Korval's Game (70 page)

“Now is the hour,” Pat Rin said. “Mr. McFarland, the door, of your goodness.” He moved a hand as he spoke, alerting Jonni to the door’s opening, and they exited the house a veritable army: Cheever, then Pat Rin, the boy at his side, and Natesa, silent and graceful, walking slightly to the rear and the right.

He heard the pellet sing by his ear and Natesa’s shouted “
Down
” in the same instant, and dropped to the street, gun to hand, a target in his eye.

It was target practice then—heavy game, and when the targets stopped showing, he blinked, disoriented, and with a high buzzing in his ears.

“Stay down,” Natesa hissed, from somewhere behind him. “Do not move. We are awaiting Mr. McFarland’s sign.”

It was the word “sign” that jerked him back to the reality of the street, where he lay in the half-frozen mud, staring at the dead man crumpled at the base of the wall opposite, his blood shockingly bright on the dingy walk.

“Where . . .” he began, but Natesa’s voice came again, louder this time.

“We have the sign. I will stand first. Count slowly to twelve. If I have drawn no fire, stand, but hold your weapon ready.”

He sensed her movement and counted to twelve, slowly. Silence reposed upon the street. Pat Rin rose, gun held ready.

Across the street, a door somewhat down from the dead man opened, and a woman peered out, then hastily withdrew, the door slamming into place.

More action across the way. Cheever McFarland slipped out of an alley that should have been too thin for him, and waved.

“All clear,” he shouted and strode toward their position.

Released, Pat Rin spun, looking first at the ground near at hand, but there was nothing there, save the mud.

“Master?”

“The child,” he said, remembering the pellet whine and Natesa shouting—and of course Jonni could not have heard either. Though, surely, seeing all of his house going to the ground, he would—

“The child,” he said again, to Natesa’s black, black eyes. “
Where is the child
?”

Her gaze shifted over his shoulder. He turned and saw the ragged huddle of cloth, not so very far away, really.

“Gods.”

He knelt next to the still, small body; and turned the boy in his arms. No breath, no heartbeat, no wide, glad smile.
Gods, gods . . . no.

“Master?”

“Who did this?” The High Tongue felt like ice in his mouth.

“Master, Mr. McFarland has found Jim Snyder among the fallen,” she answered softly. “He believes the others come from Boss Deacon’s turf.”

Pat Rin knelt, holding the dead child in his arms, and if he wept now before his oathsworn, he was lost to shame; lost to all but a vast and frightening coldness.

This ends, and ends now. No more of mine will be shot down in the streets.

He raised his face to Natesa, and saw her eyes widen.

“Fetch Audrey,” he said. He heard his voice shake—and did not care. “I will know the name of my enemy. They will answer me. Fully.”

***

NATESA HESITATED
at the entrance
to the garden, an unaccustomed shyness rooting her feet to the top stair. Mid-way across the roof, she saw him, silhouetted against the starry glow of Surebleak’s nighttime sky; seated on the edge of a shrouded garden patch, shoulders bowed, the cat crouched at his side. Neither seemed to note the wind, intermittent from planetary north, which added to the evening’s chill.

The child’s death—she recalled the face he had shown her then, mud-streaked and slick with tears, icy with a purpose that surpassed mere revenge by an order of magnitude, and shivered with something more than the cold.

“Inas, why are you come?” His voice was soft and mannerly. He did not turn his head. And who knew what the invocation of her personal name might mean?

Natesa gathered her courage, lifted her feet and entered the garden.

“It is cold,” she said, matching his tone. “I have come to bring you a blanket.”

“Ah.”

Gently, she moved among the shadows of the dormant beds, and came to stand before him, the blanket draped over one arm.

He looked up at her, his face a golden mask in the starshine.

“Thank you,” he said, but made no move to take the blanket from her. Beside him, the cat straightened from its crouch and settled into a sit, fuzzy tail wrapped neatly ’round its toes.

Natesa sighed lightly. “Ms. Audrey bade me say that her house is open to you.”

The golden mask displayed no emotion. “I am grateful to Ms. Audrey, but I do not seek distraction.”

The wind gusted, bitter enough to dismay her, though she had taken care to don a jacket. This close, she could see that he was shivering, though she doubted he knew that himself.

“Pat Rin.” Surely, she might dare his name, when he had established the mode himself? “Pat Rin, you are cold. The night is not temperate. At least the blanket, if I cannot persuade you to go inside.” She bit her lip. “You serve no one, if you sicken.”

“Very true,” he said politely, yet still he made no move to take the blanket.

Wondering at her own temerity, she stepped forward and draped it around his shoulders. The cat Silk, sitting tall at his side, blinked golden eyes in approval.

Something moved in his face. Indeed, he sighed, and lifted a hand on which Korval’s Ring glittered, to touch the fabric of the blanket and pull it more snugly about him.

“Thank you,” he said again, and it seemed to her that there was more than mere ritual in the phrase. “I am grateful for your care.”

“You are welcome.” She hesitated, unsure of what now she should offer, reluctant to leave him here, alone, but for his cat and his dead, inside the freezing night.

“You will wish to know,” he said surprisingly, “that I have decided to take up the roles you doubt may be acted by a single individual.”

She frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

“I will unite the territories,” he said, sounding altogether sane. “We shall have laws and contracts. We shall have free and easy travel between streets, even to the spaceport itself. We shall rejoin the Health Net. There will be schools, libraries and clinics. Children and adults will take advantage of these benefits without fear for their lives. I will accomplish this thing.”

“Pat Rin . . .”

“We will begin by annexing Boss Deacon’s territory.”

Natesa shook her head, torn between impatience and pity. “Pat Rin, Boss Deacon is well-protected. More, his territory lies in the opposite direction of our goals.”

“You have not attended,” he chided her gently. “I will unite the territories. Thus, we will take first he who has dared to deal death to one of mine. It shall serve as a lesson, and bring us to the attention of those others with whom we will need to treat.”

“And, having done so,” she said with asperity, “you will receive even more assassins into your presence, until one of them succeeds.”

“Inas, we can prevail—not without blood, no. And perhaps we shall entertain more assassins before we win through. But it can be done. I see it. I know how to proceed.”

Pity overruled impatience. His mind had broken beneath the burden of his griefs. Had she been other than a Sector Judge, she might well have cast herself to her knees and sent up a wail to the heedless gods, which was how one grieved for the dead and the demented on the distant, unlamented world of her birth.

Instead, she extended a hand and touched his shoulder, lightly, companionably.

“It is good that you have a plan. Mr. McFarland is below stairs. Let us go to him and discuss procedures over tea and cheese.”

She had not expected to so easily persuade him, but he rose at her word, slipping the blanket from his shoulders and folding it neatly over his arm.

“Let us do that,” he said, still in that soft, oh-so-sane voice. “Silk—we descend.” He inclined his head, courtesy itself. “Inas, after you.”

DAY 50
Standard Year 1393
Lytaxin
Erob’s Clanhouse and Gardens

DESPITE HIS LACK
of haste, Shan reached the proper suite rather sooner than he would have liked, and, stifling a sigh, put his palm against the plate.

A chime sounded, faint on the far side of the door. The last note had not quite faded from the ear when the door whipped open, revealing a Liaden woman of exceptional beauty, golden hair sweeping her stiff shoulders, violet eyes wide in a face so rigidly calm it seemed a sculpture, audaciously formed from pure, pale gold, rather than living flesh. Shan’s ravaged Healer senses perceived the expected anger, twined with equal parts terror and relief—a volatile combination which did not bode well for calm discourse between siblings.

Well, nothing for it but to begin, he thought, and swept an elder brother’s affectionate bow.

“Good evening, sister,” he said, choosing the Low Tongue, which was Nova’s preferred language, rather than Terran, which was his. “How delightful to find you here! I trust you had a pleasant journey?”

Nova’s mouth tightened. “A pleasant journey,” she repeated, so flatly as to be entirely modeless. She took a breath and stepped back, moving her hand in the gesture of welcome. “Pray enter, brother.”

Perforce, he entered and wandered down the room to the wine table. He picked up a glass and poured a portion of Erob’s agreeable, everyday red into it, which really was too bad of him. The Code dictated that he wait until he was offered refreshment, but, then, the Code also taught that informality among kin was acceptable. In any case, it offered Nova opportunity to be irritated in a minor chord, and perhaps would leach off a measure of that explosive mix of emotion.

“Wine, sister?” he inquired over his shoulder. “Erob’s red is quite passable. The canary is a touch sweet and I found the jade musty the other day—though perhaps that was merely a bad bottle.”

“The red, of your kindness,” Nova said, calmly, beside him. Shan sighed inwardly. Well, he had survived the full lash of Nova’s temper more times than he could count; he could doubtless survive it now. He poured a second glass of red, and handed it to his sister, who inclined her head and took one small sip.

Shan sipped his wine and counted, slowly, toward twelve.

He had reached
nine
when Nova abruptly put her glass on the table, and brought her eyes up to meet his.

“I had occasion to trade news with Priscilla Mendoza just recently,” she said, conversationally. “She tells me that our brother and Miri Robertson rejoice in a true lifemating.”

“Oh, it’s a wizard’s match, plain enough,” Shan said with false good cheer. “I can see the linkage clearly—any Healer may, who cares to risk having their Sight dazzled for hours.”

“I see.” She paused, tension screaming in every line of her. Still, her voice was calm and even when she spoke again.

“Priscilla now calls herself captain of
Dutiful Passage
and allows me to know that she is come into yos’Galan as a thodelm’s lifemate.”

Shan grinned. “Never have I held Priscilla’s courage in higher esteem!”

Nova sighed. “Another true lifemating, brother? One would . . . dislike to believe that you set aside your first speaker’s word from mere willfulness.”

“
Mere
willfulness?” He raised his eyebrows. “Are we or are we not of Korval? We are never
merely
willful. Surely your study of the Diaries has revealed that to you!”

“Shan.”

He sighed and rubbed the tip of his nose. “I cannot judge. The only measures I have are what I see between Val Con and Miri—and what I saw between our parents. I—we—are something—other. Though what manner of other, I am at a loss to know.” Another sigh, sharper. “I need to see Priscilla.” And that, he thought, was a piece of understatement worthy of Val Con himself.

“She expressed a similar need.” Nova picked up her glass and drank off some wine as if it were a not-very-tasty tonic. “So, I find both of my brothers lifemated with recourse to neither Code nor first speaker. We will inaugurate a vogue, and bring runaway matings into fashion.”

She finished the wine in a snap and put the glass back on the table.

“Priscilla’s other news concerned Val Con’s health,” she said, calm, so calm, while the flames of her dismay and fury suddenly leaped, fair scorching him. “I am to know that he is desperately wounded, barely escaping his death, and that he may arise from the catastrophe unit unable to fly.”

Oh
, Shan thought.
Oh, damn
.

“The med techs have,” he said carefully, “expressed differing opinions. Some believe that Val Con will at first be all but entirely disabled, but that he will, over time, improve, even learning to walk again. That is the extreme view.” He paused.

Nova’s face had paled considerably, but she waved at him to continue.

“The less extreme view is that Val Con will emerge able in almost every way, except in his possession of the reaction times necessary to a master pilot, much less a scout pilot. These also believe that his health will remain fragile for some years, if not for the remainder of his life.”

Nova was now pale to the lips, but she watched his face unwaveringly, and for a second time waved at him to go on.

“The most optimistic,” he said, neglecting to add that this group was comprised entirely of himself, two Clutch turtles, now soundly asleep in Erob’s atrium, and Miri Robertson Tiazan. “The most optimistic believe that our brother will awaken to himself complete and unimpaired.”

Nova blinked.

“How can opinions diverge by so much?” she demanded. “The first and the second are consistent in affect, merely different in degree. But—that he awaken completely healed? How—”

Shan sipped his wine, deliberately buying time. Nova was going to like the risk they had taken with Val Con’s life even less than the med techs had. And yet, to deny her hope, when he felt her terror for Val Con almost as his own . . .

“You must understand that there are . . . variables,” he said slowly. “Did Priscilla tell you anything of the nature of Val Con’s injuries?”

Nova blinked. “She had said he was grievously wounded. I had assumed—piloting injuries . . .”

“There were some of those,” Shan allowed. “Acceleration injuries, broken bones gotten by bouncing around in a cockpit built for someone twice his size—in every direction . . .” He sighed and rubbed his forehead; a headache was building, blast it. “You understand, there were no ships, so it fell to Val Con and myself and—another pilot—to take them from the Yxtrang. In the process of acquiring his ship, Val Con was nicked by an Yxtrang pellet carrying a load of nerve poison. A full hit would have killed him more-or-less instantly, as I understand it. The effects of the smaller dose over a longer time are . . . not well documented. Additionally, there are . . . . variant methodologies . . .” He eyed her, wondering if she was swaying or if his vision was wavering. “Sister?”