Sharon Lee: Adventures in the Liaden Universe

The villain gasped, eyes rolling up. His grip loosened, she fell to the floor, rolling, in order to confound the aim of the gun, and there was a confusion of noises, and her father shouting “Run!”—and run she did, her hair streaming and her face uncovered, never looking back, despite the sounds of gunfire behind her.

The house was in the merchant district of the city of Harap, a walk of many days from the prefecture of Coratu, whose principal cities, Iravati and Lahore-Gadani had lately suffered a sudden rash of explosions and fires and unexplained deaths. There were those who said it was a judgment from the gods; that Lahore-Gadani had become too assertive; and Iravati too complacent in its tranquility. The priests had ordered a cleansing, and a month long fast for the entire prefecture. Perhaps it would be enough.

In Harap, though.

In Harap, at that certain house, a boy crossed the street from out of the night-time shadows and made a ragged salaam to the doorman.

“Peace,” he said, in a soft, girlish voice. “I am here to speak with Jamie Moore.”

The doorman gave him one bored look, “Why?”

The boy hefted the sack he held in his left hand. “I have something for him.”

“Huh.” The doorman considered it, then swung sideways, rapping three times on the door. It opened and he said to the one who came forward, “Search him. I’ll alert the boss.”

The search had discovered weapons, of course, and they had been confiscated. The bag, they scanned, discovering thereby the mass and material of its contents. Indeed, the search was notable in that which it did not discover—but perhaps, to off-worlders, such things mattered not.

The door to the searching chamber opened and the doorman looked in.

“You’re fortunate,” he said. “The boss is willing to play.”

So, then, there was the escort, up to the top of the house, to another door, and the room beyond, where a man sat behind a desk, his books piled, open, one upon the other, a notetaker in his hand.

Tears rose. She swallowed them, and bowed the bow of peace.

“I’m Jamie Moore,” the man behind the desk said. “Who are you?”

“I am Inas Bhar, youngest daughter of Scholar Reyman Bhar, who died the death to preserve what I bring you tonight.”

The man looked at her, blue eyes—outworlder eyes—bland and uninterested.

“I don’t have a lot of time or patience,” he said. “Forget the theatrics and show me what you’ve got.”

She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. This—this was the part of all her careful plans that might yet go awry. She opened the bag, reached inside and pulled out the curiat .

“For you,” she said, holding it up for him to see, “from Thelma Delance.’’

There was a long silence, while he looked between her and the box. Finally, he held out his hands.

“Let me see.”

Reluctantly, she placed the curiat in his hands, watching as he flicked the ivory hooks, raised the lid, fished out a volume, and opened it at random.

He read a page, the next, riffled to the back of the book and read two pages more. He put the book back in the box and met her eyes.

“It’s genuine,” he said and gave her the honor of a seated bow “The Juntavas owes you. What’ll it be? Gold? A husband with position? I realize the options are limited on this world, but we’ll do what we can to pay fair.”

“I do not wish to marry. I want...” She stopped, took a breath and met the bland, blue eyes. “My father was a scholar. He taught me to be a scholar—to read, to reason, to think. I want to continue—in my father’s memory.”

He shrugged. “Nice work, if you can get it.”

Inas drew herself up. “I speak five dialects and three languages,” she said. “I am adept with the higher maths and with astronomy. I read the mercantile, scholarly and holy scripts. I know how to mix the explosive skihi and—” The man behind the desk held up a hand.

“Hold up. You know how to mix skihi ? Who taught you that?”

She pointed at the curiat . “Page thirty-seven, volume three.”

He whistled. “You found the cipher, did you? Clever girl.” He glanced thoughtfully down at the box.

“You wouldn’t have used any of that formula, would you? Say, back home or in Lahore-Gadani?”

Inas bowed, scholar to scholar. “They killed my father. He had no sons to avenge him.”

“Right.”

More silence—enough that Inas began to worry about the reasoning going on behind those blue outworlder eyes. It would, after all, be a simple thing to shoot her—and far more merciful than the punishment the priests would inflict upon her, were she discovered dressed in a boy’s tunic and trousers, her face uncovered, her hair cut and braided with green string.

“Your timing’s good,” Jamie Moore said abruptly. “We’ve got a sector chief checking in tomorrow. What I can do, I can show you to the chief, and the two of you can talk. This is sector chief business, understand me?”

Inas bowed. “I understand, Jamie Moore. Thank you.”

“Better hold that until you meet the chief,” he said, and the door opened behind her, though she had not seen him give a signal.

“We’ll stand you a bath, a meal and a bed,” he said, and jerked his head at the doorman. “Get her downstairs. Guard on the door.”

He looked at her once more. “What happens next is up to you.”

She sat on the edge of the chatrue —well, no she didn’t. Properly a chatrue , a female’s bed, would be hidden by a curtain at a height so that even a tall man could not see over. This was hardly a bed meant for a woman...

She sat on the edge of the bed then, with the daybreak meal in dishes spread around her, amazed and appreciative at the amount of food she was given to break her fast.

But, after all—she had come to the house in the clothes of a boy, admitted to taking a son’s duty of retribution to herself; and agreed to meet with the sector chief. These were all deeds worthy of male necessities; hence they fed her as a male would be fed, with two kinds of meat, with porridge of proper sweetness and with extra honey on the side, with fresh juice of the gormel-berry — and brought her clean boy’s clothes in the local style, that she might appear before the sector chief in proper order.

She had slept well, waking only once, at the sound of quiet feet in the stairway. Left behind when she woke then was a half-formed dream: In it she had lost her veils to Danyal, but rather than leer, he had screamed and run, terrified of what he had seen revealed in her face.

Too late now to run, she thought as she slipped back into sleep, both Danyal and her father’s false friend had fallen to her vengeance. And the curiat was in the hands of the infidel.

Inas ate all the breakfast, leaving but some honey. There had been too many days since her father’s death when food had been scarce; too many nights when her stomach was empty, for her to stint now on sustenance.

“Hello, child!” A voice called from outside the door. There followed a brisk knock, with the sound of laughter running behind it. “Your appointment begins now!”

The name of Jamie Moore’s boss was Sarah Chang. She was small and round, with crisp black hair bristling all over her head, and slanting black eyes. Her clothing was simple—a long-sleeved shirt, open at the throat, a vest, trousers and boots. A wide belt held a pouch and a holster. Her face was naked, which Inas had expected. What she had not expected was the jolt of shock she felt.

Sarah Chang laughed.

“You’re the one pretending to be a boy,” she commented, and Inas bowed, wryly.

“I am an exception,” she said. “I do not expect to meet myself.”