Sharon Lee: Adventures in the Liaden Universe

It began as duty; for a father must demonstrate to his daughters that, however much they are beloved, they are deficient in that acuity of thought by which the gods mark out males as the natural leaders of household, and world. But little Inas, bold mouse, did not fail to learn her letters, as her sisters had. Problems mathematic she relished as much as flame-haired Shereen did candied sventi leaves. Walks along the river way brought forth the proper names of birds and their kin; in the long neglected glade of Istat, with its ancient sundial and moon-marks she proved herself astute in the motions of the planets.

Higher languages rose as readily to her lips as the dialect of women; she read not only for knowledge, but for joy, treasuring especially the myths of her mother’s now empty homeland. Seeing the joy of learning in her, the teaching became experiment more than duty, as the scholar sought to discover the limits of his little one’s mind.

On the eve of her fourteenth birthday, he had not yet found them.

Well though the scholar loved his daughters, yet it is a father’s duty to see them profitably married. The man he had decided upon for his golden Humaria was one Safarez, eldest son of Merchant Gabir Majidi. It was a balanced match, as both the scholar and the merchant agreed. The Majidi son was a pious man of sober, studious nature, who bore his thirty years with dignity. Over the course of several interviews with the father and the son, Scholar Bhar had become certain that Safarez would value nineteen year old Humaria, gay and heedless as a flitterbee; more, that he would protect her and discipline her and be not behind in those duties which are a husband’s joy and especial burden.

So, the price was set, and met; the priests consulted regarding the proper day and hour; the marriage garden rented; and, finally, Humaria informed of the upcoming blessed alteration in her circumstances.

Naturally enough, she wept, for she was a good girl and valued her father as she ought. Naturally enough, Shereen ran to cuddle her and murmur sweet, soothing nonsense into her pretty ears. The scholar left them to it, and sought his study, where he found his youngest, dark Inas, bent over a book in the lamplight.

She turned when he entered, and knelt, as befit both a daughter and a student, and bowed ‘til her forehead touched the carpet. Scholar Bhar paused, admiring the graceful arc of her slim body within the silken pool of her robes. His mouse was growing, he thought. Soon, he would be about choosing a husband for her.

But not yet. Now, it was Humaria, and, at the change of season he would situate Shereen, who would surely pine for her sister’s companionship. He had a likely match in mind, there, and the husband’s property not so far distant from the Majidi. Then, next year, perhaps—or, more comfortably, the year after that—he would look about for a suitable husband for his precious, precocious mouse.

“Arise, daughter,” he said now, and marked how she did so, swaying to her feet in a single, boneless move, the robes rustling, then falling silent, sheathing her poised and silent slenderness.

“So,” he said, and met her dark eyes through the veil. “A momentous change approaches your life, my child. Your sister Humaria is to wed.”

Inas bowed, dainty hands folded demurely before her.

“What?” he chided gently. “Do you not share your sister’s joy?”

There was a small pause, not unusual; his mouse weighed her words like a miser weighed his gold.

“Certainly, if my sister is joyous, then it would be unworthy of me to weep,” she said in her soft, soothing voice. “If it is permitted that I know—who has come forward as her husband?”

Reyman Bhar nodded, well-pleased to find proper womanly feeling, as well as a scholar’s thirst for knowledge.

“You are allowed to know that Safarez, eldest son of Majidi the Merchant, has claimed the right to husband Humaria.”

Inas the subtle stood silent, then bowed once more, as if an afterthought, which was not, the scholar thought, like her. He moved to his desk, giving her time to consider, for, surely, even his clever mouse was female, if not yet full woman, and might perhaps know a moment’s envy for a sister’s good fortune.

“They are very grand, the Majidi,” she said softly. “Humaria will be pleased.”

“Eventually, she will be so,” he allowed, seating himself and pulling a notetaker forward. “Today, she weeps for the home she will lose. Tomorrow, she will sing for the home she is to gain.”

“Yes,” said Inas, and the scholar smiled into his beard.

“Your sisters will require your assistance with the wedding preparations,” he said, opening the notetaker and beginning a list. “I will be going to Lahore-Gadani tomorrow, to purchase what is needful. Tell me what I shall bring you.”

Mouse silence.

“I? I am not to be wed, Father.”

“True. However, it has not escaped one’s attention that tomorrow is the anniversary of your natal day. It amuses me to bring you a gift from the city, in celebration. What shall you have?”

“Why, only yourself, returned to us timely and in good health,” Inas said, which was proper, and womanly, and dutiful.

The scholar smiled more widely into his beard, and said nothing else.

Humaria wept well into the night, rocking inside the circle of Shereen’s arms. At last, her sobs quieted somewhat, and Shereen looked to Inas, who sat on a pillow across the room, as she had all evening, playing Humaria’s favorite songs, softly, upon the lap-harp.

Obedient to the message in her sister’s eyes, Inas put the harp aside, arose and moved silently to the cooking alcove. Deftly, she put the kettle on the heat-ring, rinsed the pot with warm water and measured peace tea into an infuser.

The kettle boiled. While the tea steeped, she placed Humaria’s own blue cup on a tray, with a few sweet biscuits and some leaves of candied sventi. At the last, she added a pink candle, sacred to Amineh, the little god of women, and breathed a prayer for heart’s case. Then, she lifted the tray and carried it to her sister’s couch.

Humaria lay against Shereen’s breast, veils and hair disordered. Inas knelt by the end table, placed the tray, and poured tea.

“Here, sweet love,” Shereen cooed, easing Humaria away from her shoulder. “Our dear sister Inas offers tea in your own pretty cup. Drink, and be at peace.”

Shivering, Humaria accepted the cup. She bent her face and breathed of the sweet, narcotic steam, then sipped, eyes closed.

Shereen sat up, and put her head scarf to rights, though she left the ubaie— the facial veils —unhooked and dangling along her right jaw.

“Our young Inas is fortunate, is she not, sister?” Humaria murmured, her soft voice blurry with the combined effects of weeping and the tea.

“How so?” asked Shereen, watching her closely, in case she should suddenly droop into sleep.

“Why,” said Humaria, sipping tea. “Because she will remain here in our home with our father, and need never marry. Indeed, I would wonder if a husband could be found for a woman who reads as well as a man. “

Shereen blinked, and bent her head, fussing with the fall of the hijab across her breast. Inas watched her, abruptly chilly, though the night was warm and no breeze came though the windows that stood open onto the garden.

“Certainly,” Shereen said, after too long a pause. “Certainly, our father might wish to keep his youngest with him as long as may be, since he shows no disposition to take another wife, and she knows the ways of his books and his studies.”

“And certainly,” Humaria said, her eyes open now, and staring at Inas, where she knelt, feeling much like a mouse, and not so bold, so bold at all.