CHAPTER SIX
Jelaza Kazone
Surebleak
Dinner done, the two repaired to his brother’s office. Val Con poured a glass of the jade for each.
Rys sipped—and sighed, as much for the finish as the vintage.
“Will you start a vineyard?” Val Con murmured, so softly it could have been his own thought.
Rys moved the glass, and watched the wine swirl.
“As it happens, one of my sisters—an avid gardener—has brought me into an endeavor with grapes. It is very much in the nature of an experiment, and I do not entertain . . . very high hopes of the outcome. Still, the subject interests her, and it would be unbrotherly, to refuse what aid I can give.”
He raised his eyes and met Val Con’s gaze.
“Truly, I never thought to work among the vines again.”
“And I had never thought to remove Korval to Surebleak. You may yet discover a grape hardy enough for the climate, which can be made into something drinkable. I mention this, as your brother, for our cellar will not last forever.”
Rys laughed. “I see that you mean to be a tyrant.”
“Only when necessary. And, now, if it is not precipitate—will you tell me how I may serve you?”
For a moment he had no answer, for surely there was nothing he wanted, or needed, that was not provided by the kompani . . .
Then he remembered himself.
“I have a gift for you, Brother.”
Val Con raised his eyebrows. “A gift?”
Rys nodded, and reached into his vest for the three tiles in their silver frame, the whole no larger than his palm.
Val Con moved forward, but he did not take the gift. Instead, he looked closely at the palm on which it rested.
“Am I permitted to say that your hand is a work of art, Brother?”
“Beautiful and fully functional.” Rys smiled. “Rafin insists that his creations be both. Truly, I am fortunate in my brothers.”
“As I am fortunate in mine. Now, tell me—what is this? An ornament?”
Rys shook his head. “It is a dream.”
He drew a breath, trying to slow himself, but the fever—temporarily cooled by the demands of courtesy—the fever was upon him again, to see the thing well on its way, now that he had completed his part, and he rushed onward.
“I will tell you that the gift comes to you only so that you may use it in the service of those . . . those others, who are yet what we were, and who are held in your care.”
Val Con’s face closed like a door slamming.
Rys gasped—and shook his head even as surety rose. Those who had been held beneath the Dragon’s wing . . . surely he would not, who had been . . . who knew—and yet, what choice had he, with a clan to keep, his resources straitened . . .
He was beginning to shiver, and his eyes were damp again. The hand and arm that Rafin had built for him could not tire, but the dream chimed softly against his metal palm.
“Peace.”
The tiles were plucked from his hand, and a warm arm slipped ’round his shoulders. He was guided downroom and pressed softly into a chair. The glass was taken from his hand and placed on the table at his elbow.
“Peace,” his brother said again, settling into the chair opposite. “You caught me on a new wound.”
“Forgive me,” Rys murmured, while he mourned them in his heart, who had not had the chance . . . He had been too slow!
Val Con moved a hand in dismissal. “It was nothing you could have known,” he said, and held out the tiles. “Now, please, tell me what you have done. I will undertake not to become the ogre.”
It was useless now; those he would have benefited gone ahead, as Silain would have it, into the World Beyond. Yet, he reminded himself, Korval had captured eight only; the Department enslaved many multiples of that number. Perhaps there would be others . . .
“Rys?”
He looked up, startled out of his thoughts, and smiled wryly.
“Your pardon,” he said. “I would order myself, but you see how it is with me.” He picked up the glass from the table at his side, and sipped, letting the wine soothe him.
“So.” He met Val Con’s eyes once more.
“After you released me into the care of my brothers, I had time to think while Rafin repaired the leg brace, and created my new arm. I thought . . . a very great deal about what you had said to me, on the occasion of our last meeting—that we two alone have broken the Department’s training and won back to . . . to some semblance of our former selves. And I realized what I—what we—had done, in order to achieve it. I . . . prayed with my brothers, and with the luthia, who taught me the art of dreaming. When I was proficient, she guided me—in very small sessions, for to relive what I had done was . . . distressing in the extreme—she guided me in making this dream.”
He leaned forward, holding his brother’s gaze.
“I believe that it can be used to . . . to offer a moment of choice, such as came to me, to those still in thrall.” He paused, and added, softly, “I regret, very much, that I have come too late.”
But Val Con’s eyes were bright with tears, and he was shaking his head. “No,” he said, his voice low. “You have come in good time.”
“But—”
“The decision was upon us—tomorrow, the delm would have sent their word. There seemed no other choice.” He raised the tiles again. “You have brought me a choice.”
Rys stared, suspended between disbelief, joy, and anguish. He wanted to dance; he wanted to weep. In the end, he sipped his wine, and recruited himself to calmness, and looked up again to meet his brother’s eyes.
“You agree, then, that the question must be put?” Somehow, he had never doubted it: of course, Val Con would wish to liberate the agents, if it were possible. There was debt.
He—they—had done so much that was terrible; lives ruined, lives cut short—if either of them attempted an honest accounting, their debt books would be soaked in blood. But here was a chance to Balance the harm they had done . . . surely that would compel a bold-hearted man who had once, perhaps, been kind?
“Of course, they must have the chance—and the choice,” Val Con said. “May I review this thing you have made?”
“Yes, certainly!”
Val Con held the dream up between them, the silver frame gleaming like ice in the yellow light.
“What protocol for access? I lack an Old Tech reader.”
Yes, of course. Rys reached again into his vest and brought forth the box and cable Pulka had constructed.
“This is an adapter.” He displayed the cable link. “My brother Pulka believes that it will jack into a standard sleep learner. The tiles are inserted here.” He showed the box.
“Ah.”
“You may also—Silain-luthia herself offers this—you may also at any time come to her and dream in her own tent. She naturally guarantees the safety of my brother.”
“Of course.”
There was a long silence, while his brother apparently took thought. And well he might think long and deep on this chancy gift, Rys thought.
“Well,” Val Con looked up with a faint smile. “I will—and I suspect that you will also—need to talk this business over with Miri. How fare you, Brother? Are your reserves high, or would you rather engage with your sister my lifemate come morning?”
Rys stopped in the act of reaching for his glass and looked up into serious green eyes.
“Tomorrow morning would mean another trip out from the city, which I would rather not—”
Val Con moved a hand, cutting him off.
“In either case, you will of course guest with us tonight. Your room has long been made ready for you.”
He thought to protest, but, really, it was only sensible that he rest this night in his brother’s care. Especially as he suspected that he would have a companion on his return to the kompani.
“If we speak with her tonight,” he said, to his brother’s waiting eyes, “we may make an early start, tomorrow.”
Val Con laughed.
“Well spoken, bold heart! Finish your wine, then, and let us seek the lady in her parlor! On the way, we will stop in the kitchen, and you will tell Mrs. ana’Tak what she must put into a basket for your grandmother.”
There came a knock at the door to their suite. Natesa was still drying her hair, so it was Pat Rin, his own hair still damp, who opened to Mr. pel’Tolian and the cold dinner.
“Thank you,” he said, and stepped aside, experience having taught him that he would not be allowed to take the tray and bear it halfway across the room to the table. Mr. pel’Tolian had standards, which included the close-held belief that those of the serving clans served. Any attempt by Pat Rin to take the tray would be seen as nothing less than a usurpation of Mr. pel’Tolian’s proper duty.
The tray disposed, his man turned, but did not immediately depart.
“Because I refused to disrupt your evening by putting her call through to you, I was charged with the message that Chief Security Officer Lizardi wishes you to be aware that a person named Kipler attempted to incite a riot at the Bazaar this afternoon. He is being held at the Whosegow, awaiting the pleasure of the Bosses. A courier will soon deliver the tape of the interview. I agreed to take charge of it myself and be certain that it was on your desk tomorrow morning.”
A riot in the Bazaar imperiled the port at large: crews, ships, workers, business . . . Pat Rin bit his lip, wondering if he ought to call Liz, just to . . .
The rustle of fabric caught his ear, and he looked aside, to spy Natesa just inside the doorway to the ’fresher, her sun-yellow robe yet unbelted, and her hair tousled from the towel.
He turned back to his henchman with a small bow.
“Thank you, Mr. pel’Tolian,” he said. “I will look forward to reviewing the tape after breakfast.”
Mr. pel’Tolian did not so far forget himself as to smile; he conveyed his satisfaction with this reply with an austere salute—to the lord of the house it was, and moved toward the door.
“Good evening, Master Pat Rin,” he said. “Good evening, Ms. Natesa.”
The door closed soundlessly behind him.
Pat Rin strolled over to the table—the tray bearing enough dinner to feed them for a week, comprised entirely of favored foods, and the requested two bottles of Natesa’s favorite, from the cellar.
“I’ll pour, shall I?” he said, and reached for the wine knife.
His brother’s lifemate was found in the so-called “ruckus room,” with the heir. Mother and child were on the floor: the child crawling in energetic circles, the mother observing progress and offering the occasional dry comment on form.
She had waved them to her, and they joined her on the resilient carpet, the baby altering her course toward Rys.
“That’s polite,” Miri said, approvingly. “Lizzie, this is your Uncle Rys. Rys, be careful; she’s a menace. Don’t let her near your hair.”
He smiled, and extended his natural hand.
“Hello, Lizzie,” he said in Terran.
The child paused in her forward motion to consider his fingers; after a moment, she resumed her progress.
“Talizea ignores Liaden as well as she ignores Terran,” Val Con said from his side. “I would not have you consider her unpolished. Also—yes—mind your hair.”
“She’s gonna grow up talking some language all her own,” Miri said. “Taking bits of that and more bits of t’other, whichever fits best. Never mind not knowing what her name is.”
“I grew up in a three-language household,” Val Con said, “and no harm came of it.”
“If you say so.”
Lizzie had reached his knees, stopped, and rocked backward until she was sitting, looking up into his face. Her eyes were moss green.
“Is there a thing I ought do for you?” he asked her in Low Liaden, as one spoke to children. His chest tightened as she leaned forward and patted his knee. Though he had not given the clan his heir before the Yxtrang destroyed all, there had been children in the house—the heirs of his sisters, brothers, and cousins. He had been fond of children.
This time he extended only his natural forefinger and Lizzie wrapped all of her fingers around it.
“You are strong,” he said, waggling the finger a little. “Be careful not to break me.”
She laughed, and squeezed harder.
“What is that, a necklace?” Miri asked, and Rys looked away from the child for a moment, as Val Con bent forward and placed the tiles in her hand.
“Rys has made a brother-gift,” he said. “This is a dream, cha’trez. It has . . . the potential, so he believes, to rehabilitate those we hold in our care.”
There was a pause, growing longer, while Miri considered the thing she held. Rys held his breath. He had not considered that Korval’s delm might be . . . divided on the matter of the agents’ fates.
“I think that I have not seen a dream before,” she said, her Low Liaden cool, and carrying the accent of Solcintra. “However, I have seen tiles like these, and I have been warned away from them.”
“They do seem to be Old Tech,” Val Con answered. “Rys’s kind brother, Pulka, has created an adapter that he believes will allow the tiles to function with a standard sleep learner.”
Another pause.
“I think I am about to learn that this is not something that will simply be administered to the agents.”
“It would be best, I think, if I reviewed it, before . . . administering it.”
“Of course you do.” She turned to Rys. “Is it necessary that he review this . . . protocol?”
He met her eyes, which were chill as fog rising from mounded snow. “Not . . . necessary. Prudent.”
That drew a laugh, and a shake of her head. “Prudent. What is this?”
“It is an immersion protocol; it is how the Bedel learn from the past, or from another’s unique experience. We say, ‘I will dream on it,’ when we wish to learn; thus, the means of learning becomes a dream, in the language. I have myself dreamt . . . several times, and taken no harm. I believe that the equipment is not . . . quite Old Tech.” He offered her a smile.
“The Bedel can make anything. It is possible that a brother saw an Old Tech learner and said to himself, ‘I can build that—I will build that! But I will pull its teeth, and win its heart, and make it a part of the kompani, so it will never seek to harm us.’”
“Silain-luthia extends the safety of her tent for my dreaming,” Val Con said. “Thus, I would be using the proper equipment, rather than an adapter that—no disrespect to Pulka!—may not precisely interface with the House’s learning units. In addition, I would be in the care of the foremost expert on, and the possible ill effects of, dreaming on the planet.”
“And if it breaks you, in spite of all this care?”
Lizzie shouted, her voice high and clear. Scarcely thinking, Rys bent forward and gathered her against his shoulder with the arm that Rafin had made. She pounded on him with tiny fists, then grabbed a handful of his hair.
“You are strong!” he said, reaching up to work her fingers loose.
“Warned you,” Miri said, in Terran, and returned to her lifemate.
“You notice I ain’t trying to talk you out of this harebrained stunt. But I want assurances. Rys Lin pen’Chala.”
He froze, his fingers and Lizzie’s tangled in his hair.
“Yes.”
“You come to this house,” she said, and it was High Liaden now, chill and clear. “You come to this house bearing that which you know will not be turned aside. You come at a time when we are beset, when our numbers are reduced, and when those of us who are left are hounded by an enemy who will not call truce. Do you guarantee the proper function of this device?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Then hear me. If you fail to return Val Con yos’Phelium to his clan, alive and unharmed, your life is forfeit to me and to my will. Do you agree?”
It was usual to ask for sureties in the event of a risky undertaking. A life for a life was not particularly unusual in such matters. If Val Con died of the dreaming—but he would not. There was no risk, or very little.
And thus no reason not to give his word.
“I agree,” he said. “If my brother Val Con is rendered unable to return to his clan or his duty, my life belongs to the surviving delm, to dispose of as she finds good.”
She held him for a moment inside that long, foggy stare, then nodded once, and looked again to her lifemate.
“Let’s show Rys to his room,” she said. “He must be tired, after all this excitement.”
Which was, he thought, finally working his hair free from small, grasping fingers, a clear indication that Val Con still had many questions to answer, and of a sort that were best not heard, even by a brother.
“Yes,” he said gently. “I am tired, and would welcome my bed.”