Korval's Game (103 page)

Neither one looked back.

***

“ONE HUNDRED FORTY-FOUR
days to leave planet, lock, stock and piglet?” Shan repeated incredulously. “Have they lost their wits?”

“Certainly not,” Val Con said drily. “They merely hope to hurry us sufficiently that we will leave a few things behind, to their benefit.”

“Did the Council forbid sales?” inquired dea’Gauss—this the new dea’Gauss, a woman in her early middle years, with a serious face and unexpectedly merry eyes. Her father was yet with the Healers and he would be well, with time. Though his notes were before her, it was happily clear to Val Con that her course was her own.

Val Con shook his head. “The vote was close, as I counted. Close enough that those who most dearly wished us gone dared not risk their victory by burdening the issue with petty Balance.”

The dea’Gauss inclined her head. “That is good, then. Allow me . . .” She bent to her keyboard.

“Even supposing we can pack everything of importance,” Shan continued. “How the devil are we going to ship it? Worse, where will we go? Somehow, I don’t believe Erob would be willing to have us.”

Miri laughed, and Merlin, who was curled up on her lap, muttered a sleepy protest.

“Bad idea, anyway,” she said. “Given the family tendency to force things into our own mold.”

“There’s that. We might try for New Dublin, I suppose . . .”

“Or Surebleak,” Pat Rin said quietly from his place next to Shan.

“Surebleak’s at the back end of nowhere—and it’s cold,” Miri said, and then shook her head, with a half-grin. “Why’m I telling you that, Boss?”

“In fact, Surebleak is not so ill-placed as it first appears,” Pat Rin replied, earnestly. “Certainly, the presence of trade and an upgraded port would be more than enough to overcome any difficulty of location. As to the weather—” He moved his shoulders. “The portmaster has specs for climate satellites on file. It does not need to remain cold.”

There was a brief pause, then—

“He’s right,” Shan said. “There aren’t any major trade routes close, but there are three solid mid-level routes through that sector. If there was any reason for ships to stop at Surebleak—”

“They would stop,” Val Con concluded. He glanced aside. “Cha’trez?”

She sighed. “Well, it’ll give us a base. Hafta buy up a buncha real estate and do some heavy renovating . . .”

“There is land beyond the city, which is only lightly lived in,” Pat Rin said, looking at Val Con. “We might be situated as we have been here, near enough to port and city, with easy access at need.”

“And thus be invested in keeping the Port Road open.” Val Con grinned. “Well-played, cousin.”

“If we liquidate all holdings,” the dea’Gauss said abruptly, “over a period of one hundred forty-two days, we may be able to prevent the Exchange from collapse, assuming we get and give value.” She looked up.

“Unless your lordship wishes to incept a market collapse?”

“It is not necessary. We prefer to sell at fair value, however.”

“Certainly,” she said. “We have a list of off-world investors who have previously expressed interest in various acquisitions.” She paused, touched a key.

“The accounts currently held at the Bank of Solcintra must be moved. Shall I query the Bank of Terra?”

“Why not transfer everything equally among our existing accounts,” Shan suggested, “and sort that out once we’re settled? I have a feeling that the Council of Clans may find themselves able to overlook Korval investments in Liad, after a suitable period of uncertainty.”

“That’s a point,” said Miri. “Can’t really do banking on Surebleak.” She looked at Pat Rin. “Unless you fixed that, too?”

“Not yet,” he said, and she shook her head.

“The dies, your lordship?”

Val Con frowned. “How much longer on the current term?”

“Less than a Standard.”

“If we close the treasury, that
will
crash the market,” Miri protested.

“Yet the dies are ours,” Val Con said. “How if we—”

Across the room, the door opened, admitting Nelirikk.

“Captain, the elder scout is returned.”

“That was quick,” Miri commented. “Let him in, Beautiful. We need all the heads we can get.”

“Captain.” He stepped aside and Daav strolled in, pausing half-a-dozen steps inside the room to bow casually to the delm’s honor.

“Good afternoon, Father,” Val Con said mildly. “I confess that we had not looked for you so soon.”

“I rather expected that you hadn’t,” Daav retorted. “However, the Clutch Elders have the ability to act rapidly, when they see the need—much like Clutch ships. Of which more anon. I hear on the port that we are unemployed, outlawed, and homeless, all in one canny throw.”

“Indeed we are. The Council chose to see us as a danger to Liad.”

“All hail the Council, wise at last,” Daav murmured, and tipped his head. “Is that Pat Rin? I’m delighted to see you, child.”

“Uncle Daav . . .” his voice failed him and he inclined his head, taking a hard breath. “I am all joy to see you.”

“So what did the Elders say?” Miri asked. “No dice?”

“Entirely the opposite,” Daav said, favoring her with one of his edged smiles. “They are eager to assist us in any way they can—and have detached one of their larger vessels for Korval’s use. It is understood that this use will include transporting the Tree, but no limit of service was set.”

“A ship large enough to move Jelaza Kazone?” Pat Rin asked.

“Oh, easily. In fact, if you would care to step outside, you may see for yourself.”

***

IT RODE ON THE HORIZON
like a moon, glass smooth and subtly glowing.

Miri took a hard breath against the sudden tightness in her chest and slid her hand into Val Con’s. He squeezed her fingers gently, his attention focused on the moon-ship.

“Volume?” he murmured.

“Sufficient to contain those portions of Solcintra City still standing,” Daav replied. “Or the Tree, and most of the valley.”

Behind them, Shan sighed. “Brother, we have our transportation problems solved. But is Surebleak ready for that?”

“All the more reason to set down in the country,” Pat Rin said unsteadily.

“Edger professes himself ready to commence immediately,” Daav continued. “He is accompanied by several of his kin. If the delm wishes to remove all that is ours . . .”

“Yes,” Miri and Val Con said—and abruptly laughed.

“Yes!” Miri said again.

DAY 201
Standard Year 1393
Solcintra Liad

“TOMORROW IS THE DAY,”
Edger boomed, one three fingered hand splayed flat against the trunk of the Tree. “The ship of the Elders shall descend with sample bay open and the lift active; it will be but a matter of a few hundred moments to adjust for Jelaza Kazone’s necessity. We have spoken somewhat—the elder tree and I—and the vessel is ready to respectfully receive all into its interior.”

Edger paused a short pause, thinking or watching or perhaps merely staring into the distance for some Clutch-required moment—and then continued in apparent haste.

“We have the coordinates for the new nesting place. There is no need for apprehension as Aelli has done the calculations. My brothers and I have consulted together, the boss kinsman of my brother and my sister has returned to put all into readiness. Thus, the work goes forth; art incarnate. Ephemeral and multi-stranded, it wends through time, space, and song, altering the very fabric of the universe. As I see, each day brings a new thread.”

Miri stirred and squeezed Val Con’s fingers. “Altering the fabric of the universe?” she whispered.

“Hyperbole,” Val Con whispered back.

“Right.”

There was a sound, somewhere beneath Edger’s oration. Miri looked over her shoulder, and then turned—Val Con with her—staring at the apparition walking, none-too-steady, across the grass toward them, wary eyes on Edger.

She wasn’t much more than a kid: undergrown, sharp-faced, and pale; her hair an uncertain sort of yellow, unruly rather than curly; dark eyes smudged by lack of sleep.

She stopped a couple paces away and bowed—out of mode and out of time, but, hell, the kid was dead on her feet. Her jacket told the story of how she’d gotten passed by security: Jump pilot.

“It is necessary that I speak to the delm of Korval, on business of the clan,” she said, and her High Liaden was even worse than her bow.

Miri nodded—and blinked, feeling a rush of recognition from Val Con.

“
Another
one?” she complained, looking up at him.

“Shall you like odds?” he answered, and then nodded easily at the kid.

“You are addressing the delm of Korval,” he said in Terran. “May we know your name?”

The kid frowned, equal parts irritation, exhaustion, and relief at not having to do the rest of conversation in Liaden.

“Theo Waitley,” she said.

Apparently realizing that the name alone was a little scant, she added, “I’m here because my father’s missing and he told me—he
always
told me to go the delm of Korval, if ever there was really bad trouble.”

She paused, running one hand through her thoroughly draggled hair.

“My father’s name is Jen Sar Kiladi. He teaches—”

“He teaches cultural genetics,” Val Con interrupted, gently.

“Right. I mean, you might not think it was a big problem, if your father wasn’t where you left him—”

“No, acquit me—I would think it a very large problem, indeed.”

Theo might not have heard him; she swept on, caught up in the tide of her explanation. “But, he’s never done anything like this before—just up and left, in the middle of the term and—” Her mouth tightened.

“I got trouble,” she finished, “and since I can’t find him . . . .”

“Well,” Val Con murmured, eyes pointed over Theo’s head.

Miri looked where he was looking, saw the tall shadow moving toward them from the house, and sighed.

“Theo,” Val Con said; “please look behind you.”

She blinked at him, then did what she was told.

“Father!” she shouted and leapt forward, slamming Daav into a full body hug.

“Father, where the
hell
have you been?”

Daav tousled the Jump pilot’s hair, looking suddenly old.

“I have been busy, child,” he said, returning the hug. “Very busy.”

He paused, and shook his head, Terran-style.

“I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you, Theo. And sorry, as well.”

“Sorry!” she looked startled—and afraid.

“Gently, child,” Daav said, touching her cheek. “Sorry, because you would not be here if there wasn’t really bad trouble.”

She nodded. “It’s kind of complicated,” she started . . .

AUTHORS’ AFTERWORD

We Remember Uncle Harry

or

The Return of the Afterword That Ate Unity

You really need to know
about Uncle Harry. The Liaden Universe® is his fault, you know.

You see, long ago and far away, when we first started to learn about the trials of Clan Korval, the words, “The man who was not Terrence O’Grady had come quietly,” appeared—almost without warning—on an otherwise clean sheet of paper sitting in the carriage of a well-used, but dignified, typewriter named Uncle Harry.

Uncle Harry barely managed to get us through that first adventure—belching, smoking and shuddering, he finally burst into flames as Sharon was typing the last page of the final draft of
Agent of Change
—but the course of our lives was by then inextricably entwined with the history and people of Clan Korval. The more we wrote of them, the more they revealed to us, and the more they revealed the more we needed to know. Oddly, the same thing—the needing to know more—happened to some readers, and then more readers, and now we’re here, all of us together in one swell swoop, at the end pages of
I Dare
, a book we’ve been planning on writing for more than a dozen years.

Along the way we had some delays and some joys and some fun —and more recently a lot of fun as we’ve gotten to travel and meet some few of the readers who’ve made each additional book possible. We’ve also gone through several typewriters and numerous computer systems and printers (ah—remember that Star nine pin dot matrix printer that worked so hard and so long that we gave it to a school after it printed out—in 24 hours or so, mostly non-stop, the final version of
Carpe Diem
?), and with each new computer or printer we’d ask (one of us to another, without fail), “Do you remember when we brought Uncle Harry home?”

The funny thing is that so many things have changed since Uncle Harry flamed his way through that last page—like the state we live in, our publisher, our cats—that we’re sometimes amazed that we’ve gotten to this point, the point where we can say “OK, Korval’s set for the moment, now all we have to do is catch up on those details . . .”

What we’ve learned, seven books and more than a dozen years down the road, is that Uncle Harry’s legacy is lasting. We keep finding new stories in the Liaden Universe®, new heroics, new details, and new characters who come out of the virtual woodwork with a sudden, “Hey, you. You there at the keyboard! I have something to say! Hop to it!”

Uncle Harry, by the way, was heavy. Carrying him upstairs the day we brought him home from the used typewriter pound he’d fallen into after his daring escape from an insurance company office was no easy thing. He went thunk! very much, thank you! when he was put down and when he was turned on the table he sat on vibrated and so then did the floor of the front bedroom we’d converted into an office, and so then did the ceiling of the kitchen below vibrate, and so then did our neighbors assume we had one of those vibrating recliners they were selling on TV that year . . .

The neighbors put up with our recliner-Uncle-Harry-typer and our late night kitchen world-building conclaves and all those other things that make people look at us and say—”Oh, them? They’re—
writers
. . .”

And while the neighbors were likely relieved when we carried Uncle Harry off to the shop, where the repair guy reverently removed the scorched cover, shook his head sadly and murmured, “I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do. We can’t even use it for parts . . .” we still remember Uncle Harry, fondly.