Last duty done, she turned toward the third room that made the sum of their lodgings: A small, chilly niche about the size of the guest cabin on
Dancer
. More than big enough for a death.
Something green fluttered at the edge of her vision, which would be Jela's damn' tree—or her ally the
ssussdriad
, soon to be neither. The flutter came again, stronger, and she knew perfectly well there was neither draft nor vent where it was placed.
Sighing, she turned and walked down the room to where it sat under the special-spectrum spotlight Jela'd rigged for it. The change in lighting'd done it good, if the number and size of the pods hanging from its scrawny branches were any measure.
The dance of leaves became more agitated as she approached, and a particular branch began to visibly bend under the weight of its pod. Cantra considered it sardonically.
"Going-away present?" she asked, her voice harsh in her own ears.
A picture formed inside her head: Water sparkling beneath her, the shadow of a great beast flashing over the waves. She felt a bone-deep ache in her shoulders, an emptiness in her belly, and still she labored on, sinking toward the water, each stroke an agony... And there, ahead—the cliffs, the trees, the others! She made a mighty effort, but the tips of her wings cut water on the downstroke, and she knew the cliffs were beyond her—
From the dancers along the cliff sides came a large, dark dragon, his flight powerful and swift. He flew above and past her, spun on a wing and dove, slipping between her and the water, bearing her up, up the side of the cliffs and into the crown of a tree. A pod-heavy branch rose as the songs of welcome filled her ears and she gratefully took the gift thus offered...
Cantra blinked; the image faded. "Promises," she said, voice cracking; "promises are dangerous things. You dasn't give one unless you're sure to keep it. No living with yourself any other way." The branch bent sharply, insistently. She held out a hand with a sigh. "Have it your way, then. But don't say I never told you." The pod hit her palm solidly and her fingers curled over it.
"Thank you," she said softly.
SHE LOCKED THE DOOR behind her, then set her shoulders against it, eyes closed.
"You told the man you'd back him," she said aloud, and shivered in the chill air.
The fact was, for all her bold words, she might not be
able
to back him. Oh, she remembered the lessons, fair enough, though it would perhaps have eased things for an unpracticed and unwilling
aelantaza
were any of the particular mix of psychotropics used in the final prep stage of an assignment on hand. Still, the wisdom was that the thing could be done by trance alone. The drug was helpful, but by no means necessary. For the first part of the operation.
The second part—the resurrection, should there be one... Well, she'd never heard other than the drug was needed and necessary for that part of it. Not to say the company of a taler, which she didn't have either. Once in a chance, so the story went, an
aelantaza
might come home so burnt-brained and desperate that the drug didn't make no nevermind. It wasn't any use even bringing a taler near such a one. The best thing to do then, in the estimation of the Directors, who weren't known for wasting resources, was to break the burnt-brain's neck before they up and hurt somebody they shouldn't.
Sort of like Pliny'd done.
Cantra sighed. She didn't want to die, though she was looking at doing just that. But maybe, she thought, her throat tight—maybe she wouldn't die. All she had to do was play diversion for a month or less, Common. Maybe there would be enough of herself left at the end the assignment to spontaneously regenerate—
Or maybe not.
It ain't
, she said to herself, the weight of the tree's gift heavy in her fist,
like you never done it before. You weren't born to the Rim nor to the life Garen taught you. Whoever you were before, you came to be someone else—- something other. This'll be just the same.
The Rimmer pilot was no more real than the daughter Garen'd thought her to be. The person who rose up out of the remains of the pilot's psyche would be no more nor less real than both.
There was a scent in the cabin; she hadn't noticed it before. A pleasant scent, green and minty and ...comforting. Cantra opened her eyes, raised her fist, opened her fingers and considered the pod on her palm.
No doubt the aroma emanated from it; and it grew more enticing by the moment. She remembered her previous tastes of the tree's fruit, and found her mouth watering.
Well, it can't hurt
, she thought; and, if she were honest with herself, it might help with the local courage levels.
She put finger to pod, wondering how best to crack it, lacking Jela's strong hand or Rool Tiazan's more ...unusual... abilities, but to her surprise it fell apart at her lightest touch, releasing an even more tempting aroma.
The taste was better than she recalled—tart and spicy. Sighing, she ate the second piece, muscles relaxing as her body warmed. By the time she had finished all of the pieces and carefully slipped the rind into the waste unit, she felt calm and centered. That was good; she was past the jitters now and down to cases.
Opening the drawer of the bedside table, she withdrew a wide bracelet set with several gem-topped buttons. This, she snapped 'round her wrist, adjusting it until it was snug and showed no disposition to slip.
That done, she lay down on the narrow bed and pulled a blanket over her nakedness, closed her eyes, regulated her breathing, and called to mind those exercises which would eventually pitch her into the trance. She had prepared as well as she could: memories, behaviors, preferences, and history would be released and assimilated as soon as her mind came to the change level.
Her heartbeat spiked at the thought, as if her body would be afraid: Patiently, firmly, she smoothed the spike, and sank further into calmness. The last thing she felt, before the change overtook her, was a sensation of utter safety and respect, not at all unlike the sensation of being curled against Jela's chest...
SHE WOKE WITH A sense of anticipation so great that she could scarcely keep from shouting aloud. Such an outburst, of course, would be unseemly from a seated scholar of Osabei Tower, and Maelyn tay'Nordif fully intended to be a seated scholar of Osabei Tower before this day's work was done.
She rose with alacrity, opened the small closet and pulled on the clothes she found there—a faded gold unitard, over which went a well-worn and carefully patched tabard. She stepped to the mirror and studied her reflection critically as she wove the yellow sash about her waist in the so-called Wander pattern, and took some time over the precise position of the smartgloves folded over it. When these were disposed to her satisfaction, she returned to the closet and withdrew a slender knife; its grip shaped of common ceramic, wrapped with fraying leather; the edges showing some slight notching. She rubbed the flat of the blade down the front of her tabard once or twice, to shine it, then slipped it also into her sash, being careful of her fingers.
Thus accoutered, she stood for another long moment before the mirror, considering her reflection.
"All very well," she said at last, her voice sharp and slightly nasal, "for a Wanderer. But tomorrow, you will be clad in the robes of a scholar, and seated in your proper place amongst the greatest mathematical minds of the galaxy." She smiled, lips pressed tight, and at last turned away from the mirror. Gathering her book from the table next to the bed, she reviewed the necessities of the day.
First, to register the kobold and the plant with the port—an annoyance, but it had to be done. Such a shame that they had come in last evening after the proper office had closed, and thus mere paperwork must put back her triumph by another few hours. She frowned in annoyance, and tossed her head. No matter. Once the proper registries were made, she would proceed to Osabei Tower, present her token, and—she doubted not, be welcomed with joy and open arms by her peers.
Satisfied with this precis, she unlocked the door and stepped into the great room.
The kobold was seated at the table, its big hands folded before it, exactly as she had left it upon retiring, yestereve. Maelyn sighed, wondering, not for the first time, whatever had possessed her last patron to make her so ridiculous a gift. True, the kobold and the plant were but portions of the parting gift, and the Noble Panthera, heir to House Chaler, had been generous in the matters of both coin and credit. Well, and the thing was done, and both were under her dominion. And who else, she thought suddenly, preening, among the scholars of Osabei Tower, might possess such rare and interesting items? Truly, she came to claim her chair no mere ragged Wanderer, but a woman of property!
"Stand
up
, Jela!" she ordered, experience having taught her the way of dealing with the kobold, whose intelligence was only slightly greater than that of the plant in its care. "Place the pack on your back, pick up the plant, and follow me.
Closely
."
Brown face expressionless, eyes dull, it pushed to its feet and hefted the pack. It was a powerful creature, and she had seen, during her time at House Chaler, what a single kobold might wreak, under order.
Maelyn touched the bracelet 'round her wrist. She had the means to control Jela, which was, in any case, too dull to be a danger to her.
"Hurry!" she snapped at its broad back, and turned to open the door.
THE ERRANT-SCHOLAR'S tabard was onyx green, Osabei's Theorem embroidered in sable and silver 'round the hems and neckline. Beneath the tabard, she wore a unitard the precise golden shade of her skin. A pair of smart-gloves and a scholar's truth-blade were thrust through the yellow sash that cuddled her slender waist, and the expression on her high-born face was cool enough to freeze a man's blood.
Behind her came a very gnome of a creature, clad all in black leather: squat, thick, and sullen, a pack on its back, and its bulging arms wrapped about a large and ornately enameled pot. From the pot a green plant rose to some distance above the kobold's head, leaves a-flutter in the breeze from the open window.
Scholars were no rare thing on Landomist—and mathematical scholars least rare of all. Angry errant-scholars accompanied by tree-bearing kobolds—that was something rarer, and promised diversion of one sort or another on a slow and sleepy day. So it was that the portmaster himself stepped up to the counter, forestalling the bustling of the lead clerk, and inclined his head.
"Errant-Scholar, how may I be pleased to assist you?"
Her lips tightened and for a heartbeat he thought she would slip the leash on her temper, which would have been—unwise.
Apparently, she was not too angry for considered thought. The tight lips softened a fraction and bent upward at the corners in a fair approximation of pleasant courtesy, as she proffered a scarred and travel-worn document case.
"If you would do what is necessary to clear me, sir, I would be most obliged."
"Of course," he murmured, receiving the case and running it efficiently along the mag-strip.
"One did not quite understand," the errant-scholar continued as he opened the case, popped the data tile from its setting and inserted it into the reader, "that more than simply declaring at the gate was required."
"Of course not," he said soothingly, most of his attention on the hardcopy enclosed in the other half of the case. He rubbed his fingers lightly over the document, feeling the sharp edges of the letters cut deep into the paper, the silky blots of sealing wax with their pendant ribbons...
"Errant-Scholar Maelyn tay'Nordif, native of Vetzu," he said, musingly, and glanced up.
The errant-scholar's eyes were green, he noticed. She inclined her head, her hair soft and silken in the yellow light.
"I am Maelyn tay'Nordif," she answered primly.
"May I know your reason for coming to Landomist, Scholar?" The information would be on the data tile, of course, but it was often useful to hear what else was said—or was not said—in answer to a direct inquiry.
She lifted her chin proudly. "I go to kneel in reverence before the masters of Osabei Tower and petition that my time of wandering be done."
The usual reason, the portmaster conceded, and sent a sharp glance over the lady's shoulder to the silent kobold. The creature had the temerity to meet his eyes, its own black and reflective. The portmaster frowned.
"Landomist has very strict regulations regarding genetic constructs," he said to Errant-Scholar tay'Nordif. "It is not sufficient to merely declare; this office is required to examine, test and certify each and every incoming construct." He looked sternly into her eyes. "A matter of public safety, Scholar. I am certain that you would not wish it otherwise."
It was plain from the scholar's face that she did wish it otherwise, but she was not such a fool as to say so. Instead, she merely inclined her head.
"The safety of the public must of course carry all before it," she murmured. "You will find detailed pedigrees for both the plant and the kobold in the auxiliary index of the tile."
"Of course," he said again, and gestured toward the reader. "This will be a few moments."
The scholar sighed. "I understand," she said.
He bent to the reader, and quickly learned that the vegetative item was a gift from Horticultural Master Panthera vas'Chaler of Shinto to Errant-Scholar tay'Nordif, in token of "the continued growth of our spiritual kinship, which shall forever remain the greatest of my life's pleasures." The Master provided a DNA map for the specimen, and a certification of non-toxicity; the validation programs in his reader reported both genuine, the files extensively cross-referenced to the files of the Shinto Planetary Horticultural Society.
So much, the portmaster thought, for the vegetative portion of the Errant-Scholar's retinue. He bent again to the reader.
The labor class genetic construct "Jela" had also been given by Master vas'Chaler, in order to "transport the token of our kinship and to perform those other services which may avail and comfort the most precious sister of my soul."