by Sharon Lee
Once more, a kick sent the rug rolling out—and he sighed aloud. Insects had gotten in through the breached plastic. The wool in spots was eaten down to the backing, leaving the skeleton of a handsome rectilinear design he did not immediately recognize. No, this damage had not occurred in the warehouse, being both too extensive and too old.
Sighing yet again, he reached for the clipboard to record the loss—
"Cousin Luken?" The voice was clear and carrying—and unfortunately familiar.
Pat Rin closed his eyes, there where he rested on one knee beside the ruined rug, and wished fervently that she would overlook this room. There was little chance that she would, of course. His cousin Nova was nothing if not thorough. Unnaturally thorough, one might say.
"Cousin Luken!" she called again, her voice nearer this time.
Pat Rin opened his eyes, picked up the clipboard, fingered the stylus free and entered a description of the damage. The mechanism hummed and in due time a red tag emerged. He reached for the stitch gun—
"Oh, there you are, cousin!" Nova said from the doorway at his back.
Amidst the sound of approaching light footsteps, Pat Rin stapled the red tag to a corner of the ruined rug.
"Father sent me to help you catalog the rugs from the—" She stopped, aware, so Pat Rin thought, that she had made an error.
Gently, he placed the stitch gun on the floor next to the clipboard, and turned his head slightly so that she could see the side of his face.
"Cousin Pat Rin!" she exclaimed, with a measure of astonishment that he found not particularly flattering.
He inclined his head. "Cousin Nova," he stated, with deliberate coolness. "What a surprise to find you here."
The instant the words left his lips, he wished them back. He had spent the last year and more deliberately honing his wit and his tongue until they were weapons as formidable as the palm pistol he carried in his sleeve. Surely, it was ill-done of him to loose those weapons on a child.
"Is Cousin Luken to house?" she asked stiffly.
He rose carefully to his feet and turned to face her.
Nova's twelfth name day had been celebrated only a relumma past, and already she showed warning of the beauty she would become. Her hair was gilt, her eyes amethyst, her carriage erect and unstrained. She had, so he heard, passed the preliminary testing for pilot-candidate, an unsurprising fact which had nonetheless woken a twist of bitterness in him.
Today found her dressed in sturdy shirt and trousers, well-scuffed boots on her feet, passkey clenched in one hand, and a glare on her face for the ill-tempered elder cousin—for which he blamed her not at all.
"Alas, one's foster father is away on an appointment," he said, moderating his tone with an effort. "May I be of service, cousin?"
Her glare eased somewhat as she glanced about her.
"Father sends me to help Cousin Luken sort the carpets from the Southern House," she said tentatively. "However, I find you at that task."
It was not meant to be accusatory, he reminded himself forcefully. She was a child, with a child's grasp of nuance.
Though she had grasped the nuance of his greeting swiftly enough. He had the acquaintance of adults who would have not have taken his point so quickly—if at all.
So—"Cousin Er Thom had not written us to expect your arrival and assistance," he answered Nova, deliberately gentle. "I happened to be at liberty and took the work for my own."
She blinked at him, jewel-colored eyes frankly doubtful.
"You are aware, are you not," Pat Rin said, allowing himself an edge of irony, "that I am Luken's fosterling?"
"Ye-e-s-s," Nova agreed. "But Cousin Kareen—I heard her speaking with my father and she . . ." Here she hesitated, perhaps nonplused to discover herself admitting to listening at doors.
Pat Rin inclined his head. "One's mother was adamant that I not be trained as a rug merchant," he said smoothly. "Alas, by the time she recognized the danger, the damage had long been done."
Nova's straight, pale mouth twitched a little, as if she had suppressed a smile.
"Will you come into Cousin Luken's business?" she asked, which was not an unreasonable question, from a daughter of the trade Line. Still, Pat Rin felt his temper tighten, spoiling the easier air that had been flowing between them.
"I've gone into another trade, thank you," he said shortly, and swept his hand out, showing her the pile of rolled rugs waiting to be inventoried. "For all that, I am competent enough in this one."
He sighed, recalling his mother's plans for him, and shook the memory away.
"If you like, you may assist me," he murmured, and that was no more than the Code taught was due from kin to kin: Elders taught those junior to them, freely sharing what knowledge and skill they had, so that the Clan continued, generation to generation, memory and talent intact.
Nova bowed, hastily. "I thank you, cousin. Indeed, I would be pleased to assist you."
"That is well, then. The sooner we address the task, the sooner it will be done. Attend me, now."
He moved over to the pile and kicked a smallish roll out into the work area. Dropping to knee, he slit the plastic, revealing a plain gauze backing. A push unrolled it onto the scale, and Pat Rin looked up at Nova, standing hesitant where he had left her.
"Please," he said, "honor me with your opinion of this."
Slowly, she came forward, and knelt across from him, frowning down at the riot of woolen flowers that comprised the rug's design. She rubbed her palm across the surface, gingerly.
"Wool," she said, which was no grand deduction, and flipped up the edge near her knee. The gauze backing disconcerted her for a moment, then she returned to the face, using her fingers to press into and about the design.
"Hand-hooked," she said then, and was very likely correct, Pat Rin thought, but as it stood it was no more than a guess. He held up a hand.
"Hooked, certainly," he murmured. "Where do you find the proof for 'handmade?'"
Eagerly, she flipped back the edge, and pointed to the row of tiny, uneven stitches set into the gauze.
"Ah." He inclined his head. "I see that your conclusion is not unreasonable. However, it is wise to bear in mind that carpets are sometimes adjusted—fringe is added, or removed, backings are sewn on—or removed—holes are rewoven. Therefore, despite the fact that someone has clearly sewn the backing on by hand, the rug itself might yet have been made by machine. The preferred proofs are . . ."
He extended a hand and smoothed the wool petal of a particularly extravagant yellow flower, displaying a stitching of darker thread beneath.
"Maker's mark."
Nova bit her lip.
"Or," Pat Rin continued, flipping the little rug entirely over with a practiced twist of his wrists. He put his palm flat on the backing and moved it slowly, as if he were stroking Niki. He motioned Nova to do the same—which she did, gingerly, and then somewhat firmer.
"What do you feel?" he asked.
"Knots," she replied. "So it is handmade—I was correct."
"It is handmade," he conceded, "and you were correct." He lifted a finger. "For the wrong reason."
She sighed, but— "I understand," was what she said.
"Good. If you will, of your goodness, hand me the clipboard, I will make that notation and then we may proceed with the rest of the inspection."
She picked up the clipboard in one hand and held it out to him over the rug. He took it, his thumb accidentally nudging the stylus out of its slot, sending it floorward in a glitter of silver—
Nova swept forward, her hand fairly blurring as she scooped the stylus out of the air, reversed it and held it out to him.
He blinked. A child, he thought, all of his bitterness rising . . . .
Some part of it must have shown on his face. Nova hesitated, hand drooping.
"I was too fast, wasn't I?" she said, sounding curiously humble. "I do beg your pardon, cousin. Father is trying to teach me better, but I fear I am sometimes forgetful."
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"Teach you better?" Pat Rin repeated, and his voice was harsh in his own ears. "I thought speed was all, to those who would be pilots."
"Yes, but one mustn't be too fast," Nova said solemnly. "It won't do to frighten those who are not pilots—or to rush the instruments, when one is at the board."
He closed his eyes. Five times, since his eleventh name-day. Five times, he had tested for pilot and failed. Always, the tests found him too slow. Too slow—and this child, his cousin, must learn not to be too fast. He tried to decide if he most wished to laugh or to weep and in the end only opened his eyes again and took the stylus from her hand.
"My thanks," he murmured, and bent his head over the clipboard while he took his time making the initial entry.
"Now," he said when he could trust his voice for more than a few words. He looked over to Nova. "We must assess general condition, wear patterns, repairs, stains—that sort of thing. What say you?"
Seriously, she scrutinized the gauze backing, then turned the rug over, clumsily, to study the face, her hands chastely cupping her knees.
"Hands," Pat Rin murmured. "Use your hands."
He demonstrated, elegant fingers—ringless for this work—petting, gripping, pushing—his palms flowing about the top and bindings.
"Feel the nap. Is there a stiff spot which may be a stain invisible to the eye? Pull on the loops—do they hold or come loose? Smell the carpet—is it musty? Sour? All of these details are important."
She sent him one startled glance out of vivid purple eyes before bending forward, her right hand stroking and seeking. She bent her face closer—and sneezed.
"Dusty," she said.
He inclined his head.
She continued her inspection with that solemness which was characteristic of her, and at last sat back on her heels and looked at him across the rug.
"The threads are good, the stitches are firm. There is no staining visible to eye or to hand. The carpet is dusty, but fresh."
"Very good," he said, and plied the stylus once more.
When the yellow tag appeared, he handed it across to her.
"Use the stitch gun to staple the tag to the near corner."
He helped her wrestle the wrapper on it, and used his chin to point at the waiting carpets.
"Please choose our next subject and unroll it while I put this in its proper place."
She rose, a thing of pure, careless grace, and moved lithely to the pile. Pat Rin gritted his teeth and carried the little rug across to the bin.
Niki was sitting tall on the shelf. She blinked lazy green eyes at him as he stroked her breast.
Somewhat soothed, Pat Rin turned back to the work area, expecting to find the next specimen unrolled and awaiting inspection.
Indeed, a rug had been liberated from the pile, and he felt a momentary pang—she had chosen the one he had wanted to study himself. It displayed a promising underside, thick with knots. He sighed, then wondered about the delay.
Knife at her knee, Nova crouched over the roll, head bent above the single corner she had curled into the light. Her shoulders were rounded in an attitude of misery—or defiance.
"Unroll it!" he said, perhaps a little sharply, but Nova only knelt there.
Gods, what ailed the child? Pat Rin thought, irritably, and moved forward.
"Don't . . ." Nova moaned, "I know this rug!"
But that was nothing more than nonsense. Likely the thing had been away rolled in a dusty attic for a dozen dozen Standards . . . .
He moved down the cylinder, pulling the ribbon ties rapidly.
"Nova, help me roll this out."
She crouched lower, fingers gripping her corner . . .
Pat Rin delivered a smart kick and the thing unrolled with alacrity, as if the carpet had been yearning for its freedom.
Beside him, cowering now, head even closer to the floor and the corner of carpet she clung to, Nova gasped.
He looked down at the top of her bright head, frowning. Nothing he knew of Nova encouraged him to believe that she was a malingerer. Nor was it possible to imagine Cousin Er Thom or his lady wife, Cousin Anne, tolerating this sort of missish behavior for anything longer than a heartbeat.
"Are you ill?" he asked. "Cousin?"
She shuddered, and raised her head as if it were a very great weight.
"No," she said on a rising note, as though she questioned her answer even as she gave it. "I . . .beg your pardon, cousin. A passing—a passing stupidity." She rose, slowly and with a quarter of her previous grace. "Pray . . . do not regard it."
He considered her. Carpets woven of certain esoteric materials did sometimes collect ill humors in storage. It was doubtful that this rug, which he had already tentatively classified as a Tantara of some considerable age, woven with vegetable dyed zeesa-wool thread that wore like ship-steel, had collected anything more than a little must, if that.
He glanced from her pale face to the rug. Yes—certainly it was an older Tantara, a geometric in the ivory-and-deep-green combination which had been retired for a dozen-dozen Standards, and in an absolutely enviable state of preservation, saving a stain on a wide section of the ivory-colored fringe.
Bending, he ran his hand over the nap near the stain—stiff fibers grazed his palm. Whatever the substance was, it had gotten into the rug, too, which meant that there would be more to repairing the damage than simply replacing the fringe. It was odd that the carpet had been rolled away without being cleaned—and unfortunate, too. Most stains could be eradicated, if treated when fresh. A stain which had set for dozens of years, perhaps—it might be impossible to entirely remove the mar.
"We will need the kit for this," he said briskly, straightening. "I'll fetch it while you do a preliminary inspection."
"Yes," she whispered, and he sent another frown into her pale face.
"Nova," he said, touching her hand. "Are you well?"
"Yes," she whispered again, and turned away to find the clipboard.
Irritated, he strode off to the supplies closet.
The diagnostic kit was hanging in its place on the peg-board wall. Despite this, Pat Rin did not immediately have it down and hurry back to the work area. The stained rug had languished for years without care. A few heartbeats more would do it no harm.
Leaning against the wall, he closed his eyes and took stock. The headache was the merest feeling of tightness behind his eyes, his stomach was empty, but unconcerned. In all, he had managed to come out of last evening's adventures in fairly good order. His present irritability was not, he knew, the result of overindulgence, but rather the presence of one of his pilot kin, innocent herself of any wrong-doing—and a poignant reminder of all that he was not. Nor ever would be.
"Be gentle with the child," he said to himself. "Did Luken show temper with you, thrust upon him unwarned and very likely unwanted?"
But, there. Luken was a gentle soul, and never showed temper, nor ever raised his voice, no matter how far he was provoked. He had other means of exacting Balance.
Pat Rin took another deep breath—and another. Opening his eyes, he could not say that he felt perfectly calm—but it would suffice. He hoped.
One more inhalation, for the luck. He had the kit off the peg and headed back to the workroom, and his assistant, and was brought up short on the threshold.
Nova stood in the center of the rug, shoulders and chin thrust forward in a distinctly truculent attitude, surveying the pattern.
"It is a beautiful rug, indeed," she said nastily, as if speaking to someone who stood next to her rather than one on the other side of the room.
"Indeed, show off the pattern. Tell us that it is an antique Quidian Tantara, unblemished, heirloom of a clan fallen on hard times, a clan of rug dealers who have kept this treasure until the last, until your wonderful trading skills brought its true glory to us! And how like you to bring it here as subterfuge, hiding the truth of it, magnifying yourself to the detriment of others, and to the Clan. Almost, you got away with it . .
. ."
What was this? Was she speaking to him, after all? Had she discovered a pedigree card tucked into the end of the rug? In fact, from his view now, it might well be a Quidian, the rarest of . . .
She turned and stared directly at him.
"How many times more will you fail?" she shouted.
Pat Rin froze, caught between astonishment and outrage. How dare—
"One failure should certainly have been enough," he said, struggling to keep his tone merely courteous and his face smooth. "That there are more can be laid to your father's account."
"Kin will suffer for your lapses!" Nova snarled, moving forward one slow, threatening step.
"Yes, very likely!" he snapped, all out of patience. "But never fear, cousin. The clan will not suffer because of me. I will make my own way."
"You fail and fail again, always blaming others," ranted the girl on the rug, as if he hadn't spoken. "You will die dishonored and your kin will curse your name!"
Now that, Pat Rin thought, his anger abruptly gone, was coming rather too strong. It wasn't as if Korval had never produced a rogue. Rather too many, if truth were told—and most especially Line yos'Phelium. Taking up trade as a gamester was the merest bagatelle, set beside the accomplishments of some of the honored ancestors.
He came to the edge of the rug. Nova continued to stand at menace in the center, her attitude too—old, somehow. Too tense. And now that he brought his attention to it, he saw that her face was tight with an adult's deep and hopeless grief—and that her eyes were black, amethyst all but drowned in distended pupils.
Too, she stood in something very close to a fighter's stance . . . and was not quite looking at him
Pat Rin frowned. Something decidedly odd was going on. Perhaps she was acting out some part from a melant'i play? Though why she should do so, here and now, was beyond his understanding.
He held the diagnostic kit up before those pupil-drowned eyes.
"Come now!" He said, with brisk matter-of-factness. "We'll be at work into the next relumma if we stop every hour to play-act!"
The blind, grief-ridden face turned away from him.
"How many times will you fail?" she whispered—and the voice she spoke in was not her voice.
