The Crystal Variation

by Sharon Lee

  He extended a hand and picked up his glass, twirling it idly by the stem, his eyes on the wine swirling inside the bowl.

  “Alas, it was then that my brother entered the negotiations, with a plea for leniency, which my mother was disposed to hear.” He lifted the glass.

  “Rather than cancel my contract, she sold it. I am now the trader of record aboard the good ship Genchi, which Captain sea’Kira allows me to know has never carried such a thing. Nor needs one.”

  A quick knock, and the door was opened by their waiter, bearing a tray well-loaded with eatables. He set it all out with noiseless efficiency, bowed and was gone, the door snicking shut behind him.

  There was a pause in the tale, then, while the two of them took the day meal under consideration, Tan Sim eating with an elegant ferocity that confirmed Jethri’s fears regarding short rations.

  “Well,” Tan Sim said at last, selecting a fruit from the basket between them. “Where did I leave the tale?”

  “Your mother sold your contract to Genchi, though it had no need of a trader,” Jethri said, around his last bit of bread.

  “Ah. Genchi. Indeed. It happened that the ship owner had a desire to improve Genchi’s fortunes and thought that a trader aboard might produce a rise in profit. Unfortunately, the owner is a person who has . . . limited funding available to him—and, very possibly, limited understanding as well. For I put it to you, friend Jethri: How does a ship on a fixed route raise profit?”

  Jethri paused in the act of reaching for a fruit and looked over to him.

  “By shipping more.”

  Tan Sim raised his fruit in an exuberant toast. “Precisely!”

  “And Genchi is podded out,” Jethri guessed, in case there were bonuses involved.

  Tan Sim smiled upon him tenderly. “It’s a dear, clever lad. But, no—there you are slightly out. It happens that Genchi can accept two additional pods. Which the trader is to purchase from the elevated profits his very presence upon the ship will produce.”

  Jethri stared at him. “Your mother signed that contract?” he demanded.

  Tan Sim dipped his head modestly. “She was most wonderfully angry.”

  “How long?”

  “Until I am in default? Or until the contract is done?”

  “Both.”

  “Pah! You have a mind like a trader, Jeth Ree Gobelyn!” He bit into his fruit and chewed, meditatively.

  “I will default at the end of the relumma. The contract has six years to run.”

  Jethri blinked. “She’s trying to kill you.”

  Tan Sim moved a shoulder. “Break me only. Or so I believe. And, in truth, I am not without some blame. Were I less like my mother, I might send a beam, begging her grace, and asking for terms to come home.”

  Jethri snorted.

  “Yes,” Tan Sim said gently. “Exactly so.”

  Glumly, Jethri finished his fruit, wiped his fingers and reached for his glass.

  “But you aren’t going to default,” he said. “You went down to the salvage yard this morning to look at a pod.”

  “Indeed I did. I found it to be a most excellent pod, of an older construction. Older, even, than Genchi. It is in extraordinarily good shape—sealed and unbreached—and the yardman’s final price is . . . not beyond reach. However, it’s all for naught, for it must have new clamps if it is to marry Genchi, and while I may afford those—I cannot afford those and the pod.”

  Jethri sipped wine, frowning slightly. “Still sealed, you say. What does it hold?”

  “Now, that, I do not know. As old as the pod is, its contents are unlikely to have much value. Were matters otherwise, I might take the gamble, but—I do not scruple to tell you, cash is at present too dear.”

  Jethri finished his wine and set the glass aside. There was an idea, buzzing around in the back of his brain, slowly gaining clarity and insistence. He let it grow, while across the table Tan Sim wrestled silently with whatever thoughts engaged him.

  “How much?” he asked softly, so as not to joggle the idea before it was set.

  “The yard wants to see a cantra for the pod, entire. Clamps are four kais.”

  The idea had set firm, and he was liking it from all the angles he could see. He had a knack for salvage, Uncle Paitor’d always said so. . .

  “I wonder,” he said, looking up into Tan Sim’s bruised and weary face, “if you might have time tomorrow to introduce me to the salvage yard?”

  “Oh,” said Tan Sim wisely, “do you think you might manage it? I wish you shall. Certainly. Meet me here at the opening of day port and I will show you where.”

  “And this time,” Jethri said with a smile. “We will take a taxi.”

  IT LOOKED LIKE RED leather masks were going to be a problem, Jethri thought, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his eyes. He had written his report on the toys, and seen that his tomorrow’s schedule had been amended to reflect the hall physician’s orders that he “rest”—by which it was apparently meant that he not go on the port to trade, a concept that struck him as wrongheaded, at best. Still, it did give him a good piece of time to go to the salvage yards with Tan Sim and inspect the pod he had found.

  But the masks, now. Never mind red leather—masks at all was a missing item along any of the lists open to the guild computer. He sighed and leaned way back in the chair, stretching—and grimacing, when the stretch woke muscles that had been pulled in the day’s fisticuffs.

  Nothing for it but to go back to the Trade Bar and use his key to find masks on the Combine net. Come to think of it, he might forget masks altogether and go for a pallet of depilatory, since there seemed to be a market.

  He stood and reached for his second best jacket, his first being down at the laundry—and started badly when the door chime sounded.

  Probably Trader sig’Lorta, come to read him Ship’s General. Shrugging into his jacket, he walked over to the door and keyed it open.

  “Why, look how the boy has grown!” Scout Captain ter’Astin said in cheery Terran. Miandra stood at his elbow, her face serious.

  “Well met, Jethri,” she said. “The captain came to the house and Aunt Stafeli said that I should bring him to you.”

  Captain ter’Astin bowed, lightly, hand over heart. “Summoned, I rush to obey.”

  Jethri felt his cheeks warm with the blush. “I have overstepped my melant’i, I fear,” he admitted.

  “Not a bit of it! The Scouts tend a wide business; it is our nature to answer summonses.” He cocked his head. “Some, I do allow, with more alacrity than others.”

  Jethri smiled and stepped back, sweeping a bow. “Please, both, enter and be welcome.”

  The Scout entered first, Miandra trailing after, looking like a limp copy of herself.

  Frowning, Jethri closed and locked the door, then turned to deal with his guests.

  Miandra was already at the window, looking down into the garden. The Scout had paused to give the short row of books his consideration, and looked up as Jethri approached.

  “I was asked to bring something besides myself to your side,” he said, pulling a well-folded piece of paper from an inner jacket pocket. “Please, satisfy yourself. I have no other engagements to fulfill today.”

  “Thank you,” Jethri said, receiving the paper with a bow. “May I call for tea? Wine?”

  The Scout laughed. “You take polish well, Jethri Gobelyn. But, no, I thank you—I am not in need.”

  Jethri glanced over to the window, where his other guest still stared down into the garden.

  “Miandra?” He asked, softly. “Would you like tea? Cookies?”

  She flicked a distracted glance over her shoulder, tight lips moving in what she might have meant to be a smile.

  “Thank you, but I am not—in need.”

  Which was as big a clunker as he’d ever heard, including the time Grig told Cap’n Iza that the odd lot of sweets he’d bought was a broker deal, and then shared them all out ‘mong crew.

  “What’s amiss?” H
e asked, moving closer, the Scout’s paper held close in his hand.

  She turned her face away, and that—hurt. Weren’t they friends, after all? He touched her sleeve.

  “Hey,” he said. “Miandra. Are you well?”

  Her shoulders jerked, and a half-smothered sound escaped, sounding half laugh and half sob.

  “You asked that—before,” she said, and turned to face him squarely, chin up and looking more like herself, despite her wet cheeks. “Have we not taught you that strangers must keep a proper reserve?”

  “Certainly, Lady Maarilex would not be behind in so basic a lesson,” he allowed, inclining his head and putting on the gentleman. “However, such rules do not maintain between us, because we are kin.”

  Her eyes widened and the corner of her mouth twitched slightly upward. “Kin? How so?”

  “What else would we be?” He held his hand up, fingers spread, and folded his thumb against the palm, counting. “I am Norn ven’Deelin’s foster son.” Forefinger down. “Stafeli Maarilex is Norn ven’Deelin’s foster mother, my foster grandmother.” Second finger joined thumb and forefinger. “You are a niece of Stafeli Maarilex.” Third finger. “Therefore, we are foster cousins.”

  She laughed. “Well done! And the degree of consanguinity appropriate, too, I see!”

  He grinned and reached again to touch her sleeve.

  “So, cousin, if a cousin may ask it—are you well?”

  She moved her shoulders and flicked a glance aside. He looked, as well, but the Scout was perched on the edge of the worktable, to all appearances immersed in one of the novels brought from Tarnia’s library.

  “I am . . . unwell in spirit,” she said, lowering her voice. “Ren Lar—he treats me as if I were a piece of old technology. He forbids me the vines, the cellar, and the yards. I am scarcely allowed to come to the dining table at prime. At his insistence, Meicha and I must undergo—separately—intensive evaluation, by the Healers. Meicha completed hers last night; Anecha drove down to pick her up this morning. In the meanwhile, a car was made ready to take me to Healer Hall—so that we should not be able to speak together before I am evaluated, you know—but your Scout happened by and offered to save the house the trouble, as he was going back down to the port to find you.”

  He had no idea what an “intensive evaluation” might mean, but allowed as it sounded bad enough.

  “Do you need to report in?” he asked.

  “Testing does not begin until tomorrow morning,” she said. “It was arranged that I should overnight at the hall.” Her mouth got tight again. “I . . .would . . . that other arrangements had been made.”

  “If they don’t need you until tomorrow morning,” he said, moving his hand, to show her his quarters, “you’re welcome to spend the night here. I am at liberty tomorrow and can escort you to Healer Hall.”

  “Perhaps it might be—less stressful of the relations of kin and foster kin,” the Scout said, so suddenly that both of them spun to stare at him, sitting on the edge of the table, with the book opened over his knee. “If the lady would instead accept my invitation to guest with the Scouts this evening.”

  “You were listening,” Jethri said, sounding like a younger, even to himself.

  Captain ter’Astin inclined his head. “Scouts have very sharp ears. It is required.”

  Miandra took a step forward, frowning slightly. “And in addition to sharp ears, you are a Healer.”

  He moved a hand, deprecating. “A receiver only, I fear. Though I’m told I build a most impressive wall. Honor me with your opinion, do.”

  To Jethri’s senses, nothing happened, except that the Scout’s expression maybe took on an extra degree of bland, while Miandra stared intently at the thin air above his head.

  She blinked. Captain ter’Astin tipped his head to one side.

  “It is,” Miandra said, slowly, “a very impressive wall. But you must not think it proof against attack.”

  “Ah, must I not? Tell me why.”

  She moved her hands in a gesture of—untangling, Jethri thought. Untangling her perception into words the two of them could understand.

  “You have a—need. A very powerful need to be—acutely aware of surrounding conditions, at all times. Data is survival. So, you have left a—chink, very small—in your wall, that you may continue to be aware. It is through that chink that you are vulnerable. If I can see it, others may, as well.”

  The Scout slid to his feet, catching the book up neatly, and bowed. Acknowledging a debt, Jethri read, and looked at Miandra in close wonder. She bit her lip and half-raised a hand.

  Captain ter’Astin raised the book. “Peace. The gratitude of a Scout is worth holding, and is not given lightly. Your observation may well have saved my life. Who can say? Certainly, I shall not leave Irikwae without consulting a Healer and learning the manner of sealing this—chink.”

  “And now,” he said, lowering the book. “I believe Jethri has a paper to read, after which he and I have business. Shall we proceed?”

  Miandra moved to the table and picked up one of the novels, carrying it back to the window with her. The Scout resettled himself on the edge of the table. Jethri went to the black corner table, pushed the photocube of strangers back, unfolded the paper and smoothed it flat with his palm.

  Despite that by now he read Liaden as good or better than he’d ever read Terran, it was dense going. Stoically, he kept with it and finally arrived at the last word with the understanding that the Liaden Scouts were, indeed, specifically charged with the confiscation, evaluation and appropriate disposal of “Old War technology,” such technology having been designated, by an action of the Council of Clans, meeting at Solcintra City, Liad, “perilous in manufacture and intent.”

  Sighing, he straightened, and turned.

  Miandra was sitting in his desk chair, seriously involved with her novel. The Scout was reading Jethri’s old pretend journal.

  “I shouldn’t think that would hold much interest for you, sir,” he said, moving forward, and slipping a hand into his most secret pocket.

  Captain ter’Astin glanced up, bounced to his feet, turning to put the book back in its place.

  “The workings of mind and custom are always of interest to me,” he said. “It is the reason I am a Scout—and a field Scout, at that.”

  Jethri looked at him sharply. The Scout inclined his head.

  “So tell me, Jethri Gobelyn, are you satisfied that the disposal of Old War technology falls within the honor of the Scouts, and that such disposal is mandated by whole law?”

  “Unfortunately, I am.” He placed the weather machine, lingeringly, on the table, and stood there, feeling kind of dry and gone in the throat of a sudden, staring down into the unreflective black surface.

  “Ah.” Captain ter’Astin put a hand on Jethri’s sleeve. “I regret your loss. I believe you had told Scout yo’Shomin that this device was given you by a kinsman?”

  Jethri licked his lips.

  “It was a gift from my father,” he told the Scout. “After his death, I was without it for many years. It was only recently returned to me, with—” He waved a hand, enclosing the photocubes, Arin’s box and the silly old journal— “other things of value.”

  “Accept my condolences,” the Scout said softly. The pressure of his fingers increased briefly, then he withdrew his hand and picked up the weather machine, slipping it away somewhere inside his jacket.

  Jethri cleared his throat. “I wonder if you might tell me if you will yourself be involved in the—evaluation—of this device. Whether it will be—will simply be destroyed, or if the work that my father did will be preserved.”

  The Scout’s eyebrows rose. “Yes. I would say that you take polish very well, indeed.” He paused, possibly gathering his thoughts, then inclined his head.

  “I may possibly be asked for a preliminary evaluation; I do have some small expertise in the area. However, you must understand that there is a corps of Scout Experts, who have studied, built datab
ases and cross-referenced their findings through the many dozens of Standards that this policy has been in force. If it is found that your machine, here, is unique, then it will undergo the most intense scrutiny possible by those who are entirely knowledgeable. Many of the old technology pieces that we have recovered are uniquities—that is, we have recovered only one.”

  Jethri bowed his gratitude. “I thank you, sir.”

  “Unnecessary, I assure you. A word in your ear, however, child.”

  “Yes?”

  “It might be wisest not to state in public that such devices were part of your father’s work.”

  Jethri frowned. “Old technology is not illegal, in Terran space,” he said, evenly.

  “Very true,” the Scout said and it seemed to Jethri that he was about to say more.

  “Is this your father?” Miandra asked from behind them.

  Jethri turned, and saw her holding up the photocube, Arin’s picture on the screen.

  “Yes—that’s him.”

  She turned it ‘round to face her. “You resemble him extremely, Jethri. I had supposed him to be your elder brother.”

  “May I see?” The Scout extended a hand, and Miandra gave him the cube.

  “Ah, yes, that is how I saw him, on the day of his dying. Strong, doubt free and worthy. A remarkable likeness, indeed.” Bowing slightly, he handed the cube back.

  “Now, children, I suggest that we adjourn to Scout Hall, where Jethri may sign the necessary paperwork and we may place this item—” He touched the breast of his jacket—”into safekeeping. We will also contact the Healers, to advise them of Lady Miandra’s guesting arrangements, and to confirm the time of her arrival tomorrow. After which, I ask you both to lend me the pleasure of your companionship over prime. There is a restaurant on Irikwaeport which has long been a favorite of mine. I would be honored to share it with friends.”

  Jethri glanced to Miandra, saw her eyes shining and her face looking less pinched, and bowed to the Scout.