Any slight—no matter how small—requires balancing, lest the value of one's melant'i be lessened.
Balance is an important, and intricate, part of Liaden culture, with the severity of rebuttal figured individually by each debt-partner, in accordance with his or her own melant'i. For instance, one Liaden might balance an insult by demanding you surrender your dessert to him at a society dinner, whereas another individual might calculate balance of that same insult to require a death.
Balance-death is, admittedly, rare. But it is best always to speak softly, bow low and never give a Liaden cause to think he has been slighted.—From "A Terran's Guide to Liad"
IT WAS A CRISP, bright day of the kind that doubtless delighted the resident population. Er Thom shivered violently as he hit Quad S and belatedly dragged on his jacket, sealing the front and jerking the collar up.
Jamming his hands into the fur-lined pockets, he strode off, heedless both of his direction and the stares of those he passed, and only paused in his headlong flight when he found water barring his path.
He stopped and blinked over the glittering expanse before him, trying to steady his disordered thoughts.
The child's name was yos'Galan.
He shivered again, though he had walked far enough and hard enough for the exercise to warm him.
His melant'i was imperiled—though that hardly concerned him, so much had he already worked toward its ruination—and the melant'i of Clan Korval, as well. A yos'Galan born and the clan unaware? Korval was High House and known to be eccentric—society wags spoke of 'the Dragon's directive' and 'Korval madness'—but even so strong and varied a melant'i could scarcely hope to come away from such a debacle untainted.
Er Thom closed his eyes against the lake's liquid luster. Why? Why had she done this thing? What had he done that demanded such an answer from her? So stringent a balancing argued an insult of such magnitude he must have been aware of his transgression—and he recalled nothing.
Abruptly he laughed. Whatever the cause, only see the beauty of the balance! A yos'Galan, born and raised as Terran, growing to adulthood, building what melant'i he might, clan and line alike all in ignorance . . . If Er Thom yos'Galan had been a stronger man, one who knew enough of duty to embrace forgetfulness without once more seeking out the cause of his heart-illness . . . It was, in truth, an artwork of balance.
But what coin of his had purchased it? If Anne had felt herself slighted, if he had belittled her or failed someway of giving her full honor—
"Hold." He opened his eyes, staring sightlessly across the lake.
"Anne is Terran," he told himself, as revelation began to dawn.
There were some who argued that Terrans possessed neither melant'i nor honor. It was a view largely popular with those who had never been beyond Liad or Liad's Outworlds. Traders and Scouts tended to espouse a less popular philosophy, based on actual observation.
He himself had traded with persons unLiaden. As with Liadens, there were those who were honorable and those who were, regrettably, otherwise. Local custom often dictated a system strange to Liaden thought, though, once grasped, it was seen to be honor, and consistent with what one knew to be right conduct.
Daav went further, arguing that melant'i existed independent of a person's consciousness, and might be deduced from careful observation. It was then the burden of a person of conscious melant'i to give all proper respect to the unawakened consciousness and guard its sleeping potential.
Er Thom had thought his brother's view extreme. Until he had met Anne Davis.
He knew Anne to be a person of honor. He had observed her melant'i first-hand and at length and he would place it, in its very different strengths, equal to his own. She was not one to start a debt-war from spite, nor to take extreme balance as bolster for an unsteady sense of self.
Is it possible, he asked himself, slowly, that Anne named the boy so to honor me?
The lake dazzled his eyes as the paving stones seemed to move under his feet. He grappled with the notion, trying to accommodate the alien shape, and he grit his teeth against a desire to cry out that no one might reasonably think such a thing.
Facts: Anne was an honorable person. There had been nothing requiring balance between them. The child's name was yos'Galan. Therefore, Anne had meant honor—or at the least no harm—to him by her actions.
He drew a deep breath of chill air, almost giddy with relief, that there was no balancing here that he must answer; that he need not bring harm to her whom he wished only to cherish and protect.
There remained only to decide what must properly be done about the child.
IT WAS MID AFTERNOON. Shan had eaten a hearty dinner, resisted any suggestion of sleep and fell easy prey to Mix-n-Match.
Anne shook her head. She'd had to upgrade the set three times already; Shan learned the simple patterns effortlessly, it seemed. He needed a tutor—more time than she could give him, to help him learn at his own rate, to be sure that he received balanced instruction, that he didn't grow bored. . .
"A tutor," she jeered to herself, not for the first time. "Sure, Annie Davis, an' where will ye be getting the means for that madness?"
It was a measure of her uneasiness that she sought comfort in the dialect of her childhood. She shook her head again and went over to the desk, resolutely switching on the terminal. "Get some work done," she told herself firmly.
But her mind would not stay on her work and after half-an-hour's fruitless searching through tangential lines, she canceled the rest of her time and went over to the omnichora.
She pulled the dust cover off and folded it carefully onto the easy chair, sat on the bench, flipped stops, set timings, tone, balance, and began, very softly, to play.
Er Thom was not coming back. Intellectually, she knew that this was so: The abruptness of his departure this morning told its own tale. It was no use trying to decide if this were a good thing or a bad one. She had been trying to resolve that precise point all morning and had failed utterly.
Her hands skittered on the keys, sowing discord. Irritably, Anne raised her hand and re-adjusted the timing, but she did not take up her playing. Instead, she sat and stared down at the worn plastic keys, fighting the terror that threatened to overwhelm her.
It cannot continue so, he insisted in memory and Anne bit her lip in the present. Er Thom was an honorable man. He had his melant'i—his status—to consider. Anne had, all unwitting, threatened that melant'i—and Er Thom did not think a mere change of Shan's surname would retire the threat.
Liaden literature was her passion. She had read the stories of Shan el'Thrasin compulsively, addictively, searching back along esoteric research lines for the oldest versions, sending for recordings of the famous Liaden prena'ma—the tellers of tales. She knew what happened to those foolish enough to threaten a Liaden's melant'i.
They were plunged into honor-feud, to their impoverishment, often enough. Sometimes, to their death.
It didn't matter that she loved Er Thom yos'Galan, or what his feelings might otherwise be for her. She had put his status at risk. The threat she posed must be nullified, her audacity answered, and his melant'i absolutely re-established, no matter what hurt he must give her in the process.
He might even be sorry to hurt her, and grieve truly for her misfortune, as Shan el'Thrasin had grieved truly for his beloved Lyada ro'Menlin, who had killed his partner. She had paid fully and Shan had extracted the price, as honor demanded, and then mourned her the rest of his life. . .
She gasped and came off the bench in a rush to go across the room and sweep her son up in a hug.
"Ma no!" yelled that young gentleman, twisting in her embrace.
"Ma, yes!" she insisted and kissed him and rumbled his hair and cuddled him close, feeling his warmth and hearing the beat of his heart. "Ma loves you," she said, fiercely, for all that she whispered. Shan grabbed her hair.
"Ma?"
"Yes," she said and walked with him to the kitchen, back through the living room to the bedroom. "We'll go—someplace. To Richard." She stopped in the middle of the living room and took a deep breath, feeling beautifully, miraculously reprieved. She kissed Shan again and bent down to let him go.
"We'll go to Richard—home to New Dublin. We'll leave tonight. . . " Tonight? What about her classes, her contract? It would be academic suicide—and Er Thom would find her at her brother's house on New Dublin, she thought dejectedly. He would have to find her. Honor required it. Her shoulders sank and she felt the tears rise again.
"Oh, gods. . . "
The door chime sounded.
She spun, some primal instinct urging her to snatch up her son and run.
Shan was sitting on the floor amidst his rubber blocks, patiently trying to balance a rectangle atop a cube. And there was no place, really, to run.
The chime sounded again.
Slowly, she walked across the room and opened the door.
He bowed in spite of the parcels he held, and smiled when he looked up at her.
"Good evening," he said softly, as if this morning had never happened and he had never looked at her with fury in his eyes. "It is after dinner?"
Speechless, she looked down at him, torn between shutting the door in his face and hugging him as fiercely as she had hugged Shan.
"Anne?"
She started, and managed a wooden smile. "It's after Shan's dinner, anyway," she said, stepping back to let him in. "But he's being stubborn about going to bed."
Er Thom glanced over to the boy, absorbed in his blocks. "I see." He looked up at her. "I have brought a gift for our son. May I give it?"
She looked at him doubtfully. Surely he wouldn't harm a child. No matter what he might feel he owed her, surely his own son was safe? She swallowed. "All right. . . "
"Thank you." He offered the smaller of the two parcels. "I have also brought wine." He paused, violet eyes speculative. "Will you drink with me, Anne?"
She caught her breath against sudden, painful relief. It was going to be all right, she thought, dizzily. To drink with someone was a sign of goodwill. It would be dishonorable to ask a feud-partner to drink with one. And Er Thom was an honorable man.
The smile she gave him this time was real. "Of course I'll drink with you, Er Thom." She took the package. "I'll pour tonight. And provide dinner. Are you hungry?"
He smiled. "I will eat if you will eat."
"A bargain." Her laughed sounded giddy in her own ears, but Er Thom did not seem to notice. He was walking toward Shan.
The boy had succeeded in building a bridge of a rectangle across two cubes. Gracefully, Er Thom went to one knee, facing the child across the bridge, and laying down the large parcel.
"Good evening Shan-son," he said in soft Liaden. Anne swallowed around the lump of dread in her throat, clutched the wine bottle and said nothing.
"Jiblish," Shan said, glancing up from his task with a smile. "Hi!"
"I've brought you a gift," Er Thom pursued, still in Liaden. "I hope that it will please you."
To Shan's intense interest, he removed the wrapping from the package and held out a stuffed animal. It was a friendly sort of animal, Anne thought, with large round ears and rounder blue eyes and a good-natured smile on its pointy face. Shan gave it thoughtful consideration, uttered a crow of laughter and fell upon its neck.
Er Thom echoed the laugh softly and reached out to touch the small brown face. Shan pulled his new friend closer and caught the man's finger in his free hand, crowing again.
Anne quietly turned and went into the kitchen for glasses and for food.
SHE BUSIED HERSELF in the kitchen rather longer than was necessary; cutting the cheese to nibble-size, and the fruit, too. She stood for a ridiculous amount of time, trying to decide which crackers to offer.
Throughout it all relief warred with lingering fear. It went against everything she knew to distrust Er Thom. He was her friend, the father of her son. This morning had been a regrettable misunderstanding—a conflict of custom—and she ought to thank all possible gods, that Er Thom had been able to forgive her assault on his melant'i. She would need to be very careful not to threaten him again. Even fondness for a lover could not be expected to stay a Liaden's hand twice. . .
When she finally returned to the living room, it was strangely quiet. Er Thom smiled up at her from his seat against the sofa. Shan was spread out across his lap, head on Er Thom's shoulder, one small hand gripping the stuffed animal's round ear. He was fast asleep.
"Oh, no!" Anne laughed, nearly upsetting the wine glasses on the tray. "My poor friend. . . " She sat the tray down and knelt on the floor next to them, holding out her arms. "I'll put him to bed."
The stuffed animal proved a stumbling block. Even in sleep her son's grip was trojan, but Er Thom patiently coaxed the sleeping fingers open, and offered the liberated toy to Anne. She took it and led the way as Er Thom carried Shan into the bedroom and lay him gently on the pull-out bed.
He waited quietly while she settled both friends comfortably and allowed her to proceed him back into the living room, pulling the door half-closed behind him.