by Sharon Lee
“I hope,” tay’Welford said evenly, “that I never miss an opportunity to be informed.”
“And chi’Farlo had nothing to say to you, eh?” vel’Anbrek laughed loudly at his own small witticism.
“So,” said Scholar dea’San to Maelyn tay’Nordif, her hard voice easily heard over her compatriot’s noise, “you are Liad’s student, are you? I wonder—”
“She is wearing her truth-blade,” chi’Farlo interrupted.
“Well, of course she’s wearing her truth-blade,” returned vel’Anbrek, interrupting in his turn, his voice high and querulous. “She doesn’t look a fool to me, does she to you, Scholar?”
“I’m sure that I couldn’t—”
“And with all the rest of Liad’s students being killed dead as they have—”
“Gor Ton,” snapped Scholar dea’San, “you exaggerate. Not all of Liad’s—”
vel’Anbrek waved an unsteady hand, missing Scholar tay’Palin’s glass by the width of a whisker. “All the important ones,” he said airily. “And I recall young tay’Palin here telling us the scholar is new-come from the frontier. I remember sleeping with my truth-blade during the years of my wandering. Did you not do the same, Elvred?”
“Certainly not! I hope that I never once allowed the traditions of civilization to be overcast by—”
“Bah!” the old man said decisively.
“The meat of the matter, I believe,” said tay’Palin, calmly overriding both, “is that truth-blades are put aside with the ringing of the Mercy Bell. They are not worn at the common meal, Scholar tay’Nordif.”
The scholar abased herself immediately, holding the bow.
“Forgive me, Scholars,” she said humbly. “I am ignorant of custom.”
“Indeed,” Scholar tay’Palin said dryly. “I had trusted that Scholar tay’Welford would hint you toward the accepted mode. It is hardly like him to be so neglectful of one who comes into our own department.”
Scholar tay’Nordif straightened slowly, and sent a hard look into tay’Welford’s face. He smiled at her and raised his glass, waiting.
“The scholar was kind enough to warn me to be on time for the gather, sir,” she said to tay’Palin. “I take him for a man who does not offer advice freely, and I am well-pleased not to stand in his debt.”
A certain boldness to that reply, thought tay’Welford approvingly. It did not do for a scholar to be timid.
“You are gracious to impute such noble motives to Scholar tay’Welford,” dea’San murmured. “However, the more likely case is that he simply forgot.”
“Doubtless, doubtless! Our esteemed tay’Welford can be flutter-witted,” Scholar vel’Anbrek said. “Mind on higher things.” He laughed, so pleased with his sally that he repeated it. “Higher things! Hah!” He raised his glass, found it empty, and lifted it, still cackling.
A servitor detached itself from an animated knot of scholars some steps deeper into the room and came to the old man’s side. It wore an extremely brief tunic, and a half-mask of smart-strands, and stood very straight in order to keep the tray precisely balanced on its sleek head.
vel’Anbrek dropped his empty glass carelessly on the tray, and selected a full glass. Those others of their group who were in need likewise served themselves, including Scholar tay’Nordif. tay’Welford stood holding his new glass, idly watching as she turned her head deliberately to the right, staring hard down room; thence to the left, then again over each shoulder, and finally returned her gaze to the elder scholar.
“Pardon me, sir,” she said courteously, “but I had not heard that all of Master Liad’s students had been—killed, did you say? It seems remarkable to me . . .”
“Nonetheless—” It was dea’San who answered. “And allowing for exaggeration, it does appear that the greater portion of Liad’s students have met their mortality before the fruits of their work was harvested. Most annoying in terms of advancing the discipline.”
“It must certainly be vexatious,” Scholar tay’Nordif agreed, with no discernible irony. “And yet, ma’am, the words of the great philosopher bin’Arli spring to mind—Adversity breeds greatness. Perhaps this trying circumstance will bring forth even greater and more illustrious work from those who are, I believe, the core and the keepers of our discipline.”
“How,” tay’Welford asked delicately into the unsettled silence that followed this, “do you find things on the frontier, Scholar tay’Nordif? We are so retired here, that—were it not for a certain . . . thinness . . . of scholars come to sue for a chair—we should scarcely have heard that there was a war at all, much less the state of the conflict.”
Green eyes considered him with disconcerting straightness.
“Surely you don’t think I sought out the war zones, Scholar? I assure you that I studied the alerts closely and kept myself as far as possible from active conflict.”
“Certainly what anyone of sense might—” chi’Farlo began, and stopped as Scholar tay’Nordif once again executed her peculiar stare into all corners of the room.
“Pardon me, Scholar, but what do you?” dea’San inquired sharply. “You may be new-come from the frontier, but that hardly gives you license to be rude.”
Maelyn tay’Nordif blinked at her, clearly at a loss. “I beg your pardon, Scholar? In what way was I rude?”
dea’San bristled. “Scholar chi’Farlo was speaking to you, and you simply turned your head in that—peculiar manner and ignored her! I would call that rude, but perhaps on the frontier—”
“On the frontier, we call such things not rude, but survival skills,” Scholar tay’Nordif interrupted. “You will excuse me, Scholar, if I suppose that it has been some time since you were last on the frontier. You may not recall the extraordinary and constant vigilance required merely to remain alive. When there is the added imperative of one’s work, strategies must be fashioned and practiced without fail. I therefore have trained myself to survey my surroundings thoroughly every three hundredth heartbeat and have practiced the technique so faithfully that I may now perform this function without breaking the concentration necessary for my work.”
There was a small silence, before chi’Farlo said, with admirable restraint, “But we are not at the frontier, Scholar tay’Nordif. We are in-hall and safe among our colleagues.”
“Doubtless that is true,” tay’Nordif replied. “And doubtless in time I shall craft another technique which will accommodate conditions here. Do you not use such techniques to clear your mind so that you may become immersed in your work, Scholar?”
chi’Farlo, whose ambition might in fairness be said to outstrip her art by a factor of twelve, merely murmured, “Of course,” and raised her glass. It was well, thought tay’Welford, that Scholar tay’Nordif was newly seated and thus too inconsequential for chi’Farlo to challenge.
“If you will allow one who has been Seated for many years advise you, Scholar tay’Nordif?” dea’San said.
“Indeed, Scholar, I am grateful for any assistance,” the other replied, and performed her peculiar stare about the room.
dea’San sighed. “I think you will find, Scholar,” she said loudly, “that your best technique here in the heart of our discipline is to simply immerse yourself in your work, trusting to the safeguards of our Tower and the goodwill of your colleagues.”
Now here, thought tay’Welford, sipping his wine, was a clear equation for disaster. He wondered whether their new sister would be fool enough to employ it.
The bell rang then, calling them to dinner. He accepted dea’San’s arm, chi’Farlo having of course chosen tay’Palin as her meal-mate. That left vel’Anbrek for tay’Nordif, and it must be said that she offered her arm with good grace. So they proceeded to the table in order and took their seats, Scholar tay’Nordif displaying vigilance as they did so.
HE FINISHED WRAPPING the wound, the awkward job made more difficult by the trembling of his icy fingers.
Shot! He’d been shot, well and truly burned, though there was no pai
n. The lack of pain worried him, distantly. He thought he might be in shock. Certainly, he had cause.
And yet, it could have been worse. Much worse. The sound of the soldiers’ laughter still echoed in his ears, his skin twitched from the heat of the bolts that had come close—close. He’d run—run until he thought his heart would burst and still he heard them laughing, firing, but not pursuing.
He was, he supposed, too inconsequential to pursue. It had been a game to the big soldiers—a diversion, nothing more. And if he had died for their fun—well, and what was one less civilian, who should have vanished, anyway, along with his clan and the entirety of the Ringstars?
He was so cold.
One handed, he crammed the ruined jacket and shirt into the ‘fresher, then pawed a blanket from the cupboard and got it ‘round his shoulders.
Staggering slightly, he entered the tower, and half-fell into the pilot’s chair, squinting against the blare of light from the board. One light in particular caught his attention. He angled the chair so that he might reach the board with his good hand, and touched the access button.
“Light Wing,” he said, and was pleased to hear that his voice was steady.
“Yard Authority,” the response came—a crisp, no-nonsense voice that reminded him of Fraea. “Request for amended departure approved. Stand by to receive clearance.”
His fingers moved of themselves, opening the buffer. Somewhere on the board, a light flicked from blue to orange, then back to blue as a chime sounded. These things, he knew, were usual and proper and indicated that the ship was functioning as it should.
Screens came on line. He squinted at the detail provided, and again his fingers moved, waking the engines, feeding coordinates to the nav-brain, locking a flight schedule. Distantly, he thought that perhaps a man who had been shot—a man who was so cold—perhaps that man should not be filing a flight plan and preparing to lift ship. It was a very distant thought, however, and he had necessary tasks to accomplish. He must depart Korak now. He must—the thought faded, but no matter—his fingers knew. A pilot trusted his fingers, or he trusted nothing, Uncle Sae Zar had used to say, and if ever there had been a pilot to behold, Sae Zar—
Something beeped, lights flashed, the forward screens displayed orbital trajectories, energy states, timetables. His fingers moved a last time and the ship gathered itself, surging upward, the force of lift pressing him back into the chair. Distantly, he noted that he was not strapped in, but he couldn’t reach the engage with his good arm, so he left the straps off, as the pressure built comfortingly. The ship—old Light Wing had lifted from more worlds than he had years in his life. She knew what to do, did Light Wing. He left her to it, trusting his fingers to notice any failure and make what amendments might be required.
They came to orbit without mishap. The forward screen showed stars; the secondary a star map, route and transition points clearly marked. There was no reason to change them, though he could not at the moment recall why he should be traveling to Landomist. His fingers had a reason. A pilot trusted his fingers and his ship. They were all he had, in the last counting.
He lost consciousness well before transition, but Light Wing knew what to do.
SEVEN
Osabei Tower
Landomist
BEING INVISIBLE was a marvelous thing, Jela thought. The challenge was to recall that he would immediately and catastrophically become un-invisible should he forget his role and act like he possessed slightly more sense than a rock.
Or, in the present instance, a clothes tree. His part was to stand, stoic and unmoving, holding Scholar tay’Nordif’s unitard, tabard, sash, knife and gloves while she, garbed only in the so-called “discipline bracelet” stepped onto what the tailor was pleased to call the fitter. The tailor then fussed at length about the placement of the scholar’s feet, shoulders and hips, until—
“There! Maintain that position, if you will, Scholar!” The tailor scurried from the platform to a small console, and quickly touched several panels. Beams of multi-colored light burst from all directions to enclose the scholar, giving her shape an unsettling luminescence. Jela twitched slightly when her hair began to rise, and settled himself deliberately. Across the room, the tailor made a satisfied sound, and bent to her console as the light slowly faded.
“You may step down from the fitter, now, Scholar. In a moment, your robe and slippers will be here.” She hesitated, and sent a furtive glance in his direction, lips pursed in a measuring sort of way.
“Will you be wishing to garb your . . . servant . . . more appropriately?” she asked.
Scholar tay’Nordif turned slowly, as he read her, entirely unconcerned by her nakedness, and gave him a long, cold, considering stare.
“It appears to be garbed appropriate to its station,” she said to the tailor. “What do you find amiss?”
The tailor ducked her head. “Only that most of the Tower servants are clothed as you would have seen last evening at the common meal, or—well, here!” This as a Small came bustling from the back, a dark bundle of cloth in her arms, and a matching pair of slippers dangling from one hand. The tailor received the bundle and the slippers, snapped a sharp, “Stay,” and indicated with a sweep of her arm that the scholar should look her fill.
Jela, who had not been invited to look, did anyway.
The munchkin held frozen by her mistress’ command wore only the very briefest blue kilt. A collar set with a stone very like that in Scholar tay’Nordif’s bracelet was fastened tightly about her throat, and her eyes—no, Jela thought with crawling horror, her eye sockets were wrapped in a mesh of smartstrands.
Scholar tay’Nordif sniffed. “All very well for the size and shape on display,” she said, “but I believe that we need not assault the sensibilities of the scholarly community by subjecting them to the sight of Jela clad thus.”
“As you say, Scholar,” the tailor murmured, with a quick, sideways glance at himself. “May I point out that the mask may be of use, as the information uploaded from the slave-brain will confuse any real-time images, and thus preserve the sanctity of your work.” She flicked her fingers at the still-frozen munchkin. “Those servants who are bred for the Tower are of course blind, and the mask then serves as a navigational aid.”
“Mayhap Osabei Tower requires a degree of intellectual rigor in its servants that is neither required—or desired—in a mere horticultural kobold,” Scholar tay’Nordif said with a shrug of her pretty shoulders. “Even had Jela the wit to notice my work, the capacity to understand it is certainly lacking.”
“As you say, Scholar,” the tailor murmured. She snapped a sharp “Go!” to the munchkin, who departed immediately, walking with utter assurance. “A word in your ear, however. The others may wish—”
“If there is complaint,” Scholar tay’Nordif interrupted grandly, “let it be made to me.”
“Of course, Scholar.” The tailor bowed, then bustled forward, slippers held under one arm, shaking the cloth out as she approached. “Your robe, Scholar, if you would care to dress.”
Scholar tay’Nordif held out her arms and the tailor slipped the shimmering sleeves over them.
It was, in Jela’s opinion, a cumbersome garment, made of entirely too much cloth in a deep reddish brown. The shimmer was a puzzle, though he was willing to bet—had there been anyone but himself to take the wager—that there were smartstrands woven into the fabric. That was interesting, if not outright alarming. If the Tower slave-brain was also charged with monitoring—or controlling—the scholars . . .
The tailor sealed the front of the robe. She offered the slippers one at a time, and the scholar slid her slim feet into them.
“Jela! Come here!”
Summoned, he approached until she ordered him to stop and to hand her sash to the tailor. He did this and watched as that worthy wove it around the scholar’s slender waist, carefully tucking up the ends.
Scholar tay’Nordif lowered her arms. The full sleeves fell precisely to her knuckle
s, the robe broke at the instep of her new, soft slippers. Her golden skin and pale hair somehow took light from the dark color, and seemed to glow.
“Jela! Hand me my knife, hilt first!”
He obeyed, handling the ill-kept blade as if it were no better balanced than a crowbar, and stood dull and stupid while she situated it to her satisfaction. That done, she relieved him of the smart gloves, which she held in her hand as she turned to address the tailor once more. In the absence of further orders, Jela stood where he’d been stopped, the unitard and tabard over his arm.
“I will want more than one robe.”
“Certainly, Scholar. You may order as many as you wish. The cost will be charged against your account.”
“My account, is it?” Scholar tay’Nordif fixed her in a cool green stare. “From whom would I learn the status of my account?”
“From the Bursar, Scholar,” the tailor replied and stepped back, her hands twisting about each other as if they had a life and a purpose of their own.
“Ah. I shall speak with the Bursar, then, before ordering more robes.”
“Very good, Scholar.” She tipped her head, sending a sidewise glance at the garments Jela held.
“If the scholar would be so kind as to direct her servant to place the Wanderer’s costume on the table, here . . .”
Scholar tay’Nordif raised a eyebrow. “Does the Tower purchase my clothing?” she inquired.
The tailor raised her hands, fingers moving in a meaningless ripple.
“It is custom, Scholar. You shed the skin of a Wanderer and are reborn into the plumage of a Seated Scholar . . .”
“I see.” said Scholar tay’Nordif. There was a slight pause before she inclined her head. “Surely, there can be no argument with custom. As the great philosopher bin’Arli tells us, Custom carries all before it.”
The tailor blinked, but managed a faint, “Just so, Scholar.”
“Just so,” the scholar repeated. “Jela! Place those pieces of clothing where the tailor directs you.”
