Mouse and Dragon

Liaden 11 - Mouse and Dragon

Chapter Twenty-One

Happy is one who finds a friend on every port.

—Liaden proverb

The norbear's name was, reportedly, Hevelin, and he had once “been employed,” as Daav had it, at a Traveler's Rest or a Guild Hall, or some similar establishment, possibly in the Far Out.

Daav had the grace to admit without much prodding from her that this information, while interesting, was . . . rather vague. He had also some hours later been prompted to say that he knew of a person whom he thought “might answer.” Hevelin, on the occasion of this individual being . . . described to him, or felt at him—Aelliana sighed, for the dozenth time retreating before the problem of how one communicated with a creature that had no language, excepting an extremely nuanced vocabulary of emotion.

However it was done, Daav's description of this personified solution had excited Hevelin's interest.

Which was why they were here, on Staederport, walking, guns on belts, in the warm, slightly sticky rain, down a thin street crowded with tall Terrans. Aelliana clung to Daav's side, he being taller than she, though in comparison to the company they moved through, even he seemed . . . undergrown. Still, he had the trick of claiming space upon the walkway—a particular way of holding the shoulders, and a certain swagger in his usually smooth gait—and neither she nor the bag he carried over his shoulder were unduly jostled.

“Here we are,” he murmured, turning them in toward a grey storefront like all of the others they had passed.

No, Aelliana corrected herself—not like all the others. The autoscroll over the door of this establishment read, in alternating Terran and Liaden: Guild Temp Office. Accepting Applications and Upgrades.

A buzzer sounded as they entered a small room bisected by a counter holding several screens and a large green plant.

“Be out in a sec!” a voice called from beyond the screen on the far side of the plant.

Daav put the case on the counter and propped an elbow on it. Aelliana climbed onto the tall stool at his side, resisting the temptation to lean against him. She was not, she told herself, afraid.

Perhaps, she was a little uneasy, but surely that was reasonable? Although she spoke the language—enough, at least, to be understood—she could not feel but that her grasp of culture, especially in regard to what might be held as an insult, was firm. Of course, she thought, shifting carefully on the stool, it was that way among Liadens, also. One could not hope to know the necessities of a stranger's melant'i, and error was always possible. It was absurd to have felt as if she was at home on Avontai, only because it was a Liaden world. She had no more call upon grace from a Liaden than a Terran.

A shadow moved behind the screen, and an apparition stepped up to the counter. He was tall—she had expected that. What surprised her was how broad! He made two of Daav on the vertical and three on the horizontal! His hair was confined to a hand-wide bristle of black along the very top of his skull, and his skin—crown, face and hands—was ruddy and freckled.

“Mr. Peltzer,” Daav said in Terran. “Just the man I'm wanting.”

The big man put his big hands flat on the countertop. “Well, now. Maybe that's not as disturbing as it sounds at first hearing,” he said, and jerked his head toward Aelliana. “Standing sponsor?”

“Pilot Caylon holds a card,” Daav murmured. “But yes, a sponsor in some suit.”

“Pilot Caylon, is it?” The big man looked at her with renewed interest, and inclined his head with gentle courtesy.

“Pilot, I hope you won't think it's rude of me to say so, but I'm glad of the opportunity to thank you in person. Those Revisions of yours saved my bacon at least twice that I know of, and probably more that I was too space-brained to recognize.”

He held a big hand out in her direction, palm up.

“I'm Bruce Peltzer, Circuit Rider for the Terran Guild.”

His face was earnest; plainly he was offering courtesy, and she gathered nothing from her lanky copilot save a relaxed amusement. She glanced down at his hand, held steady and patient, raised hers and placed her palm against his.

His skin was warm and slightly moist, as was everything she had thus far encountered on Staederport.

“Happy I am to meet you, Pilot Peltzer,” she said, forming the Terran words with care. “I am Aelliana Caylon, Pilot First Class.”

He smiled, briefly covered their joined hands with his free hand and released her before she had time either to take offense or to become alarmed.

“Well, then,” he said, turning his attention back to Daav. “If you're not sponsoring this pilot, why are you here—and should I have you thrown out?”

“Perhaps you should,” Daav said cordially. “But before you call the guard, allow me to present to you Hevelin, who stands in need of a position.”

He opened the top of the case and reached inside, placing the norbear on the counter midway between himself and Bruce Peltzer, keeping his hands in a loose semicircle about the plump creature.

“I represent him to you as an individual of exceptional character: observant, polite, and able to recall what he has observed. He has, I believe, been previously employed in an establishment similar to this one.”

He lifted his hands away, leaving Hevelin to face the large man alone. For a long moment, they regarded each other, the norbear standing tall on his back feet, the man with his elbows folded atop the counter, his head tilted, brow knit in concentration.

“Hevelin, huh?” the man asked, without looking away from the object of his study.

“So he has said,” Daav murmured.

“Sharp, too. That's good. Where'd you get him, Smokey?”

“Pilot Caylon rescued him from a crowd on Avontai Port who were bent upon murder.”

“Be just,” Aelliana protested. “A pilot in peril, I saw. Of norbears, what did I know?”

“Avontai's no place for a norbear,” Bruce Peltzer said. “Where'd the pilot who had him get him?”

“That,” Daav said, “we were unable to determine. The pilot was in need of medical—and other—attention. We delivered him to the Healers, thinking to find sanctuary for Hevelin there, as well—”

The big man snorted.

“Precisely. We were encouraged to depart—quickly—and as a life was the stake, Pilot Caylon made haste to do what was necessary.”

Daav extended a finger to touch a round, furry ear. “From himself, I received the dream of previous employment and a desire for more of the same.”

The other pilot was silent for three heartbeats, then gave a gusty sigh. “That pilot must've been stupid as stone, taking him onto the port.”

There was a tremble in the air; Hevelin stiffened where he stood. Aelliana slid her hand across the counter toward him, meaning to offer comfort. He flicked an ear and reached down, enclosing her forefinger in a surprisingly strong grip. For a moment, it seemed as if there was something more than the norbear's wariness trembling on the edge of her awareness, then it faded and she looked up into Bruce Peltzer's watchful eyes.

“Ill,” she said, not quite knowing where the word, or the conviction, came from, yet certain that it needed expression.

“Ill,” she repeated and moved her shoulders. “Needing more comfort than gives a norbear.”

The big man nodded, slowly.

“Well, he seems a likely yoster,” he said. “Couple things remain before I can accept him permanent. First being, does he take to me like he's apparently taken to Captain Smoke and yourself?”

He extended a large hand, palm up on the counter—and waited.

Hevelin stood very still, gripping Aelliana's finger. For a heartbeat, she thought he would dash away and scramble back into the safety of the carryall. She felt a thrill then, of what might have been determination, and her finger was released. Dropping to all fours, he bumbled across the counter with his usual cheerful insouciance and climbed into Bruce Peltzer's hand.

“Bold lad. Let's you and me get acquainted, eh? Maybe you can tell me a little more about your previous circumstances.” He looked at Daav.

“If you pilots would like to take an hour's tour of beautiful Staederport, or stop over at the Repair Pit for a bite to eat? I'll have something to say when you come back.”

Daav inclined his head. “Of course.”

He stepped away from the counter, leaving the bag where it was. Aelliana slid off of the stool, and hesitated, looking once more to Hevelin. He did, she allowed after a moment's study, seem to be engaged and not at all nervous. That was good.

She turned and followed Daav out into the warm drizzle. Behind them the door sealed with a loud snap.

Startled, she turned.

The autoscroll now read: Closed for lunch.

* * *

Daav scanned the street, finding no dangers more immediate than becoming waterlogged in the incessant drizzle, and glanced at his companion. She was, he thought, ridiculously appealing with her rain-flattened hair and drop-spattered face, despite which he sensed that she was about to tax him hard.

“You have a question, Pilot?” he murmured.

“In fact, three,” she answered, holding up her thumb. “What is 'bacon'?” Forefinger. “Why does he call you 'Smokey'?” Second finger—“Why should we be directed to a garage for lunch?”

Well, it was not an unreasonable list, he conceded.

“If it is all the same to you, I propose to address the last question first, as I am most wonderfully hungry.”

“So long as they are all answered, sir, and no stinting on the count!”

He grinned. “I will do my best to keep every card in play,” he promised, looking about them again. The very casualness of the suggestion argued that the Repair Pit stood close at hand; that it had been mentioned specifically, surely indicated that Bruce felt it to be a reasonably secure haven for two pilots new on-port, and who were also Liaden.

“Ah.” He'd spied the end of a scroll message in the gap between two shops. “Just a very short walk, and I believe we may satisfy our—or, at the least, my—craving for food.”

Aelliana fell in beside him without comment. She kept watch, too, also without comment, and he smiled again, with pride of her. At this rate of gain, she would be as port-wise as any courier might need to be inside of two relumma.

Not, he reminded himself, that they were to be traveling so long. They ought, indeed, to turn their wings toward Liad, as soon as Hevelin's affairs were settled.

“Daav?” Aelliana put her hand on his arm.

“Ah, your pardon! I was thinking how delightful it will be to again raise the homeworld.”

She snorted lightly, eloquent of disbelief, but all she said was, “Of course. Now. You were answering three questions, without stint, beginning with the third.”

“I don't know how it is that I keep forgetting that you are a teacher,” he murmured. “However, I will not be seen to step back from my word! The answer to the third question is that 'Repair Pit' is—a joke, Aelliana. A play on words.”

He might never be able to share her thoughts, but he could—and did—feel her thinking, sorting through her store of Terran words and meanings, fingering each as if it were a bright stone . . .

“So one repairs to the Repair Pit in order to repair the deficiencies of hunger and thirst,” she murmured, slowly. Then, more quickly, her voice bright with excitement: “It is another multiple meaning!” She tucked herself closer against him, her fingers tightening on his arm.

“At first, you know, I had thought Terran a flat language, with all of its information on the surface. It is . . . delightful to find that I have been wrong, though it is somewhat difficult to know how to fathom the depths.”

“That is precisely what makes learning a language so perilous,” Daav murmured. “For one must have the culture, in order to understand that there are depths. Often,” he added, looking down into her luminous face, “the depths are treacherous.”

“Certainly they must be! And the assumption that one has—or has not—understood the whole of the information being granted . . . ” She sighed. “It seems to me that the Scouts set themselves an impossible task, van'chela. How can you hope to fathom all?”

“No one ever fathoms all; even the most astute of native speakers sometimes err. It is . . . often . . . enough to be aware of the depths, and to tune the ear for nuance.”

They paused to let a lorry clear the street, then crossed to the entrance of the Repair Pit, where Aelliana was disposed to dawdle, observing the windowless exterior and the scrollbar over the door.

“It only displays in Terran,” she commented.

. . . and thus they might be looking at a subtle warn-away, Daav thought, pleased that she had caught the hint.

“We may go elsewhere if you like,” he said. “I will say that I do not believe that Pilot Peltzer would send us into a situation he considered to be less than secure. It is, however, the pilot's choice.”

Once again, he caught the intensity of her thought, then she nodded, once, in a gesture she had undoubtedly learnt from Anne.

“I am hungry, too,” she said. “Let us by all means accept the pilot's suggestion.”

“Now,” Aelliana said after they had found seats in the crowded room and entered their meal selections into the data board bolted to the side of the table. “The next question, if you please.”

Daav glanced around the room, admiring Bruce Peltzer even more than he had done previously. The place was set up as a garage with multiple workbenches. Each table ordered through the data board; the meals were delivered via a slightly lunatic conveyor system. There was no reason for those seated at one work bench to interact with the occupants of another. Thus, one might be certain of one's own space, one's own custom, and one's own language over the meal. Such an arrangement greatly reduced opportunities for taking—or giving—offense.

“Daav . . . ”

“The next question—what is bacon?” he said, turning back to her with a smile. “Bacon is a condiment—a cured meat served in thin strips, hot. However, in the usage 'saved my bacon,' it is meant that one's life was preserved.” He held up a hand as her lips parted. “I do not know how one leaps from the first to the second, and can only in this instance repeat what I have been told by a native speaker—in fact, by Pilot Peltzer.”

She sighed, clearly unsatisfied, but . . . “We shall, of course, abide by the pilot's explanation. Though I believe I will ask Anne when we return home.”

He grinned, picturing the conversation. “Do that.”

A discreet clatter drew his attention to the conveyor belt, where two trays were on course for their table.

“Our meal approaches,” he said.

“Smokey?” Aelliana asked, before she had even sampled her “Rimrunner's Stew” or her lemon water.

“A call-name,” he said promptly, eying his “Space Jockey Special.”

“Yes, but—why not your name?”

The absence of utensils argued that the foodstuff on his plate was intended to be addressed with the fingers, though he scarcely knew how he was to escape without becoming well sauced, indeed.

“My name was unknown in the initial transaction,” he said, picking up the first overflowing bun gingerly. “And one must call a man something. Also, there appeared to be a complaint regarding my comportment, in that I kept fading in and out, like smoke. I was inclined to put that aspect of things down to the head injury, myself, but one must not be churlish in these matters.” He glanced over to Aelliana, who was holding her spoon near her mouth, an expression of not-entirely-pleasant surprise on her face.

“How is your meal?” he inquired politely.

She took a deep breath, lowered her spoon and reached for her bottle of lemon water.

“The word may be 'decisive,' ” she said. “I had not expected something so warm. And yours?”

“I have not yet recruited my courage,” he admitted. “Hold but a moment.”

He assayed a small bite, finding it not bad; the sauce sweet, but not overly so, and the filling agreeably chewy, despite being every bit as messy as he had feared.

“Not inedible,” he told Aelliana. “If you cannot support yours, take from mine, do. I cannot imagine that I can accommodate the entire plate.”

“Perhaps the second spoon will be less surprising,” she said, determinedly. “After all, one cannot always have toasted cheese sandwiches.”

Daav laughed. “Now that,” he said, “is not a very Liaden outlook.”

“I suppose it isn't,” she agreed, and assayed her soup again.

“The yoster and me have reached an accord, and he'll be staying on,” Bruce Peltzer said. He nodded at the green plant on the counter. “I'll be doing better for him, of course, but for now, he's taken that for his bunk. Last I saw, he was having a bit of a nap, but if you'd like to say your good-byes . . . ”

“I see no reason to disturb his dreaming,” Daav murmured. “He'll recall us, and we'll recall him, each for as long as we can.”

“That's right.” The big man cleared his throat. “I didn't do any better getting a fix on his previous bunk. Seems clear he was lifted, though, and took off without permissions.” He shook his head. “Boy that took him had some troubles—like the pilot said, more than a norbear could fix. They were both lucky you two happened by.”

“Work he will do for you?” Aelliana asked. Bruce looked to her.

“Don't you worry, Pilot, I'm not going to let him slack off! Norbears are useful to have around the place. Not only are they what you might call a calming influence, but they're real good on knowing when somebody's thinking about walking out a hatch without a suit. You don't often get 'em as sharp as Hevelin; he's going to be a real asset to the circuit rider's office.”

“Good,” Aelliana said, and Daav heard the tears in her voice. “We do well for him.”

He reached out and took her hand. “We've done what's best for him,” he said, and gave Bruce Peltzer a grin. “And for you, too.”

“I'll allow a good turn,” the big man said comfortably, and stuck his hand out. “Good to see you again, Smokey.”

“And you.” Daav put his palm against the other man's, watching as it was swallowed and released. “Fair travel, Pilot. Walk carefully, port-wise.”

“That I'll do—and the pair of you, as well. Pilot Caylon, it's an honor.”

“Thank you,” Aelliana said, inclining her head slightly. “Good lift, Pilot.”

“Safe landing,” he replied.

They were passing a bookstore on Duty Free Street, all but in sight of The Luck, when the unanticipated happened.

The door opened as they strolled by; Daav registered the impression of an ordinary-seeming Terran of perhaps an affluent habit, his belt innocent of weaponry, and a package with the bookstore's name emblazoned upon it cradled against his chest.

In a word: harmless.

Hand in hand with his pilot, his love, Daav took a step.

“Professor!” Excitement, only that. Nothing to concern one.

Daav took another step.

“Professor Kiladi, wait!”

There was no excuse for it; the merest Scoutling might have acted with more finesse. His heart stuttered, his step faltered . . .

. . . he snatched his hand away from Aelliana's.

“Professor!”

Discovered, he thought, after all these years. And yet, the thing might still be recovered, if only you can rally a bit of credence, Daav.

Slowly, an expression of what he devoutly hoped was cool and slightly offended curiosity on his face, he turned. Aelliana, who must have felt that first jolt of horror as clearly as if it had been her own, turned with him, her face wary, and one hand on her gun.

The man approaching them, already out of breath with his hurried dozen steps, was younger than Daav, his pale hair glued to his head by the rain. His eyes were tight at the corners, as if he spent long hours before a text screen, or bent over the pages of books. He came on, oblivious to Aelliana's threat, a smile of purest pleasure on his not-entirely-forgettable face.

“I beg pardon, sir . . . ” Daav said, suddenly recalling the face as it had been, much younger, rounder, less drawn—third row, second quadrant, he thought. Dobson. Chames Dobson.

“ . . . you have the advantage of me,” he concluded.

The man paused at the proper distance for speech between non-kin, Daav was pleased to note, and performed quite a credible bow to the master.

“You are Jen Sar Kiladi, are you not? I—of course, out of so many students, you wouldn't remember me. Chames Dobson, sir. I was in your class on comparative cultures at Searston University, and it—” He blinked, and appeared at last to see the man who stood, broadly puzzled and perhaps losing patience, before him; his leather well worn, and his partner standing at backup.

“I . . . It is I who beg your pardon,” he said slowly. “You—you might be his brother, sir, but I see that I am in error. You are not Jen Sar Kiladi. Please accept my apologies for disturbing your peace, Pilot.”

“Please,” Daav said, carefully, as would a man who had been surprised, but after all not threatened, and by one who had some grasp of proper manners. “It is a simple error. I have made it myself, when on a strange port, and hoping, perhaps, to see a friend.”

Dobson's face relaxed into a smile, and for a moment he was entirely the earnest young scholar he had been.

“Yes, exactly. I just got word—well. Say that circumstances brought him to mind—and I wished that I could share my news, and tell him how much his teaching had meant to me. Then I saw you as I came out of the bookshop . . . ” He shook his head, half amused, half regretful, and stepped back, lifting his free hand politely.

“Safe lift, Pilot.”

“I thank you. May your day embrace joy.”

Chames Dobson turned and walked off, a trusting man.

Daav braced himself for the question that, alas, was not long in coming.

“Who,” Aelliana asked sternly, “is Jen Sar Kiladi, and why did you lie to that man?”

Back | Next

Contents