by Sharon Lee
Pat Rin opened his eyes, reached out and touched the discreet pearly button set into his desk.
Fal Den dead. He had seen him only three days past, on the arm of Hia Cyn yo’Tonin, which was deplorable of course, and had Fal Den been the sibling Pat Rin did not possess, he would have been moved to whisper a word in his ear . . .
The door to his office slid open and the excellent pel’Tolian, his general man, stepped within and bowed.
“Good day, Lord Pat Rin.”
“Alas, I must disagree,” Pat Rin returned. “I find it thus far a singularly distressing day.”
“Perhaps matters will improve, as the hours move on,” Mr. pel’Tolian suggested.
“Perhaps they will. Certainly, it is possible. In the meantime, however, I must request you to procure a mourning basket and have it delivered to the House of Imtal. I will write the card myself.”
“Very good, sir.” The man bowed. “Shall you wish to partake of a meal?”
“A light nuncheon. And a glass of the jade.”
“Very good, sir,” Mr. pel’Tolian said again and went away, the door sliding silently shut behind him.
Pat Rin sat with his eyes closed for perhaps the count of twelve, then turned to deal with his mail.
There were four letters and two packets. Two letters were solicitations of funding for ventures so wonderfully risky that to describe them as “speculative” was to overreach the facts by several magnitudes of wishful thinking. Such letters originated with the same sort of person who thought it . . . fitting . . . to invite him—as multi-season champion at pistol and short arms at Tey Dor’s—to join hunting parties on distant outworlds where he might slog through underbrush for days and fire mini-cannons at blameless creatures while enjoying the company of those to whom nothing was more pleasurable . . . He dropped both solicitations into the recycler.
Next was an invitation from Eyan yo’Lanna to make one of her house party, proposed for the middle of next relumma. That was good—sufficient time to have the tailor produce something new and appropriate, perhaps involving the yo’Lanna colors. The sudden fashion of declaring a party within hours or even minutes—the “express” mode, as it was called—made it difficult for one to plan ahead even as it made judging the party’s . . . desirability . . . all but impossible.
Eyan’s parties, however, were often amusing, correct without being stifling, and always informative. Pat Rin reached into the right hand drawer of the desk, pulled out a stiff ivory card with Korval’s Tree-and-Dragon embossed on the front, opened it and wrote the appropriate graceful acceptance. He slid the card into an envelope, penned the direction with his own hand, affixed one of Korval’s postage coupons, and placed it in the carved wooden tray that served as his outbox.
The fourth letter was from his fosterfather, Luken bel’Tarda, begging the pleasure of his company that evening for a private dinner at Ongit’s.
Pat Rin smiled. The invitation to Ongit’s was a joke, by which Luken meant to convey that Pat Rin was arrears in visits. In which complaint, he thought, glancing at the calendar, Luken was entirely justified.
He pulled out a sheet of paper bearing only his name, wrote that he would be pleased to dine with his fosterfather this very evening and begged his pardon for being a light-minded flutter-about-town. He signed himself “Your affectionate son,” sealed, directed, stamped, and placed the completed billet in the wooden tray.
The door of his study opened to admit Mr. pel’Tolian, bearing the requested light nuncheon and glass. This, he disposed upon the small table to Pat Rin’s left, then picked up the completed mail and, cat-footed, departed,
Pat Rin turned his attention to the first of the two packets. The postage was Aragon’s. He had shared several delightful and adventurous Festival hours with a daughter of the House only yesterday. As the adventure had been at the lady’s initiative, Pat Rin assumed the packet to contain a Fairing—a gift of gratitude. He broke the seal, unfolded the box, shook out the silken garment enclosed—and very nearly groaned.
He had expected Shan and Val Con’s escapade to result in a rash of monstrosities aping Val Con’s innovative cloak, the so-called “skimmer” he’d used to such astonishing effect in yesterday’s races. He had simply not expected the fashion to have taken so quickly.
Aragon’s third daughter had sent him a skimmer—blue, where Val Con’s original had been warning light orange—which modification was not, Pat Rin thought, as pleasing as one must have assuredly assumed that it would be. The name of the tailor was impeccable—in fact, his mother’s own tailor—and the material flawless. Nor did it seem at all unlikely that the silk had been chosen to precisely match the color of his earring, of which the lady had been most fond. Ah, youth.
He sighed and folded the wretched thing onto his keyboard, and turned back to the opened box. There was no note, which was proper, and told him that Aragon’s daughter had breeding, if not taste.
He picked up the second packet, frowned at Imtal’s postal mark, broke the seal, and for the second time in a hour found himself at Point Non Plus.
For the packet contained a leather book no larger than Pat Rin’s hand, stamped with the sigil of Clan Imtal. Foreknowing, he opened the volume to the first page and verified that what he held was indeed Fal Den ter’Antod’s personal debt-book.
There was no note, as of course there would not be, the Code being explicit upon this point. By the act of sending this book, Fal Den had chosen the executor of his will. He, Pat Rin yos’Phelium, was to tend all accounts left unBalanced at the time of Fal Den’s death, paying justly where the fault had been Fal Den’s; collecting fully where the debt was owed. No light task; this, nor deniable.
And he had precisely thirty-six hours in which to complete it, assuming that all debts were on-planet, which seemed likely.
He did not read past the first page. Not yet. With the patience of a true gambler, he closed the book and settled back into his chair.
First, something to eat, and some wine. His day would no doubt be full.
IN ANOTHER PART of the city of Solcintra, a second late-rising young gentleman rang for his morning-wine and likewise sat down to review his letters and the news.
His correspondence was sparse—two pieces only. The first was a terse page from his man of business, noting receipt into his lordship’s portfolio of a substantial gift of stocks and other assets.
The second note was scarcely less terse, and its subject remarkably similar. Betea sen’Equa wished to know when the consideration she had earned would be forthcoming. Happily the young gentleman had lately expended some thought upon just this subject, and knew precisely how to answer her.
From the bottom drawer in his desk, he withdrew a blank sheet of thin paper, of the sort provided to the guests of Mid-Port hotels. On it, he scrawled a few lines with his off-hand, not forgetting to omit his name, nor the sixth-cantra required to hold the reservation, sealed it and slid it into his pocket.
That done, he sipped his wine and perused the news.
His preferred service concerned itself not at all with Port news, so he lacked the account of the disagreement between the Terran and Liaden crews; nor was his latest investment, which had done very well indeed, of the sort to make the board at the Exchange.
Fal Den ter’Antod’s suicide though—that news he did take in common with the other tardy young gentleman. He, too, blinked upon encountering the unexpected headline, for he had lately been at pains to become intimate with Fal Den and would not have wagered upon finding him thus weak-willed. In point of fact, he had erred in precisely the opposite direction.
The young gentleman sighed sharply, vexed; the note he had written to Betea sen’Equa absurdly heavy in his sleeve-pocket. He drank off the rest of his wine and sat in his chair, hands folded beneath his chin, staring sightlessly at the news screen.
Long minutes passed, with the gentleman sunk deep in his thoughts. Eventually, he blinked, and sighed a second time, considerably less vexed, and o
wned that his plans might go forward, unimpeded. The lack of Fal Den was—naturally!—a blow, but life, after all, went on.
Just so.
Satisfied in his reasoning, the young gentleman cleared the news screen, and filed away the letter from his man of business.
The note from Beta sen’Equa he carried over to the recycler. Reaching into his inside pocket he withdrew one of his special sort of cigarillo, and sucked on it twice to light it. He puffed for a moment or two, tasting of the invigorating smoke, until the central embers came to red. Then he touched the tip of the cigarillo gently to one edge of the paper and held it gingerly by the opposite corner. When the quick flames licked toward his fingertips, he dropped the thing into the unit, which extinguished the flames and proceeded to process the carbon.
He puffed again, the sweet smoke rising to join that of the paper and disguise its odor. The cigarillo followed in a few moments, ashes to ashes, to further muddle any trail.
Satisfied with his morning’s work, the young gentleman left his rooms, light-footed and whistling.
“THAT’S PREPOSTEROUS.” The man who said so was some years Pat Rin’s elder; a tea merchant who owned a comfortable establishment in the High Port. Neither Shan nor Shan’s father, Er Thom yos’Galan—master traders, both—had been strangers in this place, and Bed War tel’Pyton welcomed Pat Rin in the names of his cousins.
“Alas,” Pat Rin said gently, and bowed.
Master tel’Pyton had recourse to his teacup.
“By his own hand? Forgive me, sir, but that’s powerful hard to accommodate, for the Fal Den ter’Antod I knew was no such fool.”
“I understand your perplexity,” Pat Rin murmured. “Indeed, I share it. And yet it is truly said that we cannot know the necessities of another’s secret heart.”
“True,” said the master. “Very true.” He sighed, gustily. “So, doubtless you’ve fallen heir to Fal Den’s debt-book, by which circumstance we find him once again to fail of foolishness. Pray name the price of my transgression.” He tipped his head, apparently considering this. “I suppose it must have been my transgression, though I’ll own there’s nothing in my book under Fal Den’s name. However, I’ll bow to his judgment, for he was nice—very nice—in his measurements.”
Pat Rin inclined his head and brought the book from his inner pocket. Carefully, he opened to the proper page—an early entry—and read out the recorded circumstances.
“In the fourth relumma of the year called Tofset, I misspoke in consultation with Master Tea Merchant Bed War tel’Pyton. This misinformation was the direct cause of the master ordering far too many tins of Morning Sunrise tea, which purchase greatly reduced the profits of his business. This fault is mine, and shall be Balanced at my earliest opportunity.”
Master tel’Pyton blinked.
“Are you certain—I mean no disrespect!—that this is the matter that lies between myself and Fal Den? For I’ll tell you, the incident was trivial when it happened—the tea was stasis sealed for one matter and, for another, your cousin, Er Thom, was trading on port at the time and placed the overbought handily, to his own profit and to mine.”
“This entry is the only time that your name appears within the debt-book,” Pat Rin said delicately. “Perhaps there is another matter . . . ?”
“Not a bit of it,” the tea merchant said sturdily. Abruptly, he bowed, deep and excruciatingly proper. “Fal Den leaves me in perfect harmony, sir, saving only in the matter of his death itself, which cheats me of a friend and a valued colleague. Pray tell his delm so, on my behalf, and write ‘paid’ to the debt as recorded.”
Pat Rin also bowed, closing the battered little book and slipping it away. “I will do so, sir,” he said, and added the phrase the Code demanded of those who held this particular death-duty: “Balance has been served—and preserved.”
THE SECOND YOUNG gentleman of leisure spent his day profitably in the City, meeting with certain of his business associates, of whom every one was delighted to learn of the increase in the young gentleman’s estate. He was pleased to learn, at a certain, of course impeccable, clerical service that his invitations had been dispatched in accordance with his very explicit instructions. Later in the day, he dined with friends, after which he accompanied them to an exclusive club as their guest, where his luck held at cards and he lost only a very little at dice.
“AND HOW DID you find Little Festival this year, boy-dear? A tedious bore, or a grand adventure?” Luken refilled their glasses from a bottle of Ongit’s superlative red.
Pat Rin tipped his head, considering. From anyone else, the question might have been intended as a barb. From one’s fosterfather, it surely sprang from a filial interest in himself—and gave one pause. Luken bel’Tarda was not a great intellect, but his melant’i was spotless, and he possessed a sweet, sure subtlety that Pat Rin found he treasured more deeply as the years passed. It behooved one, always, to give serious consideration to Luken’s questions.
So: “I found Little Festival to be . . . largely agreeable,” Pat Rin said, slowly. “Though I will own to some moments where one’s mind wandered from the pure pursuit of pleasure to matters of business. And of course, some bits were nothing short of terrifying.” He picked up his glass and swirled the wine, idly, eyes on the movement of the dark red liquid. “Of course, you’ve heard of Shan and Val Con’s victory at the skimmer field?”
Luken grinned. “From the newspaper and from your mother, too. She predicts a wastrel lifetime for both, sinking ever further from Code and kin.” He sipped his wine. “No fear there, I think. Young Val Con tells me he’s no intention of continuing along the line of skimmers—too wearing by half! And Shan has put the craft up for sale, now that his point’s been taken.”
He did not say, as one’s mother would assuredly have done, “No doubt with his eye already upon some other mad enterprise.”
“You’ve seen Val Con, then?” This was interesting; had the young cousin left the wiles of Festival to do family duty?
“Oh, aye, he was by this morning. We shared a bite of breakfast and a catch-up.” Luken sipped.
Last seen, Val Con had been engaged to attend a piece of business that must assuredly have kept him until very late in the evening, if Pat Rin had read the set of the lady’s face a-right. To have arisen from the double exertions of the race and the pleasure tents early enough to share breakfast with dawn-rising Luken—well. Surely, the young cousin became a paragon.
“He’s a good lad,” Luken said comfortably. “The scouts agree with him, which was the same with his father.”
“One’s mother swears him the spit of her brother.”
“Does she, now?” Luken paused, doubtless considering the issue from all sides, and finally moved a hand in negation. “I won’t say there isn’t an edge here and there—especially upon an ascent to the boughs, you know—but I do believe Er Thom has achieved other than a facsimile of Daav. No disrespect meant to your mother, dear.”
Pat Rin smiled. “Certainly not.”
The service door opened at that juncture, admitting their waiter, bearing deserts. By the time these were accommodated, and the finishing wine poured, Luken had introduced the subject of Pat Rin’s current projects.
He sighed. “Alas, I’ve been named an instrument of Balance.”
Luken looked at him, glass arrested halfway to his lips. “I wonder that you took the time to dine with me. You could have set another day, boy-dear. Thirty-six hours is little enough to right all the wrongs that might be made in a lifetime.”
“Happily, I’m set to Balance the life of a meticulous man,” Pat Rin said. “There were only four outstanding debts, and I’ve managed to lay three today.” He inclined his head, self-mocking. “Behold me, industrious.”
“I allow that to be tolerably industrious,” Luken said, apparently quite serious. “Most likely you’ll stop on your way home this evening and put paid to the last.”
“Would that I were that fortunate. The fourth is likely to be
the end of my own melant’i, if you will have it.”
“As knotty as that?” Luken put his glass aside. “You might honorably consult an elder of your clan. I happen to be an elder of your clan, in case you had forgot it.”
“Yes, very likely. In the meanwhile, I’ve no idea how knotty the thing may be, the notation being somewhat . . . murky. You might say I should simply throw myself upon the honor of the debt-partner, which I might do, had I one idea of who she may be.”
“Surely you’ve checked the Book of Clans—ah!” Luken caught himself up. “Perhaps the lady is Terran, boy-dear. You’ll want the Census.”
“The lady’s name appears to be Liaden,” Pat Rin said, “though I do have a request in to Terran Census, so every wager is covered.” He pulled Fal Den’s debt book from his sleeve pocket and flipped to the page.
“Betea sen’Equa is the person for whom—” He glanced up at a slight sound from Luken, who seemed to have lost color. “Father?”
“For whom do you Balance?” Luken asked, and his tone was much cooler than Pat Rin was wont to hear from his foster father.
“For Fal Den ter’Antod Clan Imtal, found dead by his own hand last evening. The book arrived in this morning’s mail.”
“Hah.” Luken relaxed visibly. “I had read that. Bad business. And he notes a Balance with sen’Equa? Boy-dear, I must ask if you are certain of the notation.”
Wordlessly, Pat Rin handed him the debt-book.
For several heartbeats, Luken frowned down at the note, then sighed, closed the book and handed it back.
“Betea sen’Equa, certain enough, though how one of Imtal came to—there, it’s none of mine. And distressed I am to find it one of yours, lad.”
“I apprehend that you are familiar with the lady—or at the least, the lady’s kin.”
“Oh, I know who they are—there was a time when everyone knew who they were, though I see that’s no longer the case. They had used to be Terran—I recall being told that the family name is ancient Terran—Seneca. They set up in Port, and carried on just as if they were still on any Terran world you like—which meant they married oddly, mostly of Terrans, you see, and took no care to establish their clan.”
