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Surebleak

I

“See you tonight, Boss.”

Red-haired Miri Robertson, one half of Delm Korval and the port city Road Boss, inclusive, reached up to capture her lifemate’s face between her two hands, and pulled him down for a kiss. It was maybe a little more energetic than it should’ve been for a good-bye kiss at the beginning of the day, but Val Con wasn’t doing anything about ratcheting it back, either.

His arms came around her, and she leaned in, until one of them—probably him, being the cooler of two hotheads—broke the embrace, and they stood looking into each other’s eyes.

“Want me to order a picnic dinner in our rooms tonight?” she asked him, her voice husky.

“That would be pleasant,” he murmured. “It is, after all, the only time this week that we will have such an opportunity.”

There was that. Meetings, that was the schedule for the next four days. And also—meetings, early and late.

“Consider it done. Now. You going down to the Road Boss’s office, or not?”

“I believe that I must,” he told her, just a little too earnestly. “Nelirikk values it so, and one does not like to disappoint him.”

She nodded gravely.

“Gotta keep morale up,” she said and went back a step, tucking her hands into the sleeves of her sweater.

“See you tonight, Boss,” she said again.

He inclined his head slightly.

“Until soon, cha’trez,” he answered and turned toward the waiting car.

She watched ’til it was out of sight, around a curve in the drive, which is what he did on alternate days, when it was her turn to be Road Boss and his to be Delm Korval. On the one hand, it was a good thing there were two of them sharing one melant’i, which, according to Liadens, lifemates exactly did. If it had been her, standing Road Boss and Delm Korval, too…well. There weren’t enough snowflakes in the storm, like they said here on Surebleak.

And, coming to that, she was willing to bet that Delm Korval’s mail queue wasn’t getting any shorter.

With a sigh, she turned and went back into the house.

* * *

Miri sat behind the big desk, put her coffee mug to one side of the screen, scooped the tan-and-brown kitten off the pile of papers on the other side of the screen, and tapped up the mail.

There was a message in-queue from Ms. dea’Gauss, reporting on the project to recruit native ’bleakers to the ranks of the Liaden qe’andra already on-world.

Progress, according to Ms. dea’Gauss, was good. Two more of the so-called “storefront qe’andra” had accepted apprentices from the resident population since last month’s report, and commenced study programs. The probability of success for the first apprentice, in the opinion of Ms. dea’Gauss, was excellent. The second…the program administrators had not been sanguine, since the candidate did not read. However, the master in the case had been adamant that the candidate’s other talents outweighed what was merely the lack of an easily acquired skill. Given the master’s certainty, the administrators had allowed the apprenticeship to go forward, trusting the bimonthly reviews to discover any deficiencies.

Briefly, Miri wondered what other “talents” outweighed being able to read, when starting what was sure to be a reading-intensive course of study…then shrugged. None of her business, was it? And the Accountants Guild, of which the qe’andra were members, had access to sleep learners. The second ’prentice ought to be reading just fine by this time next week.

Terran, that was. She suspected that learning how to read Liaden was a little trickier for most people than it had been for her, who had basically just remembered it out of Val Con’s head, which was one thing that the lifemate link was good for.

She sent an ack to Ms. dea’Gauss, to be polite, and filed the report away with the others. All told, they had six ’prentice qe’andra now on Surebleak, which was—despite the whole thing’d been her idea—six more’n she’d ever thought to see.

Now, all they had to do was get regular streeters into the habit of honoring their given word—and not just throwing out a signed contract because a better deal’d come along, which was how Surebleak was used to business going forth. Do that, and they’d’ve defused one of the biggest cultural landmines in ’bleaker/Liaden relations.

’Course, she thought, glumly, it wasn’t going to be that easy. Something was going to blow up first. It always did. But, might be it wouldn’t be as bad, if they had the Liaden-and-’bleaker qe’andra teams up and more or less running, and the streeters got used to seeing the storefronts with the list of services available to them.

The problem with setting things in motion, Miri thought, reaching for her mug, was that it took time, and in the meanwhile, any stupid damn thing could happen.

And given how serious Liadens took contracts, it was better’n even odds that somebody’d die before ’bleakers managed to learn different.

Still, she told herself, putting the mug down, you had to try…

She tapped the screen.

Next in-queue was—

“Miri?” A male voice inquired, from somewhere near the top shelf of the bookcase to her right. “A message has arrived from Hazenthull nor’Phelium, security wrap.”

Speaking of unexpected circumstances, Miri thought wryly.

“Send it or bring it, whichever you like,” she said.

“I would prefer to bring it,” said the voice belonging to Jeeves, house security and backup butler. “It is…rather complex.”

Miri sighed.

“’Course it is,” she said.

* * * * *

The universe was too much with him this morning, Ren Zel thought. The air in the breakfast room had a slightly pearlescent shine; it tasted of ice and iris. Gold glittered at the edge of his sight, teasing him with the desire to open those other eyes which were his special gift, and become one with glory. It was…gods, how he wanted to—so very much. His hands shook visibly with longing, so that he put his teacup down with care and pushed his chair away from the small table.

He was alone in the breakfast parlor: no kin present to wonder what ailed him and to extend an offer of help. That was fortunate, as neither he nor Anthora, his lifemate, had quite yet found the perfect moment to share the details of his addiction with their delm.

Gold stitched, lightning quick, across the breakfast room; the air flashed like a mirror. He closed his eyes, which was foolish. The threads—the threads that held the universe together, binding all and everything into coherence against the chaotic void where potential universes ceaselessly flashed into and out of existence forever. The threads—the power to manipulate the threads—the power to which he had become addicted, and which would, soon or late, kill him.

He wanted—no.

He did not want; the addiction wanted.

Ren Zel took a deep breath, and deliberately focused. He opened his eyes, anchoring himself to this room, this reality, this time. Longing swept through him for that other place that encompassed no time—and all time. He swept it aside, concentrating on those things that were mundane and harmless. There was a square of dusty sunshine on the carpet, picking out threads of orange and red; on the window seat, curled into an undistinguished mop of varicolored stripes, the cat Kifer took advantage of the same sunbeam. Leaning into the chair’s embrace, Ren Zel ran his palm along his thigh, feeling the nap of his trousers against his skin; a deep breath brought him the scent of his cooling tea, of sweet rolls, and coffee. He thought of Anthora, who had tied his soul to hers in what could only be a doomed attempt to bind him to the earth.

If the addiction consumed him—when it consumed him—before the culmination, he would cut the anchor line. It was a simple thing and well within his abilities. He might do so now, only…there was no reason to suppose that he would fall victim to his gift today. Today, he was stronger than the desire to meld with all the universe to guard it against yawning oblivion.

As if to give weight to that piece of unwarranted boldness, the pearly shine faded from the air, and it warmed somewhat, tasting of the morning foods laid out, of old wood, and a hint of dust.

For this morning, then, doom was averted.

Ren Zel leaned forward to take up his cup.

* * * * *

“To Captain Miri Robertson,” the voice was calm, if large. Miri put her chin on her fist and closed her eyes, listening.

“To Captain Miri Robertson, Jelaza Kazone, Surebleak. From House Guard Hazenthull nor’Phelium, on detached duty supporting Pilot Tocohl Lorlin and Pilot-Mentor Tollance Berik-Jones. I report a situation. Core mission accomplished. Treachery separates the team. I am with Tarigan. Pilot Tocohl travels with Pilot-Mentor Inkirani Yo, aboard Ahab-Esais, possibly against her will. A direct request to speak to Pilot Tocohl was denied by Pilot Yo.

“Pilot-Mentor Jones and Admiral Bunter are on course to danger, arranged by Pilot Yo. Pilot Tocohl, if she is in peril, has resources available to her. Pilot Jones is being transported to persons who mean him very great harm. It is possible that Admiral Bunter is likewise acting against his best judgment. I have no proof of tampering, but I must fear the worst.

“Field judgment is that my assistance will most benefit the Admiral and Pilot Jones. My target is Nostrilia. My strategy is to over-Jump Admiral Bunter, and be in position to bring Pilot Jones aboard Tarigan before he is reacquired by his enemies.

“Respect to the captain. Hazenthull nor’Phelium out.”

Tolly Jones again. Miri sighed quietly. She’d thought it was a good thing, that Hazenthull had found…a friend. Someone who not only took her out of herself, but out of her past, which, despite the best efforts of the Healers of the house, weighed heavy on her. Nothing and no one had counted more with Hazenthull than the fact that she had, through her own personal stupidity and willfulness, killed her partner.

Nothing, and no one—until Tolly Jones.

She’d followed him when he’d bolted from trouble, covering his back, coincidentally saving his bacon, and in the process took damage herself. That was how Hazenthull had wound up being a member of a team made up of a mentor of self-aware intelligences, and a tame AI who happened to be a daughter of Clan Korval, on a mission to civilize or kill another AI who’d been brought to consciousness and then deserted, with two murders already on his young soul.

Well. It seemed Tolly Jones had a talent for trouble, but Tocohl…

Miri opened her eyes and considered the man-high canister at rest before her desk, headball glowing a patient and steady orange.

“Been in touch with your daughter lately?” she asked Jeeves.

“Miri, I have not. Unless there were some difficulty, I would not have expected to hear from Tocohl.”

“Hazenthull seems to think she’s in some difficulty.”

“Yes,” Jeeves agreed. “I did ping Tocohl when Hazenthull’s message arrived, and did not receive an answer. Of course, that could merely mean that she is in Jump. I have, therefore, composed a pinbeam which I sent directly to Tocohl’s address. It will be waiting for her when the ship she is on emerges from Jump.”

“Good. You had a direct line to Admiral Bunter, as I recall it. Talked to him recently?”

“I had not wished to jostle the mentor’s elbow, nor distract Tocohl from her work. However, I also pinged Admiral Bunter upon receipt of this message, and received no pingback, which, as with Tocohl, could simply mean that he is in Jump. I took the liberty of sending a pinbeam to his address as well.”

She nodded and drank off the last of her coffee.

“Now—what d’you think about Hazenthull’s field judgment?”

“I believe that it is sound. Even given that the situation is exactly as Hazenthull reports, Tocohl has many resources available to her. While he is by no means without resource, Tolly Jones has, in addition, powerful enemies who do indeed have the ability to render him a stranger to himself.”

Miri gave him a sharp look. “He’s an agent? A DOI operative?”

“Miri, no. He is a product of the Lyre Institute. If you wish, I can provide a brief.”

“Do that. So Hazenthull’s instincts are good, even if she’s a little muddled on the details.”

“I believe so, yes. If I may, it would be best if her captain granted her leave to proceed as outlined.”

Miri snorted.

“Didn’t exactly sound to me like she was asking for permission.” She shook her head, and flipped one hand palm up, giving him the point.

“You’re right, though; better to follow the forms, and keep the line of command clear. Ready?”

“I am.”

“All right then. Please take a message to Hazenthull nor’Phelium. Greetings to the troop from Captain Miri Robertson…”

* * * * *

Lizzie’d lapped the ruckus room twice and was worn out enough to sit quiet in Miri’s lap, to be read to.

Today’s book was one of Lizzie’s favorites: Me and My Kitten. She was busily pointing out the kitten in each picture, crowing with delight, when Miri lifted her head, smiling at the nearness of his pattern.

“Mirada’s home,” she told her daughter, but Lizzie was smacking the book, impatient for the next picture of the kitten.

Miri obligingly turned the page, pointing out the flowers the kitten was hiding among, and the little girl walking down the path, calling. Lizzie was all about the kitten, as usual. When the exclamations had died down, she began to turn the page—

Only to have her daughter suddenly lean forward and put her pudgy hand directly on the picture of a tree growing by the side of the path.

“Tree,” Miri said, adding, “We have a tree.”

Actually, as she’d come to understand it, the Tree had them, but there wasn’t any sense getting into that ’til Lizzie was older.

Lizzie sighed and moved her hand. Miri turned the page and grinned at her daughter’s voluble, if unintelligible, delight at discovering the kitten under the bench where the little girl, worn out with looking for him, had sat down to rest.

The door to the ruckus room opened. Miri smiled and looked up, watching him as he crossed the room, slim and graceful and utterly silent. He returned her smile and collapsed cross-legged onto the rug at her side.

“Good evening, Miri,” he said in Low Liaden. “Good evening, Talizea.”

At the sound of his voice, Lizzie looked away from the kitten, uttered a squeal and threw herself at him, arms wide.

He swung her into a hug against his shoulder—taking care to keep his chin up, and his hair inaccessible—before settling her on his knee.

“How did you pass the day, daughter?” he asked her, keeping to Low Liaden.

Lizzie replied with a burst of babble, her face tipped up to his. Miri, abandoned, closed the book and stretched out on her side, head propped on her hand.

Val Con listened gravely until Lizzie ran out of steam, then inclined his head.

“Indeed, a most exciting and productive day. Your industry quite puts me to shame.” He cupped her cheek in his hand and looked to Miri, amusement in his eyes.

“And you, cha’trez? How did you fare with the delm this day?”

“Well and not so well,” she said in the Low Tongue. “I fear that there have been unexpected developments in the matter of Admiral Bunter. Tocohl may be at risk, Tolly Jones is certainly at risk, and Hazenthull has elected to rescue him. She sent a ’beam, explaining it all.”

“You relieve me. Did she give a reason for her decision to place Tolly Jones ahead of a daughter of the House?”

“Funny you should ask,” Miri said, going into Terran for the phrase, then dropping back to Low Liaden.

“Her reasoning, with which Jeeves agrees, is that Tocohl has resources available to her which Tolly Jones does not. Also, he is definitely in peril of his life, while Tocohl may only have been…importuned.”

“Jeeves agrees with Hazenthull’s decision,” Val Con repeated, slipping his hands around Lizzie’s middle and bouncing her on his knee.

Miri waited until the squeals of appreciation had died down.

“He does. Also, it comes about that Tolly Jones is a…product of the Lyre Institute, of which I had not heard, until today. Do you know of it?”

He frowned.

“There is some mention in the Diaries of the Tanjalyre Institute,” he said slowly, “with which Grandmother Cantra was…involved, in the old universe. But—”

At that moment, Lizzie lunged, her target, as near as Miri could make out, her father’s chin. In retaliation, he swung her up over his head, laughing when she squealed and kicked her feet in delight.

“You think it just an accident of language?” Miri asked him.

He sighed and lowered Lizzie again to his knee.

“I would certainly prefer to think so,” he said wryly. “However, prudence dictates that we perform research.”

“Gotcha all set up for tomorrow,” she told him in Terran. “Jeeves had a file. I read it today. Fascinating, in a really scary kind of way.”

“That certainly sounds as if there must be a link with Grandmother Cantra’s school,” Val Con said. “Well, I shall read the file tomorrow, then. If Hazenthull has gone haring off on her own recognizance…”

“I would not have you think so!” Miri said. “Her captain gave her permission. Retroactively, it must be admitted, but the chain of command is preserved.”

“Ah. Balance being for the moment free of assault, at least in our own household, I propose that we return this delightful young person to the care of her nurse, and proceed to our rooms.”

“You are still interested in an evening of privacy, then?”

Val Con gave her a look that curled her toes.

“Yes,” he said.

* * * * *

It was the absence of traffic on Dudley Avenue that finally pierced Kamele Waitley’s concentration, and brought her to a sense of how late it must be.

Kareen’s household ran to a particular schedule, which included a period of conversation, relaxation, and recreation after the evening meal. Kamele knew better than to absent herself from the social requirements of the house and had therefore spent a surprisingly enjoyable evening playing rijel with Scout vey’Loffit, who was very good, and Tassi, who was very bad. Not being the worst player at the board lent the game a certain pleasure, Kamele found, and Tassi didn’t seem to care if she won or lost, which probably accounted for the quality of her play.

After, though, when she had ascended to her bedroom, instead of lying down to sleep…Kamele had cheated.

She had opened her working file and begun taking notes.

It had been her intention only to work for an hour—perhaps two—and now it seemed that she had worked the city to sleep.

The house was quiet around her, and when she looked out her window, Dudley Avenue was indeed deserted, the streetlights dimming toward dawn.

Kamele shook her head and glanced again at her table.

There were only a very few more pages to go through, and if she went to bed now, it would be worse than simply not sleeping at all.

“Well reasoned, Professor,” she said, with a half-smile. Kareen would notice eyes reddened from a night of reading—of course she would; very little got past Kareen yos’Phelium. By this time, though—what was it they said, here on Surebleak?

Better be took for a ’hand than a zample.

And who, really, could argue with that?

Shaking her head, Kamele sat down at her table and reached for her note taker.

* * * * *

It was very early in the morning and the light from Surebleak’s star had not yet breached the protections of the inner garden. No matter. Jelaza Kazone’s garden was never truly dark, not to one of Korval.

The air, however, was not in any way warm, especially not to a man who had woken too early and stealthily risen, lest he disturb his lifemate’s slumber.

Val Con turned the collar of his jacket up as he followed the narrow, overgrown path, circling tighter and tighter in toward the center of the garden, the center of the House. One might even accurately say the center of the clan, save one did not wish to encourage an ego already sufficiently well-grown.

He couldn’t say what had waked him. Certainly the exercise he and Miri had shared upon the long evening should have insured a deep sleep, which in fact it had, merely not a long one.

Nevertheless, he felt quite rested, though a bit as if he yet moved inside a dream. Which argued that it had been the Tree which had waked him. For what purpose was of course a mystery, but one that would, he must suppose, be speedily revealed.

He followed the path ’round its last, tightest spiral, and looked up, his attention abruptly caught by…something.

Something odd.

One scant step ahead, the path ended in a lush carpeting of blue-green grass that swept ’round the massive trunk at center. The clearing was enclosed on three sides by gloan-roses and other fragrant bushes, creating the impression of a private courtyard: the Tree Court, as it was designated in House records and the garden’s own plantings map.

The whole area was bathed in a thick pearly light, as if it were filled with luminous mist. That was odd, but not unprecedented. The Tree adapted its environment to suit its best needs or, as he sometimes suspected, its whim.

Inside the misty, pearly light, the Tree was…dancing.

And that was odd.

Intrigued, he walked across the grass and surface roots, further into the glade.

This close, he could see that the Tree was merely manipulating mist and light to give an impression of dancing. Its shout of exuberance, however, was quite real enough to make his head ring.

The Tree had been…unusually alert since the removal to Surebleak. It was as if all those years on Liad had lulled it into a drowse, from which it had wakened into a state of childlike wonder. They had known from the Diaries that the Tree liked to travel, but it had not occurred to any of them that it might, on Liad, have been bored.

This present madcap delight, however…one wondered what caused it.

Val Con took two steps forward and placed his palms flat against the warm trunk, expecting at least an acknowledgment of his presence, even amidst the celebration.

His vision went black, then brightened; excitement rocked him back on his heels; he had a crazy swinging view of what might have been a piloting chamber, one seat empty, board green, and in the screens a ship—a ship with lines that he knew, if only—

He snatched after the image, trying to force the viewpoint back to those screens, to that ship…

Behind him, he heard a door cycle, and in that momentary distraction lost the tussle for another glimpse of the screens, dropping back into his own body with a gasp, arms locked and quivering with the strain of holding himself upright.

Slowly, he allowed himself to collapse against the wide trunk, and lay there, letting the Tree support him, his cheek against bark that ought to have been rough, but felt as soft as Miri’s shoulder.

The ship—that ship.

“Bechimo,” he said, and felt another surge of joy from the Tree, which mixed rather badly with his own feeling of dread.

His sister Theo was captain of Bechimo, and to say that Theo was prone to…interesting situations was to understate the case by several orders of magnitude. What in the name of the gods had she stirred up now? And how did the Tree—

A white dragon soared inside his head, gaining altitude against a blue-and-gold sky, until it was finally lost from sight.

Val Con was aware of a feeling of vast contentment.

Which was, he thought sourly, pushing himself squarely onto his own feet, easy for the Tree to say.

* * *

Miri woke as he was slipping back under the covers.

“You’re cold,” she said, rolling over to share her warmth, a leg thrown companionably over his thighs, an arm across his chest, and her head on his shoulder.

“The Tree had wanted me in the garden,” he said, nestling his cheek against her hair.

“And it couldn’t wait ’til the day got a little warmer? And later?”

“It was somewhat excited,” he murmured.

“’Bout what?”

“There, I am not completely certain. I believe it wished me to know that Theo is in a pickle.”

Miri snorted a half-laugh, and he smiled.

“Yes,” he said. “Precisely so.”

II

The car rounded the curve, en route for Surebleak Port and the Road Boss’s office. Val Con stood for another minute, until he lost the sound of the engine in the breeze.

He shook himself then and went back into the house, down the hall to the delm’s office.

Crossing to the sideboard, he poured himself a cup of tea and carried it with him to the desk. He settled into the chair, put the cup aside, and brought up the screen.

The first thing to display was the calendar, reminding him that it was Miri’s turn to sit in on the Port Authority meeting this evening, after the Road Boss’s office closed. The weekly meeting of the Council of Bosses was scheduled to begin an hour later, at the council hall in the city. He, for his sins, would be present there. Not to be outdone in industry, Anthora and Ren Zel were to attend the meeting of the Weather Task Force.

As the three events were scheduled to end within a half hour of each other, they would all four meet at Nova’s town house for Prime meal.

Where, after the meal was done, there would very likely be a family meeting.

Val Con sighed.

Well. Busy hands were happy hands. So his lifemate sometimes assured him, with a certain gleam in her eye.

He swept the calendar aside and opened the delm’s mail.

Not surprisingly, there were messages in-queue. A quick glance established that none were from Theo. After the Tree’s dawn dance of delight, he had been in daily expectation of at least a note informing him that she was en route to Surebleak.

Thus far, however, his hopes had languished unfulfilled.

He frowned slightly. Some while ago, he had sent Theo a pinbeam, urging her to come home and make the acquaintance of her niece. The response to this had been silence, and a noticeable—one might say very noticeable—absence of Theo.

He had several times considered sending another, more pointed, message, bidding his sister home in no uncertain terms—and had on each occasion decided against. Had he been Theo’s delm…

But there. He specifically and deliberately was not Theo’s delm, having made the decision, with his co-delm’s agreement, not to offer her entrée into the clan. Once, he would have done so immediately, in order to gain for his sister—however much she counted herself Terran—potent protection from what harm the universe might offer.

Since the clan’s removal to Surebleak, however, to be known as one who stood beneath the Dragon’s wing was far more likely to attract trouble, than repel it.

That being the case, he was merely Theo’s brother: an unfortunate circumstance, given that Theo’s home culture held the proper duty of women to be the care and protection of the vulnerable—in particular, children and males of all ages. Even his position as her elder did not weigh nearly so much with his sister as the fact that he was male. His necessities must naturally wait upon hers.

Still, he had played the kin card cannily, gambling that the joyous occasion of a niece might tempt her where a brother did not. It appeared, however, that he had miscalculated.

He held one final card in his hand. Theo’s mother was on-world, and it had been in his mind to play that ace, encouraging Kamele Waitley to pinbeam her wandering daughter and desire her to come home.

He sipped his tea, considering.

Though there had been a regrettable lack of Theo docking at Surebleak Port, there had also been no recent news of ghost ship sightings, or renewed demands that Captain Waitley be returned to Eylot for trial and execution. That being so, and considering the Tree’s…display…he thought prudence might be indulged.

It could well be that Theo was en route, having merely neglected to send ahead to inform kin—which was entirely in keeping with Theo, as he knew her. Travel, of course, took time. Another eighteen days was not an unreasonable span in which to allow circumstances to develop. If by then there had been no communication from Theo or news of Bechimo in Surebleak orbit, then it would be time to play his ace.

He put his cup down, frowning slightly.

On the topic of missing kin, there was one more outstanding item: his father, Daav yos’Phelium, one of the clan’s few surviving elders, and doubly precious for that…

Daav yos’Phelium had taken grievous hurt far from home, and had been succored by an ally. That same ally, known to the underuniverse as “Uncle,” or, more often “the Uncle,” was…trustworthy to a point. That he would care for Korval’s elder to the best of his considerable ability to do so was very nearly a certainty. However, Uncle’s business came first for Uncle, as he had, to his credit, made clear. He had also hinted that Daav’s wounds had been severe and required care before he could be released with confidence from the Uncle’s custody.

Taking all into account, and in consultation with a calendar, one was becoming…anxious for Daav’s return to kin and clan. If the Uncle’s business kept him elsewhere, surely a master pilot might be put off at any port and not despair of finding a way home, even supposing that there had been no option to tap Korval’s own resources.

If Father’s wounds kept him yet in the Uncle’s care…that was very worrying, indeed.

“The difficulty lies in catching hold of the Uncle,” Val Con observed to Merlin, who was sleeping on the papers to the left of the screen. “And the risk lies in annoying him.”

Merlin flicked a grey ear and settled himself closer into the pile.

“You are very right. One ought to consult with the delmae before doing anything rash. I am, after all, merely half a delm. Such a decision surely calls for the wholeness.”

That decided, at least for the moment, he turned his attention to the mail queue.

At the top, a note from Pat Rin, forwarding a message from Shan, to the effect that the Terran Trade Commission found itself in the position of needing to perform a complete and proper survey of Surebleak Port; the report on file having been judged to be not only badly out of date, but incomplete.

Pat Rin was inclined to think poorly of the former survey team’s mettle, but he supposed, as they had waited this long for a determination regarding their request for an upgraded rating, they might easily wait another year or so before declaring Surebleak a free port and themselves pirate princes.

Val Con grinned.

He could easily enter into his cousin’s sentiments, but it was difficult to find fault with the former team’s decision not to venture out onto a port where they would have been, at best, robbed and, at worst, murdered. And to be perfectly fair, TerraTrade had guaranteed that a new survey team was already on its way to Surebleak, which would appear to indicate that they were taking the current application seriously.

Not that he would presume to say so much to Pat Rin, who was no doubt enjoying his moment of pique immensely.

Truly, Surebleak Port was much improved, in large part due to Pat Rin’s efforts, upon seizing control of the largest—indeed, the only—city on the planet. In fact, Val Con thought, sipping his tea, it was so far changed from the ragged port which the first team must have faced, that a new evaluation would be warranted in any case. The presence of Korval’s yards, not to mention the Emerald Casino, the newly opened Trade Bar, and the Bazaar, ought to be enough of themselves to elevate their rating from local-port-of-last-resort, to regional-port-all-services.

Once the upgrade was in place, then they might begin the expansion into the upper tier—though that must wait upon the further rehabilitation of Surebleak City.

Well.

He filed the letter. The port and the city were, after all, Pat Rin’s responsibility. Given Korval’s interests, they naturally wished access to a premier port and yards, and to that end the delm would willingly advise. The work of making it so, however, would fall to Boss Conrad and the Council of Bosses.

The next letter…

The next letter was from Falish Meron, High Judge of the Juntavas. It was a perfectly convenable, even chatty, letter, containing such on-dits as the High Judge might suppose he would find of interest. The Juntavas had a vast network, and sources that Korval could not have equaled, even before their banishment. And in truth, the information did interest him. That it was sent as a quiet demonstration of how useful Korval would find it, to become a part of that vast network…

He sighed.

The Juntavas was an old and complex organization.

As was Clan Korval.

The business entity known as Clan Korval operated under half-a-dozen trade names, each of which kept contracts, paid bills, invoiced clients, nurtured partnerships, and supported allies.

Though their circumstances had been reduced, they had in no way been simplified. Such was the complexity, that, should it become necessary to cease operations, it would likely require a team of qe’andra specialists a dozen years to shut down the business of Korval.

As for the clan itself…

The kin-group known as Clan Korval existed: it stood by its charter; it sheltered and protected its members; supplied itself; negotiated new contracts, and honored existing agreements. Thus, the qe’andras’ most basic definition of a viable clan was satisfied.

It was true that their numbers continued low, due in part to the tendency of yos’Pheliums of finding interesting ways to die before providing the clan with an heir. The deliberate strike against Korval in his grandmother’s day had further reduced them, until now, in this present, challenging circumstance, they were dangerously few.

Happily, there was guidance available: The Liaden Code of Proper Conduct outlined two approved strategies for dealing with low numbers.

One: Korval might invite another clan to marry it or—less advantageously—accept another clan’s invitation to merge, thus creating a single, more populated House. Whether the resulting entity would bear the name of either partner, or adopt something entirely new would be laid out in the contract of merger.

The Code of course assumed that the clans in question were of impeccable melant’i and resided properly within the web of Liaden society. While Korval’s banishment had not completely eliminated their opportunity to make a good marriage, it had severely limited the field from which they might choose.

Well.

The Code also allowed that a clan of few members, where kin-ties were weak, might be dissolved, by action of the delm.

There were indeed clans who might welcome individuals from Korval. Shan would be sought after; master traders had high value, and the near-trained heirs of master traders scarcely less. Some might balk at Priscilla, for reason of her being Terran, while others might squint at that in order to gain an experienced commercial captain.

For the rest of them—well. He shook his head. There was nothing to be gained by playing that game. The bonds of kinship within Korval were strong. They could be forcibly broken, of course, but harm would be taken on all sides. Best to seek another solution…first.

And the core problem remained: They were too few to adequately protect themselves.

They did have enemies. There were those who found in them a foe to be hunted and slain—those who had lost kin, property, commerce in the strike on Solcintra—as well as those remaining agents of the Department of the Interior, who held as their last mission the utter destruction of Korval.

One might not, perhaps, face an entirely hostile universe, but certainly far more daggers were drawn than the twenty or so Korval might raise in its own defense.

The Juntavas, now. High Judge Meron, speaking for the Juntavas chairman, had offered a solution which was not so very different from that outlined in the Code.

Join us, and you will be us. And we protect ourselves.

The Juntavas was many times more than a thousand strong; they had successfully withstood the Department of the Interior; the Liaden Council of Clans was as nothing to them.

But to allow Korval entire to be…absorbed.

The Juntavas would of course want the clan businesses as part of their marriage portion—and reasonably so. However, they would also expect Surebleak to be delivered to them, Korval having, however unintentionally, conquered the planet and subjugated its people to their own purpose.

And there one found a problem.

Korval’s business the delm might cede, for guarantees. But they had no rights to Surebleak, to trade it away for the safety of one clan.

Still, Korval had not…quite refused the kindly offer made by the Juntavas, which was only prudence. Now was not a time for relying too heavily upon the wisdoms of the past, nor for closing doors suddenly found open.

As if to underline the point, there came a knock at the office door.

“Come,” Val Con said.

Mr. pel’Kana, the butler, bowed from the doorway.

“Mr. Shaper asks to see you, sir.”

Mr. Shaper was their closest neighbor, a man of uneasy temperament. He had never before asked to see Val Con, though Val Con was given to understand that he frequently called upon Mrs. ana’Tak in the kitchen, more often than not bringing gifts from his vegetable garden or fruit trees.

Odd though he undoubtedly was, Yulie Shaper likely represented a far simpler prospect than any other matter on his desk this morning. Indeed, it was very possible that, had Yulie come to his neighbor with a problem in hand, Val Con would be able to dispatch it easily and to the satisfaction of all.

And wasn’t that a pleasant thought?

“Please,” he said, “bring Mr. Shaper to me here. A fresh pot of tea, too, if you will, Mr. pel’Kana, and some of Mrs. ana’Tak’s cookies that Mr. Shaper favors.”

“Yes, your lordship.”

Mr. pel’Kana vanished, closing the door softly behind him.

* * *

Yulie Shaper was in rare good humor, arriving in the office with a positive spring in his step and what appeared to be one of his “binders” tucked under one arm.

“Cozy place you got here,” he said, looking around the office. “You read all them books?”

“I fear not. But one cannot simply get rid of books, you know. Especially books which have reposed so long on the same shelf.”

“Reckon they’re good insulation,” Yulie said, nodding at the shelving stretching from floor to ceiling along the interior wall.

“I suppose they must be,” Val Con agreed gravely. “But come, sit with me over here. Tea and refreshments will soon reach us, and you may acquaint me with the reason for your visit.”

“Right neighborly, seeing me so quick. Thought maybe I’d make a ’pointment, like with other bosses—well, now, not all t’other bosses. Melina, she usually has a minute for me, but Melina’s dad and Grampa, they worked together some; and she knew me an’ Rollie, growing up.” He cast a sapient eye over the cluttered desk and the darkened screen.

“I don’t wanna interrupt, if you’re busy.”

“Believe me, Mr. Shaper, you are a welcome diversion from those matters on my desk.”

“So long’s I don’t put you off your stride; I know bosses’re busy.”

He sat in one of the three chairs grouped around a low table by the window, putting his binder on his knee. His seat gave him a view of the inner garden and a glimpse of the Tree beyond the shrubberies.

“My little tree’s growing like it wants to be as tall as its pa, there. I think it don’t know winter’s coming.”

“Perhaps it knows too well and wishes to be large enough to withstand the challenges of the season.”

“Ain’t how plants usually operate, in my experience. ’Course I ain’t had any experience with trees comin’ live from off-world…Say! I had that pod off your tree—you remember, back when I was getting ready to come home after the big party? It was pretty good eatin’, that pod. And what d’ya know, but my little one’s got a pod growing—already! Just looking at it makes my mouth water.”

Of course it did, Val Con thought. Korval’s Tree had a long—a very long—history of providing the members of Korval with seed pods, which they had been conditioned from birth to accept and savor. Even knowing that the Tree was a biochemist, that it had been…tampering with Korval’s genes for generations, was insufficient reason for the clan to abandon their ancient ally—or overlord.

Apparently, the Tree felt that a new homeworld ought to be celebrated by…acquiring more allies of the mobile persuasion.

“Your tree will seek to establish a relationship with you very quickly,” Val Con said. “It is, as ours is, a—sentience. It uses the pods to alter those who are in…symbiosis with it. Occasionally, it sends dreams.”

“Does it now?” Yulie looked interested, but not alarmed. In fact, Yulie looked less alarmed than Val Con had previously seen him. “Usually don’t care for dreams, myself—wake me up more often than not. But I’ll tell you what, I been sleeping like a rock the last couple weeks—no dreams at all, and wakin’ up just that sharp, even before I get my coffee.”

Yes, thought Val Con, it would appear that the Tree—and the Tree’s progeny—was wasting no time in commencing to meddle. And there was yet another crime to be placed at Korval’s feet: that they were not one invader, but two.

The office door opened to admit Mr. pel’Kana and the tea tray. By the time the cups were filled, the cookies admired, and the butler dismissed with the information that they would pour for themselves, Yulie had found another topic of conversation.

“I sure do favor these,” he said, picking up a golden-brown raisin bar with a squiggle of white icing down the center. “Mrs. ana’Tak, she give me the receipt, but mine don’t come out the same like hers do.”

“Mrs. ana’Tak is a wizard with cookies,” Val Con said, taking one for himself.

The next few minutes were given to an appreciation of art.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” Yulie said, putting his teacup gently down on the table. “I don’t know that it’s worth havin’ tea and cookies for what I come over here to ask you—not that I don’t appreciate it, Boss! But all I wanted was to find where that brother of yours is got to.”

Shan had commissioned Val Con to purchase a piece of land that had been Yulie Shaper’s death-gift from his grandmother, through his grandfather, also deceased. Yulie had signed the contract willingly enough—too willingly, in Val Con’s opinion—and had only very recently allowed himself to be persuaded to accept the purchase price stipulated therein. It had been Yulie Shaper’s intention to give the land to Shan, as Yulie claimed to have no use for it. Managing the contract and the payment had taken…determination, but Val Con had been pleased to properly finish the business in his brother’s name.

Now, however? Had Yulie changed his mind?

“My brother Shan is on the trade run. I had pinbeamed him the contract a few days ago. I am certain that we will soon receive a countersigned—”

Yulie shook his head.

“Forgot you got a bushel’a brothers. I’m talking about the other one—the boy with the metal hand, who liked the grapes so good.”

“Rys.”

“That’s him. Quiet boy. Handy in a pinch, too.”

“Indeed, he is everything that is modest and accommodating, but I regret, Mr. Shaper. Rys is off-planet at the moment.”

Unexpectedly, Yulie grinned.

“Ain’t that something? Used to be you’d never hear that: off-planet. Gettin’ so now, you can’t not hear it.”

“On our former homeworld, it was the veriest commonplace. May I inquire into your business with Rys? Perhaps, in his absence, I may be able to assist.”

“Well, I got to thinking about them grapes, and how he was a winemaker, and how we got such a short time between winter and winter, if you take my meaning. Well! Surebleak’s weather, that was the whole reason for setting up the growing rooms like been done. Supposed to feed the world, we was, or at least start to—and then the bosses…well, old stories. Thing is, Grampa…he had studies done and the binders put together, one ops binder for each room, and one binder about what the room produced and how best to see it used.

“Anyhow, thinking about them grapes and your Rys like I been doing, I went and pulled the binder. And you ain’t gonna believe this, but there’s this, right here, just made to order for what we got here on Surebleak, and I’m thinking them grapes was special picked to make this ice wine here…”

He took up the binder and flipped to a page that had been marked with a rough-toothed red leaf.

“Look right there,” he directed, passing the book over.

Val Con scanned the page, quickly coming to an understanding of the process, production, and product. He looked up and met Yulie Shaper’s eyes.

“The grapes are left on the vine after they are ripe and allowed to dehydrate somewhat, thereby concentrating the sugars and producing complexities not usually found in traditional wine. After the first frost, they are harvested and pressed while still frozen. Consumed within the year, it is a dessert wine; aging for five to ten years in the barrel will produce a smoother, dryer finish.”

“Quick study,” Yulie commented, helping himself to another cookie.

“Necessity.” Val Con closed the folder and placed it on the table next to the cookie plate.

“I wonder…do your grapes not grow in a dedicated room?”

“Sure they do—oh! You’re wondering about how we’d freeze ’em. Simple enough thing to do…just open the vents when the sugars test right. Then you got a busy six, eight hours harvesting and pressing, but that’s how work is—you either got too much or too little.”

“That has been my observation as well.”

Val Con picked up the pot and refreshed their cups.

“Now, we got some time on this,” Yulie said. “Grapes won’t be ready to go for another six weeks, maybe. Thing is, there’s autumn harvest comin’, and right after that, I got a couple o’the trickier rooms come due. No extra time to give them grapes, is what I’m sayin’. It was in my mind, see, to offer that brother o’yours the work, and the wine.” He sipped his tea and sighed. “That’s good, thanks.”

“You are quite welcome; it is a pleasant blend.”

Val Con tasted his own cup, savoring the bright green top notes, and the darker, nutty undernote.

“Mr. Shaper, I regret,” he said, lowering the cup and cradling it in his palm. “The case is that Rys may be gone for…some time.” If not forever, he added silently, to himself.

Yulie sighed and took a bite from his cookie.

“Don’t guess you know anybody else might do the work? See, now it’s in my head, I got a real urge to find how them grapes go into wine. Be a market for local wine—maybe even go into the Bazaar there at the port, where all the best things off Surebleak get offered.”

“Indeed. Let me think for a moment, if you will, Mr. Shaper. Perhaps I do know of someone who might assist us.”

“Take all the time you want,” Yulie told him cheerfully and settled back into his chair, cup in one hand, half-demolished cookie in the other.

Val Con sipped more tea, eyes half-closed.

…One of my sisters, Rys said to him in memory. An avid gardener…has brought me into an endeavor with grapes. It is very much in the nature of an experiment, and I do not entertain…very high hopes of the outcome. Still, the subject interests her…

He sat up and put his cup on the table with a small, decisive click.

Yulie looked at him with interest.

“Thought of somebody, did you?”

“I recall that Rys had spoken of one of his sisters—a devoted gardener—as having developed an interest in grapes. He had been teaching her, before he—before he was called away. I am not entirely certain, you understand, which sister, or if, indeed, she might find herself able to assist. You say we have time before the grapes require the attention of a vintner. May I have, then, a few days to locate this sister of Rys and put the question to her?”

“Sure. Hey! Another farmer? Wonder if she’d like to help with the harvest, too? Payment in produce, but it’s all good eating.”

“Assuming that I am able to locate her, I will mention that possibility as well. Is there anything else I may do for you?”

“Done everything I asked and more, is what it seems like to me. Thanks, Boss.”

“Mr. Shaper, it is I who thank you! You have given me a much needed break, and a problem which it is a pleasure to solve. I only hope that we may bring it to full closure.”

“You’ll do it,” Yulie said comfortably, putting his empty cup on the table and picking up his binder.

“I’ll take this along and put it back where it belongs, so we’ll know where to find it, when it comes time. Meanwhile, I left some bush-nuts with Mrs. ana’Tak to try in cookies and cakes and such. You let me know what you think about ’em.”

“I will, Mr. Shaper; you are too good to us.”

Val Con stood, and Yulie did.

“Grampa always said good neighbors was worth keeping,” he said, as they moved toward the door. “You’re the first neighbor I had, but I ’spect he’d say you was worth keeping.”

“We have not ourselves been accustomed to near neighbors, but I find that we are fortunate in our placement here.”

“We got an accord then.”

Val Con opened the door, and gestured the other man to precede him down the hall.

“We do, indeed,” he murmured.

* * * * *

One thing you could say about ’bleaker meetings: they were thorough.

Miri’d sat through plenty of meetings when she’d been a mercenary soldier. Merc meetings, they cut right to the chase: no shortcuts nor any long detours along the back roads of what if, neither. The meeting leader told out whatever it was you needed to know, and at the end of it, they’d say, “Any questions? Dismissed.” Just like that, with no time for anybody to get their hand in the air, if they’d wanted to, between “questions” and “dismissed.”

She’d had a couple of nostalgic minutes there at the Port Authority meeting, no denying. Still, they did manage to approve the budget and vet the couple of bids for vendor space that’d come in since last meeting. The question of the port upgrade rose, like it had to, that being an ongoing cause of agitation. Usually the answer to the question was nothing yet, but tonight, the portmaster’d surprised them all.

There’d been word from the Terran Trade Commission. They’d discovered that the old survey in their files wasn’t complete, so they’d diverted the nearest team from their scheduled rounds to go straight to Surebleak and do the job right. The team, said the portmaster, ought to arrive within the quarter.

Well, there’d damn near been a riot, what with the folks who thought Surebleak was ready and those who—while understanding that there had been changes—were just too beaten down by a lifetime of hard living to believe that TerraTrade would ever give them an upgraded rating.

The portmaster had let the talk go on longer than Miri would’ve done, but in the end everybody got settled enough to concentrate on agreeing on the next meeting time, and off they went, dismissed at last, only three-quarters of an hour late.

Nelirikk’d driven them to Nova’s in-town house, where he went to the staff room behind the kitchen, and she continued down the hall to Nova’s office.

Val Con’s eldest sister—his cousin, actually, but he’d been raised a single yos’Phelium amongst a herd of yos’Galans, and according to how Liadens sorted things, that made him a son of the House. Which sort of explained why it was that Nova looked nothing and everything like him, simultaneously.

All the members of Clan Korval—the born-in members, anyway—held a strong resemblance to each other. They shared the clan’s face, according to Liadens, but like so much of what Liadens said, it wasn’t exactly what they meant. The clan’s face had less to do with each member of any given clan looking exactly like the rest as it did with a similarity in posture, body language, inflection, and mannerisms. A shared history going back dozens of generations supported all the members of a clan, and defined their place in society.

In the case of Clan Korval, which raised up traders, scouts, and pilots, the clan’s face also included a sense of humor that was sharp enough to cut, not to say blackly ironical.

Nova was behind her desk when Miri entered the office. She looked up with a faint smile and a slight nod, which for Nova was downright effusive.

“Miri. I see you well?” The question was in Low Liaden, which was how kin talked to each other. Miri answered in the same mode.

“You see me glad to be out of the meeting with my life.”

Nova’d been shorted on the clan’s sense of humor. Despite she’d come up with Val Con and Shan, sometimes she got caught by surprise. This was one of those times. Slim golden eyebrows pulled together.

“Was there violence?”

“Nothing of the sort,” Miri assured her. “I was merely hard put not to die of boredom.”

“Ah.”

Nova glanced down at her desk, and back up.

“I must ask you to forgive me, Sister; I assured Pat Rin that I would finish with this document today and put it in his hands tomorrow morning.”

Miri raised her hands, palms out.

“Believe me when I say that I understand. Is anyone else arrived?”

“You are the first.”

Miri shook her head.

“I had hoped that my meeting was the only one that had gone overtime. Of your kindness, Sister, I will amuse myself in the book room.”

“Of course,” Nova said, her eyes already straying back to her task. “I will ask that tea be brought.”

“Thank you,” said Miri, and withdrew.

* * * * *

The meeting was finally over. Ren Zel slipped out into the hallway, neatly avoiding the crowd advancing on Ichliad Brunner, Surebleak’s official weatherman. He made no doubt that Anthora would be similarly adroit, though she had been seated on the side of the table furthest from the door.

Unusual for Surebleak, the room had been stifling, and he had over the course of the meeting developed an annoying sort of itch just behind his forehead, as if he were trying to have a headache but had forgotten the way of it.

Sighing, he allowed the wall to support his weight more than was really seemly in a public hallway, and closed his eyes.

Gold glittered in the darkness there; the sweet breeze wafted the nascent headache away. He was consecrated in eternity, senses drowned in—

“’Evenin’ now, Mr. dea’Judan!”

A loud, brusque voice shattered perfection. Ren Zel started away from the wall, eyes snapping open to behold the bluff features of Oskar Ekelmit, the task force secretary.

Ren Zel produced a Terran smile, so broad as to feel a farce, and gave the secretary a nod.

“Good evening, also, to you, sir,” he said. “I believe we made progress this session.”

Actually, they had talked a number of very simple points into senselessness and gave permission for Mr. Brunner’s rather expensive next step in the satellite project with scarcely a question. Still, having obtained permission was excellent.

“Did good work,” Secretary Ekelmit agreed. “Gotta eager bunch on this thing. Wanna see it through. Well. Gotta run now, m’wife’ll have supper waitin’.”

And with that pronouncement, he bustled off down the hall.

Ren Zel turned to look into the meeting room. To the left of the door was Mr. Brunner, center of a knot of enthusiastic conversation. Across the room, his lifemate was speaking with Gayleen Vord, head of the tech team assisting the weatherman in his work.

As if she had felt his gaze upon her—which was not unlikely—Anthora turned her head and raised a hand, then turned briefly back to Technician Vord.

The gentleman laughed and made a shapeless gesture with his hand—possibly it was permission to pass, as she did just that, moving briskly toward the door.

Ren Zel straightened and offered his arm.

“Thank you for the rescue, Beloved,” she said, leaning slightly—some sticklers might even say, scandalously—against him. “Mr. Brunner praises him as an exemplary technician, but he does prose on!”

Ren Zel smiled.

“Perhaps he was fascinated.”

“Yes, well. If he had talked less of climate compressor factoring and stabilization protocols, you might have taken a point there.”

He felt her sigh lightly.

“There was a…moment, Beloved?”

“A moment only,” he said, “and quickly gone.”

That this had been due entirely to the overenthusiastic greetings of Secretary Ekelmit did not seem worth mentioning.

“Ah,” said his lady, and said nothing more.

* * * * *

Curled into a big soft chair that had used to grace, so she’d been told, Trealla Fantrol’s own library, Miri was leafing through a book of illustrations of flowering plants, which had proved unexpectedly interesting, in an undemanding and restful sort of way. The pictures were pretty, and underneath each was a short poem, printed in a text that flowed like water.

A teapot and a cup sat on the table to her right, and from time to time she’d have a sip, enjoying the echo of flowers in the tea.

She’d felt Val Con’s relief when his meeting ended, then nothing more. The lifemate link was like that—occasional, not continuous. Strong emotion lit the connection up, but subtle stuff was pretty much lost in translation. For something as innocuous as relief to come through…

Must’ve been some meeting, Miri thought, turning a page.

She was studying a picture of a large purple flower that was made up of hundreds of tiny purple flowers when she heard the door to the library open—and close.

“Cha’trez,” Val Con murmured a moment later, his lips brushing the nape of her neck. “I find you well?”

“Well enough,” she said, with a small shiver of delight. She tipped her head back so that she could see his face. “My meeting went long. Heard yours was a treat.”

“If one cares for curdled cream,” he said, with a faint smile. “My sister tells me that she is deep inside a document—which has developed unexpected complexities—that Pat Rin requires tomorrow morning, without fail.”

“Yeah, she was at that when I came in.” She closed the book. “Is that a hint for us to go home and find our own supper?”

“Indeed not. Anthora and Ren Zel have only just arrived, and the cook is preparing sufficient for the company entire. It is only that we are asked to forgo the after-meal discussion.”

“Works for me,” she said. “I don’t need another meeting on this day.”

“Nor do I. Are you done with the folio, or will you take it home?”

“Best leave it here for somebody else to find,” she said, handing it to him. “It’s good therapy.”

“Indeed.” He took the book and crossed the room.

Miri uncurled from the chair and stretched. “So, that’s five for dinner?”

Book reshelved, Val Con returned to her side, walking Scout-silent across the hard floor.

“Eight. Mike Golden will of course join us, as will Syl Vor and Kezzi—which is fortunate. I have a message for Kezzi to take to one of her sisters.”

“Yeah? Which sister?”

He smiled at her.

“I haven’t the least idea.”

* * *

Dinner had yet to reach the table, so Val Con went in search of Kezzi.

His intuition proved correct. The youngsters were in the kitchen while Beck, good-natured to a fault, worked around them. Not Beck’s fault was the children’s high-speed multilingual banter as they fidgeted their way around the room, playing at poaching from the multitude of pots and platters, the while engaged in a battle of exuberant motion mimicry and very unLiaden face-making, combined with a barrage of words. Their movements were pure, athletic. The words bounced between solid Terran and Surebleakean dialect while heedlessly scattering the more apt Liaden or Trade word as needed, as well as three or four oddly inflected and almost familiar sounds. Syl Vor was, Val Con thought, assaying Bedel.

Val Con paused just inside the door, unwilling to add to the confusion.

Despite their energy, and the noise, the children were not simply being nuisances, he saw. In fact they were putting plates, baskets, and eating utensils onto trays for transport to the dining room.

“Super big,” Syl Vor said moderately, an expansive hand gesture demonstrating large.

“Coming out!”

Beck said that too late, and Val Con was too far away to help as the attempted warning was drowned out by Kezzi’s raucous and triumphant, “Hugemungus!” and its accompanying arm-spreading display.

Kezzi’s descending bare hand and wrist swiped the side of the bread pan, the pan and rolls barely saved from the floor by Beck’s clattering shove of the hot metal onto the stove top.

“Kezzi!”

Syl Vor was ahead of Val Con; Kezzi stood silent, staring at the burn, angry red against dusky skin, smile closing to a grim grey line of pain.

“Oh, sleet, child, come here, we ought to ice that!”

Syl Vor stood back at Kezzi’s silent motion as if he read a hand-sign full of known meaning…

“Let be,” Syl Vor told Beck. “She needs to see it!”

“She needs ice; bring her to the sink…Child, you’ll blister in a minute!”

“No! I can do it.”

Kezzi backed up her “no” by turning her back on Beck, her face a study in concentration.

Val Con stood near, left hand flickering toward the Scout first-aid pouch that was not, after all, on his belt. Kezzi gestured with her unburned hand, and he felt a familiar prickle along senses not…often engaged. There was meaning in the child’s motion, weight, a sense of purpose, of gathering energy. It was, in fact, very like something he had seen—or sensed—before; very nearly as if he could see Kezzi’s intent coalescing…

Kezzi looked at him then and shook her head.

“My…my older sister does this. I can do it. I need to remember—and you need to be quiet.”

“Your pardon,” he murmured, dropping back a step so Syl Vor might squeeze between them. The wound was still visible, and the glittering of energies. He had seen Anthora do something very like, more than once—

“What’s amiss?”

As if his thought had brought her—which wasn’t entirely impossible—Anthora herself strode through the door, no sign of the wool-gathering innocent she was thought to be by many Liadens, but a potent dramliza, pulling up her power as she approached. Val Con dropped back another step, eyes narrowed against a glister that was more sensed than seen…

Syl Vor slipped to Kezzi’s side as Anthora extended a hand.

“Let me see it, please,” she said. Her voice was not loud, but it brooked no argument.

Kezzi looked up, face betraying surprise, even as she raised her hand to show the injury.

“My sister does this,” she repeated, but quietly. “I’m certain I can recall it. I only need…”

Anthora waggled her palm for attention.

“Peace, cousin, peace! Self-healing is no easy matter even for one practiced in our art—as I learned to my own dismay. I offer willing assistance. You may watch and learn. Have we a bargain?”

Kezzi’s face was drawn, Val Con saw. She nodded once and allowed Anthora to support the wounded arm.

“Now, there is a progression to healing a physical hurt, and it must be followed precisely.

“First, the body is aware that it has been wounded; that awareness increases the difficulty of what we would undertake. First, then, we soothe the hurt…so.”

She raised her free hand, holding it palm-down, near, but not on, the afflicted area.

Val Con saw a sparkle of frost—or perhaps snow—and Kezzi sighed, deeply.

“Yes…” she murmured, her eyes half-closed. “Now the body will not fight.”

“Yes, exactly. Now we may continue with the process. For so small a wound, we may use a simple exchange method, which is very quick. First, we form a net and lay it over your wound; and then another, over the precise location of the wound, only on my hand…so. Then we bring the energies together…”

There was a pinpoint flash. Kezzi gasped as the angry wound vanished, leaving no mark; Anthora drew a deep breath and, for an eye blink, her wrist showed red. Then that mark, too, was gone. Anthora released Kezzi’s arm and looked into her eyes.

“Did you see?” she asked.

“Yes,” Kezzi said. “Yes. You do it differently from my sister, but the feeling is…very near.”

“There are often several roads leading to the same tree,” Anthora answered, and added: “For a more serious wound, the right route might be through sharing with a sister dramliza, or many sisters. Study hard, that you see each healing moment as its own.”

Val Con heard a scrape of feet and impatient motion…

Beck was hovering, bowl in hand, face tight.

“Dear, do you need ice? I can hold dinner….”

“No ice,” Kezzi said, holding up her unmarred arm.

“Thank you, Beck,” Syl Vor added, with a glare at his foster sister, who wrinkled her nose ferociously at him.

“Thank you, Beck,” Anthora echoed. “I believe the crisis is past.”

“Sure looks like it,” Beck said, turning back to the stove. “It’d be something fine, if I could have my kitchen to myself now. Boss don’t like to have dinner late.”

III

It was her turn to be delm-for-a-day, and Miri stood in the window overlooking the inner garden, sipping coffee, thinking about loose ends and missing persons.

Val Con was getting concerned about his father’s extended stay with the Uncle, and while Miri’s general feelings about Uncle himself weren’t quite so conflicted as Val Con’s, she could see his point.

He was also getting…call it irritated…about the continued lack of Theo. She wasn’t real clear there if it was a sibling thing—not having been burdened with siblings herself—or a little tussle of wills between Val Con and Delm Korval, though he was a past expert at keeping his various melant’is separate, having been born to the practice.

It could, she thought, watching an orange-and-white cat stalking what looked like a fallen leaf among the shrubberies, just be that he considered himself responsible for all Korval kin everywhere, in-clan or out. As a former sergeant, she was inclined to think that was the level he was dealing at—which would explain the worry behind the irritable edge. Stupid girl was a target; he’d told her to bring her ass back to base, and where was she? Out trying to get herself dead, her ship captured, and her crew murdered, that was where.

Yeah, that fit.

Well, the plan to let Theo have a few more days before they brought in the heavy guns and have Kamele send a pinbeam seemed prudent and patient. What they’d do if Theo ignored her mother, too, Miri didn’t quite visualize, but she was sure she could keep Val Con from taking ship himself and dragging his sister back to Surebleak by her scruff.

Pretty sure, anyway.

The cat had pounced on the leaf and flopped over on her side, the better to gut it with her back claws. Miri shook her head. She’d never had much to do with cats, though she was coming to have an appreciation. Jelaza Kazone, the house, was home to maybe a dozen cats, maybe more. She still wasn’t sure she’d seen the whole company. According to Jeeves, some were shy, and some just preferred to fend for themselves and not be beholden to humans. Jeeves wasn’t the reason that there were cats at Jelaza Kazone, but he stood as sort of a cat ombudsman. He maintained that the cats came to him with such complaints and suggestions as they might have, and who was she to argue?

The orange cat was resting on her side now, her prey clutched to her chest, eyes slit in satisfaction. In another minute—or six—she’d decide the leaf needed more killing, or she’d fall asleep where she was, or get up and go do whatever it was that cats did when humans weren’t looking.

Miri sipped coffee.

So, they mostly had a strategy for dealing with Theo—or with the absence of Theo—and that could go off the table for eighteen days.

Getting Daav yos’Phelium home—that was something trickier.

The Uncle had his own business to attend, which he’d told them right at the beginning of the present situation. And while a man surely had to attend his business, they were reaching the point in time where they had to be asking themselves seriously if Daav was a guest, receiving necessary care from an ally, or if he was a hostage against something Korval had and the Uncle wanted.

The rule of thumb, as she understood it, was that neither Korval nor the Uncle could afford to take strong issue with each other. That resulted in—not an alliance, so much, as a policy of nonaggression. Which didn’t mean that neither side tried to gain advantage, now and then.

The cat in the garden suddenly rolled to her feet, threw a startled look over her shoulder and charged into the shrubbery.

Miri grinned and turned away, heading back to the desk.

It would be really useful, she thought, if they knew what the Uncle wanted. If it was anything less than the keys to Jelaza Kazone—or, all right, a ship, and maybe depending on which ship—Korval was probably willing to give it, in order to reclaim their elder.

And, she thought sitting down and putting her mug next to the screen, if they could figure out what the Uncle wanted, then offering a gift would gain them points—street cred, like they said on Surebleak.

For whatever good that did anyone.

She sighed, leaned to the screen, and paused, as she recalled some others of Korval left unaccounted for.

“Jeeves?” she said to the general air.

“Yes, Miri,” he answered from the same location.

“Any word yet from Tocohl, Hazenthull or Admiral Bunter?”

“Miri, I have heard nothing from any party.”

“Is that starting to get a little long?”

“It is possible that they are still in transit—we know, for instance, that Hazenthull was going to make a composite Jump.”

“Right.” She sighed. Hurry up and wait, Robertson.

“Keep me posted, all right? I want to hear as soon as something comes in.”

“Yes, Miri.”

“Good,” she said, and touched the screen, her attention already on the message queue.

* * * * *

“My sister agrees to meet you,” Kezzi said. “She will be at Joan’s Bakery on the day after tomorrow during the quiet hour—alone, she says, because she is no luthia.”

The child looked—not apologetic, no. One could not expect one of the Bedel to ever allow a gadje to see them in the least bit discomfited. No, she merely looked sour, as if the terms were in slightly bad odor.

“I thank you,” Val Con said solemnly, “for taking my message to your sister, and for bringing her reply to me.”

He had come by Nova’s on purpose to find if Kezzi’s gardener sister had agreed to meet him, and was on balance more relieved to receive an answer in the affirmative than he was irritated by nuance.

“I wonder,” he said, “if your sister has a name.”

Kezzi considered him with a certain amount of grave curiosity, as if trying to decide if he had made a joke or offered a fatal insult.

“Most people do have names,” said Syl Vor, who made their third at the little table in the corner of the kitchen. “It’s polite to ask.”

Kezzi shot him a goaded look, before returning her attention to Val Con.

“She will name herself to you.”

And very likely that name will be false, he thought. The Bedel did not willingly share their true names with those who were…other than Bedel, and therefore unworthy to hold such precious information.

“I see,” he said. “How will I know her?”

“She will know you,” Kezzi answered, her attention now on her plate, which held slices of green apple and yellow cheese.

“Well, then,” he said lightly, “all my concerns are answered.”

“Ought we to go with him?” Syl Vor asked.

Kezzi raised her eyes.

“We will be in school at the quiet hour,” she said, and though she did not append “fool” to the end of the sentence, it was nonetheless easily heard.

Syl Vor slid a piece of cheese onto an apple slice and looked up, treat balanced delicately between forefinger and thumb.

“In fact,” he said composedly, “we will be in geography. I just wondered if it might be more important for us to help Uncle Val Con. Your sister may not know him as well as she thinks, but you will know her.”

Kezzi sighed, as one beleaguered.

“She said ‘alone.’ And I don’t point out my kin on the street to—” she swallowed the last of her sentence, and threw Val Con a conscious look.

“…to people who she might decide she doesn’t want to talk to,” she finished, which was really a rather graceful recovery. They might eventually succeed in teaching the child manners, after all.

“Your concern does you credit,” he said to Syl Vor. “However, I will be quite safe with Kezzi’s sister. She is a busy woman, I make no doubt, and would not have rearranged her day in order to meet me unless she was interested in what I have to say.”

He turned back to Kezzi, who was, to all appearances, concentrating wholly upon her snack.

“Advise me,” he said. “Is it appropriate to bring a gift? If so—”

Kezzi interrupted him with a shake of her head.

“No gift,” she said firmly. “Only honor the terms, and be polite.”

Val Con inclined his head.

“I believe I may manage that,” he said. “Thank you for your advice.”

That won him another considering stare out of black eyes.

“You’re welcome,” Kezzi said surprisingly, and popped a slice of apple into her mouth.

* * * * *

“Day after next?” Miri said. “Want me to cover the office?”

“Has the delm nothing pressing?”

“Well, that’s sorta the point. You remember Ms. kaz’Ineo?”

“One of our storefront qe’andra, is she not?” He frowned slightly. “Clan Pinarex. Her delm desired her to find if Surebleak had need of them.”

“That’s her. Looking to expand. She’s taken herself a ’bleaker ’prentice, name of Jorish Hufstead. Used to be a cornerman for Penn Kalhoon, so he’s got real street-level experience. Prolly the best-qualified ’prentice we got, save for not being able to read so good, but they’ve been working on that.

“Anyhow. Been real useful to her on the side of ’bleaker law, such as it ain’t, and together they’ve got what they think might be a base contract for simple transactions. The other storefronts’re looking at it now, before it goes to Ms. dea’Gauss and the administrators.”

“This is excellent progress,” Val Con murmured. “But—?”

“But,” Miri said, with a nod to him, “Ms. kaz’Ineo would like the ’prentices, as a body, to see a good old-fashioned Balancing up close and personal. Seems Jorish Hufstead is of the opinion that ’bleakers’re gonna need more bend in the contracts than Liadens normally like. Says personal circumstances have gotta be taken into account, or else it’ll look like the deck’s stacked.”

Val Con frowned. “But the fact that the terms of the contract, as agreed upon by both parties, are explicitly upheld, insures Balance.”

Miri laughed.

“Is that too Liaden?” he asked.

“No—well, maybe. But the whole idea of Balance is gonna take some work. ’Bleakers don’t believe in Balance; they believe strongest gets most and best, ’cause that’s all they’ve ever seen.”

She sipped her wine.

“What it all comes down to is that Ms. kaz’Ineo—as a teaching qe’andra—would like her and me—as the creator of this particular monster—to have tea, afternoon after next, to try to come to an understanding of all the relevant necessities in the matter.”

“And thus sitting in as Road Boss while I go into town to meet Rys’s sister suits the delm’s schedule well.”

“Well’s prolly overstating it,” Miri said dubiously. “But it does mean we can keep the office open. Mind you, if we’re considering all the necessities involved, you might not see me for a year or two, after.”

“Surely no more than six months,” Val Con countered seriously. “Recall that I have observed your problem-solving abilities firsthand.”

“Which oughta be enough to scare you, right there.”

She finished her wine and put the glass aside.

“Either way it goes, I’m free to be Road Boss while you go deal with Kezzi’s sister.”

He inclined his head.

“Since it serves Surebleak above all else, I accept your offer.”

Miri laughed, and he leaned over to kiss her cheek.

* * * * *

On wings of gold he soared above life, dancing with the universe as it expanded, ever and always. Time surrounded him, fluid and multistranded. The past stretched in his wake, the brilliant reflection of the present in which he danced. Before, there was an endless, unwritten expanse, a-glitter with possibility.

It came upon him that he might angle his wings just so, and turn his dance into a race, stretching into infinity. Into the future and—

There came a tug, a sharp pull along his limitless vanes; he shrugged and it was gone, fallen away into the brilliant past.

Before him lay all the edges of the universe, its underpinnings and complex motions, and all of time in which to learn it. Joy lifted his glory-bound wings.

A ripple passed over the universe, instantly present throughout, an unseemly wave here, there a tangled knot burrowed into the chaotic elsewhere of some other universe bound in crystal, flecked with death.

The ripple ran through every golden beam, through each ray of joy.

Dark it was, and cold; and where it passed, the blaze of life was…lesser. The expanding dance of the universe faltered, his wings wilted, and he felt himself begin to fall…

* * *

Ren Zel sat straight up, gasping for air, heart pounding.

Around him—was only the bedroom he shared with his lifemate, who lay, sweetly sleeping, on the pillow next to his.

He was, he noted distantly, shivering, and his breath came still in gulps. With an effort, he brought his breathing under control, and eventually, too, the tumultuous pounding of his heart.

Beside him, Anthora slumbered on, which was well. The nightmare had claimed its victim; he was done, this night, with sleep.

Carefully, tender of her peace, he slipped out of their bed, took his robe up from the chair, and moved softly into the parlor.

There, standing at the long windows that overlooked the Tree Court, he tied the robe, and tried to rid himself of the dream.

The vision, he corrected himself, and shivered once more. The joy of becoming one with the forces that bound the universe—that was the language of the addiction, well-known to him by now.

The cold ripple of Shadow and chaos, leaching its tithe of energy from all of life—that was something new.

New, and terrifying.

Well.

He moved back from the window and lay down on the sofa, staring out into the soft glow of the inner gardens, not quite daring to close his eyes, lest he fall asleep and bring the questing Shadow closer.

This, however, proved an unsatisfactory solution, for the tireder he became, the more difficult it was to resist the lure of the ether; the purity of the golden strands. It seemed to him, in his doubtless overwrought state, that the pull was greater than it had been since the night Anthora had bound them, each to the other, so that she might bear half of his burden.

Though they were his doom, the strands sustained—all and everything. Philosophically, he had no quarrel with his appointed death, for surely there could be no better use of his life than in the service of Life Itself. It was only…the uncertainty. He would yield, that was forgone, but he must not do so—now.

In the meanwhile, he felt—he knew!—that the golden strands were imperiled by the dark ripple, whatever it was. Where had it come from? Whence had it gone? When would it return? What—

A light came on in the bedroom; a light-footed wraith passed between it and him.

“Ren Zel?” Anthora asked softly.

“Here,” he answered. “I hadn’t wanted to disturb you.”

“Nor did you. I woke of myself.”

She had reached the couch; her silhouette now cast against the window.

“May I join you?” she asked. “I’ve brought us a blanket.”

He smiled wryly against the dark.

“I will not, I fear, be very good company.”

“Now, when has that ever been so?” she asked lightly, and lay beside him, curling so her back was against his chest, while the blanket shook itself out and fell softly over both.

“What was it?” she asked, after they had lain thus for some time, in silence.

Soft-voiced and nearly calm, he told her what he had dreamed. What he had Seen. When he was done, she sighed and moved her head, settling her cheek on his shoulder.

“Here’s an odd thing, Beloved,” she murmured, her tone half-teasing.

“So? And what is that?” he asked, trying to match her.

“The link that I built, to prevent you flying away from us?”

“Yes?” he said cautiously, reaching for the link at the same instant, recalling that instant of restraint, so easy, inside the dream, to shrug away…

“It’s gone,” Anthora said conversationally. “Not cut, mind you; I would have felt that. Just…gone, as if it had never been woven. I don’t quite know what to make of it.”

She wriggled somewhat, settling herself closer against him, which distracted, though not so much that he missed her next words.

“I will reestablish it now, if you have time for me.”

“No,” he said, feeling all the terror of falling out of the universe again.

She went perfectly still.

“No?”

“The Shadow, if it is hunting—if it is hunting me, I would not have it find you.”

She was quiet. Perhaps she thought about what he’d said. Anthora was often headstrong, but she was rarely heedless.

“I cannot leave you without protection, Beloved,” she said at last, and gently.

“Anthora…” He paused.

Master Healer Mithin had thoroughly explained what happened when a dramliza became addicted to his gift. That, at least, was not unique to him, though it happened seldom. Anthora knew that she could not hold him long.

Long enough, that was the key. When he had first agreed to allow her half of his pain, it had been in service of long enough.

His Sight—among the dramliz, he was scarcely Sighted at all. Yet, weak and erratic as the gift could be, he was a farseer. And he had glimpsed, some few months ago—he had Seen—the future. A future. The glimpse of Shadow that had come upon him tonight—it was possible, he thought now—it was probable, that the future he had seen was…progressing.

After that first Seeing, and against the possibility of it being the future, he had made a pact with Miri, his delm, who was rightly dismayed by his power and knew it for the danger it was.

…allow me to tell you, when the time has come…

But, vision notwithstanding, it was not yet time, and he was not strong enough of his own will to wait.

He drew a breath and buried his face in Anthora’s hair, breathing in the scent of lavender.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Endanger yourself as little as possible.”

“Of course,” she answered.

* * * * *

Nelirikk had taken up his post outside the door into Joan’s Bakery, allowing Val Con to enter alone. The letter of the law, as Miri would have it. She had also allowed that a member of the Bedel was unlikely to murder him, though she might pick his pocket.

“She is, of course, welcome to try,” Val Con had said politely, whereupon Miri had grinned and waved him on his way.

So it was that he strolled into the bakery with hands in plain sight, jacket open, and no weapon showing.

It was a cramped room, cluttered with small tables and mismatched chairs. Directly across from the door was a clear case displaying various of the baker’s wares: cookies, bars, little cakes. Next to the case was a counter, and behind it stood a woman with brown hair pulled back from a tired face, and brown eyes bright with interest.

He gave her a nod and paused, surveying the room. There was a fireplace on the back wall, though the hearth was cold. The room itself was chilly, the tables empty, save the one nearest the cold hearth, where an old man sat, chair wedged into the corner, cup held in both hands, an empty plate before him.

Was it possible that he had missed his contact? Or was he ahead of her? Quiet hour was not altogether precise…

The woman behind the counter moved her head, her gaze going beyond him. He felt a shift in the air and swung ’round, catching the wrist of a tall, wiry woman in Surebleak motley, black eyes snapping in what he had come to know as a Bedel face.

“Good morning,” he said pleasantly. “Were you about to pick my pocket?”

The black eyes narrowed.

“What if I was, gadje?”

“Then I would be very disappointed in you,” he said, still pleasantly. He kept hold of her wrist, though his grip was gentle enough; she could have broken it with the smallest twist, but she chose not to. Very possibly this was a test; he hoped that he was not about to fail.

“What do I care for your disappointment?”

“Very little, I would expect, if I were, indeed, gadje. However, I am not.”

“No?” Her lips quirked, sneer or smile he could not tell.

“No,” he said firmly. “I am a brother to Rys. Will you pick a brother’s pocket? If you are in need, only ask.”

“Brother to Rys is not brother to all,” she countered, watching him now with unfeigned interest.

“No? Yet he asked me to guard his child and her mother should the need arise while he was absent from us. What are we to make of that?”

A smile, definitely.

“That Rys has a soft heart.”

“Has he a soft head, as well?”

“That, no.”

At last, she freed herself and stood looking down at him, as if waiting.

This was a test, he knew. He had requested the meeting; he was therefore the host.

“Will you sit?” he asked. “I will bring tea and sweets.”

For an answer, she sauntered over to a table and chose for herself the chair facing the door.

Val Con turned to the counter.

“Tea, please,” he said to the brown-haired woman, “for my friend and myself. Also, a small plate of sweets.”

“Friend,” she repeated, with a small shake of her head. “All of your get-togethers like that?”

“Only when we have been long parted.”

She grinned.

“Go on and sit down. I’ll bring a tray.”

* * *

“So, your message,” Rys’s sister said, after they had each had a swallow of tea and chosen a sweet from the tray. “An opportunity, offered to Rys, which might pass to his sister, if she cared to honor him.”

She had another sip of tea and put the cup down, her eyes on his.

“Grapes, you said.”

He inclined his head.

“Indeed, grapes and wine; and other work, as well, if you are interested. But it was the grapes that recalled you to me.”

“Rys spoke of me, to you?”

He raised a hand.

“He said to me that he had a sister, an avid gardener, who had wished to learn the grapes.”

“He told you my name.” Her tone struck a note between inquiry and statement.

He met her eyes.

“Would Rys endanger a sister?”

That weighed with her. She raised her cup again, thinking.

“He spoke of you with fondness,” Val Con murmured, his eyes lowered modestly. “He admired your skill. He regretted that he could not show you the vineyards he had worked in his youth, and everything those grapes had taught him.”

The cup returned to the table.

“He told you his child’s name, and her mother’s,” she said with certainty.

“That,” he said austerely, “is between brothers.”

At that, she laughed loudly, as if he had told a very fine joke, and slapped the table with the palm of her hand.

“So it is, between brothers! And I will tell the brother of Rys that I do not envy him, if he is called to fulfill that brother-duty!”

He met her eyes, and said nothing.

Still grinning, she picked up the pot and poured herself more tea.

“So, then, this task,” she murmured, as if speaking to the teapot. “Tell me.”

He told her, omitting nothing, most especially not the manner in which Rys had become known to Yulie Shaper.

“There is other work, if you or another might be interested. The harvest, I am given to understand, is a challenge for one man. Mr. Shaper offers a portion to any who assist him.”

She reached for the teapot and warmed her cup again.

“We speak of the madman at the end of the road, who cares for nothing but his cats, and is accurate with his gun?”

“Not quite so mad, recently,” Val Con said quietly. “Very much improved, in fact. You will find yourself in no danger.” He paused and showed her his palm. “So long as you do not offer violence to the cats.”

“Cats are a farmer’s friend,” she said. “Who harms one is a fool.”

She had recourse once more to her thoughts, sipping tea the while.

He warmed his own cup and broke off a portion of the spice bar he had chosen from the tray.

“And he has these instructions, for turning grapes into wine,” she said eventually.

“I have seen them myself. Understanding that I am not a vintner, they seemed to me to be complete and straightforward.”

“Hmm.”

He dared to push, just a little.

“Mr. Shaper admits that he would not have thought of wine, save for Rys’s interest. He acknowledges that this is very much in the nature of an experiment. Also, he feels that he owes the attempt to Rys. As our brother is presently absent from us, he feels more keenly that the attempt ought to be made.”

She took another cookie from the tray and shook it at him to mark her point.

“The Bedel do not work for gadje.”

“Of course not,” he said politely.

She gave him a speculative look that put him forcefully in mind of Kezzi, and took a bite of her cookie.

“How long…before these grapes are ready? How long…before the harvest must be taken in?”

“The grapes—four weeks, more or less. The harvest begins sooner, but stretches longer, as each room ripens.”

“Rooms?” she repeated, clearly interested.

“Indeed, they are most ingenious. Or so I am told. I have not, myself, seen them.”

She ate the rest of her cookie, drank what tea was in her cup, and set it aside with authority.

“I will dream on it,” she said. “Also, I will speak to others of Rys’s brothers.”

She rose, and he did.

“When will I have your decision?” he asked, fearing that the question might not be quite polite.

“The harvest waits for no one,” she said, “and well I know it. I will send word by Anna within three days.”

She pulled on her jacket, which she had draped over the back of her chair; turned back to him with a nod.

“You do Rys honor,” she said. “Neither your heart nor your head is soft.”

There seemed to be nothing one might say to that, so he merely bowed.

“Please,” he said, “recall me to your grandmother and assure her of my continued esteem.”

She studied him, then gave a brisk nod.

“I’ll do that.”

“If you please,” he said, knowing that he was overreaching. “What shall I call you?”

But no—he had amused her. She extended a hand to him, and he took it, lightly, in his own.

“You, brother of Rys—you!—will call me Memit.”

She withdrew her hand and gave him a cordial nod.

“I leave you,” she said.

And did so.

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Framed