"Sleep well," she said again, and stepped into the hall, pulling the door behind her. Within an inch of closing entire, the panel paused, and her voice wafted to his ear.
"My name is Inas Bhar."
THE BREEZE SUBSIDED so gradually she couldn't have said when it quit completely. She noted its absence; in so noting decided she had slept long enough—and awoke.
For a moment she lay, eyes closed, listening to the silence, feeling the jubilant singing of blood through her veins, the sweet passage of air through her lungs. She stretched, luxuriating in the smooth slide of well-toned muscles. Sensuously, she stretched her mind as well, reaching out in that undefinable, definite way, to the pattern that was her perception of Val Con's self.
The pattern blazed with lucent purity, its byways and inroads fully integrated, absolutely, entirely and unmistakably Val Con; joyously intact. Throat tight with the beauty of him, Miri extended herself and stroked him, raising a crackle of startled lust, and a flicker of the particular bright green she understood to be laughter. Then, slowly—very slowly, as if relishing every instant of contact, she felt his fingers stroke down her cheek, and across her lips. Miri sighed, reached—and found him abruptly absent, though she saw his pattern as plainly as she ever had.
Regretfully, she opened her eyes to Erob's sickroom. The wall of medical gizmos was dark and silent; the tech's noteboard standing blank and ready in its place, though no tech was in evidence. Nor was there any sign of the large-ish green person known to them both as her brother Sheather.
Throwing back the quilt, Miri bounced out of bed and strode over to the door to check the lock. Locked, all right, and from the inside, too. She tried to figure out if that worried her, or ought to, then decided the hell with it: The door was locked from the inside, and Sheather, who had presumably arranged for that circumstance, was conclusively not in the room with her. Therefore, Sheather was on his own inside a Liaden clanhouse. That might've been worrisome, had the House in question not recently survived both a civil uprising and an Yxtrang invasion. At this stage in the proceedings, nobody was likely to get too upset about a little thing like a Clutch turtle wandering the halls.
Which, come to think of it, sounded a whole lot more entertaining than sticking around a deserted sickroom. She wasn't sick. If she'd ever felt better in her life, she couldn't at the moment recall the occasion.
She did feel a trifle grubby, which could be remedied by a shower, after which she intended to go for a walk, unless somebody came up with a compelling reason why she shouldn't.
Decision taken, she moved briskly in the direction of the 'fresher, stripping off her nightshirt as she went.
THE SHIFT had thus far been quiet. Ren Zel had run routine systems checks, and done some general housekeeping. His mind did wander, now and again, to the impossibility of the cat in his cabin and the irrefutable evidence of that long, white whisker. At last, knowing what he would find, he pulled up the current roster of the pet library.
As he had expected, there were no cats currently on file in the library. Certainly, there was no ship's cat, free to wander the vessel, earning its passage by dispatching vermin. Useful as such creatures were, they had a tendency to get into unchancy places, resulting in fouled machinery and, more often than not, a dead cat.
And even if the
Passage
did harbor a cat, who had let the creature into his quarters?
He sighed and closed the roster.
It was a puzzle, certain enough, and the only other possibility that occurred to him was that a crew member had smuggled a pet aboard. Though how they had kept it secret from all was another, just as knotty, puzzle.
He sighed again and considered taking the whisker to the ship's Healer, to see what she might scry from it. Lina was a Healer of no small skill, her lack of success with himself having to do with some sort of 'natural shielding' that he possessed. He understood that this was not entirely unknown. Unhappily, the shielding prevented him being Healed of the nightmares of battle, and the pain of his dying. Though he thought he was healing of that last wound on his own, if slowly.
So, then, he thought. At shift-end, he would take the whisker to Lina. That was the best course, surely.
Someone had been kind enough to lay in a couple shirts in her size. The same someone, Miri supposed, newly showered and thoroughly air-dried, who had been forethoughtful enough to shine her boots and make sure that her leathers were clean.
The arrangements had a certain feel of Beautiful to them—the Compleat Captain's Aide, Miri thought with wry gratitude, sealing the cuffs of her shirt. She stamped into her boots, put her hand against the plate and left the dressing room. Half a step into the main room, she checked, turned and frowned at the man lounging in the chair next to the tech's station, his legs thrust out before him and crossed neatly at the ankle. He was dressed like she was, in working leathers, and boots buffed to a mirror finish. One irrepressible eyebrow rose at her frown.
"The door," she said, trying to sound severe, "was locked."
"It was," Val Con admitted. "And it is locked now. I hope you don't think me lax in such matters."
It took a major effort of will not to laugh out loud, which was, of course, what he wanted. Instead, Miri managed quite a credible sigh while she surveyed him.
He looked like his pattern, she thought—new-made and shiny; so beautiful it made a body's throat close up and her heart start acting funny. In fact, he looked miraculously well for a man she'd been told was going to have to devote some considerable time to relearning how to walk. Val Con raised his other eyebrow.
"Is there something wrong, cha'trez?"
"Depends," she said. "We having another one of those dream sequences?"
"Dream—Ah. Jelaza Kazone." He smiled. "I believe it safe to assume that we are now both present in . . . contiguous reality." He tipped his head, considering. "Mostly contiguous reality."
"Mostly's more than we had last time," she allowed, drifting over to his side. She cleared her throat. "You don't happen to know where Edger and Shan are, do you?"
"Alas. Must we locate them immediately?"
She looked down into his face. "You got anything better to do?"
"Yes," he said. She saw familiar lightning weave through his pattern, and shivered.
"Yes, is it?" Her hand rose, not entirely on her order. Softly, she stroked the well-marked, mobile eyebrows, ran her fingertips along the high line of his cheek . . .
"Cha'trez?" His voice was not quite steady. Miri stroked his cheek again.
"Scar's gone, boss," she murmured, tracing the place where it had been.
"Many scars are gone. I am—Miri . . . " He took a hard breath. "Miri, let us make love."
"Here?" she asked, teasing him, like her own blood wasn't hot with desire.
He reached up and captured her hand. "Why not?" he murmured, and kissed her fingertips before slanting a glance of pure mischief into her eyes. "The door is locked."
IT WAS THE CUSTOM of Emrith Tiazan, Erob Herself, to take a turn or two through the atrium prior to seeking her bed. As this had also been the custom of her father who had been delm before her, the room's cycle had long been set opposite the day-night cycle of the outside garden, where the seedling of Korval's Tree held dominion.
Here, there were more convenable plants, mild-mannered and conducive of an easy sleep. Korval's Tree promoted madcap dreaming, of a kind unsuitable in old women who had lost a third of her House in the late warlike disturbances.
Alone with her thoughts and her dead, she ambled along the sweet-smelling ways, pausing now and again to admire the progress of certain favorites. Her shoulder muscles began to loosen under the suasion of the mock sunlight; her houseboots made a soft shuffling sound against the shredded bark path; the first notes from the singing waters wafted 'round the next curve, teasing her ears. Comforted by all that was gentle and usual, Emrith Tiazan's face relaxed into a smile.
She followed the path around, and the full song of the waters rushed to greet her. She paused, as she always did, face turned up toward the false sun, eyes closed in pleasure, before moving across the little stone bridge to her especial spot, a stone nook, surrounded by simple rock plants, enchanted by the joyous waters.
Which was this evening filled very nearly to overflowing by two large, green . . . things.
Emrith at first thought them twin boulders, brought in and disposed by some well-meaning but mad gardener. Then she saw the extended foreleg of the smaller, culminating in a three-fingered hand. She walked closer, discovering other details—beaked faces with nostril slits, horny green hides, and a shell-like substance partially encasing each large torso. Both appeared asleep. Or dead. Emrith Tiazan stared at them a long time, by her lights. She didn't even wonder where they had come from—to whose orbit, after all, did any of the strange, uncomfortable or dangerous oddities of the universe attach themselves?
Eventually, she sighed and did something that she had done only once before in this garden—she reached in her pocket and thumbed on the remote.
"My delm?" An Der sounded startled, as well he might, she thought, sourly.
"Find Shan yos'Galan," she said, striving for an appropriate calmness. "Bring him to the singing waters in the atrium. I believe I have found that which belongs to his House."
AS AGREED, the majority of their party waited in the side garden while Nelirikk went ahead to alert his captain to the presence of both scouts and recruits.
The hour was far advanced, and he was certain that the medical technician currently in a position of authority over the captain would find his visit unseemly. Had he been in pursuit of an Yxtrang commander in similar straits, Nelirikk would simply have put the technician aside and given his report; a soldier's duty came before all: illness, pleasure, sleep, or food.
Liadens held to another ordering of duties, and the necessities of soldiers were not always at the top of the list. Which is how it came to pass that a mere medical technician could order a captain.
Nor was it appropriate, according to the complex net of rule and custom in which Liadens ensnared themselves, for a captain's aide to lay hands on a med tech for the purpose of gaining his captain's side.
It was thus necessary to have a reason for speaking to the captain
at once
that the tech would accept as sufficiently urgent to disturb her rest.
Wrestling with this conundrum, Nelirikk turned a corner—and slammed to a halt, staring.
Two people were walking toward him—two people he had reason to know well. The woman was none other than his captain, who he had last seen that morning, lying pale and weak against pillows; med tech on the hover. The man was no one less than the scout himself, who certainly should not be walking—not so soon, if ever again.
Regardless, here they came, strolling hand-in-hand down the center of the hallway, to the uninformed eye, as vulnerable and as guileless as children. Nelirikk frankly stared.
"Hey, Beautiful," the captain called. "How was your walk?"
"Captain." He recalled himself and came to attention, saluting. "My walk was . . . interesting."
"Yeah? You didn't seen any Clutch turtles, did you?"
Clutch turtles? Nelirikk managed to stifle the shiver, while fervently hoping never in his lifetime to see a Clutch turtle, enemy of the Troop, slayer of fleets.
"Captain," he replied, somewhat stiffly, "I have not. I have, however, seen scouts, and together we have—"
"Scouts?" The man murmured. "Are you certain?"
Nelirikk frowned. "Are there others among Liadens who walk silent and woodwise and arrive on-world in a scout class ship?"
"Actually," the scout said surprisingly, "there are."
Nelirikk thought about that, then looked to the captain, who was watching him out of ironic grey eyes.
"Two represent themselves as scouts: Clonak ter'Meulen, scout commander; Shadia Ne'Zame, scout lieutenant, first in. The third . . . " He looked from grey eyes to green. "The third did not say he was a scout, though the others treat him as a peer—and at times defer to him. The lieutenant addresses him as 'captain'. He bears a Tree-and-Dragon—" He touched the matching symbol on his collar, "and gives his name as Daav yos'Phelium."
The scout's eyebrows rose. "Does he?" He glanced at the captain.
"Odds he's the genuine article?" she asked. He moved his shoulders.
"It would be difficult to fool Clonak, even at this remove; he and my father trained together. Later, he was a member of the survey team of which my father was captain. Uncle Er Thom said the two of them were great friends—even though Clonak had been in love with my mother." Again, he moved his shoulders, and smiled into the captain's eyes. "If it's
odds
you're after, my lady—then I am compelled to say that I have too little data and must see the man for myself."
"Sure you are," she said resignedly. The scout grinned and Nelirikk gave a start, the sense of wrongness about the other man's face crystalizing all at once. The green eyes moved; pinning him.
"Yes?"
"I—" Nelirikk cleared his throat. "Scout, your
nchaka
is—gone."
"Ah." The smaller man inclined his head. "The Troop remembers."
"The Troop remembers," Nelirikk affirmed and looked back to his captain.
"Captain. In addition to scouts, my walk produced recruits."
She shook her head. "The Irregulars are outta business; ain't taking recruits. Point 'em at Commander Carmody."
"Commander Carmody has given medical care, food and quarters, so winning himself a place in the camp-tales. However, if the captain pleases, these recruits will give their oaths and their weapons only to Hero Captain Miri Robertson, who vanquished the Fourteenth."
She sighed. "You're talking about
Yxtrang
recruits?"