Read Online Carpe Diem by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee - Free Book Online
Authors: Steve Miller, Sharon Lee
Tags: Science-Fiction
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signs all pointed to a bad winter. She sighed, her thoughts on the house she and Jerry had lived a lifetime in. The shutters needed mending; the chimney had to be cleaned and the tin inspected for corrosion—though what she could do about it if the whole roof was on the verge of falling in was more than she knew. It was a big, drafty old place, much too big for one old woman and her old dog. It had always been too big, really, even when there had been Jerrel and the boy and, later, the boy's zhena—and the dogs, of course. Always four or five dogs. Now there was only Borril, last of a tradition.
As if her thought had reached out and touched some chord within him, the dog suddenly bounded forward, giving tongue in mock ferocity, charging around the side of the house and out of sight.
"Borril!" she yelled, but any fool would know that that was useless. She picked up her pace and arrived at the corner of the house in time to hear Borril, in full stranger-at-the-gate alarm.
Across the barking cut a man's voice, speaking words Zhena Trelu understood to be foreign.
She rounded the corner and stopped in surprise.
Borril was between her and two strangers—barking and wagging his ridiculous puff of a tail. The taller of the two spoke again, sharply, and the barking subsided.
"Be quiet, dog!" Val Con snapped. "How dare you speak to us like that? Sit!"
Borril was confused. The tone was right, but the sounds were different than the sounds She used. He hesitated, then heard Her behind him and ran to Her side, relieved to be out of the situation.
"Borril, you bad dog! Sit!"
That was better. Borril sat, tail thumping on the ground.
"I am sorry," Zhena Trelu continued, trying not to stare. "Borril really is quite friendly. I hope he didn't frighten you."
Again, it was the taller who spoke, opening his hands and showing her empty palms. Zhena Trelu frowned. It did not take a genius to figure out that he did not understand what she was saying.
Sighing, she stepped forward. "Stay, Borril." As she moved, the two men came forward also, stopping when shock stopped her.
The shorter man was not a man at all. Not, that is, unless foreigners of whatever variety these were allowed a man the option of growing his hair long, braiding it, and wrapping it around his head liken vulgar copper crown. A woman, then, Zhena Trelu allowed. Or, more precisely, a girl. But dressed in such clothes!
Zhena Trelu was not a prude; she knew quite well what useful garments trousers were—especially working around the farm. But these . . .
First, they seemed to be made of leather—sleek, black leather. Second, they were skintight, hugging the girl's boy-flat belly and her—limbs—and neatly tucked into high black boots. The upper garment—a white shirt of some soft-looking fabric—was acceptable, though Zhena Trelu thought it might have been laced a little closer around that slender throat; and the loose leather vest was unexceptional. But what in the name of ice did a woman want to wear such a wide belt for? Unless it was to accentuate the impossible tininess of her waist?
"Am I that funny-looking?" Miri asked, and Zhena Trelu started, eyes going to her face.
No beauty, this one, with her face all sharp angles and freckles across the snubbed nose. The chin was square and willful, the full mouth incongruous. Her only claim to prettiness lay in a pair of very speaking gray eyes, at present resting with resigned irony on the other woman's face.
Zhena Trelu felt herself coloring. "I beg your pardon," she muttered. She moved her eyes from the girl to her companion—and found herself staring again.
Where the angles of the girl's face seemed all at odds with each other, the lines in her companion's face worked toward a cohesive whole. High cheeks curved smoothly to pointed chin; the nose was straight and not overlong; the mouth was generous and smiling, just a little. His hair was dark brown, chopped off blunt at the bottom of
As if her thought had reached out and touched some chord within him, the dog suddenly bounded forward, giving tongue in mock ferocity, charging around the side of the house and out of sight.
"Borril!" she yelled, but any fool would know that that was useless. She picked up her pace and arrived at the corner of the house in time to hear Borril, in full stranger-at-the-gate alarm.
Across the barking cut a man's voice, speaking words Zhena Trelu understood to be foreign.
She rounded the corner and stopped in surprise.
Borril was between her and two strangers—barking and wagging his ridiculous puff of a tail. The taller of the two spoke again, sharply, and the barking subsided.
"Be quiet, dog!" Val Con snapped. "How dare you speak to us like that? Sit!"
Borril was confused. The tone was right, but the sounds were different than the sounds She used. He hesitated, then heard Her behind him and ran to Her side, relieved to be out of the situation.
"Borril, you bad dog! Sit!"
That was better. Borril sat, tail thumping on the ground.
"I am sorry," Zhena Trelu continued, trying not to stare. "Borril really is quite friendly. I hope he didn't frighten you."
Again, it was the taller who spoke, opening his hands and showing her empty palms. Zhena Trelu frowned. It did not take a genius to figure out that he did not understand what she was saying.
Sighing, she stepped forward. "Stay, Borril." As she moved, the two men came forward also, stopping when shock stopped her.
The shorter man was not a man at all. Not, that is, unless foreigners of whatever variety these were allowed a man the option of growing his hair long, braiding it, and wrapping it around his head liken vulgar copper crown. A woman, then, Zhena Trelu allowed. Or, more precisely, a girl. But dressed in such clothes!
Zhena Trelu was not a prude; she knew quite well what useful garments trousers were—especially working around the farm. But these . . .
First, they seemed to be made of leather—sleek, black leather. Second, they were skintight, hugging the girl's boy-flat belly and her—limbs—and neatly tucked into high black boots. The upper garment—a white shirt of some soft-looking fabric—was acceptable, though Zhena Trelu thought it might have been laced a little closer around that slender throat; and the loose leather vest was unexceptional. But what in the name of ice did a woman want to wear such a wide belt for? Unless it was to accentuate the impossible tininess of her waist?
"Am I that funny-looking?" Miri asked, and Zhena Trelu started, eyes going to her face.
No beauty, this one, with her face all sharp angles and freckles across the snubbed nose. The chin was square and willful, the full mouth incongruous. Her only claim to prettiness lay in a pair of very speaking gray eyes, at present resting with resigned irony on the other woman's face.
Zhena Trelu felt herself coloring. "I beg your pardon," she muttered. She moved her eyes from the girl to her companion—and found herself staring again.
Where the angles of the girl's face seemed all at odds with each other, the lines in her companion's face worked toward a cohesive whole. High cheeks curved smoothly to pointed chin; the nose was straight and not overlong; the mouth was generous and smiling, just a little. His hair was dark brown, chopped off blunt at the bottom of
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