“Pilot? Individual? Rantipole?” He caught Nova’s Terran-style headshake and allowed the spurt of anger to subside.

“Aunt Kareen,” he began again, more smoothly. “I ask you to consider what you say. Consider what has made Korval great—” He pointed to the device above the mantle. “‘Flaran Cha’ment’i: I Dare’. My brother carries on an illustrious tradition—”

“Your cousin,” she snapped, “does not care a broken cantra for tradition! You speak of his concern for duty. I say it is wonderful we are not already the laughingstock we are doomed to become, unless you, my Lord, very soon take your place at the head of this Clan and—”

“Is it so bad a thing,” Val Con overrode gently, “to laugh? Better to laugh—even be laughed at—and continue to strive, rather than run away…”

“Korval does not run away!”

“No?” He tipped his head. “And yet my father—your brother—abdicated his position, left the Clan—ran away. Shan would far rather give over the duties of First Speaker. It would better suit him to return to the Passage and the trade route. But in fact he is First Speaker at this present, and thus remains upon Liad, taking what harmless amusement he may to ease his time here.” Val Con rested his eyes, bright green and very angry, on his aunt’ s.

“Shan does not run away,” he concluded quietly.

“I see,” said the old lady, with brittle calm. “I infer that you will not speak with him. Therefore, since someone must speak to him, I shall dispatch your near-cousin, Pat Rin to—”

Val Con held up a slender hand. “I did not say that I would not speak with Shan, Aunt. Do not trouble my kinsman, your son.”

For a long moment they stared, old eyes measuring young. Lady Kareen rose.