Local Custom

by Sharon

  Anne copied the other woman’s gesture; the sleeve flipped smoothly back from her hand, revealing strong, slender fingers.

  “Good,” Eyla approved. “An original is a Code unto herself. There is not your like on all of Liad. The rules that bind you are not found within the world, but within yourself. Recall it and carry your head—so! Eh? There are those who must crane to admire you—that is their concern, not yours. There are those who will turn their face away and cry out that you are not as they.” She lifted a hand to cover a bogus yawn.

  “Boors, alas, are found in even the highest Houses.”

  Anne smiled, palely, and inclined her head. “You are kind to advise me.”

  “Bah!” Eyla swept thanks away with an energetic hand. “I will not have my work shamed, that is all.” She smiled and bent to gather up her work-kit. “His Lordship means to fire you off with flair, which is profit to me, does this gown please.” She straightened.

  “It will be amusing to see what the world makes of you, Lady. And what you will make of the world.”

  SHAN WAS FRACTIOUS AND weepy. He jittered from one end of the nursery to the other; even the Edu-Board failed to hold his attention for more than a few seconds. All Anne’s attempts to ease him into a less frenzied state were met with utter failure.

  At last, feeling her own frazzled nerves about to go, she gathered him into her lap, thinking that a cuddle might do them both good.

  “No!” He jerked back, body stiff, silver eyes wide.

  “Shannie!”

  “No!” he shouted again and smacked her hand aside, so un-Shan-like that she let him go in astonishment.

  “Mirada!” He stamped his foot, glaring up at her. “I want Mirada! Go away! Go away, bad Ma!”

  And with that he was gone, running pell-mell down the long playroom—and into the arms of Mrs. Intassi, who had just stepped through the door that led to the nursery’s kitchen.

  “Bad Ma!” Shan cried, hurling himself against the nurse’s legs and hiding his face in her tunic. “I want Mirada!”

  “That’s all very well,” Mrs. Intassi said in firm and unsympathetic Terran. “However, you are not very kind to your mother. You should beg her pardon.”

  “No,” Shan said stubbornly, refusing to raise his head.

  Sick to her stomach, shivering and weary, Anne rose, shaking her head at the tiny ex-Scout.

  “Never mind,” she said, hearing how her voice shook. “If he doesn’t want me here, then I’ll go.” She turned toward the door, missing the concerned glance Mrs. Intassi flung her.

  “Good-bye, Shannie,” Anne called. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  The nursery door slid closed behind her with a sound like doom.

  SHE WAS LYING ON her bed some while later, staring blankly through the overhead window. The Liaden sky was brilliant, blue-green and cloudless.

  The brilliance pierced her, searing the tumbling thoughts from her mind, scalding emotions to ash.

  Seared, scalded and gone to ash, she closed her eyes against the brilliance.

  When she opened her eyes again, the brilliance had faded. She turned her head against the pillow. The clock on the bedside table told her there were two hours left to prepare for the gather.

  Sighing, feeling not so much exhausted as drained—of thought, of emotion, of any purpose save the plan—she rolled out of the wide bed, glanced at the mirror across the room—and frowned.

  On the vanity beneath the mirror, among her familiar belongings, were two unfamiliar boxes.

  The large box was covered in lush scarlet velvet. Anne lifted the lid.

  A rope braided of three gold strands: Pink, yellow and white, weeping drops of yellow diamond exactly matching her gown. Tiny yellow diamond drops to hug her earlobes, glittering allure. Woven gold combs and pins, dusted with yellow chips, to hold her hair, up and back.

  Anne looked down at the velvet box’s treasure, at jewels that cost more than she would likely earn in a lifetime, created to grace one dress, created in turn for one gathering …

  His Lordship means to fire you off with flair.

  Anne sighed, feeling, perhaps, a distant relief.

  Now she would have enough money to buy passage. Home.

  The smaller box was wood, carved with vines and flowers, a center medallion inlaid with bits of ivory. She opened it, found a folded square of ivory-colored paper. Her name, written in uncertain Terran characters, adorned the outer fold.

  Inside, the words were in Liaden, the letters true and bold.

  For my love. To say hello, and never to say good-bye. Er Thom

  Nestled in a satin pillow was a band of rosy gold. The gem set flush to the metal, simply cut and pure as pain, was precisely the color of his eyes.

  For a long moment she simply stood there, wondering if her heart would take up its next beat, if her lungs would accept another breath.

  When it seemed that she would, after all, live, she closed the little box and set it gently aside. The scrap of creamy paper she placed in her briefcase, sealed in the pocket with the disk from Jin Del yo’Kera’s computer.

  The velvet box she let stand open, giving its expensive glitter to the room while she began at last to ready herself for the gather.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Here we stand: An old woman, a halfling boy, two babes; a contract, a ship and a Tree.

  Clan Korval.

  How Jela would laugh.

  —Excerpted from

  Cantra yos’Phelium’s Log Book

  A’THODELM YOS’GALAN, Syntebra reminded herself forcefully, is a person of melant’i, son of an old and respected House. It is a signal honor to be chosen as his wife.

  To be sure, she thought, cold fingers twisted together beneath her cloak, to marry an a’thodelm of Korval would be a very great thing, indeed.

  Except her heart—that traitor which had lifted so quickly upon hearing Korval had Seen a child of A’thodelm yos’Galan—her heart, now an ice-drenched stone pitted in her chest, did not seem to find it a great thing at all. She had said as much, tentatively, to her father.

  “Not marry the yos’Galan?” Her father stared, as well he might, Syntebra allowed fairly. “Are you mad?”

  Syntebra felt the easy tears rise to her eyes, and her father’s face softened.

  “Doubtless you’re thinking now a child is Seen there’s no cause for him to marry. Nothing could be farther from the case, I assure you. Korval is in sorry state of late—wretched luck for them, certainly, but golden fortune for us, do we throw the dice canny!” He leaned forward with the air of one offering a treat.

  “Why, if the yos’Galan does not want you, there’s Korval Himself still in need of an heir!”

  But that was even worse, for Korval was a Scout, all the world knew that! And Syntebra was afraid of Scouts.

  Tearfully, she had attempted to explain this to her parent. She met Scouts from time to time at the Port, where she went—dutifully—to put in her hours of flying. Scouts possessed the oddest manners imaginable, and a bold, unnerving way of looking directly into one’s eyes.

  Scouts forever seemed to be enjoying some obscure joke, or secretly laughing at something. Syntebra rather thought that they were laughing at her.

  “Oh, posh!” her father cried, all out of patience. “You’ll do as you’re told, and none of your vapors! Hearing you, one would think the yos’Galan scar-faced and Korval dissolute! You are very fortunate, my girl. I recommend you seek solitude and consider that aspect of the case.”

  Which is how Syntebra came to be at her delm’s side in Trealla Fantrol’s great formal entry hall, handing off her cloak to a servant and dutifully striving to recall that it would be a very great thing indeed, to wed A’thodelm yos’Galan.

  “RAKINA LIRGAEL, Delm Nexon,” Mr. pak’Ora announced. “Syntebra el’Kemin.”

  They came slowly down the long room, the elder lady leaning lightly upon the younger’s arm. Neither was dressed in the first style of elegance, though
the younger lady’s gown was slightly more elaborate, designed to show a winsome shape to perfection.

  Stationed beside his mother’s chair, Er Thom watched their progress. Young Syntebra’s plentiful hair had been pinned high, then allowed to tumble with calculated artlessness to kiss her bare shoulders. Here and there a diamond winked among the rioting dark ringlets. Diamonds glittered in each tiny ear and a solitaire suspended from a chain fragile as thought trembled at the base of her throat.

  “Delm Nexon,” Petrella said from her chair. “Be welcome in our House.”

  Nexon bowed, the glitter of her dress-jewels all but obscuring sight of the clan Ring.

  “Your welcome is gracious,” she stated. Straightening, she indicated the younger lady. “Allow me to make you known to Syntebra el’Kemin, a daughter of Nexon’s secondary Line. Syntebra, here is Thodelm yos’Galan.”

  Syntebra’s bow was charmingly done, though to Er Thom’s eye a trifle ragged at the start.

  Petrella inclined her head and raised a hand that trembled visibly. Er Thom felt a stab of concern. His mother was pushing her limit tonight. Gods willing, she would not push it too far.

  “My son,” his mother was telling the guests, “Er Thom, A’thodelm yos’Galan.”

  He made his bow to Nexon, receiving in return an inclined head and a civil, “Sir.”

  To Syntebra then he bowed, which was rather a trickier undertaking, for he must neither appear cool to the careful eye of his parent, nor so warm to the eye of the lady that impossible hopes were nourished.

  Thereby: “Syntebra el’Kemin,” he murmured, all propriety and very little else. “I am pleased at last to meet you, ma’am.”

  Wide, opal-blue eyes looked up at him from a tight little face, the luscious red mouth pinched pale.

  Gods abound, the child’s terrified! Er Thom thought, and felt a spate of anger at their respective parents, for insisting upon this farce.

  Syntebra made her bow—not quite as pretty as her first.

  “Sir,” she returned in a breathless, husky voice. “A’thodelm yos’Galan. I am—very—pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Well, Er Thom thought wryly, as he obeyed his mother’s hand-sign and went ‘round to pour wine for the guests, it should be no very great thing to show her that we shall not suit …

  IT WAS ALL SYNTEBRA could do to keep the tears at bay. Certainly, she could not bring herself to look up at the tall gentleman beside her, nor could she think of one gay or witty or even sensible thing to say.

  He would think she was a fool. He would—her delm would—

  “Drink your wine, child.”

  The voice was very soft, the mode Adult-to-Adult. Syntebra looked up in startlement.

  Violet eyes met her gaze straightly from beneath winged golden brows.

  “You’ll feel the better for it,” he murmured, raising his own glass for a sip. When he lowered it, she saw he was smiling, just a little. “I won’t eat you, you know.”

  Almost, the ever-ready tears escaped. She had not expected kindness. Indeed, she had expected nothing but scorn from so grand a gentleman. Of course, he was quite old, and it was perhaps not entirely flattering to be addressed as “child,” when she had all of twenty Standards …

  “One is informed,” A’thodelm yos’Galan said in his soft voice, “that you have but recently attained your second-class license. Do you plan to pursue first class?”

  First class? She wished she had never attained second! The sorriest day of her life thus far had been the day she tested well in the preliminaries. She hated piloting. She hated ships. She hated the Port, with all its noise and rabble and bewildering to-and-fros—

  But, of course, one could scarcely voice such sentiments to a man who was both master pilot and master trader. Syntebra took a hasty swallow of wine—and was saved from answering by the dismaying call of the butler:

  “Daav yos’Phelium, Delm Korval!”

  DELM KORVAL WAS MORE terrifying than she had anticipated.

  He spent some time speaking with Nexon and Thodelm yos’Galan, as was only proper. However, after the introduction, in quick succession, of Mr. Luken bel’Tarda and Lady Kareen yos’Phelium, he had turned his silent Scout steps toward her tete-a-tete with A’thodelm yos’Galan.

  Now, Syntebra had long been wishing for something like this to happen. It was only ill-chance that her rescuer should be more dreaded than he from whom she was rescued.

  “Ma’am.” He gave her the grace of a small bow, and such a look from his bold black eyes that she wished she might sink into the floor.

  Happily, the bold eyes moved in the next instant as Korval addressed his kinsman.

  “Good evening, darling. Shall the guest be with us, after all?”

  “I believe so,” A’thodelm yos’Galan said in his soft way. He turned to Syntebra. “Scholar Anne Davis, guest of the House, is to be present this evening, as well.”

  Syntebra very nearly blinked. Scholar Anne Davis? But surely—She became aware that she was the object of study of two very vivid pairs of eyes, and raised a hand to her throat.

  “I—ah—the Terran lady?” she managed, trying to seem as if she were quite in the way of meeting Terrans.

  A’thodelm’s yos’Galan’s golden brows rose slightly. “Indeed,” he murmured politely, “the Terran lady.”

  “You needn’t be nervous of her, you know,” Korval added in his deep, coarse voice. “She’s quite gentle.”

  She looked up at him, but his face was composed, without a hint of the laughter she suspected he harbored in his heart.

  “It is merely that one does not speak Terran,” she said, striving to recover her dignity. “And to converse in Trade would seem out of the way.”

  “Ah, no, acquit her as the cause of such inconvenience, I beg.” Korval said. “Her grasp of the High Tongue is entirely adequate.”

  “Scholar Davis,” A’thodelm yos’Galan murmured, “specializes in the study of linguistics.”

  At that moment Lord and Lady yo’Lana were announced, then Delm Guayar. Syntebra, looking aside from the progress of these luminaries, saw A’thodelm yos’Galan exchange a quick glance with his kinsman.

  “Scholar Anne Davis,” the butler announced, and Syntebra saw A’thodelm yos’Galan smile.

  “Hah.” He bowed gracefully to Syntebra, gave his delm a nod. “Pray excuse me.”

  In the next moment he was gone, crossing the room to meet the lady who had just entered.

  Syntebra fairly gaped. She had considered A’thodelm yos’Galan and Delm Korval out-of-reason tall, but Scholar Davis revised that thought.

  A’thodelm yos’Galan greeted her with the bow between equals and, looking warmly up into her face, offered his arm. The lady took it and they went down the room, pausing here and there to make proper introductions.

  “There,” Delm Korval said. “She doesn’t look at all savage, does she?”

  Undeniably, he was laughing at her. Of course the lady didn’t look savage, though how such an immoderately tall, deep-bosomed creature could contrive to seem so regal went beyond Syntebra’s understanding. She went ‘round the room on A’thodelm yos’Galan’s arm as if she were precisely High House, making her bows with grace, her clear voice carrying effortlessly to all corners of the suddenly quiet room.

  “She bears an accent,” Syntebra said to Delm Korval. The gentleman lifted one eyebrow.

  “Well, and so do I,” he said equably. “My Terran is quite marred by it, I fear.”

  She was spared any answer to this by the advent of the guest and A’thodelm yos’Galan.

  “Daav.” The Terran smiled, making free of Korval’s personal name, as if, Syntebra thought, they were kin. She shrank into herself, anticipating the withering setdown to be delivered the lady for her audacity.

  On the contrary.

  “Anne,” Korval returned with a smile that transformed his face into something approaching beauty. He bowed gently. “You look magnificent. Dance with me later, do.�
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  The Terran actually chuckled, mischief lighting her eyes. “Do you only dance with magnificence, sir?”

  “Ah, do not tease!” Korval returned in desperate tones. “If you won’t have me there’s nothing for it save I dance with my sister.”

  “A fate to be most ardently avoided.” She smiled and inclined her head. “Count me your rescue, then.” She turned her attention to Syntebra.

  “Syntebra el’Kemin, Clan Nexon,” A’thodelm yos’Galan said softly, “Scholar Anne Davis, guest of Korval.”

  Really, Syntebra thought, making her bow, that dress is entirely wanton.

  However, there was no wantonness in the Terran lady’s bow, or in her very correct, “Syntebra el’Kemin, I am pleased to meet you.”

  “Anne Davis, I am pleased to meet you,” Syntebra replied, since she must.

  She had to crane her neck to see the Terran’s face. It was in no way a beautiful face, further marred by lines around the eyes and mouth. There was the suggestion of a smile in the grave brown eyes, and it was the outside of enough, Syntebra thought pettishly, to be laughed at by a Terran.

  “Allow me to give you wine,” A’thodelm yos’Galan said.

  The Terran lady agreed to the suggestion and they went off, leaving Syntebra alone with Delm Korval.

  “WILL YOU TELL ME,” Er Thom said in soft Terran, “if the ring displeases?”

  It was wrong to ask it; twice wrong to ask it here, now. But the sight of her naked hands had hurt—appallingly. It was as if he had leaned to kiss her and she turned her face aside.

  “The ring is—lovely,” Anne said, keeping her eyes steadfastly from his. “I—I chose not to wear it.”

  His breath was out of pace and he felt uncannily close to tears. Exercising stern control, he poured her wine and held the glass. She took it, looking down.

  “Anne … ” Gods, he was going to break and shame them both by weeping before all these gathered. He swayed a daring half-step closer, not caring who marked it.

  “Anne, I beg you will tell me what is wrong!” The whispered plea came out with the force of a shout, and at last she raised her head.