Local Custom by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee Page A

the common room. She smacked the door open and burst into the hallway at a dead run, heading for the Quad, the surrey station.

    And the spaceport.

     

    SHE SHOULD NEVER have trusted him, Anne thought fiercely. She should have never let him back into her life. She should have never let him back into her bed. Gods, it had all been an act, put on to lull her fears, so that she would leave Shan with him—she saw it now. And she—she so starved for love, so besotted with a beautiful face and caressing ways, incapable of thinking that Er Thom would do her harm, willing herself to believe he would—or could—stop being Liaden . . . 

    She flashed down the stairs and out into the Quad, running as if her life depended upon it and, gods, what if he had already gone? Taken her son and lifted, gone into hyperspace, Jumping for Liad—how would she ever find him again? What Liaden would take the part of a Terran barbarian against one who was master trader, a'thodelm, and heir to his delm?

    There are not so—very many—yos'Galans, Er Thom murmured in memory, and Anne gasped, speeding toward the blue light that marked the surrey station.

    She was halfway across the Quad when they emerged, the boy straddling the man's shoulders. The man was walking unhurried and smooth, as if the combined weight of the child and the duffel bag he also carried was just slightly less than nothing.

    "I'lanta!" the child cried, and the man swung right.

    "Dri'at!" the boy called out then and the man obediently went to the left.

    Anne slammed to a halt, fist pressed tight against her mouth, watching them cross toward her.

    Shan was exuberant, hanging onto the collar of Er Thom's battered leather jacket, Er Thom's hands braceleting his ankles.

    "I'lanta!" Shan called again, heels beating an abbreviated tattoo against the man's chest.

    But Er Thom had seen her. He increased his pace, marching in a straight line, ignoring it entirely when Shan grabbed a handful of bright golden hair and commanded, "I'lanta, Mirada!"

    "Anne?" The violet eyes were worried. He reached up and swung the child down, retaining a firm hold on a small hand. His other hand lifted and stopped a bare inch from her face, while she stood there like a stump and stared at the two of them, afraid to move. Afraid to breathe . . . 

    "You're weeping," Er Thom murmured, hand hesitating, dropping, disappearing into a jacket pocket. "My friend, what is wrong?"

    She drew a shaky breath, her first in some time, or so it felt, and found the courage to move her hand from before her mouth.

    "I came home," she said, hearing how her voice wobbled, "and you were gone."

    "Ah." Distress showed, clearly, for a heartbeat. Then Er Thom was bowing, graceful and low. "I am distraught to have caused you pain," he murmured, in Terran, though the inflection was all High Liaden. "Forgive me, that my thoughtlessness has brought you tears."

    He straightened and moved Shan forward, relinquishing his hand. "Go to your mother, denubia."

    "Ma?" The light blue eyes were worried; she felt his uncertainty as if it were her own.

    Anne sank to her knees and pulled him close in a savage hug, her cheek against his.

    "Hi, Shannie," she managed, though her voice still quavered. "You have a nice day?"

    "Nice," he agreed, arms tight around her neck. "Saw Meg'lar. Saw— spaceport ." He wriggled, proud of himself. "Saw ship and store and—and—"

    He wriggled again, imperatively. Anne loosened her grip, found herself looking up into Er Thom's face.

    Very solemn, that face, and the violet eyes shadowed so that she longed to reach out and touch him, to beg his pardon for having doubted—

    Enough of that, Annie Davis, she told herself sternly. You touch the man and lose your sense—only see how it happened yestereve.

    "It was necessary that I have clothes," Er Thom said gently, fingers brushing the bag at his hip. "Also, I have arranged that food be delivered to your dwelling—" His hand came up, fingers