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smallest finger of his left hand. After a moment, he sighed again, leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.
    Scout Commander Val Con yos’Phelium. . .

LYTAXIN:
Approaching Erob

    House. She was sure that was the word. House.
    Sleep-learning had reinforced her vocabulary, made her comfortable with sounds and meanings, and the recent social encounter at the landing field had almost convinced her she had all things Liaden by the scruff of the neck.
    House.
    It was huge.
    Miri stopped on the crest of the gentle rise, staring up at the long expanse of velvet-lawned hill, and the u-shaped sweep of gray-and-black stone, several stories high. The house, that was. She looked at Val Con.
    “Are you sure ?”
    He glanced away from his own study of the landscape, one brow quirking. “It does seem to be a clanhouse,” he murmured; “but recall that I have never called upon Erob, either.”
    She took a deep breath. “It’s as big as a hyatt,” she told him, stating the obvious in as calm a voice as she could muster. “A big hyatt. Maybe we got the wrong directions. Maybe it is a hyatt, which ain’t all that bad. We could maybe get a room if we got enough money, and call ahead.”
    Val Con grinned and stroked her cheek. “This is a frontier world, cha’trez—the entire clan would live in one house, plus necessary staff, plus guesting rooms, contract-suites, administration, supplies.
    “Recall that this is the capital-in-fact of the planet until they recover from the revolt—actually the center of the world in some ways even before.” He lifted a shoulder. “I would say that they have no more space than they likely need, depending upon the size of the clan and the amount of administration they feel it necessary to perform.”
    “Gods.” She looked at him, suddenly struck with a thought. “Is your house this big? The one you grew up in?”
    “I grew up in Trealla Fantrol,” he said softly; “yos’Galan’s line house. It is very grand, of course, but not nearly so large as this. Korval has never ruled the world.” He offered his hand, smiling.
    After a moment, Miri dredged up a smile of her own, wove her fingers around his and went with him, toward the house.
    ***
    The good thing about being on world was the smells. The breeze. The colors. The hand in hers. The quiet.
    That was an odd one, Miri realized as they walked paths that had only recently been guard marches and troop routes. Quiet.
    As many worlds as she’d been on, none of the planetfalls had been like this. Leisurely, and—aside from her own certainty of ruin at the end—calm. The weapons checks were habit, the vitamin dosages learning aids rather than war-prep, the entry to atmosphere a tourist’s wonder of ocean, continents, and icecaps.
    They’d come in as the cordon around the planet was being dismantled. Troop and guard ships alike had failed to notice them—as Val Con had prophesied—and there’d been no alerts, no threats, and no danger.
    For three orbits Lytaxin had spun below them. The radio had told the tale pretty clearly: A stupid and bungled coup attempt followed by a dirty little war mostly confined to a single continent. The mercs had come quickly.
    What they hadn’t gotten from the radio they had soon enough from Riaska ter’Meulen. Now there was a person who could talk. She’d limped out of the office of the little general aviation field, to Miri’s eye unflapped by the sudden and unannounced appearance of their—of the Department of Interior’s—vessel.
    “Scouts,” she’d said, nodding a rather unconventional kind of a bow at both of them. “How may I be of service? And how shall I register your visit?”
    Val Con returned the nod with a formal bow. “Of your kindness, register the ship as Fosterling , out of Liad, piloted by Val Con yos’Phelium, Clan Korval. Business of the clan.”
    The woman made her own bow at that point and Miri’s new-poured training kicked into gear. Val Con’s bow, acknowledging