by Sharon Lee
He moved his hands now, willing to express hand signs if they might work, and she picked up and offered, “A trench across the road?”
He nodded a Surebleak nod of yes, a quick three bounces of the chin.
He raised his eyes to the silent AI, their heights being nearly equal, and spoke distractedly away from her, so she barely heard the edge in his voice.
“I too have requested help of the house.” His hands repeated the hole-in-the-road sign, and he continued . . . “It is not a secret, I believe, that my over-senior, Nelirikk, was to assist me here today, and deliver me to Ms. Audrey’s, there to accept my winnings of the card game.”
Alara nodded, smiling—“Yes, I’d heard of that, and it was in the papers that you’d won something . . . congratulations!”
His chin moved again, nodded thanks. “Yes, a win. A double-dip, they call it, and I was much looking forward . . .”
Alara started, suppressing the chuckle while managing to get out . . . “At Ms. Audrey’s, this double dip?”
“Indeed, at Ms. Audrey’s. I’ve not been there, and have very little liberty, and now the senior cannot direct my clothing, for I’m told that my work clothes are not appropriate to such celebrations.”
Alara nodded in gentle agreement, aware though that Ms. Audrey’s front door opened to a wide spectrum of folks. Surely he’d not be turned away if he appeared thus attired.
“I sought assistance,” Diglon accused, “of Jeeves, who declares ignorance of the topic. And thus, we have arrived at Mr. pel’Kana’s office.”
“Mr. pel’Kana,” came a sharp voice, “has no experience of dressing for pleasure houses on Surebleak, or anywhere else!”
That gentleman was rushing forward, and gave her a rapid multifaceted bow, which read out in short as, “By the delm’s order, a respectful reply to a supplicant welcome to the house and its comforts.”
“I am to inform you, Daughter of Silari, that Lady yos’Phelium is napping with the heir, and that she has left orders to be awakened in time to see you before dinner, which she will do in the . . .” here he struggled for a moment, his mouth pursing slightly, obviously quoting verbatim, the Terran falling oddly off his tongue, “in the rumpus room, if you don’t mind, so the child may wear herself out enough to sleep tonight. If the delm is required for a solving, the delm will be available there.”
Alara struggled to regain proper composure, bowing grateful acceptance of the delm’s word, daring to breathe. This was a good sign, a delm able to show moderation, a delm . . .
“I shall await Lady yos’Phelium’s pleasure, thank you, Mr. pel’Kana.”
He bowed in reply to hers, and Alara thought to go to her room . . .
She found Diglon’s concerned eyes on her, and she gave a wan smile.
“A solving,” he asked, “is this good?”
Her breath came easier now, and she gave the half-and-half hand sign, which he knew from their work together. “We only know that when we hear it, my friend.”
His turn to nod, and waggle the same sign.
“I wish you success in your endeavors,” he said, “and after, if you need assistance, please allow me . . .”
Flattered, she bowed a wordless formal thanks to him while pel’Kana was saying to Jeeves behind him—“You, you have the records of available house clothing—do we even have anything in stores that this man can wear? And how should I know what is proper. . . .”
Alara saw Diglon go wooden-faced with worry as Jeeves was answering.
“We have many items that will fit Diglon Rifle. I cannot tell you we may outfit him appropriately as a member of Jelaza Kazone’s household! . . .”
“Mr. pel’Kana?” she offered.
He didn’t hear immediately, having ratcheted up his volume to say, “There are no fashion sources on this planet that I know of, and if you know of them you haven’t explained to me how we might . . .”
“Mr. pel’Kana,” she insisted, this time moving within reach of his eyes and bowing an eloquent “offer of information.”
“Yes, Daughter of Silari?”
She dismissed that title with the appropriate bow and laughed.
“Oh, no, in this I am a Scout! Scouts are very experienced people, Mr. pel’Kana. I believe, if I may be permitted to assist, that I might be able to discover among your clothes items that, if not appropriate to everyday dress, will be all that is acceptable at a house of pleasure on Surebleak. Scouts, you see, dote on such places; I have seen several sides of such establishments over the course of my studies and I’d be honored if I might be able to assist.”
Diglon was nearly radiant, but it was Jeeves who spurred them to action.
“The cab reports itself on the way, Diglon Rifle. You have approximately an hour to prepare.”
“We must use our imagination,” she said quietly in his ear, her gentle hands still brushing his hair with the softest brush he’d ever experienced, perhaps lingering on the back of his neck where his hair exceeded troop norm in a style Surebleak recognized as comfortable. She applied a light dressing of some ethereal scent familiar at the edge of consciousness. Alternating with the brush, her hands touched his back, his shoulders, the admonition, “Patience, troop, patience. If the fit is not exact, we must make it work, and it must last the evening. Let us be artists. . .”
Surely such attention was that reserved for commanders and generals?
Now her hands spanned his back and shoulders, touching skin with knowing hands, for she’d long since explained that the soldier’s preferred light-sensitive camouflage shirt was inappropriate to such a night . . . though she allowed his chameleonic shorts to be just the thing . . .
“We must be prepared to let inner energy flow, to take full advantage of what comes . . .”
He sighed. His shower over, Diglon stood entranced at parade rest in front of the large mirror as Alara worked, standing on a stool behind him. Mr. pel’ Kana, having delivered the last of the “waist clothes” laid across the bed for display, was off now looking for better boots, for neither of the Rifle’s two pairs were capable of being “date-night fresh,” as the ecologist had put it with a wrinkled-nose shrug at them.
“We have no dresser or valets here, Lady,” pel’Kana had explained to her, “for the staff situation is not yet stable following our move, and other than Lady Kareen, we have no one at house who might consider such a necessity. And Lady yos’Phelium was quite clear in the matter—‘our Rifle,’ she told me, ‘is going to a public place, where he is a winner, celebrating an earned victory. It was reported in the news. He represents the house. Surebleak runs on blocks and territories and talk on the street, and he best look fine because every local in Audrey’s place is going to notice him to start with, and they’ll be weighing the house on his turnout and turn-up. He best look fine.’”
Jeeves appeared after a perfunctory knock on the door, carrying other items, some hung, some not, which he began to display.
On the bed, Diglon knew, there was a kilt-wrap that looked over large, even for him, and of a color that displeased him greatly, as it echoed the colors of the Fourteenth Conquest Corps. Jeeves had admired it, since there was some military history to it which they had not time to explore. He’d held it before him for size and suspected it would be somewhat scratchy if he were careless.
There was a pair of sturdy pants with many pockets—he’d ask after it, later, perhaps, but since he was going visiting he doubted he needed those pockets and suspected he harbored a troop’s tendency to regard empty pockets as things to fidget with, or fill. The cloth was sturdy.
The other item he’d not yet touched, and he hoped that when he did that it would fit; it was a pair of slacks, an admirable red-wine color which he’d have never been permitted as infantry. That looked soft and comfortable. It was belted already with a leather belt, it called out luxury to him, and if the Captain wished him to march bravely he’d be pleased to march through Ms. Audrey’s doors in them.
“Tops,” said Alar
a, “are important for first impressions. This one, try it on.”
She held out a fabric bit that shimmered, white and smooth one moment and then smoother and silvery the next.
As he donned it, she asked Jeeves, “Are there other singlets like this, in colors that perhaps match the slacks there?”
There were not though, and it didn’t matter. He hesitated, feeling that the sleeveless shirt did not really cover—so much hesitation in fact that Alara smiled at him.
“You have a party, my friend. There’s no reason why you should not be as enticing as may be, yourself.”
She made a motion he took to mean he should handle the fabric and indeed, it felt good, and too, it did show him to be fit in muscle and tone.
Alara climbed down from the stool and pointed to the antique-styled button-shirt to go over the singlet; it too had shimmer and felt good. So dazzling was it, with a touch of ruff at the collar, that he was again afraid that it was no shirt for a simple trooper—but then, he was representing the house, and if the house felt him up to it, so be it, so long as it fit. There was question to that, for surely the sleeves ought to be longer—but Alara soothed.
“Jeeves, surely there is a bracelet or cuff in the house. Matching. Then, the sleeves may be rolled on each arm just so”—here she clinically adjusted them to the length she meant—“and as this is Surebleak, none will doubt that in fact you wish to display your very handsome arms for the delight and edification of others.”
Then she patted his arm and smiled up into his face, saying: “You look very well, my friend, and will do the house honor, besides making observers wonder who it is that has won a prize!”
The call came then: The taxi was approaching the drive circle!
Alara stroked three coats that Jeeves held, one in each arm, and Diglon watched her, trusting her judgment in these things now, seeing results already in the mirror—
Her mouth made a silent “Oh” . . . and then she said it, out loud, “Oh, Diglon, I think this will set you off to look very fine indeed.”
He backed away, though, as she held it up to him—a jacket, a leather jacket!
“I must not, comrade, for I surely am not a pilot and none will mistake . . .”
She gave then a peremptory hand motion, identical to the ones she used in field when, from a distance, she meant him to stop a measurement or motion in progress.
“Hush, Diglon,” she said to him softly, “we do not ask you to sully honor. Feel this coat—and see the lining? Pilot’s jackets are not so lined with simple wool. As pretty as it is, would a pilot trust it to fend off a bad landing? Hardly, but still . . .”
He had touched it, led by her words and her hands, stroking the silky leather . . .
“This is a jacket from the house of Korval, my friend. If it is offered, I would say wear it in health. . . .”
She surprised him then by swinging the coat around her own shoulders, where it looked more like an officer’s greatcoat than an item of evening wear . . . and she spun, before handing the jacket over, her grin infectious.
“Try it, it must fit because there’s no time for another choice! I envy your evening, Diglon!”
It came to him then that perhaps he owed Alara for all this assistance—
“But you can come as well, if I’ve won a double!”
Mr. pel’Kana’s intake of breath was palpable, and Jeeves maintained silence.
Her smile deepened and seemed to take in her whole body, and then her face went blank, and he wondered if he’d overstepped. Surely offering a comrade a visit to a house of pleasure could not be so . . .
She made a hand motion then, of clearing away.
“Dismiss the thought,” she managed, almost a sputter, “as much as I appreciate it. Your taxi awaits, there’s no time for me to dress properly and indeed, I myself have a pressing engagement on the night. Go, please, cover yourself and the house in glory!”
Rushing his boots, Diglon did as he was told.
“This way please, Scout,” was what Jeeves said, and she followed, wondering if the use of the security ’bot to call her to her meeting was a subtle warning, a hint, or . . . mere convenience. Her delm had met the ’bot himself at Trealla Fantrol and spoken of it more than once, the usual result being a discussion of the proper upbringing of a clan’s children and the subtlety with which Korval balanced debts . . .
The room was small and warm, and—soft.
That was Alara’s reaction to the rumpus room: Soft. Not only were there rugs in multiple depths strewn about, but there were pillows and sit-cushions scattered about on floors and chairs and against shelves, and there were wondrous quilts of multiple sizes draped from chair-backs. There were walkways, cleared here and there, with various plush items that were cats or norbears or dragons or spaceships, and, higher, there were shelves with adult-stuff on them and—Oh!
Barely noticeable on the corner, was a woman altogether Liaden-sized, long red hair wrapped in a spiraling braided coif, who was kneeling, warily watching a child with wide eyes and a wider grin standing, bouncing experimentally on bowed legs, intent and wonder warring on her face as excited but nearly inaudible whuffs escaped her smile.
“Lady yos’Phelium,” announced Jeeves, “Alara chel’Voyon, Clan Silari.”
The gray eyes fixed her instantly, smile still strong.
“Please come on in, Scout, over this way,” she said. “Pull up a chair, a cushion, a rug—I’m on baby-watch tonight.”
The eyes had surveyed her, seen that she was dressed respectfully but was ringless, and then gone back to the child, still standing.
Alara was torn by the comfortable informality of the greeting, knowing her mission deserved some seriousness of attention . . . and yet knowing all too well the stricture that one went to Delm Korval only in peril.
And there, she was in peril, for the her own delm felt the clan at risk, and what could she do but . . .
The room was as quiet as it was soft; Jeeves said nothing and the child, after an extra-exuberant bounce, settled in front of her mother.
“Good!”
That was Lady yos’Phelium, deftly changing her kneel to a cross-legged seat on the rug next to the youngster, and a hand casually sweeping the closest chair, cushion, and floor in a reaffirmation that they were all the same as far as she was concerned.
Soldier, married to a Scout. Yes, that’s what she recalled, daring to go cross-legged herself on the rug, a few hands-breadths away from the child, facing the mother. Soldier-woman, being comfortable in her own house, of a quiet evening, in house boots so light they were almost leather socks . . . not expecting, and perhaps not wanting, to deal with bows and layers of protocol.
Already she could imagine herself reporting such a meeting to her father, who’d never think to meet someone in such an informality, but who would no doubt accept that his daughter stood on such footing. . . .
“Jeeves, please bring us some morning wine if you please, and some of that spring-cheese we just got from Yulie.”
Jeeves assented and started out immediately.
“Lady, I must . . .” Alara started, but found herself waved aside nonchalantly.
“How about Miri, while it’s just us and Lizzie relaxing, right? As long as I can call you Alara? I grew up hereabouts and some days doing the pretty gets a girl tired . . .”
“Yes, Miri, thank you . . . I am sorry to intrude on your day . . .”
“Not an intrusion; you didn’t even have to come through the front door to talk to me, though I have to tell you it did get Mr. pel’Kana’s attention. He likes the formal sometimes, and I guess we gotta keep the home folks happy if we can. . . .”
Miri laughed, and untangled the baby’s foot from the edge of one of the soft rag rugs that populated the corner.
“But anyhow, I need to thank you for helping out with our Diglon. You ’betcha Nelirikk’s going to shine your boots for you one day over this—leaving the poor troop to the last minute over something as important as
his first leave on world and then hanging him out for a quick-dress and a cab-ride on his own? And really, not sure I could have done it any better myself, dressing a guy to run to Ms. Audrey’s—”
Alara tried to school her face to the idea of a delm dressing a security guard for an evening’s romp, but there, Miri had been a soldier, after all, and not just a soldier, but a Captain . . .
Here there was a short break as Jeeves returned with bottle and glasses, and small plates, and a z-gee bulb of something for the baby as well. A tray on short legs went between them and some home-made crackers and a dish of soft-brown cheese. . . .
“That’s fine, Jeeves; we’ll call if we need you.”
Lizzie’s eyes followed Jeeves’ departure with interest; and Miri smiled and shook her head over something before returning to her topic, a wry grin on her face.
“As I was saying, I appreciate you picking up the slack there. A good thing, I guess it was, to have a Scout in that mix, else they have sent him off in something as ordinary as they could, and that just wouldn’a done. Saw the vidfeed on his way out to the taxi—you got him right up handsome, you did. I seen troops his size couldn’t put on comfortable unless it was sloppy. He’ll have the city-girls all pleased, I expect . . .”
“Really, it wasn’t a difficult thing,” Alara said. “He has a sound body to start with, and the choices—well, it works that way, doesn’t it, that if you have only a few choices one of them usually looks much better! I merely imagined that I was assisting a cousin with a festival preparation, and the choices became clear!”
Miri nodded, gave the grasping child her z-gee bulb to chase a bit of cracker, and they settled for a moment to sip wine and have cheese themselves. Miri finally deposited an empty glass, and said to her guest in local Terran.
“I was talking about choices afore, and I guess we got some to make here. You already made one, coming to me with a problem, and you say it’s a delm thing you got, so you brought it to Korval. How about you explain gentle . . . ,” and here Miri made scout-like hand signs, simple good quick easy gentle, “and remember I wasn’t born to Liaden, myself, but I can pretty well get by however you want to talk it.”