Loose Cannon (3 page)

I sagged back into the
pilot's chair, yanked two ways: pity and despair. So much for the
stab to save us. Pirro Velesz was in worse case than
Mona Luki
or either of her
sorry crew.

* * *

MIDDAY AT DIABLO'S. Too far from the city to
hear the Temple chanting. Too close to the port to see anything but
outworlders, half of them drunk and the other half out of luck,
hunched over the bar like their last hope of salvation, eyes
blurred like the middle of Jump.

Not one of them took note of us at all.

Lil was jumping terrified--the move to the
hot-pad in the middle of our night and the guilt that came with
knowing she'd sold our ship, however unknowing, had her in a state
already. The bar filled with chancy spacers wired her even
higher.

Pirro Velesz was nowhere to be seen.

Cly Nelbern found us a ringside table,
ordered up a round of drinks and leaned back. She sipped from her
glass now and then, and her hands were steady when she did, but for
all of that I thought she looked tense and I tried not to think
what she'd do, if she were forced into hunting him out.

The crowd thinned soon enough, as my drink
sat untouched on the table. Lil's was long swallowed and Nelbern
had all but finished her own.

She had just waved her hand for the waiter
when there was a flicker at the doorway and a ripple of
city-clothes in the corner of my eye. Nelbern came to her feet in
one smooth flow, moving through the knot of patrons.

Lil charged to her feet the next second,
wailing something inarticulate under her breath.

"Lillian!" I cried as she went by, but her
eyes were full of anguish and she never heard me at all.

A circle had opened around them--Cly Nelbern
and Pirro Velesz--a circle of the dead-eyed incurious, who turned
back to drinking after a glance determined the business was none of
theirs.

"Well?" I heard her say, as Lil pushed a way
to his side.

"Well." He looked tired, his shabby blue
tunic draggled and dirty. He swayed where he stood and Lil put a
hand under his elbow to steady him.

I saw a smile come and go on his face, like
a whisper of might-have-been; then he reached in his sleeve and
pulled out a thin white envelope of the kind used for dirtsider's
mail and handed it to Cly Nelbern.

She shook her head toward a table and we
moved that way, Lil bright in the reflection of the man's wan
smile.

"So." A purr of satisfaction as Nelbern
opened the folder and pulled out a strip of film. "The
original?"

He nodded. "As agreed."

"Delightful. And I have payment for you."
She patted her own sleeve. Something in the gesture chilled me, and
I saw Lil clutch after the man's arm, her eyes showing white at the
edges.

It was then that I saw Her, in life as in
dreaming, walking into that place in Her cleanness and her power,
as if nothing evil could ever touch Her.

"Witch!" screamed one of the drunks at the
bar, and threw a glass, which fell, stone-heavy, and broke on the
floor at Her feet.

She turned Her head and there was silence at
the bar; raised a hand and drew a sign in the fetid air. The
silence shimmered, then broke apart, as the one who had thrown the
glass lay his head upon the bar top and wailed.

She turned back then, fixed us with those
eyes, which saw us and saw through us.

"Pirro Velesz." Her voice was deep, not
ungentle; I heard it in my heart.

He licked his lips. "Mercy, Lady."

"Return what you have stolen."

"Lady, I cannot."

The smooth brow creased; then those eyes
moved again, pinning Cly Nelbern.

"Return what you have stolen."

The older woman smiled, and bowed a trifle,
one hand over her heart. "Why certainly, child," she said
agreeably, and reached into her sleeve.

Lil cried out--a single wild shriek of
protest. The man flung out a hand, too late, to stop the throw. I
jumped half-forward, not sure if my mark were Lil or Nelbern, and
saw the knife arc silver-bright, straight for Moonhawk's
breast.

It fell, as had the glass; there was a
clatter of shards where it struck. Cly Nelbern was already moving,
the shine of another blade in her hand, swinging for an undercut
that would take the girl out as Nelbern charged on--

"STOP!"

The world rocked and the stars shook in
their places. I froze where I was, unable to do otherwise, my
muscles commanded by Her will, not mine. I saw Cly Nelbern fall,
and Lil. I saw Pirro frozen upright like myself, and heard the
silence; wondered if everyone in the bar were like froze...

Moonhawk lifted a hand, bangles tinkling
like carnival, and pointed a slender finger at Pirro.

"Return what you have stolen."

He moved, wooden-like, and went to his knees
at Nelbern's side. He pulled the envelope from her belt, but
tarried, his fingers straying to her wrist. Slowly, he stood and
bowed to the girl.

"Lady, this woman is dead."

The power shimmered, and I saw the girl
through the goddess; frightened by what she had done, and saddened.
She bent her head and when she raised it again, the girl was
gone.

Pirro bowed, offered the envelope with its
strip of film.

She took it and slipped it away, her eyes,
black and brilliant, boring into his. In a moment, she had moved,
turning like attention to me, so that I felt Her hovering over my
soul; felt Her touch on my heart; felt, at last the loosening of
Her will and blurted out: "My sister is dead!"

The black eyes seared into me. "Your sister
is alive, Fiona Betany. Give thanks to the Goddess and honor your
gifts. All of them."

She went to Lil then, and spoke two words
which my ears somehow refused to hear. Then she reached down Her
own hand to help my sister rise, and stepped back to survey the
three of us.

"You will return to your ship and you will
leave this world. You are forbidden to return, on pain of
punishment from the Circle."

She motioned, drawing burning signs within
the air. "Go now! Be prosperous and true." A tip of a hand toward
what had been Cly Nelbern. "Leave that one here."

She paused, looking at us with those eyes,
that saw us and saw through us and forgave everything they saw.

"Goddess bless," she said. "Now run!"

It might have been that easy, had the others
not come just then: Temple robes of starry blue, cowls half-hiding
faces that woke the echo of "Recant!" within me. There were three,
or five, or eight of them: Their magics so shimmered air and truth
that I could not count the number.

"HOLD!" demanded on of the group, and,
perforce, we did.

One witch pointed at me; I heard the word
"Talent!" and nothing else until a second witch pointed at Lil, and
me, and Pirro and waved us all into a circle with the word
"Conspiracy" binding us together like rope.

A third snatched open the envelope that
Moonhawk had meekly given her and let out a smoking curse. "They
would have stolen the secret of the catalyst molecule!"

There was charged silence, as if a great
secret had been revealed; and the oldest among them laughed, all
brittle.

"So, someone seeks to manufacture witches.
Little enough success would have attended them! The Temple way is
best. As all know--and believe."

She glanced about and took a brisker tone.
"The wrong is that they dared to steal from us--the Temple!
Retribution is demanded."

She gestured at us, and there was certainty
in my heart: Ship and blood--and a good man, too...doomed.

The shortest witch raised a hand, began to
trace a sign--and stopped because Moonhawk was abruptly there, meek
no longer, slashing across the other's sorcery with a jangle of
bracelets.

"Let be!" she snapped. "Moonhawk has looked
and Moonhawk has forgiven. This was a dream-matter! Their way is
clear, guaranteed by the Goddess!"

The shorter witch gaped,
hand suspended in mid-sign. "
Moonhawk
has forgiven! Heresy, Maiden.
By what right--"

The argument raged, words unsayable were
said and then sign against sign was raised and the witches
contended there--

But I found my limbs were my own again and I
grabbed Lil's arm with one hand and Pirro's with the other and we
took Moonhawk's last advice--we ran, and none chased after.

* * *

JUST AS WELL THAT Moonhawk
banned us from her world, for
Mona
Luki's
liftoff and out-travel that day is
now legend among traders and Port Masters (who all too often add an
extra watch-minder to our bill), and most likely we'd be shot down
on approach for traffic violations alone. But Moonhawk had told us
to
run
!

And we did what she told us--all of what she
told us; and we're as prosperous as a three-crew ship can be.

Pirro calms Lil as none since Mam did; she
has found the best truth possible. I have found Pirro practical, a
man of his word, always.

We share shifts or switch about to cover the
boards. It works well, two sisters and their husband--not an odd
arrangement, among small traders. Two babies on the way, which will
fill the ship nicely and give us all too much to do.

I take the dreaming seriously now, which
accounts for some of our luck in trade--and in other things.

Now and again over the months I dreamt of
her--Moonhawk. Not happy dreams. A burning. A hacking away of her
long black hair. A mort of hard times among strangers, too much
work, not enough food--things I remember all too well myself, so
could be those dreams weren't true. Sometimes I'd wake and find
myself with my arms pushed tight against the cabin's wall as if I'd
tried to push those hard times away...

Just lately, though, I dreamed her again,
after a long time of no dreams at all. It woke me and I lay there,
listening to Pirro breathe and considering what I'd seen: Moonhawk,
short hair all curly, dressed in prosperous trader clothes, bending
to embrace a fair-haired boy while a tall man looked on,
smiling.

The dream had felt true, I thought, and
turned over, to nudge Pirro awake and tell him.

He smiled sleepily and hugged me, the motion
of his hands a comfort.

"Will our daughter be a dream-witch too?" he
asked and I had no quick answer, for of our daughter the dreams are
just beginning.

--Standard Year 1375

Phoenix

CYRA HURRIED THROUGH the bustle of the
pre-dawn, head down, and face hidden.

She traveled early, when the friendly
shadows helped hide her deformity, allowing her to negotiate the
eight chancy blocks from the anonymous apartments she kept in a
nondescript building--where the floor numbering was in fresher
paint in Terran numerals than in the older Liaden--to the streets
she depended upon for her living.

Once on those streets no one remarked her,
and few noticed her passing or her business, except those who had
need to buy or sell this or that bauble of stone or made-stone or
metal. The half-light suited her purpose, and even so she sometimes
found herself automatically facing away from the odd passerby of
Liaden gait and stature who would consider her worthless, or
less.

On some worlds, Cyra would have been valued
for her intelligence and her skills. On others, her demeanor and
comeliness would surely have been remarked.

On others--but none of that mattered, for
here on Liad she was marked for life by the knife of her Delm, and
guaranteed a painful existence without the support of clan or kin
for at least the remaining ten years of the dozen she'd been banned
from clanhouse and the comforts of full-named society.

At one time, of course, she'd been Cyra
chel'Vona, Clan Nosko. Now, on the streets where she was seen most,
she was "that Cyra," if she was anything at all.

The marks high on her cheeks were
distinctive, but hardly so disfiguring or repulsive in themselves
to have people of good standing turn their heads or their backs on
her until she passed. Yet, those of breeding did....

This was scarcely a problem any longer, for
she had long ago moved the shambles of her business from the
streets of North Solcintra, where she had served the Fifty, to the
netherworlds of Low Port, where her clientele were most frequently
off-worlders, the clanless, outlaws, and the desperate.

Her own fortunes had fallen so far that she
opened and closed her small shop by herself, working daily from
east-glow to mid-day, and then again from the third hour until
whatever time whimsey-driven traffic in the night faltered.
Occasionally even these hours were insufficient to feed her, and
she would work in the back-house at Ortega's--cleaning dishes,
turning sheets, cooking, pushing unruly drunks out the back
door--where her face would not be remarked--and thereby eating and
sometimes earning an extra bit or two.

That was the final indignity. Very often her
purse was so shrunken that she measured her worth not in cantra or
twelfths but in bits--Terran bits!--and was pleased to have them.
For that matter, being employed by a pure blood Terran was, by
itself, enough to turn any of the polite society from her face, no
matter that the Terran was a legal land-holder.

Things had been somewhat better of late; the
new run of building on the east side of the port gave many of her
regulars a chance at day labor and those of sentimental bent often
returned in hope for the items they'd sold last week, or even last
year.

This morning she was tired, having spent
much of the evening at Ortega's, filling in for a cook gone
missing. Shrugging her way into the store after touching the
antiquated keypads she caught a glimpse of someone standing huddled
against the corner of the used clothing store.