The waiter came with a cart, and Peters relaxed his intensity and leaned back into the cushions, catching their eyes in turn. Their faces underwent changes: uncertainty, fear, joy, astonishment, finally a dawning realization that Peters encouraged himself to think contained a trifle of hope. When the waiter had arranged the table to his satisfaction he glanced at Peters, expecting acknowledgement; when he received it he set off, pushing his cart, which rumbled softly on the unfinished boards of the floor.
Dzheenis rubbed his chin, apparently inspecting the teapot but plainly not seeing the object; Khurs stared wide-eyed into space, her jaw slack. Both started to speak; they stopped themselves short, and Khurs deferred with a little wave of the hand. The big man focused a thoughtful regard on Peters. “The terms of your exposition were interesting,” he remarked. “I note particularly that at no point did you use the word ‘free’. Given the nicety of your phraseology, I must assume that this was not an omission.”
“It was deliberate,” Peters affirmed. “’Freedom’ is a noble ideal, but has no referent in the perceivable Universe. None of us is truly ‘free’ so long as we require air, water, food, and shelter to survive. This is as true of any here as it is of you.”
“Yes.” Dzheenis caressed his chin, this time pinching his lower lip between thumb and forefinger. “The subject has been discussed among us at length. We have generally arrived at a similar conclusion… Khurs, I believe you had a comment?”
“I have several comments. I am trying to order them.” Her voice was astonishingly deep, a baritone only a little higher in pitch than Peters’s. “We are dependents of the ferassi; the word ‘slave’ is not used.”
Peters smiled without humor. “The word used by the person who presented you was ‘gift’. Distinctions of phraseology are irrelevant and distracting.”
Peters used the ensuing long pause to pour tea, rising to serve first Khurs, then Dzheenis, and finally himself. The two Grallt were again taken aback, but Khurs’s expressive face showed dawning comprehension. “Incredible that such a small act could have such large implications,” she breathed.
“How so?” Peters asked.
Dzheenis was regarding a teacup as if it were an utterly unfamiliar object. He set it down and said, “Ze Peteris, you would appear to be a ferassi of the ancestry called ‘darkling’; that is, of the highest possible caste. In the Universe we have inhabited all our lives, if tea were to be poured in the presence of such a man either Khurs or I would perform the service.” He looked away, then back, and tears were forming in the corners of his eyes. “I am reaching for a comparison… it is as if the ship turned inside out, or I discovered that I was able to breathe water. I would have been no more astonished if you had given birth to a child before my eyes.”
“That’s not at all a likely eventuality,” Peters observed.
“It seems no less probable than the others. Hm.” Khurs’s tone was speculative. “Ze Peteris, I see a plate of pastries with fruit fillings. I find them delectable; would you care for one?”
“Yes, please,” Peters replied. The woman nodded, selected a pastry, and handed the plate to him. He made his own selection and passed the remainder to Dzheenis, who took it with a hand that trembled slightly, removed one to a saucer, and set the plate down with grave care.
“Delicious,” said Khurs.
Peters handed her a napkin, saying with forced lightness: “It appears that they are very juicy. Some has escaped from the corner of your mouth.”
She fixed her eyes on his, reached to take the napkin, and burst into laughter, beginning with soft chuckles like clucks that quickly escalated into a submachine-gun paroxysm. Dzheenis was quickly infected, and the two Grallt laughed helplessly, their shoulders shaking, tears in their eyes.
At some length Dzheenis regained control of himself. “I apologize for my lack of control,” he said, wiping his eyes with a napkin. “The matter isn’t really all that amusing.”
“You needed the emotional release,” Peters said with a nod, glancing at Khurs, whose involuntary reaction had subsided to hiccups.
“I believe you are correct,” the big man noted. “Ah, me… it is a situation I had never imagined, a concept that could never before have entered my mind: to sit at table, taking tea on equal terms with a depa’olze.”
“‘Depa’olze’,” Peters repeated. “The one who presented you used the same term, I believe. How does it apply to me?”
The two Grallt exchanged glances. “The root of the word is pa’ol, a group of persons related by ancestry, together with their dependents,” Khurs explained, her tone cautiously didactic. “The best translation in the Trade would probably be ‘clan’. The syllable ‘de’ is common between the two tongues, with the same meaning: ‘eight’, ‘maximum’, ‘highest’. Combined with the honorific ‘ze’, the term would be rendered most accurately as ‘highest clan person’. ‘Clan master’ might be considered more colloquial.”
Peters looked out over the valley, his gaze as unfocused as the Grallt’s had been a few moments ago. The daystar was sinking, and purple twilight was creeping up the base of the hills… at length he said slowly, “I don’t see how the term might be considered applicable. Three persons hardly constitute a clan.”
“The ferassi consider the usage valid.” Khurs shrugged and smiled faintly. “For that matter, so do I… they have spoken of little else these past two llor.”
“I don’t—didn’t have as much contact with the ferassi on a day to day basis as Khurs… did,” said Dhzeenis, “but even I have heard the talk. The ferassi consider your actions remarkable, deserving of the highest respect.” He grinned wryly. “Like Khurs, I do as well. Probably it is the influence of too much romantic literature.”
“Romantic literature?”
“Oh, yes,” said Khurs. “In days long gone, before Belsar Flen established control over the Jewel and took the ferassi into space, the establishment of a new pa’ol was an affair of force and grandeur. Literature is filled with such exploits: a lone adventurer, or the leader of a small band of desperadoes, penetrates the defenses of an established clan, carrying away treasure and the beginnings of a tuwe which serve as the basis of his future fortune.” She produced a wry smile of her own. “As Dzheenis says, we may have been unduly influenced by the tales as well. Certainly I always found them exciting; the better writers can make the scenes in the tuwe particularly poignant.”
“I enjoy the tales of deceit and subterfuge,” Dzheenis put in, “but Khurs is correct about the scenes in the tuwe, although ‘poignant’ is not precisely the word I would choose to characterize them.” She poked out her tongue at him, eyes twinkling, and waggled the tips.
“I still don’t see how that applies to me,” Peters observed.
“Do you not? Consider the recent past from the ferassi point of view.” Khurs held up a finger. “First, when minions were sent to abduct you you dispatched them handily, with the aid of a single henchman. Next, you were abducted while unconscious and placed in close confinement; you escaped the confinement and defeated your captors. Then you spun such a tale as hypnotized them, seduced the keepers of the tuwe, and made away with a valuable spacecraft and such females as you chose. It is the stuff of legends. They all feel they have fallen into the pages of a story-book, never mind that they themselves are the hapless villains in this particular tale. Fredik Fers in particular is positively swaggering.”