"Ship and owner had best be in this Yard when I return with the proctors!" With which awful threat he exited.
Clonak collapsed against Frad's chest, wailing with delight.
"Why, why, oh
why
would you not let him stop for Master Binjali?" He gasped, clutching the taller man's shoulder for support. "Only think how lovely it would have been to dust him and water him and turn him to face the sun—" He subsided into howls of merriment.
Frad patted his head absentmindedly and set him straight on his feet. "All right, darling. Get a grip, do, and think why Pilot Caylon's nadelm wants to seal her ship."
"Random act of cruelty," Clonak said promptly. "Did you see that mouth? Spoilt. Ill-tempered, too. And those shoulders, all held thus!" He demonstrated the rigidly level shoulders, screwing his face up in a very passable imitation of the nadelm's look of outrage.
"Yes." Frad stared at the floor, thinking. The nadelm had been
angry
. One would almost suppose him to have not the least understanding of yesterday's flight. And yet, it
was
Liad and local custom was plain: A nadelm had the right to order a lower-ranked clanmember—unless the delm intervened.
"She probably forgot to give him his proper grace at breakfast," Clonak commented, moving back toward the vector-engine, "and he's taken a pet. You know the sort. Something else will annoy him between here and Port Authority and he'll forget all about the proctors."
"Yes," said Frad again, and sighed lightly. The Port Master would make very short work of Ran Eld Caylon's pretensions—which was no guarantee that the nadelm would not return to Binjali's. He was, in Frad's opinion, already on the outer edge of sensible and a scold received of the Port Master would not likely return him to reasoned judgment.
"Did Jon say when we might expect to have the joy of beholding his face?" he asked, shaking off a sudden chill and walking back toward Clonak and the repair.
Behind him, the crew door cycled wide.
"FOUR MINUTES SOONER
and you'd have met the personage!" Clonak shouted gleefully.
Aelliana frowned, looking from him to—Frad, Daav's especial friend, who had been at their table last evening. "Personage?" she asked.
Clonak thinned his mouth, scrunched up his shoulders, and announced, in haughty accent: "Nadelm Mizel!"
She felt her knees go to rubber, staggered and snatched herself upright.
"Ran Eld, here!" she stared at Clonak, who had let his caricature fade into a look of genuine dismay. "Why?"
"He wished to see you," Frad said calmly.
"Wanted to seal your ship," Clonak added. "Told him he needed the proctors for that. Last seen, he was on his way to Port Master, where it's my belief he'll take delivery of one of her thundering scolds."
"He wanted to seal my ship," Aelliana repeated, blankly. "Ran Eld knows nothing about my ship! I—" She swallowed, looked up into Frad's face. "It was on the news wires," she whispered. Her heartbeat was a hollow roaring in her ears. "Yesterday's lift."
"I expect it was," he said, voice neutral. "You seem unwell, Pilot, is there—"
"It's nothing . . ." She gasped, pressing damp palms together. "I—forgive me. I must think."
The two Scouts exchanged glances.
"Pull up a stool and think away," Clonak said, almost serious. "Shall I bring you a mug of tea, Goddess?"
"Thank you, no," she managed and went numbly toward the clustered stools. She hoisted herself up on the first she came to and closed her eyes, hands gripped along the edge of the seat. After a moment, and another mute exchange of worry, the Scouts drifted back toward their work.
Ran Eld
. Aelliana ground her teeth to keep them from chattering. Ran Eld,
here
—demanding her presence, demanding her ship be sealed. Her heart wanted to scream that it could not be so. Her mind was made of sterner stuff.
Fact: She was discovered.
Fact: Ran Eld would exact his price. Perhaps he would even beat her, as he had in the days just after her marriage, to reinforce her subservience.
Aelliana shuddered. She had no illusions regarding her ability to withstand such treatment: She would surrender
The Luck'
s keys willingly, if they were the coin that bought an end to her punishment.
Options. One: Run. Leave now, lifting for the Liaden Outworlds, and hope the luck smiled sufficiently for her to find cargo and contract before her outlawed condition became known.
Objections: She would be leaving Jon dea'Cort and all his shifting crew open to Mizel's Balance. A very creditable case of kin-stealing could be shown to the Council of Clans, in settlement of which Jon might easily lose his yard, while Daav, Trilla, Clonak and Frad might find themselves called clanless . . .
No. She would not call disaster down upon her comrades.
Option Two: Submit to Ran Eld's wishes and hope, in time, to appease him sufficiently that she might live in tolerable peace.
Objections: Prior testing proved this application failed of success.
Option Three: Go home and put her case before the delm.
This was risky. Historically, Mizel championed her heir in any dispute. On several occasions, such as the matter of Aelliana's marriage to Ran Eld's friend, Mizel had allowed herself to be guided entirely by her son's advice and refused to hear any other.
Balancing history was an indication that of late the delm had softened toward her middle daughter. If she were clever enough to show the profit a working ship might bring to the clan—many times over the single gain of a sale . . .
An imperfect solution, but the best she could fashion, for the best good of herself and her comrades. The clan's fortune had not been—robust—of late, despite Voni's marriages. Mizel might very well be receptive to the addition of a new source of funding.
Aelliana opened her eyes, slid off the stool and crossed to the busy Scouts.
Two pair of eyes immediately lifted to her face.
"I am going home," she said, and wished her voice sounded steadier; that she felt more certain of a happy outcome. "You may tell my brother so, if he should come again. I—he will not trouble you further."
Clonak cleared his throat. "Trust me, Goddess, he was no trouble to us at all, despite that Frad would not allow him to await Master Binjali."
"You might stay an hour or two," Frad put in. "It seemed to me that your nadelm was—very angry. Perhaps it would be best to allow him time to cool."
She looked at him straightly. "Ran Eld does not cool, thank you, Pilot. If he has—if he has reached so high a pitch as you say, it is—best—that I return home and put the matter before the delm."
"Hah." Frad looked at Clonak. "Local custom."
"Local custom," the pudgy Scout repeated, but there was a frown between his taffy eyes. "Still it might be better, Aelliana, to stop until Jon returns. Or Daav does."
"That's the card you want!" Frad said, leaning forward. "Call on Daav's assistance, Pilot. Surely, he—"
"No!" she said sharply. Frad blinked and flicked a look to Clonak, who nodded and reached for a rag.
"Then I will come with you," he said, with unClonak-like firmness, "and see you safe before your delm."
"No, you shall not." She drew herself up and mustered a glare. "You do not understand how spiteful—should my brother consider you have thwarted him, he will do his utmost to ruin you." He continued to wipe his hands, entirely uncowed by the prospect of ruin. Aelliana bit her lip.
"Indeed, Clonak, you must not come with me. I—my nadelm several times has ordered me to—to absent myself from the company of Scouts. I have not obeyed and it would . . ." She faltered.
"It would," Frad took up, "make matters immeasurably worse, were you seen to be championed by a Scout." He shook his head, mournfully. "Pilot, take advice. You want Daav for this. He can mend the thing in a thrice."
"No," she said again, and reached into her pocket, pulling out the bank envelope and thrusting it into Clonak's hand. "If you would, however, see that Daav receives this, when he does arrive for his shift? It is his share of yesterday's lift-wage. And . . ." She yanked the chain over her head, ship keys jangling as she pressed those, too, on Clonak.
"Please, ask Jon to hold these for me. I will—say that I will come for them—myself, or . . ." She drew a hard breath. "Or my copilot may claim them, should he have need."
Clonak stared at the items in his hand. "Aelliana . . ."
"No," she said for a third time. "Truly, friends, it is better so. I will—Good lift, pilots." She turned and ran, not waiting for their well-wishing in return.
Kin and love
Comfort
Home.—From
Collected Poems
Elabet pel'Ongin Clan Diot
SHE SOUGHT THE ship's Healer,
who listened, probed, and laid salve upon her pain, so that all was well. Until she slept again.
Twice more, Samiv tel'Izak sought the Healer. The third time, he denied her.
"I eradicate the memory of the dream, Pilot, but, when you sleep, you dream again. To eradicate the memory which
causes
the dream—that I might do. But in a situation such as yours, where the pain-matrix or referents to the matrix will be shortly re-encountered, eradicating the older memory—and what defenses you have thus far built—serves you ill, and the Guild counsels against it."
"And what cure does the Guild counsel?" she inquired, voice grating in weariness.
"An old cure," the Healer said softly, "and a harsh one. Confront that which gnaws at your soul, stare into its face and achieve what Balance you may."
Harsh, indeed. She left the Healer and sought her immediate superior. She informed that serious and ship-wise pilot that lack of sleep and stress of spirit made her an active danger to ship and crew; that the Healer had no succor.
Her superior did duty, cancelling what remained of her contract, which was required, as a matter of ship's safety, and would show in her permanent Guild record. He also commended her for exemplary service and expressed willingness to see her under his command at any time in the future, which would also find a place in her record, and fell on the full side of Balance.
Samiv signed the separation paper, removed her effects from quarters and twelve hours later was walking out of Solcintra Guildhall, pack slung over a shoulder, and her heart cold with dread. Confront her fear, indeed.
And then there was one's delm to consider.
STEP BY STEP,
Aelliana forced herself home, hands fisted in the pockets of her old blue jacket.
Her feet faltered at the corner of Raingleam Street. She drove herself onward, shaking.
The delm. It was her right, as one of Mizel, to ask a hearing and justice of the delm. She could not be refused this.
Her hand touched the gate and her knees locked, so that she stood for an entire minute, unable to go on.
The delm,
she told herself.
Lay all before the delm . . .
Her hand moved, the gate swung open. She entered Mizel's front garden, closed the gate behind her and walked, step-by-step, to the door.
Three wooden steps to the porch; a touch of her hand to the lock pad.
"Good afternoon, Aelliana." The luck was out. And yet it was her right, to ask, to be heard, by her delm.
She bowed, so low that her forehead touched her knees, and straightened only somewhat, eyes fixed humbly on the faded pink stone of the foyer floor.
"Good afternoon, brother," she murmured, though the words seemed like to choke her.
"So respectful," he commented, rising from his chair in the stair-niche. "Indeed, the very portrait of subservience, drawn with rare skill. I confess myself charmed—but no longer deceived."
She did not raise her head. She did not move. Barely did she breathe. Ran Eld's boots came into her range of vision: They were dusty and scuffed; the right bore a stain of oil along the instep.
"You keep to your character?" he inquired, voice poisonously sweet. "But perhaps you are correct! We are so open here that anyone might chance to see, should you choose to fly your true colors! I suggest we adjourn to the parlor. After you. Sister."
"I have—urgent—need to see the delm," Aelliana said, staring, staring, at that scuffed, stained leather. "Pray conduct me to Mizel at once."
"The delm is from house," Ran Eld purred. "She returns tomorrow, midday." There was a pause, in which she felt his gloating like rancid grease across her skin. "The parlor, sister. Of your kindness."
There was no help for it. Shoulders slumped, eyes lowered, steps mouse-light across the old stone floor, Aelliana entered the parlor. Ran Eld's footsteps gritted noisily behind her. He crossed the threshold and closed the door with a bang, striding to where she waited in the center of the room, eyes on the nap-worn carpet.
"Look at me!" he shouted, augmenting the order with a savage yank of her hair.
She ground her teeth, imprisoning the cry, and met his eyes.
"So . . ." Satisfaction settled in her brother's face. "Have you truly forgotten the old lesson, Aelliana? Do you no longer recall what I had done to you, the last time you challenged me?"
"I remember."
"Ah, she remembers! But where is the failing note in the voice—the twisting together of the fingers? She remembers, but appears to discount the memory. Perhaps she takes comfort in the Delm's Word! What was that promise, Aelliana?"
She stared at him, recalling all of what he had caused to be done to her. He had boasted of it, after, and spoken of such things as made it certain that he and the contract-husband had spent many delicious hours, planning how best to harm her.
"You know well what the Delm's Word was," she told him, and heard the acid in her voice with dismay.
"Ah, but of course I know!" Ran Eld returned, in high good humor. "But you will tell me, Aelliana, because I have commanded it. As nadelm, it is my right—indeed, my duty!—to command you. Surely, you cannot have forgotten that."
She took a careful breath, trying to still her body's shaking, which was all of long-pent fury and hatred, and nothing whatsoever of fear.