by Sharon Lee
They had then gotten immediately down to details, presented with perfect clarity by Mr. dea’Gauss: In return for his service to Korval, Fer Gun pen’Uldra Clan Telrune would receive a sum of five cantra, to be delivered to his hand on-signing. His daily expenses and reasonable others, for the duration of the contract, would be borne by Clan Korval. Should eighteen months elapse and best efforts had not resulted in a child, the contract would be considered ended, and he would receive the remainder of his fee. Clan Telrune would receive a sum totaling his expected earnings as a first class pilot for the term of the contract, payable to them when the contract was complete. Telrune, dea’Gauss assured him, had accepted those terms, without question, which Fer Gun doubted not at all. The marriage-portion was free money to Telrune, and only a fool would turn it down, or endanger its arrival by scheming for more.
So, the marriage contract.
There had been a second contract, much more complex, and he had understood that it would likely not be complete before the marriage was made.
That contract . . . he smiled in anticipation, and did not allow himself to consider that she would withhold it, once she had him married. He had, he told himself, already agreed to the marriage; there had been no necessity to offer—
“Ah, I thought I might find you here,” Lady yo’Lanna said briskly, startling him out of what he supposed must have been a doze.
“It’s quite the most pleasant room in the house, isn’t it?” she continued, coming ’round to sit in the chair across from him. She had a courier envelope in one hand and a pen in the other.
“You will be glad to see this, I warrant, Pilot,” she said, offering the envelope and the pen. “I am told that this is the draft of the marriage lines for your review. If all is well, you are to initial it in the place indicated and return it to dea’Gauss.”
He opened the envelope; somewhat dismayed by the number of pages. Still, he knew from experience that paperwork was complicated, even when the agreement was simple.
There was a bright green clip on the next-to-last page. He flipped the packet open to the spot, turning to place it on the chair-side table, as he uncapped the pen and—
“Stop this instant!” Lady yo’Lanna said sharply.
He blinked, and turned his head to look at her, pen poised over paper.
“Have you read that contract?” she demanded.
“No,” he admitted. “But we spoke—myself, and Pilot Chi, and Qe’andra dea’Gauss. All agreed what ought to be in it.”
“And so you will sign it blind?” she demanded. “How do you know that there is not a paragraph in that contract which states, should you indeed provide a pilot to Korval, that you will be kept at stud for the next twelve years?”
He stared at her.
“Pilot Chi—” he began.
She held up a hand, freezing the words in his throat.
“Chi yos’Phelium is my dearest and oldest friend. She is also Korval. Chi certainly would do no such thing. But Korval is a very different matter. She will do what she must for the clan. And you will do well to remember, young Fer Gun, that it is Korval who produced the basis of that draft, after the three of you had your discussions.”
Fer Gun took a breath. His stomach, he noted distantly, was . . . unsettled.
“You will sit there, and you will read that contract, word by word, and line by line,” Lady yo’Lanna told him. “I will not permit you to sully my melant’i by doing otherwise.” She rose, and looked down her nose at him.
“You will do well to take it as a life-lesson, Pilot pen’Uldra: Always read the contract. Always understand the contract. I will return here in an hour, and I will expect to be told the terms of that document. If you should have questions, or find that there are provisions you do not understand, make a note of them so that you may inquire either of our clan’s qe’andra, or another of your choosing.”
Fer Gun swallowed.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. There was no other possible answer.
Lady yo’Lanna inclined her head.
“I will send tea,” she said, and left him.
IV
“You must admit,” said an overly cheerful voice just beyond the dressing room where Fer Gun stood, staring at the stranger in the mirror and wishing very much to be anywhere else.
“What do I have to admit?” he asked, around a queasy stomach.
Lady yo’Lanna’s brother, Lord ter’Meulen, had taken an active part in Fer Gun’s education. Where the lady was incisive and inclined to scold, her brother was light-speaking, unflappable, and unserious. Well. That was the impression he wished to give, at least. Fer Gun was fairly certain that, in the extremely unlikely event that he was seen to pose a threat, he would find his lordship wearing a very different face.
As Fer Gun was no threat, and ter’Meulen well aware of it, the face he saw was amused and a little sardonic. His lordship was every bit as informative as his sister, though of a slightly different flavor. If the lady’s preferred topic was form, her brother’s was function.
“You have to admit,” his lordship said now, strolling into the dressing room, “that Chi has an eye for a well-looking man. Ilthiria doubted that you would clean up more than passably well, but look at you! You might be the nadelm of some off-world High House.”
“Or I might be a wingless pilot from a clan so low neither Korval nor Guayar can see us on a clear day.”
ter’Meulen’s eyebrows rose slightly.
“Dismay gives you an edge, I see. Take my advice and keep your knives close. Soft words, and few, will win this day for you. If Korval had decided upon full formal, and all the High and high Mid-Houses in attendance, then, my child, you would have needed all the knives in your arsenal, and all that I could lend you.”
Lady yo’Lanna had very carefully explained to him that the event surrounding the signing of the lines was small, scarcely more than tea with friends. Which, he conceded, it might well seem to one who had known the attendees for all of her life. For him—well, he was the two-headed calf, as Jai Kob would have it; an oddity with only one thing to recommend him.
He turned to face Lord ter’Meulen, letting the reflection of the stranger in his fine clothes and jewels slide out of sight.
“Why does Korval make the signing public at all?” he asked, a question that had only lately occurred to him, as all of his informants had simply spoken of the signing and the luncheon as an accomplished fact. “It is only a contract marriage, after all. We might sign the lines in Qe’andra dea’Gauss’ office.”
“Ah, has no one bothered to tell you?” asked ter’Meulen. “That was ill-done of us. We are well-versed in the reasons, but they are far from a universal interest.”
He walked over to the bureau, where someone had left a tray holding six glasses and a pitcher.
“Cold mint tea?” he asked. “It will settle your stomach.” He poured a glass, and inclined his head. “And mine.”
That must have been meant as a jest, Fer Gun thought. ter’Meulen wasn’t about to be married before of a room full of strangers, all of whom would see through the fine feathers he had been lent, to the molting magpie beneath.
“Truly,” ter’Meulen said, turning to look at him. “The tea will do you good.”
“Thank you, then,” Fer Gun said with ill grace, and moved forward to receive the glass. “She had told me that she needs a child who will grow to be a pilot, as the elder child has proven unfit, but—”
Lord ter’Meulen raised his hand, his face in the moment very nearly stern.
“The elder child is brilliant, and convenable, and an asset to her House. Merely, she is not a pilot, and Korval House law states that the delm must be a pilot.”
Fer Gun felt his face heat. He bowed.
“I meant no insult to the lady. Forgive my awkward tongue.”
His lordship awarded him a broad smile, all displeasure vanished.
“There! That is the mode—sweet and soft-spoken. Now, the answer to your question
is this: yos’Phelium is the delm’s Line. As Kareen cannot stand nadelm, and Chi unwisely placed all of her coins on that one cast of the dice, she must now scramble for an heir. And she must do so as publicly as possible, to put to rest any rumor that this second child’s claim is illegitimate.”
Fer Gun had a sip of tea, which was pleasantly cool in a parched mouth.
“She had said that Festival-get would not serve her purpose,” he recalled.
“The least attractive solution, though it may yet be brought to the board, should Korval wish to fill the nurseries against need. That, of course, is Korval’s decision.”
ter’Meulen sipped from his glass.
“There is another child. Sae Zar yos’Galan is a pilot and so might be delm, but he is yos’Galan’s heir, and will be the clan’s master trader, in his time. There are no more children behind him, either. So we come to the current solution, which is that yos’Galan will contract-wed—that happy event has already taken place—and yos’Phelium also. This will produce two children—the nadelm and an extra. The best outcome is that both children will prove to be pilots. The lesser, but acceptable, outcome is that one will be a pilot, and so Korval will have a delm. If neither child is a pilot . . .”
His lordship shrugged.
“But, why is Korval so few?” Fer Gun blurted, recalling Telrune’s house, overfull with cousins, and never lacking for babies.
ter’Meulen sipped his tea, and put the glass aside.
“That is a question best put to Chi. I can recite facts, but you will want reasons, and those I cannot give you.” He cocked his head.
“Finish your tea, child. It’s time we were off.”
• • • • • •
Chi took one last look around the contract room. The flowers twined prettily up the bed posts, their fragrance subtly scenting the room. Light flowed sweetly into the room from the wide window that overlooked the inner garden.
Of course, she ought to have used the contract room overlooking the formal gardens at the front of the house, but the inner garden was, in her opinion, a pleasanter prospect, and smaller, which might, perhaps, comfort a boy who had been accustomed to limited sight-lines even before he had taken to ships.
The contract-room having proved itself agreeable, Chi crossed to the door in the right-hand wall, opened it and stepped into the room that would be occupied by Fer Gun pen’Uldra for the small time that he would actually be residing in the house. After the business of the contract-room was completed, he would retire here, to sleep, or pursue what other activities might beguile him. Again, she had attempted to make it agreeable to the sensibilities of a boy of humble means. There was a comfortably worn sofa and a well-broken-in chair near the fireplace, and a modest offering of real bound books on the shelves. Over near the window was the desk, the screen useful for either entertainment or work. She had also had a scanner placed on the desk, so he might listen to the business of the port.
The kitchenette was reasonably well supplied with wine and tea and small foods, such as one might wish for of an evening while one sat with a book, or an afternoon snack in front of a work screen.
The sleeping room was adequate without being opulent. There was a soft rug underfoot, and a sky-window over the bed. An extremely modest jewel box, sufficient to accommodate the lad’s extremely modest jewels, sat atop a plain, six-drawer dresser. There were clothes in the closet—not very many, and tailored as simply as could be managed while still preserving elegance and style.
It would, she decided, do. Indeed, it would have to do. And, after all, the lad had spent a relumma in one of Glavda Empri’s guesting suites. Perhaps he had acquired a taste for elegance.
She returned to the contract room, being careful to close the door to the spouse’s quarters firmly behind her, and opened the door in the left-hand wall.
This would be her apartment while the contract was in force; not very much more luxurious than its opposite on the other side of the contract room. After all, they would not be on Liad above a day or two before removing to Comet and lifting in pursuit of their new-signed business venture.
She owned herself to be looking forward to the small introductory trip. Liad became tiresome after a while, with its melant’i games and intrigues. The challenges of piloting, and even of establishing a base-line for a new route to be run by a new captain, were charmingly straightforward, and even refreshing, by comparison.
A glance at the small clock on the bookshelf told her that it was closing in on the hour.
She would soon be wanted downstairs. The guests would have arrived by now, received by Petrella; and Bal Dyn ter’Meulen would be arriving soon, her spouse-to-be in hand.
She tarried a moment, yet, considering that spouse-to-be. A rough lad, scantily tutored. She did not expect that he had been given any bed-lessons beyond what had been learned from such lovers as he may have had. And, truly, it scarcely mattered if he merely lay there and left all the details to her. The point of the exercise being, not an enjoyment of art, or of each other, but simple, even coarse, biology.
A child, of her body. A pilot, if the genes aligned, to lead the next generation of Korval.
And, if yos’Phelium had played out at last, then best to let the Line die, and leave yos’Galan free to marry another Line less likely to draw catastrophe upon it and all its workings.
The small clock chimed the hour.
Chi yos’Phelium sighed lightly, squared her shoulders, and took herself downstairs to be married.
• • • • • •
Kareen met her at door to the small gather-room, all proper and smooth-faced. Chi did not sigh. Kareen was inclined to the opinion that Korval clan law was outmoded and required revision to bring it into modern times. She was further of the opinion that adhering to a protocol made in a previous universe during a time of war and strife did active harm to a clan residing in a time and universe of relative peace and prosperity.
She was not, as Chi had admitted, entirely wrong in either of those assessments. However, there was a contract to keep, and to that, once shown the terms, not even Kareen had an answer.
“Mother.” Her eldest bowed and offered an arm, which Chi took gently.
“Daughter,” she answered. “I am grateful for your guidance.”
It was only partly a joke; she was grateful that Kareen had agreed to be her support at the signing—and not merely because it would involve her personally, and perhaps reconcile her to the inevitable.
If she did not actively frown, nor did Kareen smile; she merely stepped across the threshold and into the room.
The clamor of voices softened somewhat as they entered, and not a few pair of eyes followed them on their way to the small dais, where her sister waited.
“You are just in time,” Petrella said, leaning close to kiss her cheek.
“So long as I am not late,” she answered, and allowed Kareen to assist her onto the stage.
She took up her position behind the table, to the left of the portfolio and the pens, Kareen standing one step to the rear and the right.
Those who had watched her progress turned back to their interrupted conversations. The sound of voices swelled—and all at once went silent.
Bal Dyn ter’Meulen, whose instincts never failed him, paused on the threshold, head up, face calm, and allowed the room to look their fill, not of him . . .
. . . but of the young man on his arm.
Oh, thought Chi, looking as well—Ilthiria, whose instincts perhaps surpassed even her brother’s, had risen above all of her past perfections in the dressing of the spouse.
A dark blue coat with a deep nap that showed subtle pinpoints of silver when the boy moved. A white shirt, modestly ruffled down the front, as pure as a child’s honor. The ruffles at his wrists were deep, falling softly over hands that were no strangers to hard labor; a ring set with a dark blue stone flashed shyly on his right hand, and the dark trousers accentuated long, shapely legs.
He was not, Chi thou
ght, considering the guests, anything like what had been expected. They had expected outworld manners, graceless, if not crude, but this—finely dressed and haughty, like a dagger in a velvet sheath—took them back a step. He stood straight and utterly cool, his arm linked with that of his escort, his face composed and even cold; eyes like black diamonds glittering beneath heavy dark lashes.
Very likely the child was terrified, Chi thought, but if so, those gathered were not to know it. Indeed, she thought, watching the pair of them approach the stage unimpeded, as one after another stepped aside to let them pass—Indeed, it would seem that Fer Gun pen’Uldra’s whole purpose was to deny those gathered the spectacle of his fear.
There was not the least bit of awkwardness at the dais, and Fer Gun took his place, unhurried and deliberate, behind the table, at the right of the portfolio and pen, while Bal Dyn stood one step behind and to the right, witness to the proceedings.
The crowd parted once more, and Mr. dea’Gauss stepped forward. He walked up to, but did not mount, the dais, and turned to face those gathered.
“We are here to witness the signing of the contract of engenderment made between Chi yos’Phelium Clan Korval and Fer Gun pen’Uldra Clan Telrune, with the child coming to Clan Korval.”
You might have heard a speck of dust fall onto the floor; it seemed that no one in the room dared breathe.
“We begin,” said Mr. dea’Gauss gravely. “Fer Gun pen’Uldra Clan Telrune, please affix your name to the contract.”
• • • • • •
“Lady yos’Galan, a moment of your time, if you please.”
Petrella turned to consider the society page editor for the Gazette, Finlee as’Barta.
“Certainly, ma’am,” she said, watching out of the corner of her eye as Chi maneuvered her contract-husband toward a knot of stalwart friends of Korval. “How may I assist you?”
“I would value some insight into who, precisely, Fer Gun pen’Uldra Clan Telrune is,” Editor as’Barta said crisply.
Petrella raised an eyebrow.
“Surely, the Book of Clans . . .”
