The Crystal Variation

by Sharon Lee

  Whether providing him with a thorough-going fool for a partner in the rescue of life-as-they-knew-it was the Rimmer pilot’s notion of a joke—no. No, there was good reason to acquit her there, too.

  For all her faults, Cantra yos’Phelium was a woman of her word. She’d pledged her help, which she would have never done unless she intended to deliver. Which meant that there was something Maelyn tay’Nordif could accomplish to the benefit of the mission that Cantra couldn’t have. It was his own lack of imagination, that he couldn’t think of anything Cantra yos’Phelium might fail to accomplish, given her word and her intent.

  Trust, the Rimmer pilot whispered from memory—and it might truly be, he thought, that the only place that pilot existed anymore was in his memory. He took a hard breath, trying to ease the sudden constriction of his chest. Cantra yos’Phelium deserved to live on in the memories of twelve generations of pilots, not sentenced to unsung oblivion when the M who’d asked—and received—a death of her grew old all at once, and died.

  Only weeks, now.

  He shook that line of thought away, though not the melancholy, and applied himself once more to making sense of this sudden tale of a pilot expected, bearing—

  The door chime sounded. He opened his eyes, and saw the scholar hunched over her screen, apparently oblivious.

  The chime sounded a second time, followed by a man’s voice.

  “Prime Chair tay’Welford requests entrance.”

  At her desk, the scholar muttered something in a dialect Jela didn’t recognize, though he figured he got the drift from her tone. She lifted the wand, and chorded in a brief command—very likely, Jela thought, shutting down her work screen, so Prime Chair wouldn’t be tempted to steal her work.

  “Come!” she called, slipping the wand into its holster. She spun her chair and stood, arms down straight and a little before her, fingertips just touching the surface of her desk.

  The door opened and tay’Welford stepped within, his sash now bearing those items of office which had previously adorned Prime tay’Palin. Scholar tay’Nordif bowed, briefly, and with neither grace nor art.

  “Prime Chair, you honor my humble office.”

  tay’Welford looked ‘round him, measuringly, thought Jela.

  “Your office seems quite comfortable, if I may say so, Scholar. Certainly far more so than when ser’Dinther held it.”

  “It is well enough,” she answered, “for a beginning.” She lifted a hand, indicating one of the chairs on the far side of the desk. “Please, sit.”

  “My thanks.” He took the chair indicated and spent a moment arranging the fall of his robe. Scholar tay’Nordif sat after he did, and folded her arms on the desk.

  “I do not,” tay’Welford murmured, “wish to infringe upon your time any more than is needful, Scholar, so I will come immediately to the point of my visit. Scholar tel’Elyd has made a formal grievance against you, and he has stated that he will pursue satisfaction to the fullest—”

  “Scholar tel’Elyd,” the scholar interrupted hotly, “mounted a dastardly and craven attack against my work, Prime! It is not to be borne, and if either of us should have cause to call for satisfaction, it is myself!”

  “Ah.” tay’Welford inclined his head, and spoke seriously. “I wonder, Scholar, if you would give me the particulars of this attack upon your work?”

  “Certainly! I found him abusing the kobold given for my comfort by my patron, in such a manner as to deprive me of its services since—and likely for the remainder of the day!”

  “And the kobold,” tay’Welford said cannily. “I understand you to say that it is necessary to your work?”

  Sitting at the floor at the rear of the room, back against the wall, Jela wished he could get a good look at tay’Welford’s face. Cantra yos’Phelium had been able to read a lie off the twitch of a man’s earlobe, but he had no evidence that Maelyn tay’Nordif could do the same. tay’Welford’s tone had the feel of a trap being set, but what that trap might be, when the old scholar had said right out he’d give evidence that put the lie to the younger’s claim—

  “The kobold is my patron’s gift to me,” Scholar tay’Nordif said stiffly. “It is necessary that I be as comfortable as possible in order to give my best attention to my work.”

  “But to say that the kobold itself is necessary to your work—forgive me, Scholar, but that is quite an extraordinary statement. And to come to blows with a colleague in defense of a base creature—I fear me that demonstrates a lack of judgment we do not like to see within our department.”

  Scholar tay’Nordif sniffed. “And should I have given this so-called tel’Elyd leave to destroy that which has been placed in my keeping? What else, Prime? Shall I allow him to destroy my reference works? My notes?”

  “One’s reference works and notes are—of course!—necessary to one’s continued work. But a kobold, Scholar . . .” He sighed. “No, I do not believe I can allow it.”

  Jela’s chest tightened.

  “I beg your pardon?” snapped Scholar tay’Nordif.

  “I believe that tel’Elyd may have the right of it, Scholar. You chose to place the continued functioning of a base creature above the necessities of a colleague—and that is a very grave thing.”

  “Pray, what necessities had tel’Elyd in the matter? ‘Twas a random act of negligent cruelty, sir!”

  “Alas, it may not have been. tel’Elyd requires a certain amount of titillation in order to do his best work. Happily, his need is fulfilled in the torment of the base, and as he rarely requires more than torment, his necessity is scarcely a drain on departmental resources.”

  “I—” began Scholar tay’Nordif, but tay’Welford had already risen.

  “The matter is clear,” he said definitely. “You will stand to answer tel’Elyd in the hour before the Mercy Bell, today. I shall inform him of my decision.” He inclined his head. “I thank you for your time, Scholar. May your work be fruitful.”

  Slowly, Scholar tay’Nordif came to her feet. She bowed, with even less grace than usual, and held it while Prime tay’Welford turned and strolled leisurely from the room, smiling at Jela as he passed out of the door and into the hallway.

  “Oh,” said Maelyn tay’Nordif, flopping into her chair into her chair the moment the door closed. “Damn.”

  THE PATH the apprentice scholar set through the twisting hallways of the lower tower would have made his head spin had it not been doing so already, Tor An thought. As it was, he was most thoroughly lost and in terror lest his guide, whom he had at last convinced to relinquish his arm, should outpace him.

  The hall opened abruptly into a wide, high-ceilinged room, six of the eight ceramic walls were cast in graduating rows, like seats in a theater. Here, his guide all but ran, and he forced himself into a trot, narrowing his focus to her figure, fleeing and clanking before him. She vanished into another narrow hall. He, perforce, pursued—and very nearly ran over her where she stood, just within the narrow walls, facing a man in beige robes, his sash supporting various fobs and tablets, as well as a naked blade and a pair of smart gloves. The scholar was frowning down at the ‘prentice, who had abased herself. He looked up at Tor An’s arrival and his brows lifted high.

  “Who, may I ask, are you?” The voice was pleasant, though carrying a slight edge—whether of bemusement or outright irritation, Tor An couldn’t have said.

  However, the attitude of the ‘prentice suggested that this was a person whom it would be best not to annoy. Tor, An therefore, bowed as deeply as he was able and straightened with a care he hoped would be seen as respect.

  “My name is Tor An yos’Galan, esteemed sir,” he said seriously.

  “I see.” The scholar paused. “And what might your business be in Osabei Tower, Tor An yos’Galan?”

  The scholar had an open, pleasant face. Surely, so exalted a gentleman, who was in any wise apparently someone of rank in these halls, could be trusted with his—

  “Prime Chair!” the ‘prentice sc
holar had straightened out of her bow and was wringing her hands in agitation. “This is the pilot whom Scholar tay’Nordif expects, bearing the data necessary for her proof! Her word was that, immediately he arrived, he and the data were to be brought to her. Her word, Prime Chair, which I, as her grudent, am bound to obey!”

  The scholar—Prime Chair—turned his attention to her, his head tipped to a side, long brown hair cascading over one shoulder.

  “Ah! Scholar tay’Nordif’s pilot!” he said, in tones of broad enlightenment. “I confess I had not expected to see him so soon!” He stepped back, moving a graceful hand in a sweep along the way they had been traveling. “By all means, Grudent tel’Ashon, deliver the pilot and his data to our good scholar!”

  “Yes,” the ‘prentice breathed. She bowed hastily and Tor An once more had his arm gripped as she hurried him with her.

  “Be well, Tor An yos’Galan!” the Prime Chair called as they rushed away. “I look forward to deepening our acquaintance!”

  “Quickly!” the ‘prentice breathed in his ear.

  “Why?” he demanded. “We’ve been given leave to go.”

  “Because,” she hissed, and without lessening her pace, “scholars are mad. It is the business of scholars to be jealous each of the others’ honors and position. You may be assured that the Prime Chair means to get the advantage of Scholar tay’Nordif and punish her for rising in the esteem of the Master as he has not. And if his punishment is to be depriving the scholar of yourself or your data, then he will take you from her, and not from me.”

  Rushing along at her side, Tor An thought that perhaps it was not the scholars alone who were mad.

  “Why do you serve here, then?” he panted.

  “I have one more local year of service, after which I shall have my journeyman’s certificate. And you may well believe I shall receive it with joy and forthwith seek a position as a mathematics tutor. Here!” She halted before a door exactly like the others lining the hall, and touched the plate with the fingers of her free hand. A chime sounded and she said, loudly, “It is Grudent tel’Ashon, Scholar! Your pilot has arrived!”

  There was small delay before the door whisked open. The grudent all but shoved him into the office beyond, letting go of his arm with a will.

  He staggered, barely sorting his feet out in time to prevent a spill and stood, breathing heavily and head a-spin three long steps into a small office. At his right hand, a man in dark leathers sat on the floor, back against the wall, his brown face lean and inscrutable. Before him, a woman in the now-familiar robe of a scholar frowned from behind a too-clean desk, a data input wand held between her palms, her green eyes cold in a stern golden face.

  “Well,” she said, her voice high and unpleasant against his ear. “At least you had the grace to make haste from Shinto, sirrah!” She pointed her eyes over his shoulder. “Grudent, you have done well. Leave us now.”

  “Scholar.” The ‘prentice’s voice carried a unmistakable note of relief. Tor An glanced over his shoulder, but she was already gone, the office door closing behind her.

  “So, Pilot,” the sharp voice brought his attention back to the scholar, who had put the chording wand down and stood up behind her desk. “Approach. I assume that you have brought the data?”

  Tor An blinked, feeling the datastrip absurdly heavy in its inner pocket. It came to him that it was—perhaps—not wise to have embarked upon this deception. This stern-faced scholar was expecting, after all, a particular pilot bearing particular data with particular relevance to her work, and if the grudent were to be believed—

  “Come, come, Pilot!” the scholar said impatiently. “Have you the data or not?”

  “Scholar,” he bowed, head swimming, and straightened carefully. “I have data. Also, I have information.” He cleared his throat. “The Ringstars are gone. What I bring are the measurements and the logs describing the section of space which is—missing. This may not be—”

  “Yes, yes!” The scholar interrupted, holding out an imperious hand. “That is precisely what you have been paid to provide! Bring it forth, Pilot; I haven’t all day to stand here trading pleasantries with you!”

  He swallowed, and glanced to one side. The man sitting against the wall was watching him from hooded black eyes.

  “For pity’s sake, Pilot! Have you never seen a kobold before? Come, the data!”

  In fact, he had seen kobolds before, and the man on the floor bore a superficial resemblance to those of the laborer class he had encountered. But such a one would never have looked at him so measuringly, nor paid attention so nearly . . .

  “Pilot?” the scholar’s voice now carried an edge of sarcasm. “Am I to understand that you do not stand in need of the remainder of your fee?”

  Abruptly, he was exhausted. Perhaps after all, he thought, he was mad. In any case, this woman, whom he had never seen before, was asking for the very data he carried. How she came to want it or he to have it was immaterial, really. And if a second pilot had been commissioned to gather the same readings, then—surely—that was cause for hope?

  He slid the ‘strip out, stepped forward and placed it on the desk before the impatient scholar.

  She smiled, and peered into his face.

  “You are tired, I see,” she said, suddenly gentle— “and so you should be, having come so quickly from Shinto! Jela will escort you to my quarters, where you may rest yourself. Only allow me to access the data and you may go . . .”

  She plucked the ‘strip up and slid it into her work unit, fumbling the wand in her haste, but at last she chorded the correct commands, and stood watching as line after line of coordinates marched down the screen.

  “Aha!” she said and manipulated the wand quickly before bending to the unit. Eyes on the screen, she pulled the ‘strip out of the slot and put it on the desk.

  “Jela!” she said, loudly. “Stand up!”

  At the back of the room, the leather-clad man slowly and stolidly got his feet under him and rose, rather, Tor An thought, like a mountain rising out of an ocean. At least, until he was fully afoot, when it could be seen that his height was more hill-like than mountain.

  “Now,” said the scholar, “you will—”

  From somewhere—from everywhere—an alarm sounded. Tor An spun to the wall, snatching for the grab-bars that weren’t there. Face heating, he turned back, to find the scholar pale, her mouth set into a hard, pained line.

  “Your pardon, Pilot,” she said with punctilious politeness. “I am wanted elsewhere. A matter of honor, you apprehend.”

  She came ‘round the desk, moving stiffly, her hands tucked firmly into her sleeves. “Jela!” she snapped, as she passed Tor An. “Escort this pilot to my quarters.”

  The door opened. “Pilot,” she said, in a slightly less snappish tone, but without looking at him. “Please follow Jela.”

  Tor An snatched the datastrip up off the desk, slid it into an inner pocket, and turned to see the man Jela moving purposefully toward the door. He bethought himself of the twistiness of the Tower hallways, and hurried after.

  ELEVEN

  Osabei Tower

  Landomist

  THE THIN CORRIDOR was awash with scholars, all talking and laughing, moving with one purpose in the direction, so Tor An believed, of the wide, tiered foyer.

  Jela was well ahead of him, apparently invisible to the chattering scholars, who jostled him rather roughly, until at last he flattened himself against the wall, where he waited with a bland, intelligent patience no kobold ever bred could have mustered.

  Scarcely less jostled, and tender, besides, of his wounded arm, Tor An came to rest at his guide’s shoulder, closed his eyes and took stock. On the debit side of the trade sheet, he was tired, his wound ached, and he was certainly bewildered, while the credit side showed a head more firmly anchored to his shoulders than it had been earlier in the day, and a stomach no longer in open rebellion.

  Progress, he thought. Eyes still closed, he put himself to trying
to filter some sense from the echoing noise.

  It seemed, if he rightly understood the bits and flotsam of conversation that fell into his ear, as if Scholar tay’Nordif were about to fight a duel. What the cause of this might be, he did not quite grasp. He sighed, and settled himself more comfortably against the wall, letting the voices rise and fall about him without trying to net any more sense. He allowed himself to hope that the hallway would soon clear, and that the scholar’s quarters were neither far removed, nor Jela disposed to run . . .

  He felt something touch his hand, where it rested against the wall. He blinked out of his doze to see Jela already moving down the hall in the wake of the last straggler scholars, walking slow and heavy. Something about that nagged at Tor An, as he pushed away from the wall and followed, then faded.

  At the foyer, Jela paused again, in the shelter of the risers, and Tor An did too. Looking over his guide’s sleek head, he could see a wide expanse of empty floor, and the seats rising up the walls across. The noise of voices was not so loud here—not, Tor An thought, because the scholars were talking any less, but because their words were not confined by the hallway.

  Carefully, he placed a hand on Jela’s shoulder. “Let us go,” he murmured, but there was no sign that the other man heard him.

  For the third time, the alarm bell sounded, bringing silence in its wake. Tor An leaned against the riser that shielded them, and resigned himself to wait.

  The tall, brown haired scholar Grudent tel’Ashon had addressed as “Prime Chair” strolled out onto the floor, a dueling stick held in each hand. Behind him came Scholar tay’Nordif, head high and shoulders rigid, and a slim, delicate scholar with cropped sandy hair, and a long timonium chain hanging from one ear.

  Prime Chair stopped in the center of the rectangular dueling area marked out by rust colored tiles, the two scholars flanking him, and brandished the ‘sticks over his head.

  “What we have before us today is a personal balancing between Scholars tel’Elyd and tay’Nordif. Scholar tay’Nordif admits to having struck Scholar tel’Elyd for taking certain liberties with the construct Jela, which she maintains is necessary to her work—” There was a murmur from the audience at this. Prime Chair shook one of the dueling sticks toward the offending section of seats.