Allies (4 page)

Every free hour found him in the library,
perusing the latest industry magazines and manuals. That a good
deal of the information he read was so much noise to his untutored
mind deterred him not at all. To the contrary, the realization that
he had much to learn inspired him to begin attending an entry level
aeronautics course, as an observer. He soon found that the
acquisition of even the most basic concepts unlocked the meaning of
some of what he continued to read.

Unfortunately, this heady taste of knowledge
only made him thirstier.

He began to audit an advanced math class on
his lunch hours, neglecting guitar while he stretched to encompass
this new way of describing the world.

At mid-semester, frustrated by the slow
place of the basic aeronautics course, he considered dropping music
altogether and applying to the technical college. It was only the
realization that he would have to explain his reasons to Kem that
had, so far, deterred him.

It was at mid-semester, too, that Zhena
Cahn, the aeronautics instructor, called him to stay after class to
talk with her–unprecedented for an observing student. And she had
told him of the Explorers Club, and said that he might find the
meetings of interest.

In fact, he had found them of interest. Even
though he kept himself to the edges of the company during the
social period, listening to the conversations of people much more
learned than he; and even though almost half of the presentations
were beyond him, he continued to go to the meetings, and to audit
his extra classes.

Little by little, he began to understand, to
grasp concepts, to extrapolate . . .

The zhena at the front of the room–he'd
missed her name–was not a gifted speaker, but even her dry
recitation could not close his mind to the marvels of jet-assisted
flight, or heady imaginings of air speeds in excess of two hundred
and fifty miles an hour.

All too soon, the zhena stepped down from
the podium. The rest of the audience, held as rapt as Hakan,
shifted, stood, and sorted out into separate human beings, each
heading for the refreshment table.

As was his custom, Hakan took some cheese
and a cup of cider–his dinner, this evening, thanks to the remedial
session–and wandered the edges of the group, stopping now and then
to listen, when an interesting phrase tantalized his ear.

He had almost completed his circuit, and was
thinking, regretfully, that it really was time to be getting on
home, when he caught the quick flicker of gold-toned fingers, deep
toward the center of the crowded room.

His heart stuttered, then slammed into
overtime. He put his cup and plate on the precarious edge of an
overfull bookshelf, took a breath and dove into the crowd.

*

It was not quite full dark. Overhead, the
few stars were dulled by a high mist. Val Con moved carefully,
all-too-mindful of the guards–of the garrison!–nearby. His choice
would have been to wait until the sluggish early hours for his
infiltration. Alas, that he had no choice.

He'd left Nelirikk at the entry point, to
stand as guard and watcher, under orders not to interfere with the
soldiers' duty, unless their duty moved them to interfere with the
captain's mission. His own progress was by necessity slow, as he
wished to avoid not only discovery, but tripping over the odd
spade, hoe, or burlap bag half full of manure. So far, he had
managed well enough, but he could only guess at the perils which
awaited him as he drew closer to the target.

The terrain had changed considerably since
his last visit, and it was difficult to get his precise bearings.
His internal map told him that he should be within a few steps of
the scuppin house, though he neither saw–nor smelled–that
structure. He did, however, blunder into the soft, treacherous
footing of a newly turned garden patch.

He wobbled, and prudently dropped to one
knee. It wouldn't do to call attention to himself, no–

But it appeared he had gained someone's
attention after all.

Val Con kept himself very still as a shadow
detached itself from the deeper shadows to his right, and moved
toward him with deliberation.

*

"Borrill! Wind take the animal, where's he
gone to now? Borrill!"

The old woman stood on the back step,
staring out into the night. There were lights, of course, at the
barracks and the guard stations, but she'd asked that her yard be
kept more-or-less private, and they'd done as she'd asked.

With the result that it was black as pitch
and her dog with his nose on a skevit trail, or, if she knew him,
asleep in the newly turned garden patch.

"Borrill!" she shouted one more time, and
listened to the echoes of her voice die away.

"All right, then, spend the night outside,"
she muttered and turned toward the door.

From the yard came the sound of old leaves
crunching underfoot. She turned back, leaning her hands on the
banister until, certain as winter, Borrill ambled into the spill of
light from the kitchen door, his tail wagging sheepishly, a slim
figure in a hooded green jacket walking at his side.

She straightened to ease the abrupt pain in
her chest, and took a deep, steadying breath.

"Cory?" she whispered into the night, too
soft for him to hear–but, there, his ears had always been keen.

He reached up and put the hood back,
revealing rumpled dark hair and thin, angled face.

"Zhena Trelu," he said, stopping at the
bottom of the stairs, and Borrill with him. "I'm sorry to come so
late. We should talk, if you have time."

"Well, you can see I'm still up, thanks to
that fool animal. Come along, the two of you and let an old woman
go inside before she catches her death."

He smiled, and put his foot on the bottom
stair. She stepped into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

"Where's Meri?" That was her first question
after he'd closed the door and hung up his coat.

He turned to face her, green eyes bright.
There was something . . . odd about him, that she couldn't put her
finger quite on–not just the subtly prosperous clothes, or the
relative neatness of his hair, something . . .

"Miri is at home, Zhena Trelu. She sends her
love–and I am to tell you that we expect our first child, very
soon."

She looked at him sharply. "You left her
home by herself when there's a baby due? Cory Robersun, you put
that coat right back on and–"

He laughed and held his hands up, like he
could catch her words.

"No, no! She is surrounded by kin. My
sisters, the zhena of my brother . . . Miri is well cared for." He
grinned. "She would say, too well-cared-for."

Zhena Trelu snorted. "She would, too. Well,
you tell her that I expect to have a visit from that baby, when
she's old enough to travel."

Cory inclined his head. "I will tell her,
Zhena Trelu."

The kettle sang and she turned to the stove,
busy for the next few moments with the teapot. When she looked up,
Cory was at the far side of the kitchen, inspecting the molding
around the doorway.

He turned as if he felt her looking at him,
and gave that strange heavy nod of his. "The King's carpenters,
they have done well."

Zhena Trelu sighed and turned her back on
him, pulling cups off the rack. "Put it back good as new," she said
gruffly. Except the piano in the parlor wasn't the instrument Jerry
had loved, Granic's books and old toys no longer littered the
attic, the cup his zhena had made was smashed and gone forever . .
.

"Sometimes," Cory said softly, "old is
better."

The teapot blurred. She blinked, sniffed
defiantly, and poured. He came to her side, picked up both cups,
and carried them to the table. She turned, watching the slender
back. New clothes were all very well, but the boy was still as thin
as a stick.

"Hungry?" she asked. He glanced over his
shoulder.

"I have eaten," he murmured, and pulled out
a chair. "Please, Zhena Trelu, sit. There is something I must say
to you, and some questions I should ask."

"Well, then." She sat. From the blanket by
the corner of the stove came a long, heart-rending groan. Cory
laughed, and sat across from her. He raised his cup solemnly, and
took a sip. Zhena Trelu watched him, giving her own tea a chance to
cool–and suddenly gasped.

"The scar's gone," she blurted, forgetting
her manners in the excitement of finally putting her finger on that
elusive difference.

Cory bowed his head gravely. "The scar is
gone," he agreed. "I was . . . brought to a physician."

Hah
, thought the old lady, lifting her cup for a cautious sip.
She'd heard of skin grafting for burn victims; likely there was
something similar for scars. New-fangled and expensive treatment,
regardless. Well, maybe the hero money had paid for it. And none of
that, judging from the level, patient look he was giving her, was
what he wanted to talk to her about.

"All right," she said grumpily. "Out with
it, if you've got something to say."

"You are well-guarded here," Cory began
slowly. "That is good."

She opened her mouth, then
closed it.
Let the boy talk,
Estra
.

"It is good because there are some . . .
people. Some people who are here, maybe, only because I– we–were
here. It is possible that these people will wish to question those
who gave us shelter. Who gave us friendship." He paused to sip some
tea, then gave her a serious look.

"These people–they are not very careful.
Sometimes, they hurt people, break things, when they ask
questions." He tipped his head, apparently waiting for her to say
something.

Zhena Trelu drank tea and reminded herself
that, while Cory had always been a little odd, that had been due to
his foreign ways. He wasn't crazy, or dangerous. Or at least, he
hadn't been.

"I ask, Zhena Trelu," Cory murmured,
apparently taking her silence for understanding. "Are there
strangers in town? Who have perhaps come to Gylles for no apparent
purpose, who have been–"

"There's Zhena Sandoval and her brother,"
she interrupted him. "Haven't talked to 'em myself, but–they'd fit
your description. Both of 'em got more questions than a
three-year-old, from what I've heard."

"Ah," Cory said softly. "And their questions
are?"

She shrugged. "You'll want to see Athna
Brigsbee for the complete rundown. She's talked with the boy–Bar, I
think the name is. From what she told me, he was all over the map,
wanting to know about the Winterfair and the music competition,
Hakan Meltz and I forget whatall. Athna said she might've thought
he was a reporter maybe out of Laxaco City, but turns out he didn't
know anything about the invasion, or the King making half the town
into Heroes."

Cory frowned slightly. "It is possible . . .
I cannot be certain unless I speak to the zhena or her brother,
myself."

Zhena Trelu considered him. "Are you going
to do that? I thought you said they were dangerous."

He gave her a slight smile. "Bravo, Zhena
Trelu," he murmured.

She glared. "What's that supposed to
mean?"

He moved his shoulders, his smile more
pronounced. "I said these people were . . . not careful. You make
the leap to dangerous. Yes. These people are dangerous. The care
you gave to us puts you in danger." He paused to finish his tea,
and set the cup gently on the table.

"Another question, Zhena Trelu?"

"Why not?" she asked rhetorically. "There's
plenty of tea in the pot."

That got her another smile. "The last one, I
promise. Then I let you go to bed."

Behind them, Borrill gave up another groan.
Cory laughed, and Zhena Trelu felt herself relax. She'd missed that
laugh.

"So," she prompted him, grumpy in the face
of that realization. "What's your last question?"

"I go by Hakan's house earlier, but it is
locked; shutters closed."

"Tomas Meltz is at assembly–he's our
alderman, remember?"

He nodded. "And Hakan?"

"Why, Kem and Hakan got married just after
Winterfair," she said. "I'm surprised Kem didn't write to Meri
about it. Very nice wedding. Hakan's aunt on his father's side
stood up for him, since his mother's been gone these twenty years,
poor thing. Kem was as proud as you can imagine, and the whole town
was invited to the feast, after. Next morning, they got on the
train to Laxaco."

"I see," Cory murmured. "Laxaco? This would
be their . . . their . . . honey trip? That is good. So I should
look for Hakan at Kem's house?" He pushed back from the table
slightly.

"No." Zhena Trelu shook her head, and he
stopped, eyes intent. "You should look for both of them in Laxaco
City. They enrolled in university. Athna Brigsbee set it up for
them. Got on the phone to the King's minister of something-or-other
and came away with two scholarships. Kem is studying the teaching
of dance, I think, and Hakan his music. Only thing Kem has to pay
is their living expenses, same as she would here."

Cory frowned slightly, and she shivered,
which might've been the breeze, except the new house was tight, and
double insulated, too. The only breezes that got in nowadays were
invited.

"Zhena Brigsbee," he said carefully. "She
told the brother of Zhena Sandoval this? That she had arranged for
Hakan and Kem–"

"Shouldn't be surprised," Zhena Trelu said
drily. "You know Athna, Cory."

"Yes," he breathed, staring down into his
empty cup.

"Yes," he said again, and looked up into her
face. "Zhena Trelu, I thank you. Keep your guards close. I think
Zhena Sandoval and her brother will soon be gone." He pushed his
chair back and stood, she looked up at him. He looked serious, she
thought. Serious and concerned.

"Going to Laxaco?" she asked.