"Where," Jela said, in a voice that Tor An registered as too quiet, "did Osabei Tower acquire this thing?"
"M. Jela, you delight me!" the master exclaimed, as Tor An turned to face the two of them. "Am I really to believe that you know what this is?"
"I'm a generalist, sir," Jela said, still in that too-quiet voice, "with a special interest over the last few years in
sheriekas
technology." He nodded toward the milky orange wall. "Based on my studies, I'd guess that was a shortcut, left over from the First Phase."
"Your guess is admirably on-target," Master dea'Syl said, stroking the cat absently. "As to where Osabei Tower acquired it—I cannot say. When I had status enough to gain access to the documents regarding the device, I only found that it had been purchased from a company called Oracle Odd Lots, and that Osabei Tower had—and has—a standing order to purchase objects related to its area of scholarship."
There was a small silence before Jela spoke again. "In the deep files of Osabei Tower there is mention of a world-shield, which is based—or was based—on Vanehald. I'm interested in that device, also, and would appreciate anything you can tell me about it."
"Ah. I regret, M. Jela. I know very little of that device—merely its location and the fact that no patron was found to fund a study of it. It has languished for some very long number of years, as you will have seen from the file. Very likely, it is no longer in place; or no longer functions."
"I understand," Jela said quietly. "Thank you, sir."
"You are quite welcome. Well! Time, as my dear vel'Anbrek would no doubt remind us if he were here, runs quickly. If you gentles are quite prepared, let us proceed to the port."
Jela held up a hand. "Consider, sir, that this device—fully as ancient as the world-shield, and by the state of the bay, many years unused—may no longer function."
Master dea'Syl inclined his head. "You are a soldier and it is your nature to be cautious. Allow me to put your fears to rest, M. Jela; I have over the last few years been seeing to the maintenance and upkeep of the device, as I was taught to do as a boy. Its functionality—while I daresay not optimal—is adequate. You observe it in its ready state, which I initiated as soon as vel'Anbrek brought me news that chance had at last placed an unaffiliated pilot-owner within my grasp."
It seemed to Tor An that Jela stiffened; certainly the face he turned toward the unsettling hatchway was devoid of any expression, lips tight, black eyes bleak.
"My pilot, who has some experience of the Enemy's devices, and who sat co-pilot for yet another pilot who had even more practical knowledge of such things, holds as truth that the devices of the Enemy never forget who made them, and that they call out to their makers," Jela said slowly. "What they say, not the elder pilot, or my pilot, or I can hazard—though I believe we agree it holds nothing that we'd call good."
The master sighed. "You would caution me that I put a world at risk by employing this device. I would remind you, sir, that the
galaxy
is at risk, and this is the only door which will open to its possible rescue. Created by the Enemy, it certainly was, and no doubt treacherous beyond our ability to understand. Yet, in this instance it is our ally, and we must grasp the means that come to hand."
"Soldier's logic," Jela said, "which ought to sway a soldier." He was quiet for a moment, and it seemed to Tor An that he stood less straight, as if the weight of what they were about to do was heavier even than a strong man could bear.
"Go," he said.
MAELYN TAY'NORDIF RAN as she had never run before, down the hallway that mad, secret portion of her mind had chosen. Past empty labs and lecture rooms, she ran, the shouts and noise from the proving court fading behind her. Surely, she thought, she was now beyond any immediate danger. Best to utilize one of the vacant rooms for a period of rest and meditation.
She slowed to a jog, her soft slippers raising faint chuffing sounds from the smooth floor, and then to a walk, passing three sealed doors, status lights glowing red—reserved rooms, and keyed to the palms of particular scholars and their disciples. Maelyn passed on.
The sixth door showed a green light—general use. She placed her palm against the plate and stepped inside a modest lecture hall; sixty work chairs arranged in six curving rows of ten, the scholar's station front and centered, with only the most minimal expanse of floor to separate her from the students. The air was frigid, the lighting dim.
Sighing, Maelyn tay'Nordif ordered herself; unkilting her robe and brushing it smooth with hands that trembled rather a lot; making certain that her sash was tidy, the truth-blade in its place. Her stomach cramped at the recollection of her unscholarly behavior. She could not, in fact, imagine what might face her in the scholar's common room this evening. To call down a mad crowd upon the department's Prime Chair—on causes that could scarcely be thought to contain a grain of fact, fabricated as they must have been on the edge of the moment—
It was true, she admitted, folding her arms tightly beneath her breasts and hugging herself in an attempt to ease the trembling, that she was not very skilled in the art of the blade. Indeed, if she were to be honest with herself, she would own that the survival of her Wander years was due not so much to her vigilance and ability to protect herself, but to her habit of affiliating herself with a succession of "patrons," some of whom had been no better than bandits. She had been gently raised, she thought, beginning to pace, and her talents lay elsewhere than in brute physical—
The door opened.
She spun, feet tangling in her robe, and scrambled for balance as Ala Bin tay'Welford stepped into the room.
THE OLD SCHOLAR WENT first, his chair moving with deliberation toward the pass-portal. As Jela watched, the energies within the portal began to swirl, forming an unsettling vortex into which chair, man, cat and tree receded until they were indistinguishable from the dancing milky motes.
The process was eerily silent, though Jela noticed a slight breeze brushing his cheeks as the vortex sucked air into it.
At the side of the bay, Tor An yos'Galan hesitated, for which Jela blamed him not at all. The thought of surrendering himself to the action of the vortex was ...unnerving at best, and if the whole business was enough to twitch nerves spun out of data-wire—or so they had assured each other in creche, when they were learning the basic skills of soldiering—
"Pilot," he said, keeping his voice matter-of-fact, like stepping off into infinity was an everyday affair. "I'll take rear guard."
The boy threw him one wide glance out of those improbable flower-colored eyes, took a breath, faced about like a good troop, and walked determinedly into the swirling doom, hands loose at his sides. The energies swirled, shrouded—and Tor An yos'Galan was gone, swallowed by the vortex.
Jela considered the energies before him, his feet planted flat on the floor, as if he intended to take root in the considerable dust. Duty lay before him—the old scholar, with his equations locked safe and secret in his head; the tree; the pilot he'd appropriated...
And behind him—his partner, or the person his partner had died to become, not from some vague sense of obligation to the galaxy or life-as-it-was—or to honor the oath she had never, in truth, taken—but
for him
.
Duty required him to move forward. Duty required him to leave her to die.
She took rear-guard
, he told himself.
She knew the risks
.
And maybe that was so—and maybe it wasn't. She'd known there were risks; she'd known, if he were to trust her, like she'd asked him, that there were good odds that neither one of them would finish this campaign alive. Rear-guard, though—Cantra yos'Phelium had never been a soldier.
He closed his eyes.
A co-pilot's first care was for his pilot, which left the pilot to care for the ship and the passengers, if any.
That
was a protocol Cantra had known well.
Trust...
her voice whispered, faint and husky.
He threw away all she had done—for him alone—if he turned his back on duty now.
"Advance, Soldier," he told himself. And again, "Advance."
His feet at least knew an order when it was said, and he was enough of a soldier—yet and still—to not wish to bear the shame of having been ordered thrice.
So, he marched, shoulders square and hands ready, across the dusty floor, and into the maw of energy.
TAY'WELFORD HAD FARED roughly at the hands of the crowd; a bruise darkened one cheek and there was blood on his robe. How much of the blood may have been his, Maelyn thought, was unclear. Certainly, he was not impeded in the speed with which he spun and locked the door, nor in the certainty with which he raised his blade and touched its pommel to his heart in ironic salute.
"You made a dangerous gamble, did you not?" He inquired, advancing upon her slowly. "Did you think to find me so easily unseated? I am no green boy, maddened by his first dissolving. You, however—the last of a flawed line, and encapsulating all of them. Rash, heedless, vicious.
Stupid
. So stupid to have come here..."
She gave a step—and another—before him, and that was wrong. He was trying to get her against the chairs... Biting her lip, she did
not
yield a third step; belatedly reaching to her sash and pulling the truth-blade free.
tay'Welford inclined his head. "So you will fight now, will you?" He moved, blade flashing; she countered, clumsy and ineffectual, felt the pain on the right side of her face, and stumbled back a third step and a fourth, gasping. Her free hand went to her cheek, came away smeared with blood.
Her opponent laughed. "Such an
interesting
choice. Meek, ineffectual, and ludicrous. It fetters you, does it not? In a moment, you'll find that it has killed you."
"I don't understand you!" she shouted at him, feeling the chairs against her back. She would have to attack, move him out of the way, get to the door—
She lunged.
Surprise drove him back a step, his blade weaving a bright dance, countering her attack, breaching her defense, slicing through cloth and into her arm.
Screaming, she lunged again, his blade was fouled for a moment in her sleeve and she scored a strike of her own—red blood blooming on the side of his robe; he grunted, staggered, and she was past him, running for the door.
She pressed her hand against the plate, but the blood on her palm fouled the reader and the lock remained engaged. Sobbing, she turned, back against the door, blade up, hilt slick with blood from the slash on her arm.
tay'Welford smiled, crouched, one hand out, ready to grab her if she tried to dart past him, knife held almost casually in the other.
"What shall I do, to sweeten your passage?" he murmured, eyes bright and utterly devoid of pity. "Ah, I know. Listen closely—I want the sense of this to strike deep, before I complete the lesson." His smile widened.
"'Twas I killed Garen. She died as she had lived—a fool, and begging me not to harm you."
Trembling, she stared at him, seeing a curious waiting in those bright, pitiless eyes, unable to think of anything but that she was about to die at the hand of a madman—
Pay your debts, baby
, a woman's voice seemed to whisper in her very ear.
There ain't no living with yourself, if you don't.
Tears stung her eyes; she blinked and they ran down her face, mingling with the blood.
tay'Welford laughed, softly. "Yes, very good. Savor that a moment; I want you to die blighted." The knife moved, leisurely.
She ducked, taking the strike on her shoulder, coming in under his guard and setting her blade in his throat.
"
Veralt
," she hissed, though what the sense of the word was, she could not have said.
His eyes widened, hand rising—and falling as he slumped to the floor, bright eyes fixed and dull.
She stood there for a moment, swaying and bloody, then haltingly turned to deal with the door.
THERE WAS A MOMENT OF extreme unpleasantness, as if he were being dismantled, molecule by molecule, followed by an instant of agony as he was abruptly jammed back together.
Jela's boots hit solid 'crete. Inside his head, he saw a wall of fog rolling in from the ocean, obscuring cliffs and tree tops. Then, in the fog—a shape, small and indistinct, rapidly growing into a black dragon, flying strongly, breaking all at once out into the light...
"Over here, M. Jela," Master dea'Syl called softly.
Shaking the memory of his transit away, he took quick stock. They were in a cargo shed, dim and in none-too-good repair; the light sources being the holes in the crumbling metal roof, and the pale, flickering orange light from the shortcut. The carry-chair hovered some two dozen steps to his right and ahead. He could see the outline of the tree, and the old man's silhouette...
"Where is Pilot yos'Galan?" he asked, moving forward quickly.
"Here," said a faint voice, and the boy stepped out of the deeper shadows beyond the chair.
"The pilot had a difficult passage," Master dea'Syl said smoothly. "And no shame to him. Many strong stomachs have been humbled by that walk, short as it is." He raised a frail hand. "We are within the port, M. Jela. It is now yours to lead and mine to follow. The door is fifteen paces to the left of your position, and may require persuasion which I believe you are qualified to apply. While you are about that, I will deactivate the portal."
"Right." He moved forward, located the door, tested the ancient opening mechanism and found it as the old man had suggested.
"Stand back," he said to Tor An, who had followed him, perhaps to offer aid. "I'm going to give it a push."
As it happened, three pushes were necessary to open it to a width the carry-chair could negotiate, and as the luck would have it, the roof didn't come down on them as a result. Jela went through first, then waved his companions out.
Before them spread the glittering expanse of Landomist Port. Jela looked to Tor An.