by Sharon Lee
“No, sir,” said Don Eyr, perhaps unwisely.
Papers crinkled as the old man’s fingers closed on the sheets layering his desk.
“Are you defying me?”
“I do not see how I might do so, sir. Surely defiance may only follow comprehension,” Don Eyr answered, keeping the mode in mind.
“Stupid, too,” said Serat, and Don Eyr took a breath, thinking of Serana in the kitchen, sharing tea with Mrs. ban’Teli.
It was not, he told himself, unjust. He had been stupid, and Serana had been correct: He need not have come.
He thought then of the portions of the house he had seen on his way from the kitchens. It seemed that everything was shabby—worn, and that in at least one room there were signs that a rather large painting had been removed from the wall, and a piece of furniture, as well.
Serat needs this marriage, he thought then, not for alliance, but for money.
“What is it that I am required to do for the clan?” he asked, rather as if he were addressing a recalcitrant student than the delm of Serat.
The old man across the desk stared him up and down.
“You are required to go to Arba’s house in the city and place yourself at his service. You are to say that you stand the payment of Serat’s debt, which is now cleared.”
“Am I to be married, then?” Don Eyr asked, his recent perusal of the Code having given him the very distinct notion that there were proprieties to be followed, papers to be filed . . .
“Married? No. Go away.”
Serat was bent over his papers again; Don Eyr was already forgotten. Or perhaps not.
He bowed to the delm’s honor, turned and let himself out of the study, closing the door quietly behind him.
He closed his eyes, took three deep breaths, opened his eyes and saw a figure hovering discreetly near the archway into the main hall.
“Mr. pak’Epron.”
“Yes, Master Don Eyr.”
“Is my cousin Vyk Tor in the house?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good,” said Don Eyr. “Please take me to him.”
• • • • • •
“Cousin Don Eyr.”
Like his uncle, his cousin Vyk Tor was also found behind a desk smothered in paper—though these seemed to be business documents, and files, some on the letterhead of Mr. dea’Bon’s office.
“May I give you a glass of wine?” his cousin asked, rising.
Don Eyr sighed.
“Thank you, a glass of wine would be most welcome,” he said.
“You’ve been to see Father, then,” said Vyk Tor, crossing the room to the wine table.
Don Eyr considered the small office, finding the same signs of shabbiness and deferred maintenance that were apparent elsewhere in the house.
His cousin turned from the table, glasses in hand, and moved toward the table and chairs set before the large window.
“Let us sit here,” he said. “The prospect is slightly more pleasing than my desk.”
Don Eyr joined him, took the offered glass, and sipped, automatically judging the vintage, and finding it—surprisingly—mundane.
He frowned slightly. His memory was that Serat had demanded expensive wines at table. A vintage such as this . . .
“The wine offends?”
He gave his cousin a frank look, remembering too late that to stare boldly into a man’s face was to be rude.
“The wine—surprises,” he said, and sank into the chair. His cousin stiffened, then relaxed and took his own chair.
“Understand,” Don Eyr said, “I have spent the last dozen Standards learning wines and foods, in a culture that values wine and food . . . very much.”
Vyk Tor tipped his head.
“I thought we had sent you to be a baker.”
“That, too,” Don Eyr said composedly. “One must certify for three specialties before one is permitted to graduate.”
“I had not known the curriculum was so . . . rigorous,” said his cousin, drinking deeply.
“The Lutetia École de Cuisine is a premier school. Their graduates go on to become chefs in the houses of queens, and in the great restaurants of the universe. Or,” he raised his glass, “they found great restaurants.”
“And you, have you founded your restaurant?”
“I was on my way to found a boulangerie on Ezhel’ti when Serat called me home. Now that I am here, I am bewildered. It seems I am not to marry for the advantage of the clan, but what I am meant to do eludes me.”
Vyk Tor sighed.
“You must forgive Father,” he began, and stopped at Don Eyr’s sharp movement.
“No,” he said, taking a deep breath against the growing anger; “I am not required to forgive Serat. Indeed, I begin to question whether I am required to obey him.”
“Surely you are required to obey him!” his cousin said sharply. “He is the delm! The clan has brought you into adulthood; and seen you educated, and nourished!”
“So it has,” said Don Eyr, dryly, and decided upon a change of topic.
“I missed a painting in the withdrawing room, when Mr. pak’Epron guided me to the delm; and it seemed also a divan had been removed. Is the house being remodeled?”
“The House,” his cousin said, on the sharp edge of a sigh, “is foundering. I found by going through the clan’s past finances that Father has always gambled. In fact, he lost his private fortune some years ago. That was when he began gambling with Serat’s fortune.”
Don Eyr stared at him.
“The qe’andra did not prevent him?”
“The qe’andra are in the clan’s employ. Mr. dea’Bon withdrew himself, when it became apparent that Father would not abstain, but his heir . . . did not. We are not quite run off our legs, but we have had to embrace—” He raised his wine glass— “economies, as well as selling off certain items of value.”
He drank, finishing the glass, and put it on the table.
“Thank the gods, we have not yet been required to sell our business interests.”
Don Eyr put his glass on the table.
“Can you not curb him?”
His cousin looked at him with interest.
“How would you suggest I do that?”
This was familiar ground; many of the plays he and Serana had watched turned on points of honor between delm and nadelm.
“You are the nadelm. Surely, if the delm is not able—or endangers the clan . . .”
He stopped because his cousin was laughing.
“I have been able to move some of the businesses, and some of our stocks, into the nadelm’s honor. I made a bolder throw, for all of our finances, and Father felt it necessary to tell me that he would declare me dead if I continued in my grasping ways.”
He moved a hand—wearily, thought Don Eyr.
“Dead, I can do nothing. If I remain, at least I can do . . . something.”
There was for the moment, silence. Don Eyr looked at his half-empty wine glass. Did not pick it up.
“In any case, that is where you come in, Cousin. Our funding is insufficient to pay off Arba’s amount, but he agrees to accept one of Clan Serat to do such errands as might be assigned, at the compensation rate for unskilled labor, minus the costs of food and lodging, until such time as the debt has been balanced.”
Don Eyr sat, feeling the blood roar in his ears, thinking of the house on Ezhel’ti; the clan of his father, which had been willing to acknowledge him.
Of Serana.
Gods, Serana.
“The delm has sold me to pay off his gambling debts,” he said, his voice flat, and without mode.
“In a word,” his cousin said; “yes.”
• • • • • •
They were taken in to Mr. dea’Bon without delay; the butler announcing them in soft, respectful tones.
“Lord Don Eyr fer’Gasta Clan Serat. Captain Serana Benoit.”
The old man rose from behind his desk and bowed, to Serana’s eye, with proper respect for he
r small one.
“Your Lordship,” he said, and there was respect in the soft voice, too; a certain fondness in the gaze that she might have missed, had she not seen the melant’i plays.
Don Eyr raised a hand.
“Certainly, I am no lordship,” he began, and the old gentleman raised a hand in turn.
“Certainly, you are; and I am delighted to be at your service. You’re looking well, sir.”
He might have argued, save his temper was already fully engaged, and the old gentlemen was in no way its target. Serana was informed; she had not previously been privileged to see Don Eyr angry. To know that he was not only capable of righteous rage, but remained its master—those things were good to know.
So, no argument, but a bow, less deep than the one he had received, because, so Serana deduced, the old gentleman would have it that way.
“I am pleased to see you again, sir; I only wish it might be under happier circumstances.”
“Ah.” The old gentleman looked wise. “You come to me from Serat.”
He glanced at the butler, who remained in the doorway.
“Wine and a tray, if you will, Mr. ben’Darble. Lord Don Eyr and Captain Benoit are doubtless in need of refreshment after a trying afternoon.”
“Sir.” The butler bowed and was gone, closing the door silently behind him.
“I am remiss,” her small one said then, and extended a hand to bring her forward. “This is Serana Benoit. You may speak to her as to myself.”
It was a phrase from the plays. They had supposed, between them, that it had signaled a trust that went beyond mere clan connections, and thus seldom found favor with the delms of drama. Certainly, it meant something more than mere words to the old gentleman.
He was not so unsubtle as to raise even an eyebrow, but he considered her now with interest, rather than merely courtesy. She bowed, as would a Watch Captain to solid citizen.
“Sir.”
“Captain Benoit; I am honored,” he said, returning her bow precisely.
Straightening, he spoke again to Don Eyr.
“By your goodness, my lord—Captain—sit; take your ease. I know something of why you have come, I think. Be assured that my service is to you; not Serat, nor the nadelm. You may speak frankly to me. Everything you say will remain in this room, in the memory of we three; and recorded in my personal client files, which I share with no one, except on those same terms of confidentiality.”
Don Eyr sighed; moved toward the chair at the right side of the old gentleman’s desk, and paused to look to her.
She gave him a smile and a nod.
“I am well, here,” she said, sliding into the too-small chair, and folding her legs expertly under her.
He smiled, faintly, and seated himself, whereupon the tray arrived and was disposed. The butler, assured that they could, indeed, look after themselves, left them, closing the door silently behind. The old gentleman poured wine; they sipped, Serana noting Don Eyr’s shoulders softening somewhat as he tasted the vintage.
His glass set to one side, the old gentleman leaned back in his chair, looked to Don Eyr, and said, simply, “Tell me.”
• • • • • •
Don Eyr wilted somewhat in his chair, weary with the telling. The old gentleman steepled his fingers, his gaze abstracted. Serana, not wishing to disturb a genius at his work, but unwilling to see her petit in need, rose, refreshed all three glasses, and placed two of the delicate sandwiches on the plate at Don Eyr’s hand.
He smiled up at her.
“Thank you,” he murmured in Lutetian.
“It is nothing; do not exhaust yourself before the battle.”
She laid a hand on his shoulder, pressing for a moment before returning to her own chair and meeting the old gentleman’s eyes.
He inclined his head gravely and turned to Don Eyr.
“Serat’s actions are by Code. They are deplorable, but the Code does not disallow. The resources of the clan are for the delm to dispense. I will mention that this is the precise paragraph which Serat quotes . . . often . . . to justify his use of the clan’s funds.”
The old gentleman reached for his wine glass.
“Therefore, there is nothing for either the qe’andra nor the Council to take up.”
Serana felt her own anger, well-banked against the hour when it would be useful to her—and to him—flicker and flare. In his chair, Don Eyr drew a breath, but said nothing.
The old gentleman inclined his head.
“We do, yes, have hope that the contract may be broken—not by you, but by Arba.”
“You think that Delm Arba will not accept my service?” Don Eyr said, the accent of home gilding his mode. “I will be delighted to present myself in the worst possible light.”
The old man smiled.
“Indeed, you must present yourself as you are—a lord in the delm’s line, second only to the nadelm of Serat. You are an honorable man.”
He sipped his wine, and set the glass aside.
“Arba, I fear, is not an honorable man. For proof, we have the record of his many fines paid to the Council for violations of Code. You must be vigilant. When he breaks with the Code, as he will do, you must relay this breach to me, so that I may act on your behalf.”
“Is it so certain that he will violate the Code?” Don Eyr asked, brows drawn.
The old gentleman smiled.
“With Arba, it is as if the Code is an enemy he must strike at again and again. He is no more able to help himself than Serat can refrain from placing wagers. All you need do is wait, and be vigilant.”
Serana stirred. Don Eyr and Mr. dea’Bon turned to her.
“Is he dangerous, this man?” she asked.
“One of the fines Arba paid was to the Guild of Qe’andra, for the death of an apprentice. The child had found a second set of books, and was, as required by the protocols of his house and those of the Guild, in the process of documenting the incident. Arba ordered him to stop; the child stated that he was not able to do so. Arba struck him . . .”
There was a small pause; the old gentleman extended a hand to toy with his glass.
“. . . and killed him. Arba paid the life-price without protest, which I think is telling in itself.”
“Yes,” said Serana. “I have known such men. Thank you.”
“Of course.”
Don Eyr had gathered himself once more, sitting alert in his chair.
“Thank you, sir. I am grateful for your time and insights. I ask.”
“By all means, sir. I will answer to the best of my ability.”
“I am long away from the Code, alas, but it is my understanding that I may become dead to the clan. I wish this to occur as speedily as possible.”
“Ah.”
The old gentleman’s smile was edged with regret.
“The only person who may declare a clan member dead is the delm. In this case, I think we may agree that Serat will do no such thing. Also, having obeyed the summons to return, you are now in the position of having accepted the Delm’s Word. If you should simply leave, after having been instructed in your duty by the delm, you will be pursued, arrested, and brought back.”
He paused, and spread his palms.
“The Council has much precedent for this, I fear.”
Silence, before Don Eyr bowed his head and gathered himself to rise. Serana ached to hold him; the busy mind had produced the best solution for this absurd situation—and it had been checked and blocked. Don Eyr was not accustomed to losing, Serana realized abruptly. The relative modesty of his goals had kept this aspect of his nature hidden, until now.
“I think your lordship was not given his suite at Serat’s clanhouse for the night?” said Mr. dea’Bon delicately.
Don Eyr tipped his head to one side.
“I was not. Apparently, Arba is to provide all things for me.”
“Yet, as little as Arba values virtue, he does value courtesy, though neither so much as his own comfort. If you will al
low me to advise you once more, I would suggest that you send a note around by one of my house’s staff, stating that you will wait upon Delm Arba tomorrow in the early afternoon. This will insure he is not wakened too early in the day, which may lead to bad temper. Also, if you wish, you and Captain Benoit may partake of the hospitality of this House, where you may rest easy tonight.”
Don Eyr bowed, abruptly. Serana thought it might have been done to hide an excess of emotion.
“You are far too good to us, sir.”
“That would be difficult. Now, if you please, I will call Mr. ben’Darble to show the way to your . . .”
He paused, delicately, and Don Eyr murmured.
“Room, if you please, sir.”
“Indeed. Mr. ben’Darble will show you to your suite. I very much hope that you will join us for the prime meal, but if you prefer, it will be brought to you.”
He stood and bowed.
“Please,” he said, and Serana felt tears prick her eyelids. “Be welcome in our House.”
• • • • • •
If Arba’s house was too fine for the street it graced, Arba was too fine for the house. Or, Serana thought darkly, so he wished to appear. Certainly, he dressed well, with many small jewels glittering about his person, and rings on his fingers. His hair was pale brown, extravagantly curled, and perfumed. His face was long, his mouth cruel, and his chin weak. At the moment, he was . . . amused; coolly so. It must seem to him, Serana thought, that Don Eyr was the merest sweet morsel, which he must be careful not to consume too quickly.
“Now, it seems to me that Serat and I had agreed that I would accept the service of Telma fer’Gasta’s by-blow in payment for his debt. I do not recall mention of a . . . pet, and I can assure you that I will neither feed it nor pay it.”
Don Eyr remained calm in the face of these insults, which were of course meant to touch him and try him. It was well, Serana thought, that he did so, though it would only mean that Arba would strike harder, next time.
“Sir,” she said, stepping forward, and speaking as if she had much less of the language than she did. “I am Serana Benoit. I am Lord Don Eyr’s bodyguard, and I have been paid, sir, with the money upfront, for a contract of seven years. There are yet five years remaining on this contract, and so I am here.”
