THE PILOT WALKED briskly, despite her limp, and acknowledging his presence at her side by neither word or glance. Tor An kept pace, taking deep breaths to calm his temper—a strategy doomed to failure, as every breath brought him the stench of liquor, which reminder of her lapse only made him angrier.
He told himself it was his place to hold his tongue; that she was his elder in years and in skill; that her reasons and necessities were her own—and hold his tongue he did, until they were at last well away from the lawkeeper's station, and she turned suddenly aside to enter a public grotto, bending to sip from the elaborate stone-faced cat gracing one of a multitude of fountains.
The grottoes had bemused Tor An in his first days on the planet: who could imagine a place with so much snow and clean water that it could be shared freely—even extravagantly—with casual passersby? Who would have spent the money to build such things?
Curiosity being a pilot's curse, he'd pursued the question through the amazingly self-centered Solcintra Heritage Library, where events of galactic importance lay near-forgot in favor of High Family histories and genealogies, which was, after all, where the answer was found: The grottoes and fountains were the result of a bitter rivalry between the Families, each bent on showing how much they could do for the public good.
And here, of all things, a
kenake
pilot was using a beautifully hand-carved grotto to wash off the stench of a stay in the jail which had also been funded in that orgy of building.
Cantra straightened, slowly, and looked about her, as if she did not understand where she was or how she had arrived there.
"You are most welcome, Pilot," he heard himself say, in a voice as cool and formal as anything Aunt Pel might muster to scold an errant younger. "I wonder, though, that you thought to call me to stand your bail."
Pilot Cantra spared him a one-eyed glance over her shoulder. "I thought you had it that you sat my co-pilot." She eased herself, carefully, down to sit on the ledge of the wishing pool.
"And I thought you had it," he snapped, "that I was not!" He glared at her; she raised an eyebrow, and sighed lightly.
"Boy—"
"I am not a boy! And, indeed, Pilot, I believe you have the right of it—I have no ambition to sit as co-pilot to a heedless, drunken, brawling—"
"That's enough!"
"- who cares so little for those who wish her well that she does not bother to thank them for their care of her!" he finished, ignoring her shout, and more than a little appalled at the words he heard tumbling out of his mouth.
Silence.
Pilot Cantra turned and put her hands into the pool up to the elbow, heedless of her sleeves, and held them there for the count of twelve. That done, she raised water in her cupped hands and splashed her face, sucking breath noisily through her teeth. The worst of the blood and grime rinsed away, she finger-combed her tangled, reeking hair. She did these things with great concentration, as if each task were of the utmost importance. Tor An bit his lip and watched her, ashamed of his outburst, and yet—
She sighed, folded her hands into her lap, and sent a serious one-eyed look into his face.
"Forgive me, Pilot. Manners tend to slide on the Rim, and mine never were shiny. I do appreciate your timely arrival and the payment of the fine on my behalf. I'll be reimbursing you when we get back to the garrison. I'd make it right between us now, excepting the law on the spot thought to relieve me of my ready-cash before she took me in to the station."
Tor An drew a breath—she raised her hand, and he bit his lip.
"Now, that list of yours. Heedless, drunken, and brawling, was it?"
"Pilot, I—"
She speared him with a glance. "I'm talking, Pilot."
He inclined his head. "Forgive me."
"Right," she said after a small pause. "Now, it happens I'll admit I was heedless in this case, and—with stipulations—I'll even allow that I indulged in some brawling, as you'll see I did throw a punch or two—" she half-lifted her raw-knuckled hands off her lap—"but drunken I will not have." She looked down at herself, then back at him, her nose wrinkled slightly. "Despite the evidence. For I'll not have you believing, Pilot, that I'm so lost to everything civilized as to use Kalfer Shimni in such a wise."
He cleared his throat. "What happened?" he asked, which is what he should, he told himself bitterly, have said at the first. "If it can be told."
"I met the Uncle on the port, and I thought he might divert me from an unhappy line of thought," she said. "Happens he was wearing smartstrands, and a local spied them, whereupon the bar rose up, and the peacekeepers were called to quell the riot." She grinned, one-sided. "By which time, the Uncle had got himself gone, which I might've known he would. And I only got but three sips of my drink."
"Your uncle left you to—"
She raised a hand. "Not
my
uncle," she said; "
the
Uncle. Which is more than a pretty, mannered boy from a nice legit family has any need or desire to know about the underside of the galaxy." Putting her palms flat against the ledge, she pushed herself to her feet, and took a deep breath.
"Let's go home," she said. "Pilot."
HER APARTMENT WITHIN the garrison included a steam-cleaner, which fabulous luxury she was happy to avail herself of, once she'd shaken the kid off her arm, and failed to notice the open amusement on the hall guard's broad face.
It took three cycles to steam the booze and the sweat and the mad out of her pores, and a fourth to melt the worst of the sting from the various scrapes and bruises. Wasn't any reason beyond sheer hedonism to trigger the fifth cycle, and she stood there with her eyes closed, picturing the steam easing in through her ears and unkinking what passed for her brain.
Were you bored, Pilot?
Jela asked from too near and too far. She sighed.
"Wasn't bad enough when I only had one ghost," she said, trying for cranky and failing notably.
And truth told, he had a point. She knew better than to drink with the Uncle, and she
damn well
knew better than to be doing him any favors. Viewed from that angle, it was a rare blessing the local'd took exception to the 'strands and cried pirate before she'd taken coin whereby to sneak Dulsey and team out from under Wellik's nose.
The whole of which seemed pointless and worse, with the Enemy's works increasing exponentially, and nothing mere humans—be they Batch-grown, Series, or natural—might do to say them nay. The sheer numbers of them...
She shivered despite the steam, seeing them again, coming up out of the mines in an unending line of black, exultant death; for all their might, the most human—and by their counting, the least—of what the Enemy might field.
She'd seen a world-eater, up close and more personal than anyone'd sane ever want to; she knew the sick feeling in the gut when the ship fell out of transition, light-years short of a port that would never be raised again.
Jela insisted that the Enemy'd been human, once, but even if so, they were something other now. Something powerful and all-encompassing.
Something unbeatable.
Even Jela'd admitted that—and she'd seen plain on his face what it cost him to say so.
Come right down to it, she thought, as the cycle clicked over and the steam began to thin—what was it made human-kind particularly worth preserving and continuing? If the Enemy manufactured biologics and smartworks to do their heavy lifting, how was that different, or worse, than those same things performed by the so-called natural humans of the Spiral Arm? If the Enemy dealt harsh with its creations—well, examine the life of your typical Batcher. And if the Enemy was cruel—measure the cruelty that bred a man alert, sharp, and able, with a taste for life as wide as the Deeps themselves, while making sure and certain he'd die before he could reason his way into damaging his makers in the style they most deserved...
She shivered. The steam was gone, the tiles cooling. She had the robe out of the cabinet and shrugged into it, relishing the feel of plush against her skin.
Tying the sash 'round her waist, she moved from the bath to the great room—and stopped, the hair raising along her arms, breath-caught and heart-clutched—all and any of which was nothing more than missishness.
"You," she said, and slipped her hands into the robe's pockets, feeling the ache in her abused knuckles as the fingers curled into fists.
Rool Tiazan turned from the window and bowed, deep and respectful.
"Lady."
He straightened, lissome and sweet, the red ringlets tumbling across his shoulder, his face ageless and smooth.
"
You
," she said again, voice harsh in her own ears. She took one deliberate, foolish step forward. "You let him die."
The dark blue eyes met hers, and she saw there honest sorrow. His voice when he made answer was soft.
"He chose, Lady. You heard him."
"He chose between two choices offered—but who held back the third? You could've given him a good, long life—"
"No." He held up a hand, a ruby luminescence haloing the black ring on his first finger. "Forgive me, Lady, if what I say wounds you further. However, the only one who seems likely to have had a good, long life at the end of this day's work is—you."
She closed her eyes, suddenly nearer to tears than mayhem.
"I don't want it," she whispered.
"I know," he said, voice gentle. "The luck swirls where it may, and not even the great Iloheen—whom you call the
sheriekas
—can force it to their will, or see through it to what will be."
"Which makes it a risky weapon, wouldn't you say?" she snapped, opening her eyes again to give him a glare.
He bowed slightly, accepting the challenge and in no way discommoded. "Indeed. The very riskiest of weapons. If there were another so likely—" He moved his hands in that peculiar gesture of his, as if he were soothing the air itself. "It is futile now to discuss might-haves. The course is set. The
sheriekas
advance ever more quickly; and we are very soon come to the point of proof."
"Which is why you're here," she said, and sighed, and sent a searching glance 'round the room.
"Speaking of proofs and points—where stands your own kind lady?"
"Ah." He inclined his head. "She fell in our flight from the Iloheen, yet not before striking a blow which will be recalled."
Another to add to the tally of too many gone. Despite she had neither liked nor trusted the lady, Cantra bowed, and gave her full measure honor.
"My sympathy," she said formally, "on your loss."
"There is no loss," he answered; "for she is with me."
Like Jela was with her, and Garen, too, Cantra thought, and moved a shoulder. "Chill comfort, as my foster-mother would have it."
"Yet comfort still, and nothing I would spurn."
"Well." Carefully, she slid her hands from the robe's pockets; flexed her aching fingers. "You'll be pleased to know that the task you set us is accomplished, and the scholar himself, with all his thought and work to hand and to head, lies in a room further along this hall. I'll tell you that Jela felt his oath bound him, but as he's in no case to finish it out, I'm sure you'll find some way to use both the man and his work to your own ends."
Silence, then yet another bow.
"Forgive me, that I did not inquire after the
ssussdriad
immediately. I trust good health and virtue attend it."
"It seems spry enough," she said shortly.
"I am delighted to hear so," Rool Tiazan answered seriously. "May I speak with it?"
"Can't stop you." She twitched a shoulder. "It's on
Dancer
."
"On
Dancer
," he repeated and tipped his head, dark eyes slightly narrowed. "Lady, surely you are aware that your actions upon departing Vanehald have engaged the attention of the Iloheen. They have seen you and your ship."
The aches and pains which were her take-home prizes from the bar fight were beginning to complain again. What she wanted, she thought, was to find her bed and sleep off the over-rush of adrenaline and anger, not stand arguing points of precedence and ownership with a tricksy, self-serving—
"The
ssussdriad
," Rool Tiazan said softly, "is needed here. It holds some part of the answers which yet elude the revered scholar's grasp."
She glared at him. "Jela asked me to make sure that damn' tree was taken someplace safe. Whether or not I happen to think that his last and best joke, or that only an addlepate would've promised so daft a thing—I
did
promise, and I intend to stand by it. Solcintra's not looking like 'safe' to me, though I'll allow a certain unfamiliarity with the parameters. That being the case—"
"Lady, hear me! The Iloheen have your ship in their eye! They know it for one of their own, and if they have not yet bespoken it, they will soon do so. Such safety and shelter as it has offered you is about to be withdrawn. If you wish to honor your promise to M. Jela, you will remove yourself, the
ssussdriad
, and all that is valuable from that vessel and send it away from here!"
She stared at him, reading honest alarm in the set of his shoulders.
You be careful of them toys, baby,
Garen counseled from memory;
and you be careful of our ship. While some pilots might have a safe haven in their ship, we got what you'd call a paradox. Our ship's good for us; she's top o'line and quality all the way. But she's carrying those things that're Enemy-issue. And it's true, baby—as true as I'm sitting here telling you this—that those things, they never forget who made 'em.
"Don't you
know
," she asked, not meaning to taunt him; "if they've called
Dancer
to heel?"
His mouth tightened. "The more nearly the event from which we wish to emerge ascendent approaches, the less I know—anything."
She sighed. "Welcome to bidness as usual."
His lips twitched. "I fear I may require some time to become accustomed." He lifted a hand, sparks dripping like blood from his ring. "Nonetheless, I am as certain as may be that the
ssussdriad
is in a position to greatly assist the scholar—and by extension, all life." He sent a quick, sideways look into her face. "Mayhap the
ssussdriad
also feels bound by its oath."