necessity to raise many ports!”
Daav, however, did not laugh; rather, and unexpectedly, he frowned.
“There is a matter of melant'i,” he said, slowly, his voice taking on a formal cadence, though he kept yet to the mode between comrades. “Clarence O'Berin is not my friend.”
“But of course he is!” The words were out of her mouth before she had time to consider propriety. Who was she, to tell Daav's affections out for him? And yet—
“I beg your pardon, van'chela,” she said more moderately, but with a degree of determination. “Recall that we were linked during the exchange with—with Pilot O'Berin. I grant that . . . I understand that there is a confusion of regard, but certainly there is . . . affection. Indeed, he must hold you likewise, else why step off of his path to speak of this . . . oddity among the ports?”
Daav sighed, and said nothing. Aelliana bit her lip. She had transgressed; she had feared it. She curled her hand into a fist so that she not reach out to him, and cleared her throat.
“It is ill-done of me to—to correct you on such a matter. As clearly as I might hear you, it is not I but you who must know best . . . ”
“No, that will not do,” Daav interrupted, very gently indeed.
His hand touched hers, and she gripped his fingers greedily. Wistfulness flowed from him, and a sort of wry amusement, thinly edged with resentment.
“We have what we have, and a pilot who wishes to survive uses the information in her hand, no matter how it comes to be there. So, there will be no forgive-mes, my lady, nor any regrets, though I may sometimes be abashed, or even embarrassed. I will engage to do my best not to become angry, but my temper is not always biddable.”
“Nor, I fear, is mine,” she whispered.
“Well, it's a pair of hotheads we'll be, then, and no help for it. As for Clarence . . . ” He paused; she received the sense of him marshaling his thoughts.
“You are correct that I hold Clarence in some esteem—we are of an age, of like temperament, and bear the burden of similar melant'is. If circumstances were otherwise, we might indeed be friends. As it is, I have the honor to be Korval, and Clarence—is the final authority for the Juntavas based on Liad.”
So, Aelliana thought, she had judged Clarence's melant'i rightly. As for the Juntavas; the Guild handbook would have them be thieves, grey-traders, and warned pilots away from their employ.
“Korval and the Juntavas,” Daav continued, “have long ago agreed to a policy of . . . avoidance. Which means that, value him as I might, yet I cannot by policy assume Clarence to be trustworthy, nor may I consider that he holds Korval's best interest first in his heart.”
“Nor should he,” Aelliana murmured. “He must care for his own folk first.”
“So he must and so I must. Thus we meet seldom, with pleasure tinged by regret.” He glanced up into the dancing snowflakes. “Here is our street, I think.”
Hand in hand they walked down a narrower and only slightly less-well-lit street. It seemed to Aelliana that Daav was easier now—less chagrined—yet still on point. She caught a glimmer of concern, and a thrill of pleasurable curiosity, growing more intense as they found the door.
It was recessed, hidden deep inside a series of arches, the first so black it seemed to swallow the light from the street lamps. The second arch was dark grey, the third foggy blue, the fifth ivory, and the sixth pure white, lit so brightly that no shadows were possible. The door itself was crimson, as bright as blood in the blaring light.
She felt Daav hesitate—the tiniest catch between one step and the next—then they were walking side by side down the short tunnel; at the end of it, Aelliana put her hand against the plate.
The door opened into a room dimly illuminated by red light. Aromatic smoke drifted between the tables; the servers moving languidly among them wore red shirts with billowing sleeves and tight white trousers.
Beyond the half-moon of tables was an open area floored in black tile so glossy that the ceiling was reflected in its depths. On the far side of the floor was a stage. Thick white smoke rose 'round it, mixing with the ruby light. Inside the resulting pink mist, Aelliana could see instruments set up on racks, awaiting musicians who had yet to arrive.
“Perhaps we should ask a waiter to take a message—” she began, but Daav was already moving, passing between the clustered tables like a wisp of smoke himself.
Sighing, she followed, neither so neat nor so invisible, and caught him on the far side of the floor.
“A warning before you move away,” she said sharply, “would ease your pilot's mind. I am no Scout, recall.”
“Forgive me, Pilot,” he murmured, not noticeably contrite. “As our hour approaches, it seemed best for us to seek the young gentleman backstage and dispatch our errand before he is called upon to perform.”
It did, she admitted, seem the only route to fly, outlined thus. Still—
“What if I were to lose you?”
He looked down at her, his face utterly serious.
“You will not lose me, Aelliana.”
It was said so surely that the words had weight, as if he had placed six smooth stones into her hand.
She sighed, soothed despite herself, and went with him 'round the back of the stage.
Four figures dressed in grey and black turned toward them. Two held glasses half-full with dark liquid, one had a thin brown stick between two fingers. She watched them coolly as she brought the stick to her lips and drew on it, waking a sickly green spark at the tip.
The fourth member of the group came forward, hands moving decisively against the air, as if he were pushing
