Necessity's Child (Liaden Universe®) by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee Read Free Book Online

beyond Mr. Shaper, and beyond the crack in the land, where a very large man indeed was walking briskly across Korval’s browning grass.
    He scrambled to his feet, suddenly very aware that he had told no one of his intended direction when he left the house.
    “I have to go,” he said, short as Mr. Shaper himself.
    “Sure you do—no use arguin’ with a mountain. Get, then.”
    Syl Vor was already in motion, snatching his jacket from the branch and running. He leapt the boundary, landing just as Diglon Rifle arrived.
    “Apprentice, you are missed,” the big man said sternly in Trade. Diglon was studying, but his spoken Liaden wasn’t very good yet. He understood quite a lot, though, and his mastery of the dance was something Syl Vor hoped he might someday approach.
    Syl Vor gulped. “I forgot the time,” he said.
    “Recall it now,” Diglon advised, “and come with me.”
    He turned, not waiting to see Syl Vor darting after, until they were both brought up by a shout.
    “Hey!”
    They turned. Yulie Shaper stood at the boundary, a seedling in one hand, the other held chest high, fingers open.
    “Landholder?” Diglon said politely, in slow, but perfectly intelligible, Terran. “You want to speak?”
    Mr. Shaper gave his sharp, hard nod. “Tell the Boss up there to the house that the boy was a big help to me today. With my work. He wants to help again, I got a barn needs paintin’.”
    “I will inform the . . . Boss, Landholder Shaper. Now, this young one must be returned to his place.”
    “Boy needs his dinner,” Mr. Shaper agreed, and turned back to the garden plot.
    * * *
    By the time they reached the house, Syl Vor all but running to keep up with Diglon, he had come to an understanding of his errors.
    First, it was a breach of proper behavior to have left the house without telling Jeeves.
    Second, he had been away for quite a number of hours, though it had hardly seemed so long, when he had been working.
    Third, he was quite dirty—the knees of his pants were damp and black with soil, the cuff of his sweater was smeared with grime, his hands caked brown. There was mud under his fingernails. He wasn’t certain, lacking a mirror, but he felt that there might even be dirt on his face. Mrs. pel’Esla was not, he thought, going to be pleased to have him back in this condition. She would ask him if he were not old enough to take care of his clothes, and she would ask him if he did not know enough to sign out of the house before he went rambling, and she would ask him—Syl Vor gasped as he followed Diglon, not to one of the numerous side doors, but to the formal front door, as if he were a visitor.
    A stranger .
    Mrs. pel’Esla—certainly, she would be annoyed, but she would not—would she?
    If she had called Grandaunt to take charge of his scolding, he might miss his dinner in truth—and tomorrow’s breakfast, as well. He had been most careless—of security and of kin—that was true. Perhaps if he owned his faults at once, it would not be so very bad. Some chapters of the Code to read, perhaps, and a few days’ close attendance upon Grandaunt—that would be bearable, and no more than he had traded for.
    Diglon put his hand on the front door, which was immediately opened by Jeeves, orange headball flickering in the pattern that meant he was distressed.
    “Rifle, you have accomplished your mission with dispatch,” he said as Diglon stepped into the foyer, Syl Vor hard behind him.
    “Master Syl Vor,” Jeeves said sadly.
    “Jeeves—” he began, but the butler pivoted a half turn and again addressed Diglon.
    “You are expected. Please proceed.”
    The big man went down the hall, walking firm and centered. Syl Vor kept pace with an effort, his dirty boots making gritty, skittish sounds against the floor.
    The door to the library stood open, Diglon entered, pivoted so that he stood with his back against the door, and said, expressionlessly, “Syl Vor yos’Galan.”
    There was nothing to do but