Accepting the Lance, page 36
part #22 of Liaden Universe Series
“When you are older, and if you wish it, you may learn to play. It is a skill that only came into the clan with your grandmother Anne. Not all of us partake, but I was ambitious and able—and so was given my lessons.”
He passed through the door, pulling it shut behind them, and walked slowly toward the side hall and the secondary flight to the nursery level.
“I do not regret the lessons, nor the time. The ability to make music has been a joy, even when there was no other joy in my life.”
Talizea hummed in his ear, snuggling her head against his shoulder.
She was dozing by the time he reached the nursery, and placed her into Mrs. pel’Esla’s care.
“Is there,” he said, “a small, mechanical keyboard in stores? A musical keyboard,” he clarified, being aware that there were several simplified piloting keyboards in stores, and at least two already in rotation among the nursery toys.
“I do not recall noticing one, but I will do a specific search. Shall she be given it if there is one?”
“If there is one, only leave it where she might discover it in the normal course of her day.”
He paused, considering. “If there should not be such a keyboard in stores, inform me, please.”
“Yes, sir,” said Mrs. pel’Esla, and he took his leave, laying a light hand on Talizea’s cheek, and gaining a sleepy smile in return.
* * *
Back at his desk, he cleared invoices for the repairs and upgrades he had authorized for Lady yo’Lanna’s new house. It had come about that Melina was willing to sell, but not quite immediately.
“Let’s see if the lady can work with it first,” she said. “She finds it fits what she’s about, it ain’t too far out, and she reckons she can stop a spell, after she sees Surebleak itself—there’s plenty time to talk about buying and selling then. Meanwhile, I’m considering that the first month’s rent was paid in labor, and I’m sure hoping to get an invite to that party she’s planning, so I can see what you done with the place.”
Invoices cleared, he leaned back in his chair.
The TerraTrade survey team had been quiet of late. They were, in fact, running perilously close to the longest survey time quoted in the documents from TerraTrade, and he was undecided if that were a good thing or a bad one.
It had relieved his mind considerably that Team Leader Kasveini had expressed an unwillingness to file a report that would result in TerraTrade issuing a Do Not Stop. It would…perhaps…have relieved him further, if he had some understanding if this long and, one assumed, extremely thorough survey was prompted by an effort to find and catalog all of the more praiseworthy aspects of Surebleak and its port or…something else.
He supposed that it could be the election which was delaying them. The election, in fact, might do their work for them, if Pat Rin were voted off the council and Boss Surebleak voted in.
Should that happen, he gave no high odds on his own life, though he had made what arrangements he could for Miri and Talizea, in addition to those plans they had made together as delm for the survival of the clan.
Gods knew, he’d best be dead when and if those arrangements came to light, for he would surely not survive any debate with Miri over what he had done.
In any case, the election results would be made public in three days, as Jeeves had so kindly recalled to him. In four days, all would be resolved, and the survey team might shake the snow of Surebleak from their feet, board their ship, and file their report with TerraTrade.
And then…they would see what happened next.
There was a soft, high ping! He looked to his screen and found the new message indicator lit.
He extended a hand, tapped—
“Master Val Con, Emissary Twelve has come to speak with you. She is in the Tree Court.”
He glanced out the window. The inner garden was still enjoying a light, pretty snow that did very little more than spangle leaves and branches, and glitter among the grass.
The Tree Court could be perfectly summery if the Tree cared to extend itself, but—
“I hope that she did not walk to us in this weather.”
“No, sir. Scout yo’Bingim has appointed herself Emissary Twelve’s driver at call. The Scout is presently in the kitchen with a cup of tea and a plate of Mrs. ana’Tak’s cookies.”
“Puppy,” Val Con murmured, and rose from his chair.
“Pray tell Emissary Twelve that I will be with her in a few moments.”
“Yes, sir.”
* * *
In fact, the Tree Court was chilly, but perfectly supportable. Seated on the ground, her armored back resting against the massive trunk, and her head bowed, was Emissary Twelve, comfortably shielded from the meager snowfall by the Tree’s wide branches.
“Good afternoon,” Val Con said, dropping cross-legged to the perfectly dry grass across from her.
For a long moment, Emissary Twelve remained precisely as she was. He had just enough time to fear that she had fallen into her sleep time when she raised her head, large yellow eyes blinking slowly—once, twice…
“Good afternoon,” she said. “I hope that I have not called you from important work.”
“In fact, you have done me a good turn. If you had not arrived, I might have kept inside all day and never known how pleasantly the Tree keeps itself while the rest of the world shivers and freezes.”
There came a sharp rustle from the branches above; the Tree, perhaps, acknowledging a hit. Val Con did not look up.
“Surely, the Elder is permitted comfort, so long as it is not stolen from others?”
“So I also tell myself. It is worth noting, however, that we have both partaken of the Tree’s fruit and may therefore be inclined to forgive its peccadilloes.”
“That is true,” said Emissary Twelve. “It is necessary to keep sight of the environment in which one operates.”
“Most especially on Surebleak, and when dealing with the Tree.” Val Con paused, considering the person before him. She looked, he thought, a little despondent, or perhaps she was merely sleepy. “I wonder what I might be honored to do for you today?” he murmured.
“It may be tomorrow,” Emissary Twelve said carefully. “Or even the day after. I do not wish to disrupt your time wantonly.”
He frowned slightly.
“Assisting the guest is not a wanton disruption of my time,” he said softly. “If I may—I suggest that we, though we are short-lived, compared to yourself—we are not in general greedy of our time. One does not consider the shortness of our hours, but rather how best to spend them.
“Service to a guest, to an ally, to a friend—that time is well spent.”
“That is useful information. I can see that we will have been changed…very much, the technical team and I, by the time we have completed needed repairs.”
Val Con tipped his head.
“This troubles you?” he asked.
“Yes…”
She closed her eyes and opened them again to their fullest width. They seemed to glow, thus, as if lit from within.
“You understand,” she said, “that we of the Clutch are rarely troubled. We change in known ways, as our shells enlarge, as we learn our lifework and our duties increase.
“Yet, despite our long lives, despite the age of our race in the universe, we have not sought out…change…in the way that is common to the Clans of Men.
“The Clutch have never, in all our history, done as you have done here—occupy a populated world, and actively seek to meld the various customs, traditions, and goals of all into one, new, and, as I understand the desire, stronger set of customs, traditions, and goals.
“We have located worlds that suit us—a few. And we have, over time, colonized those worlds with trained persons from each of the Clutch Clans, and an Elder to advise us and to hold the table until others should join there.”
She paused. Val Con waited.
“The Clutch have never before faced the diversity of persons, philosophy, and honor that we find here on this world Surebleak. I understand that there are protocols which are difficult even for those of the Clans of Men to parse.
“In truth, this world will change us. I know, as the Elders have taught me, that there is a time when one must, for the greater good, accept the lance.
“It is for this mission that I was wakened. This is the purpose for which I was born. In the abstract, I have already accepted the lance and the change it will bring. It is merely…the process that troubles me.”
“The process of change is rarely easy, though it can be exhilarating,” Val Con said. “Even we of the Clans of Men can be—and often are—troubled by the process. We manage the anxiety that inevitably attends any change by reminding ourselves often of the benefits that change will bring.”
“That is also useful information. I thank you.”
“You are welcome. I hope I am not too bold, but it would please me if you kept me in mind as a resource, when the process becomes…annoyingly troublesome.”
A pause, not overlong.
“That is the offer of an Elder,” she said.
“Among us, it is the offer of a brother.”
Hardly a pause at all this time.
“There is another strangeness, for how should my agemate know more than I?” She blinked her eyes. “I will keep you in mind as a resource, as I keep the Elder Tree also in my mind, and Yulie Shaper, too.”
“An excellent foundation for a list of resources that will surely grow over time.”
A breeze swirled lightly down from the low branches, gently ruffling his hair.
“There was, I believe, some other difficulty with which you required my assistance. May one know what it is?”
“Yes,” said Emissary Twelve. “It comes to me that it would be wise to speak with the portmaster, to apprise her that there are technicians and materials incoming. Advance planning for these arrivals would be beneficial to all. We do not wish to bring the portmaster problems, or to discommode the people of Surebleak.”
That, Val Con thought, might well be young yo’Bingim’s counsel. If so, it was good. Best for the Clutch to begin as friends and thoughtful neighbors.
“I would be pleased to introduce you to the portmaster. Shall we find if she is available to see us tomorrow? Unless we have an emergency, I think that it would be rather too hasty to insist that she see us today.”
“When she has time available, then I will be at her service,” Emissary Twelve said fervently.
“Very good. Let us ascertain what may be possible. Jeeves.”
“Master Val Con?”
“Will you please call Portmaster Liu’s office on my behalf and ask if she has time available tomorrow to meet Emissary Twelve of the Clutch and to speak with her regarding future calls upon port resources?”
“Certainly, Master Val Con. Shall I ask for any specific hour?”
Val Con considered Emissary Twelve.
“At the portmaster’s convenience, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is there anything else with which I may assist you? Is your space at Yulie Shaper’s farm adequate to your needs? Is there anything that we may provide which will add to your comfort?”
“I am content with my apartment at Yulie Shaper’s farm. Indeed, it is…comforting, reminding me, as it does, of the chambers where I was wakened and tutored.”
“You have a comm there?”
“Yes. I use it to call Scout yo’Bingim should I require transport.”
“You may also use it to call me, or Jeeves, or Miri,” he said. “I will ask Jeeves to call your unit and leave the pertinent numbers there. When you have time, you may input them into your call directory.”
“You are…kind.”
Val Con felt his mouth twist into a slightly wry smile. He hesitated on the edge of a risky answer, knowing that Clutch did not wholly comprehend Liaden humor, or even—
“Master Val Con, the portmaster will be pleased to receive an introduction to Emissary Twelve tomorrow at thirteenth hour. She asks, if this is not acceptable, that we call to rearrange the time.”
“I am content,” Emissary Twelve stated, perhaps knowing what she agreed to.
“Thank you, Jeeves. We will wait upon the portmaster tomorrow at thirteenth hour.”
The Bedel
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
Something was singing in the communications room: a sweet, poignant melody which pierced the heart, despite the lack of words.
Pulka had been in the antechamber, looking for a specific component that would complete the repair of a compiling unit Rafin had found. Once the unit was made to work, then they might use it to print a number of components that had never been found, which would handily put three more found devices into operation. Pulka frankly had no notion what the purpose of one of those machines could be, and was looking forward very much—
The melody had changed from poignant and sweet to shrill and scolding.
Muttering, Pulka backed out of the corner he had, with no little difficulty, wedged himself into, pulled the cap with its inset light off of his head and crossed to the outer office.
By the time he had reached the communications board, the tone had changed again to full-out alarm.
Muttering still, Pulka touched the keys, accepting the message—and froze, staring.
Carefully, very carefully, he picked up the stub of a pencil, sat down, pulled a sheet of gay green paper to him, and began to transcribe the cipher on the screen.
* * *
Alosha the headman was drinking tea with Silain at the luthia’s own hearth. He had come to her, as even a headman must come to a luthia, when that headman wished to know the heart of the kompani.
The courtesies were first seen to—not even a headman risked rushing a luthia when there was no cause for haste.
So. The tea, a question asked regarding the luthia’s ’prentice, and another of Droi and her child, who were also attached to the luthia’s hearth.
Alosha asked, and was granted leave to light his pipe.
The luthia refilled their mugs with tea.
Alosha blew a smoke ring.
They both watched it, rapt, until it had stretched apart and vanished into the upper air.
Then did Alosha speak.
“How many?”
“To go?” she asked in turn.
Alosha opened his hands, indicating that this number would be well received, if that was the number the luthia wished to give.
“With certainty, eight. There are six who yet Dream.”
“A long Dream,” Alosha muttered.
“There is no limit on a time of Dreaming, Headman,” the luthia told him, though without heat. She was bound to school him on this but, as she knew the heart of the kompani, so she knew the heart of the headman. He grumbled because he was worried. He was worried because he must go when it came to it; there was no choice for him, as there was no choice for the luthia, sitting tall and cool on her hearth rug.
He would go, because he would have people to tend to, even as he left people he was bound to care for behind.
In fact, his heart was torn in two, and there could be no mending it in this lifetime.
“Eight, then,” he said. “It is not…so large a number, luthia.”
“It is not,” she agreed, “but the ship only denies choice to the luthia and to the headman. All others may choose; any other may stay, stipulating only that they Dream themselves into the tiles, so that the ship is not robbed of its tithe of knowledge.”
“True.”
Alosha blew another smoke ring and a second, smaller, into its center. They hung in the air for a long time, then suddenly blew apart, as if in a storm wind.
“It is also true,” he said to the luthia, “that the ship has not yet given us their date. It may be that more will decide to come, when the arrival is more than a Dream itself.”
But the luthia, perhaps, had not heard him. She was sitting quite still, her head turned away, eyes slitted, as if she listened…
…and he heard it now as well, the sound of rapid footsteps, coming quickly nearer.
In another moment, he recognized those footsteps, and he came to his feet, foreknowing, perhaps, or only wishing to meet Pulka standing.
He came into the light of the luthia’s hearth, a pudgy man, neither old nor young, holding a slip of paper in his hand.
“Luthia,” he said, stopping at last. “Headman. The ship’s captain speaks. The arrival has been set.”
Jelaza Kazone
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
Having seen Emissary Twelve and Scout yo’Bingim on their way, each with a pack of cookies “to share” with their comrades, Val Con returned to the delm’s office.
He poured himself a cup of tea and approached the desk, pausing to fish Fondi from the seat of his chair.
Seated, he put the cat on his lap.
Fondi did him the grace of thinking about the offer of comfort for a moment before deciding against. However, to show that there were no ill feelings, he only went as far as the desktop, where he presented his profile while he began to wash his whiskers.
Val Con sipped tea, put the mug aside and tapped up the message queue.
A letter from Theo and the daily voting stats from the Committee of the Vote topped the list. He opened Theo’s letter first.
It was very short, but compared to her usual style of correspondence—which was to say, no word at all—it was very nearly an epic.
He read it once, then picked up his mug and read it again. He was pleased, if mildly astonished, to observe that she had covered all of the niceties, even unto a well-wish to her close kin, and an apology, that she could not know how long duty might require her absence from…home. Ah, home—there was a change. Perhaps, having fought for it, Surebleak had acquired merit in her eyes.
Regarding the postscript detailing the disposition of the Pathfinders, and the implied excellence of their papers, given the source, he could, without the slightest threat to his melant’i, merely smile an elder brother’s indulgence. The delm might be secretly relieved that they were no longer obligated to find a place for the Pathfinders, but that was a matter they would discuss only under Delm’s Seal.
