Skyblaze

Pinbeam Books

http://www.pinbeambooks.com

This is a work of fiction. All the characters
and events portrayed in this novel are fiction or are used
fictitiously.

Copyright © 2011 by
Sharon Lee
and
Steve Miller
. All rights
reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or
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without permission in writing from the author. Please remember that
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First published in 2011 by SRM,
Publisher.

ISBN 978-1-935224-12-9 Kindle

ISBN 978-1-935224-13-6 Nook

ISBN 978-1-935224-14-3 PDF

Published April 2011 by

Pinbeam Books

PO Box 707

Waterville ME 04903

email [email protected]

Cover art copyright © 2011

SKYBLAZE

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Skyblaze

Solcintra
,
Liad

It was
perhaps a nonsense phrase, but around fares and administrivia
Vertu dea'San Clan Wylan, who was in fact Wylan Herself, delm of
her small clan, allowed it to amuse for most of the early shift,
finding the ease with which it shifted between Terran and Trade,
with at least some meaning attached to it, an instructive
counterpoint to the utter inability to phrase it properly in any of
the modes Liaden provided.

Somebody ought to do
something
.

It was the ''ought'' of
course, providing the information that
melant'i
required an action without
indicating in which direction it flowed, nor from which necessity,
nor from which source, the ''somebody'' being a particular problem
for the Liaden sensibility.

The phrase had become common recently, the
port being unusually beset by Terran travelers left behind or
inconvenienced by this or that ship, change of schedule or sudden
re-routing -- and had today intensified with the sudden advent of a
large vessel full of boisterous mercs with only the most modest of
language resources among them.

Not that they -- tourists
and travelers and mercs every one -- weren't good for business,
especially at the hours when they were the only business, but they
tended to want
something to be done
about signs in Trade or Terran where clearly they
were on a Liaden port and should expect Liaden custom to
prevail.

It was, Vertu acknowledged to herself, true
that the two places most likely to be accessible to non-Liaden
speakers were the elegances of High Port, and the depths within the
shadow of the Tower -- Low Port, where small businesses, some
barely above begging shops, trembled to bring in every last coin,
not disdaining Terran bits or other Terran custom.

This insight came to her as she finished a
bowl of noodles and cheese with the last sip of wake-up tea from
the corner shop that supplied her meals whenever she had the shift
-- the insight that she too, did not disdain Terran bits.

For that lack of disdain
she supposed she would forever be among the last and least to
receive invitations or acknowledgment from the Council, but there
-- she was Wylan, and would remain so for some time, and in that
she was secure. She did her best to keep the clan, and if it had
meant that over the relumma she'd opted to add respectable Terran
and Trade lettering to her vehicles, and to choose the larger
rather than the most elegant, and if
Most
Serene Travel Experience
became
Wylan's Port Taxi
in
translation, so be it. That the High Houses disdained her survival
was not her concern. That they expected her to bow to them out of
other than necessity was absurd.

Well, perhaps she ought to bow, just for
practice.

With that thought she bowed vaguely in
direction of Korval's distant Tree, it being the closest point she
could see that was not of the port and thus not of the Council, and
turned on the comm-retrieval, in case there was commerce.

*

The pecking order at the taxi line was
nearly immutable, with latecomers -- meaning those firms or clans
with three generations or less experience -- sitting on the second
line for manual wave-ins, while those older, the ''holding clans''
who had permanent transport licenses with no expiration date,
shared the first line in an intricate dance Vertu could call, but
whose logic was born of something other than service to the
traveling public.

Clan Wylan ought,
perhaps,
not
be
be among those called latecomers, being not recent to the trade,
but to the location, but there -- that was an old battle, lost some
generations back when a racing park gave way to manufacturing in a
slyly executed move by an Olanek -- and the Balance for it would
come from someone else, for her need upon retrieving the Ring from
the insensate hand of her predecessor had been to preserve the
clan, which to this point she had done.

The current Wylan license would grow to a
holding license in only another twelve Standards; Vertu's personal
goal was to take that first drive for the clan and retire, her duty
done, with daughter to take up the Ring. But for now, within her
clan, port duty went first to the one who'd had least of it within
the last twelve-day and she'd been the lucky one for some time,
finding on-call work from the Scout back office, from the Binjali
repair shop, from people traveling anywhere but to or from the
port's pick-up line.

For that stretch of good fortune, she today
had the on-port line while her daughter Fereda did the outer routes
and her no-longer halfling son Chim Dal still likely partied his
night off with friends who might well make him late tomorrow
morning. Ah, to have such energy -- and such friends! -- as he
did.

Dutifully, Vertu pulled her taxi into the
secondary line, watching the first line's ballet as they accepted
or neglected fares. A quiet shift, she was perhaps seventh in line
as she waited, allowing the car's music system to wake up the day.
Soon she was sixth, and then fifth, and fourth . . . fourth behind
three drivers sitting for the morning meal as they waited.

That, of course, was one of her advantages
-- she did not eat nor game while on wait, nor drink, smoke, or
chat for more than a moment or two with other drivers -- and so she
was not in the wrong to move forward when the manager of line one
waved frantically at line two, despite the shiny row of on-duty
line ones, all disdaining the next fare.

And so, there must be a reason.

She blinked as she pulled to the front, for
the ''next fare'' was not one but two uniformed mercenary Terrans
and their luggage. Clearly too large for many of the top-end cabs
even without their hand-carry, with it they would have needed a
moving service, or indeed, a multi-cab like the very one she
drove.

The Terrans nodded to her, and the darker
one held out a Unicredit card as she slowed to a stop.

She popped the doors, intending to assist,
but they hustled into the cab without aid, depositing their luggage
between them, the dark one still holding the card out.

''We need to visit this address,'' he said
in what might be flawless Trade, but who knew, after all, Trade
being a language without a home. He pulled out a folded sheet of
hard copy which he held for her to see, adding, ''We may be some
time at the location.''

She bowed a slight acknowledgment, pointing
out, ''Traveler, time and distance are what I charge for, and so we
are Balanced.''

She accepted the proffered card and waved it
at the reader, which happily beeped and accepted the charge, for
one Howler Higdon, if she read the transliterations correctly.

''Soonest is better!'' the larger of the two
said.

''Yes,'' she agreed, ''soonest is always
better.''

*

Unusual to say, the address was one she'd
never delivered to before -- in fact, she barely recognized the
sub-quadrant, much less the crossroads, and was pleased to find the
vehicle map knew more than she did. The quadrant was hardly one
visited frequently by anyone, especially not sudden Terrans but she
accelerated away from the line at a heady pace, wondering what they
might want to see in the overgrown semi-wild sections of
Solcintra's abandoned old lands.

The in-cab camera showed the Terrans at
peace with themselves, watching the trip with interest but
unconcern, quiet. She'd anticipated perhaps a visit to a brothel,
or a gambling hall, or even a shopping extravaganza -- not any of
them out of the way destinations for Terrans, in her experience.
This was perhaps even beyond the last unusual request she'd had --
a Terran starpilot demanding a direct ride to Korval's holdings --
but there, she'd learned from that trip to take the money, drive. .
.and let the traveler take care of the details.

Routed through minimum traffic once away
from the spaceport exit, the cab quickly passed through the usual
areas of tourist interest -- the largest buildings, the gaudy
town-house estates of the most overreaching High and Mid-Houses,
the quaint rows of elegant shops where the rich shopped, the
fastidiously landscaped inner and mid-parks, the --

The Terrans spoke low among themselves, and
if the language was any she'd ever been schooled in it was not
recognized by her ear at this level, at this cadence.

''Your pardon, driver.''

She glanced to the screen, found his eyes
waiting.

''Does the Serene Taxi Agency employ other
vehicles? Might you be able to summon more if need be? Of this size
or larger?''

She blinked, which he must have seen -- he
had enough Liaden to see the true-name, and hence to read her own
on the driver-slot. Not, perhaps, a common Terran, here . . .
.''

''I have several cars in my service,'' she
admitted, ''though availability depends upon prior routings and
arrangements. Have you an immediate request -- does your friend
need another destination?''

That made the dark man smile and the larger
man chuckle.

''No, driver,'' the larger
one said. ''It is that, if we find our destination as we envision
it, we may wish to invite others to an event.'' He paused, glancing
with some meaning she did not grasp to his companion, who
suppressed a smile as he continued, ''The word for such an event
is
picnic
in
Terran, or call it a lunch-fest, perhaps, in Trade.''

She had Terran, to an
extent, and this word
picnic
had come to her along with others of use to her
trade and security --
rob
,
take
,
orgy
,
bash
. . . . The destination they
had chosen seemed an . . . odd . . . place for a picnic.

''Ah,'' she said, to indicate that she had
heard, but not wishing to add more. She watched the city wind down
to the true old houses and abandoned shells of things long left to
the elements as Greater Solcintra had grown. Some of the area
actually belonged to this or that clan, other parts had been early
communal areas built shortly after Landfall and ostensibly under
the benevolent oversight of the Council of Clans. They called much
of this area a park, but as so many things the Council did it was a
convenient sop to appearances rather than a reality to be enjoyed
by the average Solcintran.

Here, when they arrived, was a sharp corner
leading into a sudden ridge top. There was a short cross-street;
perhaps buildings had adorned each end at some distant moment in
history. After that came a turnabout overlooking hills falling away
so sharply that at least one of them might be called a cliff, hills
that fell in green profusion to wild streams and scattered rock
below. It was in its way even more unregulated than the wilderness
around Korval's valley, and a little disquieting, for it showed
dissolution rather than desolation. The edge of the turnabout
nearest the cliff lacked a buffer or curb, and there were marks
there as if someone used the spot to push unwanted items into the
ravine.