by Sharon Lee
The rugs were in the back of the store, piled together by size. Theo located the pile she wanted and knelt beside it, her fingers busy over the fabric.
"Is there something in particular you're looking for, young student?"
Theo gasped, and blinked up into the worn face and smiling eyes of Gorna Dail.
"Such concentration," the shopkeeper said, and the smile moved from her eyes to her lips. "Theo Waitley, that's your name, isn't it? Has the housefather commissioned you for solo flight?"
Theo looked down, and rubbed her hand over the nap of the rug she'd dragged across her knees. It felt good, springy and soft at the same time. Like Coyster.
"My mother and I have . . . relocated to the Wall," she said to the rug.
There was a small silence, then a neutral, "I see." Gorna Dail hunkered down next to Theo and ran her hand over the rug, like she was considering its merits, too.
"It's good to have something to break up all the white," she said, "inside the Wall."
Theo looked at her in surprise. "You've been inside?"
Gorna Dail laughed. "Long ago—and only for a semester. I was a Visiting Expert, so they gave me an apartment on—Three?—no, I'm wrong. Topthree. It was well enough. By the standards of fourth-class ship quarters, it was spacious. But I remember those walls, and the floors—all white and slick. Easy to clean and to sanitize, I suppose, but not very restful." She glanced at Theo. "In my opinion, of course."
"Not only that," Theo said feelingly, "you can hardly stand up without your feet sliding out from under you!"
"Yes," said Gorna Dail placidly. "I remember that, too." She stroked the rug on Theo's lap again, frowning slightly, and reached out, running an expert thumb down the side of the stack.
"You were a Visiting Expert?" Theo asked, diverted.
"Oh, yes. Years and years ago. Before you were born, I daresay. It's what I did, in those days, to make a name for myself. You won't believe me, maybe, but I have two master certifications, from University itself."
Theo looked at her, but the older woman's attention was on the rugs. "But," she blurted, "what are you doing in Nonac—in Efraim?"
That got her a sideways smile.
"Hah. I had forgotten that . . . Non-academic! Everyone who is not studying or teaching is non-academic! Do you think I should be living inside the Wall?" She shook her head. "I'm retired, now."
"Then," Theo said. "Why are you on Delgado?"
Gorna Dail laughed. "Because, after all my traveling, I wanted to settle on a nice, quiet, boring little world, where nothing of note ever happens. And Delgado—aside the college and its great work, of course!—is certainly that. Ah." She slid her hand into the pile of rugs, and pushed them up. "Pull that one out, if you will, and tell me what you think of it."
Theo grabbed the rug indicated, and pulled. It was heavier than she had expected, with a sheen to the mixed blues and greens that reminded her of water.
"Betinwool and silk," Gorna Dail murmured. "It's used, but whoever owned it before me took care of it. It could pass for new."
"New—" Theo snorted as she flipped the edge of the rug up and looked at the knots on the underside. "The new rugs at the co-op are all made out of plaslin."
"And you won't have that, eh?" Gorna Dail smiled again. "I don't blame you in the least, Theo Waitley. Now, tell me honestly—what do you think of this rug?"
Theo ran her hand over it, pleased with the way the nap silked along her skin, and smiled at the cool, swirling colors. It would almost, she thought, be like having her water mosaic again.
"I like it," she said to Gorna Dail.
"Good. Now, let's talk price."
"All right," Theo said steadily. "How much is it?"
Gorna Dail laughed, and sat back on her heels. "No dickering here, I see!"
Theo looked down, cheeks hot. "I don't know what you mean," she said, her voice sounding sullen in her own ears.
"A joke, Theo Waitley," the shopkeeper said placatingly. "Only a joke. On many worlds, in many cities, a price is . . . mutable. It changes with the weather, the time of the day, the demeanor of the buyer, the mood of the shopkeeper. It is not an entertainment of which Delgado partakes, more's the pity. So, for you, the price on the rug is forty cred."
Theo licked her lips, and ran her hand over the rug again, which was a mistake, because it only made her want it more.
"I can't spend that much today," she said, and looked up into the woman's face. "Could you—I can pay twenty-four cred today, if you can put it aside for me? And tomorrow—well, no, not tomorrow," she corrected herself. "I've got teamplay after class. But, I'll bring the rest the day after tomorrow for sure."
Gorna Dail tipped her head. "And carry the rug home on the bus?"
Theo paused, then found her solution. "I'll take a cab."
"Excellent," the old woman said, with a slight smile; "but I think I may have a better answer, if you'll allow me."
"I'd be glad to learn," Theo said politely, and wondered why Gorna Dail chuckled.
"I propose this: I will charge your card for the full amount—" Theo opened her mouth—and subsided when the shopkeeper held up a hand. "Wait until you've heard it all. What I propose is charging your card for the full amount, tomorrow."
Theo blinked. "Can you do that?"
"Easily," the woman assured her. "Also, because you're such an accommodating customer, I'll throw in a pack of grippers, so your rug won't slide all over that slick floor, and—" She paused and smiled at Theo. "And I'll have them and this rug delivered to you tomorrow evening, after teamplay."
"Really?"
"Really. All you need do is swipe your card and give me your direction. Will that suit you, Theo Waitley?"
"It will!" Theo smiled, relieved. "Thank you!"
"My pleasure, child," Gorna Dail huffed as she pushed to her feet. "My pleasure."
Six
History of Education Department
Oriel College of Humanities
University of Delgado
"So, then," Kamele Waitley said, with a calm authority she was far from feeling; "we're agreed."
She looked carefully around the table at her colleagues, who had not seen the need, who had not wanted to commit the funds—and whom she had one by tedious one brought to her side. She wished that it had been finesse or gamesmanship, pure reason, or anything other than brute will that had carried the day. If she had come back to the Wall sooner or, failing that, taken the necessary time to strengthen her ties inside the department—but she had come late, and reluctant, driven by what Jen Sar dignified as "necessity." If it were discovered—and it would be!—that the Educational History Department at Delgado University had failed to pursue an investigation after one of their own professors was dismissed for falsifying data—they would lose students, funding; perhaps their accreditation! And it would not happen, Kamele had sworn—not on her watch.
Your honor is in peril as much as the department's, Jen Sar had said, after listening to her lay out her observations and her fears. Of course you must do what is necessary to bring all into Balance.
Balance, as Kamele had learned over the years of their life together, was the Liaden ideal. And it was deucedly difficult to maintain.
Which did not mean that it should not be pursued.
"It appears that we have indeed agreed to an in situ forensic literature search," Mase Toilyn said quietly from half-way 'round the table. "In order to be certain that the two instances of dishonest scholarship of which we have become aware are, as we believe, the only such instances."
"It's expensive," Jon Fu said, which had been his constant objection throughout the meeting. This time, however, the note of complaint had given way to resignation.
"Expensive, yes, but prudent," Ella ben Suzan, Kamele's oldest friend and her only ally at the table, concluded firmly.
". . . prudent," EdHist Chair Orkan Hafley repeated, sighing as her hands fluttered over her note-taker. Flandin had been her protégé; that Admi
n had allowed her to remain as chair was, in Kamele's opinion, worrisome. It hinted at alliances extending into the Tower itself, but even so, Kamele assured herself for the twentieth time, it did not mean that Hafley's position was robust, or that true scholarship could not prevail.
"Yes," Hafley said, finally, frowning down the table at Kamele. "Yes, Sub-Chair, we're agreed that it's our duty to husband the reputation of the college and its scholars. What we haven't agreed upon is which of the numerous protocols should be implemented, or, indeed, who should do the work. Perhaps," she concluded, with heavy irony, "you have a suggestion."
Kamele forced herself to meet that frown and counter it with a smile.
"But remember that the Emeritus Oversight Committee was formed for this very purpose!" she said with false cheerfulness. "We'll apply to them for dispassionate searchers."
"Well," the chair sniffed. "And the protocol?"
Kamele reached to the notepad, fingers dancing over the lightkeys. Three blue links hovered inside the Group Space at the center of the table.
"Please," she said, looking 'round at her four colleagues once more, "everyone contribute three links concerning your favored protocol."
Fingers moved; a set of yellow links joined the blue, and a moment after, green, red, violet . . .
Kamele nodded. "Now, if we do a branch-search," she tapped the command into the notepad, and watched with satisfaction as the trees formed and connected, closer and closer, until, at base . . .
"As you can see," she said, keeping her voice pleasant and calm. "Each of our favored implementations has at root the Antonio Smith Method. That being so, I would suggest that the basic Smith Method, which has not only been proved in rigorous field conditions, but has also birthed so many daughters, is best suited to our purpose."
There was some discussion of the suggestion, of course, though briefer than it might otherwise have been. She injected the possibility—nay, the probability!—that the search and approach they had agreed upon might eventually be adopted as an official protocol for the university entire, and with the calculating looks brought into some eyes and faces came a certain willingness to move at long last from talk, to action. When the chair finally adjourned the meeting, the responsibility for contacting the Oversight Committee rested satisfactorily in the hands of Ella ben Suzan.
"I think you handled that very well," Ella said as the door to Kamele's office closed behind them. She stretched with vigor before collapsing dramatically into the visitor's chair, her head against the back and her eyes half-closed. "And you were afraid you'd lost your touch."
"I have lost my touch," Kamele said, casting a half-amused glance at her friend. "Honestly, Ella, you should have become a professional actor."
"And been disowned? No thank you. I like my comfort—now as much as then. Besides, hadn't my best friend already set aside childish pursuits to aim for a more realistic goal?"
Kamele sat down behind her desk and tapped her mumu on without looking at it. "With my mother's . . . strong encouragement."
"Mothers exist to guide their daughters," Ella murmured. "I'm quite content with the amateur troupe." She opened her eyes and squirmed into a more upright position.
"But enough of youthful reminisces! This evening you not only manipulated our honored colleagues of the EdHist Department into consensus, but you got Hafley into a corner, so that she had to back you or risk an open divide within the department, which she can ill afford. All of that, and you still insist that you've lost your touch?"
Kamele sighed and leaned back in her chair. "I was clumsy," she said. "If I didn't push them, I certainly drove them, and you're not the only one who saw the manipulation. Depend on it—Hafley saw what I was doing, and she'll find a way to make me rue it. Having me shoved in as sub-chair over her candidate—"
"And wouldn't Jon Fu have made a wonderful sub-chair?" Ella interrupted. "Yes, Chair. Of course, Chair!" Her voice had gone all wobbly and unctuous. "The wisdom of a thousand grandmothers could not teach us better than you do, Chair."
"Stop!" Kamele laughed. She raised a hand. "Stop—it's too perfect! His own mother would be deceived."
"Or she would pretend to be, so she could be rid of a bad job," Ella said darkly, then waved. "Hafley's light was fading even before Flandin's perfidy was discovered. The Directors won't be long in replacing her," she said, and grinned one of her wide, lunatic grins. "Kamele Waitley, EdHist Chair."
Kamele snorted. "Not likely."
"Nothing more likely, now that you're finally demonstrating the proper reverence for your career!" her friend retorted. "You'll see—and I expect my sabbatical to be quickly approved when you're made chair."
Kamele considered her. "Sabbatical? Isn't that out of sequence? In any case, it's my plan to name you sub-chair if your prescience is proven."
Ella shook her head in mock sorrow. "How many times do I have to tell you, love: First the sugar, then the rod."
"Yet you find hard work sweet."
"You know me too well," Ella said with a fond smile that slowly faded. "Speaking of hard work—how's Theo taking the . . . move?"
"She'll adjust," Kamele answered, surprised at the grimness of her own voice.
Ella laughed slightly. "Spoken like a loving and vigilant mother! And you?"
"I?"
"Don't be dense, darling."
Kamele glanced down and fiddled with her mumu for a moment. "I don't anticipate any problem readjusting to the Wall. I grew up a Mouse, after all."
"As we both did." Ella stood. "Well, you know where I am—not as high on the Quad as you, of course, Sub-Chair!"
She walked around the desk and bent down to give Kamele a quick kiss on the cheek. "I have rehearsal," she murmured. "You're not working tonight, I hope?"
Kamele shook her head. "Theo's home alone."
"Oh." Ella looked serious. "Well . . ."
"Ella . . ." Kamele said warningly.
Her friend raised her hands placatingly. "I know, I know! She's just a bit clumsy. It's a stage. She'll grow out of it." She sighed and lowered her hands. "If she doesn't do herself or someone else a serious injury beforehand."
"She'll be fine," Kamele said firmly.
Ella took refuge in a laugh, spun lightly on her toes and headed for the door.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Kamele."
The office door closed behind her and Kamele sank further into her chair, reaching up to rub her eyes.
Chaos and disorder, but she was tired! She'd crammed a week's worth of meeting prep into a working lunch and tea, and another week's worth of people-prep into odd moments before the meeting itself. She'd gotten what she wanted—what the department needed!—and the work ahead looked mountainous, indeed.
Among all the work that needed to be done, she had explicitly not needed Monit Appletorn importuning her in the break room this morning. Even if she had been disposed to consider him in the light of an onagrata, the timing and . . . boldness of his presentation would have given her pause.
Not that she considered Monit anything but a humorless, ambitious annoyance, or ever had. Kamele ran her hands into her hair, making the disorderly chaotic. Make that an egotistical, humorless, ambitious annoyance.
And then there was Theo. The child was nervy at the best of times, and she'd made it plain that the relocation had neither her approval or her support. Kamele sighed. Depend on it, had it been Jen Sar who had proposed they move to the Wall, Theo would have been brought over in a heartbeat, glowing with excitement and eager to help in any way she could.
Setting aside the fact that Jen Sar could charm wisdom from a Simple when he chose to, Theo adored him—a state of affairs that had previously seemed . . . benign. Surely, it was a good thing for a child to have a solid male role-model? Their remove to the Wall, however, suddenly threw Theo's attachment to her mother's onagrata into an awkward light. She had, Kamele admitted to herself, shirked her maternal duty. It was going to be bad enough after Theo's Gigneri—
"Which
is borrowing trouble," Kamele said aloud. The earliest possible date for Theo's Gigneri was more than six months away. So much could happen in six months, when you were fourteen.
And when you were forty-four.
Her mumu chimed eight bells four. She'd told Theo she'd be home before ninebells. If she didn't leave soon, she'd break her word.
She reached for the mumu—and only then saw the Safety Office icon blinking ominously from the in box.
Her heart lurched. Gasping, she tapped the message open.
It was not, as she had foolishly feared, a note calling her to the infirmary or the hospital on her daughter's behalf—that was obvious from her first hasty scan.
Her second, calmer, reading revealed that the letter was a Parental Advisory. Theo had taken another fall on the belt between classes—and this time, she'd pulled someone down with her.
Kamele closed her eyes, recited the Delgado Senior Scholar's Pledge, and read the advisory a third time.
It would seem that Theo's victim was Lesset Grinmordi. Kamele grimaced; as thin as Theo's friend-loop was she could hardly afford to lose one; even a flutter-head like Lesset. Kamele sighed and looked back to her mumu. The report stressed that there had been no aggression involved, but was rather an accident, born of a lapse of judgment.
That much, Kamele thought, was a continuing positive point in her daughter's behavioral record. Whatever Theo was—odd, clumsy, brilliant, sullen—she wasn't aggressive.
The Safety Office recommended that Kamele review Theo's physical limitations with her again. It further recommended that the two of them contact the infirmary for an overview of the various medications—all perfectly safe!—that might be expected to alleviate those same physical limitations.
"Physical limitations," Kamele muttered. Jen Sar would have one of his mannerly fits if—
But Jen Sar, she recalled, around a gone feeling in her stomach, was out of the loop; the courtesies paid to the Housefather were no longer his due.