Local Custom

by Sharon

  “An argument,” Daav murmured, “named in honor, or so I am told, of a possibly-mythic town on Terra where fisticuffs is the pastime of choice.” He grinned. “A language to love, admit it!”

  “I fear my proficiency falters daily,” Er Thom said mournfully. Far down the hall, a clock could be heard striking the hour.

  “Gods, only hear the time! And I expected early at Port tomorrow—”

  Daav eyed him doubtfully. “Are you?”

  “Yes, certainly. I must tend some matters on the Passage first, then there are orders to place, people to see … “

  “Naturally enough, since you have been away for some time. However,” Daav hesitated.

  “Your thodelm expects there is no reason for you to go into Port. Or so she said.”

  Er Thom glanced down at his naked hands; back to Daav’s face.

  “My thodelm,” he said levelly, “is—alas—mistaken.”

  “Yes,” Daav agreed, “I thought that she might be.” He waved a hand at the screen. “Get you home, then. I shall send this lot on to Mr. dea’Gauss. He should have the framed contracts to you within a two-day. You and I can then discuss any modifications that may be necessary before the final papers are presented to Anne.”

  “All right.” Er Thom rose and smiled. “Thank you, Daav.”

  “Thank me, is it? Go home, darling, you’re in your cups.”

  HE LET HIMSELF in through the door off the East Patio and went, surefooted and quiet, through halls illuminated by night-dims.

  In the upper hallway, he lay his hand against a door-plate, and stepped gently into the darkened room beyond.

  Anne lay in the long, wide bed, fast asleep in the wash of star shine from the open skylight. She looked vulnerable, thus, and incalculably precious: a jewel for which a man must gamble—and never think of losing.

  He sighed as he stood over her, for he understood Daav’s wager well enough, knew the dangers that dodged his steps and his brother’s distress—who could have no less failed to offer the wager than Er Thom declined to take it. To be delm was an awesome and perilous duty. Daav had never wanted the Ring, which was Er Thom’s certain knowledge. He had, indeed, begged his delm to pass him by, to place the Ring in abler hands—

  In Er Thom’s hands.

  She had refused, which was wisdom, and Daav was thus Korval, gods pity him. Daav possessed full measure that trait which allowed him to offer such a thing as this twisty wager to his cha’leket, expecting him to fail—for the good of the clan.

  It is a terrible thing, Er Thom thought, leaning above his sleeping love, for a delm to have a brother.

  Beneath the star-glown blanket, Anne stirred and lifted a hand.

  “Er Thom?” Sleep-drugged and beautiful, her voice. He caught her questing hand and bent to gently kiss the palm.

  “Hush, sweeting,” he murmured, soothing in the Low Tongue. “I had not meant to wake you. Sleep, now … “

  “You, too,” she insisted in Terran. “It’s late.”

  “Indeed, and I am to go early to Port … “

  “Tell the computer to wake you up,” she mumbled, her hand going slack in his as she slid back toward sleep. “Come to bed … “

  With exquisite care, he lay her hand back atop the coverlet, then stood still in the starlight, watching her and recalling what his thodelm had ordered.

  Thinking on Daav’s damned, labyrinthine wager.

  Woo the lady. Win her aye and win all …

  Anne feared that a lifemate’s burden of shared melant’i put him at risk in the world. Such fear did her only honor, so he considered it, and proved—if it happened he required proof—the depth of her love.

  To win her, he must cross custom one final time, show her his heart and his innermost mind—as if they were already lifemated many years.

  There was nothing dishonorable in such a path, as he conceived it. Anne was the one his heart had chosen; his lifemate, in truth, whatever a new dawn might bring.

  Decided, he crossed the room to the house console and tapped in instructions to wake him at dawn.

  Back at the bed, he removed his clothing and slid under the covers, curled against Anne’s warmth—and plummeted into sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  A person of melant’i deceives by neither word nor deed and shall have no cause to hide his face from the world.

  —Excerpted from the

  Liaden Code of Proper Conduct

  HE ENTERED HIS OFFICE aboard Dutiful Passage, jacket collar still turned up against the rain in the Port below. One moment he paused as the door shut behind him, eyes closed, breathing in the elusive taste of ship’s air, listening to the myriad, usual sounds that meant the Passage was alive all around him.

  Sighing with something like relief, he opened his eyes and crossed the room to his desk, spinning the screen around to face him.

  Twenty minutes later, he was still standing there, quick fingers plying the keypad. He barely registered the whisper of the door opening at his back and very nearly started at his first mate’s voice.

  “Ah, you are here!” Kayzin Ne’Zame exclaimed in Comrade, the mode in which they usually conversed. “I might have known you’d come up ahead of the early shuttle. Felicitations, old friend, on Korval’s acceptance of your child! When shall I be pleased to make his acquain—”

  Er Thom took a careful breath and deliberately turned to face her, hands in plain sight.

  She chopped off in mid-word, her eyes leaping to his.

  “Old friend?” Very careful, that tone, even from Kayzin, who had known him from his twelfth name day. Almost, Er Thom sighed.

  Instead, he gave her courtesy, and the gentleness due a friend.

  “My rating is intact,” he murmured, gesturing toward the computer. “You may call the Guild Hall to be certain, if you wish.”

  “Yes, naturally.” She moved her shoulders. “Ken Rik is concerned of Number Eighteen Pod and requests the captain’s earliest attention. The radio-tech sent by the Guild was—unable to meet our standards. I took the liberty of dispatching her Port-side. Shipment from Trellen’s World will meet us at Arsdred, something about the trans-ship company’s credit record. I will look into that, of course … “

  Er Thom leaned a hip against the desk and Kayzin drifted over to perch on the edge of a chair, both caught in the business they knew best, no blame nor shadow of doubt between them.

  THE AFTERNOON AMONG THE warehouses was slightly less felicitous than the morning on his ship. There were none who actually refused to take his requisitions, though there were enough glances askance to leave one’s belly full down the length of a long lifetime.

  One fellow did demand a cantra to “hold” the order, to the very visible horror of his second. Er Thom gave him a long stare, then flicked the coin from his pocket to land, spinning, on the counter.

  “A receipt,” he said, entirely bland. The merchantman swallowed.

  “Of course, master trader,” he stammered, fingers jamming at the keys.

  Still bland, Er Thom took the offered paper and gave it leisurely perusal before folding it into his pocket and going his way, setting his boot heels deliberately against the worn stone floor.

  Some while later, he was in the public room of the Trade Bar, having just concluded a trifle of business with Zar Kin pel’Odma. Wily old trader that he was, Zar Kin had not allowed himself even a glance at Master Trader yos’Galan’s hands. Which, Er Thom thought, sipping a glass of cold, sweet wine, told as much about Trader pel’Odma’s melant’i as it did about the speed at which news traveled, Port-side.

  He touched the port-comm’s power-off, sipped again at his wine and closed his eyes, wondering if it were worth walking to the Avenue of Jewels on the chance that Master Jeweler Moonel would be disposed to see him.

  “Captain yos’Galan, how fortunate to find you here, sir!”

  The voice was not immediately familiar, the accent unabashedly Chonselta.

  Er Thom opened his eyes and loo
ked up, encountering a pair of hard gray eyes in a determinedly merry face. Her hair was also gray and clipped close to her skull in the manner favored by Terran pilots. It was a style that showed her ears to advantage, and all the dozen earrings piercing each. On her hands she wore, not the expected hodgepodge jewelry of a Port-rat, but a single large amethyst, carved with the symbol of the Trader’s Guild.

  “Master Trader Jyl ven’Apon.” So she introduced herself, clanless, bowing as between equals. She straightened and gave him a knowing look. “Captain.”

  Er Thom acknowledged her introduction with a bare nod of his head and fixed her with a gaze that would have given anyone of melant’i serious doubts regarding the wisdom of imposing further.

  Jyl ven’Apon was far from entertaining any such doubts. Uninvited, she pulled out the chair Zar Kin pel’Odma had lately vacated and sat, arms folded on the table before her.

  “One hears,” she said, leaning forward with a show of candor, “that Er Thom yos’Galan has been seen about the Port this day, devoid of his master trader’s ring. Of course, this can but pain those of us who wish him well, of whom there are—most naturally!—dozens. It is indeed fortunate that one such well-wisher as myself should have the means to offer—easement in loss.”

  “Oh, indeed?” Er Thom raised his eyebrows. “You fascinate me. But you merely mean to sell me another ring, of course.”

  The gray eyes narrowed and the face lost a little of its merriness, though she did bend her lips slightly in the parody of a smile.

  “The—captain—will have his joke,” she allowed. “But the matter in which I can provide easement is in the area of trade.” She sent a sharp glance into his face. “You perhaps did not receive my correspondence regarding a certain extremely lucrative business venture. Several traders have already seen the advantages of this—venture—not merely in terms of the cantra to be earned, but in the sense of winning greater rank. Indeed, I do not think any who assist in bringing the project to fruition can escape the notice of the Trade Commission. In the case of some, the prospect of gaining—or regaining—the rank of master trader must carry all other considerations before it.”

  So that was the bait that had snared yo’Laney and Ivrex. Er Thom stared at her coldly.

  “I recall the correspondence,” he said flatly. “I will tell you that I hold severe doubts regarding the viability of your enterprise and am distressed to find you still enjoy hopes of luring others into a scheme that must fail. I suggest—most strongly—that you re-evaluate your plan of business in this instance, else a review before the Guild must be inevitable.”

  “Oh, must it?” She laughed, and deliberately poured herself a cup of wine from the pitcher.

  “Will you call me up for review, captain? I wish you might try!” She drank deeply of her cup and grinned. “But of course if you no longer care for amethyst, there’s nothing more to be said.”

  Er Thom put his wine cup aside, turned the port-comm’s screen around and pushed the keyboard across the table.

  “You might,” he suggested gently. “Call up today’s Guild list of master traders in Port.” He leaned back in his chair, hands folded before him on the table, face and eyes composed.

  Her startlement showed clearly for an instant, then she spared him another hard-edged grin, hit the power-on and typed in the request.

  Still grinning, she finished the dregs of her wine, poured more and turned her eyes back to the screen.

  The grin faded.

  Er Thom inclined his head.

  “I had been taught that a master trader was made by skill, and that the ring bestowed upon attaining that level of skill was an acknowledgement, not a license.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Doubtless, other clans teach other wisdom.”

  Jyl ven’Apon touched her tongue to her lips. “As you say.”

  “Ah. Allow me to offer advice, from one who is master of trade to one who wears the ring. Let the lithium deal go. Return the buy-ins you have collected. This would be equitable and not likely of failure, nor notice to the Guild for review.”

  “You threaten me, in fact.”

  “I am of Korval,” Er Thom said softly. “I merely tell you what is.”

  She managed another laugh at that, though not so convincingly as formerly, and threw the rest of the wine down her throat. She then rose to bow a seemly enough farewell—and went away down the room, swaggering like a Low Port bravo.

  MOONEL HAD BEEN IN and willing, for a wonder, to talk, by which circumstance he did not arrive home until well after Prime, to find his mother at tea with Lady Kareen.

  He made his bows from the doorway and, obedient to his mother’s gesture, came forward to sit and take refreshment.

  “I ask pardon,” he murmured with all propriety, “that I show myself in all my dust. I am only this moment come from the Port.”

  His mother shot him a sharp glance. Kareen’s was more leisurely—and, naturally, thorough.

  “Why, Cousin Er Thom,” said she, in tones of false concern, “I believe you may have misplaced your ring.”

  Bland-faced, he met her eyes. “You are mistaken, cousin. I am well-aware of the location of my ring.”

  “But to go thus to the Port,” Kareen insisted, eyes gleaming with spite, “where the lack of rank-ring must be noted and commented upon, is—surely—foolish?”

  “Is adherence to duty foolish?” Er Thom wondered, sipping his tea. “I cannot agree with that.”

  Kareen’s eyes narrowed, but before she could launch another attack, his mother introduced a change of topic and the rest of the visit passed almost agreeably.

  He stood and bowed as Kareen took her leave and was on the point of departure himself, when his mother snapped, “Stay.”

  Eyebrows up, he resumed his seat, folded his naked hands upon his lap and assumed an attitude of dutiful attentiveness.

  “To the Port, is it?” Petrella snarled after a moment. “I bow to your sense of duty, sir. And where, one wonders, did duty dictate you sleep yestereve?”

  Er Thom merely looked at her, eyes wide and guileless.

  “I see,” his mother said after a long minute. She closed her eyes. “In the time of the first Daav,” she said eventually, “a certain Eba yos’Phelium was publicly flogged by her thodelm. The instrument employed was a weighted leather lash, from which Eba received six blows, laid crosswise, along her naked flesh. History tells us she carried the scars for the rest of her life.” She opened her eyes and regarded her son’s bland face.

  “I bore you,” she surmised. “Or perhaps you believe me too weak to wield the lash. Never mind—we shall speak of pleasanter things! Delm Nexon’s delightful visit of this afternoon, for an instance.”

  Only silence from Er Thom, who kept his eyes and face turned toward her.

  “Delm Nexon,” Petrella said, “wonders—most naturally!—what Korval means by the announcement that appeared in yesterday’s Gazette. She wonders if Korval has been toying with Nexon, by raising hopes of a match advantageous to both sides—she says!—and then withdrawing all hope in this churlish manner. Delm Nexon wonders, my son, if she has been insulted, though she does hope—very sincerely—that this will be found not to be the case.”

  When he still remained silent, she fixed him with a stern eye. “Well, sir? Have you anything to say, or will you sit there like a stump until dawn?”

  Er Thom sighed. “Delm Nexon,” he said softly, “is entirely aware that no insult has been given. No contract exists. Preliminary negotiations of contract-marriage flounder and fall awry every day. As to what Korval might mean by publishing notice of Shan’s acceptance to the clan—that is entirely by the Code, and nothing to do with Nexon at all.”

  “Bold words,” Petrella commented. “Bold words, indeed, A’thodelm. Especially as there is yet the matter of an heir to the Line—which is nothing to do with this Shan. I will have a proper heir out of you, sir, and I find in Nexon’s daughter your suitable match.” She held up a hand, stilling his move of protest.
/>
  “You will say that you do not know the lady—that we are no longer in the time of the first Daav. True enough. Nor do I wish to thrust you into the contract-room with a lady whose face you have not seen. You shall meet her beforehand.”

  “I will not—” Er Thom began and Petrella cut him off with a slash of her hand through the air.

  “We have had quite enough of what you will and will not! What you will is what you are commanded by your thodelm. And you are commanded to attend the gathering that will be held in this house two evenings hence. At that time you will meet Syntebra el’Kemin, who I suggest you begin to think of as your contracted wife.”

  Er Thom’s eyes were hot, though his voice remained cool. “Scholar Davis will yet be a guest in this house.”

  Petrella moved her shoulders. “The scholar is welcome to join the party, if she is so inclined. It may prove—instructive—for her.”

  “No!” He snapped to his feet, towering over her, slim and taut as a cutting cord. “Mother, I tell you now, I shall not—”

  “Silence!” she shouted, pounding her cane on the floor. She lifted it, agonizingly slow, until the point was on a level with his nose.

  “You do not raise your voice to me,” she told him, Thodelm to Linemember. “Beg my pardon.”

  For a long moment he stood there, quivering with the fury that filled his eyes. Then, slowly, he bowed apology.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  Eyes holding his, she lowered the cane-tip to the floor.

  “Leave me,” she said then. “If you are wise, you will go to your room and meditate upon the path of duty.”

  He hesitated a fraction of a heartbeat before he bowed respect to the thodelm—and obediently quit the room.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  On average contract-marriages last eighteen Standard Months, and are negotiated between clan officials who decide, after painstaking perusal of gene maps, personality charts and intelligence grids, which of several possible nuptial arrangements are most advantageous to both clans.

  In contrast, lifemating is a far more serious matter, encompassing the length of the partners’ lives, even if one should die. One of the pair must leave his or her clan of origin and join the clan of the lifemate. At that time the adoptive clan pays a “life-price” based on the individual’s profession, age and internal value to the former clan.