DEGREES OF SEPARATION

Adventures in the Liaden Universe® Number 27

Sharon Lee and Steve Miller

COPYRIGHT PAGE

DEGREES OF SEPARATION

Adventures in the Liaden Universe® Number 27

© 2018 Sharon Lee and Steve Miller

Pinbeam Books

www.pinbeambooks.com

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events

portrayed in this novel are fiction or are used fictitiously

Copyright © 2018 by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.

"Degrees of Separation" is original to this chapbook

Cover Design: SelfPubBookCovers.com/RLSather

ISBN:  978-0-9966346-9-4

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

ONE | Liad

TWO | Lutetia

THREE | Liad

FOUR | Low Port

FIVE | Some Years Later

UNE PETITE LISTE DE MOTS ÉTRANGES | A small list of strange words

ABOUT THIS BOOK

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

NOVELS BY SHARON LEE AND STEVE MILLER

Dedication

To Tony Daniel at Baen Books, who asked for a "seasonal" story

and

To Mark Twain, who wrote The Prince and the Pauper

* * *

This is a story about Paris, about love, and about bread.

ONE

Liad

In the port city of Solcintra, on a certain day in the third relumma of the year called Phantione, a boy was delivered to the delm of Clan Serat, who did not want him.

Serat had a son; Serat had a na'delm, twelve years and more the infant's elder.  Furthermore, Serat maintained a regular household, and had no need of a second in the delm's line.  Most especially not the child of a sister who had failed both Line and Clan.

Still, to refuse the boy–Don Eyr, as he had been named, exactly the name of the previous delm of Serat–would be to invite scandal, and Serat did not indulge in scandal.  He was, therefore, given a place in the empty nursery, and thereafter forgotten by the delm, his uncle, and unregarded by his cousin, who was away at school.

He was not forgotten by the household staff, nor by the clan's qe'andra.  These persons were after all paid to tend the interests and the business of the individuals who together were Clan Serat.  The delm having issued no instruction other than, "Take it away, and see it trained," in the case of his sister's child, Don Eyr received all the benefits and education which naturally accrued to a son of Serat.

Save the regard of kin.

The boy himself did not notice his lacks, for he was well-regarded, even loved, by staff.

His nurse was inclined to be gentle with an isolated child, and collaborated with the House's qe'andra in the matter of his education.  He had a quick intelligence, did Don Eyr, an artist's eye, and a susceptible heart.  Very like his mother, said Mr. dea'Bon, the qe'andra, who had served the House since the days of the current delm's father.  She ought never have been sent to mind the outworld business; her talents had better been used at home, administering the clan.  Well, well.  Delm's Wisdom, of course; doubtless he had his reasons, for the best good of the clan.

The boy Don Eyr early showed an interest in baking, and the pastry cook took him into her kitchen to show him the way of cookies, and tea tarts.  When he mastered those, she taught him filled pastries, and cheese rolls.

The day he came to the notice of his cousin, the na'delm, he was removing a loaf from the oven in the back bakery, under the supervision of the kitchen cat, and Mrs. ban'Teli, the pastry cook.  He had a wing of flour on one cheek, his hair was neatly, though unfashionably, cut, his hands quiet and certain.  He wore a white apron adorned with various splashes, over white pants and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled, showing forearms already well-muscled.

"The na'delm, younger," his companion murmured, rising and bowing to his honor.

The lad lifted his eyes briefly from his task, and gave a civil nod.

"Cousin," he said, gravely–and set the pan he had just removed onto a cooling stone, before turning to the work-table, and picking up another pan, which he slid carefully into the maw of the oven.

The na'delm had only lately come from school, and was not so much accustomed to having his rank recognized.  In his estimation, the lad had been perfectly civil, given that he had work in hand.  Therefore, he waited patiently until the pan was settled, and the oven sealed.

"I wonder," he said, once these things were done and the boy turned back to face him.  "I wonder if you might not have an hour to spend with me, Cousin.  I feel that we should know each other better."

Don Eyr's gaze shifted toward the oven, doubtless thinking of the pan so recently deposited there.  Mrs. ban'Teli stirred.

"I will stand for the loaf, young master, unless you think me unworthy."

A smile adorned the grave face, and the na'delm was able to make the judgment that Don Eyr was a pleasant looking child, in a modest sort of way.

"Yes, of course I think you unworthy!" he said with full good humor.  "I suppose you will even turn out the first loaf when it is cool without my asking that you do so!"

"I might at that," the old woman said with a smile.  She nodded to him, her voice taking on the brisk tones of an aunt, or a nurse.

"Take off your apron, wipe your face, and attend your cousin, child.  I was baking bread before either of you were born."

The na'delm found himself a little put out by this familiarity from a servant.  Don Eyr, however, merely said yes, pulled off his apron, wiped his face and stepped forward.

"Where shall we go, Cousin?"

#

In fact, they went into the garden, the na'delm not wishing to meet the delm just yet.  He had spent much of his time away at various schools and fosterings.  He did not know his father well, though he knew his delm somewhat better, and his young cousin, here–well, he knew the boy's mother had died on Ezhel'ti, where she had been sent by the previous delm to mind the clan's off-world affairs, with an eye toward increasing profit.

Instead, the clan's businesses had faltered, and finally collapsed, under her care, which his father, the delm, swore she had done a-purpose, in order to bring ruin to Serat.  The question of why she might have subsequently committed suicide, if she had failed a-purpose, he waved away with wordless contempt.  The woman had been disordered with envy; she had wanted nothing more than Serat's Ring, and so the former delm had sent her away, as he had sent away his own brother, who had also aspired to Serat's Ring.

The na'delm, who was no fool, and who furthermore had learned how to do research and analyze information, had discovered that there had been an adjustment in the markets very soon after Telma fer'Gasta arrived to take up her duty.  Ezhel'ti had been flooded with cheap goods when its sister planet unilaterally devalued its currency.  Much history had been gathered from Serat's qe'andra, who had of course received reports every relumma, as well as the occasional personal letter.

The clan's businesses had been only a small portion of those destroyed by this rapid economic readjustment, and, from the records that she had forwarded to Mr. dea'Bon, it was plain that Telma fer'Gasta had very nearly preserved Serat's holdings.  It had been a close-run thing, indeed, and for a time it seemed that she would hold the line.  She had navigated the rip tide, she sold and consolidated wisely, she had–but in the end, she made an error; a small error, as their qe'andra had it, but it had been large enough, in those times, in that place.  Certainly, she knew how news of this blow to the clan's fortunes would be received.  It troubled the na'delm that she had chosen to kill herself; that action speaking to a. . .disturbing understanding of her delm and her brother.

She had placed her child in the care of her long-time lover, whose babe it likely was–and no shame, there, either, so the na'delm had discovered.  The lover's clan was above reproach; their melant'i impeccable.  Which is doubtless why they had sent the child to Serat.

All that to the side, the na'delm spent an informative and pleasant hour with his young cousin in the gardens, parted with him amicably at the staff's entrance to the kitchens, and went immediately to seek out his father and his delm.

Serat was in the informal parlor, reading the sporting news.  He looked up sharply as the na'delm entered, and put the paper aside.

"Well, sirrah?  And how have you busied yourself your first day at home in the fullness of your melant'i?"

The na'delm paused at the wine table, poured two glasses of the canary, and brought them with him to the window nook where his father sat.

He placed one glass on the small table by his father's hand, and kept the other with him as he settled into the chair opposite.

"I busied myself by meeting with our qe'andra, so that I might better know how Serat is fixed–which very duty you gave to me, Father, so do not stare daggers."

"Eh.  And how are we fixed?" Serat asked, picking up his glass and sipping.

"Well enough, so Mr. dea'Bon tells me, though we are not perhaps expanding as well as we might do to maintain our own health."

"dea'Bon's been singing that song since the day I put on Serat's Ring," his father said sourly.  "There is no harm in being conservative."

"Indeed, no," the na'delm agreed, "though there may well be harm in allowing ourselves to ossify."

"Pah."

"But that," the na'delm said, "is something for us to discuss at our business meeting tomorrow."  He sipped his wine.

"After the qe'andra, I spent a very pleasant hour in the garden, becoming acquainted with my cousin, your nephew."

"So you wasted an hour which ought better to have been used in the service of the clan?"

"Not at all," the na'delm said, calmly.

It was too bad that he had found his father in one of his distempers, but, truly said, it was more and more difficult to find him elsewise.  He sipped his wine, leaned to put the glass on the table, and settled again into the chair.

"The boy is one of Serat's assets, after all, Father, and you did charge me to learn how we are fixed."  He paused; his father said nothing.

"So.  I find that we are fortunate in our asset," he continued, taking care not to speak the lad's name, which would surely send his father into alt.  "He is a bright lad, who has been well-taught, and who has thought about his lessons.  His manners are very pretty, and his person pleases.  His nature appears to be happy, and generous.  Staff is devoted to him.  He's young, of course, but after some finishing at a school, and a bit of society polish, I believe he will do the clan proud in the matter of alliance and –"

"Send him away!"

The na'delm blinked out of his rosy picture of the future to find his father bent stiffly forward, imperiling both glasses and table, his face rigid with anger.

"I beg you pardon?"  he said, startled by this sudden change of temper.  "Will you have him gone to school, sir?"

"Yes–to school, or to the devil! Staff devoted to him, is it?  Scheming get!  I know his game; haven't I seen it played before?  Get the staff cozy in his hand, turn them against us.  He thinks I don't suspect?  No–send him away!  He will not subvert our house with his schemes!"

The na'delm–stared.  Then, he reached across the table, took up his wine glass and drank the contents in a single swallow.

"Father. . .you do comprehend that we are discussing a boy barely halfling?  There is not the least bit of subterfuge.  The staff love him because, frankly, sir, they have had the raising of him, and it pleases them to see him do well.  If you would bring him closer to us–have the lad at the table for Prime, for the gods' love!  He's too old to dine in the nursery, and he would be glad of the company.  If he has fallen into error, you might teach him better."

"There's no teaching those born to deceit," Serat stated with the air of making a quote, though from which play, the na'delm could not have said.  "Send him away, do you hear me?  I want him out of this house by the end of the relumma."

"But, Father –"

Serat stood and glared down at him.

"You've done a valuable service to the house this day, worthy of a na'delm!  You have found the plot before it came to fruition.  We may act–we must act!  See to it."

And with that, he turned and left the room, leaving the na'delm gaping in his wake.

* * *

"School?"  Don Eyr said, frowning slightly at Mr. dea'Bon.

"Indeed, young sir.  The clan would see you properly educated.  The choice of institution has been left for you and I to determine between us.  Now, I have here on the screen a file of catalogs, sorted by primary studies.  Please sit here and examine them while I pursue my other work on behalf of the House.  When Mr. pak'Epron brings us our tea, we shall talk about what you have discovered.

"Is this agreeable to you?"

School, thought Don Eyr, with a quickening of interest.  Mrs. ban'Teli had spoken about schools–famous schools on far-away planets.

"Yes, sir," he said to Mr. dea'Bon.  "Thank you."

"There is no need to thank me, young sir.  It is my pleasure to serve you."

With that, the elder gentleman moved over to the big desk and the 'counts books.  Don Eyr sat at the side table and considered the catalog file.  Arranged by course of study.  He extended a hand, and scrolled down the list, until he came to Culinary.

He opened that catalog and took a moment to consider, eyes half-closed, attention focused inward.

Mrs. ban'Teli had spoken of many schools, as he remembered–several of them with respect.

But she had spoken of one with reverence.

#

"I see," Mr. dea'Bon said, when he was presented with the list of one school which Don Eyr felt he would wish to attend.

"This is a very challenging choice," he continued, with a glance at the boy's bright face.  "I wonder if you have considered all of these challenges."

"It is off-world," Don Eyr said, "so I will of course be obliged to live at school, and will not be able to help with the House's baking.  But you know, Mrs. ban'Teli said to me just recently that she has been baking bread since before I was born, so I suspect she can train another boy very handily."

Mr. dea'Bon blinked, and inclined his head gravely.

"Just so.  It is very nice in you, and proper, too, to think of the House first.  However, I had been thinking that, in addition to going off-world to live at school, you will be required to acquire a new language–not merely Trade or even Terran–but the local planetary language.  All of the classes are taught in that tongue."

"Yes," said Don Eyr, apparently not put off in the least by the prospect of not only learning a new language, but hearing nothing else from the time he rose until the time he sought his bed, every day for. . .years.

"My tutor says that I have a good ear for languages," the boy added, perhaps sensing Mr. dea'Bon's reservations.  "He also says that I have been very quick learning Terran."

Mr. dea'Bon blinked again, thinking of Delm Serat, his inclinations, and stated opinions regarding off-worlders of any kind, and most especially Terrans.

"Your tutor has been teaching you Terran? "  he asked, and did not add, "Does your uncle know?"

"He is, indeed.  Terran is spoken by a great many people living off-world, and, as my mother was sent off-world to mind the clan's interests, my tutor says the same may be required of me, so that it is only prudent to learn."

"I see.  Well, then, you foresee no difficulties in learning yet another tongue.  You realize, of course, that you will be alone, with neither clan or kin to support you –" Not that he had such support in any wise, but one could scarcely name Mrs. ban'Teli in a discussion of this sort.

"Yes, I am aware.  But there will be other students, after all, and the instructors, so I won't be alone."

"Quite," said Mr. dea'Bon once more, and played his last ace.

"Let us suppose that you will be accepted into this. . .ah–Ècole de Cuisine.  You will have one semester to prove yourself.  If you fail to be the sort of student the Institute expects, you will be sent back home."

He tapped the list of one.

"You have made no provision for a back-up," he said.  "Your delm has made it clear that you will be going to school.  Therefore, in respect of his wishes, you must chose at least two more schools to which you will apply."

The boy stilled; his smile faded–and returned.

"Yes, of course," he said.  "A moment only, sir, of your goodness."

He leaned over the catalog, tapped two keys, and leaned back.

Mr. dea'Bon looked at the names of two more institutes of baking, and allowed that the rules of the game had been followed.

"That is well," he said.  "Now, you will be required, also, to comport yourself as a Liaden gentleman, upholding the melant'i of Clan Serat.  It will therefore be necessary for you to learn the Code and other necessary subjects, in addition to the coursework required by the school.  Your tutor will work with you to build those study modules."

He paused; Don Eyr bowed.

"I understand," he said.

Mr. dea'Bon did not sigh.

"That is well, then.  If you permit, I will ask my heir to assist you in filing your applications."

"That is very kind in you, sir," Don Eyr said.  "My thanks."

TWO

Lutetia

Captain Benoit of the Lutetia City Watch was bored.  Society parties as a class tended to be stifling on several levels.  Captain Benoit preferred the night beat in the city.  Best was the the university district, where she could feel the cool damp breeze from the river against her face as she walked.  But, truly, any of the city beats–the outside city beats–were preferable to standing against the wall like a suit of armor, to insure that Councilor Gargon's guests didn't stab each other–literally–or steal the silver, or–the worst fault of all–injure the Councilor's feelings.

In point of fact, the City Watch was not supposed to stand watch over private functions.  Councilor Gargon, however, was the patron of House Benoit, and therefore commanded such small personal services.

Fortunately, Councilor Gargon, unlike other Patrons Captain Benoit could name, possessed some modicum of restraint.  House Benoit was most generally called when the Councilor was hosting a party, or giving one of her grand dinners.  For the workaday world, she was satisfied with her Council-assigned bodyguards.

Tonight, the party was in the service of winning votes for the Council's scheme to route a monorail through the Old City.  The Old City was protected by hundreds of years of legislation–no modern road could be built through it.  That had lately become a problem because the New City had expanded, sweeping 'round the Old like a river 'round a rock.  One might, of course, walk through the twisting, narrow streets of the Old City, or bicycle–but scarcely anyone did so.  In main, citizens used jitneys, or rode the trains, or drove their own vehicles.  They were in a hurry; it took too long to go through the Old City–and the journey around the walls was becoming almost as long, what with the knots traffic routinely tied itself into.

Councilor Gargon was, as she so often was, on the conservative side of the issue.  The radicals would drive a battle-wagon into the Old City, punching a straight line through its heart, which would become a wide highway, a short route from one side of the New City to the other.

The monorail. . .found little favor among busy citizens of the New City.  The monorail was seen was a ploy, an effort to forestall progress, perhaps of use to tourists, or the indolent students, but who among the working citizens of the City had time to queue up at a monorail stop, and crawl over the ruins?

Thus, the party, and the trading and calling in of favors.  Captain Benoit, who loved the Old City, tried to recruit herself with patience, but–truly, she would rather be out on her usual beat.

If you can't be where you'd rather, be happy where you are.  That had been one of Grand-père Filepe's advisories.  He had long been retired from the Watch by the time Captain Benoit had taken up her training arms, a ready source of wisdom, humor, and, often enough, irony, for the youngers of the household.  He was not, of course, her genetic grandfather, nor any blood relation at all.  House Benoit, like all the City Watch Houses recruited their 'prentices from among the orphans of the city, of which there were, unfortunately, many.

House Benoit was one of eight; and second eldest of the Watch Houses.  Common citizens were not, of course, trained in arms, or in combat.  The arts of war were for the members of the Watch alone.  All who came to Benoit, took the House's name, and training, and bore the burden of the House's honor.

There.

The caterers were bringing the desserts out to the long tables, laying down plates of chouquettes, macarons, petit fours, éclairs.  Captain Benoit sighed.  She was especially fond of sweets, and tonight's party was being catered by the École de Cuisine, which was justly famous for its pastries, cakes, and small delights.

Ah, here came one of the younger students, bearing a dacquoise, and after her another student, carrying a platter of fruit bread sliced so thin one could see through each one. . .

The guests were converging upon the table–and who could blame them?  The younger student and the dark-haired youth who appeared to be the manager of catering, stood ready to assist.  Others bustled about a second table, bringing out fresh pots of coffee, pitchers of cream, and little bowls of blue sugar that sparkled like fresh snow.

The younger student seemed somewhat nervous.  The manager touched her arm, and she looked to him with a smile, her shoulders relaxing.  Captain Benoit frowned, and brought her attention to those approaching the table.

Ah, merde, she cursed inwardly.  Vertoi was here.  She had not previously seen the Councilor among the guests; she must have come late.  Vertoi was trouble, wherever she went; especially, she was trouble for those who had no standing, and therefore could neither resist her, nor demand justice from the Council.  Vertoi being a Councilor, the common court had no call upon her; and she imposed no restraints upon herself.

Vertoi had an eye for beauty, and the younger student, now that Captain Benoit had taken a closer look, was very fine, indeed.

The catering manager took up an empty plate that moments before had held a mountain of petit fours, and handed it to his fair young assistant.  She nodded, and left the table for the kitchen, just as Vertoi came up in the queue, her shoulders stiff and her face stormy.

Captain Benoit tensed.  Vertoi was not above personally reprimanding an inferior, physically and in public, and she suddenly feared for the young manager's health.

He, however, seemed not to notice her displeasure, but leaned forward, his eyes on her face, his hands moving above the tempting sweets, discussing now the fruit bread; now the éclairs. . .

Vertoi turned away, leaving the manager in mid-discussion, holding an empty dessert plate.  He put it behind the table, and turned to greet the next guest, his face pleasant and attentive.

She had seen him before, Captain Benoit realized.  Seen him at the Institute loading bays, when dawn was scarcely a red-edge blade along the top of the walls, supervising the loading of trays onto a delivery van.  In the afternoon, she had seen him, too, filling the beggars' bowls at the university district's main gates.  She had noted him particularly; compact and neatly made, his movements crisp and clean.  A pretty little one; and something out of the common way among the citizens of Lutetia, who tended to be tall, brown, red-haired and rangy.

As if he had felt the weight of her regard, the manager raised his head and caught her gaze.  His eyes were dark brown, like his hair.  He gave her a nod, as if perhaps he recognized her, too.  She returned the salute, then a drift of dessert-seekers came between them.

* * *

He had sent Sylvie back to the Institute in the first van, with the empty plates and prep bowls.  She, and the other three who went with her, would have a long few hours of clean-up in the catering kitchen, but he rather felt that she would willingly clean all night and into tomorrow, so long as she was not required to bear the attentions of Councilor Vertoi.

Don Eyr sighed.  She was becoming a problem, this councilor–not merely a problem for Sylvie, who, so far as he knew, lavished all of her devotion upon a certain promising young prep cook.  No, Councilor Vertoi was beginning to pose a problem for the Institute and for the affairs of the Institute.  Pursuing Sylvie while she was on-duty was a serious breach of what he had learned as a boy to call melant'i–and which he had learned here was an insult to the dignity of the Institute, its students, and, above, to the directors.  He would of course report the incident to his adviser, as part of this evening's–well.  This morning's debriefing.  He was quite looking forward to that approaching hour, sitting cozy in Chauncey's parlor, tea in hand, and a plate of small cheese tarts set by.

Don Eyr did the final walk-through of the small prep area, finding it clean and tidy.  He sighed, took off his white jacket, and folded it over one arm.  Catering was not his preference.  If he were ruled only by his preferences, he would be always in the kitchen, baking breads, and pastries, cakes. . .  He felt his mouth twitch into a wry smile.  Perhaps it was best, after all, that the directors insisted that all students learn catering, and production baking, and the other commercial aspects of their art–all of which would be useful, when he opened his own boulangerie . .

Satisfied with the condition of the prep room, he signed the job off on the screen by the door, releasing copies of the invoice to Councilor Gargon's financial agent, and to the Institute's billing office.  A note would also be sent to his file, and to Chauncey's screen, so that gentleman would know when to start brewing the tea.

Don Eyr put his hand against the plate, the door to the delivery alley opened, and he stepped out into the cool, damp, and fragrant night.

The door closed behind him.  Before him, the van, Keander likely already asleep in the back.  Don Eyr shook his head.  Keander could–and did–sleep anywhere, which might be annoying, if he did not wake willing and cheerful, eager to perform any task required of him.

He reached the van, hand extended to the door–and spun, ducking.

The move perhaps saved his life; the cudgel hit the van's door instead of his head, denting and tearing the polymer.

Don Eyr spun, saw his attacker as a looming, dark shadow between himself and the light, and launched himself low and to the right, half-remembered training rising, as he kicked the man's knee.

A grunt, a curse.

The man staggered, but he did not go down, and Don Eyr spun again, kicking the metal ashcan by the gate.

It rang loudly, though it was a vain cast.  Keander could sleep through any din, though the softest whisper of his name would rouse him.

"Dodge all you like, little rat," came the man's voice, as the cudgel rose again.  "Councilor Vertoi sends her regards, and a reminder to stay out of her business."

He swung again, and Don Eyr drove forward, catching the man 'round both knees and spilling him backward onto the alley.

The ash can produced another clatter as the cudgel, released from surprised fingers, struck it as Don Eyr rolled away.

"I will kill you," the man snarled, and Don Eyr, on his knees by the service door, saw him roll clumsily, heaving himself to his knees, even as a second shadow moved in, and with one efficient move kicked those knees out from under him, and delivered a sharp blow to the back of the head.

Straightening, this one moved to the pool of light, revealing herself as the Watch Captain he had most lately seen at the councilor's party, tall and fit, with her cross-cropped red hair and her light eyes.

"Are you well, masyr? Do you require my assistance?"

"I am well, thank you, Watch Captain," he said, hearing how breathy and uneven his voice was.  "I believe I will stand."

He did so, and stood looking up at her, while she looked down at him.

"Your arrival was timely," he said.

"Yes," she agreed, and shook her head.

"That was most ill-advised, masyr.  This man has been trained to fight and to inflict damage.  To attempt to meet him on his own terms. . ."

"What else might I have done?" he answered, perhaps too sharply.  "Stand and have my head broken?"

She was silent for a long moment, then sighed, and spread her fingers before her.

"The point is yours, but now I must ask–who taught you to fight?  Is this now a part of the Institute curriculum?"

He laughed.

"Certainly not!  A course of self-defense was taught me, before I came here.  It was years ago, my tutoring of the most basic, and–as you observe–I scarcely recalled what little I had learned."

"No, no, having taken the decision to defend yourself–you did well.  A man of peace, surprised at your lawful business, and, I make no doubt, exhausted from your labors this evening.  Our friend, here, he had expected an easy strike, and now he will wake in the Watch House, with a headache, a fine to pay–and an account of himself to be made to his mistress that will, I expect, be very painful for him."

She stepped back, clearing his way to the van.

"Please, be about your business, masyr, and I will be about mine."

"Yes," he said.

He turned, after he had opened the door.

"Thank you, Watch Captain."

She straightened from where she had been placing binders on the fallen attacker.

"My duty, masyr.  Good-night to you, now.  Go in peace."

"Good-night," he said, and climbed into the cab, and drove away.

* * *

Policemen and criminals were not so very much different.  So said Grand-père Filepe.  Certainly, they tended to know the same people, to drink in the same places, to roam the same streets at very nearly the same hours.

So it was that Serena Benoit was at a table in a shady corner of a particular cafe on a small street near the river, eating her midday meal, when she heard a word, spoken in a voice she recognized.

The first word was followed by several more, forming a sentence most interesting.  Serana closed her eyes, the better to hear the rest of it.  The proposition was made, and, after a short pause, accepted, for the usual fee.  Serana opened her eyes, and turned to signal her waiter for more wine, her glance moving incuriously over the occupants of the table to her right.

Yes, she had recognized Fritz Girard's voice; his companion was. . .Louis Leblanc.  That was. . .disturbing.  Unlike the hired bullies attached to the wealthy, who were used to express their masters' displeasure by way of a broken arm or a sprained head, Louis Leblanc performed exterminations.  Showy, public exterminations, meant to remove a nuisance, and also to inspire potential future nuisances to rethink their life-plans.

The waiter arrived with a fresh glass, and Serana turned back to her lunch, ears straining.  There came the expected haggling over price–perfunctory, really–before the two rose and left the cafe in different directions.

Serana finished her lunch, paid her bill, and returned to her beat, troubled by what she had heard.

* * *

"That's the last," Don Eyr told Silvesti.

The delivery driver nodded, made the rack fast to the grid inside his truck, and jumped down to the alley floor.  He was taller than Don Eyr, as who was not?  His mustache was grey, though his hair was still stubbornly red.  There were lines in his face, and scars on his knuckles.  He worked for the distributor, and before the day broke over the city walls, all of the breads, pastries, and other fresh-baked things from the Institute's kitchens would be on offer in restaurants across the city.

"A light load this morning, my son," Silvesti commented.

"Yes; one of our bakers did not arrive for her shift.  Had she allowed us to know, we would have found someone else.  As it was, we were half done before her absence was noted."

He handed over the clipboard.

"Here is the distribution list.  When we understood what had happened, we contacted the restaurants.  Three were willing to forgo pastries today for extra tomorrow, so that the rest may have their normal share–though no extras, today."

"Understood."  Silvesti took the clipboard, running a knowing blue eye down the list, before glancing up.

"You've made extra work for yourselves tomorrow," he observed, "and a baker down."

"No, we'll call in some of the promising juniors, and let them see what the production kitchen is like."

"Scare them into another trade," Silvesti said wisely.

"Perhaps.  But, then, you see what a similar experience did for me."

The delivery driver laughed, and tucked the clipboard away into a capacious pocket.

"Some never learn the right lesson, eh?  Until next week, my son."

Don Eyr watched the van drive out of the loading yard, filling his lungs with air damp from the river.  This was when the city was quietest; very nearly still.  Occasionally, there came sound of a car moving over damp 'crete, some streets distant; or a ship's bell, far off in the middle of the river.  It was not, perhaps, his favorite time of the day–there being some joy to be found in beginning the day's baking, and also the hour in which he taught the seminar. . .

Still, this early morning time was pleasant, signaling, as it did, an end to labor for a few hours, and a chance to–

A boot heel scraped against the alley's crete floor, and he turned, expecting to see Ameline, come out with her coffee and her smoke stick, as she often did, to sit on the edge of the loading dock to relax after her labors among the cakes.

But it was not Ameline, nor any other of the Institute.

"Watch Captain Benoit," he said, taking a certain pleasure in her tall, lean figure.  She was not in uniform this evening, but dressed in leggings and a dark jacket open over a striped shirt.

"Tonight, only Serena Benoit," she said gently.  "I hope that I did not startle you, masyr?"

"I had expected one of my colleagues," he answered.  "My name is Don Eyr fer'Gasta.  I think that our introductions the other evening were incomplete."

"Indeed, there was much about that encounter which was shabbily done," she said, walking toward him, her hands in the pockets of her jacket.

"I am here. . ."  she paused, looking down at him, her face lean, and her eyes in shadow, all the light from the dock lamps tangled in her cropped red hair.

She sighed, and shook her head.

"You understand that it is Serana Benoit, who offers this," she said.

Melant'i.  That he grasped very well.  He inclined his head.

"I understand.  But what is it that you offer?"

Another sigh, as if the entire business went against all the order of the universe.  Her hands came out of her pockets, palms up and empty.

"I will teach you.  We will build upon these long-ago basic lessons you received. A few tricks, only, you understand, but they may be made to suffice. You have become a target, masyr, and you had best see to your own defense."

"A target?" he repeated, looking up at her.

"Oh, yes.  One does not thwart Councilor Vertoi in any of her desires.  And one certainly does not embarrass her enforcer."

"Councilor Vertoi is not permitted to disrupt my team while we are working," he said calmly.

Serana Benoit laughed, short and sharp.

"Yes, yes, little one; you have expressed this sentiment with perfect clarity.

Fritz Gerard, Councilor Vertoi, myself–none of us missed your meaning.  Councilor Vertoi has done you the honor of believing you to be a serious man, and she has hired Louis LeBlanc to wait upon you."

Something was clearly expected of him, but Don Eyr could only turn his palms up in turn and repeat, "Louis LeBlanc?"

"Ah, I forget. You live sheltered here.  Louis LeBlanc is a very bad man.  He has been hired to hurt you, from which we learn that Madame the Councilor considers that you have damaged her reputation and so may show you no mercy."

Chauncey had a pet; a green-and-red bird that had learned to say certain amusing phrases.  Don Eyr felt a certain kinship with the bird now, able only to repeat her own words back to her.

"No mercy?  He is to strike me lightly on the head?"

Serana Benoit looked grim.

"Were you of Madame's own station, or in the employ of one of such station, Louis would have been instructed to kill you.  That is mercy at Madame's level.  She has, regrettably, seen that you are a catering manager, a mere minion who must be taught his proper place."

She took a breath, and added, softly.

"Louis. . .Understand me, I have seen Louis' work, and speak from the evidence of my own eyes!  Louis will break all of your bones, not quickly; abuse tendons, and tear muscles.  Perhaps, yes, he will strike you in the head, but I think not, for Madame will want you to know why you have become a cripple, and a beggar."

He stared at her, seeing truth in her face, hearing it in her voice.  There were, perhaps, a number of things he might have said to her, then, but what he did say was. . .

"Come into the kitchen.  There is tea–and bread and butter."

* * *

He was an apt student, Don Eyr, a joy to instruct; supple and unexpectedly strong.  When she mentioned this, he had laughed, which pleasing of itself, and said that flour came in thirty-two kilogram sacks.

She could wish that several Benoit apprentices were so willing, adept, and of such a happy nature.  And as much as she enjoyed teaching him, she enjoyed even more their time after practice, when they would adjourn to the little room behind the kitchen, for a simple snack of tea and bred, and talk of whatever occurred to them.

Very quickly, she was Serana, and he was Don Eyr.  She told him such bits of gossip as she heard in the course of her duties, and he told her such on-dits as had filtered into the Institute's  classrooms and kitchens.  She told him somewhat of life in House Benoit, and was pleased that he enjoyed even Grand-père's saltier observations.

For himself, he was the lesser child of his family, which he considered luck, indeed, as it had allowed him to pursue his talent for baking.

Yes, she enjoyed his company.  Very much.  Perhaps she watched him with too much appreciation; perhaps she regarded him too warmly.  But she did not act on these things–he was a student, after all, clearly some years her junior, and she was his teacher.

It would not have done, and she did not need Grand-père to tell her so.

As for the training–apt as he was, he would never defeat Louis.  The best he might do would be to surprise and disable him long enough to run to some place of safety.  Whereupon the hunt would begin again.  Louis might become fond of the child, if he gave good enough sport, and one shuddered to think what that might come to, when he was, as he must be, at the last–caught.

Still, they trained, and two weeks along there came the news that Louis LeBlanc had been taken up by Calvin of House Fontaine, caught in the very act of threatening a citizen.  Serana knew Calvin; had known him very well, indeed, when they had both been foot soldiers for their Houses.  It had been some time since she had sought him out, but she had done so after that news had hit the street.

"The Common Judge gave him four weeks, non-negotiable," Calvin said, drinking the glass of wine she'd bought him.  "In four weeks, plus one day, he will be on the streets again."

"Is there any likelihood of a pattern-of-behavior charge?" asked Serana.

Calvin shrugged.

"The father had said some such at first, but he's quiet now."

"Bought off?" Serana guessed, sipping her own wine.

"Or frightened off."  Another shrug and quizzical glance.

"Why do you care?  Even if Louis permanently removed, another will rise to fill the void."  He raised his glass, as if in salute. "There must always be a Louis; to keep the Councilors from going to war."

"It may be that a replacement Louis will enjoy his work less," Serana said, and shrugged.  "One might hope."

"This is on behalf of the new lover?"

"New student," she corrected.

"So?  Does Benoit agree to this?"

"No need for Benoit to agree to what I do on my off-hours," Serana said, which was not. . .precisely true.  "Besides, he came from off-world, half-trained and a danger to himself and our fellow citizens.  I make the streets safer by teaching him."

"A baker, I hear," said Calvin.

"You have big ears, my friend."

Calvin laughed and drank off the last of his wine.

#

"When," she asked Don Eyr as they sat together over their quiet tea.  "When will you graduate?"

"Graduate?" He looked amused.  "I graduated two years ago.  I have completed my coursework, and taken the certification tests for master baker, pastry chef, and commis chef.  At the moment, the Institute employs me to teach an introductory workshop to breads, and an upper level seminar in pastry.  Two days, I work in the test kitchens; one day I supervise the distribution baking; and, as you know, I manage one of the catering teams."

Serana blinked, realized that she had been staring, and raised her tea cup.

Don Eyr began to butter a piece of bread.

"Soon, I will need to make other arrangements," he said.  "Chauncey has been trying to entice me to stay and become faculty–to teach, you know."

"You do not wish to be a teacher?" Serana managed.

He put the butter knife aside and glanced up at her.

"In many ways, teaching is enjoyable, especially when one has an apt pupil.  But, no.  I want to bake, to feed people, and bring joy to their day.  I have determined to open my own boulangerie."

His own bakeshop, bless the child; and she had thought him too young to understand her.

"A shop here–in the City?"

He laughed, dark eyes dancing.

"No one opens a boulangerie in Lutetia!  What would be the point, when the Institute supplies all of the restaurants and coffee houses, and could easily supply a third again more?"

"You will leave us, then?" she persisted, which both relieved her, and filled her with a profound sadness.

He gave her a grave look.

"I think that I must, and I have a plan, you see.  When I wrote to. . .my family's accountant, to inform him of my certifications, and graduation, he wrote back with information regarding certain accounts and properties which are mine, alone.

"My mother left me a property–a house and a some land–on Ezhel'ti.  Those funds have, in part, been supporting me here, with the remainder being placed into an account which Mr. dea'Bon has held in trust for me.  The house and the account came to me upon graduation.  I have been researching Ezhel'ti, and it seems a very promising world, with two large metropolitan areas, and a scattering of smaller towns.  It remains to be seen if a city or a town will suit me best, but my intention is to emigrate and open a boulangerie."

He gave her a small smile.

"Mr. dea'Bon is retired from my clan's business, and finds himself wishing for a little project to keep him entertained.  He has offered to advise me, which is kind.  Certainly, I shall have need of him."

"Indeed," she said, and put her tea cup on the tray.  "It may be wise, to leave as soon as your planning allows," she said, her lips feeling stiff.  "The rumor inside the Watch is that Louis LeBlanc will be off the streets for four weeks, no longer.  Since it is possible for you to remove yourself from danger. . ."

"I must stay until the end of the term," he told her. "I have signed a contract."

"How long?" she asked.

"Eight weeks.  But after–"

"Yes, after.  I advise, make your arrangements now."

"I will," he said, as she rose.

"You are leaving?"

"I have the early Watch tomorrow," she lied.  "Good-night, Don Eyr."

"Good-night," he said, and rose in his turn to open the bay door and see her out.

* * *

The peaceful round of weeks flowed by, each day bringing its rewards.  Don Eyr had dispatched letters, received some replies, and written more letters.  He and Serana had kept to their schedule of sparring and suddenly, it was the day of Louis LeBlanc's release from mandatory confinement.

He would not have said that the date weighed over-heavy on his mind, though naturally he had noted it.  And truly, he did not begin to worry until he left for their usual meeting.

He arrived in the practice room before her, which was not so unusual.  He occupied himself with warm-ups, and moved on to first-level exercises.

When he finished the set and she still had not come–then he began to worry.  It was ridiculous, of course, to worry after Serana, who was a Watch Captain and fully able to take care of herself–and any other two dozen persons who happened to be nearby.  But he worried, nonetheless.  He reminded himself that she had missed their meeting on two previous occasions, and had turned up, perfectly well, if appallingly tired, at the Institute, later, wanting her tea and buttered bread–and, more than that, someone to talk to about commonplaces, and simple things.  It pleased him that she came to him for comfort on those nights when her duty was a burden.  But, he could not help but recall that her duty might see her maimed, or killed, much as she might laugh off that aspect of the matter.

"You will worry yourself into a shadow, little one, if you worry about me.  I have more lives than a cat–Grand-père has said it, so you know it is true!  I may be late, but always I will come back to you, eh?  My word on it."

Yes, but today–today an especial danger had been released back onto the streets, and he might be assumed to be angry about his recent confinement, and seeking to wreak havoc upon those whom he judged to be most responsible.

Surely, being the sort of man he was, LeBlanc would consider Serana's friend Calvin at fault, but Serana had told him that the Commander of the Watch had decided to hold Calvin at headquarters for the first day of Louis LeBlanc's renewed liberty, and also to set a guard around the Common Judge who had sentenced him.

These were, so Serana said, temporary measures, to give LeBlanc time to work off his ill-humor, and reconnect with his usual sources.

Work, said Serana, with a certain amount of irony, seemed to exert a steadying influence over Louis LeBlanc.

Don Eyr finished his workout early, without Serana to spar with, and returned to the tea room, where he took special care with this evening's snack; her favored blend of tea; and thin slices of the crusty chewy bread she had declared–rather surprising herself, so he thought, with amusement–the best she had ever eaten, beside which all other so-called breads were revealed as impostors.  He added a dish of jam to compliment the butter, and stood looking down at the tea table, wondering what he would do, if she did not come tonight.

The bell rang then, and he hurried down the hall, looking by habit at the screen–and it was Serana standing there, in her Watch uniform, her face in shadow, her posture stiff.  He took a breath, and pulled the door open.

She followed him silently down to the tea-room, and stood, silent yet, just inside the door.

He turned, and saw her face clearly for the first time that evening.

"Serana, what has happened?"

She looked at him, her face haggard, eyes red, proud shoulders slumped.

"Come in."

He stepped up to her, and caught her arm, leading her to the table; saw her seated in her usual chair.  Then, he crossed the room to the small cabinet, opened it, and poured red wine into a glass.  He set it before her, and commanded, "Drink."

She shook herself slightly, and obeyed, downing the whole of it in two long gulps, without appreciation, or even full knowledge of what she did.  No matter; it was a common vintage, and it seemed to be doing her some good.  Her pale green eyes sparkled; and her shoulders came up, somewhat.

"Good," he said, and took the glass away to refill it, and to pour one for himself.

He came back to the table, and sat across from her.

"Tell me," he said.

She blinked, then, and seemed to fully see.  She smiled somewhat.

"Peremptory, little one," she murmured.

"Ah, but I am a manager, and a master baker, and a blight upon the lives of my students," he told her.  "Arrogance is the least of my accomplishments."

Her lips bent slightly; perhaps she thought she had smiled.

"So," she said;  "I will tell you.  Louis LeBlanc died today.  Badly."

He blinked, taking in the uniform.  Serana did not come to their meetings in her uniform.  She came always as Serena Benoit; never as Watch Captain Benoit.  He sipped wine to cover his shiver.

"Do you think I did this thing?" he asked.

She laughed, and it was terrible to hear.

"You?  No, I do not think that."

She raised her glass and drank.

"No?" he asked.  "A man in fear of his life. . ."

She slashed the air with her free hand.

"A man in fear of his life would not have had time to do what was done to Louis," she snarled, horror and anger in her voice.  "And you, little one–you are not capable of what I saw.  You are my student; I know this."

She turned her head aside, but not before he saw the tears.

He took a careful breath.

"Serana–" he began.

"Oh, understand me; I have no love for Louis LeBlanc.  But the manner of his death, and the timing of it. . .It is a message, from one Councilor to another, you see; and such a message–it will be war, now, between the ruling houses, but they will not bleed!  No, they will use us as little toy soldiers, and we will die–for what?  The world will not be made better; and when the war is over, or the point is won–another will rise to become the next Louis LeBlanc.  It will all be the same, only we will be fewer in the senior and novice ranks, and there will be more orphans from which to recruit replacements. . ."

There was a breathless moment, before she repeated, in a bitter whisper.

"Replacements."

He was an idiot; he could think of nothing to say, to ease her.  She had told him the history of House Benoit–told it lightly, as if it were a very fine joke.  But, now. . .

"I am not a coward.  I am not afraid to do my duty," she whispered.  "But my duty is to protect the citizens, not to kill fellow Watchmen!"

He did not remember rising, or going 'round the table.  He barely remembered putting his arm around her shoulders, and feeling her press her face against his side.

"Of course you are not a coward," he murmured.  "You are bold and honorable.  Can you not appeal –" Appeal to whom? he thought wildly.  If the Councilors were at war, surely the City Council would not rule against them.

"The Common Judges?" he ventured.  "Can they not issue a restraint, releasing the Watch from such orders?"

She made a sound; perhaps it was a laugh.

"Don Eyr's twisty mind works on," she murmured.  "That is a particularly fine notion–and it was tried, the. . .last time the Councilors went to war.  They simply ignored the order, and had those of the Watch and the judiciary who protested killed."

He closed his eyes.

"Don Eyr."

She shifted in his arms, and he stepped back, letting her go as she straightened in her chair.  She caught his hand, and looked into his face.

"Don Eyr," she repeated.

"Yes, my friend.  What may I do for you?"

She laughed, soft and broken.

"You make it too easy," she said, and drew a breath, keeping her eyes on his.

"I would like to make love with you, little one."

He hesitated.  She released his hand.

"I am maladroit," she said.  "Please do not regard it."

"No, I will regard it," he said, taking her hand between both of his.  "Only–to make love.  I may not have the recipe.  But, this I offer–that I value you, and would willingly share pleasure; give and receive comfort.  Indeed, I have wished for it, but while we stood as teacher and student–"

"I see it," she said, offering a small smile, but a true one; "we are both fools."

"That is perhaps accurate.  I propose that we now teach each other–I will learn to make love. . ."

"And I will learn to share pleasure.  Agreed, but –"

She glanced about them, and he laughed.

"No; let us to my rooms; we may be private there."

"Yes," she said, and rose.

* * *

His rooms, at the top of the Institute. . .His rooms were neat, and modest; the bed under the eaves big enough for both, so long as she was careful of her head.

There was a window, which she learned later, after he had risen and left her in order to see to the day's first baking.  It was marvelous, this window; one could oversee the entire City, even the Tower of Memories in the heart of the Old City.

Her City, that she loved; her City, that she served and protected.

There would be war; that was certain.  A few days, perhaps, of quiet, while the Councilors gathered themselves, and made certain of those Watch Houses which were sworn to them.  Benoit's patron was Gargon, of course.  Fontaine's patron was Vertoi.  It was not to be expected that she would stand shoulder to shoulder with Calvin in this, or with his sister, or any other of her comrades at Fontaine.  No, this time, they would be set at each other, like dogs thrown into the pit, while the owners watched safely from above, and perhaps placed wagers on style, and form.

Her stomach cramped, and she turned away from the window, and the view of her City, to survey this place where her little one apparently spent all too few hours at rest.

There was a screen on a small table, under a bright light, a tidy pile of bills or letters placed to the right of the keyboard.  Across the room from the bed stood an armoire so large it was certain that the room had been built around it.  Beyond the armoire, an archway, through which more light streamed.

She stepped into a small kitchen.  A teapot steamed gently on the table next to that sunny window, and the inevitable plate of breads; butter, cheese, and cold sausage.  The window overlooked the river, a happy breakfast companion.

After she had eaten, and washed up, and refilled the teapot against his eventual return to his rooms, she showered in the tiny bathroom, and donned her armor, and stood looking down at the bed, recalling what had taken place there.

A sweet lad, indeed; generous and wise; and if he had not made love, then certainly he had given pleasure in full measure.

And Serana Benoit?  Serana Benoit was a greater fool than even she had supposed herself to be.  What precisely had been the purpose of bedding the child, when she knew he was preparing–as he must!–to flee to his safe future off-world, his small property, his dreamed-for bake-shop?  She would miss him–she would have missed him, profoundly, without the sweetness they had shared.  All she had accomplished was to make her own loss more poignant.

Yet. . .if she were to die, as it was probable that she would, and soon; she would have this memory in her when she stood to be judged before Camulus in the afterworld.

Mindful of the low ceiling, she bent and made the bed, smoothing the coverlet, catching the lingering perfume of their passion.

A deep breath, and she turned away, moving to the dark corner of the room, to the left, where she recalled the hall door had been.

A piece of paper was pinned to this portal, somewhat lower than her nose.  She squinted at it, and found a neat, hand-drawn, map, guiding her to the nearest outside door.  At the bottom of the map, was a note.

It is an interesting recipe, my friend.  I would enjoy making more love with you.  If you would also enjoy this, let us meet for wine at Paiser's this afternoon when our shifts are done.

She smiled, and tucked the note inside her armor, next to her heart.

#

She brought him flowers, of course.  He was worth every rose in the City, and she would not stint him, though it was Paiser's and she would shortly be known as a besotted fool in every Watch House and bar in the city.  No matter:  there were things far worse than to be known as a doting lover.

He rose to take the bouquet from her, dark eyes wide with pleasure.  She had exercised restraint, and the flowers did not, quite, overpower him, and in any case it was Paiser's and here was the waiter, murmuring that he would place them into a vase for maysr and most immediately bring them back.

"I ordered wine," Don Eyr said when they were both seated.  "I did not know if you wished to dine, or. . .how you wish to proceed."

Proceed? She thought.  She wished to proceed to his rooms–hers were too public for this affair–and undress him, slowly, running her hands over silky, golden skin. . .

Her imaginings were too vivid, and Don Eyr perceptive, as always.

"Perhaps not here?" he murmured, and she laughed.

"Perhaps not."

She paused at the return of the waiter, bearing a vase overfilled with roses, and a second, bearing a small table.  This was set at the side of their table in such way that the flowers formed a fragrant screen, shielding them somewhat from the rest of the room.

"Maysr has bespoken a bottle," the first waiter said.  "Shall I bring it?  With some cheeses, and fruit?  A basket of bread, perhaps?"

"Serana?" Don Eyr asked and she smiled at him.

"All of it.  Let us linger, and make plans."

He understood, and she was delighted to see a blush gild his cheeks with darker gold.  She leaned toward him and lowered her voice.

"I have the night watch tomorrow," she murmured.  "And you?"

His blush deepened, and his eyes sparkled.

"I," he said his voice low and sultry, "will ask Chauncey to lead the advanced seminar this evening."

* * *

The war was being fought in skirmishes, at the fringes of the city, and the few injuries sustained thus far were minor.  Perhaps the Councilors were being discreet; perhaps they sensed a reluctance among their toy soldiers.  They were positioning for advantage; feeling out the temper of the streets; searching for the flashpoint that would ignite violence.

Lots had been drawn at House Benoit, as at the other Watch Houses.  Short straw placed you on the Council Watch, which had the duty to protect the City, and whose loyalty was to the Council.  This was by necessity a short-term assignment, the Council not being plump in pocket, and was in any case a moot point.

Serana had drawn a long straw.

She did not tell him this.  Of course not.  There was no need to concern the child, who would be well out of everything in a matter of two weeks.  Instead, she listened to him talk about his plans for this bake shop he would build on the world that was not Lutetia, far from the City, far from Serana, safe from the war brewing on the streets.

"Serana, only listen!" he said, looking up from his latest letter with eyes sparkling.

"I have kin on Ezhel'ti!  My father's clan acknowledges the connection, and the delm has written to Mr. dea'Bon to say that they will give me a place as a Festival child among them, if I should wish it.  Also –"

"Do you wish it?" she asked him, from her lazy slouch in his reading chair.  She had pulled it over to the window–the window that looked over her City, and sat bathed in sunlight, her cotton shirt opened over her breasts, her hair blazing like living fire.

With difficulty, Don Eyr removed his attention from the picture she made there, and looked back to the letter, thinking about her question.

"I do not know," he admitted.  "I am not accustomed to being in-clan.  It would be a change, certainly; but it is all of it a change!  And these people–my father's clan–they are long-time residents of Ezhel'ti, and in a very good place from which to introduce me. . ."

"Yes, so long as they are not scoundrels," she said; then wished the words back.  Why blight his joy?  And these people wanted him, which that wretched old man who had sent him away had never done, as she had heard in the spaces between the words in the tales he had told her of his childhood. . .

Don Eyr was smiling.

"You are suspicious, Watch Captain.  You will therefore be pleased to know that Mr. dea'Bon is of a like turn of mind.  He has put inquiries into motion, and assures me that there is no need to rush into an association until the facts are known.  I may, he says, quite properly be busy with my own affairs for some time after my arrival."

"You are correct," she told him sincerely.  "I am pleased, and relieved.  Count me as an ardent admirer of Mr. dea'Bon."

"I will be jealous," he said lightly, and she laughed.

"An admirer from afar," she amended.  "Far afar."

"I am soothed," he assured her, and tipped his head.  "And now you are sad."

He was far too perceptive, she thought, and did not seek to lie to him.

"I will miss you," she said; "very much, Don Eyr."

"And I, you."  He rose from the desk and crossed the room to kneel at her side and look up into his face.

"Serana," he said, softly–and she leaned forward to kiss him thoroughly, before he said the words that would bind them both.

He was made for fine things, her little one; for peace, which her own small researches had revealed was the general state of Ezhel'ti.  No one knew what she had been born for.  An orphan, she had been taken in by House Benoit, to be trained in arms and in violence.

His hands were on her breasts, strong fingers kneading .  Good.  She stood, bringing him with her to the bed, there to make such love between them that neither need utter a word.

* * *

They were to meet at Paiser's mid-afternoon for a glass of wine and a small luncheon. It was her free hour from patrol, and his, between test kitchen and seminar.

Serana arrived first, proceeding toward the outside tables, when she caught a movement from the side of her eye.

She continued her stroll, curving away from the cafe, now, finding two familiar faces on her left hand, moving toward her with precisely as much purpose as the two approaching from her right.

So, the Councilors had decided, she thought, calmly assessing the situation.  And Serana Benoit was to be the flashpoint.

She continued to move away from Paiser's, toward the center of the small square, where there were fewer innocents to be caught in the action.

"Watch business!" she snapped at those few.  "Move on, move away!"

She touched the weighted stick on her belt, but did not draw it.  She did not need to draw it, one look at her face, and they moved, rushing away from danger.

There was a shout behind her, which she ignored.  Jacques Blanchet could see her in hell.  She supposed that she ought to be complimented, that the Councilors found her so provocative that her death would, with certainty, start a war.

Another shout.  Serana smiled, grimly.  Monique Sauvage could stand in line behind Blanchet.

She had reached the center of the square.  She turned, quickly, the stick with its lead core coming up out of her belt, to slam into the extended right arm of Servais Tanguy.  He screamed, and twisted aside, weapon falling from nerveless fingers.  She spun to intercept Blanchet, kicking him in the knee with her reinforced boots.  He was quick, however; the blow did not connect solidly, and here at last was Monique Sauvage, flying at her like the madwoman she was, knife dancing, while Simone Papin stood back, awaiting opportunity.

The world narrowed down to the work at hand.  She managed to fell Sauvage with a blow of the stick to her temple, and there was Papin coming in, blade glittering; Tanguy rushing her off-side, shock grenade in hand, and she made the decision to let the armor take the knife-thrust–

Tanguy fell back, baiting her, and there was Blanchet spinning in from her other side.  This time, the kick landed well, and she danced to one side as Tanguy triggered his toy, feeling the fizzing tingle as the armor dissipated the charge.  She had broken his neck before the fizzing stopped, and turned at last to deal with Papin–

Who was lying on the stones, his neck at an unfortunate angle.  From far away came the blare of an emergency wagon.  Much closer stood a man in a white coat, knife in hand, point toward the cobbles.  He raised his head and looked at her, dark eyes wide.

Serana took a breath.

"You fool!"  she snapped.

"He was going to kill you!" Don Eyr snapped in return.

"I am wearing armor!" she shouted, and reached out to grab him by the shoulder.  "You are wearing a baker's smock!"

"Serana," he began, his eyes filling.  Her heart broke; she moved to embrace him–and

looked up at the sound of boots pounding cobbles.

From the left came three of House Benoit.  From the right, two of Fontaine.

Fontaine was nearer, the senior-most holding binders in such a way to make it clear she knew them for the insult they were.

"Serana Benoit," she said, her voice professional; her eyes sad.  "You are under arrest."

She extended her hands to accept the insult, and glanced over her shoulder.

There were now two of House Benoit standing at ready, and Don Eyr was not in sight.

* * *

Once the binders were on, and Fontaine's duty done, Benoit sued for Serana's release to the custody and discipline of her House.

The surprise was that Fontaine released her, in proper form, accepting House Benoit's honor as her bail.

The second surprise, when she emerged from her interview with Commander Mathilde Benoit, and went in search of Grand-père Filepe, to tell him with her own voice what had transpired–there was Don Eyr sitting in the sun on the back patio, listening with rapt attention to one of the old man's saltier tales.

She paused, her hand on the warm stone pillar.  Don Eyr–someone of the house had given him shirt, vest, and trousers.  He had rolled the shirt sleeves above his wrists, and left the top buttons open–in respect of the heat, which was considerable, in this little stone pocket that caught the sun even on rainy days.

Grand-père wore a shawl over thick, well-buttoned shirt and vest, for winter had gotten into his bones on a campaign outside the City when he was a young man, and had never melted away.

Or so he said.

He paused now, on the very edge of the story's bawdy denouement, raised his eyes and gave her a brief nod.

Don Eyr spun out of his chair and rushed to her, hands out, eyes on her face.

"Serana!  Are you well?"

In truth, she was not well.  As of this hour, she was a soldier without a House, in Lutetia, where war was about to erupt, and with her to blame, so far as the Councilors would tell it.

Those shames faded, however, to see him before her, unscathed, beautiful, and concerned for her well-being.

Wordless–for what could she say?–she opened her arms, and he stepped into her embrace.

Eventually, she recalled herself, and lifted her head to meet Grand-père's eyes.  He smiled, and nodded at the bench on his right side, where Don Eyr had been seated.  A 'prentice came out of the cool, dark depths of the house, bearing a tray–wine so cold the carafe was frosty with sweat, cheese and small breads.  This, she sat on the table by Grand-père's hand, and departed, never once raising her head to see the disgraced soldier on the other side of the patio.

Don Eyr stirred in her arms.  She stepped back and let him go, looking down into his face–a face ravaged, and why was that?  Ah.  She had shouted at him, and called his actions into doubt.  Truly, she was a monster.

She caught his hand.

"Petit. . ." she began, but she had reckoned without Grand-père Filepe.

"Do not begin this on my porch, unless you intend a threesome!" he said, loudly enough to be heard in the house–or, indeed, at Paiser's.

Serana glared at him, but Don Eyr turned; and approached the bench, bringing her with him by their linked hand.

"Sir, we dare not," he said to the old man; "for certainly you will outstrip us."

A shout of laughter greeted this sally, even as Grand-père waved at the tray.

"Serana, child, serve us; then sit, so that we may plan together."

Plan? She thought, but did not ask.  One did not ask Grand-père; one waited to be told.

She poured the wine, arranged the tray and table more conveniently for all, and settled onto the bench beside Don Eyr.

"So," Grand-père said, after they had savored the wine; "Mathilde has done her duty."

"She has," said Serana, matching his careless tone.

"Your lover, here, has explained how it is that he has had training of Benoit; and also how he was able to recognize and counter the particular killing strike Papin had prepared for you."

"The armor –" Serana began, and it was Don Eyr who interrupted her.

"No.  Serana–that blade–it was curved.  He was coming in low for a thrust and an upsweep. . ."

She stared at him in horror.

"Under the armor?"

"Yes," he said, and had recourse to his glass.

"But you –"

"I," he said with irony, "was a child wearing a baker's smock.  I doubt he saw me, and if he did, he judged me no threat."

"And he would have been correct," Grand-père said, slapping his knee, "had you not learned that disarm so well, my friend!  You make our House proud that you are one of our students."

Serana considered him carefully.

"Mathilde acknowledges this?"

"At first, she was inclined otherwise," Grand-père said airly.  "She may have had hard words to say about bakers and civilians –" He bent a sympathetic eye upon Don Eyr.  "You must not regard her, my friend; it was merely a release of her feelings, in order to free adequate room for thought."

"I understand," Don Eyr murmured.  "And truly, it was an education."

Serana winced.  The House Commander had a strong vocabulary, indeed.  The rumor was that each commander logged every curse word in a massive book, kept under lock and key, and that adding to this book had been the sacred duty of Benoit Commanders for centuries.

"When it was put to her that having a half-trained citizen with a strong aversion to having his head stove in walking the street unsupervised was more of a danger to the City than producing a full-trained citizen, Mathilde did indeed rise to the occasion.  A file was made, and a certificate produced.  My friend here holds the rank of scholar-soldier in House Benoit."

"Scholar-soldier?" Serana repeated.

"There is such a rank," Don Eyr said beside her.  "Sergeant Vauclelin would have me know that the last time it was awarded was nearly one hundred local years ago.  But the rank was never removed from the lists."

"Indeed.  And that rank will keep my young friend well, for the short time he remains on Lutetia.  For yourself, Serana. . ."

"For myself," she said, tired now, despite the wine; "I must leave the City and establish myself elsewhere."

"That. . .was unavoidable," said Grand-père, sadness in his eyes.  "It seems that I am doomed to lose you, child.  And I would rather miss you than mourn you."

She stared at him for a moment before she recalled herself, and produced a grin which felt oddly tenuous on her mouth.

"I will miss you so very much, Grand-père."

He smiled at her.

"I know, child, but only think–you will never need mourn me, either."

It is true, thought Serana; I will never see him dead; he will therefore live forever.

"It would please me," Don Eyr said softly, "if you would consent to travel with me.  Such a course would be all to my benefit, since I am insufficiently suspicious."  He gave her a solemn look.  "As has been pointed out."

She placed her hand on his knee and met his eyes.

"Little one, I would gladly come with you, but I will not be a burden to you.  I have been turned out, with prejudice.  To be crass, I have no money, and will have to make my way from the start. . ."

"As to that," said Grand-père, putting his glass aside and reaching into his vest.  "I have been charged by the commander with a sum of money, which I am to give to my grandchild Serana.  It is quite a considerable sum, which surprised me.  I had privately considered Watch Captain Benoit something of a spendthrift.  It pleases me to have been proved wrong."

He brought forth a fat wallet, and held it out to her.

Serana stared, first at the wallet, then into his eyes.

"Mathilde agrees to this?" she demanded.

"My child, Mathilde proposed this," Grand-père corrected, and smiled his particular, crooked smile.  "She's coming along well, I think."

"So you see," said Don Eyr; "you need not be a burden, and, as you are well-funded, you may take your own decision, and not be. . .beholden to me."

She looked down into his eyes.  His were grave.

"Serana, I would like you to come with me."

She took a breath.

"And I would like to do so," she said.  "Do you think there is any possibility that I will be able to buy a berth on the ship you will be traveling on?"

"There is no need," Don Eyr said comfortably.  "I hired a stateroom; there is room for both of us."

She blinked.

"You did this–when?"

"When I made my original reservations.  All you need do is buy your passage."

Grand-père laughed, and rubbed his hands together.

"I like him, Serena!  A man who knows what he wants, and pursues it, though others call him mad!  I will miss both of you, in truth.  And, now –"

The House bell rang–evening muster, that would be, thought Serana.

"Now," she said; "I must go."

"I fear so," said Grand-père.  "Take the wallet, child.  You will find a pack at the service gate–your clothes and other personal belongings.  Take that, as well."

"Yes," she said, and rose, Don Eyr beside her.

She slipped the wallet into an inner pocket; bent and kissed the old man's cheek.

"Farewell, Grand-père; I will never forget you."

He patted her cheek, wordless for once.  Serana stepped back–and Don Eyr went forward, bending to kiss the withered cheek in his turn.

"Farewell, Grand-père;" he said softly.  "Thank you."

"Ah, child, would that we had longer, you and I!  Take care of my Serana."  A soft touch to the cheek, and a small shove against his shoulder.

"Go, now, both of you."

#

She fitted herself handily into his modest rooms, his quiet life.  His associates in the school had long since become used to her occasional presence, and gave no sign that they noticed she was about more frequently these few last days.

She had some idea that she might assist him with his preparations, but there was not much to pack, and only a few things to give away.  There was also a study-at-home kit that he dragged out of the bottom of the armoire, and stood for a moment, considering it ruefully.

"What is it?" Serana asked him.

"The Liaden Code of Proper Conduct," he answered, his eyes still on the kit.  "My clan required that I make a study of it while I was being schooled here, as I would have done if I had remained at home."

"And did you study it?" she asked, eyeing the kit with new interest.

"Oh, yes; I learned and passed every level.  Then I put it away, and I fear that I have forgotten everything that I had Learned.  There was no one to discuss it with, and I saw no need to continue after I had mastered the basics."

He threw a grin over his shoulder at her.

"Nor any need to make a review.  My manner, I fear, cannot but offend."

"You have beautiful manners," Serana said, faintly shocked to hear this estimation.  "And your presentation is pleasing."

"Thank you," he said, giving the box one last stare, and turning to face her.

"Will you bring it with you?" she asked, she having taken charge of such packing as there was to do.

"It is a resource, I suppose.  Ezhel'ti is a composite world–Liaden and Terran.  Were I Terran, I expect my ignorance would be excused.  As I am Liaden, I fear I will be held to a higher standard."  He sighed suddenly.  "I will spend time on the journey, Learning Liaden.  I have been speaking and thinking in Lutetian for twelve Standards, and I fear I've forgotten the modes entirely."

"We will practice together," said Serana; "I have ordered in a study pack for my own use, and a bundle of what purport to be genuine melant'i plays.  Between it and your Code, we will be very busy.  And here I had dreamed of a voyage spent almost entirely in bed. . ."

He laughed.

"We might study in bed, after all."

"Yes," she agreed, with a slow smile, "so we might."

It was pleasant, living thus; and the best part of the day occurred in the dark hours just before dawn, when he rose to start the day's baking.

She asked if she might accompany him–and succeeded in surprising him.

"There is nothing to see; only me, working."

"But I have never seen you, baking," Serana said, having discovered a desire in herself to observe him at every daily action.  "I will be quiet and stand out of the way."

He was silent for so long that she knew the answer would be no when he spoke.  But he in turn surprised her.

"There are stools, and tea," he told her, and added, perhaps to be clear, "Yes, you may come."

#

It was a pleasure like none Serana had ever known, to sit quietly, and sip her tea, watching him at his work.  He was calm, he was competent; he was unhurried and utterly concentrated.  The universe held still and respectful while Dan Eyr worked, and during this sacred time, no ill was permitted to intrude upon Lutetia.

She watched him for hours, and never once grew bored.  It seemed to her that she might watch him for years, and be nothing other than content.

At the end of it, the sun up, and the kitchen nearly too warm, he would surrender his creations to the over-manager, and Serana would slip out to await him in the hall.  They would go up to his rooms together, hand-in-hand, to make and eat their breakfast.  Often, they would not care to break the silence, and she felt no lack for it.

This morning, however, the pattern varied.

An envelope had been shoved under the door while they were away.  Don Eyr bent to retrieve it, and carried it into the kitchen, leaving it on the table as they put together a simple meal.

It was not until they were seated, tea poured and bread buttered, that he noticed it again–she saw him read the envelope–start–and read it again, more closely.

"Is there something wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing more than unusual," he said, picking the envelope up.  "I have a letter from–from my delm."

The old man who hated the fact of him, who had sent him among strangers, careless of whether he might fail or thrive; more surely an orphan than she had ever been.

"Has he never written you before?"

"No, never," Don Eyr said, apparently finding nothing strange in this.  "Mr. dea'Bon writes, and once, after I had first come here, Mrs. ban'Teli wrote.  No one else."

If he found nothing strange, at least he found nothing dreadful, either.  Serana lifted the teapot and refilled his cup.

Don Eyr slit the envelope open with a butter knife, and removed a single sheet of paper.

He stared at it, frowning, and she recalled his concern that he had forgotten his native tongue, having had so little use for it. . .

"I am–called home," Don Eyr said, sounding, for the first time in their acquaintance, uncertain.  He looked up to meet her eyes.  "Back to Liad, that is.  I am to come immediately."

"Why such haste?"

"He does not say, merely to come at once; the clan has need of–oh."

She saw the blush mount his cheeks as his mouth tightened, and he raised his head again to meet her eyes.

"Oh?" she asked.

"Yes.  I think I see.  He has arranged a marriage for me–I can think of nothing else he might mean by of use to the clan."

"He has arranged a marriage?"  Serana repeated.  Her stomach ached, as if she had taken a punch.  "But–would he not at least write you the name of your wife?"

"Not necessarily.  In fact, it would be very like him to think it no concern of mine."  He glanced back at the letter, mouth tight, folded it, slid it into the envelope, and put the envelope on the table, address down.

He picked up his tea cup.

Serana carefully released the breath she had been holding.  He was going to ignore this peremptory and rude summoning.  Well, of course he was!  What hold had the old man over him, now?

"I think," Don Eyr said slowly, "that we must change our plans, somewhat.  You will go to Ezhel'ti, if you would, and see the house put to order, perhaps look about for a proper location for the boulangerie."

"Will I?" she said, watching him.  "And where will you go, little one?"

He blinked at her.

"I?  I will go to Liad, as my delm has ordered, and be of use to the clan.  When the marriage is finished, I will join you on Ezhel'ti."

He said it so calmly, as if it made perfect sense.  As if the scheming old man was his patron, and must, therefore, be obeyed!

"When do you expect that the marriage will be finished?" she asked, calm in her turn.

He moved his shoulders.

"If I recall my Code correctly, which is not very likely; a contract marriage lasts a Liaden year, on average.  It ends when the child is born, and has been accepted into the receiving clan."

He sent her a shrewd glance.

"It is an alliance the delm wants.  An alliance that would be good for the clan, else he would not pursue it, but not. . .grand enough to marry out the na'delm."

He was so certain about this marriage, she thought, as if there were no possibility of it going wrong.  Well, she had promised to be suspicious for him, had she not?

"I will go with you," she said, nodding at the letter.

Don Eyr blinked at her.

"Serana, I do not think that you would. . .like. . ." he began, and she leaned forward to lay a finger across his lips.

"I would not like that you were bedding another woman?  You are correct.  However, we have not promised each other monogamy, and if you must marry to seal a good alliance for your clan; I believe I may accommodate that.  It will be far better if I am with you, little one.  You have lost the way of the homeworld, and will need someone on your off-side."

His lips bent into an ironic smile.

"I have undoubtedly forgotten much.  But Serana, I have forgotten things you have never known!"

"Ah, but I do not need to know!  I am a barbarian, as anyone can see by looking at me.  In fact, I am your bodyguard, such being the custom of Lutetia."

She leaned forward, and put her hand over his, holding his eyes with hers.

"Don Eyr.  Petit. Can you not ignore this. . .summons?"

He drew a breath.

"I think not–no."

"So, you will go to Liad, and accomplish this duty your delm demands of you?"

"Yes," he said, though not with any eagerness.

"Very well.  If that is what you will do, then I will come with you."

Silence.

Serana took a deep, quiet breath.

"If you do not want me, only say so, little one."

His free hand came to rest atop hers.

"But I cannot say so, Serana," he said.  He leaned forward and brushed his lips across hers.

"Come, then," he murmured; "I want you."

THREE

Liad

The melant'i plays that Serana had purchased had proved a valuable resource, giving insight into how the Liaden Code of Proper Conduct might–and might not–be used to one's own advantage.

For instance, the Code stated only that a child of the clan summoned home by the delm may enter the house by the front door, which would seem adamantine.

However, the melant'i plays illustrated the power of may.

May permitted choice, and thus Don Eyr paid off the taxi at the corner, and walked round to the servant's door, where, as a child, he had been accustomed to going and coming, so as not to risk affronting the delm with his presence.

Serana, in her guise as his bodyguard, walked half-a-step behind his left shoulder.

He found the small door in the wall, and pressed his palm against the plate.  There came a small click, and he stepped inside, Serana ducking in behind him.

He made certain the door had sealed, then paused to take his bearings.

"The kitchen," he said, looking up at her, "is to the left."

She gave him a smile, and he started forward–and stopped as a woman stepped quickly out of the left-hand hallway.

She was a neat, elderly woman, her grey hair in a knot at the back of her head.  She was wearing a house uniform of puce and green–Serat's colors.

"Who–" she began; and stopped, staring.

"Mrs. ban'Teli," he said, showing her his empty hands.  "It is Don Eyr."

"So it ever was, Don Eyr," she said, coming forward to put her hands in his.  "You look well, but–Child, whatever are you doing here?"

"The delm has called me home," he said, smiling at her.

"Has he?"  This seemed to concern her; her fingers tensed on his.  "Why?"

"He forgot to put down the reason in his letter," he said lightly, noting that she was trembling slightly, and also that the collar of her uniform was somewhat frayed, and her apron had been carefully mended with thread that did not quite match.

"You are a son of the House," Mrs. ban'Teli said then.  "You should come in by the front door."

"Yes, and so I would have done," Don Eyr assured her, "save that I wished to see you first, and also to ask if you will give my poor Serana some tea in the kitchen, while I go to the delm."

He stepped slightly aside, and Serana came forward, offering a very nice bow.

"Madame," she said, gently, in her Letitian-accented Liaden.  "I have heard much about you, and am pleased to meet you at last."

Mrs. ban'Teli performed a quick inventory, eyes bright, and bowed in her turn.

She looked back to Don Eyr.

"I will be pleased to bring your companion to the kitchen and see her comfortable," she said, which was also, he thought, a promise to ask many questions.  That was expectable; he and Serana had agreed between them that all such questions would be met with truth.  The kitchen staff did not bore the delm with the business of the kitchen.

"Come," said Mrs. ban'Teli, "both of you.  We will see Lady Serana settled, and for you, sir, we will call Mr. pak'Epron, who will guide you properly to the delm.  He is in his study with the papers, so it is likely that he would not have heard the bell in any case."

#

Serat sat behind a desk covered in the racing papers.  So much was unchanged from Don Eyr's memories of the delm.  He looked up with considerable irritation when Mr. pak'Epron said quietly, "Master Don Eyr, sir."

"Go away," Serat said, and Mr. pak'Epron did so.  Despite his inclinations, Don Eyr did not go away, but walked toward the desk and the two chairs set there.  One was piled high with even more racing sheets, but the other was –

"Stop there!" snapped Serat.  "I have not given you leave to approach!"

Don Eyr stopped, and stood, hands folded neatly before him.  He took a deep breath, and waited for further instructions.

"Does your delm merit no bow?"

Ah, yes, thought Don Eyr; he was in violation of courtesy.  No wonder the old man was testy.

He produced the required bow–clanmember to delm–and straightened, murmuring, "Serat," in as neutral a tone as he could manage.

The old man glared at him.

"Why are you come?"

Don Eyr felt a tremble along his nerves.  Had the old man forgotten?  Could he, in fact, have merely ignored that peremptory letter and gone about his life?

Too late now to know the answers to those questions.  Don Eyr inclined his head slightly, and said, quietly.

"You sent for me, sir."

There was a sniff.

"And you came.  Remarkable.  Your mother refused to come home when our delm sent for her.  He froze her accounts, but she continued to disobey.  Afraid, of course; she had already lost most of the clan's investments."  He paused, looking Don Eyr up and down.

"You might have dressed to the delm's honor, but I suppose this is the best an impecunious student might do.  Also, your accent is deplorable, which I suppose is expectable.  However!  I will have the proper mode from you, sirrah!  That, at least, you will produce correctly.  Abra is a stickler for such things and you will not give him insult!  Am I plain?"

"No, sir," said Don Eyr, perhaps unwisely.

Papers crinkled as the old man's fingers closed on the sheets layering his desk.

"Are you defying me?"

"I do not see how I might do so, sir.  Surely defiance may only follow comprehension," Don Eyr answered, keeping the mode in mind.

"Stupid, too," said Serat, and Don Eyr took a breath, thinking of Serana in the kitchen, sharing tea with Mrs. ban'Teli.

It was not, he told himself, unjust.  He had been stupid, and Serana had been correct:  He need not have come.

He thought then of the portions of the house he had seen on his way from the kitchens.  It seemed that everything was shabby–worn, and that in at least one room there were signs that a rather large painting had been removed from the wall, and a piece of furniture, as well.

Serat needs this marriage, he thought then, not for alliance, but for money.

"What is it that I am required to do for the clan?" he asked, rather as if he were addressing a recalcitrant student than the delm of Serat.

The old man across the desk stared him up and down.

"You are required to go to Abra's house in the city and place yourself at his service.  You are to say that you stand the payment of Serat's debt, which is now cleared."

"Am I to be married, then?" Don Eyr asked, his recent perusal of the Code having given him the very distinct notion that there were proprieties to be followed, papers to be filed. . .

"Married?  No.  Go away."

Serat was bent over his papers again; Don Eyr was already forgotten.  Or perhaps not.

He bowed to the delm's honor, turned and let himself out of the study, closing the door quietly behind him.

He closed his eyes, took three deep breaths, opened his eyes and saw a figure hovering discreetly near the archway into the main hall.

"Mr. pak'Epron."

"Yes, Master Don Eyr."

"Is my cousin Vyk Tor in the house?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good," said Don Eyr.  "Please take me to him."

#

"Cousin Don Eyr."

Like his uncle, his cousin Vyk Tor was also found behind a desk smothered in paper–though these seemed to be business documents, and files, some on the letterhead of Mr. dea'Bon's office.

"May I give you a glass of wine?" his cousin asked, rising.

Don Eyr sighed.

"Thank you, a glass of wine would be most welcome," he said.

"You've been to see Father, then," said Vyk Tor, crossing the room to the wine table.

Don Eyr considered the small office, finding the same signs of shabbiness and deferred maintenance that were apparent elsewhere in the house.

His cousin turned from the table, glasses in hand, and moved toward the table and chairs set before the large window.

"Let us sit here," he said.  "The prospect is slightly more pleasing than my desk."

Don Eyr joined him, took the offered glass, and sipped, automatically judging the vintage, and finding it–surprisingly–mundane.

He frowned slightly.  His memory was that Serat had demanded expensive wines at table.  A vintage such as this. . .

"The wine offends?"

He gave his cousin a frank look, remembering too late that to stare boldly into a man's face was to be rude.

"The wine–surprises," he said, and sank into the chair.  His cousin stiffened, then relaxed and took his own chair.

"Understand," Don Eyr said, "I have spent the last dozen Standards learning wines and foods, in a culture that values wine and food. . .very much."

Vyk Tor tipped his head.

"I thought we had sent you to be a baker."

"That, too," Don Eyr said composedly.  "One must certify for three specialties before one is permitted to graduate."

"I had not known the curriculum was so. . .rigorous," said his cousin, drinking deeply.

"The Lutetia École de Cuisine is a premier school.  Their graduates go on to become chefs in the houses of queens, and in the great restaurants of the universe.  Or," he raised his glass, "they found great restaurants."

"And you, have you founded your restaurant?"

"I was on my way to found a boulangerie on Ezhelt'i when Serat called me home.  Now that I am here, I am bewildered.  It seems I am not to marry for the advantage of the clan, but what I am meant to do eludes me."

Vyk Tor sighed.

"You must forgive Father," he began, and stopped at Don Eyr's sharp movement.

"No," he said, taking a deep breath against the growing anger; "I am not required to forgive Serat.  Indeed, I begin to question whether I am required to obey him."

"Surely you are required to obey him!" his cousin said sharply.  "He is the delm!  The clan has brought you into adulthood; and seen you educated, and nourished!"

"So it has," said Don Eyr, dryly, and decided upon a change of topic.

"I missed a painting in the withdrawing room, when Mr. pak'Epron guided me to the delm; and it seemed also a divan had been removed.  Is the house being remodeled?"

"The House," his cousin said, on the sharp edge of a sigh, "is foundering.  I found by going through the clan's past finances that Father has always gambled.  In fact, he lost his private fortune some years ago.  That was when he began gambling with Serat's fortune."

Don Eyr stared at him.

"The qe'andra did not prevent him?"

"The qe'andra are in the clan's employ.  Mr. dea'Bon withdrew himself, when it became apparent that Father would not abstain, but his heir. . .did not.  We are not quite run off our legs, but we have had to embrace–" He raised his wine glass–"economies, as well as selling off certain items of value."

He drank, finishing the glass, and put it on the table.

"Thank the gods, we have not yet been required to sell our business interests."

Don Eyr put his glass on the table.

"Can you not curb him?"

His cousin looked at him with interest.

"How would you suggest I do that?"

This was familiar ground; many of the plays he and Serana had watched turned on points of honor between delm and na'delm.

"You are the na'delm.  Surely, if the delm is not able–or endangers the clan. . ."

He stopped because his cousin was laughing.

"I have been able to move some of the businesses, and some of our stocks, into the na'delm's honor.  I made a bolder throw, for all of our finances, and Father felt it necessary to tell me that he would declare me dead if I continued in my grasping ways."

He moved a hand–wearily, thought Don Eyr.

"Dead, I can do nothing.  If I remain, at least I can do. . .something."

There was for the moment, silence.  Don Eyr looked at his half-empty wine glass.  Did not pick it up.

"In any case, that is where you come in, Cousin.  Our funding is insufficient to pay off Arba's amount, but he agrees to accept one of Clan Serat to do such errands as might be assigned, at the compensation rate for unskilled labor, minus the costs of food and lodging, until such time as the debt has been balanced."

Don Eyr sat, feeling the blood roar in his ears, thinking of the house on Ezhel'ti; the clan of his father, which had been willing to acknowledge him.

Of Serana.

Gods, Serana.

"The delm has sold me to pay off his gambling debts," he said, his voice flat, and without mode.

"In a word," his cousin said; "yes."

* * *

They were taken in to Mr. dea'Bon without delay; the butler announcing them in soft, respectful tones.

"Lord Don Eyr fer'Gasta Clan Serat.  Captain Serena Benoit."

The old man rose from behind his desk and bowed, to Serena's eye, with proper respect for her small one.

"Your Lordship," he said, and there was respect in the soft voice, too; a certain fondness in the gaze that she might have missed, had she not seen the melant'i plays.

Don Eyr raised a hand.

"Certainly, I am no lordship," he began, and the old gentleman raised a hand in turn.

"Certainly, you are; and I am delighted to be at your service.  You're looking well, sir."

He might have argued, save his temper was already fully engaged, and the old gentlemen was in no way its target.  Serena was informed; she had not previously been privileged to see Don Eyr angry.  To know that he was not only capable of righteous rage, but remained its master–those things were good to know.

So, no argument, but a bow, less deep than the one he had received, because, so Serana deduced, the old gentleman would have it that way.

"I am pleased to see you again, sir; I only wish it might be under happier circumstances."

"Ah."  The old gentleman looked wise.  "You come to me from Serat."

He glanced at the butler, who remained in the doorway.

"Wine and a tray, if you will, Mr. ben'Darble.  Lord Don Eyr and Captain Benoit are doubtless in need of refreshment after a trying afternoon."

"Sir."  The butler bowed and was gone, closing the door silently behind him.

"I am remiss," her small one said then, and extended a hand to bring her forward.  "This is Serana Benoit.  You may speak to her as to myself."

It was a phrase from the plays.  They had supposed, between them, that it had signaled a trust that went beyond mere clan connections, and thus seldom found favor with the delms of drama.  Certainly, it meant something more than mere words to the old gentleman.

He was not so unsubtle as to raise even an eyebrow, but he considered her now with interest, rather than merely courtesy.  She bowed, as would a Watch Captain to solid citizen.

"Sir."

"Captain Benoit; I am honored," he said, returning her bow precisely.

Straightening, he spoke again to Don Eyr.

"By your goodness, my lord–Captain–sit; take your ease.  I know something of why you have come, I think.  Be assured that my service is to you; not Serat, nor the na'delm.  You may speak frankly to me.  Everything you say will  remain in this room, in the memory of we three; and recorded in my personal client files, which I share with no one, except on those same terms of confidentiality."

Don Eyr sighed; moved toward the chair at the right side of the old gentleman's desk, and paused to look to her.

She gave him a smile and a nod.

"I am well, here," she said, sliding into the too-small chair, and folding her legs expertly under her.

He smiled, faintly, and seated himself, whereupon the tray arrived and was disposed. The butler, assured that they could, indeed, look after themselves, left them, closing the door silently behind.  The old gentleman poured wine; they sipped, Serana noting Don Eyr's shoulders softening somewhat as he tasted the vintage.

His glass set to one side, the old gentleman leaned back in his chair, looked to Don Eyr, and said, simply, "Tell me."

#

Don Eyr wilted somewhat in his chair, weary with the telling.  The old gentleman steepled his fingers, his gaze abstracted.  Serana, not wishing to disturb a genius at his work, but unwilling to see her petit in need, rose, refreshed all three glasses, and placed two of the delicate sandwiches on the plate at Don Eyr's hand.

He smiled up at her.

"Thank you," he murmured in Lutetian.

"It is nothing; do not exhaust yourself before the battle."

She laid a hand on his shoulder, pressing for a moment before returning to her own chair and meeting the old gentleman's eyes.

He inclined his head gravely and turned to Don Eyr.

"Serat's actions are by Code.  They are deplorable, but the Code does not disallow.  The resources of the clan are for the delm to dispense.  I will mention that this is the precise paragraph which Serat quotes. . .often. . .to justify his use of the clan's funds."

The old gentleman reached for his wine glass.

"Therefore, there is nothing for either the qe'andra nor the Council to take up."

Serana felt her own anger, well-banked against the hour when it would be useful to her–and to him–flicker and flare.  In his chair, Don Eyr drew a breath, but said nothing.

The old gentleman inclined his head.

"We do, yes, have hope that the contract may be broken–not by you, but by Arba."

"You think that Delm Arba will not accept my service?"  Don Eyr said, the accent of home gilding his mode.  "I will be delighted to present myself in the worst possible light."

The old man smiled.

"Indeed, you must present yourself as you are–a lord in the delm's line, second only to the na'delm of Serat.  You are an honorable man."

He sipped his wine, and set the glass side.

"Abra, I fear, is not an honorable man.  For proof, we have the record of his many fines paid to the Council for violations of Code.  You must be vigilant.  When he breaks with the Code, as he will do, you must relay this breach to me, so that I may act on your behalf."

"Is it so certain that he will violate the Code?" Don Eyr asked, brows drawn.

The old gentleman smiled.

"With Abra, it is as if the Code is an enemy he must strike at again and again.  He is no more able to help himself than Serat can refrain from placing wagers.  All you need do is wait, and be vigilant."

Serana stirred.  Don Eyr and Mr. dea'Bon turned to her.

"Is he dangerous, this man?" she asked.

"One of the fines Abra paid was to the Guild of Qe'andra, for the death of an apprentice.  The child had found a second set of books, and was, as required by the protocols of his house and those of the Guild, in the process of documenting the incident.  Abra ordered him to stop; the child stated that he was not able to do so.  Abra struck him. . ."

There was a small pause; the old gentleman extended a hand to toy with his glass.

". . .and killed him.  Abra paid the life-price without protest, which I think is telling in itself."

"Yes," said Serana.  "I have known such men.  Thank you."

"Of course."

Don Eyr had gathered himself once more, sitting alert in his chair.

"Thank you, sir.  I am grateful for your time and insights.  I ask."

"By all means, sir.  I will answer to the best of my ability."

"I am long away from the Code, alas, but it is my understanding that I may become dead to the clan.  I wish this to occur as speedily as possible."

"Ah."

The old gentleman's smile was edged with regret.

"The only person who may declare a clan member dead is the delm.  In this case, I think we may agree that Serat will do no such thing.  Also, having obeyed the summons to return, you are now in the position of having accepted the Delm's Word.  If you should simply leave, after having been instructed in your duty by the delm, you will be pursued, arrested, and brought back."

He paused, and spread his palms.

"The Council has much precedent for this, I fear."

Silence, before Don Eyr bowed his head and gathered himself to rise.  Serana ached to hold him; the busy mind had produced the best solution for this absurd situation–and it had been checked and blocked.  Don Eyr was not accustomed to losing, Serana realized abruptly.  The relative modesty of his goals had kept this aspect of his nature hidden, until now.

"I think your lordship was not given his suite at Serat's clanhouse for the night?" said Mr. dea'Bon delicately.

Don Eyr tipped his head to one side.

"I was not.  Apparently, Abra is to provide all things for me."

"Yet, as little as Abra values virtue, he does value courtesy, though neither so much as his own comfort.  If you will allow me to advise you once more, I would suggest that you send a note around by one of my house's staff, stating that you will wait upon Delm Abra tomorrow in the early afternoon.  This will insure he is not wakened too early in the day, which may lead to bad temper.  Also, if you wish, you and Captain Benoit may partake of the hospitality of this House, where you may rest easy tonight."

Don Eyr bowed, abruptly.  Serana thought it might have been done to hide an excess of emotion.

"You are far too good to us, sir."

"That would be difficult.  Now, if you please, I will call Mr. ben'Darble to show the way to  your. . ."

He paused, delicately, and Don Eyr murmured.

"Room, if you please, sir."

"Indeed.  Mr. ben'Darble will show you to your suite.  I very much hope that you will join us for the prime meal, but if you prefer, it will be brought to you."

He stood and bowed.

"Please," he said, and Serana felt tears prick her eyelids.  "Be welcome in our House."

* * *

If Abra's house was too fine for the street it graced, Abra was too fine for the house.  Or, Serana thought darkly, so he wished to appear.  Certainly, he dressed well, with many small jewels glittering about his person, and rings on his fingers.  His hair was pale brown, as if he had left it too long in the sun; extravagantly curled, and perfumed.  His face was long, his mouth cruel, and his chin weak.  At the moment, he was. . .amused; coolly so.  It must seem to him, Serana thought, that Don Eyr was the merest sweet morsel, which he must be careful not to consume too quickly.

"Now, it seems to me that Serat and I had agreed that I would accept the service of Telma fer'Gasta's by-blow in payment for his debt.  I do not recall mention of a. . .pet, and I can assure you that I will neither feed it nor pay it."

Don Eyr remained calm in the face of these insults, which were of course meant to touch him and try him.  It was well, Serana thought, that he did so, though it would only mean that Abra would strike harder, next time.

"Sir," she said, stepping forward, and speaking as if she had much less of the language than she did.  "I am Serana Benoit.  I am Lord Don Eyr's bodyguard, and I have been paid, sir, with the money upfront, for a contract of seven years.  There are yet five years remaining on this contract, and so I am here."

He stared at her, the cruel mouth thin with distaste.  Serana returned his regard, mildly, until at last, he turned away and spoke to Don Eyr.

"A bodyguard?"

Don Eyr bowed.

"All high-ranking Lutetian persons employ a bodyguard."

"I was told you were a baker."

Don Eyr said nothing.

"I repeat that I will not feed it," Abra said after a moment.

"You need not feed me, sir," said Serana.  "I account my expenses, and my lord pays them.  It is in the contract.  Perhaps sir would like to see it?"

Abra drew a hard breath, but did not turn his head.  Once more, he addressed Don Eyr.  "You will instruct it not to speak to me."

Don Eyr bowed, briefly, and Serana thought she saw the flicker of a knife in that gesture.

"Serana," he said, turning to face her, and speaking in the mode known as Comrade.  "You are relieved of the burden of his lordship's conversation.  Please do not speak to him directly, as it agitates his melant'i."

He turned back to Abra, and met his eyes.

"His lordship will naturally refrain from addressing you," he continued, "as I am certain that doing so must also distress him extremely."

Abra's eyes were cold, his beringed fingers were tight on the arm of his chair.  He inclined his head gracefully, however.

"We come now to the matter of your domestic arrangements.  As you are my servant, a room has been set aside for you in the servant's wing."

He paused, perhaps to savor an anticipated protest, as this was, Serana saw, yet another insult.

Don Eyr inclined his head slightly, face attentive.

"You will take your meals with the servants," Abra continued after a moment, his cruel mouth tight.

"As I am your servant," Don Eyr murmured.  "Exactly so."

That was perhaps an error, to have shown so much spirit.  Abra's eyes gleamed, and he gave a curt nod.

"You are dismissed.  I will be going out this evening you will wait upon me.  I will summon you when I am ready to leave."

With that, he turned his back on them, pretending to busy himself at his screen.

Don Eyr bowed, turned and let them out, closing the door very quietly behind them.

"Now the question becomes," he said softly in Lutetian, "which is more amusing, to have us caught as thieves in his house, or showing all the world his new possession?"

"Surely," Serana answered, "he will go for the long game, that man."

"Indeed.  Now–ah."

He stepped quickly to a small side hall, and looked inside.  The woman who had let them in stood there, impassive, but clearly interested.

"Good day to you," Don Eyr said easily in Comrade.  "I am new in his lordship's employ.  He has graciously granted me and my household a room in the servant's wing.  Will you teach me how to arrive there?"

The butler stirred slightly, and Serana saw her weighing which course would anger her master more–to aid the newcomer or to allow him to wander the house.  Commonsense decided the day, or a realization of proper duty.  In any case, she offered a small nod.

"I will show you," she said.

* * *

It was a small room, though not nearly as rude as he had prepared himself to entertain.  It was not, however, kind to Serana's proportions.

"Well," she said, good-naturedly, "at least here I may lose myself entirely in passion."

He considered her.

"How so?"

"Why, I will not have to constantly be aware of the eaves, and their proximity to my head.  Only think how we may soar, now that my attention will not be divided."

"Of course," he said, politely.  "But, consider, Serana, the size of this room, not only of the bed.  It is not a hovel, but I would not see you here.  We shall ask Mr. dea'Bon to find you a more fitting apartment. . ."

"If this place fits you, it fits me," Serana interrupted him.  She leaned forward and touched his cheek.  "Little one, accept that I will not leave you alone in that man's hand.  He does not want a servant; he wants a whipping boy.  It will please him to taunt you.  Already he insults your birth."

"No," said Don Eyr; "he is nothing more than factual.  I was not born from a proper contract, nor was I caught at Festival.  I am the product of an affair of pleasure, whom my mother decided to regularize."

"In fact, you were born of love," said Serana.

He smiled.

"In fact, you are a woman of Lutetia," he answered her.  "And, indeed–it is Abra's error, that he attempts to diminish my melant'i.  As the plays teach us–we each know the value of our own melant'i."

He took a breath.

"I am not, however, certain of my answer, the next time he insults you."

"But he will not insult me again!  I have been instructed not to speak to him, and he has been instructed not to speak to me."

"He takes my instruction exactly so much as you do," he said, sounding bitter in his own ears.  "Serana, this. . .this gallimaufry is nothing of yours.  I would not see you waste your life.  You are made for–for bold ventures, and fair.  This is. . .drab and dreary, and–wholly unworthy of you."

She smiled at him, and he knew he would not win this argument.  Oh, he could send her away.  All he needed do was tell her that he did not want her and she would remove herself immediately.  The words settled on the edge of his tongue.  He would tell her–Serana, I do not want you.  She would leave him to pursue her own life, free of this stupid circumstance he had brought her to. . .

And, yet. . .he could not bring the lie to his lips.

"Come," she said cheerfully, "let us find the kitchen, and see what arrangements might be made."

"Arrangements?"  he asked, his heart aching.

"Indeed.  You have not had your luncheon, and if that man is feeding you, he can begin now."

#

The kitchen they found easily enough by following their noses.  Don Eyr paused on the threshold, Serana at his back, and surveyed the area, pleased to find it clean and well-appointed, with proper stations, staffed appropriately.

He felt some of the tension leave him, soothed by this display of orderly busyness.

"May I help you. . .sir?"

The grizzled over-chef was approaching, wiping his hands on a towel, looking from him to Serana.  Plainly, he had not been told about the new servant and his bodyguard, Don Eyr thought.  And, plainly, it suited the master's whim to make the assimilation of the new servant into his household as difficult as possible.

"I am Don Eyr fer'Gasta," he said, bowing to the chef's honor; "newly arrived to serve Delm Abra.  This is my companion, Serana Benoit.  One was told that the house would feed me, and I have come to speak with you regarding the necessities of the kitchen, so that I do not impede your work."

The over-chef was. . .puzzled, but gracious.

"I had not been informed of your arrival," he said.  "The house is sometimes not so forthcoming with the kitchen as one would wish.  We are preparing Prime, but surely there is food at the staff table.  I will show you.  My name is Mae Nir vas'Urbil."

"It was Abra's word," Serana said as they crossed the busy kitchen toward a window at the back, "that he will not feed me, as I am not employed by the house, but am here on Don Eyr's account."

Chef vas'Urbil frowned.

"I recall now," he said, looking closely at Don Eyr's face.  "You're the lad Serat lost at cards."

Don Eyr bowed gently, not slackening his pace.

"Here.  We keep this area stocked for staff; you may eat at any hour that duty does not claim you."  He glanced at Serana.  "Both of you.  Abra has not given me any instructions regarding new servants in the house, and this kitchen can feed two more as easily as one."

"You are kind," Don Eyr murmured.

Chef vas'Urbil moved a hand.

"I am efficient, and I keep within budget.  That is what Abra cares about.  Now –"

A lamentation rose from a far corner of the kitchen.

"The bread!"  cried a voice.  "Ah, the bread!"

Don Eyr was moving before he recalled that this was not his kitchen to oversee, and by then, he had arrived at the ovens, and the lamenting under-baker there.

"What is the difficulty?" asked the chef, who had arrived at Don Eyr's shoulder.

"The bread, sir; it did not rise.  And there is no time to begin again.  I –"

"When is Prime?" asked Don Eyr.

"In two hours," said Chef vas'Urbil.

"May I assist?"  Don Eyr asked.  "I do not wish to disorder your kitchen.  This, however, is  is my work; I am trained in bread."

"Who trained you?"

"I have graduated from Ècole de Cuisine at Lutetia."

Chef vas'Urbil blinked.

Then, he waved a hand.

"If you know what to do, Baker, by all means, do it.  I have a kitchen to oversee."

"Yes," said Don Eyr and turned to the weeping under-baker, feeling very much in his element, even to the point of calming an overwrought student.

"What we shall do is make petit pain," he told her.  She stared at him.

"Sir?"

"Small breads," he said briskly.  "They rise once, and bake quickly.  We have time enough; and they will arrive pleasingly hot at the table."

"I do not –"

"I will demonstrate," he told her moving around the station, and plucking an apron from a hook.

"What is your name?"

"Zelli, sir."

"Well, Zelli, my name is Don Eyr.  I have done this many times before, and can assure you that we are in no danger of failing.  Is the mixer clean and ready?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good.  Now attend me. . ."

* * *

Serana started up from the chair where she had been reading.

"Tell me he did not do this."

Don Eyr sat on the edge of the bed.  His face hurt, and his pride, though he had not been struck in public.  He was not accustomed to being struck.  Worse, it had taken every ounce of his will, not to strike back.

"Of course, he did it," he said now to Serana.  "It is his right, is it not?  The Code and the plays teach us that a delm may do what the delm pleases to all members of the clan, including taking their lives.  My delm gave me into Abra's care."

"He will not live to strike you again," Serana said calmly.

He looked up sharply.

"Go," he said, his voice harsh.  "Leave me now."

Shock etched her face.

"Don Eyr–"

He held up a hand.

"I will not be the instrument of your ruin!  I will not see you tarnish yourself.  I will not–"

His voice broke, and to his own horror, he began to cry.

Serana turned abruptly, and left the room, the door closing behind her.

Don Eyr gasped.

"Good," he said raggedly, and bent over until his forehead rested on his knees.  He tried to regulate his breathing, to master the tears, to –

Serana was gone.  He was alone.  It was well; he ought to send to Mr. dea'Bon, to be certain that she had passage wherever she wished to go.  The house on Ezhel'ti was hers, he would make it so, if she wished to establish herself there, or to –

The door cycled.  Gentle hands were on his shoulders.

"Sit up, petit; allow me to examine this bruise.  Here.  Here is ice, and I have also some salve which is recommended to me by the night cook.  A tray will be brought, wine, cheese, and fruits.  We shall make a merry feast, eh?"

He jerked under the soft pressure of her fingers.

"He did not withhold himself, I see.  First, the ice, then the salve. . ."

The cold stung, then numbed.

"Serana–you must go."

"Indeed, little one; I must not.  You have the right of it; to kill this man would not be at all clever.  I give you my word that I will not kill him.  May I remain?"

He reached out, half-blind with weeping, and touched her lips.

"I am weak.  Yes, Serana.  Please stay."

* * *

For the first relumma of service, Abra was content to take Don Eyr on his evening rounds of pleasure, explaining to everyone he met who his servant was and how he had come into Abra's service.  This generated much gossip, which Abra was certain would discommode his new toy, especially the betting pool regarding the exact day and time when Serat crumbled under the weight of its own debts and was written out of the Book of Clans, and the rumors regarding Don Eyr's mother.

After that sport had worn thin, Don Eyr was given various menial tasks that took him to the borders of Low and Mid-Port, Abra having ownership of many of the most disreputable houses on that border.  He was always glad to have Serana with him, but especially so on these errands, where he felt her long, competent presence was everything that prevented him being robbed.

There were periods when he was "on-call"–constrained to remain in the house and await the master's word.  These might have lain heavier on him had there not be the kitchen, and the beginning of a friendship between himself and Mae Nir vas'Urbil.  He was welcome in the kitchen at any time, to teach, or to create whatever pleased him.  Those creations went to the staff room, and thus he won the goodwill, if not the friendship, of staff.

On the occasions when they both had an hour free, Don Eyr and Mae Nir would sit at study, the over-chef having produced a book of recipes from the Lutetia École de Cuisine, translated to Liaden from Lutetian.  Serana gathered that the translation was inadequate to the utmost, and Don Eyr spent much time explaining–and occasionally demonstrating–certain techniques which had not translated at all.

For her part, Serana taught those of the staff who wished to learn disengages, and feints.  It seemed Abra's guests were not always of impeccable melant'i, and sometimes went so far as to touch that which was not theirs.  It would not do to provide lasting harm to Abra's guests, so Serana told her students; however, no one could possibly object to receiving a small lesson.

In this manner, two relumma passed, and Abra had not yet, in their sight, done one bit of violence to the Code.

On the morning of the first day of his third relumma of service, Abra called Don Eyr to his office.

"I have acquired a piece of land in Low Port, at the corner of Offal Court and Pudding Lane.  Before it can be put to use, it needs to be cleared of debris.  See to it."

FOUR

Low Port

The enforcers were coming.  That was the word on the street.

Abra's enforcers.

He had put the most able on the outer walls, the least able inside walls.  There was a risk there, that those inside would be easy meat, once he had fallen.  He had thought to send them away.  If there had been any place safer than this place that he had made, he would have sent them away.

But, this was Low Port.  There was no safety in Low Port, save being stronger than everyone else.

There were bolt holes from the inner room–tunnels too small for an adult to use.  They would be able to get away, when–if–away.  Out into Low Port, where they would be prey.

And he would be forsworn.

"Here they come," he heard someone say as feet hurried past his huddling place.

Jax Ton peered carefully around the edge of the wall, his cheek rubbing the gritty old stone.

Yes, here they were, just coming 'round the corner.  Not Low Porters, you could tell by the clothes, and by the walk.  Up Porters, they walked firm, like they could take anything on the street.  A lot of them, they didn't look, and that got them in trouble.  These two, though. . .

These two walked alert, and he'd seen them, he realized.  Both of them, together, just like now.  A dark-haired man, walking light and watchful; at his back a giantess, with cropped red hair, who walked even lighter, her eyes sweeping the street like beacons.

They were coming this way.  Of course, they were coming this way.

Jax Ton made sure of his grip, and said, in a piercing whisper.

"Now."

* * *

Low Port was where the clanless, the criminal, and the mad collected.  There was no place for them in Mid-Port, and certainly not in High Port.  Rats strolled the broken streets at their leisure; buildings sagged, and occasionally fell down, from lack of care.  The people were hungry, and shabby, and, most of them, hopeless.  There were predators on every street, and a man might be murdered for a good pair of boots.

That had been Don Eyr's judgment of Low Port from his previous visits on Abra's behalf.  He realized now that he had not seen the worst of it.

The street was lined with basic shelters, from ragged tents and sagging inflatables, to huts built from scavenged bits of plastic, stone, and cardboard.

In fact, there was one building on the entire street–a stone pile that would likely survive a meteor strike.

Abra's property.

"Are we to bulldoze the walls," he asked Serana, "or merely pick up the trash?"

In fact, there was remarkably little trash around the walls, unlike the rest of the street.  There were also remarkably few pedestrians, though Don Eyr could feel the pressure of eyes watching from those tattered shelters.  No one challenged them, which happened often on the. . .better streets of Low Port, a circumstance that made his nerves tingle.

"Softly, little one," said Serana.  "There is a door.  Let us approach from either side, so that we do not tempt anyone into an indiscretion."

"Yes," he said and swung to the right, as Serana went to the left–

Directly into a hail of stones, and sticks.

He hit the ground, rolling on a shoulder, and rising to one knee, arms over his head to protect it.

Serana. . .

Serana had continued forward as if the missiles were made of whipped cream.  She went down on her knees some distance from the doorway, and held her hands up, palms showing.

"Peace," he heard her say, in a calm, carrying voice.  "Child, stand down.  We are not here to hurt you."

#

It was a terrible tale the lad, Jax Ton, told them–starting with his own family's ruin and destruction–a small clan, a small business located on the edge of Mid-Port and Low, in the section known as Twilight.  To throw suspicion off of themselves, a neighbor had given information against them for smuggling and human trafficking.  It wasn't true, Jax Ton said hotly; his delm would never have stood for it, but the Port Authority didn't care to hear the truth, so long as they put the fear of retribution into guilty and innocent alike.  The clan was broken; the elders arrested, and Jax Ton–Jax Ton had fled.  Into Low Port.  Growing up in the Twilight, he had friends in Low Port, or so he thought, until his friends tried to sell him and he ran again, not to Mid-Port, where the Proctors waited, but deeper into Low Port, where he found two children, starving, and spent his last coins to feed them.

Over time–Jax Ton wasn't entirely clear on how much time–three relumma?  A year?–more children had gathered to him, usually an elder child with a younger in their care.  They were eight, now, and Jax Ton; they had needed a safe place, a place that they, that was–

"Defensible," Serana said with a nod, looking 'round at the ring of tense faces.  "You have done well.  These walls will stand against a siege engine."

In fact, Don Eyr thought, looking at those same tense faces, they had done well, indeed.  The faces were grubby, perhaps, but not distressingly so, and while they were dressed in a motley of garments, those were, by local standards, clean.  Thin, yes, but not desperately so.  Wary, but not feral.  Or not quite feral.  No doubt, the elder ones were accomplished thieves.

There was nothing here that he had not seen before.  Lutetia had its poor, after all, and the Institute, sitting in the shadow of the Old City, saw them often.

"As much as this place meets your needs," he said now, speaking softly so as not to startle any of them, but Jax Ton, particularly.  It was Jax Ton they must win to trust.  The others would follow him.

"I regret, but you cannot stay here.  The man who owns this building is both acquisitive and cruel.  Best for all to relocate.  Is there another place, perhaps not quite so well arranged, where you might go?"

Jax Ton frowned, and one of the older children leaned forward.

"There's the Rooms," she said, speaking to Jax Ton.

"Need money for the Rooms," another child protested.

Don Eyr held up a hand.

"Money need not concern you at the moment.  Is it a place where you might keep together and in safety?"

Jax Ton looked at him, eyes wide.

"Money no concern?" he repeated.  "Will you pay for us?"

Plainly, he disbelieved it, and Don Eyr could not blame him.

"Indeed, I will pay for you.  More, we will escort you to this place, and see you settled and provisioned."

The boy was wary of a trap.  Of course he was.  Don Eyr waited.

"My friend, you cannot stay here," Serana said.  "What my partner has told you is true.  If we turn a blind eye and report this property clear, Abra will learn soon enough that we lied.  Aside from what may be done to Don Eyr for such transgression, you will again be exposed and in danger.  Best to retreat in good order, and establish a base elsewhere."

Jax Ton took a hard breath, looked around at his band of eight, wordlessly gathering their input.  His gaze moved to Don Eyr, to Serana, and he inclined his head, jerkily, as if the gesture were not much used.

"Yes," he said.  "We will go with you."

#

The Rooms was a rambling and ramshackle building that had, Don Eyr thought, once been half-a-dozen buildings, now connected by catwalks, ladders, and impromptu lifts.  It looked a veritable fire-trap, and the manager no better than she ought to be.  Still, she showed them a suite of rooms on the top floor, accessible by a stair, a woven rope walkway, and a catwalk connecting them to the next building.

Jax Ton inspected it, and Serana did, Don Eyr standing with the manager at the door.

"That's a twelfth-cantra for a relumma," she said.  "No business done up here, though if they wanna work, I can put 'em in touch."

Don Eyr feared he did not misunderstand her, which did nothing to reconcile him to this place.  To leave children here?  And, yet, they were capable children, and they had been surviving very well, snug inside their rock walls.  This. . .he looked around–plasboard walls, plasboard floor, plasboard ceiling with discolorations, here and there, which hinted that the rain came through.

"Yes," said Jax Ton, arriving with Serana.  Don Eyr looked at her over the boy's head, saw doubtful eyes in a grim face.

"That is well, then," he said to Jax Ton.  "Go and bring the others up."

"My money, sir," the manager said.

He turned.  Perhaps he moved too quickly; perhaps something of his thoughts showed on his face.  In any case, she stepped back.

"Your money," he repeated moderately.  "Of course.  Let us go to your office and settle the account."

#

The rent was paid for two relumma, and it did occur to Don Eyr that it was perhaps not quite wise to have exposed himself as a man who had so very much coin in his pocket.  Still, it was done, while Serana stood aside with Jax Ton, handing over a card, and speaking with him most earnestly.

The boy slipped the card into some inner pocket, and made sober reply, then extended both hands to catch Serana's.

"Thank you," Don Eyr heard him say as he left the manager's office.  "I am–grateful."

"Be wary, and take care," Serana told him.  "That is our thanks.  And remember–if there is trouble you cannot turn aside, send or come to that address.  I will help you."

It was on the tip of his tongue to correct that, but, there, Serana, as ever, had the right of it.  He could not promise we.  His life was ordered at the whim of Abra, who would surely do his utmost to thwart any assistance Don Eyr might offer.

"Sir, thank you."  The boy grasped Don Eyr's hand, his grip strong, and perhaps, a little, desperate.

"You are welcome," he said, smiling into the worried eyes.  "Be well, Jax Ton."

The boy left, climbing the swaying stairs like a squirrel.  He and Serana walked out to the street, and turned their steps toward Mid-Port.

They walked a block, and those pedestrians they encountered did very little to set his mind at ease regarding the fate of those eight children.

Don Eyr stopped, and looked up at Serana.

"They cannot be left there," he said.  "Capable as they are, they are too soft, too easy.  There are too many against them.  That woman–offered to guide them to a brothel, in case any wished to work."

"I agree," Serana said softly.  "They are too vulnerable.  I will return, and guard them.  You, with your twisty mind, will consider how we may do better for them.  Come, I will escort you to safer streets, and–"

"I need no escort," Don Eyr said, recalling the last group they had passed on this street.

"Go back to them, now, Serana.  I will. . .think of something."

She gazed into his face, hers showing wonder and no little irony.  At last, she raised a hand and touched his cheek.

"I will see them safe, petit.  Guard yourself close."

And with that, she turned and left him on the street.

#

"Children in the Low Port, my friend?"  Chef vas'Urbil looked doubtful.  "What would you have me do?"

"Advise me," Don Eyr said.  "Surely, there must be some safe place to which we can deliver them, where they can receive an education other than how to survive on the streets."

"As I understand it, that is the highest class available in Low Port," returned the chef.  He moved a hand.  "Understand me, I am not unsympathetic; children ought not to be in danger, and yet, Low Port. . .you will not find many in Mid-Port or High who will care to discuss Low Port.  It is widely held that those who live there deserve no better, else they would not have fallen so far.  There is no. . .agency. . .to support them."  He paused to sip his tea, and looked at Don Eyr with curiosity.

"Was it not thus at Lutetia?"

"At Lutetia there were slums, surely, and the poor.  But the city and the citizens provided some support.  Orphanages, clinics, schools."

The chef looked aside.

"We on Liad are not so kindly.  The clan is all and everything, as you have found. What recourse is there for you, ceded to Abra to cover your delm's markers?"

"None that I am aware of," Don Eyr said, and considered his friend with weary amusement.  "Is my delm an idiot?"

"That and more!" the chef said heatedly.  "He might have paid off Abra and gained income for the clan.  Only, he would have had to find investors for a restaurant, which would have been easy enough, with an École de Cuisine chef to manage it, not to say provide the breads and desserts!"

He looked thoughtful.

"Of course, investors would demand that the profits be safe from Serat, which he would not like, at all.  And, yet, this!  It is to throw you, and every hope of Serat ever coming about into the wind!"  He blow out a hard breath.

"Fool and son of a fool."

Don Eyr raised his eyebrows.

"Did you know my grandfather?"

"I am older than you, though not so old as that.  No, it was a tale to amaze all of Liad, that Serat chose to send his daughter outworld –"

"I have heard the tale," said Don Eyr, and the chef threw him a wise look.

"You have heard the gossip, I'll warrant, and the most malicious of it, at that.  Serat's daughter was sound; the son was a fool, but the son had not defied the father, nor called his judgment into question.  For those crimes, she was sent to mind the clan's faltering fortunes off-world, since she was wiser than her delm in finance.  The boy–your delm, now–grew up with the fixed notion that any competition for the ring was dangerous, and his intellect has plainly deteriorated from there."  He drank off what was left of his tea.

"Forgive me if I offend," he added.

Don Eyr laughed.

"Yes, well.  Returning to your children in the Low Port. . .I cannot advise you, save to walk away.  Life is cheap in the Low Port, and children's lives cheaper than most.  Rabbits among wolves, if they are without a clan or a. . .a group of some kind."

"And would you walk away from children in need?  Children in danger?"

His friend moved his shoulders, turning empty palms up.

"Gods grant it never comes to me, because, in truth, I do not know what I would do."

#

It had been Don Eyr's intention to return to Low Port within a day–two at the most– though his vaunted twisty brain had not yet produced a solution for the children.  Surely, there must be something. . .and Serana. . .

Serana was a warrior; she was cautious, and canny, and fully capable.

But Low Port was a killer, and he did not intend to leave her there without backup. . .

It was Abra's genius to know precisely how best to do harm.  For the next twelve-day, he kept Don Eyr busy from dawn to dawn, with errands all about the city and the port, and then to stand as his trained monkey, trailing him from party to gaming table to an assignation.

At the latter, the lady considered him with interest.

"Does it perform?"

"One supposes so," Abra said, voice languid and eyes glinting.  "Will you try it?"

"Perhaps I will–unless you do not care for competition?"

Abra raised his head at that, and there was a look in his eye that did not bode well for the lady, should she persist in this vein.  She ignored him, or perhaps she did not see.  Instead, she crossed the room to Don Eyr standing where he had been left, near the bureau.  He lowered his eyes, and recruited himself to stillness.

"I believe he is shy," said the lady, and he felt her stroke his hair.  "Serat's sister's child, you say?"

"It is what Serat says, in any case," said Abra, carelessly.  "Will you have him?"

"While you watch?"

"It fear so, as I own him, and must therefore be certain that he comes to no harm."

The lady snorted delicately.

"Surely, the Code forbids slavery," she said, trailing a slim hand down Don Eyr's arm, and raising his hand to her lips.

He stiffened as she blew lightly across his knuckles–before releasing him to toy again with his hair.

"But this is not slavery; it is the payment of a rather considerable debt.  In essence, I own him until such time as he has worked out the amount Serat owes me.  Which, given the leisurely pace at which he pursues his duties will be some years into his second lifetime."

"You might call the debt paid," said the lady.

"Now, why would I do that?"

"Ah, of course; I forget myself," said the lady, and slid her hand under Don Eyr's chin.

"Look at me, little one," she murmured.

His temper flared, and he raised his head, meeting her eyes, which widened slightly, eyebrows rising, as she tipped her head to one side, as if considering his merits.

"Insipid," she said after a moment, and turned away.

"Come, Har Per, send the child home, and let us continue our explorations."

"Perhaps he needs an education, if he is as insipid as you say?"

"I am not a school," the lady said tartly.  "Nor do I desire an audience this evening."

"But perhaps on some other evening?  I tremble with anticipation," Abra said, placing his hand over his heart.

"Yes, very likely.  Perhaps you would care to leave, also?"

Abra stiffened, and Don Eyr feared for the lady, who, perhaps did not know the limits of her power.

. . .or perhaps she did.  Outrage melted into something else, and Abra raised a hand to cup the lady's cheek.  He bent as if to kiss her–and paused in the act to look over her head.

"Go home," he snarled.  "Tomorrow is rent day.  Mind you find tal'Qechee in his office.  I want no missed payments."

Don Eyr bowed, and turned, finding the door opening before him, and the lady's butler there to guide him away.

#

tal'Qechee's office was not in Low Port.  Not quite in Low Port, though it danced with the boundary.  His business interests were definitely based on the other side of the line, and the persons he employed were questionable at best.  He was also difficult to find in his office, as Don Eyr had discovered on the previous occasions when he had been sent to collect tal'Qechee's "rent".  The best hour to find him was early–very early–in the morning, when he was counting his own receipts from the night before.

Don Eyr therefore arrived early.

Night Port had not quite given over to Day; dawn teased the horizon, but had not yet committed to a fuller embrace.  The streets were damp, it having rained somewhat in the night time.  The gambling hells, bars, and other night side entertainment would be calling last bid, last drink, last start, and Mr. tal'Qechee would surely be in his office, now or very soon, in order to receive the couriers bearing the night's gleanings.

His reasoning was correct, though his arrival did not please Mr. tal'Qechee, who required him to tarry until all of the night's receipts were in and counted, so he was later than he wished to be, leaving for his next errand, which was much on his mind as he finally departed, his inside pocket heavy with cash.

The second errand was not so difficult as Mr. tal'Qechee, who made difficulty an art, but it would require some finesse to extract the "rent" when he was so far beyond his appointed hour.  The second appointment pretended to grandeur, and a missed appointment was an affront worthy of a duel.

Still, he managed the thing, ruthlessly sacrificing Mr. tal'Qechee's character in the process, so that they both had a common boor to deplore, and left the office with a hurried step.  If he went quickly, he might arrive at his third destination very nearly at the proper time.

Hurry and distraction almost saw him murdered.

As it was, he glimpsed the attacker from the corner of his eye in time to duck, and kick, feeling a kneecap go under his boot, even as he spun to engage the second, who had a cudgel. . .

#

"Not broken," said his friend the chef.  "Mind you, it ought to be broken.  You have the Dragon's own luck, Don Eyr."

"I was stupid," Don Eyr protested, wincing as Zelli wrapped an icy towel around his shoulder.  "He should never have touched me."

"And he?" asked the chef.

"One has a shattered kneecap; the other–the one with the stick–I think I broke his wrist."

"You think."  The chef stared.

"I was distracted," Don Eyr told him.  "Happily, I kept hold of Abra's rent money, or I would be hurt, indeed."

"I will tend this, Zelli–see to the small breads," the chef said, and looked closely into Don Eyr's face.

"He strikes you?  Abra, I speak of."

"When he feels able," said Don Eyr.  "After all, he owns me; why should he restrain himself?"

"He may say that he owns you, my friend, but that is not the truth.  I grant that the difference is subtle, but Serat did not sell you.  He contracted with Abra for one of his to work off his debt.  Serat might beat you, all by the Code and proper. But you are not Abra's; and he ought to be careful–very careful, I might say–with Serat's asset."

Don Eyr stared at him, took a breath.  This–Abra's lover had said much the same; giving him a hint that he had been too ignorant to take up.

"I wish to send a note around to Mr. dea'Bon," he said abruptly.  "Can you spare someone to take it?  I would do so myself, but I'm to wait on him tonight."

"Cho Lin will carry your note, as soon as you write it.  You are in no condition to go anywhere tonight, save bed, after a good meal, and wine."

"If I do not go, I will break faith with the contract."

"Surely, the contract does not say that you will accompany him when you are ill, or injured."

"It says that I am his to command in all things," Don Eyr said.  "Is he likely to cede me an evening?"

The chef was silent, and Don Eyr sighed.

"Yes, far more likely that he will derive a good deal of pleasure from dragging me here and there until dawn, and explaining to all and sundry how I happened to be clumsier than usual this evening."

"My friend, this is not a life for you."

"I agree," Don Eyr said.  "Of your kindness; may I have a pen and a blank page?"

#

The note was dispatched.

At the chef's insistence, Don Eyr had spent a half-hour with his shoulder in the grip of the kitchen's first aid kit, which did little more than administer an analgesic, and a therapeutic massage.  Had the bone been broken, it might have done more; bruises, though, had to take their own time.

He showered, and changed his clothes, and was sitting down to a bowl of soup, cheese, and a small bread–Zelli had become proficient with small breads–when there came a clamor at the delivery door, which Vessa scrambled to answer.

"Don Eyr?  There's a. . .young person wanting to speak with you."

A young person?

He shoved back his stool and all but ran to the back door.

The child–not Jax Ton, but one of the older children.  To his shame, he had not learned their names.  He had not thought it would be needful.

"Forgive me–you are?"

"Ashti, sir."  She bobbed her head, and swallowed.  "Jax Ton sends that Serana had been injured."

#

Abra be damned; and Serat, and their soulless, legal contract, too.

"You have not seen me," he told his friend the chef.  "You have no idea where I am."

"He will not ask; but yes–if he does so, that is my tale."

Don Eyr bundled Ashti into a taxi, got out when the driver balked at going any further, and fair ran along the broken streets.

He followed the child up the rattling stairs to the ramshackle suite at the top of the building.  She paused at the landing, and a shadow stepped out of darker shadows–Jax Ton, holding his pipe at ready.

"He came," Ashti said, and Jax Ton looked beyond her, to his face, his own pale and worried.

"Go in," he said, and stepped aside.

Don Eyr inclined his head, and paused a moment to steady his breathing.  Serana was injured; he must not come to her in disorder.

Calmer, if not calm, he opened the door, and stepped through.

The first room was crowded with solemn-faced children, who stepped aside to let him through, to the back room, bathed in the uncertain light of emergency dims.  There was a long form stretched out what might easily have s been a bed or a table, and another, sitting on the stool beside.

That figure rose at his entrance, and moved forward, to the place where the light was strongest.  She was whip-thin, and dark, wearing the usual Low Port motley, with a soldier's jacket over all.  There were two deliberate, diagonal scars down her right cheek.

She bowed.

"I am Fireyn, sir.  The medic."

A medic.  Of course.  Serana was wounded.  Jax Ton was a sensible lad; he would have called for a medic.  Though it made his blood run cold, that she had needed one.

"How badly. . ." he began, but at that point, the bed spoke.

"A scratch only, petit; I swear it to you.  And my own fault, to add to the sting."

"You cannot see around corners," Fireyn the medic said, in a comfortable, mild way, as if she and Serana were long known to each other.  "And it is rather more than a scratch, my friend, though not nearly as bad as it could have been."

She stepped aside, and moved a hand, waving him to the bed and the stool.

"Please–you are Don Eyr, are you not?"

"Yes.  Forgive me.  I am remiss."

"You are, I expect, worried.  Satisfy yourself, I beg.  I will be outside, with Jax Ton."

The medic left.  Don Eyr sank down to the stool she had vacated.

"So," he said, his voice shaking, despite an effort to sound appropriately stern.  "This scratch of yours."

"I was careless, and met paz'Kormit at the corner.  He took offense more quickly than I could mount a defense." She sighed.

"But as Fireyn says, it is not so bad as it could have been–he was thrusting for the gut, and I made very sure to break his arm."

"Serana. . ."

"Hush, small one; it is done, and already I am mending.  Fireyn was trained as a field medic; she is very good."

"Where did she come from?"

Serana smiled at him.

"Where should she come from, save Low Port?  And now it is your turn."

"My turn?"  He blinked at her.

"Yes, your shoulder; there is some stiffness there; I marked it when you came in."

His shoulder, gods; it seemed a hundred years ago.

"It is a day to be careless, I suppose.  I went to collect the rent today –"

"Alone!"

"Of course, alone," he said gently.  "In any case, I went early to Mr. tal'Qechee, who was annoyed by my impertinence, and made me wait until all of last night's winnings had been counted out to pay me.  So that he did not have to open the safe, you see."

Serana muttered something in Lutetian under her breath.

"I object, as it casts curs in a bad light.  But, yes; I was therefore late for my second appointment, and was in addition required to soothe ruffled emotions, before I could collect what was owed.  Leaving that appointment, I saw that I might almost be on time for the third, if only I hurried. . ."

"So you hurried, and you did not look."

"Exactly.  Two in Mr. tal'Qechee's employ sought to recover the rent, plus a bonus.  I disabled the first, but the second had a stick. He was almost too quick."

"Almost," said Serana, with satisfaction.

"I believe that he has a broken wrist.  In any case, I had the stick until I threw it away in Mid-Port."

"And your shoulder.  Broken?"

"Merely deeply insulted."

She smiled in the dimness.

"It seems obvious to me, little one, that we each do better when we have the other nearby."

"I have also reached this conclusion."

He raised his hands; lowered them.

"Serana, forgive me.  I had not meant to leave you alone so long, but Abra has kept me busy every hour since I returned."

"It is fortunate that he did not require you tonight," she said.

"He did," Don Eyr said.  "But your need was greater."

She drew a hard breath.

"I am flattered, but he will hurt you, little one."

"No," said Don Eyr.  "He will not.  I am done with this sham.  And I will not leave you, Serana.  Not again."

"Peace."  She placed a hand on his knee.  "The children, Don Eyr. . ."

"I have no notion about the children; my famously twisty mind has failed me."

"Then it is fortunate that I have had a notion," she said.  "What is wrong, Don Eyr, with Low Port?"

"Aside from being lawless and blighted by poverty and ignorance?"

"You put it so succinctly!  Yes, exactly.  We can, with these children–we can make a beginning."

"A beginning of what?"

"We may establish a Watch house, in the grand tradition of Lutetia.  I may teach; and you may.  We shall gather to us also a handful of senior officers. . ."

"From whence will these senior officers come?" he wondered.

"As Fireyn, they will come from Low Port.  There are those who were abandoned, as she was, by her merc unit, and others, who are not naturally lawless, and who resist a devolution into brutes.  They are intermittently forces of law, order, and protection, but they perhaps lack motivation, or opportunity to do more."

"And we offer them motivation–the children?"

"Indeed, little one.  What master does not wish for an apprentice to carry her work on when it is come time for her to sit on the back porch, drink wine, and tell bawdy stories?"

He smiled.

"And you–I have seen how you leap to teach, who rejected the role of a teacher at the Institute.  Would it not please you, to teach, as well as to nourish?"

"You paint a picture," he said slowly.  "But, Serana–in Low Port?"

"In fact.  Fireyn knows of a place–an old barracks, not far from here; perhaps a block nearer the Mid-Port.  There is, she tells me, a kitchen, with ovens.  She not being a baker or a cook, she cannot tell me if they would meet your needs.  In front, there is what had been a recruiting office, which may be well for a bakery.  It is tentative; I have not seen it.  Indeed, I was on my way to meet her so that I might inspect it today when I fell into error.  It is how she came upon me so quickly."

"Serana. . ."

"A scratch, I swear it to you.  I will be perfectly fine on the morrow."

"More lives than a cat," he said softly, putting his hand over hers.

"Just so."

"What will happen, now that you have broken Serat's agreement?" Serana asked after a time.

"I think. . .nothing," he said, slowly, the other events of the evening beginning to return to him.  "I must, tomorrow, leave you–for a few hours.  I sent 'round to Mr. dea'Bon; it is possible that Abra has broken Code, or at least defied the terms of the contract, on the occasions when he struck me.  I have had it pointed out to me that he is not my delm, who may kill me as the whim takes me, and nothing in the contract cedes a delm's authority over me to Abra."

"So," said Serana with satisfaction.

"It may not suffice; my word against his –"

"And mine," she said, fiercely.

"And yours.  But, tomorrow, I must go.  Also. . ." he hesitated, unwilling to raise hope prematurely.

"Tell me."

"I may have found a way to release myself from Serat, at least in part."

She stirred.

"What has Don Eyr's twisty mind produced this time?" she wondered softly.

"Do you remember the play–Degrees of Separation?"

There was a pause before Serana laughed softly.

"Do you think it will suffice, the clever na'delm's scheme?"

"I think that I will lay it before Mr. dea'Bon and allow him to determine that."

He leaned forward suddenly.

"Do you, indeed, wish to remain here, to establish a Watch, and raise these children to the tradition?"

"I do.  We cannot abandon them; therefore, we must teach them.  They will then teach others, and so it will spread, wider with each new generation of teachers."

"A long goal, Serana."

"But worthy."

"As you say."

Silence fell; he may have dozed, for he waked to her pulling on his hand.

"Come and lie down by me.  I have missed sleeping with you, petit."

He needed no more persuasion than that, and so they arranged themselves, careful  of their injuries, and fell asleep in each other's arms.

#

His account as an honorable man, with Law Officer Serana Benoit corroborating, was, indeed, enough.

"You need not return to him, my Lord," Mr. dea'Bon said, with stern authority.  "While this matter is under examination by the Accountant's Guild, you may return to the safety of your clanhouse."

"Ah," said Don Eyr; "you anticipate my next topic.  But, first, if I may–how much could I expect to realize from the sale of my property on Ezhel'ti?"

"As it happens, I have an offer on my desk, from your father's clan.  Their offer, so my colleague on Ezhel'ti tells, me is low, though not insultingly so.  We may be able to negotiate upwards somewhat.  Have you instructions?"

"Yes," Don Eyr said, "sell it for as good a price as you can reasonably get.  Do not endanger the sale by attempting to wring every bit from the buyer.  My need is cash, in the very near future."

Mr. dea'Bon made a note on his pad.

"I will see it done, my Lord."  He looked up.  "I remind that you have complete control over the account which is fed by your rents.  If your need exceeds those funds, I am prepared, personally, to advance you a portion of the money you will certainly realize from the sale of your property."

"Thank you; that may be necessary, but for the moment, let it remain a possibility."

"Yes, my Lord."

"Excellent; we now address the likelihood of my return to the supposed safety of my clanhouse.  Under no circumstances will I do so.  My intention is set up my own establishment.  I will remain on-planet, for I think that may be required, but I wish to file an Intention to Separate, immediately."

Mr. dea'Bon raised his eyebrows.

"That is. . .quite old."

"Is it disallowed?"

"Disallowed?  Oh, no.  No, not at all.  I will have to do some research, but there is nothing to prevent you from filing such an Intention.  However, you must, if memory serves me, set forth the conditions by which you would return to the arms of your clan."

"Yes.  I will gladly return if and when Serat agrees to accommodate my household.  Which at this moment includes Captain Benoit, nine children, and a calico kitten.  I anticipate the household will grow, as we establish our base.  Also, I insist that the monies belonging to my household shall be kept separate from the clan's accounts, and the delm shall be specifically barred from access."

Mr. dea'Bon had a dreamy look on his face.  Very nearly, he was seen to smile.  He made a brisk series on notes on his pad, and looked up once more.

"I believe I may work with this.  May I ask, when we have achieved a successful outcome, that I be allowed to share the work with my colleagues?  An Intention of Separation is rare enough, but these terms. . ."

He blinked and emerged somewhat from his dream state.

"You do understand, my Lord?  You must be prepared to return to Serat's care, if your terms are met."

"I understand," said Don Eyr.

"Excellent.  There is one more detail.  While the investigation into Abra's breach of contract is taking place, your delm may freeze your quartershare, and your personal accounts."  He paused.

"I advise that, in the case, Serat long ago emptied your accounts.  The monies you received while you were attending school were from the rent of your house on Ezhel'ti."

He glanced once more at his note pad.

"Is there any other way in which I might serve you, my Lord?"

"I think–yes.  There is an old barracks at Crakle and Toom in the Low Port.  Can you find for me who owns it, and how I may acquire it?"

Another note.

"Yes.  Is there a comm code I may have, in order to report my progress?"

"I will have it for you. . .tomorrow, sir.  For today, we are wanted in our household."

"I understand, sir."

The old gentleman rose, and bowed.

"Until soon, my Lord.  Captain Benoit."

FIVE

Some Years Later

The morning rush was over, and Don Eyr stepped out onto the porch to bask in the mid-morning sunshine.  The porch faced the exercise yard, and there was a self-defense lesson in progress.  Cisco and Ail Den were pushing the older children hard, and they were rising to the challenge.

The younger children were at their ethics lesson, taught by Serana.  Later, he would meet them in the kitchen, and they would collaborate on making the mid-day meal for the household.  A household that had expanded, from the original nine children, to a dozen, guarded and educated by five very capable adults, supported by a veritable army of cats, fierce mousers, and interested companions.

There was more–a small neighborhood had grown up around them; an area of relative peace, in which the neighbors assisted each other, and kept watch for each other.  The bakery provided bread, and sweets, and a gathering place, and the children of other households often attended lessons with the children of the bake house.

Don Eyr sighed, and stretched, and, hearing the step behind him, turned into Serana's embrace.

"Is it well, little one?" she asked softly.

He laughed softly.

"It is well, Serana.  Very well, indeed."

–end–

UNE PETITE LISTE DE MOTS ÉTRANGES

A small list of strange words

chouquettes (f):  cream puffs

commis (f): junior chef

dacquoise (f): almond and butternut meringue cake

delm (l): the head of a clan

Ècole de Cuisine (f): School of Cooking

grand-père (f): grandfather

Lutetia (g):  ...in our timeline, Lutetia was the capital city of the Parisii, a Gallic tribe. It was       renamed Paris back a few years ago – Wikipedia says 360AD.

masyr:  monsieur

melant'i (l): who one is, in whole or in part, depending upon circumstances

merde (f):  damn.  More or less.

na'delm (l): the heir to the delm

on-dits (f): "they say" aka gossip

boulangerie (f): bakery

petit (f): small

qe'andra (l): a person of business; sort of an accountant-lawyer

relumma (l): one-quarter of a Liaden year

Key:

f:  French

g: Gallic

l:  Liaden

ABOUT THIS BOOK

This is a story about Paris, about love, and about bread.

#

This story came about because we were commissioned to write another story in support of our 21st Liaden Universe® novel, Neogenesis, that story to be published to Baen.com on December 15, 2017.  Because of the timing, our editor asked us to write a "seasonal" story.

This presented something of a problem, since. . .neither Liadens nor Surebleakans can possibly celebrate the US Thanksgiving, nor Christmas, Chanukah, Eid Al Adha, Kwanza, St. Lucia Day, or any of the other winter holidays celebrated on this, our non-fictional Terra.

Granted, Liadens celebrate Festival, but we suspected our editor didn't really mean for us to go there. . .and while Surebleakans might have a winter holiday, we felt it was a long shot, since their culture–before things went Horribly Wrong–was rooted in Standard Business Practice.

Then, we realized that Surebleak, having been founded as a Company Planet, would, very naturally, have a Company Picnic.  And that's how "Block Party" came into being.

But! Having obliged us by arriving, the story brought with it another set of puzzles.  The hero of the piece, for instance, appeared on Chairman Court in Surebleak, in the company of a gaggle of kids; they've been relocated to Surebleak by the mercs, after Liad's Low Port became a battleground following Korval's strike upon the homeworld.

The hero, Don Eyr, is waiting for the rest of his adult companions to rejoin him, including his lover, Serana Benoit.  And Steve and I got to saying to ourselves, All well and good, but really, who are these people?  How did Don Eyr and Serana meet?  How did they become the caretakers of so many children?  And these other people–where did they come from?

And that? Is why Degrees of Separation was written.

We enjoyed discovering the answers to our questions; and we hope that you will enjoy reading them.

Oh, you want to know about Paris?

Well, it's like this. . .

Sometimes, when we're brainstorming a story, we'll use a shorthand idea or word to hold the place of an idea, words, geography, or person that we haven't fully worked out yet.  This is, by the way, how Plan B became part of the Liaden Universe®–it was stuck in the manuscript to hold the place of the name of Korval's real emergency plan; we always intended to go back and fix it, except–

We forgot.

Something similar happened when we were talking over Degrees.  Sharon, who was describing to Steve Everything She Knew about the story, said, carelessly–and they send him to–oh, to Paris!

. . .and the writing backbrain caught "Paris"–and ran with it.

And that is why there is now a Liaden Universe® story which is, in part, set in Paris.

Or, at least, a Paris.

We hope you enjoyed the story.

Sharon Lee and Steve Miller

Cat Farm and Confusion Factory

January 2018

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Maine-based writers Sharon Lee and Steve Miller teamed up in the late 1980s to bring the world the story of Kinzel, an inept wizard with a love of cats, a thirst for justice, and a staff of true power. Since then, the husband-and-wife have written dozens of short stories and twenty plus novels, most set in their star-spanning, nationally-bestselling, Liaden Universe®.

Before settling down to the serene and stable life of a science fiction and fantasy writer, Steve was a traveling poet, a rock-band reviewer, reporter, and editor of a string of community newspapers.

Sharon, less adventurous, has been an advertising copywriter, copy editor on night-side news at a small city newspaper, reporter, photographer, and book reviewer.

Both credit their newspaper experiences with teaching them the finer points of collaboration.

Steve and Sharon are jointly the recipients of the E. E. "Doc" Smith Memorial Award for Imaginative Fiction (the Skylark), one of the oldest awards in science fiction.  In addition, their work has won the much-coveted Prism Award (Mouse and Dragon and Local Custom), as well as the Hal Clement Award for Best Young Adult Science Fiction (Balance of Trade), and The Year's Best Military and Adventure SF Readers' Choice Award ("Wise Child").

Sharon and Steve passionately believe that reading fiction ought to be fun, and that stories are entertainment. Steve and Sharon maintain a web presence at http://korval.com/

NOVELS BY SHARON LEE AND STEVE MILLER

The Liaden Universe®

Fledgling

Saltation

Mouse and Dragon

Ghost Ship

Dragon Ship

Necessity’s Child

Trade Secret

Dragon in Exile

Alliance of Equals

The Gathering Edge

Neogenesis

Omnibus Editions

The Dragon Variation

The Agent Gambit

Korval’s Game

The Crystal Variation

Story Collections

A Liaden Universe Constellation: Volume 1

A Liaden Universe Constellation: Volume 2

A Liaden Universe Constellation: Volume 3

The Fey Duology

Duainfey

Longeye

Gem ser'Edreth

The Tomorrow Log

by Sharon Lee

Carousel Tides

Carousel Sun

Carousel Seas

Barnburner

Gunshy

THANK YOU

Thank you for your support of our work.

Sharon Lee and Steve Miller

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

ONE | Liad

TWO | Lutetia

THREE | Liad

FOUR | Low Port

FIVE | Some Years Later

UNE PETITE LISTE DE MOTS ÉTRANGES | A small list of strange words

ABOUT THIS BOOK

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

NOVELS BY SHARON LEE AND STEVE MILLER