Changeling (8 page)

"I could fancy some coffee myself," he
confided. "Do you happen to know which shop the pilots favor?
Perhaps I won't be too late to share a cup with them."

It happened that Atwood did know which shop,
which was a favorite among the company's pilots. "Only place on
Casia you can get real coffee," she said, and Shan would have sworn
there were tears in her eyes.

A few moments later, possessed of directions
to this mecca, and having extracted Ms. Atwood's promise to hold
Pilot dea'Judan, should he arrive back at the Hall in the meantime,
Shan sauntered out into the sharp air and rumble of early morning
Casiaport.

Though there was nothing in his face or his
gait to betray it, Shan was in a fever to shake the dust of Casia
from his feet. His evening had been spent delving deeper than was
perhaps good for his peace of mind into the affairs of Casiaport
Guildhall and a certain Clan Jabun. The information he uncovered
was disturbing enough that he found he had no choice, as a Master
Pilot who owed duty to the Guild, but to call Jabun before a full
board of inquiry.

However, he thought, stretching his long legs
and turning into the street where he would find the "best damn
coffee on Casia," that job of form-filing would certainly wait
until he had Ren Zel dea'Judan safely in hand.

The coffeeshop hove into view on his left,
precisely as promised. Shan checked his long stride, but did not
approach the door, which was crowded around with people, all
staring up-street, where a commotion was in progress.

Shan felt the hairs shiver on the nape of his
neck. What was it that the Ms. Atwood had said? That nothing would
keep Ren Zel from an appointment except calamity?

The scene up-street had every trapping of
calamity, including the white trucks and flashing blue lights of
Casiaport Rescue, clustered in such abundance that the Port
Proctor's sun-yellow scooters were scarcely noticeable.

Shan stretched his legs again, moving quickly
toward the hub-bub.

He had no trouble walking through the cordon
thrown up by the Proctors--he was never stopped by guards if he did
not wish to be--and into what the sign by the door dignified as
"Wilt's Poolroom and Tavern."

Inside--well.

All about were knots of med
techs, attending the wounded. Elsewhere, Proctors questioned
several unmistakable grounders who were for some reason wearing
pilots' leathers. Toward the back of the room, a figure was
shrouded in a white plastic sheet. Not far distant lay another
figure, blood a black pool on the floor. Shan touched a stud on his
belt, alerting every
Dutiful
Passage
crewmember on Port that there was a
comrade down and in danger. Help was on the way. Now...

Directly before him, a Terran woman was
shouting at a med tech.

"Hey!" she yelled in Trade, grabbing the
tech's arm. "There's somebody over there who needs you."

The tech turned, glanced along the line of
the Terran's finger, then slid his arm free, sighing slightly.

"I am not allowed to tend that one."

"What?" the Terran gaped. "You just patched
up four of the worst desperadoes I've seen on this Port in a long
time and you ain't allowed to tend a pilot who was wounded while
protecting his co-pilot?"

"He is Clanless," the tech said, with a note
of finality in his soft, Liaden voice.

"He'll be
lifeless
if you people
don't do something for him soon!"

The tech turned his back.

The Terran pilot raised her hand, and Shan
swung forward, catching her lightly 'round the wrist.

"Precisely how will being arrested for
assault help your pilot?" he inquired in Terran.

The woman spun, pulling her wrist free. She
stared at him; took a deep breath.

"He's gonna
die
."

Shan glanced at the still figure in its pool
of black blood, noting the ragged breath, and the sweat on the
pale, unconscious face. He looked back to the Terran pilot.

"Perhaps not. Just a moment." He stepped
forward, claiming the med tech's attention with a genteel cough and
bowed when the man turned.

"Good-day. I am Shan
yos'Galan Clan Korval, Captain of
Dutiful
Passage
."

Recognition moved in the tech's eyes.
"Captain yos'Galan, I am honored." He bowed, deeply.

Shan inclined of the head, then pointed
across the room to the downed pilot.

"That person is one of my crewmen, med tech.
His contract started today. I understand that you may not tend him,
but my melant'i is clear. I require the use of your kit."

Relief flickered across the tech's face; he
held the kit out with alacrity. "Certainly, sir. Please return it
when you are through."

"I will," Shan inclined his head once again
and turned, gathering the Terran pilot with a glance and lifted
eyebrow.

"What'd you say?" she asked, following him to
where her pilot lay, alone in the midst of all the official
bustle.

"That I required the use of his kit in order
to perform first aid on my crewman." Shan knelt down, heedless of
the blood, and began to remove the towels she had used to try to
staunch the blood.

"He ain't your crew," she protested.

"Ah, but he is a pilot, and
I am partial to pilots. Besides, he might well have
been
mine, if he'd
managed to stay out of trouble long enough to..." His breath
caught. The wound was bad--deep and ragged. Immediately,
reflexively, he ran a quick mental sequence to relax and focus
himself.

"Knife," the Terran said,
succinctly. "He took it for me. At least," she amended, as Shan
opened the med kit and poked among the various tools of the tech's
trade, "the first strike was meant for me. Got between me and the
blade--I coulda handled it, but he's so
damned
fast. He'd've been OK, except
the bum leg went out on him and the hood was on him like a terrier
on a rat..."

Shan had found what he was
looking for--a suture gun. "Unpleasant, but effective," he
commented,fingering the settings. "At least he's unconscious. We'll
just do a quick patch, I think--something to hold him together
until we can get him up to the
Passage
."

The Terran blinked. "You're the guy the pilot
was supposed to meet at the hall this morning."

He met her eyes. "In fact, I am--and I am
remiss. My name is Shan yos'Galan Clan Korval."

She sucked air, eyes going wide. "Tree and
Dragon," she said, possibly to herself, then inclined her head,
roughly, but with good intent. "I'm Suzan Fillips."

Shan nodded. "Suzan Fillips, your pilot needs
you. Please hold him while I do the patch."

She did and Shan bent to the unpleasant task,
sending up indiscriminate petitions to all the gods of mercy, that
the boy beneath his hand remain unconscious.

At last the thing was done. He set the suture
gun aside and sat back on his heels. Suzan Fillips took her hands
slowly from the downed pilot's shoulders and looked up.

"Tell me about this 'bad leg'," Shan said.
"Had he been injured before today?"

"He was in a crash not too long ago and the
leg never healed right," Suzan said, meeting the eyes straitly.
"You know about the crash--you're the Master Pilot. I remember your
name from the report."

"Do you?" He look at her with renewed
interest. "Where did you get the report, I wonder?"

She snorted. "I'm a registered pilot on this
port. I used my card and pulled the file. Even Terrans hear
rumors--and we'd heard one about a crackerjack pilot who'd been
drummed outta the local Guild for not having the good taste to die
in a crash. I read the reports--yours and the one they liked
better. Tried to get the sim, too, but the Guild won't lend
it."

The slanted white brows pulled together.
"Won't lend it? Yet you are, as you point out, a pilot on this
port."

"Jabun." The voice was faint and none too
steady. Both Shan and Suzan jumped before staring down at the
wounded pilot. His eyes were open, a dilated and glittering black,
the brown hair stuck to his forehead in wet, straggling locks.

"Jabun," he repeated, the Liaden words
running rapidly and not altogether in mode. "Not enough that they
had me cast out. I must die the true death, if he must hire a wolf
pack to the task. Dishonor. Danger! They must not find--" He
struggled, trying to get his good arm around.

Shan put his hands firmly on the boy's
shoulders. "Pilot. Be at ease."

The unseeing black eyes met his. "When will
they have done?" he demanded. "When will they--"

Shan pushed, exerting force
as well as force of will. "Lie
down
," he said firmly, in a mode
perilously close to that he would use with a feverish child. "You
are wounded and will do yourself further injury."

"Wound--" Sense flickered. "Gods." He
twisted, weakly; Shan held him flat with no trouble.

"Suzan!"

She snapped forward, touching his unwounded
shoulder. "Here, Pilot. I'm OK, see?"

Apparently, he did. The tension left him and
he lay back, understanding in his eyes now. Shan frowned.

"You accuse Clan Jabun seriously," he said,
in the Liaden mode of Comrade, and thinking of his own discoveries
of the evening before. "Have you proof?"

"The pack leader..."

He glanced at Suzan, who jerked her head to
the left, where two Port Proctors were talking to sullen man in a
scarred leather jacket.

"All right," he said, in
Terran, for Suzan Fillips' benefit. "I will speak to the pack
leader. Pilot dea'Judan, you will remain here
quietly
with your
co-pilot."

The glittering eyes stabbed his. "Yes."

One of the Proctors looked up as he
approached and came forward to intercept him. "Master Trader?" he
inquired courteously.

Shan considered him. "One hears," he said,
delicately, "that yon brigand was hired by a House to deal death to
a dead man."

The Proctor sighed. "It produces the name of
Jabun--but this is not unusual you know, sir. They grasp at
anything they hope will win them free of the present
difficulty."

"Just so," Shan murmured, and drifted back
toward Suzan Fillips and Ren Zel dea'Judan.

"I believe you," he said to the wounded
pilot's hot eyes, and looked thoughtfully at the Terran.

From the entrance came the sounds of some
slight agitation among the guards, who parted to admit a pilot of
middle years, his pale hair going to gray, his leather gleaming as
if new-made.

"It's him!" shouted the man who had been the
wolf pack leader, and was silenced by his guards.

A Proctor moved forward, holding his hands up
to halt the newcomer.

"Sir, this is the scene of a death by
misadventure; I must ask you to leave unless you--"

"Ah, is it a death?" The man's face displayed
such joy that Shan swallowed, revolted. "I must see for
myself!"

The Proctor moved his hand as if to deny, but
another signed assent and the three of them strode across the room
to the covered form.

"Your Lordship is to understand that this is
... unpleasant," the first Proctor said. "The nose has been
forcibly crushed into the brain by a blow..."

"That is of no matter," the newcomer snapped,
"show me!"

The Proctors exchanged glances, then bent and
lifted the covering back. Shan rose to his feet, eyes on His
Lordship's proud, eager face, glowing with an anticipation so--

"What nonsense is this?" the man shouted.
"This is not he!"

"I am here ... Suzan, help me stand. Jabun, I
am here!"

The voice was barely a croak, nearly
inaudible. The bloodied figure gained his feet, more than
half-supported by his grim-faced co-pilot.

"The dead man you want ... the dead man you
want is here!" Ren Zel gritted out, and Shan stepped back, giving
Jabun clear sight of his victim.

"You!" Jabun flung forward one step, hatred
plain in his comely face, then froze, as if he had abruptly
understood what he had done.

"Speaking to a dead man?" Ren Zel rasped.
"Out of Code, Jabun." He drew a sobbing breath. "Look on me--dead
by your malice. One death was not enough, one Balance
insufficient..." He swayed and Shan moved to offer his support as
well. Ren Zel gasped.

"You, who deal in life and death--you will be
the death of all you are pledged to hold!"

A gasp ran through the room, and Shan felt a
tingle in the close air of the poolroom, as if a thunderstorm were
charging.

Jabun stood as if struck; and Shan heard a
med tech mutter, "Dramliza, you fool! Will you play Balance games
against a wizard?"

Ren Zel straightened, informed by an energy
that had nothing to do with physical strength.

"Jabun, you are the last delm of your House.
The best of your line shall lifemate a Terran to escape your doom.
The rest of your kin will flee; they will deny their name and their
blood, and ally themselves with warehousemen and fisherfolk for the
safety such alliances buy!

"Hear me, Jabun! In my blood is told your
tale--witness all, all of you see him! See him as he is!"

"Pilot--" began Suzan, but Shan doubted Ren
Zel heard her worried murmur, lost as he was in the dubious ecstacy
of a full Foretelling.

"It is Jabun the pod-pirate," he cried, and
Shan felt the hairs raise on his arms, recalling his own
researches. "Jabun the thief! Jabun the murderer! Beware of his
House and his money!"

The poolroom was so completely quiet that
Shan heard his own heartbeat, pounding in his ears.

Jabun was the first to recover, to look
around at the faces that would not--quite--return his regard.