Lee, Sharon - Liaden 11 - Mouse and Dragon

No, Aelliana corrected herself—not like all the others. The autoscroll over the door of this establishment read, in alternating Terran and Liaden: Guild Temp Office. Accepting Applications and Upgrades.

A buzzer sounded as they entered a small room bisected by a counter holding several screens and a large green plant.

“Be out in a sec!” a voice called from beyond the screen on the far side of the plant.

Daav put the case on the counter and propped an elbow on it. Aelliana climbed onto the tall stool at his side, resisting the temptation to lean against him. She was not, she told herself, afraid.

Perhaps, she was a little uneasy, but surely that was reasonable? Although she spoke the language—enough, at least, to be understood—she could not feel but that her grasp of culture, especially in regard to what might be held as an insult, was firm. Of course, she thought, shifting carefully on the stool, it was that way among Liadens, also. One could not hope to know the necessities of a stranger's melant'i, and error was always possible. It was absurd to have felt as if she was at home on Avontai, only because it was a Liaden world. She had no more call upon grace from a Liaden than a Terran.

A shadow moved behind the screen, and an apparition stepped up to the counter. He was tall—she had expected that. What surprised her was how broad! He made two of Daav on the vertical and three on the horizontal! His hair was confined to a hand-wide bristle of black along the very top of his skull, and his skin—crown, face and hands—was ruddy and freckled.

“Mr. Peltzer,” Daav said in Terran. “Just the man I'm wanting.”

The big man put his big hands flat on the countertop. “Well, now. Maybe that's not as disturbing as it sounds at first hearing,” he said, and jerked his head toward Aelliana. “Standing sponsor?”

“Pilot Caylon holds a card,” Daav murmured. “But yes, a sponsor in some suit.”

“Pilot Caylon, is it?” The big man looked at her with renewed interest, and inclined his head with gentle courtesy.

“Pilot, I hope you won't think it's rude of me to say so, but I'm glad of the opportunity to thank you in person. Those Revisions of yours saved my bacon at least twice that I know of, and probably more that I was too space-brained to recognize.”

He held a big hand out in her direction, palm up.

“I'm Bruce Peltzer, Circuit Rider for the Terran Guild.”

His face was earnest; plainly he was offering courtesy, and she gathered nothing from her lanky copilot save a relaxed amusement. She glanced down at his hand, held steady and patient, raised hers and placed her palm against his.

His skin was warm and slightly moist, as was everything she had thus far encountered on Staederport.

“Happy I am to meet you, Pilot Peltzer,” she said, forming the Terran words with care. “I am Aelliana Caylon, Pilot First Class.”

He smiled, briefly covered their joined hands with his free hand and released her before she had time either to take offense or to become alarmed.

“Well, then,” he said, turning his attention back to Daav. “If you're not sponsoring this pilot, why are you here—and should I have you thrown out?”

“Perhaps you should,” Daav said cordially. “But before you call the guard, allow me to present to you Hevelin, who stands in need of a position.”

He opened the top of the case and reached inside, placing the norbear on the counter midway between himself and Bruce Peltzer, keeping his hands in a loose semicircle about the plump creature.

“I represent him to you as an individual of exceptional character: observant, polite, and able to recall what he has observed. He has, I believe, been previously employed in an establishment similar to this one.”

He lifted his hands away, leaving Hevelin to face the large man alone. For a long moment, they regarded each other, the norbear standing tall on his back feet, the man with his elbows folded atop the counter, his head tilted, brow knit in concentration.

“Hevelin, huh?” the man asked, without looking away from the object of his study.

“So he has said,” Daav murmured.

“Sharp, too. That's good. Where'd you get him, Smokey?”

“Pilot Caylon rescued him from a crowd on Avontai Port who were bent upon murder.”

“Be just,” Aelliana protested. “A pilot in peril, I saw. Of norbears, what did I know?”

“Avontai's no place for a norbear,” Bruce Peltzer said. “Where'd the pilot who had him get him?”

“That,” Daav said, “we were unable to determine. The pilot was in need of medical—and other—attention. We delivered him to the Healers, thinking to find sanctuary for Hevelin there, as well—”

The big man snorted.

“Precisely. We were encouraged to depart—quickly—and as a life was the stake, Pilot Caylon made haste to do what was necessary.”

Daav extended a finger to touch a round, furry ear. “From himself, I received the dream of previous employment and a desire for more of the same.”

The other pilot was silent for three heartbeats, then gave a gusty sigh. “That pilot must've been stupid as stone, taking him onto the port.”

There was a tremble in the air; Hevelin stiffened where he stood. Aelliana slid her hand across the counter toward him, meaning to offer comfort. He flicked an ear and reached down, enclosing her forefinger in a surprisingly strong grip. For a moment, it seemed as if there was something more than the norbear's wariness trembling on the edge of her awareness, then it faded and she looked up into Bruce Peltzer's watchful eyes.

“Ill,” she said, not quite knowing where the word, or the conviction, came from, yet certain that it needed expression.

“Ill,” she repeated and moved her shoulders. “Needing more comfort than gives a norbear.”

The big man nodded, slowly.

“Well, he seems a likely yoster,” he said. “Couple things remain before I can accept him permanent. First being, does he take to me like he's apparently taken to Captain Smoke and yourself?”

He extended a large hand, palm up on the counter—and waited.

Hevelin stood very still, gripping Aelliana's finger. For a heartbeat, she thought he would dash away and scramble back into the safety of the carryall. She felt a thrill then, of what might have been determination, and her finger was released. Dropping to all fours, he bumbled across the counter with his usual cheerful insouciance and climbed into Bruce Peltzer's hand.

“Bold lad. Let's you and me get acquainted, eh? Maybe you can tell me a little more about your previous circumstances.” He looked at Daav.

“If you pilots would like to take an hour's tour of beautiful Staederport, or stop over at the Repair Pit for a bite to eat? I'll have something to say when you come back.”

Daav inclined his head. “Of course.”

He stepped away from the counter, leaving the bag where it was. Aelliana slid off of the stool, and hesitated, looking once more to Hevelin. He did, she allowed after a moment's study, seem to be engaged and not at all nervous. That was good.

She turned and followed Daav out into the warm drizzle. Behind them the door sealed with a loud snap.

Startled, she turned.

The autoscroll now read: Closed for lunch.

* * *

Daav scanned the street, finding no dangers more immediate than becoming waterlogged in the incessant drizzle, and glanced at his companion. She was, he thought, ridiculously appealing with her rain-flattened hair and drop-spattered face, despite which he sensed that she was about to tax him hard.

“You have a question, Pilot?” he murmured.

“In fact, three,” she answered, holding up her thumb. “What is 'bacon'?” Forefinger. “Why does he call you 'Smokey'?” Second finger—“Why should we be directed to a garage for lunch?”