Accepting the lance, p.21
Accepting the Lance, page 21
part #22 of Liaden Universe Series
Mrs. kaz’Ineo raised one slim hand and gestured toward the front of the house.
“There appear to be two ideas tugging at the ascendant,” she said. “Boss Conrad, representing the New Order, and Boss Surebleak, representing the Old. Rather than go to bloodshed, which partakes firmly of the Old, and solves nothing for the New, how if we require every person on every turf to place her coin firmly on one square: Boss Conrad or Boss Surebleak.”
Pat Rin stared at her.
“An’ whoever gets the most votes, that’s who’ll head the Council o’Bosses,” Jorish finished.
“I feel constrained to point out that this…method does not address Boss Surebleak’s demands.”
“There is,” said Mrs. kaz’Ineo austerely, “no need to address Boss Surebleak’s demands in any way. We must work within the system as it exists; to go backward is not an option. In today’s vernacular, Boss Surebleak wishes to be Boss of Bosses, and Boss Conrad—does not wish to relinquish his position.”
Pat Rin was struck dumb.
“What I’m really likin’ about this particular solving, ma’am,” Jorish Hufstead said to his master, “is how there’s no blood in it. And there ain’t any confusion. Boss Surebleak wins, she just starts goin’ to work in Boss Conrad’s shoes, and Boss Conrad, he gets to take some time off and relax. All the ongoing Council projects like get reported in the papers keep going on like they’re s’posed to, an’ nobody has to miss anybody else.”
“Boss Surebleak also wishes the Road Boss to be…retired,” Pat Rin pointed out, rather feebly, to his own mind.
Mrs. kaz’Ineo sniffed.
“The Road Boss is under contract to the Council of Bosses. Should Boss Surebleak succeed in her bid to become Boss of Bosses, she may release the Road Boss from their duties, in accordance with the appropriate clauses in the contract, and contract with another to be Road Boss.”
This was, Pat Rin thought, lunacy, truly. Who would enforce the win? Ah, yes, that had been covered at the very first.
Honor.
He took a deep breath and leaned forward to put his cup on the table, taking the moment to scan both serious faces before him. Neither looked a lunatic.
“Well.” He sat back into his chair. “Tell me, then. How would you design this…vote?”
Jelaza Kazone
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
The house was too quiet, Val Con thought, as he walked toward the delm’s office, having seen Miri on her way down to the port and the office of the Road Boss.
A clanhouse wasn’t meant to be empty. A proper clanhouse never was empty.
Jelaza Kazone had, of course, never been a proper clanhouse, yet it had not been built with the intention of enclosing empty rooms and dead air. It had been built, at least, as a refuge for those of Korval, their allies and their friends. Perhaps Grandmother Cantra had not thought in terms of a full nursery, and the voices of kin in the hallways…
Or perhaps she had. Grandmother Cantra had passed her early years in what had amounted to a clanhouse, and if all of one’s near-kin had been specially designed to certain specifications, surely that made them kindred?
Korval had never been a large clan, even in the days of relative peace, when their luck had deemed it fitting that Korval pilots lived to a respectable old age. It had over time become smaller still. Two generations back, Jelaza Kazone had been home to his grandmother Chi, and her sons, Er Thom and Daav. Chi had died, Er Thom had taken up his duties as master trader and thodelm of yos’Galan, removing from the clanhouse to Trealla Fantrol, yos’Galan’s line house, leaving Daav, after he had been recalled from the Scouts to take up Korval’s Ring, to live in the clanhouse alone.
Eventually, Daav had been joyously joined by his lifemate, and they produced a child, had eager plans, so his father had written in the diaries, for a second…
Save that his lifemate had been murdered, leaving Daav in fear for his own reason, targeted by an implacable enemy…
His father had left the clan, hoping to pull the enemy with him. He placed his small son, the heir and hope of Clan Korval, into the care of Er Thom, his cha’leket, and—vanished.
Jelaza Kazone had been swept, sheeted, and shuttered. Grounds and maintenance were seen to by staff; the public rooms and the gardens were open on the appropriate days, as every other Great House; and Uncle Er Thom had of course visited the Tree in its court…as often as necessary.
But Jelaza Kazone had ceased to be a clanhouse; it was a resource, of course, and there was the Tree, but as for kin—even Korval’s heir stayed in his rooms at Trealla Fantrol when he was on break from school or the Scouts.
Truly, it was only since the relocation to Surebleak that Jelaza Kazone had come into use once more as a clanhouse, even a proper clanhouse; the seat of the delm; a safe harbor for kin, allies, friends; full-staffed and, sometimes, just a little noisy.
He had, Val Con realized with some surprise, become very quickly used to a—say, a fuller house.
Perhaps, he thought, the delm ought to make a protocol: Every twelve days, every clan member on Surebleak would return for two days to the clanhouse, there to refresh themselves with each other, talk over the business not only of clan, but of kin…
That might, indeed, be a reasonable notion; he would remember to mention it to Miri. Certainly, if they were to go down the path of recruiting non-kin—no…fellow travelers…into Korval, such group meetings would be necessary…
As he had been concerned with kin, it was perhaps not surprising that his first act upon entering the delm’s office, before he even poured a cup of tea or removed Fondi from the desk chair, was to call the Healer Hall to inquire after the health and necessities of Anthora yos’Galan and Ren Zel dea’Judan, wounded children of Clan Korval.
• • • ✴ • • •
They had been alone at study in the early hours. Nelirikk Explorer was, as most days, escort and bodyguard to the Road Boss. Diglon Rifle, so he had informed them yesterday, would early be out with his wife, in her melant’i as Scout botanist, assisting her in the gathering of those plants which thrived in the pale, frigid dawnlight. He had assured them, earnestly, that there were such, which the Pathfinders doubted not, they having seen a great many odder things than cold-loving plants along their various tours.
The early study completed, Chernak and Stost repaired to the mess, where there were such foodstuffs and drink that might be found suitable for a midmorning snack. They each drew a cup of coffee, which they found curiously pleasing in taste despite its acrid odor, with a few of the chewy fruited bars, and took up station at the table near the door—a soldier habit that they could no more have broken than they could have stopped breathing.
“Our schedule remains remarkably free of duty,” Chernak observed, after she had sipped her coffee. “It would seem that we have exhausted the curiosity of the commanders of mercenaries, nor have we seen a follow-up from the exploratory corps. Have we alternate plan for our future, now that we have seen the last duty placed upon us by our former command resolved?”
“This place, it is acceptable as a post if matters fall that way,” Stost said carefully. “If Nelirikk Explorer becomes our superior, I believe we all might work with that; he is fair and has the trust of command. Diglon is a boon companion of complexity, which I approve of for all that my approval leads to no benefits for myself. And truly, Senior, a house like this, where great events have taken place, that draws both unexpected action and unexpected persons—there would be honor here, I think.”
Chernak sipped her coffee.
“I agree,” she said. “The post would not be without honor, nor would it be beyond our abilities. I see that we would need to be stern with ourselves, to preserve our skills in service of the house, but we might easily make that case to Nelirikk’s captain.”
She paused.
“Making the case that we ought join the house Troop—that may be more difficult, my Stost. Note, I do not say insurmountable because I know your powers of persuasion. It seems that the house is not eager to increase the strength of its force.”
“We might put our reasoning before Nelirikk and ask for the benefit of his experience. After all, this is not our universe. We are as soldiers newcome from the creche.”
Chernak choked slightly on her coffee.
“Certainly,” she said, when she had her breath back. “We are babes.”
“Will we not, then, ask for the aid of a more knowledgeable comrade?” asked Stost. “For myself, I would like to have a range on when the house will grow tired of feeding the dutiless, and what is likely to occur when it has done so.”
Chernak sighed.
“That is knowledge that I would welcome, myself,” she said gravely. “As you say, it would be no dishonor to serve this house.” She paused, and added, “One might prefer Captain Theo, if that choice were made available.”
“And who,” said Stost wisely, “would not prefer Captain Theo?”
He picked up his cup and drank off what was left of his coffee.
• • • ✴ • • •
It had been a short conversation with Healer Hall. Anthora and Ren Zel were still under evaluation. Because of the…unusual nature of their separate gifts, the Healers in the Hall were proceeding cautiously. Lady Anthora had asked several times to see her lifemate. As Lord Ren Zel was not in what the attending Healers considered to be a stable condition, it had not been deemed wise to bow to these requests. To her credit, Lady Anthora had acquiesced to the prohibition placed upon her, stating that she understood the concern of the attending Healers, and was most grateful to them for their care.
Of Lady Anthora—the child she carried had taken no damage. The lady herself…was depleted. There was no sign of wounding or scarring, merely a low—which was to say lower—energy state, as if she had overextended herself.
The task of the Healers attending her was twofold: to be certain that there was no continued loss of energy; and to ascertain if the new state were permanent or whether, with rest and time, she might recover her full abilities.
Was there anything else that Lord yos’Phelium wished to know?
“Might one speak to Lady Anthora?”
The administrator offered regrets. Lady Anthora was engaged with the attending Healers. If he wished, a note might be left for her.
“If you might ask her to call her brother Val Con when she feels able, I would be grateful.”
He was to consider it done. Was there anything else?
“No, I thank you.”
Val Con sat in his chair for a moment, eyes closed, stroking Fondi, who had appropriated his lap during the time he had been speaking with Healer Hall.
Anthora…had been, by the estimation of those whose concern it was to estimate such things, one of the two strongest—possibly the strongest—dramliza of the current generation. Her gifts had made it easy for her to do things—in a wide range. For instance, one could not be certain, even yet, if she actually was a master pilot…or only flew like one.
Well, Val Con thought, putting Fondi aside and rising to fetch himself a cup of tea…
They would all need to learn to cope with new realities. A brother could hope for a sister that she had not lost too much of what had been hers; he imagined that losing a limb would cause her far less pain and despair.
For Ren Zel…a brother might hope that he survived, and returned very soon to joyous good health, though not necessarily to his talents. The ability to see and interact with the forces that bound the universe—that had been a cruel gift; no one should have had to bear such a burden, least of all Ren Zel, who was a kind man, who constantly strove to do what was right.
He had also had what Val Con had been informed was a very minor gift of Sight, which allowed him infrequent glimpses elsewhere. Both of his gifts had come upon him later in life than was usual; therefore, he had not learned to lean upon them.
No, Ren Zel’s biggest challenge going forward might well be coming to terms with being alive, after he had chosen to sacrifice himself for the continuation of their universe.
Val Con carried his cup to the window and stood sipping, gazing out into the inner garden. Snow dusted walkways, bare branches, and leaves. The Tree kept the inner garden somewhat more temperate than the Surebleak surrounding the house, but not even the Tree could vanquish winter entirely.
On the topic of sacrifice, he found himself wishing that the Department would make its move. He had no wish to die, certainly; in truth, he had so much engaged upon him that he did not wish even to be inconvenienced. He did, however, very much wish the striving against the Department to be over.
Bad enough when it was only himself in the Department’s sights. But they had widened the field to Korval entire and now, apparently, once more, to Surebleak. One hesitated to wonder to what dizzy heights the stakes would rise next—the galaxy? The universe?
No. It would stop here—with him. Talizea would not be forced to endure the Department; Miri would be free to live a full life, even if he fell.
It would be a hard trade, if he did fall. For he would die for nothing less than the complete destruction of the Department of the Interior.
Well.
He sighed and finished his tea. Turning away from the window, he paused by the sideboard to refresh the cup, and so to his desk.
Putting the cup to one side, he bent to pick up Fondi, reclaiming the desk chair as his own. He put the cat on his knee, but it appeared he had seriously transgressed. Fondi jumped to the floor, shook his left back paw in Val Con’s general direction, and stalked away toward the windows.
Val Con shook his head and reached for the comm once more.
He heard the sound of a distant chime—one, two, three, four…
“Melina Sherton,” said that lady crisply, though she kept the screen dark.
“Melina, it is Val Con yos’Phelium, your neighbor. I wonder if you are still without a tenant for that house outside the city…”
Bechimo
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
“Stone Ronin accepts our status as contractors for Surebleak and thus the Gilmour Agency,” Kara said quietly. “It allows us to assume short-term oversight of the mission. We are retrieving all files since launch. Joyita is acting as facilitator.”
Theo, at first board, nodded, remembered her manners, and spoke, “Thank you, Kara, Joyita,” before she returned all of her attention to bond-space and the input from the scanners.
Bechimo had slipped into this space like a ghost himself. None of the machines and devices clustered about the rocky worldlet noticed their arrival at the far edge of the company. Some of those gathered were clearly ships, though the lines made Theo’s head hurt. Others were equipment: mining rigs, drones, refuelers, and repair platforms. Still others were…she wasn’t sure what they were. Bechimo ID’d a couple from files. The device that was adjusting its form factor on the fly was labeled strumfalkin, which was, Theo thought, something since now she knew what its name was, but it would have helped if she could have known what it did.
There was chatter along all channels, which was the devices talking among themselves.
“Who were you? I recognize your scars—”
“That world,” Theo murmured in bond-space, “is it…known?”
She felt Bechimo metaphorically riffling the files and data inherited from the Gilmour Agency, switching to the information given by the Scouts, backtracking, cross-referencing…
“In the earliest surveys, Theo, that world is mentioned as Benoo Three; there are two objects in resonance. It held no interest for the survey, and thus was ignored.”
“Scan it; find out if any of these things have set up a base there.”
“Yes,” said Bechimo, and she felt him assign scanners to the task.
Old Yxtrang was often in Theo’s ears as the cacophony grew. Now the assembly seemed to be nothing more or less than a faculty gathering on Delgado, with everyone insisting that their topic must be dealt with first, that their project was most worthy of funding, that the research being done by that group over there drew too heavily on limited resources…
There were continued shouts of recognition—even more like a faculty party!—and backs were turned, snubs given.
“Old Yxtrang,” she murmured in bond-space. “Bechimo, can you tell how old those machines are? Were they built in this universe or did they cross from the old?”
There was a pause, and a feel of increased concentration before Bechimo answered her.
“I believe that the majority of those gathered here originated in the Old Universe.”
“How many are out there?” she asked, trying to sort the lines fed to her by the sensors, and only getting more tangled.
“Approximately thirty-six,” Bechimo said.
“Approximately?”
“Several are transformers, able to reconfigure themselves in response to changing threats. Several more are chained pairs of specialists, which present as one but may act independently as two or three.”
“More are still coming in,” Theo murmured. “How many devices from the Old Universe are there in this one?”
“That will be an interesting joint project for Joyita and myself, when we have leisure,” Bechimo said. “Recall, however, that the Scouts actively search for such units, and warehouse them together. Some we see before us are maintenance devices. It is not impossible that, grouped together, they repaired each other and also came to a common goal.”
“But why Surebleak?”
“There is timonium here,” Bechimo said, “in amounts that might well serve such a company, even if the Gilmour Agency deemed it too little to continue to mine.”
“So…you think these devices broke out of a Scout warehouse?”
“That is one theory among several. It seems most likely to me that some of the devices slipped away from Scout control, and that some…were never incarcerated. The majority of these gathered are from the Old Universe. They will have carried their goals, and perhaps their orders, with them.”
