Not exactly the best kind of vessel for a pilot whose fondest desire in life was to fly low and unobserved. She wondered—not for the dozenth time—what Jela'd been thinking, leaving her such a monstrosity to deal with—or Wellik, for approving the transfer.
Now she was out of lock-up, she could give over wonder and turn her back on the whole mess, get to her ship and lift out, never mind she was empty. Jela's death-and-bonus money would keep her 'til she could raise a port that had some profit to offer. That would be the sensible thing to do—and teach the boy a needed lesson, too.
She considered that course of action, trying to visualize the sequence of events—and found herself instead hearing the echo of the boy's voice: "Jela vouched for you..."
Dammit.
She bent over a jeweler's table, not so much because the cloudy gems called to her, but to give herself time to recover from a certain shortness of breath.
Wasn't no harm, she thought, to send word up that she'd like to inspect her new toy. She owned to a certain curiosity to see the sort of vessel Jela was accustomed to—
"Ah, there you are, my dear!" The voice was too close, unfamiliar—no. She knew whose voice it was. Sighing to herself, Cantra straightened and turned.
"Uncle," she said non-committal and easy. He was, she noted with approval, standing at a respectful distance and slightly to one side, his hands empty and in plain view. He was wearing a layer of Solcintra port dust over a dark cloak, and his hair was in a simple, unadorned braid. No tile showing, no strands, neither. Even his rings were gone.
"Pilot Cantra." He bowed slightly. "How fortunate I am to find you. I wonder if you may be thirsty."
She considered him. "That depends on if you're buying," she pointed out. "And where."
"Naturally." He smiled, which expression of goodwill didn't reach his eyes, and moved a hand, gracefully. "Please, choose a direction; I trust that you will be able to locate a suitable establishment. As the one who has extended the invitation, I will, of course, be buying."
It fair warmed a pilot's heart to find a man in so cooperative and expansive a mood. Not to say that she wasn't a bit thirsty, now she put her mind to it. And—who knew?—Uncle might have a lucrative suggestion to make.
So, she smiled, no more real than he had, and inclined her head, moving off to the left. He fell in beside her with barely a rustle.
"Passed something a couple streets over this way," she said. "Looked like a quiet place for a chat."
"Excellent," the Uncle murmured. "I am in your hands, Pilot."
"Tell me," he said some little while later, as they settled into a back table, "how fares the excellent M. Jela?"
"He's dead," she said shortly, giving the room another look-around. It was dim, which was good, and the few patrons within eye-shot were mindful of their own bidness after subjecting them to the obligatory distrustful stare. The 'tender hadn't looked especially pleased to seem them stroll in the door, but he hadn't thrown them out, either. She'd drunk in less hospitable places.
"Dead," the Uncle repeated. "That is unfortunate. A sudden affliction, I apprehend?"
Cantra didn't sigh, and she made sure her hands were nice and relaxed. Jela wasn't on the short list of those things she cared to talk with the Uncle about, though she could hardly ignore a direct question. She could, however, demonstrate displeasure.
So, she gave him a frown with her answer, granting him leave to take the hint: "You could call an enemy invasion sudden, I'd guess."
"Ah. An affliction we all of us hold in common," he responded, with a look of bogus sympathy, and glanced up as the bartender approached, glower in place.
"Drinks,
kenake
?" he asked, like he was hoping they'd admit to having made a mistake, gather themselves up and go. And with
kenake
being the local impolite for not-one-of-us, he'd probably thank them for leaving.
Cantra flicked a glance to the Uncle, meeting an expression of well-bred patience.
"Please, Pilot," he murmured. "Choose what you like."
Right, then. She leaned back in her chair, sighting around the bartender to the rows of drinkables on display behind the bar. Not a very tempting display, and she was about to call for beer, when her eye caught on a distinctive shape high on the backest, darkest shelf. She looked to the Uncle.
"I'll have a glass of Kalfer Shimni, if you please."
His eyebrows went up, but, "Excellent," was all he said to her, before addressing the 'tender. "We will have the Kalfer Shimni. Bring the bottle—and two glasses."
The man's attitude of warm welcome got even chillier. "Coin up front,
kenake
," he said, as ugly as you like and then some.
The Uncle sniffed, and raised a hand, displaying nothing more nor less than a qwint. The 'tender reached for it—only to see the coin disappear inside the Uncle's fist.
"When you bring the bottle—and be certain those two glasses ring."
There was a quiet few moments while the 'tender worked it out, then he turned and left them.
"Do you wonder, Pilot, how such a bottle would have found its way here?"
She moved her shoulders. "There was a luxury liner up top when I came in. Might be the crew likes to have something drinkable when they're here."
The Uncle pursed his lips. "My information regarding the liner is that it was engaged by the High Families." He glanced about them, meaningfully. "This is hardly the usual sort of port for such a vessel."
"There's that," she agreed and was about to pursue the High Family tangent when the 'tender approached again, with a bottle and two glasses on a tray.
He placed the tray on the table, and stood by sullenly while the Uncle picked up each glass in turn and struck them with a delicate fingernail. Both sang, high and sweet.
Cantra took it upon herself to inspect the bottle, finding the seal in place; the special glass and the label authentic—or very, very good forgeries.
"Looks to be what we want," she said to the Uncle's raised eyebrows. He smiled slightly, and held out the coin.
The bartender took it in a snatch, turned, and left them. The Uncle sighed lightly, shrugged beneath his cloak, and inclined his head.
"Will you do the honors, Pilot?"
She did, with dispatch, and they both sat silent until the first sip had been savored, the Uncle with his head to one side, and a true smile on his lips.
"Excellent," he said for a third time, putting the glass down gentle on the table. He looked at it meditatively, then transferred his glance to Cantra.
"This sudden affliction to which M. Jela regrettably succumbed," he murmured, for her ears only. "May one know the location?"
She sighed. "Vanehald."
"Ah, yes. Vanehald." He loosened the brooch at his throat and shrugged the dusty cloak back over the chair. Beneath, he was wearing dark shirt and pale vest, looking like any respectable person of reasonable wealth and consequence, excepting the smartstrands wove into the shirt, shimmering just a little in the dimness.
"Tell me," the Uncle said. "How was that accomplished?"
She blinked at him. "The enemy invasion? Buncha old tech in the tunnels started talking to each other and opened up a trans-spatial gate, is what I heard."
"Indeed; I have also heard this. But what I had meant to say was—how were my children instantaneously transported from deep inside their claim to their ship, which was already in transition, with the course set and locked away from even the pilot's codes?"
"Oh, that." Cantra had another sip of brandy. Deeps, but that was good.
"Jela had some ...interesting allies," she said to the Uncle's bland, patient eyes.
Silence. She let it stretch while she enjoyed another sip of brandy.
"I see," the Uncle said softly, conceding momentary defeat with a slight tip of his head. "On a related subject—I wonder, Pilot, if you have news of my children."
"Oh, aye," she said easily. "They're safe under lock and key inside the garrison. Captain Wellik, you understand, not being wishful of having anything ill befall them."
"The captain's care humbles me." His voice was too quiet to hold an edge of irony. "I am to understand from the message sent me that M. Jela believed catastrophe was imminent, and that the best hope of survival for myself and my children was to hie ourselves to this ...unfortunate planet and place ourselves at the service of a certain scholar."
"Right. He's at the garrison, too," she said, and smiled to show she was being helpful.
The Uncle sighed. "I believe it may be pointless to bait me at this present, Pilot," he said softly. "Though you must of course please yourself." He raised his glass, and the 'strands gleamed along his sleeve. "I must assume M. Jela realized that we do not place ourselves
at the service
of anyone. Nor am I best pleased to find my children held against their wills."
"I don't know it's exactly 'gainst their wills," Cantra said judiciously. "There's books and 'quations and agreeable work to be had inside, nor Wellik isn't shy of sharing. Last time I saw your brother, for an instance, he had six scrolls open and a notepad to hand. Can't remember when I saw a man look so content."
"I can scarcely," the Uncle said, letting the reference to Arin pass with no more than a hard look, "knock on the gate of that garrison and offer myself up for arrest."
"'Course not," she said soothingly, and looked up as a shadow moved in the side of her eye, expecting to see the bartender.
What she did see was less welcome.
One of the patrons who had been so politely tending their own business at the center table was staring hard and ugly at the Uncle—or say, Cantra amended, putting her glass down and pushing slightly away from the table—at his shirt.
"Smartstrands," she growled, in just that tone of revulsion an honest trader reserves for the announcement of pirates on the for'ard screens. She snatched, the Uncle twisted, shoving his chair back and away, surprisingly quick—and a good move it would've been, too, if the chair hadn't got snarled up in his cloak.
Over he went with a clatter and a bang while Cantra was up and spinning, figuring that now looked like a good time to leave, except there was the offended woman's mate planting himself in front of her, and the shout going up behind—
"Smartstrands!
Kenake
spies are among us!"
YOU DID WELL
, she murmured at the core of their shared being,
to bind the lines
.
Ah, no, credit me not
, he answered with a ripple of green-and-ebon laughter.
Merely, I aligned conditions. The lines bound themselves.
A quibble, but you may have the point. Now the question: Is it enough?
He opened their awareness, allowing them to fully experience the galaxy: the luminescence of the ley lines, the singing of the spheres; the warmth of life; the encroaching, echoless perfection of the Iloheen's desire.
We will know the answer
, he whispered;
soon
.
"Cantra yos'Phelium?" The lawkeeper behind the fines desk spared him a single disinterested glance before looking back to his screen.
"Ah, yes..." He murmured after a moment, and there was slightly more interest in his eyes when he honored Tor An with a second glance. "Bail is set at two flan."
Great gods. With an effort, Tor An kept his horror from reaching his face. He inclined his head, buying time, congratulating himself, that he had thought to bring the pouch containing the astonishing amount of money Captain Wellik had assured him was the sum of the gambling debts he had owed to Jela.
"The amount," he said, with perfect truth, "is significant. With what crime is the pilot charged?"
The lawkeeper grinned, and tapped his screen with a finger-tip, as if it held a most excellent joke.
"Brawling in a public place," he read, with relish. "Damage to public goods. Damage to private goods. Damage to the person of one Kellebi sig'Ralis. Swearing in a public place. Resisting detention. And," he concluded, "creating a nuisance."
"I...see." He sighed to himself, slipped the required coins from their pocket and placed them on the counter in front of the lawkeeper. The man glanced down, then up, holding Tor An's eye with an insolence that set his teeth on edge.
"Of course," he murmured, and added a qwint to the sum. The lawkeeper grunted, perhaps not best pleased, but the qwint disappeared, and the two flan were deposited into a slot in the counter.
"The claim against Cantra yos'Phelium has been retired," he said into the air. "Pray escort her to the bail room." He gave Tor An a squint. "She'll be up directly," he said, and turned back to his screen.
Tor An looked about for a chair, then spun as a door in the wall to the left of the counter opened to admit a guard leading a woman in damp and rumpled trade clothes, a cut across her left cheek, her right eye swollen shut. Her hands were bound together before her, her knuckles raw. The guard stopped, blinked, and spoke over her shoulder to her captive.
"
This
is your co-pilot?"
"That's right," Cantra yos'Phelium said, her as voice easy and warm as if she were in the best of health and surrounded by friends.
The guard frowned. "He doesn't look old enough to hold a license," she objected. Cantra considered her, one-eyed and bland.
"Looks deceive." She raised her bound hands suggestively. "Bail's paid, is what I heard. That means I'm no longer your bidness. Unlatch 'em."
The guard looked to the lawkeeper behind the counter, who shrugged.
"He paid two flan for her, so he must want her." He sent a slow, insolent gaze up and down the pilot's slim, bedraggled shape, and shrugged again. "No accounting for taste."
The guard muttered, touched the control on the restraints and whipped them off the pilot's wrists. It must have hurt her, Tor An thought, but her battered face revealed nothing.
"Let's go," she said to him, and walked toward the door, limping slightly off her left leg. Perforce, he followed, nose wrinkling as he caught the odor—the near overpowering odor—of liquor.