Jethri had worked up a fair sweat and was reassessing how good an idea striking out on his own actually was, when he finally heard voices up ahead. Relief fetched up a sigh from approximately the soles of his boots, and he slipped the device back into his pocket before moving forward, quicker now. He turned right—and braked.
Ren Lar, hat on head, gloves tucked into his belt and looking just as comfortable as if he were standing in the coolness of the wine cellar, was talking with two men Jethri didn't know.
"This section here, today. If you finish while there is still sun, then begin tomorrow's section. We race the weather now, friends."
"Yes, sir," one of the men murmured. The other moved a hand, and Ren Lar acknowledged him with a slight nod of the head.
"Shall I call in my cousins, sir? They're able and willing for a day or three, while the warehouse refits."
Ren Lar tipped his head. "How many cousins?"
"Four, master. They tend our house vines and understand the pruning. If I call tonight, they can be here at first sun."
A small pause, then a decisive wave of a hand. "Yes, bring them up, of your kindness. It is, after all, a wind year—bitter beyond bearing last relumma, and now it grows warm too early. I do not wish the sap to surprise us."
The man inclined his head. "I will call them."
"Good. Then I leave you to your labors." He looked up. "Young Jethri. I trust you left Master pen'Jerad well?"
"Your honored mother was present, sir," Jethri said carefully, "so there was no hope of anything else."
Ren Lar's eyebrows rose. One of the strangers laughed.
"A stride, in fact. Well said. Now, walk with me and we will find you a section in need of your shears."
He moved a hand, beckoning, and turned left. At his feet a shadow moved, flowed, and gained shape.
"Flinx," Jethri said. "What are you doing out here?"
Ren Lar glanced down, and moved his shoulders. "He often comes to help in the vineyard. For which assistance we are, of course, grateful. Come with me, now."
Down the row they went, turned right down a cross-path—which would be north again, Jethri thought with pride.
"You will be tending to the needs of some of our elders," Ren Lar said, moving briskly down the pathway. "I will show you how to go on before I take up my own duty. But have no fear! I will be but one section over, and easily accessible to you."
That might have been a joke, though on consideration, Jethri didn't think so. He very likely
would
need a senior nearby. The wonder of it was that Ran Lar was apparently not going to be in the same row with him and keeping a close eye on the precious "elders."
"Here we are," the man said, and dodged left down a corridor, Jethri on his heels and Flinx flowing along in the shadows beside them.
The vines here were thick-bodied; some leaned so heavily into their support that the wires were bowed outward.
"Now, what we will wish you to do," Ren Lar said, pausing by a particularly bent specimen, its head-tentacles ropy and numerous. "Is to cut the thick vines, like this, you see?" He pulled a branch forward, and Jethri nodded.
"Yes, sir. I see."
"That is good. I must tell you that there is a reason to take much care, for
these
—" he carefully slipped his hand under a thin, smooth branchlet—"are what will give us this season's fruit, and next year's wine. So, a demonstration. . . "
He lifted his shears, positioned the blades on either side of the thick branch, and forced the handles together. The wood separated with a brittle snap, and before the severed twig had hit the ground, Ren Lar had snipped another, and a third, the shears darting and biting without hesitation.
The old wood tumbled down into an untidy pile at the base of the vine. Ren Lar stepped back, kicked a few stray sticks into the larger heap, and inclined his head.
"At first, you will not be so quick," he said. "It is not expected, and there is no need for haste. The elders are patient. The cuttings will be gathered and taken to burn, later." He moved a hand, indicating the next vine down.
"Now, let us see you."
Teeth indenting lower lip, Jethri looked over the problem, taking note of the location of the new growth inside the woody tangle. When he had those locations in his head, he carefully lifted his shears, positioned the blades and brought the handles together.
The wood resisted, briefly, then broke clean, the severed branch tumbling down to the ground. Jethri deliberately moved on to his next target, and his next.
Finally, there was only new wood to be seen, and he stepped back from the vine, being careful not to tangle his feet in the grounded branches, and pushed his hat back up from his face.
"A careful workman," Ren Lar said, and inclined his head. "The elders are in good hands. You will work your way down this row, doing precisely what you have done here. When you reach an end of it, you will go one row up—" he pointed north—"and bring your shears to bear. I will be six rows down—" another point, back toward the house and the wine cellar—"should you have need of me."
"Yes, sir," Jethri said, still feeling none too good about being left alone to do his possible with what were seemingly valuable plants.
Ren Lar smiled and put his hand on Jethri's shoulder. "No reason for such a long face! Flinx will doubtless stay by to supervise."
That said, he turned and walked off, leaving Jethri alone with the "revered elders," his shears hanging loose in his right hand. Ren Lar reached the top of the corridor and turned right, back down toward the house, just like he'd said, without even a backward glance over his shoulder.
Jethri sighed and looked down at the ground. Flinx the cat was sitting three steps away, smack in the center of the dirt corridor, casually cleaning his whiskers.
Supervise. Sure.
Well, there was nothing for it but to step up and do his best. Jethri approached the next plant in line, located the fragile new growth, and set to snipping away the old. Eventually, he moved on to the next vine, and a little while after that, to the next. It was oddly comforting work; soothing. He didn't precisely
think
; it seemed like all his awareness was in his eyes and his arms, as he
snip, snip, snipped
the old wood, giving the new wood room to breathe.
It was the ache in his shoulders and his forearms that finally called him back to wider concerns. He lowered his shears and stepped away from his last vine. Standing in the middle of the dirt corridor, he looked back, and whistled appreciatively.
"Mud and stink," he said slowly, looking down the line of pruned vines, each with a snaggly pile of twigs at its base. He looked down at the base of his last victim, saw a twig 'way out in the corridor and swung his foot, meaning to kick it back into the general pile.
The twig—
moved
.
Jethri jerked back, overbalanced and fell, hard, on his ass, and the twig reared back, flame flicking from the rising end and a pattern of bronze and white scales on its underside, moving toward him and he was looking to see
how
it was moving, exactly, with neither feet nor legs, and suddenly there was Flinx the cat, with his feet on either side of the—the
snake
, it must be—and his muzzle dipped, teeth flashing.
The snake opened its mouth, displaying long white fangs, its twig-like body flailing in clear agony, and Flinx held on, teeth buried just behind the head.
"Hey!" Jethri yelled, but the cat never looked up, and he surely didn't let go.
"Hey!" he yelled again, and got his feet under him, surging upward. Flinx didn't flick an ear.
"Ren Lar!" He gave that yell everything he had and it worked, too. His panicked heart had only beat half-a-dozen times more before the master of the vine rounded the corner, running flat out.
But by the time, the snake was dead.
THE DOORMAN AT the pilots' crash scanned her Kinaveral Port willfly card, and gave her a key to a sleeping room with its own sonic cleaner, which device Khat made immediate, grateful use of. She then hit the hammock for two solid clocks, arising from her nap refreshed and ravenous. Pulling on clean slacks and shirt, she remembered her idea of checking the Trade Bar for the names and numbers of Liaden ships at dock, for Paitor's eventual interest, and thought she'd combine that interest with the pleasure of a brew and a handwich.
The doorman provided a map, which she studied as she walked.
It seemed that most of Banth, with the notable exceptions of the ship yards and the mines, was under roof and underground. Ground level, that was the Port proper. Down one level was living quarters, townie shops, grab-a-bites, and rec centers. Khat thought about that—living
under
the dirt—and decided, fair-mindedly, that it was a reasonable idea, given the state of the planet surface. Why somebody had taken the demented notion to colonize Banth at all remained a mystery that she finally shrugged away with a muttered, "Grounders."
The Port level, now, that was Admin, of course, and the pilots' crash, hostels for traders and crew, exhibit halls, Combine office, duty shops, eating places—and the Trade Bar.
Khat traced the tunnel route from her room to the bar, and checked the color of the floor arrows closely.
"Yellow arrow all the way," she said to herself, folding the map away into a pocket. Up ahead, her hall crossed another, and there was a tangle of color on the floor of the convergence. The yellow flowed to the right, and Khat did, too, lengthening her stride in response to her stomach's unsubtle urging.
Banth was close to Kinaveral-heavy, despite which Khat arrived at the Trade Bar barely winded.
Look at you
, she thought smugly, swiping her card through the reader. There was a small hesitation, then the door swung open.
She'd expected a crowd, and she had one. Terrans outnumbered Liadens, Liadens outnumbered the expectable, just like Admin, earlier. Noisy, like Trade Bars were always noisy—no difference if they was small, which this one was, or large—with everybody there trying to talk loud enough to be heard over everybody else.
Khat waded in, heading for the bar itself, and found it standing room only.
No problem. She got herself a place to stand, and swung an arm over her head, catching the eye of a bartender with spiked blue hair and a swirl of tattooed stars down one cheek.
"What'll it be, Long Space?" she bellowed
"Handwich an' a brew!" Khat yelled back.
"It's processed protein," warned the barkeep.
Khat sighed. "What flavor?"
"Package says chicken."
At least it wasn't beef. "Do it," Khat yelled, and the other woman gave her a thumbs-up and faded down-bar.
Khat fished a couple bills out of her public pocket, and eased forward, careful not to step on any toes. The bartender reappeared, and handed over a billy bottle of brew and a zip-bag. Khat tucked them in the crook of her arm, and handed over the bills in trade.
"Got change comin'," the woman said.
Khat waved a hand. "Keep it."
"You bet. Good flying, Long Space."
"Same," Khat said, which was only polite. The bartender laughed, and turned away, already tracking another patron.
Provisions firmly in hand, Khat squinched out of the crowd surrounding the bar, and looked around, hoping to find a ledge to rest her brew on. The booths and tables were full, of course, as was the available standing space—no, there was a guy coming off of his stool, his recyclables held loose in one hand. Khat moved, dancing between clusters of yelling, gesticulating patrons, and hit the stool almost before he left it.
Cheered by this minor bit of good luck, she popped the seal on the billy and had a long swallow of brew. Warm, dammit.
She had another swallow, then unzipped the food bag.
She's expected to find her flavored protein between flat rectangles of ship cracker, and was pleasantly surprised to find it served up on two fine slices of fresh bake bread, which was almost enough to make up for the warm brew.
A bite confirmed that the protein was no better than usual, with the bread contributing interest and texture. Khat made short work of it, and settled back on the stool, nursing what was left of her brew.
Good manners was that she should pretty soon surrender the stool and the little table, so someone else could have their use. Still, she had a couple minutes left before she hit the line for rudeness, and she wanted to study the floor a little closer before she went back to being part of the problem.
The Liadens traveled in teams—no less than two, no more than four—and all of the teams she could see from her stool were in conversation with Terrans. That struck her as funny, being as Liadens were always so stand-offish. On the other hand, shy never made no trades.
It did make a body pause and consider what it was that Banth had, that Liadens wanted.
She chewed on that while she finished her brew. The mines—what did they mine on this space-forsaken dustball? She made a mental note to find out, and slid off the stool, on-course for a view of the ship-board.
"AND NO ONE THOUGHT to tell our guest, before he was left alone among the vines, that kylabra snakes are poisonous?" Lady Maarilex inquired gently. Too gently, Jethri thought, sitting stiff in the chair she had pointed him to, Flinx tall and interested beside his knee.
Her son was standing, and his face had regained its normal golden color. He hadn't known that it was possible for a Liaden to pale, but Ren Lar had definitely lost color in the instant that he took in the snake, and whirled back to Jethri, snapping, "Are you bit?"
"Mother," he said now, voice quiet and firm. "You know that the kylabra do not usually wake so early."
"And you know,
Master Vintner
, that the weather in this wind year has been unseasonably warm. Why should the snakes sleep on?"
"Why, indeed?" murmured her son, and despite his level shoulders and expressionless face, Jethri was in receipt of the distinct idea that Ren Lar would have welcomed the ability to sink into and through the floor.