jacket, curling her hands into warm pockets.
They found a bakery open at the edge of what might have been a day-side business district, ate lemon squares and drank hot tea at a tiny round table while in the back the baker prepared the next day's dough.
Warmed by tea and sugar, they went on the prowl again, pausing by a map board so that she could discover the locations of such landmarks as the Portmaster's Office, the Pilots Guild, Healer Hall, and Port Security. There were pointers to various ferries: the Ocean Line, the Mountain Line, the City Line—and the shuttle to the Pleasure Quarters.
“The Pleasure Quarters?” she murmured. “What do you suppose that is?”
“I am without information. Shall we find if the shuttle is running and explore?”
Her laugh was swallowed by a yawn.
“Perhaps tomorrow,” she said. “For tonight, van'chela, I think it might be time to seek our ship, and our bed.”
“Well enough,” Daav answered. “It's always good to have a plan for the morrow.” He considered the map briefly, and raised a hand to trace out a route.
“If we go north, past Avontai Port 'change, we'll cut the corner of the Entertainment District, and so come back to the public yard.” He glanced down at her. “Or shall we find a cab?”
“I think I can walk so far—unless you're chilled?”
“My legs are long, and walking keeps the chill away.”
“Then we are in accord. Lead on, sir.”
He smiled and led them back across the square.
“I remember when you insisted on sir,” he said.
Aelliana chuckled. “And I remember when you insisted on 'Daav'—or 'pilot,' if I must.” She slipped her hand into his pocket and curled her fingers 'round his. “Each as stubborn as the other—even then. I wonder . . . ” She paused.
“Wonder?”
“The boy to whom we delivered the dulciharp. I wonder how he will go on, in his changed life. If he will be happy, or become a master, or if his delm will bid him stay . . . ”
“Ah, but it is the fate of couriers never to know the end of the tale. We fly in, deliver our package, take up our cargo—and fly out. We are agents of change only insofar as we have adhered to the terms of our contract. Those things that we set in motion go on to their fruition, without our knowledge and beyond our aid.”
They crossed a boulevard that must, Aelliana thought, be very busy by day, and turned down a street sparsely illuminated by the spill of night lights from sleepy shop windows. The snow had stopped again, leaving glittering arabesques around darkened signs, icy scallops at the edges of windows.
“Asleep, Pilot?” Daav murmured, when they had traversed the block in companionable silence.
“Merely content. It's very quiet, isn't—”
“No!” The cry shattered the crystalline quiet, like a knife thrown through glass. “No, give it back!”
She felt a jolt of adrenaline, a shock of necessity, and she was running, hot on Daav's heels, toward the scream, which was, one small, rational part of her mind pointed out, surely unsafe. They ought to be running away, to find a call box, or a proctor—
“Don't let it get loose!” That was another voice, angry and perhaps a little afraid.
She rounded the corner, swinging out so that she not slam into Daav, who had frozen into near invisibility, watching.
Halfway down the thin alley, a pilot was on his knees in a drift of snow, arms raised, hands reaching, every line etched with desperation. Before him were ranged five port toughs, their ranks opening to receive a sixth, carrying a bag that had surely been reft from the downed pilot.
“Give it back!” If words could bleed, these did. “I have money . . . ” He reached into his jacket, pulled out a pouch, his hand shaking so that the coins jangled clearly.
“Take it—the jacket, my boots—take what you like, but return—”
A rock smashed into the wall just beyond the pilot's shoulder. He cowered, throwing his hands up, a small, broken sound escaping from his throat.
“Please . . . ”
“Please . . . ” One of the six sobbed, mockingly. “We saw what you have in this bag and we know how to deal with it!”
“No! Give it back! I'll take it offworld!”
Another rock came out of the cluster of tormentors.
The pilot gasped when it struck his arm.
“Stop that!” someone shouted, her voice strong in the Command mode. Aelliana was standing at the downed pilot's side before she realized that the voice was hers, and that her position was unsafe in the extreme.
“Another one!” “Is she holding another?” “Search her!” “Take them both down!”
A rock flew toward them, its trajectory flat and purposeful. Aelliana saw its course unwind inside her head, saw that it would strike the pilot's unprotected head, and danced sideways. She snatched the missile out of the air as if it were a bowli ball, allowing the energy to spin her, releasing as she came back around, sending the rock back, low and fast, into the crowd, directly to the one who had thrown it—
