Heirs to Trouble Read online

"Jow Lit pen'Chapen is Delm Severt," he said calmly. "My grandfather."

  Captain Blake nodded.

  "He sent a pinbeam to Commander Wyatt, stating that you're needed by your clan."

  Ice ran his veins. The words hadn't quite made. . .

  "I beg your pardon?"

  She looked up then; looked right at him, and smiled, tiredly.

  "Your grandda invoked the escape clause, Tommy. You're free to go home. Wyatt's already signed off on it."

  But I don't want to go home! he thought, which might have been undutiful, had things been otherwise, between him and his clan. He did not say this to Susan Blake; it would do nothing but distress her.

  She shifted, slightly, fretfully, behind her desk.

  "Says here there's a transport voucher in your mailbox. You're to leave immediately, and travel with all haste. Apparently, there's specific instructions in your box along with that voucher." She sighed, and shook her head at the screen.

  "Couple administrative things. . ." she murmured. "First is, you wanna close your account in the Merc Bank?"

  Close his account? And what? Carry his entire savings in his pockets?

  He shook his head.

  "If it's possible to leave the account as it is, I would prefer to do that," he said. She nodded and touched a key.

  "OK. What do you want us to do about mail? You can keep your box open. Be a fee– four-bit per Standard."

  Hardly a fee at all, and certainly cheaper than renting a civilian box and paying for transfers and forwarding.

  "I'll leave it open for now; the fee's acceptable. When I know what. . .my clan. . .requires of me, I'll be able to make a decision. . ."

  Gods, it had been half a lifetime since he had thought like this. . .what my clan requires of me? He was accustomed to command; the merc culture suited him well. But merc culture–merc discipline–was a shallow and meaningless thing when measured against the absolute power that a delm held over the members of his clan. A delm could order a kinsman shot for no reason other than he been found an irritant. No one would remonstrate with him, or demand that he explain himself, or call him to stand trial for violations against the reg book. . .

  "Tommy? You OK?"

  He took a deep breath and looked up to meet her eyes.

  "Truthfully, I'm. . .shaken. Does he–Delm Severt–say what the clan requires of me?"

  Even as he asked, a new fear iced his heart.

  His mother.

  Had his mother died? But surely he would not be called home merely to mourn her. A leave of absence, perhaps, but this. . .

  "He's a man of few words, your grandda. Just the bare phrase, to do the necessary."

  He shook his head.

  "I don't accept his invocation of the Liaden Personnel Release Clause," he said, dragging the proper name of the provision from gods knew what pocket in his well-pocketed memory. "I'll make inquiries. If necessary, I'll arrange for a leave of absence. This is. . ."

  The captain was shaking her head, and she was frowning the particularly fierce frown that meant she was unhappy, not angry.

  "You don't get a say," she said. "Tommy, I checked. You bet I checked! Some old guy sitting on Liad's gonna take away the best palaver and protocol sarge this unit's ever had?" Another headshake. "It's got a whole chapter to itself in the regs: Liadens belong to their clan; if-and-when their clan says, come home, the merc's gotta cut 'em loose. No delay. No return."

  No return.

  He was speechless.

  There was a small pause before Captain Blake sighed, and spoke again, her voice sounding infinitely weary.

  "So, there's some things for you to sign here, Tommy. . ."

  #

  He arrived at Chonselta Port in the early hours of the morning, which suited him, and his plans. He found a tea shop and ordered breakfast, talking with the bored clerk while he ate. He'd taken the precaution of brushing up on modes and forms during the long days of travel, which was prudent, but left his ears tuned to the Solcintran accent. The Chonselta burr was at first disconcerting, then oddly comforting. He'd spent the last half of his life so far getting around in the various dialects of Terran and in Merc pidgen, with sometimes intense forays into other languages, as required by his duties. Of course, he'd spoken Liaden occasionally during the past fifteen Standards, but he had by no means spoken it every day. Doubtless, his grandfather would find him inexcusably rough, but that would be no new thing, and he was no longer an unskilled and despised halfling, but a man grown and secure in his accomplishments.

  He reached for his tea cup; paused to look at the ring on the smallest finger of his right hand. It was a utilitarian thing, as ornaments went, the stone set flush to the band so as not to foul in wires, or catch on combat gloves. A Liaden would scarcely call it a ring at all, but for the honor it denoted; and perhaps not even then. He had another ring in his kit–a broad banded, heavily gemmed affair that he wore when attending official parties and meetings with planetary officials, and others who were impressed by such things. Perhaps he should have it on, when he presented himself at the house.

  That reminded him of his agenda, and he put the question to the clerk, who smiled and nodded significantly toward the left wall of the shop.

  "Faces Spa will put you in the current style," she said. "Just three shops up, at the corner."

  "Will they be open, so early?"

  "Be shifting over to the day crew right about now," she answered, so he finished his tea, paid his tab, and walked up the street to have himself put into the current style.

  #

  After the spa, his braid shorn and the remainder of his pale hair arranged in soft curls over his ears, it was the tailor, who was pleased to serve Tom Lei pen'Chapen Clan Severt, and in very quick order produced a jacket, shirt, and trousers befitting the returning son of a mid-level House known to have ambitious tendencies. His good duty boots were changed out for a thinner, shinier pair, with a heel that would make marching painful. The tailor also produced evening clothes–"In the event that the House dresses for Prime"–and a second set of day clothes. In addition, he quick-cleaned Mr. pen'Chapen's travel leathers, sweater, and boots while the gentleman was in the dressing room, and had them waiting neatly on the counter when he emerged.

  "I thank you," Tom Lei said, remembering to incline slightly from the waist–not quite a bow, but a modest genuflection to one who has performed an unexpected small service. He produced his purse, meaning to settle his account immediately, and was stopped by the tailor himself.

  "By no means, sir! Clan Severt of course keeps an account here, and settles very promptly at the end of every relumma! I have no hesitation in appending today's modest purchases to this relumma's accountings."

  "I thank you," Tom Lei said again, while, mentally, he sighed. Of course, Severt kept accounts with the local tailors. It was how things were done, on Liad. He, long-accustomed to drawing his uniforms from stores, and purchasing joy-clothes and civvies from his own funds, had simply assumed–but there! This was his uniform, now.

  "I am happy to serve," the tailor was assuring him. "If you should need to expand your wardrobe–reception wear, or intimate items–please do not hesitate to call upon me."

  "I will remember," he promised, and reached for his kit, to stow cleaned leathers and boots.

  "May I call a cab for you, sir?" the tailor asked.

  He had intended to walk from the tailor to Severt's Clanhouse, a matter of some several dozen blocks. Walking would have served two purposes: it would have consumed time, should that have been necessary, until an hour when the House could be expected to be awake; and it would have given him one last opportunity to prepare himself for the upcoming meeting with his grandfather.

  Walking long blocks in these absurd new boots, however, was only likely to give him blisters and bad temper. And, too, the process of becoming presentable had taken rather longer than he had expected. The House would certainly be awake by this hour, and if they were still at breakfast, then h
e could certainly await his grandfather's pleasure in one of the small parlors.

  "A cab would be most welcome," he told the tailor. "I thank you again, for your care."

  #

  Severt's Clanhouse was situated on Omarine Street; not in Chonselta's first neighborhood, but well enough. It was pleasantly tree-lined, and the houses sat back from the public walk, protected from the prying eyes of passersby by small gardens.

  Tom Lei pen'Chapen paused with his hand on the gate, looking over the garden, and, if truth be told, the flagged walk that meandered from the gate through the flowers, to the stairway that ended at the front door.

  In theory, his palm print was known to the security systems. Which, in theory, would open both gate and door to him.

  Standing there, he knew a moment of hope, that the security system had forgotten him after all this time; that the gate would remain closed to him; so that he might have a reason to turn away, and resume his life. . .

  But no.

  His life as it had been was gone. His clan had need of him; his delm had called him home. Once more, he was merely a game piece, one among many interchangeable game pieces in his grandfather's endless quest for advantage.

  He put his hand on the gate.

  It swung open on well-oiled hinges.

  He sighed, then, and settled his kit more firmly over his shoulder, before stepping into the garden, and following the path to the stairs.

  #

  The front door was opened, not by one of the House's children, but by a butler, unknown to him. He gave his name, and the information that the delm had called him home.

  "I was told to expect you, sir," the butler said imperturbably. "The House is at breakfast. Will you join them at table, or will you await the delm's pleasure?"

  He was a mercenary sergeant with sixteen world-falls to his account. On one memorable occasion, he and eight others of his squad had not only denied a prime target to a full platoon of the enemy, but routed them.

  He was not by any means a coward.

  But the thought of meeting his entire extended family at the breakfast table brought a cold sweat to his brow, and a decided uneasiness to his belly.

  "Thank you," he said to nameless butler. "I breakfasted at the port. I will await the delm's pleasure."

  "This way, then, sir."

  He was led, not to the public receiving parlor, only a few steps from the door, but down into the house, until at last the butler opened the door to the delm's very office, and bade him be comfortable.

  "Shall I have that taken to your rooms, sir?" the butler asked, by which he meant the kit bag Tom Lei yet carried. He surrendered it with a pang, refused the offered glass of wine, and, after the door had closed, wandered restlessly over to the shelves.

  He was perusing the titles there when the door opened again, much sooner than he had anticipated, and a sharp voice exclaimed behind him.

  "Well, you took your time getting here!"

  Between one breath and another, his nerves steadied.

  "I traveled with all haste, as instructed," he said, and turned to face his grandfather.

  "It's been an entire relumma since I sent for you, sir!"

  The old man hasn't changed a hair.

  That was his first thought. His second was that his grandfather had altered: he was older, thinner, the hair that had still shown streaks of black when last they'd met was silver, now.

  "It is the nature of space travel, sir," he said, speaking in the mode of younger to elder– damned if he was going to hold a conversation in clan-member-to-delm. And if he was going to be chewed out. . .

  But his grandfather had apparently thought better of whatever else he had been about to say. Instead, he inclined his head, and moved to the desk.

  "Pour for us," he said shortly.

  With prompt obedience, Tom Lei moved over to the wine table, and paused, uncertain of his memory.

  "Do you drink the red?" he asked, more or less at hazard.

  "At this hour? Canary."

  He located the bottle, poured two glasses, carried them to the desk and placed one by his grandfather's hand.

  The old man picked up the glass, and glared up at him, dark eyes narrowed. They were not much alike, Tom Lei and his grandfather, which was the crux of the matter. Tom Lei was Festival-get, and the mark of his fair-haired, blue-eyed, pale-skinned sire was far too plain upon him. He had looked a veritable ghost among his numerous black-haired, ebon-eyed, golden-skinned kin, taller than the tallest of them by time he attained his twelfth name day.

  Worse than all of that, he had the misfortune to be the child of grandfather's least-favored daughter, who he was pleased to style an imbecile, though how a woman who brought the clan the considerable benefit of her salary as a freight expediter could be thought an imbecile. . .

  "Do not loom," his grandfather snapped. "Sit down."

  He did so without comment, and sat holding the glass in his right hand.

  "You look well enough," his grandfather said. "I had been concerned that you would require more polish. A word or two in the ear of your aunt Manza should see you set up in the wardrobe. Jewels. . ."

  He frowned, his gaze falling on Tom Lei's all but naked hands, and he felt a pang, that he had not remembered to get the state ring out of his kit and put it on.

  "What is that you have on your hand?"

  The tone was more disgusted than curious, and a hot reply leapt to his tongue.

  Then, he glanced at his right hand, and the small token he wore there, remembering faces he would never see again, comrades, lovers, and friends, and for their sake, he chose to answer moderately and do no dishonor to the ring.

  "It signifies that I made sixteen world-falls as a mercenary, and saw action on each."

  His grandfather frowned.

  "Is that an honor?"

  "It is. . .an accomplishment," Tom Lei said, and added, "among mercenary soldiers."

  His grandfather sat back in his chair, hands steepled before him. His eyes were on Tom Lei as if he studied the merits of an art work set before him.

  "Excellent. You will wear that ring." The frown returned. "Where is your clan necklace?"

  "I had never had one," Tom Lei said, and felt the slow burn of old anger. "When I came fourteen, you told my mother to find me a suitable employment that was out of your sight and cost you nothing."

  "Whereupon you joined the mercenaries," said his grandfather.

  "Whereupon," he corrected, though he might more wisely have allowed his grandfather's history to stand, "we went first to the Healers, who tested me, and found that I might safely be trained as a servant in the Halls. That training would have required money, however.

  "After the Healers, we went to the Scouts. I was tested and offered a scholarship to be trained in a specialty. The scholarship, however, was dependent upon a small donation from my House.

  "With both of these options rejected by the delm–" and, he added to himself, my mother with a new bruise on her face—"then, yes, we went to the mercenaries, and I was enlisted as a 'prentice soldier. The results of the Scouts' testing came with me, and I was trained in languages and protocol." He did not say that the mercenaries had paid his mother a signing fee, of which she had given him half. He didn't know what she might have done with that money, and even after so long he feared to betray her to her father.

  "The mercenaries do not appear to have taught you to curb your insolence," his grandfather observed, and continued with scarcely a pause. "Never mind. You will have a clan necklace; you will have everything that a son of Severt ought to have, and honor, too. You will be required to attend me. You will do as you are told, and you will say that which I give you to say. In this way you will bring benefit to your House, and increase our standing among the clans. Do you understand me?"

  Well, no; he didn't. But, when had he ever understood aught about his grandfather save that the old man hated the sight of him, and considered him a drain upon the resources of the House?


  "Yes, sir," he said, mildly.

  His grandfather failed to look pleased. He stood, abruptly. Tom Lei came to his feet as well.

  "Go and find Manza. Tell her that you'll want good clothes; that I intend to take you about and show you to everyone. Can you do that?"

  "I believe it may not be beyond me."

  Dammit, Tommy, hold your tongue!

  He met his grandfather's black eyes, and waited for the explosion.

  It didn't come.

  "Leave me," his grandfather said.

  Tom Lei bowed and left the room.

  #

  His aunt Manza was in her own office at the back of the house; a small room the one charm of which was the tall narrow window that gave out onto the back garden. She heard his grandfather's instructions with no expression on her face, reached into the middle drawer of the desk and withdrew a gold chain from which a golden icon in the shape of Severt's shield twinkled. He received it from her hand and slipped it on over his head without looking at the shield.

  "The clothes you are wearing were got in Chonselta," she said then.

  He nodded.

  "This morning, at bin'Dekel's shop, on East Port Street," he said. "I thought it best, were I not to show up in my traveling gear."

  His aunt smiled, faintly.

  "You never were a fool," she commented. "So, since Master bin'Dekel has your measurements, as of this very morning, and since his work is perfectly unexceptional, I will call him immediately and order in those things Severt desires you to have. They will be sent up to your rooms when they are delivered." She turned to her screen, tapped a key.

  "There is a small card party this evening to which I daresay you will accompany your grandfather, if you are to be shown to everyone." She looked at him appraisingly. "What you are wearing now will do, though it should be freshened. . ."

  "I bought a second suit, much like this," he said, and she inclined her head in acknowledgment.

  "Tomorrow night is pen'Valer's reception, for which you will need something more, but we will have it by then." She moved her shoulders. "You're in the back hall, second floor; the middle suite." Another glance, this one slightly softer. "It has much the same view as this room, and is quite the nicest suite on the hall."