Halfling Moon (2 page)

Luken raised his eyebrows. "Well, if it
comes to that, it is my duty to fall, if it will buy the pilot and
the passengers time to be away," he said mildly, and inclined his
head. "Do you know, Quin, I think that I will have some cookies
after all."

"Of course, Grandfather." He rose at once and went to the
cabinet, had the tin down and took a moment to arrange the cookies
on a plate.
Just because we are in exile
, Grandmother said, often,
is no reason to
descend into barbarism
.

He took the plate to the table, offering it
first to Luken, who took a single cookie, daintily, and bit into it
with obvious enjoyment.

Quin put the plate in the center of the
table, and reclaimed his chair. The cookies were his favorite --
vanilla and spice seed -- but he wasn't hungry. He sipped his
tea.

"Now," Luken murmured gently, done with his
treat, "what news?"

Quin blinked.

"I -- news, Grandfather?" he managed.

Luken sighed. "You must forgive a man grown old in the ways
of Liad. It had seemed to me, boy-dear, that you placed a subtle
emphasis on
you
in the declaration that I would not fall, which suggested
to me that you have had news, perhaps, of . . . someone who may
indeed have fallen."

Quin sighed. It was useless to try to hide
things from Luken; he knew that. Really, Grandfather probably knew
all and everything, even about Padi helping him crack the
data-locks.

He sighed again and looked up into his
Grandfather's eyes.

"Father hasn't signed in," he said slowly.
"Not once since -- since Plan B . . ."

"Ah, I had forgotten that you held the
access codes to the Roster," Luken said gently.

Quin pressed his lips together and said nothing. If by some
chance Grandfather
didn't
know about Padi's assistance, he wouldn't hear of
it from Quin.

"Very good," Luken said after a moment. "I
must say that you surprise me, boy-dear. I would have thought you
knew by now that one who listens at doors hears nothing good."

That was a lesson long ago learned, true
enough, but--

"I had to know," he muttered.

"Of course you did," Luken replied
courteously. He reached for another cookie and raised his eyes to
Quin's. "Now, tell me: what it is that you know?"

"I --" He gasped, feeling tears rise,
swallowed, and forced himself to meet Grandfather's calm, grey
eyes.

"I know that Father hasn't signed in," he
said steadily. He took a breath. "The rest is speculation."

"I see. Well." Luken bit into his cookie and
sighed. "I agree that it is extremely vexatious of Pat Rin to have
ignored protocol. His mother, your grandmother, is certain to ring
a peal over him, when they are once again in the same room. For
myself, I have determined to do nothing of the kind, for he will
have had his reasons, you know. Your father does not much resemble
an idiot."

Quin considered him, the heavy misery that
had settled in his chest lightening somewhat.

"You know that he is . . . safe, then,
Grandfather?"

Luken sighed and picked up his teacup.

"Child, I know nothing of the sort. I merely
hope."

"Hope." He hadn't meant to speak so
scornfully, not to Grandfather, and yet --

"It's no shameful thing," Luken murmured,
"to hope. Nor would you be alone, did you take up the habit. We
each of us hope for a Balanced outcome, and a speedy return home.
Here, we hope for the safety of those who actively expose
themselves to danger, while they hope to prevail, so that they and
we will be reunited and that soon."

Quin cleared his throat, thinking of the
last time he'd seen his father. They'd said their public good-byes
at the foot of the gangway; his father had pressed his hand, and
abjured him to study well, wearing what Quin thought of as his
card-playing face. All very ordinary, and he was only going back to
school, after all, and would be home again at the end of the
term.

There had been no reason for it, but Quin
had paused just as he was about to enter the shuttle. Paused and
turned his head.

At the foot of the gangway stood his father still, his dark
hair riffled by the evening breeze, his face . . . attentive. Quin
caught his eyes, and Father smiled, wide and sweet, as he so seldom
did, and never in public. Quin had smiled back; Father raised his
hand, fingers rippling in the sign for
soon
. Then the steward called and Quin
had to clear the door, find his seat, strap in, and lean back, all
the while glowing with the warmth Father's smile.

"Quin?"

He looked up into Grandfather's eyes. "It
would be good if we were called home soon," he said, gravely. "And
in the meanwhile, Grandfather, it doesn't quite seem like Father to
have allowed anything ill to befall him."

Luken smiled and put his warm hand over
Quin's cold one.

"No, it doesn't, does it?"

* * *

"They've gone?"

Those were Kareen yos'Phelium's first words
when she entered the control parlor to relieve Luken as guardian on
duty. A sharp-tongued stickler she might be, and what she had done
to his boy never to be forgot, or forgiven, but no one could say
that the lady was dull or that her ability to do sums was in any
way impaired.

"Directly before the last manual survey,"
Luken said, glancing again at the screen, yet innocent of lurkers.
"I admit to a certain dismay."

"One would prefer them in eye," Kareen
agreed, taking the second's chair. "Perhaps they grew bored?"

"I could find no ease along that road,
though you might do better," Luken answered cordially.

Kareen sighed. "I expect I shall find none,
either. It's an ill road, beginning to end." She frowned at the
screen.

"Shall we take to the ship?"

According to the First Speaker's wisdom, he
was the elder-in-charge; thus the question came properly to him. Of
course. Nor was it an ill question, only annoying in the way that
questions which have no clean answer so often were.

Certainly, one felt increasingly exposed, in this
supposedly rarely traveled corner of space. Certainly, a ship
afforded flexibility,
mobility
, that their current situation did not. And yet .
. .

"A destination?" he murmured, inviting her
suggestion.

Again, she sighed. "Without proper access to
certain information . . ."

Precisely. A ship might also, of course,
gain them the news feeds that their stable fortress location
lacked. It was no use thinking of sending one out for news, of
course; they had but a single ship. If one went, all
accompanied.

There were, of course, sub-plans to guide
them, committed to memory long ago, and each assuming a
catastrophic impetus. This . . . uneasiness was formed by a
circumstance that, despite the instincts of two grown old in
society, might yet be only happenstance.

"If we formed a less vulnerable grouping . .
." Kareen murmured, perhaps to herself.

Oh, they were vulnerable, Luken agreed
silently; never think otherwise! Two silver-hairs, two halflings, a
younger, and a pair of babes-in-arms. Had they been more grown, or
less old --

Well. Had they been more grown, Korval's
treasures, there would have been no need to hide them away.

Luken looked to the screens . . . blinked
and looked again.

"It may be," he said slowly, "that our
decision has been made for us."

* * *

It was not the same ship, and it was
possible that they had over-reacted in sending the children to the
Ready Room, the ship keys usually on Luken's belt in Quin's hand,
and the backup keys, in Padi's. Lady Kareen waited with him in the
control parlor, one hand on the back of his chair, watching the
screens over his shoulder, ready to move on the instant through the
panel directly behind them.

On the screen, the ship approached, slowly,
inexorably.

"Now . . ." Kareen breathed, and as if in
response the first beacon sent its challenge.

The approaching ship made answer, properly.
On the master board, Luken saw the beacon begin its countdown from
twelve. If the ship were still range of its sensors when it came
back online, it would die, friend or -- but there, it was past and
on course for the second beacon.

A ship of the Clan
, Luken thought, but found scant comfort
in the thinking of it. Ships, after all, could be captured; and
pilots subverted. The codes that held their doors against those who
wished to gain Korval's treasures for their own enrichment were not
invincible. And as much as he wished the vessel that was now past
the second beacon and on its way to the third and last, to be the
answer to all their waiting, the closer it came, the more he
mistrusted it.

"Does it seem to you, good Master
bel'Tarda,"Kareen yos'Phelium murmured in his ear, "that the ship
we see is somewhat too . . . apt?"

"It occurs to me," he answered, his voice hushed. "One does
so
wish
it to be a Korval vessel . . ."

"Precisely," she said, suddenly crisp.

Luken drew a careful breath, and watched the ship in the
screens.
I am too old for this
, he thought
and not nearly clever
enough.

"The docking computer's been fairly
answered," is what he said aloud. "Will you step aside while I go
to greet our guest?"

"I'll remain here, I think," she said, not
entirely surprisingly, "and monitor the situation. If matters . . .
clarify, be assured that I know my duty."

None better,
he thought, and pushed out of his chair, suddenly
feeling all of his years and the accumulated weight of the
children's.

"I daresay I won't be but a moment," he said
with false cheer, and left the control parlor, heading for the
dock.

* * *

Syl Vor sat with the twins, who were being
very good, very quiet, in their separate carriers. That was
precisely as it should be, Quin thought approvingly; Shindi and Mik
were Syl Vor's job until they had to move. If they had to go before
Grandmother was with them, then Syl Vor would pick up Shindi and he
would take Mik, and they'd run as fast as they could, with Padi
bringing up the rear. That was as it should be, too, because Padi
was co-pilot; her charges, the pilot and the passengers.

Quin, watching the screen, thought that Grandfather and
Grandmother had -- perhaps -- been too enthusiastic in their duty.
Indeed, it was all he could do, to hold to discipline and not open
the door. For surely,
surely
, this was recall at last, for here came a ship
whose pilot held all the proper codes . . .

"Why don't we have an all-clear?" Padi
demanded, echoing his thought. "The systems accept the ship -- it's
docking! What more does Aunt want? A calling card?"

"They want the pilot to prove the door code,
too," Quin said.

"Why?" Padi was fairly dancing from one foot
to the other. "He had all the others. What proof can one more door
hold?"

Quin touched the screen's keypad, accessing
the camera on the hall outside the forward dock. It would, he
thought, be Cousin Shan, or perhaps Cousin Anthora. Or . . . if
Cousin Nova -- if the First Speaker couldn't spare any of the Line
Direct for the errand, then it would certainly be Pilot Mendoza, or
. . .

Familiar and firm. That was what Grandmother
said. That the pilot the First Speaker sent to them, when it was
come time to go home, would be familiar to them, and firm in their
loyalty to Korval.

For long moments, the bay door remained sealed, ready light
glowing green above it. Quin's stomach clenched. What if the pilot
failed, after all, of having the proper codes for the door? That
would mean -- Gods,
would
it mean that the ship had been stolen? Or that the
pilot --
their
pilot, familiar and firm -- had been stolen, and -- and
coerced into revealing --

"Quin?"

Padi was frowning at him, and that would
never do

He took a deep breath and gave her a smile. "Don't
you
want to know who
has come for us?"

Her face relaxed into a grin.

"The pilot could," she agreed, "take our
feelings into account and make some haste."

As if the pilot had heard her, the ready
light snapped to yellow, and the bay door slid open.

"Syl Vor!" Quin hissed. "Count of
twelve!"

He had never in his life seen the woman who
stepped, soundless as a Scout, into the hallway.

* * *

The ship rejoiced in the name of
Fortune's
Reward
;
a ship of the line, lately assigned to the wastrel cousin, whom
Korval's great enemy and the Juntavas alike had thought to be easy
meat.

Not so the Office of Judgment, and in that
they had been proven wise. Never an ill thing, to have the sagacity
of the Judges proven.

It
was
ill, the pilot thought, releasing the webbing, but not yet
rising from the chair . . . It was ill, indeed, that she came thus
into Korval's most secret treasure-house, alone, and unknown to
those who stood guard. It had been better -- but no matter. Done
was done, and, truly, she had finessed more volatile situations.
She would need to win them, that was all.

Win them.