The Dragon Variation (67 page)

"Ah, did he?" Mizel glanced up. "It is well to recall that the gentleman approached us, we did not seek him. If he cannot wait upon rational consideration, he is free to offer his partnership elsewhere."

Ran Eld went cold. "Mother, perhaps—"

She raised a hand. "My son, I see that you are convinced of the benefits of the scheme. You are perhaps too young to understand that no scheme brings unalloyed profit. I must consider what it is this San bel'Fasin thinks he will gain in the venture, and whether Mizel can afford to indulge him." She smiled. "We learn something of value, should it transpire that San bel'Fasin cannot afford to wait. Nor do I think a man who is unable to adopt a temperate course will be a suitable partner for Mizel. Slow, steady and careful are the cards to play, when we decide for the clan's future. I shall give your analysis due thought, never doubt it."

There was finality in her voice and, perforce, Ran Eld bowed.

"Good-day, Mother."

"Go in joy, my child."

He gained the safety of his rooms and shut the door firmly behind him. Gods, what should he do, if the delm refused the scheme? Twenty cantra—soon to be doubled! But there, he assured himself, splashing brandy into a cup, she would not refuse. Further study could only show the plan's excellencies to fuller advantage. His mother was not stupid, merely conservative. Caution must bow to good sense.

Soon.

IT WAS A SMALL,
neat house on a small, neat street handy to Solcintra's business district. Daav worked the gate-latch and followed the stone path through the meticulously-kept front-garden, mounted six shallow stairs to the porch and pulled the bell.

He had not sent ahead, nor was he dressed in the formal style mandated by the Code, when a delm went calling upon a delm. Indeed, he might almost be a solicitor who had wandered a few blocks north of his usual preserve, excepting, of course, that not many solicitors were adopted of the Mun.

The plain blue door opened wide and Daav found himself looking down into the serious face of a boy no older than eight Standards.

"Good-day," the child said, eyeing the leather jacket with interest even as he lisped the doorman's traditional challenge. "Who calls and upon what business?"

"Daav yos'Phelium calls," he returned, in Visitor-to-Child-of-the-House, "upon business of the House."

The child frowned. Line yos'Phelium belonged to Korval, as he assuredly knew. The precise place held by Daav of Line yos'Phelium was likely at the root of the frown, as the personal names of delms tended to become lost outside the circle of their own kin.

"Line yos'Phelium does not belong to Reptor," the boy said, with certainty. "I shall need to know your business, sir."

"Very proper," Daav murmured, bringing his hand slightly forward, so that Korval's Ring glinted in the afternoon sun. "My business is with Delm Reptor."

The boy's eyes moved, tracking the glint—widened and came up.

"Sir," he said and stepped back from the door, bowing as Child- of-the-House-to-Honored-Guest. "Be welcome in our House."

"Thank you," Daav said gently and stepped into the dim entrance hall.

He stood aside while the child shoved the door to and engaged the lock, then followed him down a short hall to a room overlooking the back garden.

"Refreshment will be brought," the boy said, with all the gravity due his House's honor. "I go to fetch the delm, sir."

"Thank you," Daav said again, and the boy ducked back into the hall, leaving the door open.

Daav glanced around at the book-lined walls and comfortably shabby chairs. This was no state chamber, as called for by the Code, preserved in soulless perfection for the edification of formal visitors. This was a room lived in, enjoyed and enjoyable. Daav moved toward those temptingly overfull shelves.

A step in the hall beyond brought him around in time to see a girl perhaps a year the doorman's senior cross the threshold, bearing a tray.

This she carried to the stone table before the window; rapidly set out a sweat-studded carafe, two plain crystal cups and a painted plate piled high with cookies. Turning, she made a hasty bow, "Sir," and was gone, all but running out into the hall. The door swung gently on its hinges as she passed.

Refreshment, as promised, and which courtesy required that he sample. Daav poured clear liquid from the carafe to the cup and sipped: Simmin wine, icy cold and tart enough to take one's breath. He looked wryly at the hopeful plate of sweet things and carried his cup with him to the shelves.

He had barely grazed the contents of the first shelf when a new tread was heard down the hall. Daav turned and moved to the center of the room, wine cup in one hand, Korval's Ring in plain view.

The man who stepped firmly into the chamber was soft-bodied and sandy-haired, not old, though some years older, Daav thought, than himself. He was dressed in rumpled day-clothes and scuffed houseboots, and had extraordinarily quick brown eyes, set wide in a weary, clever face.

Those quick eyes flicked to Daav's hand and back to his face, betraying puzzlement without alarm. He raised his own hand to show Reptor's Ring and bowed, Delm-to-Delm.

"How may Reptor serve Korval?"

"By forgiving this disruption of your peace," Daav said in Adult-to-Adult. "And by granting Daav yos'Phelium the gift of a few minutes of your time."

"Well." Reptor took a moment to consider Daav's face, eyes bright with intelligence. He moved a hand, as if he threw dice, and inclined his head.

"Daav yos'Phelium is welcome to my time," he said at last, and in Adult-to-Adult. He went to the stone table, poured wine into the remaining cup, sighed lightly at the plate of cookies and turned back to Daav.

"I am Zan Der pel'Kirmin." He waved at the two comfortable chairs. "Sit, do."

"I thank you." Daav sank into the nearer of the two, sipped his wine and set the cup on the elbow table. Zan Der pel'Kirmin followed suit and sat back, eyes showing curiosity, now, and somewhat of speculation.

"What brings Daav yos'Phelium to my house?"

"A rumor," Daav said gently. "I am fairly confident of my information, but I ask, for certainty's sake: Has Reptor lately—mislain—two of its own?"

The clever face went still, brown eyes glancing aside. "Mislain," he murmured, as if to himself. "Gently phrased." He looked back to Daav's face.

"Their names are Yolan pel'Kirmin and Sed Ric bin'Ala," he said, and his voice was not entirely steady. Pain and hope warred in the quick eyes. "Have you—you do have—news?"

"They are safe," Daav told him, and saw relief leach some of the pain. "Just now, they are under the protection of Pilot Aelliana Caylon, who flies out of Binjali's Yard in Upper Port." He paused, looked square into the other man's eyes. "They claim to be clanless."

Color drained from the round face; the brown eyes shone tears.

"Clanless." He might have said
dead
with the same inflection. "I—" He turned his head away, biting his lip. "Forgive me," he managed after a moment. He groped for his cup, lifted it, drank.

"I had inquired," he said, low and rapid, eyes yet averted. "I made certain they would seek the Port, ship-mad as they both are—" He glanced to Daav, pale lips tight. "Your pardon."

"No need. I believe many halflings are so."

"As you say. Be it so, my inquiries came to dust. They—I recruited myself to wait, but they did not return home, and I began to fear—offworld . . ." He sighed. "Clanless. Gods." He sagged back into his chair, showing Daav a face at once bewildered and relieved. "They are not clanless."

"And yet they have said that they are. Several times."

"A word, spoken in anger and no more meant than—" He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and opened his eyes.

"Their—patron. Aelliana Caylon, I believe you had said. That is the same Caylon? Of the ven'Tura Revision?"

"It is."

"I am in her debt. To extend her
melant'i
in such a wise, and care for those who claim no kin—that is—extraordinary. I am in her debt," he repeated and moved a hand. "And in your own."

Daav smiled, deliberately rueful. "No debt on my account, if you please. I am meddling, if you will have the truth, and must ask you to fail of mentioning this visit to Pilot Caylon, should you speak to her."

"Of course I shall speak to her!" Zan Der pel'Kirmin cried, eyes opening wide. "I must speak to her—and at once! They cannot be left a burden upon her grace, when they have kin eager to welcome them home . . ." He paused, brows drawing together.

"What had the pilot—I mean no disrespect!—I only wonder what Pilot Caylon had thought she might do for them, crying clanless and so little trained . . ."

"Ah." Daav reached to his glass and sipped the cool, tart wine. "I believe she had meant to sponsor them into Scout Academy."

"Scout Academy," the other repeated blankly.

"Pilot Caylon's name is cantra, among Scouts," Daav explained gently. "As she has very little, herself, in the way of other currency, and as your pair seemed quick enough, and clever . . ."

"Gods smile upon her, a great and wide-hearted lady," Reptor said reverently. "They—Yolan and Sed Ric have had some small training on the boards; their piloting instructors do not despair of first class. If it had not been for this other matter—but I shall go to her, to Pilot Caylon, immediately, and relieve her of Reptor's troubles."

"Immediately," Daav said delicately, "may not be possible, as Pilot Caylon resides in Chonselta. She does, however, fly—"

"Out of Binjali's Yard," the other interrupted, with a pale smile. "I understand. You are very good."

"No, only meddlesome, as I've said." Daav stood and made his bow to the host. "Having meddled sufficiently for one day, I shall restore you to your peace. Be well, and thank you for the gift of your time."

"The gift was well-given." Zan Der pel'Kirmin said, standing and bowing in reply. "My name is yours, to use in need."

Daav smiled, profoundly warmed, for it was no light thing given, but a man's whole
melant'i
, for Daav to use as he would.

"You do me too much honor," he said, and meant it.

"Not at all," the other man said firmly and offered his arm. "Allow me to guide you to our door."

"FIGHT?"
Aelliana looked from Jon to Trilla to Clonak. "Why shall I need to know how to fight?"

"Because ports and docks and Outworlds in general are chancy places, Beautiful Goddess."

"Because a captain must protect herself, her ship, her cargo," said Jon, "and her partner, should she take one."

"All true," Trilla finished in her casual, Outworld way. "Ability to frame a clear 'no' never stood a pilot ill."

Aelliana stared at the three of them and hoisted herself to a stool. Patch immediately jumped from the floor to her lap.

"I don't know the first thing about fighting," she said, as the cat rammed his head into her shoulder, rumbling like an infant earthquake.

"That's why you have to learn," Clonak said patiently. "If you already knew, it would be a waste of our time to teach you."

"We learned self-defense as part of pilot training," Yolan observed, looking up from the parts bin she and her mate were sorting.

"It wasn't enough, though," Sed Ric added. "We had to make adjustments." He stood and Yolan with him, and they stepped toward the stools in their usual formation: Yolan on Sed Ric's right.

"See?" the boy said and his right hand moved, jerking something bright and lethal from his belt. It jingled, hissed and fell still as Clonak came forward, hand outstretched.

"Jang-wire," he said, holding it up for the rest to see. Aelliana blinked.

It looked like nothing more than a length of thin chain, looped and hooked into a leather grip.

"Illegal, of course," Clonak finished and tossed the loop back to Sed Ric, who snagged it out of mid-air and hung back on his belt.

"Works," he said, and Yolan added. "We keep it on the right because I'm left-handed. I walk at Sed Ric's right. If he goes down—"

"There's one of you still weaponed and able," Jon concluded. "Partner-work, right enough." He turned to Aelliana. "Those who don't fight die, math teacher."

She met his eyes squarely. "I am craven, Master Jon. Only raise a hand and see me cringe."

"All the more reason to learn, fast and well," Trilla said. "If you get real good, no one'll touch you." She slid off her stool, shaking a shower of finger-talk at Clonak.

"Couple different styles of fighting," she said, pointing out a spot for him to stand. "Clonak here likes Port rules, which is to say, no rules."

"See a head," Clonak said gleefully, "punch it."

"This way," said Trilla and moved.

Aelliana leapt from her stool, dumping Patch floorward. Jon caught her wrist and she cried out sharply, then stood, aghast and enthralled, watching as Clonak countered Trilla's attack with a kick toward the Outworld woman's midsection, except Trilla had sidestepped and aimed her own kick at Clonak's knee and he went down, rolling, and she jumped forward, kicking at his head, except Clonak had jackknifed and it was Trilla down, one arm bent high behind her back and her cheek against the concrete floor.

"Yield!"

Clonak was up before the word's echo died, bending and offering a hand for her to rise.

"Well played, old friend."

She grinned and moved her shoulders, looking over to Aelliana. "So, I'm not real good."

"Trilla likes the dance," Clonak said, reaching into his belt and withdrawing a wickedly curved finger.

"Pretend a knife!" he shouted, and lunged.

Trilla melted away from the attack, spun, kicked, wove. The knife followed, desperate for a hit, growing increasingly heedless—and Trilla swept forward with no more force than a dance move, her hand connected sharply with Clonak's wrist, his hand snapped upward—

"Disarmed!" he cried, and collapsed cross-legged to the floor, grinning up at Aelliana. "Bow to necessity, divine. The universe is dangerous."

"First lesson tomorrow," Jon decreed, at last loosing her wrist. "Trilla will teach you to dance."