made a slight bow, as would a resident prince upon greeting another traveling through his country. "My name is Justin Hostro. I could not help overhearing your conversation just now. Much that you have said interests me, and I believe I see a way in which we both may prosper. I would be very happy, were you to have time to walk with me to my place of business, so that we may discuss the matter more fully."
Edger was pleased. Forsooth, a human of beautifully polished manner and splendid turn of phrase. Further, one who wished to learn more fully of the knives of Middle River. He inclined his head.
"My brother and I are happy to learn your name and would be pleased to discuss our craft with you. Let us, as you say, walk to your place of business and speak."
Justin Hostro bowed once more. "I am delighted by your willingness. If I might beg the favor of an instant, while I complete the purchase of a gift for my only daughter?"
"It is well," Edger replied. "My kinsman and I shall await you and yours without."
If their new acquaintance tarried longer than the requested instant, it was not by so significant a time that either Edger or Selector noted the delay. Justin Hostro and his companion rejoined them quickly, the companion bearing a large and ornately wrapped box.
"Ah!" Edger exclaimed. "What delicacy you show in your choice! What supremacy of color—the so-bold yellow, how subtly tamed by the soberness of the black ribands! It is my belief that your daughter will be well pleased with such a gift."
The man carrying the object of this acclaim stopped dead, blinking at his leader. But Justin Hostro merely laid his hand upon Edger's forearm and turned him gently down the street, murmuring, "Now, it does my heart good to hear you say so, for I see you have a discerning eye. I had had qualms, I will admit it. Perhaps the yellow was too bold? The black too severe? But that it draws such praise from you—I am content."
Shaking his head, Mr. Hostro's companion fell in with Selector, and thus they each followed their leader down the street.
* * *
CMS WAS AT .90, CPS at .82. Val Con adjusted the stops on the 'chora as his fingers found an intriguing weave of sound, and the numbers in his head faded away.
Shrouded in the music, he did not hear the scant sound she made entering the room, nor did body-sense warn him of her nearness. The thud of disk to padded 'chora top was unexpectedly loud.
Trained reflexes stilled his startled reaction as his eyes snapped first to her face, then to the disk, and back to her face.
"Hello, Miri."
"What is it?" she demanded, voice harsh, finger pointing.
He dropped his eyes obediently and considered the bright design, hands folded in his lap as he sought the proper words, the correct inflection. It is heritage, he thought. It is home.
"It is a House Badge." He lifted his eyes again to hers, keeping his voice gentle and smooth. "The sign indicates Clan Erob, which is a House that chooses to seat itself elsewhere than upon Liad. They are respected Traders." He moved his shoulders. "It is what I know."
"There's writing on the back of it," Miri told him, her voice less harsh, but still carrying that edge he mistrusted.
He picked up the disk, flipped it in long fingers, and sighed.
"It is a genealogy. The last entry is incomplete. it reads: 'Miri Tiazan, born in the year named Amrasam.'" He let the badge fall gently back to the padding and looked up at her. "That would be approximately sixty-five Standards ago."
"Tayzin," she muttered, giving the name a Terran inflection. "Katalina Tayzin—my mother. Miri Tayzin—grandmother, I guess. Mom might've named me for my grandmother—she never said. Just that her mother'd died in 1358, back during the Fevers, when the fatcats..." She let her voice drift off, shaking her head.
"Didn't tell me a lot of stuff, looks like. When I told her I'd joined up with Liz's Merc unit, she gave me that thing there. Told me it'd belonged to
Edger was pleased. Forsooth, a human of beautifully polished manner and splendid turn of phrase. Further, one who wished to learn more fully of the knives of Middle River. He inclined his head.
"My brother and I are happy to learn your name and would be pleased to discuss our craft with you. Let us, as you say, walk to your place of business and speak."
Justin Hostro bowed once more. "I am delighted by your willingness. If I might beg the favor of an instant, while I complete the purchase of a gift for my only daughter?"
"It is well," Edger replied. "My kinsman and I shall await you and yours without."
If their new acquaintance tarried longer than the requested instant, it was not by so significant a time that either Edger or Selector noted the delay. Justin Hostro and his companion rejoined them quickly, the companion bearing a large and ornately wrapped box.
"Ah!" Edger exclaimed. "What delicacy you show in your choice! What supremacy of color—the so-bold yellow, how subtly tamed by the soberness of the black ribands! It is my belief that your daughter will be well pleased with such a gift."
The man carrying the object of this acclaim stopped dead, blinking at his leader. But Justin Hostro merely laid his hand upon Edger's forearm and turned him gently down the street, murmuring, "Now, it does my heart good to hear you say so, for I see you have a discerning eye. I had had qualms, I will admit it. Perhaps the yellow was too bold? The black too severe? But that it draws such praise from you—I am content."
Shaking his head, Mr. Hostro's companion fell in with Selector, and thus they each followed their leader down the street.
* * *
CMS WAS AT .90, CPS at .82. Val Con adjusted the stops on the 'chora as his fingers found an intriguing weave of sound, and the numbers in his head faded away.
Shrouded in the music, he did not hear the scant sound she made entering the room, nor did body-sense warn him of her nearness. The thud of disk to padded 'chora top was unexpectedly loud.
Trained reflexes stilled his startled reaction as his eyes snapped first to her face, then to the disk, and back to her face.
"Hello, Miri."
"What is it?" she demanded, voice harsh, finger pointing.
He dropped his eyes obediently and considered the bright design, hands folded in his lap as he sought the proper words, the correct inflection. It is heritage, he thought. It is home.
"It is a House Badge." He lifted his eyes again to hers, keeping his voice gentle and smooth. "The sign indicates Clan Erob, which is a House that chooses to seat itself elsewhere than upon Liad. They are respected Traders." He moved his shoulders. "It is what I know."
"There's writing on the back of it," Miri told him, her voice less harsh, but still carrying that edge he mistrusted.
He picked up the disk, flipped it in long fingers, and sighed.
"It is a genealogy. The last entry is incomplete. it reads: 'Miri Tiazan, born in the year named Amrasam.'" He let the badge fall gently back to the padding and looked up at her. "That would be approximately sixty-five Standards ago."
"Tayzin," she muttered, giving the name a Terran inflection. "Katalina Tayzin—my mother. Miri Tayzin—grandmother, I guess. Mom might've named me for my grandmother—she never said. Just that her mother'd died in 1358, back during the Fevers, when the fatcats..." She let her voice drift off, shaking her head.
"Didn't tell me a lot of stuff, looks like. When I told her I'd joined up with Liz's Merc unit, she gave me that thing there. Told me it'd belonged to
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