Dragon in Exile - eARC (5 page)

“That’s what he said.” She hesitated, then added, “My old turf, sometimes they come back early; and if you didn’t have the money, they added a
surcharge
.”

Gods, what a planet.

He nodded.

“Here is what we shall do, if you will consent to it. I shall ask Mr. McFarland, my head ’hand, to assign one of my own security staff to you. This person will leave with you this evening, and will remain at your side until the insurance collector returns for the money. At that point, my staff member will remove this person from your orbit, using what force is necessary, and will bear him to the Watch, where he will be imprisoned until the Bosses call upon him to explain himself.”

He paused, considering her set face, and asked, gently.

“Does this proposed course of action satisfy you?”

To her credit, she took time for consideration. He folded his hands atop the desk and waited.

Eventually, she said, “That’ll cover, ’s’long’s he don’t have backup. If he’s got backup…”

“You are correct; that is something which should not be left to chance. We will not leave you without protection. Instead, your security will call the Watch to retrieve the insurance salesman, and will remain with you until it had been ascertained that he is either working alone, or his partner has also been apprehended.”

She nodded, once, decisively.

“That’ll do it, then.”

“Excellent. Let us bring Mr. McFarland in our conference.”

He touched a button on his desk. The office door opened almost immediately, and Mr. pel’Tolian stepped within.

“Sir?”

“Please tell Mr. McFarland that we have need of his expertise in my office. And please ask Cook if we may have refreshments.”

“Yes, sir; at once.”

Mr. pel’Tolian withdrew.

“Is there anyone else—a family member, or a close friend—who might also be in danger from this person who is selling insurance?”

Baker Quill frowned.

“I’m by myself,” she said slowly. “But it comes to me, Boss, that fella must’ve been up and down the whole street with this; not just me.”

“Indeed,” he replied. “We shall make certain of that tomorrow.”

“Yeah, but, why am I the only one here, talking to you about this?”

That was an excellent question and likely had something to do with enculturation. or an instinct toward denial, or…Val Con would be able to tell him. It would, perhaps, be useful to know. For now, he could only offer the simplest probability.

“Perhaps they were afraid,” he said to Baker Quill, and turned his head as the door opened to admit Cheever McFarland’s not-inconsiderable bulk.

“Evenin’, Boss. You wanted to see me?”

* * * * *

Mr. McFarland had taken the baker away, leaving him blessedly alone. He closed his eyes, and leaned back in his chair, and wondered if Natesa had returned home yet, from her tasks in-town. Perhaps they might have a quiet dinner, alone. Quin was with Luken, helping with the arrangement of the Port annex shop…

The door to his office opened.

He opened his eyes and in the same instant snapped to his feet—and relaxed, feeling foolish, as his lifemate closed the door behind her and turned to face him, elegant brows arched above ebon eyes.

“Did I wake you?”

“Very nearly,” he answered, going across the room to her.

She entered his embrace with enthusiasm and kissed him thoroughly. Arm in arm, they walked toward his desk.

“I wonder if we might dine in our room,” she said. “I am…somewhat weary.”

He laughed softly. “I was only just thinking the same thing. Yes, of course—Quin and Luken will be dining at the port. But, what has happened to tire you?”

Natesa rarely admitted to weariness; to hear her say so concerned him…not a little.

“Stupidity tires me,” she said. She released him and sat on the corner of his desk. He sank into his chair, looking up into her face.

“What happened?” he asked again.

“Why, some fool had declared an entire street to be
Juntavas turf
. She proposed that all the shopkeepers would henceforth pay her a percentage of their business, and further let it be known that she had the means to enforce this. I heard of it from Jerfin Marx when I stopped by to find if his son had fully recovered from his misadventure. She had apparently only left him, but she moved fast. I found her three blocks distant, informing a bewildered green-grocer of these new arrangements, and asserting that she had the whole might of the Juntavas behind her.

“Naturally, I needed to hear more, so I took her aside to ask for her code number. She denied having any such thing. I then asked for her handle, and she denied having one. She is now being held by the Watch until the answer to my inquiry through the Judges’ office is answered.”

She sighed, and closed her eyes.

“I fear that we are beset by amateurs, my love.”

“I fear it, also.”

He rose, and took her hand.

“Come, let us retire. I will ask Mr. pel’Tolian to bring us a cold dinner and a bottle of wine.”

“Two bottles of wine and you have a bargain.”

“Done!” he said, with a grin, and raised her hand to his lips.

Chapter Five

Jelaza Kazone

Surebleak

It was snowing, despite it was summer; a gentle drift of dainty flakes sparkling against the twilight sky. “Farmer’s friend,” they called such warm-weather flurries on Surebleak, where snow was always possible, and
warm
an exercise in relativity.

The man at the door stood with his hands in the pockets of his coat, listening—to the wind, to the dwindling whine of the taxi’s motor; to the rapid pounding of his heart.

The door was of dark wood, and of a considerable age: the carved edges of the Tree-and-Dragon that adorned it were smooth, as if every member of every past generation of Korval had run their hands over it, on homecoming. He felt an urge to do so himself, for was he not a son of the House?

Well…no. In point of fact, he was clanless, which was to say that he stood as the sole survivor of his clan. He had, however, been declared a
brother
of a son of the House, a dubious and dangerous honor that he had, after taking counsel of his grandmother, and his…other…brothers, accepted.

The ties that bound him to the delm of Clan Korval were of a bitter forging, but no less compelling for that. Who, after all, could know the heart of a man returned from hell as well as one who had made the same journey?

So it was that, having prepared a brother-gift appropriate to their bond, he had dressed in the finest clothes that could be found for him, and gone out alone from the
kompani
, down the Road, and away from the city, to this ancient house from another world, where now, facing the door and the clan-sign, his courage failed him.

Rafin would scarcely credit it, he thought wryly, the fingers of his right hand curling inside his pocket. Nor did he suppose that this door, of all doors on the planet of Surebleak, was unwatched.

Surely, the security system knew he was here. If he did not gather himself to ring the bell, within, so he suspected, the next dozen beats of his craven heart, he could expect that the system would act to protect the house.

Well.

He took a breath, feeling his resolve, if not his courage, firm, and considered the door anew.

A palm pad was set into the right side of the door’s frame—an awkward placement, though it was certain that the house had his imprint on file. He recalled it being taken, during the time he had been held here for interrogation.

At the left side of the door was a simple rope, attached to a brass bell, now frosted with snowflakes.

He raised his hand, grasped the cold rope and pulled, once.

The bell clanged, loud enough to hurt the ears. Before the complaint had died away into the fading twilight, the door opened inward, and a man dressed in Korval livery stepped into the breach.

“Good evening, sir,” he said, speaking the High Tongue in the mode of doorkeeper.

“Good evening.” He answered in the mode of visitor to the house, for he was that, as well. “I am Rys Lin pen’Chala, and I am come to speak with my brother Val Con yos’Phelium.”

“Certainly, sir. Please, come in out of the weather.”

The butler stepped back, and Rys stepped forward, into a wide hallway that was more comfortable than grand; wooden walls and floor gleaming under soft yellow lighting.

“May I have your coat, sir?”

“Certainly.”

He slipped out of the overlarge garment, and surrendered it to be hung neatly on a wall-hook next to what might have been the butler’s own coat.

“Follow me, sir,” he said, and Rys did, down the hallway, passing closed doors of what must be the formal receiving rooms, and into an interior hallway.

A stranger would not be brought so far into a clanhouse, unless accompanied by a member of the House. But he—he was the brother of a son of the House.
Melant’i
attached to such persons.

Another turn, and the butler opened a door with a bow.

“Here you are, sir. And, may I say—welcome.”

It was the sort of thing an old retainer might say to a returning son, but almost too warm for the brother of such. It disturbed him—and then he forgot the matter as he stepped into the room—

And stopped, heart stuttering.

He was in a small, informal, dining room, where all the family who were to House had apparently gathered to share Prime meal.

Every one of whom was looking at him.

“Rys!”

A tall, slim man rose from the table and came forward, hands outstretched, smiling broadly. Brown hair, green eyes, a clan ring glittering from one of those shapely hands, by which he would be recognized as Delm Korval.

His brother Val Con.

“Well come!
Well
come!” His shoulders were gripped and held in a brother’s emotional embrace. Tears started to his eyes, as shocking as they were unexpected; he blinked them hastily away as he looked up into his brother’s face.

The other man—his age, more or less, and like him, much older than mere years could account—the other man’s smile softened, as if he understood. But of course he did understand. Val Con yos’Phelium had been an Agent of Change—a man shaped by torture and dark arts into someone—something—
other
than who he had been. Terrifyingly other. A man who betrayed and killed effortlessly, without remorse, without shame.

Very much the same as Rys Lin pen’Chala.

“Forgive me,” Rys said, soft enough for a brother’s ears. “I had no wish to disturb the evening meal.”

“The arrival of a brother is no disturbance. There is a place for you at the table—indeed, you find us much reduced this evening, with so many away on the clan’s business.

“But, here! You have met my sister Anthora, and her lifemate, Ren Zel dea’Judan; the lady next is my aunt Kareen yos’Phelium, and next to her, my sister’s mother, who guests with us—Scholar Kamale Waitley. Beyond her is my lifemate, Miri Robertson Tiazan. All—here is my brother Rys Lin pen’Chala.”

As introductions went, it had more the feel of the
kompani
than a Liaden High House, but no one seemed put out—well. The elder lady aunt was not best pleased, and not just, he thought, by her nephew’s rag manners. From her frown, it would appear that he, himself, offended her sense of propriety, a point of view with which he had some sympathy.

By the standards of the
kompani
, he was splendidly attired, but a costume comprising an emerald green shirt with sweeping, dramatic sleeves worn under a black vest lavishly embroidered in scarlet, yellow, and brilliant blue, and a gold-tasseled scarlet sash did render him…rather obvious. Something modest, such as his brother Val Con’s pearly shirt, would have more likely gained an elderly aunt’s approval.

He bowed, carefully, convenably, to the room. Straightening, he murmured, “I am informed and honored.”

“Also, hungry,” the red-haired lifemate of his brother said, in Terran, her voice too fine for the harsh Surebleak accent. “Bring the man down here and give him his dinner.”

It would appear that this was a strong hint to all present to return to their own interrupted meals. They did this, and voices began to take up the threads of suspended conversations. Rys went down the room on his brother’s arm, and took the chair next to Miri Robertson Tiazan.

A dish of clear soup appeared before he had gotten his napkin to his knee. The others at table had already moved on to the next course, but apparently he was to have a complete meal. Shaking his sleeve back, Rys reached for the soup spoon, then simply put his hand flat on the table, and sat staring down at his own gleaming fingers, shivering.

What in the names of the unfeeling gods was he doing here, in this house, among these people? He was not High House. His clan had been seated upon an outworld; their livelihood gotten from the growing of grapes and the making of wine. Gone now, all, save Rys Lin pen’Chala, destroyed in an Yxtrang raid. And Rys Lin pen’Chala destroyed, as well, in a far more fearsome disaster…

“Little too much bold action, there?” Miri Robertson Tiazan said quietly from his side.

He took one hard, deep breath, lifted his head and met candid grey eyes.

“I fear that I had not…properly regarded the hour.”

Had he stopped to consider, he might easily have realized that a visit at this time of the evening would intrude upon Prime. However, he had not considered—or, he had only considered that, having taken his decision, and in possession of the fruit of his labors, he must at once place it into the hands of the man who would know best how to use it.

“Take your time,” she said. “If it’ll help, I’ll just talk in your direction, so your conversational duty’s covered.”

That was…kind. He felt tears rise again, and blinked them away.

“I am grateful,” he murmured, and picked up the proper spoon. The soup was excellent.

“I wonder if you might advise me,” he murmured, looking again to his host.

She tipped her head to show that she was listening.

“Yes. I…believe that I will not do justice to a full formal meal. At…home, we are accustomed to simpler fare.”

“Just eat what you want. If the soup’s enough, that’s fine; maybe with some finger-food, to fill in the edges. If it’ll ease you, we ain’t doing full formal—hardly ever do. Tonight we got the soup, the main course, and dessert. Which is pretty informal.” She looked momentarily owlish. “So they tell me. Kareen ain’t comfortable unless we dress, else you’d’ve caught us in Surebleak motley, and you all prettied up!”

He smiled. “My grandmother would not have me shame the
kompani
by calling upon my brother in less than the best I might wear,” he said.

“Very proper,” came the overly clear voice of the elder aunt.

He raised his eyes to look at her, and she inclined her head.

“One has naturally been informed of the circumstances of the delm’s brother. May one inquire as to your grandmother’s name?”

“Indeed.” He met the lady’s eyes firmly, his experience of such being that anything less than firmness would mark him as dismissible.

“My grandmother’s name is Silain Bedel. Her title, by which it is proper for those not of the
kompani
to address her, is
luthia
.”

“I thank you,” the lady said, with sharp, but seemingly genuine sincerity. “One makes a study, you understand, of modes of politeness. I would not wish to err, nor to give offense, should I have the honor of meeting Silain-
luthia
.”

“One’s grandmother holds similar views,” he murmured, glancing down to find that his empty soup dish had been removed, replaced by a plate of small savories, and another, of warm rolls.

“Politeness smooths many paths,” the pale-haired mother of his brother’s sister said in laborious Liaden. She smiled, open and utterly Terran, and he felt an immediate affection for her, as one might for a child.

“Please—” this was again the elder aunt—“commend me to your grandmother, if you will. I am Lady Kareen. It would be my very great pleasure to have Silain-
luthia
to tea, perhaps also including Scholar Waitley, if she does not object. I do understand that we are inconveniently located, here at the end of the Road. Rather than demand such a journey from the
luthia
, I would be pleased to host her at the house of my son, in the city. Or perhaps she may recommend an appropriate bakery or tea-shop where we might meet as equals.”

He inclined his head.

“I will take your message to my grandmother, Lady,” he murmured, careful not to make any promise on Silain’s behalf.

“Thank you,” she said, bestowing a cool smile upon him, and turned her attention to the scholar.

Rys gave a silent sigh of relief to have lost her scrutiny, reached for his glass, and sipped, carefully. The wine was white, floral, with an after-note of lemon. He smiled, and sipped again, enjoying the simple vintage.

“Good evening, Rys,” came a voice he knew very well, indeed.

He looked across the table to meet the silver eyes of Anthora yos’Galan, known to some as “Korval’s Witch.” It had been Anthora yos’Galan who had read his mind and his heart during his questioning by Judge Natesa. It had been Anthora yos’Galan who had certified that he had regained what the Department’s training had left of his former self; and that he was no further danger to Korval, or to himself.

He owed Anthora yos’Galan…more than his life, and he would thus remain forever in her debt.

“Good evening, Lady,” he said respectfully.

“No, now that you are come as Val Con’s brother, I must be Anthora,” she told him, and looked to her lifemate, sitting modest at her side. “Must I not, Ren Zel?”

“Surely that is for Master pen’Chala to decide?”

“Is it?” She frowned slightly, as if considering the proper protocol. “Well, perhaps it is, at that. But I may hope that he will decide in my favor, may I not?”

“Indeed; as I will also hope, on my own behalf. I think, though, that he must come to know us a little better.”

He looked to Rys, brown eyes betraying mischief.

“I am new-come to the clan, as well,” he said. “There is a learning curve.”

Rys smiled, warmed.

“I see that there might be. For myself, I am well-situated with my brothers and sisters of the
kompani
, and do not foresee coming into Korval. However, it is my…belief—newfound—that one cannot have too many brothers.”

“So I believe, as well,” Ren Zel answered; his smile gentle. “Already, we find common ground.”

Beside him, he heard his brother’s lifemate chuckle.

“Ren Zel can charm the portrait off a cantra piece,” she said, and used her chin to point at what was left of his plate of savories.

“Dessert’s coming. You want fruit, or a sweet?”

* * *

“I believe we have accomplished wonders,” Luken said.

He waved his assistants toward the back wall, and himself walked to the center of the showroom. There, he slowly turned on his heel, surveying the display walls, with small rugs hung in a flow of texture and tone; the bright carpets scattered across the gold-toned wooden decking, like autumn leaves scattered on the forest floor; the sample book set discreetly upon a creamy ceramic pedestal—there was nothing so crass as a
sales counter
in Luken’s showroom—at the carpets hung on wooden rods, and the small refreshment table against the back wall; and lastly at Villy and Quin.