by Sharon Lee
"How long has she been at you?"
Nova sighed. "She's been here every day for the past three months, demanding that 'something be done' about Shan." She shook her head. "Then she began threatening to send Pat Rin to bring him away—and you know that would never do, Val Con . . ."
"Pat Rin would say something pompous and Shan would ignore him," Val Con murmured. "So of course Pat Rin would become more pointed in order to ensure that his thick-headed kinsman had the right of things—"
"And Shan would bloody his nose," finished Nova.
"Imagine me, I implore you," said Val Con, rediscovering his wine and sipping, "fining the First Speaker his quartershare for engaging in fisticuffs with another Clan member."
Nova frowned. "But you would not—unless . . . Do you mean to be Delm now, brother?"
He shook his head. "I most certainly would be able—my privilege and duty, as Delm-to-Be. The reference is Penlim's Protocol. Very dusty reading. Best you check it though, sister, since the trusteeship falls next to you." An eyebrow slid upward. "How long do you think Shan can hold out?"
She set her lips primly. "I will go before the Council of Clans as First-Speaker-in-Trust at the end of the month and Shan will be free to return to the Passage."
Val Con nodded. "None too soon, eh? And then skimmer racing may slide away into the past." He tipped his head.
"There is more, perhaps? You are still distressed."
"It is a small thing . . ." She looked at him worriedly. "Yesterday she railed at me for nearly two hours—she even missed a session of the Poetry Society!" She sighed. "It is the Terran blood, you see, that makes Shan so wild and threatens to disgrace Korval forever."
"It is fantastic, is it not," said Val Con "that my aunt holds such opinions? After all, she was offered the Trusteeship when my father abdicated—and refused it, even as she refused to care for his son, leaving all to yos'Galan. At this moment she could be First Speaker."
"Gods forefend," breathed Nova, bringing fingers to lips too late.
Val Con laughed. "So I think, as well." He lifted an eyebrow. "She does well for one unable to take sustenance."
"Ah, you haven't spoken to her cook."
"Nor have I any wish to do so." He was on his feet, moving with Scout silence across the short distance that separated them. Bending, he kissed her cheek.
"I'll speak with Shan, since I have said it. Will you tell me the location of the racing park?"
* * *
THE WIND SCREAMED and the skimmer bucked and slithered. Shan fed it more power, leaned right to correct the slide, kicked the throttle to the top and was over the finish line in a burst of breathless speed. He slewed in a half-arc for the joy of it and slashed the power, gliding to a halt by the timer-tower.
"Twelve minutes, forty-two seconds," the mechanical voice informed him.
"Damn," said Shan, heading sedately for the garage. Two minutes to shave at the very least, or he might as well leave Araceli home on Trilsday and watch the race from the stands.
Most skimmers carried a crew of two; he'd been foolish to think he could run singleton. He needed another pilot for second—and where was he to come up with one in so short a time? Worse, how to find time for proper training?
"Damn," said Shan again, yanking off the goggled helmet and dropping it to the floor. He locked the board and jumped out.
Perched on the fence directly opposite was a young gallant: fine white shirt and soft dark trousers; a pilot's leather jacket thrown negligently across the fence at his side. He held a glass of wine in his hand.
Shan stretched his long legs, grinning in welcome.
"Well, this is a surprise," he said in Terran. "How long have you been here?"
"I saw your run," Val Con replied in the same tongue. "Wine?"
"Thanks." Shan said and sighed. "I didn't know you were a racing enthusiast."
"I heard there was something new," Val Con said. "A pilot likes to keep abreast . . ."
"Always nice to learn,"agreed Shan. "And an education can be had in the oddest places. Staying at the spaceport, are you, Val Con?"
The younger man lifted an eyebrow. "Do I pry into your affairs?"
"Well, now, that's what's odd. Normally you don't. But here I am, where I have taken care not to announce myself, out of respect for our more proper relations; and now here you are—"
"For which I should be thanked," Val Con interrupted. "Aunt Kareen is quite upset. She was on the brink of sending Pat Rin to fetch you home, and was persuaded to allow me to come instead. My aunt," he added earnestly, "thinks you an outrageous rantipole."
Shan snorted. "I'd rather be a rantipole than a pompous ass."
"Yes," soothed Val Con, "I know you would."
"Cultivating an edge, brother?"
"It is also to be recalled," said Val Con dampingly, "that we are but cousins."
"Dear me!" Shan cried. "I apprehend that Kareen was in the throes of a Mood!"
He sipped, sketched a bow. "Forgive the sermon, denubia. Better you than Pat Rin, whatever news." He laughed. "Gods, only imagine the scene! And you would have had to fine me, too! Or I would have had to fine me—and very angry I'd have been at myself." He raised his glass. "Brother, I salute you: you've saved me a rare chewing out!"
"No less than my fraternal duty."
"But you didn't come all this way," pursued Shan, "just to report Kareen's opinion of me? If so, a wasted journey."
"My aunt's health is in decline from worry over the scandal," Val Con said. "Fear of the damage you do Korval's reputation will allow her to neither eat nor drink. One understands the cure for her pitiful condition is for you to come home and behave yourself. She's been at Nova for weeks—with variations upon the theme . . ."
"She's what? At my sister? In my house? By what right? She's not yos'Galan."
"For the good of the Clan," Val Con said, lips twitching.
"Bah, what nonsense!" cried Shan, and fell silent, sipping. After a time he looked up, white brows drawn over light eyes. "And what does our sister say? Or you, for that matter? It seems I've heard too much of what Kareen thinks and nothing at all of what Nova and Val Con think."
"Nova has given me a double-cantra to lay upon the race Trilsday-this—Shan yos'Galan to take any of the four highest honors."
"Did she?" Shan grinned like a boy. "We'll make a human being out of her yet, Val Con. And you?"
"I?" He lifted a brow. "I'd like a ride in your skimmer, please, brother."
* * *
WORDS SCROLLED across the screen set into the table. Nova read and sighed, breakfast forgotten before her.
"Araceli," the race report continued, "piloted and co-manned by Shan yos'Galan and Val Con yos'Phelium, Clan Korval, earned distinction by turning in the slowest finishing time on the day. Neither team member is a professional racer and the time-loss taken when a nerf from first-placing Tolanda sent Araceli off the course was never regained. It is to the amateur team's credit that Araceli remained upright during the mishap and, due to a bit of quick readjustment by the secondman, able to return to the course . . ."
"It's that stupid braking system," Val Con said over her head. "All very well to have no electronics onship, but why the brakes must be the most primitive of hand-turned vents is a mystery."
His voice was edged with wry irritation. Nova turned her head, but he was at the buffet, clattering covers and pouring tea.
"How's your arm?" she asked.
He glanced over his shoulder, smiling. "Better a bruise than tumbling out of control. And not bad enough to bother with the 'doc." He gathered up cup and plate and sat down across from her. "It's an odd thing, Nova—the craft is so light that my hand on the ground was sufficient pivot-point. If there were a more efficient way of braking . . . As it's arranged now, the pilot may either steer or brake. And he may not brake quickly."
She glanced up at him. "Where is Shan, by the way?"
"At the park, seeing to Araceli's packing. He plans to race at the Li
ttle Festival."
"He does?" Dismay sounded clearly in her voice.
Val Con lifted a brow. "No faith, denubia? It's not a bad little craft—and Shan is very good. If we could only resolve the braking—Ah, no! Before breakfast?"
Nova followed his gaze out the window and stifled a groan as she saw the too-familiar shape of Lady Kareen's landau come to rest across the drive.
"Does my aunt read the racing papers, do you think?" Val Con asked, eyes glinting mischief over the rim of his cup.
"Now, brother, have pity! Don't make her any worse."
He rounded his eyes, face etched in surprise. "Why, Lady Nova! As if my aunt were ever other than perfectly delightful!"
"Val Con—"
"The Right Noble Lady Kareen yos'Phelium," announced the housebot from the doorway.
"Good morning, Aunt," Val Con, the Low Tongue all good cheer. "Will you take breakfast with us?'
"Thank you," said the Right Noble, "but no." The bell-tones of the High Tongue were gelid. "And you, my Lord, might best wish to speak with me in the study. What I have to say is scarcely fit for a breakfast-table conversation."
"I'm a-tremble," said her nephew. "But I fear you will have a small wait, Aunt, if you must have the study. I am exceedingly hungry and feel I should finish my meal before embarking upon an exhaustive interview." He picked up his tongs to readdress breakfast.
There was a pause, growing painfully longer. A glance from beneath sheltering lashes showed Nova that Lady Kareen's face was rigid with anger. Val Con was proceeding with his meal.
"Very well," said Lady Kareen presently. "If you will have it so." She moved to the nearest chair and stood, eyes on her nephew's bent head.
Horrified, Nova saw Val Con glance up, frown and raise his hand to the hovering robot.
"Jeeves, pray hold my aunt's chair for her."
"Certainly, Captain." The 'bot glided forward and slid the chair smoothly from its place.
"Your Ladyship."
There was a moment's hesitation before she sat. Jeeves retired to a corner.
Val Con smiled. "Now then—ah, but first: Are you certain you won't take something, Aunt? Tea? Morning-wine?"
"Nothing, I thank you." She glared at him. "Must you speak in that manner?"
He blinked. "In what—oh, in the Low Tongue! I do beg pardon, ma'am. I was speaking with my sister just now and it quite slipped my mind that I must use the High Tongue at this present, in deference to company."
Nova bit her lip.
"Of yesterday's fiasco," the old lady said after a moment, "there is nothing to say. That you failed to bring your cousin away from the racing-track before he had made a fool of himself and his Clan does not surprise. He is as tenacious as he is misguided. It grieves me that his hold over you, the heir and hope of Korval, is such that you were persuaded to lend your countenance to the spectacle. It is to be hoped that you will soon see the unsavory influence Shan yos'Galan exercises over you and will distance yourself from him." She paused to glare at both of them. "On that head, no more."
"Ah." Val Con rose and refilled his cup. When he sat again, both brows were well up.
"You have something to say on another head?"
The Right Noble pressed her lips together. "It is perhaps not a subject you would care to discuss in the presence of your cousin."
"You intrigue me." He glanced at Nova, green eyes dancing.
He turned back to his aunt. "Speak on; we listen eagerly."
"Very well," said the old lady again, eyeing Nova dubiously, and drew herself taut. "It has come to my ears that my nephew Val Con yos'Phelium has been seen in a common tavern near the docks in Chonselta City. Has, indeed, been seen walking late and early about town wearing spaceleathers . . ." Lady Kareen faltered under her nephew's steady gaze and had recourse to her kerchief.
Nova sipped tea.
"Spaceleathers," Val Con repeated gently. "And what should one wear, I wonder, when visiting common taverns?"
His aunt bristled. "Spaceleather is very well for working in space. No doubt it serves you admirably in your Scouting duties. But when upon Liad, one must dress according to one's station. In the evening, one must always wear a cloak." She took a deep breath. "That the Delm-to-be should be so ill-mannered—"
But Val Con wasn't listening.
"Cloak," he murmured. "Of course a cloak . . ." He came to his feet, made his bow and was all but running past Nova's chair; his fingers barely brushing her cheek.
"Aunt, I thank you—your instruction is superlative. Pray forgive my hastiness—Jeeves!" he cried as he passed from the room. "Bring your calculator! I must have a new cloak!"
The robot charged after in a thunder of wheels, orange head-ball flaring. "My calculator is ever at hand, Captain."
Nova sat staring at the empty doorway. "A cloak? Oh, no . . ."
"But why not?" asked Lady Kareen, obviously gratified that her words had at last produced an effect. "What harm can it do him to have a new cloak?" She leaned forward to pat Nova's hand. "Pray tell him to consider it my gift to him, cousin; he must have the cloakmaker send the receipt to me." She smiled.
"After all, an interest in one's appearance is a beginning! I'll deal with the racing later."
* * *
SHAN SLAMMED THE skimmer's bonnet, frowning. He'd gotten several offers from mechanics to enhance his engines beyond match regulations. He'd told them all no—a fair race and a fair win, that was what he wanted.
And now here was Val Con, insisting that Araceli be brought home for private testing. And if Val Con was willing to tempt fate in such ways . . .
"Practice? Practice how?" he'd demanded when he got the younger man's call. "We need to be on the course to practice, youngling. Practicing on flat grass isn't going to do us any good."
"No, but it will. I think. Please, brother, bring her home. If it puts you out of pocket, I'll pay the shipping."
So here was Shan, cooling his heels on the stream bank, and Val Con uncharacteristically late—
A flash of bright color caught the corner of his eye. He tracked it—and froze, staring.
"Good evening, brother!" called Val Con cheerfully.
"What in moon's honor is that?"
"This," announced the younger man, pulling himself stiffly erect and moving his shoulders so the orange micro-silk shimmered, "is the next fashion."
"I'm terrified," Shan said, carefully circling him. "But you're probably right. It just might be ugly enough." He shook his head in repulsed wonder. "You look like a pumpkin."
"Oh, no, do you think so? The cloakmaker will be distressed; he was extremely proud of the work." Val Con grinned. "I have a genius for design."
"What you have a genius for is for driving me mad! Do you mean to say you actually designed this monstrosity? Why? You hate cloaks! You'll never wear it. Unless it's your idea of a joke on Society? Everyone will rush out to have a cloak like Korval's—and you'll have a grand time laughing up your sleeve. Delightful. Except you'll be off-world for most of the time this new fashion of yours is the rage. I'll have to look at the stupid things every time I go out for the next—"
Val Con was laughing.
Shan regarded him sourly. "OK; I bit, did I? Explain. Include," he added after a moment, "why it had to be orange."
"Ah, you see, orange doesn't suit everyone. But with my lovely dark hair and pure golden skin tone . . ."
"Stop." Shan took a breath. "Val Con, you're my brother and I love you. Don't make me kill you."
"Orange is my aunt's favorite color," murmured the other. "I thought, since she so kindly bears the expense . . ."
"I see," Shan said. "Paid good money to hide you, has she? So it's orange and you'll be hidden for everyone to see. Now: Why is it at all?"
"So that we will win the race at the Little Festival."
Shan blinked. "Yes? Could you be more specific, please?"
"Certainly." Val Con linked their arms and gently turned his brother back toward the trees. "If y
ou will only walk with me to the skimmer and have the goodness to give me a ride . . ."
* * *
THEIR SISTERS comfortably established in the stands, Shan and Val Con walked leisurely toward the qualifying field. To the left, the jewel-colored pleasure pavilions rippled in the flower-scented breeze. To the right, Te'lesha Lake reflected the colors of the afternoon sky. Already there were people abroad with lovegarlands in their hands.
"Well," said Shan, "at least we've managed to get everyone out of Kareen's way today. Is she checkmated, do you think, brother? Or will she pull rank on you?"
"She has none to pull."
Shan opened his mouth—closed it, as memory rose:
The boy Shan, entering the house by a side door and almost falling over his small cousin Val Con, unexpectedly sitting on the cool stone floor, clutching a martyred orange cat in his arms.
Shan sat on the floor next to the child; extended a hand and ruffled the dark hair.
"Hello, denubia. What're you doing here?"
A long pause during which Val Con studied him out of solemn green eyes. Then, with the terrible succinctness of the very young: "Aunt Kareen doesn't want me."
"Shan." Val Con's voice, here and now.
"Yes?" But even as he asked, he saw them; the Lady leaning on the arm of her elegant escort. "Aaaah, damn. Have they seen us?"
"Hello, kinsmen!" called Pat Rin across the Festival's babble.
"Why must he always remind me of that?"
"Gently, brother," murmured Val Con. "Only think of the expense; weigh it against satisfaction gained . . ."
"You make it sound so simple . . ." he began; then Lady Kareen and her son were with them and he chopped it off to make his bow.
Val Con also bowed, graceful and brief. "Aunt. Cousin."
"Nephew," she said icily and paused to draw a deep breath. Into this slight gap—unexpectedly—stepped Pat Rin.
"What an extraordinary cloak, young cousin. And worn at such an odd hour. Unless you wish to establish a—point—of some kind?"
Val Con considered him, eyebrow askance. "I wish to establish a new fashion in cloaks, kinsman. What better place to introduce it than the Little Festival, where hours are for a time banished?"