Lee, Sharon - Liaden 11 - Mouse and Dragon

Liaden 11 - Mouse and Dragon

Liaden 11 - Mouse and Dragon

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Liaden 11 - Mouse and Dragon

Chapter One

The delm is the face and the voice of the clan, representing the interests of the clan to the world and solving those problems presented by the members of the clan. The clan's whole honor and melant'i reside with the delm.

—Excerpted from the Liaden Code of Proper Conduct

On balance, Daav yos'Phelium thought as he strode down the hall toward his office, it had not been one of his better solvings.

Oh, it had produced the desired result—he was free of a marriage that could only have ended in tragedy, and had preserved the sanity of a fine pilot in the bargain. Surely, on first glance, it were done well enough.

On second glance, however, it was a shambles of a solving, unworthy of one who had stood as Delm of Clan Korval for five heartbeats, let alone very nearly five Standard Years.

Clan Bindan held out to society's gossip, and himself to ridicule—those outcomes concerned him not at all. He did regret that he had not been able to entirely protect Samiv tel'Izak, who had until scant hours ago been his affianced wife. But his failure to shield Aelliana—his pilot!—from the eyes of the curious and the tongues of the malicious was clumsy beyond excuse.

“Really, Daav,” he told himself, his voice muted by the wooden walls, “you might have had a better result from Shan.”

Alas, that his small nephew had been abed just when his advice had most been needed.

He opened the door to his office with rather more force than was necessary and was nearly at his desk before he registered the presence of another person in the room.

Stride unchecked, he glanced over his shoulder, where Master Trader Er Thom yos'Galan sat before a card table fetched from the game closet, his port comm open, and a neat stack of papers resting on the rug at his side.

“Good morning, brother,” Daav said, his voice brittle in his own ears. He moved 'round the desk and slapped the computer up. “Has your lifemate barred you from your own office?”

“My own office,” Er Thom replied crisply, “would not inform me immediately you had arrived home.”

Daav dropped into his chair, fingers flashing across the keys. “You might have left a message,” he noted, his attention more than half on his screen. “I would have called.”

“Would you? Is it ill-tempered to note that last evening you failed of calling—and this morning, as well.”

Oh, Daav thought, hearing the thread of anger beneath the precise words.

“You will think it a poor enough excuse, but last evening there was no time to call. A life hung upon speed.”

“Were you speedy enough?” Er Thom inquired.

“In fact, I was not,” Daav answered, splitting his screen into quarters and assigning a task to each.

Er Thom was heard to sigh.

“Delm Guayar came to me this morning,” he said.

Daav closed his eyes. Guayar had been his weapon of choice, whom he had primed with news of scandal, and aimed at Bindan. The other delm had done his work thoroughly, and had doubtless enjoyed the doing of it. It was not, however, to be expected that he would keep such a fine story in his vest pocket. Most especially not when Bindan could be expected to very soon shout the whole of it to the stars. Of course, he would next impart his news to Er Thom, who was, after all, Thodelm yos'Galan, heir to Delm Korval, and Daav's cha'leket. Not only would Guayar enjoy retelling the tale, but it would seem to him a kindness.

“All honor to him,” he said, opening his eyes. Guessing his pilot's size, he ordered the jacket, and directed it to Chonselta Healer Hall, priority.

“All honor to him,” Er Thom echoed, dryly. “Indeed, he did much to prepare me for The Gazette.”

Daav's fingers stilled; he looked down at the keyboard. The Gazette. Yes, certainly. “Brother, I confess all: I am an idiot.”

There was the sound of a chair being set back and a rustle of clothing as Er Thom stood.

“I would hardly say that,” he commented, his steps soft as he came behind Daav's chair. “Surely it takes a certain genius to create quite so . . . comprehensive a muddle?”

Despite the fear roiling in his gut, Daav shouted a laugh. “Wretch.” He returned his attention to the screen, fingers moving once more.

“What do you?” Er Thom asked, the chair shifting as he crossed his arms on the back. He leaned forward, his cheek next to Daav's, his attention likewise on the screen.

Terror wrenched Daav, so potent that his fingers stumbled.

“My pilot requires proper clothing,” he said, voice tight. “Her own could not have survived the night.”

“Ah.”

There was silence while Daav ordered ready-mades: a robe, shirt, sweater, trousers, undergarments. As with the jacket, he must need guess her size, but he could hardly do worse than the clothes her own House had seen fit to give her. After a moment's hesitation, he admitted that the boots were beyond him. Well, he thought, and if he must carry her to the nearest cobbler, she was no great weight.

“Tell me, brother.” Er Thom's breath was warm against his cheek. “Does Korval now speak for this pilot? Aelliana Caylon, I should mean.”

“I am her copilot,” Daav grated. “It is nothing less than my duty to see her properly clad.” He closed his eyes. “At least that.”

“Yet,” his brother persisted, “the pilot has kin on-planet. Surely—”

“She will take nothing else from that House!” He gasped against the jolt of anger, and bowed his head, staring at his fist resting on the keyboard, and the shine of Korval's Ring on the third finger of his left hand.

“Daav?”

“I am her copilot,” he said harshly, “in a hostile port. Her kin—her brother!—did his utmost to murder her, and nothing to his credit, that he failed.” He took a breath. “If he failed.”

“Surely, he had done so,” Er Thom said after a moment. “Else the lady would have no need of new clothes.”

“He—she was brain-burned. The Healers . . . were with her, when—finally!—we found her. It is possible that Aelliana as she had been has not, after all, survived.”

“I see.” The chair moved as Er Thom stood away. Daav heard his steps, approaching the card table. He spun, watching as his cha'leket plucked a sheaf of hard copy from the pile on the rug and came back to the desk.

“There is something else in The Gazette that will interest you, I think,” he said, placing the paper into Daav's hand. He hitched a hip onto the edge of the desk and used his chin to point. “Page eight.”

Clan news, that would be; listings of marriage contracts signed and contracts fulfilled; deaths; adoptions—

Deaths.

Daav riffled the pages, scanning the lists. Near the bottom of the third column, he found it:

Mizel grieves for the death of its son, Ran Eld Caylon.

There were no kin names listed, no indication of Ran Eld Caylon's standing within Clan Mizel at the moment of his sad passing, nothing to identify the instrument of his will, or the crime for which he had died. Merely that stern, sad statement, letting all the world know that Ran Eld Caylon had been cast out from clan and kin and was a dead man, metaphorically, if he had, indeed, Daav thought, managed to live out the night.

Daav raised his head and met his brother's serious gaze. “At least, they had enough honor to do what was needful,” he said, schooling his voice to something approaching temperance.

“Just so,” Er Thom agreed. He tipped his bright head. “It was well done to rid yourself of the marriage contract with Bindan,” he continued after a moment. “Shall I expect dea'Gauss?”