The Crystal Variation

by Sharon Lee

  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.

  THIEF

  FOUR

  Landomist Port

  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 Horticul
tural 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.”

  The portmaster looked up. “Landomist requires that an inhibitor be installed in all mobile constructs.”

  The scholar raised a slender hand. “Your pardon,” she murmured. Turning her face aside, she snapped at the kobold. “Jela! Place the plant gently on the floor and walk forward to the counter.”

  This the creature did, moving with a slow-witted deliberation that confirmed its “laborer” class, its footsteps sounding loud and slow against the floor.

  “Display your inhibitor,” the Scholar instructed.

  The big clumsy hands came up and parted the leathern collar, revealing the thick throat and an expanse of wide, hairless brown chest. About the throat and across the chest were intricate lines of what at first glance appeared to be tattoo, but which a second, more sanguine, scrutiny found to be ceramic threads woven into the kobold’s skin.

  The portmaster leaned forward, extended a hand and rubbed his fingertips across the woven strands. The rough surfaces pulled at his skin. “I . . . see,” he said, and leaned back, frowning.

  “Is something amiss?” Errant-Scholar tay’Nordif inquired after a moment. “I assure you, sir, that I do not wish in any way to endanger the citizens of Landomist.

  That was well-said, the portmaster allowed, yet he felt that she might lose her concern for the public safety were her kobold impounded, or if she should be required to have it refurbished at one of the port shops. Nor would he blame her, either option being more of an expense than it was likely a returning Errant-Scholar could meet. Also, the information provided by her patron made it plain that the kobold and the plant were considered one unit, of which the more valuable portion was the plant. The portmaster looked to the scholar.

  “You understand,” he said, “that this—” he flicked his fingers at the kobold— “is not the . . . usual device that we employ here on Landomist. I fear that the regulations may require you to have it adjusted at your cost, or to see it impounded.”

  Her face lost color. “Impound my patron’s parting gift?” She exclaimed in horror. “Sir, I—is there nothing, no sub-regulation which perhaps accommodates persons who are to be on Landomist for only a short time, yet require the services of a kobold or other construct?”

  That was a thought. The portmaster frowned, then moved to his screen. “A moment,” he said. “It may be that there is something—”

  The regs came up; he quickly found his place, perused the language and leaned back.

  “The provision is for short-term visits only,” he said. “This office is, in the case of visits of less than two Common Months, required to certify that the inhibitor is the equivalent of a standardized device, and may be invoked by the Landomist general disciplinary band.”

  The scholar raised her arm, displaying a slender wrist enclosed by a wide silver cuff, set with three glittering stones.

  “This device is the controller tuned to this particular construct,” she said. “Alas, it is also tuned to me; should I remove it for your inspection, it will require retuning by an expert of the form.”

  “I see. However, it will not be necessary to compromise your device, Scholar. What the law requires is proof positive that the standard device in use upon Landomist will be adequate to subdue this creature, should the need arise.” The portmaster reached beneath the counter and produced the standard device in question. “You permit?”

  The scholar inclined her head. “I do. Indeed, I insist. The law must be honored, sir.”

  This was so novel a concept the portmaster actually blinked, then smiled into the scholar’s face. A pleasant lady, she was, if naive, and accepting of his authority.

  “But a moment,” he murmured and touched the sequence for mid-level pacification.

  Instantly, the kobold moaned, its eyes rolling up as it dropped to its knees, one quivering hand raised in supplication.

  “I would prefer,” the scholar said, “that it not be rendered unconscious, unless proof calls for a complete demonstration. It does not recover well, I fear, and there is the specimen to be transported . . .”

  The kobold’s brown face was growing darker; low, hideous sounds came from its gaping mouth.

  “I believe we have established an equivalency,” the portmaster said, triggering the end sequence and turning away from the creature with relief. “It is not my intention to cause you inconvenience, Scholar.”

  Released, the kobold folded forward until its face was against the floor, its leathered sides heaving. The scholar sighed sharply.

  “Stand up, Jela!” she snapped impatiently. “Resume your work!”

  The kobold shifted like a pile of rocks, lumbered to its feet, and stepped back to its original place. Bending, it wrapped its arms about the pot, hefting it and the tree.

  “Should your business at the Tower bear fruit,” the portmaster said to the scholar, “you will be required to see the creature modified before the end of two months Common.”

  “I will see to it as soon as my seat is secure,” she promised.

  “I will prepare the documentation immediately,” the portmaster said. “One moment.” He slipped the tile into a frame, located the proper permit in the archive, and transmitted it, with the date and his name. That done, he returned the tile to its setting, resealed the document case and extended it to the waiting scholar.

  “Welcome to Landomist,” he said, smiling.

  Errant-Scholar tay’Nordif received the case with a smile and a polite bow. “Thank you, sir,” she said, and snapped over her shoulder at the kobold, “Follow me, Jela! Now!” and left the office.

  It was only later, when he was processing a stasis box full of genetically altered carnivorous roses, that the portmaster realized that he had forgotten to assess Scholar tay’Nordif her fee.

  FIVE

  Osabei Tower

  Landomist

  THE MERCY BELL HAD RUNG in the Evening’s Peace; truth-blades had been sheathed and proofs lain down until the morrow. In accordance with Tower protocol, the admissions committee had gathered in the public room, ready to entertain the petitions of any and all supplicants. Such was the force of tradition in Osabei Tower that the committee gathered despite a continued and marked lack of supplicants petitioning for admission to the ranks of the Seated. Conditions on the frontier, so they had heard, were unstable, which would doubtless account for the shortage. Indeed, the few Errant-Scholars who had lately arrived at the Tower to sue for a Seat had without exception been those who had chosen to study closer to civilization. No one Wandered the frontier anymore—it was much too unsafe, what with the war which the so-called military did its least to end.

  Neither did Osabei Tower, unlike other Towers less devoted to scholarship, conduct outreach in order to draw grudents, Errant-Scholars and light-pupils to them. The Governors held it as an article of faith that the best and brightest would of course come to Osabei, the first, the oldest, and the most prestigious of the Mathematical Towers.

  Conditions within the discipline being what they had been over the last few years—quite a number of radical new theories had been proposed and put to proof—a continued lack of eligible Errant-Scholars seeking a seat within the Order would in approximately two-point-three-four-four-eight Common Years become troublesome. But there was as yet no cause for concern.

  So unconcerned was the admissions committee—and so certain that this evening would, like a long tale of previous evenings, bring them no supplicants to judge—that Seated Scholar Jenicour tay’Azberg had, as had become her habit, brought along a deck of cards and had enlisted chi’Morin, dea’Bel, and ven’Halsen in a game of Confusion. It was of course, a br
each of Tower protocol to engage in any form of the art mathematical—which gambling games most certainly were—after the ringing of the Mercy Bell, but so formidable was Scholar tay’Azberg with a truth-blade that such small liberties were for the most part overlooked.

  The fifth member of the committee, Seated Scholar and Committee Head Kel Var tay’Palin, was unabashedly napping, for which the sixth and final member, Seated Scholar Ala Bin tay’Welford, blamed him not at all. tay’Palin had been increasingly called upon of late to provide proofs of his work, and the strain was taking its expectable, regrettable, toll. That the man was tay’Welford’s own immediate superior and the head of the Interdimensional Statistics Department only made his decline more poignant. tayreported to Master Liad dea’Syl himself—a signal honor, though the Master was frail and had not left his rooms to walk even among those of his own discipline for—

  The door slid back with a soft sigh, admitting the ostiary, who went down to a knee, head bowed, eyes stringently focused on the ebon floorboards.

  “A supplicant comes!” she cried cleverly, thereby granting poor tay’Palin a chance to snort into wakefulness and for cards to vanish discretely into scholarly sleeves. tay’Welford set his logic-rack to one side, smoothed his robe and folded his hands onto his lap.

  “Admit the supplicant,” tay’Palin said to the ostiary, his voice calm and scholarly.

  The guard brought her hand up in the sign of obedience, and leapt to her feet. She straddled the doorway—one foot in the foyer, one foot in the committee room, and called aloud, “The admissions committee will hear the supplicant’s prayer!”

  There was a moment of . . . stillness, as all scholarly eyes turned toward the door. tay’Welford noticed that he was breathing rather quickly, in anticipation, then a shadow moved in the foyer, coalesced into a slender woman in the green tabard and yellow sash of a Errant-Scholar. She walked forward precisely seven paces and dropped to her knees, head bent, arms held away from her body, palms out, fingers wide and pointing toward the floor.