Necessity's Child (Liaden Universe®) (44 page)

“She’ll find Rys,” Kezzi breathed.

Syl Vor didn’t tell her that before she found Rys, the enemy would find them.

Instead, he swung into the hallway, and directly into her path.

* * *

A blare of noise came from the mic, followed by Penn Kalhoon’s voice, asking rather irritably, and at volume, “Is this thing on?”

Mike Golden grimaced, and exchanged a look with Gavit, who shrugged.

“I think we may be approaching a beginning,” Nova said from beside him. “Where are the children, I wonder?”

“Have been gone a bit,” Mike said, like he hadn’t been worrying this while. He pushed his sleeve up and consulted the tracker strapped there, noting the location of Syl Vor—or at least, of Syl Vor’s bracelet. Not too far away, either. He looked down at his boss and jerked his head toward the back of the school.

“They’re over that way. I’ll go ’round ’em—”

A flare of light erupted from the right, beyond the edge of the school building. Thunder rolled, deafening.

Mike Golden leapt into a run—
toward
the explosion.

Where Syl Vor had been.

He was halfway down the side of the building before he noticed that Nova was keeping pace with him.

He thought about yelling at her, but he didn’t have the wind.

Wouldn’t’ve made a bit o’ difference, anyhow.

* * *

He had to be quick; he knew that. Surprise was his only advantage.

The woman checked. Syl Vor was already moving, launching himself into the air for a mid-chest kick.

She dodged to the right, then spun back, backing the punch with her full weight, connecting so hard that he saw stars, and wasn’t sure if the crack he heard was a bone breaking or his head hitting the floor.

It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he had to roll, to jump to his feet. He had to raise the gun he had snatched from her holster, holding it firm in two hands, like he’d been taught, aiming directly at the enemy’s chest.

She stared at him, but she didn’t make the mistake of looking down at her belt. Instead, she held his eyes, and raised the remote.

Unless I can stop it, the second will be very bad . . .

Syl Vor took a deep breath, kept his eyes open, and pulled the trigger.

Crimson dyed her shirt and she crumpled without a sound.

Syl Vor carefully lowered the gun, staring with bare comprehension at the Liaden words over the toggle. Deliberately, he pushed the action switch from
fragment
to
single
to
null
.

Kezzi slipped out of the alcove, kicked the detonator away from the enemy’s hand, came over to him, and asked, very calmly, “Are you hurt?”

“I don’t know,” he told her, and looked up at the clatter of footsteps down the hall, to see his mother and Mike Golden arrive.

His mother’s face—she wasn’t angry. He didn’t
think
she was angry. He took a breath, to tell her, but he didn’t seem to know any words, Liaden or Terran.

“Are you injured?” his mother asked. “Syl Vor? Kezzi?”

“No,” said Kezzi.

He shook his head, then looked sharply over his shoulder, tracking the sound of voices and footsteps.

“Right,” said Mike Golden. He stepped forward and held out a broad hand. “Gimme the gun, Silver. That’s it. You’d best let ’em think I took that shot, right? Boss, you wanna take these two in hand?”

“Yes,” Mother said, and opened her arms. “Come here, children, and stand with me.”

* * *

The first of the Agent’s bombs had speedily yielded to his suasions.

The second, attached to the underside of the massive heating unit, was being more difficult.

Quite a bit more difficult.

The matter was made worse by distracting flares and flashes of . . . light . . . or of some new sort of pain so intense his nerves were unable to process it. His vision flickered . . . off and on. That had been more of a handicap during the first disarming. For now, he had his hand on the cap that was hidden from view, but could not trigger the deadman switch.

Worst of all were the voices—railing and screaming at him to honor the mission . . .

But
this
was the mission, now.

He held on to that with what clarity was left him. The mission was to disarm the bombs, to preserve the lives of those who had gathered. The mission was that . . . The mission was that he
would not allow this
—these deaths, this destruction. He, Rys Lin pen’Chala had set the mission, and he would, on his brother’s honor, he
would
fulfill the mission.

He checked his internal clock, and felt a surge of panic. From the moment the Agent of Change had bestowed the mission upon him, he had known that
he
would not survive it. That was not the issue.

Very well, if he could not trip the deadman, he would have to separate the cap from the base and the activation plug. There was a chance that the cap would flare out if he did so, but it would certainly bring the building down if he did not.

He closed his eyes, which did nothing to block out the savage flaying of the light, and inserted his gloved hand under the broiler.

Gripping the cap, he explored it, the mesh covering his fingertips imparting an exquisite sensitivity to his touch. The seal was . . .
here
. All he need do was break it.

He gripped the cap firmly, hearing the sigh of the tiny motors, and exerted pressure, twisting as he did.

The seal held.

He exerted more pressure, and it seemed he felt the crushed bones in his hand grind together as the glove emitted a scream.

The seal broke.

He rolled, bringing the cap out from beneath the broiler, hardly believing that—

It flashed out in his hand.

He felt no pain at all.

EPILOGUE

It was a kindly cell, as cells went—clean and bright. He could dim the lights, to a point, though he did not go so far as to assume that he had privacy.

In all, it had ended—it had ended
well
.

Udari had survived his adventure and rested in the care of the
luthia
and her apprentice. The Dragon was, if not safe, at least safe from any more threats from
his
hand. And he . . .

He had his soul back.

So said Lady Anthora, the Witch of Korval, to whose examinations he had submitted of his own will, Silain at his side, and her hand holding his.

Silain said that the soul and the heart were inseparable. That a man passed as himself through the door into the World Beyond.

Perhaps he would know this for himself, soon. Such a soul as his was no small burden, but now that it was returned to him, he had no wish to put it aside.

There was a step in the corridor outside his cell.

Rys rose, feeling a minute hitch in the working of the brace. He had told Silain that she was to be sure the brace went back to Rafin. It would be a shame to waste the metals.

He centered himself and faced the door, his arm peaceably at his side, the empty sleeve neatly pinned up and out of the way.

The door opened to admit a tall man near his own age, his brown hair falling into brilliantly green eyes.

He wore the leather jacket of a Jump pilot over a plain sweater and work pants.

Rys took a deep breath.

It came now, his judgment.

His death.

He bowed in the mode of lesser to greater, thereby giving his agreement to what would come after, and said, respectfully, “Korval.”

Straightening, he met that brilliant gaze, saw a smile on the firm mouth.

“Brother,” came the reply, accompanied by the easy nod one might accord to kin.

Rys stiffened.

“
I
am not your brother,” he said.

“Are you not? And yet I have never before now met another who had broken training, and regained a measure of what he had been, before the Department had trained him.” He tipped his head to one side, eyes speculative. “Surely, that binds us in some way?”

It was true that Val Con yos’Phelium, he who was now Korval, had been an Agent of Change. He was, perhaps, the Department’s greatest failure, for he had broken with the Commander and with the Plan, and actively worked to the Department’s despite.

As, Rys thought, he would himself, were he to live.

“Well,” said Korval, “you will think on it. Perhaps we will speak of it again, sometime later. In the meanwhile, my sister tells me that you have some anxiety with regard to a ship.” He reached inside his jacket and withdrew a folded sheet of paper, which he held out with a smile. “I hope that this will serve to reassure you.”

Hope and terror clashed in his heart. Rys fairly snatched the paper from the outstretched hand, unfolded it to find a ship’s registry page, his gaze running feverishly down the few lines . . .

Momma Liberty

Out of Waymart

Captain Jasin Bell

First Mate Kayla Bell

Trader Morgan Fairchance

Status active

Taking cargo and passengers

Tears, sudden and grateful. He had not . . . he had never . . . He closed his eyes and bowed his head.

“I am grateful,” he said. “Korval, I am in your debt.”

It was an idiotic thing to say, given what was the most likely outcome of this encounter, but Val Con yos’Phelium inclined his head gravely.

“Let there be no debt between us,” he said in his soft voice, and looked up with a gleam in his eye.

“Where will you go now?” he asked.

Rys stared at him. “Go?”

“Yes,
go
. My sister assures me that you are no longer a danger to the clan; that, indeed, you may prove an ally. We are not so foolish as to turn allies away, you know. So I ask—where will you go?”

Rys took a breath. He had woken this morning knowing that he would be dead before evening. This sudden leap to life—

He studied the man before him; could detect nothing false in face or eyes.

“If my life is truly mine,” he said carefully, “I would return to the Bedel.”

“I had guessed as much,” Korval said, “and took the liberty of calling your brothers to take you home.”

“My—”

“They are waiting for you upstairs,” Korval interrupted, stepping back and bowing Rys toward the door. “I have the impression that they are eager to see you. Please, do not keep them waiting on my behalf.”

* * *

Syl Vor lay with his mother under the Tree, his head on her shoulder, her arm holding him close.

“I like visiting the Tree,” he said drowsily, “and I’m happy to make the acquaintance of my new cousin Talizea, but I’ll be
very
happy to go home again.”

“I will be very happy to have you back again. I make no secret, Syl Vor-son, that Mr. Golden has been cast quite into despair by your absence, and Beck is not to be borne!”

He gave a small gurgle of laughter.

“Your Aunt Anthora tells me that you have progressed well in your lessons with her, though she still holds shy of telling me what those lessons were. May I persuade you, my child, to tell me?”

Syl Vor laughed again, and snuggled his head closer against her shoulder.

“Oh,
she
said she was teaching me to be a boy. I think that was a joke, because of course I
am
only a boy!”

“Of course you are,” his mother said. “As fine a child as any might wish for. Barring the occasional adoption of sisters.”

He grinned.

“Is Kezzi being very bad?”

“Not,” his mother said judiciously, “by Kezzi’s lights. But I digress. Did your aunt teach you anything other than to be a boy?”

“No-o-o. But she did tell me that many people get muddled when they’ve been in very great danger, and that I’ll probably never really recall how Mike came just in time to, to stop that woman who was going to blow up the school. Do you think if I ask Mike, he’ll tell me?”

“To say true, I think that Mr. Golden’s memory of the event is a little muddled, as well. Certainly, Kezzi’s is,” his mother said slowly. “Best, perhaps, to leave it.”

“That’s what Uncle Ren Zel says. ‘The threads are well-woven,’” he quoted, “‘and no need to try the knots.’” He sighed.

A bell rang out over the garden, and his mother sat up, tumbling him over into the leaves.

He laughed, and jumped to his feet. She was up, as well, and brushing the leaves out of her hair. She looked at him from beneath her lashes.

“Race you,” she whispered, and took off across the lawn, golden hair flying behind her.

Syl Vor shouted, and ran after her.