by Sharon Lee
Once on those streets no one remarked her, and few noticed her passing or her business, except those who had need to buy or sell this or that bauble of stone or made—stone or metal. The half-light suited her purpose, and even so she sometimes found herself automatically facing away from the odd passerby of Liaden gait and stature who would consider her worthless, or less.
On some worlds, Cyra would have been valued for her intelligence and her skills. On others, her demeanor and comeliness would surely have been remarked.
On others—but none of that mattered, for here on Liad she was marked for life by the knife of her Delm, and guaranteed a painful existence without the support of clan or kin for at least the remaining ten years of the dozen she’d been banned from clanhouse and the comforts of full-named society.
At one time, of course, she’d been Cyra chel’Vona, Clan Nosko. Now, on the streets where she was seen most, she was “that Cyra,” if she was anything at all.
The marks high on her cheeks were distinctive, but hardly so disfiguring or repulsive in themselves to have people of good standing turn their heads or their backs on her until she passed. Yet, those of breeding did….
This was scarcely a problem any longer, for she had long ago moved the shambles of her business from the streets of North Solcintra, where she had served the Fifty, to the netherworlds of Low Port, where her clientele were most frequently off-worlders, the clanless, outlaws, and the desperate.
Her own fortunes had fallen so far that she opened and closed her small shop by herself, working daily from east-glow to mid-day, and then again from the third hour until whatever time whimsy-driven traffic in the night faltered. Occasionally even these hours were insufficient to feed her, and she would work in the back-house at Ortega’s—cleaning dishes, turning sheets, cooking, pushing unruly drunks out the back door—where her face would not be remarked—and thereby eating and sometimes earning an extra bit or two.
That was the final indignity. Very often her purse was so shrunken that she measured her worth not in cantra or twelfths but in bits—Terran bits!—and was pleased to have them. For that matter, being employed by a pure-blood Terran was, by itself, enough to turn any of the polite society from her face, no matter that the Terran was a legal land-holder.
Things had been somewhat better of late; the new run of building on the east side of the port gave many of her regulars a chance at day labor and those of sentimental bent often returned in hope for the items they’d sold last week, or even last year.
This morning she was tired, having spent much of the evening at Ortega’s, filling in for a cook gone missing. Shrugging her way into the store after touching the antiquated keypads, she caught a glimpse of someone standing huddled against the corner of the used clothing store.
Closing the door behind her, leaving behind the sound of the morning shuttles lifting under the clouds, and the jitneys in the streets, she settled into the quiet of the thick-walled old building, checking the time to see that she was early enough to set tea to boil, and to warm and wolf the leftover rolls she carried from last night’s work. She started those tasks, glancing through the scratched flex-glass of the door as she moved the few semi-valuable pieces from their hiding places to the case, and uncovered the special twirling display that held her choice Festival masks behind a clear plastic shield.
Cyra admired the green feathered mask as it twirled by, recalled the evening her aunt had brought her the ancient box and said, “This green does not become me, and I doubt I’ll go again to Festival. This was my aunt’s, after all, and is much out of style—but if you wish it, it is yours.”
And so she’d worn it to her first Festival, finding delight in the games of walking and eyeing, the while looking for people she might know and seeking one who might not know her….
Later, she’d been doubly glad of that Festival, for the marriage her uncle found for her was without joy or success, which had scandalized him despite the medic’s assurance that she was healthy—and quashing her chance at full time study at the Art Institute.
Now, of course, she was denied the Festival at all.
She took her hand from beneath the plastic shield, where it had strayed, unbidden, and returned to routine, eyes drawn to the sudden flash of color outside the window, as the light began to rise with real daybreak.
He—at the distance the wildy abundant Terran beard was about all she could be sure of, aside from the bright blue skullcap he wore to hide his hair—he was dressed in what may have once been fine clothes, but which looked somewhat worse than they ought. She doubted he could see her, but his face and eyes seemed to spend about half their time watching her shop door and the other half watching chel’Venga’s Pawnshop.
She sighed gently. The ones who had not the good sense to wait until the store was respectably open were the ones who were selling something. She wasn’t sure which sort was worse—the ones who needed something they wouldn’t be able to afford or the ones who couldn’t afford to sell what they had to offer for a price she was able to give. At least he’d be out soon, no doubt, and she’d be able to keep the fantasy she held to heart from being overly tarnished yet again, the fantasy that Port Gem Exchange was yet a jewelry store and not yet a pawnshop in truth.
The clock stared back at her. Once upon a time she had slept until mid-day when she wished. Now she used each hour as if there was not a moment to waste. And for what this early morning? so that she might eat without being observed, and without companions. No need to rush—chel’Venga’s Pawnshop rarely opened on time.
* * *
THE TERRAN STOOD at his corner across the way, left hand in pocket, watching across the way as the increasing jitney traffic blocked his view from time to time, his beard waving in the wind. He’d seen her work the door and had straightened; and was there when she went back inside to get the rope-web doormat that welcomed her visitors. The pawnshop had no such amenities as rugs or mats. Perhaps it made no difference to her customers, but such were among the few luxuries she had these days.
He was not on the corner when she straightened from placing the mat in doorway and a quick glance showed him nowhere on the street. The lights had gone on in the pawnshop. They’d likely stolen the man away. Now Cyra regretted not giving in to the impulse to beckon to him as she unlocked the door, no matter the poor manners of it. It was hard to keep good melant’i in this part of the city, after all.
And then he was back, this time carrying a large, flat blue package of some kind, and he was hurrying, fighting the wind and the traffic, threatening at one point to run into a jitney rather than risk his burden.
Then he was there, larger than she’d realized, his relative slenderness accentuating his height, the dense beard distorting and lengthening his already long face, and his plentiful dark brown hair, brushed straight back from the high forehead, making him seem that much taller now that he’d taken the hat respectfully off to enter her store.
He came in quietly, with the noise of a large transport lifting from the port masking not only his sounds but those of the door until it closed, leaving his breathing—and hers—loud in the room.
He glanced down at her, nodded Terran-style, and looked over the shop carefully. Somehow she felt he might be looking at the tops of the cases—it had been many days since she’d thought to dust them, for who ever climbs a stool to inspect them?
He smiled at her, his light brown eyes inspecting her face so quickly that she hadn’t time to flinch at the unexpected attention; nodded again, and said in surprisingly mannered Liaden, “I regret it has taken me so long to find your operation. I suspect we are both the poorer for it.”
At that he pulled from his pocket a large handful of glittery objects, some jeweled, some enameled or overlaid; pins, rings, earrings, necklaces….
And, she suspected quickly, all of them real.
“These are for sale,” he said, “for a reasonable return. Since I am very close to crashing I will not haggle nor argue. I will simply acc
ept or reject your offers on each. I would hope to get more than scrap value. You are a jeweler, however, and will know what you need.”
His hands were the competent hands of an artisan, she decided as he turned the items out on her sales cloth. Despite the items he sold, he was ringless, and despite the worn look of his clothes the marks on his hands were those of someone who worked with them regularly, not one who was careless or unemployed. Indeed, there were spatters, or patterns of colors on his skin, masked somewhat by the unusual amount of hair on his wrists, on the back of his hands, even down to his knuckles. Cyra was distracted, yes, even shocked: she had never seen a man with hair so thick it looked like fur!
“Indeed, we shall look,” she managed, fretting at herself for the incivility of staring at someone’s hands.
Quickly she sorted, finding far too many items of real interest. A dozen earrings—some of them paired and some not—all of quality. A strangely designed clasp pin, set with diamonds, starstones, and enamel work. A necklace, of platinum she thought, set with amethyst. Then the glass was in her hand, and the densitometer turned on, and the UV light, as well.
In a twelve day she would rarely expect to see so many fine pieces, much less at once.
“The pin,” she said finally, “is obviously custom work. I suspect it of more value to the owner or designer than to me….”
“My great-uncle designed that himself,” said the man, “and he is always one for the gaudy. Set it aside and we can talk about it later. Else?”
Cyra looked up—way up—into those brown eyes. He looked at her without sign of distress, and so she continued, oddly comforted.
“I would offer to buy the lot if we were closer to Festival,” she admitted, “even the pin. But these are all quality items, as you do know, and they are somewhat more—extravagant, let us say—than I might usually invest in at this season.”
“That’s not an offer,” the Terran returned, his face suddenly strained. “And I will need something for later, too.”
“Perhaps,” she suggested, “you should choose those least dear to you and point them out to me. I will offer on them.”
His hands carefully moved the earrings to a small pile, and the necklace, leaving the pin by itself, and retrieving deftly other pins and the two rings. He leaned his hands on the counter then, as if tired.
“An offer,” he said, “with and without the pin. You know that it is platinum; know that it is platinum from the very Amity object—and the provenance can be proved….”
Cyra grabbed up the pin, admiring its weight and the clasp design. Impulsively she touched his hand, the one that held the other retrieved objects, and turning it over, pressed the pin into it.
“In that case, this is better placed with someone among the High Houses. They fail to arrive here in sufficient number to make my purchase worthwhile….”
And then she named a price which was far more of her available capital than she normally risked—but far less than the value she perceived before her—and was oddly annoyed by the man’s rather curt, “That will do."
She was even more annoyed by the rapt attention he paid as she counted the cash out—as if each coin was in doubt. Then she realized he was looking at her face. Involuntarily, she colored, which made her angry. Too long among the Terrans if she could blush so easily….
“No,” he sand suddenly, his Liaden gone stiffly formal. “I did not mean to disturb you. I sought—I was trying to see if I might read or recognize the etchings or tattoos on your face.”
Cyra felt her face heat even more. She covered the scars with close-held fingers, looking up.
“Our transaction is finished. You may go.”
He reached his hand toward her face and she flinched.
“Ah,” he said, wisely. “The rule is that you may reach and touch my hand, but I, I may not reach and touch yours. When the crash is coming I see things so clearly….”
Startled, she stepped back.
“Forgive me,” she managed, and paused, seeking the proper words. Indeed, she had overstepped before he had; it was folly to assume that one who was Terran had no measure of manners.
Then: “But why this crash? Crash? You do not seem to be on drugs or drink, and…”
Now she was truly flustered; more so when he laughed gently.
“In truth, I am very much on drugs right now. I have been drinking coffee constantly for the last three days. Starting last night, I have been drinking strong tea, as well. It has almost been enough, you see, but I could tell it would not continue to work, so I need to buy food—I should eat very soon—I need to write the notes, though, and look once more before the crash.”
Cyra held her hands even closer to her face.
“You need not look at all. These are none—”
But he was shaking his head, Terran-wise.
“No, you misunderstand. I need to look at the art so I remember what comes next… Sometimes it is not so obvious to me when I start moving again.”
Cyra was sure she must be misunderstanding—but before she could reply he pocketed the coins from the counter top and hefted the fabric-covered blue case or portfolio he’d brought in, laying it across the counter and reaching quickly for the seals.
“You, you love beautiful things—you must see this!” he said, nearly running over his words in his haste. “This one is my best so far! This is the reason I have come to Liad…. this is where the Scouts are!”
Now he wasn’t staring at Cyra at all, and she found the willpower to bring her hands down and come forward to see what might be revealed.
Some kind of tissue was swirled back from inside the case and before her was a photograph of a double star—with one redder and the other bluer—taken from the surface of an obviously wind-swept desert world with tendrils of high gray clouds just entering the photograph.
But sections were missing or else the photo-download had been incomplete or—
Now the odor came to her, eerily taking her back to the brief time she studied painting before turning to jewelry.
“You painted this? You are painting it now?” She looked up into his face and rapidly down to the work again. The detail was amazing, the composition near perfect, the—
“Yes,” he was saying, “yes, it is my work. But I must not paint now, because now I am tired and spent and will only ruin what I have done. For now, the work is not safe near me!”
Cyra recalled working long and hard on her first real commission, so long and hard in fact that she’d finally fallen asleep in the midst, and woke to find the beaten metal scratched and chewed in the polishing machine, destroyed by the very process which should have perfected it.
She heard her voice before she realized she was speaking—
“If you need a place—I can keep it here. It will be safe! Then, when you are awake and ready, you can claim it.”
He laughed, sudden and short, and with an odd twist of amusement pulling his grin into his beard.
“When I wake. Yes, that is a good way to put it. When I wake.”
With a flourish he waved his hand over the tissue, swept it back over the painting, and sealed the portfolio.
“My name,” he said quite formally, “is Harold Geneset Hsu Belansium. Among my family I am known as Little Gene. To the census people I am BelansiumHGH, 4113.” He paused, smoothed his beard, and smiled wryly before continuing.
“When I’m lucky, the pretty ladies of the universe call me Bell. Please, lady, if I may have your name, I would appreciate it if you would call me Bell.”
With that he handed the portfolio into her care.
She bowed. “Bell you wish? Then Bell it is. I am Cyra the Jeweler to the neighbors here, or simply Cyra. I will see you when you wake.”
* * *
SOUND RUMBLED THROUGH the walls and rattled the room around Cyra, who involuntarily looked toward the ceiling. This one was an explosion then—more blasting, for the expansion—and not a re-routed transport flying low overhead. Rumor had it
that several of the older houses two streets over were settling dangerously, but that was just rumor as far as she was concerned. Her store would be fine. It would.
She tried to tell herself it was just the noise that was making her skittish, but she knew it wasn’t so. She had moved the stool behind the counter to gain a better vantage of the street, and had developed a nervous motion—nearly a shake of the head it was—when surveying the street.
The knowledge that she had a masterwork of art in her back room awaiting the return of the absent Bell frightened her deeply.
Suppose he didn’t return? Suppose he had “crashed” in some fey Terran way and was now locked in a quiet back room at Healers Hall, or worse?
A smartly dressed businessman carrying a bag from the pastry shop strode by and Cyra found herself looking anxiously past him toward the corner where she’d first spotted Bell. It didn’t help—the businessman had slowed, eyes caught by one of her displays, perhaps—and now was peering in and reaching for the door, carefully wiping feet, and bringing the brusque roar of a transport in with him as he entered. He closed the door and the sound faded.
Cyra slid to her feet.
“Gentle sir.” She bowed a shopkeeper’s bow. “How may I assist you today?”
He bowed, and now that she did not have the advantage of the stool, she saw that he was very tall, with sideburns somewhat longer than fashionable and—no, it was a very thin Terran-style beard, neatly trimmed and barely covering chin.
“Cyra, I am here to bring you a snack and to collect my painting.”
She gawked, matching the height, and the color of the beard, and the voice—
“Bell!”
He laughed, and said mysteriously “You, too?”
“Forgive me,” she said after a moment. “You gave me great pause. I have been watching for you—but I did not…”
He put the bag on the counter and began rooting through it, glancing at her as if calculating her incomplete sentence to the centimeter.
