"Awake upon all suits, are you? One supposes you know the name of the respected scholar who is to be our guest, but wonders when you will judge it proper to share that information."
"From you, Aunt Petrella, I have no secrets," her nephew told her audaciously. "The scholar's name is Anne Davis."
"Anne Davis," she repeated, mouth tightening. "And Anne Davis is—naturally!—a scholar of the omnichora. Met perhaps at some delightful musical soiree engineered by those who must delight in—"
"I believe," Daav interrupted gently, "that Anne Davis is a scholar of comparative linguistics, attached to the Languages Department based upon University. If you wish, I will forward copies of her publications to your screen—" he bowed, "in order that you may enjoy informed conversation with the guest."
"Yet another lesson in manners! I am quite overcome. In the meanwhile, what has a concert-quality omnichora to do with a scholar of language?"
"Perhaps," Daav offered, ever more gently, "it is an avocation."
Petrella hesitated, considering him out of narrowed eyes. Daav was notoriously—even foolishly—sweet-tempered. Yet that tone of caressing gentleness was clear warning to those who knew him well: Daav hovered on the edge of displeasure, in which state even his
cha'leket
was hard-put to deal with him sanely.
Accordingly, Petrella relented somewhat in her attack and inclined her head. "Perhaps it is, as you say, an avocation. Doubtless we shall learn more when the scholar is with us." She glanced up, moving both hands in the formal gesture of asking. "One cannot help but wonder why the scholar comes to us at all."
There was a small pause.
"My
cha'leket
allows me to know that Scholar Davis had been a friend of Scholar yo'Kera of Solcintra University. Scholar yo'Kera has recently died and duty of friendship calls Scholar Davis to Solcintra."
"I see." An entirely reasonable explanation, saving only that the mystery of Er Thom's acquaintanceship with Scholar Davis remained—deliberately, as Petrella strongly suspected—unresolved.
Still, another measuring glance at her nephew's face argued the best course was to leave the matter until she might have the entire tale, start to finish, from the lips of her heir.
Embracing thus the more prudent course, Petrella inclined her head. "My thanks. Is there anything else one should know beforehand of the guest, so all may be arranged for her comfort and well-being?"
Amusement gleamed in the depths of Daav's dark eyes. He bowed slightly.
"I believe not. Now, if you will excuse me, aunt, I must away. Duty calls."
"Certainly. Give you good day."
"Give you good day, Aunt Petrella." He was gone, noiseless across the blue-green grass.
An omnichora,
she thought, watching Daav's car down the drive.
To be delivered this afternoon, by all the gods. And if the guest is an expert in her avocation . . .
Grumbling to herself, she rang for Mr. pak'Ora.
"An omnichora will be arriving this afternoon. See it situated."
"Situated, Thodelm?"
She drew herself up in the chair, ignoring the pain the effort cost her. "Yes,
situated
. The Bronze Room is said to have good acoustics—put it there. We'll have a music room."
The butler bowed. "Very good, Thodelm," he said, careful of her mood, and left her.
Alone, she fingered her book, but did not open it. Eventually she nodded off in the warm sun and slept so soundly she did not hear either the arrival of the omnichora or of the technician hastily summoned to tend to the Bronze Room's acoustics.
The Guild Halls of so-called "Healers"—interactive empaths—can be found in every Liaden city.
Healers are charged with tending ills such as depression, addiction and other psychological difficulties and they are undoubtedly skilled therapists, with a high rate of success to their credit.
Healers are credited with the ability to wipe a memory from all layers of a client's consciousness. They are said to be able to directly—utilizing psychic ability—influence another's behavior; however, this activity is specifically banned by Guild regulations.—From "The Case Against Telepathy"
THE MUSIC BUILT
of its own will, weaving a tapestried wall of sound that shielded her from her weary thoughts.
Er Thom was giving Shan a bath, a project that had been under way when she arrived home, and also appeared to include laundering Er Thom's shirt. After a brief glance into the tiny bathroom and hurriedly exchanged hellos with father and son, Anne had retreated to the great room and, as she so often did in times of stress, to the omnichora.
The music changed direction and her fingers obediently followed, her mind beyond thought and into some entirely other place, where sound and texture and instinct were all.
Eyes closed, she
became
the music and stayed thus for time unmeasured, until her attention was pricked by a subtle inner-heard unsound: Her son was with her.
Reluctantly, she became apart from the music, lifted her fingers from the keyboard and opened her eyes.
Shan stood beside her in his pajamas, silver eyes wide in his thin brown face. "
Beautiful
sparkles," he breathed.
Anne smiled and reached down to lift him onto her lap. "Sparkles again, is it, my lad? Well, it's a pretty line of chat. All clean, I see. Did your da live, too?"
"Does he see them often?" That was Er Thom, solemn and soft-voiced as ever, though his dark blue shirt was soaked as thoroughly as his hair. He moved his hand in a measured gesture as she glanced over to him. "The—sparkles."
"Who can tell if he sees them now?" Anne replied, ruffling Shan's damp hair. "Ask him where the sparkles
are
and all you'll get is a stare and a point into blank air." She bent suddenly, enclosing the child in a hug. "Ma loves you, Shannie. Sparkles and all."
"Love you, Ma." This was followed by an enthusiastic kiss on her cheek and an imperative wriggle. "Shan go."
"Shan go to bed," his mother informed him, adjusting her grip expertly and standing with him cradled in her arms.
"
Mirada
!"
But if he was hoping for sympathy from that quarter, he got none.
"To bed, as your mother wishes," Er Thom said firmly. "We shall bid you good-night and you shall go to sleep."
Anne grinned at him. "A plan. Even a
good
plan. Let's see how it holds up to practical usage."
"By all means." He bowed, slightly and with amusement, before preceding her across the room and opening the door to the bedroom.
"Not
sleepy
!" Shan announced loudly and tried one more abortive twist for freedom.
"Shannie!" Anne stopped and frowned down into his face. "It's bedtime. Be a good boy."
For a moment, she thought he would insist: He stared mulishly into her face for two long heartbeats, then sighed and leaned his head against her shoulder.
"Bedtime," he allowed. "Good boy."
"Good boy," Anne repeated. She carried him into the bedroom and laid him down next to Mouse.
"Good-night, Shannie. Sleep tight." She kissed his cheek and fussed at the blanket before standing aside to let Er Thom by.
"Good-night, my son," he murmured in Terran, bending to kiss Shan gently on the lips. He straightened and added a phrase in Liaden: "
Chiat'a bei kruzon
"—dream sweetly.
"'Night, Ma. 'Night,
Mirada
."
"Sleep," Er Thom said, gesturing Anne to proceed him.
She did and he followed, closing the door half-way.
In the common room he smiled and bowed. "A plan proved by field conditions. Shall you have wine?"
"Wine would be wonderful," she said, abruptly aware of all her weariness again. She shook her head. "But I'll pour, Er Thom. You're soaked—"
"Not now," he interrupted softly, testing his sleeve between finger and thumb. "This fabric dries very quickly." He ran a quick hand through bright golden locks and made a wry face. "Hair, however—"
Anne laughed. "Adventures in bathing! You didn't need to take that on, my friend. I know Shan's a handful—"
"No more than Daav and I were at his age," Er Thom murmured, leading the way into the kitchenette. "Based on tales which have been told. Though the process by which one may get soup into one's ears seems to have escaped me over time—"
"It's a gift," Anne told him seriously, leaning a hip against the counter.
"As well it might be," he returned, back to her as he ferreted out glasses, corkscrew, and wine bottle.
Anne put her arms behind her, palms flat on the counter, watching his smooth, efficient movements. Her mind drifted somewhat, considering the slim golden body hidden now beneath the dark blue shirt and gray trousers. It was a delightful body: unexpectedly strong, enchantingly supple, entirely, warmly, deliciously male—Anne caught her breath against a throttling surge of desire.
Across the tiny kitchen, Er Thom dropped a glass.
It chimed on the edge of the counter, wine freed in a glistening ruby arc, and surrendered to gravity, heading toward the floor.
In that instant he was moving, hand sweeping down and under, snatching the glass from shattering destruction and bringing it smoothly to rest, upright on the wine-splashed counter.
"Forgive me," he said breathlessly, violet eyes wide and dazzled. "I am not ordinarily so clumsy."
"It could have—happened to anyone," Anne managed, breathless in her own right. "And you made a wonderful recover—I don't think the glass broke. Here—"
Glad of a reason to turn away from those brilliant, piercing eyes, she pulled paper towels out of the wall dispenser and went to the counter to mop up, avoiding his gaze.
"Just a bit of clean up and we're good as new. Though it is a shame about the wine."
"There is more wine," Er Thom replied, voice too near for her peace of mind. She straightened, found herself caught between counter and table and looked helplessly down into his face.
He raised his hands, showing her empty palms. "Anne—"
"Er Thom." She swallowed, mind stumbling. The man could
not
have heard her lustful thinking, she assured herself and in the next heartbeat heard her voice stammering:
"Er Thom, do
you
see sparkles?"
"Ah." He lowered his hands, slowly, keeping them in full view until they hung, open and unthreatening, at his sides. "I am no Healer," he said seriously. "However, you should know—Korval has given many Healers—and—and dramliz as well."
The
dramliz
, for lack of a saner way to bend the language, were wizards, infinitely more powerful than Healers.
Dramliz
talents embraced interactive empathy and took off from there: teleportation, translocation, telekinesis, pyrokinesis, telelocution—every item on the list of magical abilities attributed to any shaman, witch or wizard worth their salt during any epoch in history.
If you believed in such things.
And Shan,
Anne thought, somewhat wildly,
sees sparkles.
"I—see." She took a breath and managed a wobbling smile. "I suppose I should have inquired further into the—suitability of your genes."
It was a poor joke, and a dangerous one, but Er Thom's eyes gleamed with genuine amusement.
"So you should have. But done is done and no profit in weeping over spoiled wine." He stepped back, bowing gently. "Why not go into the other room and—be at ease? I will bring the wine in a moment."
"All right." She slipped past, assiduously avoiding even brushing his sleeve, and fled into the common room.
"OH, IT'S JUST a mess,"
she was saying some minutes later in answer to his query. "Admin's being as bitchy as possible. You'd think—oh, never mind." She sighed.
"The best news is that everyone seems to be accounted for—but the cost in terms of people's work! Professor Dilling just stood in a corner during the whole meeting and shook, poor thing. I went over to see if there was something I could do, but he just kept saying, 'Thirty years of research, gone. Gone.'" She sighed again, moving her big hands in a gesture eloquent of frustration, and sagged back into the corner of the sofa.
"But surely," Er Thom murmured, from his own corner, "the computer files—"
"Paper," Anne corrected him, wearily. "Old Terran musical notation—some original sheet music. I'd helped him sort things a couple of times. His office was a rat's nest. Papers, old instruments—wood, metal—all blown to bits. Little,
tiny
bits, as Jerzy would have it." She reached for her wine.
"And your own work?" Er Thom wondered softly.
Anne laughed, though not with her usual ration of humor. "Oh, I'm one of the lucky ones. I lost the latest draft of a monograph I'd been working on—but I've got the draft before that saved down in the belly of Central Comp—some student work, files, study plans—that's the worst of it. The important stuff—the recordings, notes, my letters—is in the storage room I share with Jerzy—all the way over in Theater Arts. I doubt if it even got shook up."
"You are fortunate."
This time her laugh held true amusement. "Paranoid, more likely. I didn't care to have my work sitting about where just anyone could pick it up and read it. As a rule, when I'm working on something, I keep the notes with me—in my briefcase—and I have a locked, triple-coded account in Central Comp." She smiled, wryly. "Welcome to the world of cutthroat academics. Publish or perish, gentlefolk, please state your preference."
"'Who masters counterchance masters the world'" Er Thom quoted in Liaden. He tipped his head. "Central Administration—there are new duties required of you, in the face of this emergency?"
"Not a bit of it!" Anne assured him. "All that is required of us is that we continue precisely as we would have done, had the Languages Department not been—
redecorated
—in this rather extreme fashion. Exams are to be given
on schedule
—Central Admin has located and assigned—alternative—classroom space! Grades are to be filed
on time
—no excuses." She threw her hands up in a gesture of disgust.