A Liaden Universe® Constellation, Volume 4

by Sharon Lee

  “For myself,” she said, tired now, despite the wine; “I must leave the City and establish myself elsewhere.”

  “That . . . was unavoidable,” said Grand-père, sadness in his eyes. “It seems that I am doomed to lose you, child. And I would rather miss you than mourn you.”

  She stared at him for a moment before she recalled herself, and produced a grin which felt oddly tenuous on her mouth.

  “I will miss you so very much, Grand-père.”

  He smiled at her.

  “I know, child, but only think—you will never need mourn me, either.”

  It is true, thought Serana; I will never see him dead; he will therefore live forever.

  “It would please me,” Don Eyr said softly, “if you would consent to travel with me. Such a course would be all to my benefit, since I am insufficiently suspicious.” He gave her a solemn look. “As has been pointed out.”

  She placed her hand on his knee and met his eyes.

  “Little one, I would gladly come with you, but I will not be a burden to you. I have been turned out, with prejudice. To be crass, I have no money, and will have to make my way from the start . . .”

  “As to that,” said Grand-père, putting his glass aside and reaching into his vest. “I have been charged by the commander with an amount of money, which I am to give to my grandchild Serana. It is quite a considerable sum, which surprised me. I had privately considered Watch Captain Benoit something of a spendthrift. It pleases me to have been proved wrong.”

  He brought forth a fat wallet, and held it out to her.

  Serana stared, first at the wallet, then into his eyes.

  “Mathilde agrees to this?” she demanded.

  “My child, Mathilde proposed this,” Grand-père corrected, and smiled his particular, crooked smile. “She’s coming along well, I think.”

  “So you see,” said Don Eyr; “you need not be a burden, and, as you are well-funded, you may take your own decision, and not be . . . beholden to me.”

  She looked down into his eyes. His were grave.

  “Serana, I would like you to come with me.”

  She took a breath.

  “And I would like to do so,” she said. “Do you think there is any possibility that I will be able to buy a berth on the ship you will be traveling on?”

  “There is no need,” Don Eyr said comfortably. “I hired a stateroom; there is room for both of us.”

  She blinked.

  “You did this—when?”

  “When I made my original reservations. All you need do is buy your passage.”

  Grand-père laughed, and rubbed his hands together.

  “I like him, Serana! A man who knows what he wants, and pursues it, though others call him mad! I will miss both of you, in truth. And, now—”

  The House bell rang—evening muster, that would be, thought Serana.

  “Now,” she said; “I must go.”

  “I fear so,” said Grand-père. “Take the wallet, child. You will find a pack at the service gate—your clothes and other personal belongings. Take that, as well.”

  “Yes,” she said, and rose, Don Eyr beside her.

  She slipped the wallet into an inner pocket; bent and kissed the old man’s cheek.

  “Farewell, Grand-père; I will never forget you.”

  He patted her cheek, wordless for once. Serana stepped back—and Don Eyr went forward, bending to kiss the withered cheek in his turn.

  “Farewell, Grand-père;” he said softly. “Thank you.”

  “Ah, child, would that we had longer, you and I! Take care of my Serana.” A soft touch to the cheek, and a small shove against his shoulder.

  “Go, now, both of you.”

  • • • • • •

  She fitted herself handily into his modest rooms, his quiet life. His associates in the school had long since become used to her occasional presence, and gave no sign that they noticed she was about more frequently these few last days.

  She had some idea that she might assist him with his preparations, but there was not much to pack, and only a few things to give away. There was also a study-at-home kit that he dragged out of the bottom of the armoire, and stood for a moment, considering it ruefully.

  “What is it?” Serana asked him.

  “The Liaden Code of Proper Conduct,” he answered, his eyes still on the kit. “My clan required that I make a study of it while I was being schooled here, as I would have done if I had remained at home.”

  “And did you study it?” she asked, eyeing the kit with new interest.

  “Oh, yes; I passed every level. Then I put it away, and I fear that I have forgotten everything that I had Learned. There was no one to discuss it with, and I saw no need to continue after I had mastered the basics.”

  He threw a grin over his shoulder at her.

  “Nor any need to make a review. My manner, I fear, cannot but offend.”

  “You have beautiful manners,” Serana said, faintly shocked to hear this estimation. “And your presentation is pleasing.”

  “Thank you,” he said, giving the box one last stare, and turning to face her.

  “Will you bring it with you?” she asked, she having taken charge of such packing as there was to do.

  “It is a resource, I suppose. Ezhel’ti is a composite world—Liaden and Terran. Were I Terran, I expect my ignorance would be excused. As I am Liaden, I fear I will be held to a higher standard.” He sighed suddenly. “I will spend time on the journey, Learning Liaden. I have been speaking and thinking in Lutetian for twelve Standards, and I fear I’ve forgotten the modes entirely.”

  “We will practice together,” said Serana; “I have ordered in a study pack for my own use, and a bundle of what purport to be genuine melant’i plays. Between it and your Code, we will be very busy. And here I had dreamed of a voyage spent almost entirely in bed . . .”

  He laughed.

  “We might study in bed, after all.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, with a slow smile, “so we might.”

  It was pleasant, living thus; and the best part of the day occurred in the dark hours just before dawn, when he rose to start the day’s baking.

  She asked if she might accompany him—and succeeded in surprising him.

  “There is nothing to see; only me, working.”

  “But I have never seen you, baking,” Serana said, having discovered a desire in herself to observe him at every daily action. “I will be quiet and stand out of the way.”

  He was silent for so long that she knew the answer would be no when he spoke. But he in turn surprised her.

  “There are stools, and tea,” he told her, and added, perhaps to be clear, “Yes, you may come.”

  • • • • • •

  It was a pleasure like none Serana had ever known, to sit quietly, and sip her tea, watching him at his work. He was calm, he was competent; he was unhurried and utterly concentrated. The universe held still and respectful while Don Eyr worked, and during this sacred time, no ill was permitted to intrude upon Lutetia.

  She watched him for hours, and never once grew bored. It seemed to her that she might watch him for years, and be nothing other than content.

  At the end of it, the sun up, and the kitchen nearly too warm, he would surrender his creations to the over-manager, and Serana would slip out to await him in the hall. They would go up to his rooms together, hand-in-hand, to make and eat their breakfast. Often, they would not care to break the silence, and she felt no lack for it.

  This morning, however, the pattern varied.

  An envelope had been shoved under the door while they were away. Don Eyr bent to retrieve it, and carried it into the kitchen, leaving it on the table as they put together a simple meal.

  It was not until they were seated, tea poured and bread buttered, that he noticed it again—she saw him read the envelope—start—and read it again, more closely.

  “Is there something wrong?” she asked.

  “Nothing m
ore than unusual,” he said, picking the envelope up. “I have a letter from—from my delm.”

  The old man who hated the fact of him, who had sent him among strangers, careless of whether he might fail or thrive; more surely an orphan than she had ever been.

  “Has he never written you before?”

  “No, never,” Don Eyr said, apparently finding nothing strange in this. “Mr. dea’Bon writes, and once, after I had first come here, Mrs. ban’Teli wrote. No one else.”

  If he found nothing strange, at least he found nothing dreadful, either. Serana lifted the teapot and refilled his cup.

  Don Eyr slit the envelope open with a butter knife, and removed a single sheet of paper.

  He stared at it, frowning, and she recalled his concern that he had forgotten his native tongue, having had so little use for it . . .

  “I am—called home,” Don Eyr said, sounding, for the first time in their acquaintance, uncertain. He looked up to meet her eyes. “Back to Liad, that is. I am to come immediately.”

  “Why such haste?”

  “He does not say, merely to come at once; the clan has need of—oh.”

  She saw the blush mount his cheeks as his mouth tightened, and he raised his head again to meet her eyes.

  “Oh?” she asked.

  “Yes. I think I see. He has arranged a marriage for me—I can think of nothing else he might mean by of use to the clan.”

  “He has arranged a marriage?” Serana repeated. Her stomach ached, as if she had taken a punch. “But—would he not at least write you the name of your wife?”

  “Not necessarily. In fact, it would be very like him to think it no concern of mine.” He glanced back at the letter, mouth tight. He folded the single page, slid it into the envelope, and put the envelope on the table, address down.

  He picked up his tea cup.

  Serana carefully released the breath she had been holding. He was going to ignore this peremptory and rude summoning. Well, of course he was! What hold had the old man over him, now?

  “I think,” Don Eyr said slowly, “that we must change our plans, somewhat. You will go to Ezhel’ti, if you would, and see the house put to order, perhaps look about for a proper location for the boulangerie.”

  “Will I?” she said, watching him. “And where will you go, little one?”

  He blinked at her.

  “I? I will go to Liad, as my delm has ordered, and be of use to the clan. When the marriage is finished, I will join you on Ezhel’ti.”

  He said it so calmly, as if it made perfect sense. As if the scheming old man was his patron, and must, therefore, be obeyed!

  “When do you expect that the marriage will be finished?” she asked, calm in her turn.

  He moved his shoulders.

  “If I recall my Code correctly, which is not very likely; a contract marriage lasts a Liaden year, on average. It ends when the child is born, and has been accepted into the receiving clan.”

  He sent her a shrewd glance.

  “It is an alliance the delm wants. An alliance that would be good for the clan, else he would not pursue it, but not . . . grand enough to marry out the nadelm.”

  He was so certain about this marriage, she thought, as if there were no possibility of it going wrong. Well, she had promised to be suspicious for him, had she not?

  “I will go with you,” she said, nodding at the letter.

  Don Eyr blinked at her.

  “Serana, I do not think that you would . . . like . . .” he began, and she leaned forward to lay a finger across his lips.

  “I would not like that you were bedding another woman? You are correct. However, we have not promised each other monogamy, and if you must marry to seal a good alliance for your clan; I believe I may accommodate that. It will be far better if I am with you, little one. You have lost the way of the homeworld, and will need someone on your off-side.”

  His lips bent into an ironic smile.

  “I have undoubtedly forgotten much. But Serana, I have forgotten things you have never known!”

  “Ah, but I do not need to know! I am a barbarian, as anyone can see by looking at me. In fact, I am your bodyguard, such being the custom of Lutetia.”

  She leaned forward, and put her hand over his, holding his eyes with hers.

  “Don Eyr. Petit. Can you not ignore this . . . summons?”

  He drew a breath.

  “I think not—no.”

  “So, you will go to Liad, and accomplish this duty your delm demands of you?”

  “Yes,” he said, though not with any eagerness.

  “Very well. If that is what you will do, then I will come with you.”

  Silence.

  Serana took a deep, quiet breath.

  “If you do not want me, only say so, little one.”

  His free hand came to rest atop hers.

  “But I cannot say so, Serana,” he said. He leaned forward and brushed his lips across hers.

  “Come, then,” he murmured; “I want you.”

  THREE

  Liad

  The melant’i plays that Serana had purchased had proved a valuable resource, giving insight into how the Liaden Code of Proper Conduct might—and might not—be used to one’s own advantage.

  For instance, the Code stated only that a child of the clan summoned home by the delm may enter the house by the front door, which would seem adamantine.

  However, the melant’i plays illustrated the power of may.

  May permitted choice, and thus Don Eyr paid off the taxi at the corner, and walked round to the servants’ door, where, as a child, he had been accustomed to going and coming, so as not to risk affronting the delm with his presence.

  Serana, in her guise as his bodyguard, walked half-a-step behind his left shoulder.

  He found the small door in the wall, and pressed his palm against the plate. There came a small click, and he stepped inside, Serana ducking in behind him.

  He made certain the door had sealed, then paused to take his bearings.

  “The kitchen,” he said, looking up at her, “is to the left.”

  She gave him a smile, and he started forward—and stopped as a woman stepped quickly out of the left-hand hallway.

  She was a neat, elderly woman, her grey hair in a knot at the back of her head. She was wearing a house uniform of puce and green—Serat’s colors.

  “Who—” she began; and stopped, staring.

  “Mrs. ban’Teli,” he said, showing her his empty hands. “It is Don Eyr.”

  “So it ever was, Don Eyr,” she said, coming forward to put her hands in his. “You look well, but—Child, whatever are you doing here?”

  “The delm has called me home,” he said, smiling at her.

  “Has he?” This seemed to concern her; her fingers tensed on his. “Why?”

  “He forgot to put down the reason in his letter,” he said lightly, noting that she was trembling slightly, and also that the collar of her uniform was somewhat frayed, and her apron had been carefully mended with thread that did not quite match.

  “You are a son of the House,” Mrs. ban’Teli said then. “You should come in by the front door.”

  “Yes, and so I would have done,” Don Eyr assured her, “save that I wished to see you first, and also to ask if you will give my poor Serana some tea in the kitchen, while I go to the delm.”

  He stepped slightly aside, and Serana came forward, offering a very nice bow.

  “Madame,” she said, gently, in her Letitian-accented Liaden. “I have heard much about you, and am pleased to meet you at last.”

  Mrs. ban’Teli performed a quick inventory, eyes bright, and bowed in her turn.

  She looked back to Don Eyr.

  “I will be pleased to bring your companion to the kitchen and see her comfortable,” she said, which was also, he thought, a promise to ask many questions. That was expectable; he and Serana had agreed between them that all such questions would be met with truth. The kitchen staff did not bore t
he delm with the business of the kitchen.

  “Come,” said Mrs. ban’Teli, “both of you. We will see Lady Serana settled, and for you, sir, we will call Mr. pak’Epron, who will guide you properly to the delm. He is in his study with the papers, so it is likely that he would not have heard the bell in any case.”

  • • • • • •

  Serat sat behind a desk covered in the racing papers. So much was unchanged from Don Eyr’s memories of the delm. He looked up with considerable irritation when Mr. pak’Epron said quietly, “Master Don Eyr, sir.”

  “Go away,” Serat said, and Mr. pak’Epron did so. Despite his inclinations, Don Eyr did not go away, but walked toward the desk and the two chairs set there. One was piled high with even more racing sheets, but the other was—

  “Stop there!” snapped Serat. “I have not given you leave to approach!”

  Don Eyr stopped, and stood, hands folded neatly before him. He took a deep breath, and waited for further instructions.

  “Does your delm merit no bow?”

  Ah, yes, thought Don Eyr; he was in violation of courtesy. No wonder the old man was testy.

  He produced the required bow—clan member to delm—and straightened, murmuring, “Serat,” in as neutral a tone as he could manage.

  The old man glared at him.

  “Why are you come?”

  Don Eyr felt a tremble along his nerves. Had the old man forgotten? Could he, in fact, have merely ignored that peremptory letter and gone about his life?

  Too late now to know the answers to those questions. Don Eyr inclined his head slightly, and said, quietly.

  “You sent for me, sir.”

  There was a sniff.

  “And you came. Remarkable. Your mother refused to come home when our delm sent for her. He froze her accounts, but she continued to disobey. Afraid, of course; she had already lost most of the clan’s investments.” He paused, looking Don Eyr up and down.

  “You might have dressed to the delm’s honor, but I suppose this is the best an impecunious student might do. Also, your accent is deplorable, which I suppose is expectable. However! I will have the proper mode from you, sirrah! That, at least, you will produce correctly. Arba is a stickler for such things and you will not give him insult! Am I plain?”