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while plain speaking’s in force I’ll tell you that the one we’d settled on went the soulroad in the war.” The old face shifted then, all the lines tightening, but her voice stayed smooth.
    “They shot her down—Clan Kenso. She was the very best we had, and they shot her down. Her ship crashed in the rock plain, east of here. I expect we have all the pieces, by now.”
    She closed her eyes briefly; lifted her shoulder again. “I’ll have nothing of such excellence to offer Korval until Alys comes to her growth—nine years, perhaps. Alys should do very well—but she’ll be no Kea Tiazan.”
    There was a silence.
    Miri’s mind raced, but nothing from her own experience or from the sleep-learned stuff helped her make sense of this one. The old lady was clearly at the end of her rope, worn to skin, bone, and character. Her mind might even be wandering, though Miri doubted that. It might have been that Val Con’s clan and Clan Erob had sealed an alliance with a marriage, when this lady had been a young delm . . .
    “Forgive me,” Emrith Tiazan was saying to Val Con, “if my frankness offends. I’ve no time for wasteful courtesies and it is certainly not necessary for Erob to stand upon ceremony with our old ally, Korval. We have always understood each other very well.”
    “In this instance, however,” Val Con said neutrally, “understanding may have fallen short. I assign no blame, nor does frankness offend.” He reached out to capture Miri around the wrist and drew her lightly forward to stand at his side. “I present my lifemate, Miri Robertson Tiazan, Lady yos’Phelium.”
    The gray eyes in their golden net of wrinkles went wide, then narrowed as they swept Miri from face to feet. The glance scathed, lingering longest on the leaf before whipping back to Val Con.
    “So! You discover a houseless favorite and you dare bring her to me ? I shall acknowledge her, shall I, and give her place among the clans? Korval presumes—and presumes too far. I will remind you that you guest with Erob. Your whim is not law here!”
    That was enough. Miri moved, deliberately turning her flank on the old lady and her rage.
    “I tell you what, boss,” she said, in her flattest, ugliest Terran accent—one-hundred-percent Surebleak. “I ain’t about to join this outfit, genes or no genes.”
    “Ah,” said Val Con.
    “ What did you say?” demanded Emrith Tiazan, in Terran, though Terran slurred and softened and pronounced like Liaden.
    “I said ,” Miri snapped, in the stiffest mode she could call to mind from the High Tongue, “that it is not the place of a high commander to reprimand another commander who is come to parlay.”
    For the space of two heartbeats, Emrith Tiazan stood frozen, and then she bowed, very gently.
    “Forgive me—madam,” she said, the High Tongue carefully conveying equality of rank. “You spoke of genes. I desire further information upon the subject as you believe it to concern yourself and—this outfit.” She paused. “If you please.”
    Miri hesitated, more than half determined to walk out the door and down that long hallway and out into the sunshine. Ought to be able to find the merc camp without too much trouble , she thought; get a hot meal and a place to bunk. . .
    “Miri,” Val Con said softly. “Will you show Delm Erob your heirloom?”
    Damn him , she thought; and then sighed and worked the catch on her belt-pouch. She fingered the disk free and held it out to the old lady, belatedly remembering to bow.
    Emrith Tiazan glanced briefly at the shield, then turned to the obverse, frowning at the engraved genealogy. She looked back at Miri.
    “How came you by this?”
    “I have it from my mother,” Miri said, matching the other’s mild tone; “who had it from hers.”
    “So.” The old lady looked at Val Con. “This appears genuine.”
    He lifted a brow. “Many clans possess—protocols—for determining authenticity.”
    She stared at him. “Indeed. You will excuse