all a-tumble, visions of Gaenor running into odd thoughts of distant Khat and then the twins Miandra and Meicha and--
He wasn't any of those other places, he was here, on this ship. He'd willfully left Gobelyn's Market to come here; he willfully told his mother, Captain Iza, "I've found my ship!"
The choice now was straightforward, and he stripped, the straight-white light from the mirror making his skin even paler against the small tangles of dark underarm and pubic hair. He thought he heard a sound on the other side of the door, and moved quickly now, with ever more confidence, pulling on the wonderfully soft and caressing underdrawers, marveling at their touch and their fit, the way they showed his shape, both supporting and bringing him forward. He blushed briefly, seeing himself thus in the mirror, and said under his breath, "Be bold, Jeth!"
The rest of the clothes slid over his skin gently, like the touch of a loving lady, and when he peered into the mirror again, gently brushing his unruly head of hair into what perfection he might, he could see through the outer layers to the smoky shadowy transparency of the inner clothes, his pale skin giving an extra radiance to the blue.
The footlets he also pulled on: clearly they were part of the package and were effective against the cool floor--they stretched too, so like the other clothes needed only be approximately his size. The choker he wore fit very nicely and rode comfortably for all that he was unused to wearing much around his neck. It was almost as if the moon glowed blue in the bright light of the little room.
He turned one more time, to see from the side, and then to half see his back, and then retreated a half step.
Looking back at him was a man he'd hardly met. Time to find out then, what this man could do.
*
Gaenor alas, was not obviously present in the suite, though the catering cart she'd brought with her was parked near the wooden table, fine aromas spilling into the air . . . and yes, the rushing noise was louder now, and the airflow heavier--perhaps Gaenor had adjusted something.
The door to the other dressing room was closed and he imagined he could hear her movements; he tried to remember what the Code portions had said about meeting with a to-be lover. Was he to stand? Should he sit? What distance then--for they carried themselves as comrades properly when they walked the halls trading languages, much closer than the distance for trade but not yet the casual touching passes such as crew members on the Market shared in those slender passageways.
He wondered then, seeing several beverage containers, should he be pouring yet? If so, which first?
He studied the cart, went to it, dared to lift lids from covered foods to sniff and wonder at them. It was a plague, knowing more than he used to, for now that he wasn't an entirely ignorant Terran, simple social missteps showed not carelessness, but impertinence, or--
Ah, what was this? In a flat container to be taken out there was a sealed storage bin with something that looked very much like a dark Terran double-fed cake, and beside it was what looked very like whizzywhite topping. Now that would be good--he wondered if Gaenor could have recalled him talking about it in one of their trades--tell me your favorite color, and he'd said blue and then she'd said tra'haina . . . but no, that was a food of hers, maybe a soup, yes, a soup local to Liad.
The color she'd called then was drai'vaina , and he got that it was a kind of bright red--she'd promised to show him one day the exact shade--and then they'd talked nuances and off-shades and tints, since he needed to know such things for the trading, and they'd got into favorite dessert and she'd talked of a frosty cold chernubia --he had it in notes, he'd have to look it up when he could.
He leaned on the cart with both hands and peeked closer at the cake and suddenly, with the rush of the background sounds falling and fading to a snap and then a swish, he