by Sharon Lee
“Scholar ser’Dinther was engaged in perfecting an apparatus which would capture and distill the moment of transition. He was—his proof failed before he had completed that aspect of his work.”
There was a small pause before the scholar, who had been stroking the cat between its ears, murmured. “I see. And this cat here is the last left alive.” She looked up and sent a sharp glance to the grudent. “In this particular causality, of course.”
The grudent hesitated, hands twisting ‘round themselves with a will.
“That cat,” she said—carefully, Jela thought. “That cat, Scholar, was in the box many times. Never once did the nucleus decay.”
“A feline of extraordinary luck, I see. Well.” She chucked the animal under the chin and moved her shoulders. “I have a kindness for cats. As this one is no longer required for experimental purposes, I shall keep it.”
The grudent bowed hastily. “Yes, Scholar. Of course.”
“Jela!” the scholar snapped. “Take the chair in the corner behind you to the grudent.”
He turned, clumsily, and located the chair, a rickety item missing a quarter of its back and half of one leg. Hefting it casually, he took it to the grudent as ordered, and stood holding it out in one hand, while she blinked at him stupidly.
“It won’t fit on the cart like that,” she said.
“Jela!” Scholar tay’Nordif ordered from the rear. “Break the chair over your knee and place the pieces on the cart.”
No trouble there, he thought and did as ordered, taking a brief, savage joy in the minor destruction. The grudent shrank back with a gasp, and watched with wide eyes as he dropped the bits into the cart, then gathered her courage and stood tall, taking a grip on the handle.
“I will dispose of this and be back for the table at once, Scholar,” she said.
“Jela will carry the table,” the scholar snapped. “Perhaps I failed to make plain my necessity that this office be habitable before the Mercy Bell sounds?”
The grudent was seen to choke slightly, but she stiffened her spine once more and sent what was probably meant to be a stern look into Jela’s face.
“You. Jela,” she said, voice shaking only a little. “Pick up the table and follow me.”
The table was much too wide to fit through the doorway. Which was precisely the sort of esoteric detail a kobold would fail to note.
The grudent pushed the cart out the door. Jela stumped forward, hefted the table, and started after, one end striking the shelving with a will and scoring the wa—
“Jela!” Scholar tay’Nordif said sharply. “Stop!”
He stopped, and stood, table in hand, awaiting amended orders.
“Put the table down, Jela,” the scholar said, and raised her voice. “Grudent tel’Ashon!”
Immediately, the grudent was in the doorway, eyes and mouth wide. “Scholar? I—”
“Silence! If you are to serve me, you will learn to think logically and to give clear, unambiguous orders. Perhaps the Tower’s servitors are more able to reason, but a kobold is only able to follow what directions it is given. Thus, its service is only as good as your instructions. Observe, now.
“Jela! Press the switch on the table top. When the table has folded itself, pick it up and follow Grudent tel’Ashon. Obey her instructions until she returns you to me.”
Deliberately, he looked over the table top, discovering the bright blue button set flush to the surface in due time. He pushed it and stood stoically by as the table folded itself into neat quarters, tucked the resultant rectangle under his arm and headed for the door. Grudent tel’Ashon gave way hastily before him. He followed her, and then followed her some more as she pushed the remains of the late Scholar ser’Dinther’s experiments down the hall.
The cart went noiselessly on its cushion of air; the grudent went quietly in her soft-soled slippers. Jela walked as lightly as he dared while maintaining the illusion of clumsy bulk.
Ahead, there were voices, perhaps not yet discernible to the grudent, but clearly audible to Jela’s enhanced hearing.
“. . . gone to the Governors!” The first voice was light—possibly a woman—and clearly agitated.
“So, you have not made your exception to his work known?” The second voice was unmistakably masculine, pleasantly in the mid-range, calm—and instantly recognizable as belonging to Scholar tay’Welford, he who of the too-knowing smile.
“How could I?” the first voice responded. “But, the Governors! What does it mean?”
“Only that he gone to report the arrival of our newest sister in scholarship. It has been quite some time, as vel’Anbrek noted last eve, since we have seen one of the Master’s students, and the Governors must surely be—”
The cart angled to the right, and a door noisily gave way before it. Jela dutifully marched after the grudent, straining his ears, but the remainder of the scholars’ discussion was lost to him.
EIGHT
Osabei Tower
Landomist
JELA PICKED THE CHAIR UP and followed Grudent tel’Ashon out into the hallway.
The past few hours had given him a respect for the grudent he had not expected to acquire. She had been tireless in the pursuit of her orders; displaying a subtle creativity that won, if not his heart, certainly his admiration. Realizing early in the endeavor that she would sometimes have need of him elsewhere in the hall, she had . . . acquired . . . a pass-tile from an office, the door of which bore the glowing name Den Vir tel’Elyd. This she had attached to the collar of his leather shirt, with a small grim smile, and a muttered, “Lackluster research and pedestrian results, was it?” He was then free to roam—on her orders, of course—an arrangement he approved of in the strongest possible terms.
The work had broken down neatly into brain and brawn. It fell to the grudent, as the self-identified brain, to gimmick the doors of offices she considered likely to contain those things required to make Scholar tay’Nordif’s life more comfortable. After a quick reconnoiter, she would point out those items she deemed worthy, and direct him to carry them to the scholar’s office, while she continued on to the next target. It was a system which had worked admirably in rapidly attaining for Maelyn tay’Nordif all the trappings of a scholar who had by her wit and her intellect captured a seat in Osabei Tower.
In Jela’s estimation, the grudent had tarried a bit too long in the selection of the chair which he now carried, but it was hardly his place to criticize—especially as the protracted search had netted what appeared to be a brand new chair of the first order of craftsmanship. There had been no name on the door of the office from which this last item had been pilfered, but the appropriation had seemed to give Grudent tel’Ashon almost as much satisfaction as purloining the pass-tile. In Jela’s opinion, she had done well by her scholar. Not that his opinion mattered.
Half-a-dozen steps ahead of him, the grudent abruptly swung close to the wall, sending a sharp look over her shoulder and waving at him to do the same. Not at all a good kobold order, but in light of the man walking toward them, Jela decided it was prudent to obey anyway.
The approaching scholar was, judging by the strands of silver glinting in the dark back-swept hair, in his middle years. His square face was creased, and at some point his nose had been broken. The sleeves of his robe were pushed up, revealing strong forearms, veins like blue wire running tight beneath the skin. In addition to the sheathed truth-blade and smart-gloves, a tile tablet adorned with many fobs and seals hung from his sash. He walked like a man who had recently taken a moderate wound—and who was earnestly trying to conceal that fact.
Grudent tel’Ashon dropped to one knee, head lowered, right hand fisted over her heart. “Prime Chair tay’Palin,” she murmured respectfully as he drew level with their position.
The scholar paused, dark eyes sweeping over the grudent, and lingering rather longer than Jela liked on himself.
“Grudent tel’Ashon,” he said, his voice smooth and mannerly. “Please, arise, and tell m
e where you have found this extraordinary—being.”
The grudent came to her feet with alacrity, sliding a sideways glance in Jela’s direction. He stood, chair held against his chest, eyes focused on a point in space approximately six inches from the end of his nose.
“Prime, that is the kobold Jela, which belongs to Scholar tay’Nordif.”
“Is it, indeed?” Scholar tay’Palin took a step forward, his gaze sharp. “And why has Scholar tay’Nordif a Series—”
“tay’Palin!” a woman’s voice—precisely the voice of the woman who had been talking to tay’Welford earlier—accompanied by the sound of someone running inefficiently in soft shoes, and an arrhythmic clacking, as if a dozen or more data tiles were striking against each other.
The scholar sighed, closed his eyes briefly, and turned—carefully, to Jela’s eye.
“Scholar chi’Farlo,” he said distantly. “How may I serve you?”
The woman lowered her robe, which she had held up to her plump knees in order to run, and smiled. Her yellow hair was divided into many braids, each one tied off with a cluster of tiles, which would account for the clacking. Her face was soft and pale; her eyes were round and blue. The smile didn’t begin to warm them.
She came close to Scholar tay’Palin, and put a plump, soft hand on his arm. He twitched, so slightly that most observers would scarcely have seen—though Jela did.
And so, he was willing to wager, had Scholar chi’Farlo. Her smile widened, displaying dainty white teeth, and she exerted pressure on the arm, pulling the scholar with her.
“Walk with me, tay’Palin. I have something to say to you.”
It seemed to Jela that the Prime Chair’s shoulders sagged just a little beneath his robe. He inclined his head to the wide-eyed grudent.
“You may go, Grudent tel’Ashon.”
She gulped and bowed, hurriedly. Keeping her head down, she snapped, “Follow me, Jela!” and moved away, hugging the right wall.
Jela perforce followed, carrying the chair, and straining his ears. All that exercise gained him was the whisper of slippers against the floor and the gentle clacking of tiles.
SCHOLAR TAY’NORDIF BENT her cool, misty gaze upon the chair. To her left, on the polished and well-kept task table, a brand-new terminal and wand reposed in that space not taken up by the sprawling orange cat, which was watching the proceedings with interest.
The scholar extended a slender hand, pulled the chair to her, sat, and deftly put it through its phases. The grudent held her bow, her tension so marked that Jela’s skin began to itch.
“Well done,” Scholar tay’Nordif said from her comfortable recline. “I commend you, Grudent tel’Ashon; you have fitted me with honor and—”
A klaxon sounded, shrill and serious. Scholar tay’Nordif gasped, and cringed in her chair, one hand pressed to her breast. Jela could hardly blame her; it was all he could do not to jump for the handholds that weren’t there and blink up the command screen in the helmet he wasn’t wearing.
The grudent, however, snapped upright out of her bow, a grin on her face and her dull brown eyes sparkling.
“The Truth Bell!” she said excitedly.
“Indeed?” Scholar tay’Nordif said faintly. She fumbled at the chair’s control, eventually coming perpendicular to local conditions. She blinked up at the grudent, the pulse at the base of her throat beating rapidly.
“Surely, truth need not be quite so stern?” she whispered. “Indeed, as the great philosopher bin’Arli tell us, Truth is that silent certainty in one’s—”
The klaxon sounded again, and the rest of bin’Arli’s wisdom was lost in a gasp as the scholar staggered to her feet, startling the cat, which leapt to the top of the work screen, tail lashing.
“Come, Scholar!” The grudent was half-way to the door. “The community is called to witness!”
“Witness?” the scholar said faintly.
“Yes, of course!” Grudent tel’Ashon waved an impatient hand. “Quickly, Scholar! We don’t want to miss a point!” She was gone.
“I—see,” the scholar said. She pushed her sleeves up her arms nervously, took a deep breath and marched resolutely in the grudent’s wake.
“Jela,” she said, without turning her head. “Follow me.”
THEY SAT ON RISERS inside a soaring, airy foyer strongly reminiscent of the octagonal hall of the flying platforms—many dozens of scholars, grudents, and the blind Smalls, all facing a center expanse of creamy floor with what looked for all of space like a training rectangle, marked out in rust-colored tile.
Jela stood behind and slightly to the right of Scholar tay’Nordif, which gave him a clear sight of the combat zone, and also of a command room situated about halfway up the wall directly opposite his position. The observation port was opaqued, but Jela felt certain that command of one sort or another was present.
The mass of scholars rippled, murmured—and stilled, as a yellow-haired woman marched out onto the floor, the tapping of her tile-braided hair clearly audible in the sudden silence.
Deliberately, she stepped into the rectangle, pulled the blade from its place in her sash and brandished it dramatically over her head.
“I, Leman chi’Farlo, Seated Scholar and Third Chair of the Department of Interdimensional Statistics, challenge Kel Var tay’Palin to defend his Thesis Number Twenty-Seven, in which he avers that the value of Amedeo’s Constant as reflected in N-space is a contingent process and is not an ordered process.” Her voice echoed weirdly, which Jela took to be an affect of a wide-area amplifier.
“What’s this?” a scholar some places to Jela’s right whispered to the scholar next to her. “She challenges him on work he published before he was seated?”
“It’s allowable,” her mate whispered back. “Bad form, but allowable.”
The first scholar sighed lightly. “Well, it is chi’Farlo, after all.”
“Come forth, Kel Var tay’Palin,” a voice boomed across the hall—likely originating, Jela thought, in the shielded command room. “Come forward and defend your work.”
And here came the lean figure of the Prime Chair, walking carefully, his knife held business-like. It was, Jela saw, a well-kept weapon, the edge so sharp it shone like an energy blade. He stepped into the rectangle, and bowed slightly to his opponent. She returned the courtesy, lunging out of it low and vicious, going for the belly.
Prime Chair twisted; his opponent’s blade sliced robe, and in the moment it was fouled, he chopped down at her exposed neck. Unfortunately, the yellow-haired scholar was more nimble than she looked; she tucked and dove, freeing her knife with a wrist-wrenching twist. There was a clatter of tiles as a severed braid hit the floor.
Scholar tay’Palin spun, a trifle ragged, to face his opponent as she came to her feet and danced forward, knife flashing, pressing him fiercely.
And that tactic, Jela thought, was likely a winner, given that knife fights were never certain. No question tay’Palin was the better fighter, but he was wounded and weary while she was fresh and energized, and that more than balanced her relative lack of skill.
The blonde woman thrust, tay’Palin twisted—and went down to one knee. She pressed her advantage, going for his eyes now, his throat, his face, working close, giving him no opportunity to gain his feet.
Still, he fought on, grimly, blood showing now on his sleeve—which was, Jela thought, the old wound, torn open again—and down the front of his robe from his numerous cuts.
All at once, the woman twisted, feinting; the scholar on his knees realizing the deception too late—and that quickly it was over, the blonde woman’s knife was lodged to the hilt in tay’Palin’s chest.
Exuberant, she turned, raising her hands above her head. And as she did, the mortally wounded scholar raised his arm, reversed his blade—and threw.
The victor staggered, mouth opening in a silent scream—and fell all at once, blood streaming. Scholar tay’Palin lay on his side, eyes open and empty, his blood pooling and mixing with that
of his opponent.
“Scholar tay’Palin,” the disembodied voice announced, into the absolute silence of the lobby, “has successfully turned the challenge. Let his grudents amass his work and publish it wherever scholars study. Let his name be recorded on the Scholar’s Wall.”
There was a murmur of approval from the assembled scholars.
“Scholar chi’Farlo,” the voice continued, “is found to have wrongly issued challenge. Let her office be purged, her files wiped and her name struck from our rolls.”
“Well deserved,” whispered the scholar to the right.
“We have an administrative announcement.” the voice said briskly. “Effective immediately, Scholar Ala Bin tay’Welford, formerly Second Chair, will serve the Department of Interdimensional Statistics as Prime Chair.”
The Mercy Bell rang.
LUTE CAST HIS NET WIDE, watching, as she had asked him to do, while she prepared herself to accept that burden which no dominant had taken up since the first had been born from the need of the Iloheen.
It was Lute’s belief that what she proposed to do would alter the bounds of probability more certainly than any mere manipulation of the lines, no matter how bold or subtle. It would be the sum of small things—a truth not said, a law unobserved, a heart engaged—which would, in the final accounting, weigh against the Iloheen.
His lady held otherwise, as did Rool Tiazan and his lady, differing merely on the fine points of process. In the end, process mattered to Lute not at all. That the Iloheen were brought down—he barely dared form the word destroyed within the cavern of his secret heart—that had been his only desire, long before his first encounter with Rool Tiazan, long before he listened to what the Iloheen might call treason—and allowed himself to be bound.
He had been mad, of course. Confined, in thrall, compelled against his will to do . . . terrible things. Terrible things. When Rool had proposed a lesser slavery, the acceptance of which might, possibly, with luck, on some day long in the future even as they counted, bring the Iloheen defeat—