Certain Symmetry (4 page)

"If you wish to make counters appear and
disappear, you would do well to supply yourself with several of the
same color and hide them about your person. I, for instance, keep
several green counters behind my belt--" A flourish, in the grand
style, and there they were--four green counters held between the
fingers of his left hand.

"Your belt!" protested Moonhawk. "You
never--"

"I also," Lute interrupted, implacable,
"keep several behind my collar." Another grand flourish and there
were four more--- yellow this time--between the fingers of his
right hand.

"Master Lute--"

"And when you are done with them, why, it's
a simple thing to put them away." A shake of both hands and the
counters were gone.

Moonhawk drew a deep breath.

"Of course," said Lute, "it is often wise to
keep a counter or two elsewhere than upon one's person. Like the
one I store behind your ear."

"Behind my ear!" she cried, but there was
Lute's hand, brushing past her cheek, and then reappearing,
triumphantly displaying a red counter.

Moonhawk sighed.

"Master Lute?"

"Yes, Lady Moonhawk?"

"You're a dreadful master."

"And you," Lute said, turning toward the
village, "are an impertinent apprentice. It is a good thing, don't
you think, that we are so very well matched?"

Certain Symmetry

THE MORNING OF the sixth and final day of
Little Festival dawned in pastel perfection, promising another
pellucid day of pleasure for festival-goers.

Pat Rin yos'Phelium, Clan Korval, a faithful
five-day attendee, had failed through press of pleasure to greet
the dawn from the near side--and likewise failed of observing it
from the far side, as he was most soundly asleep, and remained so
for some hours beyond.

When he did rise and betake himself to his
study, he found the day's letters and packets piled neatly to hand,
the screen displaying his preferred news service, and a pot of tea
gently steaming next to a porcelain cup.

Pat Rin poured for himself and settled into
his chair, rapidly scanning the news summary.

The results of yesterday's skimmer races at
Little Festival were, inevitably, top news. It could not be
otherwise, with both the thodelm of yos'Galan and the nadelm of
Korval entire in participation.

Pat Rin sighed, gently, and sipped his tea.
One's mother was annoyed, however courteously she had accepted
one's cousin's instruction in the matter. He sipped again, savoring
the blend, and allowed his gaze to wander from the screen for a
moment.

One's cousin had proven ...unanticipated.
One encountered an edge--and a precision of cut--which had not been
noted before cousin Val Con's departure for the Scouts. It might be
that Scout training had produced this surprising alteration in the
unassuming--even shy--halfling Pat Rin recalled. Or, as one's
mother contended, it might simply be that Val Con was coming into
his own, that genes would tell, and by the gods it had seemed for a
long and telling moment as if her brother Daav himself had stood
before her.

Well.

Pat Rin had some more tea, and set the cup
aside. He would need to acquaint himself with this new iteration of
Val Con. No doubt this skimmer race victory would bring to him any
number of gentle inquiries as to the ...availability... of the
nadelm. He made a note to speak--unofficially, of course!--to
cousin Nova regarding Val Con's current standing with regard to the
marriage mart. In the meanwhile, his own business beckoned.

He brought his attention once more to the
news screen, noted that several of his more minor investments were
performing with gratifying efficiency; read with bored interest the
listing of contract-marriages negotiated and consummated; learned
of a brawl in mid-Port between the crews of a Terran freighter and
a Liaden tug; scanned the list of performances, contests and
displays scheduled for this, the last day of Festival,
and--blinked.

Fal Den ter'Antod Clan Imtal had died.

Pat Rin called for more information and
quickly learned that Fal Den's kin had published a suicide to the
Council of Clans and had declined, as was their right, to provide
particulars. Business partners and allies of Clan Imtal were
advised that the Clan was in full mourning; that the viewing box
and pleasure tents held by Imtal would be closed for the remainder
of the season, and that those who had been engaged in Balancing
accounts with Fal Den should soon find themselves satisfied.

Pat Rin closed his eyes.

He could not name himself a close friend of
Fal Den ter'Antod, but he had certainly known the man, and had
placed a certain value upon him. Neither a great beauty nor a great
intellect, Fal Den possessed charm and an engaging forthrightness
of manner that made him an agreeable and even welcome companion.
His faults included a belief in the forthrightness of others and a
rather thin skin, yet despite these he capably managed both an
impeccable melant'i and the not-inconsiderable interests of his
family on the Port. To believe that Fal Den was dead, and by his
own hand...

Pat Rin opened his eyes, reached out and
touched the discreet pearly button set into his desk.

Fal Den dead. He had seen him only three
days past, on the arm of Hia Cyn yo'Tonin, which was deplorable of
course, and had Fal Den been the sibling Pat Rin did not possess,
he would have been moved to whisper a word in his ear...

The door to his office slid open and the
excellent pel'Tolian, his general man, stepped within and
bowed.

"Good day, Lord Pat Rin."

"Alas, I must disagree," Pat Rin returned.
"I find it thus far a singularly distressing day."

"Perhaps matters will improve, as the hours
move on," Mr. pel'Tolian suggested.

"Perhaps they will. Certainly, it is
possible. In the meantime, however, I must request you to procure a
mourning basket and have it delivered to the House of Imtal. I will
write the card myself."

"Very good, sir." The man bowed. "Shall you
wish to partake of a meal?"

"A light nuncheon. And a glass of the
jade."

"Very good, sir," Mr. pel'Tolian said again
and went away, the door sliding silently shut behind him.

Pat Rin sat with his eyes closed for perhaps
the count of twelve, then turned to deal with his mail.

There were four letters and two packets. Two
letters were solicitations of funding for ventures so wonderfully
risky that to describe them as "speculative" was to overreach the
facts by several magnitudes of wishful thinking. Such letters
originated with the same sort of person who thought it
...fitting... to invite him--as multi-season champion at pistol and
short arms at Teydor's--to join hunting parties on distant
outworlds where he might slog through underbrush for days and fire
mini-cannons at blameless creatures while enjoying the company of
those to whom nothing was more pleasurable.... He dropped both
solicitations into the recycler.

Next was an invitation from Eyan yo'Lanna to
make one of her house party, proposed for the middle of next
relumma. That was good--sufficient time to have the tailor produce
something new and appropriate, perhaps involving the yo'Lanna
colors. The sudden fashion of declaring a party within hours or
even minutes--the "express" mode, as it was called--made it
difficult for one to plan ahead even as it made judging the party's
...desirability... all but impossible.

Eyan's parties, however, were often amusing,
correct without being stifling, and always informative. Pat Rin
reached into the right hand drawer of the desk, pulled out a stiff
ivory card with Korval's Tree-and-Dragon embossed on the front,
opened it and wrote the appropriate graceful acceptance. He slid
the card into an envelope, penned the direction with his own hand,
affixed one of Korval's postage coupons, and placed it in the
carved wooden tray that served as his outbox.

The fourth letter was from his foster
father, Luken bel'Tarda, begging the pleasure of his company that
evening for a private dinner at Ongit's.

Pat Rin smiled. The invitation to Ongit's
was a joke, by which Luken meant to convey that Pat Rin was arrears
in visits. In which complaint, he thought, glancing at the
calendar, Luken was entirely justified.

He pulled out a sheet of paper bearing only
his name, wrote that he would be pleased to dine with his foster
father this very evening and begged his pardon for being a
light-minded flutter-about-town. He signed himself "Your
affectionate son," sealed, directed, stamped, and placed the
completed billet in the wooden tray.

The door of his study opened to admit Mr.
pel'Tolian, bearing the requested light nuncheon and glass. This,
he disposed upon the small table to Pat Rin's left, then picked up
the completed mail and, cat-footed, departed,

Pat Rin turned his attention to the first of
the two packets. The postage was Aragon's. He had shared several
delightful and adventurous Festival hours with a daughter of the
House only yesterday. As the adventure had been at the lady's
initiative, Pat Rin assumed the packet to contain a Fairing--a gift
of gratitude. He broke the seal, unfolded the box, shook out the
silken garment enclosed--and very nearly groaned.

He had expected Shan and Val Con's escapade
to result in a rash of monstrosities aping Val Con's innovative
cloak, the so-called "skimmer" he'd used to such astonishing effect
in yesterday's races. He had simply not expected the fashion to
have taken so quickly.

Aragon's third daughter had sent him a
skimmer--blue, where Val Con's original had been warning light
orange--which modification was not, Pat Rin thought, as pleasing as
one must have assuredly assumed that it would be. The name of the
tailor was impeccable--in fact, his mother's own tailor--and the
material flawless. Nor did it seem at all unlikely that the silk
had been chosen to precisely match the color of his earring, of
which the lady had been most fond. Ah, youth.

He sighed and folded the wretched thing onto
his keyboard, and turned back to the opened box. There was no note,
which was proper, and told him that Aragon's daughter had breeding,
if not taste.

He picked up the second packet, frowned at
Imtal's postal mark, broke the seal, and for the second time in a
hour found himself at Point Non Plus.

For the packet contained a leather book no
larger than Pat Rin's hand, stamped with the sigil of Clan Imtal.
Foreknowing, he opened the volume to the first page and verified
that what he held was indeed Fal Den ter'Antod's personal
debt-book.

There was no note, as of course there would
not be, the Code being explicit upon this point. By the act of
sending this book, Fal Den had chosen the executor of his will. He,
Pat Rin yos'Phelium, was to tend all accounts left unBalanced at
the time of Fal Den's death, paying justly where the fault had been
Fal Den's; collecting fully where the debt was owed. No light task,
this, nor deniable.

And he had precisely thirty-six hours in
which to complete it, assuming that all debts were on-planet, which
seemed likely.

He did not read past the first page. Not
yet. With the patience of a true gambler he closed the book and
settled back into his chair.

First, something to eat, and some wine. His
day would no doubt be full.

* * *

IN ANOTHER PART of the city of Solcintra, a
second late-rising young gentleman rang for his morning-wine and
likewise sat down to review his letters and the news.

His correspondence was sparse--two pieces
only. The first was a terse page from his man of business, noting
receipt into his lordship's portfolio of a substantial gift of
stocks and other assets.

The second note was scarcely less terse, and
its subject remarkably similar. Betea sen'Equa wished to know when
the consideration she had earned would be forthcoming. Happily the
young gentleman had lately expended some thought upon just this
subject, and knew precisely how to answer her.

From the bottom drawer in his desk, he
withdrew a blank sheet of thin paper, of the sort provided to the
guests of Mid-Port hotels. On it, he scrawled a few lines with his
off-hand, not forgetting to omit his name, nor the sixth-cantra
required to hold the reservation, sealed it and slid it into his
pocket.

That done, he sipped his wine and perused
the news.

His preferred service concerned itself not
at all with Port news, so he lacked the account of the disagreement
between the Terran and Liaden crews; nor was his latest investment,
which had done very well indeed, of the sort to make the board at
the Exchange.

Fal Den ter'Antod's suicide, though--that
news he did take in common with the other tardy young gentleman.
He, too, blinked upon encountering the unexpected headline, for he
had lately been at pains to become intimate with Fal Den and would
not have wagered upon finding him thus weak-willed. In point of
fact, he had erred in precisely the opposite direction.

The young gentleman sighed sharply, vexed;
the note he had written to Betea sen'Equa absurdly heavy in his
sleeve-pocket. He drank off the rest of his wine and sat in his
chair, hands folded beneath his chin, staring sightlessly at the
news screen.

Long minutes passed, with the gentleman sunk
deep in his thoughts. Eventually, he blinked, and sighed a second
time, considerably less vexed, and owned that his plans might go
forward, unimpeded. The lack of Fal Den was--naturally!--a blow,
but life, after all, went on.

Just so.

Satisfied in his reasoning, the young
gentleman cleared the news screen, and filed away the letter from
his man of business.

The note from Beta sen'Equa he carried over
to the recycler. Reaching into inside pocket he withdrew one of his
special sort of cigarillo, and sucked on it twice to light it. He
puffed for a moment or two, tasting of the invigorating smoke,
until the central embers came to red. Then he touched the tip of
the cigarillo gently to one edge of the paper and held it gingerly
by the opposite corner. When the quick flames licked toward his
fingertips, he dropped the thing into the unit, which extinguished
the flames and proceeded to process the carbon.