“As surely we are,” he said slowly, feeling her fingers gripping him tight—so tight. Not as certain as she sounded, his bold lady, and yet—her argument had merit.
“You must understand the cargo you would sign for, Pilot. yos'Phelium is a reckless Line. Had we not had the good fortune to fall under yos'Galan's care, we would scarcely have survived so long. When we grew thin, it was considered best that the delm not risk space.”
“Thodelm yos'Galan trades,” Aelliana said. “Anne told me he was to leave on a trip at the end of this twelve-day.”
“So he does and so he is. Er Thom is the very spirit of discretion—and I, my lady, am very much his opposite number.”
Surprisingly, she smiled. “Then I will learn that, too.”
He laughed, and raised her hand to his lips. Teasing her fingers open, he kissed her palm, then looked into her face. Gods, she was beautiful, with her eyes reflecting the strength of her will, and her determination plain in her face.
“I will have to research it,” he said slowly, “and I must speak with Er Thom. It seems to me that there was once a system that allowed Korval's delm to, as you say, hold employment. For today, however, let us assume that the thing might be managed, someway. Are you at liberty?”
“I am entirely at your disposal,” she told him solemnly. “What do you propose?”
“That we take ourselves to Binjali's and inventory your ship. I lean towards courier, but I wish to refresh myself on certain measurements.”
“Our ship,” Aelliana said, and stood in one fluid movement, pulling him up with her. “Let us, by all means, go to Binjali's.”
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Contents
Liaden 11 - Mouse and Dragon
Chapter Fifteen
Melant'i—A Liaden word denoting the status of a person within a given situation. For instance, one person may fulfill several roles: parent, spouse, child, mechanic, thodelm. The shifting winds of circumstance, or “necessity,” dictate from which role the person will act this time. They will certainly always act honorably, as defined within a voluminous and painfully detailed code of behavior, referred to simply as “The Code.”
To a Liaden, melant'i is more precious than rubies, a cumulative, ever-changing indicator of his place in the universal pecking order. A person of high honor, for instance, is referred to as “a person of melant'i,” whereas a scoundrel—or a Terran—may be dismissed with “he has no melant'i.”
Melant'i may be the single philosophical concept from which all troubles, large and small, between Liad and Terra spring.
—From “A Terran's Guide to Liad”
Trilla, Jon's second, was on-shift, with a Scout introduced offhandedly as “Vane,” which was the mode, at Binjali's.
“Pilots, welcome!” Trilla called, riding a rope down from the catwalk. She landed lightly and came toward them, an unabashed grin splitting her dark, outworld face.
“Pilot Daav, you're looking well. Pilot Caylon . . . you're looking very well indeed, if a sparring partner may say so! Have you a moment to dance?”
“I—” Aelliana hesitated, torn between the desire to try her new self against Trilla's skill and the desire to find The Luck and discover its part in her destiny.
“Perhaps . . . ” she began—and stopped, turning her head to track the flicker of motion to her left, near the entrance to Jon's office—
A blur of leathers was all she saw, only that.
“Clonak!” she cried, entirely certain that it was he. “But—”
Daav caught her fingers; she felt concern, unhappiness, and worry. He released her with a smile that looked genuine, though surely, she thought, it must be false.
“I will go and find him, while you and Trilla dance.”
“There's a bargain,” Trilla said, a shade too heartily, to Aelliana's ears. “Come, Pilot, I've had a dull morning—enliven it for me!”
* * *
“Clonak.”
Jon's office was dim, the only light the glow from the work screen. A stocky figure was outlined in that glow, shoulders rounded and face tipped downward, ostensibly absorbed in whatever was on the screen.
Three steps beyond the door, Daav paused and recruited himself to patience, counting slowly, his hands in plain view, his stance easy and comfortable. Nothing to challenge a heart-struck and dangerous man, should he look up to see who bore him company.
The stocky figure at the computer never raised his head.
On the stroke of one hundred forty-four, Daav took a careful breath.
“Old friend?”
For some moments more, the rapid click of keystrokes was the only sound in the room, their rhythm broken at last by a sigh.
“Good-day, Daav.” Clonak's voice, usually ebullient to the point of lunatic, was cool, his stance behind the computer was nothing more nor less than a warn-away. If he had been a cat, Daav thought, his tail would have been bristling. “I'm quite busy at the moment. You understand.”
He understood well enough. Twisted as their bond was, yet Aelliana and he acknowledged themselves partners, from the heart. That he dared long for the fullness of the link, when Clonak was denied even a taste . . .
Daav raised his hands, showing empty palms and fingers spread wide—the sign for surrender.
“Clonak, I am her natural lifemate.”
The keystrokes stopped. The figure in front of the screen raised his head, his round face showing lines that had not been there, four days ago.
“Then it is neither your fault nor your blame, is it?” Clonak asked harshly.
Daav winced, and lowered his hands. Clonak bent his head again, but did not return to his inputting.
“Jon . . . ” Daav cleared his throat. “Jon tells me you have an assignment. Where to, Scout?”
“Security detail for a trade mission to Deluthia.”
Daav blinked. “Are the guild masters after that again? Don't they recall what happened last time?” Granting that it had been more than two dozen Standards in the past, but the last trade mission to Deluthia had resulted in the loss of two master traders and several support team members before the remainder had managed to win back to their ship and depart.
“Oh, they say the theocracy has mellowed,” Clonak said, sounding for the moment almost like his usual, manic self. “They came to the masters with sweet words on their tongues, and interesting goods in their hands. The masters considered it worth a second risk, and asked for volunteers.”
Volunteers.
Daav closed his eyes.
“It would be better,” he said, around the ache in his heart, “if you exited this adventure intact. She would miss you, terribly—and I . . . ”
“I'll come back, Captain,” Clonak said softly. “I only need . . . something to occupy me for the next while.”
“I do understand.” He took a breath. “Be safe, darling. Come to us, when duty releases you.” He turned. It was an ill parting from a lifelong friend, but he did not—he very much did not—wish to abrade Clonak's emotions further. He hoped, with all his heart, that their friendship might survive this—
“Daav!”
He turned back, as Clonak came 'round the desk.
“I—I haven't wished you happy, old friend.” He opened his arms, and Daav stepped into the embrace, cheek to cheek.
“Tell her that I wish her so very much joy,” Clonak whispered. “Tell her that, Daav.”
A strike to the heart, that was. Daav closed his eyes, arms tightening around the other man.
“I'll tell her,” he promised.
* * *
Trilla spun, sweeping her leg out in an attempt to catch and trip. Aelliana leapt, landing in a counterspin, her hand rising to block a blow at her dominant left side. What a pleasure it was to dance, to feel her muscles moving in concert, to know herself perfectly balanced and aware—
She caught the motion from the side of her right eye, a fist, striking without subtlety directly for the heart of her defense.