Local Custom

by Sharon

  “Ah, well, in the old times, you know, there were—disharmonies. Things did not always run smoothly and the Council of Clans did not always agree. Daav says civilized behavior is never to be depended upon.” He laughed his soft laugh, so different from his cha’leket’s. “Do not fear that I ask you to guest in a fortress, friend. Trealla Fantrol has—amenities. Very soon, now … “

  It was, in fact, a matter of three more minutes and two more twists in the tree-lined drive. The car passed under an arch rich with yellow flowers and entered a sweeping curve.

  Er Thom pulled up to the bottom of the stairway and turned the car off. Anne sat and tried not to stare, Shan completely still on her lap.

  Trealla Fantrol was a mansion, with a marble stairway and towering granite facade. Windows glittered like diamonds among the gray stone and lawns like plush green velvet sloped away on both sides.

  “This is the outpost?” she demanded in a voice that cracked. After the warm hominess of Daav’s house …

  “All of us would live at Jelaza Kazone,” Er Thom said quietly, “if we could.” He lay a light hand on her arm and immediately took it away.

  “Come, allow me to show you and our son to your rooms. I will leave you for a time, so that you might refresh yourselves and rest. One has been engaged to care for our son—Mrs. Intassi, who had been our nurse when we were young. She will arrive before Prime. I shall instruct Mr. pak’Ora to conduct her to you immediately … “

  Chattering, Anne thought, in no little wonder, as Er Thom came around to her side of car and lifted Shan to his feet. Er Thom is actually chattering.

  Chattering, he brought them up the marble stairway, through the front door and across the echoing lobby, up the Grand Staircase—each riser hand-carved with a scene from the Great Migration—down an interminable hallway to her room.

  “The house has your palmprint on file,” he told her as the door slid open. “If you do not find all precisely as you would wish it, only tell me and the deficiency will be corrected.” He looked up at her, chatter suddenly broken as his eyes took fire. He glanced away.

  “I am sorry to leave you so abruptly, Anne. I—necessity. Later, if you like it, I shall show you the house—and the grounds.” He lay a hand on her arm and this time did not remove it so quickly. “My private code is in your computer. If there is—any way—in which I may serve you, do not hesitate … “

  “All right,” she said soothingly and against all sense extended a hand to stroke his cheek, meaning only to ease his nervousness.

  As soon as she touched him, she knew it was a mistake; she barely needed to hear the sharp intake of his breath, or see the blaze of his eyes, which echoed the reawakened blaze of her desire.

  Ensorcelled yet again, she looked helplessly into his eyes, her hand trembling against his cheek, unwilling—unable—to move.

  It was Er Thom who moved.

  A single step, backward, his eyes hot on hers. Her hand fell, lifeless, to her side and he bowed: Esteem and respect.

  “I shall return,” he said, very softly indeed. “Please. Be at ease in our House.”

  He turned on his heel and was gone, the door closing behind him with the barest whisper of sound.

  HE CAME AS ORDERED to her private parlor, dressed in plain shirt and trousers, with the dust of the Port still on his boots, and made his bow, dutiful and low.

  “Mother.”

  “My son.”

  Petrella surveyed him from her chair, meaning to make him writhe while she leisurely surveyed the wind-rumpled golden hair, the delicate wing of brow over eyes more purple than blue, the pleasing symmetry of face, and the firm, give-me-no-nonsense mouth. Er Thom, the son who was not her son. Chi’s work, this one, returned at last to the mother who bore him on his twelfth name day, when he boarded Dutiful Passage as cabin boy.

  He had Chi’s look, Petrella allowed, which meant her own, since she and her twin had been as like as two seeds in a pod. She knew him to be mannerly and biddable, dutiful to a fault—far different than his volatile cha’leket, who looked more changeling than Korval.

  “Are that woman and her child in this house?” she demanded abruptly, letting him hear the rasp of her displeasure.

  He swayed a bow, discomfited not one whit. “The House is honored by the guesting of Professor Anne Davis,” he said in his soft way, “mother of Shan yos’Galan, Seen by Korval.”

  “Oh, is it?” Petrella straightened to her full height in the chair, preparing to attack.

  “Shan yos’Galan,” Er Thom continued smoothly, “is the son of Er Thom yos’Galan, and grandson of Petrella yos’Galan.” He lifted his head, purple eyes bland. “It would be—gracious—of the thodelm to complete what the delm has begun.”

  “You dare,” she breathed, anger filling her with vivid energy. “Is your thodelm a counterchance token, Er Thom yos’Galan, to dance when you choose the tune? Your cha’leket the delm has Seen your bastard, has he? You provide an accomplished fact, and I—too weak to protest dishonor—make my bow meekly and am ruled by the whim of an upstarting boy. Think again—Master Trader. That child is none of mine.”

  The firm mouth had tightened somewhat, she noted with satisfaction; the bow he gave her was grave.

  “Mrs. Intassi,” he murmured, as if all she had said were mere pleasantry, “has been engaged to care for my son. She arrives this afternoon to take charge of the nursery.”

  For a heartbeat she could only gape at him, then she drew a careful breath, fingers tightening ominously on the arm rests.

  “I see. And if your thodelm requires you to engage a house in town in which these delightful arrangements may continue as planned?”

  Once again, courteous and grave, he bowed. “Then of course I will remove myself immediately.”

  And the so-proper contract marriage with Syntebra el’Kemin, Petrella understood from that, would never be consummated. She glared at him, considering her next move.

  “Enlighten me,” she ordered after a moment. “Precisely where did you meet this—person—who has the honor of being yos’Galan’s guest?”

  The winged brows twitched—smoothed.

  “Professor Davis and I became acquainted on Proziski, at the time when Dutiful Passage had been transport for the Liaden contingent of the Federated Trade Mission. Professor Davis had been engaged in field research under a grant from University Central, where she teaches.” He paused.

  “We met at the port master’s rout,” he finished gently, “and contracted an alliance of pleasure.”

  “With so many Liadens by your side, you take a Terran as pleasure-love?” She stared at him in disbelief.

  The purple eyes sparked—and were shielded immediately by the sweep of long golden lashes. Er Thom said nothing.

  “Speak, sirrah! I will know how a son of this House came to so far forget himself as to—”

  “It was myself I considered!” he interrupted sharply, and there was no shielding the anger in his eyes now. “She cared nothing for bedding an a’thodelm, or for the daring of coming so near to Korval! She barely cared of this—” He flung out his hand, the master trader’s ring flashing violet lightnings, “save it said I was competent, and she a lady who admires competence.”

  “Indeed! You fascinate me. And what did she care for, pray, if not for any of what you are?”

  He drew a hard breath, his mouth a tight, straight line. “She cared for who I was,” he said quietly, passion seeming spent as quickly as it had been struck. He moved a hand, softening the statement.

  “It may have been at first, that I was Liaden, and exotic, and of a form that pleased her. What reasons do Liaden lovers need? For me, it was that she gave friendship with no eye to profit, and opened her door and her heart as if I were no less than kin.”

  “And got your child, to her honor!” Petrella commented caustically. “A strange accident, for one who admires competence.”

  Er Thom inclined his head. “So I also thought, at first,” he said surprisingly. “Ann
e—Professor Davis—is not, as we have discussed, Liaden. In spite of this, she is a person of honor and meticulous melant’i. That her necessity required her to bear my child without proper negotiation is—regrettable. Having bowed to necessity, however, she strove to place honor properly, after the custom of her homeworld, and thus the child is yos’Galan. To the increase and joy of the clan.”

  Petrella glared. “I will not be played, sirrah! Strive to bear it in mind.”

  “As you say.” He bowed obedience and went into stillness, hands loose at his sides, face bland and attentive.

  Almost, Petrella laughed, for that was a trick from Chi’s bag, designed to unnerve an opponent and force a response—and very often a blunder. She let the silence stretch, teasing his patience. When she spoke at last, her voice was almost mild.

  “So, Shan yos’Galan has been Seen by the delm. Tell me, do, what the delm has Seen.”

  “A child of a little less than three Standard Years,” Er Thom said gently, “with pale hair and silver blue eyes, bold and alert. He successfully completes puzzles and match-problems designed to challenge children half again his age. He sees sparkles, as he calls them, from which he may interpret another’s emotional state.”

  Petrella stared. “A Terran?” she demanded.

  Er Thom was seen to sigh. “A yos’Galan,” he said patiently, “which has given dozens to the Healers and the dramliz over the years since the Exodus. Why stare that another child of the Line shows these abilities?”

  Petrella closed her eyes. A Terran—blast it all! At best, a half-blood yos’Galan. And already he showed sign of Healer talent? Rare to show so early, certainly. And coupled with the promise of pilot skills—Easy to see the attraction of this irregular child for Delm Korval. Very nearly understandable, that he would risk Thodelm yos’Galan’s anger to gain such promise for the clan.

  “Professor Davis,” Er Thom murmured, “is a scholar of much acclaim in her field. You may wish to read of her work—”

  Petrella opened her eyes.

  “I have no interest in scholars,” she said flatly. “Especially Terran scholars.”

  There was a moment of electric stillness before Er Thom bowed.

  “In that wise,” he said softly, “I shall after all engage a house in town. I will not have her shown any dishonor.”

  “You will not what?” Petrella demanded, disbelief in her voice.

  “I spoke plainly,” Er Thom replied, giving her all his eyes.

  She met them, and saw determination—and thus the lines were drawn: Honor to the Terran scholar, or abandon all hope of a more legitimate heir to yos’Galan.

  “It’s my belief you’ve run mad,” Petrella announced, trading him stare for stare.

  He bowed, accepting her judgment with graceful irony.

  “So.” She moved her shoulders, feeling the edge of exhaustion.

  “Very well,” she told him crisply. “The Terran scholar is yos’Galan’s guest. For a twelve-day. If her business on Liad holds her beyond that, she may guest elsewhere. In the meanwhile, all honor to her.”

  For a moment, she thought he would not be satisfied with the compromise. Then he bowed acceptance.

  “It is heard.”

  “Good,” Petrella snapped. “Let it also be remembered. Go now and leave me in peace. I shall see you and the guest of the House at Prime.”

  “Yes, mother,” he said, and added, “Daav will be with us, as well.”

  “Of course he will,” she said tiredly. “Go away.”

  He did, though without alacrity. After all, Petrella thought, he was far too accomplished a player to give her the advantage of seeing him either relieved or dismayed by the outcome of their interview.

  Petrella closed her eyes and allowed herself to go limp in the chair, concentrating on her breathing. Her mind wandered a bit, as it tended to do nowadays, rather than face the dreariness of continued pain, and she found herself remembering a long-ago interview with her twin.

  “Daav is a forest creature, all eyes and teeth,” Chi had murmured, sipping her wine. “He knows the forms, the protocols—but will he bide with them? There’s the question.” She smiled. “Ah, well. The Scouts will tame him, never fear it. As for your own … “

  Petrella sipped her wine, waiting with accustomed ease while her twin tidied knowledge into words.

  “Your own is—a marvel, considering his place in the Line Direct, son of the Delm’s Own Twin—” They shared a glance of amusement for that, before Chi moved her hand and went on.

  “He’s a sweet-natured child, your Er Thom: mannerly, dutiful and calm. He knows the forms and applies them correctly, with neither rebellion nor irony. From time to time I see him hint Daav—the wonder is my wild thing takes such hinting with grace! But you mustn’t fear he is dull—both of them are sharp enough to cut! It is only this attitude of dutiful sweetness that disturbs me, sister—so unlike Korval’s more usual attributes … “

  Petrella remembered that she had laughed, waving away her twin’s misgivings.

  “What cause to repine, that at last Korval has—through whatever accident!—got itself a biddable child?”

  “Biddable—” Chi sipped wine, eyes gazing miles, perhaps worlds, away. She focussed abruptly and gave her wide, ironic smile. “I suspect he may surprise us one day, sister. And I know enough of history to worry how he might go about it. Though I allow when it comes it will doubtless be amusing.”

  Petrella had laughed again, and refilled her twin’s cup with wine, and the talk had moved to other matters.

  And now, Petrella thought, eyes opening onto the pain-racked present, Er Thom has at last surprised.

  She wondered if Chi would have been amused, after all.

  Chapter Twenty

  If honor be your clothing, the suit will last a lifetime.

  —William Arnot

  IT WAS QUITE THE nicest dress she had ever owned.

  Indeed, Anne thought, as she opened the closet, it was the only formal dress she possessed, and, hopefully, formal enough for a Liaden dinner party comprised not only of the delm and the delm’s heir, but of her lover’s thodelm, grandmother of her son.

  Until Er Thom yos’Galan, Anne would have laughed at the notion of owning a piece of clothing as extravagant as the luscious green confection she had purchased on Proziski. But—An ambassadorial affair, with dancing, Er Thom had said in his soft, sweet way. Would it amuse her to accompany him?

  It would have amused her to accompany him to Hell, she recalled ruefully as she took the dress down. She had accepted his invitation with more joy than sense—then spent an entire day—and far too much of her meager personal funds—in pursuit of the green gown.

  The delicious fabric swirled round her shoulders, fell and settled, water-smooth, against her skin as she slipped on the matching slippers and turned to face the mirror.

  “Oh—my.”

  The gown still had magic to work, she thought, staring dazedly at the vision in the mirror. The regal lady caught there stared haughtily back, brown skin rich against the pure greenness, chestnut hair glowing, eyes all velvet seduction.

  From slim waist to full bosom, the gown was laced with golden chains so delicate they might have been worked at a elf-lord’s forge. She had a matching length, provided by the dressmaker, to wear around her throat.

  On the occasion of the ambassadorial affair, she had also worn a gold ribbon, threaded through painstakingly-arranged hair. The ribbon was long-lost—and the hair soon woefully disarranged. For the dance had proved insipid and they had left early, smuggling out a napkin filled with delicacies pilfered from an hors d’oeuvre tray and a split of wine offered by a sympathetic waiter.

  Dazzling in his own finery, Er Thom had driven them to the Mercantile Building, and pulled the sample bolt from the flitter’s boot.

  “You mustn’t spoil your dress,” he had murmured, shaking a prince’s ransom worth of lace back from his beautiful hands and spreading the scarlet silk like a blanket … />
  Anne shook herself. “That will do,” she informed her reflection sternly, and deliberately turned away.

  The vanity had been arranged by the same invisible hands that had unpacked her clothing and carefully put it away.

  To the right were her comb, brush and mirror, the black oak veneer battered, the silver-wrapped handles tarnished. To the left sat the chipped lacquer chest that contained her few pieces of jewelry.

  Careful of stressed plastic hinges, she lifted the lid and propped it open. Along the back of the box, glowing like a candle in the shiny dark interior, was the carved ivory box that held the necklace Er Thom had given her—“to say good-bye.” For a moment, she was tempted to wear that piece tonight, for it was inarguably the most beautiful of her paltry jewels.

  He asked you not to wear it, she reminded herself as her fingers touched the exquisitely-carved ivory. With a sigh, she shook her head and fastened the dressmaker’s golden chain around her throat instead.

  She hung a simple pair of gold hoops in her ears and used plain gold combs to hold her hair back from her face.

  The entire effect was a little more austere than she had hoped for, despite the green gown’s magic.

  Well, she thought wistfully, and maybe Er Thom’s ma will pity you, Annie-gel, since it’s plain you’ve no sort of melant’i to boast on.

  Or, Er Thom’s mother might just as easily take the plainness of her guest’s adornment as a personal affront. Anne swallowed against a sudden uprising of butterflies inside her stomach.

  “Maybe I’ll have a cup of soup and some toast in my room,” she said aloud, and with no conviction at all, for that would be an insult, and Er Thom’s mother well within her rights to avenge it.

  Just when she was beginning to think that would be no bad thing, the entrance-chime sounded.

  Green dress swirling around her, she left the bedroom, went through the spacious kitchenette and luxurious common room. She paused a moment before laying her hand against the admittance plate, composing her face and trying to calm her racing heartbeat. It would never do for Mr. pak’Ora, come to do butler’s duty and guide the guest to the dining room, to see her panting with fright.