"Your pardon," he said, "but I couldn't help hearing the practice time. Can you tell me what team made it?"
There was nothing objectionable in the question, although he should have known from their faces and the faded badge on Tabat's coat that they were from a Halex team. Tabat and Rohin exchanged a quick glance, and then Rohin answered coolly, "Ixora Halex, of Halex. Her team."
"I see."
One of the other Brandr had come close enough to hear Rohin's answer, and now she sneered visibly. "Well, that's what they have official timers for."
Tabat sucked in an angry breath, but Rohin touched his shoulder in warning, and the brakesman subsided, scowling. The woman saw, and smiled mockingly at him. Before she could say anything more, however, the man who had spoken first said, "I don't believe I know you. I'm Anath Brandr, of Brandr."
He was talking to me, and the look that had accompanied the words could have been insulting, if he'd known who I was. I kept my expression serene—that kind of insult can be double-edged, and I had discovered long ago that its far more effective to underplay the reponse. "My name is Maturin, sor Anath. Trey Maturin, Halex Medium."
A ghost of a frown passed across Anath's face, quickly suppressed. Clearly, he'd hoped to work up a scandal about the Halex Demi-heir and an out-worlder, and now I'd turned that threat back on him. Mediums are supposed to be inviolate, privileged, kept apart from the intra-Familial bickering, and Anath had come close to involving me. It's too easy to overplay that sort of small advantage, so I kept the knowledge of it out of my expression. Rohin made a choked, triumphant noise, and turned it into a convincing cough. Anath eyed him with disfavor, but said only, "A most impressive time. One can only hope it holds up under official conditions."
He turned and walked away without waiting for an answer, his group coalescing again around him. Tabat made a face as though he wanted to spit, but restrained himself. "How dare he?" he said, but quietly.
Rohin shrugged, not lowering his voice at all. "Jealousy. Brandr hasn't done that well in years—unless their own kin timed them."
"Rohin," I said, warning, but the Brandr were out of earshot.
The Demi-heir shrugged angrily. "I don't care if they hear me, they've said worse—they just accused us of the same thing, for God's sake."
"The medium's right," Tabat said, and sounded as though he grudged it. "We can't start a fight now. After the meeting, maybe, but not now."
Rohin grunted agreement. "Ixora'll show them."
"Even if she drives like a maniac?" Tabat asked, with the ghost of his earlier malice.
Rohin scowled. "Let it go, Tabat."
There was something in his voice that silenced the brakesman. Rohin took a deep breath, and turned to me. "I am sorry you were treated in such a manner, Medium. I can't say I'm surprised, though."
I couldn't help grinning at his formality. "No harm done. And it's bound to make him more cautious next time."
"I doubt it." The Demi-heir took a deep breath, visibly calming himself. "Still, one can hope, I suppose. Have you chosen a viewing point for tomorrow?"
He was right in changing the subject, but it took discipline to do so, and you had to respect him for it. "Not yet," I answered. "I was going to ask one of you for advice."
Rohin's face brightened. "Well, you've a choice," he began, as we started back up the path to our inn. "There're the grandstands, by the finish and by the turn—but," he added, visibly remembering my off-world susceptibility to cold, "the winds get pretty fierce there, especially the day before Sunrise. I think the Axtell are going to let people watch in the Tower, from the greenhouse. . . ." His voice trailed off, and I nodded.
"However, that might be a little uncomfortable for me," I finished for him, "unless there were other Family members there?"
"There might be," Rohin said, but his tone was doubtful. "I'll ask —that'd probably be the most comfortable for you. Damn, it's a pity I didn't think of it before, or I'd've reserved one of the flying carpets. That's the way to see a meeting."
Personally, I wasn't so sure. The flying carpets—great lumbering hovercraft about fifty years out of date on the Urban Worlds—always made me seasick. "I would've thought they kicked up too much loose snow to be allowed," I temporized.
"Well, yes, you have to stay back from the course, but not that far," Rohin answered. "You can still follow the teams, and that's the important thing."
I shook my head. "I'll pass. I'll take a place in the grandstand." And I'll freeze, I added silently, but it was better than either the flying carpets or the Axtell Tower. At the latter, the social chill would be even lower than the outdoor temperatures.
Rohin nodded. "I'll see if I can get you a heater," he promised, "and a place inside the windbreak. I'll talk to Jesma—she usually brings everything."
"Thanks," I said, and heard my words ring hollow. I was not looking forward to standing in the cold for hours, even behind a windbreak. You wanted to see a race, I reminded myself, but at the moment I would rather have watched it on a newscast. Rohin didn't seem to notice my doubts, however, and we parted at the inn door, I to my rooms and a hot bath in anticipation of the next day's race, he to find the Axtell in charge of the viewing arrangements.
I rose early the next clock-morning, planning to eat a heavy—sustaming—breakfast before I dressed for the meet. This time, the dining room was crowded with crews and spectators out to grab the best of the unreserved seats, and I resigned myself to a wait. To my surprise, however, almost at once someone touched my shoulder. I turned to find Rohin behind me. He was breathing hard, as though he'd been running, but he flashed me an urchin's grin. I had a momentary vision of Rehur, standing half naked in his room in Destiny, and suppressed it.
"I'm glad I found you, Trey," he said. "I've just got the news, there's a broomstick available after all, but can you fly one?"
I was looking at him in complete bewilderment, and Rohin frowned. "Didn't you get my message?"
I shook my head, still confused. "I'm sorry, no."
"I'm sorry." Rohin paused to collect himself, and gave me a rather wry smile. "You must think I'm crazy. But the Axtell imported a dozen broomsticks two years ago, and they're loaning them out to people who want to follow the meeting close up. I got on the list late, of course, but it's turned out that Pamarista Jan isn't licensed to fly one after all, so I'm next—if I can find someone with a proper license. I thought, since you're an off-worlder, and an Urban Worlder at that, you might have one."
He waited expectantly, looking suddenly younger than his years, and the memory of Rehur vanished. "Rohin," I said carefully, "what's a broomstick?"
"Oh, my God." He grimaced comically. "I'm sorry, a skycycle. A Skyhopper III, to be exact."
I did have a skycycle license, of course—getting one is the major rite of passage for Athenan adolescents—but it had been a very long time since I'd flown one, and I wasn't at all sure I would want to fly a strange skycycle in the cold and in the dark, over unfamiliar territory. The machines are little more than variable-pitch Tavras generators fitted out with steering bars, a throttle, and a padded seat. Some models even leave off the seat. But once again, Rohin's eager expression overrode my better judgment. "I do have the license," I said slowly, "but its been quite a few years since I've flown one of those machines. The Axtell may not want me handling their cycles."
Rohin made a rude noise. "They've only had broomsticks on Orestes for the past calendar-year. Half the people they're letting fly are more likely than not to crack up. Shemer Axtell will be sweating blood until they're all in safe."
Shemer was the Axtell Patriarch, a taciturn, unbending man in his fifties who had only held his post for the past three years. From what I'd seen of him, I guessed he would never refuse to let a guest ride his expensive off-world toys—which weren't cheap even on the Urban Worlds where they were made, and must have cost him close to a year's income from the Kinship, taking into account the transportation and customs fees—but Rohin was right, he
would be sweating blood until each one was returned safely. And he would be the first to demand that anyone carelessly damaging his property observe the code and repay him twice over. More than ever, I wondered if I shouldn't refuse.
I shook myself. I was probably less likely to wreck a skycycle—a broomstick—than anyone else from the Halex party, and knowing Rohin, if I refused him, he'd find someone else who had a license. I smiled to myself then, and admitted my real motive. It was a challenge, a dare, just like every other time I'd ridden a skycycle, and I never turned down a dare.
"All right," I said slowly. "I take it there're thermal suits?"
Rohin nodded, grinning again. "Everything you could want."
"Then let's go see the Patriarch."
Shemer Axtell was waiting in the garages at the foot of the Tower, watching his guests loaded into hovercraft and the larger aircoaches. As we made our way up the shallow steps to the open mouth of the hangars, one of the skycycles flashed past in a great swirl of snow and displaced air, nearly knocking us off the walkway. I heard a squeal of laughter, caught a quick glimpse of the Branch blue-and-gold before the snow blinded me. Behind me, Rohin muttered a curse. As I wiped the melting flakes from my face, I could see that the Axtell Patriarch was watching us—had been watching us for some time, probably—but he did not come forward to meet us.
I took my time, too, adjusting my fur cloak and stepping with deliberate care across the broad threshold. The hangar floor was heated, to keep it from icing over, and free-standing heating units stood in each work bay, their coils glowing red-orange, but the space was too cavernous to be warmed. For once, it was my feet that were warm, and my upper body cold: an unfamiliar feeling, on Orestes, and oddly disconcerting.
Rohin touched my shoulder unobtrusively, and I glanced again at the Axtell Patriarch. He was watching our approach with an expression so carefully neutral as to be utterly disapproving, and I couldn't repress a frown of my own. Rohin had to have spoken with him, told him that he had a friend who could fly a skycycle—which, of course, was the problem. I hid a smile, and lifted gloved hands to fold my hood back onto my shoulders. An older face could only help reassure the Patriarch, I thought, but I could see no relaxation in his rigid stance.
"Sor," Rohin said, carefully, "may I present Trey Maturin, the Senior medium of our Kinship?"
Shemer nodded—it was acknowledgement of my presence and the introduction, as well as agreement—and turned his bleak eyes full on me. He was nondescript of coloring and feature, browns on sandy brown—the Axtell were blond only in the collateral branches—but there were deep, unhappy lines bracketing mouth and eyes. I remembered what I had been told of the shaky state of the Axtell finances, and guessed that much of it was true. The Axtell had gambled on the High Dariaga's mines when they took up their Mandate—there was little land suitable for commercial grazing—and it looked as though they were losing that gamble.
"Maturin," he said, and waited.
Rohin tensed, as though he were about to speak, then seemed to think better of it. We stood silent for a few seconds, and then Shemer's frown deepened even further.
"Urban." It was not a question.
"I'm an Athenan."
Shemer grunted, and glanced quickly at Rohin. "He tells me you're licensed to fly broomsticks."
"Yes, sor," I said, and smiled. "But as I told Rohin, I haven't flown one in some years."
Shemer eyed me for a moment longer, then made a sort of shrug-movement, quickly checked. "I trust you're still proficient, then, Medium."
So do I, I thought, but he wasn't really waiting for an answer. "The broomstick is over there, and the suits. There's food packed, too, if you want it. It was for Pamarista."
There was something in his tone that made me give a cautious answer. "I wouldn't want to waste your people's labors, sor, but we couldn't deprive the lady."
Rohin said, "I thank you for the offer, sor—as long as it wouldn't inconvenience Pamarista." There was the slightest of edges to his last words, and Shemer flushed angrily.
"If you want it, it's yours—by my gift. She'll have no complaint." I remembered then that the woman's full name was Pamarista Jan—Jan was a branch of the Brandr Kinship—and was glad I'd watched my words. "Thank you, sor," I said. "We'll accept gratefully." Shemer's face eased a little at that, and he gave me a grudging nod with the conventional answer. "May you not go hungry." He glanced at Rohin and nodded toward a door set into the far wall. "The suits and all are in the changing room. You'd better hurry."
It was a dismissal, though not quite abrupt enough to be insulting. I followed Rohin across the bays to the door Shemer had indicated, but shook my head when Rohin offered to let me change first. The skycycle was waiting in the next bay, and I wanted to take a look at it. The Demi-heir grinned, and vanished into the warmed cubicle.
I didn't wait, but stepped across the bumper strip into the bay. The mechanic who had been tending the skycycle looked up warily at my approach, and came to meet me, neatly cutting me off from the cycle.
"Can I help you, Medium?"
The accent was Urban, and I smiled. "What's the model number?" The mechanic, small and dark and heavily muscled, did a quick doubletake, then smiled back. "Skyhopper III. You know it?"
"I've flown the II," I answered.
The mechanic's grin widened. "Same machine, less power. You won't have any trouble." He glanced at my face again, then at my hands, the only parts not concealed by the furred cloak. "Annwnite?"
"Athenan," I said, a little sharply—Annwn, strictly speaking, isn't one of the Urban Worlds—but his response was flatteringly prompt.
"Sss, no trouble then," He turned to the cycle, and drew back the groundsheet with a gentle hand. "It's a standard configuration, but you've got a big-ear and hot glasses for the race—if you want them."
I bent over the cycle, pretending to examine the rudimentary control panel. It had been a long time—a very long time—since I'd last flown one, but it was not a skill you could easily forget. The indicators—airspeed/groundspeed, fuel, power output, altitude and attitude—showed dead, not even the flickering of warmup and standby, but my imagination supplied the right readings, filled my ears with the roar of the engine. . . . I brought myself back to reality with an effort. "Hot glasses?" I said. "What would you want IR coverage for out here? I wouldn't think you could get any sort of detail that way."
The mechanic gave a scornful grunt. "You can't. But some of them want to be sure they don't miss anything about the race." He shook his head, the smile fading. "I keep trying to get the drivers not to wear them. There's going to be a hell of a crackup one of these days."
"Well, I'm certainly not going to," I said. "Can you get me a good headset, instead?"
"That I can do." His eyes shifted, caught by a movement behind me. "I'll have one for both of you by the time you're changed."
"Thanks," I said again, and turned. Rohin had just come out of the changing room, and was making his way across the bay to join us. I nodded to him as our paths crossed, and went on into the little cubicle, shutting the door behind me.
There were wall heaters on three sides of the narrow room, warming the air just enough to allow a person to change from everyday clothes to a thermal suit without freezing in the process. I sorted through the racked suits until I found one in my size, then stripped, shivering, and pulled it on. It was a strange feeling to be wearing one of those again—a sportsuit is basically a spacesuit liner that's failed its vacuum tests—and even stranger not to put the armor and support pack on over it. The last time I had worn a spacesuit was on Andvari, a miserable time and memory if ever there was one; I hadn't worn a sportsuit since a summer on Baldur, six months before I left the theater—another unpleasant memory.
I shook myself, hard. There was no point in dwelling on those times; I had agreed to fly Rohin to watch the race, and I would keep that agreement. I would even do my best to enjoy it: after all, I was the one who had been wanting to see a hoobey rac
e. I chose a flat six-hour power pack from the stack in the wall cabinet, and clipped it into the belt connector. After a little fumbling, I found the right switches, and the suit began to heat up, warming me from the skin in. I plugged the matching gloves into the wrist sockets, and felt that fabric begin to warm up, too. I kept my own heavy overboots, though, and after a moment's hesitation, slung the cloak over my shoulders again. In my experience, sportsuits were never very good at keeping out the wind. People told me it was purely psychological, but I was sure I'd be glad of the cloak as a windbreak. I fastened its clasps carefully, awkward even in the thin gloves, and then, as well armored as anyone could be, stepped back into the bay.
The mechanic had stripped the groundcover off the skycycle, and started the engines ticking. I could feel the vibrations in the floor of the hangar; the noise cut off all possibility of conversation.
He had put the cycle up onto a starter stand, too. I couldn't help raising an eyebrow at that—stands were for inexperienced riders—but the mechanic winked and jerked his head toward Rohin. He had a point, and I accepted my headset without complaint. The power jack was at the back of the collar, impossible to reach. The mechanic twitched the cord out of my hand and plugged it in.
"Twelve point six," he shouted, and I adjusted the dial until I found the general control frequency. "Ultra-short's under your left thumb."
That was for talking to my passenger. I nodded and stepped up onto the stand, then swung myself onto the skycycle. The vibration from the leashed engines set my teeth rattling. I felt along the control bar until I found the switch for the ultra-short-range communicator and pressed it.
"Are you ready, Rohin?"
"Any time." The Demi-heir's voice sounded just a little uneasy, but he stepped onto the stand eagerly enough. The mechanic steadied him as he settled himself onto the padded seat behind me. I gave him time to find the hand- and footholds, then asked, "All set?"
The Kindly Ones Page 11
