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ragged jute backing, and unrolled it onto the scale with a casual kick before bending to retrieve the clipboard.
      The work was—comforting. Despite that Kareen yos'Phelium had declared that she would not have her heir made into a rug salesman—had in fact complained of him coming up with callused hands— Luken had trained him well, and he knew himself to be the master of the task he had set for himself. It could not be said that he completely shared his foster father's ecstatic enthusiasm for carpet, or his encyclopedic knowledge of their histories, but he owned to a fondness for the breed, and knew a certain pleasure in being once more among them.
      The unrolled carpet was a geometric, hand-loomed in bronzes, browns and dark greens, with pale green fringe along the two short sides. It glistened in the light, inviting him to believe that it was silk. But he had seen the backing and was not taken-in.
      As counterfeits went, it was rather a good one. The traditional Arkuba pattern had been faithfully reproduced, the measurements precisely those to which all Arkuba carpets adhered, to the very length of the pale fringe, and the vegetable-dyed thread. Alas, the luster which would, in the genuine article, be testimony to the silken threads that had gone into its manufacture, was in this case misleading. Rather than silk, the carpet before him had been woven with specially treated cotton thread.
      A perfectly serviceable and attractive rug, really, setting aside for the moment those issues surrounding a counterfeit hall mark. Pat Rin merely hoped that the nameless ancestor who had purchased the thing had known it for what it was and had paid accordingly.
      He entered his observations, tapped the stylus against the print button, and slid it into its slot while the clipboard hummed its tuneless tune and in the fullness of time extruded an inventory ticket which he stapled to the corner of the rug before bagging and dragging it over to the bin.
      Niki was still on the shelf overhead, profoundly asleep. He smiled, but did not disturb her.
      The protective plastic over the next carpet had been torn at some time—possibly as recently as the move from the Southern House to Luken's warehouses. Pat Rin slit what was left of the sheet, approving, as he did so, the plentitude of painstakingly tied knots along the carpet's underside, and the foundation of wool.
      Once more, a kick sent the rug rolling out—and he sighed aloud. Insects had gotten in through the breached plastic. The wool in spots was eaten down to the backing, leaving the skeleton of a handsome rectilinear design he did not immediately recognize. No, this damage had not occurred in the warehouse, being both too extensive and too old.
      Sighing yet again, he reached for the clipboard to record the loss—
      "Cousin Luken?" The voice was clear and carrying—and unfortunately familiar.
      Pat Rin closed his eyes, there where he rested on one knee beside the ruined rug, and wished fervently that she would overlook this room. There was little chance that she would, of course. His cousin Nova was nothing if not thorough. Unnaturally thorough, one might say.
      "Cousin Luken!" she called again, her voice nearer this time.
      Pat Rin opened his eyes, picked up the clipboard, fingered the stylus free and entered a description of the damage. The mechanism hummed and in due time a red tag emerged. He reached for the stitch gun—
      "Oh, there you are, cousin!" Nova said from the doorway at his back.
      Amidst the sound of approaching light footsteps, Pat Rin stapled the red tag to a corner of the ruined rug.
      "Father sent me to help you catalog the rugs from the—" She stopped, aware, so Pat Rin thought, that she had made an error.
      Gently, he placed the stitch gun on the floor next to the clipboard, and turned his