If honor be your clothing, the suit will last a lifetime.
—William Arnot
IT WAS QUITE the nicest dress she had ever owned.
Indeed, Anne thought, as she opened the closet, it was the only formal dress she possessed, and, hopefully, formal enough for a Liaden dinner party comprised not only of the delm and the delm's heir, but of her lover's thodelm, grandmother of her son.
Until Er Thom yos'Galan, Anne would have laughed at the notion of owning a piece of clothing as extravagant as the luscious green confection she had purchased on Proziski. But—An ambassadorial affair, with dancing, Er Thom had said in his soft, sweet way. Would it amuse her to accompany him?
It would have amused her to accompany him to Hell, she recalled ruefully as she took the dress down. She had accepted his invitation with more joy than sense—then spent an entire day—and far too much of her meager personal funds—in pursuit of the green gown.
The delicious fabric swirled round her shoulders, fell and settled, water-smooth, against her skin as she slipped on the matching slippers and turned to face the mirror.
"Oh—my."
The gown still had magic to work, she thought, staring dazedly at the vision in the mirror. The regal lady caught there stared haughtily back, brown skin rich against the pure greenness, chestnut hair glowing, eyes all velvet seduction.
From slim waist to full bosom, the gown was laced with golden chains so delicate they might have been worked at a elf-lord's forge. She had a matching length, provided by the dressmaker, to wear around her throat.
On the occasion of the ambassadorial affair, she had also worn a gold ribbon, threaded through painstakingly-arranged hair. The ribbon was long-lost—and the hair soon woefully disarranged. For the dance had proved insipid and they had left early, smuggling out a napkin filled with delicacies pilfered from an hors d'oeuvre tray and a split of wine offered by a sympathetic waiter.
Dazzling in his own finery, Er Thom had driven them to the Mercantile Building, and pulled the sample bolt from the flitter's boot.
"You mustn't spoil your dress," he had murmured, shaking a prince's ransom worth of lace back from his beautiful hands and spreading the scarlet silk like a blanket . . .
Anne shook herself. "That will do," she informed her reflection sternly, and deliberately turned away.
The vanity had been arranged by the same invisible hands that had unpacked her clothing and carefully put it away.
To the right were her comb, brush and mirror, the black oak veneer battered, the silver-wrapped handles tarnished. To the left sat the chipped lacquer chest that contained her few pieces of jewelry.
Careful of stressed plastic hinges, she lifted the lid and propped it open. Along the back of the box, glowing like a candle in the shiny dark interior, was the carved ivory box that held the necklace Er Thom had given her—"to say good-bye." For a moment, she was tempted to wear that piece tonight, for it was inarguably the most beautiful of her paltry jewels.
He asked you not to wear it, she reminded herself as her fingers touched the exquisitely-carved ivory. With a sigh, she shook her head and fastened the dressmaker's golden chain around her throat instead.
She hung a simple pair of gold hoops in her ears and used plain gold combs to hold her hair back from her face.
The entire effect was a little more austere than she had hoped for, despite the green gown's magic.
Well, she thought wistfully, and maybe Er Thom's ma will pity you, Annie-gel, since it's plain you've no sort of melant'i to boast on.
Or, Er Thom's mother might just as easily take the plainness of her guest's adornment as a personal affront. Anne swallowed against a sudden uprising of butterflies inside her stomach.
"Maybe I'll have a cup of soup and some toast in my room," she said aloud, and with no conviction at all, for that would be an insult, and Er Thom's mother well within her rights to avenge it.
Just when she was beginning to think that would be no bad thing, the entrance-chime sounded.
Green dress swirling around her, she left the bedroom, went through the spacious kitchenette and luxurious common room. She paused a moment before laying her hand against the admittance plate, composing her face and trying to calm her racing heartbeat. It would never do for Mr. pak'Ora, come to do butler's duty and guide the guest to the dining room, to see her panting with fright.
Hoping that her face betrayed only serene expectation, she opened the door.
Er Thom bowed, low and eloquent, looked up and smiled into her eyes. "Good evening."
"Good evening," she managed, though her tongue suddenly seemed cleft to the roof of her mouth. She stepped back, motioning him inside with a sweep of her ringless hand. "Please come in."
"Thank you," he said gravely, as if the door weren't coded to his palm as well as hers. He stepped within and the portal in question slid shut behind him.
Er Thom wore the form-fitting dark trousers deemed appropriate formal wear for Liaden males. She knew from experience that the fabric was wonderfully soft to the touch. His wide-sleeved white shirt was silk, or something more precious; the lace frothing at his throat contained by an emerald stickpin. Emeralds glittered in his ears and on his slender hands, half-hidden by more lace.
"Anne?" His gaze warmed her face. "Is there something wrong?"
She shook herself, aware that she had been staring.
"I was just thinking how beautiful you are," she said and felt her face heat, for the man was here to take her to meet his mother—
Er Thom laughed his soft laugh and bowed, slightly and with humor.
"And I," he murmured, "was trying most earnestly not to think the same of you."
Dear gods, a compliment. She very nearly blinked; rescued the moment with a bow of her own, accepting his admiration.
His eyes gleamed, but he turned a little aside, gesturing around the room.
"Everything is as you wish it? Is there anything else the House may provide for you?"
"Everything is perfectly delightful," she told him soberly. "I'll miss all this elegance, after we go back home." She did blink then, seeing him among the wide, comfortable chairs and high-set desk.
"Do you guest Terrans often?"
"Eh?" Winged brows drew together in puzzlement. "I believe you are the first."
"Oh." She bit her lip, then plunged ahead, waving her hand at the room.
"It's just that everything's—convenient—for someone who is—of Terran height. I assumed—"
"Ah." Enlightenment dawned in a smile. "My mother has redecorated," he murmured, running his eyes in rapid inventory around the parlor. He looked back to Anne, feeling his blood heat with desire for her even as he forced himself to make civil reply.
"She would have wished to have everything as it should be for the guest," he explained. "Why should you not be comfortable in our house?"
She looked at him doubtfully, then took a breath, the golden laces stretching tight across her delightful bosom.
"Your mother redecorated—rebuilt—this whole apartment just so I'd be comfortable for few weeks?"
"Of course," he said reasonably. "Why not?" He moved a hand, drawing her attention away from the subject.
"Mrs. Intassi came to speak with you?" he asked, though he had just come from an interview with that lady. "You have seen the nursery and find it acceptable?"
Anne laughed, head tipped gracefully back. "Your notions of—acceptable—" she said, and he heard her unease through the laughter even as she shook her head and made her face more serious.
"The nursery looks lovely. Mrs. Intassi seems—very competent." She hesitated. "It's going to be a little strange—for Shannie and for me, too—to have him sleeping so far away . . ."
"Not so far away," he said softly. "You may visit him whenever you like. The door has your code." Almost, he reached to take her hand; gamesmanship strangled the impulse before it went beyond a finger-twitch.
"Shan is your son," he said, repeating his comfort of the afternoon, and saw the tiny lines of tension around her eyes ease.
Smiling then, he bowed and offered his arm.
"May I escort you to the First Parlor, friend? My mother is eager to make your acquaintance." He slanted a mischievous look into her face, feeling irrationally gay. "Never fear," he told her lightly, "there will be wine close to hand."
She laughed at that and took his arm, resting her hand lightly over his, intertwining their fingers in the way he had taught her.
Just at the door, she checked and looked down into his eyes, her own shaded with trouble, so that he felt his gaiety fade.
"Don't let me make a mistake," she said, fingers tightening around his.
Astonishment held him for half a heartbeat, to be replaced by flaring joy. For here at last was the sign of her intention he had hoped for since she had turned her face from contract-marriage.
Don't let me make a mistake. She placed her melant'i in his hands for safekeeping, as if they were kin. Or lifemates.
"Er Thom?" Her eyes were still troubled, doubt beginning to show.
As if she could think that what she asked was any else than his own ardent wish—He stopped himself, recalling that she was Terran and unsure of custom.
Gently, and with extreme caution, he lifted his hand, barely brushing her lips with his fingertips.
"No," he said, solemn despite the burgeoning joy, "I will not let you make a mistake, Anne." A laugh burst free despite his best efforts.
"But if we are late for the Gathering Hour with my mother," he predicted, "nothing may succor either of us!"
HER SON and the guest were late—oh, a few minutes, merely, Petrella allowed, as she settled more comfortably into her chair—but late, nonetheless.
Almost, she had time in their tardiness to imagine herself the victor. To suppose that seeing his Terran tart here, in his very homeplace, surrounded by all that was elegant, proper and Liaden had awakened Er Thom's swooning senses to sanity.
Almost, she began to weigh the wisdom of accepting this child—this Shan—to yos'Galan. Not, most naturally, as Er Thom's heir—young Syntebra would doubtless serve them well enough there. But it could not be denied that the clan could ill afford to turn away one who was potentially pilot and Healer merely because tainted blood ran his veins.
Her hand moved, almost touching the button that would fetch Mr. pak'Ora—and paused.
There were voices in the hall.
Er Thom's murmur came first to her ears. She missed the words, but the cadence was of neither High Liaden nor Low.
The voice that answered him was all too clear; carrying without being shrill, with the hint of such control found in the speech of those trained as prena'ma.
"I've sent a message to Drusil tel'Bana," the carrying voice announced in perfectly intelligible Terran, "telling her I'm on-planet and hoping for an early meeting. I'll have to go to her, of course, which means renting a car, if you would give me the name of a—"
"The House," Er Thom's words were now clear, as well, "will provide you a car, friend. And a driver, should you wish."
Oh, and will it? Petrella thought, stiffening against the cushions—but that was only ill-temper, for surely Er Thom owned vehicles enough in his own right that the Terran scholar need never walk.
Honor to the guest, she reminded herself, composing her face into that look of courteous blandness with which one dealt with those not of one's clan.
Asked, she could not have precisely said what portrait imagination had painted of Anne Davis beforehand. Sufficient to its accuracy to say that the woman who crossed the threshold on Er Thom's arm surprised. Entirely.
To be sure, she was a giantess, looming above her tall and shapely escort, but she did not move ill. Indeed, there was that in her stride which seemed peculiarly pilot-like, and her shoulders sat level and easy, as with any person of pride.
Though she was large in all things, Petrella acknowledged her not out of proportion with her height, and of her form there was a pleasing—yet not overcommanding—symmetry.
Her gown suited her figure, and was not—to an old trader's eye—overexpensive. Her plain necklet and earrings, the lack of ostentation in the matter of rings—all this proclaimed her a person who knew her own worth and was neither ashamed of her station nor eager to show herself as more than she was.
The face, to which Petrella now raised her eyes, was large-featured: The nose was too prominent for beauty, the mouth too full, the eyes set a fraction too close, the willful jaw square, the forehead high and smooth. Not a beautiful face, but, rather, an interesting face—intelligent and humorous, enlivened by a pair of speaking brown eyes, with a sweetness about the mouth that did much toward balancing the stubborn jaw.
Had Anne Davis been Liaden, Petrella might at this juncture very well admitted to some small portion of interest in her.
But Anne Davis was unremittingly Terran; Er Thom, by guiding her here, was seen to be still in the throes of his madness; and their child, by all that meant winning, must remain a half-bred bastard, unacknowledged by yos'Galan.
With a determination that was surprisingly difficult to rally, Petrella turned a stone-like face toward her son.
"Good evening," she said, chilly and in all of the High Tongue, barely inclining her head.
"Good evening, Mother," he returned gently, bowing respect. He brought the Terran woman forward as if she were some outworld regina and bowed once more.
"I bring you Anne Davis, Professor of Linguistics, mother of my child, guest of the House." He put the woman's hand lingeringly aside, and turned to make his bow to her.
"Anne, here is Petrella, Thodelm yos'Galan, whose child I have the honor to be."
Pretty words, Petrella thought grumpily, from one who has not also the honor of being obedient. It surprised her that he gave the introductions in High Liaden, for surely a Terran, no matter how scholarly—
The woman before her bowed with an ease astonishing in one so large, in the mode of Adult to Person of Rank, a choice that charmed by its very lack of innuendo.
"Petrella yos'Galan," she said in her clear, storyteller's voice, "I am glad to meet you. Allow me to thank you at once for the generosity which has admitted me as a guest in your house."
Petrella very nearly blinked. That this graceful acknowledgement was made in High Liaden must amaze, though the delivery was necessarily marred by a rather heavy accent. Still, it was understood that not everyone spoke with the accent of Solcintra, and balancing this was the fact that the sentences had been spoken in proper cadence and with a thoughtfulness indicating the speaker understood her own words, rather than merely repeating what had been learned by rote.
It was necessary to answer grace with grace—her own melant'i demanded it, even had there not been this other matter between herself and her son. Petrella inclined her head with full ceremony.
"Anne Davis, I am glad to meet you, as well. Forgive me that I do not rise to greet you more properly."
"Please do not concern yourself," the guest replied. "Indeed, it is your kindness in having myself and my son here when you are so ill that has particularly touched my heart. I wish that we will not be a burden to you."
Petrella was still trying to gauge whether this astonishing speech carried any deliberate offense—given leave to be ill, forsooth!—when Mr. pak'Ora entered to announce the arrival of the delm.