The number of High Houses is precisely fifty. And then there is Korval.—From the Annual Census of Clans
"WHAT LONG-STANDING debt?" Aelliana demanded of a grinning Var Mon as they left the card room.
"Why, only the honor of being allowed to sit at the feet of Aelliana Caylon for an entire semester and catch the jewels as they fell from her lips!" He stopped to bow, coincidentally disrupting the flow of traffic between the card room and the music lounge.
Aelliana frowned. "You are absurd."
"Not to say impertinent," Rema put in, adding a rider to her comrade in a flutter of finger-talk. To Aelliana's eyes, it seemed a list: Twelve variations on the sign for idiot. Var Mon laughed.
"You will be very well served if Scholar Caylon pockets your three cantra and says no more," Rema scolded audibly. "How will you come about then?"
"Indeed, no," Aelliana said hastily; "I do not wish to keep Var Mon's money. But it is ill-done to say you are repaying a debt when it is no such thing!"
There was a moment of complete silence, her companions staring at her from rounded eyes.
"Chastised," Var Mon murmured.
"Justly," returned his partner. "Local custom."
"Exactly so." He bowed once more, taking care not to discommode others nearby. "I ask your forgiveness, Scholar," he said in the Mode of Lesser-to-Greater, which was the High Tongue and not a quiver of merriment to be heard. "You are gracious to illuminate my error."
Aelliana considered him, suspecting a joke. The boy's face showed nothing but serious courtesy, and perhaps a touch of anxiety. His three cantra were safe in her right hand, mingling with the jeweled chain and the keys to—the keys to her ship.
"You knew that lordship," she said abruptly.
Surprise showed at the corners of his face. "I know his name," he allowed, still in Lesser-to-Greater, "and his reputation."
"Vin Sin chel'Mara," Rema murmured, "Clan Aragon."
Aelliana sighed. She had learned, as any child, the rhymes for Clans and Sigils, Houses and Tasks. But childhood was many years gone and her general grasp of such matters fell far short of the knowledge held by one who moved in the world.
"High House?" was the best she could hazard now, looking at Rema.
The Scout blinked. "Not so high as Korval," she said slowly.
But this was merely a quibble. Who in all the world outranked the Dragon? Even Aelliana knew the answer was, none.
"I—see," she said, the keys hot in her hand.
"The play was clean." That was Var Mon. "We were surrounded by those who know their cards, and the house camera, beside." He grinned, irrepressible boy bursting free of the solemn gentleman he had been a moment before.
"Scholar Caylon, you don't say the game was false?"
"The game was entirely true," she said tartly. "Nor was it at all necessary for you to offer your cantra. His Lordship's line was irretrievably flawed." She held out the coins in question. "I thank you for your aid, though it was in no way required."
"Ouch," said Var Mon mildly, and took his money with a bow.
AELLIANA SHIFTED IN the pulldown tucked between the pilots' stations and inner hatch, and considered her circumstances.
It would appear that she was, in unlikely truth, the owner of a spaceship, which she was even now on her way to inspect.
She closed her eyes, feeling how quick her heart beat. She owned a spaceship; possibilities proliferated.
If it was, as she suspected, a rich man's toy, she would contrive, discreetly, to sell, thus ensuring outpassage and a stake upon which to build her new life.
If, against all expectation, Ride the Luck was a working class ship, she would—
She would keep it.
A pilot-owner might find work anywhere, she was tied to no single world. A pilot-owner need owe none, was owned by no one.
A pilot-owner was—free. Alone, independent, autonomous, sovereign . . . Aelliana leaned back in the pulldown chair, stomach cramped with longing.
If Ride the Luck was a working ship. . .
Of course, pilot-owners held piloting licenses, which Aelliana Caylon did not. The life she so avidly envisioned required she be nothing less than a Jump pilot.
"Asleep, Scholar?" Var Mon's voice broke in upon these rather lowering considerations.
"Not entirely," she replied, and heard Rema, at first board, chuckle.
"Good," Var Mon said, unruffled. "We set down in three minutes, unless Rema forgets her protocols. I'll conduct you to Binjali's, if you wish, and make you known to Master dea'Cort."
Aelliana opened her eyes. "Thank you," she said, as a flutter of her stomach reported the ship was losing altitude. "I would welcome the introduction."
"MASTER JON! JOY to you, sir!" Var Mon strode into the center of the repair bay, head up and voice exuberant.
Aelliana, trailing by several steps, saw a stocky figure come to the edge of shadow cast by a work-lift, casually wiping its hands on a faded red rag.
"I'm not lending you another cantra, you scoundrel," the figure said sourly, for all the mode was Comrade. "What's more, you're due in Comparative Cultures in twenty minutes and I'll not have it said I was responsible for keeping you beyond time."
"Not a bit of it," Var Mon cried, apparently not at all put out by this rather surly welcome. He reached into his pouch and danced into the shadow. Grasping a newly-cleaned hand, he deposited two gleaming coins on the broad palm and closed the fingers tight.
"Debt paid!" he said gaily and spun, bowing with a flourish that called attention to Aelliana, hesitating yet between light and shadow.
"Master Jon, I bring you Aelliana Caylon, owner of Ride the Luck. Scholar Caylon, Master Jon dea'Cort, owner of Binjali Repair Shop."
"Caylon?" Master dea'Cort at last stepped forward into the light, revealing a man well past middle years, sturdy rather than stout, his hair a close-clipped strip of rusty gray about four of her slender fingers wide. Eyes the color of old amber looked into her face with the directness of a Scout.
"Scholar Aelliana Caylon," he asked, big voice pitched gently, though he still spoke in Comrade mode, "revisor of the ven'Tura Tables?"
She inclined her head, and answered in Adult-to-Adult. "It is kind of you to recall."
"Recall! How might I—or any pilot!—forget?" He bowed then, distressingly low—the bow of Esteem for a Master—and straightened with his hand over his heart.
"Scholar, you honor my establishment. How I may be allowed to serve you?"
Aelliana raised her hand to ward the reverence in the old man's voice. To know her as the revisor of one of the most important of a pilot's many tools—that was grace, though not entirely unexpected. Jon dea'Cort had undoubtedly been a Scout in former years and Aelliana strongly suspected his "master" derived from "master pilot."
"Please, sir," she said, hearing how breathless her voice sounded. "You do me overmuch honor. Indeed, it is not at all—" Here she hesitated, uncertain how she might proceed with her disclaimer, without calling the master's melant'i into question.
"Var Mon, are you here, you young rakehell?" the old man snarled over his shoulder.
"Aye, Master Jon!"
"Then jet, damn you—and mind you're on time for class!"
"Aye, Master Jon! Good-day to you, Scholar. Until Trilsday-noon!"
Var Mon was gone, running silently past Aelliana's shoulder. She heard nothing, then a whine and sigh as the crew door cycled.
"So." Jon dea'Cort smiled, waking wrinkles at eye-corners and mouth. "You were about to tell me that I do you too much honor. How much honor should I lay at the feet of the scholar responsible for preserving the lives of half-a-thousand pilots?"
"Half-a—oh, but that's averaged over the years since publication, of course." Aelliana looked down, tongue-tied and graceless as ever when dealing outside the familiar role of teacher-to-student.
"You must understand," she told her boot-toes. She cleared her throat. "The tables were in need of revision and I was able to undertake the project. To recall my name as the one who did the work—that is kind. But, you must understand, to offer such honor to one who merely—" She faltered, hands twisting about each other.
"I teach math," she finished, lamely.
There was a short silence, before Jon dea'Cort spoke, voice matter-of-fact in Comrade Mode.
"Well, nothing wrong with that, is there? I taught piloting, myself, and to such a thankless pack of puppies as I hope you'll never see!"
Aelliana glanced up, hair swinging around her face. "You are a master pilot."
"Right enough. Most of us are, hereabout." He tipped his balding head to one side, offering another smile. "What might I do for you, math teacher?"
She lowered her eyes, refusing the smile as she refused Comrade Mode.
"I had come to inspect Ride the Luck, of which I am owner."
"So my problem-child said," Jon dea'Cort said placidly. "I hadn't known Ride the Luck was for sale."
"I—it wasn't." She moved her shoulders. "I won it last evening from Lord Vin Sin chel'Mara—in a round of pikit."
"Beat him at his own game!" Jubilation was plain in Master dea'Cort's voice, from which Aelliana deduced that His Lordship was not a favored patron. "Well done, math teacher! Here, let me fetch the jitney and I'll take you out myself. Beat the chel'Mara at pikit, by gods! I won't be a moment. . ."
"SHE'S A SWEET SHIP," Jon dea'Cort was saying some minutes later, sending the jitney full-speed down the yard's central avenue. "She's seen some hard times of late, but she's sound. Show her kindness and she'll do very well . . . Here we are."
The jitney shivered to a stop; Master dea'Cort slid out of the driver's slot and walked toward the ramp.
In the passenger's seat, Aelliana sat and stared, her hands cold and slick with sweat.
"Scholar Caylon?" There was worry in the big voice.
With an effort, Aelliana moved her eyes from the ship—hers, hers—to the face of the man standing beside her.
"It's a Jumpship," she told him, as if such a vital point of information could have someway escaped a master pilot's expert notice.
He glanced over his shoulder and up the ramp, then returned his amber gaze to her face. "Class A," he agreed gravely, and held out a companionable hand. "Care to see inside?"
She could remember wanting nothing else so much.
"Yes," she said hungrily and slipped out of the jitney, deftly avoiding Jon dea'Cort's touch.
AELLIANA BROUGHT THE board up and watched, rapt, as the ship ran its self-check. Each green go-light added to her wracking store of joy until she found herself clutching the back of the pilot's chair, wet fingers smearing the ivory leather.
The check ended on three chimed notes and she reluctantly touched the off-switch before allowing Jon dea'Cort to lead her further into the ship.
There was a dining alcove containing a gourmet automat, as well as a tiny dispensary housing a premium autodoc.
"Likes everything binjali, the chel'Mara," Master dea'Cort murmured and led her down a short companionway.
Aelliana followed him over the threshold of what should have been the pilot's quarters and stopped short, blinking at mountains of silks, sleeping furs, pillows of every hue and size. The floor was covered in a rug so fine she felt a pang of sorrow for having set her boots upon it. Tapestry gardens burgeoning with ripe fruits made the walls an oasis.
The illumination in the chamber was unusually firm and Aelliana glanced up, expecting to see a light fixture in keeping with the rest.
Instead, she looked up into the room she was standing in, Jon dea'Cort at the door, lined face carefully bland, while her own, reflected without distortion, showed slightly pale, with lips half-parted.
She glanced down, not quite able to stifle the sigh, and spoke over her shoulder.
"Everything binjali?"
"Understand," Master dea'Cort said earnestly, "the chel'Mara's no pilot. Happens he had other uses for a ship. And yon mirrors are top-grade."
"I see." She walked past him and into the room across the hall, which would have been the co-pilot's quarters in any other ship. In this ship, it was the twin of the orgy room. Aelliana sighed again and turned down the light.
"Guess you're ready to see the hold," Master dea'Cort said then, and showed her the way to the access door and how to punch in her code.
The door slid back and the lights came up and the first things she saw again were the damned mirrors. She had just enough time to wonder how anyone could be such a popinjay, when she saw the rest.
Some items she could name—silken cords and leather lashes, a few of the less arcane articles laid neatly in their cases, the swing suspended from the ceiling, the post with its built-in manacles.
Most, however, were unfamiliar: What, for instance, was the purpose of that oddly-shaped table, or the counterbalanced bench or—
Aelliana took a deep breath, turned carefully and lifted her face. Resolutely, she met Jon dea'Cort's eyes, and saw sympathy there.
"Master dea'Cort, I need your advice," she said, yet keeping to Adult-to-Adult.
"Math teacher, ask me."
With an effort, she kept her face up, her eyes steady; her hands were behind her back, twisting themselves into sweat-slicked knots.
"I had—thought," she said, "that I had acquired a working ship. It seems instead that I have acquired a—a bordello. What is your estimate of the time and expense required to restore this ship to its—original specifications?"
"Not a cantra," he said promptly, "and about a three-day—maybe four, depending on the crew I get." He grinned.
"No need to look like I'm pulling teeth," he told her. "I told you the chel'Mara liked everything binjali, eh? The toys are worth something, sold to the right party, and the mirrors—Math teacher, you could refit to spec on the profit from the mirrors alone! Had 'em set on gimbals, so they'd always be oriented, whatever G or spin the ship took on—made out of scanner-glass to withstand take-off stress and not flow—a rare wonder, these mirrors, and there are those who appreciate wonder."
Aelliana closed her eyes, trying to think, to work the steps.
"Do you know the proper—the proper buyers? I confess that I am not—"
"I can act as broker," he said easily. "My fee's ten percent off the top. We'll bring her back up to working weight, deduct labor and parts from what remains and put the profit into your ship's account. Deal?"
She opened her eyes. "Profit?"
"Bound to be a cantra or two left over," he said, looking around the gleaming playground. "Some of the toys are speciality items, and those mirrors haven't gotten any cheaper."
"Oh," Aelliana said, feeling rather adrift. She inclined her head formally. "Thank you, sir. I accept your deal."
"Well enough, then." He waved her out ahead of him.
"Will you be starting to work her at once?" he asked as they went back down the companionway.
"At once? I—I must take the piloting exam," Aelliana said, slowly. "And—flight time. . ."
There was a slight sound from behind her, as if Master dea'Cort had sneezed.
"You haven't—forgive me. I understand you to say that you have no piloting license."
"Not at the moment," she said, "but I shall be taking the exam—I have classes tomorrow . . . I shall take the exam on Banim. Second class is required to lift Class A locally, sir, is that correct?"
"Correct."
They had reached the dispensary. Aelliana paused, staring down into the 'doc's opaque hood.
"I shall acquire a second class, then," she said, feeling necessity like a stone in her gut. "I will work this ship."
"I don't doubt it," Jon dea'Cort said from beside her. "If you wish, I can test you, or one of my crew. We're all of us master class, as I said. Or you can call ahead to the Pilot's Guild in Chonselta and be sure they can accommodate you on Banim."
"I believe that will be best," she said, still staring down into the darkness.
"I'll call them now," he said, "while you use the unit here."
She turned sharply. "Use the unit?"
"No sense leaving that untreated when you've the means to mend it," he said, tapping his own wrist. "It's a rare wonder how those little things can eat away at your concentration." He moved down the hall. "I'll just get Chonselta Guild on the line. . ."
He was gone. Aelliana looked down at the bruises circling her wrist. They seemed more vivid now than they had, hours earlier, outside of Quenpalt's Casino. And, now that she was reminded of them, they did ache.
Well, she thought, with a flash of amused irritation, she was here and the autodoc was here. At the very least, mending the hurt would put a stop to all this rather embarrassing solicitude.
So thinking, she tapped the proper code into the 'doc, rolled back her sleeve and slid the wrist through the open hood.