Crystal Dragon

by Sharon Lee

  tay'Welford opened his hands, showing empty palms. "It is a perilous thing, to wander the galaxy in pursuit of one's art. The sad fact is that more Wanderers die upon their quests than ever come to us with the price of a chair."

  "Yes, yes," vel'Anbrek said impatiently. "We all know that Wanderers exist to die. It only seems odd to me—as a statistician, you understand—that all, save one, of Liad's students have fulfilled their destinies, when at least a few students of the lowly rest of us have lived long enough to purchase a seat. One wonders if there is something ...inimical in the fabric of Liad's work, the contemplation of which encourages an untimely demise."

  tay'Welford smiled. "This is a jest, of course. You have studied the Master's work—and you are the most long-lived of us all!"

  Notably, vel'Anbrek did not smile. "I was a full scholar established in my own sub-field when Liad published his first paper. And though I have, as you say, studied his work, that is a far different matter than being a student of his work."

  Head tipped to one side, tay'Welford waited politely.

  Now vel'Anbrek smiled, and rose creakily. "Well, we old scholars have our crochets. I will be in my office, working. Prime Chair."

  "Scholar." tay'Welford responded.

  The door closed. tay'Welford counted to one hundred forty-four before he pushed away from his desk and came to his feet. Soonest begun, soonest done, as his own Master had used to say. A speedy determination was in the best interest of the community.

  * * *

  IN ORDER TO ENTER Osabei Tower from the public square, one must needs pass through a maze constructed entirely of short, dense green plants that gave off an odor which was perhaps thought to be pleasant, but which all but put Tor An's stomach, already uneasy, into open revolt. Breathing through his mouth, he concentrated on solving the maze, which was ludicrously easy, once he realized it was a Reverse. By taking all the avenues that tended most definitely away from the tower, he speedily arrived at its entrance, and pulled the bell rope, hard.

  The door snapped open, and a dark-skinned woman in light duty 'skins thick with smartstrands glared down at him, one hand on the ornate gun holstered at her waist.

  "State your business," she snapped, with no if-you-please about it.

  Tor An swallowed and bowed slightly. "My name is Tor An yos'Galan and I seek an audience with Scholar Kel Var tay'Palin."

  The guard's fingers were seen to tighten on the hilt of her weapon, and Tor An tensed. He took a deep breath and tried to remember that not all gatekeepers summarily shot those who petitioned them for entrance.

  "Prime Chair tay'Palin is not receiving visitors."

  Well the scholar—Prime Chair!—was doubtless a busy man, Tor An conceded. He should perhaps have sent ahead. Indeed, Uncle Kel Ven would certainly have scolded him for such a breach of etiquette—and he wished to be a trader!

  The guard was staring at him, her 'skins flickering distractingly in the cloud-filtered light. He bowed again. "Would it be possible to leave a message for the—"

  "Prime tay'Palin has achieved immortality in his work," the guard interrupted. Her teeth flashed in a grin so quick he could not really be certain he had seen it. "That means—he's dead."

  Dead. Tears rose to his eyes. He blinked them away, took a pair of breaths to settle his stomach, and bowed once again.

  "I thank you," he murmured, as he tried to form another plan. Surely there was another scholar who—

  "Good-day," the guard said, and took one long step backward, the door closing with a boom.

  He stared at it, stupidly. Reached for the bell chord and snatched his hand back. No, not yet. Not while he was tired and ill. He would—he would find the pilots hostel, take a room, sleep, and tomorrow consider how best to go on.

  Slowly, not at all eager to again subject his stomach to the odoriferous maze, he turned and began to walk back the way he had come.

  "Wait!" a woman's voice called urgently from behind, amid clattering. "Pilot! Wait, I beg you!"

  He turned in time to avoid being run over by a woman wearing a unitard and a utility belt. She snatched at his arm—mercifully, not the wounded one—and peered earnestly into his face, her eyes brown and wide.

  "You are the pilot," she stammered—"the pilot the scholar is expecting? You have the data?"

  Tor An blinked. "Indeed," he said carefully. "I am a pilot and I do carry data which may be of interest to ...the scholar."

  The woman smiled, clearly relieved. "I abase myself. I had just come to inform the ostiary—we had not expected you so soon! Ah, but there's no harm done." She pulled his arm as she turned back toward the entrance, where the dark-skinned guard stood, wide-legged and arms akimbo, watching. "The scholar's orders were that you be brought to her immediately."

  "I am more than willing to be escorted to the scholar," Tor An assured the woman, trying without success to extricate himself from her grip.

  "Come with me, then," she said. "Quickly."

  * * *

  THE PROBLEM OF communication between himself and Scholar tay'Nordif was a sticky one, Jela allowed, as he sat on the floor where he'd been directed by his highly-annoyed mistress, back against the wall. Cantra had been certain that his ingenuity and the core training she and her—and the person she proposed to become—would be sufficient to the needs of the mission. He'd agreed with that, being, as he now unhappily realized, under informed. Not that he could put that fault on the pilot. No, simply put, he'd let his own understanding of how the galaxy operated taint his info. Cantra had told him what she was going to do, and he couldn't fault her for plain-speaking. He did have a suspicion that she'd played her cards with exceptional care, having pegged him as a practical man to whom seeing was believing—and gam`ling that, by the time he saw, and believed, it would be too late to retreat.

  Whether providing him with a thorough-going fool for a partner in the rescue of life-as-they-knew-it was the Rimmer pilot's notion of a joke—no. No, there was good reason to acquit her there, too.

  For all her faults, Cantra yos'Phelium was a woman of her word. She'd pledged her help, which she would have never done unless she intended to deliver. Which meant that there was something Maelyn tay'Nordif could accomplish to the benefit of the mission that Cantra couldn't have. It was his own lack of imagination, that he couldn't think of anything Cantra yos'Phelium might fail to accomplish, given her word and her intent.

  Trust, the Rimmer pilot whispered from memory—and it might truly be, he thought, that the only place that pilot existed anymore was in his memory. He took a hard breath, trying to ease the sudden constriction of his chest. Cantra yos'Phelium deserved to live on in the memories of twelve generations of pilots, not sentenced to unsung oblivion when the M who'd asked—and received—a death of her grew old all at once, and died.

  Only weeks, now.

  He shook that line of thought away, though not the melancholy, and applied himself once more to making sense of this sudden tale of a pilot expected, bearing—

  The door chime sounded. He opened his eyes, and saw the scholar hunched over her screen, apparently oblivious.

  The chime sounded a second time, followed by a man's voice.

  "Prime Chair tay'Welford requests entrance."

  At her desk, the scholar muttered something in a dialect Jela didn't recognize, though he figured he got the drift from her tone. She lifted the wand, and chorded in a brief command—very likely, Jela thought, shutting down her work screen, so Prime Chair wouldn't be tempted to steal her work.

  "Come!" she called, slipping the wand into its holster. She spun her chair and stood, arms down straight and a little before her, fingertips just touching the surface of her desk.

  The door opened and tay'Welford stepped within, his sash now bearing those items of office which had previously adorned Prime tay'Palin. Scholar tay'Nordif bowed, briefly, and with neither grace nor art.

  "Prime Chair, you honor my humble office."

  tay'Welford looked 'round him, measur
ingly, thought Jela.

  "Your office seems quite comfortable, if I may say so, Scholar. Certainly far more so than when ser'Dinther held it."

  "It is well enough," she answered, "for a beginning." She lifted a hand, indicating one of the chairs on the far side of the desk. "Please, sit."

  "My thanks." He took the chair indicated and spent a moment arranging the fall of his robe. Scholar tay'Nordif sat after he did, and folded her arms on the desk.

  "I do not," tay'Welford murmured, "wish to infringe upon your time any more than is needful, Scholar, so I will come immediately to the point of my visit. Scholar tel'Elyd has made a formal grievance against you, and he has stated that he will pursue satisfaction to the fullest—"

  "Scholar tel'Elyd," the scholar interrupted hotly, "mounted a dastardly and craven attack against my work, Prime! It is not to be borne, and if either of us should have cause to call for satisfaction, it is myself!"

  "Ah." tay'Welford inclined his head, and spoke seriously. "I wonder, Scholar, if you would give me the particulars of this attack upon your work?"

  "Certainly! I found him abusing the kobold given for my comfort by my patron, in such a manner as to deprive me of its services since—and likely for the remainder of the day!"

  "And the kobold," tay'Welford said cannily. "I understand you to say that it is necessary to your work?"

  Sitting at the floor at the rear of the room, back against the wall, Jela wished he could get a good look at tay'Welford's face. Cantra yos'Phelium had been able to read a lie off the twitch of a man's earlobe, but he had no evidence that Maelyn tay'Nordif could do the same. tay'Welford's tone had the feel of a trap being set, but what that trap might be, when the old scholar had said right out he'd give evidence that put the lie to the younger's claim—

  "The kobold is my patron's gift to me," Scholar tay'Nordif said stiffly. "It is necessary that I be as comfortable as possible in order to give my best attention to my work."

  "But to say that the kobold itself is necessary to your work—forgive me, Scholar, but that is quite an extraordinary statement. And to come to blows with a colleague in defense of a base creature—I fear me that demonstrates a lack of judgment we do not like to see within our department."

  Scholar tay'Nordif sniffed. "And should I have given this so-called tel'Elyd leave to destroy that which has been placed in my keeping? What else, Prime? Shall I allow him to destroy my reference works? My notes?"

  "One's reference works and notes are—of course!—necessary to one's continued work. But a kobold, Scholar..." He sighed. "No, I do not believe I can allow it."

  Jela's chest tightened.

  "I beg your pardon?" snapped Scholar tay'Nordif.

  "I believe that tel'Elyd may have the right of it, Scholar. You chose to place the continued functioning of a base creature above the necessities of a colleague—and that is a very grave thing."

  "Pray, what necessities had tel'Elyd in the matter? 'Twas a random act of negligent cruelty, sir!"

  "Alas, it may not have been. tel'Elyd requires a certain amount of titillation in order to do his best work. Happily, his need is fulfilled in the torment of the base, and as he rarely requires more than torment, his necessity is scarcely a drain on departmental resources."

  "I—" began Scholar tay'Nordif, but tay'Welford had already risen.

  "The matter is clear," he said definitely. "You will stand to answer tel'Elyd in the hour before the Mercy Bell, today. I shall inform him of my decision." He inclined his head. "I thank you for your time, Scholar. May your work be fruitful."

  Slowly, Scholar tay'Nordif came to her feet. She bowed, with even less grace than usual, and held it while Prime tay'Welford turned and strolled leisurely from the room, smiling at Jela as he passed out of the door and into the hallway.

  "Oh," said Maelyn tay'Nordif, flopping into her chair into her chair the moment the door closed. "Damn."

  * * *

  THE PATH THE apprentice scholar set through the twisting hallways of the lower tower would have made his head spin had it not been doing so already, Tor An thought. As it was, he was most thoroughly lost and in terror lest his guide, whom he had at last convinced to relinquish his arm, should outpace him.

  The hall opened abruptly into a wide, high-ceilinged room, six of the eight ceramic walls were cast in graduating rows, like seats in a theater. Here, his guide all but ran, and he forced himself into a trot, narrowing his focus to her figure, fleeing and clanking before him. She vanished into another narrow hall. He, perforce, pursued—and very nearly ran over her where she stood, just within the narrow walls, facing a man in beige robes, his sash supporting various fobs and tablets, as well as a naked blade and a pair of smart gloves. The scholar was frowning down at the 'prentice, who had abased herself. He looked up at Tor An's arrival and his brows lifted high.

  "Who, may I ask, are you?" The voice was pleasant, though carrying a slight edge—whether of bemusement or outright irritation, Tor An couldn't have said.

  However, the attitude of the 'prentice suggested that this was a person whom it would be best not to annoy. Tor An therefore bowed as deeply as he was able and straightened with a care he hoped would be seen as respect.

  "My name is Tor An yos'Galan, esteemed sir," he said seriously.

  "I see." The scholar paused. "And what might your business be in Osabei Tower, Tor An yos'Galan?"

  The scholar had an open, pleasant face. Surely, so exalted a gentleman, who was in any wise apparently someone of rank in these halls, could be trusted with his—

  "Prime Chair!" the 'prentice scholar had straightened out of her bow and was wringing her hands in agitation. "This is the pilot whom Scholar tay'Nordif expects, bearing the data necessary for her proof! Her word was that, immediately he arrived, he and the data were to be brought to her. Her word, Prime Chair, which I, as her grudent, am bound to obey!"

  The scholar—Prime Chair—turned his attention to her, his head tipped to a side, long brown hair cascading over one shoulder.

  "Ah! Scholar tay'Nordif's pilot!" he said, in tones of broad enlightenment. "I confess I had not expected to see him so soon!" He stepped back, moving a graceful hand in a sweep along the way they had been traveling. "By all means, Grudent tel'Ashon, deliver the pilot and his data to our good scholar!"

  "Yes," the 'prentice breathed. She bowed hastily and Tor An once more had his arm gripped as she hurried him with her.

  "Be well, Tor An yos'Galan!" the Prime Chair called as they rushed away. "I look forward to deepening our acquaintance!"

  "Quickly!" the 'prentice breathed in his ear.

  "Why?" he demanded. "We've been given leave to go."

  "Because," she hissed, and without lessening her pace, "scholars are mad. It is the business of scholars to be jealous each of the others' honors and position. You may be assured that the Prime Chair means to get the advantage of Scholar tay'Nordif and punish her for rising in the esteem of the Master as he has not. And if his punishment is to be depriving the scholar of yourself or your data, then he will take you from her, and not from me."

  Rushing along at her side, Tor An thought that perhaps it was not the scholars alone who were mad.

  "Why do you serve here, then?" he panted.

  "I have one more local year of service, after which I shall have my journeyman's certificate. And you may well believe I shall receive it with joy and forthwith seek a position as a mathematics tutor. Here!" She halted before a door exactly like the others lining the hall, and touched the plate with the fingers of her free hand. A chime sounded and she said, loudly, "It is Grudent tel'Ashon, Scholar! Your pilot has arrived!"

  There was small delay before the door whisked open. The grudent all but shoved him into the office beyond, letting go of his arm with a will.

  He staggered, barely sorting his feet out in time to prevent a spill and stood, breathing heavily and head a-spin three long steps into a small office. At his right hand, a man in dark leathers sat on the floor, back against the
wall, his brown face lean and inscrutable. Before him, a woman in the now-familiar robe of a scholar frowned from behind a too-clean desk, a data input wand held between her palms, her green eyes cold in a stern golden face.

  "Well," she said, her voice high and unpleasant against his ear. "At least you had the grace to make haste from Shinto, sirrah!" She pointed her eyes over his shoulder. "Grudent, you have done well. Leave us now."

  "Scholar." The 'prentice's voice carried a unmistakable note of relief. Tor An glanced over his shoulder, but she was already gone, the office door closing behind her.

  "So, Pilot," the sharp voice brought his attention back to the scholar, who had put the chording wand down and stood up behind her desk. "Approach. I assume that you have brought the data?"

  Tor An blinked, feeling the datastrip absurdly heavy in its inner pocket. It came to him that it was—perhaps—not wise to have embarked upon this deception. This stern-faced scholar was expecting, after all, a particular pilot bearing particular data with particular relevance to her work, and if the grudent were to be believed—