Guilt Edged Ivory

by Doris Egan

  "Tymon, are you listening? Trochas don't inherit. They grow up to be councillors, helpers-out, advisers, retainers. They don't take over the business."

  "If we handle it properly, in a few years he'd be so ingrained into Cormallon people won't know where he came from. Don't you see, Ran, all this within-the-family stuff the council harps on is just what your grandmother wanted to avoid?"

  He threw up his hands. "Only a barbarian would even think she could get away with this!"

  "That's exactly my point."

  Whereupon he gave up in disgust and went to look for his other sandal.

  It was growing darker. Suddenly the cool wind turned cold, and burst down on us, picking up the napkins Kursek had brought out and throwing them far into the bushes. I grabbed the tahpot and burner and Ran took the cups; we ran for the pavilion just as the skies opened.

  Sheets of water pounded against the roof. Lakes and rivers fell around us. We started to laugh.

  "What timing," said Ran.

  "How will we get back to the house?" I asked.

  We set our tah service down on the somewhat dirty pavilion floor. "Kursek will show up eventually," said Ran. "With umbrellas." I was standing against one of the wide pillars that held up the roof. He leaned over and kissed me. I kissed back.

  It was a change-in-the-weather kind of kiss. Not on this floor, I thought, though it wasn't a bad idea in itself…

  "Kursek," I said, at last. "Who knows when he'll show up?"

  "His hard luck," said Ran, paying no attention.

  "Can't you see him… ? Standing in the downpour, waiting for us to finish?"

  We started to laugh again and Ran stepped back. "Should we drink our tah, then?"

  "By all means."

  Ran never asked me—trocha child or no trocha child— what I planned to tell the Cormallon council next year. Fortunately Ivoran years give you a little more space to work with. As, the old story of the condemned man goes— perhaps you know it? The man reprieved by his king when he promised to teach a horse to sing— "In a year the king may die, or I may die, or the horse may die… or the horse may sing." Meanwhile, in my arguments with Ran, I stuck to the practicalities; mainly because it was far too embarrassing to admit that I'd been slain by the charm of a two-year-old.

  Look, I'm only a barbarian who never got her doctorate. I do what I can.

  I took my cup from Ran and thought of the capital; it seemed lifetimes away. "You know," I said, "we owe a debt of gratitude to those cats. When we go back to the city, you should bring them a present. Silken collars. A week of fresh fish."

  "A potful of mice."

  "Catnip. And don't forget to say thank you when you go."

  He set down his tah-cup on the railing of the pavilion. "You could go and thank them yourself."

  He smiled.

  "No I couldn't," I said.