Scout's Progress (16 page)

THE WOMAN BEHIND the counter wore an embroidered badge on the shoulder of her leather jacket: A bronze-winged, green-eyed dragon hovering protectively over a tree in full, luxuriant leaf. Beneath the graphic was written, not the "I Dare" which would have completed the seal and identified the wearer as one of Clan Korval's Line Direct, but "Jazla pen'Edrik, Dispatcher."

She heard Aelliana out with grave courtesy, hands folded upon the counter.

"As it happens, we do from time to time require the services of freelance pilots," she said at the conclusion of Aelliana's rather breathless presentation. "May I see your license, please?"

She held it out, wishing bitterly that her hand did not tremble so, then folded both hands before her as the dispatcher turned and fed the card into the reader.

Korval was ships, everyone knew that. No clan owned so many; no other clan or company employed so many pilots. It had always been so—stretching back to the very ship, the very pilots, who had brought Liadens safely out of the horror of the Migration.

Clan Korval took pilots and piloting very seriously, indeed. Thus Aelliana had gone first to Korval's Solcintra Dispatch Office to request that her name be added to the list of pilots available to fly.

"Aelliana Caylon," the dispatcher said, eyes intent on the reader's screen. "Provisional second class—quite recent. One assignment completed on behalf of Binjali Repair Shop. Master Pilot dea'Cort lists himself as reference. So." She tapped a sequence into her keyboard, retrieved Aelliana's card and held it out with a grave smile.

"I shall be very pleased to add your name to our roster, Pilot Caylon. May I know the best means of contacting you?"

"Chonselta Technical College," Aelliana recited the number of her private office line, "or a message might be left at Binjali's—" She repeated the code Jon dea'Cort had given her. "You may wish to note that I am owner of a Class-A single-hold."

"So," the dispatcher said again, fingers dancing briefly across the keys. "Please contact this office immediately your certification changes, pilot." She glanced up. "I advise that the possibility of a second-class provisional attaining work from this office is not high. That you own a ship is of value; that you have already successfully completed one assignment is likewise of value," she smiled. "As is, of course, Master dea'Cort's word."

Aelliana swallowed, face stiff.

The dispatcher inclined her head. "If it is not amiss, pilot, I offer advice."

"I should be grateful for advice," Aelliana returned sincerely, clutching her license in cold fingers.

"Register with the Guild Office on Navigation Street. Tell them that you fly your own ship and are willing to carry a hold-full or a courier pack. Ask to be placed on the Port Master's Roster." She tipped her head, birdlike. "They may not wish to do so until you have achieved solid second-class. But ask. And when you lose provisional, go back and ask again."

Aelliana bowed. "That seems sound advice. I thank you."

"No thanks due," the dispatcher assured her. "Good lift, pilot."

"Safe landing," Aelliana returned, which proper response tasted oddly sweet along her tongue. She made her bow and exited Korval's office, making for the next dispatching station on her carefully-researched list.

IS THIS YOUR IDEA of a joke?" Jon demanded, holding a gaily-painted tin high on one broad palm.

Daav gave the tin a moment of earnest perusal before turning a grave face to the older man.

"Alas, Master Jon, try as I will, I find nothing amusing within the object. It seems quite an ordinary tea-tin."

"Ordinary!" Jon roared, at such volume that Trilla leaned over the edge of the catwalk and Syri came out from behind the toolbox, head cocked inquisitively.

Jon thrust the tin in her direction. "Identify this."

"Joyful Sunrise morning blend," she returned promptly.

"In a stasis-sealed tin," Jon amended, and fixed Daav in an awful glare. "Do you know the price of this tin on the Port?"

Daav opened his black eyes wide. "No, how could I?"

"Puppy. A cantra on a glut-day, for your interest."

"Ah, then I appreciate your concern!" Daav cried, much enlightened. "Such a leaf will do no justice to your teapot, Master! Best return it to the merchant who sold it you, and ask for less of something more noble."

High on the catwalk, Trilla laughed. Syri raised a hand to hide her smile and Patch the cat wandered over to strop against Daav's legs.

Jon's lips were seen to twitch. "I suppose it's nothing to do with you, that the yos'Galan chooses to send this particular gift?"

"The yos'Galan?" Daav repeated, with a fine show of bewilderment.

"Oho, you wish me to believe that the yos'Galan's
lady
conceived this, do you? It may be her hand, young Captain, but I know better than to suppose it her thought." Jon raised his face to shout.

"Trilla, bring your hammer!"

"Aye, Master Jon!" She snagged a guy-rope and rode it briskly down, alighting with a snappy salute.

"Come along," Jon directed, and turned toward the crew lounge, Trilla at his heels.

Syri sent Daav a wide stare. "He never means to break the seal with a hammer!"

"Perhaps he merely intends to deliver the coup to the teapot," Daav said, bending to scoop Patch to his shoulder before moving off in Jon's wake.

"Never," Syri returned, falling in beside him. "That teapot's like a child to him. He'd sooner use a hammer on Patch."

"Hah. In that wise, we had best put speculation aside, and consider the evidence of our senses."

She laughed, that being one of the basic precepts of Scouthood, and they continued like two shadows down the bay, Patch riding tall on the man's leather-clad shoulder.

"We'll have a shelf here," Jon was telling Trilla, tapping his finger on the wall next to the teapot. "Good, sturdy work, mind. We'll need a locking case, and a place to display the lady's card. You," he turned to glare at Daav. "Get 'round to Min Del's and tell him I need a case, so—" he shaped it roughly in the air, one hand still holding the tin—"quicktime. Mind you tell him it's to lock to my print and none other! I'm damned if I'll have you bunch of hooligans breaking into my tin and replacing this leaf with sage!"

"But, Master Jon," Syri protested, "don't you mean to drink it?"

"Drink it?" Jon stared. "Have you run mad? Drink Joyful Sunrise? Why, I'd as soon—"

The crew door cycled noisily and Patch leapt from Daav's shoulder, running tail-high and spring-footed to greet the new entry.

Aelliana Caylon bent and stroked the cat's back where it curved against her knee in exuberant hello. Straightening, she tried to walk on, but found herself forthwith entangled in cat. She paused once more, bent and stroked; straightened—and nearly fell as her feline admirer wove joyfully between her legs.

She hesitated a heartbeat—two—before bending again and inexpertly gathering the cat into her arms. Patch settled against her shapeless chest, eyes slitted in ecstasy, front paws kneading the sleeve of the thick shirt. Aelliana came forward.

"Afternoon, math teacher!" Jon called, raising the tin in salutation.

"Good afternoon, Master dea'Cort," she replied solemnly. She paused, Patch purring like a cat besotted in the basket of her arms. One-by-one she surveyed Trilla, busy with her measurements, Syri's open-faced concern, Jon's hand and the tea-tin. The question, when it came, was addressed to Daav.

"Forgive me. I wonder if there is something—gone awry."

"Not a bit of it," he returned cheerfully. "Jon is only building a shelf to house a newly-acquired treasure."

Aelliana's head turned back toward Jon, hair shimmering. "A tea-tin?" she asked, bemusement sounding clearly. Daav grinned.

"Damn me if you're not as bad as he is!" Jon cried, sweeping his unencumbered hand toward the taller man. "This isn't just any tea-tin, math teacher, this is a gift from Master Trader Er Thom yos'Galan, honored son of the exalted House of Korval! What've you to say now, eh?"

Aelliana cuddled Patch absently against her. "It's a very pretty tea-tin," she offered after a moment.

Trilla choked and nearly dropped her measuring-wand. Syri gulped and walked rather unsteadily over to inspect the contents of the pastry-carton.

"Pretty," Jon repeated tonelessly. He reached into his vest pocket and reverently produced a folded card of the sort used to write notes of invitation. Gravely, he showed the front of the card—the Tree-and-Dragon, complete with the boldly embossed "Flaran Cha'menthi"—and thrust it at Aelliana.

"Read it, then."

Smoothly, she readjusted Patch's weight, took the card and opened it, one-handed. She frowned for a moment at the message within, then raised her head, hair falling away from her face as she offered the card back to Jon.

"I am ashamed to admit that I neither read nor speak Terran," she said quietly. "It is a deficiency I intend soon to remedy. For today, however, I am ignorant."

"Hah." Jon fingered the card open. "It says—this is from Lady yos'Galan, understand, Learned Scholar of Language Anne Davis, out of the Terran Community. It says: 'To Master Pilot Jon dea'Cort. Please accept this token of . . . regard . . . from myself and my—' lord, would you say that rendered, Daav?"

Daav lifted an eyebrow. "How can I know?"

"Uncommonly awake," Jon commented and went back to his note. "' . . . lord. It is our . . . wish that you will . . . delight in . . . the gift, as we delight in the giving.' Then it is signed, you see, 'Anne Davis, Lady yos'Galan.'"

Aelliana's head was bent above Patch, her hair obscuring all of the cat but the blissfully kneading toes. "She sounds a—most gracious lady," she said after a moment. "Though I cannot help but wonder, sir, if she might have wished you to drink the tea."

"Truly, Jon," Syri said, turning from her study of petrifying pastries, "Lady yos'Galan cannot have meant you to imprison the gift in a lock-box. Where is joy in that?"

"Joy a-plenty," he returned promptly. "How many other garages have a gift from Korval to display, eh, Daav?"

"I have no notion, Master Jon. Shall I mount a survey?"

Jon grinned. "I thought you were sent to Min Del's on an errand."

"I can take that one," Syri offered. "My shift is done and it is a simple matter to chart a course past Min Del's on my way down-port."

"Simple enough," Jon agreed. "Are you here tomorrow?"

"Dawn to luncheon," Syri returned, "then I'm wanted back with my team." She bowed. "Pilot Caylon. Good health and fair flying."

"Fair flying." Aelliana tried to return the courtesy, but Patch took exception and the bow turned into a scramble to set him safely down. When she looked up again, Syri was gone and Trilla was walking toward the back of the bay.

"What've you been up to today, math teacher?"

Aelliana sighed and looked to Jon dea'Cort, who was carefully returning Korval's note to his vest pocket.

"I've been to the dispatch offices, and to the guild hall, requesting my name be added to the freelance rosters," she said. "The dispatcher at Korval's office advised me to put my name on the Port Master's list, but the guild rep ruled I must lose provisional status first."

"So you did go to Korval's offices." That was Daav, moving silently over to perch on a stool.

"Of course," she said, with a flicker of green eyes. "Korval is ships, after all."

"So it is," he agreed gravely. "Were you accepted for the roster there?"

"Readily—and asked to update my information, when I came full second-class." She turned to Jon dea'Cort.

"Your word of reference was in my favor, sir. I—am grateful—for your kindness."

"No kindness about it," he said gruffly. "If you'd done a bad job, there would have been no reference. Happens you did a binjali job and earned every word. How are you going about learning Terran?"

She sagged onto the edge of a stool, blinking at him. "I—hardly know," she said, somewhat abashed. "I had—thought—sleep tapes, you know. Chonselta Tech's library is not so well supplied. . ."

"Hah. No surprise. You might be able to get tapes copied from Scout Academy—your name's cantra there. Problem with tapes is you need to practice or the data just fades out again."

"Most of us are fluent," Daav said, offering her a smile. "What sort of Terran do you wish to learn?"

She blinked. "What—sort?"

"Indeed. You teach practical mathematics, do you not? So—do you wish to learn practical Terran, or theoretical?"

"Oh. Of course. I—I wish to understand and be understood under—under field conditions."

"Easy enough," Jon said, moving over to the teapot and pouring himself a mug full. "You get around all right in Trade?"

"I am comfortable conversing in Trade," Aelliana assured him in the mode-less monotone of that language.

"Even easier, then. We teach you from Trade, eh, Daav?"

"It would seem best," he replied. "Shall you arrange for the tapes?"

"Might be better for her to learn it in waking mind." Jon chose a pastry and ambled back to the stools. "You have a timetable?"

She swallowed, took a breath, and raised her eyes to his. "As soon as possible," she said, voice gone raspy and tight. "It would be—good—if I were—fluent—within the year."

The amber eyes held hers for a long moment, then Jon looked away and hoisted himself atop the green stool. "All right. We'll lay the basics, then supplement with tape as necessary. Daav's most fluent among the current crew. Trilla's good. Clonak's good, if he can be prevailed upon to speak something other than Aus-dialect. My ear is better than my accent, I fear, though I read well enough. Syri's about at my level—no, Syri's back to her team tomorrow. . ." He paused for a sip of tea. "This course of study suit you?"

"I—" She cleared her throat, looking from the old man to the young one. "Thank you—extremely. Balance must be—owing, however. I cannot—"

Jon sighed gustily. "First lesson in Terran, math teacher—pay attention."

She swallowed. "Yes, sir."

"Stop thinking like a Liaden." He grinned. "Thought it was going to be easy, did you? I told you we're all comrades here, eh? Happens that's true. What's owing is what's received: Comfort, safety and succor. Balance, right?"