by Sharon Lee
“This action of Scholar tel’Elyd was witnessed by Scholar vel’Anbrek, nor does tel’Elyd deny it. However, it is the judgment of the Prime Chair that in striking Scholar tel’Elyd in punishment for those liberties taken with the construct, Scholar tay’Nordif has placed a scholar on the same plane as a base creature. This affront to Scholar tel’Elyd’s honor must be mended.”
With a flourish, he brought the sticks out and down to shoulder level. Each scholar stood forward and armed themselves, then spun to face each other, dueling stick held in the neutral posture.
“These two of our worthy colleagues shall contend as equals. The point goes to whichever counts to six upon a fallen opponent. This duel is not to the death. As it is a personal matter, truth-blades may not be employed.” He gave each of the combatants a long, grave look, and dropped back to the outside of the rectangle.
“You may engage upon my count of six,” he said. “One . . .”
Scholar tel’Elyd spun his stick, getting the feel of it, Tor An suspected, that having been the route advised by those who had sought to instruct him in self-defense: Always test the weight and balance of an unfamiliar weapon, conditions permitting.
In contrast, Scholar tay’Nordif stood gripping the stick tightly in the neutral position, her stance stiff and awkward. He wondered if the scholar had ever received self-defense instruction and hoped for her sake that the Osabei Tower weapons-master kept the charges on the dueling sticks toward the low end of match range.
“Three . . .”
Scholar tel’Elyd took up the stance; legs slightly apart, knees flexed, right foot pointed at the opponent, left foot at a right angle, primary hand at the bottom of the handle, off-hand above, spine relaxed and slightly curved. Tor An was slightly heartened to see Scholar tay’Nordif arrange herself in a similar configuration, though she stood too tall and too stiffly, her feet were placed awkwardly, and her hands were too close together.
“Six,” said Prime Chair.
Scholar tel’Elyd snapped his ‘stick sharply, releasing a heavy blue bolt in the direction of the hapless Scholar tay’Nordif. To Tor An’s mingled surprise and relief, she managed a credible parry, the sizzle of mingling energies loud in the sudden silence, finishing her move with a neat little twist that sent a glob of red speeding toward her opponent—who destroyed it with a sneer and shook another heavy bolt from his ‘stick, and a second more quickly than Tor An would have believed possible, had he not seen it for himself. Scholar tel’Elyd must have a supple wrist, indeed.
Scholar tay’Nordif deflected the first of the pair, but at the expense of her precarious stance. The second bolt got through her wavering defense, and scored a solid hit on the her hip.
She flinched, her hand dropping instinctively—and disastrously—to the wound. Scholar tel’Elyd followed up his advantage immediately, sending a line of short bursts one after the other in a really remarkable display of skill.
Scholar tay’Nordif parried, one-handed, off-balance and, as Tor An knew from his training, hurting, but it was plain who was the master of the duel. Scholar tel’Elyd could put up his ‘stick at any time and no one among the silent spectators would challenge his win.
But Scholar tel’Elyd was not disposed to be merciful. Whatever dispute stood between him and Scholar tay’Nordif, it quickly became clear that he considered a telling demonstration of superiority at arms to be inadequate balance.
Scholar tay’Nordif swayed under the pain of repeated strikes, and flung an arm up to shield her eyes. Her dueling stick fell from her hand and lay, sparking fitfully on the surface of the dueling court. Tor An waited for Prime Chair to rule the match ended and tel’Elyd the victor, but the man stood mute at the sidelines, calmly watching the punishment continue.
This was no longer a duel, Tor An thought angrily. He started forward, meaning to end the thing himself—and found a hard, broad shoulder blocking his way.
“He goes too far!” he said, loudly, in Jela’s ear.
There was no sign that his escort heard him, but someone on the benches above them did.
“He goes too far!” A woman’s voice called out. “Honor has been rescued. Brute punishment only tarnishes it anew!”
The cry was taken up by others around the room, and very shortly, Tor An had the satisfaction of seeing the scholar’s hand falter. He straightened out of the dueling crouch and pointed his ‘stick at the floor.
Then only did Prime Chair step forward, placing himself between the victorious scholar and the beaten.
“Honor has been rescued!” he announced. “The matter between Scholars tel’Elyd and tay’Nordif has been balanced and shall be spoken of no more.”
There was general, sparse applause, and a bell rang.
“Colleagues!” Prime Chair called. “It is time to lay down our labors and meet in the common room!”
Warm fingers touched his hand. Tor An looked down to see Jela moving across the floor, angling for one of several doors. He stretched his legs to catch up.
ALL OF ROOL TIAZAN’S sincerity regarding “luck” and its fondness for him, the tree, and especially Cantra hadn’t prepared Jela for the moment when the yellow-haired pilot staggered into the office, helped along by a kindly shove from Grudent tel’Ashon.
It was enough to turn an old soldier to religion, and no use, he decided, trying to work out if the luck had whispered the pilot’s nearness to the scholar or simply shoved the pilot into the scholar’s path. What mattered was that he had arrived—and that the mission had need of him.
He put the key in its niche atop the controller and waited while their home stair lowered itself. It had taken all his discipline to thrust the memory of the duel between Maelyn tay’Nordif and Den Vir tel’Elyd into the back of his mind. Those strikes—hefelt each one as if the energy had lashed his own nerves. And if ever proof were called for that Cantra yos’Phelium had died in creating Maelyn tay’Nordif, that duel was everything that was needed.
The end of the stair touched the floor. He retrieved the key and walked into the very middle of the ramp so the pilot, who had followed silent and uncomplaining, from the dueling hall, would not feel exposed. Or, he amended as the stair began to rise, not much exposed.
The stairway seated itself at the proper floor and he led the way to the door of the scholar’s quarters. Again he used the key, stepped inside and did a rapid scan.
The cat was crouching on the galley counter, tail wrapped around its toes, amber eyes hooded. The tree sat in its pot by the door; Jela received a flutter of interested curiosity as Tor An yos’Galan stepped into the room. The hacks were in place and emitting on the proper frequency. He sighed and turned.
“Brrrrrt?” The pilot said, his soft voice shocking against the high hum of the hacks. He approached the cat, who watched him with interest, and gave the finger he extended careful study before daintily touching it with its nose. The pilot smiled, which made him look ridiculously young, and very tired.
“What’s his name?” he asked, sliding a sideways glance at Jela from beneath heavy golden lashes.
“The scholar calls it Lucky,” he answered, and the sound of his own voice startled him. It seemed years since he had last spoken.
The pilot inclined his head gravely, and rubbed the cat under the chin. “Lucky, I am very pleased to make your acquaintance,” he murmured. “I have been missing cats.” He straightened, carefully, sending another of his sideways glances at the tree. “And plants. At my . . .” His voice broke. He took a hard breath, and began again, resolutely. “At my home, there is a back garden and a certain piata tree of which I . . . am most fond.”
Inside Jela’s head a picture formed: A half-grown dragon staggering across a grey sky, wings trembling, rock-toothed cliffs too near below . . .
Right.
“I couldn’t help but notice that you’ve been wounded,” he said to Tor An yos’Galan. “I have a kit, if there’s need.”
This time the look came straight from amethyst-colored eyes. “T
here may be need, I thank you. The wound is in an awkward place. I’ve done my best, but—”
Jela waved him to a stool. “Take your jacket off, then, lad, and let’s see what you have.” He crossed the room to get the kit from Scholar tay’Nordif’s travel bag.
* * *
“Well,” Jela said a few minutes later, keeping his voice light for his patient’s peace of mind. “That’s as pretty a burn as I’ve seen in some time.” It would leave a black, ridged scar on the boy’s soft golden skin, but that was minor. The important news was that it was healing well, with no sign of infection or any ancillary damage. “I’ve got something here that’ll leach the last of the heat,” he said, easily. “It’ll feel cold.” He broke the ampule and rubbed the lotion into the burn site. His patient hissed, shoulders tensing, but otherwise made no complaint.
“Give that a count of twelve to set, then we’ll get a dermal-bond on it.”
“Thank you,” the boy murmured, the starch already leaching out of his shoulders, which would be the topical anaesthesia starting its work.
“How did you come by that particular wound?” Jela asked, sorting through the supplies and pulling out a sealed bond pack. “If it can be told.”
Tor An sighed and moved his shoulder experimentally.
“The captain of the garrison on Korak ordered me shot,” he said in a tone Jela thought was meant to be expressionless, but which carried a payload of anger and terror.
If that were the case, the boy was lucky in his own right. Jela began to repack the kit.
“Why?” he asked, though he thought he knew.
“I went to them—to the garrison. I thought the military commander might investigate the fact of the Ringstars . . . vanishing. The trade office would only—” hard breath— “would only list the route closed and the ports unavailable.”
Jela cracked the seal on the dressing and stretched it wide between his fingers, eyeing the burn site.
“The soldier—on guard,” Tor An continued, and despite his best efforts his voice was sounding a trifle ragged. “The guard said that the Ringstars were far from the first to go missing, and that in anywise it was none of Korak Garrison’s affair, as they’d been called back—called back to the Inner Arm.”
“Well, the guard was right that the military’s being moved back,” Jela said judiciously. “You’ll feel some pressure now, and it might nip you a bit, which I know you won’t regard, Pilot.”
He moved quick, and as sure as he was able. Despite the topical it must’ve hurt, but Tor An yos’Galan sat a quiet board.
“Good lad,” Jela murmured approvingly. “You’ll do fine, now.”
The boy sighed, and simply sat for a moment, then slid off the stool and reached for his shirt, which the cat was sitting on, all four feet poised beneath it. Tor An smiled.
“I believe my need is greater,” he said politely and extended one slim hand, scooping the cat up beneath its belly, cool as you please, while liberating his clothing with the other.
“Thank you,” he said, replacing the cat in its spot. “Your understanding during this difficult time is appreciated.”
The cat, which had endured both handling and nonsense with nary a spit nor a glare, settled itself flat onto its belly and curled its front feet against its chest. Tor An shook out his shirt—good quality, Jela saw, but plain. Respectful and quiet. Much like the boy himself.
Jela finished his own tidying up, and carried the kit back across the room, replacing it in the scholar’s baggage.
A chime sounded.
Jela spun, pleased to see that the boy had done so as well, fingers gone quiet on the fastenings of his shirt.
The chime sounded again.
Tor An sent a questioning glance in his direction; Jela replied with a quick flicker of pilot hand-talk: Answer.
The lad blinked. “Who is it?” he called, finishing up with the shirt.
“Please,” called a stilted, childlike voice. “Food arrives for Scholar tay’Nordif’s pilot.”
“Ah. Just a moment.” He moved, while Jela stayed where he was, out of the immediate line of sight, with his kobold mask in place, on the principle of taking as few chances as possible.
Came the sound of the door opening
“Food arrives for Scholar tay’Nordif’s pilot,” the high voice repeated, clearer now without the filtering of the announcement system. “It is hoped that the meal pleases. Also given are tickets for future meals in the grudents’ cafeteria, after the pilot is rested. The pilot is not permitted to dine with the scholars in the common room. If the pilot has other needs, he may petition Scholar tay’Nordif. Has the pilot questions?”
“None whatsoever, I thank you,” the boy said gravely. He bent; there was a small clamor of cutlery as he received a tray. “Scholar tay’Nordif sends that she will be a little delayed this evening,” the Small chirped, “and prays that in her absence the pilot will regard her quarters as his own, stinting his comfort in no wise. Scholar tay’Nordif very much regrets the delay.”
“I thank you,” Tor An said again, “for bearing this message. I am made quite comfortable here, and anticipate the Scholar’s arrival so that I may express to her my gratitude for her care.”
“The scholar also asks,” the Small continued, “that the pilot honor her by feeding the cat, and seeing that he has fresh water.”
Jela closed his eyes.
“I will do so, gladly. He is a fine cat and has made me very welcome.”
“Message ends. Responses on file,” the high voice announced, and Jela caught the sound of bare feet on tile before Tor An closed the door.
He bore the covered tray to the counter and put it down, giving Jela a troubled look.
“She sends no meal for you?”
“Kobolds don’t eat much,” he answered lightly. Tor An frowned.
“You, my friend, are no kobold. And I am ashamed that I failed to see you as a pilot until you bespoke me just now.”
“I have,” Jela said, leaning a companionable elbow on the counter, “been doing my best not to seem pilot-like.”
“And doing rather well,” Tor An allowed, making a brave attempt not to look famished. “However, you do not seem quite kobold-like, either, if you will forgive my saying so.”
Jela sighed and nodded at the tray. “Eat your dinner, Pilot.”
But it appeared the lad was stubborn as well as mannerly, which, Jela allowed wryly, was only what could be expected from a pilot.
“Why,” asked Tor An, “are you pretending to be a kobold?” He hesitated before adding, politely, “If it can be told.”
Not a bad question, though it meant Jela had to make an immediate decision regarding how much truth it was going to be necessary to tell Tor An yos’Galan.
“Well,” he said, giving the boy a straight, earnest look, “for one thing, Scholar tay’Nordif believes I’m a kobold, and I don’t like to disappoint a lady.”
That earned him an unamused glare from those dark purple eyes before the pilot moved ‘round the counter.
“Why,” he asked, “are you deceiving the scholar in this manner?” He opened the cabinet door and extracted a ration pack of cat food. Jela sighed to himself.
“That’s a bit complicated,” he said, watching the cat dance back and forth along the counter ahead of the boy, doing its all to impede any progress that might be made in opening its rations.
“The Ringstars vanishing is also a bit complicated,” Tor An said tartly, his gaze on the task in hand. “I am not a child, Jela—” He looked up. “What is your name? Pilot.”
“As it happens, my name’s Jela,” he said easily and offered a comfortable grin. The other pilot looked away and put the open ration pack down on the counter. The cat, tail straight up and quivering, fell to. Tor An picked up the water bowl and turned to the sink.
“My full name,” Jela said, having decided on his course in the heartbeat between his last sentence and this, “is M. Jela Granthor’s Guard. My rank is captain a
nd wingleader; and I’m on detached duty to acquire that which may, just possibly, keep the rest of the Arm from following the Ringstars into Enemy territory.”
The slim shoulders tensed. “You are a soldier, then,” Tor An said, a little too breathless to be as uncaring as he obviously wished to appear.
“I am,” Jela said. “But I’m not the sort of soldier who shoots civilians for sport. At a guess, those guards and their captain at Korak were X Strain soldiers—tall, eh? With maybe tattoo work on their faces?”
“Yes,” the boy whispered.
“Right,” Jela said, voice deliberately companionable. “They’re the new design. I’m the old design. M Strain. If there were more Ms and less Xs, it might be that the military wouldn’t be quite so easy with those orders to pull back and cede the Rim and the mid-Arm to the sheriekas.”
Tor An carried the refreshed water bowl to the counter and put it down beside the cat. He looked up, eyes troubled.
“There is something—here?—that will prevent any more disappearances like—do you know what happened to the Ringstars?” It burst out of him like a war cry, and for a moment Jela thought he might put his head down on the counter and weep—but Tor An yos’Galan was tougher than he looked. He mastered himself, took a deep breath and waited, hands folded tightly on the counter.
“I do,” Jela said, warming to the lad. “And I can show you the math. The short of it is that the sheriekas—the Enemy—have perfected a way to decrystalize portions of space. Like the guard at Korak told you, the Ringstars are only the latest in a list that’s getting long fast, and will pretty soon encompass the whole galaxy, unless we liberate the equations that describe the counter-crystallization process from where they’re hidden inside this very Tower.”
Tor An yos’Galan closed his eyes.
“Pilot Jela . . .” he began.
“I know,” Jela said soothingly. “I know it sounds lunatic, but I do have those equations for you. I’ll set them up on a tile array while you eat your dinner.”
