Liaden Universe [19] - Alliance of Equals - eARC (24 page)

“Yes,” she said, and for a long precious minute could think of nothing to say.

“Pilot? Your message?”

She took a breath.

“Tolly, it is Haz. I have your back.”

Another breath.

“Message ends,” she said.

“Recorded,”
Admiral Bunter
said. “Out.”

The comm light went dark. Hazenthull contemplated it for a moment, then touched the switch that activated the pinbeam.

“To Captain Miri Robertson,” she said. “Jelaza Kazone, Surebleak. From House Guard Hazenthull nor’Phelium, on detached duty…”

—•—

“A message arrives for you, Tolly Jones,” the
Admiral
said. “Do you wish to hear it?”

“Yes,” he said, which might’ve been a little brief, but the
Admiral
didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did, because there was no acknowledgment of his preference—so that Haz suddenly saying his name made him jump in his seat.

“Tolly,” she said, sounding solid and on task, just like Haz always sounded. “I have your back.”

Dammit
.

It brought tears to his eyes, that simple statement, like everything wrong was suddenly set right, ’cause Haz had his back, which was foolishness. Big and tough she might be and a soldier bred, born, and trained—all that meant in the end was that she was a little harder to kill. That was
all
it meant.

Damned
if he was going to have Haz’s death on him.

Damned if he was going to
let them
hurt one short bristly brown hair on her head.

“
Admiral
, please relay a message to Haz.” He wondered what message he could possibly send that would turn her from her purpose, even if the
Admiral
agreed to—

“Recording,” the
Admiral
stated. “I suggest brevity, we are about to transition.”

Right.

He took a breath.

“Haz, it’s Tolly,” he said, his voice clipped and hard. “Go home. I don’t want you, and I don’t
need
you. Message ends.”

He closed his eyes then, and leaned back in his chair, sick to his stomach, his palms cold and sweaty. That oughta do the trick. Kick her a good one right where she was most vulnerable. In the temper, that was one place.

In the heart, that was the other.

Always trust the training.

—•—

Shan moved to the juice display, and accepted a glass from the attendant. He would have rather had wine, but the casks were overseen by Caterer Hartensis herself, and he had no wish to find himself admired at the moment.

Padi—

Her gift was straining at the stony restraints she had placed upon it. The assault of
so many
emotional grids, some, as he had noticed himself, quite distractingly loud; the stress of responsibility—how could one
not
be stressed as the host of one’s very first reception? He remembered his first reception with a thrill of nerves even now, though he had been only a very little older then than Padi was now, and already trained in Healer protocols, as well as in bed manners.

Well.

He had done what he could for the moment. The absence of the headache alone would lessen her general levels of stress. He’d also performed a very basic Sort, to calm her; and placed a block, a measure in which he placed not much confidence, considering the weight of power he felt building, like a thunderhead towering over his child’s head.

He wished he had a more thorough understanding of the structure Padi had created; and how, precisely, those walls had been formed, and with what materials. However, a public reception was no place in which to perform an in-depth examination, and he did believe that his small efforts would hold well until they arrived at the hotel. Once they could be private, more appropriate measures could be applied.

Briefly, he considered sending her back to the
Passage
while he and Vanner remained on port—very briefly. Padi would feel—and justly—that she was being denied an experience vital to her growth as a trader.

Shan sighed, and raised the cup to sip juice.

His mouth puckered and dried—which was, as Priscilla might say, a blessing in disguise, as he could scarcely breathe for a moment, much less gasp aloud. The sensation passed, leaving his mouth feeling perfectly clarified and clean.

Carefully, he lowered the cup and looked inside.

Blue juice.

He sighed.

Padi had warned him, after all.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The Happy Occasion

Langlastport

The flowers had been a gift, after all, and Ms. Hartensis had been a good steward and made certain that the wine had not been overdrunk, which would have been an extra cask charge.

The leftover breads, sweets and vegetables would, Ms. Hartensis said, be packed up so that Padi might send them up to the ship.

“You have, after all, paid for these items, Trader,” she said.

That was certainly true, though there was scarcely enough to feed the
Passage
, and if they were to be made a gift to odd-shift, or maintenance…

“I wonder,” Father said, “if there may not be a local…public kitchen, where those who are momentarily without means might find a meal. Forgive me if the question offends.”

But it was evident from Ms. Hartensis’ smile that the question did not offend at all.

“In fact, the local corner kitchen would welcome these donations to their supplies, which we will gladly make in your name, Traders.”

“That would, I think, be the best use, Trader,” Father said to Padi, as if he were deferring to her.

But, Padi thought, he
was
deferring to her; it was
her
reception, after all, and
her
decision to make.

She smiled at Ms. Hartensis.

“Please, if you would convey what is left to the corner kitchen, that would, as the master trader has said, be the best use.”

“It shall be done,” Ms. Hartensis said, and nodded to her helper in his long white apron, who immediately moved to the breads table.

“It was,” Padi said, then, “a very fine event, ma’am. I wonder…”

She hesitated. On this point, as on all others, she had done her research carefully, and knew herself on safe ground with the offer, yet the phrasing must not offend.

“I wonder,” she said again, “if I might give a gift, in appreciation of your kind attention to us.”

The caterer colored somewhat, and Padi felt a sinking sensation in her stomach. The World Book did sometimes get custom wrong, and how—how
awkward
if this should be one of those times!

But, no; perhaps it had merely been pleasure which had brought color to the other’s cheek. She was bowing now—that strange and uncomfortable hinging at the hip that looked like a
daibri’at
move, only too quickly done, and too stiffly held…

“You are all kindness, Trader yos’Galan,” said Unet Hartensis, when she had straightened out of her bow. “A gift would find welcome with me.”

—•—

Hazenthull had Inki’s file open on one screen, Tolly’s file on a second, nav up on a third, a research query line waiting on a fourth. Fifth screen, front and above, was traffic,
Admiral Bunter
limned in green.

Inki being young at her trade, she had included the names of those who had trained her, to establish that she had been well educated. This was in contrast to Tolly’s file, which was fat with real accomplishment.

She moved a hand, to flip to the next page in Inki’s file—and paused, her eyes snagging on a particular sequence of words.

Graduated with honors, Lyre Institute for Exceptional Children

In memory’s ear, she heard Inki’s voice:…
and as one who has graduated from his own institute, though many Standards behind him…

Inki, so Hazenthull was beginning to suspect, did nothing at random. It would not be going too far to suppose that she had deliberately set that piece of information out where Hazenthull might recall it, at need.

There only remained the question: had Inki planted a lie for her to recall, or the plain truth?

No, no, Pilot Haz
, Inki had chided her;
if I hint you further along, I will do myself a mischief, which the directors would hardly care for.

She recalled Tolly himself, answering her query into who she had killed for him.

…both of ’em—were directors—sorta the direct opposite of Pilot Tocohl, when it comes to matters of free choice.

So. A match—and an Explorer’s leap of intuition.

Lyre Institute for Exceptional Children
, her fingers tapped the words into the research screen.

Comm chimed—message incoming. She extended a hand without looking and touched the proper key.

“Recorded message begins,” came the flat tones of a nonsentient machine, quickly followed by Tolly’s voice, edged and cold; each word a blade struck from ice.

“Go home. I don’t want you, and I don’t
need
you. Message ends.”

Hazenthull snorted lightly, and tapped the line closed.

The Lyre Institute for Exceptional Children had multiple locations. She threw each into the nav program, opened a sixth screen, and called up
Admiral Bunter
’s stats, compare and contrast with
Tarigan
’s.

This was the first time she had made inquiry into
Tarigan
’s history and full capabilities. Perhaps she should have done so before; such a lack of initiative would perhaps not show well, should the captain ask for a report, when she returned.

However it was, she felt a shock of warm delight as
Tarigan
revealed herself now.

Yes, thought Hazenthull, scrolling thought the screens, Pilot Tocohl had
excellent
taste in ships.

Tarigan
was a reconditioned Scout survey ship, meant to transport a team and equipment. Not so nimble as a single-ship, but, then,
Admiral Bunter
was no Scout ship at all.

Admiral Bunter
was a perfectly serviceable little freighter, solidly built, and competently refurbished. Granted, his pod-mounts were empty, and he was traveling light, Tolly being no great weight.

Even with those advantages, however, he was not quick. And he was most certainly not nimble. If she knew for certain where he was bound, with his prisoner, she might very well over-Jump him, and be waiting at dock when he arrived.

The Lyre Institute held a hiring office on Vanichi; there was a secondary school, so called, on Anon, another hiring hall on Nostrilia, and the institute itself, on Lyre-Unthilon. Hazenthull fingered the keypad absently, considering the routes from Jemiatha’s Jumble Stop to each.

Inki was, she reminded herself, a subtle woman. But she was also a practical woman. If her intention was to ensure that Tolly came whole into the hands of the directors…

Inki would not wish to give Tolly too much time alone with
Admiral Bunter
. She might be certain that her methods were as good as she could make them, but she could not be certain that they were proof against Tolly Jones, whom she styled—sincerely, so Hazenthull thought—the greatest mentor of the current age.

She would therefore, Hazenthull reasoned, opt for the quickest route to a director that she might contrive.

Hazenthull squinted slightly at the plotting screen.

Nostrilia
.

A hiring hall, at Nostrilia. Surely, if the whistle which rent Tolly’s will from him were the common means of controlling unruly graduates of Lyre Institute, there would be at least one director and one whistle at Nostrilia.

One whistle, wielded by one knowledgeable director—that ought to be enough to imprison Tolly Jones within Thirteen-Sixty-Two.

Hazenthull smiled, slightly, and without humor.

Nostrilia, it was then.

There came a flare of green in the traffic screen, and she paused, looking up, and sighing.

Admiral Bunter
had Jumped. She took a breath—and then recalled it was no matter. She would be waiting for them at Nostrilia.

If she was right.

If Tolly was still alive at Nostrilia.

That was her greater fear, that he would act to keep himself forever free of the directors, and their orders. He might well take his own life. She feared he might choose grace as his best course, but she did
not
fear that he would act…immediately.

Tolly, as his partner had come to understand him, was an optimist. He would attempt…less final solutions to his situation before he embraced death. Possibly, he would even allow himself to be brought to the hiring hall itself, in the hope that he might overcome the director. Such risks, as she knew, were not beyond him—and very often they paid off.

She would have to pin
her
hope on that aspect of his nature, and be certain that she was there, at his back, when he needed her most.

And Pilot Tocohl traveling, according to clever, subtle, and dishonest Inki, of her own will in that person’s company?

Pilot Tocohl, as she had stated in her report to the captain—Pilot Tocohl was very well able to take care of herself.

—•—

Priscilla cried aloud, hand outstretched to snatch at insubstantial fingers—and woke, sitting upright in her bunk, face wet with tears.

She drew a shuddering sigh.

It was the dream.

The same dream.

Twice now it had woken her; twice now leaving her sick and shaken, and not…quite…certain if it were a True Dreaming, or only remarkably realistic.

To dream a death…was never easy. To dream the death of her lifemate’s daughter and heir…that was disturbing in the extreme.

Priscilla sighed, threw back the blanket and slid out of bed. The decking was cold against bare soles as she crossed to her closet and withdrew a sweater and a pair of soft pants. A glance at the clock showed that her sleep shift was three-quarters done, and in any case, she was done with sleep.

She crossed the room, laid her hand against the door-plate and a moment later was in the captain’s office, touching the pot for tea. When the cup was full, she took it to the couch and curled into the corner, feet tucked under her.

Sipping, she looked around the room, its lines and contents softened by the low lighting. This had been Shan’s office when, friendless, she’d first come aboard the
Passage
, years ago. Before Shan, it had been his father’s office. Er Thom yos’Galan had held two
melant’is
on the
Dutiful Passage
—captain and master trader. When she came aboard, Shan had held those dual roles, as his father’s heir.

Plan B had altered that, as it had altered so very much. Shan had been separated from the ship; she, the first mate, had risen properly to captain in the emergency. But when ship and Shan had been reunited at last, he had not taken up the captain’s duty, instead placing it formally and firmly among her
melant’i
, while he took up the
melant’i
of a master trader with both hands.

It had been a wise move: Plan B—again—having altered the usual manner of their lives.

Plan B, she thought, sipping her tea, having altered
lives
, even more than the manner of them, and no lives so definitely as those of Korval’s children, sent to shelter at Runig’s Rock.

Had her life proceeded in its normal and usual fashion, Padi yos’Galan would have come into her gifts in a controlled environment, taking such time as had been needful, rather than pushing those same gifts away, and creating for herself and everyone around her, an environment fraught with uncertainty and danger.

It was rare, Priscilla thought, that a nascent Witch was destroyed by the advent of her powers, though it did happen. There were records of such events, at the Temple where she had been Maiden and trained to stand as Moonhawk’s vessel. Lina admitted that the Healers also had records of such events—“Very few, Priscilla,” Lina had said, “but there have always been those who are too powerful to live.”

And what that might have to do with Padi yos’Galan…Priscilla very much feared to learn. Perhaps that was what the dream was showing her: that accepting her gifts would change Padi’s life yet again. If she were powerful, she might well be reft from the life she wished most to embrace. She might become strange to herself—dead, or so it might be said, to her former life.

That…would be unfortunate. Padi so much wished to be a pilot of Korval and a master of trade. Still, she was young, and might adjust to a new life. For that was the best way to think of such things—as acquiring a new life, though new lives sprouted from the ashes of old lives.

And yet…the dream had not been couched in the imagery of life, of rebirth.

The dream was dark and fearful, and her contact with Padi a tangle of anguish and confusion. Priscilla had reached out her hand, reached out with her own—and perhaps even with Moonhawk’s gift—

And the girl was gone.

Not distant.

Not unconscious, nor oblivious.

Gone
, as if she had never been.

Even death rarely cut a life down so completely. Often, there remained something, a breath of radiance that danced joy for the benediction of freedom before it faded, though it was never lost.

The dream…the dream proposed not merely death, then, but—annihilation.

And she had dreamed it twice.

What I tell you three times is true.

She drew in a deep breath, one hand leaving the teacup and settling on her abdomen.

The Goddess
had
spoken to her. For one who had been trained as a priestess, there could be no mistaking the Voice of the Goddess.

It is time, Daughter; the soul who is to become your child is eager for life.

She had been filled with joy, hearing both the Voice and the message. Surely, a child was welcome, and precious.

Alone in the captain’s office, Priscilla shook her head.

Gods were chancy. Gods had their own necessities. Gods—even the Goddess Herself, harking back to the old histories—sometimes forgot that, among flawed humans, one child was not…the same as another.