The Agent Gambit (55 page)

"Miri," he said suddenly, shifting into the most intimate of modes, nearly singing the Low Liaden words, "you are my wisdom and my laughter, the song of my heart, my home. Best-loved friend; wife and lover . . ."

She did not understand; the words meant nothing to her, though he saw her following the song of his voice. Almost sharply, he brought both hands up and ran his fingers into her hair, holding her so her eyes had to look into his. Consciously keeping his voice pitched for intimate speech, he reached for the hopelessly inadequate Terran words.

"I love you, Miri; you are my joy."

Releasing her, he sat back and was conscious of intense pleasure when she moved her hand to take his.

"Lifemates means what it says?" she asked, smiling at him just a little.

He raised a brow. "What else would it mean?"

"Just checking." She stood, pulling him with her. "Let's go to bed. Betcha it's after midnight . . ."

DUTIFUL PASSAGE

"Priscilla," Lina inquired with the straightforwardness of friendship, "is this wise?"

The other woman looked up from unbuckling her belt, her slim brows arched in surprise. "It's necessary," she said, and laid the belt smoothly aside.

Lina stifled a sigh. Believing in necessity, Priscilla would pursue her mad course, whether her friend consented to watch or no.

"Perhaps it might wait," she ventured, watching Priscilla slip her trousers off and fold them neatly atop her shirt, "until Shan is on the ship? He only trades until local dusk, Priscilla. Surely time is not of such-"

Lina had suspected all along that this enterprise had none of Shan yos'Galan's smile-which boded not so well for Lina Faaldom, if she had to seek him out to say "Old friend, your heart slipped away while I watched her; and the way of her going is such that a Healer may neither follow nor find . . ."

The bed shifted slightly as Priscilla lay down and smiled up at her friend. "I'm not in any danger, Lina. You'll be with me, after all."

The smaller woman laughed. "Yes, assuredly! The mouse shall guard the lion."

Priscilla nodded, quite serious. "Who better? You will watch closely and not rush into danger, as another lion might; and so keep yourself safe and able to assist." She smiled again, softly. "Wise Lina."

"Pah!" Lina banished flattery with a flick of a tiny hand. "Well, and if you must, you might as well-and quickly."

"Yes. You have the Words I gave you?"

"Of course."
Priscilla!
Lina was to cry, if there came a hint that things were not as they should be.
Priscilla, come home!
Heart-words, Priscilla had named them, saying that she would hear that phrase and return, no matter how far the distance.

The ways of the dramliz are wondrous, indeed, Lina thought, and clutched the heartwords tightly in memory.

Beside her, Priscilla's breathing had slowed and deepened, the pulse in her throat beating with alarming slowness. Healer-sense showed the pattern she recognized as Priscilla Mendoza pulled in upon itself, so dense it seemed that even outer eyes must see it.

And as she watched, that strangely dense pattern began to rise, until inner eyes placed it above the sleeping body; then even farther above, rising toward the cabin's ceiling, trailing behind it in a single thread no thicker than a strand of silk. Rising still, it faded through the ceiling and was lost to all Lina's sight.

The clamor of the galaxy
was easier to ignore than it had been the last time. No sooner was the template in place than the aura it represented was found, flaring among the multitudes of lesser lights like a nova amid mere stars.

She approached slowly, mindful of the lesson that haste had taught her, traveling a time that could not be measured over a distance that seemed at once very great and no more than a roll from one side to another to embrace one who lay beside her.

Suddenly she was very close. Cautiously she opened a path from herself to him-and very nearly recoiled.

Temple training saved her from that error; her own necessity drew her close again, to examine what was there.

Protections. The boy she had known had encompassed no such walls and ramparts, though he had been adept enough at shielding himself. But even at that, with him awake, as he was now, and she with the need and the Aspect upon her, there should have been yet the small ways in, where one might enter and leave a seed-thought, to grow to suggestion and then into dream and so be absorbed into consciousness.

Disconcerted, she brought template against pattern, thinking that she had somehow erred in her urgency-but no. There could not be two such, matching, edge on edge, protected or wide open. And witch-sense brought her a bare hint of the passion that had previously overflowed him, burning still, but deep within, a bonfire at the heart of a citadel.

Val Con!
She hurled his name, hoping for a crack in those protections, perhaps even a recognition.

He heard her, of that much was she certain, but the walls stood firm. Almost she turned to leave, defeated-and saw then, with witch-eyes, the bridge.

A sturdy structure, built with more honesty than skill, vanishing into the very heart of the tightly guarded place that Val Con yos'Phelium had inexplicably become and stretching away to-where?

Cautiously she followed the bridge back, marveling at its flexibility and strength, then found the source and marveled anew.

The pattern shone, life-passion licking through the gridwork even though consciousness was at the moment disengaged. Priscilla bent her attention closer and discovered the sleeper's core lightly locked behind doors while the rest remained open to any with eyes to see. She sensed a bit of lambent shine, which might indicate witch-sense; the bridge argued power, even as it showed an architect untrained. Had she been in her body, Priscilla might have smiled. She had found lifemate, and a fitting receptacle for her message.

Taking care not to disturb the other's slumber or cast the slightest quiver onto the bridge, Priscilla placed the thought-seed within the sleeping pattern and withdrew a little way to watch. Only when she was certain that neither the sleeping nor the wakeful had been disturbed by her action did she loose her hold upon the place and follow her mooring line home.

VANDAR:
Springbreeze Farm

Val Con slipped out of bed
and silently pulled on his clothes. He stood over Miri for a time, studying her face in the crisp moonlight, unaccountably delighted that the small, satisfied smile still lingered on her mouth. Gently he tucked the covers around her, fingertips barely brushing the tumble of copper silk, then turned and went like moonshadow across the room and out into the hall.

He paused briefly in the lower hall, decided against the piano, and continued on to the kitchen where Borril moaned but did not wake as the man took his jacket from its peg.

Just beyond the scuppin house he paused again, breath frosting on the air. Energy tingled through him, head-top to toe-tips: the excitement of making music coupled with the exuberance of making love, of being loved. He stretched high on his toes, arms flung out toward the meager stars. Tonight, tonight he could fly.

Or nearly so. On the verge of soaring, he brought his arms down and stood looking quietly at the sky, thinking of a ship.

Of his own will and heart, he had brought forbidden technology to an Interdicted World and left it, barely concealed, no more than three miles from habitation. Though it was coil-dead, ransacked-even the distress beacon dead-he should have sent it into orbit and oblivion the moment they had been safe on-world, rather than trying to reconcile Scout-conscience with bone-deep need.

He had no means to repair the ship, no excuse for the madness of keeping it by. It was only that it went hard against the heart to lose such a resource, even though reasoned thought showed it to be no use to him. From the very first-from Cantra forward-Korval had kept the ships that came to it. Thirty-one generations of yos'Pheliums had led Korval, gathering ships as they could, obeying Cantra's law. And to Val Con, of the Line Direct, seventh to bear the name-to Val Con yos'Phelium fell the task of sending a ship to certain death and acknowledging to his heart that he and his lifemate were stranded on a forbidden world, Clan-reft, and likely to eventually die here.

Homesickness swept through him, sudden and shocking: He recalled the library at Jelaza Kazone, the long row of identically bound Diaries. He remembered even more vividly Uncle Er Thom's office at Trealla Fantrol, his uncle seated at the desk, head bent over some work, fair hair gleaming in the scented firelight; remembered his own rooms, gray Merlin lounging on the window seat, blinking yellow eyes against the midmorning sun; Shan laughing and talking; Nova so solemn; Anthora; Padi; Pat Rin . . .

Out of the near-dawn he heard a sound, as if someone inexpressibly far away had cried his name. He spun, every sense straining; heard the echo die and nothing more.

After a time, he turned back toward the house, carrying home-memories like a dull ache behind his heart.

Miri woke
as he opened the door; she grinned up at him and stretched with very evident enjoyment. "Morning."

"Good morning, cha'trez." He sat carefully on the edge of the bed and held out a mug. "Would you like some tea?"

"Why not?" She wriggled into a sitting position against the pillows and took the mug, the coverlet falling away from one slight breast. "Umm-nice," she said, sipping. "And thanks."

"You're welcome."

"Yeah. You're up early."

"A touch of performance exhilaration." He smiled. "Even with the exercise that followed I found I needed no more than a nap."

She laughed, shaking her head and hiding the breast behind a curtain of hair. "And here I thought I wore you out!" Her expression changed abruptly and she sipped her tea. "Had a dream, boss."

"So?" he murmured, watching her face closely from beneath long lashes. "Tell me."

"Funniest thing about it," she said slowly, "is that it was so real, like I knew the people. Like they were-family."

"Dreams are very odd," he offered when a moment had passed and she had not spoken further. "Perhaps these are people you have seen somewhere before, even in passing."

"Naw," she said hesitantly. Then, with complete surety, she repeated, "No. I'd remember a pair like this one, no matter how short a sight I'd had." She closed her eyes, brows drawn in concentration. "They were in a-it looked like a ship's bridge, but
big
-and they were standing together, shoulder to shoulder. She's a little taller than he is-black hair, all curly, black eyes, and pale-beautiful, boss; that's the only word for her. And him-white hair, but not old; light eyes; brown skin; big hands-holding a wineglass; wearing a purple ring . . .They said-" Her brows twitched, and he watched her breathlessly.
"Somebody
said, "We're looking for you. Help us." She sighed. "So damn
real."

"Priscilla," he breathed.

She opened her eyes. "Huh?"

"The people you described," he managed, fighting against hope and terror. "The white-haired man is my brother Shan; the woman is Priscilla Mendoza, who is-ah, she is first mate, say-on
Dutiful Passage,
which my brother captains."

There was silence between them for a moment, then a careful: "Val Con?"

"Yes."

"How'd your people get in my head?"

He hesitated, then reached out and took her hand. "Priscilla is of the dramliz-a wizard, Miri. I- Outside, I thought I heard someone call to me, but- Perhaps it was beyond her skill to leave a message in a waking mind, and so she chose the mind of my lifemate."

"Yeah, but how'd she know that, boss?"

He looked at her helplessly. "Miri, I am not dramliz. How would I know?"

"Right." She stroked his cheek, brushing the hair from his eyes. "It's okay, boss, honest." Her fingers trembled. "Why're we scared?"

"They are looking for us," he whispered. "They will put themselves in danger. The Department of the Interior-gods, my Clan . . ." And the ship was useless, useless . . .

"We must start for Liad today," she thought she heard him say. "Or we must warn them away."

Miri stared. Then, moving carefully against the miasma of fear and sorrow and guilt, she set the mug aside, threw her arms around him, and held tight.

SHALTREN:
Cessilee

Grom Trogar stood
before the starmap, absently fingering this gem and that: Shaltren's diamond, Talitha's niken, Foruner's topaz, Jelban's rosella. It was a magnificent map, with each one of the worlds that bowed to the might of the Juntavas-to the word of Grom Trogar-designated by a jewel produced by that world and tithed to the chairman.

He extended a broad forefinger to touch again the flashing blue-and-gold niken, then drew it back, frowning, as the receptionist's pretty voice came over the speaker.

"Mr. Chairman?"

"Yes?" he snapped.

"I'm sorry to bother you, sir," she said breathlessly. "But there are two, umm,
individuals
here to see you. They say their business is urgent. I-they don't have an appointment, sir, but they said they'd wait."

"Did they?" He considered the speaker stud, glowing bright red in the gloom of his office. "But we aren't that discourteous, are we? Please send these-individuals-in."

There was a pause and a half gasped "Yes, sir." Grom Trogar smiled as he strolled back to his desk.

Grom Trogar frowned
at the two large individuals before him, even knowing that they, unlike most, could see his expression quite clearly in the dimness of his office. The knowledge titillated, adding a new dimension to a game long grown predictable.

"A Scout, Aged Ones?" he said. "Of Miri Robertson I am aware. I have urgent need to speak with her; less urgent need, I will admit, to see her dead. Though that will suffice."

"But of a Scout," he continued thoughtfully, "and the threat brought against this other member of your Clan-I am adrift in ignorance. I will investigate the matter thoroughly, and I promise you that it will go quite badly with Justin Hostro if he has failed to file a complete report."