Mouse and Dragon

Liaden 11 - Mouse and Dragon

Chapter Forty

To be outside of the clan is to be dead to the clan.

—Excerpted from the Liaden Code of Proper Conduct

Daav yos'Phelium, once-delm of Korval, was dead—a matter of an error in the unrevised edition of the ven'Tura Tables, which, once embraced, had sent his ship tumbling into a sun.

Jen Sar Kiladi heard the news, but really, it was of but passing interest. More pressing was the need to find a position for himself—and that right quickly.

He had written letters, to colleagues, to former students, to rivals, begging their condescension and pointing them to his applications. He had fortunately gained a place for the coming term as an Expert Lecturer on Cultural Genetics at Searston University, thanks to the very kind office of a former student, now an influential alumnus.

He was bound there now, and how fortunate that he had indulged his whim, back when he was a graduate student and had time for such things as whims! A first class pilot's license was a useful tool, and if the good ship L'il Orbit was not as posh as some, it was everything that a research scholar who had lately taken the decision to bring his insights to the classroom could need—or afford.

He finished his last packet and queued it to send. He had one more to compile, then he could quit the wayroom and return to L'il Orbit. Time had gotten a bit tighter than he had wished and he was going to have to fly hard in order to reach his Expert Seminar by the date and time stated in his contract.

Kiladi reached to the keyboard, his fingers fumbling enough so that he botched his command. He sighed. He was very tired, but he dared not make use of the thin bunk provided. There was . . . only . . . this one . . . more . . .

He couldn't have been asleep long—the screen was still live when he blinked into consciousness once more.

Relief that he hadn't lost his search was quickly replaced in quick succession by puzzlement and joy.

A long string of dense math filled the screen, both familiar and all but incomprehensible.

“Aelliana?” He scarcely knew he spoke, his heart was beating so that he thought a rib might break. “Aelliana, is it really you?”

You are not, her voice said so strongly that it echoed inside his head, going mad, and I wish you will listen to me. We are lifemates, and I will never leave you, Daav. I swore it.

“So you did.”

He looked again at the screen. Almost, he could understand the premise, but the argument, while elegant, left him baffled. Clearly, it would require study—and if he were able to produce this sort of work while he was asleep, then madness was the least of his troubles.

It is not a perfect bonding, I think, she said. At first—van'chela, it must have seemed to you that I had truly gone. Everything was so strange, and you were so ill . . . When I learned how to make my voice heard . . .

“I denied you,” he whispered. “Aelliana, how has this—the Tree.”

It would seem so, she said. Daav?

“Yes?”

You must sleep before you fly, van'chela. Please.

Kiladi, he would risk, but—Aelliana? Not a second time.

“I will,” he murmured. “I promise.”

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Contents

Epilogue

Chancellor's Welcome Reception

for the Gallowglass Chair

Lenzen Ballroom

Administration Tower Three

University of Delgado

This is more tedious than receiving the guests at your sister's Festival Eve ball, the voice only he could hear commented.

It was fairly said, he allowed, bowing yet again, this time to a sandy-haired woman with trembling hands. As much as he might otherwise deplore her, even he acknowledged that his sister possessed impeccable taste.

The sleeves of the sandy haired woman's blue robe were innocent of braid, which marked her as junior faculty. Her name, which she offered in a trembling whisper, was “Irthyn Jonis, Comparative Mythology.”

“Scholar Jonis,” he murmured, and she smiled nervously, dipped her head and made an escape.

He straightened, one hand resting lightly on the head of his stick. A very good stick it was, black ironwood, collared in silver; the grip bound in leather, so that it would not easily escape inattentive fingers. Simple though it was, it signaled his status to others of the community, and was otherwise useful.

Do you think, asked the voice inside his head, that's everyone?

It might, he thought, glancing about him, very well be everyone. He hadn't counted, though he supposed someone might have. Dean Zorminsen was in deep conversation with First Director Verlin at some remove from the reviewing station where he and his auditor stood. Likewise, there were clumps of scholars all about, none seeming particularly interested in the new tenant of the prestigious—no, he was wrong.

Two junior scholars were coming toward him, arm in arm. Lovers, he thought, or at the least old and comfortable friends, one dark and rounded, the other angular, her hair a wispy, middling brown. They approached with firm steps, heads high, the dark-haired one allowing a pinch of cynicism to be seen, her friend openly curious.

Ah, said the voice inside his head.

The dark-haired scholar slipped her arm free and stepped forward first, showing him the palms opened like a book, which was the style here.

“Ella ben Suzan,” she said, in a fine, no-nonsense voice, “History of Education.”

He bowed the bow between equals.

“Scholar ben Suzan,” he murmured, committing name and face to memory.

She gave him a firm nod and stepped aside, tarrying a half-dozen steps out to await her friend.

“Kamele Waitley,” said the friend, bringing pale hands together to form the open book. “History of Education.”

Ella ben Suzan's voice had been fine, but to hear Kamele Waitley speak was to wish for her to speak again, perhaps to recite some poetry or—

“You are a singer, Scholar Waitley?” he asked.

Blue eyes widened, a flush stained her pale cheeks, and her shoulders stiffened beneath her robe. For an instant, he thought that he had overstepped the bounds of custom, but she recovered herself with a slight smile.

“I'm a member of a chorale,” she acknowledged. “Recreational only, of course. My studies are my life's work.”

“Certainly,” he said carefully, “study illuminates the lives of all scholars. Yet there must be room for recreation as well, and joy in those things which are not study. I myself find a certain pleasure in . . . outdoor pursuits.” The smile he offered was a mirror of her own.

“Outdoor?” She looked at him doubtfully. “Outside the Wall?”

He raised an eyebrow. “There is a whole planet outside the Wall,” he murmured. “Surely you were aware?”

Blue eyes sparkled, though her demeanor remained grave. “I've heard it said,” she replied. “But tell me—what manner of pleasure may be had outside of the Wall?”

“Why, all manner!” he declared, pleased with her. “Gardening, fishing, walking among the trees and growing things, watching the sun set, or the stars rise . . . ”

“Watching the sun set?” Another doubtful look. “That seems a very . . . fleeting pleasure.”

“I have heard it argued that the highest pleasures are ephemeral, and best enjoyed in retrospect,” he said, the voice inside his head crying out, Not so! “Though there are those of us who disagree.”

Kamele Waitley glanced to one side. Following her gaze, he saw that her friend had left them, moving away in the company of a tall, bluff scholar, the braid on his sleeve gleaming new, and felt a pang for her own loss of pleasure.

“Forgive me,” he began, but she shook quick fingers at him—a meaningless gesture, though for a split second he thought . . .

“I think we must have been the last faculty to introduce ourselves,” she said seriously. “Would you like a glass of the Dean's sherry?”

As it happened, he had previously had a glass of the Dean's sherry and found it execrable, though he could hardly say so—and besides, Kamele Waitley was still talking.

“I'd like to learn more about the pleasures of watching the sun set, if you'd be kind enough to teach me.”

It was, still, easier in the dark. In the dark, he could imagine that she was lying beside him, her voice a murmur accessible to the outer ears. Sometimes, in the dark, for whole minutes at a time, he could imagine her head on his shoulder, a silken leg thrown over his . . .

“Aelliana,” he said now, staring up into the darkness. “What are you planning?”

Planning, van'chela?

He snorted lightly. “No, that will not do, minx. Tell me—what necessity drives us to escort Scholar Waitley to a local sunset?”

She asked so nicely, his dead lifemate said. Besides, I like her. Don't you like her, Daav?

“She's well enough.”

Oh, clench-fisted, van'chela! she chided him. How has the scholar offended you?

He sighed, and closed his eyes against the darkness.

“The scholar is blameless,” he admitted, ashamed of his churlishness. “Indeed, I enjoyed our discussion, and would, I feel, enjoy another. She has a ready wit and seems not so bound by local culture as . . . others of my colleagues.”

“In fact,” Aelliana murmured, “she might well be someone who could become a good friend.”

“I did not,” he said tiredly, “come here to make friends.”

Indeed you did not. I only ask you to pity poor Professor Kiladi, separated from clan and kin, wholly unsupported in a strange and cloistered environment. A man in such circumstances might have need of a friend—or even two.

“Professor Kiladi is a fabrication, my lady . . . ”

Professor Kiladi has published widely, his scholarship is noteworthy, and his achievements undeniable, Aelliana said tartly. He is a work of art, van'chela; a work of art with a heart and a soul, sorrows and joys. You owe him at the least a brother's care, yet you drive him and make demands of him and allow him not a single joy or pleasure. I never knew you to be so meager, Daav. It troubles me. Indeed, it troubles me deeply.

Tears pricked his eyes—his or hers, it scarcely mattered. Nor did it matter that the fabrication of Jen Sar Kiladi had begun as a game; twenty years, three degrees, and dozens of scholarly papers, hundreds of students . . . Surely, Jen Sar Kiladi was every bit as alive as—as Daav yos'Phelium.

. . . or perhaps more.

Daav?

“Aelliana . . . ” he gasped, the slow tears suddenly fast and hot. “Aelliana . . . ”

He twisted, burying his face in the flat pillow, sobbing, and seeing it all, all again—the street, the flash, her hair swirling as she leapt to shield him, the blood, the blood . . .

Some time later, as he lay shivering and exhausted, he felt her stroke his hair, then slip close and put her arms around him. And so at last he fell asleep, imagining that she held him.

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Partial Liaden Lexicon

a'nadelm

Heir to the nadelm.

a'thodelm

Heir to the thodelm.

a'trezla

Lifemates.

al'bresh venat'i

Formal phrase of sorrow for another Clan's loss, as when someone dies.

benjali

Excellent.

cantra

Liaden unit of large currency, named for Cantra yos'Phelium.

cha'leket

Heartkin; a person for whom one feels a sibling's affection.

cha'dramliza

A Healer. plural: cha'dramliz.

chernubia

Confected delicacy.

chiat'a bei kruzon

Dream sweetly.

coab minshak'a

“Necessity exists.”

delm

Head of Clan.

delmae

Lifemate of a Delm.

denubia

Darling.

dramliza

A wizard. plural: dramliz (The dramliz . . . ).

eklykt'i

Unreturned.

Eldema

First Speaker (most times, the delm).

Eldema-pernard'i

First-Speaker-In-Trust.

Flaran Cha'menthi

“I(/We) Dare,” Korval's motto.

ge'shada

Mazel tov; congratulations.

Glavda Empri

yo'Lanna's house.

indra

Uncle.

Jelaza Kazone

The Tree, also Korval's Own House. Approx. “Jela's Fulfillment.”

Korval-pernard'i

See “Eldema-pernard'i.”

Megelaar

The Dragon on Korval's shield.

melant'i

Who one is in relation to current circumstances. also who one is in sum, encompassing all possible persons one might be.

menfri'at

Liaden karate.

mirada

Father.

miravot

Altanian wine; blue in color.

nadelm

Heir to the Delm.

nubiath'a

Gift given to end an affair of pleasure.

prena'ma

Storyteller.

prethliu

Rumorbroker.

qe'andra

Person of business, i.e. an accountant.

relumma

Division of a Liaden year, equaling 96 Standard Days. Four relumma equal one year.

thawla

Mother.

thawlana

Grandmother.

thodelm

Head of Line.

tra'sia volecta

Good morning.

Trealla Fantrol

The yos'Galan house.

Tree-and-Dragon

Korval; a reference to their clan sign of a winged dragon over a tree.

Valcon Berant'a

Dragon's Price or Dragon Hoard, the name of Korval's valley.

Valcon Melad'a Dragon's Way,

the Delm's Own ship.

van'chela

Beloved friend.

va'netra

Charity case, lame puppy.

Standard Year

8 Standard Days in One Standard Week

32 Standard Days in One Standard Month

384 Standard Days in One Standard Year

Liaden Year

96 Standard Days in One Relumma

12 Standard Months in One Standard Year

One Relumma = Eight 12-day weeks

Four Relumma = One Standard Year

THE END

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