In which the worst of coming home is dealing with one’s mail.
The quote at the head of this chapter seems, at first glance, not to have much to do with what follows. There isn’t obviously anybody doing something dangerous in the name of necessity.
Unless it’s the Tree.
I am deeply suspicious of the Tree’s purposes in giving out this set of sweet cedar-smelling seed-pods — the more so since, on this re-read, I’ve noticed the other place in the chapter where the smell of sweet cedar recurs.
In which Aelliana and Daav go to inspect their ship and make discoveries of several kinds.
Several important developments occur in this chapter, but they’re the kind of things I’m not good at stringing words together about.
I’m much better at the trivial observations, like noting that there are a few details in this chapter that have extra resonance for readers familiar with other books in the series, like Clonak’s choice of occupation, or the way Trilla apologises before wiping her face.
In which nothing is beautiful and everything hurts.
I remember being told once by a connoisseur of heartwarming Christmas movies that a truly great uplifting ending must be preceded, for contrast, by a moment in which everything is terrible and it seems nothing will ever be right again. In the present case, this chapter introduces that moment.
(There are such moments in other Liaden novels, as well; the one that springs immediately to mind is Carpe Diem. On the other hand, there isn’t a moment in Balance of Trade that’s even remotely like, which I think is part of why I’ve never cared for Balance of Trade as much as most of the other novels.)
After the despair, I remember being told, comes the first glimmering of new hope, often in the form of one of the characters discovering that there is more in them than anyone had previously had reason to suspect: a bad person discovering a capacity for good, perhaps, or a weak person discovering inner strength. In the present case — well, we’ll see.
In which the Master Trader negotiates with the thodelm.
It’s interesting that Petrella is so dismissive of Terrans, when she was a Trader and presumably had to deal with them on their own turf. But perhaps dealing with them in the line of business is one thing and having one show up on one’s own doorstep is another.
And, to be fair to her, I think she’d have taken it better before the disaster. That, I judge, has affected her thinking both personally, in that coping with her illness has left her with fewer reserves to spare for being well-disposed to others, and in her melant’i as the head of the line, being less free to tolerate eccentric behaviour from Er Thom when the entire future of the line depends on him.
In which Er Thom has a proposal to make.
But of course nothing’s going to come of it yet; there are far too many chapters left in the book.
It’s interesting to watch Daav working his way around toward understanding where Er Thom is coming from.
In which Anne comes home to find Er Thom and Shan gone.
The dragon on Korval’s shield, so Er Thom tells Shan, is named Megelaar. I didn’t think anything of it the first time I read Local Custom (why shouldn’t the dragon have whatever name Korval chooses to give it?), but having read “Dragon Tide” it’s interesting that the name fits the pattern of the dragon family in that story. It’s not inappropriate – there are plenty of parallels that make it clear the Laar is a relative of Korval’s Tree – but I do wonder how Korval knew, when the only person who could have told them is the Tree, and the Tree isn’t one for generating vocal utterances. (I also wonder whether there was a real dragon named Megelaar, and if so why he was singled out for having his name immortalised. The first of the line, perhaps? …or the last?)
Another thing I wonder, speaking of having read other things first: I read the novels in more-or-less publication order, so when I reached Local Custom, I already knew how Er Thom and Anne’s story turned out. How does this chapter read to someone coming to it from the other direction, who knows Er Thom only from the eight preceding chapters? Does it seem more likely that Anne’s fears are justified?
In which Er Thom passes a major hurdle.
Anne appears to have an exaggerated view of the Liaden need to protect one’s melant’i. I suspect she’s not familiar with the anecdote about dessert that’s at the head of the chapter. Instead, she’s taking the tale of Shan el’Thrassin as her model of Liaden conduct, and in so doing she’s misleading herself in several important ways. In general, great literature can be an unreliable guide to how real people act, tending as it does toward dramatic instances. Not every hurt or insult must result in a great big debt-war. In specific, Er Thom is not Shan el’Thrassin, and, crucially, Anne is not Lyada ro’Menlin: Anne’s model is a story about two Liadens, with nothing to say about the possibility and ramifications of one party acting from a strong but alien Code. Anne looks at the story and sees that Shan el’Thrassin had no way out of harming his love to achieve Balance, but she doesn’t see that Er Thom has an out that Shan el’Thrassin didn’t have.
Unrelatedly, Shan yos’Galan is such a cute kid, isn’t he?
In which Er Thom yos’Galan meets Shan yos’Galan.
This chapter kicks off a major complication that lasts, one way and another, for most of the book, and illustrates a thing I’ve often observed in life as well as in fiction: that the most troublesome miscommunications often result not from something being said unclearly, but from someone assuming that the situation is so obvious to everyone that nothing need be said at all.