Mouse and Dragon (46 page)

Of the time between his stopping on the bench and this moment, he had no memory . . . at all.

"Father," Val Con scolded, leaning forward, to tap the page. "Here.
The nighttime garden was full 
. . ."

Daav caught his breath.

"Your pardon, my son; I am . . . a little sleepy. So—" He focused on the page.

"The night-time garden was full with moonlight, and the brown cat had no lack of partners for her dance . . ."

It was not a perfect solving—far from it. And yet, they could not find a better, he and his brother and Mr. dea'Gauss between them.

True, it removed a source of danger from within the heart of the clan, and undertook a Balance in Aelliana's behalf that moved Mr. dea'Gauss to a murmured "Excellent . . ."

Unhappily, it separated Daav yos'Phelium from every source of comfort and rare joy left in his life. That Daav yos'Phelium was sliding daily into a benevolent madness was something he did not choose to mention. There had been two more episodes of waking into a situation he did not recall; and the instances of hearing her voice were, he was certain, increasing. Sometimes, in the drifting grey mists between sleeping and wakefulness, he would feel her lying beside him, her head on his shoulder comfortably. He would scarcely breathe, striving to draw out the moment, which always ended too soon.

"Timing will be everything, Mr. dea'Gauss," he had said at their last meeting, where Er Thom and Daav signed the papers that made Er Thom
Korval-pernard'i
—holding the Ring and the Clan in trust for Val Con.

"I understand, your lordship. It shall be done appropriately."

"Of course it will, sir. You have never failed us."

Mr. dea'Gauss had inclined his head, and said nothing.

The last meeting had also established that Kareen had been offered the Ring in trust, and had refused it. The Ring should pass entirely,
she
argued; since there was an adult in the Line Direct to take it up.

There was, of course, precedent for this claim, Kareen being expert in such close readings of the Code.

It was all done now, though, and at last, saving one more thing.

Val Con held his hand tightly as they walked down Jelaza Kazone's public hall to the Delm's Hall.

The lights came up as they crossed the threshold, each portrait illuminated individually.

He and Val Con walked slowly, down the long line of Korval's delms. Most frames were inhabited by one face, often stern, rarely by two.

Like the one at the very end.

Daav yos'Phelium and Aelliana Caylon, the Eighty-Fifth Delm of Korval
, the inscription ran, and there they were—a good likeness, as the phrase went. He, piratical and sardonic; she, open-faced and intelligent. They were holding hands, Korval's Ring and the Jump pilot's cluster side by side.

Val Con sniffled, and Daav dropped to one knee beside him.

"I miss her," the boy said.

"I miss her, too," he answered—and caught the child close as Val Con threw himself 'round his neck.

"And I'll miss you. Father—don't go!"

"I must, child. I endanger all if I stay."

"But if you go, the clan can't protect you!" Val Con cried, which was closely reasoned, for one so young.

"Sometimes, it is the clan that requires protection," Daav said slowly. He closed his eyes, holding his son tight. "The clan is people,
denubia
; never forget that. We can only protect each other. Sometimes, in order to protect those others who are the clan, a person must do something that is very hard. The clan asks much because it gives much."

His mother had used to say that. He had often been of the opinion that the clan took more than it gave—and yet . . . 

"When will you come back?" Val Con demanded.

Gods.

"When I can," he said carefully. "It may not be for a very long time. You'll have Shan and Nova and Uncle Er Thom and Aunt Anne, and so very much to learn. There will hardly be any time to miss me."

Val Con sniffled again, clearly indicating an opposing view.

Daav picked him up.

"Look again," he urged.

"All right," Val Con said after a few moments.

"Good. Now, come with me, of your kindness, Val Con-son. We must make an entry into the Delm's Diaries."

To be outside of the clan is to be dead to the clan.
—
Excerpted from the
Liaden Code of Proper Conduct
 

Daav yos'Phelium, once-delm of Korval, was dead—a matter of an error in the unrevised edition of the ven'Tura Tables, which, once embraced, had sent his ship tumbling into a sun.

Jen Sar Kiladi heard the news, but really, it was of but passing interest. More pressing was the need to find a position for himself—and that right quickly.

He had written letters, to colleagues, to former students, to rivals, begging their condescension and pointing them to his applications. He had fortunately gained a place for the coming term as an Expert Lecturer on Cultural Genetics at Searston University, thanks to the very kind office of a former student, now an influential alumnus.

He was bound there now, and how fortunate that he had indulged his whim, back when he was a graduate student and had time for such things as whims! A first class pilot's license was a useful tool, and if the good ship
L'il Orbit
was not as posh as some, it was everything that a research scholar who had lately taken the decision to bring his insights to the classroom could need—or afford.

He finished his last packet and queued it to send. He had one more to compile, then he could quit the wayroom and return to
L'il Orbit
. Time had gotten a bit tighter than he had wished and he was going to have to fly hard in order to reach his Expert Seminar by the date and time stated in his contract.

Kiladi reached to the keyboard, his fingers fumbling enough so that he botched his command. He sighed. He was very tired, but he dared not make use of the thin bunk provided. There was . . . only . . . this one . . . more . . . 

He couldn't have been . . . absent long—the screen was still live when he blinked into consciousness once more.

Relief that he hadn't lost his search was quickly replaced in quick succession by puzzlement and joy.

A string of dense math filled the screen, both familiar and all but incomprehensible.

"Aelliana?" He scarcely knew he spoke, his heart was beating so that he thought a rib might break. "Aelliana, is it really you?"

You are not,
her voice said so strongly that it echoed inside his head,
going mad, and I wish you will listen to me.
We are lifemates, and I will never leave you, Daav. I swore it.

"So you did."

He looked again at the screen. Almost, he could understand the premise, but the argument, while elegant, left him baffled. Clearly, it would require study—and if he were able to produce this sort of work while he was unconscious, then madness was the least of his troubles.

It is not a perfect bonding, I think
, she said.
At first—
van'chela
, it must have seemed to you that I had truly gone. Everything was so strange, and you were so ill . . . When I learned how to make my voice heard . . . 

"I denied you," he whispered. "Aelliana, how has this—the Tree."

It would seem so,
she said.
Daav?

"Yes?"

You must sleep before you fly,
van'chela
. Please.

Kiladi, he would risk, but—Aelliana? Not a second time.

"I will," he murmured. "I promise."

Chancellor's Welcome Reception for the Gallowglass Chair
Lenzen Ballroom, Administration Tower Three
University of Delgado

This is more tedious than receiving the guests at your sister's Festival Eve ball
, the voice only he could hear commented.

It was fairly said, he allowed, bowing yet again, this time to a sandy-haired woman with trembling hands. As much as he might otherwise deplore her, even he acknowledged that his sister possessed impeccable taste.

The sleeves of the sandy haired woman's blue robe were innocent of braid, which marked her as junior faculty. Her name, which she offered in a trembling whisper, was "Irthyn Jonis, Comparative Mythology."

"Scholar Jonis," he murmured, and she smiled nervously, dipped her head and made an escape.

He straightened, one hand resting lightly on the head of his stick. A very good stick it was, black ironwood, collared in silver; the grip bound in leather, so that it would not easily escape inattentive fingers. Simple though it was, it signaled his status to others of the community, and was otherwise useful.

Do you think,
asked the voice inside his head,
that's everyone?

It might, he thought, glancing about him, very well be everyone. He hadn't counted, though he supposed someone might have. Dean Zorminsen was in deep conversation with First Director Verlin at some remove from the reviewing station where he and his auditor stood. Likewise, there were clumps of scholars all about, none seeming particularly interested in the new tenant of the prestigious—no, he was wrong.

Two junior scholars were coming toward him, arm in arm. Lovers, he thought, or at the least old and comfortable friends, one dark and rounded, the other angular, her hair a wispy, middling brown. They approached with firm steps, heads high, the dark-haired one allowing a pinch of cynicism to be seen, her friend openly curious.

Ah
, said the voice inside his head.

The dark-haired scholar slipped her arm free and stepped forward first, showing him the palms opened like a book, which was the style here.

"Ella ben Suzan," she said, in a fine, no-nonsense voice, "History of Education."

He bowed the bow between equals.

"Scholar ben Suzan," he murmured, committing name and face to memory.

She gave him a firm nod and stepped aside, tarrying a half-dozen steps out to await her friend.

"Kamele Waitley," said the friend, bringing pale hands together to form the open book. "History of Education."

Ella ben Suzan's voice had been fine, but to hear Kamele Waitley speak was to wish for her to speak again, perhaps to recite some poetry or—

"You are a singer, Scholar Waitley?" he asked.

Blue eyes widened, a flush stained her pale cheeks, and her shoulders stiffened beneath her robe. For an instant, he thought that he had overstepped the bounds of custom, but she recovered herself with a slight smile.

"I'm a member of a chorale," she acknowledged. "Recreational only, of course. My studies are my life's work."

"Certainly," he said carefully, "study illuminates the lives of all scholars. Yet there must be room for recreation as well, and joy in those things which are not study. I myself find a certain pleasure in . . . outdoor pursuits." The smile he offered was a mirror of her own.

"Outdoor?" She looked at him doubtfully. "Outside the Wall?"

He raised an eyebrow. "There is a whole planet outside the Wall," he murmured. "Surely you were aware?"

Blue eyes sparkled, though her demeanor remained grave. "I've heard it said," she replied. "But tell me—what manner of pleasure may be had outside of the Wall?"

"Why, all manner!" he declared, pleased with her. "Gardening, fishing, walking among the trees and growing things, watching the sun set, or the stars rise . . ."

"Watching the sun set?" Another doubtful look. "That seems a very . . . fleeting pleasure."

"I have heard it argued that the highest pleasures are ephemeral, and best enjoyed in retrospect," he said, the voice inside his head crying out,
Not so!
"Though there are those of us who disagree."

Kamele Waitley glanced to one side. Following her gaze, he saw that her friend had left them, moving away in the company of a tall, bluff scholar, the braid on his sleeve gleaming new, and felt a pang for her own loss of pleasure.

"Forgive me," he began, but she shook quick fingers at him—a meaningless gesture, though for a split second he thought . . . 

"I think we must have been the last faculty to introduce ourselves," she said seriously. "Would you like a glass of the Dean's sherry?"

As it happened, he had previously had a glass of the Dean's sherry and found it execrable, though he could hardly say so—and besides, Kamele Waitley was still talking.

"I'd like to learn more about the pleasures of watching the sun set, if you'd be kind enough to teach me."

It was, still, easier in the dark. In the dark, he could imagine that she was lying beside him, her voice a murmur accessible to the outer ears. Sometimes, in the dark, for whole minutes at a time, he could imagine her head on his shoulder, a silken leg thrown over his . . . 

"Aelliana," he said now, staring up into the darkness. "What are you planning?"

Planning,
van'chela
?

He snorted lightly. "No,
that
will not do, minx. Tell me—what necessity drives us to escort Scholar Waitley to a local sunset?"

She asked so nicely,
his dead lifemate said.
Besides, I like her. Don't you like her, Daav?

"She's well enough."

Oh, clench-fisted,
van'chela
!
she chided him.
How has the scholar offended you?

He sighed, and closed his eyes against the darkness.

"The scholar is blameless," he admitted, ashamed of his churlishness. "Indeed, I enjoyed our discussion, and would, I feel, enjoy another. She has a ready wit and seems not so bound by local culture as . . . others of my colleagues."

"In fact," Aelliana murmured, "she might well be someone who could become a good friend."

"I did not," he said tiredly, "come here to make friends."

Indeed you did not. I only ask you to pity poor Professor Kiladi, separated from clan and kin, wholly unsupported in a strange and cloistered environment. A man in such circumstances might have need of a friend—or even two.

"Professor Kiladi is a fabrication, my lady . . ."