Scout's Progress (21 page)

"
Twenty
cantra?" Ran Eld treated the red-haired man to his coldest stare. "You are mistaken. The amount owed is four."

"Four cantra were originally lent," San bel'Fasin agreed urbanely. "At interest of twenty percent per twelve-day, plus penalties."

"Penalties? What penalties?"

"One hundred percent rolled over at the conclusion of each twelve-day unpaid," bel'Fasin said promptly, and met Ran Eld's glare with a glance so deathly chill the nadelm shivered. "Your Lordship signed a paper."

So he had, and Aelliana's quarter-share had been destined to retire this particular debt of honor. But what must occur, Ran Eld thought furiously, except the Delm's Own Word had forced him to hand the sum to
Aelliana
and no way to lose another four cantra from the House's meager funds. . .

"When might it be convenient for me to call upon your delm?" bel'Fasin asked courteously.

Ran Eld set aside his glass, of a sudden sick of wine.
Twenty cantra, gods . . . 

"There is no reason for you to call upon Mizel, friend bel'Fasin."

"Alas, Your Lordship, there is every reason. Unless. . ."

Ran Eld looked up, hope a painful crush of heart and lungs.

"Unless?"

"Perhaps Your Lordship would be willing to represent another case to your honored delm?"

"What case?"

bel'Fasin smiled and sipped his wine. Ran Eld grit his teeth and let the moment stretch, though it was torture to his screaming nerves.

"Mizel owns a certain—leather manufactory, I believe?"

Sood'ae Leather Works was the most profitable of Mizel's three manufactories. Alas, it was also the eldest of the clan's holdings and certain updates were sorely needed.

Ran Eld inclined his head. "True."

"Ah. Then I wonder if you might not be able to—bring your delm to see the—benefit—of a partner in that business."

Sood'ae was freeheld, Ran Eld thought. The delm would never . . . He caught San bel'Fasin's cold eyes on him and took a deep breath.

Twenty cantra, at twenty percent and one hundred percent penalty every . . . 

"I shall speak to Mizel," Ran Eld told the red-haired man with formal coolness. He picked up his glass and threw the rest of his wine down his throat.

THEY WERE IN MID-PORT, between Virtual Arcade and the zoological museum. It was mid-evening and the byways were crowded with jostling strangers—Liadens, mostly, but with a mixing of Terrans, tall and loud in their clusters of comrades. Aelliana and Daav were holding hands, that they should not lose each other in the press.

The problem set her up-space had, indeed, been rife with opportunity. Aelliana bested the problem, eventually, and earned not only her tutor's quiet praise, but a warm glow of pride in her own accomplishment. They were in mid-Port by way of celebration.

To Aelliana, whose knowledge of Solcintra Port encompassed the ferry station, the monorail and Mechanic Street to the door of Binjali's, mid-Port was an unrelieved marvel. She craned into shop windows, marveled at street-corner playlets, and stared at passersby, the jangle of a dozen languages like wine for her ears.

"Here." Daav tugged on her hand, charting a slantwise course from the edge of the walk inward, toward the shops lining the right. Perforce, Aelliana followed, trusting him to bring them to safe docking, then paused on the threshold of the shop he chose, her nose telling tales of exotic spices, hot bread and other delights.

"More food?" she cried, hauling back on his hand.

"Food!" His eyes sparkled like black diamonds, in-lit with delight. "You wrong me, pilot, and so I swear. As if I would guide you here for mere food!"

It was so easy to laugh. Laughing, she let him tug her inside, to stand beside him in a long line until it was at last their turn at the counter.

Daav saluted the grizzled counterman with a grin. "Pecha, of your goodness, old friend—and a pitcher of the house's best! This my comrade has never partaken of your specialty."

The counterman grinned and rang in the order, though Aelliana saw no coin change hands.

"Enjoy!" he recommended in badly-accented Liaden and waved a big hand, giving Aelliana a wink before he turned to the customer behind.

"He's—" Aelliana began, as Daav guided across the crowded floor to a table against the rear wall.

"Paol Goyemon," Daav said. He slid onto the bench seat at her right and gave her a lifted eyebrow. "You find him repulsive?"

"Not at all. I hadn't known Terrans held shop in Port."

"A cantra is a cantra, no matter who makes it—or pays it." He grinned. "A principle of economics that does much to sustain my faith in humankind."

She chuckled, then sobered, slanting a look into his face. "Is it burdensome, being—world-bound?"

Something flickered across his face, touched his eyes.

"It is," he said slowly, "somewhat of a burden. It is the training, you understand. In making us fit for the universe, we are made unfit for Liad." He smiled, wryly. "It does not help, of course, that the polite world labels Scouts odd and holds us in mingled trepidation and dismay. 'Scout's eyes' they say, as if it were something of magic, rather than merely learning to see what stands before one."

She frowned, groping after a certain thought. . ."There is Clonak, growing hair on his face—like a Terran. Liadens don't grow beards. Surely those who have never left Liad cannot be expected—"

"Liadens," Daav broke in, "live in danger of losing the game to complacency. They think themselves the ultimate in civilization and scorn what is not written in the Code. The Code is all very well, but courtesy to difference has not been named a virtue. If—" He caught himself on a half-laugh and raised his hand, gesturing apology.

"There, I promise not to rant."

Before she could assure him that he was not even approaching one of Ran Eld's lectures, let alone a rant, the pecha and pitcher arrived.

Pecha was flat round dough, spiced red sauce, vegetables, and cheese, baked until cheese and sauce bubbled, served on a hot stone. The dough was cut into six fat slices. One detached a slice from the circle of its fellows, balanced the treacherous wedge atop one's fingers—and ate.

Aelliana followed Daav's example, imperfectly at first, gaining confidence with each bite. The flavor was strong, spicy enough to raise tears—delicious. The wine—sweet, red, glacier-cold, with citrus smiles floating in it—cooled the mouth and sharpened the appetite.

"This is wonderful," Aelliana said, liberating her second slice. Daav smiled and raised his glass in silent salute.

Too quickly, it was done. They lingered over the wine, side by side and backs comfortably braced against the wall, watching the crowd of diners ebb and change.

"How did Clonak come to have a—
mustache
?" Aelliana wondered lazily.

"We all have our souvenirs." Daav's voice was equally lazy. He lifted a hand and touched his earring. "The tale of how Clonak came by his mustache is—alas!—not to be told for forty years, by order of the Scout Commander. What I can tell you is that he very badly wished to speak to someone who would not treat with a 'beardless boy,' as the phrase went. Clonak thus sought permission of his team-leader and then commended himself to the autodoc, rising much as you see him today." He paused, considering.

"Slightly more demented," he said at last, sipping his wine. "I do believe age has mellowed him."

"And yourself?" Aelliana wondered softly. Daav looked up, one brow askance.

"Ah, but I have always been precisely as demented as you see me today!"

She laughed and moved her head in the Terran negative he had taught her. "But I meant your earring," she said. "Surely that is a—a
souvenir
?"

"So it is." He touched it once again, smile going slightly askew.

"This certifies my place as a son in the tent of the Grandmother of the Tribe of Mun, whose name, we would say, is 'Rains-in-the-Desert,' though I rather think 'Rockflower' a closer fit." He paused for a sip of wine; reached 'round to finger his tail of hair.

"This signifies that I am unmarried."

Aelliana stirred, looking up into black eyes gone misty with remembering.

"And when you marry?" she asked, meaning it for lighthearted, though it sounded utterly serious to her own ears.

Daav smiled, wistfully, she thought. "A married hunter will wear his hair clipped close to his skull, of course. And he will have a second earring, that names his wife's tent. But until one has been chosen from among those who stand around the marriage fire and enters the tent of one's wife, the hair is worn thus."

"Marriage fire. . ." Aelliana sighed and sipped at the last of her wine. "Did you—But you said you were unmarried."

"Rockflower had determined I should stand around the fire at the next gathering of the tribes," he said, very softly. "My team came back for me before then."

She looked up into his face. "You're—sorry?" she asked, tentatively, because it did seem there was sorrow shadowing his bright eyes.

"Sorry?" He moved his shoulders. "I should have been a poor choice, for a woman of the Mun. Undergrown—and not—terribly—skilled with my spear. To choose such a one to provide for a new-made tent, where there likely would soon be children—" He shook his head, Terran-wise, drank off his wine and turned a full grin upon her.

"But, who can say? I might have been chosen by a woman of an established tent, secure enough to please herself, and then I might have had a life of ease!"

His grin was infectious. Aelliana smiled back and thought she had never felt so happy.

"Shall we walk?" Daav asked, and Aelliana put her hand unhesitatingly into his and allowed him to lead her once more into the bustling, exhilarating, magical evening.

THE VIRTUAL ARCADE WAS full of bodies and light in motion, and sound that ranged from racket to roar.

Aelliana and Daav waded through the uproar, stopping here and again to watch the play at the games. Aelliana, Daav noted, seemed particularly interested in the more sophisticated games of chance, and as they went further into the Arcade, her tendency was to stop for longer intervals, lips moving silently, as if forming the boundaries of an equation.

Another might have felt pique at this apparent desertion. But Daav neither hurried nor chivied her, finding himself well-content with watching the changes in her eyes and face as this thought or that caught at her. He did keep a firm hold on her hand, for in her present tranced state he considered it possible that she might wander away and lose herself, and used his body to shield her from the worst of the crowd's jostlings.

So it was, traveling in this stop-and-go, eventual way, that they came to
Pilot to Prince.
Aelliana watched the computer replay a space battle of epic proportions from memory: Battle gave way to an emergency docking, which evaporated into a trading session, which segued into—

Daav smiled at the attention she gave the game. It was popular among the shuttle-toughs and Port-crawlers and usually, he thought, had lively play. This evening, it stood empty.

Not quite empty, he amended, as two figures stirred in the dimness of the back corner and walked toward them: A girl and a boy—halflings, no more—identically dressed in tight clothing a parody of genuine spaceleathers, faces hard, hungry—desperate.

Daav tightened his hold on Aelliana, meaning to draw her away, but before he could do so, the boy raised his hand and the girl called out:

"Game, gentles? Sed Ric and me will stand the fee, if you care to play for something more tangible than fun."

Aelliana frowned. "You mean play for money?" she demanded, with very real sternness. "That would be terribly foolish of you, ma'am."

The girl smiled humorlessly. "Ah, the challenge is too heady for the lady! Let us play three-way with your partner, then—he looks a man game for—

"Wait," said Aelliana, looking about her for the 12-sided die in a wheel that was the symbol of a sanctioned betting station. "This game doesn't pay off," she told the girl seriously. "You would be risking your funds against strangers. That hardly seems fair."

The boy—Sed Ric—laughed this time. "So what is fair, ma'am? We all risk our money with every purchase. We'll pay the game fee—dex a player at hazard—if you care to see what kind of pilot you might be."

Aelliana glanced at the replay in progress beyond the boy's shoulder: A holed ship careered about the screen until a barrage of rockets sent it slamming into a nearby asteroid.

"You will lose your money," she said flatly. The boy jerked a shoulder.

"Maybe so," the girl said. "
We're
not afraid to bet."

Aelliana hesitated, her hand tightening—indeed, Daav thought she would turn and walk off. . .

Her eyes wandered back to the screen, flicked to the posted game-regs.

"We can win," she murmured, perhaps to herself.

"Can we?" Daav asked, just as softly, and with one eye on the halflings. Tension whined off the pair of them; Daav's teeth ached with the intensity of their desperation.

They bore themselves as if they knew kin and clan—not ordinary Port rats. Though marred by fear, there was a certain smooth efficiency in their movements which spoke of potential pilots—
If they don't skid off the edge of mid-Port,
Daav amended silently,
and land themselves in a Low Port bordello.

"Daav?" Aelliana murmured. He glanced down into shadowed green eyes. "Tell me what is wrong," she whispered.

"Wrong. . ." He sent one more glance at the halflings: Hungry, afraid and too proud to ask aid. Too young to be here, hustling strangers for two dex the game . . . He sighed sharply and smiled into Aelliana's eyes.

"I think we should play," he said softly, "since these young gentles ask so nicely."

She hesitated, her eyes scanning his. He saw the decision cross her face, then she turned away, fingers dipping into a pocket. Two coins flashed toward two halflings.

"Done," she said with professorial sternness. "We shall take the merchanter."

The start of joy from their opponents was regrettably obvious.