At The Edge Of Space (Hanan Rebellion) by C. J. Cherryh Page A

you,” said Kta, and when Kurt still failed to answer him he looked down, and with what appeared much thought, he cautiously extended his hand to take his arm, touching like Mim, with feather-softness. It was an unnatural gesture for the nemet; it was one studied, copied, offered now on the public street as an act of desperation.
    Kurt stopped perforce, set his jaw against the tears which threatened.
    “Avoid t’Tefur,” Kta pleaded. “If the housefriend of Elas kills the heir of Tefur,—or if he kills you—killing will not stop there. He will provoke you if he can. Be wise. Do not let him do this.”
    “I understand. I have told you that.”
    Kta glanced down, gave the sketch of a bow. The hand dropped. They walked on, near to Elas.
    “Have I a soul?” Kurt asked him suddenly, and looked at him.
    The nemet’s face was shocked, frightened.
    “Have I a soul?” Kurt asked again.
    “Yes,” said Kta, which seemed difficult for him to say.
    It was, Kurt thought, an admission which had already cost Kta some of his peace of mind.
    The Upei, the council, met that day in the Afen and adjourned, as by law it must, as the sun set, to convene again at dawn.
    Nym returned to the house at dusk, greeted lady Ptas and Hef at the door. When he came into the rhmei where the light was, the senator looked exhausted, utterly drained. Aimu hastened to bring water for washing, while Ptas prepared the tea.
    There was no discussion of business during the meal. Such matters as Nym had on his mind were reserved for the rounds of tea that followed. Instead Nym asked politely after Mim’s preparation for her wedding, and for Aimu’s, for both were spending their days sewing, planning, discussing the coming weddings, keeping the house astir with their happy excitement and sometimes tears, and Aimu glanced down prettily and said that she had almost completed her own trousseau and that they were working together on Mim’s things, for, Aimu thought, their beloved human was not likely to choose the long formal engagement such as she had had with Bel.
    “I met our friend the elder t’Osanef,” said Nym in answer to that, “and it is not unlikely, little Aimu, that we will advance the date of your own wedding.”
    “ Ei, ” murmured Aimu, her dark eyes suddenly wide. “How far, honored Father?”
    “Perhaps within a month.”
    “Beloved husband,” exclaimed Ptas in dismay, “such haste?”
    “There speaks a mother,” Nym said tenderly. “Aimu, child, do you and Mim go fetch another pot of tea. And then go to your sewing. There is business afoot hereafter.”
    “Shall I—?” asked Kurt, offering by gesture to depart.
    “No, no, our guest. Please sit with us. This business concerns the house, and you are soon to be one of us.”
    The tea was brought and served with all formality. Then Mim and Aimu withdrew, leaving the men of the house and Ptas. Nym took a slow sip of tea and looked at his wife.
    “You had a question, Ptas?”
    “Who asked the date advanced? Osanef? Or was it you?”
    “Ptas, I fear we are going to war.” And in the stillness that awful word made in the room he continued very softly: “If we wish this marriage I think we must hurry it on with all decent speed; a wedding between Sufaki and Indras may serve to heal the division between the Families and the sons of the east; that is still our hope. But it must be soon.”
    The lady of Elas wept quiet tears and blotted them with the edge of her scarf. “What will they do? It is not right, Nym, it is not right that they should have to bear such a weight on themselves.”
    “What would you? Break the engagement? That is impossible. For us to ask that—no. No. And if the marriage is to be, then there must be haste. With war threatening,—Bel would surely wish to leave a son to safeguard the name of Osanef. He is the last of his name. As you are, Kta, my son. I am above sixty years of age, and today it has occurred to me that I am not immortal. You should have