Sharon Lee: Adventures in the Liaden Universe. Collaterial Adventures

The instant the words left his lips, he wished them back. He had spent the last year and more deliberately honing his wit and his tongue until they were weapons as formidable as the palm pistol he carried in his sleeve. Surely, it was ill-done of him to loose those weapons on a child.

“Is cousin Luken to house?” she asked stiffly.

He rose carefully to his feet and turned to face her.

Nova’s twelfth name day had been celebrated only a relumma past, and already she showed warning of the beauty she would become. Her hair was gilt, her eyes amethyst, her carriage erect and unstrained. She had, so he heard, passed the preliminary testing for pilot-candidate, an unsurprising fact which had nonetheless woken a twist of bitterness in him.

Today found her dressed in sturdy shirt and trousers, well-scuffed boots on her feet, passkey clenched in one hand, and a glare on her face for the ill-tempered elder cousin—for which he blamed her not at all.

“Alas, one’s foster father is away on an appointment,” he said, moderating his tone with an effort. “May I be of service, cousin?”

Her glare eased somewhat as she glanced about her.

“Father sends me to help Cousin Luken sort the carpets from the Southern House,” she said tentatively. “However, I find you at that task.”

It was not meant to be accusatory, he reminded himself forcefully. She was a child, with a child’s grasp of nuance.

Though she had grasped the nuance of his greeting swiftly enough. He had the acquaintance of adults who would have not have taken his point so quickly—if at all.

So—“Cousin Er Thom had not written us to expect your arrival and assistance,” he answered Nova, deliberately gentle. “I happened to be at liberty and took the work for my own.”

She blinked at him, jewel-colored eyes frankly doubtful.

“You are aware, are you not,” Pat Rin said, allowing himself an edge of irony, “that I am Luken’s fosterling?”

“Ye-e-s-s,” Nova agreed. “But cousin Kareen—I heard her speaking with my father and she…” Here she hesitated, perhaps nonplussed to discover herself admitting to listening at doors.

Pat Rin inclined his head. “One’s mother was adamant that I not be trained as a rug merchant,” he said smoothly. “Alas, by the time she recognized the danger, the damage had long been done.”

Nova’s straight, pale mouth twitched a little, as if she had suppressed a smile.

“Will you come into Cousin Luken’s business?” she asked, which was not an unreasonable question, from a daughter of the trade Line. Still, Pat Rin felt his temper tighten, spoiling the easier air that had been flowing between them.

“I’ve gone into another trade, thank you,” he said shortly, and swept his hand out, showing her the pile of rolled rugs waiting to be inventoried. “For all that, I am competent enough in this one.”

He sighed, recalling his mother’s plans for him, and shook the memory away.

“If you like, you may assist me,” he murmured, and that was no more than the Code taught was due from kin to kin: Elders taught those junior to them, freely sharing what knowledge and skill they had, so that the Clan continued, generation to generation, memory and talent intact.

Nova bowed, hastily. “I thank you, cousin. Indeed, I would be pleased to assist you.”

“That is well, then. The sooner we address the task, the sooner it will be done. Attend me, now.”

He moved over to the pile and kicked a smallish roll out into the work area. Dropping to knee, he slit the plastic, revealing a plain gauze backing. A push unrolled it onto the scale, and Pat Rin looked up at Nova, standing hesitant where he had left her.

“Please,” he said, “honor me with your opinion of this.”

Slowly, she came forward, and knelt across from him, frowning down at the riot of woolen flowers that comprised the rug’s design. She rubbed her palm across the surface, gingerly.

“Wool,” she said, which was no grand deduction, and flipped up the edge near her knee. The gauze backing disconcerted her for a moment, then she returned to the face, using her fingers to press into and about the design.

“Hand-hooked,” she said then, and was very likely correct, Pat Rin thought, but as it stood it was no more than a guess. He held up a hand.

“Hooked, certainly,” he murmured. “Where do you find the proof for ‘handmade?’”

Eagerly, she flipped back the edge, and pointed to the row of tiny, uneven stitches set into the gauze.

“Ah.” He inclined his head. “I see that your conclusion is not unreasonable. However, it is wise to bear in mind that carpets are sometimes adjusted—fringe is added, or removed, backings are sewn on—or removed—holes are rewoven. Therefore, despite the fact that someone has clearly sewn the backing on by hand, the rug itself might yet have been made by machine. The preferred proofs are…”

He extended a hand and smoothed the wool petal of a particularly extravagant yellow flower, displaying a stitching of darker thread beneath.

“Maker’s mark.”

Nova bit her lip.

“Or,” Pat Rin continued, flipping the little rug entirely over with a practiced twist of his wrists. He put his palm flat on the backing and moved it slowly, as if he were stroking Niki. He motioned Nova to do the same—which she did, gingerly, and then somewhat firmer.

“What do you feel?” he asked.

“Knots,” she replied. “So it is handmade—I was correct.”

“It is handmade,” he conceded, “and you were correct.” He lifted a finger. “For the wrong reason.”

She sighed, but— “I understand,” was what she said.

“Good. If you will, of your goodness, hand me the clipboard, I will make that notation and then we may proceed with the rest of the inspection.”

She picked up the clipboard in one hand and held it out to him over the rug. He took it, his thumb accidentally nudging the stylus out of its slot, sending it floorward in a glitter of silver—Nova swept forward, her hand fairly blurring as she scooped the stylus out of the air, reversed it and held it out to him.

He blinked. A child , he thought, all of his bitterness rising….

Some part of it must have shown on his face. Nova hesitated, hand drooping.

“I was too fast, wasn’t I?” she said, sounding curiously humble. “I do beg your pardon, cousin. Father is trying to teach me better, but I fear I am sometimes forgetful.”

“Teach you better?” Pat Rin repeated, and his voice was harsh in his own ears. “I thought speed was all, to those who would be pilots.”

“Yes, but one mustn’t be too fast,” Nova said solemnly. “It won’t do to frighten those who are not pilots—or to rush the instruments, when one is at the board.”

He closed his eyes. Five times, since his eleventh name-day. Five times, he had tested for pilot and failed. Always, the tests found him too slow. Too slow—and this child, his cousin, must learn not to be too fast. He tried to decide if he most wished to laugh or to weep and in the end only opened his eyes again and took the stylus from her hand.

“My thanks,” he murmured, and bent his head over the clipboard while he took his time making the initial entry.

“Now,” he said when he could trust his voice for more than a few words. He looked over to Nova. “We must assess general condition, wear patterns, repairs, stains—that sort of thing. What say you?”

Seriously, she scrutinized the gauze backing, then turned the rug over, clumsily, to study the face, her hands chastely cupping her knees.

“Hands,” Pat Rin murmured, “use your hands.”

He demonstrated, elegant fingers—ringless for this work—petting, gripping, pushing—his palms flowing about the top and bindings.