Lee, Sharon & Miller, Steve - Liaden Books 1-9

by Liaden 1-9 (lit)

  That's called "Balance"—the cost of buying the book has been balanced by the enjoyment you had reading it. And rereading it.

  I discovered the Liaden series by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller in the late '80s, 1980s that is to keep our centuries straight. My first one was Agent Of Change and, since it was published by Del Rey, I nagged at Shelly Shapiro to get the second, Conflict Of Honors, which had just been published and got the third, Carpe Diem in galleys. I nagged again at Shelly for surely such a viable series would have more. One can get quite Twistian about good novels, and exciting characters, like Miri, Val Con, Shan, Priscilla, Gordon, even a parapsychic Tree. One can get quite upset that 'someone' is out after them with malice aforethought and erasure as the exercise. And no Balance involved for the victims.

  I even wrote to Sharon and Steve to ask when the next Liaden book was coming out. By now, we're in the late '90s. I have worn out my copies of the first three: they have accompanied me as my "comfort books" to two hospital stays, three holidays and those odd glitchful days when I have to be somewhere else for a little while to attain "balance" within me. ("Balance," you see, is a very Liaden thing.)

  Then Sharon became much more visible as SFWA Executive Secretary—a position I held back in 1968-1970 so I know a lot about that job! And I could plague her directly to find to my joy that there is a website for Liaden, there was a new book Plan B about to be published from Meisha Merlin and that there were several shorter works already in booklet form.

  However, being as how I was such a staunch fan, I got Plan B in manuscript and didn't stop reading once I'd started. But then, as the last page joins the tumbled pile of sheets, it was over (please read in a pathetic tone). I reread some of the good bits. When the published version arrived, I called a Liaden day, sat down on my bed, and reread it. Then, of course, to be sure I had the saga all correct in my head, I reread all three and the two novellas.

  Consequently, when Sharon asked me would I comment on Local Custom, d'you honestly think I'd say "no"? Of course not.

  I read until my hands froze. As soon as I answered my email the next morning, I read the last of it. Wow! This is a really good love story about Er Thom yos'Galan and Anne Davis, the parents of Shan yos'Galan, and it ends with a very interesting resolution of "balance": a fine Liaden tradition.

  And there's a second one on its way (oh, have patience, my beating heart), concerning the parents of Val Con yos'Phe-lium. All part of the rich pageant of the original trilogy and filling in and explaining how Shan and Val Con came to be.

  One of the never-failing joys of re-re-rereading this series is the crisp language, the well-turned phrases, the very exciting action, not to mention the confrontation of two vastly different cultures that, on the macroscopic canvas, are antagonistic, yet find, between themselves, the balance needed to endure, love, overwhelm, and survive! Not an easy balance to achieve but Korval's motto, I Dare, is well taken.

  Reading the above, you might say I like the series. I won't go all hyper on you, dear reader, because there's more than enough hype about some books. But I like these. They have become my "comfort books" and sit on a shelf above my bed where they are easy to reach. Sometimes I just look at the cover, relive some of the scenes I now know almost by heart and eye. And I feel better. Re-rereading a book is proof of its lure, its basic worth, all the clever reader hooks and bits and pieces of "custom," like Liaden Balance, that are memorable.

  Local Custom does fill in some of the beginnings so well expressed in the original trilogy, introducing you to Er Thom and Anne Davis, and the power of the Delm in Liaden society. Sharon and Steve say there is another planned: Scout's Progress: the two combining into the second omnibus Pilots Choice.

  Can I last until they're published? Or shall I just reread the seven already on my comfort shelf?

  Anne McCaffrey

  Dragonhold-Underhill

  June 2000

  CHAPTER ONE

  Each person shall provide his clan of origin with a child of his blood, who will be raised by the clan and belong to the clan, despite whatever may later occur to place the parent beyond the clan's authority. And this shall be Law for every person of every clan.

  —From the Charter of the Council of Clans

  Made in the Sixth Year After Planetfall,

  City of Solcintra, Liad

  "No?" his mother echoed, light blue eyes opening wide.

  Er Thom yos'Galan bowed hastily: Subordinate Person to Head of Line, seeking to recoup his error.

  "Mother," he began, with all propriety, "I ask grace…"

  She cut him off with a wave of her hand. "Let us return to 'no.' It has the charm of brevity."

  Er Thom took a careful breath, keeping his face smooth, his breath even, his demeanor attentive. Everything that was proper in a son who had always been dutiful.

  After a moment, his mother sighed, walked carefully past him and sat wearily in her special chair. She frowned up at him, eyes intent.

  "Is it your desire, my son, to deny the clan your genes?"

  "No," said Er Thom again, and bit his lip.

  "Good. Good." Petrella, Thodelm yos'Galan, drummed her fingers lightly against the chair's wooden arm, and continued to gaze at him with that look of puzzled intensity.

  "Yet," she said, "you have consistently refused every possible contract-alliance the head of your line has brought to your attention for the past three years. Permit me to wonder why."

  Er Thom bowed slightly, granting permission to wonder, belatedly recognizing it as a response less conciliatory than it might be, given the gravity of circumstances. He glanced at his mother from beneath his lashes as he straightened, wondering if he would now receive tuition on manners.

  But Petrella was entirely concentrated upon this other thing and allowed the small irony to pass uncriticized.

  "You are," she said, "captain of your own vessel, master trader, pilot—a well-established melant'i. You are of good lineage, your manner is for the greater part, pleasing, you have reached your majority and capably taken up the governing of the various businesses which passed to you upon your thirty-fifth name day. It is time and past time for you to provide the clan with your child."

  "Yes," murmured Er Thom, because there was nothing else to say. She told him no more than the Law: Every person must provide the clan with a child to become his heir and to eventually take his place within the clan.

  His mother sighed again, concern in her eyes. "It is not so great a thing, my child," she offered with unlooked-for gentleness. "We have all done so."

  When he remained speechless, she leaned forward, hand extended. "My son, I do not wish to burden you. Necessity exists, but necessity need not be oppressive. Is there one your heart has placed above others? Only tell me her name and her clan, negotiations will be initiated…" Slowly she sank back into the chair, hand falling to her knee. "Er Thom?"

  "Mother," he murmured miserably, eyes swimming as he bowed. "I ask grace…"

  Grace, after all, had not been forthcoming. He had scarcely expected it, with him tongue-tangled and kittenish as a halfling. His mother had no time to waste upon baseless sentiment, not with her illness so hard upon her. She had granted grace to one child already—and those genes lost to Clan Korval forever by reason of her leniency.

  So there was to be no grace given Petrella's second child and the hope of Line yos'Galan. Er Thom wondered at himself, that he had dared even ask it.

  Wondering still, he turned down the short hallway that led to his rooms and lay his hand against the lockplate. Late afternoon sun bathed the room beyond in thick yellow light, washing over the clutter of invoices and lading slips on his work table, the islands of computer screen, comm board and keypad. The message waiting light was a steady blue glow over the screen.

  Er Thom sighed. That would be the file on his wife-to-be, transferred to him from his mother's station. Duty dictated that he open it at once and familiarize himself with the contents, that he might give formal acquiescence to
his thodelm at Prime meal this evening.

  He went quietly across the hand-loomed imported rug, thoughts carefully on the minutiae he would need to attend to, so he might stay on Liad for the duration of his marriage, as custom, if not Law, demanded. Another master trader would have to be found for Dutiful Passage, though Kayzin Ne'Zame, his first mate, would do very well as captain. The upcoming trip would require re-routing and certain of their regular customers notified personally… He pushed the window wide, letting the mild afternoon breeze into the room.

  Behind him, papers rustled like a startled rookery. Er Thom leaned out the window, hands gripping the sill, eyes slightly narrowed as he looked across the valley at the towering Tree.

  Jelaza Kazone was the name of the Tree—Jela's Fulfillment—and it marked the site of Korval's clanhouse, where Er Thom had spent his childhood, constant companion and willing shadow of his cousin and foster-brother, Daav yos'Phelium.

  Er Thom's eyes teared and the Tree broke into a hundred glittering shards of brown and green against a sky gone milky bright. The desire to speak to Daav, to bury his face in his brother's shoulder and cry out against the unfairness of the Law, was nearly overmastering.

  Compelling as it was, the desire was hardly fitting of one who kept adult melant'i. Er Thom tightened his grip on the sill, feeling the metal track score his palms, and closed his eyes. He would not go to Daav with this, he told himself sternly. After all, the younger man was facing much the same necessity as Er Thom—and Daav lacked even a parent's guidance, his own mother having died untimely some five Standard Years before.

  Eventually the compulsion passed, leaving him dry-mouthed and with sternness at least awakened, if not full sense of duty.

  Grimly, he pushed away from the window, marched across the room and touched the message-waiting stud.

  The screen flickered and the lady's likeness appeared, his mother being no fool, to waste time fielding dry fact when fair face might easily carry the day.

  And she was, Er Thom thought with detached coolness, very fair. Syntebra el'Kemin, Clan Nexon, was blessed with classic beauty: Slim brows arched over wide opal-blue eyes fringed with lashes long enough to sweep the luscious curve of her cheekbones. Her skin was smooth and flawlessly golden; her nose petite; her mouth red as clemetia buds. She looked at him coyly from the screen, dark hair pulled back and up, seductively displaying tiny, perfect ears.

  Er Thom swallowed against a sudden cold surge of sickness and glanced away, toward the window and the Tree, towering into twilight.

  "It is—not possible," he whispered and ground his teeth, forcing his eyes back.

  Beautiful, serene and utterly Liaden—even as he was utterly Liaden—Syntebra el'Kemin beckoned from the depths of the screen.

  That the rest of her person would be as guilesome as her face, he knew. Knew. He should in all honor seek out his mother and kneel at her feet in gratitude. Nothing in the Law said that the lady must be comely. Indeed, Korval's own law required merely that a contract-spouse be a pilot, and of vigorous Line—all else as the wind might bring it.

  Lower lip caught tight between his teeth, Er Thom stared into the lovely face of his proposed wife, trying to imagine the weight of her hair in his hands, the taste of her small, rosy-gold breasts.

  "No!"

  The chair clattered back and he was moving, pilot-fast, through the adjoining kitchenette to his bedroom. Fingers shaking, he snatched open his jewel-box, spilling rubies, pearls and other dress-gems carelessly aside. His heart clenched for the instant he thought it gone—and then he found it, stuffed into a far corner, half-hidden by a platinum cloak pin.

  A scrap of red silk no longer than his hand, that was all. That, and a length of tarnished, gold-colored ribbon, elaborately knotted into a fraying flower, through which the red silk had been lovingly threaded.

  "It is not possible," he whispered again, and lay his cheek against the tarnished flower, blinking back tears that might stain the silk. He swallowed.

  "I will not wed."

  Fine words, the part of him that was master trader and a'thodelm and heir to the delm jeered. And what of duty to the clan, not to mention the Law and, easing of one's mother's pain?

  If there is one your heart has set above all others … his mother pleaded from memory and Er Thom's fingers clenched convulsively on the scrap of silk. She would never—he dared not—It was against everything: Code, custom, clan—duty.

  He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing thoughts. The clan required this thing of him, the clan's dutiful child, in balance for all the clan had thus far given him. It was just. The other—was some strange undutiful madness that should after so many years have passed off. That it remained in this unexpectedly virulent form told a tale of Er Thom yos'Galan's sad lack of discipline. He would put the madness aside once and forever, now. He would burn the silk and the tawdry ribbon, then he would read the file on Syntebra el'Kemin, bathe and dress himself for Prime meal. He would tell his parent—

  Tears overflowed and he bowed his head, fingers tenderly bracketing the red and gold token.

  Tell his parent what? That for three years, steadfast in his refusal of all prospective spouses he had likewise taken no lover nor even shared a night of bed-pleasure? That new faces and old alike failed to stir him? That his body seemed to exist at some distance from where he himself lived and went about the work that the clan required of him? That food tasted of cobwebs and wine of vinegar and duty alone forced him to eat sufficient to fuel his cold, distant body?

  Tell his mother that, Er Thom thought wretchedly, and she would have him to the Healers, quick as a blink.

  And the Healers would make him forget all that stood in the way of duty.

  He considered forgetfulness—such a little bit of time, really, to be erased from memory, and so very—long—ago.

  The thought sickened him, nearly as much as the face of the woman his mother proposed to make his wife.

  He blinked his eyes and straightened, slipping the rag of silk and the frazzled ribbon into his sleeve-pocket. Carefully, he put his jewelry back into the box and lowered the heavy carved lid.

  In the office, he saved Syntebra el'Kemin's data to his pending file, and left a message for his mother, expressing regret that he would not be with her for Prime.

  Then he quit the room, shrugging into the worn leather jacket that proclaimed him a pilot.

  The papers on his worktable rustled irritably in the breeze from the open window and across the valley the first stars of evening glittered just above the Tree.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The giving of nubiath'a, the parting-gift, by either partner signals the end of an affair of pleasure. The person of impeccable melant'i will offer and accept nubiath'a with gentleness and grace, thereafter referring to the affair by neither word nor deed.

  —Excerpted from the Liaden Code of Proper Conduct

  "I surmise that the lady is a two-headed ogre— and ill-tempered, besides?" Daav yos'Phelium splashed misravot into a crystal cup and handed it aside.

  "Another face entirely," Er Thom murmured, accepting the cup and swirling the contents in counterfeit calm, while his pulses pounded, frenzied. "The lady is—very—beautiful."

  "Hah." Daav poured himself a cup of the pale blue wine and assayed a sip, black eyes quizzing Er Thom over the crystal rim.

  "Your mother, my aunt, exerts herself on your behalf. When shall I have the felicity of wishing you happy?"

  "I have not—that is—" Er Thom stammered to a halt and raised his cup to taste the wine.

  In general, he was not as fond of misravot as was his brother, finding the burnt cinnamon taste of the wine cloyed rather than refreshed. But this evening he had a second sip, dawdling over it, while his mind skipped in uncharacteristic confusion from this thought to that.

  He sighed when at last he lowered the cup, and raised his head to meet his brother's clever eyes.

  "Daav?"

  "Yes, denubia. How may I serve you?"
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  Er Thom touched his tongue to his lips, tasting cinnamon. "I—am in need. Of a ship."

  One dark eyebrow arched. "Is it ill-natured to recall," Daav wondered, "that you are captain of a rather—substantial—ship?"

  "A quicker ship—smaller," Er Thom said swiftly, suddenly unable to control his agitation. He spun away and paced toward the game table, where he stood looking down at the counterchance board, dice and counters all laid to hand. Had things been otherwise, he and Daav might even now be sitting over the board, sharpening their wits and their daring, one against the other.

  "There is a matter," he said, feeling his brother's eyes burning into his back. He turned, his face open and plain for this, the dearest of his kin, to read. He cleared his throat. "A matter I must resolve. Before I wed."

  "I see," Daav said dryly, brows drawn. "A matter which requires your presence urgently off-world, eh? Do I learn from this that you will finally assay that which has darkened your heart these past several relumma?"

  Er Thom froze, staring speechless at his brother, though he should, he told himself, barely wonder. Daav was delm, charged with the welfare of all within Clan Korval. Before duty had called him home, he had also been a Scout, with sensibilities fine-tuned by rigorous training. How could he not have noticed his brother's distress? It spoke volumes of his melant'i that he had not taxed Er Thom with the matter before now.

  "Have you spoken to your thodelm of this?" Daav asked quietly.

  Er Thom gave a flick of his fingers, signaling negative. "I—would prefer—not to have the Healers."

  "And so you come on the eve of being affianced to demand the Delm's Own Ship, that you may go off-planet and reach resolution." He grinned, for such would appeal to his sense of mischief, where it only chilled Er Thom with horror, that necessity required him to fly in the face of propriety.

  "You will swear," Daav said, in a surprising shift from the Low Tongue in which they most commonly conversed to the High Tongue, in the mode of Delm to Clanmember.