by Sharon Lee
"I should say not." Salissa sniffed with rather more assurance than she felt.
The green eyes flicked to her and ran—slowly and with deliberate insult—down her length and back to her face. He shrugged and turned back to Zhena Trelu. "There are other stores."
"What?" She gaped at him. "For wind's sake . . .Yes, there's another store. But this is the best store, Cory."
For a moment, she thought he would insist; then he moved his shoulders in that odd not-shrug of his and sighed.
"Zhena Trelu, you will—make sure Miri gets right clothes. Cha'trez, you want?"
She grinned and waved a slim hand at his new finery. "Warm. Work in . . ." She laid a hand on his chest, ostensibly to touch his shirt. "Soft."
He tipped an eyebrow at the old woman. "This is right? Not bad? Respectable?"
"There are women's clothes like the ones you're wearing. But, Cory, she ought to have at least one dress!"
His brows twitched together. "Dress? Dress clothes? No dress clothes."
Zhena Trelu sighed. "All right, Cory. Meri, come with me, dear . . .
But Miri tarried a moment longer to inspect his jacket. "Pretty," she admired, grinning at him. He grinned back.
"Meri!" called Zhena Trelu, and Miri laughed and ran off.
Having led the girl to the small section containing trousers and man-styled shirts for women, Zhena Trelu found that she had very little else to do. Miri's brief sojourn with Salissa had taught her the trick of the racks, and her quick eye had picked out the single recurring symbol on every item the saleswoman had chosen for her. She chose four shirts: pale blue, indigo, black-and-white check, and the palest of pale yellows.
Zhena Trelu approved those choices, allowing that they fit well enough, though there was a brief tussle over the snugness of the chosen trousers. That argument was put to rest when the girl tried on the pair Zhena Trelu thrust at her, buttoned them, and let go.
Effortlessly, they slid from waist to hip, where they hovered, apparently poised on the brink of further descent.
Zhena Trelu sighed and agreed that the others would have to do. When they left the dressing room, they found Cory leaning against the nearest end rack, holding something over one arm. When he saw Meri, he straightened, approving the light-blue shirt and indigo slacks with a grin.
"Very pretty." Stepping forward, he offered her a jacket that was the twin of his own, except that it was dark blue and several sizes smaller.
The girl's eyes widened, and she carefully put her armload of clothes on the floor. Cory helped her into the jacket as if she were a queen and the coat silk-lined fur instead of waterproof cotton stuffed with feathers. She pushed her hands deep into the pockets, fastened the front all the way to the throat, pulled the hood up to almost—but not quite—cover that outrageous hairdo, then ran her fingers over the sleeve and felt the thickness of the lining.
Cory took her by the shoulders and turned her to the mirror. She studied their reflection for a long time.
"Thank you for pretty—jacket?" she said, catching his eyes in the glass. She smiled a little. "Not Borril, us."
"Not Borril," he agreed, returning her smile, his fingers tightening slightly on her shoulders. "Very pretty us."
Then he loosed her and bent to pick up the abandoned clothing. Straightening, he smiled at the quiet old woman.
"Porlum will—make up—ticket? For all at once," he said, and went off without further ado, Meri at his side.
After a moment, Zhena Trelu followed.
They had just reached the sidewalk, Cory and Meri carrying between them the paper parcels containing their new clothes, as well as the cardboard box into which Porlum had carefully packed their foreign clothing, when disaster struck.
"Estra! Well, for goodness sake, if this isn't a surprise!" Athna Brigsbee cried, crossing the street with a wide smile on her face and her hand extended in welcome.
Resigning herself to the inevitable, Zhena Trelu forced a smile. "It's nice to see you, Athna," she managed, but so feebly that Cory, frowning, shot a look at her from under his lashes.
Characteristically, Athna Brigsbee did not notice. She seized Zhena Trelu's hand and wrung it until the bones protested before turning her voracious smile on the two slender figures standing patiently to one side.
"This must be Meri and Cory!" she surmised brightly, and Miri heard Val Con sigh. "Estra, the funniest thing! I just happened to run into Mrythis Wibecker a few moments ago in Jarvill's, and she said she'd seen you going into Brillit's with two men! She really should wear those glasses Dr. Lorm prescribed—but, my dear! so vain . . ." She turned her attention back to the refugees and their obviously new clothes.
"It's very kind of Zhena Trelu to buy you clothes," she said, speaking quite loudly. "You're both very grateful, aren't you? And you'll work twice as hard to pay for them."
"They've already earned their clothes," Zhena Trelu said firmly. "They work plenty hard already—I'm not sure I could bear up under it if they worked any harder." She turned to her charges. "Why don't you children go put the packages in the truck? No use carrying them with us to the library."
"Yes, Zhena Trelu," Cory said, and moved off at once. After a fractional pause, Meri followed.
"My dear," Athna said, not waiting until they were out of earshot. "What a very plain girl! And so surly! I know foreigners have all sorts of notions, but Estra, she can't be more than sixteen!"
Miri glanced at Val Con, noting the frown and the slight stiffness in his shoulders. "What's up?"
He glanced at her, lips relaxing into a faint smile. "That horrid woman . . ."
"Her?" She jerked her chin in the direction of the two old women. "Don't pay her no mind. All hot to hear the latest bad 'bout anybody. Ain't worth getting riled about. Waste of time." She slanted a look at him. "Like that dope of a woman in the store. Tough on her, weren't you? Took her down four pegs—counted 'em. Trouble is, she was only up three."
He grinned, then sobered. "She should not have spoken to you so." Pausing, he considered the street, judged it safe to cross to the truck, and stepped off the curb.
"Really," he continued. "She should not speak to anyone so. Perhaps I have taught her a lesson she will take to heart."
Miri studied the side of his face for a moment. "Gets hard, being treated like a complete know-nothing all the time, don't it?"
He reached up to yank on the truck's door handle and grinned at her, shoulders and face loose once more. "Indeed it does." The door did not open and he pulled again. "Locked."
Miri set her packages on the ground. "I'll get the key from Zhena Trelu," she began, but he shook his head.
"That should not be necessary." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a thin, flexible wire. Balancing on the foot-ledge, he played with wire and keyhole for a bare moment, then nodded and hauled down on the handle.
The door came open with a pop.
Grinning, he jumped to the ground, letting the door swing wide behind him, and began to put packages on the bench seat.
Miri shook her head at him. "Lazy."
When all the parcels were stowed, he slammed the door closed, solemnly checking to be sure the lock had caught. "For it would be very bad," he told Miri, offering her his hand, "if our new clothes were stolen by some desperate criminal."
She slid her hand into his. "What next? Back to Zhena Trelu and Badnews Berta?"
"Not just yet," he said, glancing around. "They seem deep in conversation—and I would like an opportunity to see what is here. Zhena Trelu rushes us about . . ."
"So, we go for a walk," she said, moving with him away from Brillit's and the two figures on the front walk. "How long you figure us for Zhena Trelu's, boss?"
He considered it. "I think we must stay the winter to balance the debt properly." He glanced at her. "Our work has not paid for these clothes, cha'trez."
"Didn't think it had," she said, untroubled. "We stay the winter and pay on our account. Then what?"
"It is also
to be hoped that the winter will allow us opportunity to improve our command of Benish, as well as learn to read and write," Val Con continued. "Then we should be able to leave here and seek out a city, if that pleases you. It is generally true that cities offer a wider range of tasks to be performed for wages—whatever wages may consist of here. It may be that we already possess skills that will make it possible for us to be—independent."
"And not get shoved around." Miri sighed. "Sounds great. If I start slacking off on my lessons, you remind me it's so I don't need to be shoved any more, okay? I'll pick right up again."
He tipped his head. "Does it bother you so much? I do not think she means it ill."
She laughed softly. "Naw. It's just been a lot of years since anybody dared shove me. And now this old lady I could bust in half with one hand—" she stopped suddenly. "What in the name of bright blue chosemkis is that?"
They wandered over to the window containing the object in question, Val Con's brows pulled slightly together, Miri's eyes wide.
The thing was rectangular in shape and made of some shiny substance that appeared to be metal. The front was glassed in, giving a view of a multitude of coils, wires, and tubes. There were knobs on the top and sides, a piece of thin metal tubing extending from the back, and more knobs under the glass. The whole affair was garlanded with red, yellow, and blue streamers.
"I haven't the faintest notion," Val Con confessed. "A device of some kind, certainly. But what it may be meant to do—or not do . . ." he shrugged. "We can find the storekeeper and ask."
But that proved impossible. The shop door was locked, and a large piece of paper bearing hand-drawn symbols was attached to the inside of the window.
Miri sighed sharply. "We gotta learn how to read. This whole damn world's passing us by."
"In the fullness of time," he said, managing by some trick of his soft voice to evoke Edger's boom. "All things cannot happen at once."
The door to the next shop was open, and from it drifted music. Real music, Miri realized. The sound of someone actually playing an instrument, not the recorded music Zhena Trelu listened to on her radio every evening.
Val Con stopped, head tipped, face intent. Miri stood quietly at his side, watching him and listening to the sounds. It was nice, she decided; something like a guitar, but softer, unamplified.
The piece came to an end, and her partner sighed, very softly, and looked at her. "Miri . . ."
"Sure," she said, and squeezed his hand. "Let's go in. Why not?"
"And did you hear, Estra, about those horrid Bassilan rebels? Landed on the coast, not two hundred miles from here! Claiming sanctuary, just because our king had made some treaties with their barbaric Tomak years and years ago! Well, of course, the king said no, but do you believe it? The report is they're moving inland. They might even get to Gylles!"
"Poppycock," Zhena Trelu said, looking around uneasily. "The king's militia will have that bunch of troublemakers rounded up in wind's time. Just a bunch of common criminals, that's all they are. As if the king would stand for an invasion, even if Bentrill hasn't been to war since people stopped using bows and arrows and wearing hides."
"Well, perhaps you're right, dear," Zhena Brigsbee conceded sadly. "But, still, Estra, what if some got away!"
But Zhena Trelu was staring down Main Street, looking hard for two short, slender figures.
VANDAR:
Gylles
Hakan Meltz looked up from his guitar and smiled at the two blurry figures in the doorway.
"Hi, there," he said in the casual way that was the despair of his father, the proprietor of the shop in which Hakan sat playing the guitar. His father did not allow guitar-playing in the store—except, of course, if one were demonstrating the instrument's properties to a potential buyer. Happily for Hakan, his father was currently in the capital, attending the king's assembly as alderman for the town of Gylles.
Hakan smiled again as the two figures moved farther into the shop and into the range of his shortsighted eyes.
The woman was toy-tiny, yet there was adult assurance about the set of her shoulders and the straightness with which the large gray eyes regarded him. She returned his smile with a thoroughly friendly grin, holding comfortably onto her companion's hand. The man lacked two inches of Hakan's height, twenty of his pounds, and all of his mustache. He wore his dark hair long for a man, and the line of a recent scar marred one smooth cheek. Smiling, he raised his free hand and indicated the instrument Hakan held.
"Very pretty," he said softly, the words accented in a way that tickled the other's ear. "It is?"
"This?" Hakan offered the instrument, and the shorter man slid his hand out of the woman's to take it. "It's a twelve-string guitar."
"Twelve-string guitar," the man murmured, turning it around and over. He righted it and tried a sweep across the strings with his long fingers, laughing softly at the discord he produced. He placed the fingers of his left hand carefully on the neck, tried another sweep, and nodded as if better satisfied. Working slowly, using a combination of strumming and plucking, he managed to pull a melody line out of the guitar while Hakan watched in growing puzzlement.
The guitar was strange to the man—that much seemed certain. But he worked with it as if he had once played something similar and knew what to expect of wood and gut.
The man came to himself with a start, glancing up with a smile of apology. "Forgive me," he said, handing the instrument back with obvious reluctance, fingers lingering on the neck. "It has been long," he said, as if to explain. "I am—"He frowned and moved his hands in what Hakan thought might be exasperation. "It is to be hungry," he concluded, head tipped as if he were unsure that he would be property understood.
But it there was one thing Hakan did understand it was the hunger for making music. "Lost your piece?" he asked, somehow certain that only catastrophe would have separated this individual from whatever it was he played. He put the guitar aside and stood, waving his hand to indicate the rows of musical instruments. "What's your specialty?" he began, feeling an impulse his father was certain to bewail rising within him. "Maybe we can work out a—"
From the back of the shop, the woman—forgotten in the music—called something out, emphasizing it with three musical keys pushed at random.
The man's brows shot up, and he looked at Hakan, eyes intensely green. "That?"
"Piano," Hakan told him. "You play piano?" But the man was already gone, heading toward the back of the store.
It was apparent that the man did play piano—or something so close to piano that it made little difference. He spent a few moments exploring the instrument, eyebrows lifting as he discovered foot pedals; running his fingers up and down the keyboard, he located true C, sharps, flats, and scales. Then his fingers moved, half-joking, it seemed to Hakan, and produced a tinkling little tune reminiscent of cool summer evenings playing hide-'n-seek.
His hands shifted, up-board and down, calling forth less childlike music. The woman leaning against the piano's side laughed softly and sang a line in a weird, chopping language, and the man grinned and moved his hands again, playing a clear intro riff.
The woman grinned at Hakan, straightened, and began to sing. He stood rock-still until the song was done, then dove across the room for his guitar.
It was thus that Kem Darnill found them some time later: Hakan painstakingly working out the melody; the piano correcting him now and then. Setting her books on the counter, she went quietly toward the threesome, trying not to disturb the music making.
The man at the piano looked up and smiled at her. "Hakan," he murmured.
"Hmm?" Hakan looked up, caught the other's nod, and turned his head.
"Kemmy!" He was on his feet, his smile a warmth she could feel. Sliding his hand into hers, he brought her forward.
"Kemmy, this is Cory and Miri. Cory plays piano, and Miri sings. Amazing stuff—you never heard anything like it. I've never heard anything like it, anyhow." He grinned at the pair on the pian
o bench. "This," he announced proudly, "is my fiancée, Kem."
Kem felt herself blush but managed a smile at the two strangers. Cory smiled and inclined his head in a formal little gesture; Miri grinned at her.
"Hi," Miri said. Her accent made Kem blink. Still, they seemed nice enough, and they were musicians . . .
"Oh, goodness!" she said suddenly, leaning forward. "Cory and Meri?"
"Cory," the man agreed, tipping his head.
"Miri," the woman said.
"Zhena Trelu's looking for both of you," Kem told them. "She's awful worried—thinks you've gotten lost or something." She hesitated, remembering that Zhena Trelu had said that they did not speak much Benish.
But the woman—Miri?—had turned to her companion with an expression of comic woe on her face. "Zhena Trelu!" she cried. "Bad us!" And she dropped her head against his arm, shoulders shaking.
Cory grinned and patted her gently on the back. Then he sighed and looked down at the piano, raising his hand and letting it fall to his knee.
"I don't get it," Hakan said, looking from Kem to his two new friends.
"They're staying with Zhena Trelu," Kem explained rapidly. "Helping her out around the farm. She brought them into town today to get winter clothes, and they wandered off—and that rattlepated Athna Brigsbee's out there calling them thieves and worse!"
"But that's great!" Hakan cried, turning to the other man. "Cory, listen to me—Zhena Trelu's got a piano! Real nice one—a hundred times better than this piece of junk," he added, with a fine disregard for the basic precepts of business.
Cory's brows pulled together, and he shook his head. "Zhena Trelu? No piano, Hakan."
Miri shifted at his side, murmuring something in a language that jarred on Kem's ears. Cory glanced at her and then at Hakan.
"There is a place—" He stopped, frowning, then sighed. Carefully he lifted his hands, wove the slim fingers together, and held the knot out to Hakan, one eyebrow up.
"Locked? A locked room, maybe?" Hakan looked at Kem, who could only shrug. "That makes sense. It was her zamir's piano, Cory. He had it set up in a room by itself. Could be she locked the room when he died—ought to let you play it, though. Regular sport, old Zhena Trelu. You just ask her about it, and I'm sure—"