A Korval ship had already been dispatched to the coordinates indicated in Val Con's message. Exact figures relating to the distance a ship of the Clutch would have traveled in "seven seasons of labor" had been included in the hodgepodge of information that made up the balance of Cheever McFarland's delivery. The possibility had to be covered, of course, but Shan felt no optimism that Korval's ship would find Val Con and his lifemate anywhere near those coords.
The tape hissed briefly, and then the other voice came in, bright, clear, singsonging its nonsense as if there was nothing in all the worlds to fear:
"Hi, Edger. Everything's fine. Wish you were here. Love to the family and see you soon."
The tape hummed, clicked, and rewound noisily before the machine shut off.
"I like her," Shan said to the dim and empty study. "But, gods, brother, the Juntavas?" The agreement between the intergalactic mob and Korval stretched back generations: You don't touch mine; I don't touch yours. Simple, effective, efficient. "Why didn't you tell them who you are? They would have dropped Korval Himself and his Lady like so many hot potatoes . . ."
Chilled, he considered an alternate scenario. Val Con reveals himself. The Juntavas, horrified beyond reason by their act, knowing a balancing of accounts with Korval would ruin both, simply cut two throats, leave two bodies drifting . . .
"Gods!" He snapped to his feet, covering the room in five long strides, to stare out at the twilit garden, where the fountain caught the sun's last rays, transmuting light to emeralds.
Memory provided a boy's high voice, half-pleading: "But there
isn't
a Delm Korval really, is there, Shan? Just a made-up person—it could as easily be you as me." And he heard his own voice, laughing in reply: "Oh, no!
You're
the Korval, denubia! I don't want to be Delm."
"But you
could
be, couldn't you?" the boy Val Con demanded in memory, and Shan turned cold in the present and whispered, "Only if you die, denubia." He shook himself, hard.
"They're alive," he whispered, willing his hands to unclench and bringing his heartbeat down with a Healer's stern discipline. "You have that on the best authority. Do strive for some sense, Shan."
And there were two to find now. Even if Val Con . . .His lifemate must be found and brought back to the Clan, for if they did not have a Delm, they might yet have a Delmae. Nova saw that, thank the gods. Korval ships Jumped in a dozen directions that long afternoon, seeking news, any news, of Val Con yos'Phelium or Miri Robertson. Lifemates will hold together, Shan told himself, staring at the shadows growing from the trees toward the house. Find one and we find both.
Sighing, he shook himself free of his thoughts and slipped away from the house of yos'Galan to go home at last to Priscilla.
She was never going to get it right.
The minute she thought she had command of a word it slipped away, unmoored by a dozen or more others. It was all she could do to remember the name of the dog, never mind the word for its species. And all morning Zhena Trelu had been in a waspish mood, yelling and pushing at her when she did not understand. Which was mostly.
After the third such incident, she had twisted away from the old woman's grasp and run, screen door slamming behind her.
Flinging herself to the ground beside the scruffy little flower patch that marked the edge of Zhena Trelu's property, Miri scrubbed her hands over her face and tried to calm her jangling nerves.
"This ain't like you, Robertson," she muttered. But that didn't help at all.
Her head hurt. She reached up and pulled the braid loose; unweaving it slowly, she ran shaking fingers through the crackling mass, mightily resisting the urge to yank it out in handfuls, and hunched over, staring at her hands and just breathing.
She found she was staring at her calloused trigger finger. What business did her hands have baking sweet things? Why should she have to sit and listen to endless repetitions of the names of the powders, granules, and dried leaves that went into food? She did not intend to be a bake-cook.
Worse was all that zhena-and-zamir stuff. Why should Miri be asked first whenever Zhena Trelu wanted Val Con to do something? Since when was he Miri's trooper? But no, there were rules, and one of them was that a zhena—wife? mistress? lady? lover?—could tell
her
zamir what to do, and he, perforce, would do it. What kind of partner was that?
They had figured out that Zhena Trelu owned the house and lived zamirless. They had gotten across that they were looking for a place to stay, and she had supplied some story for herself that Val Con was slowly getting down. But there! Barely a week had passed and Val Con could hold a conversation with the zhena while Miri's head hurt more and more . . .
She wanted to shoot, dammit—a little plinking would calm her down. But Val Con had not seemed to think too much of that and after some thought she could see why: They were guests here, wherever here was, and it just wouldn't be good form to fill somebody's sacred tree all full of pellet holes.
"Hello, Meri," he murmured from her side.
"My
name,"
she gritted out, not lifting her head, "is Miri."
There was a small pause. "So it is."
She took one more deep breath and managed to raise her head and face him. "Sorry. Bad mood."
"I heard." He smiled slightly. "Zhena Trelu tells me you are a 'bad-tempered brat.' What is that, I wonder?"
She tried to smile back and was fairly certain that the effort was a failure. "Whatever it is, it ain't nice. I messed up something she was teaching me to bake. Told me to put in
pickles
and I put in
milk.
Or the other way around.
I
don't know . . ."
He frowned. "It must have been
milk
and not
pickles. Milk
is the white liquid we drink, isn't it?"
"I don't know. Told you I didn't know. Every time I think I know what something means, got it all lined up in my head with what it means in Terran, she hits me with forty-seven
more—"
She flung her hands out in exasperation. "I ain't never gonna catch up at this rate!"
"Cha'trez . . ." He tipped his head. "Why are you trying to match these words and Terran words? Surely that will only confuse matters. Perhaps if you waited until you have this language firmly before attempting to compile a lexicon, it would go better. For now, it might be best to simply learn the tongue, as you were taught in school."
"I didn't
go
to school!" she snapped, hearing the rising edge to her own voice.
Val Con frowned. "What?"
"I said," she repeated with awful clarity, "that I didn't go to school. Ever. In my whole life. Accazi?" Her head was throbbing; she bent her face down and jammed her fingers through her hair.
"No." His hands were on her wrists, insisting that she lower her hands. She allowed it, but kept her head bent, eyes on the ground, and heard him sigh.
"Miri, don't run from me. Please. I don't understand, and I would like you to explain."
"You don't understand?" She was on her feet, wrists yanked free—and he was up, too, hands loose, face wary and watchful.
"You don't
understand?
Ain't anything
to
understand—it's all real simple. On Surebleak, if you paid the school tax, you went to school. You didn't pay the tax, you didn't go to school. With me so far? My parents were broke—you
understand
broke, or do I gotta
explain
that, too? Real broke. Bad broke. So broke they could about come up with enough money every month to fool the landlord into thinking someday he'd collect the whole rent. And, while we're at it, there were rats—you
understand
rats?—and my mother was sick all the time and whenever we
did
get some money Robertson would come home, drink it all up or snort it all down, smack us both around—" She caught her breath, horrified to hear how close it sounded to a sob.
"So I didn't go to school," she finished tonelessly. "My mother taught me how to read; and when I joined Liz's unit she beat Trade and basic math into my head. Don't need a fancy education to get by in the Merc. Guess that's why I never learned the right way to learn a language. Doing the best I can. Sorry it ain't good enough."
Val Con was standing very still, eyes on her face, his own features holding such a scramble of expression that she sat down—hard—and clamped her jaw against the sudden surge of despair.
Now you've done it, you prize loobelli, she told herself, and swallowed hard, waiting for him to turn and go.
"Miri." He was on his knees before her, hand outstretched, but not touching.
"You understand now?" Her voice was a husky whisper; his face swam, unreadable, before her eyes.
"Yes." He moved his hand slowly, keeping it plainly in sight as if she were some wild thing he wished not to frighten, and gently stroked his fingers down the line of her jaw. "I am sorry, cha'trez. I was stupid."
The tears spilled over. "No,
I'm
stupid. Told you so."
"You did," he agreed. "And I wish you will soon stop feeling it is necessary to lie to me." He brushed as her wet cheeks with his fingers. "There is a great difference between education and intelligence, Miri. You are not stupid. Normally." He offered her the slightest of smiles. "And—normally—I am not stupid. But everyone makes mistakes, I am told."
Her lips twitched. "I heard that."
"Good." He sat back on his heels, eyes serious on her face. "Having now made our mistakes, let us consider what may best be done to rectify them." One brow slid up. "Does your head hurt very badly?"
She blinked. "Who said anything about my head hurting?"
"I still get a headache when I try to translate from one language to another," he said. "Speak to me in any tongue I know, and I will answer in that tongue. Ask me what a word in one language means in another, and it may take me hours to decide." He paused to push the hair out of his eyes. "Will you do something for me, cha'trez?"
"Do my best.
"That will suffice," he murmured, reminding her so forcefully of Edger that she laughed. He glanced at her from under his lashes before adding his own grin. "Are you comfortable here? Would you prefer to go inside?"
"I'm fine," she said hastily, visions of Zhena Trelu dancing in her aching head. She crossed her legs and tried to look alert. "What's the job?"
Val Con was rummaging in his pouch. "It is only to help me think more properly about the best way for you to learn this tongue . . ." His hand moved sharply, and her eyes followed the movement, seeing that he had flung several objects to the ground.
"Close your eyes!" he snapped, and she did, instantly. He slipped two fingers under her chin and raised her head until her closed eyes were directed to a point slightly over his head.
"Keep your eyes closed," he said more gently, "and tell me what you saw just now on the ground."
Her brows twitched. "Starting nearest you and moving east: credit card—metallic orange with three skinny blue stripes—covering one corner is a wholebit. Then there's a flat white pebble the size of two bits together, a cantra-piece—obverse: the linked stars. Nearest me is the ship's key; there's a stylus next to that, then a short wire twisted like a corkscrew; a piece of paper with writing on it—don't know what language, but it looks like your hand—then back to the credit card." She paused, then nodded. "That's it."
There was a silence, lengthening.
After a time she said, almost hesitantly, "Val Con?"
"Yes."
"Can I open my eyes?"
"Yes."
She found him looking at her closely, the expression on his face a mix of amusement, wonder, and—anger? Before she could be sure, it was gone; he was lifting a brow and nodding downward.
She glanced at the jumbled arrangement and grinned, the ache in her head suddenly less acute. "Didn't miss one. Thought I'd be outta practice."
The second brow rose to join the first. "Dumb, Miri?"
"But there ain't anything to that!" she protested, genuinely startled. "It's a gag—a memory trick. Anybody can learn it—got nothing to do with brains."
"I see. A useful gag, eh?" He scooped the stuff up and dumped it haphazardly into his pouch. "How long can you retain it?"
"Depends. That batch'll probably fade out by the end of the day, unless you want me to remember it longer. Better tell me now if you do, though, 'cause I've gotta—" She moved her hands in one of her shapeless gestures. "It's kinda like putting a sticker on the memory, so I remember not to forget it."
"I see," he murmured again, apparently finding nothing the least confusing in this explanation. "Can you do the same with sounds? Put a tag on them so you do not forget?"
She shook her head. "It works better if I can see what I'm supposed to remember—either a picture, or a pattern, or written down." She bit her lip. "That's why I'm having so much trouble with this gibberish? 'Cause I can't tag sounds? Can't figure out how it looks?" She seemed inclined to blame herself severely.
Val Con shook his head, smiling. "Most people pay more attention to one set of—input—than the others. I, for instance, happen to key to sound. I rarely forget a piece of music I've heard, or a word. It seems a natural inclination: For some reason I decided that sounds were more important than anything else." His smile widened. "And so, when I became a cadet I suffered through hours of remedial work until I finally learned to tag a visual pattern and call it back."
He shifted, staring sightlessly at the scraggly grass between them. Miri waited, aware that she was tensing up again; she jumped half a foot when he moved his head to look at her.
Concern flickered over his face, and he leaned forward, grasping her arms lightly. "Cha'trez?" He moved his fingers, lightly massaging. "So
tense,
Miri. What is wrong?"
She shifted, not sure if she wanted to escape his touch. "Zhena Trelu—" she began.
"Will wait. She was upset when she spoke to me, and I think it might be good for her to have some quiet time, as well." He sat close to her on the grass and took her hand in his.