by Sharon Lee
Pat Rin felt a frisson of horror. He cleared his throat.
"Nova?"
"Die dishonored," she mourned and sagged to her knees, palms flat against the carpet. "Cursed and forgotten."
He caught his breath. This was no play-acting. He couldn't, off-hand, think of any swift-striking disease that caused hallucination. There were recreational pharmaceuticals which produced vivid visions, but—
"Cursed," Nova moaned, in the voice of—The Other. And there was no drug that Pat Rin knew of which would produce that effect.
Come to that, it was not unknown for Korval to produce Healers, though such talents usually did not manifest until one came halfling. Not that this . . .fit . . . bore any resemblance to his limited experience of Healer talent.
Dramliza?
But those talents, like Healing, usually came with puberty. And, surely, if one were dramliza . . . .
Crouched on the rug, Nova looked distinctly unwell. Her grief-locked face was pale, the black eyes screwed shut, now; and she was shivering, palms pressed hard against the carpet.
Clearly, whatever the problem was, she needed to be removed from the carpet, and brought away to a place where she might lie down while he called a medic to her—and her father.
Pat Rin put the diagnostic kit on the floor and went forward. When he reached the grieving girl, he knelt and put his hands, gently, on her shoulders.
"Nova."
No reply. Her shoulders were rigid under his fingers. He could see the pulse beating, much too fast, at the base of her slender throat.
Fear spiked Pat Rin—the child was ill! He made his decision, braced himself, slipped his arms around her waist and rose, lifting her with—
The quiescent, grieving child exploded into a fury of fists and feet and screams. He was pummeled, kicked, and punched—one fist landing with authority on his cheek.
Pat Rin staggered and went down on a knee. Nova broke free, rolled, and snapped to her feet, the carpet knife held in a blade-fighter's expert grip.
Blindingly fast, she thrust. Pat Rin threw himself flat, saw her boots dance past him and rolled, coming to his feet and spinning, body falling into the crouch his defense teacher had drilled him on, ready to take the charge that did not come.
Nova looked at him—perhaps she did look at him—and tossed the blade away, as if it were a stylus or some other harmless trifle, ignoring it as it bounced away, safely away, across the rug and onto the workroom floor. Niki, brought down from her comfort-spot by the noise, stalked it there, tail rigid, and smacked it smartly with a clawed paw.
Slowly, Pat Rin straightened, forcing himself to stand at his ease.
Something terrible was happening, and he was entirely out of his depth. He should, he thought, call the Healers now. And then he thought that he should—he must—get her off of the rug.
Perhaps persuasion would succeed where force had failed. He took a breath and shook the hair that had come loose from the tail out of his face. His cheek hurt and he would make odds that he would have a stunning bruise by evening. No matter.
He cleared his throat.
"Nova?"
No answer. Pat Rin sighed.
"Cousin?"
She raised her head, her eyes were pointed in his direction.
Ah, he thought. Now, how to parley this small advantage into a win?
He shifted, and looked down at the carpet. An old carpet, a treasure— a Quidian Tantara, the pattern as old as weaving itself. How Luken would love this rug.
Alas, he sorely missed Luken and his endless commonsense just now. What would he do in this eldritch moment? Cast a spell? Trap the offending spirit in a tea box?
Pat Rin looked up.
"Cousin," he said again, to Nova's black and sightless eyes. "I . . .scarcely know you. If you must treat with me this way, at least show respect to our common Clan and tell me clearly which melant'i you use. "
He bowed flawlessly, the bow requesting instruction from kin.
Something changed in her face; he'd at least been seen, if not recognized.
"Melant'i games? You wish to play melant'i games with me? I see."
Chillingly, she swept a perfect bow: Head of line to child of another line.
"Lisha yos'Galan Clan Korval," she said in that strange voice, and bowed again, leading with her hand to display the ring it did not bear. "Master Trader. It is in this guise, Del Ben, that I became aware of your perfidy in dealing with bel'Tarda."
Del Ben? The name struck an uneasy memory. There had been a Del Ben yos'Phelium, many years back in the Line. Indeed, Pat Rin recalled, there had been three Del Ben yos'Pheliums—and then no more, which was . . .peculiar . . . of itself. He remembered noticing that, during his studies of the Diaries and of lineage. And he remembered thinking it was odd that a yos'Phelium had died without issue, odder still that the death was not recorded, merely that Del Ban vanished from the log books between one page and the rest . . .
Nova's black eyes flashed. She laughed, not kindly. "Look at you! Hardly sense enough to see to your wounds! Well, bleed your precious yos'Phelium blood out on the damned rug if you will, and live with the mark of it. This—I am old. I am slow. I could never have touched the man you wish to be. But you—always, you do just enough to get by, just enough to cause trouble for others, just enough—"
"Bah," she said, interrupting herself with another bow: Cousin instructing cousin.
"This one? Well, cuz, I had thought myself well beyond the time of my life where I must marry at contract. But not only will I wed a bel'Tarda because of you, I will bring them into the Clan because of you."
Pat Rin froze—what was this?
She swept on, a child chillingly, absolutely convincing in the role of Clan elder.
"Ah, yes, smirk. I have seen the contracts. Tomorrow, I will sign them. Do you know that the dea'Gauss and bel'Tarda's man of business met this week? No—you might have, had you checked your weekly agendas, but when have you ever done so? Did you know that, between them, they decided that your life was insufficient to Balance the wrong done bel'Tarda?"
There was a laugh then, edgy and perhaps not quite sane. "Do you know that we are forbidden by Korval to kill you? But no matter, cuz, I am to both carry the bel'Tarda's heir, who will replace the man who suicided as a result of your extortion, and to oversee the rebuilding of their business—likely here on Liad!—since the heir and his heir died in the fire. The only proper Balance is to offer our protection, bring them into Korval, and insure that their Line lives on. For you—you nearly destroyed the whole of it! And you?"
Another frightening bow, this one so complex it took even Pat Rin's well-trained eye a moment to decode it: The bow of one who brings news of a death in the House.
Pat Rin, mesmerized, saw the play move on—
"You may see the Delm, if you dare, or you may choose a new name—one that lacks Korval, and one that lacks yos'Phelium. You may eat while you are in this house, you may sleep in this house, you may dress from the clothes you already own— but you will bring me your Clan rings, your insignia, your pass-keys. Bring them to me now. If you will speak to the Delm I will take you, else . . . .
"Hah, and so I thought, " she said, spitting on the rug.
"Remove this rug and bring me the items I named . . . Know that if you leave— if you go beyond the outside door— it will not readmit you."
With that the girl-woman kicked at the rug and stormed off of it, turning her back and crumpling into the pose Pat Rin had seen before . . . .
"I shall take the rug!" Pat Rin announced with sudden fervor, not certain that she'd heard.
He rolled it quickly, slung it manfully across his back in the carry he had learned so long ago from Luken, and hustled it out into the hall, where he dumped it hurriedly on the back stairs to his loft room, and clicked the mechanical lock forcefully.
He snatched the portable comm from its shelf and rushed back to the door of the display room, where he could see the girl huddled in sobs amid
the ribbons that had once bound the cursed rug.
His fingers moved on the comm's keypad and he wondered who they had called. A faint chime came out of the speaker . . . .another—and a woman's voice, speaking crisply.
"Solcintra Healer Hall. Service?"
* * *
THE HEALERS—a plump, merry-faced man and a thin, stern woman—arrived. The woman went immediately to Nova where she crouched and wept against the floor. The man tarried by Pat Rin's side.
"Did you move anything?"
"I took the carpet away, as she commanded," he said. "I locked the carpet knife in a drawer."
The Healer inclined his head. "We will wish to see both, later." He glanced about him and used his chin to point at the ceiling camera. "Is that live?"
"Yes," Pat Rin murmured. "Shall I—?"
"We will want a copy of the recording, yes, sir," the Healer said. "If you could have that done while we are examining your kinswoman, it would be most helpful."
"Certainly," Pat Rin said, and the Healer patted his arm, as if they were kin, or old and comfortable comrades, and strolled away across the floor.
Glad of being given a specific task, Pat Rin moved to the control desk, keeping an eye on the huddled group. The Healers blocked his sight of Nova, but, still, he was her nearest kin present and the Code was explicit as to his duties—until her father arrived to take them over.
Behind the control desk, he touched keys, taking the current camera off-line and activating the back-up. He accessed the first's memory, and started the preliminary scan.
Murmurs came from across the room as he worked, but the thin, hopeless sobbing had at last ceased, and Pat Rin drew a deep breath of relief. The Healers were here; surely they would put all to rights—
The sound of rapid footsteps sounded in the hallway, a shadow flickered in the doorway, and Er Thom yos'Galan was in the room, face set and breathing as easily as if he had not all but run down the long hall—and quite possibly all the way from Port. He paused, scanning, discovered the Healers, kneeling together on the show room floor, took a step—and checked, turning slightly until he spied Pat Rin behind the desk.
His mouth tightened and he came forward. Pat Rin touched the 'pause' key and drew himself straight.
"Where is your cousin?" Er Thom asked, without greeting, in a voice so stringently calm that Pat Rin felt a small shiver of pity for stern and commonsense Cousin Er Thom.
He inclined his head. "The Healers have come. Already, I believe the situation improves."
Er Thom glanced over his shoulder. "Could you not have moved her from the floor?"
"She . . .did not know me," Pat Rin said carefully, and put light fingertips against the cheek Nova had punched. "I had tried to move her, earlier, and she fought like a lyr-cat protecting her litter." He took a breath. "It seemed best not to make a second attempt, with the Healers on the way."
"So." Er Thom drew a careful breath of his own. "What do you?"
"The Healers requested a copy of the tape."
"Tape?"
Pat Rin swept a hand out, encompassing the showroom. "We were making an inventory of the rugs you had sent from the Southern House," he murmured. "The camera was on, of course."
"Of course," Korval-pernard'i said politely, and cast one more look at the Healers. Pat Rin could all but see his longing to go to his child's side—and then saw discipline snap into place. A wise man—a man who wished the very best outcome for his wounded child—that man did not interrupt Healers at their work.
Er Thom took a hard breath and stepped 'round the corner of the desk.
"Show me the film," he ordered.
* * *
THE FEMALE HEALER had gone, taking Nova, Er Thom and the copy of the work session recording with her, leaving her partner to examine the carpet knife—which he proclaimed harmless—and the carpet.
"Ah, I see," he murmured, as for the second time that afternoon Pat Rin unrolled the thing on the showroom floor. The Healer stepped onto the carpet, and Pat Rin tensed, half-expecting to see his face twist into that expression of angry pain.
But whatever haunted the rug appeared to have no hold on the Healer. He knelt, carefully, at a corner and put his hands flat on the ivory-and-green pattern. Closing his eyes, he moved his hands over the rug, walking forward on his knees as he did so, as if he wished to stroke every fiber.
Pat Rin, relieved that there would apparently be no second playing of the tragedy, removed himself to the control desk once more, and began to shut down for the day. He would inventory the remaining carpets tomorrow, he told himself. Alone.
There was a small burble of sound and a flash of fly-away fur. Niki landed on silent pink toes by the control board. Pat Rin smiled and held out his hand; the cat rubbed her cheek against his fingers, then sat down, wrapped her tail neatly 'round her toes and squinted her eyes in a cat-smile, as if to assure him that all was well.
Yes, precisely.
He returned to his task, comforted by the routine and her silent presence—
"What were your plans for that rug?"
"Eh?" Pat Rin blinked, and looked up at the sudden Healer. "Truly, sir, it is not my place to have plans for it. I do not hide from you that it is an extremely valuable carpet, even if the stain cannot be removed, and that it belongs to Line yos'Galan."
"Stain?" murmured the Healer, tipping his head to one side. "There is no stain, young sir."
Pat Rin felt the hairs rise along the back of his neck.
"Most assuredly," he said, moving round the desk and marching toward the rug in question, "there is a stain."
"Here," he said, arriving. He swept a hand downward, his eyes on the Healer's face. "Only look here and you will see where the fringe has—"
The Healer was watching his face, calmly. Pat Rin looked down.
There was no brown stain marring the wave of ivory fringe. He bent, stroked the supple woolen nap which had scant hours before been stiff with—blood. Del Ban yos'Phelium's blood.
"I believe that the most excellent yos'Galan will not favor this rug, young sir," the Healer murmured. "Perhaps you might take charge of it." He raised his hand as if he had heard Pat Rin's unspoken protest. And perhaps, thought Pat Rin, he had.
"I will speak with your cousin on the matter, for it comes to me that such a rug, gotten at such cost, ought not to be destroyed, no matter the pain it has unwittingly brought to a daughter of the House." The Healer cocked his head. "Keep it by, do."
Pat Rin bowed.
"Very well," the other said, with a sigh. "I leave you now, sir. A pleasure to make your acquaintance."
"Wait—" Pat Rin put out a hand as if he would physically restrain the man.
The Healer paused. "Yes?"
"My cousin Nova—what ailed her? Will she mend? How shall— ?"
"Peace, peace," the Healer laughed. "The Masters must have their chance at diagnosis, but it seems to me that your cousin has a very rare talent in the dramliz spectrum."
Dramliza. Pat Rin closed his eyes. "What talent?" he asked, 'round the pain in his heart.
"Why, she remembers," the Healer said, as Pat Rin opened his eyes. "That's all." He gave the carpet one more long glance.
"I really must—ah, a moment, of your kindness!" He leaned forward, and before Pat Rin knew what he intended, had cupped the injured cheek in a warm and slightly moist palm.
There was a small tingle—and the pain flowed away, leaving only warmth.
The Healer stepped back, placed his hand over his heart and bowed.
"Peace unto you, Pat Rin yos'Phelium. Long life and fair profit."
"Healer—" Pat Rin began.
But the Healer was gone.
* * *
PIN'WELTIR HAD GONE some hours ahead of the rest, pleading another appointment, which seemed odd at that hour of the morning—but who was Pat Rin yos'Phelium to comment upon the arrangements of a mere acquaintance? He did note, privately, that pin'Weltir had not recalled this second appointment until Luken had ro
undly trounced him at piket, lightening his brash lordship's purse by a considerable number of coins.
Still, and excusing the early departure of a guest not much missed in his absence, Pat Rin counted this first party in his own establishment a success. He was quite sincerely exhausted by his hostly duties, yet exhilarated.
The last, late-staying guest bowed out, and the door locked, Pat Rin moved down the hall to the room he had made his study. There, as he expected, he found his foster father, seated in Pat Rin's reading chair, thoughtfully gazing at the ivory-and-green carpet.
Pat Rin hesitated in the doorway. Luken looked up, face roguish in the soft yellow light.
"Well, boy-dear! Well, indeed. A most glorious crush, hosted with grace and style! I daresay you will sleep the day through, now."
"Not quite now," Pat Rin murmured.
Luken smiled. "A bit in the upper key, is it? Never mind it—very shortly Lord Pat Rin will find hosting a party three times this to be a mere nothing!"
Pat Rin laughed. "Verily, Lord Pat Rin shall be nothing more nor less than a fidget-about-town. I wonder how you might bear with so slight a fellow."
"Now, there," Luken said, with sudden seriousness, "you touch near to a topic I wished to bring before you. I wonder—have you thought of entering the lists at Tey Dor's?"
Pat Rin blinked, and drifted into the room, across the Tantara, to prop a hip against the desk and looked down into his foster father's face.
"I had never thought of competing at Tey Dor's," he said then. "Should I have?"
"You might find that you will wish to do so," Luken said, "as you consider the . . . affect you wish to sustain. For I do not think, boy-dear, that you would do very well in a long-term role either as fidget or as mushroom."
"Ah." Pat Rin smiled. "Lord Pat Rin shall be flamboyant, shall he?"
Luken raised a finger. "Lord Pat Rin, if you will permit me, boy-dear, shall be accomplished."
"I'll grant that's a happier thought," his son said after a moment. He inclined his head. "Allow me to consider the matter, when my head is done spinning."
"Surely, surely." Luken paused before murmuring. "I wonder if you have heard that young Nova takes lessons at the dramliz school now—and has passed the preliminary for third-class pilot."
