- Prologue

'Theo Waitley,' she said, groping after the concise statement she'd put together and memorized.

It was gone—and the guy was looking at her, face oddly familiar, and green eyes serious.

'I'm here because my father's missing,' she blurted. 'And he told me—he always told me—to go to the Delm of Korval, if ever there was really bad trouble.'

She paused, running one hand distractedly through her hair.

Finish what you started, she told herself. Then go on to the rest.

'My father's name is Jen Sar Kiladi,' she told the pair of them—were they both the Delm of Korval? Or had she muddled that, too? 'He teaches—'

'He teaches cultural genetics,' the man interrupted gently, and Theo felt a twist of hope. Father was known here!

'Right,' she said. 'I mean, you might not think it was a big problem, if your father wasn't where you left him—' What was she saying?

'No, acquit me,' the man said. 'I would think it a very large problem, indeed.'

Was he laughing at her? 'He's never done anything like this before—just up and left, in the midle of the term and—'

She stopped, took a breath and forced herself to say calmly, 'I got trouble, and since I can't find him . . .'

The man was looking beyond her, and the woman, too—was there a guard behind her? Had she lost her chance, Win Ton and Bechimo, with any chance of finding Father?

'Theo,' the man said, in his soft voice. 'Look behind you.'

Stupid! she told herself, and did as he ordered.

A man was walking over the uneven grass; she didn't need the jacket to see that he was a pilot. Dark hair going grey, angular, interesting face—

'Father!'

She leapt, slamming him into a full body hug, feeling the tears, and the joy, and—

'Father, where the hell have you been?'

Strong arms were around her, then she felt him tousle her hair, like she was a kid, and set her back from him.

'I've been busy, child,' he said. He paused, and shook his head, a half smile on his lips.

'I can't tell you how glad I am to see you, Theo. And sorry, as well.'

'Sorry!' She stared at him, suddenly afraid, recalling bar stories told of Liaden Balances and lives called forfeit over matters of trade . . .

Father touched her cheek.

'Gently,' he murmured. 'Sorry because you would not be here if there wasn't really bad trouble.'

She nodded. 'It's kind of complicated,' she began . . .

THE END

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