by Sharon
The Scout gaped at her.
"Do I have that correctly?" she asked, and there was a wild note to her voice that lifted the hairs up straight on Jethri's nape.
The Scout bowed, with precision, and straightened, his ginger-colored eyes like stone. "You have that most precisely," he said. "Dramliza."
Jethri shivered. Miandra had just made an enemy. A powerful enemy, with her stuck to the same ball of mud and not able to lift ship out of trouble. . .
"There are no dramliz in this house," Lady Maarilex snapped. "Merely two young Healers who are fond of parlor tricks."
"Of course," the Scout said cordially, and bowed once more.
"I will have the oath the Healer has promised for you," he said to Jethri. "And then I will go."
Jethri hesitated, wondering what this fellow might accept as a valid oath—and nearly laughed, despite the worry and upset in the air.
"I swear on my name—Jethri Gobelyn—that I will not use the old technological device and that I will hold it safe and harmless until such time as it is claimed by Scout Captain ter'Astin, bearing the regulation giving him the right."
"Witnessed," murmured Lady Maarilex.
Scout Lieutenant Fel Dyn yo'Shomin bowed. "On behalf of the Scouts, I accept your oath. Captain ter'Astin shall be summoned."
"Good," said Jethri. "I look forward to seeing him."
* * *
THE SCOUT WAS GONE, intercepted by a pale-faced Meicha at the hall door. Jethri let out a long, quiet sigh, and very carefully didn't think about what he had just done.
"Miandra," Lady Maarilex said, very quietly.
"Yes, aunt?"
"May I ask at what date and time you lost your wits?"
Silence.
Slowly, Jethri turned. Miandra was standing, rigid, eyes straight ahead, hands fisted at her sides. The ruby pendant swung in an arc at the end of its long silver chain.
"Your ruby," he said, seeing it now. "It's melted."
Miandra shot him a look from eloquent sapphire eyes, though what they were eloquent of he couldn't exactly have said. A bid for allies—it might be that, though what she thought he might do to divert one of Lady Maarilex's high octane scolds, he didn't know.
"Melted?" the old lady repeated, frowning up at Miandra. "Nonsense. Do you have idea how much heat is required to melt a—" Her voice died. Miandra closed her eyes, her mouth a white line of pinched-together lips.
"Give it to me," Lady Maarilex said, absolutely neutral.
Eyes closed, fists at her sides, Miandra stood like a life-size doll.
"Now," said Lady Maarilex.
Miandra wet her lips with her tongue. "If not this error, another," she said, speaking rapidly, raggedly, her eyes screwed tight. "I cannot—Aunt Stafeli. It is—too big. I drown in it. Let it be known, and done."
"Done it surely will be, witless child!" Lady Maarilex held out an imperious hand. "Give me the pendant!"
The last was said with enough force that Jethri felt his own muscles jerk in response, but still Miandra stood there, rigid, willfully disobedient, with tears starting to leak from beneath her long dark lashes.
It came to Jethri in that moment, that, for all she sat there stern and awful, Lady Maarilex was frightened.
"Miandra," she said, very softly. "Child."
Miandra turned her face away.
He had no business interfering in what he didn't understand—and no possible right to short circuit whatever decision Miandra had made for herself. But Lady Maarilex was afraid—and he thought that whatever could scare her was something no lesser mortals ever needed to meet.
Jethri took three steps forward, caught the chain in one hand and the misshapen ruby in the other and lifted them over the girl's head.
Miandra made a soft sound, and brought her hands up to hide her face, shoulders shaking. Jethri stepped back, feeling awkward and more than a little scared himself, and dropped the pendant into the old woman's waiting palm.
"My thanks, young Jethri," she said. He looked down into her eyes, but all he saw was bland politeness.
"What's amiss, ma'am?" He asked, knowing she wouldn't answer him, nor did she surprise him.
"Nothing more than an unseemly display by a willful child," she said, and the pendant was gone, vanished into pocket or sleeve. "I ask that you not regard it."
Right. He looked at Miandra, her face still hidden in her hands. No question, Stafeli Maarilex was fearless—Miandra was no hide-me-quick, neither. Despite which, both her and her sister managed to mostly keep within the law laid down by their seniors, and answer up clear and sharp when they were asked a question. In his experience, willful disobedience wasn't their style—though he didn't put covert operations out of their range—no more than just standing by, crying.
"Hey," he said, and reached out to touch her sleeve. "Miandra, are you well?"
She sniffed, shoulders tensing, then very slowly lowered her hands, her chin coming up as they went down.
"Thank you," she said, with the dignity of a ship's captain. "Your concern warms me."
"Yes," he replied. "But are you well?"
Her lips moved—he thought it might have been a smile. "As well as may be," she answered, and seemed about to say something more, but the door came open just then and there was Meicha making her bow and announcing—
"Healer Tilba sig'Harat."
Jethri turned and dropped back a couple steps as the Healer strode into the room: Long in the leg—relatively speaking—and gaunt, her hair done in a single pale braid, falling over her shoulder to her belt. She was dressed in regulation calling clothes, and looked a little rumpled, like she had started her shift early and was looking to end it late.
"Healer," Lady Maarilex said, and inclined her head in welcome. "You honor us."
Tilba sig'Harat paused just before the chair, her head to one side. "The message did say that the matter was urgent."
"One's son certainly believed it to be so," Lady Maarilex replied, evenly.
So, Jethri thought, Ren Lar had called the Healers off his own board and his mother thought he'd overreacted. That could explain the particular sharpness of her tongue so far.
But it didn't explain the fear.
"Just so," the Healer was saying, and looked beyond Lady Maarilex to Miandra, who was standing tall now, chin up and face defiantly bland. "Miandra, your cousin has said that you told him you had held the wind-twist back from the vineyard for a period of time before its strength overcame you. Is this correct?"
Miandra inclined her head. "It is."
"Ah. Would you care to explain this process of holding the wind back?"
Silence. Jethri, ignored, cast a quick glance aside and saw the girl lick her lips, her defiant chin losing a little altitude.
"Well?" asked the Healer, somewhat sharply. "Or is it that you cannot explain this process?"
Miandra's chin came back up.
"It is very simple," she said coolly. "I merely placed my will against the wind and—pushed."
"I—see." The Healer held up a hand. "Open for me, please."
The chin wavered; kept its position. Miandra closed her eyes and the Healer did the same. For the space of a dozen heartbeats, there was complete silence in the parlor, then Miandra sighed and the Healer opened her eyes and bowed to Lady Maarilex.
"I see that she believes what she has said, and that she has undergone a profound disturbance of the nerves. This is entirely commonplace; wind-twists unsettle many people. The hallucination—that she held back the winds until her friends reached her side—that is less common, but not unknown. In the immediacy of peril, knowing oneself helpless to aid those whom one holds dear, the mind creates a fantasy of power in which the wind is held back, the sea is parted, the avalanche turned aside. Sometimes, the mind remains convinced even after the peril has been survived. In its way, it is a kindly affliction, which is easily dispelled by a display of the facts—in this case, a recording of the path and pattern of the wind-twist."
&nb
sp; Lady Maarilex inclined her head. "The child shall be shown the weather logs, Healer, I thank you." She moved a hand.
"Yes?" the Healer asked.
"You will see that Miandra has lost her apprentice's pendant in the wind. I would ask that the Hall send another."
A glance at Miandra showed her fingers curling into fists at her side, but no one was looking at Miandra except Jethri.
"Certainly," the Healer was saying to Lady Maarilex and Jethri cleared his throat.
"Well?" snapped Lady Maarilex, which Jethri chose, deliberately, to interpret as permission to speak.
He inclined his head. "If Healer sig'Harat pleases," he murmured, as polite as polite could be. "Isn't it possible that Miandra held the winds back? She and her sister do other things that seem just as impossible to myself, an ignorant Terran."
The Healer sent him a sharp glance.
"Jethri," Lady Maarilex murmured, "fostered of ven'Deelin."
"Ah." The Healer inclined her head.
"Certainly, Healers may work many marvels, young sir. But to do that which Miandra . . . believes herself to have done—that would require power and discipline as far from the abilities of a half-trained and erratic Healer as—as Liad is from Terra."
Well, and there was an answer that meant nothing at all, Jethri thought, though a quick glance at Miandra's rigid face suggested that maybe it meant something to her.
"Thank you, Healer," he said, politely. "I am grateful for the information."
"It is my pleasure to inform," she said, and bowed again to Lady Maarilex.
"My duty done, I depart," she said formally.
"Healer," the old lady replied. "We thank you for your care."
And so the Healer was hustled away by a pale-faced Meicha, the door closing behind both with a solid thump.
In the blue chair, Stafeli Maarilex stirred and reached for her cane.
"So, we survive this round," she said, using her cane as a lever, and struggling to ger her feet under her. Jethri stepped forward and caught her arm to help her rise. Miandra held her position, face frozen.
"My thanks," Lady Maarilex gasped, straightening to her full height. She looked from one to the other and used her chin to point at the door.
"Both of you, go to your apartments. You will be served dinner there. Study, rest and recruit yourselves. It has been a long and tiring day—for all of us."
"Yes, Aunt Stafeli," Miandra said tonelessly. She bowed, stiffly, and was on her way toward the door before Jethri could do more than gape and make his own hurried bow.
By the time he reached the hallway, she was gone.
* * *
"WHERE'VE YOU BEEN?" Seeli asked, sharper maybe than she needed to.
On the other hand, Grig thought, taking a deep breath, a talk with Uncle had a way of making the whole universe seem edgy, if not outright dangerous.
"I left a message," he said, trying to trump sharp with mild.
"He left a message, the man says." Seeli flung her hands out in a gesture of wide frustration, by which he knew she wouldn't be bought by a smile and a cuddle. He closed his eyes, briefly. Dammit, he didn't need a fight with Seeli. Regardless of which, it looked like he was going to get one.
" Yes, you left a message," she snapped. "You left a message six hours ago saying you'd met an old mate and was going to share a brew. Six hours later, you manage to get your sorry self back to your ship—and you ain't even drunk!"
Trust Seeli to grab the whole screen in a glance. He was in for it bad, now—Seeli had a temper to match her mam's, except it was worse when she'd been worried.
Grig took another breath, looking for center. Despite that his whole life had been one form of lie or another, he'd never been near as casual with the truth as Arin. Well, and he was light on most all the family talents, wasn't he?
"Grig?"
He met her eye—nothing otherwise with Seeli—and cleared his throat. He'd worked this out, in the hours between leaving Uncle and arriving back at the lodgings. His choice was his choice, and he'd made it, for good or for bad. Despite which, there was family considerations. He owed Raisy and the rest of his sibs and cousins—and Uncle, too, damn him—the right to their own free lives. Parsing out his truth from their safety—that was what kept him hours on the Port, walking 'til his legs shook. He'd found what he believed to be a course that would pass close enough to the truth to satisfy Seeli, without baring the others to danger. Assuming he could find the brass to fly it.
"I gotta ask you again?" she said, real quiet.
He spread his hands. "Sorry, Seeli. Truth is, I wasn't straight in that message, and I'm not feelin' good about that. What it was—you remember that headcase? Wantin' to buy fractins and Befores?"
He saw exasperation leach some of the mad out of her face, and took heart. Maybe he could pull this off, after all.
"Thought we agreed to leave that to Paitor."
"We did," he said. "We did—and I should've. No question, it was stupid. I figured, if I talked to the big man, I could show him there wasn't no sense promisin' to buy what we had none of, and tell him—" This was the approach to tricky. Grig kept his eyes straight on Seeli's. "Tell him that Arin's dead and the Market ain't in the business of sellin' Befores."
"Great," Seeli said, and shook her head. "So, what? The big man not at home?"
"He was home," Grig said, "and pleased to see me. Turns out, him, I knew—from the old days, when Arin was still Combine and we was dealing in the stuff pretty regular. Anyhow. He spent some considerable amount of persuasion, trying to get me to buy back in." He broke her gaze, then—it was that or die. "I'm not gonna hide it, Seeli—it was a mistake going to see this man."
She sighed. "If you'd called back, I'd've saved you the brain work. How much trouble you in?"
"Now, Seeli." He held up a hand and met her eyes, kinda half-shy. "I ain't in trouble. The man made me an offer—couple offers, as it happens. Didn't want to take 'no' for his final course, and it took some while to persuade him."
She frowned. "He likely to stay persuaded?" she asked, and trust Seeli to think of it. "Or might he want to talk to you again?"
"I—" Grig began.
The door to the hallway snapped open, spinning both of them around to stare as Paitor flung in, face flushed, and jacket rumpled.
Seeli started forward, hands out. "Uncle? What's gone wrong?"
He stopped and just stared down at her. Grig light-footed around him and pushed the door closed, resetting the lock.
"Got a beam from Khat," Paitor said as Grig made it back to Seeli's side. He put a hand inside his jacket and pulled out a piece of hardcopy—blue, with an orange stripe down the side. Grig felt his stomach clench. Priority beam—expensive, reserved for life and death or deals that paid out in fortunes. . .
"We got trouble," Paitor said, pushing the paper at Seeli. "Take a look."
* * *
HE SHOWERED, standing a long time under the pulsing rays of hot water, oblivious, for once, to the waste. By the time the water turned cool and he stepped out into the mirrored drying room, his fingertips were as wrinkled up as dried grapes, and he was feeling a little breathless from the steam.
Absently, he pulled the towel off its heated bar and applied it vigorously, first to his head and working methodically downward, where he noted that his toes were as wrinkled as his fingers.
Probably your face is wrinkled up, too, he thought, trying to josh himself out of a growing mood. Bet your whole head's nothing but one big wrinkle.
Nothing more than I traded for, he thought back at himself, in no state to be joshed, though he did, by habit, look into the mirror to see how bad his hair looked this time.
The hair was about as bad as he expected, but what made him frown was the smudge over his lip.
"Mud," he muttered. "All that time under water and your face isn't even clean?"
He used a corner of the towel to rub the smudge and looked again.
The smudge was still there, look
ing even darker against the pink rub mark.
"What the—" He leaned toward the mirror, frowning—and then lifted his hand, fingertips stroking the first hopeful hairs of a mustache.
"Well." He smiled at his reflection, and stroked the soft smudge again, then turned to the supply cabinet, in search of depilatory cream.
Several minutes later, he was frowning again. The supply cabinet was more comprehensive than most ship's medical lockers, and included several ointments that were meant to be rubbed into the skin—but nothing like a depilatory.
* * *
SIGHING, JETHRI CLOSED the cabinet, and went to the bench where he had piled his fresh clothes. Tomorrow, he'd ask Mr. pel'Saba to provide the needed item. In the meantime, he had other rations to chew on.
Barefoot, shirt untucked, he walked into his sleeping room, and knelt next to the bench. Deliberately, he unsealed the B crate and pulled open the bit bottom hatch.
Deliberately, he removed the boxes of fractins, good and bad, the wire frame, and his old pretend trade journal and put them, one by one, on the rug by his knee.
Closing the crate, he settled down cross-legged and reached for the tattered little book, flipping through the laborious pages of lists—income, outgo, exchange rates and Combine discounts—
The door-chime sounded. Biting down on a curse, Jethri grabbed the box of true fractins—and then shook his head. No doubt fractins were old tech—and if Lady Maarilex or Ren Lar or the Scouts entire had decided that they was within their rights to search his room and belongings for old tech, then they'd find the fractins, whether they were on the rug or in the B crate.
The door-chime sounded again.
On the other hand, it was probably one of the kitchen crew, come to collect his untouched dinner tray.
Sighing, Jethri came to his feet and went to answer the door.
The twins tumbled over the threshold and skittered 'round to the far side of the door.
"Close it!"
"Quickly, close it!"
So much for wilful disobedience. Still, he did close the door, and locked it for good measure.
The twins stood in a tangle beside the wall, their reddish hair damp and curling wildly. As usual, they were dressed identically, this time in plain black jerseys and slacks, soft black boots on their feet. One wore a silver chain 'round her neck, supporting a big ruby.