Convergence (37 page)

Mardimil paid no attention to him as they both moved along their own sections of the table, but Lorand couldn't help remembering what he'd decided. He owed Mardimil an apology for what he'd said in the bath house, and putting it off wasn't likely to make the effort any easier. If he kept his voice low, the conversation would be private even from Drowd, who sat at the far end of the eating table.
Eating table, dish table.
Lorand shook his head over people who made them two different places,
then
used his finally having made a hoped-for discovery to start the conversation.

"I was beginning to think I'd have to find some chickens and
coax
my breakfast out of them," Lorand commented to Mardimil, gesturing at the eggs he'd just uncovered. "Liver is a nice addition, but without eggs it just doesn't seem like breakfast."

"My eating habits apparently agree," Mardimil said after something of a hesitation, his words a bit stiff but still representing a response. "Mother's servants always place the eggs first on the buffet, even when she takes her own meal in bed."

Lorand nodded, glanced at a Drowd who paid no attention to them, then lowered his voice. "I'd . . . like to apologize for what I said yesterday," he forced out in a murmur. "It was entirely uncalled for, and you can be sure I won't do it again."

"But it wasn't uncalled for," Mardimil responded at once, at the same time looking surprised that he'd said such a thing. "It . . . made me think . . . about subjects I'd tried to avoid, even though my survival could well depend on them. You spoke the truth to a stranger, and this stranger is very . . . grateful."

"I would call it being gracious instead," Lorand replied slowly, studying the man who had briefly looked at him with such naked openness and loneliness. "Very few people in this world will thank someone for telling them what they consider a painful truth, and
I
consider myself lucky for having met one of them. But I don't think you can call us strangers, not any more."

"Why, I do believe you're right," Mardimil said, looking surprised again. "Those who are involved in a group undertaking can be considered comrades, and this undertaking
is
a group one, despite our various areas of expertise.
How odd this is, to go from a distant awareness of the state to being a comrade oneself."

"I'm more familiar with the idea of friends in adversity," Lorand remarked as he happily located fried potatoes. "I'll admit I know nothing about being a comrade, but we all have experience with being friends so I'll think of it that way."

"I've . . . never had a friend either," Mardimil said without looking at him, the words sounding like an
embarrassed
confession. "Mother has always said that having many acquaintances is far superior to having a small number of friends, but occasionally I've wondered what friendship is like. I've heard that too often friends impose on one, and if one refuses the imposition he loses the friend."

"Whoever told you that lied," Lorand answered, feeling shocked and hurting for this very innocent victim of life. "A true friend is someone so close to you that you don't
mind
helping them, because you know they'd do the same for you. A friend is someone you care about, and—"

Much stronger shock cut Lorand off in mid-sentence, all but leaving him openmouthed. He'd forgotten about Hat, he'd actually forgotten all about his best friend!

"Is something wrong?" Mardimil asked, still speaking hesitantly. "I don't mean to pry into something that's none of my affair, so if you'd rather not discuss it . . ."

"No, I'm just in the midst of cursing my own stupidity," Lorand answered heavily, feeling very depressed. "I came here with a friend, someone who's been a friend for most of my life, and we tested at the same time. I . . . was afraid to ask about him after the test was over, hoping I'd find he'd been sent to the same residence I was, but he's not here. That became obvious last night, but I didn't even think about him. Makes me a really great friend, doesn't it?"

"Is it wrong not to want to admit that someone you care about could well be dead?" Mardimil asked, now sounding
more sure
of himself. "If I had someone like that, aside from Mother, of course, I'd certainly want to keep from admitting it. The pain of such a loss would be intense."

"Yes, it is," Lorand admitted, giving Mardimil a glance of gratitude. "I appreciate your trying to make me feel better about this, but Hat is dead and I'd better learn to accept it. And figure out a way to let his parents know. We can talk again later."

Mardimil nodded before Lorand turned away, actually looking faintly sympathetic. That was quite a change from the man Lorand had met yesterday, but right now he was in no shape to appreciate the difference. He had a friend to mourn, and a meal to eat despite no longer having an appetite. He'd been raised to never waste good food, so he had to stuff down what he'd already put on his plate.

But how was he ever going to find a way to tell Hat's parents that he was dead?
Without
going into details about the way it must have happened. Lorand reclaimed his place at the table from the night before, but it took a few moments before he was able to reach for the fork. Hat would have loved that residence and its upper class ways, but Hat would never see it. He was gone, and the blur of tears helped to take away the sight of what Lorand simply shoveled into his mouth.

Clarion watched the man Coll head quickly for the table without investigating the rest of what the buffet held, and Clarion sighed for him. He could only try to imagine what it would feel like to lose someone close to you, since he'd never had anyone close but Mother. And he'd done quite a bit of thinking about
her,
both last night and this morning.

The final warming plate on the buffet held a lovely cheese sauce, so Clarion spooned some over his eggs and then headed for his own place at the table. Teacups had been arranged in front of each place, and steaming pitchers of tea stood at intervals along the table. Drowd already sat at the table to Clarion's right, but the man had his nose stuffed into a book and didn't seem aware of anyone else's presence. Clarion was tempted to feel slighted, but he had too much to think about to regret the loss of another conversation right now.

After pouring
himself
a cup of tea, Clarion began on his meal and his thinking at precisely the same time. The conversation he'd heard the night before had disturbed him, centering as it had on parents who raised their children to satisfy their own needs rather than those of the child. Someone had once taunted Clarion with the charge that he was only around as a backdrop for his mother, and the insult had hurt twice as much because Clarion hadn't ever been able to find a different purpose for himself. They'd started to add that his mother had planned it that way, but then Mother had come by and chased the nasty children away.

Not that they had been
small
children. They and Clarion had all been sixteen or so, and Mother's explanation of their behavior had fit the situation. They were Clarion's social peers, she had said, and they naturally resented having been deprived of Clarion's presence among them. They were old enough to know how precious his company really was, but not yet old enough to realize that they couldn't possibly be considered fine enough to merit it.

Clarion had believed the explanation just as he always believed Mother, but some small kernel of doubt had remained. The boy who had spoken for the group hadn't sounded deprived and jealous, he'd sounded ridiculing and amused. The rest of the children had seemed the same, and Clarion had never quite forgotten the incident. But he
had
continued to believe that his welfare was Mother's first and only concern, just as she'd always told him it was.

And then he'd heard that some parents only pretended to act in their child's best interests, and he hadn't been able to chase the contention from his head. Clarion paused briefly in his eating, remembering how the thoughts had come flooding back once he was in his room. He could have held them off a bit longer if he hadn't been so tired, but instead he'd had to admit to himself that much of what Mother had done
hadn't
been for his best. He knew almost nothing of the world and the people who inhabited it, and that was a horrible lack rather than a benefit.

But then another thought had occurred to him, one that had permitted him to fall asleep quickly and sleep soundly. It was inconceivable that Mother would deliberately act against his best interests, so she must have done it by accident. He was her first and only child, and lack of experience at something can turn the best of intentions quickly to the reverse. She'd
mistakenly
done things that had put him at a disadvantage, and now it was up to him to correct that.

Clarion sighed as he paused to sip at his tea, remembering how distressed he'd felt over that decision earlier this morning. At first he couldn't think of a thing that would help him accomplish his aim, and that included a place to start. After all, how can you repair your lacks when you don't even know exactly what those lacks are?

And then that practical joke had been played on him, which at the time had seemed to make things worse. He'd gotten out of bed to pace while he considered his problem, and after a moment or two he'd noticed the oddest thing: a tiny thunderstorm raining all over his right arm. Where the miniature clouds had come from he had no idea, but the sleeve of his nightshirt was becoming drenched along with his arm.

Trying to move away from the thing had been useless, as it had followed relentlessly with its small lightning flashes and matching rumbles of thunder. After another moment Clarion had lost patience and had used his talent to separate the components of the little storm. With air surrounding those components and refusing to let them come together again, the storm had had no choice but to dissipate completely. Clarion had been outraged that someone would play such a foolish trick on a man of
his
place in life—but then another thought had come to him.

"Could this possibly be the way members of the lower classes make overtures of friendship to one another?" he'd muttered aloud.
"If the person chosen as victim protests in anger or upset, they're rejected as being too stuffy to associate with.
But if they laugh, or possibly turn the tables by pretending nothing has happened, they're considered acceptable."

It was only a theory, but Clarion needed very badly to be considered acceptable to join
some
group. Only by observing and listening would he discover those areas where he lacked knowledge or experience, and then he could see to repairing the lack. It would have done him a good deal more
good
if he were among members of his own social class, but the proper people weren't here just now and these lower class representatives were. He would simply have to cope as best he might, and then, at the first opportunity, move his efforts to the vicinity of those who really counted.

And so Clarion had dressed and gone down to breakfast, only to be delightfully surprised when that fellow Coll made the opening advances for him. The apology had been totally unexpected, and it had thrown Clarion far enough off balance that he'd responded unthinkingly in what had turned out to be the best way possible. Clarion's admission of ignorance over certain matters had brought a sympathetic and helpful reaction from Coll, and possibly would do so again once the man was over his distress at what had become of his friend.

Clarion pushed his empty plate away and sat back with his teacup, satisfied in more ways than one. He would have to encourage as many conversations with these people as possible, during which he would strive to learn what had been kept from him by accident. And in the interim he would consider what he'd decided about his current position, which could well change his mind even more in relation to those tests.

Becoming a member of the new Blending
...
of
course
it was a position for a gentleman, how could he have thought it might not be? And it was also one that no one could possibly consider useless or foolish. . . .

Valiant came down the stairs feeling faintly annoyed, but that feeling disappeared entirely when he caught sight of his hostess standing in the hall below, speaking to two of the servants. Today she wore a dress of pale yellow embroidered with small ivory flowers, and the night's sleep seemed to have worked really well for her. Incredible as it was, she looked even more beautiful than she had yesterday, something Valiant would have sworn was impossible. He slowed his pace on the stairs, deciding that that would be the perfect time to offer that apology he'd decided to make. As soon as the servants were through speaking to her, he would take their place.