Adventures in the Liaden Universe Part 13

The bird's head bobbed and it dropped an offering-a harvest plum. As it jumped into the air she saw its markings in the distant light: a hawk it was...

* * *IN THE MORNING Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza was declared dead by her mother, in open court. It was a minor thing. Being a civil matter its transmission to the world was delayed by a more important announcement.

This more important announcement went first to the rest of the Names who Lived, who meditated upon it for some hours before declaring officially to the Temple that Moonhawk was dead. Thence to the underlings went the news: those who would take the message to other Temples in the City, with the true and proper story: young Moonhawk had turned back the theft of all that was Holy and returned to the Temple a key to Balance: in so doing her mission for the Mother in this life was fulfilled, and she had returned to the fold.

In the Temple bas.e.m.e.nt a lone guard stared down at the prisoner a long time before nudging her awake with his foot. He'd considered-but no, not in the Temple, and not with that d.a.m.n bird staring down at him from the empty lamp holder.

"Get up, you," he said, kicking at her a little harder. "Get out!" He threw her a rough and ragged s.h.i.+ft, a castaway from the alms box.

"If you ain't out by next chant you're up for trespa.s.sing in the Temple! Can't trust any of you Nameless."

She was full of pains and aches, but overriding that was an emptiness that was like a drug that dulled her senses. Things weren't as sharp; she could not summon warmth- Priscilla reached out, unwillingly accepting the new because the past was totally gone; she put the s.h.i.+ft on, and stood slowly. She was cold, but here was a little bit of food, and- The man was staring pointedly at her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She put her head high, felt the ache in the back of her neck, suddenly feeling the weight of his words.

Nameless. Dead. A nothing-No longer Moonhawk. No right to be bare-breasted in public. No right to call the G.o.ddess Mother...

Awkwardly, unnaturally, she b.u.t.toned the s.h.i.+ft across her bruised and chafed b.r.e.a.s.t.s, felt its hem rub on the raw bruises on her thighs.

There was an explosion of wings behind her, and the bird that had been poised there flew out the door and to the left.

"Out, d.a.m.n you!" snapped the guard. "Look at this mess we gotta clean up! By the G.o.ddess' good foot, get out!"

Numbly, she gathered together a few more of the nuts. Food. A little bit of food.

The man pushed at her roughly.

"Get out! You're not wanted. You're dead!"

She ran then, ran out the door and to the left, ignoring the open door to the right that led upramp into the beggars courtyard.

"I'm not," she said to the wall as she climbed the stairs, "I'm not dead."

She stopped at the door to MaidenHall, waiting for the tingle of acceptance at the crossboard in thestone floor- There was none.

There was nothing. No quiet gong sounding the advent of a Maiden, no warning brangle of alarm bells, no roar of tarfire from the pot over the door.

Nothing.

She stepped through, then and touched the naming stone with a bare foot.

Nothing again. Moonhawk's name was not intoned by the four guard coyotes, long-frozen by spell: nor did they raise hackles and charge. She was there, Nameless.

Moonhawk's words came back to her: too much training had gone before for her to continue without some ceremony.

"Priscilla," she said meekly.

Again nothing happened. No repet.i.tion, no echo, no-She realized then she was a thief in Temple!

She ran with trepidation, furtively, until she found the locker that had been hers briefly but that had always been Moonhawk's.

To stop a thief one uses locks. So had the wise women of Sintia done, and the sight of that silver-bright lock sent s.h.i.+vers of fear and indignation through Priscilla. what could she do now? She'd certainly starve, unable to get at what should be hers. And how dare they a.s.sume she stoop to stealing- Incongruously, she laughed, and it was a true laugh despite everything, one that took in all the ironies- She felt the sound of added laughter, distantly heard within her a voice new and thrilling-a male voice!

"You've a chance to survive then, haven't you? It isn't always easy, but girl, Look! It's only a silver lock, all curled about with magic signs that'd burn the hands off any believer still shackled to their cow-eyed vision-"

Priscilla recoiled at that description-felt the distant voice pause- "-Can't argue with you now, dammit. She needs help for this trick of hers and I-Priscilla, get a pin or a nail."

The voice felt different, even more distant-but Priscilla took one of Delana-who-was-Oatflower's favorite stainless steel pins from her unkempt locker top and found herself in front of Moonhawk's locker, lock held precisely thus- Her hands pulled on the lock expertly as the pin searched within; she felt her muscles respond to minute ridges the pin struck, felt her wrist twist this way while the other hand pulled that way and the pin slammed home and- Tw.a.n.g!

"Done. Luck be with you girl, 'cause we can't go beyond the door with you. Never give in!"

Priscilla pulled the lock off the clasp and hurriedly began stuffing the locker contents into a cloth sack: shoes, a belt, work trousers, a few old copper and aluminum coins-She left to the Temple and its minions the costly clothes, the makeups, the gold armbands and necklets, signs of power, while happily grabbing up the tight-wrapped soya bar she'd left negligently behind the week before. She covered her newly-shorn head with an old blue kerchief that had been a dusting rag for Moonhawk's ceremonies. What else?

Her gaze fell again to the bright-wrought things, eyes full of the greed of necessity. Dare she?

An odd song tickled at the back of her head, though she couldn't catch the words. Still-When she moved on she held her right hand tight to seven silver bracelets.

She turned toward the door, found she still held the silver lock in her left hand, under the twisted top of the cloth bag. Her impulse was to toss it away-Silver! She looked at the magic symbols, shrugged her shoulders, and dropped the lock into the bag.

"Good girl!" came distant approval. "Silver travels well! Go as far as you can!"

She hobbled out as best she could then, the grief chants of the Temple covering the sound of her ungainly escape.

Across Sintia the Priestesses waited for the proper hour, and then covered the carved Temple figures of Moonhawk in green cloth, signifying her return to the G.o.ddess, this time.

No one dares mention that the eyes in the statues continued to glow, despite the funereal announcement.

No one dares mention to the Inmost Circle that Moonhawk still lives.

So ends the 55th tale of Lute and Moonhawk.

About This Book

East Winslow, Maine November l8, l998

OUR NOVELS Agent of Change, Conflict of Honors, and Carpe Diem, haven't been on the SF best-seller list, but they have reached a very persistent group of readers, many of them on the Internet.

When we got on the 'net ourselves, our readers let themselves be known.

"When," they asked "will there be something else in the Liaden Universe?"

This year, like last, lacks a Liaden novel. Next year, in February l999, comes our novel Plan B from Meisha Merlin. Still, our readers have asked for something for this holiday season, something Liaden. We hear you, and read our email. Hence, Fellow Travelers.

In l995 we brought you Two Tales of Korval, stories written as we were defining the Liaden Universe.

To Cut an Edge and A Day at the Races both dealt with recent Korval family history.

The first two stories here also were part of our defining of the Liaden Universe, but these are set centuries before the core novels. These stories, Where the G.o.ddess Sends and A Spell for the Lost deal with the role of magic in a world where technology is slowly being rediscovered. The third story- Moonphase-was originally not written for publication, but for our own understanding of Priscilla Mendoza, an active character in the later books But a story once written takes on its own life and necessity, and this story, too, is here.

Thanks to you, the Liaden Universe keeps growing.-Sharon Lee & Steve Miller

Duty Bound

Adventures in the Liaden Universe #3 Sharon Lee and Steve Miller

Pilot of Korval

Dutiful Pa.s.sage en route to Venture. Standard Year 1339

MASTER PILOT VEN'DUCCI sighed and folded his hands on the practice board. By these signs, Er Thom knew himself to be in desperate straits.

"I had heard from captain yos'Galan," the master said quietly, "that you had achieved a level of skill equal to that of a second cla.s.s pilot. Perhaps I misunderstood?"

Er Thom inclined his head respectfully. "In fact, sir, I have achieved my second cla.s.s license."

The Master's eyebrows rose, as if in astonishment. "Have you, indeed? Show it, of your kindness."

Now he was in for it in truth. A short series of keystrokes from the board at which they sat, and Master ven'Ducci could transform the treasured second cla.s.s license into a mere third cla.s.s-or into no license at all. such was the power of a master pilot.

Still, it would reflect poorly on his melant'i-and on the melant'i of the Captain his mother-if he were seen to either flinch or hesitate in the face of this order. Er Thom neither flinched nor hesitated, but pulled the card from its slot in the practice board and held it out to his instructor in fingers that were, amazingly, steady.

Master ven'Ducci received the license gravely and subjected it to a leisurely, frowning study, as if he had never seen such a thing before. Er Thom folded his hands forcibly in his lap and set his tongue between his teeth, lest he be tempted to blurt out any of the defenses of his own skill that were rising in his throat.

Halflings defended before they were attacked, and he, Er Thom yos'Galan, was not a halfling. He was a pilot of Korval. Specifically, he was a second cla.s.s pilot of Korval, the license fairly earned on the same day that Daav his foster-brother, boon comrade and fiercest compet.i.tor, received his provisional second cla.s.s.

Master ven'Ducci finished his inspection and laid the license on the edge of the board.

"How came you by this?" Er Thom took a careful breath, and met the man's eyes with what he hoped was grave calm.

"I came by it at Solcintra Pilot's Hall, on Banim-Seconday in the first relumma of the current year." He had more than one cause to remember the day well, though very nearly a full standard Year had pa.s.sed.

Er Thom licked his lips, hands stringently folded upon his knee.

"Testing that day established me as a second cla.s.s pilot. Master Hopanik signed the license herself."'"Testing that day'," Master ven'Ducci repeated. "Yes, I see."

Er Thom felt his face heat, his fingers tightening convulsively. He would be calm, he told himself sternly.

He would.

Master ven'Ducci picked up Er Thom's license and held it in his palm as if weighing it for merit.

"It is sometimes the case," he said, in the mode of instructor to student, "that the exhilaration of the test itself will call forth heightened response from a candidate. The results of such testings are not invalid so much as misleading. It may well be, young sir, that your proper rating at this time is second cla.s.s provisional. It is certainly true that your results at these boards, over the time we have been working together, falls significantly short of the results one is accustomed to receive from solid second cla.s.s pilots."

Er Thom bit his tongue, refusing to beg. If he was a failure, if he lost his license this moment and spent the rest of his life balancing cargo holds, he was yet the son of Chi yos'Phelium-of Petrella yos'Galan. He would not shame his Line.

"So." Master ven'Ducci glanced at the license and slid it into the pocket of his vest. Er Thom's stomach twisted, but he sat still, and, G.o.ds willing, showed no distress.

"I will consider the proper course to chart from this circ.u.mstance," the master pilot said. "Attend me here tomorrow at the usual hour."

"Yes, Master." Somehow, Er Thom managed to stand, to make his bow and walk, calmly, from the inner bridge.

He was scheduled for dinner this hour, and his mother the Captain had made it plain during his first few days' service that she rated moody, self-indulgent boys who skipped meals just slightly lower than Port panhandlers too lazy to apply themselves to a job.

Er Thom swallowed and deliberately turned his back on the hall that would eventually lead him to the cafeteria. He could not possibly eat. He swallowed again, blinking back tears.

His license. He has a second cla.s.s pilot! The tests had not been in error! if only- If only he could speak to Daav! If only his foster mother, Daav's true-mother and twin sister to Er Thom's mother the captain-if only Chi yos'Phelium were here. But, of course, she wasn't. He had neither seen nor spoken with her since the day he had won the license.

He had always known that his true-mother would one day claim him to serve on Dutiful Pa.s.sage and learn his life-roles of captain and trader, just as he had always known that Daav would someday leave home to attend scout Academy. He had simply been caught ... unprepared... when "one day" became "this day," and he was suddenly swept into his mother's...o...b..t, away from everything that was usual and comforting; his one cold joy the new license in his pocket, which proved him a pilot of Korval.

It was no inconsiderable thing to be a pilot of Korval. Indeed, he had learned that it was no small thing to be cabin boy on the clan's flags.h.i.+p, true-son and heir of Captain and master Trader Yos'Galan. The child of generations of s.p.a.ce-goers, Er Thom had adjusted easily to his duties and to s.h.i.+p-life. He had adjusted less easily to the absence of his foster-brother, who had been within his arm's reach for the sum of both their lives. Er Thom's earliest memory was of gazing into his brother's face, watching the black eyes watch him in return.

"Good s.h.i.+ft to you, young sir."Er Thom gasped, jolted out of his misery by the quiet greeting, and hastily bowed-junior to senior-to Mechanic First cla.s.s Bor Gen pin'Ethil.

"Sir, good s.h.i.+ft."

The mechanic considered him out of wide gray eyes. "One remarks that it is the dinner hour," he said delicately.

Er Thom gritted his teeth and bowed again. "One also marks the hour," he said, politely. "However, there is-a book-in one's quarters..."

"Ah, but of course." A smile showed briefly. "A cabin boy must always be at study, eh?"

"Just so," Er Thom said and bowed a third time as the other pa.s.sed by.

Legs none too steady, Er Thom went on, and very shortly thereafter laid his palm against the plate set into the door of his cabin.

He felt the scan crackle across his skin, then the door slid open. He all but jumped through, the lights coming up to show a stark little cubicle made smaller by the built-in folding desk, which was extended to its fullest, and overladen with books, readers, and clipboards. The slender bed was tucked under the lockers in which the rest of his clothing and possessions were stowed, the bed itself occupied by a long, thin figure dressed in a dark long sleeved s.h.i.+rt, vest and leggings of black s.p.a.ce leather, booted feet crossed at the ankle, hands crossed over his belt.

Er Thom stared, not quite daring to believe the rather solid evidence before him.

"Daav?" he breathed.