"MR. MCFARLAND, I thank you for your care, but I scarcely need security in the very heart of Solcintra."
The big Terran sighed. "Boss, use your head. Ships under your command fired on the planet not all that long ago." He held up a hand. "Yeah, we did for a good reason and likely saved a buncha folks their hides, if not exactly their homes. And we can take it as given the evacuation missed somebody—probably more than a couple somebodies. And there's a big glassy hole in the planet where we beamed them 'bots into vapor.
"All of which says to me that there're some who ain't gonna be real pleased to see you."
Pat Rin closed his eyes. True enough, he thought. Nor would it do to deprive the delm of the honor of dealing appropriately with Korval's erring child Pat Rin by getting himself murdered beforehand.
"Besides," Cheever said. "Natesa'd chew me out good if I let somethin' happen to you."
Natesa.
"Your point is taken, Mr. McFarland."
He opened his eyes, checked the gun in its hidden pocket, pulled the jacket into seemliness—and paused, his fingers tightening on the leather. Jacket, he thought. This jacket. Before Korval.
Pat Rin yos'Phelium, you are a fool.
"Boss?"
He smoothed the sleeves, feigning a finicky lordling's care, buying time—a few moments, only; long enough for his heart to stop pounding so, and for his face to find the proper expression of cool neutrality. What, after all, was a pilot's jacket, when he already wore a ring?
"Something I oughta know?" Cheever McFarland asked.
Jacket settled, he looked up into the face of his oathsworn, seeing worry and . . . care in the strong lines. Gods, when had Cheever McFarland's face become as precious to him as kin?
He inclined his head.
"There is something you should know, yes," he said, deliberately cold. "When we are with my cousin Val Con, you will forget that you are armed. You will protest nothing that may happen while he and I . . . converse." He looked closely into the Terran's eyes. "I will not insult you by asking for your oath on this. I will merely remind you that—I am the boss. Is this understood?"
Cheever's face tightened, but—"Yessir," he said, mildly enough.
"Good," Pat Rin murmured.
SOMETHING WAS BAD wrong, Cheever decided as Pat Rin bowed to the young buck from Binjali's who'd won the brief bowli ball game for the right to play taxi, and turned to look at the building where Val Con yos'Phelium had set up a temporary headquarters.
The slim shoulders rose and fell inside the leather jacket, then Pat Rin was gone, walking steadily across the street, head up, back straight. Cussing softly, Cheever went after him.
The door was flanked by two soldiers, male and female, each massing about as much as Cheever did. The male dropped his rifle across the door, barring the way.
"Name is?" the female asked, her Trade carrying a heavy accent that Cheever didn't quite place. "Business is?"
"My name is Pat Rin yos'Phelium Clan Korval. I have come to speak with my kinsman, Val Con yos'Phelium, on business of the clan."
"Hah." She snapped her fingers, the rifle was lifted away, and Pat Rin walked on, Cheever at his back.
They went down a short hallway, following the sound of voices to a room cluttered with people and equipment. Pat Rin hesitated on the threshold, scanning the crowd, maybe. A woman in working leathers pushed by, and ran down the hall. Still, Pat Rin stood there, oblivious to the jostling.
Suddenly, he moved, striding purposefully across the room toward a knot of people in leathers, uniforms, and Low Port motley. A dark haired man in working leathers turned his head, said a quick word to the group and stepped forward, hands extended, smiling across a face so familiar that Cheever had to shake his head and look again—by which time Pat Rin was on his knees before the younger edition of himself, forehead on the floor, the back of his neck exposed and vulnerable.
SOMETHING MOVED across the busy room. Val Con glanced aside and saw two pilots approaching, the Liaden walking with purpose; the Terran—
"A moment," he said quickly to the cluster of scouts, and went forward, hands extended in welcome.
"Cousin, well-met!"
Pat Rin flung to his knees, face against the floor. Behind him, the Terran slammed to a halt, openly shocked.
Val Con looked down at the exposed neck, at the dark hair curling softly, several fingers longer than its accustomed length, and the smooth, unmarred leather of the Jump pilot's jacket.
"As ill as that?" he murmured and bent forward, checking when he sensed the big man start.
Looking up, he met the man's eyes. "I will not hurt him."
The Terran nodded, brusquely. "Right."
Carefully, Val Con bent and put a hand on a bowed shoulder. The muscles were rock hard. "Come, cousin," he said softly. "You'd best tell me."
Nothing. Then, slowly, Pat Rin straightened. Val Con dropped lightly to one knee, putting them at the same level. Pat Rin, he saw, had lost weight; his face was chapped, as if he had spent too much time out in the cold; and there were new lines around his mouth and eyes.
"My lifemate and my oathsworn are blameless," he said, in the mode of transgressor to delm. "I claim all."
"Ever more terrifying," Val Con returned, lightly, deliberately, in the Low Tongue. "Pray reveal at once the horrific crimes of which they are innocent."
Pat Rin raised his left hand, on which gleamed Korval's—no.
"Ah, I see. Very prettily done, too. Though they should have been more careful about the emeralds."
The edge of a smile glimmered. "Just so." The smile faded, and he moved his hand again; light ran liquid over dragon scale and leaf.
"Using this, I have subjugated a world to my necessity. I have allied with the Juntavas. I have made promises in Korval's name. I have put things . . . into motion . . . "
"As well we all know, having seen that motion work wonders. Very well. And your necessity was—what? Usurpation of Korval?"
Pat Rin shuddered and closed his eyes. "They came to me," he whispered, and his voice was haunted. "They came to me and they said, all your kin are dead. They said, Korval. They expected that I would be grateful for their care of my interests—and that I would represent them to the Council."
"They were very foolish," Val Con said softly. "That was at Teriste? Where did you go after?"
The brown eyes opened. "First, to a Juntavas base. Then to Bazaar, to purchase stock. Finally to Surebleak, where I set up as a boss, and—and began my Balance—" the smile again, slightly more visible this time. "Among other necessary tasks."
"Ah." Val Con tipped his head. "And these are the crimes of which you alone are guilty?"
Pat Rin sighed. "I don't doubt there are others—impersonating a pilot comes to mind."
"Commander?" A voice called from behind. "We have word from the Low Port."
Val Con glanced over his shoulder. "A moment." He reached out and gripped Pat Rin's hand.
"Duty," he said. "Quickly now—tell me the name of your lifemate."
"Inas Bhar," Pat Rin said softly. "Called Juntavas Sector Judge Natesa the Assassin."
Val Con smiled. "The clan increases." He rose, pulling his cousin up, and embraced him, cheek to cheek.
"Bide," he murmured. "We will go home together."