Local Custom

by Sharon Lee

  "An official tongue, and world-dialects. Or so the logs lead one to surmise." He showed her his empty palms. "The logs themselves are written in a language somewhat akin to Yxtrang—so you see they are not for everyone. Korval is counted odd enough, without the world deciding that we are spawn of the enemy."

  "May I see them?" Anne's voice was restrained, intense. "The logs."

  Er Thom smiled. "It is entirely likely that you will be required to see them, beloved."

  Her face eased with humor. "Home study for the new Dragon," she quipped, and turned her attention once more to the task of easing the back from the rickety old frame.

  This went slowly, for Anne seemed as intent on keeping the frame in one piece as the frame itself seemed determined to fail. Her patience won in the end, however, and the frayed backing was set aside.

  Atop the pic-back lay one thin square of gray paper.

  Anne picked it up, frowning at the single row of letters.

  "What is it?" Er Thom wondered, softly, so not to shatter her concentration.

  "A notation," she murmured. "I don't quite—" She handed him the paper, shaking her head in perplexity.

  A notation, indeed, and one as familiar to him as his brother's face.

  "Lower half of the second quadrant, tending toward eighty degrees." He read off the piloting symbols with ease and raised his eyes to Anne. "Alas, I lack board and screens."

  She stared at him. He saw the idea bloom in her eyes in the instant before she caught his arm and turned him with her toward the overfull bookshelves.

  "Lower half," she murmured, moving toward the shelves, her eyes on the books as if they might up and bolt if she shifted her gaze for a moment. " . . . of the second quadrant . . . " She knelt and lay her hand along a section of spines, eyes daring to flash a question to him.

  He inclined his head. "Just so."

  "Tending," Anne ran her fingers lightly, caressingly, down the spines. "Tending. Toward eighty de—Dear gods."

  It was a small, slim volume her forefinger teased from between two of its hulking kinsmen, bound in scuffed and grit-dyed leather, looking for all the worlds like someone's personal debt-book that had been left out in the rain.

  Anne opened it reverently, long fingers exquisitely gentle among the densely-noted leaves, her face rapt as she bent over this page and that.

  Er Thom moved to kneel beside her. "Is this the thing you were seeking?"

  "I think . . . " She closed it softly and held it cupped in her hand as if it were a live thing and likely to escape. "I'll have to study it—get an accurate dating. It looks—it looks . . . " Her voice died away and she bent her head sharply over the little book with a gasp.

  "Anne?"

  She shook her head, by which he understood he was to be still and allow her time for thought.

  "Er Thom?" Very unsteady, her voice, and she did not raise her face to his.

  "Yes."

  "There was a man—a man with a gun. I—the grad student. He killed Doctor yo'Kera. For this. To suppress this." At last she raised her head, showing him a face drawn with sorrow and eyes that sparkled tears.

  "He wanted the information from me—threatened Shan." She swallowed. "I killed him. Fil Tor Kinrae."

  "Yes." He reached out and stroked her cheek, lay his fingers lightly along her brow. "I know."

  She bit her lip and looked deep into his eyes, her own showing desperation. "They're going to come and demand balance," she said. "His clan."

  Er Thom lifted an eyebrow. "More likely they will come and most abjectly beg Korval's pardon for the error of owning a child who would abduct and threaten yourself and our son." He moved his shoulders. "In any wise, it is a case for the delm."

  "Is it?"

  "Indeed it is," he returned firmly. "Shall I fetch you a Healer now, Anne?"

  "You did that before." She bent her head and reached out to take his hand, weaving their fingers together with concentration, the ring he had given her scintillant against her skin.

  "I think," she said softly. "I think I'll try it without—forgetting. It's not—it seems very—misty. As if it happened a long time ago . . . " She looked up with a smile. "If things start to slip, I'll let you know. OK?"

  "A bargain. And in the meanwhile you shall practice with your pistol, eh?"

  "I'll practice with my pistol," she promised, and glanced down at the little book she held so protectively. She looked back to Er Thom's face. "Will—the delm—want to suppress—assuming it's real!—this information?"

  "The last I had heard, the delm was advised by his grandmother in matters such as these," Er Thom said carefully. "That being, you understand, Grandmother Cantra. Her philosophy, as seen through the logs, leads me to believe that the delm will not wish to suppress anything of the sort, though he may very well have certain necessities with regard to the manner in which it is made available to the world." He inclined his head. "For the good of the clan."

  "I—see." One more glance at the book, a brilliant look into his eyes and a warm squeeze of her hand. "Well, it's too valuable to stay here, so I guess I'll just drop it in the delm's lap before we go on our honey-trip." She grinned. "Which reminds me, if we don't move soon, we're going to be late for our own wedding."

  "Now that," Er Thom said, "would be very improper. I suggest we leave immediately."

  "I suggest," Anne murmured, swaying lightly toward him, "that we leave in just a minute."

  "Much more appropriate," he agreed, and raised his face for her kiss.

  THE END