by Sharon Lee
"Trust me," he whispered, feeling tears prick the back of his eyes. "Anne?"
She drew a deep, shaking breath and sighed it out sharply, laying her hand briefly on his shoulder.
"All right," she said, and gave him a wobbling smile. "Thank you, Er Thom."
"There is no thanks due," he told her, and shifted away to allow her access to the meager cupboards and crowded counter. "Eat your breakfast and I will wash our son's face."
"NOT COMING TODAY?" Marilla looked grave. "He isn't sick, is he, sweetie? Pel said there's a horrific flu-thing going through the creche—half the kids down with it and a third of the staff." She sighed, theatrically. "Pel's working a double-shift. Naturally."
"Naturally." Anne grinned, Pel was always finding an excuse to work double-shifts. Marilla theorized—hopefully—a late-shift love-interest. Anne privately thought that Marilla's fits of drama probably grated on her quieter, less demonstrative daughter.
"Shan's in the pink of health," Anne said. "His father's visiting and the two of them are spending some time together."
There, she thought, it sounds perfectly reasonable.
Marilla fairly gawked. "His father," she repeated, voice swooping toward the heights. "Shan's father is visiting you?"
Anne frowned slightly. "Is that against the law?"
"Don't be silly, darling. It's only that—of course he's fabulously wealthy."
As a matter of fact, Er Thom never seemed at a loss for cash, and his clothes were clearly handmade—tailored to fit his slim frame to perfection. But the jacket he wore most often was well-used, even battered, the leather like silk to the touch.
"Why should he be?" she asked, hearing the sharpness in her voice. "Fabulously wealthy?"
Marilla eyed her and gave an elaborate shrug. "Well, you know—everyone assumes Liadens must be rich. All those cantra. And the trade routes. And the clans, too, of course. Terribly old money—lots of investments. Not," she finished, glancing off screen, "that it's any of my business."
That much was true, Anne thought tartly, and was immediately sorry. It's only Marilla, she told herself, doing her yenta routine.
"Rilly, I've got to go. Class."
"All right, sweetheart. Call and let me know your plans." The screen went dark.
My plans? Anne thought, gathering together the pieces of Comp Ling One's final. What plans?
DURING HER FREE period, she banged back into her office for an hour's respite, juggling a handful of mail, the remains of Liaden Lit's exam and a disposable plastic mug full of vending-machine soup.
Dumping the class work into the 'Out' basket near the door, she sat down at her desk, pried the top off the plastic mug and began to go through her mail.
Notice of departmental meeting—another one? she thought, sighing. Registrar's announcement of deadline for grades. Research Center shutdown for first week of semester break. Request for syllabi for next semester. A card from the makers of Mix-n-Match, offering to upgrade Shan's model to something called an Edu-Board. A—
Her fingers tingled at the touch—a gritty beige envelope, with 'Communications Center' stamped across it in red block letters that dwarfed her name, printed neatly in one corner.
A beam-letter. She smiled and snatched it up, eagerly breaking the seal. A beam-letter meant either a note from her brother Richard or a letter from Learned Doctor Jin Del yo'Kera, of the University of Liad, Solcintra.
The letter slid out of the envelope—one thin, crackling sheet. From Richard then, she decided, unfolding the page. Doctor yo'Kera's letters were long—page upon page of scholarly exploration, answers to questions Anne had posed, questions re-asked, re-examined, paths of thought illuminated . . .
It took her a moment to understand that the letter was not from Richard, after all.
It took rather longer to assimilate the message that was put down, line after line, in precise, orderly Terran, by—by Linguistic Specialist Drusil tel'Bana, who signed herself 'colleague'.
Scholar tel'Bana begged grace from Professor Davis for the intrusion into her affairs and the ill news which necessity demanded accompany this unseemly breaking of her peace.
Learned Doctor yo'Kera, Scholar tel'Bana's own mentor and friend, was dead, the notes for his latest work in disarray. Scholar tel'Bana understood that work to be based largely, if not entirely, on Professor Davis' elegant line of research, augmented by certain correspondence.
"It is for this reason, knowing the wealth of your thought, the depth of your scholarship, that I beg you most earnestly to come to Liad and aid me in reconstructing these notes. The work was to have been Jin Del's life-piece, so he had told me, and he likened your own work to an unflickering flame, lighting him a path without shadows."
Then the signature , and the date, painstakingly rendered in the common calendar: Day 23, Standard year 1360.
Anne sat back, the words misting out of sense.
Doctor yo'Kera, dead? It seemed impossible that the death of someone she had never physically met, who had existed only as machine-transcribed words on grainy yellow paper should leave her with this feeling of staggering loss.
In the hallway, a bell jangled, signaling class-change in ten minutes. She had an exam to give.
Awkwardly, she folded Drusil tel'Bana's letter and put in her pocket. She gathered up Comp Ling Two's exam booklets, automatically consulting the checklist. Right.
The five-minute bell sounded and she left the office, taking care to lock the door behind her, leaving the vending-machine soup to congeal in its flimsy plastic mug.
Chapter Nine
The delm of any given clan, when acting for the Clan, is commonly referred to by the clan's name: "Guayar has commanded thus and so . . . "
To make matters even more confusing, it is assumed all persons of melant'i will have a firm grounding in Liaden heraldry, thus opening up vast possibilities for double-entendre and other pleasantries. "A hutch of bunnies," will indicate, en masse, the members of Clan Ixin, whose clan-sign is a stylized rabbit against a rising moon. Korval, whose distinctive Tree-and-Dragon is perhaps the most well-known clan-sign among non-Liadens, is given the dubious distinction of dragonhood and a murmured, "The Dragon has lifted a wing," should be taken as a word to the wise.
—From "A Terran's Guide to Liad"
SHAN ACCEPTED THE surrey ride with the cheerful matter-of-factness that seemed his chiefest characteristic. He settled into the oversized seat next to Er Thom, pulled off his cap and announced, "Jerzy Quad C. C. Three. Seven. Five. Two. A. Four. Nine. C."
Fingers over the simple code-board, Er Thom flung a startled glance at the child, who continued, "Rilly Quad T. T. One. Eight. Seven. Eight. P. Three. Six. T."
"And home?" Er Thom murmured.
"Home Quad S," Shan said without hesitation. "S. Two. Four. Five. Seven. Z. One. Eight. S."
Correct to a digit. Er Thom inclined his head gravely. "Very good. But today we are going elsewhere. A moment, please." He tapped the appropriate code into the board and leaned back, pulling the single shock-strap across his lap and Shan's together and locking it into place.
The child snuggled against his side with a soft sigh and put a small brown hand on Er Thom's knee.
"Who?" he asked and Er Thom stiffened momentarily, wondering how best—
The child stirred under his arm, twisting about to look into his face with stern silver eyes. "Who are you?" he demanded. "Name."
Er Thom let out the breath he had been holding. "Mirada," he said, the Low Liaden word for "father". "My name is Er Thom yos'Galan, Clan Korval."
The white brows pulled together. "Mirada?" he said, hesitantly.
"Mirada," Er Thom replied firmly, settling his arm closer around the small body and leaning back into the awkward seat.
The boy curled once more against his side. "Where we go?"
Er Thom closed his eyes, feeling his son's warm body burning into his side, thinking of Anne, and of love, and the demands of melant'i.
"To the spacep
ort."
DRAGON'S WAY admitted them, hatch lifting silently. Beyond, the lights came up, the life-systems cycled to full, and the piloting board initiated primary self-check.
Shan hesitated on the edge of the piloting chamber, small hand tensing in Er Thom's larger one.
"Mirada?"
"Yes, my child?"
"Go home."
"Presently," Er Thom replied, taking half a step into the room.
"Go home now," the boy insisted, voice keying toward panic.
"Shan." Er Thom spun and went to his knees, one hand cupping a thin brown cheek. "Listen to me, denubia. We shall go home very soon, I promise. But you must first help me to do a thing, all right?"
"Do?" Doubtful silver eyes met his for an unnervingly long moment.
"All right," Shan said at last, adding, "sparkles."
He lifted a hand to touch Er Thom's cheek. "Soft." He grinned. "Jerzy prickles."
Er Thom bit his lip. Jerzy Entaglia would be bearded, Terran male that he was. But why should Er Thom yos'Galan's son be familiar with the feel of an outsider's face?
He sighed, and forced himself to think beyond the initial outrage. Jerzy Entaglia stood in some way the child's foster-father. The success of his efforts in that role was before Er Thom now: Alert, intelligent, good-natured and bold-hearted. What should Er Thom yos'Galan accord Jerzy Entaglia, save all honor, and thanks for a gift precious beyond price?
"Come," he said to his son, very gently. He rose and took the small hand again in his, leading the boy into the ship. This time, there was no resistance.
SHAN SAT ON A stool by the autodoc, watching curiously as Er Thom rolled up his sleeve and sprayed antiseptic on his hand and arm.
"Cold!"
"Only for a moment," Er Thom murmured, tapping the command sequence into the autodoc's panel. He looked down at his son and slipped a hand under the chin to tip the small face up. "This may hurt you, a little. Can you be very brave?"
Shan gave it consideration. "I'll try."
"Good." Er Thom went down on one knee by the stool and put his arm around Shan's waist. The other hand he used to guide the child's fingers into the 'doc's sampling unit. "Your hand in here—yes. Hold still now, denubia . . . "
He leaned his cheek against the soft hair, raising his free hand to toy with a delicate earlobe, eyes on the readout. When the needle hit the red line, he used his nails, quickly, deftly, to pinch Shan's ear, eliciting a surprised yelp.
"Mirada!"
The unit chimed completion of the routine; the readout estimated three minutes for analysis and match. Er Thom came up off the floor in a surge, sweeping Shan from the stool and whirling him around.
"Well done, bold-heart!" he cried in exuberant Low Liaden and heard his son squeal with laughter. He set him down on his feet and offered a hand, remembering to speak Terran. "Shall I show you a thing?"
"Yes!" his son said happily and took the offered hand for the short walk back to the piloting chamber.
BRONZE WINGS SPREAD wide, the mighty dragon hovered protectively above the Tree, head up and alert, emerald-bright eyes seeming to look directly into one's soul. Shan took a sharp breath and hung slightly back.
"It is Korval's shield," Er Thom murmured, though of course the child was too young to understand all that meant. He ran his palm down the image. "A picture, you see?"
The boy stepped forward and Er Thom lifted him, bringing him close enough to run his own hand down the smooth enameled surface. He touched the dragon's nose.
"Name?"
"Ah." Er Thom smiled and cuddled the small body closer. "Megelaar."
"Meg'lar," Shan mispronounced and touched the Tree. "Pretty."
"Jelaza Kazone," his father told him softly. "You may touch it in truth—soon. And when you are older, you may climb in it, as your uncle and I did, when we were boys."
Shan yawned and Er Thom felt a stab of remorse. A long and busy morning for a child, in truth!
"Would you like a nap?" he murmured, already starting down the hall toward the sleeping quarters.
"Umm," he son replied, body relaxing even as he was carried along.
He was more asleep than awake by the time Er Thom laid him down in the bed meant for the delm's use and covered him with a quilt smelling of sweetspice and mint.
"'night, Mirada," he muttered, hand fisting in the rich fabric.
"Sleep well, my child," Er Thom returned softly, and bent to kiss the stark brown cheek.
On consideration, and recalling his own boyhood, he opened the intercom and locked the door behind him before going back to the autodoc.
"yos'Galan, indeed," he murmured a few moments later, carrying the 'doc's gene-map with him into the piloting chamber.
He sat in the pilot's chair, eyes tracing the intricate pattern revealed in the printout. yos'Galan, indeed. He glanced at the board, fingered the gene-map and looked, with distaste, down at his shirt. He was not accustomed to sleeping in his clothing, and then rousting about, rumpled and unshowered, for half-a-day afterwards.
The board beckoned. Duty was clear. Er Thom sighed sharply and lay the gene-map atop the prime piloting board.
He wanted a shower, clean clothes. What better time than now, with the child, for the moment, asleep?
A shower and clean clothes, he thought, removing his jacket and laying it across the chair's back. Duty could wait half-an-hour.
"ER THOM? . . . Shannie!"
Anne let her briefcase fall as she darted forward, flashing through the tiny apartment: Empty bedroom, dark bathroom, silent kitchen.
"Gone."
Pain hit in a hammer blow, driving the breath out of her in a keen that might have been his name.
Er Thom! Er Thom, you promised . . .
But what were promises, she thought dizzily, where there was melant'i to keep? Anne swallowed air, shook her head sharply.
Shan was well, of that she was absolutely certain. Er Thom would not harm a child. She knew it.
But he would take his child to Liad. Must take his child to Liad. He had asked her to go with him on that urgent mission—and she—she had thought there was an option of saying no.
"Annie Davis, it's a rare, foolish gel ye are," she muttered, and was suddenly moving.
Three of her long strides took her across the common room. She smacked the door open and burst into the hallway at a dead run, heading for the Quad, the surrey station.
And the spaceport.
SHE SHOULD NEVER have trusted him, Anne thought fiercely. She should have never let him back into her life. She should have never let him back into her bed. Gods, it had all been an act, put on to lull her fears, so that she would leave Shan with him—she saw it now. And she—she so starved for love, so besotted with a beautiful face and caressing ways, incapable of thinking that Er Thom would do her harm, willing herself to believe he would—or could—stop being Liaden . . .
She flashed down the stairs and out into the Quad, running as if her life depended upon it and, gods, what if he had already gone? Taken her son and lifted, gone into hyperspace, Jumping for Liad—how would she ever find him again? What Liaden would take the part of a Terran barbarian against one who was master trader, a'thodelm, and heir to his delm?
There are not so—very many—yos'Galans, Er Thom murmured in memory, and Anne gasped, speeding toward the blue light that marked the surrey station.
She was halfway across the Quad when they emerged, the boy straddling the man's shoulders. The man was walking unhurried and smooth, as if the combined weight of the child and the duffel bag he also carried was just slightly less than nothing.
"I'lanta!" the child cried, and the man swung right.
"Dri'at!" the boy called out then and the man obediently went to the left.
Anne slammed to a halt, fist pressed tight against her mouth, watching them cross toward her.
Shan was exuberant, hanging onto the collar of Er Thom's battered leather jacket, Er Thom's hands braceleting his ankles.
; "I'lanta!" Shan called again, heels beating an abbreviated tattoo against the man's chest.
But Er Thom had seen her. He increased his pace, marching in a straight line, ignoring it entirely when Shan grabbed a handful of bright golden hair and commanded, "I'lanta, Mirada!"
"Anne?" The violet eyes were worried. He reached up and swung the child down, retaining a firm hold on a small hand. His other hand lifted and stopped a bare inch from her face, while she stood there like a stump and stared at the two of them, afraid to move. Afraid to breathe . . .