Lee, Sharon - Liaden 11 - Mouse and Dragon

“That's right.” The big man cleared his throat. “I didn't do any better getting a fix on his previous bunk. Seems clear he was lifted, though, and took off without permissions.” He shook his head. “Boy that took him had some troubles—like the pilot said, more than a norbear could fix. They were both lucky you two happened by.”

“Work he will do for you?” Aelliana asked. Bruce looked to her.

“Don't you worry, Pilot, I'm not going to let him slack off! Norbears are useful to have around the place. Not only are they what you might call a calming influence, but they're real good on knowing when somebody's thinking about walking out a hatch without a suit. You don't often get 'em as sharp as Hevelin; he's going to be a real asset to the circuit rider's office.”

“Good,” Aelliana said, and Daav heard the tears in her voice. “We do well for him.”

He reached out and took her hand. “We've done what's best for him,” he said, and gave Bruce Peltzer a grin. “And for you, too.”

“I'll allow a good turn,” the big man said comfortably, and stuck his hand out. “Good to see you again, Smokey.”

“And you.” Daav put his palm against the other man's, watching as it was swallowed and released. “Fair travel, Pilot. Walk carefully, port-wise.”

“That I'll do—and the pair of you, as well. Pilot Caylon, it's an honor.”

“Thank you,” Aelliana said, inclining her head slightly. “Good lift, Pilot.”

“Safe landing,” he replied.

They were passing a bookstore on Duty Free Street, all but in sight of The Luck, when the unanticipated happened.

The door opened as they strolled by; Daav registered the impression of an ordinary-seeming Terran of perhaps an affluent habit, his belt innocent of weaponry, and a package with the bookstore's name emblazoned upon it cradled against his chest.

In a word: harmless.

Hand in hand with his pilot, his love, Daav took a step.

“Professor!” Excitement, only that. Nothing to concern one.

Daav took another step.

“Professor Kiladi, wait!”

There was no excuse for it; the merest Scoutling might have acted with more finesse. His heart stuttered, his step faltered . . .

. . . he snatched his hand away from Aelliana's.

“Professor!”

Discovered, he thought, after all these years. And yet, the thing might still be recovered, if only you can rally a bit of credence, Daav.

Slowly, an expression of what he devoutly hoped was cool and slightly offended curiosity on his face, he turned. Aelliana, who must have felt that first jolt of horror as clearly as if it had been her own, turned with him, her face wary, and one hand on her gun.

The man approaching them, already out of breath with his hurried dozen steps, was younger than Daav, his pale hair glued to his head by the rain. His eyes were tight at the corners, as if he spent long hours before a text screen, or bent over the pages of books. He came on, oblivious to Aelliana's threat, a smile of purest pleasure on his not-entirely-forgettable face.

“I beg pardon, sir . . . ” Daav said, suddenly recalling the face as it had been, much younger, rounder, less drawn—third row, second quadrant, he thought. Dobson. Chames Dobson.

“ . . . you have the advantage of me,” he concluded.

The man paused at the proper distance for speech between non-kin, Daav was pleased to note, and performed quite a credible bow to the master.

“You are Jen Sar Kiladi, are you not? I—of course, out of so many students, you wouldn't remember me. Chames Dobson, sir. I was in your class on comparative cultures at Searston University, and it—” He blinked, and appeared at last to see the man who stood, broadly puzzled and perhaps losing patience, before him; his leather well worn, and his partner standing at backup.

“I . . . It is I who beg your pardon,” he said slowly. “You—you might be his brother, sir, but I see that I am in error. You are not Jen Sar Kiladi. Please accept my apologies for disturbing your peace, Pilot.”

“Please,” Daav said, carefully, as would a man who had been surprised, but after all not threatened, and by one who had some grasp of proper manners. “It is a simple error. I have made it myself, when on a strange port, and hoping, perhaps, to see a friend.”

Dobson's face relaxed into a smile, and for a moment he was entirely the earnest young scholar he had been.

“Yes, exactly. I just got word—well. Say that circumstances brought him to mind—and I wished that I could share my news, and tell him how much his teaching had meant to me. Then I saw you as I came out of the bookshop . . . ” He shook his head, half amused, half regretful, and stepped back, lifting his free hand politely.

“Safe lift, Pilot.”

“I thank you. May your day embrace joy.”

Chames Dobson turned and walked off, a trusting man.

Daav braced himself for the question that, alas, was not long in coming.

“Who,” Aelliana asked sternly, “is Jen Sar Kiladi, and why did you lie to that man?”

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Liaden 11 - Mouse and Dragon

Chapter Twenty-Two

“Liaden Scout” must now be seen as a misnomer, for to become a Scout is to become other than Liaden. It is to turn one's face from the homeworld and enter a state of philosophy where all custom, however alien, is accepted as equally just and fitting.

We are told by certain instructors that not everyone may aspire to—nor all who aspire, attain—that particular degree of philosophical contrariness required of those who are said to have “Scout's eyes.”

For this we must rejoice, and allow the Scouts full honor for having in the past provided refuge for the disenfranchised, the adventurous and the odd.

—Excerpted from remarks made before the Council of Clans

by the chairperson of the Coalition to Abolish the Liaden Scouts

“A wager,” Aelliana repeated. “You fabricated an entire person—for a wager?”

“Well,” he said apologetically, “at first, it didn't seem so difficult—comparative linguistics was near enough to a portion of a Scout's course of study. By the time the wager had come against its deadline, Kiladi had defended his first degree and taught a seminar or two, and it seemed impossible that I just stop. He had colleagues, correspondents, students—in a word, he would be missed, poor fellow. I could scarcely murder him out of hand.” He sipped, and admitted, “Besides, I was curious to know how long he might support himself.”

Aelliana reached for her glass and sipped wine. It was not very good wine, being what was on offer at the Pilots Mart, but it was well enough for its purpose.

“How long has Scholar Kiladi persisted?”

He sighed. “Nearly fifteen Standards. I admit, it will be hard to end the Scholar's life.” In fact, it was remarkably dismaying, the thought that Kiladi would no longer be with him. It was not as if the scholar had been a constant companion; his needs were modest: time and resources for his researches, and leave to produce his papers and keep current with his correspondence . . .

“Why must you?” Aelliana asked, fortuitously breaking this increasingly bleak line of thought.

“The terms of the wager were that the fabrication might continue only until it was discovered. Even though he has far outlived the circumstance that birthed him, he has been found out, and thus is forfeit.”

She shook damp hair back from her face.

“But he has not been found out,” she said. “The man on the port just now—Chames Dobson—he admitted a likeness, but was convinced at the last that you were not his teacher.”

“Be it as may be, yet you are wise to Kiladi's secret, Aelliana.”