by Sharon Lee
The younger scholar sent him a sideways glance. “What sort of tales?”
“You mean to tell me that you’ve never heard of the mothers of the vine?”
“Oh, certainly!” The younger scholar scoffed, stepping away from Jela to more fully face the elder. “Constructs which are more plant than woman, whose essence is required for a good harvest, and who lie with human men on purpose to drain their vitality and impart it to the grapes!” A derisive snort. “Tales to frighten children and the undereducated.”
“And yet they’re true enough, those plant-women, and the reason why a trade clan may pay a year’s profit for a single half-cask of Rioja wine—and count the purchase fairly made.”
“Oh, really, vel’Anbrek! I suppose you’ve seen one of these fabulous women yourself—in your Wander days, of course!”
“I was never so unfortunate,” the old scholar said, his voice serious. “But I did meet a chemist who had once been employed at a Rioja vineyard. She claimed to have seen and spoken with the mothers not once, but many times, and had even what she cared to term a friendship with the elder of them. It’s true that she may simply have been telling outlandish tales to a gullible Wanderer. But in that case, there would have been no need for House Ormendir to buy her silence, which they did, and published the death in the monthly census, as required by law.”
The younger scholar waved an airy hand. “The fact that the vineyard bought a Silence in the matter only proves the House of Whispers found the commission to be just. Your chemist more likely stole the formula for the House blend than consorted with creatures out of imagination.”
“Have it your own way,” the elder scholar said with an expressive ripple of his shoulders. “I only thought to warn that those things which come from the horticultural clans first serve the purpose of the clan. Yon simple kobold might be more than it seems.”
“Or—more likely—it might be but a simple kobold, given in order that Scholar tay’Nordif’s green token from her patron receive the proper care. For you must agree, vel’Anbrek, even the fondest of patrons could not have thought the good scholar competent to water a plant, or, indeed, to pay attention to it at all, should she become immersed in her work.”
Scholar vel’Anbrek laughed. “An accurate reading of our new colleague, I grant.”
“And one thing I notice,” the younger scholar continued, slipping his hands into his sleeves, “is that this construct is not properly peace-bonded.”
“Aye, it is,” said vel’Anbrek, with a nod of his gray head toward Jela. “Those ceramic threads that took your fancy—that’s how they peace-bond on Shinto. That I have seen, as well as the very clones of the bracelet our good sister wears, to which the implants will respond.”
“Ah, will it?” the other said with a snap. “And suppose it requires pacification and there is only you and me to defend the hall against its sudden imbecile rage?” The right sleeve rippled slightly as the fingers of his left hand tightened—
Jela fell to his knees, choking. He raised a hand; the younger scholar smiled, his eyes bright and cruel as he watched him writhe. He pushed his sleeve up, fingers moving on the slim band around his forearm. Jela tried to stand, fell heavily, froth forming on his lips.
“Here now!” cried the old scholar. “It won’t do to place Scholar tay’Nordif’s creature at risk. Sport is sport, but much more and it becomes an—”
“It becomes an attack upon my work by base means!” Scholar tay’Nordif’s voice came shrilly, and it seemed to Jela that he had never heard a more welcome sound. There was the sound of a sharp slap, a cry of outrage, and the young scholar’s arm-band rang to the floor by his head.
Slowly, his muscles relaxed, and he flopped to his back, chest heaving.
“Now, it will be useless to me all the rest of the day!” Scholar tay’Nordif shouted. “Game with the Tower’s constructs, if you have the taste, but do not, at your peril, deprive me of the services of my patron’s kobold!”
“You struck me!” the younger scholar shouted in turn. “vel’Anbrek! I call you to witness!”
“I saw it,” the elder said, shockingly calm. “Though I warn you I will tell Prime Chair that Scholar tay’Nordif was provoked.”
“I will have satisfaction!” The younger scholar snarled, and swooped down to retrieve his arm-band, his nails coincidentally scoring Jela’s cheek as he did. “Come, vel’Anbrek, I require your testimony before the Prime!”
“If you will have it, it is yours,” the old scholar said, and the pair of them moved off, noisy in their haste.
Jela lay on the floor, eyes closed, breathing. Above him, he heard Scholar tay’Nordif, her own breathing somewhat ragged. He opened his eyes in time to see her stamp her dainty slippered foot.
“Oh, get up, Jela!” she snarled and stomped past him to her door.
TOR AN EXITED THE slideway and stood blinking in the thin, misty light, trying to get his bearings. Across the wide green-paved square he saw something that looked very much like a public map. He set course for it, taking care where he put his feet, having just missed taking a bad tumble when it came time to step from the slide to the platform. That had been an unnerving moment. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d made a serious misstep; a pilot trusted his balance and his reactions, and even on those few occasions when he’d drunk too much wine they had never failed him.
Unfortunately for his general state of well-being, others with business on the square were not inclined to dawdle. A woman in a billowing beige robe pushed by him, muttering. He caught the word “tourist” and another, less complimentary, and tried to quicken his pace.
A hard hand slammed into his wounded shoulder, and he gasped aloud, staggering, spikes of red and orange distorting his view of the square and the map.
“Move along!” a man’s voice snapped. “You’ll be late for class!”
Tor An shook his head and through the fading flares of color he caught an impression of another billowing robe, and a long tail of black hair.
He touched his most public pocket, but the few carolis he kept there had not been molested, so at least he had not suffered the further indignity of having his pocket picked. Cor Win would never let him hear the end of the tale, were he found to be such a flat.
The map loomed blessedly closer. He managed the last bit without being either assaulted or cursed, and leaned heavily on the rail as he fumbled the input wand from its holster. His first search, simply on Kel Var tay’Palin, produced a line on the message strip at the base of the map: a room number high in the double dozens at Osabei Tower. Squinting, he glanced ‘round at the multitude of towers surrounding the square, and had recourse once more to the wand. A dot of red glittered like a jewel on the map, which he understood to be his current position, from it a red line preceded at an angle to the left, and at last a crimson star burst bright.
Tor An turned his head, sighting along the angle indicated on the map, and located a tower of plain red cermacrete. He double-checked its location against the map and, satisfied that the red tower was indeed his goal, set off. His shoulder was afire and his steps had a distressing tendency to wander to starboard. But, after all, the tower wasn’t so far away as that. All that remained was to ring the bell and ask to be shown to Scholar tay’Palin. His mission was nearly at an end.
“Yes, Scholar?” Grudent tel’Ashon arrived breathlessly, bringing with her the odor of disinfectant.
“Yes.” Maelyn tay’Nordif leaned back in her chair and smiled. “As my grudent, you will be pleased to hear that I have been asked to speak not only to the Board of Governors, but to Master dea’Syl himself.”
The grudent’s eyes widened. Jela, sitting at command with his back against the far wall, felt his heart stutter.
“Truly, Scholar,” Grudent tel’Ashon breathed. “The Honored dea’Syl himself? Your work must be notable, indeed. Did he say aught in praise or—” She swallowed, apparently deciding that it would not be entirely prudent to ask if Master dea’S
yl had found any fault with Scholar tay’Nordif’s work.
“The invitation came to me through the kind offices of Prime Chair tay’Welford,” the scholar said calmly. “It would not, therefore, have been seemly to have spoken more particularly of my work. However, I expect a lively discussion with the master when we meet.”
If possible, the grudent’s eyes grew rounder. Jela, unnoticed at the front of the room, held his breath. Not his most stringent searching had produced Scholar dea’Syl’s data-cache. He had modified his scouts and sent them out again this morning as Scholar tay’Nordif was showering, but he expected tonight’s results to be much the same. The master scholar stored his precious notes and working papers elsewhere—he knew it, in one of those illogical leaps of faith your generalist was sometimes taken with. Too bad for him, his intuition was usually right.
But if Can—Maelyn tay’Nordif was going to be meeting with dea’Syl—in his office? In his quarters?—specifically to discuss their work . . . The notes would have to be stolen from the scholar, and whether Maelyn tay’Nordif could pull the thing off or—
“My discussion with our Prime Chair,” she said to the grudent, interrupting these speculations, “brought to mind a matter I failed to mention to you. A pilot is expected, bearing data. It is vital that I have the data—and the pilot—immediately upon arrival. Am I plain?”
Pilot? Jela thought blankly. What pilot?
Grudent tel’Ashon was bowing. “Scholar, you are most wonderfully plain. I, myself, will alert the gatekeepers to expect this pilot, so the data will not be delayed in coming to your hand.”
“That is well, then.” Scholar tay’Nordif reached for the chording wand, her eyes already on her work screen. “You may go, Grudent.”
“Scholar.” Another bow and go she did, clever girl.
Jela closed his eyes.
TEN
Osabei Tower
Landomist
TAY’WELFORD SAT with his hands folded on the desk before him, and heard Scholar tel’Elyd out. He had vel’Anbrek repeat his testimony twice, then sat in contemplative silence, turning the sprung bracelet over in his hands.
“I will,” he said at last into tel’Elyd’s angry eyes, “of course, need to speak with Scholar tay’Nordif before making a final determination. Before I do so, however, I wonder if I may not persuade you to soften your position, Scholar. Our new sister tayis to meet not only with the Governors two days hence, but with no one less than Master dea’Syl, who professes himself most eager to renew their acquaintance.”
tel’Elyd paled, and drew himself up. “I will have a complete answer from Scholar tay’Nordif,” he said frostily.
tay’Welford sighed. “Very well.” He put the bracelet aside and looked from the young scholar to the old. “I will speak to Scholar tay’Nordif immediately. You may expect a resolution before the sounding of the Mercy Bell, so that there will be no discord among colleagues in the Common Room. I trust this is satisfactory?”
“Prime Chair, it is.” tel’Elyd rose and bowed. “I will be in my office, working.”
vel’Anbrek, however, did not rise. tay’Welford considered him and folded his hands once more.
“Is there something else?”
“Scholar tay’Nordif is Liad’s only living student,” the old man stated.
tay’Welford waited, and, when vel’Anbrek added nothing else to that unadorned statement, sighed and murmured, “She made no secret of the fact that she had knelt at the Master’s feet for only a few months before the disparity of their thought drove her away. But, yes, technically, Maelyn tay’Nordif is the last living of the Master’s students. Is there a point you particularly wished to make?”
“Only that I have often wondered—have you not?—why it was that Liad’s students seemed to die quite so often.”
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 snatc
hed 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, underinformed. 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 gambling that, by the time he saw, and believed, it would be too late to retreat.