by Sharon Lee
“The Portmaster—” the Liaden began, but Sirge cut him off with a wave, looked down at the gun and brought it around.
“No!” Jethri jumped forward, meaning to grab the gun, but something solid slammed into his right side, knocking him to the barge’s deck. There was a crack of sound, very soft, and Jethri rolled to his feet—
Sirge Mlton was crumbled face down on the cold decking, the gun in his hand. The back of his head was gone. Jethri took a step forward, found his arm grabbed and turned around to look down into the grave blue eyes of Master ven’Deelin’s assistant.
“Come,” the Liaden said, and his voice was not—quite—steady. “The master trader must be informed.”
Gobelyn’s Market, Common Room
THE YELLOW-HAIRED assistant came to an end of his spate of Liaden and inclined his head.
“So it is done.” Norn ven’Deelin said in Trade. “Advise the Portmaster and hold yourself at her word.”
“Master Trader.” The man swept a bow so low his forehead touched his knees, straightened effortlessly and left the Market’s common room with nothing like a backward look. Norn ven’Deelin turned to Jethri, sitting shaken between his mother and Uncle Paitor.
“I am regretful,” she said in her bad Terran, “that solving achieved this form. My intention, as I said to you, was not thus. Terrans—” She glanced around, at Paitor and the captain, at Dyk and Khat and Mel. “Forgive me. I mean to say that Terrans are of a mode most surprising. It was my error, to be think this solving would end not in dyings.” She showed her palms. “The counterfeit-maker and the, ahh— distributor—are of a mind, both, to achieve more seemly Balance.”
“Counterfeiter?” asked Paitor and Norn ven’Deelin inclined her head.
“Indeed. Certain cards were copied—not well, as I find—and distributed to traders of dishonor. These would then use the—the—melant’i—you would say, the worth of the card to run just such a shadow-deal as young Jethri fell against.” She sat back, mouth straight. “The game is closed, this Port, and I come now to Balance young Jethri’s service to myself.”
His mother shot a glance at Paitor, who climbed to his feet and bowed, low and careful. “We are grateful for your condescension, Master Trader. Please allow us to put paid, in mutual respect and harmony, to any matter that may lie between us—”
“Yes, yes,” she waved a hand. “In circumstance far otherwise, this would be the path of wisdom, all honor to you, Trader Gobelyn. But you and I, we are disallowed the comfort of old wisdom. We are honored, reverse-ward, to build new wisdom.” She looked up at him, black eyes shining.
“See you, this young trader illuminates error of staggering immensity. To my hand he delivers one priceless gem of data: Terrans are using Liaden honor to cheat other Terrans.” She leaned forward, catching their eyes one by one. “Liaden honor,” she repeated; “to cheat other Terrans.”
She lay her hand on her chest. “I am a master trader. My—my duty is to the increase of the trade. Trade cannot increase, where honor is commodity.”
“But what does this,” Dyk demanded, irrepressible, “have to do with Jethri?”
The black eyes pinned him. “A question of piercing excellence. Jethri has shown me this—that the actions of Liadens no longer influence the lives only of Liadens. Reverse-ward by logic follows for the actions of Terrans. So, for the trade to increase, wherein lies the proper interest of trader and master trader, information cross-cultural must increase.” She inclined her head.
“Trader, I suggest we write contract between us, with the future of Jethri Gobelyn in our minds.”
Uncle Paitor blinked. “You want to—forgive me. I think you’re trying to say that you want to take Jethri as an apprentice.”
Another slight bow of the head. “Precisely so. Allow me, please, to praise him to you as a promising young trader, strongly enmeshed in honor.”
“But I did everything wrong!” Jethri burst out, seeing Sirge Milton laying there, dead of his own choice, and the stupid waste of it…
“Regrettably, I must disagree,” Master ven’Deelin said softly. “It is true that death untimely transpired. This was not your error. Pen Rel informs to me your eloquence in beseeching Trader Milton to the path of Balance. This was not error. To solicit solving from she who is most able to solve—that is only correctness.” She showed both of her hands, palms up. “I honor you for your actions, Jethri Gobelyn, and wonder if you will bind yourself as my apprentice.”
He wanted it. In that one, searing moment, he knew he had never wanted anything in his life so much. He looked to his mother.
“I found my ship, Captain,” he said.
A Choice Of Weapons
The number of high houses is precisely fifty.
And then there is Korval.
—From the Annual Census of Clans
On file with the Council of Clans, Solcintra, Liad
“I AM NOT worthy.”
Daav yos’Phelium bowed low. When he straightened, it was not to his full height, but with carefully rounded shoulders and half-averted face: a lesser being, faint with terror at his own audacity.
His mother would have laughed aloud at such obvious mummery. His delm—Korval Herself, she who held the future and life of each clanmember in her sedately folded hands—merely lifted an elegant golden eyebrow.
Daav schooled himself to stillness—small challenge for one who was a scout—face yet averted. He did not quite bite his lip, though the inclination was strong. Not all of his present display was artifice; it was no inconsiderable thing to bring Korval’s own Eye upon oneself, true-son though he be.
A full Standard minute passed before Korval shifted slightly in her chair.
“In the one face”, she said, reflectively, and in no higher mode than that of parent to child, “the question of how long you might stand there, cowed and silent, beguiles my closest interest. On the other face, it is Daav before me, and one cannot be certain but that this is a ploy engineered to rob us both of the pleasure of attending Etgora’s certain-to-be-tedious evening gather.” The mode shifted, and she was his delm once more, chin up and eyes no warmer than ice.
“Elucidate this sudden unworthiness. Briefly.”
Mode required that a petitioner accept the Delm’s Word with a bow. Daav did so, forehead brushing knees, and returned to the round-shouldered pose of inferiority.
“I have today received my quartershare accounting from dea’Gauss and with it certain documents needful of my attention. One of those documents was the Delm’s Formal Declaration of Heir, in which I discover myself named Korval-in-future.” He moved his shoulders, easing tension that was born not only of the unnatural posture.
“The information amazes?” Korval-in-present inquired. “Surely you are aware that you have been trained for the duty since you had sense of language.”
Daav inclined his head. “But I was not trained alone. Er Thom has been at my side, schooled as I was, word and gesture. We studied the same diary entries. We learned our equations at the same board. All in accordance with Delm’s Wisdom—that two be conceived and trained to the duty, to insure that Korval would have its delm, though yos’Phelium’s genes twice proved inadequate.”
He paused, daring a quick glance at his delm’s face from beneath modestly lowered lashes. No sign—of irritation, impatience, boredom. Or humor. Chi yos’Phelium had been a Scout herself before duty called her to delmhood, forty Standard years ago. Her face would reveal whatever she wished to show.
“Er Thom,” Daav murmured, “has a steady nature; his understanding of our history and our present necessities is entirely sound. Of course, he is a master pilot—indeed, his skill over-reaches my—”
Korval raised her hand.
“A discussion of your foster-brother’s excellencies is extraneous to the topic.” She lowered her hand. “Daav yos’Phelium professes himself unworthy to assume the duty he was bred and trained for, thus calling a Delm’s Decision into question—that is your chosen
theme. Speak to it.”
Daav took a deep breath, bowed. She was correct— of course she was correct. A Delm could not be wrong, in matters of Clan. That the Delm had mis-chosen her heir was no fault of her judgement, but his own error, in withholding information she required. He had intended to speak ere she had chosen, but he had not expected her to have chosen so soon.
He came to his full height and met his delm’s chill eyes squarely.
“Perhaps, then, I should have put it that I am unfit for the duty. While I am off Liad, performing even the most tedious of tasks required by scout Headquarters, my temper is serene and my judgement sound. I am scarcely a day on the homeworld and I am awash in anger. People annoy me to the edge of endurance. Mode and measure grate my patience. I cannot say with any certainty that my judgement is sound. Indeed, I fear it is dangerously unsound.” He bowed again, buying time, for this next was difficult, for all it needed to be said.
“I had been to the Healers, last leave, and asked that the distemper be mended.”
“Ah,” said Korval. “And was it so?”
Daav felt his lips twitch toward a smile—most inappropriate when one was in conversation with one’s Delm—and straightened them with an effort..
“Master Healer Kestra,” he said, “was pleased to inform me that many people find Liadens irritating.”
“So they do,” his Delm agreed gravely. “Most especially do yos’Pheliums who have not yet attained their thirtieth name-day find Liadens annoying. If you will accept the experience of one who is your elder, I will certify that the annoyance does ease, with time.”
Daav bowed acceptance of an elder’s wisdom. “I would welcome instruction on how not to do a murder in the interim.”
Korval tipped her head, looking into his eyes with such intensity he thought she must see into his secret soul. It required effort, to neither flinch nor look away, but less effort—noticeably less effort—than had been required, even five years ago.
“As concerned as that,” Korval murmured and looked down at her folded hands, releasing him. She was silent for a few moments, then looked back to his face.
“Very well. The Delm will take her Decision under review.”
Daav felt his knees give, and covered the slight sag with a bow of gratitude.
“All very fine,” said Korval. “But I will not start you in the habit of questioning Delm’s Decision.”
“Of course not.” He bowed again, every line eloquent of respect.
“So very well-trained,” Korval murmured, rising from her chair. “It’s nothing short of marvelous.”
* * *
FROWNING, DAAV CONSIDERED the gun.
It was not a pretty gun, in the way meant by those who admired jeweled grips and platinum-chased cylinders. It was a functional gun, made to his own specifications and tuned by Master Marksman Tey Dor himself. It was also small, and could be hidden with equal ease in Daav’s sleeve or his palm.
Etgora’s evening-gather, now. It might please his mother to dismiss this evening’s affair as tedious, but the papers forwarded by dea’Gauss had shown that it was not so long ago that Clan Etgora and Clan Korval had come at odds—and when Balance was done, it was Korval who showed the profit.
Etgora had pretensions. A clan with its profit solidly in the star-trade, they had strained after High House status, and fell but a hand’s breadth short before the loss to Korval set them a dozen Standard years further back from the goal. There was bitterness in the House on that count, Daav did not doubt.
However, if Etgora wished to secure its teetering position as a high-tier Mid House, they must show a smooth face to adversity. Of course they would place Korval upon the most-honored guest list. They could not do otherwise and survive.
By the same logic of survival, Etgora would take utmost care that no slight or insult befell Korval while she was in their care.
Which meant that Daav, chancy tempered as he knew himself to be, might safely leave his hideaway in its custom-fitted box.
And yet….
“Might,” he murmured, slipping the little gun into his sleeve, “is not ought.”
He glanced to the mirror, smoothed the sleeve, twitched the lace at his throat, touched the sapphire in his right ear and made an ironic bow. His reflection—black-browed, lean and over-long—returned the salutation gracefully.
“Do try not to kill anyone tonight, Daav,” he told himself. “Murder would only make the evening more tedious.”
* * *
THEY WERE ADMITTED to Etgora’s townhouse and relieved of their cloaks by a supernaturally efficient servant, who then bowed them into the care of a child of the House.
She had perhaps twelve standards, hovering between child and halfling, and holding herself just a bit stiffly in her fine doorkeeper’s silks.
“Kesa del’Fordan Clan Etgora,” she sand, bowing prettily in the mode of Child of the House to Honored Guests. She straightened, brown eyes solemn with duty, and wanted for them to respond, according to Code and custom.
“Chi yos’Phelium,” his mother murmured, bowing as Guest to House Child, “Korval.”
The brown eyes widened slightly, but give her grace, Daav thought; she did not make the error of looking down to see Korval’s ring of rank for herself. Instead, she inclined her head, with composure commendable in one of twice her years, and looked to Daav.
He likewise bowed, Guest to House Child, and straightened without flourish.
“Daav yos’Phelium Clan Korval.”
Kesa inclined her head once more and completed the form.
“Ma’am and sir, be welcome in our house.” She paused, perhaps a heartbeat too long, then bowed. “If you would care to walk with me, I will bring you to my father.”
“Of your kindness,” his mother murmured and followed the child out of the welcoming parlor, Daav walking at the rear, as befit one of lesser rank who was likewise his Delm’s sole protection in a House not their own.
Kesa led them down a short, left-tending hallway, through an open gateway of carved sweetstone and out into an enclosed garden, and the full force of the evening gather.
Etgora, Daav observed, as he followed his mother and their guide down cunning, crowded walkways, was a Clan which addressed its projects with energy. Challenged to display a clean face to the world, it did not hesitate to bring the world together immediately for the purpose.
A more conservative Clan, Daav thought, his quick, Scout-trained eyes catching glimpses of an astonishing number of High Houselings among the crowd, would have invited Korval, of course, to this first gather since its failure, and perhaps one or two others of the High Houses, at most. Not so Etgora, who seemed to have formed the guest list almost entirely from the Fifty, with a few taken from the ranks of the higher Mid-Level Houses, for the purpose, Daav supposed, of filling out odd numbers.
Progress along the pathways was slow, what with so many acquaintances who must be acknowledged with a bow. Both Daav and his mother several times had to duck under gay strings of rainbow-colored streamers and the imported oddity of Terran-made balloons.
At long last, they achieved the center of the garden, where a man slightly younger and a good deal less elegant than his mother was speaking with apparent ease to no other than Lady yo’Lanna. Daav owned himself impressed. Lady yo’Lanna was his mother’s oldest friend among her peers in the High Houses, and he held her in quite as much awe now as he had at six.
“Father,” Kesa bent deeply, the full bow of clanmember to Delm, and straightened self-consciously, shoulders stiff beneath her finery.
“Your pardon, good ma’am,” the gentleman murmured, and, receiving Lady yo’Lanna’s half-bow of permission, turned to face them.
“Kesa, my child, who have you brought me?”
“Father, here is Chi yos’Phelium, Korval, and Daav yos’Phelium Clan Korval,” the child said in the very proper mode of Introduction. She turned and bowed, House-Child to Guests. “Honoreds, here is my father, Hin Ber del’Fordan
, Etgora.”
So Kesa’s father was Etgora Himself. It explained much, Daav thought, from the unexpected youth of the door guardian to her stiff determination to observe every mode precisely.
“Korval, you do me honor!” Etgora swept the bow between equals—theoretically true, between Delms, Daav thought wryly—and augmented it with the trader’s hand-sign for “master,” a nice touch, drawing on the common trading background of both Houses while publicly acknowledging Korval’s superiority.
His mother, Daav saw, was inclined to be amused by their host’s little audacity. She bowed just short of full Equal, accepting the master status Etgora acknowledged.
“To be welcome in the house of an ally is joy,” she said clearly into the sudden nearby silence. She straightened and extended a hand to touch Daav’s sleeve.
“One’s son, Etgora.”
“Lord yos’Phelium.” The bow this time was Delm to child of an Ally’s House: High Mode, indeed, but carried well, and necessitating, alas, the rather tricksy Child of a Delm to an Ally as the most precise response. He straightened in time to see his mother incline her head to Lady yo’Lanna.
“Ilthiria, I find you well?”
“As well as one can be in this crush. Etgora is proud of his achievement—and justly so!—but you and I know how to value an empty garden.”
Had he been less well-trained, Daav would have winced in sympathy for Kesa’s father. Lady yo’Lanna, it seemed, was not entirely at one with her host.
The pale eyes moved, pinning him. “Young Daav, newly at leave from the Scouts.”
He bowed, lightly. “I have no secrets from you, ma’am.”
“Do you not?” Her eyebrows rose. “Then come to me tomorrow and whisper in my ear the tale of how a certain mutual acquaintance came to break his arm in mid-Port evening before last.”
Damn. He bowed again, aware of his mother’s gaze on the side of his suddenly warm face.
