Шарон Ли - Agent of Change

"Excuse me," she murmured to Edger and moved a bit down-counter. "Yes, sir? Is there something in particular you'd like to see?"

The older of the two smiled and flipped a hand. "Nothing particular. A birthday gift for my daughter. I'd like to look around, if you'd care to finish with those gentles."

She smiled and nodded. "Please take all the time you need. And if I can be of any assistance . . . ." The phrase drifted off as she walked back to Edger and Selector.

"You must understand that it's not possible for a—a human —to wait twenty Standards for the filling of an order. Are you certain," she asked Edger very earnestly, "that there is nothing you can do to speed the process up?"

Edger moved his massive head from side-to-side in the gesture that he understood to mean negation. "I regret not. Were we to attempt such a thing—as has been done in the past, when knives were encouraged at a lightning pace—perhaps three Standards from thought to blade..." He sighed a huge sigh. "Such knives are flawed. They do not withstand the rigors we of Middle River Clan demand of our blades.

"That one before you—it will not shatter, no matter the provocation. Excluding, I should say, massive trauma, such as one would expect in the wreck of a land vehicle or collision of asteroid and starship. A flawed blade will shatter and be only dust upon the second strike against ordinary stone. We cannot, as craftpersons proud of our work, encourage a blade ahead of its time, knowing that it will perform as poorly as that."

He motioned, and Selector stepped forward to return the sample to its sheath of soft vegetable hide.

"Well," the manager said, putting her bravest face on it. "I'm sorry. I would've loved to have had some of your knives in the shop." She dredged up a smile. "Thank you for your time."

Edger inclined his head. "Our time has been well given. My thanks for the gift of your own." He and Selector turned—carefully, in this place crammed with fragile things—and started for the door.

"Your pardon, Gentles," the elder of the two well-dressed men said. Edger paused. Behind him, Selector paused also, there being no place to go with his brother blocking the aisle.

The man made a slight bow, as would a resident prince upon greeting another traveling through his country. "My name is Justin Hostro. I could not help overhearing your conversation just now. Much that you have said interests me, and I believe I see a way in which we both may prosper. I would be very happy, were you to have time to walk with me to my place of business, so that we may discuss the matter more fully."

Edger was pleased. Forsooth, a human of beautifully polished manner and splendid turn of phrase. Further, one who wished to learn more fully of the knives of Middle River. He inclined his head.

"My brother and I are happy to learn your name and would be pleased to discuss our craft with you. Let us, as you say, walk to your place of business and speak."

Justin Hostro bowed once more. "I am delighted by your willingness. If I might beg the favor of an instant, while I complete the purchase of a gift for my only daughter?"

"It is well," Edger replied. "My kinsman and I shall await you and yours without."

If their new acquaintance tarried longer than the requested instant, it was not by so significant a time that either Edger or Selector noted the delay. Justin Hostro and his companion rejoined them quickly, the companion bearing a large and ornately wrapped box.

"Ah!" Edger exclaimed. "What delicacy you show in your choice! What supremacy of color—the so-bold yellow, how subtly tamed by the soberness of the black ribands! It is my belief that your daughter will be well pleased with such a gift."

The man carrying the object of this acclaim stopped dead, blinking at his leader. But Justin Hostro merely laid his hand upon Edger's forearm and turned him gently down the street, murmuring, "Now, it does my heart good to hear you say so, for I see you have a discerning eye. I had had qualms, I will admit it. Perhaps the yellow was too bold? The black too severe? But that it draws such praise from you—I am content."

Shaking his head, Mr. Hostro's companion fell in with Selector, and thus they each followed their leader down the street.

* * *

CMS WAS AT .90, CPS at .82. Val Con adjusted the stops on the 'chora as his fingers found an intriguing weave of sound, and the numbers in his head faded away.

Shrouded in the music, he did not hear the scant sound she made entering the room, nor did body-sense warn him of her nearness. The thud of disk to padded 'chora top was unexpectedly loud.

Trained reflexes stilled his startled reaction as his eyes snapped first to her face, then to the disk, and back to her face.

"Hello, Miri."

"What is it?" she demanded, voice harsh, finger pointing.

He dropped his eyes obediently and considered the bright design, hands folded in his lap as he sought the proper words, the correct inflection. It is heritage, he thought. It is home.

"It is a House Badge." He lifted his eyes again to hers, keeping his voice gentle and smooth. "The sign indicates Clan Erob, which is a House that chooses to seat itself elsewhere than upon Liad. They are respected Traders." He moved his shoulders. "It is what I know."

"There's writing on the back of it," Miri told him, her voice less harsh, but still carrying that edge he mistrusted.

He picked up the disk, flipped it in long fingers, and sighed.

"It is a genealogy. The last entry is incomplete. it reads: 'Miri Tiazan, born in the year named Amrasam.'" He let the badge fall gently back to the padding and looked up at her. "That would be approximately sixty-five Standards ago."

"Tayzin," she muttered, giving the name a Terran inflection. "Katalina Tayzin—my mother. Miri Tayzin—grandmother, I guess. Mom might've named me for my grandmother—she never said. Just that her mother'd died in 1358, back during the Fevers, when the fatcats..." She let her voice drift off, shaking her head.

"Didn't tell me a lot of stuff, looks like. When I told her I'd joined up with Liz's Merc unit, she gave me that thing there. Told me it'd belonged to her mother, and she'd be happy knowin' it was off Surebleak—and me, too." Her eyes sharpened suddenly.

"You knew," she said, and it was surety, not accusation.

He nodded. "I knew as well as I could, for whatever difference it might make. I was surprised to find that you did not know, and that you thought yourself so Terran." He offered her a smile. "Look at you. Everyone knows Liadens are short, small compared with other humans; that the heartbeat is a fraction off, the blood count a trifle different . . . ."

She shrugged, and the smile she returned him was real. "Mutated within acceptable limits. Says so in my papers."

"Exactly my point," he murmured. "Because it makes no real difference. No reasonable difference. I have it that we are all the same seed: Terran, Liaden, Yxtrang."

"Yxtrang, too?" She was onto the other point before he could nod. "You have that officially?"

He ran a finger over the smooth enamel work of Erob's badge. "My father did. He had access to the best of the genetics data, and to—other—information. In fact, he gave the information to the Terran Party."

"He what?" She was staring at him. "The Terran Party? What'd they do, laugh at him?"

He moved his shoulders against the sudden tension. "They tried to assassinate him."

Air hissed between her teeth, not quite a whistle. "They would, you know. Especially if they thought it was true. But you said—they tried."

He glanced down, took up the disk, and turned it over in his hands. "They tried ... He was walking with my mother—his lifemate, you understand, not a contract-wife. She saw the man pull the gun—and she stepped in front, pushing my father aside." He turned the badge over and over in his hands, light running liquid over the many colors. "She was hit instead. They'd used a fragging pellet. She had no chance at all."