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"Oh," Kishara's younger sister Troodi said as she opened the door and beheld her elder sitting in the chair by the window, a book on her knee.
"Oh," Troodi said again, her eyes filling with tears. "Shara, I thought that – I'd hoped that – you'd – gone ahead."
"As you see, I am here," Kishara said gently, putting the book aside and rising. That she'd leave clan and kin ahead of this, her delm's summons to a banishment – but where would she have gone? She might, perhaps, have fled to Maplekai, had it been in port, but such a move would have endangered Clan Monfit entire. The Council in its current mood was perfectly capable of seizing her family's tradeship in Balance of an attempt to escape its instructions. And to hide on Liad – well, there was only the Low Port, and no one's dreams survived there.
She did not say these things to her sister, who was not yet halfling, and could only see their uncle's betrayal. Later, when she was older, and, one hoped, her life less imperiled–then she would see that this had been the only course that would have preserved the clan, which was the duty of a delm. To Troodie, at twelve, it must seem there were no limits on the delm's power.
Kishara, her elder by a dozen Standards, had no fault to find with the delm's actions to preserve the clan, though she might have wished for a small sign or token to demonstrate an uncle's regard for the niece he must sacrifice, but there, Uncle Bry Sen had scarcely emerged from the delm, or the delm from his office, since the decision had at last been taken.
"This," Troodi said abruptly, her voice warm with hope; "Kishara, surely this proves them wrong? How is this moment lucky for you? How, therefore, are you lucky beyond nature?"
Her gift – the talent that made her a despised outcast – was at the best of times too strange to explain to one not similarly burdened. Still, one could not leave a young sister utterly without comfort. Kishara folded Troodi into an embrace.
"Sometimes," she murmured, her dry cheek pressed against her sister's damp one. "Sometimes, what seems at first to be the blackest bad luck is found, after a passage of time, and a re-examination of circumstance, to have been the best luck possible."
Her sister sniffled.
"Is this one of those times?" she asked, her tone, rightly, doubtful.
Kishara held her at arm's length, and produced a smile that was not wholly false.
"That we cannot know, until we allow time to pass."
She bent and kissed her sister's cheek.
"I must go," she said. "Try to forgive Uncle Bry Sen, sweeting; he's never so fierce as you are. And the delm – why, the delm has no choice in this at all, if he would protect the greater part of Monfit's treasures. This is not over, I'll wager. Your ferocity will be needed on behalf of the clan, yet."
Her sister considered her, face bearing an expression between wariness and hope.
"Do you – do you know that?" she asked.
Kishara thought about those things that had produced this moment, when all of those in possession of small talents were held away from joining with the Healers in their guildhall, were declared dangers to society and to the homeworld, and ordered to submit to sterilization, execution, or banishment.
There had been a certain amount of genuine fear in the discovery that there were so many "unregulated talents" present in the general population, for there are always those who fear what they fail to understand. But there had also been greed – for some clans would lose too many, and they would be easy meat for those who were ruled by avarice.
So, then, thought Kishara; the truth for Troodi, so that she might stand strong and vigilant for the clan.
"Yes," said Kishara firmly. "I know that you will be needed."
There were footsteps heard then, down the end of the hall, moving rapidly closer. Kishara turned to pick up her jacket.
She kissed her sister's cheek again before opening the door to reveal her cousin Ern Din's frowning face.
"Come," she said briskly, stepping 'round him. "It is time for me to go."
* * *
Perhaps it was spite. Perhaps it was expediency. Perhaps it was, as they said, honest horror to find a dire threat to the purity of Liaden society living, all unrecognized, among them.
However it became known, and for whatever reason it was pursued, the Council of Clans had, by majority vote – Korval and Ixin, Justus and Deshnol the four clans who stood against – decreed that all clans give up such members who exhibited abilities which were known to be out of the common way, whether the delm deemed them dangerous or not.
The penalty for withholding such persons was to be written out of the Book of Clans, which threat was immediately implemented, to the sorrow of Clan-Natis-that-was, which had long been a thorn in the side of the Council. It had been a thorough breaking, with the delm, both thodelms, and their heirs sent to outworlds as bonded laborers, while those others of Natis who were deemed "untainted" were acquired by such houses that had need to boost their numbers. The two found to possess abilities out of the common way were put to death, the Council disallowing the delm her right to perform the act herself.
Though she had been required to watch.
Having administered this terrible lesson, the Council may have been confident that delms would act as delms must – to preserve the greater good, and the greater numbers, of their clans.
But even frightened delms could not bring themselves to surrender their children – innocent of any wrongdoing save being odd – to death. Delm spoke to delm, there was talk – much talk – regarding what melant'i required, and more talk yet regarding the Code, and what might fall outside of civilized behavior.
There had been consternation in the halls of the Council. There had been shouting and threats. The Council offered a compromise – the odd ones would not be murdered, but merely sterilized so their abnormal genes died with them.
Into this second wave of outrage stepped Clan Korval, who had been instrumental in creating the Healers Guild, some years gone by. Korval suggested that the abnormal – which in gentle courtesy they named "small talents" – be brought into the Healers Guild, and trained in the forms of that House. Thus affiliated, they would be neither surprise nor threat.
The Council ordered the Accountants Guild, who had drawn up the charter for the Healers, to find if Korval's suggested solution had merit.
It was said that the qe'andra who stood before the Council to report the results of research wept openly as he gave the opinion of the experts: None but those who displayed the talents detailed in the charter, those talents acknowledged as being on the Healer Spectrum might join the Guild. No provision had been made in the charter for other, or different, styles of talent. The advice of the Accountants Guild was that the Healer's Guild amend their charter, or that another charter be drawn up, forming a guild which would protect those talents not found to be on the Healer Spectrum. He had added, into the silence that greeted this report, that the Accountants Guild would be pleased to assist in either project, pro bono.
Speaker for Council ruled the discussion of amended charters and new Guilds off-topic, and was on the edge of calling for a vote on the issue of nullifying the threat posed by the abnormal, but Korval was up again, demanding that each and all of the small talents be tested by the Healers, so that those who were found to be on the Healer Spectrum could properly be brought into the Guild.
The demand was reasonable; the Council could not gainsay it, though it could and did set a tight deadline.
So, the small talents were tested.
Kishara herself had come close – quite improbably close, to her mind – to achieving the Healer Spectrum on the strength of her second small talent. The testing Healer, all honor to him, had insisted on a second examination, by a master of the Guild. The master found her gift too erratic to be of use to the House. Even then, the testing Healer had asserted that she might well improve with training; that they were none of them born in perfect control of their gifts, that –
He had been silenced then by the Council-appointed witness, even as Kishara had whispered to let be, lest he suddenly be discovered to have no aptitude for Healing, and was in addition a danger to the general population.
It was said that three of the many tested were found to be on the Healer Spectrum. The rest – were once again championed by Clan Korval and their allies.
They offered those small talents who did not wish to remain on the homeworld at the price of their future children the opportunity to emigrate to a world seeking colonists, well away from Liad, and far from the oversight of the Council of Clans. Clan Korval and Clan Ixin between them would supply transport.
* * *
They were counted off in twelves as they came aboard, the twelfth given a tablet, which displayed orders and information. The tablet-holder of Kishara's group was a woman who gave her name simply as Pritti, with neither Line nor clan to distinguish her further, who asked their names, and ticked them off on the screen. That done, she guided them to a pod of twelve acceleration couches placed kin-close near the end of a short hallway.
They settled in their own order, with Kishara on Pritti's left, which earned her a smile and a question.
"What is your talent?"
"I am found to be too fortunate," she said promptly. "And you?"
"I can tell who has touched an object only by touching it myself."
Kishara frowned.
"That sounds – rather useful," she said, then caught herself up. "Your pardon."
"No need." Pritti smiled. "It is rather useful, as it happens, merely it is not on the Healer Spectrum. Also, my cousin Ihana has secrets to keep, and has long wished me away."
She glanced beyond Kishara, and spoke to the elder reclining on the next couch.
"And your talent, sir?"
"I can weave rainbows." He moved a wrinkled hand in an arc above his face, as he lay there.
Colors glowed against the air, following the pattern his hand described. He made a fist, and the dainty thing lingered for a moment before fading coyly away.
"Where is the harm in that?" demanded Kishara.
The elder laughed softly and said, "Not on the Healer Spectrum."
"Indeed." Pritti turned to the couch on her right, where a man of no particular distinction sat, feet firmly on the decking.
"What is your talent, Mor Gan?"
"I?" He lifted a shoulder, and let it fall. "I – make suggestions."
It was said easily enough, but Kishara shivered where she lay, propped on one elbow.
"Suggest what sort of things," Pritti asked, sharp enough that Kishara knew she was not alone in being discomfited.
"Well, I might suggest that you give me that silver ring on your finger," he said, and there was something there, in the cadence of his words. Pritti raised a hand on which silver flashed brightly. She raised her other hand, as if she would have the ornament off. Kishara held her breath even as the other woman hesitated.
"No," Pritti said, firmly, and folded her hands together in her lap.
The man – Mor Gan – laughed.
"And there you have it," he said, his voice easy again, "perfectly useless. However, it is disquieting, which is why my delm cast me out before even the Council's recent start."
"Cast you out?" said the elder. "Where did you go, then?"
"Oh, to Low Port," said Mor Gan, and there, again, was that note in his voice. "A man might profit there, if he takes good counsel and aligns himself well."
"And yet," Pritti said, "you did not choose to stay on Liad, though you were so well-situated."
There was a smile in his voice this time.
"I had always wished to see other worlds, and it scarcely seemed that a like offer would come my way again."
There was an uneasy silence. Pritti had raised her head to address the couch beyond, when there came a loud click, which might have been, Kishara thought, from the all-ship comm. In another moment, this theory was confirmed by a voice speaking in the mode of pilot to passengers.
"All passengers, this is Grasa ven'Deelin Clan Ixin, pilot and first board. We will be lifting within the next hour. Allow me to regret the conditions in which you are constrained to undertake this journey. Our purpose was to accommodate as many as we might without endangering either the ship or its passengers. In keeping with these goals, we will be introducing a soporific into the air supply. The journey will pass more quickly for you, and you will consume less supplies. By reducing the amount of rations we must carry, we were able to accommodate three more passengers.
"Those who were given tablets upon boarding are the leaders of your twelve-group. Each group will be waked according to the schedule now on the screen. Leaders will at those times check on the well-being of the group, and see that each partakes of the nutrients provided. Again, allow me to regret these conditions. The pilots swear that we will go as quickly as possible, and will deliver you safely into circumstances far better than those you are leaving."
There was some exclamation, and a very modest amount of disturbance, due, Kishara thought, lying back on her couch, to the drug that had doubtless been introduced into the air supply some time ago.
She sighed, and closed her eyes, and deliberately took deep breaths until sleep swept her away.
* * *
It was a strange sleep, full with chaotic events and odd people, and her brief wakings scarcely more sensible. She was given a hard bar to eat and something thick and vile-tasting to drink, marched to the necessary, and back to the couch, where the dreams took her again between one blink and another.
There was, she thought, at one waking, an empty couch, which had been the elder's. She had stopped there, struck with something that might have been sorrow, had she been awake enough to process the emotion.
"It was only a pretty thing he did, and no harm to it," she'd said, and Pritti – perhaps it was Pritti – made some answer that she forgot as soon as she'd heard it.
The dreams became ever more mysterious, salted with a sense of danger, and one face, seen often – a hard face, set in displeasure, well-marked brows pulled tight over dark eyes, mouth straight and tight.
There was something attached to that face – some sort of urgency that tasted of her gift. She sought that face, tried to tarry nearby when she found it, but she had no control, no technique, and the other images crowded her away, confusing her with their multitudes.
Then, the dreams stopped.
"Kishara," someone said. "Kishara, wake now. We are arrived."
* * *
They were a motley crowd of supplicants, to be sure, thin and pale and not a little anxious. Kishara might have found it in her to think hardly of their supposed rescuers, saving that the pilots came on-screen to explain procedures going forward, and it could be seen that they were not one whit less worn than their passengers.
"The Office of Colonization has long expected our arrival," Pilot ven'Deelin said. "There are certain examinations which must be made before applicants receive certification and are allowed the freedom of the planet. It has been requested that you be told – not all will be accepted. Those who are not will be returned to the ship."
Kishara shivered, and there was a general mutter of dismay and one question, shouted from elsewhere on the ship.
"What then, Pilots? Are we returned to the mercies of the homeworld?"
Pilot ven'Deelin raised a hand, and Kishara marked that it was not entirely steady.
"The pilots – by which I mean myself and my copilot, and the pilot-sets from the other two transports – will be discussing our options. I believe that we may still do better for you than the homeworld, but we have not the details, having only been made aware of this within the last hour ourselves."
She paused, perhaps ready to receive other questions. None came. She inclined her head and continued.
"We have received a protocol from the Colonization Office. Tablet holders will find this on their screens. Please share it with your group. The first call for this ship is expected within the next hour, local."
She sighed and closed her eyes briefly.
"Are there other questions?"
There were none. The pilot inclined her head.
"Tablet holders, please choose one of yours to pick up rations for the groups at the distribution point."
The screen went dark. Pritti used her chin to point at the man sitting two seats to her left.
"Tai Lor, of your goodness, fetch our rations."
* * *
Their group was among the last to be called to the shuttle to go down to the planet surface.
The ten that remained of their original pod of twelve sat in their designated area. Once they were strapped in Pritti, tablet in hand, read out their personal names one by one: Kishara, Mor Gan, Elasa, Tai Lor, Peiaza, Jas Min, Wilcee, Bri And, Kanni, ending with her own.
"What sort of examinations do you think we will be given?" ask Elasa, who looked the veriest child.
"Physical, certainly," said Bri And.
"Will they take note of our gifts?" asked Wilcee. "Have they even been told of our gifts?"
"Surely so," said Jas Min. "How could that have been hidden?"
"Very easily," answered Wilcee. "One need only fail of mentioning it."
"That would be unscrupulous," Jas Min objected, which drew a laugh from Peiaza.
"Recall who made these pleasant arrangements on our behalf," she said.
"Certainly, the Dragon is honorable, in its way," Jas Min said, "but if you would have it otherwise, what do you say of the Rabbit?"
"That they lend credence to the Dragon's actions," came the response. "And that it is entirely possible that they have not been given the whole, no more than we were."
"Well, if you – " Jas Min began, but Pritti waved a hand, cutting his comment short.
"The information included here," she raised her tablet so that all might see it, "is that the Colonization Office is fully informed regarding our situation and our abilities. They have no objection to talents of any sort. It is stated that some number of the existing population are likewise gifted."
She lowered the tablet and frowned.
"If I read this aright," she continued, "we comprise a second wave of colonists, the first having lost many due to the unusual environment which favors a particular sensitivity, and also the complete absence of sensitivity."
"So some of us," said Tai Lor lightly, "may be found too little in tune – or too much in tune – with this unusual environment? Which is it, I wonder?"
"That will be made known to us soon enough, I'll wager," said Peiaza, in a tone that predicted such knowledge to be dire.
The rest of them exchanged glances.
"I, for one, will put off worry until we are landed, tested, and presented with real information," Bri And said sensibly. "In the meanwhile, I shall be taking a nap."
Despite they passed the entire journey unaware, that state had been more exhausting than restful. Kishara found that she might also welcome a nap. She disposed herself more comfortably in her chair, leaned her head back into the rest, and closed her eyes.
* * *
Kishara shivered in the damp breeze that teased them as they moved slowly, one-by-one, down the ramp to the omnibus at the far end. For all it was damp, and cooler than her jacket allowed for, Kishara approved of the breeze. Its freshness woke her senses, and sharpened her thoughts. There was a quality to it – a sort of sparkle, as one might have in a glass of mineral water.
The port beyond the bus – was meager. One of course had not expected Solcintra, but had envisioned something nearer to one of the modest outworld ports that Maplekai served.
From her vantage near the top of the ramp, she saw that she had been optimistic in her imaginings. The port was possibly three streets deep, and three long. Most of the buildings were low, only one rising above four stories, and that so much higher that it must be the portmaster's office.
Well, she said to herself, it is a colony world. You did know that.
The breeze buffeted her once more, and she wished for a heavier jacket. Pritti, ahead of her in line, shivered, and hunched her shoulders, as if that might protect her from the wind.
Kishara looked down the ramp toward the bus – and frowned.
A woman wearing a green tunic, and holding a clipboard, stood at the door of the bus. Each person had to speak with her before they were allowed to board the bus. And, as Kishara watched, here came Pritti, tablet in hand.
Kishara frowned, and tried to look away, to look at Pritti just ahead of her in line, but her eyes would not move; she was wholly concentrated on the scene at the door.
The woman in the green tunic held out her hand. Pritti, clutching the tablet tight, spoke – sharply, so it seemed to Kishara. The official spoke again, extending her hand more fully, and after a moment's hesitation, Pritti surrendered the tablet.
Kishara, watching, leaned forward even as Pritti turned to board the bus. In that instant, her eyesight blurred, she stumbled – and felt her arm caught, steadying her.
"Here now!" a voice said sharply. "What's amiss?"
Kishara drew a shaky breath, and turned her head. It was grim-faced Bri And who was her rescuer.
"I came a bit dizzy," she said, trying to ignore the phantoms obscuring her vision. It was as if she trying to focus on his face from a distance, with a bright, busy crowd between them. She took another breath.
"Perhaps there's something in the air," she said.
Bri And sniffed.
"The more likely cause is too little food. Even entranced, we burn calories, and we burned more than were replenished by ration bars and that wretched drink. Haven't you noticed that we're all thin as needles?"
The line moved forward a few paces. Bri And stepped to her side, still holding her arm, keeping her steady. It was impertinence, perhaps, but she was grateful for his support.
Kishara took another breath and closed her eyes briefly, to no avail. The busy crowd still bustled behind her eyelids, sharper now that reality did not distract her.
"Mind your step," Bri And said from that distant reality. "We are going more quickly now."
She opened her eyes and moved at his urging, allowing him still to support her, while she kept her head bent and concentrated on seeing the ramp through the phantom crowds.
At last, they stood on hard crete behind Pritti, who had just reached the guard in her green tunic.
"Name," she stated, and Pritti murmured a reply, shoulders hunched.
Kishara's vision cleared, the scene in front of her taking on more weight. Surely, she had seen this – only very recently? Frowning, she inched closer, and Bri And came with her, firm hand under her elbow.
The woman in the green tunic had made her note on the clipboard, and held out a broad hand, palm up.
"Tablet," she said.
Pritti stiffened, and clutched the tablet closer.
"I am the guide for the remaining ten of us. The pilots entrusted me with the duty, to care for the group and impart such information as the tablet provides."
"Yes," the guard said, barely patient. "That duty has come to an end. All of you are equally under the care and protection of the Office of Colonization Services. The tablets are to be returned to the ship. The pilots have said it."
Yes, Kishara thought. This was precisely what she had seen from the top of the ramp, replaying now, in real time. She recalled the Healer who had tried so hard to argue her a Seer. Had he been right, after all? But what had increased her gift to the point where the future overwrote her present? Was this what it was like for Seers – no. She brought herself up. No, the Healer had said something, had shown her something, that she had scarcely been able to grasp at the time. She groped for the memory while Pritti bowed her head, and placed the tablet into the guard's waiting hand.
The guard jerked her head toward the bus, and Pritti, shoulders drooping, turned and climbed the stairs.
The guard turned aside to place the tablet into a box.
"You now," Bri And murmured, and supported Kishara as she stepped forward, concentrating on her surroundings – the carpeted stairs into the bus, the red exterior, the guard's green tunic, and the emblems on each shoulder. The ghosts of the future still crowded at the edge of her sight, but if she held her attention firm, they did not, much, disrupt reality.
The guard turned back, hefting her clipboard, a frown forming on her angular face.
"What's this, then?"
Kishara swallowed, but no words came, all of her resources concentrated on holding the ghosts at bay.
"She feels unwell," Bri And said after a moment. "Rations were short."
The guard's face softened somewhat.
"Understood," she said. "Name?"
Kishara found her tongue, "Kishara jit'Luso."
The guard made a tick-mark on her clipboard, and raised her eyes to Bri And.
"Name?"
"Bri And bel'Vester," he said.
The guard again had recourse to her clipboard, and jerked her head toward the bus.
"Please board. There will be food and a physician at the examination hall."
They passed on, Kishara more than glad of Bri And's support on the stairs. Inside, there were only a few seats left open. He saw her situated on the first they found, near the center of the bus.
"Sit and be easy," he murmured. "If you wish it, I will be your support when we debark."
"Thank you," she answered, and managed a polite inclination of her head. "I am steadier than I was."
That earned her a sharp look, but there was another passenger moving up the aisle, and perforce Bri And moved on, to a seat in the back of the bus.
Kishara sighed, leaned back in her seat, and closed her eyes.
This was a mistake. The ghosts of might-be assaulted her. She saw, in an ever-increasing cascade the bus exploding, bodies falling to the street, blood bright against the stones, windows smashed, and ships lifting willy-nilly from port. She saw a body in an airlock, a catch-net floating against a backdrop of stars, a plate of bread and cheese, the sharp-faced individual she had seen in shipboard dreaming, and another explosion as glass flew and pierced her.
She cried out at that, but the visions flowed on. She saw Pritti lift her hand, and have her silver ring off; she saw the guard in the green tunic pulling a side arm from her belt, and offering it, butt-first, across her arm. She saw people, a busload of people, fall and lie still. She saw – she saw –
A stinging slap to her cheek shocked her eyes open. The guard, without her clipboard now, was bending over, her bulk shielding Kishara from the rest of the bus.
"What is it?" the woman demanded.
"I see – disaster, murder, and mayhem," Kishara heard herself say, well aware that it was babble and the guard would think her mad. "The bus explodes, there are bodies in the street. I am struck, and we are robbed – "
The guard placed a hand on Kishara's shoulder and pressed, not unkindly. Kishara's voice died, and she felt considerably calmer. The guard inclined her head, looking both wise and sad.
"I see," she said. "You will be going back to the ships, my dear. The world is too much for you."
Kishara blinked up at her.
"Is it the air?" she asked.
"In a manner of speaking. It takes some harder than others, and the lesson we have from the first wave is that those it takes hardest cannot survive. The ambient conditions will tear your mind apart, and you'll become a danger to yourself and your neighbors. Best for all and everyone, to go back where you came from."
"Never that," Kishara snapped, and the woman lifted a shoulder.
"Go someplace else, then, but the Office won't let you stay here. For this moment, I can offer you a drug that will put you to sleep – "
But Kishara had had enough of being put to sleep for her own good.
"I thank you," she said coldly, "but no. I seem calm enough now."
"That's because I'm shielding you," the guard told her. "Once I take my hand away, those sights will come back again. Unless you shield yourself."
Kishara took a breath.
"I have seen danger to this bus and passengers," she said as calmly as she could manage. "I know that this may not come to pass, but equally it may."
The guard sighed lightly, patted her shoulder and removed her hand. "I'll just fetch my kit," she said, and left.
Kishara squinted after her, ignoring the ghosts rioting at the edge of her vision. She thought she saw – no, she did see! – a shimmer as of bright metal or reinforced glass.
She looked across the aisle at her fellow refugees, startled to find many displaying a similar effect.
Was this, Kishara wondered, something natural that she lacked, or was it–
She almost closed her eyes, but managed to avoid that error. Instead, she concentrated on the Healer who had tried so hard to save her for the homeworld. He had hurriedly attempted to teach her something that she had not been able to grasp, or even imagine. Blind and ignorant, she had tried to follow his instructions, and had failed.
Now, however, with the ambient conditions assisting her, she understood. In memory, she could even hear the Healer's voice, patiently telling over the steps for building a shield around her core.
Concentrating, Kishara used her new understanding to follow those careful, remembered instructions.
She felt heat at the base of her spine, which the Healer had mentioned as a sign that she was engaged with her gifts. The ghosts at the edge of her vision went into a frenzy, but she forced herself to concentrate on the shadow that was building about her, which was becoming more solid, despite the shadow's attempts to distract and dismay –
There was a click, surely audible to the rest of the bus. The ghosts were gone. It was – quiet inside her head, though she had not been aware of any noise until it had stopped.
"You might have done that first," said a familiar voice, and Kishara looked up into the face of the guard, who had a small medkit in her hand.
The woman smiled slightly.
"That's what you want, though I'll tell you right now that, shielded or open, the Office still isn't likely to let you stay."
Kishara sighed, thinking of those possible futures that had come to her attention, and inclined her head.
"Perhaps I will be able to convince them otherwise," she said, and the guard gave her a thoughtful look.
"Perhaps you will," she said, and went away toward the front of the bus.
* * *
Kishara sat quietly inside her shields, and thought about those other things the Healer had tried to teach her in their short time together. Shields, she recalled, were vital, a protection and also a secure situation to rest behind. That said, the Healer had not recommended staying entirely behind shields. The information her gifts brought to her was valuable – uniquely valuable – and she should therefore allow her shields to be somewhat open, balancing the needs for protection and information.
Resting behind her shields, she sighed and considered what else the Healer might have told her.
"Stop the bus," a clear and absolutely certain voice stated. "Everyone else, be entirely still."
The bus slowed, and stopped.
Kishara opened her eyes.
At the driver's station stood – Mor Gan, from her group, now draped in necklaces, his fingers glittering with rings. His pockets visibly bulged.
"Good," he said to the bus driver. "Give me all of your money."
The driver reached beneath the seat and produced a pouch, which he handed to Mor Gan. No one else in her sight moved. Cautiously, she turned her head very slightly to the right, seeing more passengers frozen in place.
"Give me your weapon," Mor Gan directed the bus driver, and received what seemed to be a small firearm.
"Open the door," Mor Gan said, then, having disposed pouch and gun about his person.
The driver touched something on his board and the bus door sighed open.
"Keep absolutely still," Mor Gan said and stepped into the aisle, looking over the motionless passengers with such an expression on his face, that Kishara feared for their lives.
Whatever thought had passed through his mind, Kishara saw him reject it. When he spoke, that note she had marked before was in his voice, only much clearer, issuing not suggestions but commands.
"All of you," he said, "go to sleep for ten minutes. When you awake, you will have forgotten me entirely."
He turned and leapt down the stairs into the street.
Kishara jumped to her feet, rushed down the aisle, and leapt the stairs in his wake. Mor Gan was racing toward a small street just beyond the back of the bus. She gave chase, thinking only that he had robbed the driver, and many passengers – and that he must be stopped. She had reached the top of the street he had vanished into before she also recalled that he had taken a gun.
She leaned into a doorway, and tried to reason her way to the path she ought to take. Going to the Office of Colonization would be fruitless; she had to believe that Mor Gan, whose gift had been the ability to suggest things, had found that gift enhanced. She must believe, therefore, that his suggestion that he be forgotten had taken hold, and no one on the bus, or even from their group, would recall him, never mind be alarmed by a description of his alleged crimes. Especially, she thought wryly, when that description came from the weak-minded woman who was to be sent away before the planet broke her mind.
She recalled the visions she had experienced – the bus exploding, people dying – but none of that had happened. Recall, she told herself, the Healer had said that the future is not immutable. What she had seen on the bus had been possible futures. Mor Gan's actions had put them onto a path where bus and passengers survived; they were past that point; it could not be chosen again.
Every subsequent choice Mor Gan made limited the number of choices he could make, until he was locked into one line, all his future actions forced.
At the moment, she supposed him dazzled, perhaps slightly mad, with the sudden scope of his gift. Perhaps she should follow him, and bring him into hand before he did someone a grievous hurt. She thought she could trust her luck to keep her safe from ... too much harm. She – no.
She was a fool.
Mor Gan had come from Low Port. He was no innocent. He was a man who profited from the pain of others. Perhaps he had chosen to emigrate because he desired a wider field for his efforts. Perhaps Low Port had become ... inhospitable to him. Why did not matter.
What did matter was that Mor Gan meant to do mischief, and very possibly worse. He had intended this robbery, or something like it, from the first. It was only a bonus that his power of suggestion had increased under the ambient conditions.
The question for her, however – that remained the same: How was she to stop him? Surely, it fell to her to stop him, as the only person on-planet who remembered him.
Kishara bit her lip, thinking, taking stock of her gifts, both of them. Then she nodded once. Mor Gan sealed his future as he ran, decision by decision. She had the advantage, there. She could see ahead of him, and choose the path that would allow her to stop him. Her luck – she still trusted that her luck would keep her safe in the doing of it.
She smiled slightly. All that was required of her was to chose the correct path. Now that she had the way of it, that should not be so difficult a task.
Still smiling, she opened her shields, and let the ghosts of the future take her.
* * *
She came to herself standing at the side of a table in what appeared to be a tavern. It was a noisy room, but the table her gifts had chosen for her was occupied only by a dark-haired man wearing a pilot's jacket, wineglass in hand, gaze directed at some landscape only he could see. He wore a great, glittering gaud of a ring on his unencumbered hand, and Kishara, still in thrall to her gifts, thought that he looked familiar.
He looked up, as if he had suddenly become aware that he was not alone – black eyes under strong black brows, a hard face and a secretive mouth. Kishara realized that she had seen him, and more than once. In her dreams, and more recently, in her plans.
One of those strong brows lifted, and Kishara bent in a slight bow. Her lips parted, and she waited with interest to hear what she might say.
"Captain yos'Phelium." Her voice was not precisely steady, her tone too low for the loud room, but he heard her. His hard mouth softened slightly.
"No," he said, his voice not hard at all. "Merely Pilot yos'Phelium."
"But a yos'Phelium is never merely a pilot," she returned saucily.
His laugh put the lie to the grim face and stern eyes. She glanced down, lest he see the relief in her eyes – and discovered a plate of cheese, somewhat depleted, and half a small loaf of bread. It was then that she realized that she was very hungry, indeed.
"Sit," Pilot yos'Phelium said, his voice cordial. "If you have a taste for chancy company. I was about to call for more wine. Will you join me?"
"Thank you," she said, and took the chair at his left, which put her back against the wall; the room, and especially the entry door, full in her gaze.
The server arrived in answer to the pilot's glance, received the order for two glasses of wine, and the coins that paid for all.
There was a stir behind her, and he glanced in that direction before looking to her again.
"If you were not here for the previous set, you may find the music of interest," he said courteously, as if they had been partnered at a public entertainment, on the homeworld.
There came a tootling sound, and some plucking of strings as the musicians bent to their task, and here was the server again, bearing wine and a new loaf of bread.
"Cook's gift," he said. "Crowd's thinner than her baking tonight."
"Our thanks to the cook," Kishara said with fervor, though it was scarcely her place to say it.
The server swept away, and Pilot yos'Phelium tipped his head toward the plates.
"The bread is very good," he said, "and the cheese better. I did not much care for the akashi fruit, but you may find otherwise. Please, make yourself free."
She smiled at him, then, with no restraint at all, and reached out to raise the glass the server had set by her hand.
"To the fullness of fortune," she proposed.
Both eyebrows quirked, but he lifted his glass willingly enough, and answered her.
"To the luck."
They drank. Kishara set her glass aside and reached to the plates. The cheese was excellent, and the bread delightful. The fruit – no, the fruit was not to her taste, either. She made another selection from among the cheeses.
Behind them, the musicians played, quietly. Kishara ate, conscious of the passage of time, as well as the warmth at the base of her spine. Mindful of the abbreviated teachings of the Healer, she had made shift to examine the futures her gift had spun from the ambient conditions, and she had – she was almost entirely certain that she had – chosen that future which provided the best chance of her continued survival with her mind intact, and provided the quickest end to Mor Gan's career.
Once she had chosen, it seemed her tendency to be fortunate had leapt into operation, moving her through the port on a mission of its own. There was some confusion at the beginning of this part of her adventure, until she realized that her part was to utterly surrender her own will and submit to being moved by the force of her gift. She had achieved the knack of it eventually, and so her feet had brought her here, to this place, to this man, and to the confrontation that would provide the solution she had chosen.
It would be soon, now, she thought. She sipped her wine, and took up another piece of bread.
She looked up to find Pilot yos'Phelium's sharp eyes on her.
"You were looking for me," he said. "Specifically for me."
She met his gaze calmly.
"Yes."
"Ah." He sipped wine. "I don't wish to be rude, but if there is something you need to say to me, you must speak. I'm soon away."
"Yes," she said again, and then, because in her current state she could not fail to remark them – "You have very strong shields."
"So I am told. I hope you will not ask me to lower them, for I haven't the least notion how to do so. The shields came with me into this life."
Ah, she thought, her gifts were canny, indeed.
Smiling, she inclined her head.
"My name is Kishara jit'Luso, Pilot. I am lucky, so my delm cast me out, in order that the clan take no damage from sheltering faulty genes."
He sipped his wine and considered her.
"Forgive me if I am impertinent," he said eventually, "but, being as I am, I know little of those who are gifted. It is true that my entire clan is lucky – and risky. I wonder if you put yourself in danger by seeking me out."
Danger, Kishara thought, amused.
"As the moth is endangered by the candle flame?" she asked lightly. "You are kind to regard it, but no. I think, in this moment, that our lucks reinforce each other, to the betterment of both."
"Ah?" he murmured politely.
"Yes," she said, reaching for another slice of bread with cheese. "You see, there's about to be a pirate raid."
He blinked and put his glass carefully on the table.
"A pirate raid?" he repeated.
Just then, the front door smashed open.
#
Kishara drank the last of her wine and put the glass down. It was begun; she felt the warmth at the base grow warmer still, and was content. From here ... from this moment, all was forced.
A shout went up from among the diners and drinkers, chairs and stools were noisily overturned as people leapt to their feet. Pilot yos'Phelium also rose, silently, hands loose at his sides as he observed the unfolding scene.
Kishara likewise rose, and put herself a few steps closer to his side, into the shadow of his shields.
There came another shout. A chair was thrown, a bravo ducked. Rifles were raised. Without turning around, she knew that the musicians had leapt up behind her, while, forward, the 'tender swung below the bar and came up with a long arm, oddly made, and glowing weirdly –
Pilot yos'Phelium moved, as if he would introduce himself into the situation, and put all into order. Kishara extended her hand to grip his arm tightly. He paused, and she removed her hand, for here came Mor Gan now, strolling in all unconcerned, dragging a halfling girl by her wrist.
Mor Gan had, Kishara saw, made other suggestions before his arrival into the snare of her chosen future. He now wore a space leather jacket, and at least a dozen necklaces. His hands were ablaze with rings. She felt ... something tighten around her, as if her gifts sought to protect her.
There came a sharp fssstt! from the weapon in the bartender's hands. The shot burned the floor near the boot of the nearest bravo, who spun, weapon up.
"Friends, friends!" Mor Gan called, his voice compelling attention. "There is no reason for dispute. We are here to pick up supplies, funds, and perhaps personnel. Please all be calm."
Even tucked inside the influence of the pilot's shields, Kishara felt drawn – a quick glance around the room showed that the bar's customers were thoroughly caught, beguiled by his voice, and entranced in a moment.
Mor Gan turned and pointed a finger at the gape-mouthed bartender.
"Put that down," he said chidingly; "you will do someone a hurt."
The bartender put the rifle on the bar.
"Very good," Mor Gan said. "Now, if you please – go to the storeroom and pack up three cases of your best liquor and wine and bring them here."
The bartender left on this mission, and Mor Gan shook the girl by the wrist, demanding to know how the weapon was disarmed. She told him, her voice flat, her face blank. Kishara frowned. The girl – surely, she had not chosen to endanger a halfling?
Mor Gan pointed to a customer seated at the bar.
"You," he said, "do as she said."
The customer rose to approach the weapon, and Mor Gan turned his attention to the room at large.
In short order, he had the entranced working for him, directing three to go among the many, who were instructed to give over all their money and precious things. This, they willingly did.
When it came their turn to donate, Kishara reached into her pocket and fingered out her entire wealth of coins. She also gave the ring she wore, looking into the collector's eyes as she did so.
His eyes were blank, as if blind. Receiving Kishara's offering, he thrust his collection tray at Pilot yos'Phelium, who deposited a few coins from an outside jacket pocket, and with not the least hesitation, drew the big gaudy ring from his finger, and placed it among the rest of the items gathered.
The collector moved past. The musicians gave their instruments, and the coins in their cup.
"Bring all that you have collected to the bar," said the compelling voice, and this, too, was done.
Kishara took a breath as Mor Gan went to the bar to inspect his takings, dragging the halfling with him. There came the subtle sound of metal ringing, loud in the silence of the room. Suddenly, he paused, and turned, holding the pilot's gaudy ring high.
"Who gave this? Raise a hand!"
Her pilot did so, blank-faced and slow, and Mor Gan came down the room toward them, ring in one hand, halfling dragged, half-stumbling in his wake.
Kishara took another breath, and tried to take comfort from the warm emanations of her gifts. This was a danger point. If Mor Gan should recognize her –
But his glance passed over her and settled on the pilot.
"Well! Pilot, is it? Jump pilot, in fact? You will be coming with me. And who is this – ah ... lady?"
He looked directly at her, no recognition in his face. Kishara, daring to look into his eyes, saw that, even as he entranced others, he was himself entranced. The guard had warned her that those who responded too well to the ambient conditions were in danger of their minds, if not their lives, and in Mor Gan's eyes Kishara saw the truth of that.
"What is your relationship with this pilot?" he asked her. "Speak true!"
"We are partners," Kishara heard herself say, flat-voiced.
"Very good. You will also be taking employment with me. What is your name?"
Her gift spoke again. "Pelli asSulo."
Mor Gan accepted the name without question.
"What is your name, Pilot? Speak true!"
"Sin Jin Isfelm," the pilot replied, lying in his turn.
"They now belong to me, as you do. Follow."
They followed, and Kishara rejoiced. They had passed a point, the quarry was trapped, and her safety assured. They could not vary now.
* * *
Mor Gan had designated two others besides herself and the pilot to carry his goods. He had instructed the room to forget all that had happened, and Kishara did have some curiosity as to how that would play, once they were no longer in thrall.
That, however, was not her business. Her business was to escape this planet before the ambient conditions broke her mind, and to do so in company of the Korval pilot, who was also unnaturally lucky, and safely isolated from such madness as threatened her.
Their group arrived at a shuttle, and the two extra carriers were instructed to put down their burdens. They were dismissed with a curt command to forget the events of this night.
Mor Gan then looked at his three bravos, with their blank faces and their weapons at ready, and said, "Leave me."
They went, taking their weapons with them, and Kishara spared a thought for the damage they might do on-port. Beside her, the pilot shifted, as if he were weighing this moment as an opportunity to act. She took a careful breath, and felt him take the decision to wait.
Excellent, she thought, he has a cool head.
Mor Gan moved then, dragging the halfling to the hatch, slapping her open palm against the plate with one hand, and with the other pushing her chin up so that the scanner registered her face and eyes.
The hatch slid open. Mor Gan snatched the halfling roughly back, slamming her into the side of the shuttle. It must have hurt, but the girl didn't cry out, nor did her expression change. She might have been a doll, Kishara thought, or a puppet. She blinked at that last thought, and wondered how deeply Mor Gan had attached the girl. If matters fell as she, Kishara, had ordered them, she would have blood on her hands if the girl were damaged, though she had not – she was certain that she had not agreed to anything that endangered an innocent.
"Stow the goods," Mor Gan snapped, and the pilot moved to do so, neither quick nor slow, face blank. Kishara picked up another case and followed him into the shuttle.
The pilot was waiting for her at the bin. He bent and breathed into her ear.
"I will want an explanation."
"No time," she answered. "Trust me."
He snorted lightly, for which she blamed him not at all, and went back out onto the dock, returning a moment later, carrying the last case. Mor Gan came after, carrying his sack of loot and shoving the halfling before him.
He slapped the switch as he passed, and the hatch came down. Kishara moved further into the shuttle to make room, which she hoped did not show too much initiative for one supposedly under Mor Gan's control. The pilot finished stowing the last crate, got the bin locked, and came after her, stopping at her side. Kishara saw him give one sharp look at the piloting board before Mor Gan arrived, striding past them toward the pilot's station.
"Sin Jin will pilot, Pelli will take the jump-seat. I will have the co-pilot's chair. My carte blanche will kneel, so."
He shoved the girl roughly to the decking. She made no protest, nor even blinked, her eyes staring blindly ahead.
Kishara sank into the jump-seat, as directed. Pilot yos'Phelium went to his appointed station, sat, and stared down at the board. For a long moment, he did nothing at all, and Kishara caught her breath. If he were to openly resist, now – well, but he couldn't, could he? They were all caught and moving toward her chosen future.
Mor Gan made a small sound, slipped a hand into his belt and withdrew a flat rectangle, which he held out. It was a ship's key, Kishara saw, though there was something odd about it–as if it had been dipped in chocolate, or –
"You will want this," Mor Gan said.
The pilot turned his head, eyes dropping to the key, but he made no other move.
"Take it," Mor Gan snapped, and Kishara felt the force of that order act on her own muscles. Her hand twitched, and she pressed it firmly against her knee.
"Dock us with the ship Merry Mushroom," Mor Gan said. "Do not contact them."
The pilot's hand moved slowly, but he did take the key, and pushed it into the slot. The board came live. Kishara could see that his fingers bore dark stains, and looked to the halfling, the hostage, who knelt motionless on the deck. Whose blood is on that key, she asked herself, and the pilot gave the shuttle leave to lift.
#
Kishara felt her gifts begin to cool as the shuttle rose, and she breathed a careful sigh of relief, though it was far too soon, much could still go wrong. Perhaps, now, even more could go wrong. She had made her decisions, and chosen her future while bathed in the planet's ambient conditions. If they were now leaving the field's influence, then – she was safe, surely, from the two dark futures that had been hers?
"This is Merry Mushroom," a voice came out of the comm. "Aincha talking to me, Sinda?"
Mor Gan shoved the girl toward the board, snarling, "Talk to them. There is a situation which the pilot must attend. Say it!"
The halfling leaned forward.
"This is Jaim, Vina," she said, her voice flat. "Sinda's got a glitch to ride. We're coming in to dock."
Hesitation, then a gruff, "Come on, then."
The pilot reached to his board.
#
"Docking complete."
The brilliant burn of her gift was embers now, leaving Kishara cold. She could remember – she could remember what she had decided, she recalled making choices, but the manner of choosing and deciding – that was lost to her. She looked to Mor Gan, but if he was experiencing the same sort of loss, there was no outward sign of it.
The halfling had wilted, her shoulders hunched, and she directed her sightless gaze now at the decking on which she knelt.
Mor Gan unsnapped his webbing, stood, and yanked the girl to her feet.
"Follow us!" he snapped, pushing ahead, and shoving the halfling before him. "Go!"
The girl went, though too slowly to please her captor. He shoved her again, and when she reached the hatch, slammed her forcefully against the wall, grabbing her wrist and jerking her hand to the plate as if he intended to rip the arm from the socket.
Kishara heard a gasp – the first the girl had made, and looked sharply. She felt a hand on her shoulder, and glanced up, to see the pilot frowning at her. He meant her to stay back, she thought, and stepped out of his way.
The hatch opened into a common room. Mor Gan threw the girl in ahead of him. She hit the deck with a cry, rolling. Crew started up with shouts, alarm showing on their faces.
"Sit down and be calm!" Mor Gan said firmly, and Kishara with a sinking heart heard that particular note still in his voice. She had been a fool, playing with what she did not understand. Was she a goddess, to pick and choose the future she preferred? The planet's ambient conditions did more, and worse, than magnify such gifts one possessed. It overset one's reason, and –
"Kill him!" screamed the girl on the floor. "Kill him! He killed Father and Sinda!"
It was the pilot who moved first, fast and sure. There was a snap, loud even above the shouting of the crew. The pilot took Mor Gan's weight and sank to one knee, seeing him gently to the deck, and closed his empty, staring eyes.
#
"I am," the pilot said to the question put by Jaim Evrit, daughter of Trader Ban Evrit and Pilot Sinda Mark, "Can Ith yos'Phelium."
Like the refugees, he omitted his clan affiliation, possibly, Kishara thought, because he was conversing with the clanless.
"And you, ma'am?" Jaim Evrit asked.
"Kishara jit'Luso," she answered.
The halfling nodded.
"Do either of you know what happened, that I could finally act on my own?"
It was well that the question was put in such a fashion, Kishara thought. She need not lie, nor confess her part in the ruin of this girl's life. Though she would have to explain herself more fully to Pilot yos'Phelium. Later. In private.
"The field is particular to the planet," Kishara said. "I felt it ebb, as we lifted."
She bit her lip, and cast a conscious look at Can Ith yos'Phelium.
"I was in the same test group," she said. "We all felt the effects as soon as we hit planet, but he –" she waved toward the lock, where the body rested – "he understood the possibilities more quickly than the others of us, and did not hesitate to act for his own advantage."
Can Ith inclined his head, and Kishara awaited the next reasonable question, from him, or from some one of the crew, but the first mate – a grey-haired woman called Vina Greiz – spoke then, and at a tangent.
"All well and good," she said. "My question is what we're gonna do now. Trader's gone, pilot, too. Young Jaim –" She threw a worried look at the halfling slumped in her chair.
"I'm not certified," Jaim said, and her voice was stronger. She straightened. "Can't run the trade."
"We'll have to marry Shroom to the Mikancy Family," said another of the crew from the back.
"No." Young Jaim's face was set.
"What else then?" came yet a third voice. "Sell out and stay downside?"
"Not that either." Jaim took a hard breath and gave Can Ith a stare.
"You're a Jump pilot."
He glanced down at the gaudy ring, rescued from the sack of stolen goods and back on his finger.
"That is so," he admitted.
"Are you at liberty?" she asked then, and he smiled.
"Very much so."
"I was raised in a trading house," Kishara said, for the ship had lost two skills this day. Both must be replaced, if Jaim was determined to keep her independence. "I can advise, as required. I think that you will not need to marry to your disadvantage."
Jaim's smile was grim as she looked over her crew.
"I'm family," she said. "I can offer contract."
Kishara bowed, and so did Pilot Can Ith.
"I think we might manage," Jaim said to her crew. "And not impossible to borrow a Second Trader from one of our friendlies, if we gotta."
"We trust them?" the first mate demanded, jerking her head in the direction of themselves.
"You'd rather the Mikancy?" Jaim asked, sharp and strong. "You know their style. We'll be lucky to be set down on a back world alive. These two gentles have done more good for this ship an' crew in one day than the Mikancy in all the decades we've known 'em."
The crew was silent. The first mate threw up her hands.
"We trust 'em, then. What's next?"
"Gotta cover the route," Jaim said, and stood. "Need to get goin'."
"In that wise," Can Ith said slowly. "Let us first make up a pod, with the stolen goods, and our late friend, and a locator. We will inform the port authority before we Jump out."
"Yes," said Jaim, and looked again to the first mate.
"Vina, show Pilot Can Ith to his seat, please. Trader Kishara and me'll go over the route and the inventory."
"Right," Vina said, and turned to the rest of the crew.
"Well?" she demanded, "I don't guess you lot have stations to man, do you?"
There was a general bustle at that, and Can Ith leaned over to speak into Kishara's ear.
"And when will you tell me – only me – the rest of the truth, Kishara?"
"Soon," she told him, and smiled. "We'll have some amount of time together."
Mobile eyebrows rose.
"Will we?" he said, his head went up at the sound of his name. "A moment," he told the first mate, and looked again to Kishara.
"I look forward to our continued association," he said, politely. "Until soon."
Kishara closed her eyes in relief, feeling only tired, her gifts quiescent or dead, it mattered not one whit to her.
"Yes," she murmured. "Until soon."
* * *
They were both due leave on Fussbudget, and had agreed to share a meal at a town-side tavern not much frequented by their shipmates.
It was there that she finally told him the tale entire, stinting her part not at all.
" ... so they were right – the Council," Kishara concluded, putting down her glass. "We are an unpredictable menace, and a danger to the innocent."
Can Ith did not immediately answer, but she was used to his ways by now, and did not suppose his silence signaled either condemnation or approval. He was thinking, that was all. In a moment – or a day – he would come forth with what thought had produced.
The product of thought came just after he set his own glass on the table.
"The Council was wrong," he stated, his voice allowing no room for doubt. "No one of the small talents, saving those who had already set themselves up to be a danger and a menace, were a threat to society or to the homeworld. Some few may have been dangers to themselves, and might have harmed an innocent through inexperience, or error."
He glanced at her. She motioned him to go on.
"The Council would have done better for all and everyone had they allowed the Healers to amend their charter, and enlarge their House. They would have done no particular harm, had they granted the small talents their own Guild. From there, the Guilds might have assisted each other, to the betterment of both, and to have a Talent in the clan would have been a matter of pride."
He met her eyes.
"Ambient conditions came into play when the game was removed from Liad, and untrained persons were left to fend for themselves. Then and only then did some few of the small talents become dangerous, and that not from their own desires." He moved his shoulders and raised a hand to call for more wine.
"Well. We must allow the account to show that one was not so well-intentioned as he might have been."
"Two," Kishara said. "I abetted murder and mind control, stole your life –"
Can Ith blinked.
"Is this pride?" he interrupted, black eyes well-opened.
"It is not, and you well know it!"
"Will you strip Mor Gan's honors from him? I do assure you, he meant to rob, and to kill, and to control. Do not imagine, my friend, that he was a good man made bad by your meddling with futures."
"No, of course he was not – " Kishara began, and paused as the server came to refresh their glasses.
"As for having stolen my life – " Can Ith said, as soon as the server had left them – "that attempt had been made, and I decided upon my answer before ever you stopped at my table." He raised his glass, black eyes quizzing her over the rim.
"Now, answer me this. Can you be certain that your luck was ascendant?"
She blinked.
"What do you mean?"
He grinned.
"Korval is lucky – that is well-known. Does it not make sense to suppose that ambient conditions acted upon my own gift, as well as yours? Who, in fact, meddled with whom, and for what gain?"
He sipped, and put the glass down. Kishara continued to stare.
"But your shields – "
He snorted. "My shields have never protected me from the action of Korval's luck before. I see no reason why it should have been otherwise under ambient conditions."
He leaned forward, catching her gaze with his.
"Do you not see how neat it all is? That a ship should discover an urgent need for a Jump pilot just as I had decided to walk away from my clan and make my own future? That is how my luck works, Kishara. I think that your luck operated to preserve you by placing you into the shadow of mine, which was already engaged. There was risk; your life might have been forfeit, but we chanced upon a best case for both."
He leaned back, picked up his glass, and waited.
She took a hard breath.
"That's – eerie," she said at last.
"Yes," he agreed, smiling. He raised his glass. "A toast."
She lifted her her glass.
"To ambient conditions," Can Ith said, "and to our very good fortunes."