The Tree—the living symbol of Korval's greatness, hundreds of years old, a quarter-mile high and still growing. Priscilla forced her mind to work, to consider the use of symbology and the political advantage of leaving a caretaker in residence. Liadens had a long history of subtle politics, and she knew from her days in Temple the power of a long-held, potent symbol. She glanced up to find Shan watching her closely.
"Jelaza Kazone," she said slowly, feeling her way, "is the Delm's Own House—the original Clan House, you'd said. And Val Con once told me that the older parts are underground, so it's probably better fortified than Trealla Fantrol. If Anthora's purpose in remaining is to guard the tree, it makes good sense for her to be with it, at Jelaza Kazone."
"So she says," he replied dryly, and she caught a flare of something bright and hard and potent before it was skillfully leashed and subsumed within the rest of his pattern.
"In light of my sister's report of invaders with murderous intent," he said after a moment, "the captain has a task for the first mate."
She inclined her head and awaited the captain's instruction, dread coming seemingly from nowhere and lodging deep in her stomach.
"You will present the captain's compliments to Cargo Master yo'Lanna," Shan said softly, "and ask him to attend me here immediately. You will then yourself attach the four pods to be delivered at fifteen-oh-six, one to each of the prime articulation points, and lock them into place. Screen readout will indicate when the automatic system has meshed with the main computer. You will then return to me here."
"Weapons pods." She stared at him, the dread turning to fear. "The
Passage
has weapons, Shan—"
"It will now have its full complement." He shifted, avoiding her eyes, though he did not shield his inner self, for which she thanked the Goddess. "Anthora reports assassins calling at the front door, Priscilla. What would you have me do?"
He sighed sharply when she did not answer and raised his eyes to hers. "We are on the business of Clan Korval, as you heard me explain before the crew and privately. You see now what it means—what it can mean." He leaned forward, hand extended, light glittering off the Master Trader's ring. "We are at war, Priscilla! Or may be, soon.
Will
you go to safety?"
"Safety?" She shook her head, ignoring his hand. "The weapons—here. But you only just received Anthora's 'beam. You came here to load weapons."
"No." He sat back and rubbed the tip of his nose. "Priscilla, Korval is an old Clan and a wealthy one. We have warehouses everywhere. There are several weapons caches. It happens that Krisko houses one." He paused, then added, with a peculiar shimmer deep within his pattern, "By the luck."
"All right." She slid to her feet and bowed. "The first mate goes to fulfill the captain's orders."
She was two steps toward the door before he called her; she turned to find him standing before the desk, both hands held out to her.
"Paranoia, Priscilla—is that the right word? Korval . . ." He hesitated. "For centuries, since Cantra yos'Phelium brought the escape ship to Liad, the Delms of Korval have acted and implemented policy for
Korval alone.
We gather ships, for escape, for battle. We gather money, power, influence. Only a pilot may be Delm. We breed for pilots, Priscilla! To give the greatest chance of successful escape to the greatest number of Korval, should necessity arise. Renegades, even the most proper of us."
She came back to him, extending lines of comfort and love that went unacknowledged in his urgency to tell her.
"And you," he said, catching her hands and staring into her eyes. "Protect the Tree, you said, as if you had heard it from birth, as we did . . ." He shook his head. "Cantra yos'Phelium swore an oath to protect the Tree—Liad exists because a mad outlaw needed a safe place for a dead man's plant! Jelaza Kazone—Jela's Fulfillment! Generations dead and still Jela's damn Tree—" He dropped her hands and stepped back, outwardly calm, though she still read the tearing urgency within.
"Do you know what the captain's prime mandate is, should the ship be breached or need to be abandoned?" he asked.
"No." She projected calm, forcefully, swallowing amazement as he batted it aside as easily as a kitten batting away a ball.
"I'm to go to a certain safe place and remove the stasis box therein, taking it with me to safety. If it should happen that there is no room in the escape pod for the captain, he should hand over the stasis box to another and secure that person's oath to stand guard over the box until one of Korval should come and relieve him of it." Shan tipped his head. "Guess what's in the box, Priscilla."
She did not have to guess. "Seedlings."
"Seedlings." He nodded. "Every Korval ship has a stasis box; every captain has the same mandate. The
Passage,
as Korval's flagship, carries, in addition, several cans of seeds, as well as cloned genetic material, in the storage hold of each escape pod."
He reached forward and cupped her face in his big hands. "Priscilla, by the gods—by your own Goddess—go to safety. I beg you."
"I love you," she said, and saw the tears start to his eyes, just before he closed them and dropped his hands. She reached to touch his face. "Shan?"
The silver eyes opened, reflecting the exhaustion she read in his spirit. "Yes, Priscilla?"
"The captain gave me instructions. I—is it still required that I fulfill them?"
"Yes." He hesitated, then took her hand and looked closely into her eyes. "Understand that you are chosen, Priscilla, rather than Ken Rik—even though Line yo'Lanna and Clan Justus are both closely allied with us—because it is a more proper use of melant'i that one of Korval set the weapons in place and make us ready to meet necessity." He paused, and it was just possible to read his love through her own astonished joy. "With your permission, I will explain this to Ken Rik. I'll meet you in the cafeteria on the next hour, and we'll announce our lifemating to the crew."
She forced herself into Serenity and regarded him dispassionately. "This is for protection, of course."
"Of course," Shan said with a glimmer of his usual humor. "But don't, I pray you, Priscilla, ask me whether it's yours or mine."
The chill in the air was not entirely due to the weather. Even Hakan felt it: the stares and glares, the change in conversational tone when they entered an area.
For the most part the huge room was busy. Lamps and candles were everywhere, illuminating people cheerfully working their way toward the exhibitions and competitions that would follow the fair's opening march. There was a darker corner at the back of the practice hall, toward which Cory seemed bent. As they circled, Hakan occasionally exchanged words with friends, and there was hesitation in the greetings, an awkwardness in the banter.
Hakan's burden of guitar cases and song books, no larger than Cory's, grew heavier as they got closer to the far corner. "Cory, it's pretty dim back here!"
"So much the better," the small man said with half a grin. "This way everyone will watch someone else and not steal the tunes we play."
Hakan frowned, then jerked his head about as someone rolled out a quick, bright riff of a song they had been practicing. "Yeah, I see what you mean. But—I feel like we're exiled back here!"
Cory carefully put down his load of cases and music.
"It may be better, Hakan," he said finally. "We are different from all these others. We are—what would you say?—the gust that breaks the branch. Everyone here knows who we are. I know only you; you know only a few."
Hakan felt his cheeks flush. "Do they really think that way?" he demanded. "Do they think the King's Court will choose us because of . . ."
"Hero," Cory said succinctly, and Hakan flushed deeper. "We play at a handicap, alone or together."
"It's not fair!" Hakan muttered, suddenly seeing a dozen faces turned in their direction, a hand pointing them out, a huddle of curious youngsters . . .
Crash!
There was mild laughter nearby as Cory slowly extricated himself from the bench he had fallen over.
Hakan rushed to his side. "Are you all right, man? You never trip!"
"Ah," Cory said mildly. "Do you mean I am not perfect?"
Hakan looked at hint sharply. "You've done this before, haven't you?"
"I've never been to a Winterfair, Hakan; how could I?"
"Damn it, Cory, you play more games than a fall breeze in the leaves! You've played before—in competition!"
Cory smiled, gave Hakan a brotherly pat on the wrist, and turned his back to open an instrument case. He spoke softly, nearly to himself. "Hakan, I know competition. I know I play well. Here? How do I know? In Gylles I only know how you play . . .and I enjoy working with your music. But now we are not so great—and now perhaps your friends will talk with you if you see them without me."
Hakan grinned. "You're really devious!"
Cory shrugged. "I hope you have the old strings I asked you to save. We should practice with them—for a while . . ."
Hakan laughed, opening his mandolette case. "Until they all break?"
"Exactly!" the smaller man said, pulling out a guitar. "Exactly."
The fairgrounds were a marvel to Miri. Tucked into a valley with a large hill sealing the windward side, the place was built entirely of timber. The permanent buildings and the many raised walkways were of wood, and over both the Avenue of Artists and the Parade were tall wooden frames supporting taut canvas to help keep out the snow and wind while still letting in light and air.
Some of the fair events took place away from the structures: the downhill sled races, the woodcutting championships, and the team sled-drags. Clearly, though, the focus was the fairgrounds and the wooden structures.
"Kem, this is like there is two Gylles! One for all the time, and one for the fair!"
Kem laughed. "Of course! The fair is something special—it brings in a lot of money each year, but you can't hold it in town. People come from all over the country! Look over there—that pole now, that's for . . ."
Without missing a step Miri noted its location, ignoring Kem's explanation of the obvious: a radio tower higher than the pennant poles.
"Why don't I see that before?" she asked, pausing to stare.
"They bring it in by train—the King's Voice goes to all the big events. There's even a chance that Hakan and Cory could be on radio all over Bentrill if they win the competition!"
"And the electric?" Miri demanded. "I see no wires!"
Kem looked at her in surprise. "I don't know—I think they use the train for the electric."
"Do they?" Miri said, and headed that way, purpose in her small stride. Kem gaped for a moment and then followed, hoping that her friend was not going to do anything rash.
Val Con and Miri said good night to Hakan quietly, careful not to wake Kem, who was asleep against his shoulder.
"Drive well, my friend," Val Con said, and Hakan grinned.
"No fear." His grin widened. "Oh, man, we were great!"
Val Con laughed gently. "Yes, Hakan. Drive carefully. Sleep well. Good night."
They stood on the porch and waved until the taillights were lost at the end of the drive, then slipped inside, moving down the dark hallway and up the steps in utter silence. Zhena Trelu had left the fair soon after Hakan and Cory had finished their first set, claiming exhaustion; it would be less than wise to wake her at this advanced hour of the night.
Miri lay down on the bed with a deep sigh. Val Con sat on the edge, eyes smiling.
"Did you have a good time, cha'trez?"
"Wonderful. This thing goes on for another week? I'll be spoiled for doing anything that looks like work!"
He was laughing. She snapped her fingers and twisted to sit up, digging into the deep pocket of her skirt.
"Almost forgot, boss. I got—" She hesitated, suddenly shy. "I got a present for you."
"A present? Will it explode, I wonder? Is that why you're sitting so far away?"
She grinned and slid closer, until her hip was against his, then offered him the blue plush box.
He took it in his long fingers, found the catch, and opened it. Miri, watching his face closely, saw his expression go from pleased expectation to smiling delight.
"A 'jiliata," he murmured, inclining his head to the silver dragon on its black cord. "I salute you." He looked up, green eyes glowing. "Lisamia keshoc, cha'trez."
She smiled and answered in her still-careful Low Liaden. "You are welcome, Val Con-husband. It gives me joy to give you joy."
He laughed and hugged her. "Spoken with the accent of Solcintra!" He offered the box. "Will you put it on?"
She slipped the necklace from its nesting place, ran the soft cord through her fingers, and slid it around his neck, twisting the intricate clasp shut. "There you go."
He raised his head, smiling, then lifted a brow at the look he surprised on her face. "Is there something wrong?"
"Not wrong." She touched his face, her hand fluttering from cheek to brow to lips. "Right." She grinned. "Punch drunk—fair drunk. Gods."
There was a small silence; her hand fell away, and she shifted a little, recalling a question from much earlier in the day. "We rich now, boss?"
He laughed lightly. "We have been rich for some time now, you and I. Today they merely gave us some money."
It was her turn to laugh; she squeezed his hand tightly. "We got you out of there kind of late—I meant to ask if they told you 'bout the station?"
"Station?" His brows furled. "The Winter Train?"
"Nah. The one they call the King's Voice. The radio station."
His eyes sharpened. "Ah! That is it! I thought the King's Voice was like the King's Eyes or—a representative of the king."
She shook her head. "Nope. It's a portable radio station, tower and all. Goes all 'round the country. Uses a generator in one of the trains."
"I must see it." It was almost hunger she felt coming through the pattern in her head. "I must see the transmitter!"
She nodded and fumbled in the pocket of her skirt. "Thought you would. Here we go: four passes, special deal for hero types. Had a time talking 'em loose. Thought Kem was gonna disown me."