Carpe Diem by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee Page B

study what we see." He raised an arm, pointing. "That large affair, there, with the many windows? That's probably a government building of some kind. It seems to have the proper hauteur about it."

    She chuckled—a good sign—and it seemed that she relaxed, ever so slightly. "And that squatty one, with the railing around the front?"

    "A trading post," he guessed. "Or a small store." He pointed again. "What do you make of the little blue one?"

    "A barbershop? Or a bar?" She laughed a little, and the tension was definitely easing. "Both?"

    "Perhaps—though I think it would be a bit crowded for either. And the metal objects—they do seem to be metal, do you think?—along the sides of the thoroughfare?"

    "Cabs!" Miri announced with certainty, relaxing back into him. He moved his cheek away from her hair and slanted a glance at the side of her face. She was smiling slightly. Good.

    "So? Then tell me about that one—you see? Over behind the little blue one—with the tower and the knob on the top?"

    She was silent for a moment, then blinked and grinned. "A bordello."

    "Do you really think so?" he murmured. "Perhaps we should go there first."

    She laughed—a true laugh—her head against his shoulder, then abruptly sobered. "Val Con?"

    "Yes?"

    "You're a sneak."

    He lifted a brow. "It is a common failing, I am told, among Liadens."

    "That's what Terrans say." She frowned. "What do Liadens say?"

    "Ah, well. Liadens . . ." He tightened his arms around her in a quick hug. "Liadens are very formal, you know. So it is likely that they would not say anything at all."

    "Oh." She took a breath. "What do we do now?"

    "I think we should take off our guns and put them in our pouches. In some places the possession of a weapon makes a person suspect, even, perhaps, a criminal. And I think we should each have another sandwich—so that we do not grow proud—" He echoed her laugh softly. "After we eat, we should go down into the valley and look for one of those outlying farms I spoke of, to see if we might not trade the labor of our strong young bodies for a roof and food and lessons in language."

    "All that on a sandwich? Well, you're the boss."

    "And when," he inquired, "will you be boss?"

    "Next week." She stood, pulled a plastic-wrapped package out of her pouch, and handed it to him to unwrap while she stripped off the gun and holster and stowed them away.

VANDAR: Springbreeze Farm

    "Borril! Here, Borril! Wind take the animal, where—ah ha! So there you are, sir! No skevitts this morning? Or did they all sit in the treetops and laugh at you? Ah, now, old thing . . ." She finished in a much sweeter tone, as the dog flung himself at her feet with a whuff and lay gazing up at her, worship in his beady yellow eyes.

    She bent carefully, rubbed her knuckles briskly across his head ridges, and yanked on his pointy ears. Straightening, she sighed and eased her back, her eyes dwelling on the marker before her: "Jerrel Trelu, 1412-1475. Beloved zamir . . ."

    Beloved zamir—what bosh! As if it had not just been Jerry and Estra, working the farm and raising the boy and doing what needed to be done, one thing at a time, side by side, him leaning on her, her leaning on him. Beloved husband, indeed!

    A wind blew across the yard, straight down from Fornem's Gap, ice-toothed with winter, though it was barely fall. Zhena Trelu shivered and pulled her jacket close around her. "Wind gets colder every year," she muttered, and pulled herself up sharp. "Listen at you! Just the kind of poor-me you hate in Athna Brigsbee! Mooning the morning away like there wasn't any work to do!"

    She snorted. There was always work to do. She bent creakily and gathered up the sweelims she had picked for the parlor—she liked a bit of color to rest her eyes on in the evening when she listened to the radio or read. "Let's go, Borril. Home!"

    The wind sliced out of the gap again, but she refused to give it the satisfaction of a shiver. The