by Sharon Lee
"I am of Korval," Er Thom said softly. "I merely tell you what is."
She managed another laugh at that, though not so convincingly as formerly, and threw the rest of the wine down her throat. She then rose to bow a seemly enough farewell—and went away down the room, swaggering like a Low Port bravo.
MOONEL HAD BEEN IN and willing, for a wonder, to talk, by which circumstance he did not arrive home until well after Prime, to find his mother at tea with Lady Kareen.
He made his bows from the doorway and, obedient to his mother's gesture, came forward to sit and take refreshment.
"I ask pardon," he murmured with all propriety, "that I show myself in all my dust. I am only this moment come from the Port."
His mother shot him a sharp glance. Kareen's was more leisurely—and, naturally, thorough.
"Why, Cousin Er Thom," said she, in tones of false concern, "I believe you may have misplaced your ring."
Bland-faced, he met her eyes. "You are mistaken, cousin. I am well-aware of the location of my ring."
"But to go thus to the Port," Kareen insisted, eyes gleaming with spite, "where the lack of rank-ring must be noted and commented upon, is—surely—foolish?"
"Is adherence to duty foolish?" Er Thom wondered, sipping his tea. "I cannot agree with that."
Kareen's eyes narrowed, but before she could launch another attack, his mother introduced a change of topic and the rest of the visit passed almost agreeably.
He stood and bowed as Kareen took her leave and was on the point of departure himself, when his mother snapped, "Stay."
Eyebrows up, he resumed his seat, folded his naked hands upon his lap and assumed an attitude of dutiful attentiveness.
"To the Port, is it?" Petrella snarled after a moment. "I bow to your sense of duty, sir. And where, one wonders, did duty dictate you sleep yestereve?"
Er Thom merely looked at her, eyes wide and guileless.
"I see," his mother said after a long minute. She closed her eyes. "In the time of the first Daav," she said eventually, "a certain Eba yos'Phelium was publicly flogged by her thodelm. The instrument employed was a weighted leather lash, from which Eba received six blows, laid crosswise, along her naked flesh. History tells us she carried the scars for the rest of her life." She opened her eyes and regarded her son's bland face.
"I bore you," she surmised. "Or perhaps you believe me too weak to wield the lash. Never mind—we shall speak of pleasanter things! Delm Nexon's delightful visit of this afternoon, for an instance."
Only silence from Er Thom, who kept his eyes and face turned toward her.
"Delm Nexon," Petrella said, "wonders—most naturally!—what Korval means by the announcement that appeared in yesterday's Gazette. She wonders if Korval has been toying with Nexon, by raising hopes of a match advantageous to both sides—she says!—and then withdrawing all hope in this churlish manner. Delm Nexon wonders, my son, if she has been insulted, though she does hope—very sincerely—that this will be found not to be the case."
When he still remained silent, she fixed him with a stern eye. "Well, sir? Have you anything to say, or will you sit there like a stump until dawn?"
Er Thom sighed. "Delm Nexon," he said softly, "is entirely aware that no insult has been given. No contract exists. Preliminary negotiations of contract-marriage flounder and fall awry every day. As to what Korval might mean by publishing notice of Shan's acceptance to the clan—that is entirely by the Code, and nothing to do with Nexon at all."
"Bold words," Petrella commented. "Bold words, indeed, A'thodelm. Especially as there is yet the matter of an heir to the Line—which is nothing to do with this Shan. I will have a proper heir out of you, sir, and I find in Nexon's daughter your suitable match." She held up a hand, stilling his move of protest.
"You will say that you do not know the lady—that we are no longer in the time of the first Daav. True enough. Nor do I wish to thrust you into the contract-room with a lady whose face you have not seen. You shall meet her beforehand."
"I will not—" Er Thom began and Petrella cut him off with a slash of her hand through the air.
"We have had quite enough of what you will and will not! What you will is what you are commanded by your thodelm. And you are commanded to attend the gathering that will be held in this house two evenings hence. At that time you will meet Syntebra el'Kemin, who I suggest you begin to think of as your contracted wife."
Er Thom's eyes were hot, though his voice remained cool. "Scholar Davis will yet be a guest in this house."
Petrella moved her shoulders. "The scholar is welcome to join the party, if she is so inclined. It may prove—instructive—for her."
"No!" He snapped to his feet, towering over her, slim and taut as a cutting cord. "Mother, I tell you now, I shall not—"
"Silence!" she shouted, pounding her cane on the floor. She lifted it, agonizingly slow, until the point was on a level with his nose.
"You do not raise your voice to me," she told him, Thodelm to Linemember. "Beg my pardon."
For a long moment he stood there, quivering with the fury that filled his eyes. Then, slowly, he bowed apology.
"I beg your pardon."
Eyes holding his, she lowered the cane-tip to the floor.
"Leave me," she said then. "If you are wise, you will go to your room and meditate upon the path of duty."
He hesitated a fraction of a heartbeat before he bowed respect to the thodelm—and obediently quit the room.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
On average contract-marriages last eighteen Standard Months, and are negotiated between clan officials who decide, after painstaking perusal of gene maps, personality charts and intelligence grids, which of several possible nuptial arrangements are most advantageous to both clans.
In contrast, lifemating is a far more serious matter, encompassing the length of the partners' lives, even if one should die. One of the pair must leave his or her clan of origin and join the clan of the lifemate. At that time the adoptive clan pays a "life-price" based on the individual's profession, age and internal value to the former clan.
Tradition has it that lifemates share a "bond of heart and mind." In view of Liaden cultural acceptance of "wizards," some scholars have interpreted this to mean that lifemates are "psychically" connected. Or, alternatively, that the only true lifematings occur between wizards.
There is little to support this theory. True, lifematings among Liadens are rare. But so are life-long marriages among Terrans.
—From "Marriage Customs of Liad"
ANNE SIGHED AND PUSHED back from the computer. Standing, she stretched high on her toes, ceiling tiles an inch beyond her fingertips.
It takes going to Liad and living among folk half your own size to find a ceiling that's tall enough. She grinned and finished her stretch, glancing to Doctor yo'Kera's work table, where Shan sat, silky white head bent over his Edu-Board.
The Edu-Board was a self-paced, self-programmed wonder, sure enough, and it held Shan's attention like nothing before. Anne tipped her head, watching her son work, feeling a buzz of determined concentration somewhere in the behind of her mind.
Just like his ma, she thought, and felt her mouth twist into a smile. And his da, too, truth be told.
The smile grew a bit wistful. She had woken in the gray of dawn, to feel warm lips on her cheek and a light hand caressing her hair.
"Sleep again, darling," Er Thom whispered in the intimate, only-for-kin Low Tongue. "I shall see you this evening."
Drowsily obedient, she had nestled back into the quilt, waking again several hours later to full sunlight and the wonder of having two endearments from Er Thom within the space of a single night.
Gods love the man, she thought in exasperation. How am I ever to leave, if he turns up sweet now?
"Ma?" Shan looked up from his device. "Says play and rest."
"Module full?" She moved, bending over him to peer at the miniature screen.
EXERCISE TIME! The top line was
in Terran, scribed in cheery blue letters. Below, in green letters, was the Liaden approximation: PLAY WITH THE BODY, REST THE MIND.
Anne blinked and looked down at the top of her son's bright head.
"What does this say?" she asked, pointing at the Terran letters.
"Time to exercise," Shan said, patient, if inaccurate.
Anne pointed at the Liaden line. "What does this say, Shannie?"
"I'ganin brath'a, vyan se'untor." He craned his head backward to look at her out of wide silver eyes. "Play in body, rest in mind. Mirada says. Mirada says, pilots run and think."
"Well, Mirada's certainly right there," Anne said wryly, recalling Er Thom's hair-raising dash between the lumbering big-rig and his son.
Planned that trajectory to a hair, laddie, she thought. And then called it nevermind. She sighed and reached down to touch her son's face.
"You like Mirada a lot, Shannie?"
"Love Mirada." He blinked solemnly. "Play now, Ma?"
She laughed and rumpled his hair. "Regular con artist." She shook her head ruefully.
"I expect I could use a rest, too. How's this meet your fancy, boy-o? We'll have us a race down to the snack shop at the end of the hall, nibble a bit, then come back for an hour more so I can finish my search line. OK?"
"OK!" he said energetically and popped out of his seat. "Last winner's a rotten egg!"
It was Jerzy who had taught Shan first winner and last winner, a philosophical concept that was about as alien to Liaden thought as you could get. Anne hesitated, turning to stare around Doctor yo'Kera's tiny, comforting office.
Liad.
Liadens.
An entire culture that counted coup, that held melant'i and the keeping of melant'i to be vital work. A culture cutthroat and competitive in every imaginable area, where people were divided into two camps—kin and opponents.
On Liad, there were never first winners and last winners.
On Liad, you won. Or you lost.
Anne shivered, remembering Drusil tel'Bana's grief-filled half-ravings. Had there been some esoteric balancing of social accounts which Doctor yo'Kera had lost, thus forfeiting the central proof of his life-work?
Forfeiting, as well, his life?
"Ma?" Shan tugged at her hand, bringing her out of her morbid dreamings. She smiled down at him.
"Ma's being a rare, foolish gel. Never mind." She opened the door, turned and made certain it was locked before she looked back to her son and dropped his hand with a flourish.
"Last winner's a rotten egg!" she cried and they were off.
IT HAD TAKEN MORE than an hour—or even two—to finish her systematic search of Doctor yo'Kera's private terminal. Somewhere in the midst of it, she roused herself to call Trealla Fantrol and leave two messages: One for the host, regretting that she would be unable to attend Prime meal.
And one for Er Thom—rather warmer—regretting the same and hoping to see him later in the evening.
You're shameless, she told herself. Why not practice leaving go of the man now?
But, after all, there would be plenty of time to practice life without Er Thom—later. Anne sighed and glanced over at Shan, who was curled up atop the work table, fast asleep in the nest of her jacket, white head resting on Mouse.
He woke on his own just as the data-core copy was completed. A disk sighed out of the side slot. She pulled it free and shut down the main system, shaking her head.
Fruitless.
She'd known it would be, of course, but hope had been there. The next task, she supposed, tucking the disk safely away into her case, was a search of the books—a daunting task, and one likely to take more time than remained of semester break.
She wondered if Er Thom might give her a special rate on shipping the things to University.
Books as ballast, she thought with a tired giggle. Why not?
"All right, now, laddie, it's home for us!"
Shan yawned and wriggled free of her jacket. She caught him under the arms and swung him to the floor.
"Gather your things and let's be off."
"OK."
In very short order, the Edu-Board was stowed in her carry-all, Shan was in his jacket and Mouse was in his arms. Anne shrugged into her own jacket, glanced once more around the tiny office, got a grip on her case and nodded to her son.
"Stay by me, now."
She made sure of the door, checking the lock twice, turned—and nearly fell over a man hovering at her elbow.
"For goodness'—" She retreated a step, which put her back against the door, her hand rising toward her throat in a gesture of surprise.
The man—perhaps thirty, with a peculiarly blank face and curiously flat brown eyes, neat, forgettable clothing, neat, nondescript hair—also fell back a step, bowing profoundly.
"I beg your pardon," he said in expressionless Trade. "It seemed you were experiencing difficulty with the door and I had thought to offer aid."
Anne looked down at him—rather a way, as he was significantly shorter than Er Thom—and returned his bow of Stranger to Outworlder precisely.
"Thank you," she said, choosing the High Tongue mode of Nonkin, which was cool. Very cool. "I am experiencing no difficulty. I had merely wished to be certain the mechanism was engaged."
The man's eyes flickered. He bowed again—Respect to Scholarship, this time—and when he answered, it was in the High Tongue, Student to Teacher.
"You must forgive me if my use of Trade offended. I did not at first apprehend that of course you must be the Honored Scholar who shall complete Doctor yo'Kera's work." He lay his hand over his heart in a formal gesture. "I am Fil Tor Kinrae, Linguistic Technician, Student of Advanced Studies."
Anne inclined her head. "I am Anne Davis of University, Linguistics Scholar."
"Of course. But I keep you standing in the hallway! Please, allow me to carry your bag and walk with you to your—"
"Ma!" Shan's voice was sharp. She looked at him in surprise, saw him staring in—fright?—at the man before her.
"Go home, Ma! Go home now!"
"Oh, dear." She swooped down and gathered him up, felt him shivering against her, and threw a distracted, apologetic smile at the bland-faced grad student.
"I regret, sir. My child requires attention. Another time and we shall talk."
"Another time." Fil Tor Kinrae bowed precisely. "An honor to meet you, Scholar Davis."
"An honor to meet you, as well." Anne barely knew what she replied. Shan was never—never—afraid of strangers. Her stomach cramped in fear as she turned and walked rapidly down the hall, toward the carport.
THE PATIENT DRIVER settled them in the back of the car and wasted no time in putting the campus behind them. Gradually, Shan's shivering stilled. He sighed and snuggled into her arms.
"OK now, Shannie?"
"Uh-huh."
Anne rubbed her cheek against his hair, feeling decidedly better herself. Really, she thought. Of all the foolish starts, Annie Davis . . .
"What happened?" she asked her son softly.
He pushed his face against her neck.
"No sparkles," he whispered—and shuddered.
SHE WAS LEAVING THE nursery, her thoughts on finding Er Thom, when she was intercepted by no less a personage than the yos'Galan butler.
"Scholar Davis." Stately and austere, he inclined his head. "Thodelm yos'Galan requests the pleasure of your company in the Small Parlor."
Which request, she thought wryly, had the force of command. She stifled a sigh and inclined her head.
"I shall be delighted to bear Thodelm yos'Galan company," she said, glad that the Mode of Acceptance leached any flavor of untruth from her words.
"Follow me, please," the butler replied, and turned briskly on his heel.
"WINE FOR SCHOLAR DAVIS," Petrella yos'Galan directed and wine there was.
Mr. pak'Ora also refreshed the cup on the table at the old woman's side, then left, the door snicking shut behind him.
Petrella took up he
r wine and sipped, her movements firm and formal. Anne followed suit—a solitary taste of wine, and the glass put gently aside.
"You are comfortable in our house, Scholar?" Petrella's choice of mode this evening was Host to Guest.
Anne inclined her head and responded in like mode. "I am extremely comfortable. Thank you for your care, ma'am."
"Hah." Petrella glanced down, made a minute adjustment to the enameled ring she wore on the second finger of her left hand. Abruptly, she looked up, faded blue eyes intense.
