them away.
“If you please, the band is preparing for the first set! You interfere with our art! Leave at once!”
Aelliana took a deep breath, tasting smoke and spice in the close air.
“It is not my intention to interfere with art,” she said, speaking as she would to an excitable student. “We will leave, and willingly, as soon as we have delivered a package to Bre Din sig'Ranton Clan Persage.”
The young man paused, and glanced over his shoulder. Aelliana followed his gaze, and saw one of the three at the table—towheaded and plump, wearing a tight, sleeveless grey shirt and flowing black trousers—put his glass down and move slowly toward them.
“I am Bre Din sig'Ranton,” he said. His voice was light and slightly blurry, as if they had woken him. “Who are you?”
“I am Aelliana Caylon, pilot-owner of Ride the Luck. I have been engaged by Dath jo'Bern Clan Hedrede to deliver a package directly into your hands.”
The young gentleman paused at his comrade's side. His eyes were wide and very dark, and there was a— Aelliana blinked—there was a tiny red flower drawn high on his right cheek, near the edge of his eye. He was not, she thought, very much older than Sinit.
“Dath jo'Bern?” He breathed the words, though Aelliana did not know if it was awe or dismay that she heard.
“Indeed,” Daav said. “Precisely Dath jo'Bern, young sir. I suggest, if we are not to further disrupt art, that you take delivery of this package, sign the receipt, and allow us to depart.”
The girl holding the smoking stick laughed, sharply.
“He has you there, Rose. Sign for the package and finish your juice.”
Bre Din moved his shoulders, as if shaking off her voice.
“Where?” he demanded, taking a deliberate step forward.
Aelliana drew herself up, determined not to show concern in the face of his intensity, despite the sudden tightness of her chest.
“Here,” Daav said, swinging the package off his shoulder and holding it out. “There's no need to stalk the pilot.”
Color drained from the boy's face, it seemed to Aelliana that he swayed . . . then he steadied, fairly snatching the package from Daav's hands. He spun back to the table, shoving glasses and other clutter roughly aside. Hands shaking, he unsealed the outer protective layer, and scattered a second layer of frothy tissue-glitter to reveal a carven wooden case.
He paused then, as if he feared to continue. The boy who had tried to shoo them away drew closer to the table, shoulders hunched, as if he had caught the other's tension. The first girl lifted a mocking eyebrow and drew on her stick.
“Make haste, Rosie,” the second girl chided. “Or leave it until after the set!”
“Peace,” he murmured, but it seemed to Aelliana that he was advising himself more than her. Slowly, and with infinite care, he lifted the lid away.
Nestled in silk, the dulciharp took fire; pegs flared, light ran along the strings, ivory keys gleamed.
“Ah . . . ” The second girl leaned close, extending a hand, as if to touch.
“She's a beauty,” the first girl said grudgingly, blowing smoke out of the side of her mouth. “From Liad?”
“From Liad,” Bre Din sig'Ranton asserted. Reverently, he reached into the box and had the instrument out, cradling it against his shoulder like an infant. His fingers moved, and the strings whispered, loud in the quiet dimness.
“But—why?” asked the first boy.
“Yes, why?” the second girl repeated. “Who is this—” She glanced aside, at them, Aelliana realized “—this Honorable jo'Bern? Why is she sending you gifts?”
“Not a gift,” Bre Din murmured. “Not a gift, Veen. A promise.” He stroked the strings again, and sighed.
“Dath jo'Bern is my grandmother's cha'leket. When my grandmother died, the dulciharp went to her, as a death-gift. I sent her—gods, relumma ago!—I sent her a recording, and I asked her—I asked her, if she would sponsor me to the Conservatory on Liad, and, if she thought I was worthy, to return me my grandmother's harp.”
“What's this?” Veen plucked a slim folder from inside the case and flipped it open.
“Tickets,” she said blankly, “and a bank draft.”
Cheek against wood, Bre Din sig'Ranton smiled.
“If I'm to study at the Conservatory, I need to travel to Liad, Veen.”
“But—” She stared at him, the folder forgotten in her hand. “What about the band?” She took a hard breath. “What about—”
“If you please,” Daav spoke up, placing his hand on Aelliana's shoulder. “There is a confirmation of satisfactory delivery to be signed.”
Obedient to her prompt, Aelliana reached inside her jacket and withdrew the card.
“Certainly, Pilots.” Bre Din turned, the harp still cradled against him, and pressed his thumb onto the card's surface. “My thanks; you have—you have changed my life.”
Aelliana bowed, and stepped back to Daav's side, slipping the card away into the safety of an inner pocket. As
