Local Custom

by Sharon

  Er Thom leaned forward, hands flat on the card-table, eyes vividly violet.

  “There is no fill,” he said, absolutely, utterly flat.

  Scouts are taught many tricks in order to ensure the best chance of survival among potentially hostile peoples. Daav employed one such trick now, deliberately relaxing the muscles of his body, letting his mouth soften into a slight smile, his fingers curl half-open. After a moment or two, he had the satisfaction of seeing Er Thom relax, as well, shoulders loosening and eyes cooling even as he sighed and straightened, looking somewhat sheepish.

  “Forgive me, denubia,” he said softly. “I had never meant to contend against you.”

  “Certainly not,” Daav said gently. “Though I will say it seems a sticky enough coil you plan to lay before the delm.” He tipped his head. “Perhaps it would be—illuminating—were I to speak with Anne apart—” He raised a deliberately languid hand, stilling the other’s start of protest. “Only to hear what she herself considers of the matter.” He tipped his head, offering a smile.

  “I shall have to hear it, soon or late, you know.”

  The smile was answered, faintly. “So you shall.”

  “Indeed—and tomorrow soon enough, for it is come time—alas!—to make my excuses and leave you to that dreadful pile of invoices.” He tipped his head.

  “In the meanwhile, promise you will engage no houses in the city—for at least tomorrow, eh?”

  “Promised.” Er Thom inclined his head and then came around the table to offer his arm.

  Arm in arm, they went down the various hallways and across the moon-bathed East Patio. At the car, Er Thom embraced him, and Daav cursed his treacherous muscles, which stiffened, only slightly.

  It was enough. Er Thom drew back, staring into his moonlit face.

  “You are angry with me.” He made some effort to keep his voice neutral, but Daav heard the pain beneath and flung himself into the embrace.

  “Denubia, forgive me! My wretched moods. I am not angry—only tired, and such a muddle as you bring the delm must make my head spin!”

  “Hah.” Er Thom’s arms tightened and when Daav asked for his kiss a moment later, he bestowed it with the alacrity of relief.

  SHE HAD WANDERED through the beautiful, strange, suite for a time, but her pacing failed to tire her. Finally, she plucked a bound book at random from a shelf and, robe swirling around her, settled into a corner of the wheat-colored sofa, resolving to read until sleep overtook her.

  An hour later she was still there, sleepless as ever, pursuing the Liaden words from page to page, resolutely not thinking of how lonely she was, or of how much she missed him, or of—

  The door-chime sounded, once.

  She was up in a flurry of blue skirts, across the room and hand on the admittance plate before she thought to tighten the sash at her waist—which was not really necessary, after all. The one who stood there had seen all she had to show, many times.

  Er Thom bowed and straightened, looking up at her from eyes of molten violet.

  “I had come,” he said softly, “to make my good-night.”

  Throat tight, she reached out and took his hand, drawing him inside. The door closed, silent, behind him.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The guest is sacrosanct. The welfare and comfort of the guest will be first among the priorities of the House, for so long as the guest shall bide.

  —Excerpted from the

  Liaden Code of Proper Conduct

  DAAV YOS’PHELIUM, fourth of his Line to bear the name; master pilot; Scout captain, retired; expert of cultural genetics; Delm Korval, lay beneath the Hebert 81 DuoCycle, one shoulder braced against the cool stone floor as he worked to loosen a particularly troublesome gasket-seal. Oil dripped from the gasket and he was careful to keep his face stain-free, though neither the thick old shirt he wore nor the scarred leather leggings were so fortunate.

  For a time he had worked with only the flutter of bird song from outside the garage for company, and the now-and-again rustle that was rabbits foraging through the dew-sheathed grass. Now, however, he became aware of something different—a deliberate, plodsome rhythm that vibrated through his braced shoulder and into his head.

  Attention on the gasket, he wondered briefly if there was an elephant loose on the lawns. He was mildly disappointed, but not really surprised, when a few minutes later the plodding became the harsh click of boot heels striking stone flooring and a sound was vented in the sudden silence that his Scout sensibilities cataloged as a human sigh.

  “What,” demanded the voice of his sister, speaking in the mode of Elder Sibling to Child, “are you doing under there?”

  The gasket-seal at last heeded his promptings and fell free, releasing a minor downpour of oil. He flinched back from the splatter that liberally redecorated his shirt-front and peered around the Hebert’s front wheel.

  Creamy leather boots met his gaze, striped here and there with light blue grass-stains. The stiff silk trousers that belled over them, falling precisely to the instep, were of an identical cream color. Daav turned his attention back to the gasket.

  “Good morning, Kareen,” he called, mindful of his manners, and phrasing the reply in Adult Siblings.

  The Right Noble Kareen yos’Phelium allowed herself a second sigh. “What are you doing under there?” she asked again, still in that tone of exasperated scolding.

  “Replacing the winder-gasket and repairing the sync-motor,” Daav said, carefully using a solvent-soaked towel to clean the gasket seat.

  There was a short silence before his sister asked, with lamentable predictability, “And that is a task of such urgency you must attend it before you receive your own kin?”

  “Well,” Daav allowed judiciously, working the new gasket around to the proper orientation. “There is some urgency attached to it, yes. The final part required for the repair only arrived from Terra last evening and as soon as I have the sync-motor geared, the cycle will be in fine state for racing. I confess I have been wanting to race it anytime this last Standard, but it would not do, you know, to enlist an unsafe machine.”

  “Race!” Kareen’s voice carried a wealth of loathing much more suited to the elder sibling mode she yet insisted upon than the mode he had offered. “One hopes you have more care for your duty than to endanger the person of Korval Himself in a race. Most especially as you have not yet seen fit to provide the clan with your heir.”

  “Oh, no!” Daav said, as the gasket clicked satisfyingly into place. “Please do not tease yourself on that account one moment longer! Of course I have designated an heir. Only this morning I re-initialed the document pertaining to the matter.”

  “Only this morning,” Kareen repeated, voice suddenly silken with malice. “How very busy you are, younger brother. No doubt this re-initialing has much to do with yos’Galan’s latest impropriety.”

  “yos’Galan’s impropriety?” Daav demanded, letting go the gasket and staring wide-eyed at the boots. “Never tell me Aunt Petrella’s been brawling in taverns again!”

  “Yes, very good. The Clan hovering on the brink of ruin and you in one of your distempers!” She stopped herself so sharply Daav fancied he had heard her mouth snap shut.

  “On the brink of ruin?” he repeated, in accents of wonder. “Are we impoverished, then? Small wonder you disturb yourself to come to me here! I honor your sense of duty, that you brought the news yourself.”

  One of the boots lifted. Daav watched it with interest, wondering if he had so easily driven Kareen to the point of stamping her foot at him.

  The boot hesitated, then sank, with only the faintest of heel-clicks, to the floor.

  “Will it please you to come out?” she asked with astonishing mildness. “It would be best, could we discuss a certain matter face to face.”

  Beneath the cycle, Daav frowned. Kareen’s conversation rarely descended into civility. She must want something from him very badly, indeed.

  “Well,” he said, by way of se
eking a range, “I had hoped to effect the necessary repairs this morning … “

  “I see.” That, at least, was as acerbic as a brother might wish, but the sentence that followed was nothing short of alarming. “If you will name a time when it will be convenient to speak with me regarding a matter of utmost seriousness, I shall endeavor to wait upon you then.”

  Oh, dear, Daav thought. If this goes on we’ll actually have her calling me by name.

  He toyed with the notion of sending her away until the afternoon, but reluctantly gave it up. The interview with Anne Davis might well prove lengthy and he had no wish to crowd himself on a matter of such importance.

  Sighing lightly, he turned onto his back and called out, “A moment! I shall attend you forthwith!”

  He then scrambled out from beneath the Hebert, an operation not abundant of grace, and came ‘round to lean a hip against the fender, stripping off his oily gloves as he considered his sister’s face.

  “All right, Kareen. What is it?”

  She flinched at the state of his clothes, which was expectable in one who regarded dirt as a personal affront, but forbore from comment.

  Instead, she bowed, if not respectfully then at least with that intent, and straightened to look him in the eye.

  “It has come to one’s attention,” she said, mildly, “that the delm has Seen a child called yos’Galan, which yos’Galan has not likewise Seen. Such an irregular circumstance must, alas, awaken the liveliest speculations among those who move in the world. That the child exists outside of any recorded contract thickens the sauce, while the fact of mixed parentage adds piquancy for those whose favorite dish is scandal broth.”

  Herself chiefest among them, Daav thought uncharitably. He raised his eyebrows.

  “I must say, it seems a very bad case, put thus.”

  “And yet not entirely hopeless,” Kareen assured him. “Given one who is known in the world, who possesses the necessary skills, working with the clan’s interest at heart—the broth may never gain the dining board.” She inclined her head.

  “It is thus that I may serve Korval.”

  “You offer to undertake damage control, do you?” He grit his teeth against a surge of anger at the effrontery of it. Kareen, to wash Er Thom’s face for him? More likely the scheme of letting a house in Solcintra would find the delm’s favor than—

  “How much?” he snapped, barely resisting the temptation to address her in the mercantile mode.

  Kareen stared. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Oh, come, come!” He moved a hand in a sweeping, deliberately meaningless gesture. “Surely we know each other too well to pretend of coyness! You offer to perform a service. I desire to know your price. I will then decide if the price is fair or dear.” He met her eyes, his own hard as black diamond.

  “Tell me what you want, Kareen.”

  She touched her tongue to her lips, though she matched him, stare for stare.

  “I want my heir returned me.”

  Of course. Daav reached up and fingered the silver twist hanging in his ear, souvenir of his Scouting days.

  “Your heir,” he mused, letting his gaze wander from hers and fix upon a point slightly above her head. He continued to play with the earring. “Enlighten me. Has your heir a name?”

  “His name is Pat Rin, as you well know!”

  Well, at least they had done with that unnatural civility. Daav very nearly smiled as he let the earring go.

  “And have you seen Pat Rin of late?”

  “I saw him not twelve-day gone,” she answered, somewhat snappishly.

  “So nearly as that. Then you will be able to tell me of his latest interest.”

  “His interest?” Kareen glanced aside. “Why, his studies interest him, naturally, though I must say that Luken bel’Tarda does not insist upon the level of achievement I consider—” She broke off, respiration slightly up, and fingered the brooch at her throat before continuing.

  “He is forever rambling about outdoors, so I expect, as all boys, he is fond of falling in streams and—and climbing trees and fetching down bird’s nests … “

  “Guns,” Daav said gently. Kareen’s head jerked toward him as if he had pulled a wire.

  “Guns?” she repeated blankly.

  “He bids fair to become an expert on guns,” Daav told her. “Everything about them interests him. How they work. Why one sort is superior to another sort. How they are put together. How they are taken apart. Relative benefits of velocities versus projectile size. The theory of marksmanship.” He bowed slightly. “When I last visited, I took him a beginner’s pistol and we had a bit of target practice. I would say, should his interest continue, that he holds potential as a marksman of some note.”

  “A marksman.” Kareen did not even try to mask the loathing in her voice.

  Daav raised an eyebrow. “Our mother belonged to Teydor’s, did she not? And successfully defended her place as club champion for five years together. Why should Pat Rin not be as good—or better? Or at very least have the chance to explore his interest to its fullest?

  “But you are not interested in such matters,” he continued after a moment. “You are most naturally interested in knowing whether the service you offer will be accepted.” He moved a hand in negation. “Your price is found too high.”

  “So.” It was nearly a hiss. “Er Thom yos’Galan is to be allowed a bastard mongrel and not required to make so much as a bow to society! But I, who have done duty and desire only to serve the clan, must have my son fostered away without my consent, for no reason other than you had decided—”

  “I will remind you that the delm decided,” Daav cut in. “I shall also give you two pieces of advice: The first is to compose yourself. The second is that you drop the words ‘bastard’ and ‘mongrel’ from your vocabulary. The child’s name is Shan yos’Galan. He is the son of Er Thom yos’Galan and Anne Davis, both of whom acknowledge him as their own, so you see that ‘bastard’ is inexact.”

  “‘Mongrel’ however is no more than plain truth!” Kareen cried, apparently choosing to ignore his first piece of advice.

  “I find the word offensive,” Daav said evenly, and sighed sharply. “Come, Kareen, have sense! Your concern is that those with nothing better to do than scrounge for trouble will scan back through The Gazette and find that there has been no contract between Er Thom yos’Galan and Anne Davis, with the child to come to Korval. Eh?”

  “Yes, certainly—”

  “And yet you choose to ignore the fact that persons of such mind will without difficulty find listed in that same Gazette the information that Pat Rin yos’Phelium has been taken from his fostering and returned to his mother. And that they will think to themselves, bribe.”

  “And you consider yourself equal to the task of cleaning Korval’s melant’i among the High Houses—”

  “I remind you again that I am delm,” Daav interrupted with exquisite gentleness. “Should Korval’s melant’i require repair, it is no less than my duty to see such repair done. However, there is nothing to be mended. The clan accepts who it will, and no explanations due any outside of the clan.” He took a careful breath.

  “I advise you to leave me, Kareen. Now.”

  Her lips parted but no words came and in a moment she had made her bow.

  “Good-day,” she stated, in a tone so absolutely neutral it might be said to be mode-less. She left him then, quickly, heavy steps rattling the paving stones.

  Daav stood where he was until he heard a motor start up, far down the hill. Then and only then did he allow his shoulders to lose their level rigidness and, pulling the gloves back over his hands, went to put his tools away.

  THEY WOKE EARLY, shared a glass of morning wine and a leisurely, sensual shower. Then, like children sneaking a holiday, they had gone to explore the house.

  Anne was soon thoroughly lost, her head a muddle of Parlors, Public Rooms and Receiving Chambers, and at last stopped in the middle of an opulent hall, laughing.


  “Don’t leave me, love, for if you did I’d never find my rooms again!” She shook her head. “I can see I’ll have to carry a sack of bread crumbs with me and remember to scatter them well!”

  “Yes, but you know, the servants are very efficient,” Er Thom murmured, swaying close and smiling up into her face. “Likely they would have the crumbs swept up far ahead of the time you wished to return.”

  “Then I’m lost! Unless you’ll draw me a map, of course.”

  “If you wish,” he replied and she looked down at him, exotic and achingly beautiful in the embroidered house-robe. He shook the full sleeves back and caught her hands in his.

  “Shall I show you one more thing?” he murmured, eyes bright with the remains of his smile. “Then I swear I will allow you to eat breakfast.”

  “One more thing,” she agreed, giving herself a sharp mental rebuke: Don’t gawk at the man, Annie Davis!

  “This way,” Er Thom said, holding tight to one hand and keeping so close to her side that his robe bid fair to tangle in her legs.

  They walked the hallway without mishap, however, and went midway down one slightly shorter.

  “Here,” he said, squeezing her hand lightly before he let it go.

  Stepping forward, he twisted an edge-gilt china knob and stepped back with a fluid bow. “Enter, please.”

  Anne hesitated fractionally. The bow had been of honored esteem, but Er Thom’s eyes showed an expectation that was nearly hunger. Smiling slightly, she went into the room.

  The walls were covered in nubby bronze silk, the floor with a resilient grass-weave the color of Jelaza Kazone’s leaves. A buffet along the back wall supported two small lamps and there were bronze sconces set at precise intervals around the walls. Three rows of twelve chairs each were arranged in a precise half-circle before a—

  “It’s beautiful,” she breathed, going across the woven mat as if the omnichora had reached out a hand and pulled her forward. She stroked the satiny wood, pushed back the cover and ran her fingers reverently over the pristine ivory keys.

  “It pleases you?” Er Thom asked from her side.