The Crystal Variation (66 page)

“Indeed, I consider it a matter of the utmost exertion! I had striven greatly, formed and tested a theory which—”

“A theory which,” he interrupted, “is a direct attack upon the lifework of one of Osabei Tower’s most precious Masters. You knew that such work must gain you entrance, and once entered, you determined to take upon yourself a false mantle of scholarship.”

She stared at him, mouth open, plainly and unbecomingly aghast. tay’Welford sighed.

“My work,” she managed at last. “My work is revolutionary; it takes our understanding of the nature and function of the natural order a quantum leap ahead of—”

“Your work,” tay’Welford snapped, “is trivial and derivative. It proves nothing. Worse, it makes sport of one of the finest mathematical minds to have smiled upon our art since Osabei tay’Bendril gave us the theory of transition.”

“How dare—”

He raised his hand, soothing them both. “Peace, peace. My apologies, Scholar. As Prime Chair, it is my duty to facilitate the work of all, and to ease strife, not to create it. Only tell me this—have you reproduced these results?”

“The pilot—” she began and he sighed.

“Scholar, you had best hope that your pilot arrives with that data before you stand before the Governors, two days hence.” He pushed away from his desk and stood.

“That is all, Scholar. Thank you for your assistance.”

TOR AN CAUGHT THE slideway
to the City of Scholars, standing like old bones on the sparsely traveled slow slide, gripping the safety loop grimly and trying to ignore the whirling in his head.

Unlike Korak, with its chaotic streets, and dun-colored buildings built tight to the dun-colored earth, Landomist soared, the tops of the towers lost in wispy clouds, which filtered the light from the local star to an indeterminate pale yellow. The breeze was damp and cool against his hot face, and fragrant with the odors of the many plants growing in wall niches, in pots, hung from poles and cables, and climbing up the sides of the cloud-topped buildings. Truth told, the air was a little too damp for his taste and he concentrated on breathing in a slow, unhurried rhythm, forcibly ignoring pilot instincts which would have him checking pressure valves and holding tanks in search of a leak . . .

His stomach was beginning to roil in sympathy with the unsteadiness of his head. He adjusted his grip on the loop and dared to close his eyes for a moment. Alas, that only made matters worse, so he compromised by opening his eyes to the merest slits and ignoring, as best he might, the unpleasant sensations of motion.

Soon, he told himself. Soon, he would be in the City of Scholars, and able to exit the slideway. Soon, he would be in Scholar tay’Palin’s office, sitting in a chair, perhaps even sipping some tea, if the scholar were disposed to recall Aunt Jinsu well.

Soon.

“What is it?”
the young scholar inquired of the elder, who laughed.

“Kobold,” he said, his voice over-loud. Jela, standing slack-jawed and idiot before Scholar tay’Nordif’s door, as ordered, did not wince.

“What is a kobold?” the younger scholar persisted, daring to drift closer by a timid step and bending down to peer into his face. “It looks a very brute.”

“Some of that,” the old scholar allowed. “And truth told, this one seems to be a common laborer. Out of Shinto, if Scholar tay’Nordif’s tale of her illustrious patron is to be believed—and there’s no reason not to believe it, no matter what dea’San may say. Any new-seated scholar able to place a flan in her account must have got it off a patron—there’s no other way for a Wanderer to lay hands on that much money together, mark me! And beside, why would anyone with even as little sense as our good tay’Nordif willingly choose to burden herself with this ugly fellow and that plant, aside they were tokens of that same patron?”

“What’s wrong with Shinto?” Greatly daring, the younger scholar leaned in and ran light fingers over the porcelain threads embedded in his chest. Jela knew a brief moment of regret, that his role of kobold would not allow him to snarl.

“Eh? Nothing at all wrong with Shinto. Perfectly civilized world. Famous for their horticulture—and those they breed to work in the gardens and greenhouses. Some, like this fellow here, are brute labor; others, I’ve heard, are something more than that. Mind you, it’s worth a life—and an afterlife, too—to speak of them outside of House walls, but there’s tales. Oh, yes. There’s tales.”

The younger scholar sent him a sideways glance. “What sort of tales?”

“You mean to tell me that you’ve never heard of the mothers of the vine?”

“Oh, certainly!” The younger scholar scoffed, stepping away from Jela to more fully face the elder. “Constructs which are more plant than woman, whose essence is required for a good harvest, and who lie with human men on purpose to drain their vitality and impart it to the grapes!” A derisive snort. “Tales to frighten children and the undereducated.”

“And yet they’re true enough, those plant-women, and the reason why a trade clan may pay a year’s profit for a single half-cask of Rioja wine—and count the purchase fairly made.”

“Oh, really, vel’Anbrek! I suppose you’ve seen one of these fabulous women yourself—in your Wander days, of course!”

“I was never so unfortunate,” the old scholar said, his voice serious. “But I did meet a chemist who had once been employed at a Rioja vineyard. She claimed to have seen and spoken with the mothers not once, but many times, and had even what she cared to term a friendship with the elder of them. It’s true that she may simply have been telling outlandish tales to a gullible Wanderer. But in that case, there would have been no need for House Ormendir to buy her silence, which they did, and published the death in the monthly census, as required by law.”

The younger scholar waved an airy hand. “The fact that the vineyard bought a Silence in the matter only proves the House of Whispers found the commission to be just. Your chemist more likely stole the formula for the House blend than consorted with creatures out of imagination.”

“Have it your own way,” the elder scholar said with an expressive ripple of his shoulders. “I only thought to warn that those things which come from the horticultural clans first serve the purpose of the clan. Yon simple kobold might be more than it seems.”

“Or—more likely—it might be but a simple kobold, given in order that Scholar tay’Nordif’s green token from her patron receive the proper care. For you must agree, vel’Anbrek, even the fondest of patrons could not have thought the good scholar competent to water a plant, or, indeed, to pay attention to it at all, should she become
immersed in her work
.”

Scholar vel’Anbrek laughed. “An accurate reading of our new colleague, I grant.”

“And one thing I notice,” the younger scholar continued, slipping his hands into his sleeves, “is that this construct is not properly peace-bonded.”

“Aye, it is,” said vel’Anbrek, with a nod of his gray head toward Jela. “Those ceramic threads that took your fancy—that’s how they peace-bond on Shinto. That I
have
seen, as well as the very clones of the bracelet our good sister wears, to which the implants will respond.”

“Ah, will it?” the other said with a snap. “And suppose it requires pacification and there is only you and me to defend the hall against its sudden imbecile rage?” The right sleeve rippled slightly as the fingers of his left hand tightened—

Jela fell to his knees, choking. He raised a hand; the younger scholar smiled, his eyes bright and cruel as he watched him writhe. He pushed his sleeve up, fingers moving on the slim band around his forearm. Jela tried to stand, fell heavily, froth forming on his lips.

“Here now!” cried the old scholar. “It won’t do to place Scholar tay’Nordif’s creature at risk. Sport is sport, but much more and it becomes an—”

“It becomes an attack upon my work by base means!” Scholar tay’Nordif’s voice came shrilly, and it seemed to Jela that he had never heard a more welcome sound. There was the sound of a sharp slap, a cry of outrage, and the young scholar’s arm-band rang to the floor by his head.

Slowly, his muscles relaxed, and he flopped to his back, chest heaving.

“Now, it will be useless to me all the rest of the day!” Scholar tay’Nordif shouted. “Game with the Tower’s constructs, if you have the taste, but do not, at your peril, deprive me of the services of my patron’s kobold!”

“You struck me!” the younger scholar shouted in turn. “vel’Anbrek! I call you to witness!”

“I saw it,” the elder said, shockingly calm. “Though I warn you I will tell Prime Chair that Scholar tay’Nordif was provoked.”

“I will have satisfaction!” The younger scholar snarled, and swooped down to retrieve his arm-band, his nails coincidentally scoring Jela’s cheek as he did. “Come, vel’Anbrek, I require your testimony before the Prime!”

“If you will have it, it is yours,” the old scholar said, and the pair of them moved off, noisy in their haste.

Jela lay on the floor, eyes closed, breathing. Above him, he heard Scholar tay’Nordif, her own breathing somewhat ragged. He opened his eyes in time to see her stamp her dainty slippered foot.

“Oh, get
up
, Jela!” she snarled and stomped past him to her door.

TOR AN EXITED THE slideway
and stood blinking in the thin, misty light, trying to get his bearings. Across the wide green-paved square he saw something that looked very much like a public map. He set course for it, taking care where he put his feet, having just missed taking a bad tumble when it came time to step from the slide to the platform. That had been an unnerving moment. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d made a serious misstep; a pilot trusted his balance and his reactions, and even on those few occasions when he’d drunk too much wine they had never failed him.

Unfortunately for his general state of well-being, others with business on the square were not inclined to dawdle. A woman in a billowing beige robe pushed by him, muttering. He caught the word “tourist” and another, less complimentary, and tried to quicken his pace.

A hard hand slammed into his wounded shoulder, and he gasped aloud, staggering, spikes of red and orange distorting his view of the square and the map.

“Move along!” a man’s voice snapped. “You’ll be late for class!”

Tor An shook his head and through the fading flares of color he caught an impression of another billowing robe, and a long tail of black hair.

He touched his most public pocket, but the few carolis he kept there had not been molested, so at least he had not suffered the further indignity of having his pocket picked. Cor Win would never let him hear the end of the tale, were he found to be such a flat.

The map loomed blessedly closer. He managed the last bit without being either assaulted or cursed, and leaned heavily on the rail as he fumbled the input wand from its holster. His first search, simply on Kel Var tay’Palin, produced a line on the message strip at the base of the map: a room number high in the double dozens at Osabei Tower. Squinting, he glanced ‘round at the multitude of towers surrounding the square, and had recourse once more to the wand. A dot of red glittered like a jewel on the map, which he understood to be his current position, from it a red line preceded at an angle to the left, and at last a crimson star burst bright.

Tor An turned his head, sighting along the angle indicated on the map, and located a tower of plain red cermacrete. He double-checked its location against the map and, satisfied that the red tower was indeed his goal, set off. His shoulder was afire and his steps had a distressing tendency to wander to starboard. But, after all, the tower wasn’t so far away as that. All that remained was to ring the bell and ask to be shown to Scholar tay’Palin. His mission was nearly at an end.

“Yes, Scholar?”
Grudent tel’Ashon arrived breathlessly, bringing with her the odor of disinfectant.

“Yes.” Maelyn tay’Nordif leaned back in her chair and smiled. “As my grudent, you will be pleased to hear that I have been asked to speak not only to the Board of Governors, but to Master dea’Syl himself.”

The grudent’s eyes widened. Jela, sitting at command with his back against the far wall, felt his heart stutter.

“Truly, Scholar,” Grudent tel’Ashon breathed. “The Honored dea’Syl himself? Your work must be notable, indeed. Did he say aught in praise or—” She swallowed, apparently deciding that it would not be entirely prudent to ask if Master dea’Syl had found any
fault
with Scholar tay’Nordif’s work.

“The invitation came to me through the kind offices of Prime Chair tay’Welford,” the scholar said calmly. “It would not, therefore, have been seemly to have spoken more particularly of my work. However, I expect a lively discussion with the master when we meet.”

If possible, the grudent’s eyes grew rounder. Jela, unnoticed at the front of the room, held his breath. Not his most stringent searching had produced Scholar dea’Syl’s data-cache. He had modified his scouts and sent them out again this morning as Scholar tay’Nordif was showering, but he expected tonight’s results to be much the same. The master scholar stored his precious notes and working papers elsewhere—he knew it, in one of those illogical leaps of faith your generalist was sometimes taken with. Too bad for him, his intuition was usually right.

But if Can—Maelyn tay’Nordif was going to be meeting with dea’Syl—in his office? In his quarters?—specifically to discuss their work . . . The notes would have to be stolen from the scholar, and whether Maelyn tay’Nordif could pull the thing off or—

“My discussion with our Prime Chair,” she said to the grudent, interrupting these speculations, “brought to mind a matter I failed to mention to you. A pilot is expected, bearing data. It is vital that I have the data—and the pilot—immediately upon arrival. Am I plain?”

Pilot
? Jela thought blankly.
What pilot
?

Grudent tel’Ashon was bowing. “Scholar, you are most wonderfully plain. I, myself, will alert the gatekeepers to expect this pilot, so the data will not be delayed in coming to your hand.”

“That is well, then.” Scholar tay’Nordif reached for the chording wand, her eyes already on her work screen. “You may go, Grudent.”