The older man looked up from his notepad. “That is,” he said carefully, “a lifemate's portion.”
“So it is,” Daav said with more composure than he felt. He inclined his head. “The situation is delicate, Mr. dea'Gauss. The Healers at Chonselta Hall believe me to be Pilot Caylon's natural lifemate. Unfortunately, the pilot has suffered . . . an injury in the past, which may prevent the bond from ripening. It is my wish, however, to honor it—and her—as . . . fully as possible.”
Mr. dea'Gauss looked rather quickly down at his pad. “Of course, your lordship. One can readily apprehend your melant'i in the matter. Those papers, too, will be awaiting your signature tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” Daav said softly. “Is there anything else which requires my attention, sir?”
“We are to the end of my list, your lordship. I thank you for seeing me so quickly.”
“No, it is I who thank you, for your skill in husbanding Korval's resources. You should know, however, that Lady Kareen will be most disappointed.”
Mr. dea'Gauss paused in the act of slipping his notepad into its case. “I am of course desolate to have disappointed Lady Kareen. In what way have I erred?”
“In no way that I can perceive,” Daav said, already regretting his joke. Mr. dea'Gauss was not known for his sense of humor. “It only seemed that my sister was quite eager for the clan to be turned out onto the port, and the delm reduced to taking up employment as a pilot for hire.”
“Ah.” Mr. dea'Gauss finished sealing the case and rose to his feet. “Your honored sister was not, of course, familiar with all of the particulars of the case. Korval's danger was . . . very small and, as your lordship sees, extremely easy to contain. Shall I call upon Lady Kareen and reassure her?”
“That won't be necessary, Mr. dea'Gauss. You have done quite enough for us this day.” He touched the pad on the edge of his desk. “Allow Mr. pel'Kana to show you out,” he concluded.
“Thank you, your lordship.”
* * *
She unpacked her box, hanging her jacket, the white shirt, and blue trousers in the wardrobe, folding the new small clothes into a drawer, and draping the green robe over the foot of the bed. The remains of her old clothes, she left in the box, and tucked it into the bottom on the closet. The room swallowed her possessions without noticing them, and the rest of the apartment would do the same to her.
She shook herself, and pushed the encroaching grimness away.
Work was what she needed, she thought determinedly, and returned to the parlor.
Sitting down at the desk, she woke the computer, and was very shortly engaged in bringing her working files over from Chonselta Tech.
Having achieved that, she opened the most recent: a proof for pseudorandom tridimensional subspaces. But for once, mathematics—the elixir that had healed the damage her husband had inflicted; the magic that cast Ran Eld's constant cruelties momentarily into another time and place—mathematics failed her. Instead of the pure forms suggested by her equations, she heard Clonak's voice, so subdued. Surely, she thought, surely he had been weeping, and Aelliana Caylon, his student, his pilot, and his comrade, had been too dim-witted to ease him.
“He wouldn't show me his face,” she muttered, as for the dozenth time her eyes wandered from the screen to the window and the garden beyond.
Her failure gnawed at her, and yet she could think of nothing that she might have done—might now do—that would mend matters. She was at a loss even to know how to discover what trouble afflicted him.
Finally, with the setting sun casting deep shadows in the corners of the garden, she put her work away and rose from behind the desk.
She would, she thought, find Daav and put the question to him. He and Clonak had been friends for—since Scout Academy! Daav had been the captain of Clonak's team. Surely, he would know what was to be done to ease their comrade's dismay. Indeed, hadn't she seen that glance between Jon and Daav, when she had asked after Clonak's shift?
Scouts, she reminded herself, opening the door and stepping out into the hallway; one must always take care to ask the right question of Scouts . . .
She went down the stairs and paused, suddenly aware of her folly. Where in this enormous house could she hope to find Daav? She ought to have called him, or—
To her left, a door closed. She turned her head and here came Mr. pel'Kana, followed by a very upright man in sober business dress, with brown hair going grey, and a case tucked under one arm. Upon seeing her, he checked, murmured a word to the butler and stepped forward.
“Do I have the honor of addressing Aelliana Caylon?” His spoke in the mode of servant-to-lord, which was surely an error; his voice was precise and pleasant.
“I am Aelliana Caylon,” she said, offering adult-to-adult as a more realistic approximation of their relative melant'i. “You have the advantage of me, sir.”
“I am dea'Gauss,” he said, and bowed profoundly. “Your servant, ma'am.”
“I—That is very kind of you, Mr. dea'Gauss. However, you mustn't let me delay you, sir! I am only looking for Daav . . . ”
“Certainly,” he said promptly. “Allow me.”
With that he slipped his arm through hers and guided her down the hall to the second door. He knocked, one sharp rap of knuckles against wood, and paused, head tipped.
“Come!” Daav called from within.
Mr. dea'Gauss turned the knob and pushed the door open.
* * *
The door closed behind Mr. dea'Gauss. Daav did not so much rise as spring to his feet, spinning toward the window as if the view of the inner garden would answer his need for action. He felt every nerve a-quiver—some part of which might, after all, be attributed to relief. While he had never truly supposed that he had been the agent of the clan's ruin, he had considered it possible that his misstep had cast Korval into stern economy. Which might well have been the case, had Korval employed a qe'andra any less able than the very able dea'Gauss.
For the rest—
A knock at the door shattered his thought. Doubtless, Mr. pel'Kana come to inquire about his preference for Prime.
“Come!”
The door opened.
“My thanks,” Aelliana said.
Mr. dea'Gauss answered with a grave, “My pleasure.”
Daav turned in time to see the accountant's shadow fade away from the door, as Aelliana stepped within.
His heart rose to see her, walking assured and firm—sharp and telling contrast to the tentative, near-invisible woman who had slunk into Binjali's so short a time ago, and whispered the name of her ship.
“Aelliana,” he said, smiling. “Bored to distraction already?”
“Indeed, no,” she said, pausing at the far side of the desk. “Only bedeviled by my own stupidity and wondering if I might ask you, yet again, to help me!”
“Of course I will help in any way I can. What has happened?”
She hesitated, and it seemed to him that the glance she leveled at him was more sightful than previously, as if she saw past face and eyes and someway into his heart.
“Perhaps I should not plague you, just now,” she said slowly, and stepped 'round the desk, her hand darting out to grasp his.
He stiffened, then relaxed as cool fingers wove between his.
“Aelliana,” he said softly, “what do you see?”
“See? Nothing save a weary face and some sadness about your eyes,” she answered, her own face troubled. “However, I feel—Van'chela, what a stew!”
“Your pardon,” he said, stiffly. “I fear I'm all at dozens and daggers.” He slipped his hand away from hers and tucked it into his pocket.
“Daav—tell me true. Is your clan in peril?”
“It is not.”
She tipped her head, as if she considered whether that bald statement might yet harbor some ambiguity.
“Your sister—”