House. She was sure that was the word. House.
Sleep-learning had reinforced her vocabulary, made her comfortable with sounds and meanings, and the recent social encounter at the landing field had almost convinced her she had all things Liaden by the scruff of the neck.
House.
It was huge.
Miri stopped on the crest of the gentle rise, staring up at the long expanse of velvet-lawned hill, and the u-shaped sweep of gray-and-black stone, several stories high. The house, that was. She looked at Val Con.
"Are you sure?"
He glanced away from his own study of the landscape, one brow quirking. "It does seem to be a clanhouse," he murmured; "but recall that I have never called upon Erob, either."
She took a deep breath. "It's as big as a hyatt," she told him, stating the obvious in as calm a voice as she could muster. "A big hyatt. Maybe we got the wrong directions. Maybe it is a hyatt, which ain't all that bad. We could maybe get a room if we got enough money, and call ahead."
Val Con grinned and stroked her cheek. "This is a frontier world, cha'trez—the entire clan would live in one house, plus necessary staff, plus guesting rooms, contract-suites, administration, supplies.
"Recall that this is the capital-in-fact of the planet until they recover from the revolt—actually the center of the world in some ways even before." He lifted a shoulder. "I would say that they have no more space than they likely need, depending upon the size of the clan and the amount of administration they feel it necessary to perform."
"Gods." She looked at him, suddenly struck with a thought. "Is your house this big? The one you grew up in?"
"I grew up in Trealla Fantrol," he said softly; "yos'Galan's line house. It is very grand, of course, but not nearly so large as this. Korval has never ruled the world." He offered his hand, smiling.
After a moment, Miri dredged up a smile of her own, wove her fingers around his and went with him, toward the house.
The good thing about being on world was the smells. The breeze. The colors. The hand in hers. The quiet.
That was an odd one, Miri realized as they walked paths that had only recently been guard marches and troop routes. Quiet.
As many worlds as she'd been on, none of the planetfalls had been like this. Leisurely, and—aside from her own certainty of ruin at the end—calm. The weapons checks were habit, the vitamin dosages learning aids rather than war-prep, the entry to atmosphere a tourist's wonder of ocean, continents, and icecaps.
They'd come in as the cordon around the planet was being dismantled. Troop and guard ships alike had failed to notice them—as Val Con had prophesied—and there'd been no alerts, no threats, and no danger.
For three orbits Lytaxin had spun below them. The radio had told the tale pretty clearly: A stupid and bungled coup attempt followed by a dirty little war mostly confined to a single continent. The mercs had come quickly.
What they hadn't gotten from the radio they had soon enough from Riaska ter'Meulen. Now there was a person who could talk. She'd limped out of the office of the little general aviation field, to Miri's eye unflapped by the sudden and unannounced appearance of their—of the Department of Interior's—vessel.
"Scouts," she'd said, nodding a rather unconventional kind of a bow at both of them. "How may I be of service? And how shall I register your visit?"
Val Con returned the nod with a formal bow. "Of your kindness, register the ship as Fosterling, out of Liad, piloted by Val Con yos'Phelium, Clan Korval. Business of the clan."
The woman made her own bow at that point and Miri's new-poured training kicked into gear. Val Con's bow, acknowledging what?—personal debt, personal respect?—to the clan of an ally or friend of his clan? And ter'Meulen's bow acknowledging . . . acceptance of respect and recognition of the—honor, was it, of being so acknowledged?
She walked with them across the airfield, discussing the war, her limp growing more evident with each step. She stopped them in front of an open hanger housing a vintage ground attack aircraft.
"Pilot of Korval, I expect you are well-placed to assist us. This is the official airfield defense craft. It and its kin were gifts of Korval, and before the war we had perhaps a double dozen of them. There were five here, but all save this one went off in The Long Raid. I understand that the contingent on the islands were destroyed by our side, and Erob's allies in the highlands used theirs until they were relieved by the mercenaries. The Long Raid was their idea, I gather—stuff enough fuel and strip enough weight to get them 'cross the ocean. . ."
Val Con listened, quiet, while Miri nodded at the good sense of the tactic. Sounded like the kind of thing Kindle would pull together.
"Many planes were shot down—where Clan Kenso got weapons like that I'd give the rest of my leg to know!—and so I have this. . ." She bowed toward the plane—fond respect, Miri thought.
"Parts are hard to come by, and while this one flies, and will continue in its duty, it would be good to have spare parts. If there might be a way—the patterns and the equipment that built them are on Liad, in your own shops."
Val Con bowed. "As time permits I shall speak to the first speaker."
Riaska ter'Meulen bowed. "I am grateful."
"Cars are yet in short supply," she said then. "May I call the House and have them send, or may I offer you service of my flitter?" A wave of a hand indicated a tiny craft—barely more than a cabin over a lift-fan.
Miri stirred, in no hurry to raise the house and seeing no need to deprive a wounded woman of transport.
"It's a fine day," she said to Riaska ter'Meulen, in the mode of equals, "and we've been long aboard. A walk will be welcome."
The woman bowed again, willing equality. "As you say. Allow me to point you on your way."
They stopped just short of the three low stairs leading to a sort of black stone dais and a front door that was all pieces of high-glaze tile forming a field of indigo, across which a crimson bird stooped toward a gold-limned mountain, far below. Miri felt the hairs lift at the back of her neck and her free hand touched her pouch, where a miniature of that very design rode, perfect in every detail.
She shook her head sharply and frowned, slanting a glance at her partner's face; saw him gazing with sharp interest to the left.
"You gonna ring the bell or not?" she demanded.
"In a moment." He set off across that soft, resilient lawn purposefully; fingers still firm and warm around hers.
And stopped in front of a tree.
It was a largish tree, Miri thought, with a pleasingly tree-like trunk and nice, broad, four-fingered leaves a shade greener and a shade less blue than the grass. Nuts or seedpods hung in clusters here and there and the whole thing smelled good, in a kind of olfactory tree-ness.
Val Con loosed her hand, took another step toward the tree and bowed. Deeply. With the stylized hand-sign that offered instant, willing, and unquestioning service.
"I bring thee greeting, child of Jela's hope," he said in the High Tongue, but in a dialect beyond any of those Miri had studied in her crash-course sleep-learning. She thought it might be related to the mode used by the most junior servant to the ultimate authority—and then thought that was crazy.
"When last this one visited the homeworld," Val Con was telling the tree, "thy elder kin yet flourished, grew, and nurtured. The charge is kept and the guard continues. When next this one is upon the homeworld, thy name shall be whispered to the elder's leaves."
He stood for a moment or two then, head bowed, maybe listening to the little rustling sounds the breeze made against the leaves. Then he bowed again, like he was going to ask a favor.
"This one has not had grace of Jela's children in some years, and this one's lady has yet to know the elder. In need, this one asks the boon of two fruit, and one leaf."
He stepped forward then, reaching high; and pulled two nuts free from the lowest cluster. He plucked a leaf from the same branch and stepped back, bowing thanks.
Grinning, then, he cracked a nut and handed it to her; cracked open the second and pulled the shell apart, revealing a plump pink kernel.
"These are good," he said, back in Terran. "I ate quite a number of them when I was a child, to the gardener's dismay."
Miri pulled her own nut apart, blinking in surprise at the aroma. She paused in the act of fishing the meat out and looked at her partner.
"It's a nice tree, boss. Does it talk back?"
"Eh?" He blinked, then laughed. "Ah, I had forgotten . . . There is a very old Tree on Liad that my clan is—involved with. A long story. The name of that Tree is Jelaza Kazone. This tree here is a seedling of that, so it behooves me to pay courtesy, wouldn't you say?"
"Um." Miri nibbled the kernel, finding it delicious. "How do you know this one's related to yours?"
"There is only one Jelaza Kazone," Val Con murmured. "And Korval does occasionally seal—certain—contracts with the gift of a seedling."
"Right." The nut was gone. Miri sighed in real regret and looked up as Val Con handed her the leaf.
"Wear this in your belt, cha'trez. Are you done? Good. Let us ring the bell."
The doorkeeper was young, narrow-shouldered and too thin; the fragile bones almost showing through the translucent golden skin. His hair was pale red, shading toward blond, and tumbling over a high forehead, not quite hiding the bruises at both temples, where the combat helmet had been too tight. The blue eyes were wary, with a darker shadow, lurking far back.
"Delm Erob?" he repeated, looking from Val Con to her and back again. And seeing, Miri knew from the slight change of expression, two soldiers, coming where they shouldn't be, asking for somebody they had no business to see.
"The delm is quite busy," he said now, speaking the High Tongue in the mid-mode reserved for strangers whose melant'i was yet unclear. "If you will acquaint me with your difficulty, sir—ma'am—perhaps I may direct you to the proper person."
"It is essential," Val Con said, his own mode shifting subtly, so that he spoke from senior to junior, "that we speak to Delm Erob with all speed, young sir."
The boy's cheeks flushed darker gold, but he let no hint of that spurt of temper enter his voice. "I must insist you acquaint me more particularly with your mission, sir. If you are separated from your unit—if you have not received proper pay—if you have missed your transport—none of these difficulties will be addressed by Delm Erob, though Clan Erob is able to solve any or all for you. I merely require adequate information."
Not too bad, Miri thought, for a kid who was obviously out on his feet and at the tail end of seeing and doing a bunch of stuff he'd probably rather never have known about. The blue eyes shifted to her and she gave him a grin of encouragement before the sleep-learning kicked in and let her know that was a mistake. The kid frowned, eyes suddenly hard.
"Have you been in our garden?" He demanded, mode shifting fast toward belligerence, courtesy forgotten in outrage. "Have you defaced our tree?"
Miri came to full attention, eyes tight on his. "We have certainly not defaced your tree!" she snapped, in a mode very close to the voice she used to chew out a soldier who'd been particularly stupid. "We asked grace for the leaf and it was freely given."
The boy's face altered amazingly, shifting from outrage to shock to a sudden dawning dread. He touched his tongue to his lips and brought his eyes back to Val Con.
"We do," Val Con said, gently, and still only in the mode of senior to junior, though he could have done much worse to the kid than that, "very much desire to speak with Delm Erob. Now, if possible. You may say that the Second Speaker of Clan Korval is calling, regarding a daughter of your House."
The kid had gone to get his boss, leaving the two of them to kick their heels in what sleep-learning suggested was a formal reception parlor.
Miri pictured him running down the long hallway the minute the door was shut and grinned as she glanced around, wondering what this room had over the one at the front of the house they'd almost stopped in. The kid had actually crossed the threshold of that room, and Miri got a glimpse of white paneled walls and uncomfortable looking furniture before he apparently thought better of it and stepped back with a slight bow and a murmured, "Follow me, please."
So now, the Yellow Salon, and another kid, a little younger than the first, bringing wine and glasses and a porcelain tray of cakes. She kept her eyes averted, after one disconcertingly bright blue glance that seemed more interested in Val Con than in her, and bowed real pretty, asking if anything else was required in a voice that said she hoped not.
"Thank you," Val Con said gravely. "The solicitude of the House gives gladness."
"Sir." The kid bowed again and escaped, forgetting to wait for the door to fully close before she ran.
Miri grinned again, slid her hands in her belt and wandered over to look out the window, squinting a little against the sun.
"There's your tree, boss."
"So?" He came over, shoulder companionably touching hers as he took in the view. "But that is not my Tree, Miri. That is Erob's tree. Mine is much older—and taller."
"Sounds like a quibble to me," she said. "If this one's a seedling off yours and yours is the only one there is, besides its own seedlings. . ." She stopped, cheeks heating in an unaccustomed blush.
Val Con laughed.
"Ah. Clan becomes discovered."
"Real funny. . ." she began, and then cut off as the door clicked.
Val Con went silently toward the center of the room, Miri half-a-pace behind his right shoulder.
The woman who entered the salon had not run full-tilt down the hallway, but she hadn't dallied, either. She was gray-haired, gray-eyed and golden skinned, wire-thin and charged with energy. Two heavy lines were grooved horizontally across her high forehead; more lines ran starkly from nose to mouth. Still more lines radiated from the corners of her eyes, puckered now as she stared against the sun. She was dressed simply, in what sleep-learning told Miri was house-tunic, and tight trousers tucked neatly into a pair of buff-colored short-boots.
All business, she marched across the buttery carpet, stopped a precise four paces before Val Con and bowed crisply, hand over heart.
"Emrith Tiazan," she said in a low, clear voice, "Delm Erob."
Val Con made his own bow, more fluid than hers, though as deep. "Val Con yos'Phelium, Clan Korval."
Miri tensed—but the old eyes stayed on Val Con.
"Yes," she said. "You have your father's look."
Val Con bowed again, slightly—and with irony, Miri thought.
Emrith Tiazan might have thought so, too; she lifted a sharp-bladed shoulder, and let it fall. Miri again tensed to make her own bow, but the old woman seemed intent on ignoring her.
"I'll tell you plain, Korval, before we sit to tea and cake and behaving as though we're civilized—it's no joy to see you at this time, tree-kin though we be. We're just through with a matter that will heal in a generation or two—if all goes well and no one breeds another hothead like Kel Bar Rentava. I am aware that Erob owes a contract-wife this term, but while plain speaking's in force I'll tell you that the one we'd settled on went the soulroad in the war." The old face shifted then, all the lines tightening, but her voice stayed smooth.
"They shot her down—Clan Kenso. She was the very best we had, and they shot her down. Her ship crashed in the rock plain, east of here. I expect we have all the pieces, by now."
She closed her eyes briefly; lifted her shoulder again. "I'll have nothing of such excellence to offer Korval until Alys comes to her growth—nine years, perhaps. Alys should do very well—but she'll be no Kea Tiazan."
There was a silence.
Miri's mind raced, but nothing from her own experience or from the sleep-learned stuff helped her make sense of this one. The old lady was clearly at the end of her rope, worn to skin, bone, and character. Her mind might even be wandering, though Miri doubted that. It might have been that Val Con's clan and Clan Erob had sealed an alliance with a marriage, when this lady had been a young delm. . .
"Forgive me," Emrith Tiazan was saying to Val Con, "if my frankness offends. I've no time for wasteful courtesies and it is certainly not necessary for Erob to stand upon ceremony with our old ally, Korval. We have always understood each other very well."
"In this instance, however," Val Con said neutrally, "understanding may have fallen short. I assign no blame, nor does frankness offend." He reached out to capture Miri around the wrist and drew her lightly forward to stand at his side. "I present my lifemate, Miri Robertson Tiazan, Lady yos'Phelium."
The gray eyes in their golden net of wrinkles went wide, then narrowed as they swept Miri from face to feet. The glance scathed, lingering longest on the leaf before whipping back to Val Con.
"So! You discover a houseless favorite and you dare bring her to me? I shall acknowledge her, shall I, and give her place among the clans? Korval presumes—and presumes too far. I will remind you that you guest with Erob. Your whim is not law here!"
That was enough. Miri moved, deliberately turning her flank on the old lady and her rage.
"I tell you what, boss," she said, in her flattest, ugliest Terran accent—one-hundred-percent Surebleak. "I ain't about to join this outfit, genes or no genes."
"Ah," said Val Con.
"What did you say?" demanded Emrith Tiazan, in Terran, though Terran slurred and softened and pronounced like Liaden.
"I said," Miri snapped, in the stiffest mode she could call to mind from the High Tongue, "that it is not the place of a high commander to reprimand another commander who is come to parlay."
For the space of two heartbeats, Emrith Tiazan stood frozen, and then she bowed, very gently.
"Forgive me—madam," she said, the High Tongue carefully conveying equality of rank. "You spoke of genes. I desire further information upon the subject as you believe it to concern yourself and—this outfit." She paused. "If you please."
Miri hesitated, more than half determined to walk out the door and down that long hallway and out into the sunshine. Ought to be able to find the merc camp without too much trouble, she thought; get a hot meal and a place to bunk. . .
"Miri," Val Con said softly. "Will you show Delm Erob your heirloom?"
Damn him, she thought; and then sighed and worked the catch on her belt-pouch. She fingered the disk free and held it out to the old lady, belatedly remembering to bow.
Emrith Tiazan glanced briefly at the shield, then turned to the obverse, frowning at the engraved genealogy. She looked back at Miri.
"How came you by this?"
"I have it from my mother," Miri said, matching the other's mild tone; "who had it from hers."
"So." The old lady looked at Val Con. "This appears genuine."
He lifted a brow. "Many clans possess—protocols—for determining authenticity."
She stared at him. "Indeed. You will excuse me for a moment." She turned and marched out of the room without waiting for their permission.
The door had barely closed when Miri swung around. "What is this? How come she thinks you came here for a contract-wife? If you're pulling one—one—of your damned Liaden tricks, that old lady ain't gonna have to bother taking you apart, 'cause I'll do it for her, you understand me?"
"Yes, Miri," he said meekly, but for once meekness failed to gain her smile. She stood glaring, poised on the balls of her feet, a trained fighter, more than half-ready to fight.
Val Con took her hand, led her to the couch by the refreshment table and sat down. "Miri." He tugged gently at her, patting the cushion beside him.
For a moment he thought she'd refuse, yank her hand free and stomp away, as he had been certain she would earlier, and he with no choice but to follow his lifemate. . .
"Hell." She flumped down next to him and dropped her head on his shoulder. "You're more trouble than you're worth, you know?"
"Shan has often expressed that view," he said, sighing in mock remorse. "The two who know me best cannot both be in error."
She snorted a half-laugh; stirred and sat up. "That kid who died—Kea? She was a pilot."
"So are you."
"Like hell—" The door clicked and she swallowed the rest of that argument.
Emrith Tiazan stopped before the couch and held the disk out to Miri, bowing with careful equality. "This has tested genuine." She straightened and looked at Val Con. "Genes, you believe?"
"I have no doubt," he said calmly. "You will, of course, wish to attain your own surety."
"Of course." She went across the room to the desk comm and touched a button. In a very short while, the door opened to admit the young doorkeeper. He flicked a nervous glance at the couch, then bowed deeply to Emrith Tiazan.
"My delm desires?"
"You will go to the older storehouse and find in Room East 14 a large package stasis-locked and wrapped in blue silk. Bring it here. You will bid Win Den tel'Vosti attend me here. You will likewise bid the senior medical technician, adding that she shall bring her sampling kit."
The boy touched his tongue to his lips, bowed, turned—
"An Der."
He glanced back over his shoulder. "Yes, Aunt?"
"You will speak to no one, excepting tel'Vosti and the senior med. You will go to the storeroom alone and bring what I require away with your own hands."
The boy bowed again. "I hear," he said—and ran.
"Well, Emrith?"
The old man leaned on his stick in the center of the room. "To what do I owe this interruption of my studies?"
"Studies!" The delm stared at him for a moment, then moved a hand, directing his attention to the couch. "I make you known to Val Con yos'Phelium, Second Speaker for Clan Korval. Korval, my kinsman, Win Den tel'Vosti, thodelm."
"So." The brown eyes watched with seeming amusement as Val Con stood and made his bow.
"My Lord tel'Vosti."
"My Lord yos'Phelium." The return bow was more complete than Miri would have expected, given the cane. "Your father was a rare one for Counterchance."
"So my uncle has told me, sir."
"Er Thom yos'Galan? Now there was a demon for the game! Very good he was—a thoughtful, subtle player, no shame. We came even, the times we played. But Daav . . . I believe I may yet owe him a cantra. Perhaps two. I'll consult my account books. Do you play?"
"A bit, sir, but not to match my uncle."
"Pity." The brown eyes sharpened. "You'll want to have that wound looked after, of course, before you meet the House."
Wound? What wo—Sleep learning surfaced and Miri gulped against the sudden understanding of what it meant, to be a Liaden with your face scarred . . . .
"Thank you, sir," Val Con was saying calmly. "It's healed cleanly."
"Win Den." Emrith Tiazan began, but tel'Vosti had come to attention, as if he were a corps captain facing another, and half-sketched a salute.
"It is your campaign, sir."
"Win Den." This time his delm's voice could not be ignored. She moved her hand. "I am told that this lady is Miri Robertson Tiazan."
Miri came to her feet and bowed into those amused brown eyes.
"Well, and why not?" said the old gentleman, returning the bow with a certain flair.
"Lady yos'Phelium," Val Con murmured in the room's sudden stillness and tel'Vosti straightened with a laugh.
"Aha! A man who wishes to be absolute of his assets! My felicitations, sir! Perhaps you are not so poor a player of the game as you would have me believe." He glanced back at Miri.
"You are a soldier?" he asked, in the almost-friendly mode of Comrade.
"I was," Miri said, allowing him the mode, though not without a few mental reservations. "I retired a year or two ago."
"Indeed? At what rank?"
She eyed him warily, wondering where this line of questioning was going; wondering, with a sudden spurt of panic, if he was trying to figure her melant'i and if it was going to come up to par. "Master sergeant."
"Master sergeant." He said it like a caress. "And your age is?"
"Twenty-eight Standards." She considered him, the lurking amusement, the straight shoulders, the cane, the mane of pinkish hair. "More or less."
He laughed and glanced at Emrith Tiazan, who stood, grim-faced and silent, near the desk.
"So you tell me you retired two years ago, with the rank of master sergeant. A private troop, perhaps? Industrial?"
"No," Miri had to tell him, against a building wave of dread. "Mercenary unit." She mustered enough nerve to glare into his perpetual amusement. "I was with the Gyrfalks before I retired. I began in Lizardi's Lunatics, which is how I came to be a sergeant in the first place. We got into a spot of trouble, command-chain broke down. . ."
"So you were made field sergeant." tel'Vosti tipped his head. "But your rank was upheld, once the—trouble—was past. And the Gyrfalks raised the stake by a star."
Suddenly, amazingly, he bowed. "A Master of mercenary sergeants by the time you attained twenty-five Standards! A significant feat, Lady yos'Phelium, for I have seen the Gyrfalks in action. Their conduct is always professional and they are most resourceful. Their services do not come cheap—am I correct, Emrith?—but they are worth their weight in cantra, each of them. Korval does well to guard his assets."
The door clicked, and opened to admit the wide-eyed doorman, barely seen behind the flat crate he carried against his chest. After him came a stern dark-haired woman in a crisp coverall: the senior med tech.
"Great," Miri whispered to Val Con, as tel'Vosti and the delm turned away to deal with the new arrivals. "Now maybe we can get this over and get outta here."
The crate had been placed against the desk, and the blue silk drawn away. Emrith Tiazan knelt before it and with her own hands loosened the seals. An Der helped her rise, a solicitous hand at her elbow, a ready arm by her waist.
She shook him off and stepped back. "Open it," she said harshly, and the boy bent to comply.
Val Con drifted forward, Miri at his side. They stopped to the right of Win Den tel'Vosti, who stood with both hands covering the knob of his cane, no amusement at all in his face. The med tech had shrugged and gone over to the couch, perching on the wide arm and watching the proceedings with a sort of distant interest.
An Der wrestled the cover loose and stepped away.
The med tech drew a noisy breath in through her teeth.
Nobody else moved at all, and Miri frowned, wondering why an old mirror should be the focus of such tension, such expect—
"Oh, shit," she breathed, and moved away from Val Con's side, staring at the reflection that didn't move—didn't move because it was a painting—a portrait, not a mirror. A portrait of a woman in flying leathers and loose-laced white shirt, arms crossed under slight breasts, legs braced wide, gray eyes direct in a willful, intelligent face, and the copper-colored hair done in a single long braid, wrapped three times around her head.
"Miri Tiazan," Emrith Tiazan said, voice still strained. "Who left the clan in disgrace."
"Who put the clan in disgrace by leaving," tel'Vosti corrected. "Be precise, Emrith."
"It is disgrace to ignore the delm's order!"
"But she never did ignore it—as you well know. She merely asked leave to postpone contract wedding until love's seed should bear fruit. Tamishon was in no great hurry, being content to know the contract was valid and eventually would be fulfilled. Four month's delay was no cause to abort the babe." He turned to Miri and bowed slightly, indicating fuller information forthcoming.
"The lad was dead, you see—she'd get no other child from him. And Baan Tiazan was a tyrant who ruled both his daughters hard, eh, Emrith?" He moved his shoulders when she gave no answer, amusement back in his eyes.
"She was not always dutiful, understand—that would be unlike her name. But she acquiesced in the large things, and made shift to come the sophisticate, in company."
Miri shook herself. "She ran away to have her kid," she finished, in Terran, too shaken to sort through sleep-learned modes. "She crashed on Surebleak and couldn't get home. . ."
"Is that what came of her?" tel'Vosti asked softly. His Terran was better than the delm's. "We had wondered."
She shook herself again, ran the Rainbow, fast, to get distance from the shock of the picture and the tension focused now on her. "I'm guessing," she told tel'Vosti. "She's dressed like a pilot—and there ain't any reason to choose Surebleak, when you got the whole galaxy ahead."
"So," he said, and looked ready to say more.
"There will be a gene test," Emrith Tiazan snapped. "Med Tech, attend your duty!"
The tech came to her feet, looking open-mouthed from the picture to Miri. She looked finally at the old lady and bowed, rearranging her face into an expression of cool interest.
"As you say," she murmured, and drew a flat kit from her utility pocket. "If the young lady will attend me here. . ."
The blue dress felt nice.
It looked nice, too, Miri decided. In fact, she looked amazingly respectable for a woman who had lately been a mercenary master sergeant, a bodyguard, a fugitive from justice, a woman of all work, and a singer.
Whether she looked respectable enough to please the circus gathering in the reception room below was something she'd find out far too soon.
She took one last turn before the mirror, admiring the way the bluestone necklace lay just right against her throat. She was wearing her hair loose, held back with a set of deceptively simple silver combs. Central stores, located in the cavernous belowstairs had provided dress and combs. The necklace and matching ring were hers, gifts from Val Con, from a time when gifts from Val Con were potentially deadly.
"Very elegant," she told her reflection, and bowed pleasure at making acquaintance, remembering to include the hand-gesture one used toward newly-met kin.
"Gods," she said, and came slowly erect, as if the woman in the mirror might jump her. "Oh, gods, Robertson, what the hell have you gotten yourself into?"
Val Con's dressing room—the 'apartment' set aside for their use was bigger than Zhena Trelu's whole house, back on Vandar—was on the opposite side of the bedroom. There were three other rooms—a parlor, an office and a bookroom, plus a bathroom the size of Lytaxin spaceport and a balcony that looked out over the East Garden.
A huge bed commanded the bedroom. Flowering vines grew up two of the posts and all over the canopy, dripping long tendrils like flowering curtains around the sides. Miri shook her head. Liadens . . . A whole room just to dress in, a garden growing in the bedroom, and a bunch of other stuff, here and there, apparently just done for pretty. She bit her lip, recalling the apartments she'd lived in as a kid, an endless succession of rats, peeling synth-lam walls and near-paneless windows leaking Surebleak's frigid winter winds.
"Forget it, Robertson," she whispered; "you ain't going back there. Never going back there."
The bed-flowers were pale blue with soft white stripes, lightly and agreeably perfumed. On impulse, she pulled one free and tucked it behind an ear as she continued across the cream-and-blue carpet to Val Con's dressing room.
He caught her eyes in the mirror as the door opened, and smiled.
"Cha'trez."
She tried to smile back—saw her reflection's mouth wobble and then straighten in distress as the big gray eyes got bigger, taking in the ruffled white shirt, the rich dark trousers, the green ear-drop and finger-ring—all the accouterments of a Liaden gentlemen about to attend a formal dinner.
Val Con spun, eyes and face serious.
"Miri? What is wrong?"
"I—" she shook her head and managed to dredge up a half-convincing grin. "You look like a Liaden, boss."
"Ah." His face relaxed and he came across to her, lifting a hand to touch her hair. "But, you see, I am a Liaden, which no doubt accounts for it."
"That's probably it," she agreed and sighed. "You ready to go face the lions?"
One brow rose. "Clan Erob? Hardly lions."
"Yeah, and suppose that gene test comes out negative? You're OK, but I ain't the kind Erob usually has to supper."
"And the portrait of Miri-eklykt'i?" He touched the flower behind her ear with a gentle forefinger.
Miri sighed, recalling with a certain queasy vividness the face of the woman in the old painting. The resemblance was spooky enough if she was that one's granddaughter. . .
"I don't guess coincidence'll cover it, huh?"
"It seems unlikely in the extreme." He touched the flower again, then drew it from its resting-place.
"Not," he murmured, "for this sort of dinner."
"Huh?" Miri followed him into the bedroom. "It's against the law to wear flowers to dinner?"
"This particular flower," said Val Con, placing it gently in a cut crystal water glass, "is an aphrodisiac."
She blinked at him; blinked at the canopy. "And they've got 'em growing all over the bed?"
"What better place?"
"Right." She closed her eyes, willing tense muscles to relax.
"Miri?"
She looked at the pattern of him inside her head—bright and clear and beloved—then opened her eyes and grinned wryly at the proper Liaden gentleman before her.
"Tell you what, boss: This whole masquerade's gonna come crashing down over something as stupid as that flower. If you hadn't been here to tell me before I went on down, I could've blown everything." Everything, she thought: His melant'i; the melant'i of Line yos'Phelium; her own insignificant amount—all gone. Because of a flower.
"I ain't up for this," she said suddenly, feeling the panic boiling in her stomach. "Look, boss, I'm a soldier, not an actor—and nobody down there's gonna believe for one minute that I'm Lady yos'Phelium. Let's see if we can't catch the old lady and tell her we made a mistake, OK? All the mercs in the city right now, there's bound to be somebody around who owes me dinner—"
"Miri—" That quick he was across the room, arms around her tight, cheek against hers. "It is not a masquerade, cha'trez. It is truth. We are lifemates. And a portion of our shared melant'i involves standing as lady and lord to Line yos'Phelium." He laughed softly. "For our sins."
She choked a half-laugh and pushed her face into his shoulder. "I'm gonna wreck your melant'i."
"No." He kissed her ear. "My lifemate is a lady of intelligence, wit, and courage. How else could it be, but that her melant'i supports and enhances my own? And together—" He slipped his hand under her chin and tipped her face so she could see the bright green eyes, awash in mischief. "Together, cha'trez, we are—" he bent his head, put his mouth next to her ear and breathed "-hell on wheels."
"You—" She laughed and hugged him hard before stepping away and taking his hand. "All right, let's go meet the family."
She stopped him at the hall door, though, struck by one more detail.
"We gonna let on I don't know your family from sliced bread? I don't think even tel'Vosti'd like a lifemating where I ain't met your First Speaker, much less you got her permission."
"A valid point," Val Con murmured and tipped his head, staring hard at nothing, with his brows pulled slightly together.
"Line yos'Phelium," he said after a bit, "presently includes Kareen, my father's sister; her son Pat Rin, and his heir, Quin. My father is Daav yos'Phelium, who is eklykt'i. His lifemate, my mother, was Aelliana Caylon. She is dead. I was fostered into the household of my father's cha'leket, Er Thom yos'Galan, and his lifemate, Anne Davis. They, also, have died. Shan is Lord yos'Galan, Nova is First Speaker, Anthora is—Anthora." He paused.
"yos'Galan children are Padi, who is Shan's heir, and Syl Vor, who is Nova's. Korval's seat is Jelaza Kazone; yos'Galan's Line House is Trealla Fantrol. We are located to the north of Solcintra City. The ship of which Shan is captain and master trader is Dutiful Passage."
Miri considered him. "That's it?"
"Yes."
"Nothing else?" she persisted. "I don't wanna trip up."
"This should be sufficient to see us through dinner," Val Con said softly. "It is scarcely to be expected that a new bride will have complete intimacy of her lifemate's clan."
"Great." She shook her head as he opened the door and bowed her through ahead of him. "All right, Liaden. Just remember—it's your neck we're gambling with."
She'd never seen so many redheads in one place.
The reception room was jammed with them, male and female; old, young and in-between, with hair shading from the lightest strawberry blonde through orange, mere-red, auburn and a particularly striking mahogany.
Hand resting on Val Con's arm, Miri considered the crowd, noting the eyes that slid toward them and slid away—and also something else.
"You're tall!" she blurted, remembering at least to whisper, though there was no one directly beside them.
One eyebrow slid upward. "A little above middle height," Val Con acknowledged, lips twitching. "For a Liaden."
He glanced across the room to where Emrith Tiazan stood talking to tel'Vosti and a youngish woman with carroty hair piled high on her head. "We to the delm, now, cha'trez, to make our bows."
And to hear the results of the gene test. She sternly put down the rebellion in her stomach and walked head up at his side, fingers curled lightly around his wrist, trying to act like she didn't notice the way conversation ebbed at their approach and picked up again, once they were past.
"Is this a good idea?" she muttered out of the side of her mouth.
"No, of course not," Val Con muttered back and she almost laughed.
Emrith Tiazan's face saved her—half-relieved and half-approving, as if she'd expected them to show up for dinner in leathers. Miri felt a spurt of sympathy as she bowed respect for the host, Val Con bowing at the same instant.
"Ma'am," he said, soft voice pitched so that it carried across the still sea of redheads, "we offer thanks for the grace and care the House has shown us."
"It is the House's honor," the old woman said into the silence, "to guest its ancient ally and friend." She looked up across the room then, and raised her voice, though it wasn't necessary.
"Hear me, my children, for I tell you of wonder and joy. Come to us only today is Miri Robertson, who is of Erob by Tiazan, this without doubt." She looked hard at Miri out of stern gray eyes.
"Turn," she ordered, still loud enough for the whole room to hear, "Miri Robertson Tiazan, that your cousins may see your face and rejoice."
Sure. She squared her shoulders and turned, looking out over the mob and seeing precious little rejoicing—unless you counted an orange-haired somebody around eight or ten—she wasn't too good at guessing ages that young—who was grinning fit to split her face.
"See also Val Con yos'Phelium," Emrith Tiazan continued behind her, "Thodelm and Second Speaker of Clan Korval, our oldest and most honored ally. It is through Korval that we rediscover our kinswoman." There was something of a stir at that and a bigger one when Val Con turned around to face them.
"It is further told the clan that Miri Robertson Tiazan and Val Con yos'Phelium have each seen the face of the other's heart and, having seen, joined hands and hearts and lives together."
Sleep-learning kept Miri from a gulp; years of dicing and playing cards for kynak and money kept her face straight. Damn, she thought, put that way it sounds all mystic and misty and stuff, when it's just him and me holding together and doing what needs doing. . .
The carrot-top who'd been talking to Emrith Tiazan and tel'Vosti came forward and bowed, thin face earnest.
"Line Tiazan acknowledges Miri Robertson Tiazan and welcomes her with joy."
Miri returned the bow, hand automatically signing recognition of kinship. "Lady Tiazan, I am honored."
tel'Vosti stepped up next, bowing all courtly over his cane. "Line tel'Vosti sees Miri Robertson Tiazan with delight, welcomes her with honesty and acknowledges her with anticipation."
She almost grinned at him, but sleep-learning kicked in, and pattern recognition with it, adding up all the things the Code didn't say, like that Liaden society was controlled, yeah, and formal, sure, and all those pretty words and modes and gestures were the weapons you used to survive in an unending, cut-throat competition. Melant'i and Balance. Face or no face. And here was tel'Vosti, who had lived a long lifetime immersed in well-bred in-fighting, giving her a non-standard greeting, there in front of delm and everybody. Tweaking her, he was. Trying her, to see what she'd do.
She bowed, timing it to centimeter and millisecond. "My Lord tel'Vosti." High Tongue Equal, that was the mode; it leaned on Val Con's melant'i, but that was fine, since he was thodelm just like tel'Vosti, and the whole room had just heard the delm say she was a thodelm's lifemate. "I see you with appreciation, hear you with understanding, and acknowledge you with trepidation."
The brown eyes gleamed; the rest of his face remained merely polite. No way to tell if she'd scored points. She didn't think she had. But she didn't think she'd lost any either. Even was OK; tel'Vosti'd said it himself, when he'd been talking about Val Con's uncle. Inside her head Val Con's pattern held steady, inscrutable as a mandala.
The delm stepped forward, indicating Thodelm Tiazan with a backhanded wave. "Your cousin Bendara, daughter of your late cousin Cel Met Tiazan."
The carrot-top gave a little bow, barely more than a heavy nod of the head. "Cousin Miri."
Miri gave the bow back, "Cousin Bendara," straightened and felt Val Con shift, oh-so-slightly, at her side. She directed Bendara's attention his way with a copy of the delm's backhanded gesture. "One's lifemate, Val Con yos'Phelium."
Bendara bowed again, a shade deeper than equality of rank demanded, as if maybe Val Con had more time in grade. "My Lord yos'Phelium."
"My Lady Tiazan." His voice was soft as always. She couldn't see his bow.
The delm waved for her attention again, this time for a man of late middle years, hair aggressively red, hazel eyes hooded.
"Your cousin Dil Nem, son of your late uncle Kern Tiazan."
Again the heavy nod, the exchange of names; the pass on to Val Con.
"Your cousin Ilvin, daughter of your cousin Jen Sar Tiazan, who is from clan at present."
"Your cousin Kol Vus. . ."
"Your cousin. . ."
Miri lost count, very likely lost names, after the first dozen or so. Her head was beginning to ache with all the cool, polite faces and she started to want a slug of kynak. She gritted her teeth and bowed kinship to tel'Vosti, damn him: "Your uncle, Win Den tel'Vosti, son of Randa Tiazan and Pel Jim tel'Vosti."
There was another blur of names and faces after him; the next she took clear note of was the last.
"Your cousin Alys, daughter of your cousin Makina Tiazan, who is from clan at this moment."
Alys, who would be "very well," but never a Kea Tiazan. Alys, who they were going to offer as a contract-wife to Val Con, when she came of age.
She made her bow, very serious, and stood tall, all three and a half feet of her, curly, orange-y hair held down by the brute strength of three formidable-looking combs. The brown eyes shone with something past curiosity or even friendliness and Miri caught her breath. She'd seen that look on recruits, sometimes, the ones who fancied themselves "in love" with the commander.
"Cousin Miri," she piped up, "I'm happy to see you."
Oh, hell. Like she didn't have enough trouble without an elf hooking onto her. Miri returned the bow with matching dignity.
"Cousin Alys, I am happy to see you." She made the backhand wave toward Val Con and repeated the weary formula for the last time, moving the kid along. She wanted that drink bad, she thought, and looked up to find Emrith Tiazan watching her, something like approval in the lines of her face.
"Appropriately done," the old lady said. "We now go in to dinner. Win Den, attend me, by your grace."
tel'Vosti stepped forward and offered his arm, which she took, allowing him to lead her down the room toward the door at the opposite end. The mob of redheads made room for them to pass, but nobody followed.
"Us now, cha'trez." Val Con's voice was soft in her ear as he took her arm. "You did admirably."
"Easy for you to say," she muttered. "I'd rather sing for my supper, though. Any day."
"I need a drink."
Miri leaned against the wall just inside their private parlor, eyes closed against the scented darkness. Dinner had been horrible. Her place had been set with an arsenal of forks and tongs and spoons and knives, all of which, sleep-learning told her implacably, had a specific use. She'd fair busted her head while she'd waited for the first course, trying to remember the long list of foods that could and should be addressed with each implement.
Then the first course was served and she'd broken out in an ice-cold sweat as dish after unidentifiable dish went by. She'd snuck a look to see what Val Con was having; took a little of that and nibbled while she tried to do her conversational duty to the woman on her left. She'd left the wine strictly alone, terrified at getting even a little fuddled with all those new cousins watching and keeping score.
"A drink," she said firmly. "A big drink."
"Certainly," Val Con murmured in her ear. He slipped a hand beneath her elbow. "Come sit on the couch, cha'trez . . . There. Red wine? White? Jade? Canary? I believe—yes, there is misravot, if you would prefer. . ."
Miri sighed, leaned back in the cushions and finally opened her eyes. Val Con had lit the low-lights—the ceiling sparkled with starring pinpoints; the carpet glittered like new snow.
"What do I know about wine? You pick."
"All right," he said, and poured pale green wine into two crystal cups. He brought them to the couch and handed her one, raising his own in salute.
"To Lady yos'Phelium, my love."
She laughed and shook her head. "Why not to Lord yos'Phelium?"
"Lord yos'Phelium was not courageous, nor did he comport himself with anything but mediocrity." He touched her cheek. "Miri, you are a treasure."
"If you say so," she said dubiously and sipped her wine. "I think it's pretty brave, myself, to trust everything to somebody who don't even know what fork to use—" She shook her head. "Who knows what fork to use," she corrected herself, "if there'd been a clue to what the food was!"
"Ah, I had wondered why you ate so little. . ." He tipped his head. "You must not let it burden you," he said softly. "You imagine my melant'i is so fragile it will shatter at your slightest error. Instead, it has—resilience—and certainly strength enough to withstand my lifemate's mistaking a fork—or even using a fork instead of tongs!" He tasted his wine, suddenly serious.
"In all matters of importance—in your conduct toward your delm and the head of your line; in your answer to tel'Vosti—you were above reproach. If in less vital matters you err, or simply choose to disregard the Code, then it is—a nothing. People will say, if they say at all: 'Ah, she is an original.' Which is no bad thing."
"An original?" She frowned and shook her head.
Val Con sighed. "It is one of the reasons I insisted you learn the Code from the source, rather than from my tutoring," he said slowly. "Each individual takes the Code and—shapes it—according to his own character and necessity. Now, I have, perhaps, taken too much from my uncle's tutelage—or learned too young, as Shan would have it—so my manner tends toward coolness and extreme precision." He sipped wine, brows drawn.
"Shan is an original," he murmured: "his manners are appalling, but his manner pleases. Anthora follows his style. Pat Rin is very correct, but easy, so the correctness seems joined to and flowing from his melant'i. Nova—" he shook his head, smiling with a touch of wistfulness. "I once overheard someone say he would rather meet an angry lyr-cat unarmed, than Nova and I in a reception line."
Miri laughed.
Val Con leaned over and kissed her.
"Mmmm," she said and shivered delightedly as warm, knowing fingers stroked down the line of her throat.
"You find me too Liaden, Miri?" Val Con's voice was husky in her ear, his cheek soft against hers.
She breathed in the scent of him and let the breath go in a half-gasping laugh as desire broke over her. "The clothes threw me," she murmured. "Why don't you take 'em off?"
He laughed gently, took her wineglass and bent to put it aside, his weight pushing her into the cushions. Then his lips were back, demanding full attention, while his hands stroked and teased and finally found the fastenings of the dress and loosed them.
She tried to return the favor, reaching to open the fine white shirt, but he eluded her hands, keeping her pinned and all but helpless while he slipped the dress down over her shoulders and a bit further, nuzzling her throat, kissing her breasts, her belly. . .
The dress was gone. She reached again to help him out of the shirt, aching to feel his skin against hers—and was fended off with a breathless laugh: "Ah, not so greedy, cha'trez. . ."
Mouth and hands engaged her full attention once more, the soft fabrics of trousers and shirt stroking against her nakedness alternately frustrating and exhilarating.
At some point, he picked her up and lay her down again on that high, wide bed, and was gone for a moment, returning with his hand full of bed-flowers.
He covered her in them, laughing; crushed one in long fingers and stroked the fragrance across her breasts. She shivered and laughed and twisted, pulling him down and mock wrestling, desperate to have him, with an urgency the flower-scent fed.
He laughed, fingers and lips teasing; but allowed the shirt—and at once allowed everything, abandoning the role of command as she bit and kissed and stroked and the flowers were crushed beneath them and gave up their seductive odor.
She lay across his chest, teasing, nearly lazy against the flower's urgency. Val Con's eyes were half-closed, his face blurred with desire, hands stroking, beginning to insist. But he wasn't in control now, she was. She rubbed against him, felt his hips move and laughed as she kissed his ear.
"So greedy, Val Con. . ."
A laugh—or a soft groan. "Miri. . ."
She closed her eyes, concentrating on the feel of him, on the warmth, on how well their bodies fit, on the desire barely restrained, soon to be loosed.
She looked at the pattern of him inside her head.
And—reached out, very softly, to stroke it and breathe on it and—kiss it—and love it and desire it and—
Beneath her, Val Con went utterly still. Miri opened her eyes.
"Cha'trez. . ." He touched her face, his eyes wide and shocked-looking, as if he'd been suddenly wakened. "Miri, what are you doing?"
She looked at him through slitted eyes, still more than half cuddling the pattern of him—the him of him—against her, feeling the love flow from her; feeling it return, enriched and expanded.
"Loving you," she managed. Then, as the distress in his eyes began to resonate in his pattern. "Should I stop?"
"No." His hands closed hard around her waist and he rolled, spilling her over into the crushed flowers and him hard and urgent atop her. "Never stop."
It was bodies, then, and lust and the flowers and finally two voices crying out as one in joy and wonder.
They were still tangled around each other when the timer shut the room lights down. Both were fast asleep.