by Sharon
“Wine for Lady Kareen,” he murmured.
This done, Mr. pel’Kana quit the room, with, Daav thought, marked relief. The Council of Clans rated Kareen expert in the field of proper action and called upon her often to unravel this or that sticky point of Code. It was to be regretted that she demanded expert’s understanding of all she met.
Expert’s understanding required that he rise and make his bow, honoring the eldest of Line yos’Phelium, and bidding her graceful welcome.
Daav thrust his legs out before him and crossed them at the ankle. Lacing his fingers over his belt buckle, he grinned at her in counterfeit good-humor.
“Good-day, Kareen. Whatever can you want from me now?”
She allowed the merest twitch of a brow to convey her displeasure at being addressed in the Low Tongue, and lifted her glass, pointedly tasting the wine.
Setting the glass aside, she met his eyes.
“I have lately been,” she murmured, still in the mode of Elder Sibling to Younger, “at the house of Luken bel’Tarda, in the cause of visiting my heir.”
Kareen’s heir was six-year-old Pat Rin, recently fostered into the house of bel’Tarda by the delm’s command. An imperfect solution, as the delm had admitted to his cha’leket, and one that had enraged Kareen unseemly.
Daav inclined his head. “And how do you find our cousin Luken?”
“Shatterbrained to a fault,” his sister replied with regrettable accuracy. “As I had said to you on another occasion, sirrah, Luken bel’Tarda is hardly fit guardian for one of the Line Direct. However,” she said, interrupting herself, “that is a different bolt of cloth.” She fixed him with a stern eye.
“Cousin bel’Tarda informs me that yos’Galan searches for one of the Clan to enter into contract-alliance with Clan Nexon, in the person of its daughter Syntebra el’Kemin.”
“yos’Galan has the delm’s leave for this search,” Daav said lazily, moving his hand in a gesture of disinterest. Kareen’s mouth tightened.
“Then perhaps the delm is also aware that Thodelm yos’Galan had intended Syntebra el’Kemin as contract-wife for the a’thodelm.” It cut very near disrespect, phrased as it yet was in Elder-to-Younger. But Kareen was expert in mode, as well, and kept her tongue nimbly in place.
“The delm is aware of the thodelm’s intentions in that regard, yes.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Is there some point to this, Kareen?”
“A small one,” she said, “but sharp enough to prick interest.” She leaned forward slightly in her chair. “The a’thodelm is gone off-planet, not to return before the end of the relumma, fleeing, one must conclude, the proposed alliance. Think of the insult to Nexon, that one intended for the contract-room at Trealla Fantrol should be shunted off to make do with—forgive me!—the like of Luken bel’Tarda.”
“Luken is an amiable fellow,” Daav said calmly. “Though I give you score—thought is not his best endeavor. As for the insult to Nexon—the contract has not yet been written, much less signed. If the lady hoped for an a’thodelm and nets instead a country cousin, still her clan gains ties with Korval, to her honor. I note that she is young, and while Nexon is all very well, it is hardly High House.”
“Which matters to Korval not at all,” Kareen said, with a touch of acid. “I recall that your own father was—solidly—Low House.”
“But a pilot to marvel at,” Daav returned, very gently. “So our mother praised him.”
Kareen, who was no pilot at all, took a deep breath, visibly seeking calm.
“This does not address,” she said after a moment, “how best to deal with the scandal.”
Daav straightened slowly in his chair. He met his sister’s eyes sternly.
“There will be no scandal,” he said, and the mode was Ranking Person to Lesser. “Understand me, Kareen.”
“I do not—”
“If I hear one whisper,” Daav interrupted, eyes boring into hers, “one syllable, of scandal regarding this, I shall know who to speak with. Do I make myself plain?”
It was to her credit that she did not lower her eyes, though the pulse-beat in her throat was rather rapid. “You make yourself plain,” she said after a moment.
“Good,” he said with exquisite gentleness. “Is there something else to which you desire to direct your delm’s attention?”
She touched her tongue to her lips. “Thank you, I—believe there is not.”
“Then I bid you good-day,” he said, and inclined his head.
There was a fraction of hesitation before she rose and bowed an entirely unexceptional farewell.
“Good-day.”
Mr. pel’Kana met her at the edge of the hallway and guided her away.
Daav waited until he no longer heard her footsteps, then he got up and went across the room to the wine rack. Kareen’s glass, full, except for the single sip she had taken, he left on the elbow table by her chair. Mr. pel’Kana would come back presently and take it away.
He poured himself a glass of misravot and had a sip, walking to the window and looking out into the center garden. Flowers and shrubs rioted against the backdrop of Jelaza Kazone’s massive trunk, threaded with thin stone walkways. Daav closed his eyes against the familiar, beloved scene.
Alone of all the orders he had from his mother, who had been delm before him, the mandate to preserve Kareen’s life stood, senseless. It was doubtless some failing of his own vision, that he could not see what use she was to the delm she continually worked to thwart. The best that could be said of her was that she was an assiduous guard of the clan’s melant’i, but such vigilance paled beside a long history of despite. Daav sighed.
Perhaps, as he grew older and more accustomed to his duties, he would acquire the vaunted Delm’s Vision and see what it was his mother had found worth preserving in Kareen.
In the meanwhile, her latest bit of spite was put to rest, at least. Now if only Er Thom would finish with his mysterious errand, return home and mold himself to duty!
Not such an arduous duty, Daav thought, who had lately reviewed Syntebra el’Kemin’s file. True, the lady was very young, and her second class pilot’s license nothing out-of-the-way. But she would by all accounts make an agreeable enough contract-wife, and like to quickly produce an infant pilot.
Once the new yos’Galan was born, and accepted, and named, then Syntebra el’Kemin was free to return to her clan, richer by the mating-fee and bonus, with her melant’i enhanced by having married one of Korval.
Er Thom would likewise be free, to seek out Dutiful Passage and pick up his rounds as Korval’s master trader.
And Daav would have a new niece or nephew to wonder over and nurture and guide—and a contract-wife to find for himself.
Chapter Eight
Love is best given to kin and joy taken in duty well done.
—Vilander’s Proverbs, Seventh Edition
THE SOUND OF WATER, splashing and running, brought him from dream to drowse, where he recalled that he lay on Anne’s spring-shot sofa, covered over with the blanket from her own bed.
She had left him sometime in the early morning, amid a comedy of untangling limbs and wayward clothing, murmuring that the child had stirred. The blanket she had brought a moment later, and spread carefully on the sofa before bending and kissing him, too quickly, too lightly, on the lips.
“Thank you,” she whispered and flitted away.
And for what did she thank him? Er Thom wondered, as the drowse began to thin. For breaking her peace and teaching her fear? Or for being so lost to decency that he twice allowed passion to overrule right conduct and made fierce, almost savage, love to a woman who was neither pleasure-love, wife, nor lifemate?
He twisted in his uncomfortable nest and inhaled sharply, smelled Anne’s scent mingled with the blanket’s scratchy, synthetic odor, and felt a surge of longing.
It was to have been so simple. He had only planned to find her, to tell her of his love—that had seemed important. Vital. That done, knowing his truth held by one
who treasured it, he thought he might have faced the Healers with calm. And he would have come away from them a fit husband for Nexon’s daughter, no impossible might-have-beens shadowing his heart.
Instead, he found a child who must someway be brought to the clan, a woman who seemed etched into his bones, so deep was his desire for her—and no easy solutions at all.
“Hi!” Warm, milk-sweet breath washed his face.
Er Thom opened his eyes, finding them on a level with a serious silver pair, thickly fringed with black lashes.
“Tra’sia volecta,” he replied, in Low Liaden, as one did with children.
The winging white brows pulled together in a frown.
“Hi!” Shan repeated, at slightly louder volume.
Er Thom smiled. “Good morning,” he said in Terran. “Did you sleep well?”
The child—his child—gave it consideration, head tipped to one side.
“OK,” he conceded at last, and sighed. “Hungry.”
“Ah.” The water continued to flow, noisily, nearby: Anne was doubtless in the shower. Er Thom wriggled free of the clinging blanket and stood. “Then I shall find you something to eat,” he said and held out a hand.
His son took it without hesitation and the two of them went together into the tiny kitchen.
HE FOUND INSTANT soy-oats and made porridge, sprinkling it with raisins from a jar on the cluttered counter. The coldbox yielded milk and juice: Er Thom poured both and stood sipping the juice while he watched his son assay breakfast.
Shan was an accomplished trencherman, wielding his spoon with precision. There were a few, of course unavoidable, spills and splashes, and Er Thom stepped forward at one juncture to help the young gentleman roll up the sleeves of his pajamas, but for the most part breakfast was neatly under way by the time Anne strode into the kitchen.
“Oh, no!” She paused on the edge of the tiny space, laughter filling her face so that it was all he could do not to rush over and kiss her.
“Hi, Ma,” her son said, insouciant, barely glancing up from his meal.
Anne grinned. “Hi, Shannie.” She looked at Er Thom and shook her head, grin fading into something softer.
“My poor friend. We impose on you shamefully.”
He cleared his throat, glancing away on the excuse of finishing his juice.
“Not at all,” he murmured, putting the glass into the washer. “The child was hungry—and I was able to solve the matter for him.” He met her eyes suddenly. “What should a father do?”
Her gaze slid away. “Yes, well. What a mother should do is grab a quick cup of coffee and then get this young con artist ready to go see his friend Marilla.”
“Rilly!” Shan crowed, losing a spoonful of cereal to the table top. “Oops.”
“Oops is right,” Anne told him, pulling a paper napkin from the wall dispenser and mopping up the mess. “Finish up, OK? And try to get most of it in your mouth.”
“Clumsy Scooter,” the child commented matter-of-factly.
“Single-minded Scooter,” Anne returned, maneuvering her large self through the small space with deft grace. “Leave eating and talking at the same time to the experts—like Jerzy.”
Shan laughed and adjusted his grip on the spoon. “Yes, Ma.”
Anne shook her head and pulled her mug out of the wall unit. The acrid smell of chicory-laden synthetic coffee substitute—‘coffeetoot,’ according to most Terrans—was nearly overpowering. Er Thom stifled a sigh. Anne loved real coffee. He could easily have brought her a tin—or a case of tins—had he any notion she was reduced to drinking synthetic.
“Done,” Shan announced, laying his spoon down with a clatter.
“How about the rest of your milk?” His mother asked, sipping gingerly at her mug.
“There is no need,” Er Thom said, quietly, “for you to—cheat yourself of a meal. I can easily tend our child today.”
She looked down at him, brown eyes sharp, face tense with reawakened caution. Er Thom kept his own face turned up to hers and fought down the desire to stroke her cheek and smoothe the tension away.
“That’s very kind of you, Er Thom,” she said carefully, “but Rilly—Marilla—is expecting Shan today.”
“Then I will take him to her,” he replied, all gentleness and reason, “and you may eat before you go to teach your class.”
“Er Thom—” She stopped, and, heart-struck, he read dread in her eyes.
“Anne.” He did touch her—he must—a laying of his hand on her wrist, only that—and nearly gasped at the electrical jolt of desire. “Am I a thief, to steal our son away from you? I am able to care for him today, if you wish it, or to take him to your friend. In either case, we will both be here when you come home.” He looked up into her face, saw trust warring with fear.
“Trust me,” he whispered, feeling tears prick the back of his eyes. “Anne?”
She drew a deep, shaking breath and sighed it out sharply, laying her hand briefly on his shoulder.
“All right,” she said, and gave him a wobbling smile. “Thank you, Er Thom.”
“There is no thanks due,” he told her, and shifted away to allow her access to the meager cupboards and crowded counter. “Eat your breakfast and I will wash our son’s face.”
“NOT COMING TODAY?” Marilla looked grave. “He isn’t sick, is he, sweetie? Pel said there’s a horrific flu-thing going through the creche—half the kids down with it and a third of the staff.” She sighed, theatrically. “Pel’s working a double-shift. Naturally.”
“Naturally.” Anne grinned, Pel was always finding an excuse to work double-shifts. Marilla theorized—hopefully—a late-shift love-interest. Anne privately thought that Marilla’s fits of drama probably grated on her quieter, less demonstrative daughter.
“Shan’s in the pink of health,” Anne said. “His father’s visiting and the two of them are spending some time together.”
There, she thought, it sounds perfectly reasonable.
Marilla fairly gawked. “His father,” she repeated, voice swooping toward the heights. “Shan’s father is visiting you?”
Anne frowned slightly. “Is that against the law?”
“Don’t be silly, darling. It’s only that—of course he’s fabulously wealthy.”
As a matter of fact, Er Thom never seemed at a loss for cash, and his clothes were clearly handmade—tailored to fit his slim frame to perfection. But the jacket he wore most often was well-used, even battered, the leather like silk to the touch.
“Why should he be?” she asked, hearing the sharpness in her voice. “Fabulously wealthy?”
Marilla eyed her and gave an elaborate shrug. “Well, you know—everyone assumes Liadens must be rich. All those cantra. And the trade routes. And the clans, too, of course. Terribly old money—lots of investments. Not,” she finished, glancing off screen, “that it’s any of my business.”
That much was true, Anne thought tartly, and was immediately sorry. It’s only Marilla, she told herself, doing her yenta routine.
“Rilly, I’ve got to go. Class.”
“All right, sweetheart. Call and let me know your plans.” The screen went dark.
My plans? Anne thought, gathering together the pieces of Comp Ling One’s final. What plans?
DURING HER FREE period, she banged back into her office for an hour’s respite, juggling a handful of mail, the remains of Liaden Lit’s exam and a disposable plastic mug full of vending-machine soup.
Dumping the class work into the ‘Out’ basket near the door, she sat down at her desk, pried the top off the plastic mug and began to go through her mail.
Notice of departmental meeting—another one? she thought, sighing. Registrar’s announcement of deadline for grades. Research Center shutdown for first week of semester break. Request for syllabi for next semester. A card from the makers of Mix-n-Match, offering to upgrade Shan’s model to something called an Edu-Board. A—
Her fingers tingled at the touch—a gritty beige envelope, wi
th ‘Communications Center’ stamped across it in red block letters that dwarfed her name, printed neatly in one corner.
A beam-letter. She smiled and snatched it up, eagerly breaking the seal. A beam-letter meant either a note from her brother Richard or a letter from Learned Doctor Jin Del yo’Kera, of the University of Liad, Solcintra.
The letter slid out of the envelope—one thin, crackling sheet. From Richard then, she decided, unfolding the page. Doctor yo’Kera’s letters were long—page upon page of scholarly exploration, answers to questions Anne had posed, questions re-asked, re-examined, paths of thought illuminated …
It took her a moment to understand that the letter was not from Richard, after all.
It took rather longer to assimilate the message that was put down, line after line, in precise, orderly Terran, by—by Linguistic Specialist Drusil tel’Bana, who signed herself ‘colleague’.
Scholar tel’Bana begged grace from Professor Davis for the intrusion into her affairs and the ill news which necessity demanded accompany this unseemly breaking of her peace.
Learned Doctor yo’Kera, Scholar tel’Bana’s own mentor and friend, was dead, the notes for his latest work in disarray. Scholar tel’Bana understood that work to be based largely, if not entirely, on Professor Davis’ elegant line of research, augmented by certain correspondence.
“It is for this reason, knowing the wealth of your thought, the depth of your scholarship, that I beg you most earnestly to come to Liad and aid me in reconstructing these notes. The work was to have been Jin Del’s lifepiece, so he had told me, and he likened your own work to an unflickering flame, lighting him a path without shadows.”
Then the signature , and the date, painstakingly rendered in the common calendar: Day 23, Standard year 1360.
Anne sat back, the words misting out of sense.
Doctor yo’Kera, dead? It seemed impossible that the death of someone she had never physically met, who had existed only as machine-transcribed words on grainy yellow paper should leave her with this feeling of staggering loss.
