little cave that was 'way too small for
them.

"They can sleep for months," she said, as if Val Con maybe didn't
know that.

"Yes."

"Do you know how to wake them up?"

"No."

"Great," she said, and stared at them some more, a certifiably
dumb idea tickling at the back of her brain.

Well, she thought, can't hurt anything. And then it'll be outta your
system.

So thinking, she took one step forward, cleared her throat and said,
clear, but not particularly loud.

"Edger, wake up. We need you."

Nothing happened. Of course nothing happened, Robertson, she
scolded herself. You didn't think anything would happen,
remember?

She was just turning to Val Con to let him know that she'd taken her
shot and it was his turn now, when a shudder rippled Edger's
skin—and then another one, more pronounced.

The green eyelids flickered—and drew back, disclosing eyes as
round and as yellow as moons.

"Sister," Edger said, at about a quarter of his usual boom. "How
may I serve you?"
Liad
Jelaza Kazone

The kitchen was awash with morning sun before the cat and the
robot detected, each in its own manner, the sound of light, quick
footsteps upon the back stair.

The robot slid the waiting muffin into the heating unit, and was
pouring tea into a pale porcelain cup when the lady herself danced
into the room, silver eyes sparkling, her hair a-crackle with power.

"Good morning, Jeeves!" she greeted the robot, her usually slow
voice nearly brisk with merriness. She paused at the stool by the
window and bent down to offer her finger to the cat sitting there.
"Lord Merlin. You're looking very pleased with yourself this
morning, sirrah."

The cat touched her finger with his nose and turned his head to
gaze out the window. Anthora laughed and danced over to the
counter, where her place was laid: teacup gently steaming, a single
crimson flower in a tall, simple vase, napkin and jampot to hand.
She slid lightly onto the tall chair, shook out the napkin—and gave a
crow of laughter.

"Oh, no! Jeeves, where did you find this?"

"In the linen press, with twenty-three others exactly like it," the robot
replied, slipping the muffin from the heating unit onto a plate and
rolling across the floor to her side. "I thought it appropriate to your
station."

"Good gods." She blinked, first at the robot, and once more at the
napkin and its intricately embroidered tree-and-dragon, which she
yet held at arm's length before her. "Two dozen of them, you say?
It must have been done as a joke." She tipped her head,
considering. "Or perhaps Cousin Kareen had them made. She
would think them no less than needful."

The robot placed the plate before her and she dropped the napkin
to her knee.

"Thank you," she said, and reached for the teacup.

"You're welcome," said Jeeves, rolling back a respectful distance.
The orange sphere at his apex—his "head," as Val Con would
have it, though it was no such thing; Jeeves' computational unit was
enclosed by his stainless steel mid-part—the orange sphere
flickered gently.

"Did you sleep well, Ms. Anthora?"

"Do you know," she said, setting the cup down and neatly breaking
the muffin, "I do believe I slept most profoundly during the first half
of the night, which, as it transpired, was a good thing, eh, Lord
Merlin?"

The cat flicked an ear, but did not deign to turn from his study of
the birds in the bush outside his window. Anthora smiled and bit
into the muffin. There was silence for a time then—an easy silence,
they three being well accustomed to each other's oddities.

The cat watched out the window; the woman ate and drank; the
robot cast his awareness wide, downloading data from the
perimeter points and initiating a security check of the house
computer.

"Did you know," Anthora said at last, leaning back and pushing the
plate away. "That, on Casiaport, there is a teashop on the same
street as the Pilots Guildhall, where one might find the best winter
soup on all the world?"

The robot's orange head flickered. "No, Miss Anthora, I did not
know that. Shall I archive the information?"

She shook her hair back. "I don't think that will be necessary.
Though perhaps you should find their recipe for winter soup. We
will wish to feed Ren Zel what he likes best."

"This would be Ren Zel dea'Judan, first class piloting license re-
issued out of the Terran Guild, countersigned by Shan yos'Galan
and Seth Johnson; five hours certified test flight short of master
class?"

Anthora straightened on the stool and looked thoughtfully at the
flickering orange ball. "It sounds very like him. Has he been here
before?"

"I have no record of the pilot before last evening," Jeeves said.
"His palm-print is on-file in the house computer. He has access on
all levels."

"Perfectly correct," she said, and looked over her shoulder toward
the window. "Really, Lord Merlin."

The very tip of the cat's tail twitched; stilled.

Anthora shook her head. "Record Ren Zel dea'Judan as my
lifemate, please, Jeeves." She paused, frowning lightly, then
nodded. "Send the announcement to the Gazette. List his rank in
place of clan—First Mate, Dutiful Passage"

The light in Jeeves' headball steadied. "Yes, Miss Anthora."

"Good," she said, slipping off the stool and moving purposefully
down the room. "I will call Mr. dea'Gauss."
Lytaxin
Erob's Clanhouse

Orders were to await the captain's word. The captain's word being
some time in coming, Nelirikk and Shadia set about exposing the
Troop's newest recruits to the intricacies of poker.

Diglon Rifle grasped the rules of play with a speed that would have
been notable in an explorer, and was presiding over a solid wall of
money-chips when Nelirikk heard the cadence of a familiar voice in
the hall.

"Attention!" He slapped his cards face down onto the table and
surged to his feet, Hazenthull and Diglon scarcely a breath behind
him. Shadia turned in her chair, the better to see the door.

Came the captain and the scout—well enough. And behind
them…Nelirikk swallowed, heart slamming into overdrive.

Behind his captain walked one of them—a Clutch turtle, slayer of
soldiers, destroyer of fleets, despoiler of worlds.

Beside him, Nelirikk heard a small, breathless sound, and dared to
move his head the fraction necessary for him to see the recruits.

Hazenthull's naked brown face was stiff, her eyes wide, her lips
compressed into a thin pale line. Diglon Rifle had the appearance
of a foot soldier ordered to hold the rear against the approaching
line of enemy war-wagons.

Scout Shadia, seated and at her ease, inclined her head.
"Commander Shadow, Captain Redhead. Your Wisdom. Be
welcome."

"Gently said," the slayer boomed in a voice that rattled the brain
inside the skull. "May I know your name?"

The scout inclined her head once more. "Scout Lieutenant First-In
Shadia Ne'Zame—in the short form. In the shortest available form,
I am called Shadia."

"Yet another scout!" The creature exclaimed. "One's elder brother
is even now conferring with the scout who is the direct ancestor of
our own brother—he whom you this instant greeted as Shadow,
which I had not known was a part of his name."

"Only," the scout murmured, "when Scout ter'Meulen is on-world."

Shadia grinned. "That's so, Clonak being an inspiration to us all. I
should mind my manners more closely—but truly, sir, it's so apt a
naming!"

"Others have remarked upon it as well," the scout said, not without
a sigh, and glanced up into Nelirikk's face.

He expected something, then—an explanation, a raised eyebrow,
the offer of the scout's own crystal grace blade with which he might
honorably cut his throat before the shelled one bit his legs off and
left him to die in agony.

It was not, however, the scout who spoke, but the captain. She
came forward some few paces, hands behind her back.

"Beautiful. What's wrong with you and the recruits?"

"Captain." He hesitated, his eyes drawn irresistibly to the Clutch
turtle. The old battle reports had not overstated the enemy: The
horny and impervious hide, the shell that covered the back and the
soft, vulnerable belly, the pitiless and unblinking yellow eyes.

"If the captain pleases," he managed, and was ashamed to hear
that his voice was not…completely…soldierly. "Many, many years
ago, Clutch turtles handed overwhelming losses across several
battle zones to the Troop. The conditions of defeat state that the
Troop will, from that time on, be considered the fair and just prey of
the victors."

"That so?"

Nelirikk met her eyes. "Yes, captain. It is so."

"OK. You wanna explain what that has to do with you?"

He stared at her, then looked to the scout, who returned him a
glance that was blandness itself.

"Captain, it has to do with me and with these recruits that—" He
stopped, inwardly cursing himself for an unblooded crechling.
Carefully, he saluted.

"Captain. The treaties between Yxtrang and Clutch have nothing to
do with those who serve as soldiers in jela's line."

She nodded. "That's what I thought, too." She pointed, over her
shoulder and up, and continued in the tongue of the Common
Troop.

"Soldiers, attend me! This is Seventh Shell Third Hatched Knife
Clan of Middle River's Spring Spawn of Farmer Greentrees of the
Spearkmaker’s Den: The Sheather; field name Sheather. He is the
brother-by-oath of myself and the scout. You will serve him and
also his brother, who you will meet, as members of Line
yos'Phelium. Am I understood?"

They all three saluted. "Yes, Captain!" rang in unison.

"Good. We will shortly be moving on the enemy of our Line." She
looked at Nelirikk, and spoke next in Liaden, oathholder to
oathbound. "Prepare them as befit, those in the service of
yos'Phelium," she said and dropped into Terran. "Draw leathers
and arms outta the Gyrfalks stores. Give Diglon a short sleep-learn
in Trade, and lay a base in Terran, if there's time. Drill 'em both in
the signs and calls. You'll be called when it's time to board ship."

Once more, Nelirikk saluted. "Captain," he said, and then, "If the
captain pleases."

"Now what?"

"What is our destination, Captain?"

"Had to ask it, didn't you?" She glanced at the scout, who inclined
his head, ironically.

"Liad is our destination, Explorer."

Nelirikk allowed himself a grin before he again saluted his captain
and turned to give orders to the recruits
Day 376
Standard Year 1392
Spaceport
Surebleak

Etienne Borden, Surebleak nightside portmaster, leaned back in
the duty chair and grinned up at dayside 'master Claren Liu.

"Another exciting shift at Surebleak Port," he said, stretching the
kinks out of his long arms. "Read all about it in the night log!"

Claren snorted. "If you've written 'Nothing happened during night
shift. Nothing ever happens during night shift. Why is there a
nightside portmaster here? Why is there a port here?' again," she
said, crossing the room to the dispensing unit and punching up
coffee and a bun, "you're going to call yourself to the attention of
the guild, which just might pull you and send you someplace
worse."

"Produce this someplace worse!" He challenged.

She paused in the act of removing her cup from the dispenser, and
looked at him. "There must be someplace worse," she said
eventually.

"Hah! I say hah! If there is any other world in the galaxy more
backward or barbaric than Surebleak—notice the use of the word
if—it cannot possibly support a spaceport. By this logic—therefore,
Madam Dayside—Surebleak is on the last rung of the great ladder
of worlds, poised to topple into the roiling pit of chaos below it—
and any other world in the galaxy—any other world—must, by an
extension of pure, emotionless logic, be a better, cleaner saner
world."

"Or maybe not," said Claren, and took a bite of her pastry. "Mithlyn
was pretty bad."

"Mithlyn is a paradise," Etienne proclaimed. "I woo it! I embrace it!
I make love to it!"

"Try, and you'll find you've lost some equipment in the process,"
she returned. "They're pretty strict about that kind of thing on
Mithlyn." She sipped coffee and pointed at the master board with
her bun.

"You signing out, or what? I want my dose of excitement."

"Excitement!" He spun in the chair, signed out with a flourish and
surged to his feet. "The chair is yours, Madam Dayside!"

"Great." She approached it, unhurried, leaned over the board to put
her coffee cup in the slot and her thumb on the scan-plate, glanced
at the main screen—and stared.

"What the—" She brought the image up, diddled with the
resolution—and stared some more. "There's a line of cars," she
said over her shoulder to Etienne, "seven, nine—twelve cars
coming in through the main gate."

"What?" He was next to her, blinking at the screen like an idiot.
"We are invaded, Madam Dayside. The natives have come to
claim the spaceport, that they may profit by selling the tugs for
scrap."

"Could be, I guess," Claren said absently, watching the long,
stately, well-behaved progress of the caravan, as it passed along
the row of empty storefronts and vacant repair shops. "Anything
strike you as funny about this?" she asked.

"Funny?" he repeated. "You mean, besides the fact that we are
about to die in a farce engineered—no, I see. They came through
the main gate. They came in by the Road."

"They did. And look at the cars—those aren't jalopies. Those
are—" she stopped.

"What?" He demanded. "Those are what?"

"Fatcat cars," she said, having recognized the one belonging to
Boss Vine, who held the territory outside the main gate. "Etienne,
we've got twelve different bosses coming in here."

He gaped at her. "But—why?"

She sighed, straightened and crossed the room to take her jacket
down from its peg. "Guess I'd better go find out," she said, looking
at him over her shoulder. "You up for some overtime?"

By the time she reached the yard, the cars were parked in neat
lines of three under the shadow of the tower, their noses pointed at
the main gate.

Claren stopped a couple strides out from the door, firmly
squelching the urge to walk up to one of the men or women
disembarking from their vehicles and ask them what the hell they
were doing. She was Dayside Portmaster, after all; a post of some
dignity, even on Surebleak. She straightened her jacket, so the
portmaster beacon stitched onto the breast could be seen.

The crowd had sorted itself out and was moving toward her as a
unit, headed up by a man in a blue jacket, leaning lightly on a cane,
his left arm in a sling, the empty sleeve neatly pinned up.

He halted a comfortable four paces out, the rest ranging 'round
him. All of them, Claren saw now, carried something—one woman
held a basket filled with shiny green fruits; the man next to the
leader held a bouquet of red, gold and white flowers in his arms;
another, very large man, held what appeared to be a roll of
multicolored fabric on one broad shoulder.

The leader inclined his head—something more formal than the
local nod and less formal than a full-mode Liaden bow.

"I am called Conrad," he said, his voice melodious and cultured.
"And these are my associates. We have come to inform you that
the Port Road stands open from the main gate to the inland farms,
and to solicit the assistance of the portmaster in matters of off-
world trade."

"Off-world trade?" She stared at him, and was returned a bland and
velvet brown glance. "This is Surebleak," she said, sternly. "Just
because the Road's open today doesn't mean it'll be open
tomorrow. If one boss in line gets assassinated, the Road goes
down again."

"Not necessarily," he replied, softly. "We are crafting ways in which
chaos may be avoided in the future." He once again inclined his
head in that curiously formal gesture. "Please, allow us to name
ourselves to you, and to give the gifts we have brought."

There wasn't much use in telling him no, Claren thought, looking at
the crowd of faces. Some looked cocky and tough; most were
poised, with a touch of tentativeness, as if they weren't quite sure
what she'd do. It was the realization that they were as nervous of
her as she was of them that led her to bend her head, trying to
match Conrad's style.

"I'd be pleased to learn the names of your associates, Mr.
Conrad," she said, and was rewarded with a slight, charming smile.

"Very good," he said and used his chin to point at the man holding
the flowers. "This is Penn Kalhoon, of Hamilton Street."

He came forward a step—a thin, bookish looking man, wearing a
pair of steel eyeglasses, his pale yellow hair brushed painfully
flat—and offered the bouquet. She took it, trying not to think how
hard it was going to be now to get at the pistol under her arm, and
nodded.

"A pleasure, Penn Kalhoon. I'm Claren Liu, Dayside Port."

He smiled, which did nice things to his face. "A pleasure,
Portmaster," he said and stepped back, making room for the next
one in line.

It went pretty quickly, and much smoother than she would have
thought possible, and then there was only the tall man with the
fabric over his shoulder left to be introduced.

"This," Conrad said, in his soft, cultured voice, "is Mr. McFarland,
who is in my employ. Recent injuries make it…difficult…for me to
carry my own gift. I hope you will receive it with pleasure."

McFarland stepped forward, shrugging the roll off his shoulder,
catching it in deft hands and unrolling it on the tarmac at her feet: A
simple and cheery little rug, made out of tied and woven scraps of
cloth. Claren smiled—it was that kind of rug.

"So." Another faint smile. "We are delighted that you were able to
speak with us this morning. We do not wish to keep you longer
from the duties of your day. May we set a time when three of our
number may come to you for a discussion of opening trade—and
also, perhaps, to offer some franchise business in port."

This was a man who knew what a port should look like, Claren
thought, and made a mental note to ask him, sometime, where he
was from.

For now, she had another try at that formal nod of the head, and
offered a time six days in the future as well-suited for a meeting
between herself and the representatives of Conrad's "association".
That should give her enough time to get some background and
guidance from the guild.

"Excellent," he said, softly. "Our representatives will be with you
upon that day and hour." One last inclination of the head, with the
rest of the bunch giving the standard nod, and they were moving
away, back toward their cars, leaving their rug, baskets, and bottles
on the tarmac at her feet, and Conrad's 'hand, McFarland, rising up
like a mountain in front of her, holding one hand out and empty,
reaching into his pocket with the other.

"Thought you'd like to see today's newspaper, ma'am," he said
easily, and displayed it—a single broadsheet, folded in quarters.
He bent and put it on the rug, gave her a nod, and moved off after
his boss.

Claren stood there, holding the flowers, and watched them get into
their cars and pull out. When the last had disappeared down to the
main gate, she turned around and gave Etienne the all-clear.
Day 376
Standard Year 1392
Blair Road
Surebleak

In his former life, Pat Rin had often given parties.

Indeed, he had enjoyed a small reputation as a superlative host,
whose most casual morning-gather was a jewel of charming
companionship and graceful conversation. Despite the
considerable effort he put forth to ensure the worthiness these
affairs, he had never experienced the slightest tremor of nerves
regarding their outcomes, and had observed with puzzlement the
agonies of uncertainty borne by other, very gifted, hosts prior to the
brilliant success of their latest soiree.

He had always supposed this lack of delicate feeling to be further
testimony of the general impairment of his warmer emotions.
Certainly, a man who, upon searching his heart, had once declared
that he truly loved but two creatures in all the universe could hardly
be expected to lavish a great deal of passion upon a ball.

Well, and the universe had changed, and he with it.

There was to be a gathering this evening in his own house, where
he would host not only those associated bosses who felt
comfortable leaving their turfs in the hands of their seconds for one
more day, but several as yet unassociated bosses of territories
removed from the Road.

He expected perhaps fifteen guests on the evening—certainly not
a party of any size, though at that more bosses than had been
together in one room on Surebleak in many a long year. He had
satisfied himself that his cook was up to the challenge of providing
a buffet meal and deserts for the expected few, and decreed that
neither beer nor whiskey would be among the beverages. They
Would offer instead an array of fruit juices provided by Melina

Sherton, tea, and coffeetoot. He might have gone a bit further and
advised upon the particulars of the sweets being baked, but saw
that his presence was hindering progress in the kitchen, rather than
helping, and had retreated, nerves a-jangle, to his private parlor.

This chamber was adjacent to his newly painted and appointed
office, and was, in truth, a wonder and a marvel.

A former storage room, it had been cleared of rubbish, the walls
painted a soft and restful green, the scrubbed floor treasuring one
of Ajay's large oval rugs. A shelf had been hung on the right wall,
and held six bound books, none new, or familiar. He had not given
them more than a perfunctory examination, merely running his hand
down the spines and opening one or two at their beginning, but he
found their presence soothing in some small way, much as the few
modest flowers in the vase upon the lamp table.

This afternoon, he found the room occupied before him; Silk the
cat was asleep on the astonishment of a genuine wooden rocking
chair—a gift from Audrey, or so he was given to understand. He
rather thought that the chair, like the parlor itself, was a gift from his
lady; certainly, her hand was obvious, and because that was so, he
smiled.

Bending, he picked Silk up, awkwardly one-handed, and sat in the
rocker, draping the cat across his knee. Surprisingly, the creature
stayed where he was placed, sputtering a few sleepy purrs. Pat
Rin sighed, put his hand on the soft flank, and leaned back in the
chair.

His leg ached, a little; his wounded arm, rather more. Perhaps,
once trade was established, they might acquire an autodoc. He
sighed. First, they needed to rejoin the Health Net. He would make
a point of introducing the subject during his conversations with his
guests this evening—planting the seed, Uncle Daav would have
said. And something very much needed to be done about that
ghastly and moribund port. A gaming house, perhaps. Certainly, a
greengrocer, a trade store…

A light step interrupted these ruminations.

"Pat Rin." A soft voice murmured in his ear. Strong hands came
down on his shoulders, kneading. "You promised that you would
rest this afternoon, denubia."

He smiled and leaned back into her hands.

"I am resting," he murmured. "I am sitting in a comfortable chair,
with my cat on my lap, and my beloved by me. Were I any more
restful, I would be asleep."

"Ah. But there remain some hours until the first guests arrive.
Perhaps a nap would not be entirely out of order." He felt her
fingers against his hair. "Not entirely out of order," she repeated,
her fingers moving in long, soothing strokes.

He felt his eyelids growing heavy, and the cat curled on his lap
began to purr in earnest.

"I am surrounded and overpowered," he complained, forcing his
eyes open—just. "Wretch—you have attached a potent ally."

She laughed, low, and came 'round to offer him her hand. "Come,
upstairs with you! Silk and I will engage to sit on you, if that is
necessary to making you rest."

"I scarcely think I would rest under such conditions," he
commented, shifting his knees. Silk woke with a long, sensuous
stretch, leapt to the floor and strolled off. Pat Rin put his hand into
the hand of his love and allowed her to help him to his feet.

"We shall mount an investigation," she said, slipping his arm
through hers. "And, then, perhaps both of us will rest."

They received twenty, in the final count, with rather more of the
associated bosses in attendance than Pat Rin had anticipated. It
seemed that, despite the commonly held goals, there remained
some, certainly understandable, rivalry between the allies, and
none wished to quit the floor to the potential advantage of another.

He mentioned this to Penn Kalhoon when his hostly duties brought
him at last to that gentleman's side; the other man nodded,
unsurprised.

"We gotta expect that. I mean, most of the long-holders—Ira, Whit,
Melina, me—we shot for boss because we thought we could do it
better'n it was being done. And mostly, we were right. Not to say
we didn't make mistakes." He sipped his juice and sighed. "That's
good. I need to talk to Melina about getting some of this into my
turf, now the Road's open." He grinned suddenly.

"See? Boss-think. You got it yourself, only bigger, better, flashier.
None of us figured out how to open the Road, and I gotta tell you I
been kicking myself about it daily since the day you come into my
office and offered to deal." He had another sip of juice, and
glanced up, light shining off the lenses of his spectacles. "That
newspaper of yours—you know it's feeding the jealousy, don't
you?"

Pat Rin frowned. "Is it? I had no notion. My thought had been
to…inform…the residents of my own streets on subjects of
interest to themselves. It was a severe shock, if you will have the
truth, when Ira showed me the copy that had been brought into his
territory. It was long out of date, but…" He hesitated on the edge of
a possible indiscretion.

"But he was all warm to know that Deacon'd had a water-filtering
plant in his turf, and that you was sponsoring free reading lessons
to all comers. Now the Road's open, and news is easier to spread,
we're all gonna find out pretty quick that Melina has a winery, and
Ira's got six clinics, and Penn's got a school system—and
everyone of us is gonna want what we're short of."

"Well, then." Pat Rin had recourse to his own glass—grape cider,
according to Melina, and very pleasant, indeed. "If that is the case,
then we must discover how to bring improvements to all territories,
each according to their needs."

Penn laughed.

"Bigger, better, flashier. Count me in, whatever you come up with.
Meantime, this is a—a triumph, in case you don't know it. Twenty
bosses in the same room—bosses only, no 'hands to cover 'em,
and their personal guns on file downstairs with your people?" He
shook his head. "Never thought I'd see it. Sleet, never even
thought of the idea. Something else to kick myself for."

"Surely," Pat Rin murmured, "you have had enough to occupy you
in keeping your territory stable for ten years?"

"Yeah, but see, I knew keeping my streets clean wasn't enough.
What I didn't know was how to expand without—well, without
starting a war. Now I seen it, and I learned something."

"Ah," Pat Rin said, and turned the conversation, gracefully, to
Penn's wife and children, whom he had met during his
convalescence.

Later, moving among his guests, he was stopped by a young
person scarcely beyond halfling, her dark eyes darting nervously
from side to side.

"Boss Conrad?" Her voice was high and louder than necessary.

He admitted it and she nodded, jerkily. "Voral Jene. Gough Street
turf."

"Ah, yes." One of the unallied bosses. He inclined his head,
remembering to smile. "I am pleased that you were able to come
this evening."

"No problem," she said. "I wanted to talk to you about—I mean,
couple the other bosses here say the Road's really open, that I can
walk end to end, from the port to the farms, an' nobody'll stop me
or make me pay a toll."

"That is correct."

Her busy eyes searched his face. "Why?" she asked, voice keying
higher. "Why'd you do that?"

Something was wrong, here, Pat Rin thought, considering the
frantic young face. Perhaps she had partaken of one of the all-too-
common street drugs, which had now turned on her. He glanced
casually to one side, saw Melina Sherton over by the buffet table,
talking to Ira Gabriel.

"Why?" Voral Jene demanded.

Pat Rin frowned. "Because the trade is important," he said,
keeping his voice soft and reasonable. "Both between territories
and between the world and the greater galaxy. The trade will—"

"The plague come from the spaceport," she interrupted, very
loudly, now. "You know that, don't you? It come outta the spaceport
and damn' near killed everybody! I was just a kid, but I remember
it! And you went and opened up the Road again! You're trying to kill
us!"

The room was alerted now. From the edge of his eye, he saw
Melina moving in, and Penn Kalhoon, too. Many of the other
bosses were staring at them, their conversations interrupted by
Voral Jene's shouted accusations.

Something else moved—out of place and stealthy—behind Melina.
Pat Rin turned his head at the motion and the girl grabbed his
wounded arm, shouting now. "You're going to kill us! We're all
going to die!"

Gasping, he shook her loose and saw the man behind the buffet
pull an outsized gun from beneath his jacket.

"Ware!" Pat Rin shouted, and Melina spun.

Her first kick destroyed the gunman's aim, sending the pellet into
the blameless ceiling; her second knocked his legs out from under
him. Ira Gabriel was there in a rush, first kicking the weapon out of
the man's hand, then kicking him in the ribs. The gun skittered a
few paces across the floor before being snatched up by Penn
Kalhoon.

Two other bosses were holding Voral Jene by her arms, despite
her cries and struggles. The door burst open, admitting Natesa,
Cheever, Gwince and Filmin.

Cheever was at the buffet in two strides, and had the downed
gunman by the collar. Scarcely less quick, Natesa gained Pat Rin's
side, her eyes cold, and her mouth tight.

"Search her," she directed Gwince, and the two bosses obligingly
escorted Voral Jene to the nearer wall.

A few steps away, Penn reversed the gun he had captured and
handed it peaceably to Filmin.

Cries of "Kill him!"

"Kill them both!" were rising as Cheever hauled the erstwhile
gunman to his feet. The man moaned and shook his head, and Pat
Rin recognized him as Victor Armhaut, of Conklin turf.

Pat Rin took a breath. "Silence!" he snapped, the command mode
ringing against the shattered ceiling.

Silence there was.

"Is anyone hurt?"

Against the wall, Voral Jene was sobbing, while Victor Armhaut
reeled in Cheever McFarland's grasp, shivering and panting for
breath.

Save for the ceiling, there were no injuries.

"What do we do now, Boss?" Cheever asked, shaking his captive
a little.

Pat Rin raised a hand, drawing all eyes to himself. "An excellent
question. We have gathered for a party, not an execution." He
eyed the assembled multitude. His associates, all of whom had
been in danger of the gunman; all of whom had some right to
Balance.

"It is in my mind to fling these two into the street so that we might
continue our evening," he said to his associates, acutely aware of
Natesa's presence at his side. "What to you think?"

The room filled immediately with voices, and opinions.

"Can't just let them get away with…"

"Ought to shoot 'em both…"

"Kick 'em in the head…"

"No, wait! Conrad—I know!"

"Josh Cruthers," Pat Rin said, raising his voice to be heard above
the din. "What is your solution?"

The angry shouts died back to a bass rumble, then fell into silence
as a thin bald man scarcely taller than Pat Rin himself stepped into
the center of the room.

"Josh Cruthers, boss of Arcadja Alleys," he said, looking around at
the assembled bosses. "Look, Conrad's right—we come here to
get to know each other, not for a killin'…"

"They drew on the man in his own house!" Somebody shouted
from the back of the room.

Josh Cruthers held up a hand. "Hear me out. Just hear me out, and
if it don't make sense, well, then we ain't no worse off, right?"

There was a mutter of approval, and he continued.

"So, what I'm thinkin' is, I'll have my car drive these two back to
Gough Street and let 'em out—so we ain't gotta see 'em. Then,
tomorrow, the gab-rag puts out the news on 'em. Let everybody
know Boss Jene and Boss Armhaut ain't gonna be allowed to join
the Affiliation 'cause they pulled a gun on Conrad in his house,
while we was all here on his invite. Ain't none of us wants to deal
with 'em—so Gough and Conklin turfs won't get no help with
clinics, or school tutors, or gardens, or nothin'—not till they got
themselves bosses willin' to see there's a better way to get stuff
done…"

Pat Rin heard Penn Kalhoon's "They won't last a week!" amid a
chorus of agreement.

Privately, he thought that the two renegade bosses would do well
to last a week, but the Balance was no more than precise. Pat Rin
inclined his head.

"With Boss Cruther's loan of a car and Mr. McFarland's assistance
as an escort, I believe that our party may continue. Please— take
them away."

He looked 'round the room, remembering to smile, and set about
putting his guests at ease, which was the duty of a host.

"My apologies for the disturbance," he said to the room at large. "I
direct everyone's attention to the buffet, where we still have many
delights to share! Please, friends, party on!"
Day 51
Standard Year 1393
Departing Lytaxin

Daav had been taught patience, years and worlds away, at the tent
of an expert, but he had never learned to delight in its practice.

Therefore, he waited, patiently, at the airfield with a small kit-bag
composed mostly of necessities others thought he needed.
Before he had departed Erob's house, young Alys Tiazan had
come to him with a tin of tea, as well as a surprise: A flatpic of Val
Con and Miri, captured, so Alys said, on the night Miri was
acknowledged kin to Erob. Miri's expression was grave to the point
of grimness, as she stood very close to full attention, as if her
dinner dress were a particularly uncomfortable uniform. Val Con
stood easier, as a scout would, bland-faced and non-committal.

Daav had thanked the child for her gifts, and was rewarded with a
beguiling smile and a bow so accurate in its complexity that he
thought she must have practiced for hours—a bow to the parents
of one's most admired mentor.

Now, rather than pace—which would not have been patient— or
taking the offered observer's seat at the temporary control tower,
where he might have been diverted by this or that happenstance,
Daav lounged on a small hummock, with the airfield, the Truax
Liftmaster Plus which was the Clutch turtle's idea of a world-to-
space shuttle, and his kit-bag all in view.

The kit was, as he well knew, inadequate. Even dangerously
inadequate. Beyond the gifts, and a few odds and end of toiletries,
he had packed several changes of clothes, a pocket recorder,
extra ammunition…

"Daav, don't fret so," her voice murmured in his ear.

"Well enough for you to say it;" he responded, glaring at the kit as if
he might transmute its contents by will alone into the appropriate
and needful equipment—aye, and a working team of scout
specialists, too. "I'm merely waiting for the Honorable to
arrive—and doing quite a creditable job of it, too."

Aelliana's voice carried an undercurrent of amusement. "Ah, yes. I
see you being patient, patient, patient. Truly, van'chela, if you
become any more patient you will kick your poor bag down the hill
and—"

He laughed, half-hearted, for all that she was right; and ran a quick
rainbow to center himself—and perhaps to buy some real
patience.

"I am concerned of this mission, too," Aelliana continued. "But I
cannot see how we might have altered event in order to
accompany those returning to Liad—not when Korval Themselves
gave us the task."

"Light-witted, ill-conceived…" Daav began and heard his lifemate
chuckle.

"Yes, as much you like," she said, soothingly. "Of course we
cannot create from thin air a proper scout diplomatic mission,
outfitted with experts of protocol, biology, language, and geology.
Nor could our delm. We are the cards they had to hand—and so
they play us. You know very well that you had done just the same,
when you stood Korval! And while we are not a scout team, we are
certainly better than thin air. Besides, the Tree of Erob has gifted
us at our new daughter's bidding, and so we are doubly fortified!"

"That," Daav admitted, "was unexpected. For her to calmly hold out
her hand and expect to catch such gifts as if she had been born
beneath a Tree and spent her childhood at home in its
branches—and for the Tree to so willingly comply…"

"Here," Miri had said, handing the two seedpods to Daav. "One for
each of you. Eat 'em when Edger shows you to your cave."

"See," Aelliana murmured, at the near edge of memory, "she too
masters thin air!"

Daav laughed again, more fully this time.

"How not? Our son and our daughter expect that all of us are the
masters of thin air—and we cannot disappoint."

"Just so," she agreed. "And, now, you have been patient long
enough—the Honorable approaches his ship."

Startled, he looked down to the field, saw the large, green shape,
striding ponderously toward the Truax, and swept forward to pick
up his kit.

"Do you think we will truly have a cave to call our own?" he asked
as he walked down the hill, but Aelliana was elsewhere, and did not
answer.

Braced in a custom-built gel-stand, Edger flew the Liftmaster like a
scout. Designed to take compact, heavy objects into orbit, it was a
most perfect ship for its purpose, a Clutch turtle being no one's
light packet. Daav noted the ship's near-new condition with nothing
more than the twitch of an eyebrow, yet Edger made answer, as if
he had expressed his surprise aloud.

"When my brother, your egg-son, required the use of the clan's
vessel in an earlier phrase of this artwork, I perceived that I was
challenged to provide proper access to all human ports. Many of
the smaller ports-in-space cannot receive the clan's vessel, for its
mass is much greater than theirs; likewise, our vessel cannot
access planetary ports without risking grievous damage to the
facilities. In the past, we had merely by-passed those ports and
dockings which could not accommodate us, reasoning that we
could not trade with those who could not receive our ships.
However, the possibility that my brother the dragonslayer might
require the services of the vessel of the clan and be unable to
board—this is not how kin care for kin. And so we have acquired a
solution."

Aelliana remained quiescent, gone to wherever it was she went
when she was absent from his awareness. Daav, strapped in to
what would have been the observer's seat in a normally configured
Truax piloting chamber, found the pattern of the lift so reassuring
that he very nearly fell asleep during the zero-g phase.

"I would be honored," Edger boomed, breaking him out of his
doze, "if you will scan the frequencies of which I might not be
aware, or which those who have aligned themselves with scouts
might find informative. We will dock very soon, now."

You should have thought of that, Daav scolded himself silently.

"Of course," he said, reaching for the board. "The honor is mine."

While there was some chatter on bands Edger was not otherwise
listening to, neither its quantity nor its quality was worthy of note,
excepting that it was so very earnestly normal. An uninformed
listener might well suppose that all was well; the Clutch transport
rising from the surface the merest commonplace; the mop-up
phase of Erob's little difficulty stabilized; and that nothing was in the
least out of order.

In the interests of thoroughness, Daav assayed an excursion
through the side bands, which were also achingly normal. His
explorations had brought him fully awake and he watched with
interest as "the clan's vessel" made its debut on the screen,
looking like nothing so much as an asteroid, sitting tamely in orbit
about Lytaxin. Of course it was, as near as Daav understood the
matter, precisely an asteroid, from which the Clutch had carved a
space-going vessel adequate to their standards and needs, filled
with whatever strange machinery was necessary to make a ship
work the way Clutch vessels worked.

Daav had read technical analyses of the Clutch's so-called
Electron Substitution Drive. Human research into the drive had
been given up hundreds of years gone-by as its peculiarities
resisted control and its necessities warred with common sense.

In short form, the ESD took advantage of the amusing tendency of
electrons to show up in orbit elsewhere before they quite leave the
orbit they are departing. Left to behave naturally during alterations
in energy levels, this eccentricity goes unremarked by the larger
universe, the trick being omni-directional.

However, it had been found that motion could be induced in certain
plasmas and fields—and, by extension, to entire macroscopic
bodies—simply by imposing direction upon the electron's absurd
little dance.

Terran and Liaden researchers had struggled mightily, and had at
last managed, by dint of applying outrageous amounts energy to a
test object about the size of a human head, to propel said object
for very short distances. Having achieved this double-edged
success, they had then thrown up their hands and conceded that
the drive was less than cost-effective. For humans.

In the meanwhile, the Clutch had solved the scale problem, and
effortlessly moved worldlets through space, one electron at a time.

The Clutch ship filled the viewscreen, now. Daav held his breath as
Edger brought the Truax in at a speed nothing less than breakneck,
plying the board nimbly with his three-fingered hands. Daav
scarcely had time to note the new metal mated to native rock, and
the lock hubs braced against pitted stone, before the shuttle
latched solidly home.

As familiar as he was with spacecraft, stations, and even moon-
based research colonies, yet Daav was unprepared for the scale
of things inside the asteroid ship. The piloting chamber could
easily accommodate the expansive main control room of Dutiful
Passage; the primary corridors wide enough for twelve battle-ready
Terran mercs to march abreast; high enough that they might each
stand upon the shoulders of a comrade and never scrape helmet
along ceiling rock.

Even the "guesting room" where he and Edger carried the various
boxes of supplies hastily culled from a stone-clad storeroom,
might easily sleep a squad of soldiers.

Trotting along at the turtle's heels, feeling positively buoyant in the
slightly-lighter-than-Lytaxin gravity, Daav idly did the math.
Estimating the size of the "ship," he assumed that only an inner
core approximately forty percent in diameter of the whole was
habitable. Of that forty percent, non-trivial portions must house
power sources, machinery, shielding…All of which meant that—
conservatively speaking and with no real number in sight—that "the
vessel of the clan" encompassed a living space roughly equivalent
to the entire inside area of the twenty-nine story building where he
had taught on Delgado.

"If you will attend me now," Edger said, as the last carton was
stowed. "We shall walk through those areas of the vessel that are
most likely to be of need or interest to you. I fear that we are but an
eyeblink away from commission of a grand and hasty side work. In
celebration of the haste that will soon come upon us, then, I would
ask that we address each other in the shortest form possible. As
you are aware, the short-form of my name is Edger."

Daav had inclined his head, wondering what sort of haste might be
coaxed from such a vessel.

"I am honored if you will use my personal name," he murmured,
gravely.

"I thank you, Daav," Edger rumbled and fell silent, huge, cat-slit
eyes looking down upon him.

The silence stretched, becoming uncomfortable even for one who
had prospered as a scout. Daav was begin to wonder if he had
perhaps missed a cue, when Edger said, as delicately as his big
voice would allow…

"Might I ask the short form best used for the other pilot?"

Daav felt the familiar stirring. His vision faded somewhat, as he
heard his voice—though not quite his voice, really—reply, with
suitable gravity. "Forgive me, Edger; I was reposing at a distance.
My favorite sister had sometimes called me Aelli, and so does my
nephew, Shan. It would please me if you would use it."

The turtle sighed, great eyes blinking once, twice. "Aelli is a name
rich in vibrations. I shall speak it with great pleasure."

It was a quick tour, then, with Daav aware of his lifemate, awake
and receptive just behind his eyes. It seemed to him as though she
walked at his right hand, though he was well aware that she did not.
Following Edger, they passed several garden rooms—one
remarkably similar to Erob's inner garden—and an area for
swimming and taking one's ease beneath sun-bright lamps. Edger
displayed a rather startling book room, several large empty
spaces, the purpose of which he apparently assumed was self-
evident, bypassed yet another pool-room, cut through the
cathedral-like piloting chamber, and returned by a secondary
corridor to the "guesting room," with the supply boxes and his kit
bag stacked neatly along the far wall, and the lighting which was
adjusted for human eyes.

"I leave you now to nourish and rest yourselves," Edger said. "We
will become underway as closely as I am able to approximate
'immediately', and will be utilizing our vessel in the upper ranges of
its capacity. A gong will sound to warn you of impending motion. If
you are standing or walking, it would be wise to immediately sit
upon the floor with your back against the wall. A second, lesser,
gong will signal when it has become possible to perambulate.
Should you elect to rest, please engage the webbing over the
bed." There was a pause, not nearly so long as the previous
pause.

"We three here—we understand that haste is of the essence.
Therefore, it will be necessary that the journey be taken in several
episodes. These are not the Jumps of which your ships partake
with such elegance, and it is possible that you will experience
altered conditions—even discomfort. It is my understanding that
any feelings of disorientation are but passing, neither harmful to the
body nor the song. However, if you experience difficulties, merely
speak my name in the direction of this object—" He put a three
fingered hand against what appeared to be a sculpture of red
stone—"and I shall hear you."

He bowed then, surprising, and very nearly nuance-perfect: "From
one who is honored to be permitted to act for a master of the art,"
Aelliana read—and left them, moving with quite fearful haste down
the stone corridor, toward the piloting room.

Daav shook his head and turned on a heel to survey their quarters
once more.

"It seems we should have invited a dozen of our closest friends!"
Aelliana commented, as their eye fell upon the Clutch-sized bed.

He grinned and flung them onto the thing, laughing aloud when the
low gravity rewarded them with a high, gentle bounce.

The quilt, when they were on it again, proved to be handmade, of a
material Daav thought might be real cotton, and showing the
precious irregularities of hand-sewing.

Acceleration webbing hung at the foot of the bed, to prevent rest-
period lifts to the high ceiling, and a pair of what proved, upon
experimentation, to be nothing more exotic than light plates were
set into the rocky headboard.

Daav climbed out of the bed—no easy task, lacking a piton and
ropes—and gazed meditatively at the carefully stowed supplies.

"Do you suppose we have been hoodwinked, Aelliana? That our
delm has sent us off on this quiet, safe little mission to keep us out
of harm's way? I begin to think that we might have remained on
Delgado, oblivious and content, and left the proper ordering of the
universe to our children."

"Had you not become just a trifle bored," she asked, "since
Theoleftus?"

He snorted. "That was not boredom, my lady. That was relaxation.
Doubtless you misunderstood the state, having seen it so seldom
these last twenty years."

Aelliana laughed.

"My own beloved lady mocks me," Daav said mournfully, crossing
the room to the sculpture of red rock which their host had indicated
was a communication device.

The structure proved to be an amazement, for it was not, as he had
first thought, bonded to the stone floor, but grew out of it, as if
some natural vein of rock had been purposefully and carefully
mined out from the more common rock of the walls, then faceted
and polished into a pleasant work of art. Daav ran his fingers along
each of the seven faceted sides, marveling at the texture of the
stone…

"I believe we have the cave we were promised," Aelliana said. "It
pleases, odd though it is. Shall we honor our daughter's wishes?"

"Why not?" Daav returned, abandoning his contemplation of the
red rock. "Though I warn you, she will never believe us so
obedient."

The seed pods became desert to a snack foraged from the
assembled supplies. Aelliana concurred in the wine, and in the
crackers-with-cheese-spread from a commercial camping pack.
Daav opened the bottle with his utility tool, and sipped slowly.

It was his belief that Aelliana and he tasted different essences; that
when she wished to put herself forward wines were slightly more
complex. This hour she was alert—even playful—and he found the
wine very good, indeed. The crackers were amusing, like a return
to some childhood picnic, a theme that the seed pods continued,
for how long had it been?

Daav sighed. Why, only since he had fled Liad, seeking Balance,
sanity, and heart's ease.

In the dark days just after her death, he had been concerned—
overly concerned—for his sanity in everything he did, for Aelliana
had yet to find a way to let him know she was truly with him. Well he
knew the power of habit and wishful thinking; and the willingness of
the heart to cling to hope, despite whatever brutal facts the mind
might wearily recite down the endless hours of grief-filled nights.

He refused to believe that he heard her voice. He knew better than
to believe. Had not Master Healer Kestra herself assured him that
theirs was a lifemating of uncertain prognosis? Was it not true, and
despite all their efforts and wishes to make it otherwise, that Daav
had never once rejoiced at the touch of his lifemate's thought
against his own? Aelliana—she had some small bit of that:
Touching him, she could read him. He had never envied her the
gift— gods knew, she had few enough joys in her life—but the gift
had been hers, not his. And she was dead.

He would never hear her voice again.

Desolate, he perversely attempted to embrace yet more
desolation—deliberately refusing the Tree's urge that he take
seedpods with him; refusing to tell Er Thom his plan; refusing to
contemplate a return. Refusing to believe with every bit of his will
that he heard his beloved's voice, until desolation itself betrayed
him, and Aelliana caught him nodding in exhaustion before a
computer screen…

"Daav? Shall we share?"

He smiled. "Indeed we shall." Taking a pod in each hand, he
offered—and Aelliana accepted—the first bite.

Their snack finished, Aelliana was pleased to accompany him on
another tour of the strange vessel on which they found themselves.
Daav wandered them leisurely back along the path of the tour
Edger had given them, the tantalizingly glimpsed library the first
goal.

Path was a more accurate description than corridor, Daav thought.
There were irregularities in the stone beneath his feet, and
apparently random turnings in the way, which put one in mind of a
forest walk, rather than a tame hallway. Strolling along, he indulged
himself in a scout-like amusement: in his mind's eye, he attempted
to connect several of the rooms in a straight line. Perhaps it could
have been done, but there seemed a certain shape for doorways,
and an alignment—or perhaps lack of alignment—in a pattern he
could not quite understand.

Aelliana offered the opinion that the water rooms—which she
counted as rooms containing open pools or flowing water—of
which they had passed at least four, appeared to be situated at a
mathematically constant distance from the ship's core.

"I suspect we have a combination of the technical and the
aesthetic at work, Daav," she said, excitedly, as such discoveries
invariably excited her. "Closer to center there would be no
whirlpool pattern to the drains—water would flow directly in from all
sides. Situated as they are, the pools and brooklets follow a rhythm
and flow more natural to a spinning world."

Very likely, she was right, Daav thought. Gods knew, he was no
authority on Clutch aesthetics.

Ambling, they passed periodic gaps in the stone walls, and the
gleam of fittings for a metal door. Otherwise, the ship was very
much the cavern Miri had promised them—a cavern shaped by an
intelligence far from human.

Daav ran his fingers along the wall as they walked, discovering
patterns—or perhaps merely the marks of ancient chisels—and
sighed. At every turn, he was reminded of the difficulty of the task
his delm had set him. Negotiate with the Elders, forsooth!
Convince a council of beings unimaginably old to offer refuge to a
sentient tree as old, or even older, than they.

If the Clutch Elders are wise, he thought sourly, they will decline
the honor, with speed and force.

"Daav." Aelliana's voice was urgent in his ear. "The ship…"

He paused. Indeed, he did feel something change in the rock
beneath his feet—the briefest vibration, as if someone had
slammed a door on the far side of a large building.

"Perhaps Edger is adjusting our orbit—" he began—and his voice
was overwhelmed by the voice of the gong.

The entire ship rang with the sound; disorienting him for a fragment
of a second. He made a pilot's quick recover and dropped to the
stone floor, sitting with his back pressed against the rock wall,
distantly amused at the new vogue in acceleration couches.

He leaned his head against the wall, closed his eyes and waited for
transition.

Another vibration, so low he felt the long waves up it sweep up his
legs and body, through his chin, and over his head.

He opened his eyes.

The walls were full of color; shot with veins of gold and silver,
coruscating, so that he felt that he—that they!—were deep inside a
quartz meteor revolving around a star of lambent blue.

He realized almost immediately that he should not have opened his
eyes, for the busyness of the light disturbed his sense of direction.
He looked down, bracing a hand against a floor streaming with
pearl pink and aqua. His hand sank into the stone—he felt it; felt the
textures of the colors—and now his equilibrium was disturbed, the
stone hallway stretching up into the filaments of the blue-toned
quartz…

The ship—or the universe—lurched; his inner ear protested; and
he was seeing through dozens of layers of rock, threatening to
reveal cold space…

Aelliana was with him, he could feel her presence, as if she too
were amazed and appalled at the spectacle before them.

He twisted against the wall, trying to recover his shattered balance,
but his body did not properly obey him. It was as if he were
twinned, with two right arms to move, using two sets of muscles,
superimposed…

"Daav!" Aelliana mirrored his panic, her voice echoing sweetly off
the stone corridors.

"Aelliana!"

Briefly, disorientingly, he did see two right arms, braced by two
ghostly right hands leaning on and into the flowing colors. There
was fog boiling out of the rock floor, the air thick with motes of
light…

He winced, lost that vision—lost everything but the confusion of
trying to move an arm following someone else's orders—and her
voice.

"Daav! Daav, I am—here!"

He took a breath, imposing discipline. "Aelliana, where are you?"

Somewhere beyond the chaos of color, a gong sounded, vibrating
into his very soul. His vision cleared, and there again was the rock
wall, bleeding color into the foggy floor, and the whole corridor was
vibrating, as if the rocks themselves were singing, and the light
thickened air was as lascivious as silk and Aelliana was beside
him, her hand was on his shoulder, and he turned his face into her
kiss—

No. She was not there. Rather—she was everywhere. He could
feel the flow of her thoughts, feel her deciding where to look, feel
her adjusting her balance against the wall she braced against—

His eyes—her eyes—focused on the wall opposite, shimmering
with bolts of gold and green, but more solid, now, no longer
threatening to fade into transparency.

"Daav," his beloved said in his ear. "I can see that this will need
work!"

He half-gasped a laugh, as she lifted his right hand and caressed
his face.

"I think the worst is over," she murmured. "Let us return to our
cave."

"An excellent idea," he said. "A glass of wine would be most
welcome. And a nap, if you will have it. Edger should be more
considerate of an old man's frailties."

"To Edger, you are the veriest babe," Aelliana retorted. "But, yes, a
nap—and then we must talk."

Edger stood with his intricately shelled back to them, engaged in a
close study of the control board built into a rock buttress. He was
also, Daav realized, humming, or possibly singing, as he touched
first this, then that, on the board—

The tune altered, and though he did not turn to look at them he
raised a bit from the board as he spoke.

"Please, Aelli and Daav, if you will but tarry for five or six more
moments I will join you. I have news of interest to you both."

So saying, Edger returned to his hum; leaving Daav and Aelliana to
continue exploring this new, higher-level melding.

It was, of course, the lifemate-bond, but somehow expanded,
broadened, deepened beyond anything they had thought possible.
Daav, wary of joy unleavened, proposed it to be an effect of the
drive, which would fade upon the return to normal space. Aelliana
considered that the drive was a factor in the…speed…of their
joining, but offered the possibility that the seeds they had eaten
were the motivating force.

The exchange was far faster and far fuller than their usual, even the
pleasant after-effect of the wine had not dulled the transfers.
Occasionally, one or the other might be distracted by this memory
or that sudden bit of information…

Aelliana had sensed the change coming first, for the images and
information she had been receiving through Daav had sharpened
all at once—as if she were seeing with her own eyes—and she
was able to conceive of moving an arm. Later, she proved herself
capable of walking, without Daav's active assistance.

The nap had been not quite that—instead they had relaxed with
eyes closed and shared: thoughts, emotions, essence…

There were some few of Daav's memories which Aelliana could
not properly access, nor could he grasp all of hers—but in every
case, those tended to be memories each had done the most to
forget. And there were certainly enough tantalizing—and
sometimes dismaying—glimpses to beguile them both. For Daav,
of her brother Ran Eld and his friend; of a marriage full of taunts
and pain; of his own young and subtle face. For Aelliana, of planets
she had never seen; and the tender tuitions in patience…

New to Daav was his ability to access a larger part of Aelliana's
intuitive understandings of mathematics; new to her was sharing
Daav's immediate and nuanced interpretations of the motivations
of people. New, too, for her, was the surprising overlay of the
Diaries, richly illustrating and informing her altered realization of her
beloved, of Korval, and of Liaden history.

It had taken effort—a willful exchange of thoughts rather than the
subconscious communication they had allowed themselves to be
enveloped by—to go to Edger.

"Aelliana, my love, we cannot stare into this mirror until the stars
cool. I do believe that this will, as you say, take some work. And
perhaps the assistance of a master."

So, they had gone to find Edger, with Daav, like a youngster
learning to trust the way a simple lean could take advantage of a
duocycle's momentum, accepting Aelliana's direction of their hike.

"I will miss this," she said, "if you are right, and it is solely an artifact
of the drive."

"I know," he whispered, and felt her feeling his regret—and his
fear.

The gong sounded once more. Here in the control room it rang
through them foot to head…

Edger turned, sweeping into a full bow and speaking in a booming,
formal voice.

"True elders of your clan! I am humbled to be the first to see you
thus."

He straightened, and continued in what passed for a more
conversational tone. "The art of your children, my kin, has strong
roots; stronger than I knew. Already their names are spoken
among the Elders—and your names, as well. My request was that
the Elders act in unprecedented haste and see you immediately, in
the human sense.

"I am informed that the outer chamber will be open when we arrive,
and that I might bring you directly there. The Elders make
haste—surely, this is a work of art like none before! They will see
you, I think, very quickly."

There was a pause, which Daav allowed to stretch.

"The Elders will see us," Aelliana breathed, for him alone.
''Van'chela, can you imagine it?"

"I can," he answered, in the same way, "and it concerns me greatly.
Recall that I know the Tree very well indeed, and I know what Jela's
bargain has cost us…"

Before them, Edger bowed slightly, as if rousing from some deep
process of thought.

"It would be pleasant if you would walk with me to the waterfall
park. There, we may enjoy a small repast, and an hour of talk."

"It sounds a good plan," Daav admitted. "Might I know the ship's
schedule—and your own? If we are to travel the next weeks with
you…"

Edger blinked his huge yellow eyes, one, then the other.

"I see that you have studied the affect of our ships at low drive," he
said. "For a task of such moment and urgency, I have utilized the
higher drives." He turned, widely, motioning them to follow.

"We will enter my home atmosphere shortly after your next sleep
period. You will be in the outer chamber, awaiting permission of the
Elders to enter, in sixteen Standard Hours."
Lytaxin
Erob's House

"What else?" Miri asked Val Con, after the last late meeting was
done and they were alone in the sitting room of their suite.

He turned from the wine table, bottle and glass in hand, eyebrow
well up. "We have put such things into motion as may be put into
motion. All that remains us is to defeat the Department, vanquish
the Commander, and reclaim the Agents."

"Piece of cake." She moved across the rug toward him. "Can the
Agents be reclaimed?"

"The Healers will know," he said softly, pouring. "If I was able to
break training, perhaps others may do so, as well."

"Or maybe not." She took the glass he handed her, and stood
sipping, staring at nothing in particular, going over the plans they
had laid. It was, she thought, going to be dicey.

To say the least.

"The kids?" she asked, that being a detail left in flux.

Val Con raised his glass. Korval's Ring gleamed on his finger, big
and flashy and flawed.

"Do you think we should dispatch the Passage to the children?
Shan and Priscilla are able, and the ship now runs as a
battlewagon."

She frowned, weighing it.

"It'd draw attention—"

The comm buzzed. Shaking her head, she crossed to it and
pushed the button.

"Robertson."

"Cousin, it is Kol Vus. A person has called for yourself and for your
lifemate. He awaits your pleasure in the public parlor."

Miri's brows drew together in a small frown. "I thank you, cousin,"
she said, dropping effortlessly into the High Tongue. "Has our
guest a name?"

"He produces Greenshaw Porter. He says it with remarkable
ease."

Her frown deepened slightly. "I see. Pray allow Mr. Porter to know
that we are on our way to him."

"Very good." The line went dead. Miri glanced up.

"Odds that Greenshaw Porter's another one of ours? Who ain't
here yet?"

"Of the adult males? Luken bel'Tarda—and Pat Rin. Luken's duty
under Plan B lies with the children, and I cannot this moment
conceive of a circumstance that would cause him to abandon it.
Pat Rin…" He moved his shoulders, abruptly aware of an
uncomfortable home truth. "I cannot predict what Pat Rin might do,
though I would not expect him to adopt a Terran persona.
Certainly, not on a Liaden-held world."

"Well, something's got Kol Vus' hair up." She shook her head, and
regretfully put her wine aside. "Guess we'd better find out what."

Greenshaw Porter was on his feet in the public parlor, which was
only reasonable, the available chairs being much too short to
accommodate his lanky frame. The House had provided him with
neither tea or wine.

He was a long-faced man, unmistakably Terran, his tan-colored hair
short and bristling, his eyes gray and alert, and Val Con felt a
curious sense of relief that, after all, it was not Pat Rin, come to
add yet another Korval life to the tale of those present upon
Lytaxin.

Their visitor bowed as they entered the room, entirely in the Terran
mode, then straightened and stated, in the staccato accents of
Standard Terran, "Greenshaw Porter, Juntavas courier. Miri
Robertson and Val Con yos'Phelium?"

"That's right," Miri said easily.

"Yes." Val Con assured him, noting the position of at least two
guns and a blade distributed about the courier's person.

The man nodded, apparently unsurprised. "The Juntavas has been
looking for you. The offer is aid and comfort. We cooperate with
Clutch turtles Edger and Sheather. I have verification."

"Ah, do you?" Val Con murmured.

The Juntava cocked a sapient eye. "Turtles thought you'd want it."
He raised his hands, fingers spread wide. "I saw the rock in orbit. I
heard there are turtles on planet. Order from Headquarters is
proceed according to plan. Verification in my right outside pocket.
You can take it, or I can give it."

Inside his head, Val Con heard Miri's song, alert and watchful.
Deliberately, not really certain that it would work, he looked at the
places where the Juntava carried his concealed weapons—one,
two, three—and heard her song shift. Almost, he thought he heard
her murmur "gotcha".

He raised his hands, fingers spread, returning the offered gesture
of peace.

"Please," he murmured, "feel free to display your verification."

"Right." Slowly, fingers still held wide, he slipped his right hand into
the outside pocket of his long jacket, and withdrew something so
sharply luminous it seemed that he held a star between his thumb
and first finger.

Still moving deliberately, he extended the brilliant token. Val Con
held his hand out, fingers cupped. The crystal hit his palm,
unexpectedly heavy, warm, its edges sharp, but not sharpened. He
glanced down, eyes narrowed against the whiteness of it, saw
without surprise that it was luminous at its core.

"Flashlight?" Miri asked from beside him.

"Exactly," he murmured, and handed it to her, returning his attention
to Greenshaw Porter.

"We have received verification," he said, carefully. "More, we have
only lately seen Clutch turtles Edger and Sheather, who know us to
be well and at liberty. Please inform Headquarters that the
Juntavas is quit in this matter."

"Not exactly," the Juntava said, and Val Con raised an eyebrow,
feeling Miri come to full alert beside him.

"Explain."

"The Juntavas is missing a Sector Judge."

"Ah. I commiserate with the Juntavas upon its loss."

Greenshaw Porter grimaced. "Supplemental data. I'm attached to
the Justice Department. High Judge himself petitions Korval for
info. The missing Judge put herself on detached duty. Last known
to be in company with Pat Rin yos'Phelium." His forehead wrinkled
slightly. "Your brother, maybe?"

"Cousin," Val Con said absently, trying to reconcile Pat Rin with a
Juntavas Sector Judge. And, yet, how could he predict what Pat
Rin might do? He and his cousin were scarcely intimate. Indeed,
Val Con had gathered that Pat Rin had few intimates. His foster-
father, perhaps. And surely Luken bel'Tarda had taught his
fosterling to give the Juntavas wide clearance.

"Cousin," the Juntava repeated and nodded. "Questions from the
High Judge: Does Korval know the location of Sector Judge
Natesa? If yes, as a personal favor to the High Judge, who values
his judges as a delm values his kin, will Korval divulge her location?
Follow-up: If something happened to her, the High Judge asks for
that info, too. No rage, no Balance. But he would like to recover the
body." He hesitated before adding: "Myself, I know that Judge.
She'd be hard to kill."

"I am desolate to disappoint the High Judge," Val Con murmured,
"but his inquiry marks the first time I have heard of Sector Judge
Natesa."

"You said she's on detached duty," Miri broke in. "Maybe she
decided to quit the judging business?"

Greenshaw Porter shook his head. "No'm. Judges put themselves
on detached duty at will. They have discretion. Only Judges tell
another Judge what to do. Or how to do it."

She threw a glance at Val Con. "Sounds a lot like being a scout."

"Perhaps," he returned, and looked to the Juntava. "Has my cousin
been seen since Judge Natesa exercised her discretion?"

"Nossir. Both were in a dust-up—gunplay, unidentified
deaders—then went off-grid simultaneous. Neither one
resurfaced."

Gods, if it didn't scan like a Departmental "dust up ", Val Con
thought. And never think that an Agent was less than the match of a
Sector Judge, no matter how hard she was to kill.

As for Pat Rin…Let it be known that Pat Rin was not an idiot. Let it
further be known that he was a wizard with his pistols, and that he
had once killed a man. And against whatever the Department might
wish to inflict upon him—from mere death to menti-cide—he would
hold no defenses whatsoever.

He looked up at the Juntavas courier.

"I am hardly in a position to trade fairly with the High Judge," he
said carefully, feeling Miri drawing closer to his side. "However, I
would be honored, were the Juntavas to allow me to know the time
and the place where my cousin and Sector Judge Natesa were last
seen."

Greenshaw Porter nodded. "I'm cleared for that. I have the report
from Housekeeping. I'm cleared to share that, too."

"Thank you. That would be most helpful."

"I'll transfer it from my ship. Need a comm address."

Val Con recited the code for the unit in their upstairs rooms.

The courier repeated the address, nodded and bowed once more
in the Terran mode.

"I'll asap that. I'm on-planet until tomorrow mid-day. Aid-and-
comfort is in force until I lift."

"Thank you," Val Con said again. "I do not believe it will be
needed."

Ren Zel stirred, stretched, smiled, opened his eyes—and stifled a
curse. The clock across the room was adamant: three minutes until
the start of his shift on the bridge. He rolled out of bed, realized
abruptly that he was fully clothed and not a little rumpled; his boots
showing smudges of what might have been grass stains. To
appear on-shift so…He looked again at the clock. Two minutes
until he was wanted on the bridge—and far worse to be late than
untidy. Ren Zel ran.

They read the reports from the Juntavas together, Miri sitting on the
arm of the chair, her hip against his shoulder.

There was a short bio of Sector Judge Natesa, accompanied by an
image of a slender lady of good countenance, dark-skinned and
sloe-eyed, her hair a silky black cap 'round her neat head.

Miri gave a low whistle, and leaned forward to tap the screen over
the bio. "This girl can cook, boss. No wonder they miss her."

"She appears competent in the extreme," he agreed, scrolling
down through a surprising number of missions completed on
behalf of the Juntavas, most at the upper echelons of power.

Sector Judges might well be able to declare themselves on
detached duty at will, but it appeared that Judge Natesa had been
happy in her work, and had only thrice previously removed herself
from duty—twice on recuperative vacations and one
comprehensive disappearance, from which she reappeared within
a relumma. "First class pilot," he murmured, going through the
remainder of her accomplishments, "master shooter; explosives
expert. Yes— a lady of many competencies."

Who had very competently disappeared, so the next, extremely
brief report stated, on Day 289, Standard Year 1392, from a
Juntavas maintained yard, after filing the appropriate intention with
her office.

Gods, so long ago? Val Con shivered and hit the key for the next
file. The report from Housekeeping, prepared by order of Sector
Judge Natesa, was admirably detailed, listing descriptions of the
dead, contents of pockets, wallets, pouches; types and numbers
of weapons. A blue evening jacket, well-splattered with blood, but
whole, was noted, and a square of cleansilk, its virtue destroyed by
the blood.

"Note the guns," he murmured. "Note the other items
inventoried…"

"Picks, garrotes, pipettes of acid, poison." She sighed. "You're
thinking the Department."

"I am. The jacket is…distressing. Pat Rin often wears blue."

"Yeah, but there's no pellet holes in this one. Whoever was
wearing it probably ditched it on account of it ain't polite to wear
bloodstains on the street." Miri said sensibly. "Unless you got a
match further up?"

He shook his head, unrelieved. Death was certainly preferable to
the living agonies the Department was capable of inflicting. Kin
might wish a clean death for kin, against so terrible an alternative.
"No," he said, aloud. "No, he is not listed among the dead."

"But that ain't making you feel any better." She frowned down at
him. "In fact, it's making you feel worse."

He met her eyes. "I would not willingly remand my direst enemy to
the Department's care, much less kin." He sighed. "Even kin
scarcely known."

She blinked, then turned back to the screen, leaning forward to
manipulate the keys, scrolling back up through Natesa's last filed
contact with her office.

"She don't say anything about him being with her," she muttered.
"Shit, she don't even say why she was in it in the first place."

"Aid and comfort," Val Con said, staring over the screen, seeing
Pat Rin as he had last seen him, years ago: a creature of grace
and poise, assuredly, with a needling wit and a languorous manner
which could be put on and dispensed with in the flicker of an
eyelash.

Vulnerable; so very vulnerable, did he fall into the hands of the
Department. Which would, almost certainly, remake him into a
bomb.

"What?" Miri turned to stare at him, her eyes wide with alarm.
"What's wrong?"

He took a breath, trying to think it through, to get past the horror, to
put himself in the place of the Commander, sworn to bring the
Department's Plan to fruition. Which Plan included Korval's
annihilation.

"Miri…"

"Don't say it—I think I just got the download." She closed her eyes,
and in his mind's eye Val Con saw a blurring spin of
color—redyelloworangegreenblueviolet—followed by a warming
sense of calm.

"OK. So the Department might've got Pat Rin, either at this
massacre, here, or sometime real soon after, and the Judge might
be on the lam to save her skin, she being no dummy in a big way.
And if the Department's got Pat Rin, they're gonna rework him."
She bit her lip.

"How long's it take?"

He moved his shoulders, snapped to his feet and stalked down the
room. "Eternity." He came to the window and stopped, staring out
over Erob's nighttime gardens. The silence at his back was
tangible. He sighed.

"Forgive me, cha'trez. The length of the process depends in large
part upon the reserves of the candidate. Certainly, if the
Department has had Pat Rin in their care for nearly two relumma,
they will have completed their work long since. Especially as they
will not be constructing an Agent of Change, but something far
simpler.".

"Q-ship. Got it. But we're forewarned."

"Not all of us," he said, turning from the window. "Pat Rin's foster-
father and true-mother have the duty of protecting the clan's
children. I do not believe either would deny him entrance to their
safeplace." He reached up and pushed his hair out of his eyes.
"Jelaza Kazone would admit him. Anthora would perhaps
understand that there was something amiss—but she might not
understand it in time to prevent him killing her."

"OK." Miri stood up, showing him palms in the gesture of peace.
"OK. This is all might-have. We don't know where Pat Rin is. He
might be holed up cozy on an outworld, waiting for the all-clear."

"True. Though that might-have does not tell us why the Sector
Judge has run away."

"Might've taken a lover. Might've needed time out. Might've got
drunk, fell down and broke her neck. We don't know she's hiding
because of the business in the warehouse. We don't even know
that she's hiding."

"And we do not know that she isn't."

Silence.

"Another might-have," Val Con said, slowly, hating it, and gods, if it
were true…

"Go."

"The Department has acquired both Korval's child Pat Rin and
Juntavas Sector Judge Natesa."

She blinked at him. "She's Agent material."

"Indeed she is. More, she has access to the highest levels within
the Juntavas. The Commander might put such a tool to very good
use."

"I bet he could." She shook her head. "We still got no proof."

"We have no proof," he repeated, looking not at her, so much as
through her. "We do, however, owe the High Judge some info!'

He came back to himself with a visible start and moved across the
room to the comm unit. Miri sighed and went over to pour them
each a glass of wine.
Day 52
Standard Year 1393
Department of Interior Headquarters
Liad

Commander of Agents was not one to allow the natural losses of
warfare to overly dismay him. It was understood that there would
be casualties—even, many casualties—as the Plan unfolded and
the Department met with the resistance of small minds and
imbedded interests. Thus, while he did not view his losses lightly,
the Commander was able to maintain the dispassion necessary to
ultimate success in those instances when the Department was
momentarily thwarted.

The loss of a ship of the Department and four full Agents of
Change on the planet Lytaxin—that was a different matter entirely.
Very nearly, in fact, could the Commander be said to be—angry.

The ship had reported Val Con yos'Phelium on-board some time
after the fourth Agent's implanted monitor went off-line. The ship
itself had exploded some few minutes after lift-off. Commander of
Agents was not so naive as to believe that Val Con yos'Phelium
had died with the vessel.

So: Four Agents, lost on Lytaxin. One Agent, lost on Interdicted
World 1-2796-893-44, his ship captured and then destroyed.
Three more Agents lost to the bitch half-breed…

Lost thus far: eight Agents and two ships. And what profit did the
Department show from so great and widespread an expenditure?

Sand and ashes. Val Con yos'Phelium remained at liberty; Anthora
yos'Galan slept secure behind the formidable walls of Jelaza
Kazone.

Commander of Agents rose from behind his desk. He paced his
office from end to end and side to side. At the beginning of his
fourth pass, he checked, and deliberately called to mind the
calming exercise he had first been taught as an Agent-in-Training,
many years ago.

Slowly, he brought his heartbeat down, normalized his breathing,
bled off the unneeded adrenaline. When he had done, he stood
yet another few heartbeats, eyes closed; meditative.

Eventually, he opened his eyes and returned to his desk, ordered
the hardcopy which he had in his agitation flung down, and set it to
one side while he accessed his screen.

Alas, that ill news stalked the hour, the latest in the form of a
memorandum from the financial department chair. Another of the
Department's bleed-off funds had been uncovered, the program
destroyed by the Masters of the Accountants Guild.

Commander of Agents flicked through the report, until he found the
name of the Master in charge of the investigation.

dea'Gauss.

Very softly, Commander of Agents sighed.

dea'Gauss. Korval's man of business.

Commander of Agents extended an arm and touched the switch
on his console.

"Commander?" His second's voice betrayed an edge of
startlement.

"That matter we wished to place before the Council of Clans."

"Yes, Commander. We have been awaiting the most appropriate
moment."

"So we had. I advise you that the moment has arrived."

"Yes, Commander."

"On another matter—I will wish to meet with a squad leader in…"
He glanced over at the chronometered wall. "In fifteen Standard
minutes, in the Level A meeting room. That is all."

"Yes, Commander." The connection light went out.
Day 31
Standard Year 1393
Surebleak Spaceport

Villy bent over the table, black pick held delicately, hook properly
extended, between thumb and forefinger, eyes narrowed in
concentration.

The pick hovered over the jumbled pile of brightly colored sticks,
flicked out and deftly flipped a silver from the tangle onto the
counting cloth. The boy took a careful breath, and the pick stabbed
out again, three times, placing a red, an orange and a blue stick
next to the silver on the cloth.

Pat Rin, viewing the performance with an expert's eye, saw the tell-
tale quiver of a purple stick three layers down in the tangle, but
Villy, in pursuit of the gold, either ignored the tremor or had
determined that boldness would win the day.

He extended the pick, delicate—so delicate—touched the gold
stick…lifted it…

"Oh, sleet!" he exclaimed as the sticks broke from their self-
described formation and went rolling and tumbling every-which-
way. He looked up, shamefaced.

"Sorry, sir."

Pat Rin raised an eyebrow. "Not entirely. Indeed, I see that you
have been working. Your touch is much improved. Now, you must
sharpen your eye. Attend me."

He swept the twenty-four brightly colored sticks up in a practiced
motion, tamped them, placed them on end in the yellow-tiled circle
which had been set into the table-top for just this purpose— and let
go.

Obedient to gravity, the sticks fell, creating a satisfyingly complex
multi-colored tangle.

"So," he said, receiving the black pick from Villy. "We have a
dreadful mess, here, do we not? I will wager you twenty cash that
all of those sticks may be extracted and placed on the cloth while
disturbing no other in the formation. Have we a bet?"

Villy shook his head. "I know better than to bet against you."

"Youth today," Pat Rin mused aloud, while his eyes traced the
intricate pattern created by the sticks; "lack the adventurous spirit."
It was, he decided, a difficult fall. He could easily see his way clear
to acquiring sixteen, even eighteen, of the twenty-four. The
rest…well.

"Only twenty cash?" A rich voice asked from near at hand. "Why
not a wager worthy of your skill?"

Calmly, he looked up and met Natesa's amused black eyes.

"What would you wager, my lady?"

"Let us consider." She tipped her head to one side, a finger over
her lips as she ostentatiously considered the matter.

"I know," she said at last. "If you miss the twenty-four, I will have
the Sinner's Carpet out of Ms. Audrey's house."

"Ah, will you?" He looked at her appreciatively. "And what is my
prize, should I succeed?"

She smiled at him, slow and seductive. "Why, something very
nice."

He laughed.

"Done," he said, fingering the pick into the proper hold. "Attend
now, child," he said to Villy; "this may be the last time you see me
play."

He looked down to the bright jumble, and let the room fade out of
his consciousness, until it was only himself, the sticks, and the
necessity to win.

The pick flashed out.

The first eight were simple liberations, after which the challenge
began in earnest.

Quickly, he proceeded, dexterously avoiding anchor-sticks and
rolling traps, while with every cunning infiltration of the pick another
stick fell to the counting cloth.

It came at last to three, lying one against the other.

Pat Rin reversed the pick, inserted the flat tail in the whisker-wide
space between the yellow stick and the blue, rolled the yellow,
reversed the pick, and caught the stick in the hook to flip it, with a
showy snap of the wrist, to the cloth.

The blue stick was likewise appropriated, and then the final orange,
delivered to the cloth in a toss that sent it spinning high, turning
over three times on its descent to the cloth.

Pat Rin placed the pick on the cloth next to the sticks, and smiled
at Villy.

"That is how it is done, do you see?"

The boy shook his head. "I see that I'm gonna hafta practice a lot
more."

"I did not say it would be easy, working in the casino," Pat Rin
reminded him. "Perhaps, you would rather Sheyn took the sticks
table?"

Sheyn was Villy's chief rival in popularity at Audrey's house, and
though the rivalry was mostly friendly, still Villy would not easily
bear having a task taken from him and given to the other boy.

"Nossir, Mr. Conrad! I'll practice."

"Good," said Pat Rin, stepping back from the table. "I will return
later today."

He walked away, Natesa at his side.

"So," he said to her softly. "When may I collect my winnings?"

"Youth today," she said, calmly, "lack patience."

"Ah, but I am far beyond my youth. What you choose to see as
impatience is merely the necessity of man with too few hours left
him."

She looked at him gravely. "Yes, exactly so."

"I was certain that you must see it eventually," he murmured,
allowing her to proceed him through the door and into the port
proper.

The day was cool and bright—Surebleak high summer—and the
port itself displayed a gratifying amount of activity. Work was going
forth on several collaborative efforts, notably the duty-free
shop—boldly named The Planetary Cooperative—and situated in
the space formerly occupied, according to the ancient signage, by
a Learning Shop; a fresh fruit, vegetable, and flower stall; and no
less than two repair stations. Individual efforts included a beverage
bar, featuring local fruit ciders; and a pastry shop. And, of course,
the casino.

Pat Rin had hopes of a restaurant in the future, as well as a
gemstone and spice exchange. But, for the moment, progress was
made. And it was good.

Side by side, they proceeded, slowed considerably by the
numerous, "Morning, Boss."

"Mr. Conrad, sir. Ms. Natesa. Good to see you both." One of the
mechanics called out that the concordance books had arrived; and
plastic cups of cider were pressed into their hands, with a smiling,
"Just in from the farms this morning. Boss Sherton's compliments,
Mr. Conrad."

"You are well-loved," Natesa remarked as they went on.

"So well-loved that you yet insist upon tasting my drink ahead of
me," he said ironically. "When shall you give over security, Inas?"

Black eyebrows arched. "Why, I have done so. If my care now
seems more particular, it is because I have a personal stake in
your continued good health."

He looked at her consideringly. "I see that I have done ill, then, in
returning you your oath."

"Not at all. I asked for its return because my interest had grown
beyond mere business. You complied because the request was
reasonable." She inclined her head, formally. "Thus, we comported
ourselves with honor. What lies before us is a different game
entirely."

"Which cannot be won," he said, soberly. "Attend me, my lady.
This is Surebleak; I may be murdered in the next hour—and you, at
my side. And if that fails, there are always those other enemies of
my clan, who may discover me at any moment, and likewise slay us
both."

"That is," she said in her calm way, "acceptable." She sipped from
her own cup. "But not likely. The cider is good."

"You amaze me," he said, and sipped, finding it very good, indeed.
So good, in fact, that it was quite gone by the time they reached
the portmaster's office, a scant stroll from the new juice stand.

"Good morning, Mr. Conrad—Ms. Natesa." Claren Liu nodded
easily as they entered.

"Portmaster. A pleasant day to you."

"It has been so far." She waved a hand at the main screen. "Never
thought I'd see Surebleak Port so busy. If it keeps up like this, we'll
be in competition with Terraport!"

"Never so large as Terraport," Pat Rin said softly. "Will you settle, I
wonder, for a small, rustic jewel of a port?"

Portmaster Liu laughed. "Sure, I'll take that." She pushed out of her
chair and went to her desk, pulling some few sheets of hardcopy
from a file.

'"beam came through for you last night. I knew you were gonna be
here today, or I'd've sent it in to you."

"Thank you." He glanced at the papers, saw the Health Net logo,
and folded them into his pocket for later perusal.

"Other thing we're gonna want," she said abruptly, "is traffic. Fine
as it is to have a small rustic gem of a port, if nobody lands, what
we got is no better'n what we had."

"True enough. My associates and I have been considering that.
There are trade bands, are there not? And pilot frequencies, where
the goods and services of this or that port may be advertised?"

She blinked. "Well…sure. You're thinking about advertising
Surebleak?"

"What harm can it do?" Pat Rin asked reasonably, feeling Natesa's
presence at his shoulder as a comfort. "A few small
advertisements only—perhaps in praise of our ciders and—our
handmade rugs. We are not so out of the way that ships may not
stop, if given good cause. That they have not been stopping has
been due to our…reputation as a dangerous and backward world,
served by—forgive me—a port of the lower tier."

"Nothing to forgive in the truth," Claren Liu said, brusquely, and
stared off over his head for a long moment, before coming to
herself with a nod.

"Tell you what. The port'll go in half with whatever the association
comes up with for advertisement. We got a promo budget. Up 'til
this second, I didn't have the barest idea of what to do with it." She
grinned, self-mocking. "Add Surebleak to your pay-route! It's cold
and they'll break your neck, too!"

At his shoulder, Natesa laughed.

"And now we may say—Stop at Surebleak, and enjoy the play."

"Not bad," Claren Liu told her, the grin somewhat less mocking.
"Hold on a sec—I've got the rate book here." She bent again to the
desk, rummaged briefly and emerged triumphant, waving a tattered
brown booklet.

"Here you are," she said, handing it to Pat Rin. He glanced at the
cover, found the rates in force until Day 96, Standard Year 1393,
and slipped it away, too, for later study.

"Thank you," he said, inclining his head. "As always, it has been a
fruitful visit. One of my house will be on the port in two days' time. If
you have need of me before—"

"I'll call," she said, interrupting good-naturedly. "Those talkies were
a good idea. Yeah, like you've had a bad one." She attempted the
formal nod—at which she was slowly gaining proficiency, Pat Rin
allowed—and straightened.

"Good to see you, then, sir—ma'am. Hope to see you again soon."

"Good-day, Portmaster," Pat Rin murmured.

"Good-day," Natesa echoed and the two of them departed,
heading for the casino, a second training session, and an
afternoon meeting in Elva Whitmore's territory.

"Still awake, Boss?" Cheever McFarland's big voice preceded him
into the room.

Pat Rin glanced up from a frowning study of the Health Net papers.

"As you see, Mr. McFarland, I am not only awake, but irritable."

"Long hours'll do that," Cheever said cheerfully. "I've got a report, if
you want it."

Pat Rin pushed the papers aside. "Indeed, I do." He considered
the man, noting the subtle signs of weariness. "However, I would
not keep you from your bed. Tomorrow is soon enough if you are
need of rest."

Cheever shook his head. "Too wound up to sleep. What I'm after
right now is a sandwich and a beer. What say we compromise and
hit the kitchen?"

"Very well." He rose, leaving the papers on his desk.

"It's comin' along fine," Cheever said some minutes later, around a
truly formidable sandwich constructed of cheese, greens, and
onion between thick slices of the cook's homemade bread. "Got
the rubbish cleared out. Got a couple of the local techs through the
sleep-learner and put 'em to work fabricating the equipment. Got a
couple building squads throwing us up some bays and dorms.

Talked to somebody just 'fore I left this morning—sharp one, name
of Perl—anyhow, she's been studying on the schematics for the
cradle and thinks she's got a line on the how-to. Ain't gonna be
pretty, right at first, but we'll have us a working yard that ain't
dependent on the port."

He took a bite of sandwich and washed it down with a mighty
swallow of beer. Pat Rin sipped his fruit cider. The warehouse
district they had taken over for Korval's first ship yard on Surebleak
had been burned out in some long-forgotten riot, and remained
unclaimed by any current boss. Pat Rin had annexed it by the
simple expedient of sending Cheever McFarland and a work crew
to the area with the goal of cleaning it up.

"Where we're gonna get in trouble—soon—is cash," Cheever was
saying. "Labor's cheap enough, but materials is high—and a lot of
the equipment's just gotta be made, ground up." Another bite,
another swallow.

"Where we're gonna get in trouble later—assuming we can get the
rest of the job funded and online—is pilots, supplies and derelicts."

"The derelicts," Pat Rin murmured, "are, as we discussed,
possible."

"Yah, OK, you got a line on the spaceship graveyard," Cheever
said, grudgingly. "If it ain't watched. If it's still there. If the codes're
still good. If, if if."

"There is a risk, but not, I think, a major one."

"So you said. All right, we assume you can deliver the ships," he
grinned, wolfish. "Next problem's pilots."

"We are at work on that problem," Pat Rin told him. "Only today
have we received from the hand of Surebleak Portmaster the book
listing all public piloting and trade frequencies. Our plan is to
advertise Surebleak's charms, and thus beguile pilots to us."

"Yeah?" Cheever interestedly. "That's an assist. But, then you're
gonna need a hiring hall on the port."

Pat Rin inclined his head. "I thank you—I had not thought of that."

"Would've, though. Think too damn' much, if you want my
opinion—which you don't." He finished his sandwich and leaned
back, nursing what was left of his beer.

"Keep in mind you'll have to pay risk money, for anybody bringing
in a ship from the graveyard."

"Well." Pat Rin finished his cider, set the mug down, and sat gazing
into its empty depths.

"Well," he said again. "It appears we are at a stand, Mr. McFarland.
In addition to the necessity of… Korval's yard, there is upstairs a
notice from the HealthNet, informing me of the current membership
rates and citing a substantial sum due in penalties, as Surebleak's
previous departure from the 'Net was in violation of several
conditions of contract."

"The other bosses are's'posed to give us a percentage," Cheever
commented after a few moments had passed in silence.

Pat Rin looked up. "So they are. And the funds thus far received
have immediately gone into increasing the numbers of clinics and
schools, and training for the medical personnel."

"So called." Cheever sighed gustily before quaffing the dregs of
his beer.

"We're gonna need cash, or the gold-plated promise of cash within
the next—fifteen, twenty days, or it's gonna get ugly. An' if we lose
'em because we ain't paid 'em, they'll never come back, if we was
paying hard cantra. Better to shut down now, while we can settle
everybody and tell 'em we'll do a recall in a month or so."

Pat Rin frowned. Of course, one did not solicit labor and then fail to
pay. But it was hard, very hard, to contemplate halting the project
so recently and so well begun…

"Let us delay decision until tomorrow," he said to Cheever. "Will
you be with us, or must you return at once?"

"Figured on going back tomorrow afternoon. Wanted to check in
with you. Should oughta talk to Natesa and Gwince; maybe do an
inspect of house security, just to throw the fear of cold space into
'em and make sure they stay honest."

"Ah." He smiled. "Your vigilance is appreciated."

"Sure it is." Cheever thumped the empty mug to the table and
stood. "I'm for a nap. You look like you could use the same, if you
don't mind my saying so. Or even if you do."

"Yes." Weariness suddenly weighed upon him, waking the ghost of
an ache in the arm that had been wounded. He rose, and put his
mug in the sink to be washed. "Good-night, Mr. McFarland. We will
talk tomorrow."

"We sure will. 'Night, sir."

Pat Rin climbed the stairs, and slipped as silently as he was able
into the bedroom.

"Good morning, denubia," her voice was soft, barely blurred with
sleep.

"There, I had not meant to wake you," he murmured. "I shall need
to learn to walk like a scout."

"Only like Silk—who has appropriated your pillow."

He smiled in the dark, and undressed quickly, slipping into the bed
beside her. Silk put up a brief defense of the pillow—for honor's
sake—before stomping down to the foot of the bed.

"Victory is yours," she whispered, and moved near, entwining him
in warm silken limbs, and nestling her head on his shoulder.

"Only until the morrow," he said, feeling muzzier by the moment;
the ill news of the evening fading into a warm glow of contentment.

Sighing gently, he lay his cheek against her hair and slid,
seamlessly, into sleep.
Day 32
Standard Year 1393
Blair Road
Surebleak

Natesa lay the HealthNet report on the desk and picked up her
teacup.

"Three cantra in penalties. Three cantra earnest money, based on
previous violations. Two cantra to rejoin." She sipped and shook
her head. "The penalties are two cantra too high, and we can
certainly force the earnest money down by a cantra. Yet, in our
current state of budget, five cantra is as difficult as eight."

"Add Mr. McFarland's little matter," Pat Rin murmured, from his
perch on the corner of the desk, "and we discover ourselves run
entirely off our legs, with no hope of a quick recover." He moved
his shoulders, irritated.

"And all the while, there are more than enough cantra to do the
work, if I could but dare access them!"

Natesa stared at him, teacup arrested. "Is that so?"

Pat Rin met her eyes, frowning at her astonishment. "Is what so?
That there are cantra sufficient to the task—and more—held on my
accounts? Did you think you had joined with a pauper, lady?"

"It was not a consideration," she said composedly. "But, Pat Rin,
this other—why do you not dare access your funds?"

He bit back a sharp retort. It was rare enough, after all, to find
Natesa at half wit.

"You will see that I am not clever," he said mildly. "When I was
about arranging the details of my former life, it never occurred to
me that, some day in my future, I might very much wish for hidden
funds. All of my accounts are woefully in sight, and the Department
of the Interior will be watching every one. They will trace any
transfer immediately, and follow it to us."

She sipped her tea, then put the cup down on the desk.

"Here is where the Juntavas is uniquely placed to serve you," she
said. "Merely hire a courier."

"Yes, certainly!" he cried, descending into sarcasm. "Tell someone
else where we are, so that they may sell the information to the
Department!"

"Not so," she contradicted. "If we broke our contracts, who would
deal with us?"

He sighed. "In fact, breaking contracts is bad for business."

"Precisely." She frowned, staring off into the middle air. Pat Rin
reached for his cup and sipped, awaiting the outcome of her
thought.

"It will be," she said eventually, "expensive. More so, for I cannot
waive my fee in the matter. You will, however, retain between
seventy and seventy-five percent of the total deliverable funds."

"The Juntavas takes one-quarter?" He raised a hand, signifying
peace. "I make no quibble, if we have guarantee of anonymity."

"The fees cover several things—anonymity of the client is one.
Discretion, timely delivery, real costs. My fee—is insurance. The
Juntavas guarantees delivery, from our own accounts. Once the
money is identified, and the transfer made to our various accounts,
why, we do nothing but deliver the funds from our own nearest
bank. No need to have couriers bounding to and fro like
grasshoppers. If our courier is robbed of your funds, still we will
deliver to you the agreed amount upon the specified date. So, you
see why my fee must be taken."

"I do." He took his own turn at thought, weighing danger against
necessity.

"Guaranteed anonymity," he said again. "The Department of the
Interior, if we are to believe its agents—and I have predicated the
subjugation of an entire world upon that belief—is no dismissible
opponent."

"Allow us to know our business," Natesa murmured, retrieving her
teacup. She sipped, black eyes considering him over the rim.

"There is no guaranteed safety," she said eventually. "However—if
you will accept my advice—I think this course offers us more
safety than any other; and gains us access to needed funding."

"My funds are in cantra," he said. "No more than twelve per cent of
the delivery should be in cantra—the rest must be in Terran bits or
regional currencies."

She shrugged. "A detail only. For such affairs, where the client
pays a percentage, we calculate the conversion using the daily
exchange tables published by the Bank of Solcintra." She inclined
her head, ironic. "Unless the client requires another source be
used."

"The Bank of Solcintra conversions are adequate, I thank you."

"Ah. You should also know that the flex in the fee structure has to
do with the degree of difficulty in accessing the funds."

"I can provide pass-codes and ID numbers," he said.

"Good. Assume the deliverable will be closer to seventy-five
percent; though there may be a hazard surcharge." A subtle smile.
"Thus, the Department of the Interior is accorded the respect that it
deserves."

"That is well." He finished his tea while considering other details.
"So. I will take delivery at the Port…"

"I beg to disagree. Mr. McFarland will take delivery at the Port, with
Gwince and myself as his back-up. You, my love, will remain well-
guarded in your house, or perhaps you will visit Melina Sherton."

"Surely you and Mr. McFarland are of more value—" He began and
stopped when she held up her hand.

"There will be no contract," she said, with an austerity one rarely
had from Natesa, "unless this is done as I say."

He looked at her. "What shall I do if you are slain?"

"Avenge me." She lowered her hand. "Will it be as I have said?"

He slid to his feet. "Since the plan now involves Mr. McFarland
risking his life, we will ask for his assessment. If he agrees, then
we go forward."

Natesa smiled. "That is acceptable."
Day 38
Standard Year 1393
Liad
Department of Interior Command Headquarters

The radio muttered in the background, whispering of ships, of
trade goods, and of scheduling changes. Commander of Agents
paid it no heed; his attention squarely on the file before him.

The campaign against the Juntavas, which had unwisely involved
itself in Departmental business, was well under way. Given the
opportunity to choose his battle, the Commander would not have
attempted the Juntavas. Not yet. Alas, the Juntavas itself had
forced the matter by interfering with the Department's attempt to
attach Pat Rin yos'Phelium.

That Pat Rin yos'Phelium had grasped the opportunity created by
confusion to slip through the Department's net—that he remained
unrecovered to this day—was both unfortunate and unexpected.

The search continued, of course. Pat Rin yos'Phelium—a creature
of self-indulgence, a slave to play and pleasure—was certain to
err, soon or late. And when he did, the Department would move.

In the meanwhile, the Juntavas was being dealt—

"…Surebleak Port!" The radio chirped.

Commander of Agents froze, and turned to stare at the tiny device.
"Our duty free shop boasts a variety of local fresh fruit ciders and
jams; made-by-hand rugs; pigup sticks made from local woods,
and much more! And while you're on port, don't forget to visit the
Emerald Casino. It's all here at pilot-friendly Surebleak Port!"

Surebleak, the supposed homeward of Tiazan's so-called Miri
Robertson. Pilot-friendly Surebleak Port.

Commander of Agents allowed himself a smile.
Day 53
Standard Year 1393
Dutiful Passage
Lytaxin Orbit

Running, he cut the corner into the main hall close, skidded and
threw himself into a somersault in order to avoid the collision.

He landed on his feet by the opposite wall, and only then saw who
he had very nearly run down.

"Captain." He bowed deeply, feeling his face heat.

"Alas, no longer," Shan yos'Galan said calmly. "But don't, I beg
you, be cast into despondency on my account! The truth is that I
am perfectly well-satisfied to retire to the rank of master trader and
laze through every shift while Priscilla and yourself accomplish the
hard work between you."

This was a pleasantry, as Ren Zel well knew, and felt relief, that the
cap—that Master Trader yos'Galan's experience of war had not
altered him out of recognition.

"But tell me, do! Wherever were you rushing off to at such a
pace?"

He bit his lip. "I am late to my shift on the bridge."

"A grievous thing, I agree." The silver eyes considered him, and
there was something—someone…

"I wonder," Shan said, interrupting his line of thought, "not that it's
any business of mine, of course! But, still, I do wonder what has
happened to your jacket?"

"My—" He looked down at his arm, blinking. Why in the names of
the gods had he been sleeping in his jacket? "I—" he began again
and tentatively, unbelievingly, ran his hand down the unmarred
leather sleeve. Memory stirred and he saw her again in the
starlight, taking his jacket—All honor to it—and shaking it, shaking it
out…

He looked up and met Shan yos'Galan's silver eyes and it came to
him all at once where he had seen the like.

Ren Zel took a deep breath. "I had—a dream," he said, knowing
that it explained nothing.

"I would say that you had quite a marvelous dream," Shan said,
straightening from his lean against the wall. He beckoned, the
master trader's ring blazing purple fires.

"Come along, child. We'd best sort this out."

"Will you have wine, friend?" Shan yos'Galan asked, some few
moments later in the captain's private office.

Ren Zel hesitated, thinking of wine on an empty stomach after an
evening, or so his memory insisted, rich in exercise.

"I think," he said carefully, "that I would rather—tea."

"And something with which to break your fast," Shan said, leaning
to the comm unit. Priscilla was standing near the sofa, Ren Zel's
mysteriously healed jacket held in her two hands, her eyes intent
and her face peculiarly unfocussed.

"Thank you, BillyJo," Shan said into the comm. "It's good to hear
your voice again, too."

Priscilla blinked, and sighed, as if the jacket were too heavy for her.
Ren Zel stepped forward to take it out of her hands, his fingers
delighting in the supple new feel of the leather.

"Well?" Shan asked, leaning a hip against the desk.

"Anthora," she said, "definitely Anthora. She's the only wizard I
know who might have done something like this so seamlessly."
She sighed once more. "Breakfast?"

"On the way."

"Good." She looked to Ren Zel and moved a hand, inviting him to
take one of the two easy chairs as she sank down onto the sofa.

"I think you had better tell us about this—dream."

Breakfast arrived as he was describing the garden with its massive
tree and welcoming cat. He made a detour there, to summarize the
previous dream and the impossible whisker caught in his coverlet.
Shan put a plate in his hand, and he ate, not really attending, his
mind on the memory of the dream, straining for every nuance,
every description.

They listened silently, captain and master trader. At some point in
the narration the comm buzzed, and by silent agreement it was the
master trader who rose to answer.

Finally, he reached an end, and looked down into a teacup he did
not recall emptying, and back to Priscilla's brilliant, dramliza eyes.

"It was a dream," he said, for perhaps the dozenth time.

"I don't believe that it was just a dream," Priscilla said gently.

"Other parties are likewise unconvinced," Shan added, lounging
beside her on the couch. "That comm call was an encoded
pinbeam from Jelaza Kazone." He looked at Ren Zel, slanting
brows high, silver eyes—amused?

"My sister Anthora wishes to advise her elder and her thodelm of
the fact of her lifemating with Ren Zel dea'Judan, first mate of
Dutiful Passage. Very proper of her, don't you agree?"
Erob's Clanhouse
Lytaxin

"Have I heard from Pat Rin?" Nova's golden brows pulled together,
and she shook her head. "But I have been off-grid, you know,
brother, and involved in other matters. It is true that I have not
heard from Pat Rin, but it is equally true that I have not heard from
Anthora."

They'd invited Nova to a dawn breakfast, after which they would
escort her to the spaceport and the shuttle that would take her up
to the Passage. For now, they sat on the balcony of their guesting
suite, eating warm rolls, soft cheese and fresh fruit, beneath an
orange-and-silver sky.

"Well enough," Val Con murmured, breaking open a roll. "But am I
correct in recalling that there is a check-in protocol? For instance,
had we been less engaged elsewhere, we might have accessed
the pirate's band and sent an all's well."

"Pirate band?" Miri asked, spreading cheese on her roll.

"It is not really a pirate band," Nova said. "Shan began calling it that
to irritate our father, and I believe—although I am certain he will
correct me if I am in error—that Val Con began using it to irritate
Cousin Kareen." She moved her shoulders. "In any case, it's
simply a private clan-held frequency."

"As if I would ever wish to irritate my Aunt Kareen," Val Con said
softly, and glanced over, green eyes warm. "We must get thee to a
library, my lady. You have quite a lot of reading to do."

"Suits. Call me when the war's over."

Nova frowned, which she seemed to do a lot. "We are not going to
war!"

Miri blinked at her, looked to Val Con. "We ain't?"

"It is like the pirate's band," he explained kindly. "If we call it a war,
we will annoy Nova."

She grinned. "Got it." .

"Val Con—"

"Is there a way to access the log," he interrupted, softly. "To see
who has and has not checked in?"

"Yes, certainly. I can do so from Erob's comm room, if you wish.
Indeed, you should have the new codes. Sit with me and I will give
them you." She hesitated, and the frown this time seemed more
worried than irritated, to Miri's sharpening eye.

"I wonder, brother—have you had ill-news of Pat Rin?"

"Ill-news—no," he said slowly, and Miri felt him picking his words
with careful precision. "Say rather that we have…inconclusive
news, and wish to assure ourselves that he is well." He extended a
hand and lay it briefly over Nova's where it lay fisted beside her
plate.

"I do not wish to distress you—I know that you and he are friends."

"Insofar as Pat Rin allows himself to be anyone's friend," she said,
sharply.

"But truly," she said, after a long moment, probably to reassure
herself, "he should be well. Pat Rin is very far from a fool—and
Shan had hired him an extremely portwise pilot."

"Shan hired Pat Rin's pilot?" Val Con said, incredulously. "Matters
must be very changed between them."

"Say rather that it was Shan's idea to place Mr. McFarland as Pat
Rin's pilot, when he came to us with the message from Edger. It
was in the clan's interest that Mr. McFarland not
return…immediately to his usual rounds, and Pat Rin was preparing
for one of his tours. Mr. McFarland was willing to be hired, and Pat
Rin was willing—after I spoke to him, for I will not hide from you,
brother, that of course Shan put his back up—to hire. So it was
done. I checked Mr. McFarland's credentials myself—and Anthora
pronounced him an honorable man."

"Well, then, it sounds as if our cousin is both well-served and well-
protected," Val Con said, after a moment, being so careful Miri felt
an ache starting between her eyebrows. "Doubtless our check of
the roll will establish him in comfortable safety, and only a little
bored."

"As to that," Nova murmured, "he had used to say that he would
welcome being marooned on a backward world for a relumma or
two, so that he might catch up on his reading."

There didn't seem much to say to that, Miri thought, polishing off
the last bit of roll with mingled relish and regret.

Apparently Val Con thought the same.

"Tell me," he said, reaching for his teacup. "Have you found all the
citations you require to make our case before Council?"

"Not all, certainly, but a good start has been made," Nova
answered, pushing her plate aside. "The Passage carries the full
text of the Diaries, as well as the Council book. I will be able to
conclude my research en route and be ready to stand before
Council the day we raise Liad."

Val Con looked at her, one eyebrow up. "But you will not do so," he
suggested. "Until you have had word from your delm."

She sighed. "I will, of course, await the delm's word."

"Good," Val Con smiled, though to Miri he felt more wary than
approving, and drank his tea.

Anthora leaned back in her chair, silver eyes focused on a point
just above and light years beyond the top of the comm unit.

Mr. dea'Gauss had her instructions regarding the settlements,
which he was to send to Ren Zel, for approval or adjustment. She
had herself 'beamed the Passage with the proper announcement
to her thodelm, which might very well amuse Shan, but for Ren Zel
one would behave well and do everything that was proper. He
should not suffer wounds on her account—he had wounds enough.

That she knew his wounds as her own was—piquant. That he
would have acquired a similarly intimate knowledge of herself
was— not harrowing; not quite that. She was, after all, of the
dramliz, and accustomed to interfacing with her fellows and with
some of the stronger Healers. Those interfacings were of
necessity less absolute than the immediate and complete merging
which had joined her to Ren Zel last evening; and while there was
no help for it now—and while she would not trade this morning for
last—she did rather wish that she had been…more decorous at
some times in the past.

That Ren Zel would forgive her transgressions, she knew. Had he
lived other than an exemplary and blameless life, she would have
freely forgiven him all his sins. They could neither do otherwise, as
closely as they were joined—in all but body.

Anthora sighed. She had felt his absence keenly this morning,
when she had woken from her second sleep to find herself solitary
in the tumbled bed. More than that, she had felt some alarm.
Surely, he had expended enormous amounts of energy in his walk
from the Passage to her bedroom. To make a like expenditure so
soon after the first, and, moreover, a half-night of enthusiastic
lovemaking, was foolhardy in the extreme. She would not have
wished to undertake such a course, and she knew herself for a
wizard of stamina, and will.

In fact, she thought, how had he managed that walk? She could
quite understand the process—it was, after all, very similar to a
piloting problem—but she was not persuaded that she could
reproduce the effect…

She straightened in her chair, frowning as she tried to reconcile the
equation.

The comm unit chimed.

Anthora jumped, blinked, and leaned forward to accept the call.

She blinked again as the screen coalesced into an image of a
dark-haired woman in the uniform of a Clerk of the Council of
Clans. The woman bowed, from greater to lesser, by which
Anthora understood that the Clerk was speaking on behalf of the
entire Council of Clans, by order of the Speaker.

"Do I address Anthora yos'Galan Clan Korval?"

Anthora inclined her head a fraction, striving for Nova's air of cool
competence.

"You do."

"Speaker for Council requires Korval's presence at a full meeting
of the clans scheduled tomorrow for the hour after midday. Korval
has been called upon to answer certain very serious charges."

"What charges?" Anthora demanded. "And who accuses us?"

"I am not authorized to divulge that information. Because of the
seriousness of the charges, Speaker for Council will assess Korval
one Class A Jump ship for every day it fails to send a
representative to answer."

Anthora glared at her, which the Clerk bore with patience. Behind
the glare, her mind raced.

The Council was empowered to levy penalties for a failure to
comply with its rule. The weight of this threatened levy argued the
presence of serious charges indeed, though what they might be—

Really, she thought, there was no choice. She could hardly explain
that with Plan B in effect there was quite simply no way that she
could authorize turning a ship—any ship, down to the meanest two-
place shuttle—over to the Council. dea'Gauss himself could not
order it done. She considered quickly. The Council knew Korval
would not relish the loss of ship, so she must let them believe that
their threat was potent. To tell them that Korval would resist any
such attempt was folly…

And, surely, she thought, she would be safe in the very Council
hall.

Once again, she inclined her head that austere and irritating inch.

"I thank Speaker for Council, but there is no need to descend to
threats. I will attend the meeting scheduled for the hour after
midday tomorrow and will answer all charges then."

Ren Zel had been excused from his shift on the bridge; another
pilot set, by the captain's word, to cover his board. Truly, he would
have rather been allowed to escape back into routine, to explore
the strange dream that was not a dream in his own way and come
to terms with his… with his lifemating.

For it seemed he was no longer clanless, outcast—dead. Abruptly,
he had kin to care for—Shan yos'Galan was his brother, Priscilla
Mendoza, his sister. He found another sister in Nova
yos'Galan—she who was no longer Korval-pernard'i, for the news
from the planet was that Val Con yos'Phelium had taken up the
Ring and his rightful melant'i as Korval. Which was well for the clan,
Ren Zel thought, distractedly—clans should be properly led by the
delm, rather than held in trust, year upon long year…

In a daze, he had received the kiss of his thodelm and thodelmae;
immediately thereafter, Priscilla had accessed the ship's roll and
amended his file. Dutiful Passage had previously known him as a
pilot; now it knew him as a pilot of Korval.

"You look shell-shocked, child," Shan said to him, sometime after
the second pinbeam arrived from Liad, this from a certain
dea'Gauss, directed to Ren Zel dea'Judan Clan Korval.

Printed, this document occupied several sheets and proved, to his
horrified eyes, to be a list of the properties, funds, and
quartershare settled upon him.

"I—it is too much," he had managed, not quite certain himself if he
was referring to the settlements—offered his choice of no less
than three Class A Jumps!—or the abrupt
and…irregular…alteration in his melant'i.

"Yes, I can understand how it might be. Anthora's a minx, and
never fear that I will tell her so at my earliest opportunity."

Memory showed him the lady in question, her breasts heavy in his
hands as she poised teasingly above him, her hair woven with
starlight…

Face hot, he looked down at the printout.

"Perhaps," he whispered, "not entirely a minx."

There was a small pause. "Well, I am glad to hear you say so. For I
will not scruple to tell you that—as much as I enter into your entirely
reasonable dismay of the process—I wish you will accommodate
yourself to these new arrangements, and allow us to embrace you
fully. The clan can only be richer by your lifemating. Certainly,
yos'Galan does rejoice in receiving you, and I am delighted in my
new brother."

The printout smeared out of sense, as tears rose, and—shame to
him—spilled over. In the act of throwing his arm up to shield his
face, he recalled that it was no shame at all to share one's joy
with…kin.

Nor was it useful to water the printout beyond readability. He made
some shift to bring himself under control, and looked up to meet
Shan's serious silver eyes.

"I wonder if I might have some time to…myself," he said
tentatively. "I wish to relocate center, so that I may accommodate
myself—and serve the clan usefully."

Shan grinned. "As to that, I have no fear at all. But, go, rest
yourself, settle your mind. Come to us for prime, eh? And after
that, I swear we will allow you to return to the comforts of your
schedule."

And so Ren Zel had escaped, at least to the familiarity of his own
cabin. Now, showered, and fulfilled by one of BillyJo's sandwiches,
he lay himself down to sleep—and, in sleeping, dreamed.

He dreamed a starmap—the starmap: Baknt'i tru'vad, the starweb
of all creation. Vast, awesome in its balances and harmony, it lay
revealed before him: suns, stars, worlds, lives, glittering, busy and
inevitable. And throughout it all, woven into the very fabric of the
universe, golden lines of power, such as he had first beheld in
Anthora yos'Galan's chamber.

He bent his attention to those lines, apprehending the ebb and flow
of their substance, the tectonic intricacies, the cohesion of their
purpose. As he had in Anthora's chamber, he extended his hand
and very carefully gathered two glowing lines to himself.

Far off in the starweb, a cluster of lines constricted about a lesser
sun. Ren Zel released his hold; the lines relaxed, the flow of power
resumed.

So. Once again, he extended his attention, this time in an attitude
of seeking, rather than command.

He heard a tone, as if a council-bell had been lightly struck, and in
the next heartbeat, Balent'i tru'vad was lost, and his sight filled
entirely with pulsing golden light.

It had been Chi yos'Phelium who had insisted, upon his
succession to his mother's position as qe'andra to Korval, that the
office defenses be upgraded to a standard she referred to as
"adequate", and which Mr. dea'Gauss, in those younger days, had
privately considered to be…draconian.

Today, reading the message in the lights of the "control board" she
had caused to be installed in his office, he very much wished that
he could return to those forever vanished days of his youth and
most humbly beg her pardon. For it was truly said that delm's eyes
see far—and the eyes of Korval see farthest of all.

Time-travel not being an option, the best way to atone for his
doubts was to ensure that her care had not been in vain.

Carefully, adhering to a protocol altered and memorized every
Quarterday, Mr. dea'Gauss pushed three buttons in sequence,
alerting his staff and apprentices to the approach of danger. They
would now, according to drill—for Chi had also insisted that there
be drills, and routine practice of drills—close their work, touch the
key sequence that would simultaneously download the information
in their computers to the house computer at Jelaza Kazone, and
scrub their own systems. That done, they would exit the building
using one of the three "escape routes."

They had twelve minutes to accomplish these things.

At twelve-minutes-point-one, the building would seal itself. Since
the walls and windows had years ago been reinforced with hullplate
and blast-glass, Mr. dea'Gauss was comfortable in his belief that it
would take both effort and time for the approaching enemy to gain
entry.

His own task required some time—a little. Merely the retrieval of
two letters, written long ago at the outrageous suggestion of that
same Chi yos'Phelium; a moment to copy and address them as
appropriate; the touch of a key to send. That done, he typed in the
sequence that would initiate the download and wipe of his own
records, and bent to retrieve the gun from the right-hand drawer of
his desk.

They'd thrown the Erob comm tech out for a tea break she was
more than willing to have, once it was explained to her that the
pinbeam was needed for private Korval business.

Now, Val Con was seated beside Nova at a console in the inner
bridge, Miri on his knee, both watching her fingers move, and
taking note of the new access codes.

"Your codes would have worked, of course," Nova told Val Con,
"but as a bounce to Jeeves. I set it up that way when you had been
gone so long and had not…" Her voice faded, then strengthened.
"Of course, I could not compromise our integrity, but Jeeves has
your voice-map on file and he is very discreet."

"In fact," Val Con said, for Miri's benefit, "he has the ability to
spread himself over eight different frequencies, re-routing on the
fly, which makes him remarkably difficult to trace."

"Just so," Nova said coolly, and fed in the last string of code.
"There, that should…yes."

A datalog shimmered into being on the center screen, displaying
the call-ins for Day 52, Standard Year 1393. Nova scrolled upward.

"Luken, Padi, Shindi…"

"Shindi?"

Nova glanced at him. "Did not Shan—well," she caught herself with
a shrug. "You would have been otherwise occupied, I suppose.
The clan rejoices in fraternal twins, heirs to Anthora yos'Galan.
Their names are Shindi and Mik."

"Ah." He smiled, and put his hand on Miri's knee. "The clan
increases, cha'trez. We are doubly fortunate in twins."

She looked down at him. "Twice as much trouble, you mean?"

He laughed, and had the pleasure of seeing a cool smile pass over
Nova's features before she turned back to the screen, scrolling
ever upward through the long list of dates and names.

She reached an end, and waved her hand wordlessly.
Foreknowing, Miri sitting tense on his knee, still he took a turn,
scrolling downward through the names of his kin.

Excepting only one.
Day 54
Standard Year 1393
The Clutch Homeworld

They had been made known to Handler, of Edger's clan, who sat
with them quietly through the hours of waiting. Occasionally he
would speak; if asked a question, he would answer, most
courteously; but in general he worked silent, alternating between
the handles of several knives.

The food they had packed in was adequate, and Daav was
permitted a few moments outside every few hours, which he used
to circumnavigate the asteroid they'd come in on. Otherwise, he—
and Aelliana—awaited their summons.

Also in the chamber was a vast and silent member of the Clutch,
lightly shelled, withal, and holding a naked crystal blade reminiscent
of spear or sword. Daav had first thought the creature a statue, until
Handler, upon hearing a gong from within the chamber, addressed
a quick word to it. The guard-Clutch had answered with a brief
whistle and a slight bow, thence returning to silence.

The waiting room was carved from rock, with three visible tunnels
running off, and, as far as Daav was able to deduce, down. Edger
had gone into the middle tunnel, to the meeting room of the Elders,
many hours ago.

So they whiled the hours. Daav talked with himself, or wrote in his
notepad, while inwardly he and Aelliana played games of
discovery, sharing memories of kin, and of friends.

Too often Daav found himself projecting comfort, or worse,
disdain—and once heard himself say, "For that, yes, we may have
some Balance, for I am sure we still own some stock there, and I
never liked the fellow…"

"Daav, so long ago, and so—"

"Knowing what I know, I can do nothing but this—would you have
our children's children exposed to a clan permitting this?"

At other times, Aelliana showed Daav what it looked like, what it felt
like, to explore the beauty of numbers; to see something as simple
as a ship's course, or as complex as a star system, object by
object…

And then Edger was returned to them.

"Come," he said, and his big voice reverberated with weariness.
"They will listen. You must tell them of the Tree and the necessities
of my brother and sister. You will need speak, each of you, father
and mother, and you will needs speak as elders. You must hold
nothing aside, for the truth of things invests the walls of this place.
What questions you may be asked I cannot say, nor may I offer
comfort, for within are those who watched the stars and slew
dragons and ruled clans before my first shell was dry."
Day 44
Standard Year 1393
Surebleak

The portacom on his belt beeped for attention—an increasingly
ordinary, not to say annoying, event. Pat Rin frowned. He had
rather been enjoying the ride back from Melina Sherton's country
territory, sharing the large back seat of his car with half-a-dozen
bottles of Upcountry Canary; watching the peaceful streets of the
Affiliation roll by his window. The pace Gwince set was rapid
enough to make progress, yet slow enough that he could be seen,
and have an opportunity to return the waves of those he passed.

The comm's beep changed from the single, 'attention' beep to the
three-toned phrase belonging to calls from Security—Natesa or
Cheever McFarland, that would be. Both of whom were at
Surebleak Port, awaiting the contracted delivery from the Juntavas.
He snatched the unit free.

"Conrad," he said, terse; no longer hesitating over the assumed
name.

"Our shipment has arrived in good order," came Natesa's musical
voice, unstrained and unsurprised. "Transhipping is well under way.
I must admit to an error, however, in scheduling your visit to the
country. It appears that certain matters have run ahead of us and
your countenance is required at port, rather sooner than later. The
portmasters themselves make the request."

Pat Rin sighed—for both portmasters to be on duty together was
not a good sign.

"No news without complexity, eh, Natesa? Shall I rush?"

"Yes, denubia. It would be best."

Silently, Pat Rin damned the device for its lack of visual screen—
or even a speaker capable of transmitting nuance.

"Soonest, then," he said, briefly, discreetly. "I will be there."

He thumbed the comm off, leaned forward and spoke to the driver.

"Gwince, if you please, we are in need of the banshee. Take me to
the portmaster's office quickly."

She nodded. "Right, Boss. To the port!"

The siren wailed into life, startling the peaceful street outside his
window into chaos. Lesser vehicles pulled quickly aside.
Pedestrians, reflexes honed by years of violence, jumped for the
meager protection of doors and alleyways. Some few, bolder,
stood their ground, staring wide-eyed as the big car surged
forward, pressing Pat Rin deep into the comfort of the big back
seat.

"What we have here is a conundrum," Dayside Portmaster Claren
Liu said, from the head of the hastily cleared conference table.
"The port has taken the report of First Class Pilot Bhupendra
Darteshek—" This was, Pat Rin had learned, the name of the very
tall, very thin, very dark-skinned Juntavas pilot—and the
corroborating report of First Class Pilot Vilma Karapov—" Pilot
Darteshek's co-pilot, a well-muscled blonde with skin so pale it
seemed tinged with blue—"that we've got what might be pirates in
the system. They say that they were shadowed into Port—and
they've provided instrument verification."

As the ability to come and go like shadows themselves was the
claim the Juntavas—through Natesa—had made for their couriers,
this hardly seemed auspicious. Pat Rin spoke across the table to
Pilot Darteshek.

"How is that you allowed yourselves to be followed?"

White teeth gleamed in a thin, feral grin. "We don't be followed.
They was here when we Jump in."

Pat Rin felt a chill run his spine, and inclined his head courteously.
"That does put a different face on the matter. Thank you, pilot."

"Right," said Portmaster Liu, and looked 'round the table to be sure
she had everyone's attention—everyone being the two courier
pilots, Pat Rin, Natesa, Cheever McFarland, and nightside
portmaster Etienne Borden—before proceeding.

"We all know that Surebleak is a low tier port. We do have two guild
portmasters; we've got a few hands and two back-up volunteer
portmasters who're on call in case of an emergency. We have two
weather satellites to back up comm traffic and a comm satellite that
backs up the weather satellites. We've got one space-going tug.
What we don't have is defense." She shook her head.

"Why this is so…" she made a wry mouth and sipped from a
dispenser cup of coffee.

"History lesson," she said apologetically. "See, Surebleak is a
corporate world. It belongs—belonged—to something called the
Gilmour Agency, which was set up to develop the planetary
timonium deposits. They were pretty good-sized deposits, and the
planet itself was near enough to habitable that they had some big
plans for it—the designs for the orbiting mirrors they were going to
use to eventually bring the temperature up a few degrees are on
file in the port 'base." She shrugged. "The assumption was that
there'd be a real economy here. Timonium and by-products going
out, with maybe some specialty ores, gemstones, local lumber,
and such to sweeten the load. Incoming would be supplies for the
mines and the miners. In addition to development rights, Gilmour
Agency was empowered to establish a local government
corporation, which would have the responsibility of upgrading and
maintaining the port." She had another sip of coffee and continued.

"Gilmour had barely gotten started here when their competitors
located Tanzir's System two light years to galactic west. Three big
airless rocks of not much else but high-grade timonium left over
from the same event that helped make Surebleak the garden spot
of the galaxy that it is. Gilmour Agency folded—defaulted on
everything—and the local government never did get established—"
She looked sharply down-table.

"I hope I'm not boring you, Boss Conrad."

Pat Rin bowed slightly in his seat. "Not at all. In fact, I expect that I
will be needing as much of the formal history of Surebleak as you
have…"

"Right," she interrupted. "You will. Because all this comes down to
the reason why we don't have weapons or defense. It's because
the local planetary government has to approve, authorize, certify,
and assist in providing all planetary or system defenses. And until
just lately, Surebleak hasn't had a planetary government."

Pat Rin stared at her, deliberately haughty, while his mind raced.
He was, by a vote of the Affiliated Bosses, Head Boss,
empowered to speak for all if the need arose. His proposed
structure had been somewhat different, modeled, as it had been,
on the Council of Clans. His fellow bosses, however, had insisted
that there must be one Head Boss—"Boss Boss," Penn Kalhoon
had joked—and he had bowed to that, seeing that this was the
model they understood. He had then appointed Penn Kalhoon
Second Boss, and between them they had begun to match the
tasks that needed to be done with those who had the talents to
accomplish them. Which in effect meant…

He looked up to find Claren Liu looking at him with grim
amusement.

"Boss Conrad," she said, with a formal nod of the head. "As
Surebleak portmaster, I request your approval to begin planetary
defense planning, your permission to act in the name of Surebleak
in the case of incident, and your agreement to assist in developing
an on-going security net." She paused. "Without your OK, all I can
do is pass a note to the guild, saying I've got possible pirates in-
system."

Pat Rin glanced out the window. The second level port office was
bathed in sunlight, and overlooked the tarmac to the east, and with
a portion of a road that connected to the Port Road. On the tarmac
sat two ships—the port's tug and the courier's surprisingly large
vessel.

"I assume that I must regard this as an official request?" he finally
asked, facing the portmaster once more.

"That's right. It has to be witnessed by two master pilots or a
master pilot and three first class." She offered him a sympathetic
grin.

"We can't have ships running around shadowing our incoming now
that we have an ad out," she said. "It'd be—"

"Bad for business," Pat Rin finished gently along with her.

He rose, and inclined his head.

"I acknowledge your proposal, Portmaster, and I hereby approve
your request to begin planetary defense planning. I give you
permission to act for Surebleak in case of incident. As for a
planetary security net—" he glanced aside, catching Cheever
McFarland's eye. "I may be able to provide assistance, especially
if there are pilots to hand."

Cheever's eyes widened, then closed. Pat Rin suppressed a smile
and sat down.

"I will sign documents, if that is required," he told the portmaster.
"Mr. McFarland, if you would do me the favor of going to the car
and bringing up the contents of the back seat. Portmaster, I
propose a working lunch."

She grinned at him merrily. "Right you are. I'll send for food—and
there's a couple others we'll want here, if you'll let me call them in?'

He inclined his head. "Certainly."
Day 45
Standard Year 1393
Sherzer System

"Told you there was something spooky about them 'quations,
Shugg. I must know something deep down…" that was Andy
Mack—the Colonel, so-called—idly stropping a credit chit along the
flowing silver hair falling across the front of his leather jacket as he
leaned against the back of second board's acceleration couch.

"Well, the screwy thing is it ain't exactly obvious, no matter how
much you think about it…" Shugg agreed.

The grizzled and short-haired Shugg—Flyer Shugg to his
Surebleak acquaintances—sat second board at the moment, with
Cheever McFarland at first. Crowding behind them were the other
seven members of the expedition: Boss Conrad, Natesa, Etienne
Borden, Juntavas pilots Darteshek and Karapov, Andy Mack, and
"call me Dostie," the taciturn pilot of the port's official tug, whose
hair—today at least—matched the electric pink tunic she wore
beneath her jump jacket.

They had all sat second at one point or another during the trip. Pat
Rin's glare had been ignored by the master pilot when his name
came around on the roster; perforce, he had taken the seat
warmed by Dostie, who had had it after the Colonel, who had it
after Natesa, and had run his board with a cool aplomb he was very
far from feeling. Now Shugg sat second, his grin slow and easy as
he played with the screens.

"Lookit. We got a brown dwarf as primary and one-two-three neat
as a pin stepping stone blue-and-green gas cousins with halos and
then little Miss Blue running a bit askew in an outside orbit. Me, I'd
like to know what happened to the missing planet!"…: ..

"Oh, hain't missing, Shugg!" Andy Mack scolded him genially. "You
always want to find something missing. Check the resonance and
you'll see…"

Natesa smiled and raised her eyes; Pat Rin smiled in answer. He
had, quite unexpectedly, enjoyed the trip, despite the crowding and
the lack of opportunity to be private with his lady. But truly, he not
found a group this convivial since…well…ever.

"Might be some rocks out beyond," Dostie offered. "But the
Colonel's right, anything bigger than grains will get swept out of that
gap because the mass ratio's almost a perfect 9, 5, 4, 3…and with
orbital periods being what they are—might be your Miss Blue is
what's missing!"

"Now," Cheever said, raising his voice to be heard over the chatter,
"we get to the fun part. If you were looking for a ship-stack out in
the middle of this nowhere, where would you look?"

It was, of course, a joke, and Pat Rin was relieved to hear Pilot
McFarland refer to their destination as other than a "ship
graveyard"—an image not conducive to hope, which had so
delighted the pilot that he had used it in every other sentence.
Likewise, he had dropped the word "derelicts," which the ships
they sought assuredly would not be, from his vocabulary.

"Shall we ask them where they are, Mr. McFarland?" Pat Rin
murmured.

Cheever, careful of watchful eyes, keyed in the call phrase, shrank
the info screen to thumbnail on the second's board, and said, "I'll
take bets. Who'd care to name time—minutes and
seconds—before we get an answer from the beacon? Boss, you
sit out, OK?"

The assembled pilots laughed, placed their bets, and settled into
an animated exploration of the Sherzer system by instrument.

The universe was not something Pat Rin yos'Phelium
contemplated often, he being too much in it to feel apart from it.
Now, however, he sat at the second board of Fortune's Reward,
listening to its systems chuckling wistfully against the sudden
silence of a ship with no one else in it, and shivered.

He had been to the brown dwarf’s system only once before.
Cousin Er Thom had brought him—as surly and as graceless a
halfling as one might ever wish to drown—insisting first that he
memorize the coords, the call phrase, and the gate codes.

He had not, of course, wasted his time with Er Thom contemplating
the universe. Instead, he had with cold dignity refused the shuttle's
controls when they were offered, having already failed his piloting
test for the fourth time. The terms of his refusal must have
distressed his cousin, but Er Thom had merely nodded and
changed the subject, filling the hours of the trip with stories of
Clanmother Cantra, tales of Uncle Daav, arcane bits of ship lore;
and, as they approached their goal more nearly, he had told of the
strange mechanism which kept this collection of ships and ship
parts together, for the use of Korval—and those whom Korval
allowed.

Unwillingly, Pat Rin had listened, and despite his firm intention,
found himself charmed out of surliness, so that he actually enjoyed
sharing the picnic lunch Er Thom had brought along. After, and in
closer accord, they crossed to the automated office, where he was
shown the keys and the folders, and had his palmprint filed with the
guardian computers.

That done, Er Thom had taken him on a tour of the stacks, showing
him the controls and several ancient ships—one of which was still
spaceworthy some six centuries after it was built!

Eventually, they had returned to the shuttle. As the ship-stack
dwindled behind them, Cousin Er Thom had spoken to him
seriously of his future, offering several alternative courses of
education—all of them based away from the homeworld—borne
his clumsy, halfling scorn with patience, and taken him back to the
Passage as if all were well.

Now Pat Rin—perhaps the last of his clan; perhaps Korval-in-
Truth—had returned to mine the ship-stack, for the defense and
preservation of the clan. He had been astonished that the access
numbers he had memorized so long ago still worked; that the robot
guardian recalled his palmprint; that the system of key and folder
was precisely as the ill-tempered halfling had recalled it…

Around him, the ship burbled, and the familiar cycling of the air
system failed to disturb his patient consideration of the past.

It was, truth told, the first time Pat Rin had ever been quite so
alone. He had never—as his younger cousins had—done a solo
run; and, though he not infrequently traveled alone, there had never
been a time in his life when he had been more than a moment or
two away from another human; even in space he had always had a
pilot of superb skill to depend upon.

Now, the person nearest him was a pilot he'd barely met— Dostie.
She, too, sat alone in a ship, more than two dozen Standard
Minutes away from him. Natesa—alone in her vessel—was
approximately three dozen Standard Minutes away, while Cheever
McFarland, Flyer Shugg, and the nightside portmaster oversaw the
checking and selection of the last of their potential fleet, lashed
neatly together nearly four dozen minutes away.

To beguile himself, Pat Rin sat at second board, and began to
tentatively explore the Sherzer system with instruments and
screens. Sherzer II loomed in front of him; one long range screen
showed the remaining cluster of ships to be explored, as well as
the seventeen other "ship-stacks"—some no more than a
collection of parts—with the limb of the planet and a distant view of
the multi-hued planetary ring beyond. Fortune's Reward was in
effect orbiting in formation with all of these ships, in the trailing
LaGrange point of Sherzer II.

It was a lovely place for a junkyard, and Pat Rin found himself
absorbed in the shimmer of the innermost ring; the colors of the
storms swirling across the planet's surface; and the beautiful
tracery of the lightning flashes—

"Boss?"

Cheever McFarland's voice boomed into the quiet ship, startling
Pat Rin out of his reverie.

"Yes?" he snapped. There was a delay, longer than could be
accounted for by the relative nearness of their ships.

"Um, yeah," Pilot McFarland said. "Sorry to bother you. But
anyhow, we might have ourselves a problem, a kind of decision
problem, if you know what I mean?"

Pat Rin shook his head, a habit which his mother had deplored in
his cousins, and to which he had finally succumbed on Surebleak.

"Pilot, I am destined for problems of decision on this project," he
said, making a conscious effort to lighten his tone. "If you can
explain the situation in non-technical terms I will hear it and
contribute what I may to the solving."

Again, he shook his head. The decisions. First had been the
decision of which cluster of ships was most promising; then, after
nearly two days, the decision to abandon them in favor of a
potentially more… useful… solution.

The first cluster chosen had been a mixed collection of ships, all
operable, but with visible problems ranging from missing space-
suits to thruster fuel supplies too ancient to be reliable. A notation
in the folder indicated that they had been for sale and were
awaiting inspection of a potential buyer—fifteen Standards before.
Apparently they had been passed over, and for good cause.

The possibly more useful solution came in the form of a pod of
vessels of strange design and even stranger decor. Passed over
in the first glance because they were parked among what looked to
be random parts of two or three space stations, they proved on
second glance to be asteroid miners. One side of each ship was
painted flat black, and other a white so bright that it was nearly
silver. And gaudily adorning each side—in white on the black side,
in green on the white side—was the tree-and-dragon shield in so
large a size that it could easily be seen before the true shape of
the ships.

There was no way, of course, to quickly alter the look of the fleet,
and because they were non-standard ships, checking them for
utility was more difficult. Morever, their keys had been filed in a
folder marked "reserved," though for whom Pat Rin had been
unable to discover. Thus, each vessel was serially inspected and
tested, and proved to be in remarkably good repair for ships left on
their own in deep space. So far of the dozen, five had been found
unfit.

Cheever McFarland cleared his throat. "Boss, this boat here is the
queen. Call it a command ship. We got the complete package
running and everything looks to be in great shape. Got a test
program right here on the board that lets me check out the other
ships remotely."

Pat Rin considered. This hardly seemed to be a problem…but the
other man was continuing without waiting for an answer.

"Thing is, we got eight ships here that are in great shape. Got a lot
of power, a lot of shields—these things are set for heavy duty
asteroid belt mining!—Shugg says we can modify some of the
rock drills and blasting charges—set 'em up as weapons."

Again, thought Pat Rin, this was good news, and not a problem at
all. Eight ships and eight pilots was perfect.

"So, I'm thinking that the best thing is for us the bring these back
and for you to fly that one home," Cheever McFarland finished.

Pat Rin froze; the words "I cannot!" stuck edgewise in his throat,
caught up somehow with the lightnings across Sherzer II. With
memory's ear, he heard Cousin Er Thom's soft, sweet voice,
explaining why it was that Korval bought used ships, out-of-date
ships, ships that had been foreclosed on—and why it was that they
invested in repair yards, gave scholarships to pilots, and paid a
good percentage of the Scout's maintenance bills.

"Your mother—she lives for the Code. Its study has become her
life, and she excels at it. But, Korval—Korval is not the Code.
Korval is ships. Always remember: Korval is ships."

He was brought to himself by Cheever McFarland's voice. "Boss?
Other thing we could do is leave that one here and come back for it
later."

Pat Rin blinked. Leave his ship? "No," he snapped, and took a
deep breath.

"I will bring Fortune's Reward home, Mr. McFarland," he said,
deliberately calm.

There was a slight pause, then, "Right. That's settled, then."

"Welcome pilot." The words were warm amber against a dark
screen. "Please log in."

Taking a deep breath, Pat Rin leaned forward, gingerly set his
fingers against First Board's keypad and typed Pat Rin jos'Phelium
Clan Korval.

"Please insert license."

Pat Rin glanced at the place in the board where a true pilot would
slot his license for the snip's perusal, then back to the screen.

As he watched, the amber letters faded; reformed into another
query.

"License available?"

Lower lip caught between his teeth, he typed No.

Astonishingly, the ship remained undismayed. "Palmscan, please,"
the next screen directed.

He placed his left hand on the pad, felt the tingle of the scan…

"Confirmed. Full access available."

.Something clicked nearly beneath his fingers, loud in the silence
of the piloting chamber. Pat Rin snatched his hand back as a
section of the control board to his left parted neatly at the seam
and an auxiliary panel rose, locking into place with a snap.

For a long moment, he stared at it. Full access, indeed, now that
the weapons were available to him.

"Autodefense?" his ship inquired. "Autoshield?"

What did he know of such things? He touched a key, accepting
both.

That quickly the board came fully back to life, with lights blinking
and switches setting or resetting themselves. The screen layout
went from Cheever McFarland's idiosyncratic groupings to
default— and stabilized into a pattern familiar to him from
childhood: this was the layout Uncle Daav and Cousin Er Thom had
preferred; he himself had drilled on a dummy board set up just this
way…

Low on the screen to the right was radar and sensor scan forward,
low on the left was radar and sensor aft; low in the center was
Jump status, and what—according to Cousin Er Thom—Uncle
Daav had called the go-dial, a graph showing the balanced Jump
potentials of the three strongest nearby gravity wells.

Above—and largest—was the "forward" visible view, with the aft
view smaller to the left; ship status reports sat to the right, all
cheerfully green: air supply, backup air supply, sensor power
checks, weapons functions (green for the particle beam, green for
the missiles: eight marked short, eight marked mid, four marked
long, and one green for something marked chaff-bomb), and multi-
channel receiver and back-up.

"Boss?" Cheever McFarland's voice came, quietly, over tight band.
"Problems?"

Pat Rin sighed, gently. "I am acclimating myself, Pilot. The view
from first board is somewhat larger than that from second."

There was a brief delay. "That's all adjustable—" the pilot began,
and broke off. "Yeah, OK," he said after a moment, and somewhat
sheepishly. "I think I know what you mean. But really, Boss, there
ain't gonna be any problems. All you gotta do is tell the ship where
you're going—check it against the book, you got plenty of time.
Hell, after you put in the coords, set the auto-count, and sit back
and snooze 'til it's time to punch the 'fresh scan' button for the
sensors when you pop out."

"Which is why most pilots rejoice in having someone of wide
experience sitting second for their first few dozen hours of flight, if
I recall correctly." Pat Rin could hear himself getting testy with his
absent stalwart, and authorized a complete systems check to take
his mind off his tension.

After a moment, Cheever McFarland's voice re-emerged from the
speaker, sounding suspiciously as if the pilot were suppressing a
sneeze, or perhaps a chuckle.

"Right. On the other hand, you done right well for yourself with the
jump in and kick butt approach—and we both know you got the
math cold. But listen, while you been sitting there talking to
yourself, we've been getting ourselves together out here. We're all
sitting within sight of each other, and we're setting up a Jump plan.
I'm figurin' we can take this whole shebang outta here in about
three hours. As it comes to happen, Natesa don't have a whole lot
to do—won't for another hour or two. You want I should have her
walk you through the check-out procedures a couple times?"

Pat Rin looked down, saw the ring on his hand, the tree-and-dragon
bold and new—and bowed slightly toward the unseen speaker.

"Indeed, pilot, that sounds like an excellent idea. I will await her
signals with anticipation."
Day 47
Standard Year 1393
Surebleak Space

Jump had consumed seventeen Standard hours, forty four
minutes, twenty seven and numerous odd-bits of seconds, during
which time Pat Rin did what he always did in Jump: He read and
studied.

This time, however, he read not of the whimsical philosophy of
Harshaw, nor the patient rhymes of yos'Sandow, nor even from the
Code—which, until lately, he had studied several hours a week.

No, during this historic and unlikely Jump he had studied tactical
manuals and piloting theory, and technical manuals, as he had not
since was a halfling. He studied the dozen pre-logged destinations
in the ship's computer, laughing at the ironies of Liad and Lytaxin;
puzzling over the one marked with a symbol from a Terran card
deck, until he suddenly understood what the venerable ace of
spades had to do with a Liaden pleasure-yacht.

The pre-logged Jumps were all what Cousin Er Thom would have
called "dirty Jumps," calculated for broad energy levels and without
updating for current mass or velocity. Emergency runs, all of them,
for use in times of dire trouble, pilot injury, or the tragedy that put
the ship into the hands of one who was no proper pilot at all…

He checked weapons—both the ship's armament and his various
pistols. Gods, he was bringing a small fleet into Surebleak, each
double marked visually as belonging to Korval. Yet, what choice
had he?

And so with an hour to go he brought himself again to the pilot's
seat and molded it and the board to him as best he might. He had
become accustomed to seeing the transmission recordings, and
added them above the main forward view. Pulling the chair up to
the second stop, he locked it at an angle slightly less rakish than
that required by Cheever McFarland's frame; raised it, turned the
seat temperature down several degrees, then set it to automatic.
The board he moved down, then brought it back to its original
position. He engaged the shock webbing and sat back, eyes on
the Jump grayed screens.

Carefully, deliberately, he reviewed those things Inas-called-
Natesa had told him, both the quiet love-talk—which had been a
comfort and a distraction in his isolation—and the practical matters
that pilots share between themselves.

"Let the ship tell you if there is a problem," she had murmured, for
his ears alone. "Your eyes will be quicker than your fingers in the
first seconds of breakout. Place defense on automatic, and bring
up your shields. Be in the seat well ahead of time, and always strap
in when you sit first board, even in quiet orbit about a friendly world.
Test the alarm levels because alarms should warn, not frighten or
distract. Be certain that you can easily reach the controls and be
certain that your ring will not hamper you nor catch on a toggle. I
love you…

"You will Jump first, denubia; and we will come in around you. We
will be no more than a minute or two behind, and within a tenth-sec
or closer on radio. I expect you to pilot like you shoot…"

Breakout.

Fortune's Reward announced itself around its Jump glare as Bitty
Kitty, out of Fron Du Lac; the ship's air system purred, and his hand
moved as if of its own accord, slapping "refresh scan." A glance at
his screens oriented him wonderfully: Surebleak's port beacon was
located and centered. There was no sign yet of his fleet, the Jump
gauge was moving toward ready, and the gravity well indicator
showed he was in tight. A good Jump, in fact. Pat Rin smiled.

"Pilot Cheever McFarland and Owner Pat Rin yos'Phelium," the
voice snarled in Trade over the broadband. "You will maintain
course and prepare to match locks in three Standard minutes. This
is the Department of the Interior. Repeat: Maintain course and
prepare to match locks. Disobey at your peril."

Pat Rin jerked forward, brought up short by the webbing. The
scans showed nothing, and then several small bursts of energy—a
ship maneuvering, perhaps. Or two—

An alarm warbled to life, and the aft radar scan showed him the
signature of a ship, closing rapidly.

"Fortune's Reward, you are in our sights. The Department of the
Interior is authorized to fire on you if you fail to comply. Your reply
is mandatory."

Warning lights were flashing now, rippling across the board in
waves of yellow. The scans showed him a second ship,
starboard— and a third, hanging back, to port.

Natesa had walked him through the firing procedure, accepting the
fact that his ship was now armed with her usual serenity.

Now, as she had taught him, he sighted on a ship, touched the
acquire key, waited for the flash; moved to the next. And again.
Fortune's Reward recorded its enemies, and he glanced to the
status bar. The coils were recharged. Good.

Quickly, quickly, he brought the coils up, armed his weapons with a
snap of a toggle, and pulled up the screen of dirty Jumps. He
snatched the local coords with a slap of his hand, and took a deep
breath.

Then he played the ace of spades, the gambler's best friend.

Reality shifted.

Jump glare. Bitty Kitty automatically declared itself to the universe.
The snatched coords of his departure point were locked in, and the
ship's Jump gauge showed a slow-building energy. Surebleak was
a cloudy, distant, disk.

There was an eternity to wait, then, knowing that any second
Natesa would be Jumping in, all of his would be Jumping in—
vulnerable and unwarned…

His hand moved, slapping up the hailing frequency.

"Intruder alert! Port Surebleak, beware! Boss Conrad declares the
highest alert!"

And, finally, coils were ready. He held his breath, touched the
button—

Reality shifted.

He broke in just a few minutes from his departure location, the
Jump glare of four other incoming ships blossoming at the corners
of a great square before him. Also before him, on courses at
tangent to his—the ships of his enemy.

"In the name of Port Surebleak " he broadcast on the hailing-band,
his hands busy on their own errands across the board. "I demand
your immediate surrender!"

He glanced down to see what his fingers had wrought; saw an
interception course charted and locked; and a digit poised above
the acceleration stud. He pressed it. Fortune's Reward answered,
pushing him into the cocoon of the pilot's chair.

Across the open bands, Korval ship Patience of Stone announced
itself. Korval ship Handtruck II announced itself. Korval ships
Timonium Core and Survey Nine announced themselves.

The screens flared as three more ships broke Jump in a tight,
triangular formation, directly into the path of the closing enemy.

"Boss Conrad requires an answer!" It took him a heartbeat to
recognize the voice that lashed across the frequencies. Natesa.
Chest tight, he looked to his scans; found her ship—as surely the
ships of the Department would find it…

Korval ships Diamond Duty, Crystalia, and Pebble Probe
announced themselves.

Natesa repeated her demand, and the three enemy ships were
rotating, as if seeking targets…

Glare and noise. A single ship broke Jump dead ahead of Pat Rin,
turning the four, three, one configuration into a cone shaped
gauntlet for the enemy ships.

Korval ship Survey One announced itself.

The enemy ship closest to Pat Rin increased its rotation; and a
voice blared across all possible bands: "Pat Rin yos'Phelium, you
are declared outlaw by Liad. Surrender or we fire!"

Surrender. Yes, certainly. He bit his lip, fingers sure and quick as
he pressed acceleration, engaged the weapons comp and brought
up the stored configurations.

"Flaran cha'menthi," he said quietly to the open band, and pressed
the launch button.

Fortune's Reward's first missiles spread out toward the enemy.
The ships of the Department, neatly contained by the oncoming
Tree-and-Dragon ships, returned fire in all directions at once.

The whir and thump of the missile launch unnerved him—he knew
his ship's sounds and this was new to him. Then a whir again and
the ship sounded normal.

He realized that he should have been in his spacesuit before
engaging the enemy when his shields took a hit from an energy
weapon. Fortunately, the shields—like the missiles his enemy may
have been surprised to find launched from a supposedly unarmed
ship— were late model, of a type most usually carried by those
accustomed to going into harm's way, and easily up to the task of a
fending off a glancing shot.

His screens had multiplied, showing him missile tracks and beam
markers, energy levels and a variety of ranges. A light came up on
the board and abruptly there was chatter—his small fleet talking
among themselves—

"Way to go, Boss! We're on 'em now. Just let me—" Shugg.

"I'm warmed and ready on the main cutter, Cheever."—Dostie.

"I'm closing on the lead…"—Natesa!

He wanted to shout, to warn her off, but his throat was too tight to
admit the words and his quarry had fired again and the screens
showed him things he had never needed to know before and he
loosed two more missiles at the computer's prompting.

"It's the perfect globe—we'll get them all!" shouted the Colonel.

"Fire on the shields," Bhupendra Darteshek said quietly. "Going to
yellow."

On screen, Pat Rin saw the first of his missiles disappear—
intercepted. The tracking computer reported the second and third
still on course, and—

Cheever McFarland's voice came across the tight band, as easy
and calm as if he were suggesting wine before dinner:

"Let's break the middle rock. If you're not engaged, hit button
number four on your red board. If you can't mesh, tell me."

The range guide was fluctuating rapidly as he closed on his
enemy. Fortune's Reward prompted him to fire two more missiles.
The circle over the enemy ship was a bright, blinking green—not
ready, not ready.

The ship in the forward screen changed abruptly, as if sections
were peeling away…

It took him too long to understand what had happened, but
Fortune's Reward was quicker. Yet another screen flashed
"evasive action" and he felt the ship take itself out of his hands,
and he was pressed back into the chair, while numbers begin to
decrease on the weapons board. The newest of his screens
flashed "autodefense."

Fortune's Reward showed him the path of the nine missiles his
quarry had launched, and then beeped at him.

The blinking green circle was now a dull red, firmly centered on the
ship he was pursuing. He depressed the stud. The red circle
changed to blinking yellow briefly, then back to ready. He fired
again, eyes as much on the incoming missiles as anything else.

The ship's shield gauge went red; around him strange blossoms
on the screens, around him silent explosions, around him missile
tracks skating away—and then sound on the hull, as if rats ran
across it, and more, dull bangs and clinks—missile debris.

The board beeped. He blinked the screen into focus, saw the
question: "Acquire new target?"

The radio was filled with static and the forward screen showed
empty. His enemy must have Jumped, he thought dazedly—but no,
not that.

He had killed a ship.

A cheer arose from the radio.

"Boss got 'em!" yelled the Colonel. "Let's go to town!"

Pat Rin shook his head and leaned to his scans, searching out the
signature of Natesa's ship, heart in mouth and fingers shaking…

Another cheer erupted; Pat Rin saw the second enemy ship
evaporate on his aft screen, but Natesa—

Her ship sat quietly in orbit, with none to oppose her, and her voice
came wearily into the midst of yet a third round of cheering.

"I could not close quickly enough. They Jumped out."
Day 54
Standard Year 1393
Solcintra
Liad

She went as quickly and as safely as she knew how. She carried a
hidden pellet gun, because Nova would have wished her to, and, in
truth, she was a fair shot—even Pat Rin said so.

That her sister—and quite possibly her brothers—would not have
wished her to leave the safety of Jelaza Kazone for any reason
whatsoever, she did not allow to weigh with her. Even in childhood
games, her elder siblings had always desired her to stand behind
them in moments of danger, or to run away and hide herself from
whichever pursuing monster might have walked out of the pages of
novel or log-book, as if she were not capable of dealing with such
apparitions, as well as the realities that spawned them.

And, truly, her melant'i was clear, as she had explained to Jeeves.
She was Korval's representative on planet, and it fell to her to
protect the material resources of the clan, as well as its melant'i,
insofar as she could.

Certainly, she had pointed out, she could not in conscience allow
the Council of Clans to attempt to strip Korval of its Jumpships,
one by one, in accumulated "penalties." Whether the Council's
goal was to strip Korval of its ships, she could not have said. But
any attempt to attach a ship would be resisted by Korval's
employees and allies, with violence, if required. Thus, it was safer
for all that the Council not be given any reason to make the
attempt.

In keeping with her resolution to be just as prudent as Nova would
wish, Anthora bowed to Jeeves in the matter of transportation, and
thus found herself arriving at Solcintra in a ground car chauffeured,
long-distance, by himself. She did not discover the second
passenger until the car pulled to the busy sidewalk in front of the
Council building.

"Really, Lord Merlin, this is the outside of enough!" she said in half-
amused exasperation. "I should think you at least would
understand my competencies."

Merlin flicked an ear and jumped out the car with her when the door
opened. Anthora paused, disconcerted for the first time since
taking the decision to obey the summons of the Council.

"I believe it would be best for all if you remained with the car," she
said to the cat, heedless of the people who were forced to detour
around her.

Tail up, Merlin went down the walk, across a lush strip of lawn and
vanished into a bank of ornamental shrubs.

"Merlin!" Anthora cried, opening her Inner Eyes, which was of
course useless. If Merlin did not want her to See him, she might
search fruitlessly until Liad's star cooled. Behind her, she heard the
purr of an engine and turned around in time to see her car pulling
into traffic. Too late, now, to return Merlin to the robot's care, even
if she could find him.

"Well, then," she told the shrubbery, with a good attempt at
nonchalance. "I hope you know the way home."

She waited a heartbeat or two, in case Merlin chose of his own will
to reappear. He did not so choose, however. Anthora bit her lip,
then moved her shoulders in an attempt to cast off concern. Merlin
had his own resources, gods knew. Doubtless she would find him
asleep in the middle of her bed when she returned from her
imminent adventure.

Squaring her shoulders under the stiff silk of the formal Council
jacket, she went up the walk and through the ornamental wooden
doors, and then the security doors, made of hullplate. She crossed
the common room, with its domed ceiling painted with galaxies,
suns and ships, and its stone floor, worn treacherously smooth by
the traffic of centuries.

At the reception desk, set before the carved metal door to the
Council Chamber itself, she bowed.

"Anthora yos'Galan Clan Korval," she said. "Korval's name has
been called."

She straightened, looked defiantly into the retinal scanner, and
moved forward. The door swung open, slowly, before her.

The Chamber was already full; the delms of Liad in their tiered
seats, some silently doing paperwork, others talking between
themselves. There were no dark screens, no flags of absence.
Every seat was occupied; saving only one, which indicated a
concerted effort by someone to fill the hall.

Unusually, there were a pair of guards flanking the door; another
pair on the next tier down, and two more pairs along the stone side-
walls.

At the bottom of the Chamber, Speaker for Council sat behind her
high desk. She looked up as the door opened and leaned slightly
forward, her amplified voice colder, even, than the High Tongue
could account for.

"Anthora yos'Galan Clan Korval, stand forward and face this
Council."

Slowly, with what she hoped was dignity, Anthora walked down the
long aisle to the floor. Around her, she felt the sharpening of
attention; conversations died as she passed; her inner senses
processed the climate of the room as frigid, with a stiff, damp wind
a-building.

Head up, shoulders square, unhurried and deliberate, she walked
down the aisle that had grown miles since the last time she had
accompanied Nova to Council. Finally, she passed Korval's empty
station. Twelve more steps along a blessedly flat surface brought
her into proper proximity of the high desk.

Anthora stopped, bowed gently into the bitter gale of the Speaker's
contempt, and turned to face the Council.

Row after row of faces; many of them people she had known all
her life; cool, formal faces, looking down upon her. Deliberately,
she sought out Korval's known allies and friends: Justus, Guayar,
Ixin, Reptor, Mizel…No smiles, no bows of welcome, no gestures
of support. Waiting; all of them, waiting for her to answer a
question she had yet to hear.

From the nearest row, where sat the delms of the High Houses,
one arose and bowed. Anthora's heart sank. Aragon was not a
friend of Korval.

"Aragon calls upon Korval to answer charges of kin-stealing, and of
murder. How does Korval make answer?"

It was on the end of her tongue to make answer by telling him he
had taken leave of his sanity, but she could See that he had not.
Aragon did not pose this question lightly; and he believed in his
heart that Korval had committed these crimes. The taste of proof
slid across her senses, which was…terrifying.

She bowed, with courtesy, allowing the puzzlement she felt to be
seen.

"Honored Aragon has the advantage of me. Who has Korval
stolen? Who has Korval slain?"

His mouth thinned. "Aragon calls upon Korval to provide the
location of—"

The door at the pinnacle of the Chamber swung open and a man
descended the long aisle, running, though he was far from young,
making no bid for dignity at all.

"Precedence!" He shouted, breathless and out of mode. "I claim
precedence!"

"You are out of order!" Speaker roared, her amplified voice a
thunderclap. "The Council sits in Judgment, which is of the highest
precedence!"

"I claim precedence," the man repeated, arriving on the floor. Thus
close, Anthora could see that he was sweating, and trembling, with
the effects of exertion, yes, but also with fear.

"Who are you?" Speaker demanded.

He bowed, in the mode of introduction merely. "Har Par dea'Liss
Clan Tuxent. I sit as one of seven equal Masters of the
Accountant's Guild. I claim precedence, based on planetary
security."

There was a short silence. Anthora, staring up at the wall of faces,
saw frowns, and puzzled glances; saw delms leaning to their
nearer neighbors, heard the swelling wave of whispering.

"Explain," Speaker ordered Har Par dea'Iiss.

"Yes. I and five of my colleagues have received from the seventh
of our colleagues—Mr. dea'Gauss—a communication indicating
that his office was under attack by enemies of Liad. He informs us
that he has taken certain measures, on behalf of the planet. These
include having the dies for our currency removed from the treasury
to a place of safety."

The whispering delms stopped whispering, and sat staring, shock
making an electric tingle in the air. The Chamber was silent.

Speaker for Council cleared her throat. "This is, of course,
fabrication. The honored dea'Gauss has fallen ill and is suffering
delusions. Come, Master dea'Liss, call the treasury and assure
yourself that—"

"I have called the treasury," he interrupted. "Two of my colleagues
have gone to the treasury. The dies are no longer there. They were
removed some hours ago, by unknown persons, who showed an
order from Mr. dea'Gauss." He took a hard breath. "Two more of
my colleagues went immediately to the offices of dea'Gauss in the
city. It is abandoned and ransacked. There are dead men in the
upper halls, near what had been the private offices of the
dea'Gauss. They have been shot. None carry identification. Of
dea'Gauss, there is no sign." He bowed.

"I repeat: I have precedence, based upon planetary security."

Mr. dea'Gauss had been attacked in his office? Anthora shivered,
and threw forth her thought. It was difficult, with so many other
signatures nearby, many of them noisy with growing agitation…

"Aragon demands to know Korval's place in this outrage!"

She turned and looked at him, read his loathing and loaded her
words with absolute certainty.

"Korval knows nothing, and demands that the Council bend all
efforts to recover Mr. dea'Gauss, who has obviously fallen into the
hands of brigands."

Aragon blinked, and bowed, very slightly.

"By what right does dea'Gauss remove the dies from the
treasury?" Someone in the mid-tier called. "Those dies belong to
Liad."

Master dea'Liss turned. "The dies belong to Korval," he said flatly.
"They are leased to Liad, now as from the first striking. As Korval's
qe'andra, dea'Gauss has every right—indeed, it is no less than his
duty—to remove the dies to safety, if he has cause to believe they
are at risk. His letter makes clear that he had ample cause. The
dead men in his office underscore his point."

There was an outbreak of talk at that. Behind Anthora, Speaker for
Council touched her chime. The talk quieted.

Anthora saw the Speaker glance in several directions, felt the multi-
leveled tension as the glance turned into a survey of the room, and
then the snap of a decision taken, as if from someone in the back
of the room.

"Master dea'Liss rightly claims precedence. As Anthora yos'Galan
is not empowered as a member of Council she will await the
Council's attention in the Clerk's Retiring Room." She touched the
chime.

As if the sound had conjured her, a Clerk appeared at Anthora's
elbow.

"If Lady Anthora will accompany me?" She murmured, and led the
way across the front of the room, to the discreet doorway. Anthora
felt the weight of eyes on her back, and felt, too, the movement of
several of those guards… The Clerk pressed her palm against the
plate and stepped back at the door swung open.

"Please await the Speaker's word here. There are refreshments,
and a screen."

In the chamber behind them, several voices vied at once for the
chance to be heard.

The Retiring Room was pleasant enough, with an open window
overlooking the famous sunken formal Council gardens.

Anthora glanced over her shoulder as she stepped through the
doorway, seeing Aragon still on his feet, with Bindan and also
Etgora—and two guards falling in directly behind her, no doubt to
flank the door. The Clerk pushed gently on her shoulder, hurrying
her, guiding—and Anthora felt a quick, sharp prick as of a needle—

Anger flared, even as she felt the drug begin its work, seeking to
slow her, to dull her senses—Idiots! Didn't they know she could
turn any drug in a matter of seconds if she could but…

The two guards entered the room, crowding her, distracting her, as
she tried to locate the mental template to match the drug— and a
hard hand slammed between her shoulder-blades sending her
reeling into a tiny chamber, seemingly filled with fog. She bumped
her head, staggered, and went to her knees, gagging, continuity
shattering. Fiercely, she re-established center, while the drug set
up a high buzzing in her ears—and she had it! Bellaquesa and
cytaline: someone had wanted her very docile, indeed.

In a heartbeat, she had neutralized the drugs; though she felt a
residual queasiness. She forced her eyes open.

The door was sliding closed. She lurched to her feet and threw
herself forward, hitting it full-force, bouncing backward. She twisted
in mid-air, meeting the floor with hands and knees, four-square and
ready, rather than flat on her back and stunned.

She had landed on a curious, sooty stain. She blinked as the
information leached into her consciousness. Zena tel'Woda had
died here, by her own will, rather than allow the ones who had built
this device to make her into their creature.

Her inner eyes were useless; all she saw was silver, cold and
reflective; her other senses were fogged in, obliterated, useless.
Worse, she felt ill, weak; her thoughts fragmenting. It was not the
drug at work now, but some fey power the like of which she had
never imagined. It felt—it felt as if her very blood was draining into
the floor she knelt upon.

Anthora screamed.
Day 47
Standard Year 1393
Surebleak Port

Fortune's Reward landed itself neatly and with no unseemly
assistance from its pilot, who then busied himself with end-of-run
checks and the orderly shutdown of systems with one eye on the
hull light.

Mercifully, the routines were new to him and eventually engaged
his full attention. When everything was locked down to his own and
his ship's satisfaction, the hull was cool enough to allow egress.

He stepped out onto the field, shivering in the ice-toothed wind,
and looked about him.

Eight mining ships were grounded nearby, their tree-and-dragon
emblems a-glow in the wavering dawnlight. Gravely, he bowed to
them—gratitude for service well given.

"They are warriors," she murmured from just behind his right
shoulder. "All honor to them."

Turning, he saw her eyes widen, though he had no time to wonder
at it. "Inas." He lifted a hand, fingers silking along her dusky cheek.
She smiled, extended one finger to touch his earring, and leaned
forward. He caught her mouth on his.

"You terrify me," he whispered into her hair, some time later.

"We are in balance," she replied, her arms tightening about his
waist. "Whatever possessed you to engage that ship?"

He stirred. "It was the ship of our enemy and it lay within my means
to stop it."

"Ah." Her arms tightened painfully, then she released him and
stood away, smiling ruefully.

"Come, denubia, I have turned you from the course of duty. Did the
portmaster not wish you to come to her immediately?"

"So she did," he said, and offered her his arm. "Best she know me
for a rag-mannered dog at once."

Natesa laughed and slid her arm through his. "Yes, I am certain
she will know just that."

"I confess that I am comforted by one thing," he commented, as
they strolled arm in arm toward the tower.

"What is that?"

"Why, despite having broken what I am certain are many dozens of
regulations, I need not suffer the indignity of having my license
pulled."

"You." Portmaster Liu sat in official state behind her desk, a
professional frown on her face. Pat Rin, seated across from her in
a plastic chair with one short leg, steeled himself for the impending
scold.

They were alone, Natesa having been waved into the conference
room, where the rest of pilots were talking at volume, replaying the
recent battle. Pat Rin folded his hands on his knee, and gazed
down at the counterfeit ring, reminding himself once more that the
worst the portmaster might do was read him the long form of what
Anne Davis would have termed "the riot act".

"You," Claren Liu repeated. "Deploying weapons within planetary
space. Firing upon and destroying a ship within planetary space.
Employing non-standard Jump technique. Failure to clear Jump
with this station—twice. Violating established space lanes.
Inappropriate acceleration within planetary space. Flying without a
license."

Pat Rin looked up.

The portmaster shook her head. "Why in the hell don't you have a
license? Sir."

He raised an eyebrow. "Because I am not a pilot. Ma'am."

She snorted. "Best imitation I've seen in a while, then. Defend your
actions—it's required for the incident report."

Pat Rin glared at her. She glared back. He shifted in his chair,
which rocked unpleasantly off its short leg, and sighed.

"The ship on which I had fired was intent on performing an act of
piracy. I fired to protect my ship, myself, and this port. Certainly, I
would not broadcast my piloting decisions under such
circumstances."

The portmaster nodded. "OK. We got the tape—that'll go with the
report." She cocked an eyebrow at him. "There's names on the
tape—nothing I can do about it. Just like I can't help but notice how
that ring of yours has the same design as those mining ships.
Should've seen it before, I guess. I've worked on bigger ports. I've
seen Tree-and-Dragon tradeships."

He inclined his head, and after a moment she sighed.

"Flyer Shugg tells me he can convert those things to defense
units."

"He has said the same to me," Pat Rin acknowledged, "and I fear
he will need to work quickly. For you also know that one of the
three pirates escaped." He met her eyes squarely. "We must
assume that they will return, with reinforcements. Of the eight
mining ships, four will remain here as planetary defense."

Claren Liu frowned at him. "Where are the other four going?"

"The other four—and my private vessel," Pat Rin said, softly, "are
going to take the quarrel home."

The conversation snapped off as Pat Rin followed the portmaster
into the conference room, and eight pair of pilot eyes pinned him.

"Well, here's the man hisself," Andy Mack said from his lean
against the far wall. "Dressed up in his nice blue jacket, just like he
ain't nothin' but a dirt-hog." He looked pointedly at Claren Liu.
"Thought you was gonna take care of that."

"By the book, Colonel," she said, with edged patience. "We're
doing it by the book." She looked around. "Master Pilot
McFarland."

The big Terran stepped forward. "Yes, ma'am."

She pointed at Pat Rin, who mustered a glare for his pilot. Cheever
smiled and nodded. "Morning, Boss."

"Mr. McFarland," the portmaster insisted. "You've said that this man
sat second for you, and that you'll vouch for his board skill and his
knowledge of the basic piloting equations. Is that correct?"

"Basic piloting 'quations?" howled Flyer Shugg. "Portmaster, that
boy pulled a smuggler's ace outta his sleeve just as pretty as any
of us ever seen and you're askin' does he know his math?"

"Quiet!" the portmaster snapped. "Mr. McFarland?"

"Yes, ma'am, I vouch for him. He knows his math and he knows his
board. Bit thin on flight time, but there ain't no doubt he's a Jump
pilot." His smile grew to a grin. "I'll be pleased to sign his card."

She nodded. "I'll countersign," she said, and turned to Pat Rin.
"What name do you want on your license, pilot?"

Pat Rin took a breath, sought out Natesa's face in the crowd.

"This is a farce," he said.

She shook her head. "Indeed, it is in verymost earnest." She
moved a hand, showing him the portable viewer on the table. "If
you wish, you may review the tape, as we have done. It plainly
shows that your ship was under the hand of a pilot of skill and
daring."

"Son," Andy Mack added, "ever' single one of us here saw you in
action and ever' single one of us watched the tape, too. No use
sayin' you ain't a pilot—we know better. Now, tell the portmaster
what you want your card to call you and let Cheever here sign you
up. This port needs all the pilots it can fly." He shook his head, long
silver hair moving over his shoulders like fog, disreputable face
unwontedly serious. "Or don't you think that feller bolted right back
home, yellin' for help all the way?"

Pat Rin moved his shoulders, throwing off tension, and met the
Colonel's eyes. "I think he did exactly that," he said; and looked to
the portmaster.

"The name on the license should be Conrad," he said steadily.
"Jonni Conrad."

Across the room, Natesa smiled. Closer to hand, Cheever
McFarland nodded.

"Jonni Conrad," the portmaster repeated, and it seemed to Pat Rin
that she was trying to suppress a smile of her own. "OK. It'll take a
couple minutes-—and I want you to know that I'm putting a limit on
you. First Class, grade S—that's "small ship." The S'll drop off as
soon as you complete the required flight time across all classes of
Jump ship. Understood?"

Yes, as if he would live long enough to master the intricacies of
moving a passenger liner—or a tradeship—through Jump. Pat Rin
inclined his head. "I understand."

"Good." She pointed at Dostie, who stood up from her place at the
table, cradling something supple and dark in her arms. Cheever
took it from her, shook it, and held it out.

Pat Rin swallowed, hard, in a throat gone dry. The license—it was
true that he had been sitting first board, though he had only used
the ship's programs, punching buttons at the computer's
prompting. Still, he could allow the license, technically. But this—
no. He had no right to a Jump pilot's jacket.

"Natesa," Cheever McFarland called over his shoulder. "Boss here
needs some help with his jacket."

"Certainly," she said, and stepped forward.

"Natesa…" he breathed, as she came to his side. "It was the ship,
not me."

"Very well," she said, in her calm, soothing voice. "When we have
done with the present emergency, we will lift, you and I—and you
will show me. In the meanwhile, we here are all, as the Colonel has
said, seasoned pilots, and we must accept the evidence of our
eyes and our experience." She took hold of his jacket and perforce
he slipped out of it, remembering too late the gun in its hidden
pocket.

"OK," Cheever said. "Now the new one."

He held it out—a jacket in black spaceleather, of a style perhaps
not recent, lined in satiny black wickaway. Hesitantly, Pat Rin slid
his arms into the sleeves, felt the weight of the thing settle across
his shoulders…

"Yes!" Dostie yelled.

Shugg and the Colonel howled and stamped their feet. Juntavas
courier Karparov clapped politely; Pilot Darteshek bared his teeth
and shook a fist in the air. Etienne Borden shouted, "A brother! We
increase!" Cheever McFarland winked and gave him a broad
thumbs' up while Claren Liu nodded, no longer trying to hide her
grin.

Natesa hugged him and kissed his cheek, which set up another
round of hooting and stamping from Shugg and Mack, and gently
slipped his pistol into the new jacket's inside pocket.
Day 54
Standard Year 1393
Dutiful Passage
Jump

Ren Zel awoke in good time to ready himself to take prime meal
with his sister and brother. As he dressed, he considered his new
estate with a good deal more calm than he had been able to bring
previously. Certainly, it was no ill thing to be enclanned. Lifemated
into Korval—that was…peculiar, certainly, and nothing that the son
of an outworld mid-House might ever had aspired to, even had he
not been made outcast. He wished, rather, that he might speak to
the lady with whom he had shared so very much pleasure, to find
what she thought of their mating, and to plan with her the best
structure for their lives. Would it suit her if he remained a-ship,
returning to her one relumma out of six? Was she perhaps a
shipmaster in her own name, and—

He paused in the act of sealing his sleeves, blinking thoughtfully at
nothing, as he recalled that Anthora taught at the College of the
Dramliz in Solcintra. She held a first class license, and had
completed some hours toward her master's. However, she had
allowed her piloting to languish while she pursued her wizardly
studies.

That there should be aught for so a powerful wizard to study at
such length and depth astonished him, but there was no doubt that
his recollection was correct.

And what might he bring, he thought, shaking himself free of
recollection and finishing with his sleeves, to a lifemating with one
of the dramliz? Shan seemed to believe that his sister had chosen
him as her mate, but Ren Zel doubted that. She had not been
expecting him—and she had not known his name. Therefore,
some other agency was at work in the matter—the cat, perhaps; or
its enormous ally, the Tree?

Well. Soon enough to ask these things when he might have actual
speech with his lifemate. He only hoped that she would not repent
the choice, no matter how it had been made.

He glanced at his reflection—brown hair, brown eyes, symmetrical,
unexceptional face—and then at the clock. Time to make his way
to the captain's office, to partake of prime with his… family.

The hatch came up, silent and slow, revealing the lean length of the
Juntavas courier. He nodded and stepped back, waving them
inside.

"We're set to lift as soon as you're strapped in."

Val Con went first, Miri at his back, her song edged with wariness.
The entry corridor was thin and short, blossoming into a piloting
chamber of less than spacious proportion. The board was,
unusually, tiered, screens set close in a semi-circle at what would
be eye-level for a pilot of Terran height. A Liaden-sized pilot would
need to do something about lifting the chair, or put painful strain on
her neck muscles.

"Like I said, we're cozy here," Greenshaw Porter said, leading
them to far side of the chamber. A door slid away at his touch,
revealing two acceleration couches, one over the other, webbing
retracted.

"This is it—first class accommodations."

Val Con inclined his head. "We thank you."

"My job," the Juntava told him, with a shrug. "I'm to say: The High
Judge is grateful for the info."

"May he make good use of it."

The man grinned at that—amused savagery. "No doubt there." He
slapped the upper couch, and turned away. "Make yourselves
comfortable. I'll let the Tower know we're gone."

A passenger. Val Con looked at the couches, trying to remember
the last time he had been a passenger…

"Well," said Miri, from his shoulder. "Which do you want? Up or
down?"

The door slid open to his palm; he stepped over the threshold and
caught up short, face to face with she who had been Korvali
pernard'i—his sister, Nova.

It could not be said that she smiled, but at least she refrained from
frowning, and inclined her head with calm cordiality.

"Pilot," she said—her usual greeting to him, but given now in the
Low Tongue, in the mode between kin. "I hear I am to wish you
happy."

"Pilot," he said, matching her mode with only a tiny flutter of panic.
"I thank you for your good wishes."

A moment longer she stood, studying him, or so he thought, out of
bland violet eyes. Almost, it seemed that she would speak again,
but she lost the opportunity in the arrival of her—their— brother.

"There, now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" Shan asked brightly,
though of whom he asked it was not entirely clear. "Sister, don't eat
him! I swear he's better behaved than any of us here—including
Priscilla—and will gain Korval entry to Houses long since closed to
us by reason of our dreadful manners."

"I make no doubt," she murmured, and of a sudden did smile—
faintly, but with real warmth. "I feel for you most strongly, new-
brother—joined to a clan as outlaw as it is odd!" She glanced
aside. "Shan, surely he wants some wine."

"Surely he does, as he's hardly a lackwit," their brother replied, and
put a big hand on Ren Zel's shoulder, urging him gently toward the
bar. "Come along, child, let us fortify you. Red? White? Brandy?"

"Red, if I may."

Shan extended a long arm and held the decanter high, apparently
considering its all-but-full state.

"This seems sufficient to fill your glass, and mine, too. Though I
fear we're out if Priscilla is drinking red."

"White, please," her deep voice said.

Ren Zel turned in time to see the door to the innermost
chamber—the quarters she shared with her lifemate—slide shut
behind her. She smiled.

"Good shift, brother. Have you resigned yourself to your fate?"

He felt his mouth curve into an answering smile. "As fates go, it
appears…less tiresome than some," he told her. "I do look forward
to a conversation with my lady. There are those things that we must
settle between us."

There was a sound to the right, as if Nova had sneezed, but
Priscilla merely nodded gravely.

"You may then rejoice in the news that our sister brings us," Shan
said, putting a glass of the red in his hand. "We are returning to
Liad, immediately!"

"Do not allow Shan to persuade you that you will be with your lady
immediately" Nova cautioned, stepping forward. "The delm's word
is that we are to raise Liad, yes. But there we will hang in orbit until
he releases us to the planet."

"Weeks, months, years!" Shan intoned, with mock dismay, handing
Priscilla her glass.

"Very likely," his sister said gravely, though Ren Zel thought he saw
the glimmer of her faint smile.

"Well, in that case, we do what we can to strengthen our spirits. I
see a feast has been laid for us, and the only thing that keeps us
from enjoying it is Gordy." Shan raised his glass, silver eyes
quizzical over the rim. "Or, shall I say, lack of Gordy?"

Priscilla smiled. "He'll be here—soon."

The request for entry chime sounded.

"Or even at once," Shan said and called, "Come!"

The door slid away to admit Gordy Arbuthnot, foster-son of Shan
and Priscilla, as well as Shan's true-cousin, on the Terran side.

"Cousin Nova." He bowed, correctly, as between kin, and then
walked straight up to Ren Zel, face and eyes serious, shoulders,
just a little, stiff.

"Hi, Ren Zel."

"Hello, Gordy," he said, gently, careful of the moods and manners
of a halfling. It was not impossible, after all, that Gordy held his
cousin Anthora in…esteem—and who was Ren Zel dea'Judan to
call him a fool?

"Priscilla says you're lifemated—truly lifemated—to Anthora. Is that
true?"

"Yes."

The young face relaxed into a smile. "That's great. I'm really glad."
He bowed, jauntily. "Ge'shada, pilot. I wish you and yours a life of
joy."

Ren Zel felt tears rise, hid them with his own bow. "My thanks."

"And now," said Shan, "we can eat."

The meal was rather less boisterous than the informal reception,
for Nova bore news of yet another kinsman. It seemed that Pat Rin
yos'Phelium had not followed protocol in terms of reporting in.
Nova was inclined to find this disturbing, and solicited the advice of
kin. The conversation turning on where Cousin Pat Rin might most
reasonably be supposed to have taken himself, and strategies for
finding him, Ren Zel was left to listen, and watch, and grow
acquainted with these who were now his family.

Listening, he reached for his glass—and froze as his ears became
filled with a roaring, not unlike wind, and a voice edged with panic
rang inside his skull.

"Ren Zel! I need you!"

There was a moment of heart-numbing cold, and a sensation not
unlike passing through a bank of particularly tenacious fog. Ren Zel
shook his head, banishing the mist, and discovered himself
kneeling on an icy metal floor. Beside him was Anthora, on hands
and knees above a char mark.

"Ren Zel?" she whispered.

"Here." He stood—say, he tried to stand, but the ceiling was too
low to allow him to do so in comfort; he must need round his
shoulders and duck his head. Uncomfortably bent, he looked
around him, taking in the hard silver walls, seeing the bright lines of
fire bent and twisted back upon themselves, warped and pale,
excepting only the conflagration that streamed from the kneeling
woman down into the cold floor, for all the worlds like blood rushing
from a wound.

"Anthora!" He dared to use the mode of Command. "You must
stand."

"Yes." Clumsily, she gained her feet, to stand bent as he was, her
hair draggled and limp around a face that was shockingly pale.

"What place is this?" he demanded, moving to her side, crabwise,
and slipping an arm around her waist.

"I don't know. I—it is drinking me. The walls—they reflect any ripple
of power back, at double—quadruple!—strength. I dare not force
the door…" She made a breathless sound he scarcely recognized
as a laugh. "If I could." She swallowed and pushed her head
against his hunched shoulder. She was trembling. He raised a
hand and stroked her cold hair.

"Then we open it another way. There must be a control box…" He
frowned at the featureless walls, the bitter floor, but all was—

"There!"

Anthora stirred, lifted her head a fraction and shook her hair away
from her eyes. "Where?"

"Below the decking, there, do you see?" He released her and
hunkered down, studying the various relays and switches in the box
below the floor. He felt her hand on his shoulder as she lowered
herself beside him, peering.

"Yes, I see it," she breathed. "But, beloved, it's on the other side of
the floor."

"Hmm," he said, tracing wires with his eyes. "I believe…" He
pointed. "Do you see that connection? If that were bent aside, the
door would open and we could walk away."

"Ren Zel, I cannot reach those elements, and neither can you." Her
voice caught. "We're going to die."

"No." He spun on a heel, nearly bowling her over. "We are not
going to die. Believe it and. you do their work for them!"

For one heartbeat—two—she stared at him, eyes wide. Then, she
extended a hand to touch his cheek. "I see. Forgive me, denubia.
I'll not be so fainthearted again." Her eyes dropped and there was
the control box, plainly visible to Ren Zel, and through him, to her.
The connection he had pointed out was a fragile thing; why, a cat
might bend it aside…

"Yes!" Ren Zel whispered. He bent forward and she lost contact.
The floor solidified; her inner vision fogged. She grabbed his
shoulder.

There, beneath the floor plate, the connection. Hooked around the
connection were four pearlescent claws adorning a large and
rather furry white foot. The foot pulled, down and sideways. The
connection bent, twisted—broke.

Across the tiny silvered room, the door slid open.

Anthora half-rose, staggered, vision whiting, and felt strong arms
around her waist, sweeping her off her feet…

"Run!" Ren Zel shouted, his voice already shredded by distance.

She tucked, and hit the floor of the antechamber rolling. She heard
a shout; felt hands on her shoulders and wrenched out of the
guard's grip, slamming into the legs of a chair, the hidden pistol
falling into her hand. The guard lunged, trying to grab her; trying to
throw her back into the box.

She fell sideways, and fired point-blank into his face.

The room was quiet; bird song wafting in the open window. Anthora
lay on the floor, her back against the chair legs, retching, unable to
escape the sight of the guard's head exploding, though her eyes
were closed.

Something furry slapped her cheek. She opened her eyes to slits
and encountered a familiar furry face very close to her own.

"Merlin." Clumsily, she disentangled herself from the chair and
clawed her way to her feet. The door leading to the Council
Chamber had an ancient mechanical lock on it, which she snapped
into place, singing the praises of whichever god or goddess held
soundproofing among their honors.

Door locked, she leaned her back against it, feeling Merlin pressed
against her leg. A pleasant breeze informed the room, spiced with
the scent of the tripina tree shading the open window. After the
draining silver horror of the box, she felt entirely safe and secure
here.

And that, she told herself sternly, is illusion. Look to reality,
dramliza!

Unwillingly she moved from the door; forced herself to approach
her former cell, and look within. Empty. That was good. Ren Zel
had indeed escaped to safety.

Which she should do—and that quickly. For surely whoever had
set the trap would return to remove it. She attempted a scan;
wincing as the din from the Chamber slammed into her abused
senses.

"We must leave," she whispered. "Merlin…"

But the cat was already moving, purposefully, away from the door
to the Council Chambers and the misshapen black box, its door
gaping open on horror. Anthora turned her face away and followed,
averting her eyes as she edged past the body of the guard.

Merlin set a brutal pace through the service corridors. She was
soaked with sweat and shaking badly by the time they gained the
door that opened to the outside. At that, the luck had held; they'd
met no one else on their escape route.

The luck changed when they hit the sidewalk.

"Wait!" She heard a man's voice shout, quite close at hand. "That's
her!"

Anthora ran, the sound of pursuit too close behind; caught a
glimpse of gray to her right and slightly ahead.

Dodging respectable pedestrians, she turned a corner, and heard
the roar of a familiar motor.

"Jeeves!"

The car accelerated, door rising.

"There she is!" came the shout from behind. Involuntarily, Anthora
glanced over her shoulder, saw her two pursuers round the corner,
saw the guns in their hands—and the streak of gray, which was
Merlin, launching himself, claws extended into the face of the lead
gunman.

Roaring, Jeeves arrived, Anthora threw herself into the open
hatchway. "Merlin! Come quickly!"

The cat leapt—not for the safe haven, but for the second gunman.
He hit the man's shoulder, claws sunk deep.

"Merlin!" Anthora screamed, acceleration pressing her into the
seat. The door began to drop. "No! Jeeves, we cannot leave
Merlin!"

Implacably, the door fell, locked; the car surged forward, braked,
back end swinging 'round and they were hurtling forward into the
everyday traffic of a Solcintran afternoon, considerably exceeding
the public safety speed, leaving her pursuers, and a large gray cat,
behind.

Anthora began to cry.

"Run!" he shouted. "The door is open!"

Gasping, he fell, his shoulder slamming against the hard floor, his
vision a chaos of images, overlain by fiery threads. He
concentrated, saw her hit the floor rolling, as a pilot would, gun in
hand as she fired and—and lost that image entirely, replaced by a
bright-lit room and the unmistakable taste of ship's air. An arm
came 'round his shoulders, easing him up; a squeeze bottle was
forced into his hand.

"Drink, " said Priscilla Mendoza. "Electrolytes."

He managed to get the bottle to his lips, squeezed a healthy
mouthful and swallowed with a shudder. He felt the vile stuff hit his
stomach, mixing uneasily with dinner and terror.

"Easy." Priscilla's hand was firm and sisterly on his shoulder;
squinting through the haze of golden lines, he made out Nova
standing above him; purple eyes holding an emotion he identified
as astonishment.

"Drink again," Priscilla told him. "Then food."

"And at some point, when you feel it proper," said Nova, "you will
tell us what just happened to you."

"Nova, let be," Shan said sternly, from beyond Ren Zel's vision.

"Let be? Did he or did he not sit there—frozen and scarcely
breathing—for the best part of half-an-hour? Does he have these
fits often? I wonder what will go forth, should he have one at the
board."

"Nova…" A clear warning note, there.

Ren Zel finished the stuff in the squeeze bottle, concentrated and
set it carefully on the floor. He looked up into Priscilla's face,
squinting a little to bring her into focus among all the pulsating
golden threads…

"Better?" she asked.

"There is a device," he said, "that eats dramliz."

Her face hardened. "There have been several such, throughout
history."

"This one is new," he told her. "It—they caught Anthora."

"What?" Nova drew nearer. "Anthora is at Jelaza Kazone. Not even
she would be so shattered-brained as to—"

"Wait." He held up a hand, agitated. "Wait, I…" He closed his eyes,
and memory flowed.

"The Council—Korval is called to answer—to answer for
kinstealing, for murder—and dea'Gauss—dea'Gauss is missing,
and he has hidden the dies. They asked her to wait in a Clerk's
room and the trap—the trap was there."

"In a room off the Council Chamber?" That was Shan again, his
voice as serious as Ren Zel had ever heard it. "Sister, if the
Council itself is hunting us, I doubt the delm's wisdom in returning
to Liad."

"We must," Nova said, but she hardly sounded certain. "At least to
orbit—but Anthora is a prisoner!"

"No, she's not," Priscilla said coolly. "The door was open— you
heard him say so."

"The door opened," he agreed. "But I could not stay with her. I do
not know…" It came to him that he might use those glowing lines of
power to his own ends. He might, in fact, go back to her, stand at
her side and work with her to the destruction of their enemies.
He—

"Gently, friend," Shan said, dropping into his range of vision in a
veritable burst of gold. "You have done much this hour. Eat first."
He held out a sandwich. Ren Zel took it, suddenly ravenous,
despite the food he had already eaten, and wolfed it in three bites.
A second sandwich appeared and he accorded it the same
treatment, then drained the glass of tea that came after.

He sighed. "I am glad," he murmured, "to find the gridwork so
strong here. Inside the box, one could hardly see the threads, and
those that could be seen were pale and fragmented."

There was a pause.

"You of course," Nova said to Priscilla—or possibly to Shan, "know
what he is talking about."

"Not…entirely." Priscilla cleared her throat. "Ren Zel, what threads
are these?"

He blinked up at her, seeing the lines so crowded about her that
she fairly shone.

"Why, the lines," he said, somewhat baffled, for surely she could
see them, dramliza that she was? "The lines that tie everything
together."

"Oh," she said softly. "Those lines." She exchanged a glance with
her lifemate.

"Can you see these…lines?" demanded Nova.

"No," Priscilla said, still soft. "No, I can't. But I have it on the
authority of those who can that they do indeed exist and perform
exactly the function Ren Zel describes."

"The only difficulty," he said, in an effort to be as clear as possible,
and not in any way to complain, "is that they are so plentiful and
vibrant here that it is difficult to see beyond them to—to everyday
things. I fear that I might put my teacup down on a line and have it
smash against the floor…"

"Now that," said Shan, "I can help with." He leaned forward and
held up a broad brown finger. "Focus on my finger, if you
please—no, not that way—use your outer eyes! Look as nearly as
you like, but only at my finger."

After a brief struggle, he was able to manage it—and felt
something click, as if a relay had snapped into place. The lines of
power vanished from his awareness and the totality of the captain's
office snapped into being.

He sighed, as did Nova yos'Galan.

"Dramliza?" she said.

"There was never any doubt," Shan said, rising and reaching a
hand down to Ren Zel. "Up you go, Pilot."

The car fishtailed 'round a corner, and fled down an alleyway at a
speed that was far from considerate of human sensibilities—even
when the human in question was a pilot.

Anthora had long since stopped crying, and now sat, tense, her
hands fisted on her lap. Four times had Jeeves struck out for
Jelaza Kazone. Four times, they had been blocked, and nearly
surrounded, hounded back into the city.

"Go to the port," she said quietly.

"Ms. Anthora, you are Korval's presence on Liad." The robot's
voice was shockingly calm as the car careered madly down an
alleyway, and swung into another, more narrow, speed, if anything,
increasing.

"If you leave Liad, Korval's claim to its material goods and
properties is forfeit."

"Go to the port," she repeated. "I abandon nothing."

There was a pause—short for her, long for Jeeves—then a
respectful. "Yes, I see. The port."

Even traveling at speed and with stealth, they arrived at Binjali's
barely ahead of their pursuers.

Anthora had dared one call, and Master Trilla was expecting them.
The gate began to open as they came into the approach, and
closed after them with a clang. Jeeves gunned the motor, fair flying
down the yard to the singleship on its hotpad and the woman in
working leathers standing by.

The door rose, and Anthora leaned forward.

"Go," she told the robot. "Leave the car."

"Yes," said Jeeves.

The control panel went dark as the car rolled to a serene stop.
Anthora stepped out onto the tarmac and inclined her head.

"Master Trilla."

"Anthora," Binjali's owner said, in her outworld accent. "Ship's
ready when you are."

"Thank you," she said. "Be warned. They are directly behind us."

Trilla grinned, feral. "We've some surprises, never fear it. Go on,
now. Good lift."

"Safe landing," Anthora returned properly, and entered the ship.

The ship rose swiftly, breaking a dozen regs in the first six
seconds of flight. Grimly, Anthora flew on, ignoring the outraged
demands of the Tower, flying by hand, so there was nothing to spill
and be captured by Korval's enemy.

Up, up, very nearly straight up, then a sharp roll, and down, as
swiftly as she dared, not quite a scout descent, not quite—but swift
enough, as the luck willed it.

In her screens was the Tree, rapidly growing to enormity. The
house screens were active, a blue crackle along the edge of her
inner vision. She keyed the short sequence in, sent along the pirate
band.

The blue crackle died, the ship fell through and she slammed on
the retros, fighting gravity now—and winning, as the singleship
touched nicely down in the center Jelaza Kazone's formal public
gardens.

It had been a grand and busy several days of transit; so busy that
Hazenthull Explorer had been able to immerse herself in the
various learnings of language and custom—and forget for long
hours together that the senior was dead. And why.

But it came at last that Commander Angela-call-me-Liz Lizardi, to
whom the troop had been detached for this portion of the venture,
had ordered them to ready themselves for departure. Reluctantly,
Hazenthull folded away her studies, found Diglon Rifle in the rec
hall listening, with four tens other of the mere common troop, to the
turtle Sheather tell of his campaign against the Juntavas upon the
world called Shaltren.

Returned to the quarters they kept in common, Diglon set about an
efficient and orderly weapons check. Hazenthull undertook the
same, and likewise made a review of the plan as they had been
allowed to know it.

It was a simple enough plan, on its surface, but Hazenthull believed
that a man who had engineered the theft of three Yxtrang fighter
craft from the very fields of the Fourteenth, envisioned a more
complex undertaking than she, in her youth and ignorance, could
apprehend. Still, it would be a welcome thing to close with an
enemy—and the scout's plan, simple or complex, promised action.

Weapons checked and plan reviewed, Hazenthull hesitated on the
edge of her next duty—but it was a duty, and one she had shirked,
for reasons she did not care to study too closely.

Squaring her shoulders, she walked across the room, to where
Nelirikk Explorer, Hero and aide to Captain Miri Robertson, sworn
to the descendants of Jela's blood, sat over a piece of fancy work.

He looked up as she came forward, his eyes blue and
noncommittal, as befit a Hero. Hazenthull hesitated—which was her
weakness—steeled herself and spoke in the explorer's dialect.

"You asked a question, before, and I gave you no answer. We are
on the edge of action and I may find glory upon the morrow. I
would tell you, now, between ourselves, why explorers marched
with the common troop."

He used his chin to point at the chair opposite him. "Sit and speak."

Sit she did. Speak—that was more difficult.

She mustered discipline, aimed her eyes forward and just over
Nelirikk Explorer's right shoulder.

"We—Gernchik Explorer and Hazenthull Explorer—were assigned
to march with the common troop in a disciplinary action following
Hazenthull Explorer's field report in which Major Shevnir
Quartermaster was named as keeping slack discipline, which had
lost for us several interesting and irreplaceable specimens.
Gernchik—would have written a different report. I believed that an
explorer's duty outranked a major's pride."

She stopped, then finished it, though the section of wall she had
been staring at was starting to blur.

"The senior died because I am a fool, and not worthy—never
worthy—of his teaching."

Silence followed this, which was oddly comforting, though she
would not have hesitated if Nelirikk had ordered her to draw her
sidearm and shoot herself through the ear.

"Your answer is heard," he said, which was the old, familiar
explorer's acknowledgment. "Now that your senior has gone to
glory's reward, it comes to you, as his junior, to perform your duty
as he would have performed it. It is no light charge, for Gernchik
was an explorer of the first rank."

Hazenthull blinked. "He was that," she said hoarsely.

"Go now," Nelirikk Explorer told her. "There is an hour for rest
before Commander Lizardi calls us."

She did not feel like resting, but Gernchik would not have argued
the point. Hazenthull stood, saluted and went over to her bunk,
where she stretched out beside her weapons and her pack, and
closed her eyes to think.

"You left him!" Anthora shouted.

On days other than this one, her emotion was such that teacups
would have trembled against their saucers and wine glasses
chimed their cheeks against each other. It was not entirely
impossible that a stool might have become spontaneously
airborne.

Today was a day like no other. Anthora stood in the middle of
Jelaza Kazone's back kitchen, dirty and draggled; tears of anguish
and of fury cutting rivulets of cleanliness down her grimy cheeks,
and was reduced to stamping a foot for emphasis.

"You left Merlin among our enemies and I ordered you to stop!"

Jeeves' head-ball flickered soft orange lightnings; his wheels
rumbled against the floor as he rolled over to put a kettle on for tea.

"Miss Anthora, you are aware that I have priorities. The highest of
those is the protection of the human lives of Clan Korval. I must
insure your safety at any cost, no matter how high."

Anthora scrubbed at her face, widening the muddy streaks. "But
you and Merlin are—friends."

"Old friends," Jeeves agreed. "Merlin was among the first to make
me welcome when I came to be yos'Galan's butler." There was a
pause, the flickerings in his head-ball increased in rapidity— and all
at once ceased.

"Perhaps it will ease you to learn," the robot said slowly, "that
Merlin has undertaken a task in coordination with Jelaza Kazone. In
essence it is a guerilla action, which carry a high factor of risk. But
Merlin is old and skillful. I have confidence that he will succeed in
taking the war to the enemy."

Anthora closed her eyes. "You say that Merlin goes ahead, to
pinpoint our enemy's location so that more… concerted action may
be brought against them."

"That is the core of our strategy, yes."

"We have no army to call upon, Jeeves. Only yourself, and
me—and the Tree."

"Well," said Jeeves, lifting the kettle from its ring and pouring tea
into a tall, workmanlike mug, "that's a start—and you must not
discount your lifemate, who seems, if you will allow me to say so, a
wizard to reckon with."

She blinked, and fell suddenly still, the way of Ren Zel's walking
through hyperspace suddenly and most shockingly clear.

"Yes," she said, softly. "He is a wizard to reckon with. And so, of
course, is the Tree."

Alone in his cabin, Ren Zel staggered and grabbed the wall.

It came again—a cool, green rippling across his vision, longer this
time, deeper, almost displacing the reality of the walls around him.
He closed his eyes, and the green resolved into an image of the
vast Tree in Korval's garden, seen as if he were looking up into the
branches from below.

Good evening, elder, he heard her voice in his mind's ear. I wish to
undertake a journey.

"Anthora," he whispered, and had the sense that she heard him—
though it was impossible that she could, with the Passage in
hyperspace and her standing in the free air of her garden.
"Anthora, what are you doing?"

Beloved. Jeeves tells me that Merlin has been sent ahead into the
heart of our enemy's territory, to act as our scout and our trojan. I
go to his side, to rescue our servant, and to confound our enemy.

"Our enemy? Who is—" Memory rose and spilled over, flooding
him for a moment or a lifetime, and when he at last shook his head
free and gasped a deep lungful of air, he knew everything that she
knew of the Department of the Interior, of Merlin's probable
whereabouts—and dea'Gauss', too.

Yes, he heard her in his mind's ear, now.

"No!" Ren Zel yelled, waking echoes from the metal walls, but he
was too late.

The image of the garden and the Tree faded, leaving only gray.
Clutch Homeworld

Aelliana walked the circumference of the ship in company with
Handler as Daav searched his memories of Diary and scout lore
and went over, again, and again, what they had said to the Elders.
She admired the home star on the horizon and calculated orbits
and probabilities, considered the carefully placed moons, and
considered, too, the new crystal knife worn at their hip…

"Go," the voice had come up from the depths of that strange room
buried six thousand paces deep in the hillside. The room's shape
was such that whispers could be heard, one end to the other, and
half-a-dozen flickering flames enough to give each of the dozens
of Elders substance as they…sat…motionless the while. How long
that while had been…was difficult to fathom.

They had asked. They had asked of clan, they had asked of the
nature of lifemates, they had asked of the Tree, and of Jela, and of
the Tree and Jela, from the Diaries, about Daav's suppositions
regarding Jela, about Val Con and Miri, about the Tree, about the
seed pods and, once again, the Tree and how it shared—and then
they asked about Aelliana and Daav.

Finally, they had asked about seed pod distributions and the known
locations of the children of the Tree…

And then, they had said, "Go. Thank you for the gift of your time,
Elders of Korval. Go."

"Daav, one comes—"

It was Edger, moving quickly.

"Aelli and Daav, you must come with me, " he said. "The Elders
have decided."
Day 53
Standard Year 1393
Surebleak

It was late. His household, saving the night guards, slumbered
about him. He had risen from his own bed some hours ago, taking
great care not to awaken his lady. Now, he sat behind his desk, Silk
the cat a coiled, heavy warmth against his belly, writing in the log
book.

He had long since given over trying to reproduce the original
Diaries—his memory was too desperately incomplete. Rather, he
had summarized what he knew of the crisis which had brought
Korval-pernard'i to invoke Plan B, related his encounter with the
agents of the Department of the Interior; and then meticulously
noted down the minutia of Boss Conrad's days, taking great care to
show how these actions had bearing upon the finality of the clan's
Balance. He was disciplined, and wrote every day, so the book was
fully caught up to event.

Indeed, it was somewhat in advance of event, as he had already
written of the departure of four mining ships and a pleasure yacht
for the homeworld, there to exact Balance from the enemy.

He had recorded the names of the pilots who were sworn to fly in
this mad venture: Master Pilot Cheever McFarland, First Class Pilot
Bhupendra Darteshek, First Class Pilot Andrew Mack, First Class
Pilot Dostie Welsin, First Class Pilot Jonni Conrad. He also listed
the names of their ships: Diamond Duty, Timonium Core, Crystalia,
Survey Nine, Fortune's Reward. He had paused a moment, then,
listening to the cat purring sleepily on his lap, and meditating over
the list of stalwarts.

Pilot Darteshek had been a surprise enlistee; Pat Rin had
expected him to return to the Juntavas, now that he had delivered
his package and satisfied his curiosity. But, no. He had stayed
behind while Vilma Karparov returned to their employer, and Pat
Rin's inquiry into the matter had won him the pilot's thin smile—and
nothing else.

He had no doubt it was Natesa who had arranged for the courier
pilot's presence among what Cheever McFarland had dubbed, with
no apparent irony, the "strike team." He had not found it necessary
to ask. If it comforted her to know that there would be a Juntavas
pilot by him during in the upcoming affair, then surely it was no
more than simple kindness to accept both her talisman and her
hope.

For himself, he saw…some hope. That his hand had been forced
and his timing thrown askew—well, what choice had he? The
Department of the Interior had located him easily. He did not do
them the disservice of believing that they would hesitate for an
instant to hold Surebleak at hostage. He preferred to go to them on
his own terms, using what advantage might come from
consternation.

He closed his eyes, going over his arrangements once more.

"Pat Rin?"

He opened his eyes and turned his head, finding her, a shadow in
the shadowed doorway.

"Inas," he said, feeling Silk shift against him in protest. "You should
be asleep."

"And you should not?" She came forward, shadow taking
substance, the flame-stitched gauze robe blazing as she crossed
into the light. "I do not lift in six hours. Indeed, should it suit me, I
may sleep the day away."

"Indeed you might," he said cordially. "And did you say that you
would do so, I should certainly put off my lift in order to observe
this miracle for myself."

She laughed, low and musical; and leaned against the desk at his
side. The gaudy robe illuminated her dark beauty, and flowed
tantalizingly along her slender shape. The sash was done but
loosely at her waist, and her dainty feet were bare.

"You will freeze," he told her, but she shook her head lightly.

"Not if you come back to bed and warm me."

He raised an eyebrow. "Underdealt, my lady."

"Do you think so? I merely wish to bid you a proper farewell. How
am I in error?"

It was the word 'farewell' that caught his ear and sent his glance to
the log book, sitting open in its pool of light, pen ready to hand
beside it.

"No error at all," he said slowly, and lifted his eyes to hers. "Inas…"

She returned his gaze calmly. "Yes, beloved. What has gone
amiss?"

"Amiss…" He looked away, and bent forward to lay his hand on the
book. The movement disturbed Silk, who leapt to the floor with a
sleepy protest.

"This becomes yours—as my—as my lifemate and—my heir. If I
do not return…" He shook his head. "In the back of the book, I
have written…somewhat…of our kin. If any should come here,
calling for aid, they must be cared for…"

She placed her hand over his on the book. "As your lifemate— and
your heir—I will honor the book and study it. I will write in it every
day, as you do, for the instruction of those to come. And in the
meanwhile, should any of our kin find their way here, I will care for
them as best I am able, until your return."

Pat Rin cleared his throat. "The dice may fall with whimsy," he
softly. "I may not return."

"That is not acceptable," she replied, and lifted her hand from his,
sliding her fingers caressingly under his chin and turning his face
up to hers.

"You will return," she said. "Swear it."

Tears filled his eyes. He blinked them away and smiled for her.

"You hold my heart," he said. "If I am able, I will return to you. I
swear it."

She smiled then, knowingly. "Liaden," she murmured, and kissed
him, not at all gently.
Day 54
Standard Year 1393
Solcintra
Liad

The distress signal blasted through the Tower, bringing the
technical crew scrambling back from its tea-break, slapping up
emergency screens, pulling in satellite feeds—and swearing,
softly, and in several different languages.

"Kynak-on-the-Rocks, we have you located," the traffic controller
murmured, her hands busy across her keyboard. "State the nature
of the problem, and whether you are able to assume orbit."

"Shit no, we can't assume orbit!" Irascible Terran erupted out of
the speakers. "We're holed, damn you! Nothing other than plain
and fancy piracy. I call upon the Department of the Interior to
Balance the damage it has deliberately dealt to Mercenary Unit
Higdon's Howlers. I want a representative of that Department to
meet me when we land—and we are landing, Tower! Give us an
approach!"

There was a hurried consultation between the scan tech and the
assistant Port Master on Duty—

"We've got leakage," he muttered, upping the magnification of his
scans so the rest of the crew could see it.

"We've got a ship approaching Port on a dangerous course,
claiming damage and an oxygen emergency," the traffic controller
snarled, fingers flying over her board. "They're coming in, no
matter what. I'm giving them to Mid-Port general yard. Comm-tech,
call the proctors and get a squad over there! Who knows what this
Department of the Interior is? Call them, too!" She subsided into
silence then, excepting the occasional mutter featuring mercenary
ships landing in Solcintra Mid-Port and that had better be two
squads of proctors…

The comm-tech swung 'round to her board, alerted the proctors;
then accessed the planetary directory. Department of the Interior
was not listed. The tech bit her lip, and shot a query to the
incoming Terran.

"How the bloody hell do I know how to get hold of them?' The
same hugely annoyed voice snarled. "All I know is that they claim
to be in charge of Liad and that they've holed my ship, damn their
eyes, and they will pay for it—and pay handsome well!"

Proper enough, thought the comm-tech, if the Department—
whatever it was—had damaged the Terran's ship, as he seemed
certain. And the Department claimed to be "in charge" of Liad?
The comm-tech was Liaden, and knew of only one entity that could
remotely be supposed to be "in charge" of Liad.

She punched in the code for the Speaker of the Council of Clans.

"The Department of the Interior is not represented by this Council,"
Speaker for Council told the port comm-tech testily.

"Request assistance in locating this Department, Speaker," the
tech sent back, one eye on her screen, where the Terran transport
was growing larger and more dismaying by the moment. "Incoming
ship cites a matter of Balance with the Department of the Interior. I
allow it to be Terran, ma'am, but the captain further informs us that
the Department of the Interior is "in charge" of Liad."

"That is absurd," Speaker stated. "Its wits are wandering."

"Yes ma'am, possibly so. However, it is crying Balance. Someone
must answer, else they may sit here for as long as they like, using
port resources and paying nothing, contingent upon receiving an
answer."

There was a pause, long enough for the comm-tech to reconsider
the wisdom of teaching law to Speaker for Council.

"Very well," Speaker said. "Please convey to the captain of the
Terran vessel the compliments of the Council and inform him that,
in order to pursue his claim of Balance we must know the name of
an individual representing the Department of the Interior."

"Yes, Speaker," said the comm-tech, with no small amount of
relief. "I will pass that message."

"They want a name, do they?" The Terran demanded of the comm-
tech. "Fine, here's a name you can give them: Bar Vad yo'Tornier.
He calls himself Commander of Agents."
Solcintra
Liad

The prisoner was not young. He was not Scout-trained. He was—
no longer—armed. He inspired neither fear nor the premonition that
he was both a danger and a threat to the organization—and to the
completion of the Plan.

In fact, the prisoner was old. He sat quietly in the tiny holding cell,
the dim blue light casting strange shadows along his face. From
time to time, he spoke—numbers, most often. Sums. Account
identifiers. Dates. Followed by such elucidations as, "account
confiscated."

"permissions rescinded."

"account inactive." There were few surprises, there.

Prompted, he made other statements, not entirely understood by
his auditors: "Phase Two begins when the fourth roll-call is
missed."

"Phase Three begins when the fifth roll-call is missed."

"The Exchange declares a trading holiday when the sixth roll-call is
missed."

Commander of Agents allowed himself a sigh. This was the
second set of drugs. Neither it nor the first had elicited information
regarding Korval's effective and surprising defense of the planet
Surebleak. The prisoner was likewise ignorant of the locations of
Korval's hidey-holes and safeplaces; and resistive of the
suggestion that Surebleak might be such a place.

The Commander moved a hand, calling for the third and most
potent drug.

The technician hesitated.

The Commander turned his head to look at her.

"Forgive me," she bowed as one to the ultimate authority. "It
merely occurs to me, Commander—if this man does indeed hold
information vital to our success…He is an old man, in good general
health, but lately subjected to several severe systemic shocks.

There is the possibility of an overload, should we introduce the
next drug before this dose has run the system."

"Understood."

The Commander considered the prisoner. Did he hold information
vital to the Plan? Surely, he did. And, just as surely, he would be
made to give that information into the Department's keeping. The
third drug—the third drug was ruthless. Possibly, it should have
been administered at once, despite the unfortunate side-effects.
The Commander had reasoned that the lesser drugs would leave
the prisoner largely intact, and that there might well be need for him
sooner than an…amended…personality could be stabilized.

The need for the information he held was greater than any
nebulous future usefulness. After all, it was not unusual for old men
to die.

He felt a vibration run up his right arm and glanced down at his
wrist-comm; noting at once the "most urgent" tag, and the request
that he return to his office.

"Call me before you administer the next drug," he told the tech, and
moved toward the door.

"GR17-67. GR17-68," the prisoner said, tonelessly. "Drawing
rights invalidated."

The Commander checked, dismayed—for, here, at last, was
information, plain, unambiguous—and crippling. If the prisoner was
to be believed, the Department had lost access to two of its most
lucrative funding sources.

"Check that!" he snapped at the agent standing silently at the
prisoner's back.

"Commander."

"GR 24-89," the prisoner said. "Drawing rights invalidated."

The Commander turned and stared at him, seeing an old man
slumped in a chair, the dim blue light accentuating the weary lines
of his face, eyes unfocussed and dull.

"Check that," he directed the agent, and let himself out of the
holding cell.

The loss of funding source GR 24-89 would be…catastrophic. The
Commander held himself to a walk, allowing no taint of turmoil to
touch his face. It would have to be checked. It would all have to be
checked. Possibly the prisoner had lied—but when had the
dea'Gauss ever lied?

Funny, how familiar it was: The gravity, the taste of the air, the smell
of the grass, the green-tinged sky, the warmth of the sunlight
against her hair—all of it said, "Welcome home."

Of course, this wasn't her home—not even close. The feeling of
welcoming familiarity came straight from Val Con, just like the
"memory" of the path she was walking to Jelaza Kazone, and the
access codes tingling in the tips of her fingers.

She paused on the top of the last hill sloping down into Dragon's
Valley, and turned to look back. Squinting, she could make out the
Tower at Solcintra Port, stretching tall and black into the greenish
sky. Val Con'd be well out of the port by now, she reckoned,
resisting the impulse to find out for sure.

Don't jog the man's elbow, Robertson, she told herself severely,
and turned to look out over the valley.

There was the Tree, dark green, dark brown, and 'way too high, its
branches tangling with clouds…

Welcome.

It was the same sense of warm green joy that had overwhelmed
her in her dream—only days ago? She smiled, more wry than not,
and nodded toward its mile-high form.

"Jelaza Kazone," she said. "The safest place in the galaxy."

Right.

She brought her sights down, and got her first look at the clan seat,
Jelaza Kazone, the house. Distance and the looming Tree worked
to make the building seem small—a scale model, maybe, or a toy.
She knew better. She could've recited the number of rooms, drawn
a map of the public halls—and the private ones— and a map of the
inner garden, too.

All from Val Con's knowledge of the place.

"I grew up at Trealla Fantrol," he told her, softly, from memory, "but
I was born to be Korval. Uncle Er Thom had been fostered at
Jelaza Kazone. He made certain that I knew it as well as he did."

Miri sighed.

Standin' here, gawkin' like a tourist, she scolded herself. Get a
move on, Captain you got work to do.

Not to mention explaining herself to Val Con's sister Anthora. She
took a breath, feeling Korval's Ring move between her breasts.
The last thing Val Con had done was put the Ring on the cord from
his shirt, and knot the cord 'round her neck—that, and kiss her—
before he went his way and she went hers.

She understood the reasoning—he was going inside enemy
lines—against her best, most vehement, objections. If he was
taken— her blood started freezing up, just to think it—or if he was
killed, the Ring would be free, and she would be Korval Herself.

Next target, please, she thought wryly, remembering Daav and
Aelliana, likely tied up for months on the Clutch homeworld, like a
trump held hidden in a sleeve. If everything bad went down, there
were two more yos'Phelium pilots in reserve, to tend for what was
left of the clan. Or carry Balance to its fullest.

She wondered if they'd figured out yet that they'd been had.

Get moving, Robertson.

She took one step down the hill, toward the house of the clan—
and dropped flat.

The grass was high here, though not high enough to hide her from
a determined look-see. Fortunately, the guy she'd spotted had his
back to her; his attention on the house. The movement she'd
caught had been him taking a pair of field glasses off his belt.

He put the glasses up and got still again. Real still. Scout still.
Agent still.

Miri nestled her chin on her arm, watching him watch. Eventually,
there was another flash as he snapped the glasses back onto their
hook, then a smooth rustle of movement, as he came up into a
crouch, and eased down the hill, toward the house.

Her house, currently occupied by a young woman acknowledged to
be, by those who loved her best, more than a little featherbrained,
an old war 'bot—and some cats.

Oh, and, yeah—the Tree.

Down the hill, the grass shivered as if a light wind had combed
through it—the Agent, moving closer to the house.

Knowing it was stupid, Miri rose into a crouch and went after him.

His second bowed, and waited until he was seated.

"News from the port, Commander," he murmured and touched the
appropriate button.

"…a name, do they?" An uncouth Terran voice snarled out of the
speaker. "Fine, here's a name you can give them: Bar Vad
yo'Tornier. He calls himself Commander of Agents."

The Commander folded his hands deliberately atop his desk,
closed his eyes and indulged himself in a breathing exercise.
When he opened his eyes again, a cup of his favorite blend sat,
steaming, at his right hand, and his second was gone. A prudent
man, his second.

Commander of Agents sipped his tea.

Bar Vad yo'Tornier. His name. His personal name, that he had
taken care to hide and hide well, in the filthy mouth of a Terran—

A Terran what?

One-handed, he reached to the console, touched a series of keys
and listened, impassive, from time to time sipping his tea, to the
tale of the holed ship, the conversations between Solcintra Port
and the Council, and once more to his name, shouted along the
open bands by a heedless, idiot barbarian who—

Had no reason to know—or means to discover—such a thing.

Commander of Agents put aside the teacup, and brought his
screen live. His second had, of course, compiled the necessary
information, which the Commander read once, rapidly; then again,
more slowly.

There was no doubt that the ship, Mercenary Transport Kynak-on-
the-Rocks, wholly owned by Higdon's Howlers, Inc., displayed
signs of damage on both the orbital scans and the schematic. That
it was actually holed—well, perhaps it was, or perhaps it was not,
and the portion of Solcintra Port was clear. The mercenaries had
been cleared to land.

In the interests of thoroughness, Commander of Agents opened
the file on the Surebleak incident. He had not expected Kynak-on-
the-Rocks to match the specs for Surebleak's defenders, nor did
it—still, it would have been tidy, and provided a link between Korval
and this ship, this barbarian commander, who knew his name.

Mercenary Sergeant Miri Robertson…

The Commander blinked at the thought.

Could it be so simple? Val Con yos'Phelium—the Commander
could believe that former Agent of Change yos'Phelium might
ferret out even the most deeply buried secret, as nothing more
than an exercise to pass a slow hour.

Both subtle and ambitious, Val Con yos'Phelium. And given to
flights of unadulterated madness, before the training provided by
the Department had normalized him.

yos'Phelium's last known location was Lytaxin, where mercenary
units in the employ of Erob had recently turned back an Yxtrang
invasion.

Methodical, Commander of Agents checked the lists of units
known to have been on Lytaxin—and very nearly smiled.

Higdon's Howlers, commanded by one Octavius Higdon, had been
on Lytaxin, one of several units hired by Erob to quell the war which
the Department had nurtured.

The Commander's smile faded. Simple enough to suppose that
Val Con yos'Phelium had hired Higdon's Howlers in turn, providing
them with a drama, a name, and a port of call. Simple
enough…And yet yos'Phelium was not a simple man, nor was he a
fool. He would suppose that the Department would access just this
information—and draw just this conclusion.

Commander of Agents flipped through the files open on his
screen, glancing at the profiles of the odd vessels that had
defended Surebleak. A positive identification of those vessels had
not yet been made, though the tactical report on Fortune's Reward
was thorough. To find a Korval fleet there, obviously in the midst of
maneuvers—and now, here, this other ship, carrying mercenaries
and cleared to land, crying Balance owed by the Department of the
Interior, invoking his own personal name…

Commander of Agents felt a sudden light chill crawl down his
arms.

Val Con yos'Phelium was on Liad. And he meant the Department
to know it.

She'd lost the trail a dozen times, found it again in a bent stem, the
outline of a boot-print in a patch of soft soil, a solitary scattering of
unripened grass seeds.

On some level, she was aware that she, Miri Robertson, had never
been trained to track like this, moving like a wisp among the high,
rustling grass, in deadly pursuit of deadly prey.

The prey stopped some distance ahead. Miri crouched, consulted
her—Val Con's—mental map of the territory, and sighed.

She was very near one of the perimeter access points—in fact, the
gate she'd been making for herself before she took it into her head
to stalk wild waterfowl.

Miri bit her lip. The perimeter was guarded and coded. The gate
wouldn't open for a bogus code, though it would deliver a shock,
progressively nastier, if anybody was stupid enough to keep trying
in the hope of hitting the winning combination. Any attempt to force
the gate—also won a shock. The beam was nice and wide, too,
which made jumping the fence an equally bad idea.

Which fortifications and failsafes were all so much fairy dust, if the
man she'd been tracking had good access codes—like Pat Rin's,
for instance.

Miri swallowed around a cold surge of horror that felt more like Val
Con's than hers, and made her decision.

Silently, she eased forward, pistol in hand, though she needn't
have worried, her prey—sighted barely one hundred paces from
her previous position—was completely intent on a project of his
own.

She watched while he worked with a remote unit, apparently keying
in pass-code after pass-code, with no success—and without
receiving a tangible token of the gate's esteem, either. He'd
managed to sync the remote to the gate's keypad, and was
apparently committed to taping in codes til the heat death of the
universe.

Or the gate opened.

Miri closed her eyes briefly, ridiculously elated, as if the lack of
access codes was an excuse for a party.

Can it, she snarled at herself. His not having the codes don't prove
Pat Rin's at liberty the same way his having them would prove the
opposite. Loobelli.

She opened her eyes, bringing the gun up, easing the safety off.
She could hardly miss at this range; especially when she wasn't
trying nothing fancy, only a simple kill.

She squeezed the trigger, the snick of the pellet simultaneous with
the larger click of the gate opening.

Miri came up in a rush, running forward. The guy was down and he
wasn't moving. She dropped to one knee beside him, confirming
that her aim had been good, and reached for the fallen remote.

"Drop your gun and surrender!" a voice snarled.

Miri jerked around, saw the woman, the business-like set of her
pistol. Behind her, she heard a click. The gate closing, that would
be.

"Drop the gun," the woman repeated. "Or lose a hand."

"Wouldn't want that," Miri said, softly, feeling the weight of the
weapon in her hand. She shifted into a crouch. The woman's finger
tightened on the trigger of her gun.

Miri spun sideways, throwing her gun, punched a button on the
remote, her finger guided by blind, stupid luck.

The gunwoman grunted, her shot in the air, and Miri was up and
through the gate, running low; there was a shout, a second shot,
and the sound of the gate going home.

Miri staggered, feet tangling; stumbled and went down, rolling. She
fetched up against something hard and gritty, and lay there, heart
pounding.

Her right arm was on fire—she'd probably caught the second
pellet. A quick inventory discovered nothing else worse than
bruises.

She opened her eyes.

The hard, gritty thing was a goodish-sized rock. She used it to pull
herself, swearing, to her feet, and looked around.

The good news was that she was now well inside Korval's
perimeter. The bad news—that there was at least one enemy,
probably more—and more remote lock-picks, too—around the
perimeter, doing their all to get it. And the arm—that was bad; she
didn't need the evidence of the blood-dyed sleeve to know she'd
already lost too much.

Not in much shape to go hiking around the countryside, Robertson,
she thought, snapping open her pouch and pulling out the first aid
tape— and quietly crumbled to the ground.

Here at last was the place.

Val Con breathed a quiet sigh of relief. The distance from the
rendezvous site had been somewhat longer than he had
estimated—long enough that he had begun to doubt his memory.

But, here it was, at last: overgrown, tumble-down, and, gods willing,
forgotten…

He held up a hand, halting the rest of the small troop, and turned to
catch Liz Lizardi's eye.

"We part company here, Commander."

"Here?" She glanced around at the vine covered walls, scrub trees
and broken blocks of stone.

"Here," he repeated, suppressing a smile. Miri's fostermother was
not a woman to spend three words where a gesture would serve.
"Have you questions regarding the part of yourself and your
troops?"

"Nope, sounds like a paid vacation to me," Liz said. "Bout a klick to
the north, we'll find us a park and a street and a door. We guard the
door. Anybody tries to go in, we stop them. Anybody tries to go
out, we stop them, too." She shrugged. "Higdon sending
backup—that a go?"

"Yes."

"Then we're set." She looked over her shoulder at her troop of two.
"OK, let's take a walk."

"Commander." Diglon Rifle saluted with alacrity, his demeanor
closely resembling that of a child given run of a sweet shop.

Hazenthull Explorer's salute was more sedate, her face properly
devoid of expression, but Val Con could not help noticing the alert
set of her shoulders. Nor did he miss the glance she sent to
Nelirikk before following her commander down the path to the
north—quite a speaking glance it was, too, for all it fell upon a face
as giving as stone.

Ah, youth. Perhaps after…

If there was an after, which was by no means assured. Val Con
closed his eyes briefly, thinking of Miri, going overland to Korval's
Valley—to home—where she would be safe—or at least safer.
This— it was mad, what he proposed to do. Capture the
Commander in his own warren? Stop the unfolding of the Plan with
a word? Rescue the passengers—oh, aye, just that. And who
remembered the old contract—never canceled, never bought out,
that tied Korval to Liad—and to honor—down the long years from
Cantra to himself?

They have murdered us—us and ours. It ends, and ends now. No
more of mine will be shot down in the streets.

"Scout?"

Val Con blinked and looked up into the stern brown face of Nelirikk
Explorer.

"A quick nap," he said lightly. "Pay it no mind."

"A soldier fights best when he has rested well before battle," the
big man agreed.

"Just so." He looked over to the third of their party, standing a little
apart, gazing about himself with—perhaps it was wonder— the tile
work of his shell showing pale ripples of purple in the shadowed
light.

"Brother."

Sheather turned, his big eyes inward-lit.

"Brother," he said courteously. "Is the time of our departure upon
us?"

Val Con walked forward, showing open palms. "Certainly, the time
draws near. Forgive me that I come to you once more and say—it
is not necessary that you accompany us after you have assisted in
the opening of the door. Stay and watch, if you will. Return to the
ship, by my preference. But, to come within—it is more than my
heart can bear, brother, that you might be slain in the course of a
hasty and ill-considered human quarrel."

"Your feelings do you great honor," Sheather said solemnly.
"Certainly, kin wish to do all within their scope to preserve kin from
harm. Just as certainly, we are bound to the word of the T'carais,
who has bid me accompany you upon this vendetta, in which you
will fully answer those who have slain others of your kin and
keeping. This is your duty, as you have told us, and it is a duty the
Clutch know as well. The T'carais sends me to his brother, the
Delm of Korval, to fight, and to prevail."

He blinked, one eye after the other.

"The T'carais has done me the honor of adding to my name. As
time is short, I will refrain from speaking it to you in fullness.
However, I will tell you that my name now includes a phrase roughly
equivalent to 'student of men'." He blinked again, both eyes in
tandem.

"I am the first of our clan to undertake this scholarship. I began
because my heart would know certain things. I continue because
my T'carais would know in fullness—and my heart is not adverse."

Val Con bowed, deeply and with sincere respect. "Scholarship is a
heady and dangerous undertaking," he murmured. "And of course
the T'carais may not be gainsaid."

Which was true enough, he thought—no word of his would prevent
Sheather from following, if the word of the T'carais sent him on.

He straightened.

"Attend me, then, brother, if you will. Explorer, guard us— and
monitor the broadband. Our signal should find us soon."

The ancient and weary locking mechanism scarcely resisted
Sheather's song: a note, another—and the thing was done. And
done not a moment too soon.

"Scout," Nelirikk said quietly, "the signal arrives." He paused, head
cocked, listening to the tiny comm-link behind his ear.

"Third repeat."

Val Con swallowed, thinking of Miri, safe at home.

Go on then, he told himself. The time is come.

Dutiful Passage was in orbit.

Miri woke with no memory of having fallen asleep, and blinked lazily
up at the orange cat sitting on her chest, solemn green eyes fixed
on her face as if it sat sentry to her awakening.

"Hey, cat," she said.

The animal blinked its eyes, and a voice spoke from across the
room—a male voice, talking up-scale Terran.

"Good afternoon, Korval," he said, over a sound like wheels across
planking. "Are you feeling well?"

She turned her head on the pillow, but there wasn't anybody there,
unless he was hiding behind the heavy-looking metal cylinder, fully
equipped with three articulated arms, topped by a lighted orange
globe, which was itself weirdly familiar, in a not-her-own-memory
kind of way.

"Jeeves?" She asked, but it had to be it—him.

"Yes," he said, the orange ball flickering slightly.

"Great." She pushed herself up, forgetting the cat, which jumped
sideways off her chest to the floor, venting a small, peevish hiss.
"Plug into the perimeter's brains, there's people trying to get inside
the valley."

The ball flickered—he's thinking, Miri caught from Val Con's
memories, and swung her legs over the side of the cot she'd been
laying on, unsurprised to find that it was part of a field doc.

"The interlopers have been dispatched, ma'am," the robot said.
"Though I expect there will be more. Perimeter protections have
been intensified.

"I must apologize for allowing you to be wounded. My attention was
engaged by concerted assaults at the south and east gates. The
lesser attempt at the north gate was hidden beneath the noise. I
sent transport immediately I had your direction from Jelaza
Kazone, and brought you in to the 'doc."

She moved her right arm, experimentally. It hurt like hell.

"Again, I apologize if I misunderstood your necessities.
Extrapolating from Plan B, however, I merely initiated a quick-heal."

"You did exactly right," Miri told him, standing up. "I'm Miri
Robertson, by the way."

"I had surmised as much," Jeeves replied. "How shall I address
you?"

"Miri's fine," she said, wincing as her first step jogged the half-
healed arm. "Look, I need the control room, quicktime. There's
stuff I gotta be doing, especially if I shot the timing by being an
hour in the 'doc."

"You were in the 'doc for no longer than a quarter hour," the war
'bot told her calmly. "You must try not to strain your wound." He
rolled forward, wheels rumbling over the floorboards.

"Follow me, please, and I will take you to the control room."

"Right," she said, stretching her legs to keep up with the pace he
set down the hallway. "Tell Anthora I'm here, and where she can
find me, OK? I'll need her to fill me in on what's been going on
here."

"Miss Anthora," said Jeeves, "is not to home."

"Not home?" She looked at him, but the orange ball gave her no
clues. "Where is she?"

"I believe," he said, as they took a sharp turn into a narrow hallway,
"she is at the headquarters of the Department of the Interior."

They had found out soon enough what the more cryptic of
dea'Gauss' drugged mouthings had referred to. As payment
accounts were shut down, so too were the services and supplies
they purchased.

Commander of Agents sat in an office lit by emergency dims, and
glared at his screen. Behind him, the radio mumbled along on
back-up power, whispering the names and the business of ships.

The power problems had been resolved. For the moment. The
facility was running—as could be told by the noise of the
intermittent fans attempting to move sluggish air about, at
considerably less than half-efficiency—on its own emergency
generation system. This situation would change for the better once
the prisoner was under control and functioning on behalf of the
Department.

But the man would have to survive.

The prisoner's health was—not good. The third drug, rather than
inducing the desired state of submissive obedience, had elicited a
strong allergic reaction. On advice of the drug-tech, he had been
removed to the infirmary, where he remained stable, but feeble,
guarded by a full Agent of Change.

Perusing the roster in his dim-lit office, the Commander
reconsidered that assignment: Agents were in short supply. Surely
a lesser operative might be set to guard one ill old man?

But no. dea'Gauss had deprived the Department of three Agents,
each dispatched with a precise shot to the head. Records
belatedly obtained from Tey Dor's demonstrated that dea'Gauss
had been a regular at the club for fifty years; that he maintained
several weapons and match-pistols, list appended; that he often
shot with other of Tey Dor's patrons, list appended. Indeed, Tey
Dor's records held all that one would wish, save the man's
marksman rating. They also failed to note—though this was
scarcely an area where Tey Dor's could be expected to concern
itself—that the old man in question had worn clothing made of anti-
pulse and anti-pellet materials; and that he had turned his office
into a fortress.

No, the Commander decided; the dea'Gauss had won the honor of
having an Agent at his bedside.

Which left the diminished roster and the rather longer number of
tasks to be done.

A team of Agents had been sent to the Council of Clans, with
orders to arm the devices in place. Likewise at the Council of
Clans, the Protocol Officer, long ago subverted by the Department,
consulted with the Speaker on the precise placing of Balance
against Anthora yos'Galan, who had casually and brutally murdered
an unarmed Council Proctor.

A second team of Agents, augmented by Departmental
sharpshooters, was en route to Low Port, explosives and
coordinates to hand. Another full team of Agents was attempting to
invest Korval's valley, while others undertook the infiltration of
Higdon's Howlers.

The Commander blinked, bringing the screen before him into
focus. Shipping stats. There were no Tree-and-Dragon ships
currently orbiting Liad, which was odd. Scout ships were likewise in
short supply—though that was less odd. One would expect Val
Con yos'Phelium to have ships in support, whatever his plans. The
absence of ships was…unnerving.

As yos'Phelium no doubt intended.

Commander of Agents extended a hand, calling up the list of
secondary operatives. Surely, some use might be made—

"Dutiful Passage" the radio blared so loudly the Commander
missed his key.

"Dutiful Passage, Solcintra, Liad, Captain Priscilla Mendoza. Stand
clear. Stand clear! We are on business of Korval and we are
armed."

Silence was as important as haste, and haste they made: Scout,
explorer and Clutch turtle. The pipe easily accommodated the
larger members of the party, though boots and claws alike
sometimes failed to find purchase on the water-smoothed surface.

Sheather, with his dark-seeing eyes, led the way, Val Con
following, carrying a mini-torch to aid his poorer eyesight. Nelirikk
brought up the rear, burdened with explosives, extra firearms and
ammunition.

The Passage was in orbit, Val Con reminded himself. Soon, it
would be joined by allies. Soon, they would know whether this bold
strike at the heart of the enemy was lunacy or genius.

Speed-marching, they had covered distance, passing three gates
at roughly equal intervals. When the aqueduct had been in use, the
gates had functioned as flow control devices. They rested at each
for five short minutes, then resumed the march.

"Ahead lies another gate, my brother," Sheather said in a
remarkably quiet voice. "It appears to be both new and locked."

Val Con sighed. So quickly. He closed his eyes, allowing her song
to fill his head, his heart, his soul. Deliberately, he extended his will,
and sang a new phrase into the song. Then, he opened his eyes
and stepped forward.

The warrens the Department had taken for their own had been
carved out of sub-surface limestone to create tremendous storage
bays for low-pressure gasses. Portions of the original waterworks
were marked out as points of historic interest, somewhere
overhead. But down here, far beneath the planet surface, the
aqueducts had also fed underground pressurizing reservoirs in off-
peak moments. Eventually abandoned as Solcintra's needs grew
beyond the water offered by the River Kainbek, and as the
necessity for a safer location for storing volatile energy than
beneath the city itself became understood, the underground maze
was a natural place to house a secret headquarters.

This door, now. This was the airlock; the interface between the old
pipes and the new facility. Val Con inspected the controls,
understanding them with a sense of relief twined irrevocably with
terror.

"I had intended to use my blade here," he said to Sheather, "and
on the other side, speed. That is still an option. But I ask, is there a
note or two known to you, which will unlock the way for us with less
danger?"

Sheather blinked his enormous eyes. "My brother is wise, to prefer
a stealthy entrance to the cave of his enemy. I believe the key to
this door may be discovered, if I am allowed a moment of study."

"Certainly," Val Con said, and fell back to Nelirikk's side. The
explorer looked down at him with a grin and gave him a very Terran
thumb's up.

Lit by emergency dims, only the most essential of machinery
online, the infirmary was a place of shadows, enemies and
storybook monsters on the lurk for the fanciful.

Agent ter'Fendil was neither fanciful nor inclined to simile. He kept
guard over the old man, as ordered, equally alert for signs of
treachery or waking. Neither manifested, as the weary hours crept
along—nor did the old man die, and release Agent ter'Fendil to
duties more worthy of him.

That there were such duties, Agent ter'Fendil knew, having been
present when the full team was called to attend to the future needs
of the Council hall. He had awaited his own orders with anticipation,
for surely the Commander would not fail to recall those treasures
which Agent ter'Fendil, extrapolating from studies he had made as
a scout, had recovered and delivered to the Department. He dared
hope that the Commander would place the controls in his hand,
allowing him the honor of deploying those treasures against the
enemies of the Department.

Yet, here he stood, on guard at the bedside of an accountant, while
he might be—no. The Commander was not one to forget past
service; nor to fail of using what weapons came to his hand. That
he was assigned this minor duty, now, did not mean he was
forgotten.

The Department taught that all duties furthered the Plan, and Agent
ter'Fendil had been well taught. Yet—

A shadow moved among the shadows, and vanished, into shadow.

Agent ter'Fendil frowned.

The shadows flickered again, fluid and quick.

Agent ter'Fendil blinked, and ran a quick diagnostic. Finding that he
was slightly, though not by any means dangerously, low on energy,
he accessed the Loop's energizing routine, feeling an immediate
sharpening of his senses.

Straightening, he deliberately turned his gaze to the place he had
last seen the shadows waver.

Something…moved.

Agent ter'Fendil walked forward.

The shadow solidified, taking shape as it strolled across a dim strip
of illumination, gray tail held high and jaunty, white feet soundless
on the noise-absorbing floor.

"Cat!" said Agent ter'Fendil, in disbelief.

The cat turned its head, blinked and continued on its way.

The Loop indicated that a cat in headquarters was an anomaly.

Agent ter'Fendil went after it.

Miri hit the chair in the control center a little too hard, swore, and
opened the board with a sweep of her good hand.

"Get me some painkillers," she said over her shoulder to the war
'bot. "And some stim."

"I regret," Jeeves said, his high-class voice sounding apologetic.
"Stim is known to cause fetal damage."

The screens were up, she fumbled, then found the general
shipping band.

"What's that got to do with me?" she asked, her mind more than
half occupied with locating the other, more tricksy band. This one,
even Val Con was hazy on…

"The 'doc reports that you are pregnant," Jeeves said.

In the midst of making an adjustment, Miri froze, before spinning
the chair around to face the 'bot.

"That's the craziest—" she began, and then clamped her mouth
shut.

Oh, Robertson, you prize fool.

Because it wasn't crazy, was it? Not with her fresh outta the 'doc,
and him, too, both returned to normal baseline functioning— read
'fertile'—and neither one of them remembering to ask for the shot.

Miri, let us make love…We murmured in memory, and if she found
out he'd known—that he'd planned…

She'd kill him.

Uh-huh. First he's gotta get home alive.

She spun back to the control board, adjusting the volume on the
ship band, which had been plenty loud enough, and had another go
at the local band.

This time, her fingers were smarter—or the three-times-damned
Korval luck was in it. Whichever, her inquiry elicited an answer.

"Binjali's," said a woman's matter-of-fact voice.

Miri took a breath. "This is the Captain," she said, in the mode of
Ultimate Authority. "Situation Red."

"Dutiful Passage, seal your weapons." Solcintra Tower
said—which it had to say, as Shan knew well. Had he been
portmaster, faced with a sudden battleship in orbit around his
peaceful and orderly world, he would have said precisely the same
thing, most likely with a good deal more heat.

Priscilla touched the reply stud. "This is Captain Mendoza. We are
on business of Clan Korval. Our weapons are live and under our
control."

"That is in violation of regulations, Captain Mendoza. The guild has
been notified."

Priscilla's mouth tightened. "Copy," she said, voice steady, and
closed the connection.

"Never fear, Priscilla, there remains one license between us. And
the Code tells us that what one lifemate owns, the other owns as
well."

She looked at him, black eyes betraying her amusement. "Tell it to
the Pilots Guild."

Shan snapped his fingers with a grin. "That for the Pilots Guild!
We'll get you a Terran license under an assumed name, and no
one will be the wiser."

"Now, why don't I think that will work?"

"Because you are an innocent and pure of heart." He turned back
to his screens. "The portmaster will satisfy herself with the
complaint to the guild," he murmured, pulling in the traffic reports.
"She can fire on us, of course, but we've done nothing to merit
that."

"Yet," Priscilla said, with a glance to Ren Zel, quiet and efficient at
third board.

"Any sign of our friends, pilot?"

"Not as yet, captain," he answered, "but we are ahead of
schedule."

"By three entire minutes," Shan said. "Trust a scout to—"

"Jump-flare," Ren Zel said sharply. "Close in."

His fingers moved, and Shan's did, too, locating the flare and the
coords—close, gods. Which meant it must be the expected
scouts, though there was no reason—

The comm crackled as the flares died and the ships announced
themselves, one, two, three, four: Diamond Duty, Timonium Core,
Crystalia, Survey Nine. Tree-and-Dragon, Tree-and-Dragon. Tree-
and-Dragon, Tree-and-Dragon.

"What the devil?" He isolated the four of them, Jumped as a unit,
had they? Master pilots, then—or, yet, it could be scouts, though in
such strange, unscout-like vessels…

"Jump-flare!" Ren Zel cried again—and so it was: a fifth ship
Jumping into the hollow square formed by the first four, a
maneuver so chancy that Shan half-averted his face from the
expected collision.

But no. The comm crackled, and a fifth ID rang across the general
band.

Fortune's Reward, Solcintra, Liad. Tree-and-Dragon.

Tree-and-Dragon.

The transfer was complete. The last light on the status board was
lit.

Miri wiped a sleeve across her damp forehead, leaned forward in
the chair, bum arm braced against the board; and pushed the
button that connected to her to receivers located at the Council of
Clans; Scout Headquarters; each of the major halls: accountants,
pilots, trade, and Healer; the offices of Solcintra and Chonselta
portmasters; the editorial offices of The Gazette; the general
shipping band; and a number of strategically placed public
speakers.

We cover the world, she thought, as the master light went to green.
You're on, Robertson. Don't forget your lines.

Normal space. The screens reformed. The comm came live.

On the private band: "Boss is here, let's party!"

"Well flown."

"Make a master outta you yet, son!"

"Good work, Boss."

He'd done it.

Pat Rin sagged back into the pilot's chair, shivering with relief.

He'd done it.

Now, to do the rest.

The voice that came out of the old, forgotten receiver was female.
Her accent was Solcintran and her message, thought Speaker for
Council, raising her head and staring, entirely absurd.

"…Captain's Emergency. I say again: This is a Captain's
Emergency. In accordance with the conditions put forward in
paragraph 8, section 1 of the original contract of hire between the
Houses of Solcintra and Captain Cantra yos'Phelium, which
requires the captain, her heirs, or assigns to safeguard the welfare
of the passengers, I, Miri Robertson Tiazan, Delm Korval, declare
a Captain's Emergency. The Council of Clans will hold itself
subservient to Captain's Law. Control of the planetary defense net
rests with the Captain.

"Passengers are advised that the name of our enemy is the
Department of the Interior. They have stolen and murdered
members of every clan, High House and Low. They have
subverted the cash flow of entire clans. They have pressed ships
and pilots into service, to the detriment of Liad. They will be
stopped. Now. Locations of known Departmental offices and
safeplaces follows.

"Repeat, repeat: This is a Captain's Emergency."

It was the custom of Kilon pel'Meret to visit the old Waterway Park
with her small son every day before Prime. This exercise gave
double benefit, refreshing Kilon and allowing young Nev Art room
to run off excess energy in a manner not likely to earn him a sharp
rebuke from his grandmother.

The pattern of the walk was well known to both mother and child.
Kilon would stroll along the old path from the park's entryway down
to the silted-in pond, while Nev Art might run circles about her, or
dart off in all directions at once, saving only that he did not
disappear entirely from her sight. He would rejoin her at the pond
and they would then both walk back along the path to the entrance,
practicing seemliness; thence down the city sidewalks to home,
and grandmother, and Prime.

Today, Nev Art darted up and grabbed her hand. "Thawla, look!
Yxtrang!"

Kilon was a sensible woman. She was also familiar with her son's
imaginative prowess. So, she did not scream, or gather him up in
her arms and run. Rather, she allowed herself to be tugged 'round
by the hand, fully expecting to see a tree wearing an uniform of
shadow, or a stealthy weed peering over a crumbling section of
ornamental stonework.

"Look!" Nev Art said again; and look Kilon did, breath caught in her
throat.

For across the rumpled grass toward them came three tall
persons—two much taller than the third—dressed in what was
indisputably military style, packs on their backs and their belts hung
about with all manner of objects.

"Yxtrang, Thawla," Nev Art insisted, pulling on her hand. "I want to
see their guns!"

"No!" she said sharply, and tightened her hold on his hand. "They
are only Terrans, my son." She hesitated. Terran soldiers, here,
strolling through an abandoned and all-but-forgotten park in the
Low House district of Solcintra? Abruptly, she turned, dragging
Nev Art with her.

"Come along, child, it is time to go home."

"It's not!" he protested, but she was adamant.

Walking briskly, holding her son firmly by the hand, she went down
the path. He stretched his short legs until he was all but running,
and so they gained the entrance—and, a moment later, the street.

"Go after them, Commander?" Diglon asked hopefully.

Liz shook her head. "No. It ain't like they're the only ones gonna
see us." She pointed. "Let's go."

"Boss?" Cheever McFarland's voice came low and easy across
the tight band. "You ready to cook?"

Pat Rin took a deep breath, and another, deliberately calming.

"A moment, Mr. McFarland. I am afraid that I found the Jump
in…exhilarating."

"Was close, wasn't it?" The Terran said, cheerfully. "Just think what
we could do with practice."

Alone in his ship, Pat Rin smiled. "Next, you will have us touring as
a precision flying unit."

"Something to that. We're out here if you need us, Boss. All lines
open."

Pat Rin inclined his head. "Thank you, Mr. McFarland."

"Right." The line closed.

Another deep breath and Pat Rin leaned to the board, his finger on
the switch…

The main screen flared, awash with Jump-flares—one! three!
eight! one dozen! Two!—Pat Rin snapped back, eyes narrowed,
the bands fizzing with static; and then the IDs hit, one after another,
gathering intensity, until they blurred and became a single shout; a
challenge:

Scout.

Tree-and-Dragon.

The beast had vanished entirely.

Not a little disgruntled, Agent ter'Fendil returned to the accountant's
bedside—and stared, heartbeat spiking, breath gasping—the
Loop, barely submerged since his last check, kicked in, bringing
both into normal range, but the bed—the bed remained empty;
blankets rumpled, pillow showing an indentation.

dea'Gauss was gone.

The old man was recovered.

Ren Zel smiled at his screen, attention divided between the
countdown in the lower corner and a wholly imaginary, but
completely accurate, screen in his mind.

"Go home now, beloved," he sub-vocalized.

Soon, she answered. We must wait for Merlin.

The scout ships had settled into their orbits, and if Tower had a
sharp word or two to say to them, it was on a private band and not
for the entertainment of common ships.

Steeling himself, Pat Rin extended a hand to the board. The bogus
Ring flashed and flared in the cabin's light. He touched the comm
switch.

"This is Pat Rin yos'Phelium, speaking for Korval and for the
Captain. I call on the Council of Clans to witness formal Balancing
with the Department of the Interior."

"Speaking for Korval?" Shan repeated blankly, but Priscilla had
touched a key on the captain's board, releasing the recorded warn-
away.

"Dutiful Passage, Solcintra, Liad, Captain Priscilla Mendoza. Stand
clear. Stand clear! We are on business of Korval and we are
armed." The touch of a second key sent the Tree-and-Dragon
roaring across the general band.

Silence on all bands for a heartbeat…three.

"This is Scout Commander Clonak ter'Meulen. The Scouts call the
Department of the Interior to answer for acts of murder and
mayhem. We subordinate our claim to the Captain and Korval."

Silence on the bands…

"Have you all run mad?" Solcintta Tower demanded. "There is no
Department of the Interior!"

"On the contrary," Pat Rin said. "I advise the Tower that I am
transmitting a ship's recording of an incident of attempted piracy
which took place in the sovereign space of the world Surebleak.
You will note that the Department of the Interior claims to speak for
Liad."

"Pirates, speaker-for-Korval," the Tower snapped. "Surely you
know that pirates are not bound to speak the truth!"

Silence.

Aboard Fortune's Reward, Pat Rin laughed aloud, reached to the
board—and froze.

Jump-flare distorted his screen. When the image was steady,
there were six new ships in high orbit, their IDs stark and simple.

Juntavas.

Pat Rin bit his lip, remembering the courier who had departed at
Natesa's word, leaving her partner to fly as part of this attack upon
the homeworld.

In the screen, another flare, a sharp spike of static, and a ship's ID.

Implacable. High Judge. Juntavas.

The broad band crackled, fizzed, and produced a man's voice,
speaking Liaden with a slight Terran accent.

"The Juntavas calls the Department of the Interior to answer for
acts of murder and mayhem. We subordinate our claim to Tree-
and-Dragon."

The lines were drawn, the orders given. Events were set in motion.
There was the Plan and the end of the Plan—and the alternative
plan, should, unthinkably, they fail.

Commander of Agents sat in his office, awaiting reports, and
brooded upon Korval.

Perhaps it had been error, to allow them to continue so long.
Perhaps they should have been weeded out quickly, at the very
beginning of the Work.

For look at what Korval had cost…

First, the Scouts, backed by a ship piloted by a long-missing and
presumed dead Korval elder, resist the Department's first open
action on its way to fulfilling the Plan. Nor did the Scouts retreat to
Liad, but withdrew entirely from the system…

Next, on what should have been little more than a routine pickup of
the dismissible yos'Phelium ne'er-do-well, Departmental ships
were lost in the discovery of a capable and disciplined fleet of war
vessels flying the Tree-and-Dragon in Surebleak nearspace—a
fleet led by none other than the supposed ne'er-do-well in a
surprisingly well-armed pleasure yacht.

Then, as if unconnected, comes a ship full of mercenaries to Liad
itself, claiming damage at the hands of the Department. Yet, in its
many actions the Department had never dealt with the ship or its
mercenaries.

In short order came a Korval battleship, several dozen openly
Scout vessels—and who knew how many secret ones?—a
Juntavas battleship and its escort—ah, and the Surebleak war fleet.
All sitting in orbit, shouting Tree-and-Dragon to the universe, while
here on the homeworld itself one Miri Robertson Tiazan publicly
denounced the Department and described the location of several
minor bases of operation, raising the citizenry to arms.

What more?

The Commander need not look at the charts that covered the desk.
He need not look at the screens.

For, as difficult as they had been—as costly—Korval had in its
actions against the Department revealed a weakness. There was a
discernible pattern in their actions.

On Lytaxin, according to the intercepted mercenary reports, Val
Con yos'Phelium had waited until action was in place and swept in
with aircraft, sowing confusion and winning the battle and the war at
once—all the while hiding behind the smoke-screen of his so-
called Surebleak mercenary .

At Scout Headquarters, the same pattern—from nowhere came a
ship to turn the tide of battle.

At Surebleak—a building of forces and then action by Pat Rin
yos'Phelium…

An emergency buzzer went off, startlingly loud. He touched the
comm button.

"Commander—Agent ter'Fendil. I report that the accountant is
gone. There is a cat inside the facility. My error is that I pursued,
but lost it. Upon my return to my post, I found the accountant
gone."

Commander of Agents stared. A cat, inside the facility?
Impossible. dea'Gauss, in his weakened and doubtless
disoriented state, gone? Preposterous.

And yet…

Commander of Agents stood, automatically checking the position
of his weapons.

"I will lead the search myself. Meet me in the infirmary lobby. Be
wary—we may be facing a rogue Agent of Change."

"Yes, Commander," Agent ter'Fendil said.

The Commander cut the connection, walked across his office and
put his hand against the plate set into the wall.

The scan crackled across his palm. He reached into the safe and
removed a short, squat rod, which he slipped into his sleeve.

Kilon pel'Meret held tightly to Nev Art, her heart hammering with
fear. Her son labored under no such affliction. He was enjoying
one of the great days of his life. Not only had he spotted the
soldiers walking in the park, but now came this parade of taxicabs,
each stopping at the end of the placid dead-end street to allow
even more soldiers to disembark. That these were soldiers was
not in dispute; Kilon had no trouble identifying guns, missile
launchers, backpacks.

Nev Art crowed as they dashed out of the cabs, forming into lines
and units with bewildering speed as each cab roared away, to be
replaced by another, and another, and…

"Excuse me, ma'am."

Kilon jumped back, staring up into the face of the sudden soldier.
A Terran, dark-skinned and sober, carrying a rifle in her own
streets, speaking to her in Trade. Why, she hardly ever—

"Ma'am?" he said again. "Please. We're holding a taxi for you and
the boy."

"See, Thawla, I bet they're going after the Yxtrang I saw," Nev Art
cried. And then, to the soldier, "Are you? Are you an admiral?"

"No." The man smiled as he answered, a slow smile. "I never do
want to be an admiral, boy." He looked at Kilon, and pointed to the
right, where indeed there was a taxicab, pulled slightly to one side
of the street.

"I insist, ma'am. Please take the taxi. There's likely to be trouble
and—"

"Ten'shun!" A large voice bellowed from lines of soldiers. "Group
One, double time, move out!"

Kilon looked about wildly. "Trouble? Trouble? Soldiers in the street
is trouble!"

The soldiers did something—one moment they had been still as
rocks; the next, one group was spread out and hurrying toward the
park, while another group broke away, trotting down the street
toward the office complex.

Their own soldier waved at one of his comrades, and said to Kilon,
"There's a good chance we'll be using weapons ma'am. I'm sorry.
You've got to leave!"

"I saw the Yxtrang!" Nev Art announced, tugging so hard against
her hand that she almost lost him. "I want to talk to them!"

The second soldier had waved the taxi close, and opened the
door.

"You've got good eyes, youngster, if you saw the 'trang," the first
soldier said. "Just remember what they looked like, and get into the
cab."

Behind them someone yelled, "Group Three, weapons check!"
followed by a loud series of clicks and slaps, and, "Arm your
weapons!"

Kilon flung back, found her arm caught, not ungently, by the dark-
faced soldier. "Calm down…" he began, and was interrupted by
the arrival of yet another man, much lighter of face.

He bowed, recognizably the bow of a ranking public servant to
person of unknown melant'i, and said in curiously accented Liaden,
"I am Commander Higdon. This way, please, civilians must clear
the area. I would not want to have to detain you."

He offered her a card, and automatically she took it, and was
somehow gently pushed into the taxi, the while her son was
proclaiming, "Yxtrang and soldiers, can't we stay?"

The dark soldier handed the driver a twelfth-cantra piece.

"Take them wherever they want to go that's more than five minutes
from here. If there's any change from that give it to the kid."

"Look!" Nev Art shouted in her ear. "Big guns, Thawla!"

The cab accelerated into a turn, flinging Kilon sideways in the back
seat, so she never did see what her son was pointing at. She
righted herself, glancing down at the card she still held in her hand,
as the cab slewed 'round a corner.

Higdon's Howlers, the Trade words stated. Military missions.
Security to mayhem. Guaranteed service.

The Department had long planned for this day. There was an
undercurrent of expectation in the control room as the master
switch was unshielded; the communications web checked; the
technicians readied.

Before them the situation screen was clear; several orbiting
stations would soon be under the direct control of the Department,
and the destroyer Heart of Solcintra, long disguised as a freighter
undergoing retrofitting, was already rising to orbit.

In the control room, they awaited the Commander's word. When it
came, the flip of the master switch would shunt control of the
planetary defense web from Solcintra port to the Department's
control room, the power flowing from the selfsame uninterruptible
source which supplied the portmaster's office.

The call came; the switch was activated. The screens came live;
satellites and warning systems revealed their locations, weapon
status, the locations of potential targets…

On the control board, an emergency light was blinking— not
unexpected with so many ships coming in. An auxiliary monitor
displayed the message Captain's Emergency in the lower left
corner.

In the main screens, the stations, the destroyer, the satellites, the
ships—

The master technician swore and leaned to her board.

Not a single Korval ship showed on the screens. Dutiful Passage
was not there. Treacherous Fortune's Reward did not show. There
was no range on Korval's four killer ships from Surebleak…

But something was moving, near Station Three.

The master tech upped magnification, as the comm came alive
with a shrill, "Danger! Danger! Hostile action on Station Three! Nine
wounded, one dead…"

Ship ID came out: Lifeboat A off of Jacksbucket Three, Terraport.
Somehow, it had escaped the Department's absorption of Station
Three.

"Danger! Danger!" the Terran ship screamed, across all open
bands, putting similar actions on the remainder of Liad's orbital
stations at risk.

The merest touch of a dial and the proper blast-satellite was
located. The master technician fed in the firing sequence.

Nothing happened.

The tech touched another switch, invoked a back up screen—

Nothing.

"Check the lines," she snapped, to this aide. "Recycle the
interface," to that one; and—"Rebooting…"

All for naught. The screen steadfastly refused to show any ship
flying the Tree-and-Dragon. And the controls remained
unresponsive.

Finally, an aide selected the flashing Captain's Emergency on the
auxiliary monitor.

During a Captain's Emergency control of the planetary defense
system is invested in the Captain or assigns. There will be a one
minute warning when control is reassigned to the port office.

The master tech went to manual and ordered the nearest
defensive device to use a pulse-beam against the fleeing escape
pod.

Nothing happened.

"Alert Heart of Soldntra," she said to the comm-tech.

The most potent dramliza on the planet stood at bay, cornered in a
corridor leading to the sealed rooms. She held in her arms a rather
large gray cat. Behind her, leaning against the stainless steel wall
for support, was dea'Gauss, shivering.

Agent ter'Fendil had alerted what few fellow Agents remained at
headquarters. They'd spread out from the infirmary, in a circular
search-pattern, and had also triggered an automated rotating check
of the internal sensors that had been turned off to conserve
power— and which had ironically permitted the man responsible
for the loss of power to escape. And quickly found him.

But not alone. It was obvious that the prisoner could not have risen
from his bed without serious assistance from the woman holding
the cat. It was equally obvious that, even with that assistance, his
strength was fading, and would soon fail.

The woman was far more than the Commander had expected.
Despite that she was dressed in the torn remnants of what had
been formal Council attire, and that her face was dirty, she stood
calm and alert before the not inconsiderable threat of three armed
Agents.

She might well, the Commander thought, have a gun beneath the
cat, or a bomb, or knife, or only her hands. The fact that she stood
in this hallway at all meant that she was competent enough to make
it past the outgoing attack teams without attracting notice. Worse, it
meant that she had managed to avoid the carefully placed external
sensors, and that she had slipped past guards on alert.

This was not someone to trifle with, despite her reported softness.

Without warning, the cat moved, flowing soundlessly out of the
woman's arms—and fled away down the hall.

No one gave chase. They could take care of it later. The problem
now was the woman, as she stood, catless, but holding a scout-
issue pistol, pointed at the Commander's mid-section.

He inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment.

She said nothing; the gun remained steady.

"Danger! Danger! Hostile action on Station Three!"

Fortune's Reward located the source of the warning, and opened a
window in the forward screen, showing Pat Rin an unarmed life
pod, tumbling free of that same Station Three.

"Nine wounded, one dead! Hostile action on Station Three!
Danger! Ho, the port!"

Tower came on-line, reciting coords for an emergency descent.
Pat Rin watched the life pod move, clumsily, into compliance—and
the glare of a beam weapon flashed across his screen.

"No!" he shouted, slapping up the magnification.

But, yes. The pod was gone, leaving a slight drift of debris along its
descent path. Obligingly, Fortune's Reward redrew the detail
window, tracing the path of the beam back to the originating vessel.

From the closed comm, Andy Mack's voice.

"I got a clear line to the bastid, Boss."

Pat Rin nodded. "Fire at will, Colonel."

Val Con led, now, Sheather and Nelirikk at his back. The lower
service ways were empty, which was not surprising.

The Commander would surely have heard the Passage arrive in
orbit, weapons hot and warn-away blaring. From it, he would have
deduced Val Con's presence on-world. Being a bold man, he
would have seen this circumstance as opportunity. If the
Commander played well and audaciously now, the Department
stood to win all: the extinction of Korval and the fruition of the Plan.

The goal was a man-high section of stainless steel access hatches
built into the wall of a particular inner corridor. Behind those
hatches were the cables, pipes, wires, and comm-fibers that
connected and powered the facility and allowed the Commander to
reach his hand out to the universe.

That the corridor in question was off one leading to the
Commander's office was beside the point.

The hallway ahead was intersected by another. Val Con checked
his inner map, and raised a hand. Behind him, Sheather and
Nelirikk halted. Val Con proceeded at a crouch, hugging the wall,
slipping his gun from its holster.

At the intersection of the hallways, he eased the safety off, and
listened. He heard nothing but the hum of the air purification
system, yet his hunch was that there was…something in the hall
beyond.

Moving so slowly he scarcely seemed to be moving at all, he
leaned forward, peering 'round the corner—

Directly into a pair of yellow eyes.

"Merlin?" Val Con breathed.

The yellow eyes blinked, happily, and Merlin burbled. Tail held
high, he danced forward, stropped Val Con's leather-clad knee
once, and strutted away importantly, pausing only once to look over
his shoulder and be sure Val Con was paying attention. Since he
was leading in the direction they needed to go, they followed, with
Sheather drawing a long crystal blade as he hurried along.

The lifeboat was gone, vaporized.

Miri was bent over the schematic, swearing softly and continuously.
She had an ID on the murderer—one Heart of Solcintra, claiming to
be a freighter—but no clean shots. No shots at all, really, unless
she wanted to go through a scout ship, a can carrier and a
Juntavas courier to get her target, which did sorta seem a waste of
allies and innocents.

A detail window blossomed in the corner of the situation
screen—at least someone had a clear shot! The debris and gases
of the lifepod lit in a lambent glow, and the destroyer itself was
illuminated in a rush of scintillant brilliance. There was a flare then
as the destroyer's shield went up and Miri could trace the beam to
its source—one of the four monstrosities Jeeves assured her were
nothing more exotic than asteroid miners.

There was sudden glare as the destroyer's shields were
overwhelmed, and an odd coruscating flash as the mining beam
oscillated the length and breadth of the target. The ship's hull
expanded, peeled away, dissolved into a plasma of metal,
evaporated before the beam, and then the seven decks could be
seen clearly for a moment, as in some illustrator's cut-away of a
slowly rotating warcraft. Multiple internal explosions speckled the
obscuring mist and in one last flicker of the planet-killer ray—

Heart of Solcintra was gone.

"Of course you realize," the Commander said, "that this cannot last
long. We are several, you are one—and time sides with us. We
merely need wait until your qe'andra collapses."

"Perhaps you overestimate your advantages," Anthora yos'Galan
said, and her voice was soft and husky.

"Commander!" The aide's voice preceded her around the
corner—she stopped, amazed at the tableau before her.

"Report!" the Commander ordered.

She bowed, hastily, one eye on the woman with the gun. "The
planetary defense grid has been subverted by Korval."

Of course. Commander of Agents pointed at Agent of Change
bin'Tabor.

"Give the command for the air units to attack Jelaza Kazone at low
level. Detach a ground force to—"

"Give no command," said Anthora yos'Galan, her voice firm and
gentle.

The Agent stood as if rooted.

"I command it," Commander of Agents snapped, and saw the man
stir. "Bring in the air units and—"

"Be still," said Anthora yos'Galan; and the Agent froze. "I see," said
Commander of Agents, and raised his gun.

There were voices ahead, and a better lit corridor. Merlin strolled
on, unconcerned. The rest of the invasion force shrank back into
the plentiful shadows.

Came the hurried clatter of someone who was not an Agent in the
halls. They remained in the shadows, despite a complaining burble
from Merlin—and then moved, cautiously, on.

"Commander!" came the call from the hallway they approached;
the answering voice sent a thrill down Val Con's spine.

"Report!"

The words grew indistinct and the invaders, weapons ready,
ghosted quickly to the intersection. Val Con spied 'round the
corner, and swallowed hard against a surge of sheer horror.

His sister Anthora, trapped by two Agents and the Commander
himself, using her body to shield one who could only be Mr.
dea'Gauss, but a dea'Gauss diminished and desperately ill. She
held a gun, true enough, but so did her opponents. If all fired at
once, even a dramliza—

The Commander raised his weapon. The Agents raised theirs. The
aide gasped and bolted.

From the shadowed floor leapt a large gray cat, wrapping itself
around the Commander's arm, pulling the gun down. A pellet
whined by Val Con's ear as he jumped forward, his own gun out
and up…

Training had prepared Agent ter'Fendil to face an opponent with a
blade, a gun, or even a security dog. The apparition attacking the
Commander bore no relationship to training—and he dared not fire
again for fear of endangering the Commander. He reversed his
gun, meaning to club the thing—

"Hold!" Anthora shouted, her voice a-glitter with power. "Do not
move!"

Val Con kept moving, firing into the face of an Agent. Merlin
snarled and dug his claws in the harder…

Everyone else in the hallway froze in place: ter'Fendil with his gun
reversed, Sheather, his blade raised as if to behead him; Nelirikk,
aim locked on the Commander.

The Commander struggled, as pain overrode the compulsion to
stillness. But for Merlin's growls, there was silence in the hallway.
The sound of dea'Gauss collapsing to the floor was loud—and so,
too, was the sudden wail of alarms, and the sound of running feet.

Sheather shook himself; lowered his blade, and bowed in
Anthora's direction.

"As you say."

The murderer was gone; destroyed at his word. For the second
time in his life, he had killed a ship. Pat Rin touched a switch,
opening the comm line between himself and those sworn to serve
him.

"Well done, Colonel," he said calmly.

"Thank you, sir," Andy Mack replied formally.

"First class shooting," Dostie chimed in, just ahead of Bhupendra's
satisfied, "we teach the enemy to fear us."

"Which ain't exactly," Cheever McFarland added, "an unmixed
blessing." He paused. "How many of them ships out there can we
count on as back up, Boss? The battlewagon?"

Dutiful Passage, that would be, and a question near to his own
heart and peace. That it was captained by Priscilla Mendoza,
Shan's first mate and longtime lover, was…disturbing. And yet…

Pat Rin leaned to the comm. "I shall attempt to ascertain, Mr.
McFarland. In the meanwhile, do me the kindness of speaking with
the High Judge, as my deputy."

"Will do," Cheever said, as easily as if he spoke to such august
persons daily, and signed off.

Pat Rin did the same, and sat for a moment, hands folded, as he
gathered his courage—though what had he to fear? Priscilla
Mendoza was well-known to him as a kind and generous lady. He
had no need nor reason to fear her. Indeed, he could be certain
that she would tell him, at long last, the truth.

The truth.

He reached to the board once more, fingering the keys with care,
accessing the most secret Korval band…

"Well met, kinsman!" Shan's voice flowed cheerily into the cabin,
as clear as if his cousin sat in the co-pilot's chair. Pat Rin closed
his eyes, fingers gripping the edge of the board.

"Well met," he answered, shakily, knowing Shan would hear the
tears in his reply, and caring not at all. "How fares the clan?"

"As it happens, we thrive—the more so now that the one who had
fallen off-grid is returned to us. You must tell me all about your
holiday—later. For the moment—rest assured that the Passage
stands at your back as you speak for Korval. Oh, and check in with
Jeeves, will you?"

"Jeeves?" Pat Rin cleared his throat. "Yes, I will. Shan—"

"Softly," his cousin interrupted, not ungently. "We cannot know that
the line remains secure."

"Of course." He drew a careful breath. "Until soon, cousin."

"Until soon, Pat Rin. Stay the course."

The connection light went out.

"How fare we, my brother?" Sheather inquired from his position as
guard over the Commander, who lay unconscious, savaged hand
hastily wrapped in a shirt.

Val Con was rapidly divesting Agent ter'Fendil of the tools of his
trade: knives, smoke-gas pellets, garrote, capsules filled with
poison, cunning button-sized explosives; the wallet, with its
generous destructive possibilities; the boots, the interesting little
blade under the sock, various guns in a diversity of calibers…

They had concealed themselves in the Commander's office—a
questionable solution, at best. The advantages of the situation
included a door that would not yield to the searchers, and access
to the Commander's files, computers and comms. That there was
no easy escape was…annoying.

Val Con removed a selection of pins and wires from the seams of
Agent ter'Fendil's vest.

"We are in some disarray, I fear," he said to Sheather. "Behind
enemy lines, burdened by prisoners and casualties…" He glanced
over his shoulder to the place where Anthora kept watch over their
two injured—an old man and an ancient gray cat—and returned to
his task.

"On the whole, it would be best if we simply melted away into the
night…"

As if to underscore the whimsy of that expressed desire, the
loudspeaker in the ceiling gave tongue: "Intruder alert! Multiple
intruders on Level Seven…"

"Enough." Val Con pushed the Agent against the wall, under
Sheather's watchful blade, and edged past Nelirikk, who was
happily removing the travel packing from their supply of explosives.

At the Commander's desk, he sat, and reached for the comm.

The access codes changed frequently, according to a pattern
imbedded in the Loop of every Agent. Val Con frowned at the
comm, trying to reconstruct the barely-glimpsed pattern—and,
suddenly, gently, in the space behind his eyes that had previously
been reserved for Loop display, there hung an access code.

Something had gone terribly wrong.

Ren Zel felt himself a man of two separate but equal parts.

One part sat his board on the bridge of the Dutiful Passage,
attending the minutia of piloting, monitoring the various bands that
told of mayhem and dismay on the nearer stations, and minding his
shields most closely.

The second part knelt next to Anthora on a cold metal floor, one
hand on the chest of an old and fragile man, the other on the
laboring side of a valiant gray cat.

"What's amiss?" he asked and felt her sigh.

"Mr. dea'Gauss must have a 'doc—and that soon. Merlin—he has
been shot. I cannot—quite—understand how badly he is wounded.
If I could but take both home…I have tried bespeaking the Tree,
and there is no answer. We are trapped here."

"Are you?" He glanced around the cold metal room, seeing the
golden lines running pure and true. "Perhaps not."

Fingers poised above the comm, Val Con considered the access
code hanging just behind his eyes.

"Brother!" Anthora's voice was sharp with urgency.

He spun, heart clenched in fear of hearing the old man's death—
but no. His sister was standing tall, face animated—even eager.

"I require aid," she said quickly. "Do you put dea'Gauss on my
back and I shall take him to Jelaza Kazone."

He blinked. Anthora was a wizard of some note, true enough, but…

"Will you walk through walls?" he asked.

She nodded. "I will. Assist me."

In the end, it required Nelirikk to gently lift dea'Gauss onto
Anthora's back. Val Con lashed the man's wrists together on her
breast, and used a length of fuse to tie them both 'round the waist.

"If I am able to return, I will do so," she said, breathless with
bearing the unaccustomed burden. "Merlin…"

"If you make it to safety, you will remain there," Val Con said firmly.
"We shall care for Merlin—and ourselves." He stepped back,
waving at Nelirikk to do the same.

"If you are able, now is the time," he murmured.

"Yes." Slowly, awkward with the added weight, she walked directly
toward the wall.

There was a flash of golden light, and an instant when the metal
went to fog—then Anthora, and Mr. dea'Gauss, were gone.

"Jela's blood produces many wonders," Nelirikk commented, and
returned to the unpacking of explosives.

After a moment, Val Con went back to the comm, and tapped in
the code he had been given.

The unit light went from red to green. Scarcely daring to breathe,
Val Con punched in the code for Jeeves' private line.

"Jelaza Kazone."

Val Con sat down in the Commander's chair.

"This is Korval," he said, keeping his voice steady, despite his
foolishly pounding heart. "Pray confirm my ID. Also, please put a
tracer on this call. Let Miri know that we are well, at liberty,
but…contained. How stands the action?"

"ID confirmed. Miri will be informed. Working. How wide a theater?"

"Entire."

A small pause.

"The planetary defense net is ours," Jeeves said. "We control near
space. A warship of the Department of the Interior has been
destroyed by one of Lord Pat Rin's vessels. Dutiful Passage has
been pressed into service for back up and link duty. Scout and
Juntavas forces are prepared to allow Tree-and-Dragon central
command if action is necessary."

"Jeeves, forgive me—Lord Pat Rin's forces?"

"Yes, quite an elegant group of ships flying Tree-and-Dragon,
perfect for a low key planetary embargo, insurrection control, or as
siege ships. They are precisely disciplined and well-crewed."

Ah, are they? And how came Pat Rin by such ships? Val Con
moved his shoulders, putting aside such questions in favor of
those more pressing.

"Planetary?" he asked Jeeves.

"Much of the planet is calm; Solcintra Portmaster has issued a
flight hiatus, incidentally warning Captain Mendoza that her license
is in danger. Solcintra City is not calm. There are riots in strategic
locations, and we have signs of enemy action in Low Port.
Higdon's Howlers are active at your location and at the spaceport.
Here, we have withstood several attempts at penetration and
anticipate—pardon, working…" .

Across the room, Sheather moved, knife flashing. There was a
scream—of metal, as the blade sheared through the floor.
"Brother, he has initiated a device!"

The Commander's hand was still wrapped in his shirt; Nelirikk
sprang forward and jerked the covering off, forcing the clenched
hand open…

"Scout." He threw the object; Val Con snatched it out of the air and
stared down at it—a short and stubby wand, its surface studded
with tiny buttons and switches…

Agent ter'Fendil shrank against the wall, staring at the Commander
in horror.

"You've given them orders. But—"

"…working!" Jeeves voice came out of the comm. "Alert! There
has been a sixty thousand fold increase in neutrino emissions from
Liad. Triangulation places the source at your location. Suggest
immediate evacuation of all personnel."

Nelirikk had dragged the Commander up by the back of his collar.
He shook him, as a dog shakes a rat. "Inform me!"

The Commander said nothing.

"The level of neutrino flux is consistent with old-style timonium
powered armored units," Jeeves said. "Suggest immediate
evacuation."

"Brother," Sheather said. "Something of much power is in motion.
It moves strangely…" He turned and placed his three fingered
hand flat against the wall.

"It comes…"

There was fighting on the stations, there was fighting in the streets.
Status reports poured in steadily, until Miri felt like she was
drowning in details.

The Department's base in the commercial district of Solcintra city
had been taken by an angry mob, led, she strongly suspected, by
scouts—a victory for the angels, except for the civilians dead, of
course.

Closer to the port, the news wasn't so good—the mob there had
been repelled, expensively. Word was that there was a regroup in
process.

Low Port was the worry—there'd been a couple unanticipated
explosions. There were scouts there, too, trying to organize an
evacuation.

The wall of books to her left shimmered and went foggy, for all the
world like Clutch drive affect.

Miri blinked and came half out of her chair, too tired to even swear
at the pain in her arm.

The books solidified and suddenly she wasn't alone. A dark-haired
woman with an old man tied across her back was swaying in front
of the bookcase.

"Help," she said.

There was a crashing sound behind the wall, and another.

"…Autonomous Semi-sentient Policing Systems," Jeeves said; "or
ASPS. They were deployed a number of times on outworlds, for
the most part disastrously, which resulted in public backlash
against applications of such technology to civilian situations. I was
once assigned as back up, and then lead control in a military
operation designed to rid a world of the devices…approximately
seventeen million dead as a result of erroneous deployment…"

"You must define the enemy or they will destroy everything," Agent
ter'Fendil said. He lurched to his feet, ignoring Sheather, his
blade—and the Commander, who was all at once on his feet, a
plain metal blade in his good hand, slashing at the unprotected
back—— ter'Fendil spun, Agent-quick, slapped the knife away,
closing and twisting, taking advantage of his adversary's
momentum—

The Commander's neck broke with a snap. Agent ter'Fendil
dropped the body and shrank back, staring.

"…do not draw attention to yourself in any circumstances…"

Jeeves was saying, over the clanking in the hallway.

Vail Con slapped up the screen, accessed the hallway camera,
and sucked in his breath.

Thee hall was blocked with objects—four objects, in fact. Each as
large; as Edger, all of deep green metal, all bearing large Terran
numerals—Val Con saw numbers 1, 3, 15…

"…energy spike entirely consistent with an intact ASPS unit…" the
voice continued from the comm.

"Jeeeves, I confirm such a unit. Options?"

"Evacuate immediately. General use explosives slow them down;
the most effective resistance, aside from vaporization, is placing
obstructions in their way or dropping things on them. When first
mobilized they are methodical unless one triggers a self-defense
program…"

"The control." Agent ter'Fendil was beside him. "They will destroy
the planet. Give me the control."

Val Con looked at him, seeing honest fear in the Agent's eyes.
"Can they be turned off?"

"There is a resting state, yes."

From the hallway outside, screams and the sounds of rending.

Val Con handed Agent ter'Fendil the control wand.

The old gent was settled in the autodoc. Miri leaned against the
unit, feeling a kind of hum in her bones, which was probably the
'doc working, and which she shouldn't have noticed at all.

Am arm's length away, Anthora yos'Galan slumped in a massively
carved chair, eyes closed and voice low as she complied with
Miri's request to be brought up to speed.

She was doing a good job, hitting the high points and not wasting
any words, and Miri wasn't much liking what she heard.

"They're surrounded," she said, by way of a sum-up when the low,
careful voice came to an end. "And trapped." She bit her lip. "We
can bust them out, but we're gonna need coords for that room.
Think you can work with Jeeves and figure it?"

Anthora shook her head. "Going in, the Tree provided the path.
Ren Zel showed me the way out."

Right. The hum from the 'doc was making her twitchy. Miri
straightened out of her lean and looked down at the kid in the chair,
hating what she was about to ask.

"So, you can get the Tree to provide a path back in, right? And this
time, we'll rig you up with a findme, and—"

Anthora opened her eyes. Silver-blue, like Shan's, wide-spaced
and dreamy-looking—which Shan's weren't. "Val Con said, if I got
to safety, to stay there."

Miri sighed. "Yeah, well. Val Con says a lot of stupid things,
especially where it bears on somebody he cares about maybe
getting hurt. Figures he's tough enough to take his licks and ours,
too. Also figures he's fast enough to outrun most common trouble.
Sometimes, he's right; sometimes, he's lucky. This time, he needs
help. That's us."

"You don't understand," Anthora said. "Val Con said, if I got to
safety, to stay there. I cannot return."

Miri closed her eyes, counted to ten, and tried it again. "Val Con's
half of one good delm." She reached inside her shirt and brought
the Ring up on its cord, so the kid could see it. "I'm the other half.
I'll make it an order, if I have to."

Anthora shook her head. 'You do not understand," she repeated.
"Val Con—I am forbidden. He has this ability. I cannot return."

"I just saw you walk through a wall" Miri started—and blinked, as
various memories from a young adulthood that was absolutely not
hers unfolded, neatly, before her mind's eye.

"You're talking dramliza talent," she said to Anthora's soft silver
eyes. "He can tell you no and make it stick."

"He can do it to Priscilla, too," Anthora offered helpfully.

"Great," Miri said, thinking that if there were one person in the
universe who had to be a dramliza-brake, of course it would be—

"Miri." Jeeves' voice flowed out of the room speakers. "You are
needed in the control room. A situation is developing."

The last charge was laid; the last timer set.

Val Con dropped out of the repair hatch to the floor below,
counting in his head.

Six minutes before the charges blew, burying the ASPS unit in
rubble. Three minutes from his location to the rendezvous point.
Two minutes to the surface.

Plenty of time.

"Lord Pat Rin, your timing is impeccable, sir," Jeeves said—and
surely, Pat Rin thought, it was an artifact of the transmission that
yos'Galan's butler sounded breathless? "We have a situation.
Stand by, of your goodness, while I ascertain…"

There was silence, though the connect light remained steady. Pat
Rin recruited himself to patience which was very shortly rewarded.

"Working," Jeeves announced. "You will understand that control of
the planetary defense net resides under the Captain's hand during
this present time of emergency."

Pat Rin all but smiled. "Ah, does it? That will certainly expedite
matters, should it become necessary to fire upon the planet.
However—"

"Precisely," the robot said, cutting him off ruthlessly. "It is exactly
the subject of firing upon the planet that must now be addressed.
The nature of the fleet you chose to field dictates your task. It will
shortly be necessary to fire upon Solcintra City. Coordinates and
ranging will be supplied."

Necessary to fire upon Solcintra? Pat Rin closed his eyes. He had,
of course, known that it might come to firing upon the
homeworld—why else had he brought destroyers with him? Truth
told, he had pinned his hope on the Council of Clans, that the all-
too-public crying of Balance would flush the Department of the
Interior onto the surface, where it might be dealt with as any other
transgressor against the Code.

"Lord Pat Rin?"

"One moment," he managed, holding up a hand that the robot
could not see. "Jeeves, how is it necessary that we fire upon
Solcintra, now? There has been no time for the Council to speak,
nor time for the Department of the Interior to make answer…"

"The Department has made answer," Jeeves said. "Certain
intelligence reports, confirmed by direct observation of trusted
parties, indicate that the Department of the Interior has deployed
timonium powered weapons capable of overwhelming anything that
Liad may bring against them on the ground. The planetary defense
net is unable—by its nature—to effect an attack against a target
situated upon the planet." There was a pause, then Jeeves
continued, hurriedly.

"It is my estimate that a failure to destroy these weapons in short
order will lead to planetary disaster. In fact, it is necessary to fire
upon the planet, bringing destruction to a portion of the city, in
order to preserve the greater part. Your vessels are uniquely fitted
to this task. Dutiful Passage, for instance, may only deploy a broad
beam—far more destructive than those precision cutting units
borne by your fleet."

"There are people in that city!" Pat Rin snapped.

"There are. Evacuation has been sounded. I expect confirmation
from teams shortly. In the meantime, steps are being taken to
contain the targets." Another pause, then, with a gentleness a robot
could certainly never feel—

"It is our intention to destroy as small an area as possible.
However, we dare not err by the application of too little force.
People will die, despite the call for evacuation and the best efforts
of the teams. But more people will die, if the enemy is not
destroyed."

Pat Rin bowed his head.

"I understand. I will require data."

"Uploading," Jeeves said promptly.

Diglon Rifle waited patiently for his next target. So far he had taken
seven shots with this light rifle borrowed from Commander
Carmody's troop; he felt confident of five hits.

Nearby, Commander Call-Me-Liz-Lizardi was speaking quietly into
a comm unit. His duty was to guard her and to watch for breakouts
at the door which was, by now, well shattered, and partly filled with
bodies.

Their position was excellent—they had a large stone monument for
cover when they stood, and a stone wall, half buried on the other
side with soil, for cover when they sniped…

Hazenthull Explorer had not shot as much as he, but perhaps with
more accuracy. The commander had told them to conserve their
ammunition, and to be prepared to act as rearguard if need
be—and to be rearguard with such as she, whose exploits were
writ on books and worlds forever, such was a fate a solider could
embrace.

There came another one of those slight shakes of the ground, and
a vibration that was longer. He was leaning against the monument,
his face feeling the stone—and…there was a shake, a—

"Explorer!" he called. "Something happens here!"

Hazenthull gave an assent signal, indicated to the commander that
she was moving his way…

"Feel," he whispered to her, pushing fingers to the stone.
"Equipment!"

She looked at him in startlement, felt the stone herself, then leaned
her ear against it.

Abruptly there was grinding noise close to hand and she jerked
back, dragging Diglon with her.

A seam in the granite shivered, clunked, shrugged—and slid
quietly into the rest of the monument, revealing a metal wall.
Almost immediately that wall moved aside, and smoke billowed
free, carrying the smell perhaps of burnt meat. From within the
monument came the scout, Nelirikk Explorer, and another, with
blood on his cheek—pushing the Honored One, guiding him into
the light…

The scout was cradling something precious against his chest; gun
held ready in his free hand. He looked around, caught Diglon's eye,
smiled, and thrust the gray fur ball into his hands, saying in Troop,
"Protect this hero from harm. Move away, move away! "

That quickly he was gone, dashing back to the monument,
bending, making some unseen adjustment. There was a repeat of
the clanking and grinding; the door shut, and the monument was as
it had been.

"Medic! Medic!" yelled Commander Liz, and waved to him in his
new troop-sign: fast march that way…

They all started running then, away from the monument and the
fighting in the street, and when the ground rumbled and knocked
them down, the monument swayed and great gouts of smoke and
flame blew out of it, into the pale green sky.

The breeze was fairly stiff, blowing away from the city center and—
by extrapolation—away from Jelaza Kazone and Korval's valley.

"…not never meant for atmospheric work…damn, but look at that!"
That was Andy Mack, muttering publicly under his breath.

Everyone else—including the usually irrepressible Cheever
McFarland —remained silent as rug mites, watching their separate
screens and the results of their labors. There was fire—not all of
Solcintra could be spared, no matter how precise the aiming
Jeeves had contrived—and a black spout of soot and ash leaning
away from the city. Already there was a darkening that was not
mere shadow as the heaviest debris fell in a kind of non-volcanic
pumice.

Pat Rin switched views quickly. Not all of the smoke above the city
had its birth in their attack. Portions of Low Port and Mid Port were
aflame, and elsewhere there were reports of scattered violence.
The portmaster's jury-rigged comm was demanding answers,
demanding control of the planetary net, demanding that the
mercenary units vacate the planet, demanding Korval's
surrender…

That last had brought a burst of laughter from several of his crew
members; then Jeeves had once again brought their attention to
the task at hand and they fired what Pat Rin hoped was the last
blast at the city he'd called home.

Jeeves supplied them with several views of the target now. The
beams, meant to slice and cut, had done just that, lancing through
the atmosphere of Liad in unison from the four mining craft, each
cutting its own edge of a box centered on a green park and then
crisscrossing toward the center. The initial gout of reflective white
smoke had given way quickly to a dense ash-filled swirl, and then
when the interior of the buried domain was opened there had been
explosions…

The while, Jeeves had spoken in the background, calmly
instructing and coaxing minute beam corrections until at last, for
good or for ill, the thing was finished.

Now, from above, Pat Rin, saw the terminator on the planet clearly
as his ship entered shadow. Soon, night would fall on Solcintra. He
wondered if anyone there would be able to sleep.
Day 56
Standard Year 1393
Solcintra
Liad

"Mr. McFarland, I thank you for your care, but I scarcely need
security in the very heart of Solcintra."

The big Terran sighed. "Boss, use your head. Ships under your
command fired on the planet not all that long ago." He held up a
hand. "Yeah, we did for a good reason and likely saved a buncha
folks their hides, if not exactly their homes. And we can take it as
given the evacuation missed somebody—probably more than a
couple somebodies. And there's a big glassy hole in the planet
where we beamed them 'bots into vapor.

"All of which says to me that there're some who ain't gonna be real
pleased to see you."

Pat Rin closed his eyes. True enough, he thought. Nor would it do
to deprive the delm of the honor of dealing appropriately with
Korval's erring child Pat Rin by getting himself murdered
beforehand.

"Besides," Cheever said. "Natesa'd chew me out good if I let
somethin' happen to you."

Natesa.

"Your point is taken, Mr. McFarland."

He opened his eyes, checked the gun in its hidden pocket, pulled
the jacket into seemliness—and paused, his fingers tightening on
the leather. Jacket, he thought. This jacket. Before Korval.

Pat Rin yos'Phelium, you are a fool.

"Boss?"

He smoothed the sleeves, feigning a finicky lordling's care, buying
time—a few moments, only; long enough for his heart to stop
pounding so, and for his face to find the proper expression of cool
neutrality. What, after all, was a pilot's jacket, when he already wore
a ring?

"Something I oughta know?" Cheever McFarland asked.

Jacket settled, he looked up into the face of his oathsworn, seeing
worry and…care in the strong lines. Gods, when had Cheever
McFarland's face become as precious to him as kin?

He inclined his head.

"There is something you should know, yes," he said, deliberately
cold. "When we are with my cousin Val Con, you will forget that you
are armed. You will protest nothing that may happen while he and
I…converse." He looked closely into the Terran's eyes. "I will not
insult you by asking for your oath on this. I will merely remind you
that—I am the boss. Is this understood?"

Cheever's face tightened, but—"Yessir," he said, mildly enough.

"Good," Pat Rin murmured.

Something was bad wrong, Cheever decided as Pat Rin bowed to
the young buck from Binjali's who'd won the brief bowli ball game
for the right to play taxi, and turned to look at the building where Val
Con yos'Phelium had set up a temporary headquarters.

The slim shoulders rose and fell inside the leather jacket, then Pat
Rin was gone, walking steadily across the street, head up, back
straight. Cussing softly, Cheever went after him.

The door was flanked by two soldiers, male and female, each
massing about as much as Cheever did. The male dropped his
rifle across the door, barring the way.

"Name is?" the female asked, her Trade carrying a heavy accent
that Cheever didn't quite place. "Business is?"

"My name is Pat Rin yos'Phelium Clan Korval. I have come to
speak with my kinsman, Val Con yos'Phelium, on business of the
clan."

"Hah." She snapped her fingers, the rifle was lifted away, and Pat
Rin walked on, Cheever at his back.

They went down a short hallway, following the sound of voices to a
room cluttered with people and equipment. Pat Rin hesitated on
the threshold, scanning the crowd, maybe. A woman in working
leathers pushed by, and ran down the hall. Still, Pat Rin stood
there, oblivious to the jostling.

Suddenly, he moved, striding purposefully across the room toward
a knot of people in leathers, uniforms, and Low Port motley. A dark
haired man in working leathers turned his head, said a quick word
to the group and stepped forward, hands extended, smiling across
a face so familiar that Cheever had to shake his head and look
again—by which time Pat Rin was on his knees before the younger
edition of himself, forehead on the floor, the back of his neck
exposed and vulnerable.

Something moved across the busy room. Val Con glanced aside
and saw two pilots approaching, the Liaden walking with purpose;
the Terran—

"A moment," he said quickly to the cluster of scouts, and went
forward, hands extended in welcome.

"Cousin, well-met!"

Pat Rin flung to his knees, face against the floor. Behind him, the
Terran slammed to a halt, openly shocked.

Val Con looked down at the exposed neck, at the dark hair curling
softly, several fingers longer than its accustomed length, and the
smooth, unmarred leather of the Jump pilot's jacket.

"As ill as that?" he murmured and bent forward, checking when he
sensed the big man start.

Looking up, he met the man's eyes. "I will not hurt him."

The Terran nodded, brusquely. "Right."

Carefully, Val Con bent and put a hand on a bowed shoulder. The
muscles were rock hard. "Come, cousin," he said softly. "You'd
best tell me."

Nothing. Then, slowly, Pat Rin straightened. Val Con dropped
lightly to one knee, putting them at the same level. Pat Rin, he saw,
had lost weight; his face was chapped, as if he had spent too much
time out in the cold; and there were new lines around his mouth
and eyes.

"My lifemate and my oathsworn are blameless," he said, in the
mode of transgressor to delm. "I claim all."

"Ever more terrifying," Val Con returned, lightly, deliberately, in the
Low Tongue. "Pray reveal at once the horrific crimes of which they
are innocent."

Pat Rin raised his left hand, on which gleamed Korval's—no.

"Ah, I see. Very prettily done, too. Though they should have been
more careful about the emeralds."

The edge of a smile glimmered. "Just so." The smile faded, and
he moved his hand again; light ran liquid over dragon scale and
leaf.

"Using this, I have subjugated a world to my necessity. I have allied
with the Juntavas. I have made promises in Korval's name. I have
put things…into motion…"

"As well we all know, having seen that motion work wonders. Very
well. And your necessity was—what? Usurpation of Korval?"

Pat Rin shuddered and closed his eyes. "They came to me," he
whispered, and his voice was haunted. "They came to me and they
said, all your kin are dead. They said, Korval. They expected that I
would be grateful for their care of my interests—and that I would
represent them to the Council."

"They were very foolish," Val Con said softly. "That was at Teriste?
Where did you go after?"

The brown eyes opened. "First, to a Juntavas base. Then to
Bazaar, to purchase stock. Finally to Surebleak, where I set up as a
boss, and—and began my Balance—" the smile again, slightly
more visible this time. "Among other necessary tasks."

"Ah." Val Con tipped his head. "And these are the crimes of which
you alone are guilty?"

Pat Rin sighed. "I don't doubt there are others—impersonating a
pilot comes to mind."

"Commander?" A voice called from behind. "We have word from
the Low Port."

Val Con glanced over his shoulder. "A moment." He reached out
and gripped Pat Rin's hand.

"Duty," he said. "Quickly now—tell me the name of your lifemate."

"Inas Briar," Pat Rin said softly. "Called Juntavas Sector Judge
Natesa the Assassin."

Val Con smiled. "The clan increases." He rose, pulling his cousin
up, and embraced him, cheek to cheek.

"Bide," he murmured. "We will go home together."
Day 59
Standard Year 1393
Solcintra
Liad

Speaker for Council was enjoying the show, Miri thought. Come to
think of it, she'd be having a better time herself if she was sitting
behind a high table, with a pretty silver bell to ring whenever she
felt like hearing it, and a cup of her favorite brew to hand.

Unfortunately, Defenders Before Council had to stand on the low
floor facing the paid seats stretching up to the ceiling, with the
Speaker's high desk behind them. As far as Miri was concerned,
the whole set-up was a melant'i trick designed to make the
Defenders feel all humble and unworthy. What she mostly felt was
annoyed—and she wasn't exactly getting humble-vibes from Val
Con, either.

"Korval has been called before this Council to answer for the
following crimes against the homeworld," Speaker said from
behind them and considerably over their heads.

"Landing a hostile force comprised of Terran and Yxtrang soldiers
at Solcintra Port.

"Leading a military action against Liad.

"Subverting the planetary defense net.

"Firing upon the homeworld."

She paused a nice, long while, to let the assembled delms get a
good look at them. Miri ran a quick Rainbow and felt her shoulders
relax under the ceremonial delm costume. From Val Con she
caught a flutter of warmth, as if he had quickly kissed her cheek.

"Korval's answer, given before this Council, invokes the contract
originally made between Captain Cantra yos'Phelium Clan Torvin
and the Combined Houses of Planet Solcintra. The Council's
attention was directed most particularly to the articles discussing
the duty of the captain toward the passengers; the charge upon
successor captains; and the term of contract.

"It is Korval's contention that this contract, made before the
Exodus from Solcintra, remains in force, according to its conditions
of termination. They provide evidence that a call for Captain's
Justice was made in Standard Year 1061, which Justice was dealt
by the delm of Korval in her melant'i as Captain Genetic in this very
chamber."

There was a pause, and a small clink. Miri sighed inwardly. A cup
of tea would taste good right now. Especially if she could have it in
the back kitchen at Jelaza Kazone.

Another clink, as Speaker put her teacup down.

"Korval argues that their contract of employment burdens them with
the duty of protecting the residents of the planet Liad, whom they
are pleased to term 'the passengers.'

"Korval provides evidence of the existence and the crimes of an
organization calling itself the Department of the Interior. The list of
names of those allegedly impressed or murdered by this
organization is particularly notable in that it includes many of those
whom Korval has been charged with harming.

"Korval's conclusion and final answer to this Council is that the
Captain Genetic, having ascertained the mortal danger presented
to the passengers by the Department of the Interior, acted to
remove this danger. For the best good of Liad."

She didn't, Miri thought, sound too impressed with all Nova's
careful compilations and cross-checks.

"I must note, with some surprise, that various organizations and
individuals have indicated a willingness—on the side of Korval—to
file briefs and informational materials or have in fact filed briefs and
such material sufficient to fill several warehouses. These
organizations and individuals have, for the most part, a clear, well-
known, and on-going relationship with Korval. I mention a few—the
Scouts of Liad, the Accountants Guild, the Pilots Guild, the
Solcintra Feline Appreciation Society, the Taxicab and Pedicab
Association of Solcintra, Binjali's Repair Shop and Jalopy Garage."
here there was a clear and distinctly disapproving pause, "…the
Juntavas. "

That brought a murmur from the chamber and Miri raised her
eyebrows Val Con-fashion as she glanced at him. He raised his
back at her.

Robertson, she thought, you ain't takin' this serious enough…

"Also," Speaker continued, "University, the Defenders of the Code,
the Little Festival Association, Tey Dor's Sporting Clubs—and the
list is quite long, and will be appended to our decision which will be
hung on the chamber door and published as required, with copies
to all major parties. Given the seriousness and time-sensitive
nature of the charges, the Council has decided to forego
introduction of such material into the hearing process. We thank
each of those who have offered assistance."

Hanging judge! Miri thought. She don't want to be confused by the
facts.

A pause, the sound of a tea cup being placed too close to the
microphone.

"The Council will now render its judgment. Hedrede is called."

From the fifth row up came a stir and a rustle, and finally a man,
decked out like they all were, in formal delm gear, arose and
bowed toward the floor.

"As Korval will doubtless recall," he said, his voice about as warm
as a Surebleak winter morning, "House Hedrede was among the
signers of the contract with Captain Cantra yos'Phelium."

"Korval recalls," Val Con said from beside her.

"The Dragon's memory," someone said, loudly, from high near the
ceiling, "is not in question."

There was a titter and a murmur of agreement through the hall.

"Mizel is found to be out of order," Speaker snapped. "Honored
Hedrede, pray continue."

He inclined his head.

"The Council of Clans finds Korval in error," he stated coldly. "The
contract between Captain yos'Phelium and the Houses of Solcintra
was never intended to continue so long, or to place so much of a
burden upon one clan. In undertaking the described actions
against the so-called Department of the Interior, Korval has
overstepped, to the endangerment and distress of the
homeworld."

He paused, maybe expecting an answer from the floor. Miri
preserved a dignified silence. Beside her, Val Con inclined his
head slightly—courteous permission to continue.

"The Council of Clans likewise finds," Hedrede continued
portentously, "that it has erred, in that it has not caused the contract
in question to be terminated according to its articles, thereby
removing the burden of captaincy from Korval." He bowed,
employer to employee.

"The Council of Clans, successor to the Combined Houses of
Solcintra, hereby terminates, closes, and declares fulfilled the
contract of employment originally made between Cantra
yos'Phelium Clan Torvin, captain-owner of the starship Quick
Passage, and the Combined Houses of Solcintra."

From Val Con, a flare of joy so pure and so vivid, her breath caught
in her throat.

"Korval hears," he said, his voice perfectly composed.

"This also means," said Hedrede, perhaps a bit testily, "that the
defense of Liad shall no longer be the concern of Korval or its
assigns. We require a timely transfer of the defense net to the duly
constituted authority of the portmaster." Hedrede glanced up from
the document he read from. "Is this clear?"

"To avoid potential conflicts of interest Korval relinquished control
of the defense net to the Commander of the Liaden Scouts upon
entering this chamber," Val Con murmured. "I am certain that the
portmaster will contrive an orderly transfer."

The was a collective sigh in the hall.

Hedrede inclined his head. "We now come to the matter of
Balance."

"It is the decision of this Council that Clan Korval is an active threat
to the safety and security of this world. Therefore, Korval shall be
cast out. No longer shall Korval have a voice in this Council nor
may Korval look to the assembled clans for justice, sustenance, or
comfort.

"Korval is required to vacate Liad and Liaden space. All and any
Korval properties or persons remaining within Liaden space on the
one hundredth forty-fifth day following this judgment shall be forfeit
to the Council of Clans."

Miri blinked.

The bright joy radiating from Val Con went incandescent.

In the fifth row, Hedrede bowed once more.

"Thus, the Council's judgment."

He sat. The room was real quiet; nobody shuffled papers; nobody
coughed, or whispered, or dropped a stylus. Everybody was
watching them, Miri realized; waiting to see what they'd do.

"Cha'trez?"

She turned, saw green eyes smiling at her, and a slim golden hand
extended. Grinning, she wove her fingers with his. Together, they
bowed to the assembled delms—farewell. Nothing else.

Hand-in-hand, not hurrying, but not wasting any time, either, they
walked up the long ramp. The door swung open as they
approached.

Neither one looked back.

"One hundred forty-four days to leave planet, lock, stock and
piglet?" Shan repeated incredulously. "Have they lost their wits?"

"Certainly not," Val Con said drily. "They merely hope to hurry us
sufficiently that we will leave a few things behind, to their benefit."

"Did the Council forbid sales?" inquired dea'Gauss—this the new
dea'Gauss, a woman in her early middle years, with a serious face
and unexpectedly merry eyes. Her father was yet with the Healers
and he would be well, with time. Though his notes were before her,
it was happily clear to Val Con that her course was her own.

Val Con shook his head. "The vote was close, as I counted. Close
enough that those who most dearly wished us gone dared not risk
their victory by burdening the issue with petty Balance."

The dea'Gauss inclined her head. "That is good, then. Allow me…"
She bent to her keyboard.

"Even supposing we can pack everything of importance," Shan
continued. "How the devil are we going to ship it? Worse, where
will we go? Somehow, I don't believe Erob would be willing to have
us."

Miri laughed, and Merlin, who was curled up on her lap, muttered a
sleepy protest.

"Bad idea, anyway," she said. "Given the family tendency to force
things into our own mold."

"There's that. We might try for New Dublin, I suppose…"

"Or Surebleak," Pat Rin said quietly from his place next to Shan.

"Surebleak's at the back end of nowhere—-and it's cold," Miri said,
and then shook her head, with a half-grin. "Why'm I telling you that,
Boss?"

"In fact, Surebleak is not so ill-placed as it first appears," Pat Rin
replied, earnestly. "Certainly, the presence of trade and an
upgraded port would be more than enough to overcome any
difficulty of location. As to the weather—" He moved his shoulders.
"The portmaster has specs for climate satellites on file. It does not
need to remain cold."

There was a brief pause, then—

"He's right," Shan said. "There aren't any major trade routes close,
but there are three solid mid-level routes through that sector. If
there was any reason for ships to stop at Surebleak—"

"They would stop," Val Con concluded. He glanced aside.
"Cha'trez?"

She sighed. "Well, it'll give us a base. Hafta buy up a buncha real
estate and do some heavy renovating…"

"There is land beyond the city, which is only lightly lived in," Pat Rin
said, looking at Val Con. "We might be situated as we have been
here, near enough to port and city, with easy access at need."

"And thus be invested in keeping the Port Road open." Val Con
grinned. "Well-played, cousin."

"If we liquidate all holdings," the dea'Gauss said abruptly, "over a
period of one hundred forty-two days, we may be able to prevent
the Exchange from collapse, assuming we get and give value."
She looked up.

"Unless your lordship wishes to incept a market collapse?"

"It is not necessary. We prefer to sell at fair value, however."

"Certainly," she said. "We have a list of off-world investors who
have previously expressed interest in various acquisitions." She
paused, touched a key.

"The accounts currently held at the Bank of Solcintra must be
moved. Shall I query the Bank of Terra?"

"Why not transfer everything equally among our existing accounts,"
Shan suggested, "and sort that out once we're settled? I have a
feeling that the Council of Clans may find themselves able to
overlook Korval investments in Liad, after a suitable period of
uncertainty."

"That's a point," said Miri. "Can't really do banking on Surebleak."
She looked at Pat Rin. "Unless you fixed that, too?"

"Not yet," he said, and she shook her head.

"The dies, your lordship?"

Val Con frowned. "How much longer on the current term?"

"Less than a Standard."

"If we close the treasury, that will crash the market," Miri protested.

"Yet the dies are ours," Val Con said. "How if we—"

Across the room, the door opened, admitting Nelirikk.

"Captain, the elder scout is returned."

"That was quick," Miri commented. "Let him in, Beautiful. We need
all the heads we can get."

"Captain." He stepped aside and Daav strolled in, pausing half-a-
dozen steps inside the room to bow casually to the delm's honor.

"Good afternoon, Father," Val Con said mildly. "I confess that we
had not looked for you so soon."

"I rather expected that you hadn't," Daav retorted. "However, the
Clutch Elders have the ability to act rapidly, when they see the
need—much like Clutch ships. Of which more anon. I hear on the
port that we are unemployed, outlawed, and homeless, all in one
canny throw."

"Indeed we are. The Council chose to see us as a danger to Liad."

"All hail the Council, wise at last," Daav murmured, and tipped his
head. "Is that Pat Rin? I'm delighted to see you, child."

"Uncle Daav…" his voice failed him and he inclined his head, taking
a hard breath. "I am all joy to see you."

"So what did the Elders say?" Miri asked. "No dice?"

"Entirely the opposite," Daav said, favoring her with one of his
edged smiles. "They are eager to assist us in any way they can—
and have detached one of their larger vessels for Korval's use. It is
understood that this use will include transporting the Tree, but no
limit of service was set."

"A ship large enough to move Jelaza Kazone?" Pat Rin asked.

"Oh, easily. In fact, if you would care to step outside, you may see
for yourself."

It rode on the horizon like a moon, glass smooth and subtly
glowing.

Miri took a hard breath against the sudden tightness in her chest
and slid her hand into Val Con's. He squeezed her fingers gently,
his attention focused on the moon-ship.

"Volume?" he murmured.

"Sufficient to contain those portions of Solcintra City still standing,"
Daav replied. "Or the Tree, and most of the valley."

Behind them, Shan sighed. "Brother, we have our transportation
problems solved. But is Surebleak ready for that?"

"All the more reason to set down in the country," Pat Rin said
unsteadily.

"Edger professes himself ready to commence immediately," Daav
continued. "He is accompanied by several of his kin. If the delm
wishes to remove all that is ours…"

"Yes," Miri and Val Con said—and abruptly laughed.

"Yes!" Miri said again.
Day 201
Standard Year 1393
Solcintra
Liad

"Tomorrow is the day," Edger boomed, one three fingered hand
splayed fiat against the trunk of the Tree. "The ship of the Elders
shall descend with sample bay open and the lift active; it will be but
a matter of a few hundred moments to adjust for Jelaza Kazone's
necessity. We have spoken somewhat—the elder tree and I—and
the vessel is ready to respectfully receive all into its interior."

Edger paused a short pause, thinking or watching or perhaps
merely staring into the distance for some Clutch-required
moment— and then continued in apparent haste.

"We have the coordinates for the new nesting place. There is no
need for apprehension as Aelli has done the calculations. My
brothers and I have consulted together, the boss kinsman of my
brother and my sister has returned to put all into readiness. Thus,
the work goes forth; art incarnate. Ephemeral and multi-stranded, it
wends through time, space, and song, altering the very fabric of
the universe. As I see, each day brings a new thread."

Miri stirred and squeezed Val Con's fingers. "Altering the fabric of
the universe?" she whispered.

"Hyperbole," Val Con whispered back.

"Right."

There was a sound, somewhere beneath Edger's oration. Miri
looked over her shoulder, and then turned—Val Con with her—
staring at the apparition walking, none-too-steady, across the grass
toward them, wary eyes on Edger.

She wasn't much more than a kid: undergrown, sharp-faced, and
pale; her hair an uncertain sort of yellow, unruly rather than curly;
dark eyes smudged by lack of sleep.

She stopped a couple paces away and bowed—out of mode and
out of time, but, hell, the kid was dead on her feet. Her jacket told
the story of how she'd gotten passed by security: Jump pilot.

"It is necessary that I speak to the delm of Korval, on business of
the clan," she said, and her High Liaden was even worse than her
bow.

Miri nodded—and blinked, feeling a rush of recognition from Val
Con.

"Another one?" she complained, looking up at him.

"Shall you like odds?" he answered, and then nodded easily at the
kid.

"You are addressing the delm of Korval," he said in Terran. "May
we know your name?"

The kid frowned, equal parts irritation, exhaustion, and relief at not
having to do the rest of conversation in Liaden.

"Theo Waitley" she said.

Apparently realizing that the name alone was a little scant, she
added, "I'm here because my father's missing and he told me—he
always told me to go the delm of Korval, if ever there was really
bad trouble."

She paused, running one hand through her thoroughly draggled
hair.

"My father's name is Jen Sar Kiladi. He teaches—"

"He teaches cultural genetics," Val Con interrupted, gently.

"Right. I mean, you might not think it was a big problem, if your
father wasn't where you left him—"

"No, acquit me—I would think it a very large problem, indeed."

Theo might not have heard him; she swept on, caught up in the tide
of her explanation. "But, he's never done anything like this
before—just up and left, in the middle of the term and—" Her
mouth tightened.

"I got trouble," she finished, "and since I can't find him…"

"Well," Val Con murmured, eyes pointed over Theo's head.

Miri looked where he was looking, saw the tall shadow moving
toward them from the house, and sighed.

"Theo," Val Con said; "please look behind you."

She blinked at him, then did what she was told.

"Father!" she shouted and leapt forward, slamming Daav into a full
body hug.

"Father, where the hell have you been?"

Daav tousled the Jump pilot's hair, looking suddenly old.

"I have been busy, child, " he said, returning the hug. "Very busy."

He paused, and shook his head, Terran-style.

"I can't tell you how glad I am to see you, Theo. And sorry, as well."

"Sorry!" she looked startled—and afraid.

"Gently, child," Daav said, touching her cheek. "Sorry, because you
would not be here if there wasn't really bad trouble."

She nodded. "It's kind of complicated," she started…
Authors' Afterword
We Remember Uncle Harry
or
The Return of the Afterword That Ate Unity

You really need to know about Uncle Harry. The Liaden Universe®
is his fault, you know.

You see, long ago and far away, when we first started to learn
about the trials of Clan Korval, the words, "The man who was not
Terrence O'Grady had come quietly," appeared—almost without
warning—on an otherwise clean sheet of paper sitting in the
carriage of a well-used, but dignified, typewriter named Uncle
Harry.

Uncle Harry barely managed to get us through that first adventure
—belching, smoking and shuddering, he finally burst into flames as
Sharon was typing the last page of the final draft of Agent of
Change —but the course of our lives was by then inextricably
entwined with the history and people of Clan Korval. The more we
wrote of them, the more they revealed to us, and the more they
revealed the more we needed to know. Oddly, the same thing—the
needing to know more—happened to some readers, and then
more readers, and now we're here, all of us together in one swell
swoop, at the end pages of I Dare, a book we've been planning on
writing for more than a dozen years.

Along the way we had some delays and some joys and some fun
—and more recently a lot of fun as we've gotten to travel and meet
some few of the readers who've made each additional book
possible. We've also gone through several typewriters and
numerous computer systems and printers (ah—remember that
Star nine pin dot matrix printer that worked so hard and so long that
we gave it to a school after it printed out—in 24 hours or so, mostly
non-stop, the final version of Carpe Diem?), and with each new
computer or printer we'd ask (one of us to another, without fail),
"Do you remember when we brought Uncle Harry home?"

The funny thing is that so many things have changed since Uncle
Harry flamed his way through that last page—like the state we live
in, our publisher, our cats—that we're sometimes amazed that
we've gotten to this point, the point where we can say "OK, Korval's
set for the moment, now all we have to do is catch up on those
details…"

What we've learned, seven books and more than a dozen years
down the road, is that Uncle Harry's legacy is lasting. We keep
finding new stories in the Liaden Universe, new heroics, new
details, and new characters who come out of the virtual woodwork
with a sudden, "Hey, you. You there at the keyboard! I have
something to say! Hop to it!"

Uncle Harry, by the way, was heavy. Carrying him upstairs the day
we brought him home from the used typewriter pound he'd fallen
into after his daring escape from an insurance company office was
no easy thing. He went thunk! very much, thank you! when he was
put down and when he was turned on the table he sat on vibrated
and so then did the floor of the front bedroom we'd converted into
an office, and so then did the ceiling of the kitchen below vibrate,
and so then did our neighbors assume we had one of those
vibrating recliners they were selling on TV that year…

The neighbors put up with our recliner-Uncle-Harry-typer and our
late night kitchen world-building conclaves and all those other
things that make people look at us and say—"Oh, them? They're—
writers…"

And while the neighbors were likely relieved when we carried Uncle
Harry off to the shop, where the repair guy reverently removed the
scorched cover, shook his head sadly and murmured, "I'm sorry,
there's nothing I can do. We can't even use it for parts…"we still
remember Uncle Harry, fondly.

Arguably, without those particular vibrations and clunks and
patterings that transformed that cramped upstairs office into a view
screen into elsewhere, there'd be no Liaden Universe® for any of
us to enjoy. So the ghost of Uncle Harry whirs over our shoulders,
reminding us that there are always more stories waiting to find the
page.

Thanks, Uncle Harry. We still miss you.
Steve Miller and Sharon Lee
July 2001
The authors…
Sharon Lee and Steve Miller

Sharon Lee and Steve Miller live in the rolling hills of Central Maine.
Born and raised in Baltimore, Maryland they met several times
before taking the hint and formalizing the team in 1979. The
removed to Maine with cats, books, and music following the
completion of Carpe Diem, their third novel.

Their short fiction, written both joint and singly, has appeared or will
appear in Absolute Magnitude, Catfantastic, Such a Pretty Face,
Dreams of Decadence, Fantasy Book, and several former
incarnations of Amazing. Meisha Merlin Publishing has or will be
publishing seven books in the Liaden Universe®: Partners in
Necessity, Plan B, Pilots Choice, I Dare, Balance of Trade, and
two as yet untitled.

Both Sharon and Steve have seen their non-fiction work and
reviews published in a variety of newspapers and magazines.
Steve is the founding curator of the University of Maryland's Kuhn
Library Science Fiction Research Collection. Sharon served three
years as the executive director of the Science Fiction and Fantasy
Writers of America and is presently vice president of that
organization.

Sharon's interests include music, pine cone collecting, and
seahorses. Steve also enjoys music, plays chess, and collects cat
whiskers. Both spend 'way to much time playing on the internet and
even have a web site at:
www.korval.com
The artist…
Michael Herring

Michael Herring was born in 1947 in North Carolina. He received
his art education at World Campus Afloat-Chapman College, Byam
Shaw School of Drawing and Painting in London, England, Royal
College of Art, also in London, and finally, Cal State University in
Long Beach, California. During his twenty plus year career, he has
painted covers for Science Fiction and Fantasy authors ranging
from Asimov to Zelazny. He currently lives in California with his
wife, Betsy French, a photographer, and their two cats, Asia and
Zoe.