by Sharon
Hoping that her face betrayed only serene expectation, she opened the door.
Er Thom bowed, low and eloquent, looked up and smiled into her eyes. “Good evening.”
“Good evening,” she managed, though her tongue suddenly seemed cleft to the roof of her mouth. She stepped back, motioning him inside with a sweep of her ringless hand. “Please come in.”
“Thank you,” he said gravely, as if the door weren’t coded to his palm as well as hers. He stepped within and the portal in question slid shut behind him.
Er Thom wore the form-fitting dark trousers deemed appropriate formal wear for Liaden males. She knew from experience that the fabric was wonderfully soft to the touch. His wide-sleeved white shirt was silk, or something more precious; the lace frothing at his throat contained by an emerald stickpin. Emeralds glittered in his ears and on his slender hands, half-hidden by more lace.
“Anne?” His gaze warmed her face. “Is there something wrong?”
She shook herself, aware that she had been staring.
“I was just thinking how beautiful you are,” she said and felt her face heat, for the man was here to take her to meet his mother—
Er Thom laughed his soft laugh and bowed, slightly and with humor.
“And I,” he murmured, “was trying most earnestly not to think the same of you.”
Dear gods, a compliment. She very nearly blinked; rescued the moment with a bow of her own, accepting his admiration.
His eyes gleamed, but he turned a little aside, gesturing around the room.
“Everything is as you wish it? Is there anything else the House may provide for you?”
“Everything is perfectly delightful,” she told him soberly. “I’ll miss all this elegance, after we go back home.” She did blink then, seeing him among the wide, comfortable chairs and high-set desk.
“Do you guest Terrans often?”
“Eh?” Winged brows drew together in puzzlement. “I believe you are the first.”
“Oh.” She bit her lip, then plunged ahead, waving her hand at the room.
“It’s just that everything’s—convenient—for someone who is—of Terran height. I assumed—”
“Ah.” Enlightenment dawned in a smile. “My mother has redecorated,” he murmured, running his eyes in rapid inventory around the parlor. He looked back to Anne, feeling his blood heat with desire for her even as he forced himself to make civil reply.
“She would have wished to have everything as it should be for the guest,” he explained. “Why should you not be comfortable in our house?”
She looked at him doubtfully, then took a breath, the golden laces stretching tight across her delightful bosom.
“Your mother redecorated—rebuilt—this whole apartment just so I’d be comfortable for few weeks?”
“Of course,” he said reasonably. “Why not?” He moved a hand, drawing her attention away from the subject.
“Mrs. Intassi came to speak with you?” he asked, though he had just come from an interview with that lady. “You have seen the nursery and find it acceptable?”
Anne laughed, head tipped gracefully back. “Your notions of—acceptable—” she said, and he heard her unease through the laughter even as she shook her head and made her face more serious.
“The nursery looks lovely. Mrs. Intassi seems—very competent.” She hesitated. “It’s going to be a little strange—for Shannie and for me, too—to have him sleeping so far away … “
“Not so far away,” he said softly. “You may visit him whenever you like. The door has your code.” Almost, he reached to take her hand; gamesmanship strangled the impulse before it went beyond a finger-twitch.
“Shan is your son,” he said, repeating his comfort of the afternoon, and saw the tiny lines of tension around her eyes ease.
Smiling then, he bowed and offered his arm.
“May I escort you to the First Parlor, friend? My mother is eager to make your acquaintance.” He slanted a mischievous look into her face, feeling irrationally gay. “Never fear,” he told her lightly, “there will be wine close to hand.”
She laughed at that and took his arm, resting her hand lightly over his, intertwining their fingers in the way he had taught her.
Just at the door, she checked and looked down into his eyes, her own shaded with trouble, so that he felt his gaiety fade.
“Don’t let me make a mistake,” she said, fingers tightening around his.
Astonishment held him for half a heartbeat, to be replaced by flaring joy. For here at last was the sign of her intention he had hoped for since she had turned her face from contract-marriage.
Don’t let me make a mistake. She placed her melant’i in his hands for safekeeping, as if they were kin. Or lifemates.
“Er Thom?” Her eyes were still troubled, doubt beginning to show.
As if she could think that what she asked was any else than his own ardent wish—He stopped himself, recalling that she was Terran and unsure of custom.
Gently, and with extreme caution, he lifted his hand, barely brushing her lips with his fingertips.
“No,” he said, solemn despite the burgeoning joy, “I will not let you make a mistake, Anne.” A laugh burst free despite his best efforts.
“But if we are late for the Gathering Hour with my mother,” he predicted, “nothing may succor either of us!”
HER SON AND THE guest were late—oh, a few minutes, merely, Petrella allowed, as she settled more comfortably into her chair—but late, nonetheless.
Almost, she had time in their tardiness to imagine herself the victor. To suppose that seeing his Terran tart here, in his very homeplace, surrounded by all that was elegant, proper and Liaden had awakened Er Thom’s swooning senses to sanity.
Almost, she began to weigh the wisdom of accepting this child—this Shan—to yos’Galan. Not, most naturally, as Er Thom’s heir—young Syntebra would doubtless serve them well enough there. But it could not be denied that the clan could ill afford to turn away one who was potentially pilot and Healer merely because tainted blood ran his veins.
Her hand moved, almost touching the button that would fetch Mr. pak’Ora—and paused.
There were voices in the hall.
Er Thom’s murmur came first to her ears. She missed the words, but the cadence was of neither High Liaden nor Low.
The voice that answered him was all too clear; carrying without being shrill, with the hint of such control found in the speech of those trained as prena’ma.
“I’ve sent a message to Drusil tel’Bana,” the carrying voice announced in perfectly intelligible Terran, “telling her I’m on-planet and hoping for an early meeting. I’ll have to go to her, of course, which means renting a car, if you would give me the name of a—”
“The House,” Er Thom’s words were now clear, as well, “will provide you a car, friend. And a driver, should you wish.”
Oh, and will it? Petrella thought, stiffening against the cushions—but that was only ill-temper, for surely Er Thom owned vehicles enough in his own right that the Terran scholar need never walk.
Honor to the guest, she reminded herself, composing her face into that look of courteous blandness with which one dealt with those not of one’s clan.
Asked, she could not have precisely said what portrait imagination had painted of Anne Davis beforehand. Sufficient to its accuracy to say that the woman who crossed the threshold on Er Thom’s arm surprised. Entirely.
To be sure, she was a giantess, looming above her tall and shapely escort, but she did not move ill. Indeed, there was that in her stride which seemed peculiarly pilot-like, and her shoulders sat level and easy, as with any person of pride.
Though she was large in all things, Petrella acknowledged her not out of proportion with her height, and of her form there was a pleasing—yet not overcommanding—symmetry.
Her gown suited her figure, and was not—to an old trader’s eye—overexpensive. Her plain necklet and earrings, the lack of oste
ntation in the matter of rings—all this proclaimed her a person who knew her own worth and was neither ashamed of her station nor eager to show herself as more than she was.
The face, to which Petrella now raised her eyes, was large-featured: The nose was too prominent for beauty, the mouth too full, the eyes set a fraction too close, the willful jaw square, the forehead high and smooth. Not a beautiful face, but, rather, an interesting face—intelligent and humorous, enlivened by a pair of speaking brown eyes, with a sweetness about the mouth that did much toward balancing the stubborn jaw.
Had Anne Davis been Liaden, Petrella might at this juncture very well admitted to some small portion of interest in her.
But Anne Davis was unremittingly Terran; Er Thom, by guiding her here, was seen to be still in the throes of his madness; and their child, by all that meant winning, must remain a half-bred bastard, unacknowledged by yos’Galan.
With a determination that was surprisingly difficult to rally, Petrella turned a stone-like face toward her son.
“Good evening,” she said, chilly and in all of the High Tongue, barely inclining her head.
“Good evening, mother,” he returned gently, bowing respect. He brought the Terran woman forward as if she were some outworld regina and bowed once more.
“I bring you Anne Davis, Professor of Linguistics, mother of my child, guest of the House.” He put the woman’s hand lingeringly aside, and turned to make his bow to her.
“Anne, here is Petrella, Thodelm yos’Galan, whose child I have the honor to be.”
Pretty words, Petrella thought grumpily, from one who has not also the honor of being obedient. It surprised her that he gave the introductions in High Liaden, for surely a Terran, no matter how scholarly—
The woman before her bowed with an ease astonishing in one so large, in the mode of Adult to Person of Rank, a choice that charmed by its very lack of innuendo.
“Petrella yos’Galan,” she said in her clear, storyteller’s voice, “I am glad to meet you. Allow me to thank you at once for the generosity which has admitted me as a guest in your house.”
Petrella very nearly blinked. That this graceful acknowledgement was made in High Liaden must amaze, though the delivery was necessarily marred by a rather heavy accent. Still, it was understood that not everyone spoke with the accent of Solcintra, and balancing this was the fact that the sentences had been spoken in proper cadence and with a thoughtfulness indicating the speaker understood her own words, rather than merely repeating what had been learned by rote.
It was necessary to answer grace with grace—her own melant’i demanded it, even had there not been this other matter between herself and her son. Petrella inclined her head with full ceremony.
“Anne Davis, I am glad to meet you, as well. Forgive me that I do not rise to greet you more properly.”
“Please do not concern yourself,” the guest replied. “Indeed, it is your kindness in having myself and my son here when you are so ill that has particularly touched my heart. I wish that we will not be a burden to you.”
Petrella was still trying to gauge whether this astonishing speech carried any deliberate offense—given leave to be ill, forsooth!—when Mr. pak’Ora entered to announce the arrival of the delm.
Chapter Twenty-One
Liaden clans are primarily social organizations, amended by centuries of ever more exacting usage. Some Terran investigators compare them without amendment to military organizations, perhaps not realizing that the line of command is to some extent fluid, with variation due to considerations of melant’i. Though the delm is “supreme commander” and the thodelm his “second”, an adroit junior with an agenda may at times be as much of an impediment to those commanders as any external enemy.
—From
“The Lectures of a Visiting Professor,
Vol. 2” Wilhemenia Neville-Smythe,
Unity House, Terra
“DAAV YOS’PHELIUM, Delm Korval,” Mr. pak’Ora informed the room, and stepped aside so the gentleman might pass.
Unhurried and silent, he came across the rug, dressed in much the same way as Er Thom, his dark hair tied neatly at the nape with a length of silver ribbon. Deep and respectful, he made his bow before Petrella yos’Galan’s chair.
“Aunt Petrella. Good evening to you.”
“Good evening to you, nephew,” the old lady replied, with an inclination of her head, her tone nearly cordial. She lifted a thin, shaking hand, directing the man’s attention aside. “I believe you have had the honor of making your bow to yos’Galan’s guest.”
He made another, nonetheless. “Professor Davis. How good it is to see you again!”
The words were High Liaden, the mode as between equal adults, which was about as friendly as the High Tongue got, Anne thought, returning his greeting with pleasure.
“You are kind,” she said, meaning it. “I am glad to see you again, also, sir.”
She thought she saw a smile glimmer at the back of his eyes, but before she could be certain, Petrella commanded his attention once more.
“I will also make you known to Er Thom, A’thodelm of yos’Galan, master trader and heir to the delm. I am persuaded you can never have seen his like before.”
Her nephew considered her out of bright black eyes, head tipped a little to one side.
“You wrong me, Aunt Petrella,” he said after a moment, and with utmost gentleness. “Though it is entirely true that I have never seen his like anywhere else.” He turned his head, smiling at Er Thom with throat-tightening affection.
“Hello, darling.”
Er Thom’s smile was no less warm. “Daav. It’s good of you to come.”
“Yes, let us by all means extol my virtues,” his cha’leket said with a grin. “Certainly the party has a moment or two at leisure!”
Anne laughed and Daav turned to her, one hand flung out, face comically earnest.
“What! You doubt me virtuous to even that extent?”
“On the contrary,” she assured him, with matching earnestness. “I think it very good of you to round out the dinner party—especially when you clean up to such good advantage!”
In her chair, the old lady stiffened. Anne caught the movement from the corner of an eye and half-turned in that direction, worry overcoming fun, and found Daav someway before her.
“Well, you know,” he said, still in that tone of bogus gravity, “my aunt has been saying the same of me any time these ten years—have you not, Aunt Petrella?”
“Indeed,” the old lady agreed, with, Anne thought, a touch of acid, though her parched face remained as bland as formerly. “It only remains to discover how to influence you to behave in concert with your finery.” She shifted abruptly, signaling Er Thom with a wavering fingertip.
“Doubtless, the guest would welcome a glass of wine. Daav, I want you, if you please.”
“Certainly,” he murmured as Er Thom and the guest walked downroom toward the wine table, “it must always please me to obey you, Aunt Petrella. In the face of such pleasure it does seem churlish to observe that I would welcome a glass of wine, as well.”
She merely stared at him, face composed, until she judged the others sufficiently well-embarked on their own conversation to care little of what was being said behind them.
“So,” she said at last, meeting his eyes fully. “It comes to my attention that the delm now decides for yos’Galan.”
Daav lifted an eyebrow. “I am desolate to be the first before you with the news—the delm decides for Korval.”
“And you see nothing that might offend, that the delm should decide—for Korval!—before ever the Line has made decision. I see.”
Petrella drew a hard breath, eyes wandering, then stopping where Er Thom stood with his—with yos’Galan’s guest—sipping wine and gazing up into her face with such a look of admiration as must give pause—if not actual pain. She brought her attention forcibly back to Daav.
“It is understood,” she said, though without any effort
to soften her tone, “that the clan must not at this point in its history turn away any who are—never care how irregularly!—of the Line. That the one now offered is likely pilot and perhaps Healer must make him doubly advantageous to the clan. That he is the child of beloved kin must make him more than acceptable to yourself. All this is crystalline.” She paused, considering his face, which was merely attentive, black eyes shadowed by long dark lashes.
“However,” Petrella continued after a moment, “yos’Galan at present is engaged in a disciplinary matter of no small moment. Respect for authority must be taught in such a way as to leave an indelible impression upon the a’thodelm. It is no less than my duty to the delm, who must at all times be certain his directives will be obeyed. I do not know how it is come about that the a’thodelm has become so careless of obedience, but as head of his Line, the fault is mine to correct.”
Daav bowed, slightly and gravely. “And young Shan?”
She sighed, fingers tightening on the arms of her chair.
“You will say I am cruel, to use a child as the whip which will humble his parent. But I very much fear, my Delm, that you have Seen a child for Korval who has no other home than—Korval.”
“Hah. And this is your last word upon the matter?”
She moved her shoulders, fretfully. “If he learns his lesson well,” she said, meaning Er Thom, “perhaps the child may be admitted—eventually. Certainly, the thodelm will do as he pleases, when I am dead. In the meanwhile, however, I will trouble the delm to arrange a fostering for this—Shan. yos’Galan will not have him here.”
“Removal of the child at this time will likely distress the guest,” Daav commented. “Unless that is also your intention?”
“The guest remains for a twelve-day,” Petrella answered calmly. “It is understood that a proper fostering may take even as long as that to arrange. Scholar Davis need experience no grief from an untimely parting.”
“You are kind,” he observed, in such a tone of bitterness that she raised her eyes in surprise to his face.
His countenance was hidden from her, however, by reason of his bow, which was low and full of respect as always.
