The Dragon Variation (20 page)

Petrella closed her eyes. A Terran—blast it all! At best, a half-blood yos'Galan. And already he showed sign of Healer talent? Rare to show so early, certainly. And coupled with the promise of pilot skills—Easy to see the attraction of this irregular child for Delm Korval. Very nearly understandable, that he would risk Thodelm yos'Galan's anger to gain such promise for the clan.

"Professor Davis," Er Thom murmured, "is a scholar of much acclaim in her field. You may wish to read of her work—"

Petrella opened her eyes.

"I have no interest in scholars," she said flatly. "Especially Terran scholars."

There was a moment of electric stillness before Er Thom bowed.

"In that wise," he said softly, "I shall after all engage a house in town. I will not have her shown any dishonor."

"You will not
what
?" Petrella demanded, disbelief in her voice.

"I spoke plainly," Er Thom replied, giving her all his eyes.

She met them, and saw determination—and thus the lines were drawn: Honor to the Terran scholar, or abandon all hope of a more legitimate heir to yos'Galan.

"It's my belief you've run mad," Petrella announced, trading him stare for stare.

He bowed, accepting her judgment with graceful irony.

"So." She moved her shoulders, feeling the edge of exhaustion.

"Very well," she told him crisply. "The Terran scholar is yos'Galan's guest. For a twelve-day. If her business on Liad holds her beyond that, she may guest elsewhere. In the meanwhile, all honor to her."

For a moment, she thought he would not be satisfied with the compromise. Then he bowed acceptance.

"It is heard."

"Good," Petrella snapped. "Let it also be remembered. Go now and leave me in peace. I shall see you and the guest of the House at Prime."

"Yes, Mother," he said, and added, "Daav will be with us, as well."

"Of course he will," she said tiredly. "Go away."

He did, though without alacrity. After all, Petrella thought, he was far too accomplished a player to give her the advantage of seeing him either relieved or dismayed by the outcome of their interview.

Petrella closed her eyes and allowed herself to go limp in the chair, concentrating on her breathing. Her mind wandered a bit, as it tended to do nowadays, rather than face the dreariness of continued pain, and she found herself remembering a long-ago interview with her twin.

"Daav is a forest creature, all eyes and teeth," Chi had murmured, sipping her wine. "He knows the forms, the protocols—but will he bide with them? There's the question." She smiled. "Ah, well. The Scouts will tame him, never fear it. As for your own . . ."

Petrella sipped her wine, waiting with accustomed ease while her twin tidied knowledge into words.

"Your own is—a marvel, considering his place in the Line Direct, son of the Delm's Own Twin—" They shared a glance of amusement for that, before Chi moved her hand and went on.

"He's a sweet-natured child, your Er Thom: mannerly, dutiful and calm. He knows the forms and applies them correctly, with neither rebellion nor irony. From time to time I see him hint Daav—the wonder is my wild thing takes such hinting with grace! But you mustn't fear he is dull—both of them are sharp enough to cut! It is only this attitude of dutiful sweetness that disturbs me, sister—so unlike Korval's more usual attributes . . ."

Petrella remembered that she had laughed, waving away her twin's misgivings.

"What cause to repine, that at last Korval has—through whatever accident!—got itself a biddable child?"

"Biddable—" Chi sipped wine, eyes gazing miles, perhaps worlds, away. She focussed abruptly and gave her wide, ironic smile. "I suspect he may surprise us one day, sister. And I know enough of history to worry how he might go about it. Though I allow when it comes it will doubtless be amusing."

Petrella had laughed again, and refilled her twin's cup with wine, and the talk had moved to other matters.

And now
, Petrella thought, eyes opening onto the pain-racked present,
Er Thom has at last surprised
.

She wondered if Chi would have been amused, after all.

If honor be your clothing, the suit will last a lifetime.

—William Arnot
 

IT WAS QUITE
the nicest dress she had ever owned.

Indeed, Anne thought, as she opened the closet, it was the only
formal dress
she possessed, and, hopefully, formal enough for a Liaden dinner party comprised not only of the delm and the delm's heir, but of her lover's thodelm, grandmother of her son.

Until Er Thom yos'Galan, Anne would have laughed at the notion of owning a piece of clothing as extravagant as the luscious green confection she had purchased on Proziski. But—
An ambassadorial affair, with dancing,
Er Thom had said in his soft, sweet way. Would it amuse her to accompany him?

It would have amused her to accompany him to Hell, she recalled ruefully as she took the dress down. She had accepted his invitation with more joy than sense—then spent an entire day—and far too much of her meager personal funds—in pursuit of the green gown.

The delicious fabric swirled round her shoulders, fell and settled, water-smooth, against her skin as she slipped on the matching slippers and turned to face the mirror.

"Oh—my."

The gown still had magic to work, she thought, staring dazedly at the vision in the mirror. The regal lady caught there stared haughtily back, brown skin rich against the pure greenness, chestnut hair glowing, eyes all velvet seduction.

From slim waist to full bosom, the gown was laced with golden chains so delicate they might have been worked at a elf-lord's forge. She had a matching length, provided by the dressmaker, to wear around her throat.

On the occasion of the ambassadorial affair, she had also worn a gold ribbon, threaded through painstakingly-arranged hair. The ribbon was long-lost—and the hair soon woefully disarranged. For the dance had proved insipid and they had left early, smuggling out a napkin filled with delicacies pilfered from an hors d'oeuvre tray and a split of wine offered by a sympathetic waiter.

Dazzling in his own finery, Er Thom had driven them to the Mercantile Building, and pulled the sample bolt from the flitter's boot.

"You mustn't spoil your dress," he had murmured, shaking a prince's ransom worth of lace back from his beautiful hands and spreading the scarlet silk like a blanket . . .

Anne shook herself. "That will do," she informed her reflection sternly, and deliberately turned away.

The vanity had been arranged by the same invisible hands that had unpacked her clothing and carefully put it away.

To the right were her comb, brush and mirror, the black oak veneer battered, the silver-wrapped handles tarnished. To the left sat the chipped lacquer chest that contained her few pieces of jewelry.

Careful of stressed plastic hinges, she lifted the lid and propped it open. Along the back of the box, glowing like a candle in the shiny dark interior, was the carved ivory box that held the necklace Er Thom had given her—"to say good-bye." For a moment, she was tempted to wear that piece tonight, for it was inarguably the most beautiful of her paltry jewels.

He asked you not to wear it,
she reminded herself as her fingers touched the exquisitely-carved ivory. With a sigh, she shook her head and fastened the dressmaker's golden chain around her throat instead.

She hung a simple pair of gold hoops in her ears and used plain gold combs to hold her hair back from her face.

The entire effect was a little more austere than she had hoped for, despite the green gown's magic.

Well,
she thought wistfully,
and maybe
Er Thom's ma
will pity you, Annie-gel, since it's plain you've no sort of
melant'i
to boast on.

Or, Er Thom's mother might just as easily take the plainness of her guest's adornment as a personal affront. Anne swallowed against a sudden uprising of butterflies inside her stomach.

"Maybe I'll have a cup of soup and some toast in my room," she said aloud, and with no conviction at all, for that
would
be an insult, and Er Thom's mother well within her rights to avenge it.

Just when she was beginning to think that would be no bad thing, the entrance-chime sounded.

Green dress swirling around her, she left the bedroom, went through the spacious kitchenette and luxurious common room. She paused a moment before laying her hand against the admittance plate, composing her face and trying to calm her racing heartbeat. It would never do for Mr. pak'Ora, come to do butler's duty and guide the guest to the dining room, to see her panting with fright.

Hoping that her face betrayed only serene expectation, she opened the door.

Er Thom bowed, low and eloquent, looked up and smiled into her eyes. "Good evening."

"Good evening," she managed, though her tongue suddenly seemed cleft to the roof of her mouth. She stepped back, motioning him inside with a sweep of her ringless hand. "Please come in."

"Thank you," he said gravely, as if the door weren't coded to his palm as well as hers. He stepped within and the portal in question slid shut behind him.

Er Thom wore the form-fitting dark trousers deemed appropriate formal wear for Liaden males. She knew from experience that the fabric was wonderfully soft to the touch. His wide-sleeved white shirt was silk, or something more precious; the lace frothing at his throat contained by an emerald stickpin. Emeralds glittered in his ears and on his slender hands, half-hidden by more lace.

"Anne?" His gaze warmed her face. "Is there something wrong?"

She shook herself, aware that she had been staring.

"I was just thinking how beautiful you are," she said and felt her face heat, for the man was here to take her to meet his
mother
—

Er Thom laughed his soft laugh and bowed, slightly and with humor.

"And I," he murmured, "was trying most earnestly
not
to think the same of you."

Dear gods, a compliment.
She very nearly blinked; rescued the moment with a bow of her own, accepting his admiration.

His eyes gleamed, but he turned a little aside, gesturing around the room.

"Everything is as you wish it? Is there anything else the House may provide for you?"

"Everything is perfectly delightful," she told him soberly. "I'll miss all this elegance, after we go back home." She
did
blink then, seeing him among the wide, comfortable chairs and high-set desk.

"Do you guest Terrans often?"

"Eh?" Winged brows drew together in puzzlement. "I believe you are the first."

"Oh." She bit her lip, then plunged ahead, waving her hand at the room.

"It's just that everything's—
convenient
—for someone who is—of Terran height. I assumed—"

"Ah." Enlightenment dawned in a smile. "My mother has redecorated," he murmured, running his eyes in rapid inventory around the parlor. He looked back to Anne, feeling his blood heat with desire for her even as he forced himself to make civil reply.

"She would have wished to have everything as it should be for the guest," he explained. "Why should you not be comfortable in our house?"

She looked at him doubtfully, then took a breath, the golden laces stretching tight across her delightful bosom.

"Your mother redecorated—
rebuilt
—this whole apartment just so I'd be comfortable for few weeks?"

"Of course," he said reasonably. "Why not?" He moved a hand, drawing her attention away from the subject.

"Mrs. Intassi came to speak with you?" he asked, though he had just come from an interview with that lady. "You have seen the nursery and find it acceptable?"

Anne laughed, head tipped gracefully back. "Your notions of—
acceptable
—" she said, and he heard her unease through the laughter even as she shook her head and made her face more serious.

"The nursery looks lovely. Mrs. Intassi seems—very competent." She hesitated. "It's going to be a little strange—for Shannie and for me, too—to have him sleeping so far away . . ."

"Not so far away," he said softly. "You may visit him whenever you like. The door has your code." Almost, he reached to take her hand; gamesmanship strangled the impulse before it went beyond a finger-twitch.

"Shan is your son," he said, repeating his comfort of the afternoon, and saw the tiny lines of tension around her eyes ease.

Smiling then, he bowed and offered his arm.

"May I escort you to the First Parlor, friend? My mother is eager to make your acquaintance." He slanted a mischievous look into her face, feeling irrationally gay. "Never fear," he told her lightly, "there will be wine close to hand."

She laughed at that and took his arm, resting her hand lightly over his, intertwining their fingers in the way he had taught her.

Just at the door, she checked and looked down into his eyes, her own shaded with trouble, so that he felt his gaiety fade.

"Don't let me make a mistake," she said, fingers tightening around his.

Astonishment held him for half a heartbeat, to be replaced by flaring joy. For here at last was the sign of her intention he had hoped for since she had turned her face from contract-marriage.

Don't let me make a mistake.
She placed her
melant'i
in his hands for safekeeping, as if they were kin. Or lifemates.

"Er Thom?" Her eyes were still troubled, doubt beginning to show.

As if she could think that what she asked was any else than his own ardent wish—He stopped himself, recalling that she was Terran and unsure of custom.

Gently, and with extreme caution, he lifted his hand, barely brushing her lips with his fingertips.

"No," he said, solemn despite the burgeoning joy, "I will not let you make a mistake, Anne." A laugh burst free despite his best efforts.

"But if we are late for the Gathering Hour with my mother," he predicted, "nothing may succor either of us!"

HER SON
and the guest were late—oh, a few minutes, merely, Petrella allowed, as she settled more comfortably into her chair—but late, nonetheless.