by David Weber
Andrin wanted to scream at whoever was out there, interrupting her solitude. She sprang from the bed and crossed the cabin with long, angry strides, then snatched the door open—and closed her mouth over the furious words on the tip of her tongue. The servant girl who'd brought her the pen and paper in the Privy Council Chamber was standing in the passageway, literally wringing her hands, her eyes enormous with fright.
Andrin hadn't even realized the girl had come aboard the ship, far less expected to find her outside her cabin door with a covered tray of food on a serving cart. But she was obviously supposed to be there, since Brahndys chan Gordahl, Andrin's regular night bodyguard, was simply standing there watching her.
"Your Grand Highness," the girl got out in a rush, "I was ever so terrified. Are you all right, please? Your supper's getting cold, and I was afraid you'd took ill, which would be my fault, as it's my place to look after you on this voyage, and—"
"I beg your pardon?" Andrin interrupted the spate of words, staring at her in astonishment. The girl paled, and Andrin shook her head. "I only meant I don't understand," she said more gently. "Why is it your place to look after me?"
The girl swallowed sharply.
"Well, it's just that Your Highness' maid, Miss Balithar, she slipped and fell climbing up the staircase from the kitchen with your dinner. She broke her leg, pretty badly they say. She's with the ship's Healer now, having it looked after. Between Miss Balithar's broken leg and Lady Merissa ill with the seasickness, you've got no one to look after you. To make sure you're warm and comfortable and well fed."
"Oh, poor Sathee! She must be in agony!" Andrin's eyes widened in distress. Sathee Balithar had been her lady's maid since her fifth birthday—she was literally one of the family.
"When they came to fetch me, they said the Healer had already stilled the pain, before doing anything else. She's being looked after well, I promise you that, Your Grand Highness."
But the girl was still wringing her hands, and Andrin still had no idea why she was standing in the corridor with Andrin's dinner and a serious case of nervous distress. The princess forced herself to collect her rattled wits, feeling stupid and slow from the headache pounding at her temples from the inside.
"I'm glad to hear she's being taken care of. But why are you here? Who sent you?"
She glanced at chan Gordahl, and his eyes flicked to meet hers.
"She was thoroughly vetted, Your Highness, before setting foot aboard ship. Ulthar brought her up fifteen minutes ago, when she came with your dinner."
Andrin felt better immediately. Ulthar chan Habikon was another of her sworn bodyguards. There was no way anyone who wasn't completely above suspicion would have gotten past both him and chan Gordahl. She drew a deep breath, gave her guardsman a nod of thanks for the information, then met the girl's worried gaze again.
"Who are you?" she asked curiously. "And how—why—were you asked to take Sathee's place?"
"When the choosing of the staff was done, I got the chance of my whole lifetime, to help with the fetching and the carrying between the cabins and the cooks," the girl said. "They assigned me to you, Your Grand Highness, on account of my already being trusted to help with the Privy Council, which is a job not just every servant is allowed, you see. My father, he's been a footman of the Privy Council his whole life, and my mother, she's been maidservant to your grandmother, which is where I learned my trade, fetching and carrying for her. Please, Your Grand Highness, will you have some supper now?"
"I—" Andrin closed her lips and put a hand to her brow. "I'm afraid I have a frightful headache," she admitted. "I couldn't possibly eat a single bite."
To Andrin's astonishment, the girl's eyes lit with obvious pleasure.
"I can help you with that, Your Grand Highness. Honestly, I can! It's a Talent from my mother. Just sit you down, there, and let me help."
Andrin glanced at chan Gordahl again. The guardsman evidently knew a great deal more about this girl than Andrin did, because he simply nodded permission. Given her guardsmen's fierce suspicion of any possible threat to her safety, that said a great deal. Even so, she wasn't entirely certain about all this. Still, her head throbbed relentlessly, so fiercely even the light in the passageway hurt. And so she gave a mental shrug, willing to try whatever the girl had in mind, and sat down in the chair beside her writing desk.
"What's your name?" she asked as the girl entered the cabin timidly. She gazed at the gown Andrin had discarded with something like awe, and stared at Finena in open amazement.
"Relatha, Your Grand Highness," she all but whispered, mesmerized by the white falcon. "Relatha Kindare."
Andrin's thoughts were slower than usual because of her headache, but she blinked as she suddenly realized that Finena was completely at ease with the girl. That surprised her. The falcon didn't like very many servants, and was particular about the nobility, as well. The bird detested a fair number of courtiers on sight—the Earl of Ilforth came to mind—but she liked Relatha. Liked the girl enough to preen and angle her head for a caress.
"Would you like to pet her?" Andrin asked.
"Oooh, I wouldn't dare!" Relatha protested, and Andrin stood and moved closer to the perch.
"She likes you. Here, give me your hand."
Relatha's fingers trembled in Andrin's grasp as she held the girl's hand gently in front of the bird for a moment, then guided her to stroke Finena's silver back. The bird arched against the touch, all but crooning with pleasure, and Relatha gasped. Then a smile of utter enchantment lit her face.
She petted the falcon for several delighted moments, then turned back to Andrin.
"She's just the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, Your Grand Highness! But here, now. Your head's still aching, and I'm standing here petting a bird, selfish as can be! Sit you down again, now, and let me take care of that headache."
The instant Relatha touched Andrin's head, the princess knew she was in the hands of a master Healer. An untrained one, perhaps, but powerfully Talented. The headache simply drained away to nothing under the gentle ministration of Relatha's fingertips, and Andrin leaned back, eyes closed, and let the magic in the girl's fingers soothe her frayed nerves. Her breathing steadied, slowed, and when Relatha finally let her hands drop away, Andrin breathed a deep sigh and opened her eyes.
She turned in her chair and peered curiously up at the girl.
"Why have you never taken formal training, Relatha? Your Talent for Healing is profound."
"Me? A Healer?" Relatha goggled. "I'm a servant girl!"
"And what's that got to do with anything?" Andrin frowned. "There are plenty of women Healers from all classes of society. Talent isn't confined by social bounds. Have you ever even been tested?"
Relatha shook her head, struck literally dumb.
"Well, would you like to be tested? To be trained as a Healer?"
The very notion appeared to overwhelm Relatha.
"I—I don't know. . . I never even thought such a thing would be possible—"
"Well, there's no need to decide this instant," Andrin told her. "But think about it. If you want to be tested at the Healers' Academy, I'll arrange it."
"But—why?" Relatha asked, obviously still shaken, and Andrin smiled.
"Why not?" she challenged in return.
"But I'm just—"
"Don't you dare say 'just a servant' again!" Andrin ordered tartly. "You just cured a savage headache with a simple touch. If you can do that, when you've never even been tested, far less trained, then you're wasted fetching and carrying anyone's dinner, even mine. Was your mother ever tested?"
Relatha shook her head.
"No, Your Grand Highness. She said servants are servants, and there's an end of it. Her task is to care for your grandmother, which is quite enough for anyone, she says."
"Hmph!" Andrin folded her arms. "Maybe in my grandmother's day that was so, but I'm not my grandmother, and I positively hate the idea of seeing someone with this kind of Talent wasted runni
ng errands between the kitchen and anyone's cabin. Or even fetching and carrying for the Privy Council. Think about it, Relatha. Do you want to spend your life fetching my dishes? Or would you rather try to earn a position as an Imperial Healer?"
The girl's mouth fell open.
"Me?" she squeaked. "Imperial Healer? Me?" But her eyes had begun to glow. "Do you really think—?"
She broke off, staring at Andrin with those glowing eyes, and the princess shrugged ever so slightly.
"We'll never know if you're never tested," she pointed out reasonably, and Relatha swallowed hard.
"I'll . . . think on it, then," she whispered.
"Good! Now, about that supper you mentioned . . ."
Relatha grinned.
"It's in the passage, Your Grand Highness. I'll just fetch it in for you. Sit you down at the table."
Andrin wasn't sure why, but her own Talent hummed strangely in her ears as Relatha wheeled her supper into the room. She couldn't imagine why, but Caliraths learned early to pay attention to "feelings" when other people crossed the tracks of their lives.
She hoped Relatha would decide to be tested. It was more unusual than it ought to be for a girl from the serving classes to make that big a transition, into the upper reaches of the Talented professions, but it was scarcely unheard of, either. In fact, the whole reason the House of Talents existed in the Ternathian Parliament in the first place was to make sure girls like Relatha could improve their lives by making full use of their gods-given abilities. The fact that no one had even noticed the startling power of Relatha's Talent bothered Andrin, and she decided to find a quiet moment to speak with the Speaker of the House of Talents before they reached Tajvana.
That thought seemed to close some switch deep in Andrin's brain. She could almost physically feel it, and she was abruptly glad Relatha was aboard Windtreader.
Of course, it remained to be seen why her presence seemed so suddenly important.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Shaylar sat crosslegged in Gadrial's cabin while the two of them—the only women aboard the warship—enjoyed what she thought of as a quiet "girls' day" together. She was bent over a project very dear to her. Using a borrowed needle and thread, some shears the ship's doctor had provided, and some cloth the captain had asked the purser to locate in storage, she was making a dress for herself.
It wouldn't be a fancy dress, not given the cloth she had to work with—military-issue gray cotton twill—but it would be a dress, and it would be hers. The only other clothing she had was what Gadrial had given her and some navy-issue pajamas she'd contrived to make into slacks and shirts which almost fitted her.
Gadrial was no seamstress, but she'd admitted to some skill in fancy needlework, so she was using the voyage time to decorate some of her own shirts and slacks. The style and patterns were lovely, unlike anything Shaylar had ever seen. While they worked, they talked. Not about anything important—just easy conversation that allowed Shaylar to practice her steadily growing command of Andaran.
Shaylar had come to realize that the speed with which she was mastering Andaran had aroused Gadrial and Jasak's suspicions. No Sharonian, accustomed to telepaths' "ear" for languages, would have been surprised, but she wasn't in Sharona any more. Unfortunately, by the time she realized Gadrial had never seen anyone from Arcana (which was what she and Jasak called their home universe) learn a completely foreign language so quickly, she'd already demonstrated her abilities. The best she'd been able to do was to appear to slow down, to stop and obviously fumble for a word more frequently and emphasize her 'foreign accent.' She had no idea whether or not it had done any good. For that matter, she wasn't even certain that trying to hide her language-learning ability was a good thing in the first place! It was so frustrating trying to envision what a civilization which apparently had never heard of the Talents would expect . . . or find frightening or threatening.
On the other hand, the speed with which she'd been able to acquire at least a usable command of Andaran worked both ways, she reflected, setting small neat stitches in the sunlight streaming through the bulkhead scuttles. It would allow Jasak's superiors to ask pointed questions much sooner, but by the same token, it had permitted Shaylar to probe for additional information about Arcana before she and Jathmar had to face those pointed questions.
Much of what she'd learned had been frightening. Other bits and pieces, however, had seemed to offer at least some grounds for cautious hope.
For example, she'd learned that Jasak came from one of several Andaran kingdoms which dominated the landmass she and Jathmar had known as New Farnalia. Andara, it appeared, provided the bulk of the Arcanan army, and it was a culture with a long, deep, highly developed military tradition. However poorly Arcana might appear to have performed in its initial encounters with Sharona, what Shaylar had learned so far discouraged her from hoping things would stay that way.
On the other hand, what she'd learned about Ransar was more encouraging. As nearly as she could tell, Gadrial's home region of Arcana corresponded to the region of Sharona encompassed by the Kingdom of Eniath, the Kingdom of Dusith, and the northern portions of the Empire of Uromathia. Unlike the monarchies of the various Uromathian states, however, Ransar was a democracy. Shaylar wasn't particularly interested in politics, but she was trying to learn what she could, and it was quite obvious to her already that Ransaran notions were much less militaristic—more "humanistic," she was tempted to say—than those of Andara.
And then, of course, there were the people called "Mythalans," but for some reason, neither Gadrial nor Jasak seemed to want to talk about them.
Despite the situation in which she and Jathmar found themselves, Shaylar was fascinated by the bits and pieces about Arcana she'd so far been able to fit together. It was frustrating to have so incomplete a picture, however, and not just where politics was concerned. In fact, there was something else which continued to puzzle her even more, and she looked up from her sewing.
"Gadrial?"
"Hmm?"
"What moves this ship?"
Gadrial glanced up in obvious surprise. She gazed at Shaylar for a moment, then used a word with which Shaylar wasn't yet familiar.
"What does that word mean?" she asked, and Gadrial laid her needlework in her lap and folded her hands, her expression thoughtful as she clearly considered how best to answer.
"It's what powers our whole civilization." She spoke slowly, choosing her words. "Not everyone can use it," she added. "You must be born with a Gift for it."
A small thrill of astonishment ran through Shaylar. Whatever it was, it sounded a little like Talents, except that no Talent had ever powered a ship. Then Gadrial stood up and retrieved a small leather case from her luggage. She opened it and extracted a familiar crystal.
"This is my PC," Gadrial said. "My personal crystal. You've seen me use it in our language lessons, but I also use it to store my other work—my notes, my calculations. Anything I need to record. It's—" she used the unfamiliar word again "—that makes it possible."
"Gadrial, it's just a stone."
Even as Shaylar said it, she knew she sounded foolish. Certainly Gadrial had already given more than sufficient proof that that "just a stone" was capable of remarkable things. It was just that the very notion continued to offend Shaylar's concept of how the physical laws of the multiverse worked. In fact, she realized, the real reason she'd said it was that a part of her desperately wanted for it not to work after all.
"Don't be silly, Shaylar," Gadrial chided, as if she were the telepath and she'd read Shaylar's mind. "You've seen it work before. But it won't work for just anyone. It takes someone born with a Gift to build a PC or compile the spellware to make its applications work. But each crystal can hold immense amounts of data, if you know how to encode and retrieve it, and someone with a Gift can even program it so that non-Gifted people can use it. Here."
She began to murmur. Whatever she was saying, it wasn't in Andaran, and despite the number of tim
es she'd already seen it, Shaylar's scalp prickled as the crystal began to glow. Squiggles of light appeared within it, recognizable as writing, although the words weren't in the same script as the signs aboard this ship.
"Here," Gadrial repeated, extending the crystal towards Shaylar. "This time I've powered it up for you."
Shaylar accepted it very gingerly. It was heavier than she'd expected. It still looked like nothing so much as absolutely clear quartz, yet it was clearly denser than quartz from the way it weighed in her hand. The squiggles glowing in its depth shifted slightly as the crystal settled into her palm. The unintelligible words moved, as if to present themselves to her for easier reading.
"What do you mean, powered it up for me?" she asked.
"I mean I've . . . turned it on for you. Activated its spellware in non-Gifted mode and released my password so that you can enter and retrieve data if you want to."