Carpe Diem Read online

  "Huh?" Cheever frankly stared. "Hey, look—I mean, that's really nice and all, Mr. yos'Galan, but you don't need to put me up. I'll snatch a couple hours at the Port while I'm waiting for clearance—it's a borrowed ship, see? Turtle's deal was he'd pay for repairs to LucyBug if I delivered this stuff for him. Came into the bar asking for the hottest pilot there. I said I was—not bragging; stupid to lie to a turtle—and the rest of 'em said yeah, that's right."

  "I see. Very nice of the turtle. What was his name, by the way? My ghastly memory!"

  "Edger, he said to call him. Big somebody. Voice like to crack your eardrums." Cheever picked up the cup and gulped down the contents. "Real character, ain't he?"

  "So I've been told. But I really must insist that you guest with us, sir. It's the least we can do for the trouble you've gone to on our account! Do let me convince you!"

  "No, listen, that's—"

  "Shan?" The voice was soft, accented and thoroughly lovely.

  And the person who came with it was slim and small and golden and perfect. The violet eyes were huge in an adorable pointed face, framed by spun-gold hair. Cheever frankly stared.

  The diminutive goddess stared back, infinitesimal frown shadowing the smooth expanse between flawless brows.

  Into the growing silence swept Shan yos'Galan. "Ah, there you are, sister! Allow me to present Mr. Cheever McFarland, who has something he must deliver only to you."

  She bent in a bow so graceful that Cheever felt tears start to his eyes. "Cheever McFarland, I am happy to meet you."

  "And I'm ha—happy—to meet you . . ." Some nearly paralyzed grain of sense stirred. "I've got something to deliver to Nova yos'Galan, First Speaker of Clan Korval."

  "I am that person," she said softly. "You may unburden yourself."

  His hand started toward the inside pocket, then checked. "I'm sorry, but see—since I don't know you and all. Edger said I was to ask you to tell me your name."

  "My name." The frown line became more pronounced, and it was all Cheever could do not to go down on his knees and beg her not to tease herself about it; he would give her the damn package, if only . . .

  "My name," she began, quite seriously, "is Nova yos'Galan First Speaker-in-Trust Clan Korval, She Who Remembers, First Sister to Val Con yos'Phelium Scout, Artist of the Ephemeral, Slayer of the Eldest Dragon, Knife Clan of Middle River's Spring Spawn of Farmer Greentrees of the Spearmaker's Den, Tough Guy."

  It was music; it was angel-song. He could have listened to her voice for hours—days—years. It was inconceivable that he would ever tire of hearing . . .

  "Uh—yeah," he stammered, reaching in at last and drawing the thing forth. "Here you go."

  She took it gravely in small hands and bowed once more. "My thanks to you, Cheever McFarland, for the service you do Korval. Please allow Jeeves to show you to the guesting room."

  "Yeah . . ." he said again, and managed a rough bow, mere parody of her smooth perfection. "I'll, umm, I'll see you later."

  "We will speak again," she agreed.

  He glanced back once as he followed the 'bot down the hall, and saw her hands already busy at the sealing tape.

  LIAD: Trealla Fantrol

  "Cut that out!" Gordy brushed the screen, diverting Lady Pounce's attack from the cursor to his hand. "Cut that out, too! Dumb cat."

  She blinked angelic and slightly crossed blue eyes at him and tucked her paws neatly beneath her snowy chest.

  Gordy sighed gustily. "If you want to stay up there, you stay just like that. No more killing the cursor, hear me? I've got to finish this check."

  Lady Pounce slitted her eyes in amiable acquiescence and even purred a few notes, though Gordy did not believe a word of it. He turned his attention back to the gridwork of equations that represented the contents and balancing of the Dutiful Passage's holds. The grid had already been checked by Cargo Master yo'Lanna, who had generated it; by First Mate Mendoza; and by Captain yos'Galan. Scant chance Gordy would find an error missed by that seasoned team. Nor was there truly any reason for an associate trader to concern himself with administrative details, except that Shan insisted, explaining, with a sweep that drew all eyes to the Master Trader's amethyst on his hand, that there was enough knowledge in the wide universe that Gordy never need fear learning too much.

  Immersed in checks and cross-checks, he did not hear the light step behind him, and he started badly at the sudden hail.

  "Well met, young Gordon! How do you go on today?"

  Gordy's fingers jammed home three keys at once, eliciting a peevish beep as he spun in the chair, blood mantling his cheeks. "Oh," he said quellingly. "Hi."

  The slender, dark-haired gentleman performed a bow as exquisite as his clothing; to eyes unused to the nuances of such things, the movement was a confection of graceful delight. "Your enthusiasm does you credit. Indeed, the invariable warmth of your greetings has ever been numbered among my chiefest joys in our kinship."

  Sure it has, Gordy thought. He came out of the chair slowly, towering over the other man like a mountain over a molehill, and solemnly bowed the bow between Clanmembers.

  "Forgive me, kinsman," he said, the High Liaden words only slightly edged in Terran accent, "for the attention to my work that hid your approach and may have cloaked my greeting in less than cordiality. You must by this time in our association have the measure of my admiration for you."

  "Oh, very good," Pat Rin murmured, dark eyes gleaming. "Quite nearly a hit, I believe. Well done, young Gordon."

  Gordy ground his teeth, keeping face and voice smooth with an effort that became less with each trade deal he negotiated. "How may I serve you, sir?"

  "I seek your foster father, child. Is he within the house? Or must I languish upon Lady Mendoza's doorstep for a sight of him, like all the rest of the world?"

  Priscilla would have you arrested for vagrancy, Gordy thought savagely, while he politely inclined his head. "He was just up the hall, speaking to Jeeves."

  Pat Rin sighed delicately and flicked a wholly imaginary speck of dust from a moss-green sleeve, rings glittering on shapely fingers. "Speaking to the robot? But Shan will speak to anything, won't he? I've noted it time and again."

  "Shall I fetch him for you, sir? It would take but a—"

  "Pat Rin! Well met, cousin, how do you go on?"

  Gordy spun toward the door, face wreathed in disbelief.

  Pat Rin laughed his soft, malicious laugh and performed another beautiful, sarcastic bow. "Kinsman. I am exceptionally well. How do you find yourself?"

  "I leave that to Priscilla," Shan said, smiling vaguely and impartially on Gordy, Pat Rin, and Lady Pounce. "Morning isn't my best time, and if I had to spend half of it finding myself—well, you appreciate, cousin, I'd be in a fair way to getting nothing else done at all."

  Pat Rin frowned at the rush of Terran but answered competently in the same tongue. "You see me here on your word. How may yos'Phelium serve yos'Galan?"

  The silver eye sharpened. "yos'Phelium? Have you taken up Thodelm's melant'i?"

  "Certainly not," Pat Rin said, dropping his eyes to watch the play of light among his rings. "But you see, cousin, we of Line yos'Phelium find ourselves without a lord these several years, so that we grow accustomed to coming to Korval's First Speaker for resolution of matters belonging more properly to the Line."

  "A complaint, in fact."

  "An observation. You are yourself Thodelm yos'Galan. Would you run to the First Speaker with every up and down of your close kin?"

  Shan blinked, icicle-sharp eyes melting back to blandness. "Well, things are a bit confused these days, cousin, admit it. Korval has shrunk to a handful; the Nadelm fends the Ring from his finger; the lines of administration are crossed and recrossed a dozen times over." He smiled. "We muddle on."

  "While Nadelm Korval remains missing, and the Clan does its least to discover him."

  Shan said nothing.

  Pat Rin shrugged and looked up from admiring his rings. "One hears rumors, as one goes about. All the world notes the continued absence of Val Con yos'Phelium. Many remark upon yos'Galan's complaisance. They recall that Korval passes the Ring from pilot to pilot. They recall that Shan yos'Galan wears the badge of a master pilot." He dropped his eyes again and concluded softly, "While Pat Rin yos'Phelium is no pilot at all, nor ever shall he be one."

  The silence stretched. Gordy watched Shan's face, but saw only vagueness there.

  "Rumor is a dangerous song to heed," Shan commented. "But none of this bears on my need to see you, cousin! I wonder about your trip."

  Pat Rin actually blinked. "My trip?"

  "Exactly! Weren't you planning a jaunt to Philomen soon, for a bit of rest from your labors?"

  "Yes. My plans are firm, in fact."

  "Fine, fine, excellent! You'll be wanting a pilot, I know, and it—"

  "It happens that I employ an adequate pilot, kinsman. My thanks for your kind thought."

  "Yes, but you see, we have at hand a more than adequate pilot—and you need not be out of pocket an additional tenth cantra! Korval will balance any difference between payscales." He raised his glass and sipped. "The man requires occupation, kinsman! Surely you wouldn't deny him work to pass the time away?"

  Pat Rin considered him out of thoughtful dark eyes, and Shan bore the scrutiny patiently, seeing anew how much his cousin resembled Val Con: the same glossy dark hair, level brows, and firm mouth.

  "So," Pat Rin murmured. "And what am I to do with my new pilot when we reach Philomen? Shoot him?"

  "Well, certainly that's up to you," Shan said, "but I've no reason to expect his service will be as bad as that." He raised his glass. "The First Speaker strongly suggests that he enter your employ and remain there—oh, six Standard months should be more than sufficient."

  The smaller man bowed. "Of course it must always be my most ardent wish to obey the First Speaker's word."

  "Yes," Shan drawled. "I'd heard that."

  Pat Rin laughed. "Rumor sings dangerous songs, as I have only recently been reminded. Understand that nothing would induce me to doubt you, but I yearn to hear the First Speaker's wishes from her very lips. Might she be available to speak with me?"

  "I believe she's alone in the study. Shall I have Jeeves escort you?"

  "Thank you, but I know the way." He bowed farewell. "Kinsman. I think I will not see you again before Dutiful Passage leaves us. Fare you well. You also, young Gordon." He was gone, mincing daintily in his fancy boots.

  Gordy let his breath go in a explosive pough!, spun toward his foster father, and hesitated.

  "Yes?"

  "Is Pat Rin—in love—with Cousin Nova?"

  Shan shook his head. "No . . .No, I don't think Pat Rin's in love with anyone."

  "Except himself!"

  Surprisingly, the response was another headshake. "Not at all."

  Gordy flung out his hands, startling Lady Pounce into opening her eyes. "Then why's he like that?"

  "Well," Shan said thoughtfully, swirling the dregs of his wine, "I suppose that, like most of us, he's not finished yet. Have you checked these equations?"

  Gordy flushed. "I'll be done in fifteen minutes."

  "Fine. I'll be back then. We'll be going up to the Passage tomorrow morning for the last checks; we've got departure scheduled for Solcintra sunrise, Treslan Seconday."

  "I'll have to tell Karea good-bye . . ."

  "Yes, of course." Shan sighed. "Finish your equations, Gordy." And he was abruptly gone, closing the door behind him.

  Shan touched the PLAY key and leaned back, eyes closed, to listen again to Val Con's recorded message to Edger.

  "I greet you, brother, and thank you for the lives of myself and the youngest of your sisters. I am to say to you these things, which are true: We are alive and have been well treated, having received food, a place to sleep, and medical aid. I regret that the ship of the Clan has continued its voyage without us. It was undamaged when it left us and should achieve its destination as planned, as it kept course without fail during the seven seasons of its labor."

  There was a small pause, then Val Con finished, "I am also to say that we will be returned our knives and given a ship in which in continue our travels. My thanks to you again, brother, for your care of two of your Clan who are foolish and hasty."

  A Korval ship had already been dispatched to the coordinates indicated in Val Con's message. Exact figures relating to the distance a ship of the Clutch would have traveled in "seven seasons of labor" had been included in the hodgepodge of information that made up the balance of Cheever McFarland's delivery. The possibility had to be covered, of course, but Shan felt no optimism that Korval's ship would find Val Con and his lifemate anywhere near those coords.

  The tape hissed briefly, and then the other voice came in, bright, clear, singsonging its nonsense as if there was nothing in all the worlds to fear:

  "Hi, Edger. Everything's fine. Wish you were here. Love to the family and see you soon."

  The tape hummed, clicked, and rewound noisily before the machine shut off.

  "I like her," Shan said to the dim and empty study. "But, gods, brother, the Juntavas?" The agreement between the intergalactic mob and Korval stretched back generations: You don't touch mine; I don't touch yours. Simple, effective, efficient. "Why didn't you tell them who you are? They would have dropped Korval Himself and his Lady like so many hot potatoes . . ."

  Chilled, he considered an alternate scenario. Val Con reveals himself. The Juntavas, horrified beyond reason by their act, knowing a balancing of accounts with Korval would ruin both, simply cut two throats, leave two bodies drifting . . .

  "Gods!" He snapped to his feet, covering the room in five long strides, to stare out at the twilit garden, where the fountain caught the sun's last rays, transmuting light to emeralds.

  Memory provided a boy's high voice, half-pleading: "But there isn't a Delm Korval really, is there, Shan? Just a made-up person—it could as easily be you as me." And he heard his own voice, laughing in reply: "Oh, no! You're the Korval, denubia! I don't want to be Delm."

  "But you could be, couldn't you?" the boy Val Con demanded in memory, and Shan turned cold in the present and whispered, "Only if you die, denubia." He shook himself, hard.

  "They're alive," he whispered, willing his hands to unclench and bringing his heartbeat down with a Healer's stern discipline. "You have that on the best authority. Do strive for some sense, Shan."

  And there were two to find now. Even if Val Con . . .His lifemate must be found and brought back to the Clan, for if they did not have a Delm, they might yet have a Delmae. Nova saw that, thank the gods. Korval ships Jumped in a dozen directions that long afternoon, seeking news, any news, of Val Con yos'Phelium or Miri Robertson. Lifemates will hold together, Shan told himself, staring at the shadows growing from the trees toward the house. Find one and we find both.

  Sighing, he shook himself free of his thoughts and slipped away from the house of yos'Galan to go home at last to Priscilla.

  VANDAR: Springbreeze Farm

  She was never going to get it right.

  The minute she thought she had command of a word it slipped away, unmoored by a dozen or more others. It was all she could do to remember the name of the dog, never mind the word for its species. And all morning Zhena Trelu had been in a waspish mood, yelling and pushing at her when she did not understand. Which was mostly.

  After the third such incident, she had twisted away from the old woman's grasp and run, screen door slamming behind her.

  Flinging herself to the ground beside the scruffy little flower patch that marked the edge of Zhena Trelu's property, Miri scrubbed her hands over her face and tried to calm her jangling nerves.

  "This ain't like you, Robertson," she muttered. But that didn't help at all.

  Her head hurt. She reached up and pulled the braid loose; unweaving it slowly, she ran shaking fingers through the crackling mass, mightily resisting the urge to yank it out in handfuls, and hunched over, staring at her hands and just breathing.

  She found she was staring at her calloused trigger finger. What business did her hands have baking sweet things? Why should she have to sit and listen to endless repetitions of the names of the powders, granules, and dried leaves that went into food? She did not intend to be a bake-cook.

  Worse was all that zhena-and-zamir stuff. Why should Miri be asked first whenever Zhena Trelu wanted Val Con to do something? Since when was he Miri's trooper? But no, there were rules, and one of them was that a zhena—wife? mistress? lady? lover?—could tell her zamir what to do, and he, perforce, would do it. What kind of partner was that?

  They had figured out that Zhena Trelu owned the house and lived zamirless. They had gotten across that they were looking for a place to stay, and she had supplied some story for herself that Val Con was slowly getting down. But there! Barely a week had passed and Val Con could hold a conversation with the zhena while Miri's head hurt more and more . . .

  She wanted to shoot, dammit—a little plinking would calm her down. But Val Con had not seemed to think too much of that and after some thought she could see why: They were guests here, wherever here was, and it just wouldn't be good form to fill somebody's sacred tree all full of pellet holes.

  "Hello, Meri," he murmured from her side.

  "My name," she gritted out, not lifting her head, "is Miri."

  There was a small pause. "So it is."

  She took one more deep breath and managed to raise her head and face him. "Sorry. Bad mood."

  "I heard." He smiled slightly. "Zhena Trelu tells me you are a 'bad-tempered brat.' What is that, I wonder?"

  She tried to smile back and was fairly certain that the effort was a failure. "Whatever it is, it ain't nice. I messed up something she was teaching me to bake. Told me to put in pickles and I put in milk. Or the other way around. I don't know . . ."

  He frowned. "It must have been milk and not pickles. Milk is the white liquid we drink, isn't it?"

  "I don't know. Told you I didn't know. Every time I think I know what something means, got it all lined up in my head with what it means in Terran, she hits me with forty-seven more—" She flung her hands out in exasperation. "I ain't never gonna catch up at this rate!"