The Crystal Variation

by Sharon Lee

  His answer—honor to a child of the house—was a bow that Master tel’Ondor had drilled him on until his back ached, so he was confident of his execution—until the cat.

  He had seen cats before, of course—port cats. Small and fierce, they worked the docks tirelessly, keeping the rat and mouse populations in check. Their work took a toll, in shredded ears, crooked tails, and rough, oily fur.

  This cat—the one standing between the twins and looking up into his face as if it was trying to memorize his features—this cat had never done a lick of work in its life.

  It was a tall animal; the tips of its sturdy ears easily on a level with the twins’ knees, with a pronounced and well-whiskered muzzle. Its fur was a plush gray; its tail a high, proud sweep. The eyes which considered him so seriously were pale green—rather like two large oval-shaped peridot.

  Timing ruined, Jethri straightened to find the twins watching him with interest.

  “What is that doing here?”

  “Oh, don’t mind Flinx—”

  “He was waiting outside our rooms for us—”

  “Very likely he heard there was a guest—”

  “And came to do proper duty.”

  He frowned, and looked down at the animal. “It’s not intelligent?”

  “No, you mustn’t say so! Flinx is very intelligent!” cried the twin on the right—Jethri thought she might be Miandra.

  “Bend down and offer your forefinger,” the other twin—Meicha, if his theory was correct—said. “We mustn’t be late for prime and duty must be satisfied.”

  Jethri threw her a sharp glance, but as far as he could read her—which was to say, not at all—she appeared to be serious.

  Sighing to himself, he bent down and held his right forefinger out toward the cat’s nose, hoping he wasn’t about to get bit. Cat-bite was serious trouble, as he knew. ‘Way back, when he was still a kid, Dyk had gotten bit by a dock cat. The bite went septic before he got to the first-aid kit and it had taken two hits of super heavy duty antibiotics to bring him back from the edge of too sick to care.

  This cat, though—this Flinx. It moved forward a substantial step and touched its cool, brick colored nose to the very tip of his finger. It paused, then, and Jethri was about to pull back, duty done. But, before he did, Flinx took a couple more substantial steps and made sure it rubbed its body down the entire length of his fingers and arm.

  “A singular honor!” one of the twins said, and Jethri jumped, having forgotten she was there.

  The cat blinked, for all of space like he was laughing, then stropped himself along Jethri’s knee and continued on into his rooms.

  “Hey!” He turned, but before he could go after the interloper, his sleeve was grabbed by one of the twins and his hand by the other.

  “Leave him—he won’t hurt anything,” said the girl holding his sleeve.

  “Flinx is very wise,” added the girl holding his hand, pulling the door shut, as they hustled him down the hall. “And we had best be wise and hurry so that we are not late for prime!”

  THANKING ALL THE ghosts of space, the small dining room did not have a famous view on exhibit. What it did have, was a round table laid with such an amount of dinnerware, utensils and drinking vessels that Jethri would have suspected a shivary was planned, instead of a cozy and quiet family dinner.

  They were the last arriving, on the stroke of twenty, according to the clock on the sideboard. The twins deserted him at the door and plotted a course for two chairs set together between Delm Tarnia and a black-haired man with a soft-featured face and dreamy blue eyes. At Tarnia’s right sat Master ven’Deelin, observing him with that look of intent interest he seemed lately to inspire. Next to Master ven’Deelin was an empty chair.

  Grateful that this once the clue was obvious, he slipped into the empty seat, and darted a quick look down table at the twins. They were sitting side by side, as modest as you please, hands folded on their laps, eyes downcast.

  “Jethri,” the old lady said, claiming his attention with a flutter of frail old fingers. “I see that you have had the felicity of meeting Miandra and Meicha. Allow me to present my son, Ren Lar, who is master of the vine here. Ren Lar, here is Norn’s fosterling, Jethri Gobelyn.”

  “Sir.” Jethri inclined his head deeply—as close to a seated bow as he could come without knocking his nose against the table.

  “Young Jethri,” Ren Lar inclined his head to a matching depth, which Jethri might have suspected for sarcasm, except there was Tarnia sitting right there. “I am pleased to meet you. We two must hold much in common, as sons of such illustrious mothers.”

  Oh-ho, that was it. The man’s bow was courtesy was paid to Master ven’Deelin, through her fosterson, and not necessarily to the son himself. The universe had not quite gone topsy-turvy.

  “I am sure that we will have many stories to trade, sir,” he said, which was what he could think of as near proper, though not completely of the form Master tel’Ondor had given him. On the other, Ren Lar’s greeting hadn’t been of the form Master tel’Ondor had given him, either.

  “Trade stories at your leisure, and beyond my hearing,” the old lady directed. “Normally, we are not quite so thin of company as you find us this evening, Jethri. Several of the House are abroad on business, and one has made the journey to Liad, in order to complete his education.”

  “And Pet Ric,” said one of the twins, quietly, though maybe not quietly enough, “eats in the nursery, with the rest of the babies.”

  Lady Maarilex turned her head, and considered the offending twin with great blandness. “Indeed, he does,” she said after a moment. “You may join him, if you wish.”

  The twin ducked her head. “Thank you, ma’am. I would prefer to remain here.”

  “Your preference has very little to do with the matter. From my age, young Meicha, there is not so much difference between you and Pet Ric, that he naturally be confined to the nursery, while you dine with the adults.” A pause. “Note that I do not say, with the other adults.”

  Meicha bit her lip. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “So,” the old lady turned away. “You must forgive them,” she said to Master ven’Deelin. “They have no address.”

  “One would not expect it,” Master ven’Deelin answered softly, “if they are new come from the nursery. Indeed, I am persuaded that they are progressing very well indeed.”

  “You are kind to say it.”

  “Not at all. I do wonder, though, Mother, to find dramliz in the house.”

  The old lady looked up sharply. “Hah. Well, and you do not find dramliz in the house, mistress. You find Meicha and Miandra, children of the clan. Healer Hall has taken an interest in them.”

  Master ven’Deelin inclined her head. “I am most pleased to see them.”

  “You say so now.” She moved a hand imperiously. “House-children, make your bows to my foster daughter, Norn ven’Deelin Clan Ixin.”

  They inclined, deeply and identically, and with haste enough to threaten the mooring of the flowers they wore in their hair.

  “Norn ven’Deelin,” Meicha murmured.

  “We are honored,” Miandra finished.

  “Meicha and Miandra, I am pleased to meet you.” Master ven’Deelin inclined her head, not by much, but to judge by the way the twins’ eyes got wide, maybe it was enough.

  Somebody—Lady Maarilex or Ren Lar—must have made a sign that Jethri didn’t catch, because right then, the door at the back of the room opened and here came an elder person dressed in a tight black tunic and tight black pants. He bowed, hands together.

  “Shall I serve, Lady?”

  “Yes, and then leave us, if you will.”

  THERE WAS TALK during the meal, family catch up stuff, which Jethri followed well enough, to his own surprise. Following it and making sense of it were two different orbits, though, and after a while he just let the words slide past his ear and concentrated on his dinner.

  “Of course, I will be delighted to have Jeth
ri’s assistance in the vineyard—and in the cellars, too.” Ren Lar’s voice, bearing as it did his own name, jerked Jethri’s attention away from dinner, which was mostly done anyway, and back to the conversation.

  “That is well,” Master ven’Deelin was answering calmly. “I intend to start him in wine after he has completed his studies here, and it would be beneficial if he had a basic understanding of the processes.”

  “Very wise,” Ren Lar murmured. “I am honored to be able to assist, in even so small a way, with the young trader’s education.”

  Carefully, Jethri looked to the twins. Miandra was studying her plate with an intensity it didn’t deserve, being empty. Meicha met his eye square, and he got the distinct idea she’d’ve said, I told you so right out if she hadn’t already earned one black mark on the meal.

  Jethri felt himself go cold, felt the breath shortening in his lungs. Thrown off, he thought, and didn’t believe. Couldn’t believe it, not of Master ven’Deelin, who, unlike his blood mother, had wanted him, at least as her apprentice. Who had plans for him, and who thought he might one day be useful to—

  And there was the B crate sitting in the room upstairs, which he surely didn’t need for a three-day visit. . .

  “Ma’am,” he heard his own voice, breathless and a thought too sharp. “You’re not leaving me here?”

  She tipped her head, black eyes very bright. “You object to the house of my foster mother?”

  He took a breath, centering himself—trying to—like Pen Rel kept insisting on. It was important to be calm. People who panicked made mistakes, and, by all the ghosts of space, a mistake now could doom him to life in the mud . . .

  Another breath, deliberately deep, noticing that the conversation had stopped and that Master ven’Deelin’s question hung in the air, vibrating with an energy he wasn’t near to understanding.

  “The house of your foster mother is a fine house, indeed,” he said, slowly, carefully. “Ignorant as I am, it is all but certain that I will disgrace the honor of the house, or of yourself, all unknowning. I am space-born, ma’am. Planet ways—”

  Master ven’Deelin moved a hand in the Liaden version of “stop”. Gulping, Jethri stopped.

  “You see how it is with him,” she said to Lady Maarilex. “So much concern for my honor!”

  “That is not a ill thing, I judge, in a foster child,” the old lady said gravely. “Indeed, I am charmed and heartened by his care of you, Norn. For surely, his concern for you is but a pure reflection of the care you have shown him. I am pleased, but in no wise surprised.”

  Trapped. Jethri bit his lip, feeling panic clawing at his throat, adrenaline arguing with his dinner.

  Across the table, he saw Miandra swallow hard, and Meicha close her eyes, throat working.

  “So, then,” Master ven’Deelin continued. “Wine lore, surely, and a decreasing of the sensibilities. Modesty becomes a lad of certain years, but a lad who hovers on the edge of being a trader grown must have more to his repertoire than modesty and a pleasant demeanor.”

  Lady Maarilex inclined her head. “We shall do our possible,” she murmured. “A relumma may see some progress.”

  A relumma? Ninety-six Standard Days? He stayed in his chair. He didn’t yell or give in to bawling. Across from him, though, Meicha sniffled.

  “Mother,” Ren Lar said softly. “It occurs to me that our guests, newly come from space, might welcome an early escape to their beds.”

  “Why, so they might,” Lady Maarilex said, like the idea surprised her. “Thank you, my son.” She inclined her head and sat poised until he had come ‘round to her chair, eased it back and offered an arm for her to lean on as she rose.

  “Good night, kin and guests. Repose yourselves in calmness, knowing that the house is vigilant on your behalf. Young Jethri, attend me tomorrow morning at eighth hour in my study. Miandra will show you the way.”

  She turned then, leaning hard on the arm of her son, and left the room at a slow walk. As soon as she cleared the door, the twins popped up, bowed their good-nights and were gone, leaving Jethri staring at Norn ven’Deelin and feeling about to cry.

  “Well,” she said, rising and looking down at him quizzically. “Allow me to escort you to your rooms, my son.”

  HE DID KEEP HIMSELF in hand until they reached the door of his quarters—he did. Master ven’Deelin chatted easily on about the house and how comfortable it was to be assigned to her very room—though nothing so exalted as the north wing, mind you!—suited her very well. Jethri returned monosyllables—maybe he did that. But he didn’t start a fight until they he had opened the door and bowed her over into his parlor.

  He pulled the door closed behind him—so gently, he could scarcely hear the lock snick, and stood for the space of a couple good, deep breaths, preparatory to laying the case out as calm and as forceful as he could.

  “Master Flinx, how do you go on?” Master ven’Deelin said delightedly. Jethri turned and sure enough, there was the cat, curled up on one of the chairs, and there was Master ven’Deelin, bending down to offer a courteous finger.

  “Come, do me the honor of renewing our acquaintance.”

  Surprisingly enough, the cat did just that, coming out of his curl and sitting up tall, touching his nose to her fingertip.

  “Always the gentleman!” She moved her hand, running tickling fingers under the cat’s chin. “I see that I leave my son in good care!” Straightening, she sent Jethri a quick black glance.

  “Truly, young Jethri, you will do well here, with Flinx as your sponsor.”

  He cleared his throat. “I’d like to talk to you about that, if you please, ma’am.” He said carefully.

  She sighed, and folded her hands together, head to one side. “Well, if you must, you must, and I will not forbid it. But I will tell you that you are doomed to failure. Remain here, you most assuredly shall, to sit at the feet of my foster mother and learn whatever she wishes to teach you.”

  “Ma’am, will you not at least listen to me?” He heard the desperation in his own voice and bit his lip.

  “Did I not say that I would listen? Speak, my child. I rejoice in the melodious sounds of your speech.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I don’t wish to be tiresome and I know you must be eager to seek your bed, so I will be brief. The case is that I am space-based and I am apprenticed to learn trade. The whys and whyevers of planet-based society—that falls outside the scope of those things it is necessary for me to learn in order to be an effective trader.”

  “A gentle set-down; appropriate between kin. And though I might protest that I have done nothing to earn your anger, I will refrain, for I well know that you consider yourself wronged. So . . .” She moved a hand, showing him the chair unoccupied by the cat.

  “Sit, child, and give over glowering at me.”

  He sat, though he wasn’t that certain in regard to the glower.

  “Good.” She turned back to the second chair, scooped the cat up deftly and sat, cat on knee. Flinx blinked, and stretched, and curled round, obviously pleased with his position.

  “The fact that you are able to argue with sincerity that knowledge of planet-based society has no bearing upon your abilities as a trader only demonstrates how deeply you are in need of such education.”

  “Master—”

  She raised a hand. “Peace. You have made your throw. I now claim my turn with the dice.”

  He bit his lip. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “‘Yes, ‘mother’ would be more appropriate to the case,” she said, “but I do not insist. Instead, I will undertake to put your mind at ease. You are not abandoned. You are set down for the space of two relumma, that you might pursue independent study of value to the ship. These studies are two-fold.” She held up a hand, and folded the index finger down.

  “One, you will learn what my foster mother may teach you of the proper mode. Fear not that she will treasure you as I do—and insist that you extend yourself to your greatest efforts.” She folded her second
finger down.

  “Two, you will also spend time in the trade hall at Irikwae Port. I have requested that the master of the hall see to your guild certification, which is a matter I have too long neglected.” Points made, she dropped her hand to Flinx’s flank.

  “I have myself undertaken just such independent studies and certifications, to the benefit of the ship and the profit of the clan. It is what is done, and neither punishment, nor betrayal. Are you able to accept my word that this is so?”

  His first inclination was to tell her no, but the plain truth was that he’d never known her to lie. Some things she said that he didn’t understand—but that was his ignorance and not her deliberate misleading—

  “Two relumma?” he blurted, his brain finally catching up with his ears. He bent forward in his chair. “Lady Maarilex said one relumma!”

  “Tcha!” Master ven’Deelin looked up from scratching Flinx behind the ears. “She said that one relumma might begin to show progress. What profit do you bring to the ship half-trained?”

  He closed his eyes, fists set hard against his knees. Two relumma on-planet, he thought, and shivered.

  “Child . . .” There was a rustle, and a thump, and then arms put ‘round his shoulders. He stiffened and then leaned into the hug, pushing his face against her shoulder like she was Seeli and him not much older than eight.

  “Child, the worlds are not your enemy. Nor do ships enclose all that is good and proper in the universe. A trader must know his customers—and the greater number of your customers, when you are a trader grown, will be planet-based, not ship-born. Ignore their ways at your peril. Despise them. . .” There was a small poof of sound over his head, and her arms tightened briefly.

  “Despise them,” she continued, “if you must, from knowledge, rather than ignorance.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he whispered, because there wasn’t anything else to say. She was going to leave him here, right enough, whatever he said, or however he said it. His outlook now was to be sure she remembered to come back for him.