by Sharon Lee
“You may think me heartless,” she murmured. “You may perhaps think that I have never been bade to show a calm face to exile. Acquit me, I beg you. Well I remember the wildness in my heart, when my delm ordered that I be fostered to Tarnia, away from Solcintra and from Liad itself, which enclosed all that was good and proper in the universe.” Again, that small pouf of sound, which might, Jethri thought, be a gentle laugh.
“A surly and aloof fosterling I was, too. I trust that you will be more seemly than I was—for my foster mother, I ask that you be gentle, and no more bitter than is strictly necessary.”
He laughed—a surprising, hiccupy sort of sound—and heard her laugh, too. Her arms tightened once more before she stepped back, leaving him feeling comforted, and oddly comfortable.
“So then,” she said briskly. “You have an early interview with our foster mother, and will doubtless wish to seek your bed soon. Be certain that I will return for you. I swear it, on Ixin itself.”
Jethri blinked. To swear on the name of her clan—he had the sense that was something not lightly done, could not be lightly done. If her own name was more precious than rubies, how much more precious must be the name that sheltered all ven’Deelins, everywhere? He came to his feet, still chewing on the nuances, and bowed respect to an elder.
“I will look for you, in two relumma,” he said, and straightened to see a smile on her face.
“Indeed, you will. And now, my son, I bid you deep sleep and sweet dreaming. Learn your lessons well—and mind Master Flinx whenever he cares to advise you.”
He inclined his head, seriously. “I’ll do that, ma’am.”
Together, they walked to the door. He opened it for her; she stepped out—and turned back.
“You will wish to open that curtain, my child. The view of the nighttime sky is not to be missed.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, out of habit, and she smiled again and went away down the hall.
Jethri closed the door slowly, and turned to face the curtained window.
You told her yes, he said to himself.
It took a month or so to cross the room, and another week to pull the cord. The curtains came back, slow and stately. Lower lip gripped tightly between his teeth, Jethri looked up from the cords and the folds of cloth. . .
The sky was a deep blue, spangled with fist-sized shards of icy white light. A pale blue moon was rising, casting shadows on the shoulders of the mountains. Further out, and considerably down, there were clustered lights—a city, or so he thought. He remembered to breathe, and then to breathe again, looking out over the night.
The moon had cleared the mountain peak before he turned away and went into the bedroom, walking on his toes, as if the floor was tiled in glass.
DAY 140
Standard Year 1118
Tarnia’s Clanhouse
Irikwae
“SO, THEN, YOUNG Jethri,” asked Stafeli Maarilex, “how do you find the view from the north wing?”
He paused with his teacup halfway to his lips and favored her with a straight look over the rim. She returned his gaze, her face so entirely empty of expression that the lack might have been said to be an expression of its own. Glancing aside, for Liadens counted a too-long stare at the face as rudeness, he sipped his tea and put the cup gently back in its saucer.
“I found the view astonishing, ma’am,” he said, and was proud to hear his voice steady on.
“I am gratified to hear you say it. Honor me with your thoughts regarding our moons.”
Moons? He tried not to look befuddled, and supposed he failed completely.
“I saw only one moon, ma’am—pale blue and rising behind the mountain.”
“So?” She paused, one hand on her cup, then threw her free hand slightly up and to the side, fingers flicking out. “You must forgive an old woman’s memory. Of course, we are in single phase anytime this six-day! Never mind, you will soon have the pleasure of beholding all three riding the skies. Indeed, I will ask Ren Lar to form an excursion for the house’s children later in your stay, when the nights will be warmer. I am sure you will find it most amusing. Local legend is that good luck comes to those who sleep beneath the full moons.”
He inclined his head, which was polite, and put away for later wondering—or asking of the twins—the notion of a special excursion to look at moons. It might be, he thought, that Tarnia owned a starhouse and an optical scope for—
“There are certain matters of a personal nature which we must discuss,” Lady Maarilex said, interrupting his thought. “Pray forgive me if my questions seem impertinent. I assure you that I would not ask these things did necessity not exist.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, sitting up straighter in his chair. He was speaking in the mercantile mode, by special permission of the lady. She was speaking in a mode that was not mercantile, but perfectly intelligible, so long as he kept his ear on it.
“We will need to know certain things. Your family, for instance. Norn tells me that Terrans do not form into Houses and Clans, which I must say seems very peculiar to me. However, I suppose you must have some other method for tracking lineage.” She inclined her head.
“Enlighten me, then, young Jethri. Who are you?”
He took a little time to think about it, lifting his cup and taking a leisurely sip while he did, so as not to seem rude.
“I am of the mainline Gobelyns,” he said slowly. “Off of the tradeship Gobelyn’s Market.”
“I see.” She lifted her cup, buying time herself, Jethri thought, and wasn’t particularly encouraged by thinking it.
“May I know more, young Jethri?” she murmured, putting her cup down and apparently giving most of her attention to choosing a piece of fruit from the bowl in the center of the table. “Despite all Norn’s efforts, I am woefully ignorant of shiplore.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, mortified to hear his voice break on the second word. “My mother is Iza, captain; my father was Arin, senior trader. My elder siblings are Cris, first mate, and Seeli, administrative mate. My mother’s brother is now senior trader, brought on board when my father died.” He took a deep breath, and met her eyes firmly, rudeness be spaced.
“The Gobelyns have been shipfolk since before space took ships. Arin Tomas, as he was before he married, his line was scholars and explorers; he served his turn as a Combine commissioner before he was senior trader.”
He didn’t expect her to value that—to know how to value it—and so he was surprised when she bent her head solemnly, and murmured, “A worthy lineage, Jethri Gobelyn. It could not, of course, be otherwise.”
That might’ve just been the polite—she couldn’t very well disapprove of Master ven’Deelin’s choice of a fosterson, after all—but he was warmed anyway.
“I wonder,” she said gently, “if I might know your age.”
“Seventeen Standard Years, ma’am.”
“Hah. And your name day?”
He blinked, then remembered that Liadens celebrated the anniversary of a baby’s being named, which might, as Vil Tor told it, be done within seconds of the birth, or as long as twelve days past. Near as he knew, he’d been named simultaneous with being born. He inclined his head slightly.
“Day two-thirteen, ma’am.”
“Delightful! We shall have the felicity of ushering you into your eighteenth year. The house is honored.”
He didn’t exactly scan why that should be such an honor, ‘specially when stood against the fact that his birthday was more often forgot than not. When he’d been a kid, Seeli’d made sure there was some special favorite eatable in his dinner, and Cris would give him a little something by way of a present—a booktape, maybe, or an odd-bit he’d found during the trade rounds. His fourteenth birthday, there wasn’t any special tasty in his dinner, though the occasion of his birth had been marked by Cris, who had given him the grown-up wrench set he still wore on his belt. After that—well, he was too old for wanting after special tidbits and gee-gaws.
Carefully, he incline
d his head. “I am grateful, but the House need not exert itself on my account.”
Lady Maarilex raised an eyebrow. “Norn is correct. Far too much sensibility. Hear me, Jethri Gobelyn: The house exerts itself on your behalf because it is what the house demands of itself. Your part is to strive to be worthy of our care. Am I plain?”
He swallowed and looked down into his teacup. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Now, lift up your face like the bold young man I know you to be and tell me how you came to meet Norn.”
Of the questions he might have expected from her, this one might have been dead last. Master ven’Deelin must have told her—
“Your pardon, young Jethri,” the sharp old voice cut across his thoughts. “May I expect the felicity of an answer soon?”
It was near enough in tone to Master tel’Ondor to jerk him upright and meeting her eye before he took a deep breath and began his tale.
“We met in Ynsolt’i Port, which is located in what the Terrans call the far-outside and Master ven’Deelin calls the Edge. There was a . . .man . . . who had a deal with a four-on-one payout, guaranteed with a master trader’s card . . .”
DAY 140
Standard Year 1118
Kinaveral
“SEELI GOBELYN?” The man’s voice was hurried and high—not familiar, just like his face, when she turned her head and gave him a stare, the while continuing to move. She was running close to late for the regular inspection visit and she knew from experience that the yard-boss wouldn’t wait for her one tick past the hour. Not good timing on the part of the spacer who was doggedly keeping pace beside her, though his face was red and damp with sweat.
“Can we talk?” he panted, as Seeli stretched her legs a little more.
“If you can talk and walk at the same time, we can,” she said, not feeling any particular pity for him. “I’m late for an appointment and can’t stop.”
“Maybe we can meet after your appointment,” he said. “I’m authorized to offer a trade for fractins.”
Authorized to offer a trade on fractins? Like fractins was something rare and expensive, instead of the over-abundant nuisance they happened to be. Seeli sighed, wondering if the guy was a headcase or a joker. Not that it mattered.
“Sorry,” she said, moving on at her top ground speed. “No fractins.”
“We’ll make it worth your while,” he insisted. “I’m authorized to trade generous.”
“Does you no good if we got none to sell.” The gate was in sight; damn’ if she wasn’t going to be right on time.
“Wait—”
“No time to wait!” she snapped, more than a little out of breath. “And we ain’t got any fractins.”
She was under the canopy, then, her body breaking the beam of the spy-eye.
“Maybe I can call on your trader!” The man called behind her and Seeli sighed. Headcase.
“Sure,” she yelled over her shoulder as the gate swung open. “Talk to our trader.”
DAY 140
Standard Year 1118
Irikwae
UPSTAIRS, DOWNSTAIRS, upstairs, downstairs, front stairs, back stairs. Secret stairs, too. Not to mention the hallways, public, private and almost-forgot. By the time they made it back to ground level and toured the big kitchen and the little one, Jethri was ready for a solid couple hours of sleep.
After breakfast, Lady Maarilex had put him in the care of the twins, instructing them to provide him with a “thorough” tour of the house. It was in Jethri’s mind that they had taken that “thorough” just a little too literal. What reason for him to know how to find the butler’s closet, or Pan Dir’s rooms—Pan Dir being the cousin who was gone to Liad for his studies, and Mr. pel’Saba the butler looking impartially sour at the three of them while the twins did the polite and he made his bow. And who would have expected that there could be so many stairs inside of one structure, Jethri thought, panting in the wake of his guides. Who would have thought there could be so many hallways giving on to so many rooms?
Half-a-dozen steps ahead of him, the twins fair danced along, their soft-booted feet hardly seeming to touch the floor, talking in turns over their shoulders, and neither one having the common grace to show breathless.
“The tour is almost done, Jethri!” called Meicha, bouncing ‘round to face him. “This hallway ends in a stair—a very small stair, I promise you! At the end of the stair, is a door, and on the other side of the door—”
“Is a garden!” Miandra sang out. “The cook has promised us a lovely cold nuncheon, so that you may recruit your strength before your afternoon in the winery.”
Jethri’s feet stopped moving so suddenly he almost fell on his face. One of the twins said something short and nasty half under her breath before the two of them turned and walked back to him.
“It is,” said Miandra, who tended, in Jethri’s limited experience, to be the more serious of the two, “a very nice garden.”
“With a wall all around it,” Meicha added.
“It’s open?” He managed, and was obscurely proud to hear that his voice did not break on the question.
“Open?” She frowned, not certain of his meaning, but Miandra caught it right enough.
“To the sky? Of course it is open to the sky. Gardens are, you know.”
“We had thought to offer you a pleasant respite before your afternoon’s labors,” Meicha said. “This is our own favorite garden.”
Jethri took a breath—another one, centering himself. Pen Rel had sworn three solemn swears that centering and right breathing would all come natural to him, with practice. If I keep the current course, Jethri thought irritably, I’ll be in practice and back out again before the shift changes.
“Much better,” Miandra approved, as if he’d said something fortunate.
“Anger is a powerful tool,” Meicha added, like that made everything clear and wonderful. She reached out and grabbed his hand, her fingers surprisingly strong.
“Come along, Jethri, do. I promise, only a short walk, then you may rest and refresh yourself and frown at us all you like—”
“While we entertain you with tales of Ren Lar and his beloved vines, and give you the benefit of our—”
“Vast—”
“Sorrowful—”
“Experience.”
He looked from one to the other, and thought he saw the glimmer of a joke around the edges of their eyes.
“Ren Lar pushes the crew hard, does he?” he asked lightly, thinking of the soft-spoken, dreamy-eyed man he’d met last night at prime meal.
“Ren Lar lives for the vines,” Meicha said solemnly. “Pan Dir swore to us that he was given in contract to the mother vine, with the child—that being Pet Ric—coming to the house, naturally enough, so that the vines should never want for aught.”
She sounded so much like Khat on the approach to a story that he almost laughed out loud. He did smile and move one shoulder. “Pan Dir was having fun with you, I think.”
“I think so, too,” Miandra said briskly. “I also think that I am hungry, and that nuncheon awaits us.”
“And that time marches,” her sister agreed. She pulled on Jethri’s hand. “Come, son of ven’Deelin. It is a churlish guest who starves the children of the house.”
There really wasn’t anything else to do. Vowing to keep his head down and his eyes on his plate, Jethri let himself be pulled along, freighter to Meicha’s tug.
The trees made the thing tolerable, when all was counted and tallied. They were tall trees—old, said Miandra; older even than Aunt Stafeli—and their wide-reaching branches broke the sky into manageable pieces, if a spacer should happen to look up too quick, or too high.
The “lovely, cold nuncheon” was set out on a table at the garden’s center. There was a wall, as he had been promised, well grown with flowering vines and other creepers.
“Summer is before us still,” Miandra said, as they mounted the dias and pulled out their chairs. “Not all the flowers are in bloom, now
. At the height of the season, you can see nothing but flowers, and the air is sweet with their scent.”
The twins ate with a delicate intensity that made him feel clumsy and over-large until he forgot about it in the amazements of the meal.
There was nothing that he ate that he would not have willingly eaten more of, though he found particular favor with a few tasties. He asked the twins the name of each, to their clear approval.
“Learn the names of the things you favor, first,” Meicha said. “There is all the time you like, to learn the names of those things you care for less.”
Finally, they each come to enough, and Miandra poured them all refills of grape juice, and settled back in her chair.
“So,” Jethri said, trying to keep an eye pinned on each. “Ren Lar is unkind?”
“Never think so!” That was Meicha. “Ren Lar is capable of great kindness.”
“The most of which,” Miandra continued, “is reserved for his vines and his vintages, and then a bit for his heir.”
“Aunt Stafeli figures there, too, I think. But, yes, Ren Lar principally cares for the vines, which is to the good of the house, for wine is our wealth. Whereupon hangs our tragic tale.”
“It was,” Miandra said, sipping her juice, “our own fault.”
“We didn’t know our own strength,” Meicha returned, which might have been excuse or explanation.
“Still, we knew that something might happen, and our choice of target was . . .”
“Infelicitous.”
“Extremely.”
Jethri considered them over the rim of his glass. “Are you going to tell me what happened,” he asked, like he was their senior, which he had an uneasy feeling he wasn’t, no matter how the Standards fell. “Or talk to yourselves all shift?”
They laughed.
“He wants a round tale, and no foolishness!” Meicha crowed. “You tell it for us, sister.”
“Well.” Miandra moved her shoulders and sat up, putting her glass on the table.
“Understand, this happened at the start of last year—planetary year, that would be, not Standard.”