by Sharon Lee
Looking into the basket, he saw it full of sealed food packets, not unlike single-rations. Cat food, he surmised, and wondered again where the cat was, which a kobold would not ever wonder, and so he did not look around for it.
“Jela!” Scholar tay’Nordif snapped. “Open a single packet and place it on the counter by the water dish.”
He did this while she walked toward the larger room, voicing “s-s-s-s-s,” and then exclaiming in warm, pleased tones, “There you are, clever fellow! I’m pleased to see you making yourself at home. I will be wanting that chair directly, however, and you, I believe, will be wanting your supper.”
Jela kept his eyes on the business of unfolding the ration pack into a bowl and spreading the lips wide. He heard the scholar’s light-but-not-light-enough steps approach, smelled Cantra’s scent over the strong odor of the cat’s meal.
“Stand back, Jela,” the scholar directed him, and he did what he was told, as she slid the cat smoothly from her arm to the counter, its nose pointed at the food.
The orange tail twitched, the ears flicked—and the cat was at once wholly occupied with its dinner, like any good soldier at mess. Jela dared to look up and observed a smile upon the face of his mistress—a fond and slightly foolish smile, which chilled him to the core, it was so unlike any expression he had ever seen on Cantra yos’Phelium’s features.
The eyes moved from the cat to himself, and hardened in an instant. “Jela!” she snapped. “Put the sealed packets—neatly—on the lowest shelf of the middle cabinet. When the basket is empty, place it by the door.”
Ordered, he obeyed. The scholar watched the cat for a few heartbeats more, then he heard her move back across the room to her workstation.
He finished stocking the cabinet, and turned, basket in hand. The ration pack was empty, the cat vanished again. She hadn’t told him to clean up the animal’s mess, so he passed it by to place the basket, as directed, next to the door.
“What shall I call you?” the scholar inquired, in a high, foolish voice.
Jela turned, slowly, and found her sitting on the chair, cat on her lap, tickling it under its chin. The cat, far from displaying predator-like behavior and having off with her hand, expressed every indication of ecstasy, its eyes slitted and its mouth half-open in pleasure.
“Perhaps,” Scholar tay’Nordif said dreamily, “the simple name is best, eh? After all, as the great bin’Arli teaches us, it is neither name nor house which makes fair fortune. Therefore, you are now and shall henceforth be—Lucky.”
The cat purred, loudly, and the scholar chuckled fondly. Jela, his tasks complete, stood next to the door, hoping that she’d notice soon and order him to do something, or else go to sleep so that he could continue with his—
“Ah, what gossip we had at the common gather this evening, Lucky! Truly, you would be horrified to learn how scholars do gossip—but no! You have been employed by a scholar, have you not? You will therefore perhaps not be surprised to hear that Scholar vel’Anbrek believes Prime tay’Welford engineered not only today’s proving, but a number of previous challenges made against the work of the previous Prime. Scholar vel’Anbrek believes—ah! not in so many words, you understand; he has not survived so long under walls because he is an idiot, I think—Scholar vel’Anbrek believes that Prime tay’Welford wishes harm to our beloved Master dea’Syl. Is that not diverting, Lucky?”
The cat yawned, widely. The scholar laughed, scooped it off her lap and dropped it lightly to the floor as she came to her feet.
“Well, to bed, I believe, so that I am alert for tomorrow’s labors!” Without a glance or a glimmer toward the door, where Jela still waited in hope of an order, she stripped off the robe and bundled it untidily onto the shelf that held the half-unpacked travel bag. She kicked off her slippers, pulled a blanket from the storage cabinet and lay down on her cot.
“Jela,” she said. “Dim the light and go to sleep.”
Bring the lights down, he did, and returned to his place beneath the tree. He waited until the rhythm of her breathing told him that she was asleep before he pulled his equipment from its cache and commenced in again to work.
He roused once, when a seed pod pounced off of his knee, and paused long enough to eat it, sending a silent thanks to the tree. He roused a second time, briefly, when the scholar shifted in her sleep; and a third time, when the cat tried to lay across his array.
And some time just before the end of the scholar’s sleep shift, he hid his equipment, settled back against the wall and considered two data points.
One, if Liad dea’Syl’s work was locked inside the Osabei data bank, it was well-hidden indeed.
Two, he had the location of Muran’s damn’ planet-shield, that Commander Ro Gayda had ordered him, as his last mission, to procure for the troop.
NINE
Osabei Tower
Landomist
“Business on Landomist?” The clerk cast a bored glance over his license, and ran it through the reader.
“I carry data for a scholar seated at Osabei Tower,” Tor An said steadily. His shoulder—where he had been shot—hurt in good earnest now, and his thoughts had an alarming tendency to wander. He had dosed himself with antibiotics from the ship’s kit, and rewrapped the wound tightly enough that his second-best trading jacket—a hand-me-down from Cor Win and thus a little large—fit over the additional bulk of the dressing.
“Projected length of stay?” the clerk asked.
Until Landomist is consumed by the calamity which has overtaken my—He caught the response before it got off the end of his tongue and substituted, “Much depends upon the scholar. It may be that I will be required for interpretation . . .”
The reader chimed and spat out a datastrip. Bored, the clerk ran it through another reader. This one ejected a pale blue tile with the pictograph for “visitor” ‘scribed on its surface. She handed it, with his license, to Tor An.
“You are granted temporary residency for thirty-six local days,” she said, her eyes pointed somewhere over his head. “The tile’s inclusions degrade at a certain rate. At eighteen local days, its color will phase to red. At the beginning of the thirty-sixth day, it will begin to blink. At the end of the thirty-sixth day, it will phase to black. The mechanism is extremely efficient, however, it is well to arrange to be on your transport before the final hour. If you are required to remain longer than the standard thirty-six-day allowance granted by the Portmaster’s mercy, Osabei Tower must needs request that this office extend your term.”
“I am grateful,” Tor An said, slipping his license away into its private pocket with a frisson of relief. The tile, he placed in a more public pocket, in case he should need to produce it upon demand.
“Enjoy-your-stay-on-Landomist,” the clerk said, and turned away before she had done speaking.
“You wished to see me, Prime Chair?”
tay’Welford looked up from his screen with a smile.
“Scholar tay’Nordif. Thank you for coming to me so promptly, and believe that I am deeply grieved that it is become necessary to interrupt you in the pursuit of your work. Please sit down.”
She took the chair he indicated, and sat with her hands folded primly in her lap. Her color had not improved over last evening, and overall she seemed a bit . . . rumpled.
“Did you rest well, Scholar?” he asked, noting her condition with concern. “I do hope you find your quarters comfortable.”
She blinked and rallied somewhat. “My quarters are more than adequate, I thank you, Prime Chair. As to my rest—on the frontier I was accustomed to sleep in whatever conditions were most safe, which did not—as I am certain you recall!—always equate with comfortable.’”
“I am delighted that the quarters please; we do tend to forget the privations we suffered for our art when we Wandered, working safe here behind walls as we do.” He folded his hands atop his desk and considered her. “I do not wish to be forward, Scholar, but I hope you will allow me to say that—witnessing one
’s first proving is a powerful thing. Such a proving as was undertaken yesterday—that is rare, indeed, and more powerful than most. I was unsettled for several days following the first proving I witnessed within these hallowed walls, and it was the veriest street brawl compared to what we were honored to see yesterday.”
Scholar tay’Nordif was looking over his right shoulder, her eyes unfocused, and her face slack. Assuming that she was once again relieving Prime tay’Palin’s glorious defense, he allowed her a few heartbeats for reverie before clearing his throat.
So intent had she been on the glories of the past, that even that slight noise caused her to start in the chair, her gaze snapping back to his face.
“Your—pardon, Prime,” she said rather breathlessly. “My thoughts were elsewhere.”
“Surely, surely.” He smiled, projecting calmness. The scholar shifted in her chair, smoothing her robe with fingers that were not quite steady.
“But,” tay’Welford said, and she jumped again at the sudden syllable, “I had promised not to keep you long from your work! Let us address my topic, if you are willing.”
“Certainly,” she said again, refolding her hands tightly onto her lap.
“Well, then, I will not conceal that your arrival here—the only one of the Master’s own students to reach us—has excited the interest of the Board of Governors. You are called to stand before them two days hence, immediately following the Day Bell. They will wish to ask you certain questions.”
He had not thought it possible for Scholar tay’Nordif’s face to pale further. Her hands gripped each other so tightly that the knuckles showed white.
“Questions?” she said faintly.
“Indeed.” He looked at her with concern. “Are you quite well, Scholar?”
“Yes, of course. It is only—the Board of Governors! What can they possibly wish to ask me?”
“Various things, which seem good to them.” He extended a hand and tapped his work screen. “As Prime Chair of our department, I have called you here to put some questions of my own, so that a preliminary report may be sent to the Governors and to the Master. It is the duty of the department to provide the answers to such rudimentary questions.” He bent to his screen—and looked up, rueful.
“What am I thinking! There was more—a very great honor for you, Scholar! Master dea’Syl himself will be present during your examination by the Board. Surely, it must be a moment of transcendent joy, to behold once again the face of your master.”
“Ah,” said Scholar tay’Nordif, in a strangled voice. “Indeed.”
This seemed rather . . . subdued for a paroxysm of joy, and tay’Welford waited politely, in case there should be more. However, it appeared that this was the sum total of joyous amazement Scholar tay’Nordif intended to express. tay’Welford cleared his throat, murmured, “Just so,” and turned again to his screen.
“Were you acquainted with any other of the Master’s students?” he asked, eyes on the screen.
Silence.
He looked up. “Scholar tay’Nordif,” he said, sharply. “Pray attend me now. Were you acquainted with any other of Master dea’Syl’s students? After all, it is not unusual for Wanderers to form alliances ‘mong themselves, to travel and study together for a time.”
Scholar tay’Nordif shifted in her chair. “I . . . knew the others but slightly,” she murmured. “From the first, I felt that the Master’s core assumptions carried a flaw. The others, therefore, did not welcome me among them.”
There was a spike of old anger, there, which tay’Welford found gratifying.
“How long,” he asked, “did you study with Master dea’Syl?”
A short pause, then— “Only—only a short time. Perhaps—no longer than three months of the Common Calendar.”
tay’Welford frowned. “You studied with him for so short a time—and in addition found his work to be flawed—yet you name yourself his student?”
She glared at him indignantly. “Indeed, I do. How else? Liad dea’Syl’s work shaped my own. Were it not necessary to prove those core assumptions false, and to provide truth in their stead, my scholarship would have been broad, yet shapeless.”
“I . . . see. So the sum total of your work as a Wanderer was to disprove the work of the scholar you claim as your master?”
Scholar tay’Nordif frowned, stung, perhaps by his disbelieving tone. “You have seen my work, Prime Chair,” she said stiffly. “I made no secret regarding the coin I offered the Tower in return for a seat.”
“Indeed,” tay’Welford said, turning away from his screen to face her more fully. “I have seen your work, Scholar. In fact, I have perused it in some little detail, as my own work has allowed, and it grieves me to state that—while interesting, it is somewhat light of proof. You elucidate the ‘reformation’ of a single system—but are these results reproducible, Scholar?”
She pressed her lips together and looked down at her folded hands. “I was, perhaps, hasty in approaching the Tower and suing for a seat,” she said, muffled. “It seemed to me that the preliminary work was telling . . . But I should, perhaps, have waited upon the second result.”
tay’Welford considered her. “I am to understand that such a result exists?”
“Indeed,” her voice took on an eager note. “I had commissioned a pilot to physically access the area and bring me proof—coordinates, spectrograph readings, data . . .”
“And where is this pilot?” tay’Welford interrupted.
Scholar tay’Nordif moved her shoulders slightly. “Late for the rendezvous—you know what pilots are, Prime Chair! I waited at the house of my patron a reasonable time, but then, as I said, I grew restless. I left a message that I might be found at Osabei and came ahead to claim my chair.”
He raised an eyebrow at such audacity. “You were certain of yourself, were you not? Do you not consider entry into Osabei Tower a matter of exertion?”
“Indeed, I consider it a matter of the utmost exertion! I had striven greatly, formed and tested a theory which—”
“A theory which,” he interrupted, “is a direct attack upon the lifework of one of Osabei Tower’s most precious Masters. You knew that such work must gain you entrance, and once entered, you determined to take upon yourself a false mantle of scholarship.”
She stared at him, mouth open, plainly and unbecomingly aghast. tay’Welford sighed.
“My work,” she managed at last. “My work is revolutionary; it takes our understanding of the nature and function of the natural order a quantum leap ahead of—”
“Your work,” tay’Welford snapped, “is trivial and derivative. It proves nothing. Worse, it makes sport of one of the finest mathematical minds to have smiled upon our art since Osabei tay’Bendril gave us the theory of transition.”
“How dare—”
He raised his hand, soothing them both. “Peace, peace. My apologies, Scholar. As Prime Chair, it is my duty to facilitate the work of all, and to ease strife, not to create it. Only tell me this—have you reproduced these results?”
“The pilot—” she began and he sighed.
“Scholar, you had best hope that your pilot arrives with that data before you stand before the Governors, two days hence.” He pushed away from his desk and stood.
“That is all, Scholar. Thank you for your assistance.”
TOR AN CAUGHT THE slideway to the City of Scholars, standing like old bones on the sparsely traveled slow slide, gripping the safety loop grimly and trying to ignore the whirling in his head.
Unlike Korak, with its chaotic streets, and dun-colored buildings built tight to the dun-colored earth, Landomist soared, the tops of the towers lost in wispy clouds, which filtered the light from the local star to an indeterminate pale yellow. The breeze was damp and cool against his hot face, and fragrant with the odors of the many plants growing in wall niches, in pots, hung from poles and cables, and climbing up the sides of the cloud-topped buildings. Truth told, the air was a little too damp for his taste an
d he concentrated on breathing in a slow, unhurried rhythm, forcibly ignoring pilot instincts which would have him checking pressure valves and holding tanks in search of a leak . . .
His stomach was beginning to roil in sympathy with the unsteadiness of his head. He adjusted his grip on the loop and dared to close his eyes for a moment. Alas, that only made matters worse, so he compromised by opening his eyes to the merest slits and ignoring, as best he might, the unpleasant sensations of motion.
Soon, he told himself. Soon, he would be in the City of Scholars, and able to exit the slideway. Soon, he would be in Scholar tay’Palin’s office, sitting in a chair, perhaps even sipping some tea, if the scholar were disposed to recall Aunt Jinsu well.
Soon.
“What is it?” the young scholar inquired of the elder, who laughed.
“Kobold,” he said, his voice over-loud. Jela, standing slack-jawed and idiot before Scholar tay’Nordif’s door, as ordered, did not wince.
“What is a kobold?” the younger scholar persisted, daring to drift closer by a timid step and bending down to peer into his face. “It looks a very brute.”
“Some of that,” the old scholar allowed. “And truth told, this one seems to be a common laborer. Out of Shinto, if Scholar tay’Nordif’s tale of her illustrious patron is to be believed—and there’s no reason not to believe it, no matter what dea’San may say. Any new-seated scholar able to place a flan in her account must have got it off a patron—there’s no other way for a Wanderer to lay hands on that much money together, mark me! And beside, why would anyone with even as little sense as our good tay’Nordif willingly choose to burden herself with this ugly fellow and that plant, aside they were tokens of that same patron?”
“What’s wrong with Shinto?” Greatly daring, the younger scholar leaned in and ran light fingers over the porcelain threads embedded in his chest. Jela knew a brief moment of regret, that his role of kobold would not allow him to snarl.
“Eh? Nothing at all wrong with Shinto. Perfectly civilized world. Famous for their horticulture—and those they breed to work in the gardens and greenhouses. Some, like this fellow here, are brute labor; others, I’ve heard, are something more than that. Mind you, it’s worth a life—and an afterlife, too—to speak of them outside of House walls, but there’s tales. Oh, yes. There’s tales.”