Local Custom

by Sharon Lee

  "Exactly so," Daav murmured and finished his wine. Setting the glass aside, he rose and made his bow—affection and honored esteem. "If there is any way in which I may be of service, aunt, do call. And if you would prefer not to meddle with the Ambassadorial Suite, the scholar may just as easily stay at Jelaza—"

  "yos'Galan's guest," the old lady interrupted austerely, "stays in yos'Galan's house."

  "Certainly," her nephew said and crossed over to bend and kiss her ravaged cheek and lay a light hand on the sparse, scorched hair. "Don't tire yourself. I am entirely able to assist you."

  She smiled her slight, mocking smile and reached up to touch his cheek. "You're a good boy," she said softly, then waved an irritable hand. "Go away. I've work to do."

  "Yes, aunt," he said gently and crossed the room with his silent, quick steps, melting down the hallway as if he had no more substance than a shadow.

  Petrella sighed and slumped deep in her chair, concentrating on the breath that rasped, painful and hot, through her ruined lungs.

  After a time, when she was certain she would not shame herself, she rang the bell for the butler.

  Chapter Twelve

  The thing to recall about Dragons is that it takes a special person to deal with them at all. If you lie to them they will steal from you. If you attack them without cause they will dismember you. If you run from them they will laugh at you.

  It is thus best to deal calmly, openly and fairly with Dragons: Give them all they buy and no more or less, and they will do the same by you. Stand at their back and they will stand at yours. Always remember that a Dragon is first a Dragon and only then a friend, a partner, a lover.

  Never assume that you have discovered a Dragon's weak point until it is dead and forgotten, for joy is fleeting and a Dragon's revenge is forever.

  —From The Liaden Book of Dragons

  ER THOM LET himself into his stuffy rented quarters, took off his jacket and flung it over the arm of the doubtful sofa. Spacer that he was, he barely noticed the lack of windows, though the rattle of the ventilator grated on senses tuned to catch the barest whisper of life system malfunction.

  Surefooted in the dimness, he went across the common room to the pantry and poured a glass of wine from one of the bottles appropriated from Dragon's Way.

  Honest red wine and none of Daav's precious misravot! he thought, smiling softly. Leaning against the too-high counter, he closed his eyes and sipped.

  He had almost lost her.

  The thought horrified—and horrified again, for it transpired that on days when Marilla watched Shan, she most usually brought him to Anne's office in the evening, as Rilly went to teach a night class. Dependent upon the child's mood, Anne did sometimes stay late, grading papers, meeting with students, doing "housecleaning." If Er Thom had not had the tending of his son this day . . .

  "An accident," Jerzy Entaglia had said, sitting on Anne's sofa and drinking a cup of real coffee. "Just one of those stupid damn things. That's what Admin's saying, anyway." He sighed, looking abruptly exhausted.

  "'Course they haven't sorted the rubble yet, or counted the bodies—or even called up the folks who have back-wing offices, just to make sure they're all tucked up, safe and warm." He shook his head. "Likely they'll find huge chunks of a fusion bomb in the wreckage, when they get around to cleaning it up."

  "Is there—forgive me," Er Thom had murmured at that point, though it was hardly his place to do so. "Has there been thought of—of a balancing. . ?"

  Jerzy blinked at him.

  "An honor-feud, he means," Anne told her friend and shook her head. "It's not too likely, Er Thom. The whole wing went, remember? Not just one person's office. And anyway, how could there be a feud against a language department? We're just a bunch of fuzzy humanities-types. If it were a hard-science department, where they might possibly have gotten onto something someone didn't want them to have—but Languages? You might as well blow up Theater Arts!"

  "A notion over-full with glamour," Jerzy announced, with the air of one quoting a passage of Code.

  Anne laughed.

  "Yah, well, I'm outta here," Jerzy said, levering himself up. "'Night, Anne—Mr. yos'Galan. Lucky thing you were here to take Scooter today." He stuck his big hand out.

  Er Thom rose and offered his own, patiently enduring the stranger's touch and the up-and-down motion. Then he rescued his hand and bowed honor for his son's foster-father. "Keep you well, Jerzy Entaglia."

  "Thanks," the other man had said. "Same to you."

  He'd left then, and Er Thom soon after, to come back to these ragged apartments that were still slightly more spacious than Anne's normal living quarters. He pictured her in Trealla Fantrol, where the guesting suites boasted wide windows and fragrant plants and well-made, graceful furniture.

  He pictured her walking the lawns with him, visiting the maze, and Jelaza Kazone—thought of showing her the Tree . . .

  She had said she did not wish to wed.

  Er Thom opened his eyes, frowning at the clock hung lopsided on the wall opposite.

  She had said she did not wish to marry him, but that was not true. She burned for him as he for her and dreaded the day when they would part. He knew it. In his bones he knew it, irrevocably, absolutely, beyond doubt or even question of how he knew it.

  So, Anne had lied. He was a master trader, after all. He knew prevarication in all its postures, tones and faces. Never before had he had a lie from Anne.

  Why now? he wondered, and then recalled that he had taught her to fear him. Very likely the lie was credited to his account—and accurate balance it was.

  Still, if she wished to wed and denied him out of fear, the matter might yet be managed. All his skill was in showing folk who had never seen an item why they must yearn to possess it. How much easier a trade, when the one he traded with already desired that which he had to offer—

  "Wait."

  He came sharply away from the counter and paced into the common room, reaching up to slap at the ill-placed light-switch.

  He had offered contract-marriage, he thought agitatedly. It was everything that he could offer—though it was extremely irregular and would doubtless require him to fall on his face before his thodelm and cry mercy. Yet, contract-marriage to Anne—especially with the child already fact!—lay within the realm of what was very possible.

  Only—contract-marriages very soon expired and the spouses separated—and Anne dreading their eventual separation as much as he.

  "How," Er Thom asked the empty room, "if she wishes a lifemating?"

  That became a matter for the delm. Giddy as the prospect of spending all his days with Anne Davis might render Er Thom yos'Galan, yet the delm was the keeper of the clan's genes, guardian of the lines' purity, arbiter of alliances. Korval was not as populous as once it had been and the delm might very well have use for Er Thom's genes elsewhere. A lifemating would put him beyond the possibility of future contract-marriages, which left the burden of such alliances to Kareen, which was laughable—and to Daav.

  Korval might very well—and with all good cause—deny its son Er Thom the solace of a lifemating.

  Or he might be allowed the lifemating—later. After he had done his full duty for the clan—however many years it might take.

  "And I hardly able to keep myself from her for one night!" He finished his wine, ruefully. Still, it was out of his hands and firmly in the keeping of the delm, who would decide for the good of the clan and could do nothing at all until Er Thom laid the entire matter before him.

  Thinking thus, though in no way comforted, and, indeed, with an unaccustomed dismay for the ways and necessities of the clan, he went back to the pantry for another glass of wine, which he carried with him to the wall desk.

  "I shall put the thing before Daav," he said to himself. "He may best advise me of the clan's requirements, and what the delm might decide." And Daav at least, Scout as he had been, would not turn his face in horror from one who professed abiding love for a Terr
an . . .

  Seated on the too-wide chair, booted feet just short of the floor, Er Thom opened the remote unit he had brought with him from the ship and touched the 'on' key.

  The message-waiting light blinked in the top right corner, blue and insistent.

  So, then. Besides his message to the delm he had also sent word to his first mate, though not—guilt twisted in his stomach—to his mother. Ever more unruly, he thought. Brother, only see what becomes of the one of us who had always been dutiful.

  He touched the access key and a heartbeat later was staring at a brief note from his delm, requesting details of Korval's debt to Respected Scholar Anne Davis and the error which led to this balancing.

  "Hah." Er Thom cleared the screen and had a sip of wine, wondering how best to comply with his delm's request. As he put the glass aside, he saw the message light still blinking and touched the access key once more.

  "Darling, what mad coil have you tangled yourself in?" Almost, he could hear Daav's voice through the words on the screen—and smiled. "Worse, how am I to do a brother's duty and aid you in ruining yourself unless I Know All? Worse still, I have informed your mother my aunt of your return date and the concomitant arrival of a guest, from which interview I barely escaped with my life. Please believe me willing to die for you, but may I at least know for what cause?

  "I look forward to making the acquaintance of my new nephew, and of his mother, a lady I have long admired from afar. In preparation for her visit I have ordered and am now reading her entire bibliography, so you see I don't mean to shame you. In the case that you had been unaware of the scope of the lady's work, I most highly commend Who's Who in Terran Scholars to you.

  "In the meanwhile, brother, do not hesitate to call upon me for whatever service I might render. Keep safe. Smooth journey. And may the luck ride your shoulder until we meet again.

  "All my love,

  "Daav."

  "I love you, too, denubia," Er Thom murmured, then grinned. Who's Who in Terran Scholars, was it? As it happened, he was aware of the nature of Anne's work, though it would do no harm to read her published papers. His knowledge came from listening to her speak of her theories, her observations, more—he freely admitted!—because the sound of her voice soothed him in some profound, indescribable way than because her theories compelled him.

  Still, it was the joke between his cha'leket and himself—that it was Daav who was bookish. What, after all, was a Scout, save a scholar placed in peril? Meantime, Master Trader yos'Galan, with his penchant for statistics and passion for new markets, could most often be found reading a manifest.

  Smile fading, Er Thom leaned back, wondering anew how best to put a situation that grew daily more tangled into lines of orderly words, for either delm or cha'leket.

  He required a plan of action, he thought, sipping his wine thoughtfully. Best perhaps to first soothe Anne's wariness of him, and bring her gently to see that she must of course travel to Liad. Duty to her dead friend was clear, as he was certain she knew. It was fear speaking, when she talked of staying on University and not venturing forth to Liad. And certainly, anyone must be distressed at first encountering Solcintra society, though a guest of Korval would naturally be given all honor due the House. Society was prudent, if not particularly intelligent.

  So, then. Anne gentled into making the trip. Shan Seen by the delm and then, gods willing, by Thodelm yos'Galan. He expected his mother would need some gentling herself, but, presented with one already Seen by Korval, she could hardly be churlish enough to refuse to take the child to yos'Galan, mixed blood or pure.

  As yos'Galan's guest, Anne could become accustomed to Liad—and Liad to Anne, he thought wryly—and fulfill her duty. In the meanwhile, Er Thom would take thought as to how best to present his desires to the delm—and would speak to his cha'leket of the matter, face-to-face, over a glass or two, with the warmth of brotherhood between them.

  It would do, he decided. It was not precipitate, and it held some promise for success—if he was very careful and played each counter with all the craft and skill in him. He recalled that Daav was a counterchance player to behold, and smiled.

  Well, and now that he thought of it, there was a service his brother could perform for him. Er Thom pulled the remote onto his lap. He would write a quick note and then to bed, for he was to rise early and go to mind Shan while Anne went to Central Administration and found what now was required of her, with her place of work destroyed.

  Chapter Thirteen

  There are several million Traders in the galaxy, but only 300 Master Traders registered with the Trade Commission on VanDyk. Until recently, all 300 were Liaden. This has been changing slowly, as Terrans become more successful in the trade arena and able to afford the costly and extensive certification tests.

  Terran or Liaden, a Master Trader's work is exacting, requiring intimate knowledge of the regulations of a thousand ports of call, as well as a sure instinct for what will gain a profit at each. Master Traders often chart their ships' course as the trade develops, some running as long as five years between visits to the home port.

  Less exalted Traders most usually ply an established route, which has most likely been researched and planned by a Master Trader.

  The very best Master Traders are described as cool-headed, analytical, persuasive generalists who are filled with the passion to deal.

  —From "A Young Person's Book of Trade"

  ER THOM FROWNED at the remote's cramped screen and wondered just how much—and who—Jyl ven'Apon had paid for the privilege of being known as a Master of Trade.

  "Lithium, by all gods," he muttered, reaching for the mug of tea set to hand. "An enterprise as substantial as moonbeams, and she begs my hundred cantra buy-in cool as if she has a right! What can she be about? And to claim she enjoys yo'Laney's support—and Ivrex!" He paused, sipping the horrible Terran tea and considering that so-blithe claim of support.

  Neither yo'Laney nor Ivrex was master-class, but two solid, substantial traders from solid, substantial clans. By all rights, they should have smelled the overripeness of the scheme even as Er Thom had.

  Was ven'Apon's claim of support false, upon which face she was even more foolish than he had suspected? Or was her claim true, and she out to lighten as many pouches as possible before she was called to face the Guild Masters and her license—

  "Mirada!" The demand was punctuated by a bump on his elbow that barely missed sending the mug's contents into orbit.

  Carefully, he put the tea aside and turned his chair so he faced his petitioner.

  "Shan-son," he said in grave Low Liaden. "How may I serve you?"

  The boy looked at him doubtfully, gripping the red plastic keyboard-and-screen unit with both hands.

  Er Thom smiled and reached out to stroke the snow-white hair. Such an odd color, he thought. Doubtless it will darken, when he is older . . .

  "My son," he murmured in his careful Terran, "what may I do for you?"

  The small face relaxed into a smile and Shan swung the toy onto Er Thom's knees.

  "All done," he said with the air of one making himself perfectly clear.

  "Ah." Er Thom glanced down at the thing. Dirty white plastic letters spelled out Mix-n-Match, against the bright red case. The screen was narrow, and the keys overlarge—to accommodate those too young to possesses fine manipulative skills, Er Thom thought. He touched a key at random.

  "This module has been satisfactorily completed," a woman's bright voice told him. "Please insert upgrade module number five to continue progression."

  "All done," Shan amplified, leaning cozily against Er Thom's thigh and pointing at the blank screen. "Need new, Mirada."

  "A moment, if you please," Er Thom replied, putting his left arm around the child's body in a loose hug and adjusting the tiny screen for less glare. "I would like to look at the old . . . "

  In very short order he had located and accessed the toy's resident manual, from which he learned that Mix-n-Match aimed to tea
ch pattern recognition, eye-hand coordination, improve memory and lay the foundation for understanding of cause and effect. Module four, which Shan had just completed, was rated for the use of children having from 36 to 40 months. Er Thom frowned.

  A bit more searching uncovered the module's database, which revealed the fascinating information that Shan's scores were in the ninety-eighth achievement percentile of all those who had completed the module.

  "Well done," Er Thom said, touching the power-off and putting the simple computer onto Anne's desk. He bent and gave Shan a hug, rubbing his cheek against the soft, odd-colored hair. "Ge'shada, Shan-son. You have done very well, indeed."

  Shan wriggled in his embrace. "Gee-shad-a," he announced and laughed.