He swallowed, and glanced to one side. The man sitting against the wall was watching him from hooded black eyes.
"For pity's sake, Pilot! Have you never seen a kobold before? Come, the data!"
In fact, he
had
seen kobolds before, and the man on the floor bore a superficial resemblance to those of the laborer class he had encountered. But such a one would never have looked at him so measuringly, nor paid attention so nearly...
"Pilot?" the scholar's voice now carried an edge of sarcasm. "Am I to understand that you do not stand in need of the remainder of your fee?"
Abruptly, he was exhausted. Perhaps after all, he thought,
he
was mad. In any case, this woman, whom he had never seen before, was asking for the very data he carried. How she came to want it or he to have it was immaterial, really. And if a second pilot had been commissioned to gather the same readings, then—surely—that was cause for hope?
He slid the 'strip out, stepped forward and placed it on the desk before the impatient scholar.
She smiled, and peered into his face.
"You are tired, I see," she said, suddenly gentle—"and so you should be, having come so quickly from Shinto! Jela will escort you to my quarters, where you may rest yourself. Only allow me to access the data and you may go..."
She plucked the 'strip up and slid it into her work unit, fumbling the wand in her haste, but at last she chorded the correct commands, and stood watching as line after line of coordinates marched down the screen.
"Aha!" she said and manipulated the wand quickly before bending to the unit. Eyes on the screen, she pulled the 'strip out of the slot and put it on the desk.
"Jela!" she said, loudly. "Stand up!"
At the back of the room, the leather-clad man slowly and stolidly got his feet under him and rose, rather, Tor An thought, like a mountain rising out of an ocean. At least, until he was fully afoot, when it could be seen that his height was more hill-like than mountain.
"Now," said the scholar, "you will—"
From somewhere—from everywhere—an alarm sounded. Tor An spun to the wall, snatching for the grab-bars that weren't there. Face heating, he turned back, to find the scholar pale, her mouth set into a hard, pained line.
"Your pardon, Pilot," she said with punctilious politeness. "I am wanted elsewhere. A matter of honor, you apprehend."
She came 'round the desk, moving stiffly, her hands tucked firmly into her sleeves. "Jela!" she snapped, as she passed Tor An. "Escort this pilot to my quarters."
The door opened. "Pilot," she said, in a slightly less snappish tone, but without looking at him. "Please follow Jela."
Tor An snatched the datastrip up off the desk, slid it into an inner pocket, and turned to see the man Jela moving purposefully toward the door. He bethought himself of the twistiness of the Tower hallways, and hurried after.
THE THIN CORRIDOR was awash with scholars, all talking and laughing, moving with one purpose in the direction, so Tor An believed, of the wide, tiered foyer.
Jela was well ahead of him, apparently invisible to the chattering scholars, who jostled him rather roughly, until at last he flattened himself against the wall, where he waited with a bland, intelligent patience no kobold ever bred could have mustered.
Scarcely less jostled, and tender, besides, of his wounded arm, Tor An came to rest at his guide's shoulder, closed his eyes and took stock. On the debit side of the trade sheet, he was tired, his wound ached, and he was certainly bewildered, while the credit side showed a head more firmly anchored to his shoulders than it had been earlier in the day, and a stomach no longer in open rebellion.
Progress, he thought. Eyes still closed, he put himself to trying to filter some sense from the echoing noise.
It seemed, if he rightly understood the bits and flotsam of conversation that fell into his ear, as if Scholar tay'Nordif were about to fight a duel. What the cause of this might be, he did not quite grasp. He sighed, and settled himself more comfortably against the wall, letting the voices rise and fall about him without trying to net any more sense. He allowed himself to hope that the hallway would soon clear, and that the scholar's quarters were neither far removed, nor Jela disposed to run...
He felt something touch his hand, where it rested against the wall. He blinked out of his doze to see Jela already moving down the hall in the wake of the last straggler scholars, walking slow and heavy. Something about that nagged at Tor An, as he pushed away from the wall and followed, then faded.
At the foyer, Jela paused again, in the shelter of the risers, and Tor An did too. Looking over his guide's sleek head, he could see a wide expanse of empty floor, and the seats rising up the walls across. The noise of voices was not so loud here—not, Tor An thought, because the scholars were talking any less, but because their words were not confined by the hallway.
Carefully, he placed a hand on Jela's shoulder. "Let us go," he murmured, but there was no sign that the other man heard him.
For the third time, the alarm bell sounded, bringing silence in its wake. Tor An leaned against the riser that shielded them, and resigned himself to wait.
The tall, brown haired scholar Grudent tel'Ashon had addressed as "Prime Chair" strolled out onto the floor, a dueling stick held in each hand. Behind him came Scholar tay'Nordif, head high and shoulders rigid, and a slim, delicate scholar with cropped sandy hair, and a long timonium chain hanging from one ear.
Prime Chair stopped in the center of the rectangular dueling area marked out by rust colored tiles, the two scholars flanking him, and brandished the 'sticks over his head.
"What we have before us today is a personal balancing between Scholars tel'Elyd and tay'Nordif. Scholar tay'Nordif admits to having struck Scholar tel'Elyd for taking certain liberties with the construct Jela, which she maintains is necessary to her work—" There was a murmur from the audience at this. Prime Chair shook one of the dueling sticks toward the offending section of seats.
"This action of Scholar tel'Elyd was witnessed by Scholar vel'Anbrek, nor does tel'Elyd deny it. However, it is the judgement of the Prime Chair that in striking Scholar tel'Elyd in punishment for those liberties taken with the construct, Scholar tay'Nordif has placed a scholar on the same plane as a base creature. This affront to Scholar tel'Elyd's honor must be mended."
With a flourish he brought the sticks out and down to shoulder level. Each scholar stood forward and armed themselves, then spun to face each other, dueling stick held in the neutral posture.
"These two of our worthy colleagues shall contend as equals. The point goes to whichever counts to six upon a fallen opponent. This duel is not to the death. As it is a personal matter, truth-blades may not be employed." He gave each of the combatants a long, grave look, and dropped back to the outside of the rectangle.
"You may engage upon my count of six," he said. "One..."
Scholar tel'Elyd spun his stick, getting the feel of it, Tor An suspected, that having been the route advised by those who had sought to instruct him in self-defense:
Always test the weight and balance of an unfamiliar weapon, conditions permitting
.
In contrast, Scholar tay'Nordif stood gripping the stick tightly in the neutral position, her stance stiff and awkward. He wondered if the scholar had ever received self-defense instruction and hoped for her sake that the Osabei Tower weapons-master kept the charges on the dueling sticks toward the low end of match range.
"Three..."
Scholar tel'Elyd took up the stance; legs slightly apart, knees flexed, right foot pointed at the opponent, left foot at a right angle, primary hand at the bottom of the handle, off-hand above, spine relaxed and slightly curved. Tor An was slightly heartened to see Scholar tay'Nordif arrange herself in a similar configuration, though she stood too tall and too stiffly, her feet were placed awkwardly, and her hands were too close together.
"Six," said Prime Chair.
Scholar tel'Elyd snapped his 'stick sharply, releasing a heavy blue bolt in the direction of the hapless Scholar tay'Nordif. To Tor An's mingled surprise and relief, she managed a credible parry, the sizzle of mingling energies loud in the sudden silence, finishing her move with a neat little twist that sent a glob of red speeding toward her opponent—who destroyed it with a sneer and shook another heavy bolt from his 'stick, and a second more quickly than Tor An would have believed possible, had he not seen it for himself. Scholar tel'Elyd must have a supple wrist, indeed.
Scholar tay'Nordif deflected the first of the pair, but at the expense of her precarious stance. The second bolt got through her wavering defense, and scored a solid hit on the her hip.
She flinched, her hand dropping instinctively—and disastrously—to the wound. Scholar tel'Elyd followed up his advantage immediately, sending a line of short bursts one after the other in a really remarkable display of skill.
Scholar tay'Nordif parried, one-handed, off-balance and, as Tor An knew from his training, hurting, but it was plain who was the master of the duel. Scholar tel'Elyd could put up his 'stick at any time and no one among the silent spectators would challenge his win.
But Scholar tel'Elyd was not disposed to be merciful. Whatever dispute stood between him and Scholar tay'Nordif, it quickly became clear that he considered a telling demonstration of superiority at arms to be inadequate balance.
Scholar tay'Nordif swayed under the pain of repeated strikes, and flung an arm up to shield her eyes. Her dueling stick fell from her hand and lay, sparking fitfully on the surface of the dueling court. Tor An waited for Prime Chair to rule the match ended and tel'Elyd the victor, but the man stood mute at the sidelines, calmly watching the punishment continue.
This was no longer a duel, Tor An thought angrily. He started forward, meaning to end the thing himself—and found a hard, broad shoulder blocking his way.
"He goes too far!" he said, loudly, in Jela's ear.
There was no sign that his escort heard him, but someone on the benches above them did.
"He goes too far!" A woman's voice called out. "Honor has been rescued. Brute punishment only tarnishes it anew!"
The cry was taken up by others around the room, and very shortly Tor An had the satisfaction of seeing the scholar's hand falter. He straightened out of the dueling crouch and pointed his 'stick at the floor.
Then only did Prime Chair step forward, placing himself between the victorious scholar and the beaten.
"Honor has been rescued!" he announced. "The matter between Scholars tel'Elyd and tay'Nordif has been balanced and shall be spoken of no more."
There was general, sparse applause, and a bell rang.
"Colleagues!" Prime Chair called. "It is time to lay down our labors and meet in the common room!"
Warm fingers touched his hand. Tor An looked down to see Jela moving across the floor, angling for one of several doors. He stretched his legs to catch up.
ALL OF ROOL TIAZAN'S sincerity regarding "luck" and its fondness for him, the tree, and especially Cantra hadn't prepared Jela for the moment when the yellow-haired pilot staggered into the office, helped along by a kindly shove from Grudent tel'Ashon.
It was enough to turn an old soldier to religion, and no use, he decided, trying to work out if the luck had whispered the pilot's nearness to the scholar or simply shoved the pilot into the scholar's path. What mattered was that he had arrived—and that the mission had need of him.
He put the key in its niche atop the controller and waited while their home stair lowered itself. It had taken all his discipline to thrust the memory of the duel between Maelyn tay'Nordif and Den Vir tel'Elyd into the back of his mind. Those strikes—he'd felt each one as if the energy had lashed his own nerves. And if ever proof were called for that Cantra yos'Phelium had died in creating Maelyn tay'Nordif, that duel was everything that was needed.
The end of the stair touched the floor. He retrieved the key and walked into the very middle of the ramp so the pilot, who had followed silent and uncomplaining, from the dueling hall, would not feel exposed. Or, he amended as the stair began to rise, not much exposed.
The stairway seated itself at the proper floor and he led the way to the door of the scholar's quarters. Again he used the key, stepped inside and did a rapid scan.
The cat was crouching on the galley counter, tail wrapped around its toes, amber eyes hooded. The tree sat in its pot by the door; Jela received a flutter of interested curiosity as Tor An yos'Galan stepped into the room. The hacks were in place and emitting on the proper frequency. He sighed and turned.
"
Brrrrrt
?" The pilot said, his soft voice shocking against the high hum of the hacks. He approached the cat, who watched him with interest, and gave the finger he extended careful study before daintily touching it with its nose. The pilot smiled, which made him look ridiculously young, and very tired.
"What's his name?" he asked, sliding a sideways glance at Jela from beneath heavy golden lashes.
"The scholar calls it Lucky," he answered, and the sound of his own voice startled him. It seemed years since he had last spoken.
The pilot inclined his head gravely, and rubbed the cat under the chin. "Lucky, I am very pleased to make your acquaintance," he murmured. "I have been missing cats." He straightened, carefully, sending another of his sideways glances at the tree. "And plants. At my..." His voice broke. He took a hard breath, and began again, resolutely. "At my home, there is a back garden and a certain piata tree of which I ...am most fond."
Inside Jela's head a picture formed: A half-grown dragon staggering across a grey sky, wings trembling, rock-toothed cliffs too near below...
Right.
"I couldn't help but notice that you've been wounded," he said to Tor An yos'Galan. "I have a kit, if there's need."
This time the look came straight from amethyst-colored eyes. "There may be need, I thank you. The wound is in an awkward place. I've done my best, but—"