Korval's Game (71 page)

“You—and Val Con,” Nova repeated, voice shaking, “
stole
ships from the Yxtrang?”

“Well, they had so many, you see,” he said apologetically. “It was necessary to mount an air strike, so naturally—”

“You could have been killed!” Nova interrupted.

Shan sipped wine. “It was war,” he said, striving for patience. “I
would
have been killed had I huddled in House with the infirm and the children. And if you think me capable of turning Val Con from necessary action by an appeal to common sense, you vastly overrate my powers of persuasion!”

She stared at him for another heartbeat, then inclined her head, allowing him the point. “Just so. Now—‘variant methodologies’?”

Here it came. He finished his wine and set the glass aside.

“In consultation with Clutch turtles Edger and Sheather, Val Con’s lifemate became convinced that there was more effective healing available—a Clutch healing. I offered myself up as a test subject and found the healing . . . remarkably efficacious. Miri then decided—as Val Con’s lifemate and for Korval—that he and she would undergo this healing. Edger and I labored some hours over Val Con, and left him sleeping easily, his condition much improved from when we had him out of the ’doc—”

“Out of the ’doc?” Nova demanded. Shan sighed. Well, and he had known she wouldn’t like it.

“You dared to dice with the life of Korval Himself? When the medics—when you yourself!—admit that the long-term effects of the poison are unknown, that—”

“Nadelmae Korval decided,” Shan interrupted, somewhat louder than he had meant to do, “for herself, for her lifemate, and for Korval entire.”

“Nadelmae Korval,” Nova spat, “is a Terran-raised mercenary, ignorant of clan and of Code—”

“No, she’s not.”

Nova stared. “Explain.”

He rubbed his forehead. Gods, he was
tired
. Quickly, he accessed a Healer’s energizing routine. The expected jolt of vigor was more like a faint tremble of nervousness, but it would suffice. For a while.

“Miri and Val Con rejoice in a true lifemating—recall it? I’ll wager cantra to kittens that you’ll find her just as Code-wise as—why, as Val Con! And I’ll further wager that she’s found to fly like a scout. She knew very well what her decision might mean, and she did not make it lightly.”

There was a long silence, while terror, fury, hope, and exasperation warred behind Nova’s eyes. Finally, she sighed.

“I will see our brother.”

Shan shook his head. “That would not be wise. We left him sleeping, in a state . . . somewhat akin to trance. He will wake himself, when he is ready.”

“I will
see
him,” she repeated, with barely leashed violence. “If he is entranced, he will not heed me, and I will have had some ease of heart.” Her eyes glinted. “Surely, I am allowed kin-right?”

Surely, she was allowed kin-right, Shan thought, and truth told, it would ease his own heart to know that Val Con still slept sweetly, Healed and removed from all danger.

“Very well,” he said. “But a glance, only, and then I will need to seek my own bed.”

Nova inclined her head and turned toward the door.

***

“LADY YOS’PHELIUM?”
The med tech scrambled to her feet. She was showing a little white around the eye, for which Miri blamed her not at all, and doing pretty good—after the first, incredulous gape—about not staring at the patients. Miri inclined her head, trying for a sort of matter-of-fact haughtiness.

“These, my oathsworn,” she said, choosing the High Liaden mode of employer to employee—which was close enough to true, considering that she was blood-and-genes of Erob, “require optimization. They have been underfed of late, and are doubtless in need of supplements. Also, the tattoo work will be removed. The med techs attached to the mercenary unit have an erasure program. Pray contact them and request its transmittal, in the name of Captain Robertson.”

The tech swallowed, hard, and managed a fairly credible bow of acquiescence.

“It shall be done.” She looked up—at Nelirikk, at Hazenthull, at Diglon—and down—at Shadia, and back to Miri. “Forgive me, but one is not able in the language of the—of the subjects. One would forestall an . . . unfortunate situation, my lady.”

“I understand,” Miri assured her, and moved a hand, bringing both Nelirikk and Shadia to the tech’s attention. “Scout Lieutenant Shadia Ne’Zame, and my aide, Lieutenant Nelirikk Explorer, will stay here to assist you in any way required.”

The tech actually looked relieved to hear it, which probably showed how little experience she had with scouts, bowed again and moved over to the first ’doc of the three in the infirmary.

“If the . . . elder soldier . . . will come forward?”

Nelirikk translated it in terms of an order and Diglon Rifle stepped smartly forward.

Miri exchanged a look with Shadia, who grinned and gave her a Terran thumbs-up. “We have everything under control, Captain Redhead.”

“Why don’t that make me feel better?” Miri asked, rhetorically, and went away to find Emrith Tiazan, to tell her what was going on in her medical center.

***

MIRI HAD GONE
to the med center to attend the needs of yos’Phelium’s newest dependents, leaving Val Con alone with his father.

When he was a boy, he had used to dream of this meeting: His father would arrive unannounced, and swing him up into strong arms; his father would be sitting at his bedside one morning when he woke; he would be called from his studies to attend Uncle Er Thom in his office, and his father would be waiting for him there . . .

Child-dreams, which had nothing to do with this moment, in which he, grown and lifemated, stood in a garden far away from home, in the presence of a stranger, who smiled at him faintly and said, “Well.”

In appearance, Val Con thought, one’s father was the antithesis of one’s foster-father. Nor had the holos of Daav in his youth prepared one, entirely, for the elder scout standing, serene and patient, before him in the pre-dawn garden. The holos had been of a man at the height of his powers, whip-thin and sharp-featured; his plentiful dark hair confined into a tail; black eyes looking boldly out of the image.

This man had thickened a little beyond slenderness; his hair more gray than brown, cut close to the head in a manner subtly Terran. His face, never beautiful, even in youth, had yet a certain austere charm, startlingly like Uncle Er Thom; and the black eyes assessed one with all of a scout’s directness.

And
, Val Con thought suddenly,
he has deliberately engineered this pause to allow me time to study him
. Almost, he grinned in welcome of this oldest of scout tricks.

Daav raised an eyebrow. “You had some pointed questions to ask me, I believe?”

“The most pointed I had asked: What have you been about all these years?”
While I waited for you, and Uncle Er Thom did . . .

Daav’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Surely I made an entry in the Diaries? Yes, I’m certain of it. I distinctly recall your presence at the event—there’s a blot on the page, where you jostled the pen.”

And the other blots
, thought Val Con, who knew the page well,
are tearstains.

“However,” said Daav, “since the substance of the entry appears to have slipped your mind—I was about the Balancing of my lifemate’s death.”

“But,” Val Con heard himself, with no little astonishment, state, “your lifemate is not dead.”

Daav appeared to experience no corresponding astonishment upon hearing this assertion. He merely raised a hand; the old silver puzzle-ring flashing like a zag of lightning ’round his finger.

“It was some time before that became clear to me,” he said. “Our arrangement had been . . . flawed. And—forgive me—I had
seen
her die. It was far more reasonable to think I had gone mad from grief than to believe I was truly hearing her voice.” He lowered his hand.

“In any case, since the assassin—say, rather, the one who had employed the assassin—so earnestly wished me to look to Terra for my villain, I could scarcely do less than accommodate him.”

“Though perhaps,” Val Con murmured, “not in quite the way he had wished.”

“Well, what would you? Aelliana would never have wanted me to start a war in her name—even had it been absolutely certain that her death was called by Terra. Which it was by no means. The Code quite clearly states that, in matters of life-Balance, the wishes of the Balancer are secondary to the wishes honorably imputed to his dead.” He lifted his shoulders in a common Terran shrug.

“My lady would have said that Terra struck because it was afraid, and that fear arises from ignorance. So, I have been teaching cultural genetics. To Terrans.”

“Ah,” Val Con said softly.

“Ah, indeed,” his father returned. He tipped his head. “Your lady captain speaks common Yxtrang very like a scout—or perhaps she speaks it like
the
scout.”

“I really ought to teach Nelirikk my personal name,” Val Con said, musingly. He moved his shoulders,
not
a shrug. “I concede that the Common Troop had not been among Miri’s languages before—recent events.”

“Ah, yes! The heroic flight of captured Yxtrang fighters against the over-advantaged foe, in which action you were wounded unto death! Pray, do not be coy, sir—tales of your prowess precede you. Commander Carmody holds you as an object of awe, and appears to consider you thoroughly deranged.”

Val Con laughed.

“Yes, well.” Daav shifted a step or two aside and stretched, carefully, Val Con thought, as would a man who was concerned that his back muscles might protest.

“Tell me, if you would,” he said, settling back from his stretch, “who is this puissant enemy with which Captain Robertson has beguiled my poor Yxtrang?”

Val Con lifted a brow. “I thought they were yos’Phelium’s Yxtrang?”

“One feels a lingering tenderness,” Daav told him earnestly. “They are such good children.”

“You relieve me,” he said. “As for the enemy—” He paused, head cocked; saw his father stiffen, and turn his head. The gate at the end of the garden swung on its hinges; and very shortly the shadows relinquished Clonak ter’Meulen.

“Half-an-hour and then some,” he said, smoothing his mustache with loving fingertips. “Morning, Shadow.”

“Good morning, Clonak,” Val Con replied, considering the pudgy scout. Something was . . . shifting . . . at the edge of his mind, as if the pieces to an old, old puzzle were snapping, at last and inevitably, into their proper places.

“Clonak,” he said again, hating what he was seeing; knowing that it must be true; “my father wishes to know the name of Korval’s great enemy, that murdered his brother and his brother’s lifemate. You can tell him that, can’t you?”

The older scout tipped his head. “Already did, but I don’t mind repeating it: Department of the Interior. You remember that, don’t you, Daav? Though I’m not certain I’d write Er Thom against their account; what I heard from Shan was that he had died of his lifemate’s dying.”

“Which he would not have done,” Daav pointed out quietly, “had Anne remained among us.”

“True . . .”

Val Con took a step forward, drawing the eyes of both men.

“You fed me to them,” he said, and his voice was, perhaps, not quite steady. “The scouts
gave
me to the Department.”

Clonak stared at him as if he’d taken leave of his wits. “Well, of
course
we gave you to them, Shadow! Who else did we have more likely to trump them than a first-in, pure-blood yos’Phelium scout
commander
? Concentrated random action. Would we waste such a weapon? Would you? I didn’t think so. Besides,” he finished, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s the duty of the Captain to protect the passengers. Er Thom
can’t
have missed telling you that!”

“As close-kin, I ask that you not kill him,” Daav said into the silence that followed this. “I allow him to be twelve times an idiot. But he is also my oldest friend, and I value him.”

Val Con closed his eyes, ran the rainbow, sighed—and opened his eyes.

“Very well,” he said, imposing neutrality, if not calm, on his voice. “It was my duty and I was suited to the need. But the plan has gone awry. The Department continues.”

“Yes, it does,” Clonak said, as if to a half-wit, “but you are no longer its creature, eh? I see our weapon returned to us, increased three-fold; a Captain with an intimate understanding of the danger from which the passengers stand at peril.” He flung a hand out, palm up. “And scarcely a heartbeat too soon, all doom having broken loose. The scouts hold themselves ready to receive your orders, Commander.”

Val Con shook his head. “Amuse yourself elsewhere. I’ve no patience for it.”

“Now, Shadow,” the pudgy scout said sternly, “do not, I beg you, come the kitten. I took losses at Nev’Lorn—and so did you.”

Val Con blinked. “Nev’Lorn?”

“Clonak, the lad’s been ill and away from the news,” Daav’s deep voice was perfectly serious. “He hasn’t heard that the Department of the Interior mounted an armed attack against a scout base and that dozens of his comrades are dead of it.”

The Department had openly attacked scouts? Val Con blinked again. The thing made no sense. The Department flourished precisely because it operated along hidden avenues, far removed from the ken of honest folk, and made no large, overt moves.

“Why?” he asked Clonak.

“Why? Why else but out of concern for yourself!” He sighed, suddenly and sharply. “Shadia found the mark of a scout in a derelict orbiting an interdicted world, and filed the report, all according to regs. She didn’t make the connection between yourself and the mystery scout, though others of us did. The Department caught the report off our bands and moved in, apparently having performed the same leap of logic.” He shrugged. “They were that desperate to have you back, Shadow. Or, at least, they were desperate lest someone
else
have you.”

“You rate me high,” Val Con said drily. “Certainly, the Commander would wish to recover—or neutralize—me before I became a threat to the Department. But to risk everything in an open strike against the scouts—” He shook his head. “That is not how the Commander does his math.”