Lee, Sharon - Liaden 11 - Mouse and Dragon

“Oh, dear.” He sighed. “I believe we are both about to be scolded masterfully.”

Aelliana frowned. She heard the breeze in the leaves, the repetitive call of a to-me, the bright burst of a rindlebird's song—and footsteps, light and quick, growing more distinct.

Er Thom appeared 'round the bend in the path, and crossed the grass to them.

With neither ceremony nor greeting, he dropped to his knees and leaned forward to look closely into Daav's eyes.

“Brother, how do you go on?” he asked.

“Well enough. The Healer did his work well.”

“Good.” Er Thom drew a hard breath, and sat back on his heels, his mouth tightening.

“I am going to murder you myself and save the toughs of Low Port any more losses,” he said, his voice hard and distinct. He looked up, sparing a glare for her.

“And you! Do you have no better understanding than to place yourself and Korval's heir into the hands of one of the most dangerous people on this planet?”

“Neither then nor now,” Aelliana said, meeting his anger with softness. “Clarence did well by us. It was he who brought Daav out of Low Port, which I don't think anyone else could have done. He was as distressed to see me in his office as you could have wished him to be, Er Thom, and lessoned me well. I honor him.”

Er Thom closed his eyes and took a hard breath.

“Stipulate,” Daav said, before his brother could speak again, “that we are idiots of the first water, polished and ready to be set.”

There was a moment of silence before Er Thom sighed and opened his eyes.

“Stipulated.”

Daav smiled. “Excellent. Now tell me, do, what else I might have done, given the contract and the ever-more-disturbing reports coming from our sources in the Low Port.”

“There is no reason for you to go yourself,” Er Thom said. “You might have done as our mother often did, and sent another of the clan as her eyes and her ears.”

“I might have done so,” Daav agreed. “Who would you suggest?”

“Myself.”

Daav laughed. “Oh, yes! Twelves better!”

Er Thom looked goaded.

“They had Daav's name,” Aelliana said, before he started in to brangle again. “It does speak to your point, that he should not have gone alone. But he could not have known that there was a bounty on his head, and the entire Low Port on the hunt for him.”

Er Thom glanced to Daav. “Your personal name.”

“In fact. Interesting, is it not? Clarence has kindly sent us a transcript of a conversation he had with my jailer, one Kitten Sandith. Kitten would have it that Terran Enterprises, Galactic is setting up headquarters in the Low Port, recruiting pilots and seeking to supplant both the Juntavas and, in her terms, 'the Liaden overlords of trade.' ”

“Replacing both of those groups,” Er Thom murmured, “with itself?” He sighed. “How is it that Boss O'Berin—whom I allow to be a canny man with a careful eye to his own best health—how is it that he has failed to notice the incursion of this group into his territory?”

“Because they're wingnuts,” Aelliana explained, proud to have remembered Clarence's precise terminology.

Er Thom stared at her, before looking again to Daav.

“A wingnut is a small bit of hardware which is used to cap a screw.”

“Technically correct,” Daav admitted. “However, in the vernacular usage, a wingnut is a person of lamentable understanding who is unlikely to be able to find his way, unaided, out of a paper bag.”

“Ah. I am to understand from this that Boss O'Berin knew of the group's presence, but unfortunately underestimated the level of threat they posed to his operations and to the pilots on the port?”

“That fairly states the case.”

“Now that he is aware, what does he . . . ” Er Thom paused. “No. Let us return to a former point. How came these . . . persons . . . to have your personal name?”

Daav sighed. “You will understand that Kitten is not a philosopher, nor is she disinclined to do a bit of freelancing from time to time. It would appear from the transcript that the Terran Party has taken strong exception to my gift to them of the gene maps from Grandmother Cantra's log book, and has offered a bounty. So far, they are the only organization to have paid the least attention. I suppose I ought to be gratified.”

Er Thom frowned. “We had known it was a risk, which is why the gift was sent anonymously.”

“Yes, and that makes for interesting speculation. Who informs the Terran Party?”

Daav was becoming agitated; the peace that the Healer had put on him was beginning to fray. Aelliana felt it, and did not approve.

“Perhaps,” she said, stroking his hair back from his forehead, and sending Er Thom a hard glance, “the Terran Party is not entirely comprised of wingnuts.”

“Now, that,” Daav murmured, “is a truly terrifying thought.”

Something was wrong. She—he—they felt a pain—a contraction of the belly and—

“Aelliana.” Daav sat up, his arm around her shoulders.

“No,” she gasped, around a second contraction. “Daav, you are making yourself ill.”

“Not ill,” he said softly. “The child has decided, I think.” He took a breath and she felt him focus, his attention like a breath of cool air on her face, which was suddenly much too warm.

“Brother, of your kindness, go ahead of us and summon the Healer.”

“Yes,” Er Thom agreed, and was gone, running at pilot speed.

“No,” Aelliana said. “It's too early, van'chela . . . ”

“Not so early as that,” he murmured. “Now, I am going to carry you, my lady. I pray you will bear with me.”

The contractions were coming closer together now, and she remembered this part, with sudden vividness, with the med tech hovering, concerned for her pain, and she thought—she remembered that she thought, But every step of the getting here has been pain, what else should there be at the end?

The med tech, that was it, and her husband, sitting where she could see him, whenever she opened her eyes. Just that, the med tech and her husband, and the air stitched with pain. The med tech had called for a Healer, she remembered that, too.

But the Healer never came.

The pain struck again, like a wave—isn't that what they had said it was like? A wave? Arcing high and higher, milky green, with lace frothing at the fore, she remembered that, too, from when they had—and then it vanished, like snow, not like a wave at all, and someone was talking, very softly, so that they wouldn't wake her, but she wasn't asleep, she could hear them perfectly well. They were talking about sending him away, just into the next room, so that she would not be endangered—and he was going—

“Daav!” She tried to sit up, reaching—he caught her hand; she felt the power of their bond, buoying her like a leaf atop the next wave.

“Your lordship, you must leave,” the Healer's voice was urgent. “I cannot give her what she requires from behind a shield.”

“No.” She gripped his fingers. “Daav stays. The Healer may—the Healer may be excused.”

“Aelliana,” he murmured, taking her other hand.

She opened her eyes, and he was there, kneeling beside the birth-bed. She looked up into his face—he was worried, exalted, wary, adoring—she saw it all; felt it all. “The Healer is here to make the birth easier for you, beloved,” he said. “You do not wish to begin your relationship with our child in pain.”

“Our child,” she panted, meaning to say that they had both made him and ought both to welcome him, but there came the next wave—a towering monstrosity that reared its back halfway to OutEight, and she a leaf, floating atop. “Stay, van'chela. You do us well . . . ”