He considered it. "I think we must stay the winter to balance the debt properly." He glanced at her. "Our work has not paid for these clothes, cha'trez."
"Didn't think it had," she said, untroubled. "We stay the winter and pay on our account. Then what?"
"It is also to be hoped that the winter will allow us opportunity to improve our command of Benish, as well as learn to read and write," Val Con continued. "Then we should be able to leave here and seek out a city, if that pleases you. It is generally true that cities offer a wider range of tasks to be performed for wages—whatever wages may consist of here. It may be that we already possess skills that will make it possible for us to be—independent."
"And not get shoved around." Miri sighed. "Sounds great. If I start slacking off on my lessons, you remind me it's so I don't need to be shoved any more, okay? I'll pick right up again."
He tipped his head. "Does it bother you so much? I do not think she means it ill."
She laughed softly. "Naw. It's just been a lot of years since anybody dared shove me. And now this old lady I could bust in half with one hand—" she stopped suddenly. "What in the name of bright blue chosemkis is
that?"
They wandered over to the window containing the object in question, Val Con's brows pulled slightly together, Miri's eyes wide.
The thing was rectangular in shape and made of some shiny substance that appeared to be metal. The front was glassed in, giving a view of a multitude of coils, wires, and tubes. There were knobs on the top and sides, a piece of thin metal tubing extending from the back, and more knobs under the glass. The whole affair was garlanded with red, yellow, and blue streamers.
"I haven't the faintest notion," Val Con confessed. "A device of some kind, certainly. But what it may be meant to do—or not do . . ." he shrugged. "We can find the storekeeper and ask."
But that proved impossible. The shop door was locked, and a large piece of paper bearing hand-drawn symbols was attached to the inside of the window.
Miri sighed sharply. "We gotta learn how to read. This whole damn world's passing us by."
"In the fullness of time," he said, managing by some trick of his soft voice to evoke Edger's boom. "All things cannot happen at once."
The door to the next shop was open, and from it drifted music.
Real
music, Miri realized. The sound of someone actually playing an instrument, not the recorded music Zhena Trelu listened to on her radio every evening.
Val Con stopped, head tipped, face intent. Miri stood quietly at his side, watching him and listening to the sounds. It was nice, she decided; something like a guitar, but softer, unamplified.
The piece came to an end, and her partner sighed, very softly, and looked at her. "Miri . . ."
"Sure," she said, and squeezed his hand. "Let's go in. Why not?"
"And did you hear, Estra, about those horrid Bassilan rebels? Landed on the coast, not two hundred miles from here! Claiming sanctuary, just because our king had made some treaties with their barbaric Tomak years and years ago! Well, of course, the king said no, but do you believe it? The report is they're moving inland. They might even get to Gylles!"
"Poppycock," Zhena Trelu said, looking around uneasily. "The king's militia will have that bunch of troublemakers rounded up in wind's time. Just a bunch of common criminals, that's all they are. As if the king would stand for an invasion, even if Bentrill hasn't been to war since people stopped using bows and arrows and wearing hides."
"Well, perhaps you're right, dear," Zhena Brigsbee conceded sadly. "But, still, Estra, what if some got away!"
But Zhena Trelu was staring down Main Street, looking hard for two short, slender figures.
Hakan Meltz looked up from his guitar and smiled at the two blurry figures in the doorway.
"Hi, there," he said in the casual way that was the despair of his father, the proprietor of the shop in which Hakan sat playing the guitar. His father did not allow guitar-playing in the store—except, of course, if one were demonstrating the instrument's properties to a potential buyer. Happily for Hakan, his father was currently in the capital, attending the king's assembly as alderman for the town of Gylles.
Hakan smiled again as the two figures moved farther into the shop and into the range of his shortsighted eyes.
The woman was toy-tiny, yet there was adult assurance about the set of her shoulders and the straightness with which the large gray eyes regarded him. She returned his smile with a thoroughly friendly grin, holding comfortably onto her companion's hand. The man lacked two inches of Hakan's height, twenty of his pounds, and all of his mustache. He wore his dark hair long for a man, and the line of a recent scar marred one smooth cheek. Smiling, he raised his free hand and indicated the instrument Hakan held.
"Very pretty," he said softly, the words accented in a way that tickled the other's ear. "It is?"
"This?" Hakan offered the instrument, and the shorter man slid his hand out of the woman's to take it. "It's a twelve-string guitar."
"Twelve-string guitar," the man murmured, turning it around and over. He righted it and tried a sweep across the strings with his long fingers, laughing softly at the discord he produced. He placed the fingers of his left hand carefully on the neck, tried another sweep, and nodded as if better satisfied. Working slowly, using a combination of strumming and plucking, he managed to pull a melody line out of the guitar while Hakan watched in growing puzzlement.
The guitar was strange to the man—that much seemed certain. But he worked with it as if he had once played something similar and knew what to expect of wood and gut.
The man came to himself with a start, glancing up with a smile of apology. "Forgive me," he said, handing the instrument back with obvious reluctance, fingers lingering on the neck. "It has been long," he said, as if to explain. "I am—"He frowned and moved his hands in what Hakan thought might be exasperation. "It is to be hungry," he concluded, head tipped as if he were unsure that he would be property understood.
But it there was one thing Hakan did understand it was the hunger for making music. "Lost your piece?" he asked, somehow certain that only catastrophe would have separated this individual from whatever it was he played. He put the guitar aside and stood, waving his hand to indicate the rows of musical instruments. "What's your specialty?" he began, feeling an impulse his father was certain to bewail rising within him. "Maybe we can work out a—"
From the back of the shop, the woman—forgotten in the music—called something out, emphasizing it with three musical keys pushed at random.
The man's brows shot up, and he looked at Hakan, eyes intensely green. "That?"
"Piano," Hakan told him. "You play
piano?"
But the man was already gone, heading toward the back of the store.
It was apparent that the man did play piano—or something so close to piano that it made little difference. He spent a few moments exploring the instrument, eyebrows lifting as he discovered foot pedals; running his fingers up and down the keyboard, he located true C, sharps, flats, and scales. Then his fingers moved, half-joking, it seemed to Hakan, and produced a tinkling little tune reminiscent of cool summer evenings playing hide-'n-seek.
His hands shifted, up-board and down, calling forth less childlike music. The woman leaning against the piano's side laughed softly and sang a line in a weird, chopping language, and the man grinned and moved his hands again, playing a clear intro riff.
The woman grinned at Hakan, straightened, and began to sing. He stood rock-still until the song was done, then dove across the room for his guitar.
It was thus that Kem Darnill found them some time later: Hakan painstakingly working out the melody; the piano correcting him now and then. Setting her books on the counter, she went quietly toward the threesome, trying not to disturb the music making.
The man at the piano looked up and smiled at her. "Hakan," he murmured.
"Hmm?" Hakan looked up, caught the other's nod, and turned his head.
"Kemmy!" He was on his feet, his smile a warmth she could feel. Sliding his hand into hers, he brought her forward.
"Kemmy, this is Cory and Miri. Cory plays piano, and Miri sings. Amazing stuff—you never heard anything like it. I've never heard anything like it, anyhow." He grinned at the pair on the piano bench. "This," he announced proudly, "is my fiancée, Kem."
Kem felt herself blush but managed a smile at the two strangers. Cory smiled and inclined his head in a formal little gesture; Miri grinned at her.
"Hi," Miri said. Her accent made Kem blink. Still, they seemed nice enough, and they were musicians . . .
"Oh, goodness!" she said suddenly, leaning forward. "Cory and Meri?"
"Cory," the man agreed, tipping his head.
"Miri," the woman said.
"Zhena Trelu's looking for both of you," Kem told them. "She's awful worried—thinks you've gotten lost or something." She hesitated, remembering that Zhena Trelu had said that they did not speak much Benish.
But the woman—Miri?—had turned to her companion with an expression of comic woe on her face. "Zhena Trelu!" she cried.
"Bad
us!" And she dropped her head against his arm, shoulders shaking.
Cory grinned and patted her gently on the back. Then he sighed and looked down at the piano, raising his hand and letting it fall to his knee.
"I don't get it," Hakan said, looking from Kem to his two new friends.
"They're staying with Zhena Trelu," Kem explained rapidly. "Helping her out around the farm. She brought them into town today to get winter clothes, and they wandered off—and that rattlepated Athna Brigsbee's out there calling them thieves and worse!"
"But that's great!" Hakan cried, turning to the other man. "Cory, listen to me—Zhena Trelu's got a piano! Real nice one—a hundred times better than this piece of junk," he added, with a fine disregard for the basic precepts of business.
Cory's brows pulled together, and he shook his head. "Zhena Trelu? No piano, Hakan."
Miri shifted at his side, murmuring something in a language that jarred on Kem's ears. Cory glanced at her and then at Hakan.
"There is a place—" He stopped, frowning, then sighed. Carefully he lifted his hands, wove the slim fingers together, and held the knot out to Hakan, one eyebrow up.
"Locked? A locked room, maybe?" Hakan looked at Kem, who could only shrug. "That makes sense. It was her zamir's piano, Cory. He had it set up in a room by itself. Could be she locked the room when he died—ought to let you play it, though. Regular sport, old Zhena Trelu. You just ask her about it, and I'm sure—"
"Hakan—" Cory was holding his hands out as if to stop Hakan's enthusiasm. "Too many words, Hakan."
"Ah, wind—I forgot." He turned back to Kem. "What were you supposed to do with them, once you found them?"
"They were supposed to be going to the library. Zhena Trelu went there, in case the two of them got ahead of schedule. I was supposed to take them to her, if I ran into them." She giggled. "I guess this qualifies as running into them."
"Well, then that's simple," Hakan decided, waving at the two foreigners. "Let's get ourselves down to the library.
I'll
ask Zhena Trelu for you, Cory."
"What about the store?" Kem demanded, vowing that nothing would prevent her from witnessing the expression on Athna Brigsbee's face when Zhena Trelu's charges were restored to her.
But Hakan was already turning the Open/Closed sign to the Closed side and pulling the key from his pocket.
"All for one," he said, waving them out the door with a flourish.
"And one for all," Kem said, laughing.
Hakan locked the door and turned up the street, slipping one hand into Kem's and the other into Miri's, as a child might. Hand-linked and laughing, the four of them began to run.
THAT INFORMATION IS RESTRICTED.
Nova had swept the screen clear and entered a second, more potent, ID before the cat lounging by the keyboard had time to blink.
There was perhaps a heartbeat of hesitation, then the response from Central Information:
THAT INFORMATION IS RESTRICTED.
Nova swore, though perhaps not as violently as she might have. "Restricted from the Council of Clans! Who dares it?"
Neither cat nor screen ventured an opinion, and after a moment of frowning thought, she reached for the keyboard once more.
Central took rather more time with the new request, but finally the letters began to appear, one by one, as if the computer itself was perplexed by the answer it had to give.
UNIVERSAL ACCESS OVERRIDE. REQUESTS REMANDED TO JAE'LABA STATION. ACCESS DENIED.
"So." Here at last, was the germ of something.
STATIONMAP, she demanded of Central. There was no hesitation at all. The screen flowered interconnecting lines, varicolored rhombi marking primary, secondary, and tertiary stations.
Nova paused, considering the flashing bit of purple that denoted the station at Jelaza Kazone. Korval's Own House, with Korval's own tricks up its sleeve, age upon age, Cantra to Daav . . .
"Not yet," she whispered, and touched QUERY.
JAE'LABA LOCATION?
In the upper left-hand corner a tertiary indicator glowed a brighter gold and began to pulse.
"As simple as that?" She was Liaden and mistrusted simplicity. She was of Korval and smelled a trap. And yet . . .
DETAIL, she commanded; and watched the indicator enlarge as another map grew about it, showing the familiar outline of Solcintra. A building took shape, enclosing the pulsing gold, and a legend appeared at the base of the screen.
SCOUT HEADQUARTERS.
"But Val Con's a Scout, after all," Anthora said reasonably a short time later.
"They denied him!" Nova cried, breaking the pattern of her pacing to face her sister. "Assigned to the Department of the Interior, they said! And information about the Department of the Interior is restricted—to my code and to the Council of Clans."