Back | Next
Contents

Day 139
Standard Year 1118
Irikwae

IRIKWAE WAS HEAVY, hot and damp. The light it received from its primary was a merciless blare that stabbed straight through the eyes and into the skull, where the brain immediately took delivery of a headache.

Jethri closed his eyes, teeth clenched, despite being only inches away from a port street full of vehicles, all moving at insane velocity on trajectories that had clearly been plotted with suicide in mind.

"Tch!" said Master ven'Deelin. "Where have my wits gone? A moment, my child."

Through slitted eyes, he watched her bustle back into the office they had just quit. In the street, the traffic roared on. Jethri closed his eyes again, feeling the sun heating his scalp. The damp air carried a multitude of scents, none of them pleasant, and he began to hope they'd find that Master ven'Deelin's friend wasn't to home, so they could go back to Elthoria today.

"Here you are, my son. Place these over your eyes, if you will."

Jethri opened his eyes to slits, saw a tiny hand on which a big purple ring glittered holding a pair of black-lensed spectacles under his nose. He took them, hooked the curved earpieces over his ears, settled the nosepiece.

The street was just like it had been before he put the glasses on, except that the brutal sunlight had been cut by a factor of ten. He sighed and opened his eyes wider.

"Thank you, ma'am."

"You are welcome," she replied, and he saw that she wore a similar pair of glasses. "I only wish I had recalled beforetime. Have you a headache?"

It had faded considerably; still. . . 

"A bit," he owned. "The glasses are a help."

"Good. Let us then locate our car—aha!—it arrives."

And a big green car was pulling up to the curb before them. It stopped, its driver oblivious to the horns of the vehicles in line behind—or maybe, Jethri thought, she was deaf. Whichever, the back door rose and Master ven'Deelin took his arm, urging him forward.

The inside of the car was cool, and dim enough that he dared to slip his glasses down his nose, then off entirely, smiling at the polarized windows, while keeping his eyes off the machinery hurtling by. Prudently, he slipped the glasses into the pocket of his jacket.

"Anecha," Master ven'Deelin called into the empty air, as the car pulled away from the walk and accelerated heedlessly into the rushing traffic, "is it you?"

"Would I allow anyone else to fetch you?" came the answer, from the grid set into the door. "It has been too many years, Lady. The delm is no younger, you know."

"Nor am I. Nor am I. And we must each to our duty, which leaves us too little time to pursue that for which our hearts care."

"So we are all fortunate," commented the voice from the grid, "that your heart cares so well for the trade."

Master ven'Deelin laughed.

"Look now, my son," she said, turning to him and directing his attention through the friendly windows. "There is the guildhall, and just beyond the Trade Bar. After you are settled at the house, you must tour the bazaar. I think you will find Irikwae to be something unique in the way of ports."

Jethri's stomach was beginning to register complaints about the motion and the speed. He breathed, slow and deep, concentrating on keeping breakfast where it belonged, and let her words flow by him.

Suddenly, the car braked, swung to the right—and the traffic outside the window was less, and more moderately paced. The view was suddenly something other than port—tile-fronted buildings heavily shaded by the trailing branches of tall, deeply green vegetation.

"Rubiata City," Master ven'Deelin murmured. He glanced at her and she smiled. "Soon, we shall be home."

* * *

"AWAKEN, MY CHILD, we are arrived." The soft voice was accompanied by a brisk tap on his knee.

Jethri blinked, straightened, and blinked again. He didn't remember falling asleep, but he must've, he thought—the view outside the windows was entirely changed.

There was no city. The land fell away on either side of the car and rose up again in jagged teeth of grayish blue rock; on and on it went, and there, through the right window and far below—a needle glint which must be—could it be?—the port tower.

Jethri gasped, his hand went out, automatically seeking a grab-bar—and found warm fingers instead.

"Peace," Norn ven'Deelin said, in her awful Terran. "No danger is there here, Jethri. We come up into the home of my heart."

Her fingers were unexpectedly strong, gripping him tightly.

"All is well. The mountains are friendly. I promise you will find them so, eh? Eh?"

He swallowed and forced himself to look away from the wide spaces and dangerous walls—to look at her face.

The black eyes held his. "Good. No danger. Say to me."

"No danger," he repeated, obedient, if breathless.

She smiled slightly. "And soon will you believe it. Never have you seen mountains?"

He shook his head. "I—the port. There's no use us going out into—" He swallowed again, engaging in a brief battle of wills with his stomach. "I'm ship-born, ma'am. We learn not to look at the open sky. It makes us—some of us—uncomfortable."

"Ah." Her fingers tightened, then she released him, and smiled. "Many wonders await you, my son."

* * *

THEY HAD PASSED BETWEEN high pillars of what looked to be the local blue rock, smoothed and regularized into rectangles. Afterward, the view out the window was of lawns, interrupted now and then by groups of middle tall plants. Gaenor's descriptions of the pleasant things she missed from her home led him to figure that the groups scratched an artistic itch. If this lawn had been done the way Gaenor thought was proper, then there'd be some vantage point overlooking the whole, where the pattern could be seen all at once.

The car took a long curve, more lawn sweeping by the windows, then came to a smooth halt, broadside to a long set of stairs cut from the blue rock.

The doors came up, admitting a blare of unpolarized sunlight and an unexpectedly cool breeze, bearing scents both mysterious and agreeable.

Master ven'Deelin patted him on the knee.

"Come along, young Jethri! We are arrived!"

She fairly leapt out of the vehicle. Jethri paused long enough to put the black glasses on, then followed rather more slowly.

Outside, Master ven'Deelin was in animated conversation with a gray-haired woman dressed in what looked to be formal uniform—their driver, maybe. . .  Anecha, he reminded himself, mindful of Uncle Paitor's assertion that a successful trader worked at keeping name and face on file in the brainbox—which was, by coincidence, a point Master tel'Ondor also made.

So—Anecha the driver. He'd do better to find her last name, but for now he could get away with "Master Anecha" if he was called upon to do the polite. Not that that looked likely any time in the near present, the way her and Master ven'Deelin were jawing.

Deliberately keeping his eyes on objects nearby—no need to embarrass Master ven'Deelin or himself with another widespaces panic—he moved his gaze up the stony steps, one at a time, until all at once, there was house at the tiptop, posed like a fancy on the highest tier of one of Dyk's sillier cakes.

Up it went, three levels, four—rough blue rock, inset with jewel colored windows. There was greenery climbing the rock walls: vines heavy with white, waxy flowers, that swayed in the teasing breeze.

Nearer at hand, he heard his name and brought his eyes hurriedly down from the heights, to find Master ven'Deelin at his right hand.

"Anecha will see to our luggage," she said, with a sweep of her hand that encompassed both stair and house. "Let us ascend."

Ascend they did—thirty-six stone steps, one after the other, at a pace somewhat brisker than he would have chosen for himself, Master ven'Deelin bouncing along beside like gravity had nothing to do with her.

They did pause at the top, Jethri sucking air deep into his lungs and wishing that Liadens didn't considered it impolite for a spacer to mop his face in public.

"You must see this," Master ven'Deelin said, putting her hand on his arm. "Turn about, my child."

Panting, Jethri turned about.

What he didn't do—he didn't throw himself face down on the deck and cover his head with his arms, nor even go down on his knees and set up a yell for Seeli.

He did go back a step, breath throttling in his throat, and had the native sense to bring his eyes down, away from the arcing empty pale sky and the unending march of rock and peak—down to the long stretch of green lawn, which outrageous open space was nothing less than homey by comparison with the horror of the sky.

So—the lawn, and the clumps of bushes, swimming before his tearing eyes, and suddenly, the random clumps weren't random, but the necessary parts of a larger picture showing a common cat, folded in and poised on the feet, ready to jump.

Jethri remembered to breathe. Remembered to look to Master ven'Deelin and incline his head, politely.

"You approve?" she murmured, her head tipped a little to a side.

"It is—quite a work," he managed, shamelessly swiping Master tel'Ondor's phrase. He cleared his throat. "Is the hunting cat the sign of the house?"

Her eyebrows lifted.

"An excellent guess," she said. "Alas, that I must disappoint you. The sign of the house is a grapevine, heavy with fruit. However, several of the revered Maarilex ancestors bred cats as an avocation. The breed is well-established now, and no more to do with Tarnia, save that there are usually cats in the house. And the sculpture, of course." She inclined her head, gravely. "Well done, Jethri. Now, let us announce ourselves."

She turned back to the door, and Jethri did, keeping his eyes low. He had the understanding that he'd just passed a test—or even two—and wished that he felt less uncertain on his legs. All that openness, and not a wall or a corridor or an avenue to confine it. He shuddered.

Facing the door was a relief, and it took an active application of will not to lean his head against the vermillion wood. As it happened, that was a smart move, because the door came open all at once, snatched back into the house by a boy no older than ten Standards, Jethri thought—and then revised that estimate down as the kid bowed, very careful, hand over heart, and lisped, "Who requests entry?"

Master ven'Deelin returned the bow with an equal measure of care. "Norn ven'Deelin Clan Ixin is come to make her bow to her foster mother, who has the honor to be Tarnia. I bring with me my apprentice and foster son."

The kid's eyes got round and he bowed even lower, a trifle ragged, to Jethri's eye, and stepped back, sweeping one arm wide.

"Be welcome in our house, Norn ven'Deelin Clan Ixin. Please follow. I will bring you to a parlor and inform the delm of your presence."

"We are grateful for the care of the House," Master ven'Deelin murmured, stepping forward.

They followed the kid across an entry chamber floored with the blue stone, polished to a high gloss, from which their boot heels woke stony echoes, then quieted, as they crossed into a carpeted hallway. A dozen steps down the carpet, their guide paused before an open door and bowed.

"The delm comes. Please, be at ease in our house."

The parlor was smallish—maybe the size of Master ven'Deelin's office on Elthoria—its walls covered in what Jethri took to be pale blue silk. The floor was the same vermillion wood as the front door, and an oval rug figured in pale blue and white lay in the center, around which were situated two upholstered chairs—pale blue—a couch—white—and a low table of white wood. Against the far wall stood a wine table of the same white wood, bottles racked in three rows of six. The top was a polished slab of the local stone, on which half-a-dozen glasses stood, ready to be filled.

"Clan Tarnia makes wine?" he asked Master ven'Deelin, who was standing beside one of the blue chairs, hands tucked into her belt, watching him like he was doing something interesting.

She tipped her head to one side. "You might say so. Just as you might say that Korval makes pilots or that Aragon makes porcelains."

Whoever, Jethri thought, irritable with unexpended adrenaline, they are.

"Peace," Master ven'Deelin said. "These things will be made known to you. Indeed, it is one of the reasons we are come here."

"Another being that even you would be hard put to explain this start to Ixin!" A sharp voice said from the doorway.

Jethri spun, his boot heels squeaking against the polished floor. Master ven'Deelin turned easier, and bowed lightly in a mode he didn't know.

"Mother, I greet you."

The old, old woman leaned on her cane, bright eyes darting to his face. Ears burning, he bowed, junior to senior.

"Good-day, ma'am."

"An optimist, I apprehend." She looked him up and looked him down, and Jethri wasn't exactly in receipt of the notion that she liked what she saw.

"Does no one on Elthoria know how to cut hair?"

As near as he could track it, the question was asked of the air, and that being so, he should've ignored it or let Master ven'Deelin deal. But it was his hair under derision, and the theory that it had to grow out some distance before he was presentable as a civilized being wasn't original with him.

"The barber says my hair needs to grow before he can do anything with it," he told her, a little more sharply than he had intended.

"And you find that a great impertinence on the side of the barber, do you?"

He inclined his head, just slightly. "I liked it the way it was."

"Hah!" She looked aside, and Jethri fair sagged in relief to be out from under her eye.

"Norn—I ask as one who stands as your mother: Have you run mad?"

Master ven'Deelin tipped her head, to Jethri's eye, amused.

"Now, how would I know?" she said, lightly, and moved a hand. "Was my message unclear? I had said I was bringing my foster son to you for—"

"Education and polish," the old lady interrupted. "Indeed, you did say so. What you did not say, my girl, is that your son is a mess of fashion and awkwardness, barely beyond halfling, and Terran besides!"

"Ah." Master ven'Deelin bowed—another mystery mode. "But it is precisely because he is Terran that I took him as apprentice. And precisely because of chel'Gaibin that he is my son."

"chel'Gaibin?" There was a small pause, then a wrinkled hand moved, smoothing the air irritably. "Never mind. That tale will keep, I think. What I would have from you now is what you think we might accomplish here. The boy is Terran, Norn—I say it with nothing but respect. What would you have me teach him?"

"Nothing above the ordinary: The clans and their occupations; the High modes; color and the proper wearing of jewels; the Code."

"In short, you wish me to sculpt this pure specimen of a Terran into a counterfeit Liaden."

"Certainly not. I wish you to produce me a gentleman of the galaxy, able to treat with Liaden and Terran equally."

There was another short pause, while the old lady gave him second inspection, head-top to boot-bottom.

"What is your name, boy?" she asked at last.

He bowed in the mode of introduction. "Jethri Gobelyn."

"So." She raised her left hand, showing him the big enameled ring she wore on the third finger. "I have the honor to be Tarnia. You may address me informally as Lady Maarilex. Is there a form of your personal name that you prefer?"

"I prefer Jethri, if you please, ma'am."

"I will then address you informally as Jethri. Now, I have no doubt that you are fatigued from your journey. Allow me to call one of my house to guide you to your rooms. This evening, prime meal will be served in the small dining room at local hour twenty. There are clocks in your quarters." She glanced to Master ven'Deelin.

"We have him in the north wing."

"Excellent," Master ven'Deelin said.

Jethri wasn't so sure, himself, but the thought of getting doors and walls between himself and this intense old lady; to have some quiet time to think—that appealed.

So he bowed his gratitude, and Lady Maarilex thumped the floor with her cane loud enough to scare a spacer out of his suit, and the kid who had let them in to the house was there, bowing low.

"Thawlana?"

"Pet Ric, pray conduct Jethri to his rooms in the north wing."

Another bow, this to Jethri. "If you please?"

He wanted those walls—he did. But there was another portion of him that didn't want to go off into the deep parts of a grounder house on a planet no Terran ship had ever touched, leaving his last link with space behind. It wasn't exactly panic that sent him looking at Master ven'Deelin, lips parting, though he didn't have any words planned to say.

She forestalled him with a gentle bow. "Be at peace, my child. We will speak again at Prime. For now, this my foster mother wishes to ring a terrifying scold down upon me, and she could not properly express herself in the presence of a tender lad." She moved her hand, fingers wriggling in a shooing gesture. "Go now."

And that, thought Jethri, was that. Stiffly, he turned back to the kid—Pet Ric—and bowed his thanks.

"Thank you," he said. "I would be glad of an escort."

* * *

THEY WERE HARDLY a dozen steps from the parlor when a shadow moved in one of the doorways and a girl flickered out into the hallway, one hand raised imperiously. His guide stopped, and so did Jethri, being unwilling to run him down. The girl was older than Pet Ric—maybe fourteen or fifteen Standards, Jethri guessed—with curly red-brown hair and big, dark blue eyes in a pointy little face. She was dressed in rumpled and stained tan trousers, boots and a shirt that had probably started the day as yellow. A ruby the size of a cargo can lug nut hung round her neck by a long silver chain.

"Is it him? The ven'Deelin's foster son?" She whispered, looking up and down the hall like she was afraid somebody might overhear her.

"Who else would he be?" Pet Ric answered, sounding pettish to Jethri's ears.

"Anybody!" she said dramatically. She lowered her hand, raised her chin and looked Jethri straight in the eye.

"Are you Jethri ven'Deelin, then?"

"Jethri Gobelyn," he corrected. "I have the honor to be Master ven'Deelin's apprentice."

"Apprentice?" another voice exclaimed. A second girl stepped out of the doorway, this one an exact duplicate, even in dress, of the first. "Aunt Stafeli said foster son."

"Well, he could be both, couldn't he?" asked the first girl, and looked back at Jethri. "Are you both apprentice and foster son?"

No getting out of it now, he thought and inclined his head. "Yes."

The first girl clapped her hands together and spun to face her sister. "See, Meicha? Both!"

"Both or neither," Meicha said, cryptically. "We will take over as guide, Pet Ric."

The boy pulled himself up. "My grandmother gave the duty to me."

"Aren't you on door?" asked the girl who wasn't Meicha.

This appeared to be a question of some substance. Pet Ric hesitated. "Ye-es."

"What room has the guest been given?" Meicha asked.

"The Mountain Suite."

"All the way at the end of the north wing? How will you guard the door from there?" She asked, folding her arms over her chest. "It was well for you we happened by, cousin. We will escort the guest to his rooms. You will return to your post."

"Yes!" applauded her twin. "The house cares for the guest, and the door is held. All ends in honor."

It might have been that Pet Ric wasn't entirely convinced of that, Jethri thought, but—on the one hand, his granmam had given him the duty of escorting the guest, and on the second, it seemed clear she'd forgotten about the door.

Abruptly, the boy made up his mind, and bowed to Jethri's honor.

"I regret, Jethri Gobelyn—my duty lies elsewhere. I leave you in the care of my cousins Meicha and Miandra and look forward to seeing you again soon."

Jethri bowed. "I thank you for your care and honor your sense of duty. I look forward to renewing our acquaintance."

"Very pretty," Meicha said to Miandra. "I believe Aunt Stafeli will have him tutoring us in manner and mode."

Jethri took pause and considered the two of them, for that might well have been a barb, and he was in no mood for contention.

Miandra it was who raised her hand. "It was a jest, Jethri—may we call you Jethri? You may call us Meicha and Miandra—or Meichamiandra, as Ren Lar does!"

"You will find us frightfully light-minded," Meicha added. "Aunt Stafeli despairs, and says so often."

"Jethri wants to be alone in his room to rest his head before prime," Miandra stated, at an abrupt angle to the conversation.

"That's sensible," Meicha allowed, and turned about face, marching away down the hall. Between amused and irritated, Jethri followed her, Miandra walking companionably at his side.

"We'll take you by the public halls this time, though it is longer. Depend upon Aunt Stafeli to quiz you on every detail of the route at Prime. Later, we'll show you the back halls."

"That is very kind of you," Jethri said, slowly. "But I do not think I will be guesting above a few days."

"Not above a few days?" Meicha looked at him over her shoulder. "Are you certain of that, I wonder, Jethri?"

"Certain, yes. Elthoria breaks orbit for Naord in three Standard Days."

Silence greeted this, which didn't do much for the comfort of his stomach, but before he could ask them what they knew that he didn't, Miandra redirected the flow of conversation.

"Is it very exciting, being at the ven'Deelin's side on the trade floor? We have not had the honor of meeting her, but we have read the tales."

"Tales?" Jethri blinked at her as they rounded a corner.

"Certainly. Norn ven'Deelin is the youngest trader to have attempted and achieved the amethyst. Alone, she re-opened trade with the Giletti System, which five ambassadors could not accomplish over the space of a dozen years! She was offered the guildmaster's duty and turned it aside, saying that she better served the Guild in trade."

"She has taken," Meicha put in here, "a Terran apprentice trader under her patronage and has sworn to bring him into the Guild."

The last, of course, he knew. The others, though—

"I am pleased to hear these stories, which I had not known," he said carefully. "But it must go without saying that Master ven'Deelin is legend."

They laughed, loudly and with obvious appreciation; identical notes of joy sounding off the wooden walls.

"He does well. In truth," gasped Meicha, "the ven'Deelin is legend. Yes, even so."

"We will show you the journals, in the library, if you would enjoy them," Miandra said. "Perhaps tomorrow?"

"That would be pleasant," he said, as they began to ascend a highly polished wooden staircase of distressing height. "However, I stand at Master ven'Deelin's word, and she has not yet discussed my duties here with—"

"Oh, certainly!" Meicha cut him off. "It is understood that the ven'Deelin's word must carry all before it!"

"Except Aunt Stafeli," said Miandra.

"Sometimes," concluded Meicha; and, "Do you find the steps difficult, Jethri?"

He bit his lip. "My home ship ran light gravity, and I am never easy in heavy grav."

"Light gravity," Miandra repeated, in caressing tones. "Sister, we must go to space!"

"Let Ren Lar catch us 'mong the vines again and we shall."

Miandra chuckled and put a light hand quickly on Jethri's sleeve.

"Be of good heart, friend. Six steps more, and then to the end of a very short hallway, I promise you."

"Take good advice and first have yourself a nap," Meicha said. "Time enough to unpack when you are rested."

That seemed sensible advice, he allowed, though he was not wanting to sleep so much as to think.

"I thank you," he said, rather breathlessly, to Meicha's back.

She reached the top of the flight and turned, dancing a few steps to the right.

"Is your home light as well?" she asked, seriously, as he achieved the landing, and turned to look at her.

"My home. . . " He sighed, and reached up to rub his head where the growing-out hair itched. "I am ship-born. My home is—was—a tradeship named Gobelyn's Market."

The two of them exchanged a glance rich in disbelief.

"But—did you never come to ground?" Miandra asked.

"We did—for trade, repairs, that sort of thing. But we didn't live on the ground. We lived on the ship."

Another shared glance, then—

"He speaks the truth," said Meicha.

"But to always and only live on a ship?" wailed Miandra.

"Why not?" Jethri asked, irritated. "Lots of people live on ships. I'd rather that than live planet-side. Ships are clean, the temperature is consistent, the grav is light, there's no bad smells, or dust, or weather—" He heard his voice heating up and put the brake on it, bowing with a good measure of wariness.

"Forgive me," he murmured.

"Truth," Meicha said again, as if he hadn't spoken.

Miandra sighed. "Well, then, it is truth, and we must accept it. It seems an odd way to live, is all." She turned and put her hand on his sleeve.

"You must forgive us for our ignorance," she said. "I hope you will talk to us about your ship at length, so that we are no longer ignorant."

"And in trade," Meicha added, "we will teach you about gardens, and streams, and snow and other planet-side pleasures, so that you are no longer ignorant."

Jethri blinked, throat tightening with a sudden realization that he had been as rude as they had, and as such was a fitting object for Balance—

Except, he thought then, they had already declared Balance—him to teach them about ship-living, them to teach him about planet-life. He sighed, and Meicha grinned.

"You are going to be interesting, Jethri Gobelyn," she said.

"Later, he will interesting," Miandra ordered, and waved a hand under her sister's nose. "At this present, we have given our word to guide him to his rooms in enough time that he might nap and recruit his strength before prime, none of which is accomplished by standing here."

"You sound like Aunt Stafeli." Meicha turned, crooking a finger behind her. "Come along then. Less than six dozen steps, Jethri, I promise you."

In fact, it was a couple dozen steps more than six, though Jethri wasn't inclined to quibble. Now that the room was near, he found himself wanting that nap, though he slept in the car—and a shower, too, while he was wanting comforts. . . 

"We arrive!" Meicha announced, flourishing a bow in no mode Jethri could name.

The door was wood, dark brown in color. Set off-center was a white porcelain knob painted with what he thought might have been intended to be grapes.

"Turn the knob and push the door away from you," Miandra coached. "If you like, we will show you how to lock it from the inside."

"Thank you," he said. The porcelain was cool and smooth, vaguely reminiscent of his fractin.

The door moved easily under his push, and he came a little too quickly into the room, the knob still in his hand.

This time he shouted, and threw an arm up over his eyes, all the while his heart pounded in his ears, and his breath burned in his chest.

"The curtains!" a high voice shrilled, and there were hands on his shoulders, pushing him, turning him, he realized, in the midst of his panic and willingly allowed it, the knob slipping from his hand.

"Done!"

"Done," repeated an identical voice, very near at hand. "Jethri, the curtain is closed. You may open your eyes."

It wasn't as easy as that, of course, and there was the added knowledge, as he got his breathing under control, that he'd made a looby outta himself in front of the twins, besides showing them just as plain as he could where he stood vulnerable.

Mud, dust and stink! He raged at himself, standing there with his arm over his face and his eyes squeezed tight. His druthers, if it mattered, was to sink down deep into the flooring and never rise up again. Failing that, he figured dying on the spot would do. Of all the stupid—but, who expected bare sky and mountain peaks when they opened a sleeping room door? Certainly, not a born spacer.

"You are a guest of the house," one of the twins said from nearby, "and valued."

"Besides," said the other, "the ven'Deelin would skin us if harm came to you and then Aunt Stafeli would boil us."

That caught him in the funny bones, and he sputtered a laugh, which somehow made it easier to get the arm down and the eyes, cautiously, open.

One of the twins—now that they were out of formation, he couldn't tell one from her sister—was standing practically toe-to-toe with him, her pointed face quite plainly showing concern. To her right and little back, the other twin's face wore an identical expression of dismay.

"Not smart," he managed, still some breathless. "You stand back, in case I swing out."

She tipped her head. "You are not going to swing out," she stated, with absolute conviction. "You are quite calm, now."

And, truth told, he did feel calmer and neither in danger or dangerous. He took a breath, getting the air all the way down into his lungs, and sighed it out.

"What's amiss?" asked the twin who stood farthest from him. "Are you afraid of mountains?"

He shook his head. "Openness," he said, and, seeing their blank stares, expanded. "All that emptiness, with no walls or corridors—it's not natural. Not what a space-born would know as natural. You could fall, forever. . . "

They exchanged another one of their identical looks, and then the nearer twin stepped back, clearing his sight of the room, which was bigger than the Market's common room, and set up like a parlor, with a desk against one wall, upholstered chairs here and there, low tables, and several small cases holding books and bric-a-brac. The floor was carpeted in deep green. Across the room, a swath of matching deep green shrouded the window.

"The bedroom boasts a similar vista, in which the house takes pride, and takes care that all of our most honored guests are placed here," said the girl nearest him. She paused before asking, "Shall we close the curtains, or show you how to use them?"

Good question, Jethri thought, and took another breath, trying to center himself, like Pen Rel had taught him. He nodded.

"I think I should learn how to operate the curtains myself, thank you."

That pleased them, though he couldn't have said how he knew, and they guided him through a small galley, which, thank the ghosts of space, had no window, to his bedroom.

The bed alone was the size of his quarters on the Market, and so filled up with pillows that there wasn't any room left for him. His duffle, and of all things, the battered B crate from his storage bin sat on a long bench under . . .  the window.

He was warned, now, and knew to keep his eyes low, so it wasn't bad at all, just a quick spike in the heart rate and a little bit of buzz inside the ears.

"In order to operate the curtain," said the twin on his left, "you must approach the window. There is a pulley mechanism at the right edge. . . "

He found it by touch, keeping his eyes pinned to the homey sight of his bag on the bench. The pull was stiff, but he gave it steady pressure, and the curtain glided across the edge of his sight, casting the room into shade.

He sighed, and sat down on the bench.

Before him, Meicha and Miandra bowed.

"So, you are safely delivered, and will be wanting your rest," the one on the left said.

"We will come again just ahead of twentieth hour to escort you to the small dining room," the one on the right said. "In the meanwhile, be easy in our house."

"And don't forget to set the clock to wake you in good time to dress," the twin on the left added.

He smiled, then recalled his manners, and got to his feet to bow his gratitude.

"Thank you for your care."

"We are pleased to be of assistance," said the twin on the right, as the two of them turned away.

"Aunt Stafeli will not allow you to fear mountains, or open space, or any being born," the girl on the left said over her shoulder.

"Then it is fortunate that I will only be with her for a few days," Jethri answered lightly, following them.

Silence from both as they passed through the galley and into the parlor.

"Recruit your strength," one said finally. "In case."

He smiled. Did they expect him to stay while Elthoria continued on the amended route? He was 'prenticed to learn trade, not to learn mountains.

Still, it would be rude to ignore their concern, so he bowed and murmured, "I will. Thank you."

One twin opened the door and slipped out into the hallway. The second paused a moment, and put her finger on a switch under the inner knob.

"Snap to the right is locked," she said. "To the left is unlocked. Until prime, Jethri."

"Until prime," he said, but she was already gone, the door ghosting shut behind her.

* * *

THE MIRROR SHOWED brown hair growing out in untidy patches, an earnest, scrubbed clean face, and a pair of wide brown eyes. Below the face, the body was neatly outfitted in a pale green Liaden-style shirt and dark blue trousers. Jethri nodded, and his reflection nodded, too, brown eyes going a little wider.

"You're shipshape and ready for space," he told himself encouragingly, reaching for the Ixin pin.

One eye on the clock, he got the pin fixed to his collar, and stood away from the mirror, pulling his shirt straight. It lacked six minutes to twentieth hour. He wondered how long he should wait for the twins before deciding that they had forgotten him and—

A chime rang through the apartment. Jethri blinked, then grinned, and went quick-step to the main room. He remembered to order his face into bland before he opened the door, which was well.

He had been expecting the same grubby brats who had guided him a few hours before, faces clean, maybe, in honor of dinner.

What he hadn't expected was two ladies of worth in matching white dresses, a flower nestled among the auburn curls of each, matching rubies hanging from matching silver chains. They bowed like they were one person, neither one faster or slower than the other—honor to the guest.

His answer—honor to a child of the house—was a bow that Master tel'Ondor had drilled him on until his back ached, so he was confident of his execution—until the cat.

He had seen cats before, of course—port cats. Small and fierce, they worked the docks tirelessly, keeping the rat and mouse populations in check. Their work took a toll, in shredded ears, crooked tails, and rough, oily fur.

This cat—the one standing between the twins and looking up into his face as if it was trying to memorize his features—this cat had never done a lick of work in its life.

It was a tall animal; the tips of its sturdy ears easily on a level with the twins' knees, with a pronounced and well-whiskered muzzle. Its fur was a plush gray; its tail a high, proud sweep. The eyes which considered him so seriously were pale green—rather like two large oval-shaped peridot.

Timing ruined, Jethri straightened to find the twins watching him with interest.

"What is that doing here?"

"Oh, don't mind Flinx—"

"He was waiting outside our rooms for us—"

"Very likely he heard there was a guest—"

"And came to do proper duty."

He frowned, and looked down at the animal. "It's not intelligent?"

"No, you mustn't say so! Flinx is very intelligent!" cried the twin on the right—Jethri thought she might be Miandra.

"Bend down and offer your forefinger," the other twin—Meicha, if his theory was correct—said. "We mustn't be late for prime and duty must be satisfied."

Jethri threw her a sharp glance, but as far as he could read her—which was to say, not at all—she appeared to be serious.

Sighing to himself, he bent down and held his right forefinger out toward the cat's nose, hoping he wasn't about to get bit. Cat-bite was serious trouble, as he knew. 'Way back, when he was still a kid, Dyk had gotten bit by a dock cat. The bite went septic before he got to the first aid kit and it had taken two hits of super heavy duty antibiotics to bring him back from the edge of too sick to care.

This cat, though—this Flinx. It moved forward a substantial step and touched its cool, brick colored nose to the very tip of his finger. It paused, then, and Jethri was about to pull back, duty done. But, before he did, Flinx took a couple more substantial steps and made sure it rubbed its body down the entire length of his fingers and arm.

"A singular honor!" one of the twins said, and Jethri jumped, having forgotten she was there.

The cat blinked, for all of space like he was laughing, then stropped himself along Jethri's knee and continued on into his rooms.

"Hey!" He turned, but before he could go after the interloper, his sleeve was grabbed by one of the twins and his hand by the other.

"Leave him—he won't hurt anything," said the girl holding his sleeve.

"Flinx is very wise," added the girl holding his hand, pulling the door shut, as they hustled him down the hall. "And we had best be wise and hurry so that we are not late for prime!"

* * *

THANKING ALL THE ghosts of space, the small dining room did not have a famous view on exhibit. What it did have, was a round table laid with such an amount of dinnerware, utensils and drinking vessels that Jethri would have suspected a shivary was planned, instead of a cozy and quiet family dinner.

They were the last arriving, on the stroke of twenty, according to the clock on the sideboard. The twins deserted him at the door and plotted a course for two chairs set together between Delm Tarnia and a black-haired man with a soft-featured face and dreamy blue eyes. At Tarnia's right sat Master ven'Deelin, observing him with that look of intent interest he seemed lately to inspire. Next to Master ven'Deelin was an empty chair.

Grateful that this once the clue was obvious, he slipped into the empty seat, and darted a quick look down table at the twins. They were sitting side by side, as modest as you please, hands folded on their laps, eyes downcast.

"Jethri," the old lady said, claiming his attention with a flutter of frail old fingers. "I see that you have had the felicity of meeting Miandra and Meicha. Allow me to present my son, Ren Lar, who is master of the vine here. Ren Lar, here is Norn's fosterling, Jethri Gobelyn."

"Sir." Jethri inclined his head deeply—as close to a seated bow as he could come without knocking his nose against the table.

"Young Jethri," Ren Lar inclined his head to a matching depth, which Jethri might have suspected for sarcasm, except there was Tarnia sitting right there. "I am pleased to meet you. We two must hold much in common, as sons of such illustrious mothers."

Oh-ho, that was it. The man's bow was courtesy was paid to Master ven'Deelin, through her fosterson, and not necessarily to the son himself. The universe had not quite gone topsy-turvy.

"I am sure that we will have many stories to trade, sir," he said, which was what he could think of as near proper, though not completely of the form Master tel'Ondor had given him. On the other, Ren Lar's greeting hadn't been of the form Master tel'Ondor had given him, either.

"Trade stories at your leisure, and beyond my hearing," the old lady directed. "Normally, we are not quite so thin of company as you find us this evening, Jethri. Several of the House are abroad on business, and one has made the journey to Liad, in order to complete his education."

"And Pet Ric," said one of the twins, quietly, though maybe not quietly enough, "eats in the nursery, with the rest of the babies."

Lady Maarilex turned her head, and considered the offending twin with great blandness. "Indeed, he does," she said after a moment. "You may join him, if you wish."

The twin ducked her head. "Thank you, ma'am. I would prefer to remain here."

"Your preference has very little to do with the matter. From my age, young Meicha, there is not so much difference between you and Pet Ric, that he naturally be confined to the nursery, while you dine with the adults." A pause. "Note that I do not say, with the other adults."

Meicha bit her lip. "Yes, ma'am."

"So," the old lady turned away. "You must forgive them," she said to Master ven'Deelin. "They have no address."

"One would not expect it," Master ven'Deelin answered softly, "if they are new come from the nursery. Indeed, I am persuaded that they are progressing very well indeed."

"You are kind to say it."

"Not at all. I do wonder, though, Mother, to find dramliz in the house."

The old lady looked up sharply. "Hah. Well, and you do not find dramliz in the house, mistress. You find Meicha and Miandra, children of the clan. Healer Hall has taken an interest in them."

Master ven'Deelin inclined her head. "I am most pleased to see them."

"You say so now." She moved a hand imperiously. "House-children, make your bows to my foster daughter, Norn ven'Deelin Clan Ixin."

They inclined, deeply and identically, and with haste enough to threaten the mooring of the flowers they wore in their hair.

"Norn ven'Deelin," Meicha murmured.

"We are honored," Miandra finished.

"Meicha and Miandra, I am pleased to meet you." Master ven'Deelin inclined her head, not by much, but to judge by the way the twins' eyes got wide, maybe it was enough.

Somebody—Lady Maarilex or Ren Lar—must have made a sign that Jethri didn't catch, because right then, the door at the back of the room opened and here came an elder person dressed in a tight black tunic and tight black pants. He bowed, hands together.

"Shall I serve, Lady?"

"Yes, and then leave us, if you will."

* * *

THERE WAS TALK during the meal, family catch up stuff, which Jethri followed well enough, to his own surprise. Following it and making sense of it were two different orbits, though, and after a while he just let the words slide past his ear and concentrated on his dinner.

"Of course, I will be delighted to have Jethri's assistance in the vineyard—and in the cellars, too." Ren Lar's voice, bearing as it did his own name, jerked Jethri's attention away from dinner, which was mostly done anyway, and back to the conversation.

"That is well," Master ven'Deelin was answering calmly. "I intend to start him in wine after he has completed his studies here, and it would be beneficial if he had a basic understanding of the processes."

"Very wise," Ren Lar murmured. "I am honored to be able to assist, in even so small a way, with the young trader's education."

Carefully, Jethri looked to the twins. Miandra was studying her plate with an intensity it didn't deserve, being empty. Meicha met his eye square, and he got the distinct idea she'd've said, I told you so right out if she hadn't already earned one black mark on the meal.

Jethri felt himself go cold, felt the breath shortening in his lungs. Thrown off, he thought, and didn't believe. Couldn't believe it, not of Master ven'Deelin, who, unlike his blood mother, had wanted him, at least as her apprentice. Who had plans for him, and who thought he might one day be useful to—

And there was the B crate sitting in the room upstairs, which he surely didn't need for a three-day visit. . . 

"Ma'am," he heard his own voice, breathless and a thought too sharp. "You're not leaving me here?"

She tipped her head, black eyes very bright. "You object to the house of my foster mother?"

He took a breath, centering himself—trying to—like Pen Rel kept insisting on. It was important to be calm. People who panicked made mistakes, and, by all the ghosts of space, a mistake now could doom him to life in the mud. . . 

Another breath, deliberately deep, noticing that the conversation had stopped and that Master ven'Deelin's question hung in the air, vibrating with an energy he wasn't near to understanding.

"The house of your foster mother is a fine house, indeed," he said, slowly, carefully. "Ignorant as I am, it is all but certain that I will disgrace the honor of the house, or of yourself, all unknowning. I am space-born, ma'am. Planet ways—"

Master ven'Deelin moved a hand in the Liaden version of "stop". Gulping, Jethri stopped.

"You see how it is with him," she said to Lady Maarilex. "So much concern for my honor!"

"That is not a ill thing, I judge, in a foster child," the old lady said gravely. "Indeed, I am charmed and heartened by his care of you, Norn. For surely, his concern for you is but a pure reflection of the care you have shown him. I am pleased, but in no wise surprised."

Trapped. Jethri bit his lip, feeling panic clawing at his throat, adrenaline arguing with his dinner.

Across the table, he saw Miandra swallow hard, and Meicha close her eyes, throat working.

"So, then," Master ven'Deelin continued. "Wine lore, surely, and a decreasing of the sensibilities. Modesty becomes a lad of certain years, but a lad who hovers on the edge of being a trader grown must have more to his repertoire than modesty and a pleasant demeanor."

Lady Maarilex inclined her head. "We shall do our possible," she murmured. "A relumma may see some progress."

A relumma? Ninety-six Standard Days? He stayed in his chair. He didn't yell or give in to bawling. Across from him, though, Meicha sniffled.

"Mother," Ren Lar said softly. "It occurs to me that our guests, newly come from space, might welcome an early escape to their beds."

"Why, so they might," Lady Maarilex said, like the idea surprised her. "Thank you, my son." She inclined her head and sat poised until he had come 'round to her chair, eased it back and offered an arm for her to lean on as she rose.

"Good night, kin and guests. Repose yourselves in calmness, knowing that the house is vigilant on your behalf. Young Jethri, attend me tomorrow morning at eighth hour in my study. Miandra will show you the way."

She turned then, leaning hard on the arm of her son, and left the room at a slow walk. As soon as she cleared the door, the twins popped up, bowed their good-nights and were gone, leaving Jethri staring at Norn ven'Deelin and feeling about to cry.

"Well," she said, rising and looking down at him quizzically. "Allow me to escort you to your rooms, my son."

* * *

HE DID KEEP HIMSELF in hand until they reached the door of his quarters—he did. Master ven'Deelin chatted easily on about the house and how comfortable it was to be assigned to her very room—though nothing so exalted as the north wing, mind you!—suited her very well. Jethri returned monosyllables—maybe he did that. But he didn't start a fight until they he had opened the door and bowed her over into his parlor.

He pulled the door closed behind him—so gently, he could scarcely hear the lock snick, and stood for the space of a couple good, deep breaths, preparatory to laying the case out as calm and as forceful as he could.

"Master Flinx, how do you go on?" Master ven'Deelin said delightedly. Jethri turned and sure enough, there was the cat, curled up on one of the chairs, and there was Master ven'Deelin, bending down to offer a courteous finger.

"Come, do me the honor of renewing our acquaintance."

Surprisingly enough, the cat did just that, coming out of his curl and sitting up tall, touching his nose to her fingertip.

"Always the gentleman!" She moved her hand, running tickling fingers under the cat's chin. "I see that I leave my son in good care!" Straightening, she sent Jethri a quick black glance.

"Truly, young Jethri, you will do well here, with Flinx as your sponsor."

He cleared his throat. "I'd like to talk to you about that, if you please, ma'am." He said carefully.

She sighed, and folded her hands together, head to one side. "Well, if you must, you must, and I will not forbid it. But I will tell you that you are doomed to failure. Remain here, you most assuredly shall, to sit at the feet of my foster mother and learn whatever she wishes to teach you."

"Ma'am, will you not at least listen to me?" He heard the desperation in his own voice and bit his lip.

"Did I not say that I would listen? Speak, my child. I rejoice in the melodious sounds of your speech."

"Yes, ma'am. I don't wish to be tiresome and I know you must be eager to seek your bed, so I will be brief. The case is that I am space-based and I am apprenticed to learn trade. The whys and whyevers of planet-based society—that falls outside the scope of those things it is necessary for me to learn in order to be an effective trader."

"A gentle set-down; appropriate between kin. And though I might protest that I have done nothing to earn your anger, I will refrain, for I well know that you consider yourself wronged. So. . . " She moved a hand, showing him the chair unoccupied by the cat.

"Sit, child, and give over glowering at me."

He sat, though he wasn't that certain in regard to the glower.

"Good." She turned back to the second chair, scooped the cat up deftly and sat, cat on knee. Flinx blinked, and stretched, and curled round, obviously pleased with his position.

"The fact that you are able to argue with sincerity that knowledge of planet based society has no bearing upon your abilities as a trader only demonstrates how deeply you are in need of such education."

"Master—"

She raised a hand. "Peace. You have made your throw. I now claim my turn with the dice."

He bit his lip. "Yes, ma'am."

"'Yes, mother' would be more appropriate to the case," she said, "but I do not insist. Instead, I will undertake to put your mind at ease. You are not abandoned. You are set down for the space of two relumma, that you might pursue independent study of value to the ship. These studies are two-fold." She held up a hand, and folded the index finger down.

"One, you will learn what my foster mother may teach you of the proper mode. Fear not that she will treasure you as I do—and insist that you extend yourself to your greatest efforts." She folded her second finger down.

"Two, you will also spend time in the trade hall at Irikwae Port. I have requested that the master of the hall see to your guild certification, which is a matter I have too long neglected." Points made, she dropped her hand to Flinx's flank.

"I have myself undertaken just such independent studies and certifications, to the benefit of the ship and the profit of the clan. It is what is done, and neither punishment, nor betrayal. Are you able to accept my word that this is so?"

His first inclination was to tell her no, but the plain truth was that he'd never known her to lie. Some things she said that he didn't understand—but that was his ignorance and not her deliberate misleading—

"Two relumma?" he blurted, his brain finally catching up with his ears. He bent forward in his chair. "Lady Maarilex said one relumma!"

"Tcha!" Master ven'Deelin looked up from scratching Flinx behind the ears. "She said that one relumma might begin to show progress. What profit do you bring to the ship half-trained?"

He closed his eyes, fists set hard against his knees. Two relumma on-planet, he thought, and shivered.

"Child. . . " There was a rustle, and a thump, and then arms put 'round his shoulders. He stiffened and then leaned into the hug, pushing his face against her shoulder like she was Seeli and him not much older than eight.

"Child, the worlds are not your enemy. Nor do ships enclose all that is good and proper in the universe. A trader must know his customers—and the greater number of your customers, when you are a trader grown, will be planet-based, not ship-born. Ignore their ways at your peril. Despise them. . . " There was a small pouf of sound over his head, and her arms tightened briefly.

"Despise them," she continued, "if you must, from knowledge, rather than ignorance."

"Yes, ma'am," he whispered, because there wasn't anything else to say. She was going to leave him here, right enough, whatever he said, or however he said it. His outlook now was to be sure she remembered to come back for him.

"You may think me heartless," she murmured. "You may perhaps think that I have never been bade to show a calm face to exile. Acquit me, I beg you. Well I remember the wildness in my heart, when my delm ordered that I be fostered to Tarnia, away from Solcintra and from Liad itself, which enclosed all that was good and proper in the universe." Again, that small pouf of sound, which might, Jethri thought, be a gentle laugh.

"A surly and aloof fosterling I was, too. I trust that you will be more seemly than I was—for my foster mother, I ask that you be gentle, and no more bitter than is strictly necessary."

He laughed—a surprising, hiccupy sort of sound—and heard her laugh, too. Her arms tightened once more before she stepped back, leaving him feeling comforted, and oddly comfortable.

"So then," she said briskly. "You have an early interview with our foster mother, and will doubtless wish to seek your bed soon. Be certain that I will return for you. I swear it, on Ixin itself."

Jethri blinked. To swear on the name of her clan—he had the sense that was something not lightly done, could not be lightly done. If her own name was more precious than rubies, how much more precious must be the name that sheltered all ven'Deelins, everywhere? He came to his feet, still chewing on the nuances, and bowed respect to an elder.

"I will look for you, in two relumma," he said, and straightened to see a smile on her face.

"Indeed, you will. And now, my son, I bid you deep sleep and sweet dreaming. Learn your lessons well—and mind Master Flinx whenever he cares to advise you."

He inclined his head, seriously. "I'll do that, ma'am."

Together, they walked to the door. He opened it for her; she stepped out—and turned back.

"You will wish to open that curtain, my child. The view of the nighttime sky is not to be missed."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, out of habit, and she smiled again and went away down the hall.

Jethri closed the door slowly, and turned to face the curtained window.

You told her yes, he said to himself.

It took a month or so to cross the room, and another week to pull the cord. The curtains came back, slow and stately. Lower lip gripped tightly between his teeth, Jethri looked up from the cords and the folds of cloth. . . 

The sky was a deep blue, spangled with fist-sized shards of icy white light. A pale blue moon was rising, casting shadows on the shoulders of the mountains. Further out, and considerably down, there were clustered lights—a city, or so he thought. He remembered to breathe, and then to breathe again, looking out over the night.

The moon had cleared the mountain peak before he turned away and went into the bedroom, walking on his toes, as if the floor was tiled in glass.

Back | Next
Framed