Шарон Ли - Agent of Change

"She hired herself as bodyguard to one who was himself outlawed, slaying in this capacity many of my kin. Her life is ours to take, though she was never a member of the Juntavas."

"She is not your kin, Justin Hostro, yet you pass judgment and seek to mete punishment?" Watcher looked at the T'carais worriedly: he did not like that note in the old one's voice.

"That is true," Hostro said.

Edger moved his massive head back and forth. "You baffle me, Justin Hostro. It is not so that we deal among Clans. Let me be plain, that there be no tragic misunderstanding between us: The woman Miri Robertson and the man Val Con yos'Phelium are adopted of the Clan of Middle River's Spring Spawn of Farmer Greentrees of the Spearmaker's Den. It is true that they are young and sometimes over-hasty in their actions. Possibly, they have wronged you in some manner. As Elders of our Clans it is our purpose to determine what harm has transpired and what balance may be made. My Clan is an honorable Clan; we pay what is owed. We are a well-traveled Clan and as such have found it good to allow other peoples their customs.

"But know, Justin Hostro, that whatever wrong they may have done you, the knives of these two are not yours to take. If they are judged after deliberation to deserve death, their own kin shall deliver that punishment, not the Clan of the Juntavas. Is this thing clear to you?"

"The Juntavas," Hostro snapped, "is a mighty Clan. We take what we will, as we see fit. Including the knives of the kin of the Spearmaker's Den."

Majestically, Edger rose from the chair. Watcher dropped his hand to his blade.

But the T'carais inexplicably stayed his hand. "You are of the Clans of Men," he boomed, "and thus hasty. Hear me further: In our history was there a Clan that meted judgment to a member of the Spearmaker's Den, against all tradition and without justice. Two persons from our Clan were thus dispatched to construct balance with this renegade family." He paused, taking the half-step that put him at the edge of Hostro's desk.

"The name of that Clan is not now written in the Book of Clans," he said slowly. "Nor is that combination of traits any longer available to the gene pool. Think, Justin Hostro, before you take the knives of any of the Spearmaker's Den."

Hostro did not speak. Wipe out an entire family? And he had claimed the Juntavas as family—countless thousands, yes. But those of the Clutch lived two thousand years and more . . . .

"Have you heard me, Justin Hostro?" Edger asked.

"I have heard you."

"It is good. However, it has come to my notice that those of the Clans of Men have memories shorter even than the span of their years. Allow me to leave you a reminder of our talk." The Clanblade was then in the hand of the T'carais, flashing down—to slice clean into the steel of Hostro's desk and stand there, quivering.

Justin Hostro managed to stare calmly at this for a moment before raising his eyes to Edger's.

"As Edger for my Clan, Justin Hostro, I know that our blades are worthy—the youngest no less than the eldest." He reached forth a hand, plucked the knife from its nesting place, and returned it to its sheath.

"Think on what we have spoken of, Justin Hostro. I shall return to you in one Standard hour and you may tell me what you have decided, so that we may talk further. Or begin to feud." He turned toward the door. "Come, Watcher."

Abruptly, they were gone, leaving Mr. Hostro to gingerly finger the razor-edged gash in his desk.

* * *

ONE JUMP BACK from Volmer, a dead ball of dust circled a cold sun, bands of rubble marking the orbits of what had been three—or even four—additional worlds. The sensors reported nothing else.

Borg Tanser gave the order to initiate second Jump.

Chapter Twenty

THEY EMPTIED A box containing dehydrated escargot and filled it with dried eggs, vegetables, a quarter-wheel of cheese, dried fruits, and tea. There was, to Miri's vast disappointment, no coffee.

"What's wrong with Edger, anyhow?"

Val Con grinned. "Possibly he did not expect you—and I don't like coffee."

"Don't know why you didn't take him up on that offer and stay," she said, shaking her head. "I'd sure hang onto anybody took that much care of me."

He bent to add a package of cocoa and another of dry milk to their supplies. "I didn't become a Scout in order to stay in one place all my life."

Miri shut up. She knew she was on dangerous ground and she wasn't feeling up to any danger just then. "See any bread?" she asked.

He straightened, frowning at the boxes piled high on all sides. "I don't think—" The frown lightened, and he pointed at a carton by her right hand. "Will crackers do?"

"Suits." She pried open the top, hauled out a metal tin, and handed it to him, trying to not see that yellow and turquoise sparks were raining over her hand. "That okay for awhile?"

"It seems to be enough food for a day or two," he said dryly. "Do you mind waiting here a moment? There is something else . . . ."

"No problem." She waved him off, retrieving the bottle they had been sharing from beside a case of sardines. "But if I'm drunk when you get back, you gotta carry me home."

He grinned. "A fair bargain," he said, and then the towering boxes swallowed him.

Miri settled on the floor next to their supply box and closed her eyes, wine bottle forgotten in her hand. The ship had been in drive for—what? Four hours? There were only another four to live through. You're that tough, ain't you? she said to herself.

Her thoughts settled on Val Con, where they tumbled like the colors in floor and walls. Talk to me when the drive goes off, huh? she thought. What the hell does that mean? Damn Liadens. Never straight with anybody ... She shifted sharply, setting the bottle aside without opening her eyes, and revising her opinion of whether she could sleep for three weeks.

She might even have drifted off, for she was not aware of his return, nor of the hand that hovered for an instant over her bright head before he took it away and sank to his knees before her.

"Miri?" He spoke softly, reluctant to disturb her, but she started violently, eyes snapping open, shoulders tightening—and relaxing instantly.

Silently, he offered three things for her inspection.

The first was recognizable through its flowing iridescence as a portable 'chora. The colors of the second thing writhed and shimmered too much for her to wrest sense from them. And the third—

She took it from him, shaping her hands around it to be sure, then brought it to her mouth, blew a ripple of notes, and sawed them back and forth. She looked up to find him grinning, and she grinned back.

"I ain't asking, notice, how you knew I play harmonica."

"Is that its name? I had never seen one before. I thought perhaps you might know . . . ." He was still smiling, delight showing in his bright green eyes.

"Harmonica," she affirmed, rubbing her fingers over the smooth metal sides. "Also, mouth organ." She squinted at the unidentifiable something. "What's that?"

He turned it over in his hands. "A guitar. I think. Something with strings and a soundboard, at least." He came smoothly to his feet and slid the two instruments into the food box. "Would you like to put the harmonica in here as well?"

"Do—" She frowned at him, loath to give the mouth organ up. "It's Edger's, ain't it? I better put it back."

Jerkily, she came to her knees, then stopped, because he was in front of her, hands out, inches from disaster.

"Miri, if it gives you pleasure, keep it. Edger named you kin, and this ship is Clan property, belonging to all equally. If you would repay Edger for the gift, play for him when next you meet."

"I don't steal from my friends," she insisted. "And Edger only said I was his sister because of—" She caught herself, dropping her head into her hands. "If this ain't the stupidest damn way to make a space drive!"