—Excerpted from remarks made before the Council of Clans
by the chairperson of the Coalition to Abolish the Liaden Scouts
“A wager,” Aelliana repeated. “You fabricated an entire person—for a wager?”
“Well,” he said apologetically, “at first, it didn't seem so difficult—comparative linguistics was near enough to a portion of a Scout's course of study. By the time the wager had come against its deadline, Kiladi had defended his first degree and taught a seminar or two, and it seemed impossible that I just stop. He had colleagues, correspondents, students—in a word, he would be missed, poor fellow. I could scarcely murder him out of hand.” He sipped, and admitted, “Besides, I was curious to know how long he might support himself.”
Aelliana reached for her glass and sipped wine. It was not very good wine, being what was on offer at the Pilots Mart, but it was well enough for its purpose.
“How long has Scholar Kiladi persisted?”
He sighed. “Nearly fifteen Standards. I admit, it will be hard to end the Scholar's life.” In fact, it was remarkably dismaying, the thought that Kiladi would no longer be with him. It was not as if the scholar had been a constant companion; his needs were modest: time and resources for his researches, and leave to produce his papers and keep current with his correspondence . . .
“Why must you?” Aelliana asked, fortuitously breaking this increasingly bleak line of thought.
“The terms of the wager were that the fabrication might continue only until it was discovered. Even though he has far outlived the circumstance that birthed him, he has been found out, and thus is forfeit.”
She shook damp hair back from her face.
“But he has not been found out,” she said. “The man on the port just now—Chames Dobson—he admitted a likeness, but was convinced at the last that you were not his teacher.”
“Be it as may be, yet you are wise to Kiladi's secret, Aelliana.”
“Yes, but I am your lifemate,” she answered serenely.
“Are you?” he asked, softly.
She frowned. “Am I not?”
“In the eyes of the world, you are not until there is a contract between us,” he said, and wondered at himself, that he pushed this point at her now.
Her frown became more pronounced.
“That is a separate issue,” she said sternly. “Which I am not prepared to discuss. At the fore is Scholar Kiladi's life. Has he a résumé? A bibliography?”
“He has. Shall I download his file for you from the Scholar Base?”
“There is no need to trouble yourself; I have an account.”
She rose, taking her glass with her.
It was no small effort to keep his tongue behind his teeth and his posture inoffensive. Aelliana was plainly annoyed with him and he had no wish to provoke her further.
“I will want an hour alone,” she said.
He bowed his head. “Of course, Pilot.”
* * *
Jen Sar Kiladi's bibliography was extensive. She was by no means an expert in his fields, but that mattered not at all. His work had been studied—not to say scrutinized—by those who were expert, and had formed the basis for further illuminations and scholarship.
The words brilliant, radical, original were more often than not the descriptors applied to Scholar Kiladi's work. There was of course a leavening of popinjay, recluse, and dangerous madman from his detractors, but those served more to relieve than alarm her. A scholar who did not make collegial enemies was a scholar who was not exercising his intellect to its fullest extent.
It might seem odd that a Liaden had taken all of his degrees at Terran universities, but it appeared that Scholar Kiladi had originated upon a Terran world which also housed a lesser Liaden population. This early living astride two cultures, so he had written in his supplication letter to the Admitting Officer at Dobrin University, was what had first excited his interest in the field of cultural genetics, an interest that had only deepened as he pursued his degrees first in comparative linguistics and then in the dynamics of diaspora.
She requested half-a-dozen papers from various stages of his career and skimmed them, finding evidence of a supple mind and subtle thought. His arguments were solid, his presentation confiding and occasionally playful. His conclusions, while sometimes risky, in her sample never lacked the support necessary to their weight.
In fact, Scholar Kiladi was brilliant, Aelliana thought, leaning back in her chair and looking at last to the copilot's station, where Daav sat cross-legged; freshly showered and relaxed in a long-sleeved sweater and soft pants, his hair loose and fresh along his shoulders.
No, she thought—not relaxed. Daav was awaiting her judgment, and he was . . . concerned of what it might be.
She sighed again, ran her hands through her rain-sticky hair, and wrinkled her nose, feeling grubby.
“Van'chela, you cannot deny the galaxy the gift of Scholar Kiladi's thought,” she said slowly. “You are . . . Daav, you are”—she waved her hand hopelessly at the screen, brilliant, radical, original—“a jewel.”
He shook his head. “Not I, lady of my heart.”
“Is it not you, at base?”
“It may be,” he said slowly. “I consider Kiladi to be—other than myself. We have points of similarity, and I read his papers, among dozens of others, with interest, for we overlap in our areas of expertise. Daav yos'Phelium does not write papers, nor hold any degrees, saving his survival of Scout Academy and ascendancy to the rank of captain. But, melant'i teaches us, does it not, that we must tailor ourselves to fit the role in which we stand?”
Aelliana felt a slight, not entirely pleasant thrill, recalling the man he had become out on Staederport; the man who was so definitely, to the eye of the admiring student, not his beloved professor. It had been stance, she thought, and a dozen subtleties that had remolded Daav, her copilot, her lover, her lifemate—remolded him into a rough pilot, perhaps a little chancy in his temper, perhaps, even, just a tiny bit the worse for his wine . . .
“You have never seen me stand fully as Korval,” Daav murmured. “It is necessary from time to time, and one must be . . . convincing. It comforts me, that I feel less in common with the delm than I do with Kiladi.”
“I want to see him,” she said abruptly. She spun the chair around, her hands gripping the armrests. “Scholar Kiladi.”
Daav lifted an eyebrow, and drew in a long breath. He unfolded his legs and stood, closed his eyes and let his breath go.
Aelliana leaned forward in the chair.
It was not so marked a translation as that in the port, yet she had the uncanny certainty that she was beholding a man similar in form to her lifemate, yet undeniably someone . . . other.
Like Daav, Scholar Kiladi was an upright man, proud without being prideful. It seemed that he was not quite so tall as Daav, nor, when he opened his eyes, so bold or ascertaining in his glances. He looked into her face, then courteously looked aside, as would a newly acknowledged colleague. He seemed younger than Daav, or perhaps, Aelliana thought, it was the lack of Korval's weight burdening his melant'i. A mere scholar, no matter how many times an expert, was a simple thing, compared to Daav yos'Phelium.
“Walk,” she whispered. “If you please, Scholar.”
“Scholar,” he murmured, and turned, walking from the copilot's chair across the chamber, toward the hall.
His step was light, but by no means silent; his carriage easy, even graceful, but it did not cry out “Pilot!” nor even whisper “Scout.”
“Stop,” Aelliana said, wrenching herself out of the chair. She approached him, and looked boldly into his eyes. The gaze that returned hers was intelligent, polite, inquisitive. The eyes and the face of a stranger.
“You can support this?” she asked. “For how long?”
An eyebrow twitched. “Your pardon, Scholar?”
She took a breath, recalled herself and bowed. “Forgive me, Scholar; I misspoke. I met one of your students today on the port. He spoke of you warmly and with genuine regard. The message he sends is that he has recently received great news, and that it was the influence of your teaching upon his life which had brought him to this happy circumstance. His name is Chames Dobson, though he doubted you would remember him, as indifferent a scholar as he had been.”