Author: Sharon Lee
Date: 2005-01-02 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Science Fiction; Space Opera; Science Fiction Fantasy
Description: Adventures in the Liaden Universe(R) Number Eleven Sometimes you don’t have much of a choice when it comes to who you do business with. Sometimes you discover that the evil you know is a necessary evil. Hal Clement award-winning authors Sharon Lee and Steve Miller bring more of what Liaden Universe® readers have asked for with "The Beggar King," set on Liad and about the young Daav yos’Phelium’s early training to be Delm. Then, in "Necessary Evils" they explore the time and space before Clan Korval, when the universe was degenerating into chaos, and individuals faced evil in many guises, inclu
Publisher: Smashwords Edition

NECESSARY EVILS

Adventures in the Liaden Universe®
Number Eleven

Sharon Lee and Steve Miller

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.

NECESSARY EVILS

Copyright © 2005, 2011 by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author. Please remember that distributing an author's work without permission or payment is theft; and that the authors whose works sell best are those most likely to let us publish more of their works. First published in November 2005 by SRM, Publisher.

ISBN:

Kindle: 978-1-935224-39-6

Epub: 978-1-935224-40-2

PDF: 978-1-935224-41-9

Published April 2011 by

Pinbeam Books

PO Box 707

Waterville ME 04903

email info@pinbeambooks.com

Editing by Steve Miller and Rich Horn

Copyediting by Elektra Hammond with layout assistance by Rich Horn, Rolanni, and Kinzel

Cover Copyright © 2005 Thomas Peters

Cover design by Richard Horn

Dedicated to the con commitees of:
AlbaCon
ArtKane
BaltiCon
Boskone
CONduit
ConFusion
COSine
DisClave
HopCon
inCONsequential
Infinity
Kubla Khan
LunaCon
MarCon
MarsCon
Novacon (West)
ParaCon
PenguiCon
PhilCon
SciCon
ShevaCon
Shore Leave
SiliCON
SpringCon
ReaderCon
Trinoc*coN
and all the regional North American sf conventions we haven’t been able to visit yet

THE BEGGAR KING

The front office of Triplanetary Freight Forwarding was empty, which he'd expected, considering. He hadn't called ahead, and they'd only known he was on his way, not when he'd arrive. Which turned out to be just as well, because he hadn't done all that good a job coordinating his arrival with local downtime; the cabbie who'd brought him from the shipyard had spent no energy at all hiding his surprise that any Terran would wander here by himself at this sunless time.

The files . . . the front-office files were in order, up-to-date, and accessible to his code, which --given one thing and another--he hadn't expected. The boss' office, what he supposed he'd be calling his office for as long as might be, that was locked, which didn't mean anything except that staff was conscientious.

He used the key he'd been given and stood to one side, shoulder against the wall, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, while the door slid open and the lights came up in the room beyond.

There not being any immediate hostilities initiated, he eased 'round the wall, hands still in his pockets, and stood just beyond the threshold, taking a long careful look at everything there was to see.

The office was pretty much like he remembered it from his last visit, excusing the lack of clutter obscuring the expensive red wood of the desk, and the sharp, infuriating presence of Lela Toonapple behind it.

"Well, now," he said conversationally, tarrying yet by the door. "Already you've outlasted Replacement Number Three. That ought to ease you."

In fact, it didn't ease him in the least, nor was he a man who usually talked to himself, despite that being a common trait of courier pilots. Replacement Number One had apparently bought his ticket out by congratulating himself aloud upon entering this very office. The sound waves had triggered a razorfall rigged into the ceiling and, hey, presto! Replacement Number One was so much freshly bleeding meat. He fancied he could see a stain of dried blood, dull against the gleaming crimson wood. Fancy only, he assured himself; staff here was efficient, having been trained by Herself, who would never have tolerated bad housekeeping.

According to the reports, Replacement Number Two had gotten herself done within ten planet days by a local bent on revenge, what they called Balance hereabouts. Occupational hazard, that was. Or not. He considered himself warned.

And, he acknowledged, finishing his visual scan and stepping into the office, the fact remained that each of the three replacements before him had gone their own road to meet death very soon after planetfall, the only obvious link between them that they'd struck Sector Boss Ailsworth as a threat to his position; enough of a threat that they'd been shuffled out of the high visibility zone and dropped in a place where, apparently, there was no advancement. Hard to know who to blame, there, if anyone-- they'd all accepted the job, after all.

Same, he admitted wryly to himself, shrugging his shoulder pack off and putting it on the desk, as Number Four.

"Nice going, Clarence," he muttered, and pulled his left hand and the bug-finder out of its pocket. He scrutinized the read-out, with its cheery blue lights proclaiming safe-safe-safe, and set it down next to his pack. Sighing, he slipped the gun out of his right pocket, snapped the safety on and put it decently away into its holster.

The temp was set a little low for his liking, so he kept the jacket on as he pulled the chair into a comfortable spot before sitting, adjusted the armrests so he wouldn't bang his elbows too hard because he knew he was one that used his armrests-- ergonomics be damned--and bent over to bring the comp on-line.

First file up was addressed to him. A roster it was, listing names and contact numbers for staff, couriers, day labor and such. It also gave the address and contact codes for the round-the-clock office, whose work he'd seriously not wished to impinge upon as his first act on planet. The second file was something else. He frowned, scanned through, then went back to the top, one hand already reaching for the desk-comm.

He punched up the first number on the contact page; a woman answered, sounding surprised. Hers was, after all, a purposefully quiet office on a purposefully quiet planet.

"Tora Belle here."

"This is O'Berin," Clarence told her, firm and quiet. "Contact staff and let 'em know there's a meeting at headquarters when the port goes dayside. I want everybody here, sharp and ready to work."

"Yes, sir," Tora Belle said. "Day labor, too?"

"Everybody," Clarence confirmed, letting her hear a touch of impatience.

"Yes, sir," she answered. "Anything else?"

"Bring yourself here an hour before the others. I fancy I'll be having some questions for you."

She drew a breath, slow and not quite steady.

"Questions," he said to that minor sound of dread. "You can expect from me what you had from Herself, for the same cause and reasons. Fair?"

Out the breath came, stronger. "Yes, sir," she whispered.

"Tomorrow, then. O'Berin out." He cut the connection and turned back to the screen and its tangled skein of news. It was going to be a long night.

Sighing, he peeled out of his jacket and adjusted the gain on the screen. He checked to make sure the telltales would talk to him in case anyone unexpected--which was just about anyone at all--tested the defenses, and reached automatically for the cup still likely sitting on his desk at Landofar.

He should've asked Belle to bring along coffee tomorrow, he thought, ruefully, if there was coffee to be had. Well, and it would be inneresting to see, as Herself would have had it, what Belle might think of on her own.

*

"More tea, mother?" Daav asked, reaching for the pot.

"Of your considerable goodness." Chi yos'Phelium held out her cup with a smile.

He served her, and then himself, replacing the pot on the warmer. They shared a late breakfast on the patio overlooking the so-called wilderness. To Daav's eye, and no doubt to his mother's, the well-grown and cared for strip of trees looked rather overly domesticated. No matter, the view was pleasant, and if it were somewhat tame, at least they could be assured that no wild animals, nor wild men, for that matter, would come roaring down upon them to smash up the porcelain and make all untidy.

"Really, Daav," his mother murmured as she took her cup in hand, "you have become extremely useful. I wonder that I allow you to return to the Scouts."

He sipped his own tea, outwardly unperturbed. "Surely, ma'am, you must know that my usefulness is directly attributable to the knowledge that I am not long for Liad. Were you to deny me the Scouts, I make no doubt that I should soon revert to the surly fellow we both know me to be."

"It is true," Chi said, as if the thought had just occurred to her, "that you are far from sweet-tempered, my son. Doubtless you are correct, and I would tire of your company in a few days under such changed circumstance." She put her cup, gently, on the table. "Well, then, back to the Scouts you shall go, when your leave is done." She shot him a quick, mischievous glance from beneath thick golden lashes. "Now, own yourself relieved, sir!"

"Reprieved!" he exclaimed in obligingly melodramatic tones. "So near it was that my heart fair stuttered in my breast, and very nearly was I unmanned! Yet, Doom stayed her fair hand, and turned her face aside. Surely, I am the most fortunate of men!"

His mother laughed, and brought her hands together in a Terran clap of appreciation. "Well-played, sir! Truly, Daav, you should have sought the stage, rather than the Scouts."

"A traveling troupe, ma'am?" he asked her, and she sent him another glance, this one sharp and serious.

"You will need to come to terms at some point," she commented. "I will say no more, other than to note that the point grows nearer, not more distant."

That this was undoubtedly true did nothing to ease Daav's feelings regarding the matter of his recent ascent to nadelm, the heir in fact to the delm. His mother advised him that he would, in time, grow accustomed to his rank and, when duty required it of him, to a life lived primarily on Liad.

Daav took leave, privately, to doubt it.

"I wonder, my son," his mother said, selecting a fruit from the bowl between them, "if you might dispatch a small errand for me at the Low Port."

Daav blinked, and sent her a look, half-expecting to meet more mischief in her face, though her voice had been serious enough.

The glance he met was likewise serious.

"At the Low Port, ma'am?" he repeated, neutrally.

His mother considered him blandly. "Quite a small thing, really, Daav. If you would be so good."

"Of course you know I can deny you nothing," he replied. "I shall be . . . perhaps delightedis not precisely the word which expresses my state of mind, but don't have a care for that! What may I be honored to bring you from the Low Port, mother?"

"The answer to a riddle," she said composedly, and Daav felt his interest prick, despite himself. Riddles at the Low Port were often . . . compelling. And, sad to own, the Low Port itself was rather more to his liking than almost any other location on Liad, saving his clanhouse or at his brother's side.

"And the riddle?" he inquired, feigning boredom, which he was fairly certain deceived his parent not at all.

"Where do the pilots who visit Ilgay's Hell and Janif's Game Palace go after they depart the pleasures of the house?"

Daav considered her. "Surely, to their rightful berths, or to their clanhouses, the guildhall, or to the arms of a lover. Come, ma'am, this is not worthy of you! Hardly a riddle at all!"

"But if they do not arrive at their clanhouses, if their captains fill their berths from the will-call list, their lovers weep for their absence, and the guild assesses a fine against their licenses, and still they do not reappear? Does the riddle seem less tame then?"

Daav frowned. "Less tame and all but terrifying," he said slowly, considering the plural. "How many?"

"Eight, over the last two relumma," she replied. "The full particulars are on the computer in the study, if you find yourself interested."

"Interested," he allowed. "But is this not a matter, perhaps, for your acquaintance at mid-Port?"

"It would seem to be so. Alas, several relumma past, my acquaintance was kind enough to inform me that she was removing herself from her position--having achieved what she was pleased to term 'sufficient time in grade to make it stick'--and the last two replacements have not lasted even long enough for one to request a meeting upon neutral ground."

Daav frowned again. "If the balance is not firm at that juncture . . ." he murmured.

"Precisely!" his mother said, with a wide smile. "The thing wants examination from a number of angles, my child." She rose, waving a languid hand in the general direction of the study.

"Please, make yourself familiar with the particulars. I repose all faith in your ability to unravel this for me." Another brilliant smile and she was gone, dropping a light touch on his shoulder as she passed.

Daav sighed, and finished his tea, wishing he had as much confidence in his abilities as his parent pretended to. Still, he owned, it was an appealing problem--and not only for its locale. And pilots . . . pilots were the proper care of Korval, after all.

*

The start of it was easy enough, needing only a choice, and it was at Ilgay's Hell that he chose to begin his investigations.

Ilgay's was fortunately located hard by a port employment kiosk, at the center of a narrow street bracketed by food stalls and tea stands. There were folk enough about, and of various sort, so that the presence of an additional, and slightly ragged, pilot was nothing to turn heads.

First, he betook himself to the hiring kiosk, patiently waiting his turn in line for a chance at one of the three available terminals. He scrolled down the scanty offerings, frowning, then sighed, as would a man who had been disappointed not so much as vindicated, and left without even requesting a printout.

On the street again, he became one with the loose amble of those from the hiring hall, stopping at one stand to buy a rice ball and at another to purchase a paper cup of watery tea. Others, slightly plumper in pocket than the ragged pilot, bought synthasoy burgers, and sweet buns. All eventually moved down to the center of the street, to take up leans and crouches where they might study the door to Ilgay's Hell.

The number of patrons entering this establishment increased as the port-gate times cycled by; some were handlers or crew off-duty coming for the nearest respite, and some were those whose workday today had included only the need not to lie alone in a cheap room, watching the local free vid-feed.

Some few vehicles passed by, this being a roadable place, no matter that the way was thin and the populace not all that attentive to the needs of those well-off enough to go other than on foot.

Among the ragtag group of watchers among whom Daav had placed himself, there was a hierarchy. Some huddled together, passing small words and small containers between themselves, backs to the planet. Those were crew-folk left behind perhaps, or day labor never off-world, but they shared the chance that today might be better than yesterday.

Some, more desperate, attempted the occasional gambit and even the occasional offer to sell this or that item or service to those about to enter the Hell. Here, at least, dignity and melant'i was still in force. Here, if there was actual begging, it was done quietly and out of view of others.

The few pilots among the watchers, were, thankfully, none that Daav recognized. That worked both ways, for his face was long away from port, which he suspected now had weighed in his mother's decision to send him to accomplish this bit of work, rather than come herself. In any wise, it was not the face, then, but the jacket that kept the more unruly of the watchers from stretching melant'i enough to ask for a favor or a handout. These were folk, after all, and they knew that a pilot staring into the distance was not to be disturbed, for he might be thinking, calculating, might in fact be doingsomething and not simply be as lost as he or she looked. You spoke to a pilot, here, if he spoke to you, or if you were his equal.

Eventually, as he had hoped, Daav was noticed by several people going into the club--seen to be a pilot, waiting--and by several more, some of whom eyed him speculatively before going in. He amused himself by determining which of the burly door-folk were basic security and which was the day shift bouncer.

He had determined to make his own entrance when the day shift bouncer ceded his post to the night shift. In fact, that event was imminent, and he was gathering his lanky form to move across the street and through the door, when he paused, head tipped in order to more clearly hear the approaching ruckus. About him, the other watchers stirred, straightened, shook themselves slightly. The very air changed--from waiting to anticipation.

From around several corners, then, came, noisily, an advance crew--obviously working together, obviously security of some kind, well-armed and well-fed. They settled themselves about the crowd, and the sense of anticipation grew, edged with something that Daav hesitated to name hope, but still as if the event bearing down upon them were the beginning of what they'd been waiting this past clock-count, be it day or year.

The ruckus came on, and 'round the corner by the tea shop came a large, even an opulent, vehicle, ostentatiously fan-lifted above the narrow street, its mirror finish reflecting sky, worn faces, and old boots in egalitarian elegance.

Daav drifted toward the back of the crowd, ears and eyes alert. Words moved around him, heard in snatches: "New boss . . . ," "free food, sometimes!" and "Possibly Juntavas, but work is work--" and not all the words were Liaden.

The car stopped and two of the traveling security force moved forward to open the door. A man alighted, moving with pilot grace, his body language eloquently alert. The clothes he uneasily wore were those of a prosperous merchant of no discernible clan. His copper-colored hair was slightly shorter than current fashion, and brushed severely back from a pale, round face. His eyes were very blue.

That electric blue glance swept the crowd and he bowed an encompassing bow, saying a few words to those closest. His hands moved subtly, coins and perhaps vouchers appearing between his fingers, vanishing as quickly, and the word moved through the crowd: "Day work tomorrow . . ."

Perhaps it was the jacket, though certainly his was not the only leather on the street. Perhaps it was merely his height, notable even in this mixed company. Whichever, those very blue eyes paused in their efficient scan of the crowd, lingering a moment, and a moment more, on Daav's face. He held his breath, hoping he hadn't been recognized--and the man turned away.

Security moved to enter the club, the man following, two more security at his back. The car swept away, spitting city-grit at the legs and faces of the unwary. Daav joined those who followed at a respectful distance; the night bouncer nodded at his jacket and let him enter the precincts of joy.

*

Within, there was some slight disarray, as the copper-haired man was ushered to a table hastily swept and settled for him near the center of the floor. Gravely, he sat, flanked by his security, as one of the staff ran for the bar and others came forward in ones and twos and made their bows, for all the worlds as if the delm of gaming hells had come to sit among them, and take their census.

Daav slipped to the right before those sharp eyes might find him again, and made his way to the back of the room, and the various wheels of fortune.

*

"Buy some luck, Pilot?"

The person who asked it was very nearly as tall as he was, with lush, if improbable, violet hair, and in such a state of expansive undress as must surely have put her health at risk, chilly as the house was kept.

Daav considered his small pile of chips wryly, and glanced back to her. He'd spent a good deal of energy over the last few hours carefully building the pile, and then making it dwindle.

"I'll be needing more than luck to turn this night around," he said gruffly, keeping to his character. "And nothing to spare for random results."

She smiled, to his eye honestly amused, and slid bonelessly between him and the next player.

"A bargain, then," she murmured, wrapping her hands around his arm. "If your luck changes for the better across the next three spins, you'll own I know my business and pay me double my usual fee."

He grunted, considered his small holdings once more, and snapped his fingers. "Done," he said. "See you do your work well, to mutual profit." He divided what remained of his holdings into thirds with over-careful fingers, and dropped the first third onto the ship symbol. The lady wrapped 'round him reached down a long, naked arm and hefted his empty glass.

"Wine for my pilot!" she called across to the smaller bar, and in a twinkling a fresh glass was by his hand.

"Do you pay for that out of your fee?" he asked, and she laughed, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder, violet hair ticking his chin.

"Winners drink free," she murmured.

"The stakes keep rising," he commented, and she laughed again, low in her throat.

"That's life."

"All bets frozen!" the croupier called and spun the wheel with a will.

Lights flashed merrily, the ebon ball dancing among them. His provisional luck extended her slender hand and picked up the wine glass, sipping languidly before raising it to his lips.

"To winning big," she murmured. Daav sipped, unsurprised to find the vintage much superior to that of his first glass, and she drank again before replacing the glass in its holder.

The wheel stopped; there was a moment of stillness--and then an eruption of chimes as the wheel and the square claimed by his small pile of chips began to flash a matching, exuberant green.

"We have," the croupier called, "a winner!"

His luck let loose with an ear-splitting whoop, and reached up to cuddle his cheek in her palm. Her fingers were, surprisingly, calloused; the same pattern of callouses his own hands bore.

The croupier paid out of the bank, two golds and a stack of silvers. Daav had tripled his wager on that run, and he had no doubt that the next two would be winners, as well. After which, if matters progressed along the usual pattern of such things, his luck would undertake to get him drunk or elsewise besotted, and then stand by as her confederates relieved him of the house's money.

It was usual in such cases, he knew, that the victim would then be left to wake up on his own and chart a no doubt unsteady course for home. There was no benefit to the house in murder, after all.

Unless, of course, one's luck was a freelancer. In which case, she might be . . . interested in his mother's riddle.

"Will you not wager again, Pilot?" his luck murmured from her affectionate nestle; one hand dropping from his arm to his thigh. "Our agreement was for profit over three spins." Her voice dropped. "Unless you have no need of the money . . ."

The lady, Daav conceded, knew her business, and certainly he had gone to some pains to appear a pilot in . . . unfortunate financial circumstances. His boots were perhaps a bit more than respectably worn, portions of his dark trousers showed as much shine as his boots.

Daav swept his palm on the worn fabric at his knee, just slightly lower than the spot on his leg his luck was gripping.

He glanced at her; nodded at the croupier.

"Let it ride," he growled, and his luck whooped. "My pilot knows how to play the game!" she shouted to the room at large.

"Have done," he said, sharp and surly under the racket of the wheel spinning. "Unless you want to be relieved of your earnings by those whose profit is taken from the pockets of others? I assure you, I have a better use for my portion than losing it to a wolf pack."

She laughed low in her throat. "Are you afraid of wolf packs, Pilot?"

"If I was afraid of losing my winnings to a wolf pack," he answered. "I wouldn't have come here."

He glanced about, hand negligently indicating the riff-and-the-raff about them, and carefully notincluding the semi-official head table where still sat the high-roller, done with receiving his subjects now, bereft of his security, but having acquired a companion of his own, to help him drink his wine.

"Mmm," his luck murmured, twining so nearly 'round him it seemed she would soon be inside his jacket with him. What else she might have said, if anything, was lost in a explosion of light and sound as the wheel and the square holding his second wager declared him again a winner.

"Excellent!" his luck shouted, and raised the wine glass to his lips. Drink he did, though not as deeply as she urged him, and she finished the last herself, before holding the glass high again.

"More wine for my pilot!" she called, and scarcely had the words rang out than the glass arrived, larger than the last, Daav saw at a glance, and filled to the top.

"Peace," his luck breathed into his ear, as she raised the glass for a sip. "I know you would be quiet, but I must advertise my skill for those others who might wish to employ me. I swear I will make only as much noise as will advance my own cause. Done?"

"Done," he answered, and obligingly sipped from the glass she held up to him. Again, he drank rather less than she would have had him, and was pleased to see her drink again, and deeply, before returning the glass to the table.

Himself--he considered his winnings, and of a sudden leaned forward, awkwardly, for being bound by his luck, and pushed the two-thirds of his original amount that he had held in reserve onto the ship square.

"Let it all ride," he said, slurring his words slightly.

His luck sighed so deeply her entire body quivered. The rest of the players pushed their wagers forward in silence. The croupier called the freeze and spun the wheel. Hard.

It seemed the entire house held its breath while the wheel danced 'round, and at last came to rest, winner flashing.

"A third win!" screamed his luck, forsaking his arm to propel herself into the air with a push on his shoulder, her fists beating the air. "Luck is where you find it!" she crowed.

Daav turned slightly and she came to rest with her breasts pressed against his chest, and her arms around his shoulders. She came up on her toes, pressing into him and whispered in his ear.

"Come over to my table, sweeting, and buy me a drink."

"My winnings . . ." he protested, and she laughed, turning her head to look at the croupier. "Bring the pilot's winnings to Zara Chance's table," she commanded.

"It shall be done at once!" The croupier swore, and turned to give orders to certain of the house's other employees, who were standing nearby. Zara Chance wove her fingers with Daav's and led him away from the wheel, passing through a wide and curious throng, some of whom made to touch her. She slapped those questing hands away, laughing her rich, lazy laugh.

"Free luck is worth what you paid for it! Let us pass! Make way for Zara Chance and her winner!"

*

If the surly, black-haired pilot wasn't alert at his board, his lady-luck was going to undress him right in the booth, Clarence thought. Not that he didn't seem an adroit lad, and not a quarter so drunk as he was letting it be seen. But if the lady was one with the rumor him and his crew'd been chasing all over Low and Mid-port this last while . . .

"You have a fancy for exotic hair, Boss O'Berin?" his own companion asked.

"Could be," he answered, giving her a straight look. He'd asked for somebody who knew the news, whereupon the floor boss had gone to the back and ushered her out, introducing her as, "Mistress Ilda, quarter-owner."

"Tell me about her," he said to Ilda now, angling his chin at the pair grappling in the booth.

"Her name is Zara Chance," Mistress Ilda said promptly. "She is not one of our regulars, and if it was in my power, I would ban her entirely."

"Shorts the house, does she?" Clarence asked.

"Not in the least," Ilda returned primly. "Very prompt in paying her percentage, is Zara Chance, and lays down extra for the good wine, too."

"But you don't like her," Clarence persisted, when she paused, his eyes on the couple in the booth. The pilot had managed to untangle himself from the lady, and was engaged in counting his winnings, which was not, Clarence thought, quite so adroit. He considered the man more closely, but he didn't have the look of either a port-cop or a bounty hunter.

"I don't like her," Ilda agreed. "Zara Chance's winners have a way of disappearing, once she has had her way with them. Losing customers is, as I'm sure you'd agree, Boss O'Berin, bad for business." She sighed, and shrugged, reaching for her glass. "But she does not overfish the waters, you see, and my partners are inclined to turn a blind eye, out of respect for her percentage." She sipped. "Zara Chance knows her business; and her winners always win big."

"Hm." Clarence picked up his own glass and had a sip, to be sociable. "Tell me about him."

"I've never seen him before," Ilda answered, sounding just a thought regretful. "And I doubt I'll see him again."

At the booth, the pilot had done fiddling with his coins. He pushed a sizable pile over to Zara Chance and slipped the balance away into various pockets. Where the lady put her share, Clarence couldn't have said, but she leaned over, her hand on the pilot's arm, and her lips against his ear.

The pilot moved his shoulders; Zara Chance threw back her head and laughed, then slid out of the booth, pulling him with her.

Out of the corner of his eye, Clarence saw Belle and Huang notice the pair of them, and ease into position.

"Thank you," he said to Ilda. "You've been very helpful. I'm doing a full review, just to acquaint myself with the local franchises--staff'll be contacting you about a time for a business meeting. Right now, though--"

Ilda nodded, leaning back in her chair. "My partners and I will be pleased to see you, Boss," she said formally. "And, speaking only for myself, if you can arrange it so that Zara Chance never comes to this Hell again, I'd be much obliged."

"I'll see what I can do," Clarence told her, and stood up.

The pilot and Zara Chance were out the door, Belle and Huang on their trail.

" 'Til next time," he said and moved toward the door, not hurrying, both hands in plain sight. At the door he exchanged nods with the bouncer and stepped out into the street.

He paused in the thin spill of light from Ilgay's sign and brought his arm up, a man checking the time, that was all. The tell-tales gave him Belle and Huang's position, some meters to the right, and on an intersecting course with the points occupied by Urel and Gounce.

"Gotcha," he breathed, and ambled down the dark street, hands in pockets, the fingers of the right curled 'round the butt of his gun, not that he expected to need it. Staff knew what to do, now that the quarry was in sight. And it had been Belle, after all, who'd put together the pattern of the freelance luck and overlaid it with the pattern of pilots gone missing.

By rights, Clarence acknowledged, he should have let staff handle the whole job. He'd weighed it, wondering if he'd be sending the message that there was a certain lack of trust in staff's abilities. In the end, though, he'd opted to take a personal interest, showing staff he wasn't afraid to put his gun where his orders were. Showing 'em that he was the Boss and that he took his port serious, just as serious as Herself had done. Pilots going missing on herwatch? Not bloody likely.

From up ahead came the sudden sound of an scuffle. He heard Belle's voice, raised, and a shot.

Swearing, he leapt into a run, gun out, damn it all, and swung 'round the corner, dodging into the cover of a broken doorway.

*

"We're followed," Zara Chance said, low, and sent him a glance so hard he felt it strike the side of his face in the darkness. "Your backup, Pilot?"

If he had thought that tonight would have been anything other than a simple reconnoiter run, it might well have been his backup, Daav thought. Though his people might not have been quite so noisy.

Still, it was nice to be able to tell the lady the truth.

"None of mine. Most likely they're sent from the house to recover its loss."

A small pause while she gave that consideration. "It may be so," she allowed, eventually, "though Ilgay isn't known for bringing its business to the street."

"They might change policy," he offered. "For a stiff loss."

"Hm," she answered, and suddenly grabbed his arm, swinging him 'round to face back the way they'd come, and the silence between them was filled with a vibro-blade's grim promise.

Blast. Well, and it likely was recovery crew from the house, or a wolf pack with its nose on cash. Either way, fighting at the lady's side could only increase her regard for him, which must be to his advantage. Daav slipped a slim dagger from his boot, the sound of hasty footsteps growing louder.

A man came briskly 'round the corner, stuttered to a halt, and then danced back as Zara Chance lunged, vibro-blade humming like a live thing. She pursued, and he swung to one side, missing the kick, slapping at his vest, and around the corner came his mate, shouting, gun out. A shot went over Daav's head and he swept forward, meaning to knock the gun away, when yet another person arrived, copper hair gleaming in the meager light, gun out and leveled.

"Put the knife down and stand away from the pilot, hands where I can see them," he said in calm, no-nonsense Trade. "Make me ask twice and it won't be so civil."

"Since we are being civil . . ." She thumbed her weapon off, crouched to place it on the ground, and flung herself sidewise, hitting Daav hard enough to send him staggering toward the man with the gun. Startled, he tucked and hit the ground rolling, heard a shot whine somewhere overhead and heard the red-haired man snap, "I'll mind him--don't lose her!"

There came the sound of boots against gritty tarmac, and Daav continued his roll, snapped to his feet, turned to pursue--and froze, the sound of a safety being disengaged ludicrously loud.

"I have," he said over his shoulder, "business with the lady."

"Mine comes first," the red-haired man answered. "Drop the knife, why not?"

Daav sighed and turned to face him. "Because I happen to be fond of it and don't want to risk nicking the edge, if you must know."

A grin flickered, ghostly, across the pale face. "Put it away, then. Tell me where."

"Left boot," Daav said obligingly, and bent to slip the blade home. He could no longer hear sounds of the chase, and silently cursed himself for losing his contact like an idiot.

"That lady's bad trouble," the man with the gun said, when he straightened. "You get on home or to the guildhall or wherever you're wanted and let us take care of her."

Daav felt his temper flicker, not to mention a lively spurt of curiosity about his solicitous captor.

"Perhaps you think I'mnot bad trouble," he said, allowing his voice to take an edge. "That would be a mistake."

The other man cocked his head to one side, hair glinting like metal in the dim light. He shifted the gun, but notably did not snap the safety on. "What's your name, Trouble?"

"Daav," he said shortly, feeling the curiosity rise above his irritation. "And your own?"

"Clarence. Your lady-friend is a link to a bunch of pilots going missing on this port. That's my concern. I can't afford to lose pilots--it's expensive and it's bad for business, and it's going to stop."

"I agree with you upon every point. Stopping it is precisely the reason I am here; exactly the reason I agreed to go with Zara Chance to meet her 'recruiter'; and . . . "

"Where's your backup?" Clarence interrupted. Daav blinked, and said nothing.

"You came down here by yourself, without backup?" The safety went on with an emphatic snap and the gun disappeared into a pocket, as if Clarence no longer considered him a threat. Daav was inclined to feel insulted.

"I'll tell you what," Clarence said sharply; "that's stupid,hear me? I don't ever want to hear about you taking that kind of risk on my port again. I hear it and you're still alive, you'll wish you weren't. You reading me, Trouble?"

It seemed the red-haired man was genuinely angry. And the claim of it being hisport nothing short of suicidal, when speaking with one of--

Oh, Daav thought, recalling his state of deliberate shabbiness.

"Let me be clear," he said, speaking with gentle care. "My name is Daav yos'Phelium Clan Korval. I am rather inclined to believe that this is myport, far more than it is yours."

He felt, rather than saw, the other man stiffen, heard the soft exhalation of breath that sounded peculiarly like "Fuck," before Clarence raised his hand, said, "Look . . ." and hesitated.

Daav, fair ablaze with curiosity, waited, posture conveying nothing other than polite interest.

Clarence sighed, and lowered his hand. "It was still stupid," he said, firmly.

"Since you put it like that," Daav said, feeling an unexpected jolt of relief, "I agree. It was stupid. In my defense, I hardly expected contact tonight. My information on the missing pilots indicates that they were patrons of two different establishments--"

"Five," Clarence interrupted. "We've got her charted. Seems to have only been the one woman, but she was careful not to--overfish the waters, like my friend back at Ilgay's has it." He paused. "We should probably merge info."

"Though perhaps," Daav murmured, "not on the open street."

"Point." Clarence sighed. "I'm the new Juntavas boss, by the way. Clarence O'Berin."

"I had thought you must be, as soon as I saw you dance in as Beggar King, though you seem young for the office," Daav said dryly, and around an unaccountable feeling of regret. He liked this Clarence, with his blunt good sense and competent planning. Which was, he acknowledged, just like his perversity. "You must be quite accomplished."

Clarence snorted. "No. Just the last in a set of people who let the sector boss get scared of 'em." He sighed. "So you see I know something about stupid."

"Ah," said Daav. "What . . . " Clarence held up a hand, and he swallowed the rest of his question as the other fished a comm out of his pocket and brought it to his lips.

"Go."

He listened, briefly, murmured, "Out," and stowed the unit with a nod.

"My team's got Zara Chance locked down. Innerested in hearing what she has to say for herself?"

"Very," Daav answered, and fell in beside his new . . . associate.

*

Daav yos'Phelium's long legs easily kept the pace Clarence set to Belle's coordinates. The lanky pilot made about as much noise as a shadow, which got Clarence to reviewing what he knew of the individuals who made up Clan Korval, while keeping a wary eye on the street.

Chi yos'Phelium, delm, was in Herself's deep notes, attached to a long list of warnings and qualifiers for the education of those who might come after. Near as he could figure, the delm was Herself's age, give or take five Standards. At a guess, Daav was right around Clarence's age, too young, and likely of too low a rank to be any of Herself's concern. Boss would, naturally, talk to Boss. On Liad even more than anywhere else.

Clarence looked at his companion, what could be seen of him in the general dimness.

"I'd have thought Chi'd come herself, since the issue was pilots," he said, more or less a shot at random.

Daav made a soft sound that might have been a laugh.

"My mother," he said, " would have been . . . conspicuous, let us say. Besides, she wishes to train me for my lifework, when she is through with being delm, and I am ever as much a pilot as she, in these days." There was a small pause before he continued.

"I would have thought Boss Toonapple would have left her portin better repair. Perhaps her . . . withdrawal . . . was hasty?"

"Herself, Boss Toonapple as you have her, she retired, all peaceful and legal, and left the business in good order. Last message I had from her said she was going someplace where she didn't have to look at a Liaden for a dozen years." He sent a quick glance at the other's profile. "Sorry."

"No need," his companion replied. "Indeed, I am much in sympathy with the Boss. I infer, then, that there was some lapse of time before you were appointed to take her place?"

"There were a couple others sent first, by that sector boss I was telling you about. They didn't manage to survive too long. Staff tried to hold line, but things started slipping with nobody at first board, if you take me. Most of what I've been doing since I got here is showing the flag to the locals and tightening up systems that slipped due to lack of repair. Like this one." The tracker shook against his wrist, and he reached out to put a hand on Daav's sleeve, stopping him.

"This is my gig, all right? You're here to witness and report back to your boss--delm."

"Agreed," Daav answered, and it might have been the truth. Clarence hoped so; he didn't warm to people much, but he found himself liking Daav yos'Phelium.

*

There were passed through to the room where Zara Chance was held by herself, secluded from the others Clarence's people had surprised and secured. She looked up as they came in, and smiled when she saw Daav.

"So, Pilot," she said, her voice husky and languid. "Want to buy some luck?"

"I believe you may wish to husband what you have," he answered. "But I thank you for your concern."

Her laugh was cut off as Clarence stepped forward, her expression shifting toward disgust.

"Terran," she spat.

"That's right," Clarence said, calmly. "Nice to meet you, too. I've got some questions for you, and I'm going to give you a chance to answer them on your own. If you don't want to play nice, then Mr. Urel here will be happy to introduce you to our particular brand of happy juice. I'm told it's sometimes unpleasant, but not fatal."

Zara Chance stared at him, but did not respond.

"Listen close: I've got a list of ten pilots gone missing out of five gambling houses; four were seen with you on the nights they vanished." Clarence jerked his head toward Daav. "This pilot here has similar data linking you to the disappearance of pilots. You're made, is what I'm saying. Now, what I want from you is the name and location of your boss, your access codes, and the details of what happened to those pilots, as far as you know them."

"Is that all?" she asked politely, and Daav saw her shudder, minutely. "Alas, I am not able to--"

"Poison!" He snapped and jumped forward, reaching for the kit that wasn't on his belt. He grabbed her shoulder. "What is it?"

She laughed again, breath suddenly short, and stared up at him in defiance.

"Why it is fatal, Pilot. What . . . else . . . would you have of poison?" Her face was sheeted in sweat, and she was gasping in earnest now. "Soon, you will know your reliance on the Code for the culture . . . idiocy . . . it--"

She gurgled, eyes rolling up in her head. Daav caught her, and eased her body to the floor.

"Dammit!" Clarence swore behind him, and Daav reached out to close her eyes.

"Indeed."

*

"I . . . see," his mother said slowly. "So, my son, you tell me that your errand is unfulfilled?"

"It is the judgment of Mr. O'Berin and myself that we have but cut off one head of a hydra," he admitted.

"Thus warning the others to be more circumspect," his mother said tartly, and Daav inclined his head.

"Alas, that is also our conclusion." He sighed and reached for his cup. "Mr. O'Berin professes himself to be alert for new disappearances, though he believes--and I agree with him--that there will be a period of waiting, in the hopes that he will become busy with other of his business, and that Korval will turn its eye elsewhere."

"I see." She tapped the disk he had given her lightly against her knee. "And the contact information for the so-excellent Mr. O'Berin is made available to me. I assume that mine has likewise been made available to him."

"It seemed reasonable," Daav said, "especially as I am soon to return to the Scouts."

"Just so. Well, we do not always succeed at the first outing." Chi yos'Phelium sighed and slipped the disk into her pocket before picking up her cup and sipping her tea. "Your impression of Mr. O'Berin seems largely positive."

"I found him organized, level-headed, and committed to his duty," Daav agreed. "I could wish to find his like on my next team."

"Hah. Recall to what he owes his allegiance, my son, and tread warily. I will own to a certain --respect--for Mistress Toonapple, and I flatter myself that she returned my regard. Had our situations been otherwise, it is perhaps not too far afield to say that we might have been friends. Alas, the old agreement between Korval and the Juntavas must forever stand between such relationships."

"Of course," Daav said, and rose to make his bow. He dropped a kiss on her cheek as he passed her chair.

"Good-night, mother."

"Good-night, child."

*

Clarence came round his desk with his hand out and a smile on his face.

"Come in, sit down. Got a couple things to clean up, here, then we can go to lunch, if you've got time."

Daav returned the smile, and met the hand willingly, relishing the other's firm grip.

"Not this time, I think," Daav said seriously, "as some matters are pressing."

Clarence's smile dimmed thoughtfully.

"This because you can't be seen with a Terran? Can't be seen with the--what did you call me? The Beggar King?"

Daav laughed softly.

"Forgive me, please; it was not meant as an insult. I'm told that I am too harsh on Liadens and too lenient on the entirety of the Universe otherwise. And as it happens to call you the Beggar King was a lapse of accuracy, for on some worlds thieves and smugglers are guilded and acknowledged rather than hidden. Indeed, a city lacking a Beggar King is a poor one and likely more violent and dangerous as a result. If only the Council of Clans would give over its playacting . . . but there, you see--I am a Scout, after all, and far too aware that the Clan grandmother was a smuggler."

Daav mused on that a moment, continued.

"I, of course, do have that heritage, and the necessity to care for pilots; the others on Liad are . . . passengers, if you will. Almost wards. And until I am delm and able to make the clan's own direction closer to mine own, if I may, until then the city and the port will run as they do, with only the most minor meddling on my part. I do not despise smugglers and thieves as long as they are not bent on stealing my clan's goods and smuggling them away . . ."

"And thus it is not politics nor society standing in the way of lunch. I am, alas, on my way to my posting and only stopped by to give you this." He produced a disk from his vest pocket and held it out.

Clarence gave it due consideration before accepting it and stood weighing it in his hand. "More contacts?" he asked, and Daav inclined his head.

"Indeed. The Portmaster, the Scout Commander, the Master of the Pilots Guild. With Korval general house passwords. If you have need--use them."

Clarence tipped his head, and sent a blue glance as sharp as the edge of a knife into Daav's face.

"What's the Balance?"

Daav laughed, delightedly.

"Asked like a Liaden! The Balance is only this: Keep your ears and eyes open--which you and I both know you will do. If you hear or see anything that might have bearing on the . . . continued harmonious flow of business--more pilots disappearing, eh? A incipient riot; rumor of an Yxtrang invasion--let those contacts know, would you?"

"Yxtrang invasion," Clarence repeated. "You get those often?"

Daav moved his shoulders. "It's a rich world. The defense net ought to be sufficient, but--ought to isn't always is."

Another period of silence while Clarence communed with whatever loyalties and pressures of duty weighed upon him, then he nodded once, crisply, and moved over to the desk, slipping the disk into a drawer, and locking it with a thumbprint.

"I can do that," he said, straightening. "So, where are you off to that you can't stop for lunch with a friend?"

Daav hesitated, lifted his hand--let it fall.

"Clarence. Your duty and my own lie at odds. We cannot be friends."

"If you say so. Where I'm from, though, what I do on my own time is my business."

"Ah. I will meditate upon that during my next tour of duty. To answer your question, though--I am returning to the Scouts, and will be gone for--a few years, if the gods smile. Perhaps, in fact, you will have moved to a more convivial posting by the time I return."

Clarence snorted. "I think you'll find me right here," he said, and held out his hand again. "If you're on a deadline, don't let me keep you. Until again."

It was a farewell such as he might have had from one to whom he had ties. And, Daav thought suddenly, meeting that wiry hand again with a will, he and Clarence were tied, dark to light, each the mirror image of the other.

"Until again, Clarence," he said, and smiled.

--END--

NECESSARY EVILS

The House of vel'Albren
Jectova

"There is someone new among the vines," the eldest rasped, though the speaking cup was between Pinori's palms, and half-raised to her lips. Being no fool, the youngest paused before she drank, and sent a frown to their middle sister, Katauba.

She moved her fingers slightly, signing that Pinori should wait. It was rare enough this while that the Old One spoke at all, even with the cup in hand. That she spoke now, and out of turn, indicated a level of alarm that must engage her sisters' closest attention. Still, there was protocol and--

Unbidden, Pinori leaned forward and offered the cup. The Old One received it, her gnarled fingers caressing the worn ceramic, and raised it to her lips, drinking deeply.

"Someone new, Auntie?" Pinori asked, which was according to their custom, now the cup was in the proper hands. " 'mong our own vines?"

"If she were anywhere else, what care would I have for her or her doings?" the Old One snapped. "Deep in my own fief I saw her, snipping and thinning, as if she had the right and the duty of it!"

"Trimming!" Katauba stared, for that was a clear breach of the ancient agreement between themselves and the House. "How--"

"But who was it, Auntie?" Pinori interrupted ruthlessly. "One of the Family?"

"Do I know the face and name of every bland human with ties to the House?" the Old One asked peevishly, then sighed, turning the cup in brown fingers and staring down into its depths.

"Truly, child," she said, more temperately, "she appeared a stranger, with pale hair and quiet hands. It seemed to me that she had the heart of a gardener, for the vines balked and drew blood as I watched, but she made no complaint, nor handled them with aught but care. The row she worked was one I had myself marked to trim, so she has done no harm. Thus far. However, those vines are mine, to protect and to nourish, and I did not ask her aid. Nor do I wish for it."

"Well, then," Pinori said soothingly, " 'tis likely only some small oversight which has sent this gardener into the wrong quarter. We should speak to the House and remind them of our accord."

Katauba stirred. "It is perhaps not well to recall our presence to the House," she murmured.

The Old One inclined her head, and raised the cup in salute. "In these days and times, I agree. The vines are ours, the wine which the grapes produce is ours. We are charged with protection and nourishment. Therefore, the punishment of this intruder clearly falls to us."

"But, if we punish her, the House will surely take note of us!" Pinori objected.

"And it is possible," Katauba added, slipping the cup out of the Old One's hands "--even, as our sister says, likely--that there is honest error here, either on the side of the House or on that of the gardener, herself." She paused to sip, savoring the spicy red wine.

"Perhaps," she suggested, "our duty might extend to instruction."

"Instruction?" The Old One considered her out of port-red eyes. "And how shall we instruct her?"

"Why, we will ask our sweet sister Pinori to seek the stranger gardener out upon the morrow, whereupon she will make her known to those vines which fall within the House's honor--and warn her away from those which are in our care." Katauba extended the cup to the youngest of them all, with a smile and a lifted brow.

Sighing, Pinori took the cup, though she did not drink. "Why must it be me?" she asked, irritably.

"Because, of we three, it is you who look most like the Houselings," the Old One cackled.

"True," Katauba said briskly, seeing mutiny in the youngest's face. "And so you are less likely to cause alarm, if indeed this strange gardener is not of the House, but some mere employee who has misunderstood her orders."

"The plan our sister proposes is prudent," the Old One stated, leaning back into her bower, with a rustle and a wave of a hand. "Let it be done as she has said."

Pinori frowned, as if she might stamp her foot and allow her temper rein. After a moment, though, she only sighed again, drank, and inclined her head.

"Let it be done as my sisters suggest," she said, though more snappish than conciliatory. "Tomorrow, I shall seek out the stranger and speak with her."

*

The damned vines had a will of their own.

Seltin vos'Taber swallowed a curse as she considered her lacerated fingers. Anyone would think that the plants didn't want to be trimmed.

Sighing, Seltin took a firmer grip on her shears. Trim, was the order, and take the samples back to the lab, whereupon she was required to analyze vine, leaf, and fruit, keeping a log of her findings until--

Until, she thought, one hand rising involuntarily to her throat, unsteady fingertips caressing the ceramic threads woven into her skin... Until my master gives me other work.

She bit her lip, fingers curling into a fist. As a general rule of life, it was not well to look too far into the future. Certainly, it was beyond folly for a bond-slave to do so.

Indeed, it were best for such persons to cultivate a short memory indeed, and an indifference to all except her master's pleasure--especially those who found themselves bonded to a master whose pleasure derived chiefly from another's pain.

Well.

Once again she bent to the vines, taking a firm grip just below the node and bringing the shears to bear. She could swear that the plant writhed in her fingers, seeking escape. Not impossible, according to the stories whispered here and there. For though House vel'Albren had made its considerable fortune in wine and custom blends, it was whispered that in the not-so-recent past they, like others of the formerly Closed Houses, had also specialized in the production of . . . custom organisms. Given that her master's character seemed representative of the character of his House, it was not--unfortunately--impossible to imagine that the vines did object to being trimmed, and that such action gave them pain.

Which consideration, fact or fancy, had nothing, she thought sternly, to do with herself. Her sole concern was to avoid such personal pain as she might, and endure what she could not avoid. If trimming the vines gave them pain, well, then, it--it was the master's will. She was nothing more than a tool of the master's will, as devoid of choice as the shears in her hand.

The vine was severed with a snick, the sample dropped into the basket at her feet. Two more snips and she was done with the day's sampling. She slid the shears into their holster, lifted the basket, turned, and--

"Eeep!" Her voice quavered upward in surprise, and she jumped, feeling the vengeful talons of the vine she had just trimmed gouge her back through her thin shirt.

The woman before her tipped her head, pale eyes puzzled in a grave, pale face. She extended a small, neat hand as if to offer assistance, and moved a step forward. Seltin stood her ground, feeling more than a little foolish.

"Oh!" the woman said, her voice so soft it scarcely made itself heard over the din of breeze through leaf. "I did not want to frighten you."

Seltin had her breath back now, and some measure of her wits. She threw herself to her knees and bent her head, keeping withal a firm grip on the basket.

"Mistress," she said, humbly, for everyone here--and elsewhere, for that matter--was her better. "Please forgive me."

"Ah!" The other clapped her hands, in irritation or in summons, Seltin knew not. She kept her head low, and her back bent, and tried not to think.

She felt pressure, then-- light, not hurtful--on her head. It took a moment to realize that the other must have placed her hands so, as if in benediction.

"You show proper respect," the woman said, in her soft voice, and the pressure was gone as she took her hands away. "That is well. Truly, you are forgiven, child. But you must not come again to these vines which are under our care. We shall do what is needful here. And you shall turn your ministrations to those vines which are under the care of the humans of the House. Is it agreed?"

What?

Kneeling, Seltin blinked. Kneeling still, she dared to raise her head and look up into the other's face.

Pale she was, but not unnaturally so; her eyes of so light a green they appeared nearly colorless. Her hair was an extremely light brown, fine as cobwebs, silken strands rising and dancing in the small breeze. She wore, not the heavy purple robes which were the standard dress of the House, nor yet the crimson shirt and tights of a slave, but a drift of iridescent fabric from shoulders to mid-thigh. Her arms and legs and feet were bare, and she wore no rings or other ornaments. She was young, and comely, and in all ways desirable.

"Forgive me," Seltin said again, hearing her voice crack. "I am commanded to trim here and in other places specifically shown to me by my master." She moved an unsteady arm, meaning to indicate the vines among which she knelt, and beyond, to the east and the south.

"Not so," the other woman said, gently. "That is in violation of our accord. Go you and say to your master that the Kapoori yet tend what is theirs."

There was something--very compelling about those colorless eyes, that pale, emotionless face, and it was only with a major application of will that Seltin was able to look aside, her fingers rising of their own accord, to touch the marks of her slavery.

"Forgive me," she whispered, for a third time. "My master's instructions were extremely clear. If I say to him that the Kapoori warn him away from what is theirs, he will only--beat--me and have me back here tomorrow."

Silence, long enough for Seltin to reflect upon her status as a bond-slave--and wilt where she knelt in the dirt.

Cool fingers fingers slipped beneath her chin, turning her face, gently, but with unexpected strength, until she looked up once more into those still, peculiar eyes. The fingers moved, brushing the threads woven into her throat. Seltin shivered, and bit her tongue, lest she cry out.

"Your master is harsh, if he will beat you for carrying a message," the other commented. "What are you called, child?"

"Seltin," she whispered. "Seltin vos'Taber."

A frown marred the smoothness of the other woman's face. "That is no name from within the House," she said. "What is your craft?"

"I am--I was a chemist, with a specialty in exotic foodstuffs and--and inebriants."

The frown deepened. "One would believe that the House has an overabundance of chemists, and no need to add more." She moved her shapely shoulders, as if to cast off curiosity. "What is your master called, then?"

"Zanith vel'Albren," Seltin answered, hating even to speak the syllables.

"And that is name from within the House, in truth, though he who bears it is unknown to me."

She stepped back, her hands falling to her side.

"This bears consideration," she said solemnly, and moved a hand toward the house. "Go thou, and trouble our vines no more this day."

That, at least, she was able to do. Seltin bowed until her forehead touched the ground and she breathed in the smell of humus and leaf.

"I will, lady," she stammered--and dared to look up. "Lady, what is your--" she began, but the words died in her mouth.

She was alone with her samples and the breeze in the living vines. There was not so much as the impression of a dainty bare foot in the spongy soil to bear witness to the fact of her visitor.

*

"She is hight Seltin vos'Taber," Pinori said from her seat on the old stone fence, keeping a respectful distance from Katauba and her work. "She is not of the House, though she serves one of the House. I found her both humble and mannerly."

"This is happy news," Katauba said, the vines she worked upon undulating in pleasure. "So, she will no longer interfere in our domain?"

Pinori bit her lip, looked down at her hands, and said nothing.

Katauba turned her head, amber eyes piercing. "Do you say that she defies your command? I would scarce hold that mannerly or humble."

"Nay, nay!" Pinori looked up hastily. "She is not mistress of her own life! She does as she is commanded by her master--and will, I warrant, whether or no she would, until the doom is drawn from her skin."

Her sister frowned, and straightened. The vines reached after her, twining about her hands, her wrists. "You say to me that this person is a mere kobold?"

"A natural human, as I judge her," Pinori stood, her own hands raised before her, fingers spread wide. "Here, I tell my tale badly. It would seem that Seltin vos'Taber, natural human though she be, is bound in service to one of the House, and his will she dares not cross, for cause of the threads woven into her throat." She paused, meeting her sister's stare with a lift of the chin. "I would have had her deliver to her master a message, that the Kapoori yet tend their tithe."

Katauba raised her brows. "That were bold, when we had agreed between us not to recall us to the House."

Pinori shrugged. "Bold or not, she would not carry my word. Her master would beat her, she said, and make no alterations in his course."

"Hah." Katauba pressed her lips together, and pulled her hands gently from the grip of the vines. "What is the name of this master?"

"Zanith vel'Albren, so she had it," Pinori said--and went forward a step as her sister thrust out a vine-sheathed hand.

"Do you know him?"

Silence, while Katauba stared, her pupils the merest black slits bisecting her wide golden eyes.

"Sister?" Pinori dared another step forward, though the vines coiled and reached, plucking at her.

"Of him," Katauba murmured, in a strained voice unlike her usual rich tones. "I know of him."

"And . . ." Pinori ventured when yet more silence had grown between them, "is it . . . an ill knowing, sister?"

"Ill?" Katauba's eyes suddenly sharpened, blazing bright. "It may be ill, certainly, from such a Houseling. Well it was, sister, that your respectful, humble human refused your order."

Pinori considered that. "Surely," she said at last, brushing her hands down her garment, and shooing the vines away. "It is of no matter if she would take my word or refuse it. This Houseling --this Zanith--deliberately sets her 'mong our honor and forbids her to trim elsewhere. I would judge that to mean that the House has recalled us well, and that therefore we may deliver our message personally."

"Ah," said Katauba, turning back to her vines. "Perhaps . . . perhaps that would be best. We shall speak of it at twilight, over the cup."

That was clear dismissal, and in truth, she was wanted among her own vines, yet Pinori hesitated. "I might go myself," she offered. "Now, and see the thing done. I--I fear me what might transpire, should the Old One should find Seltin in the vineyard."

"The Old One agreed that you would speak to the human today," Katauba said, her attention already focused on her work. "She will not act before the day has gone and the cup has passed between us."

This was true enough, Pinori owned; the Old One was almost too odd for her to comprehend, root and kin though they were, but she kept most scrupulously to the very least syllable of her word. Seltin would be safe, should she venture back into the vineyard before the day was done.

Pinori bowed. "Until day's end, sister," she said, and moved off through the wistful vines, to that portion of the vineyard which was particularly under her care.

*

Seltin saved her data and stretched, careful of her back. Her life before her arrest and conviction had been reasonably active, but the time she had spent in the tank, between sentencing and Zanith vel'Albren's purchase of her bond had robbed her muscles of tone. Happily her master saw fit to put her to hard labor immediately upon her revival, she thought wryly, so that soon she would be as muscle-bound as any kobold.

She stretched again, high on her toes this time, finding an obscure comfort in the movement of the long muscles, aches or no.

All about her was darkness, her little island of industry the only light in the cavernous lab. By rights--by reason--she should be gone herself within the next few moments. All that remained was to seal the file, log off and go--upstairs, where her master awaited her.

Even as she reached for the chording wand, she saw again the woman who had spoken to her in the vineyard that afternoon. The Kapoori, and before she had time to think, her fingers had moved along the wand, and the House library interface was opening in a subscreen.

The subscreen--that was clever, she thought, detached, as if her fingers belonged to someone other than herself. If he checked the log--and he would--the master would only see that her workspace was active, and that she had accessed the library, which was consistent both with the lateness of the hour and the as-yet-unsealed file.

Her fingers moved again on the wand, and across the subscreen there scrolled a list of open articles related to the House's past in Designed Sentients. She had, of course, reviewed this material prior to beginning the task assigned to her. It had--amused--her master, that she had been so thorough, and he had made her a sarcastic little bow.

"I had forgot," he'd said, his voice smooth and cultured. "When you were human, you had been an artist of excellence." He'd straightened and smiled at her, that smile that made her stomach clench and her breath grow short in anticipation of agony.

"Pity," he'd said, and left her to scan the data.

His pleasure that night had been cruel, by even his standards.

In the dark lab, protected by her small pool of light, Seltin sorted swiftly through the data. Of the Kapoori, there was no mention, though she found reference to a certain class of being which were dubbed "Mothers of the Vine." How many of those custom designs had been made, what their duties and skills were--the library did not yield those secrets to a quick and furtive search.

What did come forth, however, was the nugget she had half-remembered from her former search.

House Albren had moved out of custom biologics and more firmly into wines and specialty blends not simply because wine brought the House more profit. Indeed, if she read the doc aright, it would seem that several of the House's designs proved to be flawed, and fatally so. For the customers of the House.

As the two most catastrophic failures of design were demonstrated in those biologics the House had designed for its direct competitors in wine, it was at first speculated that the flaws had been deliberate. Indeed, those who had lost kin to Albren designs argued that point most vociferously before a Guild Judge.

In the end, however, nothing was proven. The accusing Houses each paid a fine to the court; House Albren paid a fine to the court and the case was dismissed. So was justice served in the Spiral Arm. By and by, House Albren quietly withdrew from the business of designing sentients, its standing among the Great Houses of the Vine having risen . . . considerably.

Which, Seltin thought, was interesting, but illuminated the Kapoori not at all. She glanced at the time in the corner of her screen and felt her throat tighten. Gods, the time! He would--

She picked up the wand, closed the subscreen, and sealed her notes, in a flurry of finger strokes.

"Quickly, quickly," she whispered to herself. "You must go . . ."

"Must you at once?" a sibilant voice asked from the darkness at her back. Gasping, Seltin dropped the wand, and spun, back pressed against her worktable, hands out before her.

"Who's there?" she called, voice quavering and high. "Show yourself!"

"No need to shout," the voice chided her. The darkness yielded a movement, and the movement became a woman--or a sort of woman. Her hair was long and vibrantly green, her skin brown. She was small, and rounded, a brief skirt her only garment. Tattoos in the pattern of grape vines twined up and down her forearms and across her heavy breasts. Her eyes were amber, and they glowed in the dimness, like cat eyes.

Seltin remembered to breathe.

"Who are you?" she whispered, then, not a question: "Another of the Kapoori."

"My sister speaks too freely," the woman murmured. "It is a failing of youth. Do you have the same failing?"

"I speak when I'm spoken to," Seltin said, and tasted bitterness along her tongue. "If you've come to ask me to bear a message to Zanith vel'Albren, I--"

"Indeed, indeed." The other raised her hands, smoothing the dim air with broad, calloused fingers. "Regain your peace, I beg you. I have come to be sure that you will notbear any message at all to Zanith vel'Albren, nor even whisper that you have seen us."

Seltin looked down, awash with humiliation.

"Unfortunately, I cannot promise that, either."

"Repine not. I can make that promise for you." The other woman drifted forward, silent on brown, naked feet.

Seltin considered her curiously. She should, she thought distantly, be afraid. Instead, she felt only curiosity, and a sort of anticipatory relief. If this tattooed woman should end her life, would it not also end the suffering, the degradation, and--

Out of the darkness came the hiss of a door opening, and a man's mild voice:

"Seltin?"

She spun, knees wobbling, hands rising uselessly before her, breath rattling in a throat already tight.

"Seltin?" the voice came again, faintly chiding. "What keeps you here so late?"

"Your work, master," she gasped, hating the high breathiness of fear she heard in her own voice. "Only your work. I--I was just now finished, and--"

"Just now finished?" He asked, and she heard him moving toward her through the dark. Even in her terror, she spared a thought, flung a look over her shoulder--but there was only darkness, all around. The tattooed Kapoori had, wisely, made an escape.

"The usage stats show you logged off whole minutes ago, and still I find you dallying here. Is it possible that you thought to shirk your evening duties, Seltin?"

No, she thought hopelessly. She had long since given up any pretext of resistance. And yet--knowing her danger, she had tarried, as if--

"You do not answer," her master said, softly, sadly--and the agony struck.

*

She roused to the sound of someone gasping painfully for breath, and scrabbled after unconsciousness, foreknowing the nightmare of waking.

Alas, the stupor continued to lighten, and she knew the gasping for her own, her abused throat working painfully; her muscles shivering with residual agony.

Gradually, she came to know that she was lying on her side on a cold, hard surface, which could be anywhere. Once, he had left her naked outside when he had done with his pleasure, and it was only her bad luck that she had woken before she froze.

This time . . .

Warm, rough fingers brushed sticky hair away from her cold forehead, then touched her cheek gently.

"Wake, Little Mother," the voice of the second Kapoori whispered. "He is gone, and here is one with the means to aid you."

Cautiously, she pried her eyes open, and stared into the strong, brown face.

"Will you kill me?" she whispered, the words fractured and desperate. She raised a trembling hand and gripped the Kapoori's strong wrist. "Please."

Hot amber eyes burned into hers. "If there is no other choice, I swear that I will grant you death. However, you must rely on my judgment when I say that today despair is not the victor. Today, I will give you ease and comfort, and some small tithe of strength. Trust me."

She bent forward and placed her lips against Seltin's in a firm kiss. Seltin lay, shivering, too tired to fight, too worn to care, even when the Kapoori's tongue slid into her mouth, and the kiss grew deeper, waking a--glow, an effervescence, a feeling of health and of joy . . .

Languidly, the Kapoori ended the kiss, sitting back with a smile on her wide mouth.

"To your good health, Little Mother," she murmured, and moved her hand, brushing the palm down across Seltin's eyes. "Sleep now."

*

"They should all be given to the vines," the Old One said coldly, "so that we may continue our work in peace."

"Nay!" Pinori cried, out of turn, and in apparent alarm. "Auntie, surely we should do no such thing!"

"Pah!" the Old One answered, a sentiment with which Katauba found herself in some accord. However--

"Our sister speaks truly," she said, forcing herself to calmness, forcing herself to consider calmly that which she had seen and heard in the course of the young mother's torture. "We must not act in haste." She extended a hand and slipped the cup from the Old One's hand. She took the ritual sip and closed her eyes, savoring the complex flavors, before opening her eyes once more.

"Nor," she said, "must we forget our purpose--the purpose for which the House saw us created."

"The vines!" the Old One cried, in a tone of curious triumph.

Katauba inclined her head. "Indeed. The House created us to tend the vines, and to coax from them the finest grapes that could be had, which the House then presses into wine, and sells abroad--"

"To the benefit of the House!" Pinori interrupted, passionately. "Thus, we are of value to the House, and to speak of, of-- "

"Correct," Katauba said crisply. "Those of the House are necessary to us, as we are to the House. There should be respect and accord between us, as we all work toward and for the same goals."

"There ye have it aslant," the Old One said, interrupting in her turn. Katauba frowned at her.

"I don't understand."

"We care for the vines, and the fruit that comes to them," the Old One said. "Right enough ye are. The House, though, the House cares nothing for the vines, nor yet the grapes, excepting as those things are a means to amassing more for the House."

Katauba blinked. This was a long and unusually complex speech for the Old One, and as such bore thinking upon.

"More?" Pinori asked, who was apparently thinking rapidly, or not at all. "More what, Auntie?"

"Power," the Old One answered, and nodded wisely.

Katauba thought of the man standing in the pool of light, fingers stroking the gems set into his bracelet, smiling and aroused as the woman writhed and strangled at his feet. She shuddered, and took an unprecedented second sip from the cup.

"Sisters," she said, and marked the unsteadiness of her own voice. "Perhaps the time has come for us to reassess our position. Thinking upon our sister's words, it comes to me that we are at a disadvantage, for without the protection, the contacts and the supplies provided by the House, we are vulnerable in ways that the House is not, did we merely--" Her throat closed, but she forced the words out anyway. "Did we merely stop tending the vines."

There was silence, as the other two thought. Katauba put the cup down on the rock at her side, and in due time Pinori leaned over and picked it up.

"If we are in danger," she said slowly, "perhaps we should leave."

"Leave the vines!" cried the Old One. "That's not possible, younger!"

"It is possible," Pinori answered hotly. "I have done so!"

"Now, that is true," Katauba said, remembering. "You went with the Senior Seller on a trip to promote the House's wines, some many seasons ago." She turned and caught the Old One's eye. "You recall it, sister."

"I do." She shrugged one stick-like shoulder. "It was why they designed her to look as they do." She stood, shifting from one strong foot to another. "So, one of us might leave. If she wished to," she said. "Solves nothing."

...and Katuaba had to admit that she was right.

*

"How goes the work?"

The one who asked it was Garad vel'Albren, the Master Vintner, and as usual he addressed Zanith, giving slightly less attention to Seltin, who was doing the actual work, as he might to a chair, or a crucible. Indeed, she thought, meticulously noting the latest sugar levels in the fruits she had harvested that morning, it seemed that the Master Vintner considered her not only blind and deaf, but dead.

"The work proceeds," Zanith murmured in answer behind her. "I do not believe that anything in the analysis has proven beyond our capability to duplicate--and so we establish that They are endowed with no special magic, such as the ignorant and the House-bound would have us believe. Would you like a copy of the log, yourself?"

Garad, predictably, hesitated, and Seltin bent closely over her table, making sure that her motions were slow and fumbling, as they should be after such a night as she had endured.

That she was not weakened, ill, clumsy and stupid was--interesting. Indeed, she felt not only well, but very well, a state so alien to her late situation that she had known a moment of alarm upon rising--and before she had recalled that the Kapoori had been with her when she had regained consciousness.

And if the Kapoori were able to reverse the damage of extended neural overload with a simple kiss, then perhaps they did partake somewhat of the "magic" her master so scorned.

"If Their techniques and abilities are only what may be reproduced in the laboratory," Garad was saying, in uncanny echo of her thought, "why were They created in the first place?"

"It were the vogue at one time to design creatures adept at one or two necessary and repetitive tasks, and thus free time for other, more complex pursuits," Zanith answered with the airy insolence that characterized him. "I believe me that the House encompassed less members in those days, and thus creating spare hands made a certain amount of sense.

"The sums of the past, however, are not those of the present. Now we have learned that such designed creatures may take distempers, and turn upon those who gave them life, and duty. Clearly, it is our own duty to rid the House of such a menace to itself, despite those who would have us cling to the old ways."

"Indeed, indeed," Garad said hastily.

"It was not my intention to malign the work, or to withdraw my support . . ."

Idly, Seltin wondered what it was that Zanith held over the head of his cousin and co-conspirator, who was clearly of a timid nature, and none-too-adroit at any thinking that did not involve vines and vintages.

Garad took a breath. "I would very much like to have a copy of the log, cousin," he said, with uncharacteristic firmness. "I have a number of test vines, and it is none too soon, perhaps, to try your findings in the field."

Now, that, Seltin thought, startled, was actually sensible. Zanith believed in numbers, tests, and analyses, and tended to ignore the fact that the practical application of those results might be . . . difficult to effect. Extensive field testing of their findings--into several years--was only prudent before the system in place were declared obsolete.

Not that anyone had asked her. Nor were likely to do so.

"Very well then," Zanith said to his cousin. "I will transmit the log as soon as today's results are recorded. Test well --and you will find that what I have said is nothing more than truth. The universe is built on fact, cousin, not on magic."

*

The sunlight lay heavy on the vineyard. Despite herself, Seltin found her head drooping and her eyes slipping shut in the fragrant, friendly heat. The urge to lie down beneath the sample vine, curl up on the warm ground and go to sleep was--almost--overpowering.

Surety of what Zanith would do to her if she should succumb to the temptation to nap kept her upright, though she worked as a woman in a dream. She had not been abused since the night of the Kapoori's kiss--the longest such time since Zanith vel'Albren had bought her bond. She did not question why he withheld himself from his pleasures; she tried instead to enjoy the gift of even so limited an amount of freedom--and not look beyond the hour in which she found herself.

The two Kapoori had also been absent from her life since that night, though she dared to cuddle the promise the second had made her. Foolish it was, but it comforted her against the shadows of the future of which she dared not think.

Snip, went the shears, and she added another specimen to her pile. That was enough, she judged, from this particular section. She slipped the shears away, bent to the basket--

Perhaps the vines rustled. Perhaps, having been kissed, she had acquired an affinity for their presence. Either, both or neither--it really made no difference.

Seltin straightened, turned to the left, and met the light eyes of the Kapoori who had first spoken to her, here in this very section of vineyard.

"Good day," she said, surprised that her voice was calm, even cordial.

"Good day to you, Seltin vos'Taber," the other replied, her smile as soft as her voice. "I trust I find you well?"

"You do," Seltin said, and touched her tongue to lips suddenly dry before adding. "I am in the debt of --another of the Kapoori --I regret that I do not know her name. She succored me some nights ago. Please, if it does not offend, I ask that you carry my gratitude to her."

"She is my next eldest sister and her name is Katauba. I shall gladly carry your words to her."

Seltin inclined her head, then looked up. "There is something--" she blurted, and stopped, horrified.

The other tipped her head. "Yes? And that is?"

Seltin took a hard breath. "I --what are you called, lady?"

"I am Pinori. But that was not what you had been going to say, I think."

"It --was not . . ." She was shivering, her hand rose and she fingered the threads woven into her skin. She dared not, Zanith would kill her, by slow degrees, laughing all the while--

Honor, she thought.

She had been honorable, once. Before a frivolous accusation and a wrongful conviction had destroyed her faith in order and decency. Before she had been sold to a man who delighted in her degradation and pain. She was beyond honor now--or so she had told herself. Slaves cannot afford such things.

And, yet--

"It may be of interest," she said slowly, and her voice was by no means steady now. By no means whatsoever.

"It may interest yourself and . . . Katauba . . . to know that Zanith vel'Albren and Master Vintner Garad hope to learn the ways and means of your . . . care of the vines." She was trembling, her stomach roiling. She could not, she thought, in panic, do this!

She drew a hard breath. Yes, she told herself, I can.

"That is the work they have set me to--the purpose of my sampling here." Her voice failed entirely, and she simply stood there, panting in terror.

Pinori inclined her head. "We had deduced as much."

"Yes," Seltin whispered, shakily. "Yes, of course. But have you also deduced that they intend to, to--" To what, she thought wildly: Dismantle? Deactivate? Cancel?

". . . kill you when they feel confident that the vines can be tended by themselves alone?"

Pinori's light eyes changed, like dark wine swirling into a glass. Her fine features pulled tight, and of a sudden she did not seem so young, nor so comely --nor in any way human.

Seltin swallowed, and abruptly knelt in the dirt, her legs abruptly too weak to bear her weight. She forced herself to speak another sentence.

"Perhaps--forewarned--you may leave before this--before this terrible calamity comes to pass," she whispered.

"Perhaps we might," Pinori said, and her light voice was as cold as snow. She looked down and it seemed to Seltin that she made an effort to smooth the anger from her face. She extended a hand, and lay it lightly on Seltin's hair.

"You do the Kapoori a great service, Seltin vos'Taber. You will not be forgotten."

She lifted her hand, turned and was gone, one moment there, and the next not, as if the vines themselves had swallowed her.

*

The lab again, and hers the only light in a sea of darkness. The log was open, awaiting her final notations; notations she was not yet ready to make. Her findings of this day were --not impossible, clearly, but surely unanticipated. Unprecedented.

Yesterday, the sample vines had been healthy, heavy with fruit, their tannins and sugars quivering on the edge of maturity.

Today, the vines were drooping, the fruits wrinkled. Her analysis had shown the sugars dried, the tannins soured, the vines themselves ill as if from blight, though if it were blight, it was one unknown to her or to the encyclopedia of the vine.

This, she thought, is what the Kapoori can do, that we cannot. Lay waste to a vineyard in the course of one night, leaving no clue to either cause or cure? It was impossible. It was, Seltin thought, running her fingers through her already disordered hair--it was as if the thing had been done by magic--a pass of hands, a mutter of secret words, and hey, presto! the crop has failed.

She was a scientist. Every trained nerve rebelled against such a thought, and yet, if notmagic, than what?

A breeze moved through the lab, ruffling her hair and bearing scents of growing things. She breathed in appreciatively, then spun, heart in her mouth, for she knew that the windows were sealed, the doors barred--

The lights came up, slowly, nibbling at the edges of the dark like dawn, until the room was dim and cozy, like a garden on a comfortably overcast morning.

Across the lab, now, came her master, though not as she had ever seen him.

Zanith vel'Albren was a decisive man; he strode, he spoke firmly, he etched himself into the very molecules of the air. Not for him the hesitant step, the faltering whisper, the shrinking posture.

The man who came down the room --he shuffled, and seemed not entirely in control of his movements. He had one arm thrown about the shoulders of--of a monster, plainly put: Tall, she was; her hair a brown and green tangle of leaf and twig; her fingers were long and gnarled like roots. Her face was sharp, and all covered in pale green down. She wore a short, sleeveless white shift, which revealed more than it hid of a corded brown body.

All at once, Zanith came to a halt. He grabbed the vine woman's shoulder and pulled her 'round against to him.

"More . . ." he moaned, and she laughed, rich and intoxicating. She raised her stick-fingered hand and slid it into his hair, disordering it.

"Greedy manling," she crooned. "You shall have more--and more than ever you would want."

Zanith moaned again, in pain or in urgency it was impossible to tell. The Kapoori pulled his head down, ungently, and kissed him, hard, deep, and deeper still--then let him go all at once, and caught his arm, pulling him with her.

"Come, the vines require such healing such as you alone may give them. Would you keep them waiting?"

"Never," Zanith slurred, docilely following his captor. "Never keep them waiting."

The Kapoori pulled him onward, straight to Seltin's table, and paused a moment, looking at her out of port-red eyes, set deep beneath wild brows.

"You may wish to follow, Little Mother. The vines have a gift for you as well."

Seltin stared at her, and then at Zanith.

"What have you--what have you done to him?" she whispered.

The Kapoori laughed and Seltin felt her senses swim.

"Only kissed him, Little Mother. You saw." She shifted, and placed one brown hand on the worktable. "Come or not, as you alone will it. In either wise, bear the thanks of the Kapoori with you."

She inclined her wild head and passed on, guiding Zanith as if he were a child. Seltin stared after them until they passed down the row of tables and out through the door which should have been --which had been!--locked against the night.

She bit her lip and glanced down at her table, giving a gasp as she saw what the Kapoori had left for her.

A wide ceramic bracelet set with a number of gem-colored nodes. The controller, tuned to the threads woven into her skin, which Zanith vel'Albren had so delighted to use . . .

She snatched it up and thrust it into her pocket. Then, heart hammering, she went after the Kapoori.

*

At first, laughter guided her. She moved carefully, stalking it in the dimness, noting that the vines shifted and danced among the shadows, though there was neither wind nor breeze.

Perhaps, Seltin thought, they had merely been disturbed by the passage of the Kapoori and her captive. If that were so, then they were not so far ahead of her, she should catch them in a moment or two--

That was when she heard the first scream, hoarse and horrible.

Heedless of the danger, Seltin ran.

The vines seemed to writhe out of her way, no stick or stone tripped her. There came a second scream, so near she would have screamed herself, had she any breath to spare.

She was in an area of the vineyard where she had never been; the vines here were wild and unrestrained, heavy with fruit, the avenue thin and twisty.

A third scream came, the avenue widened, and Seltin fell to her knees, horrified. Ecstatic.

Zanith vel'Albren lay naked in the dirt, arms and legs spread wide, held by vines as thick as Seltin's forearm. The Kapoori who had led him to this place stood at his feet, her arms crossed beneath her breasts, her wild face merciless. At his head stood the one called Katauba, the vines Seltin had thought mere tattoo twisting and waving in the still air. Of the third Kapoori . . .

"I am here," the light voice murmured in her very ear. "Have a care, Seltin vos'Taber; the vines are not always discerning."

"What," Seltin whispered. "What will happen to him?"

"Watch," the other said, and moved a few steps forward, toward the undiscerning vines, the grim Kapoori and the man, screaming and begging in the dirt.

"Please, please!" he shouted in a hoarse and trembling voice. "Tell me what you want! Anything the House can give will be yours. Anything--"

"We wish only to nourish the vines, Child of Flesh," the wildest of the Kapoori told him, in her rich, intoxicating voice. "It is what we do."

"No!" Zanith shouted. "No, you cannot. . . ."

"You believe the old tales, then?" Katauba asked him. "I had heard otherwise."

"Please, I--I will give you a stay. I swear it! None will harm you or, or take you from your work while I--"

Pinori gestured, a ripple of the fingers only, yet it drew Seltin's eye, and she gasped, heart stuttering, as she saw the vines creeping across the ground. A tendril slid across his chest, leaving a thin line of blood in its wake. Another slipped over his hip, and wrapped itself around his straining manhood.

Zanith screamed again, wordless, and fought his bounds.

"Best accept it," the wild one advised. "It will go easier for you."

"Though it must be said," Katauba added, "that the vines treasure an exuberant spirit."

More tendrils, more blood, and now his face was covered, the screams muffled, and the creeping vines sliding delicate feelers into his ears.

Seltin gagged, and Pinori glanced back to her, her face showing nothing but friendly concern.

"Come," she said, and put her hand on Seltin's arm, drawing her away from the impossible.

***

On Balchiaport, in the Street of Epicures, a new sign hangs, crisp under the faintly blue light of midday: Kapoori Fine Wines and Custom Foodstuffs.

Inside, two walls hold racked bottles; while a third supports a stasis-case displaying a few of those advertised custom foodstuffs.

The proprietors are young women. Pinori specializes in the wines; her partner, Seltin, will produce any food you can imagine, and some beyond anyone's imagining. It is said that Seltin was once a slave; if you look closely at her throat, you will, indeed, see a rumpled scar, as if bond-threads had been removed.

No one believes that, of course. But it makes for an interesting story.

--END--

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Sharon Lee and Steve Miller are the celebrated co-authors of the best-selling Liaden Universe® series and have been writing together since the first "Kinzel" stories hit Fantasy Book in the early 1980s. They started the first Liaden story in 1984 and have published a dozen novels and several dozen short works in that series alone.

Along the way they've become fan favorites at SF conventions from California, USA to Fredericton, Canada, with Guest of Honor and Special Guest appearances at PenguiCon, COSine, AlbaCon, Trinoc*con, ConDuit, MarsCon, ShevaCon, BaltiCon, PortConMaine, SiliCon, Second Life Library, and elsewhere. Upcoming Guest of Honor apperances include Oasis 23 in Orlando, Florida in May 2010 and DucKon 19 in Napierville, Illinois in June 2010.

They count Baen, Del Rey, Meisha Merlin, Ace Books, Phobos, and Buzzy Multimedia among their English language publishers and have several foreign language publishers as well. Their short fiction, written both jointly and singly, has appeared in Absolute Magnitude, Catfantastic, Dreams of Decadence, Fantasy Book, Such a Pretty Face, 3SF, and several incarnations of Amazing.

Their work has enjoyed a number of award nominations, with Scout's Progress being selected for the Prism Award for Best Futuristic Romance of 2001 and Local Custom finishing second for the same award. Local Custom was published by Buzzy Multimedia as an audio book read by Michael Shanks --Stargate's Daniel. Balance of Trade, appeared in hardcover in February 2004 and hit Amazon.com genre bestseller lists before going on to win the Hal Clement Award as Best YA Science fiction for the year.

Their most recent Liaden novel is Fledgling, published in September of 2009, with Saltation (sequel to Fledgling) and Mouse and Dragon (sequel to Scout's Progress) due in 2010. Baen will also be reprinting the original ten Liaden novels in four omnibus editions starting in 2010. The authors have several other works in progress.

Steve was Founding Curator of Science Fiction for the University of Maryland's SF Research Collection as well as Vice Chair of the Baltimore in 80 WorldCon bid, while Sharon has been Executive Director, Vice President, and President of the Science Fiction Writers of America; together they were BPLAN Virtuals, an ebook publisher in the late 1980s. These backgrounds give them a unique perspective on the science fiction field.