Lee, Sharon - Liaden 11 - Mouse and Dragon

Well, it was not an unreasonable list, he conceded.

“If it is all the same to you, I propose to address the last question first, as I am most wonderfully hungry.”

“So long as they are all answered, sir, and no stinting on the count!”

He grinned. “I will do my best to keep every card in play,” he promised, looking about them again. The very casualness of the suggestion argued that the Repair Pit stood close at hand; that it had been mentioned specifically, surely indicated that Bruce felt it to be a reasonably secure haven for two pilots new on-port, and who were also Liaden.

“Ah.” He'd spied the end of a scroll message in the gap between two shops. “Just a very short walk, and I believe we may satisfy our—or, at the least, my—craving for food.”

Aelliana fell in beside him without comment. She kept watch, too, also without comment, and he smiled again, with pride of her. At this rate of gain, she would be as port-wise as any courier might need to be inside of two relumma.

Not, he reminded himself, that they were to be traveling so long. They ought, indeed, to turn their wings toward Liad, as soon as Hevelin's affairs were settled.

“Daav?” Aelliana put her hand on his arm.

“Ah, your pardon! I was thinking how delightful it will be to again raise the homeworld.”

She snorted lightly, eloquent of disbelief, but all she said was, “Of course. Now. You were answering three questions, without stint, beginning with the third.”

“I don't know how it is that I keep forgetting that you are a teacher,” he murmured. “However, I will not be seen to step back from my word! The answer to the third question is that 'Repair Pit' is—a joke, Aelliana. A play on words.”

He might never be able to share her thoughts, but he could—and did—feel her thinking, sorting through her store of Terran words and meanings, fingering each as if it were a bright stone . . .

“So one repairs to the Repair Pit in order to repair the deficiencies of hunger and thirst,” she murmured, slowly. Then, more quickly, her voice bright with excitement: “It is another multiple meaning!” She tucked herself closer against him, her fingers tightening on his arm.

“At first, you know, I had thought Terran a flat language, with all of its information on the surface. It is . . . delightful to find that I have been wrong, though it is somewhat difficult to know how to fathom the depths.”

“That is precisely what makes learning a language so perilous,” Daav murmured. “For one must have the culture, in order to understand that there are depths. Often,” he added, looking down into her luminous face, “the depths are treacherous.”

“Certainly they must be! And the assumption that one has—or has not—understood the whole of the information being granted . . . ” She sighed. “It seems to me that the Scouts set themselves an impossible task, van'chela. How can you hope to fathom all?”

“No one ever fathoms all; even the most astute of native speakers sometimes err. It is . . . often . . . enough to be aware of the depths, and to tune the ear for nuance.”

They paused to let a lorry clear the street, then crossed to the entrance of the Repair Pit, where Aelliana was disposed to dawdle, observing the windowless exterior and the scrollbar over the door.

“It only displays in Terran,” she commented.

. . . and thus they might be looking at a subtle warn-away, Daav thought, pleased that she had caught the hint.

“We may go elsewhere if you like,” he said. “I will say that I do not believe that Pilot Peltzer would send us into a situation he considered to be less than secure. It is, however, the pilot's choice.”

Once again, he caught the intensity of her thought, then she nodded, once, in a gesture she had undoubtedly learnt from Anne.

“I am hungry, too,” she said. “Let us by all means accept the pilot's suggestion.”

“Now,” Aelliana said after they had found seats in the crowded room and entered their meal selections into the data board bolted to the side of the table. “The next question, if you please.”

Daav glanced around the room, admiring Bruce Peltzer even more than he had done previously. The place was set up as a garage with multiple workbenches. Each table ordered through the data board; the meals were delivered via a slightly lunatic conveyor system. There was no reason for those seated at one work bench to interact with the occupants of another. Thus, one might be certain of one's own space, one's own custom, and one's own language over the meal. Such an arrangement greatly reduced opportunities for taking—or giving—offense.

“Daav . . . ”

“The next question—what is bacon?” he said, turning back to her with a smile. “Bacon is a condiment—a cured meat served in thin strips, hot. However, in the usage 'saved my bacon,' it is meant that one's life was preserved.” He held up a hand as her lips parted. “I do not know how one leaps from the first to the second, and can only in this instance repeat what I have been told by a native speaker—in fact, by Pilot Peltzer.”

She sighed, clearly unsatisfied, but . . . “We shall, of course, abide by the pilot's explanation. Though I believe I will ask Anne when we return home.”

He grinned, picturing the conversation. “Do that.”

A discreet clatter drew his attention to the conveyor belt, where two trays were on course for their table.

“Our meal approaches,” he said.

“Smokey?” Aelliana asked, before she had even sampled her “Rimrunner's Stew” or her lemon water.

“A call-name,” he said promptly, eying his “Space Jockey Special.”

“Yes, but—why not your name?”

The absence of utensils argued that the foodstuff on his plate was intended to be addressed with the fingers, though he scarcely knew how he was to escape without becoming well sauced, indeed.

“My name was unknown in the initial transaction,” he said, picking up the first overflowing bun gingerly. “And one must call a man something. Also, there appeared to be a complaint regarding my comportment, in that I kept fading in and out, like smoke. I was inclined to put that aspect of things down to the head injury, myself, but one must not be churlish in these matters.” He glanced over to Aelliana, who was holding her spoon near her mouth, an expression of not-entirely-pleasant surprise on her face.

“How is your meal?” he inquired politely.

She took a deep breath, lowered her spoon and reached for her bottle of lemon water.

“The word may be 'decisive,' ” she said. “I had not expected something so warm. And yours?”

“I have not yet recruited my courage,” he admitted. “Hold but a moment.”

He assayed a small bite, finding it not bad; the sauce sweet, but not overly so, and the filling agreeably chewy, despite being every bit as messy as he had feared.

“Not inedible,” he told Aelliana. “If you cannot support yours, take from mine, do. I cannot imagine that I can accommodate the entire plate.”

“Perhaps the second spoon will be less surprising,” she said, determinedly. “After all, one cannot always have toasted cheese sandwiches.”

Daav laughed. “Now that,” he said, “is not a very Liaden outlook.”

“I suppose it isn't,” she agreed, and assayed her soup again.

“The yoster and me have reached an accord, and he'll be staying on,” Bruce Peltzer said. He nodded at the green plant on the counter. “I'll be doing better for him, of course, but for now, he's taken that for his bunk. Last I saw, he was having a bit of a nap, but if you'd like to say your good-byes . . . ”

“I see no reason to disturb his dreaming,” Daav murmured. “He'll recall us, and we'll recall him, each for as long as we can.”