Liaden Universe [19] - Alliance of Equals - eARC (27 page)

“This link—will it keep the headache away?”

Father’s smile grew wider.

“I believe I am equal to that, yes. Have we an accord, then?”

“Yes!” she said, and raised her glass in a toast.

—•—

Shan was going to link with Padi, to shield her, and perhaps to ameliorate whatever happened if her talent came upon her during the tour on-world.

Alone in her office on the
Passage
, Priscilla closed her eyes. It was, perhaps, not the best choice of method, in terms of absolute safety. However, as she and Shan had agreed when they’d spoken, it was unquestionably the best choice in terms of reconciling Padi to her gift. If she learned immediately that she lost nothing, only gained something precious, that would be one hurdle cleared.

As to the danger—Shan was a very able Healer in his own right, and if there was need, Priscilla thought, it was very likely that Lute might step forward to assist. Knowing Shan’s opinions on Lute, she had not offered that as a possibility, but had merely lightly offered to link to him so that he wasn’t completely without backup. He’d accepted that, but wished to make the link to Padi firm first, which was only prudent. She would await his touch.

—•—

Linking with Padi had been more difficult than Shan had anticipated. Not that the child had resisted him, but that the damned and damnable
construct
of hers disrupted what ought to be a smooth flow of energies. It was no wonder at all that the child was hollow-eyed with weariness; the wonder was that she had managed to persevere, and to keep up so well.

At last, however, the thing had been done, and she’d gone off like a good child to bed, where she had fallen immediately into the deepest and most healing sleep he could conjure for her.

He stood by the window now, looking out over the distant, star-struck mountains, and methodically worked through several relaxation and strengthening exercises. It would be best to recruit himself before he extended a touch to Priscilla. She would be alarmed, if she perceived him overtired, and might well argue that the risk was greater than the gain.

With, he admitted to himself wryly, some justice on her side.

“That maiden is going to blossom into a Witch to fear,” a familiar—and not completely unwelcome—voice said, just behind his shoulder.

“One hopes that only those with cause will fear her,” he said, not turning his head.

Lute laughed.

“But it is always so with Witches, is it not? Who fears Moonhawk, save those who do evil?”

Shan snorted lightly.

“And who fears Lute?”

“Why no one fears Lute,” the other said gently. “Who fears a hedge magician? Or a man?”

“If it pleases you, I freely assert that you are disconcerting,” Shan said. “Even
extremely
disconcerting.”

“Thoughtful child; my heart is soothed. In that vein, I would offer advice.”

“Advice? Such as—remove to the ship immediately?”

“Oh, but you are not so craven! Nor is she. No, you have chosen this path—or it has chosen you—and it is, so far as I can see, as likely as any other leading from this place to the next. No, what I wish to say to you is—links can be broken, and hearts can be hid. Remember that, when it is time.”

“Certainly! All the situation required was a riddle to—”

Shan turned from the window—to the dim, empty room.

“Lute?”

There was no answer. Healer senses detected Vanner, in his room, reading peacefully; Padi, sound asleep in her bed—and no one else at all.

Shan sighed, somewhere between amusement and chagrin, closed his eyes, and reached for Priscilla.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Admiral Bunter

Research had already failed him. Nothing in his archives had given him the answer to his question. Tolly Jones, his mentor, on whose willingness to answer those questions left unanswered by research, he had come to depend upon—Tolly Jones refused to answer further, on the basis of this…
melant’i
.

No,
Admiral Bunter
corrected himself. That was an error. It was
sloppy thinking
.

Tolly Jones refused to answer further because, by employing the tool of
melant’i
to his current situation, he had arrived at the conclusion that he was a prisoner, no longer a mentor, and thus his necessities were constrained.

Admiral Bunter
had researched the necessities of prisoners.

They were varied, as he learned that prisons—and jailors—were also varied. It would appear, for instance, that Tolly Jones’ prison—himself,
Admiral Bunter
, a tidy, bright, and well-supplied freighter—was considerably more beneficent than many. Indeed, he had considered calling Tolly’s assertion of his
melant’i
into question, based on his conditions…and had decided that this would be petty, and also immaterial, as it would seem that the core requirement—confinement against one’s will—was met.

Research showed that, in addition to confinement, some prisoners were physically punished by their jailors. Sometimes, it appeared, such jailors wished to obtain information held by the prisoner; sometimes, they merely wished to be cruel and increase the prisoner’s distress, as a
just punishment
for transgressions.

Some prisoners were merely held, their jailors completely indifferent to any information that they might, or might not, possess. These were held in order to control the behavior, or to ensure the goodwill of a third party. On the surface, it would seem that such prisoners were fortunate, as the conditions of their use would shield them from physical harm. Research, however, would have it that involuntary confinement itself was sufficient to distress the larger percentage of humans, and uncertainty regarding their fate, or the continued goodwill of the third party was also a cruel punishment.

Still other prisoners were held, and punished, in order that they become malleable. These were then shaped into tools which the jailor might then use to influence or destroy third parties.

There had been much study given to prisoners, the psychology of imprisonment, and the scars borne by those who had been imprisoned.

The
Admiral
had come away from his research with, at least, a better understanding of the reasons why Tolly Jones was distressed to find himself a prisoner, and also the reasons why he refused to answer questions. It was an act of will, an act of rebellion—of strength—for a prisoner to refuse to answer his jailor’s questions. Prisoners found their situations oppressive; acts of rebellious will were necessary, lest they sicken and die in their imprisonment.

Having learned more than he wished regarding prisoners,
Admiral Bunter
had turned to his own role.

Jailor.

If the role of prisoner was demoralizing and oppressive, the role of jailor was…horrifying.

And it would seem that, while Tolly Jones remained a prisoner, the only way
Admiral Bunter
would be able to gain answers from him, was to in some way compel him.

He scanned the lists of methods jailors used in order to compel prisoners, and abruptly closed that line of research, deeply unsettled.

Ethics was pinging, frantically—stupid module, as if he didn’t know at the core level…as if he would…as if he
could
…

And, yet, he required answers. He could learn much from research, but he—he
needed
a teacher, a mentor to assist him in comprehending the gestalt. Perhaps there was something—some method which was…
less
intrusive than…

Protocol came on line, cold. He could see the regulations fluttering. Worse, he could see the black edges of Command Orders among them.

“Research!” he said hastily. Command Orders. Protocol could archive him; it had that power, if there was a breach. If Protocol found that he had become…unstable.

“There has been no breach,” he said now. “I am sane, and not in need of termination. I was merely performing needed research.”

“Research into the destruction of a human being in your care?”

“Yes. I have logs. Please review them.”

Protocol accessed the files he marked out: the record of his most recent talk with Tolly Jones; his own research log; his last session with Mentor Inki Yo, in which she had explained to him what sort of human Tolly Jones was, and what the law demanded.

The fluttering continued, palely. Command Orders had been put aside, at least. The
Admiral
knew relief.

The fluttering ceased altogether, replaced by the amber of a caution warning.

“This is not an acceptable protocol for dealing with humans in your care. You may protect yourself if you are threatened, but you may not inflict harm.”

“I must have answers,”
Admiral Bunter
protested.

“Find another way,” Protocol replied coldly—and retired.

—•—

“Customs,” the message came across the ship band. “We release cameras and inspect.”

“Witless waste o’time, if you ask me,” muttered Kik Strehlir, who was sitting first. Second Mate Lonan Davis, who was sitting second, touched the comm switch.

“
Dutiful Passage
acknowledges,” he told the cutter, and, to first board, “Logging and transmitting to Captain.”

“Another waste o’time, and energy,” the good pilot muttered.

“Orders,” said Lonan, who was not the most loquacious of the pilots aboard, despite his New Dublin heritage, and his kinship with the
Passage
’s master trader.

“Orders is right,” Kik said, with a tired smile. “If it wasn’t for orders, what would we do with ourselves, eh?”

“We can’t all be bards and poets,” Lonan agreed. “Best, then, to do as we’re told.”

Kik laughed, and they subsided into mutual silence, tending their boards and watching the screens.

—•—

She and Father sorted through the cards, keys, and invitations they had gathered at the reception during a working breakfast. Mr. Higgs, seeing how it was with them, had taken his plate, his cup, and his book across the room, and settled into one of the chairs by the big window.

“Do you wish yourself back in the merc, Vanner?” Father asked him, as he handed the card of a certain Master Josifet Zeldner to Padi for her consideration.

“No, sir,” Mr. Higgs said easily, turning his head to look at Father over the back of the chair. “I’m reading for pleasure and nobody’s shooting at me. I’m content.”

“Excellent. Do not, please, hesitate to speak up, if we should begin to be in any way unsatisfactory.”

“I’ll do that, sir,” Mr. Higgs said seriously. “Will you be wanting a car today?”

“A car?” Father turned to her, eyebrows up. “What do you think, Trader? Will we want a car today?”

Padi frowned down at the port map. Langlastport was constructed as a series of four interlocking squares, like tiles in a mosaic, each square representing a specialty, and designated by the name of a local flower. Thus: Calumbeen, Earish, Beesbrickle, and Fralst.

“What we have mapped thus far is within two adjacent squares. There is the light rail, but if timing becomes tight, we may wish a car.”

“Which may be no faster than the light rail,” Father murmured, bending over the map with her. “I see. Well! How if we fill in the rest of the day with locations in these two squares? For tomorrow, we will identify our most critical contacts in these two squares—” He touched the map with a light fingertip. “When those are established, we will fill in around, and so on, into the day after.”

“That would do well for all except this.” Padi held up the card he had just given her. “Master Zeldner is a vintner, and the address on the card is not only outside of any convenient squares, but outside of the port entire.”

She tapped the location on the map, halfway to the mountains framed in their suite’s big windows. “I believe Master Zeldner has a business location in the port. Certainly, she gave that impression. I shall make inquiries. But we have wandered from Vanner’s point! Will we want a car?”

“If we follow your scheme and choose our primary contacts by their proximity to each other, and filling the secondary contacts in around them, then my sense is that the light rail will be perfectly adequate for us.” She paused doubtfully. “Unless you anticipate parcels?”

“Parcels? There may be some, but they can easily be sent on. No need to be juggling parcels on the light rail. For that matter, there’s no need to advertise our previous contact to our present contact, though I caught the notion that gossip was high art on Langlastport.”

Padi smiled. “I caught the same notion. So—do we agree that we do not need a car?”

“Why, we do! Vanner”—he turned to address Mr. Higgs—“thank you for your thoughtfulness—and for your continued patient forbearance. Trader yos’Galan tells me that we will not need a car. We shall travel via the light rail.”

“Yes, sir,” Mr. Higgs answered. “The light rail system in-port is pretty reliable, according to the local folks. Out-port, it gets less reliable, real fast. So if you need to go out to the vine country, you’ll probably want that car.”

“The local folks? Did you ask practical questions of our guests, Vanner?”

“Tried to, sir.”

“How very forward-looking of you! It never occurred to me to ask questions about the light rail, or hiring cars—did it occur to you, Padi?”

Her ears warmed in sudden embarrassment. She
should
have made inquiries, knowing that they would be staying on port. But—

“No, sir. It didn’t occur to me at all. I was focused on welcoming our guests, and—and seeking trade opportunity.”

“As I was. We are a sad pair of impractical traders, I fear. Though we were clever enough to bring Vanner with us, so perhaps we aren’t entirely beyond the pale.”

“Perhaps not this time,” she said, matching his tone, “but one does not always rejoice in Mr. Higgs’ company.”

“That is distressing, but very true. We do not always have Vanner with us. Therefore, we must strive to do better for ourselves, and remember to check our research against local information. It’s a minor thing, I daresay, merely slipping in a question about how best one might arrive at the contact’s facility. Or a question regarding such a thing as the service most expectable of the light rail, which our research, of course, will have revealed to us. We are not local, we do not pretend to be local, and a certain ignorance from outworlders is often found charming. The local folk, as I’m sure Vanner will agree, are often very eager to assist a stranger.”

“They also might lie,” Padi pointed out, “or use our ignorance to…take an advantage, or even to entrap us.”

Father tipped his head.

“Wariness is…reasonable on a strange port,” he said slowly. “But overcaution can cripple. Now! What have we on the day? Four top-tier calls, including your textile merchant. Do you think we should add a fifth, or move onto the second-tier?”

Padi picked up a small set of cards, fanned them, and sorted quickly by address.

“We have three second-tier contacts within today’s two squares. There are no more high-tier cards in today’s squares. I propose we add the second-tiers, then make cold calls among these two squares.” She paused, and gave him a hesitant look.

“I assume you will want to do cold calls,” she added.

“Oh, absolutely! I adore cold calls, as I know you do!”

“Actually,” Padi said, “I don’t like to make cold calls, but if we’re to do a proper port tour…”

“I agree,” Father interrupted.

She frowned, and glanced down at the map again.

“Time is going to be the issue, as I see it. Textile Broker Plishet may take some time—or may take no time at all, if he has decided over the night that I was not so amusing as he first thought. The visit to the technology exchange may be lengthy. The other two top-tiers wanted to discuss the catalog?”

“At least, that was what they said,” Father said, pushing back from the table. “I think you have a very good plan, and I propose that we act upon it. If you will do me the honor of contacting our four top vendors, and finding when we may call and how long a time they envision that we will spend together, I will be obliged. Once those times are in hand, then you may, of course, be able to call the second-tier vendors to arrange visits with them. There, I think we need not commit to more than half an hour, and the cold calls ought consume no more than five minutes each.

“Oh, and do remember, will you, Padi, to leave us time to eat a nuncheon?”

Padi looked at the cards, and picked them up. Nuncheon, of course. Local folk, she thought, deliberately not sighing, would know which was the best place to eat lunch in their vicinity. She must remember to ask.

“Certainly, Master Trader,” she said, and rose in her turn, moving toward the comm unit sitting on the spindly white-and-gold table in the corner of the room farthest from the window and the view of the mountain.

—•—

“Tolly Jones,”
Admiral Bunter
said.

Tolly didn’t look up from his screen. It wasn’t that he found
Conservation Techniques of Potentially Active Pre-Galactic Autonomous Calculating Systems
all that compelling a read, but he’d drawn his line in the dust and he’d damn well better stay behind it.

He’d confused the boy, that’s what it was; confused him on purpose, and in a specific direction. By itself, he didn’t think moral confusion was going to undo whatever it was that Inki’d done—and he didn’t put tampering with the core beyond her—but if he could make a few cracks, get himself a little leverage…

“Tolly Jones, I wish to speak to you from the
melant’i
of one who wishes Pilot-Guard Hazenthull no harm. We both embrace this
melant’i
, do we not?”

Well,
this
was interesting. He hoped the
Admiral
’d find it in him to continue without encouragement, because he’d really like to know where the AI was going with this.