Dreamhearth Page 7

  Vasiht’h stared at him over the counter and started laughing. “Goddess. She talked you into those? Are you made of magic, alet?”

  The Hinichi beamed. “Oh, you know how it is when you get old enough. People hate saying no to you.”

  “I suppose we shall have to have them with coffee.” Jahir put the box on the counter.

  “Those things? Absolutely not,” Vasiht’h said. “Kerinne. All the way. Even for you.”

  “Good for you,” Helga agreed. “Make him eat more.”

  “I like her,” Vasiht’h said.

  Jahir sighed, though he let the mindline pulse his affection. “I knew you would.”

  “So,” Helga said over dinner: not just the chicken, but a salad Vasiht’h had hastily thrown together to accompany it. “Ametia’s happy with you, and you’ve netted Lennea as well. Nicely done!”

  “You know them both?” Vasiht’h asked. “Do you work in academia too?”

  “Oh, no, no,” Helga shook her head. “I’m just a friend. And I have a great deal of children, you know. Grown-up ones with children of their own. You inevitably get involved with schooling when you help out with the family.” She grinned. “I’ve been here a while. I know everyone, you’ll find.”

  Vasiht’h tilted his head, looking up at the ceiling. “Karina?”

  “Spoons ice cream on the commons,” Helga said. “Her birthday is in fall. You’ll like fall here, it’s pretty.”

  “Is it?” Jahir asked. “Substantively different from how it looks now?”

  “It gets colder, so the trees turn their leaves.” The Hinichi wiggled her eyebrows at Vasiht’h. “Got another for me?”

  Vasiht’h wrinkled her nose. “Hinichi woman, a little younger than you. In Fleet. Brindled pelt.”

  “Sounds like Alfreida,” Helga said, unconcerned. “But could be her cousin, Henrieta. Henrieta just moved here four years ago.” She speared another piece of chicken. “You are an excellent cook.”

  “’Just’ four years ago?” Vasiht’h repeated, bemused.

  “I have lived here all my life, alet!” Helga answered. “And I like people. If I don’t know everyone, I at least know of them. I’ve made it my business to know.”

  “And now you know us as well,” Jahir observed.

  “Not as well as I’d like,” she said, smiling. “So maybe you can tell me about yourselves, now that you’re both in one place. When I met your partner here, Vasiht’h-alet, he told me a little about how you met. I’d like to hear it from your side, if you’d like to tell the tale.”

  “Only if you’ll trade, and tell me something from your life,” Vasiht’h answered.

  Helga laughed. “I’ll tell you about how I met my husband, God keep his soul. That’s a good story. Yes, it’s a deal. So tell me how it happened. And pass me the plate, I need another serving of this.” She tapped her fork on Jahir’s plate. “You stopped eating. Finish eating.”

  “I like her!” Vasiht’h said again to him.

  Jahir hid a smile.

  The dinner remained congenial: both Vasiht’h and Helga enjoyed talking about their families, which gave Jahir ample opportunity to listen over the dessert course, which they ate disposed around the sitting room. Vasiht’h relented and allowed him coffee instead of kerinne; given that the scones were dense and crumbly and powdery, he was glad of the contrast. The evening slowly deepened, bringing a gentle breeze through the windows, and the sound of night insects, and the murmurs of conversations engaged by those on their constitutionals.

  “You like this,” Helga said, startling him out of his reverie. He found her examining him with far too perspicacious eyes; worse, he felt the pressure of Vasiht’h’s sudden interest in the mindline, and knew a great deal was riding on that interest.

  He chose his words carefully, and said as little with them as possible. “It is pleasant.”

  “Pastoral,” Helga said. “Quiet.”

  “Quiet can be good.”

  “But?” She refilled her kerinne.

  Jahir glanced at Vasiht’h and said, “I did not come here to rusticate.”

  From the loosening in the mindline, that had been the right answer, and he hadn’t even known it had been a question.

  “You can commute, you know,” Helga said, and something about her tone struck him as curious. As if the answer mattered. “It’s not a long walk. Or you could use the Pad.”

  “There’s a Pad nearby?” Vasiht’h asked, one ear sagging.

  Helga snorted. “It’s the Garden District. Of course there is. The people here work all over the starbase. Why should they walk? And no one flies, you’ll notice.”

  “We could… commute,” Jahir said, tasting the word, sensing its consequences. Imagining how it would work. “But it would place us at a remove. I would prefer to see if we need the remove before we commit to it.”

  “And you would need it if….”

  “If our work proves too emotionally taxing.” Jahir glanced at Vasiht’h. “I would not want to go through Selnor again.”

  “No,” Vasiht’h said. /You said that out loud? You trust her with that story?/

  /Should I not?/

  Vasiht’h glanced at the Hinichi and smiled. /I know what I’d answer. But I’m not you./

  /No. But I believe I made my choice when I accepted her help in the first place./

  Helga was sipping her kerinne, the very picture of nonchalance. Addressing her, Jahir said, “Alet, you are fooling no one with this look.”

  She grinned over the rim of her cup. “I suppose not. But I find it evokes a lot more confidences when I pretend to innocence. People find it humorous in the elderly, when they are mischievous.”

  “You work that angle pretty hard,” Vasiht’h said, amused.

  “You work with what you have, alet,” Helga said, and her tone was more serious, if gentle. “And people do age, and that affects how they’re treated.” She set her cup down. “So, you don’t think you wish to ‘rusticate’, do you.”

  “I think it might be a fine thing to live in the commons, if we stay,” Jahir said. “But first we must earn our stay.”

  “Keep on doing what you’re doing,” Helga said, patting her lips with her napkin. “I’m sure it will come. That was a fine dinner, aletsen. My compliments to the chef.”

  “Thank you,” Vasiht’h said, smiling. “You should come by again. I like feeding people.”

  “I imagine you do,” she said, eyes sparkling. “Else you wouldn’t have found yourself someone so in need of it, mmm?” Rising, she said, “I will take you up on that another time.”

  At the door, Jahir said, “You have not asked.”

  The Hinichi lifted her brows. “Of course not. What would we talk about next time if I had? Good night, aletsen!”

  He remained by the door, watching her recede into the dark. Behind him, Vasiht’h began washing the pan and the plates.

  “She didn’t ask about Selnor,” he said at last.

  Vasiht’h laughed. “Of course she didn’t. We were expecting her to. I don’t think she likes to do the expected thing. It would be boring.”

  Thinking of their first conversation, Jahir smiled. “Yes. I expect you’re right. Shall I help with the plates?”

  “Just to put them away. Those cabinets are taller than I am.” As Jahir picked up the stack, Vasiht’h finished, “You know, I think our luck is going to turn?”

  “It has not already?”

  Vasiht’h paused, chuckled. “Good point. I’ll have to see if there’s a siv’t nearby. I’m obviously overdue.”

  Chapter 7

  There was a man waiting for them outside their office when they arrived, so it was fortunate indeed they’d decided they should at least spend part of every day there. He was a Seersa, golden fur going silver in threads that sparkled when he turned his face, but striped in dark brown to match his hair. His blue eyes were direct, and his clothing utilitarian but very neat. At their approach, he offered his palm to Vasiht’h.

 
“Pieter Strong. I’m glad I caught you.”

  “Alet,” Vasiht’h said for them. “What can we do for you?”

  “My kids think I need therapy,” he said. “Saw your form, filled it out, and here I am.”

  “Why don’t you come inside?” Jahir said. “We can discuss it.”

  “That would be fine, thanks.”

  Inside their office, the Seersa settled on the couch with his leg crossed, ankle on knee, and both hands resting on the leg. He watched them as they followed him inside, and did not seem to miss any detail of their disposition. /Observant,/ Jahir said, picking up the data tablet to scan the form.

  /Takes good care of himself,/ Vasiht’h added, his perplexity astringent, like tea steeped-too-long. /Another person who doesn’t really want therapy for himself, but got pushed into it. Why us?/

  “I saw you were new in town,” the Seersa said once he’d decided they were ready to listen, and there was no question he’d been waiting. “Since the last guy they sent me to didn’t seem to do anything for me, or so my kids tell me.”

  “They perceive you to have a problem you don’t?” Jahir asked.

  “So they tell me.” He smiled crookedly. “I feel fine. I’m just restless. They’re old, they’ve left the nest. I have time to myself for once. I’d like to do something with it.”

  “That seems perfectly normal to us,” Vasiht’h said. “Why do they object to it?”

  “Oh, they think the things I like to do are too dangerous.” He shrugged. “They’re both risk-averse. I don’t blame them. I’m sure one of you would say it’s because their mother died young.” He cocked a brow. “But I’m no therapist.”

  “Dangerous,” Jahir mused.

  “You know. Shooting. Zero-g skiing. Fun things.”

  /Sounds within the realm of normalcy to me,/ Vasiht’h said uncertainly.

  /Except that it frightens his children. Can we talk to them?/

  “Do you think they’d tell us why they think it’s dangerous?” Vasiht’h said. And offered, “Maybe they’re the ones who need therapy, not you!”

  The Seersa laughed. “Maybe. Sure, you can talk to them. I don’t care. They’re worried about me, I respect that. Love ‘em for it.” He shrugged, looking away. “For all I know, they’re right.” He rolled his shoulders. “Anyway. Your listing said you do something with dreams. Am I supposed to tell you about them?”

  “No, you’re supposed to fall asleep and let us examine them,” Vasiht’h said. “We read minds.”

  /Rather an extreme approach to divulging this…!/

  /I’m riding a guess…/

  “Huh,” Pieter said. “Sounds interesting. I lie down here, then? Got a bigger pillow? Oh, thanks, that works.” He lay down on his back, covered his eyes with his arm. “That’ll do me.”

  “We’ll turn off the lights and leave you alone for a bit, then,” Vasiht’h said.

  The Seersa chuckled. “Don’t bother. I learned to sleep through anything in Fleet. The one lasting lesson of the Academe: if you have sack time, take it.” With that, he re-settled himself and promptly fell asleep as they watched, astonished.

  /He didn’t mention anything about Fleet in his intake form,/ Jahir said. /Perhaps we should revise it to prompt more specificity? The information that he was once in Fleet seems pertinent./

  /A risk-taker who used to be in the military and isn’t anymore? Indulging in dangerous behaviors?/ Vasiht’h frowned. /That does seem leading./

  /Leading where, though…/

  /I guess that’s what we’re here for./ Vasiht’h offered his palm and Jahir took it. /Let’s have a look./

  But if there was a clue as to Pieter’s problems in his dreams, they did not find it. Adventure a-plenty, certainly, for when any imagery resolved it was of their host snowboarding, engaged in maneuvers that seemed implausible, like skidding off exposed rock into flips. The satisfaction of their client when the board smacked onto the ground again, spraying snow in crystalline fans, resonated throughout the dream like a perfectly tuned pedal harp. They tarried for some time, waiting for revelation, and instead withdrew nursing the vague feeling they’d been on vacation.

  /This one is going to take time, I guess,/ Vasiht’h said ruefully.

  /They all will. It is the nature of our work./ Jahir glanced at him and smiled a little. /Do not be so afraid of failure that you belittle your own powers, arii./

  Vasiht’h wrinkled his nose. /I do not need therapy./

  “I did not say so,” Jahir said aloud, because he didn’t trust himself to say it over the mindline without contaminating it with his sense that his partner was, in fact, fretting overmuch. They had money. They had clients. They still had five months. Perhaps Vasiht’h understood because he sighed and smiled.

  /I should trust Her./

  /You do trust Her,/ Jahir reassured him. /But it would be unreasonable to expect you not to have doubts, now and then. Shall we wake our client?/

  Vasiht’h mantled his wings, twitched them back into place, smiled. /Yeah. Sorry about all this./

  /It passes,/ Jahir said. /All things do./

  /I’ll be better about it, promise./

  This promise was on Jahir’s mind on receiving the latest missive from his mother, which held the expected news associated with the conclusion of the winter court: the political situation remained tetchy, and he did not envy her the need to associate with people so antagonistic to the Queen’s aims, particularly with them becoming more open about voicing that dissent. No, it was the final paragraph that filled him with chagrin.

  I know not how time keeps in the Alliance, my son, but here the new year has sped and brought with it the prospect of a tender spring. I advance you this token for your natal day, thus. It remains blazoned in my mind as one of the happiest of my life. You and your brother are very certainly the greatest gifts ever granted me by a beneficent Lady. Do you go and celebrate in some fashion, and know that I remain:

  Fondly,

  —Your Mother, Jeasa

  The enclosed “token” had already been deposited in his account, and it was enough to pay their office rent for the remainder of the year.

  He was not minding the emotional bleed into the mindline, either, because on the other side of the cottage, Vasiht’h looked up from his data tablet and said, “Something wrong?”

  “Not wrong, no.” Lying was distasteful, but he didn’t want to belabor the point either. “My family has sent me a small gift for my natal day. I am pondering whether it will come at the same time next year; I cannot imagine the days align perfectly.”

  Vasiht’h made a face. “Ugh, no, and it’s confusing as anything.”

  “Birth anniversaries,” Jahir said. “I realize I do not understand the custom. Or even if there is a custom that applies to everyone.”

  “It does to a lot of us.” Vasiht’h set the data tablet down and stretched his forelegs. A good sign… this was a conversation that both interested and relaxed his partner. Perhaps they’d gotten past the small gift entirely. “There are cultures in the Alliance that don’t celebrate birthdays, of course, but they’re pretty rare. I can think of more that celebrate conception days on top of birthdays than I can think of people who celebrate neither…!”

  “Conception days,” Jahir repeated, bemused.

  “Oh yes.” Vasiht’h rose, shook out a hindleg: asleep, from the bright prickles in the mindline. “I’m going to make myself lemonade. Want some?”

  “I would, yes.”

  “So, yes, conception days,” Vasiht’h said, padding into the kitchen. “Since so many of us died in test tubes before we left Earth, and afterwards so many of us were only questionably fertile, there are pockets of people who celebrate successful conception of a baby. That’s usually about the parents, not the child, though. The birthday’s for the person being born. The conception day’s for the parents to celebrate having gone through that challenge and made it. Though there are groups that make the baby part of it too.”

  “Fascinat
ing,” Jahir murmured. The Eldritch would not take such a celebration amiss, but that they had lost the technology to pinpoint a date. He felt a pang for all they had lost—or thrown away. “So, when do you celebrate your birthday, when you travel? By the date of your homeworld? Or the date of your residence?”

  “Most people go by homeworld date,” Vasiht’h said. “I do. I was born at the beginning of our second dry season—the year goes dry, wet, dry—and that put me in summer on Seersana.”

  “That must have been… strange.”

  “Not as much as I thought?” Vasiht’h squeezed the lemon into the first glass, one hand over the other. “It’s warm or hot all year round at home, so it’s not like I perceived it to be all that different. Drier, maybe.” He paused, thoughtful. “Funny how what you cue into is the atmosphere around you. It makes me wonder if all that stuff about the zodiac is right.”

  “The zodiac,” Jahir repeated, uncertainly.

  Vasiht’h looked up from the glass at the wobble in the mindline. He couldn’t help a laugh. “Let me guess. Never heard of it. Why would you?” He shook his head, marveling at how many little things his friend still didn’t know. Which gave him the pleasure of introducing him to them. “Lots of people believe that the year and the season or day you were born determines your personality.”

  “Ah.” Musing in this context felt like ruffling papers. Vasiht’h wondered at the association. “We have something similar. The seasons, we say, influence one’s temperament.”

  “Right, like that,” Vasiht’h said. “Except that everybody’s got a different idea of what time of year makes you like what kind of person. Maybe that makes sense if it’s the local stars that are doing the influencing, but if it’s the seasons, then you’d think they’d be similar across worlds? But what do I know. No one else does either.” He grinned. “As a “beginning of the second dry season” baby I’m supposed to be nervous, but also stable, and a seeker/wayfarer, because I miss the rains. How does any of that make sense together?”

  “I’m not certain,” Jahir said, thoughtful. “I don’t know that it fails to describe you.”