by Sharon Lee
“Excellent!” Master dea’Syl said, giving the cat one last chuck under the chin and placing both hands on the control stick. “Allow me to show you the back way out.”
He spun the chair on its pad of air and moved toward the wall through which he’d entered, Jela right behind. Tor An stood where he was, hands fisted at his sides.
“Scholar tay’Nordif—” he protested. Jela sent him a look over one broad shoulder, his face expressionless.
“Our first objective,” he said patiently, “is to secure the equations. No one of us is more important than that.”
Tor An glared. “Your first objective!” He snapped. “I claim no membership in your team of specialists, and I will not abandon Scholar tay’Nordif to—”
Jela held his hands up, showing two wide, empty palms. “How,” he asked quietly, “are you going to get her out of the arena, assuming she’s managed to survive this long?”
Tor An opened his mouth, closed it.
“Right,” the soldier said, sounding weary. “Come along, Pilot. You’re needed at your board.”
FOURTEEN
Osabei Tower Landomist
ABSOLUTE SILENCE filled the arena; the scholars on their benches shocked into silence by her outburst. As who, Maelyn tay’Nordif thought bleakly, would not be? She should abase herself before Prime Chair, beg pardon of her challenger and let the match proceed. To whinge or to argue—it was unseemly; unworthy of one who had attained her long-coveted Seat . . .
“In what way,” Prime Chair inquired, dangerously soft, “do you find this challenge to be fraudulent, Scholar? Do you deny having authored the work under challenge?”
“I do not,” she answered, hastily, before that—other—took the initiative, to what new disaster who could predict? She cleared her throat. “I do, however, object to your continued manipulation of the scholars of this Tower, Prime Chair, and I call upon you to explain yourself!”
Horrified, she brought her hand to her lips, but the terrible words had already been uttered, and hung, vibrating, in the charged air.
“You call upon me—” tay’Welford breathed, and smiled. “Scholar, you misunderstand. It is you who are called to explain certain assertions incorporated in the work referenced in a properly submitted Petition to Prove, which has been filed by one of your colleagues. I have reviewed this petition as well as its supporting documentation, and find that the challenge has merit. You are, therefore, called to defend your work, here and now, before the full gathering of your colleagues.”
“The blades need not enter into it,” she said, reasonably. “Prime, I myself located the error and subsequently repaired it. If you will allow me—”
He turned away from her, raising his voice so those in the most distant seats could hear, “Scholar tay’Nordif pleads a stay of challenge. It appears that she lacks the courage to defend her own work! How say you, colleagues? This Tower is built upon the integrity of its scholarship! Are we to allow this—”
“If this Tower is built upon the integrity of its scholars,” Maelyn heard her traitor voice ring out, “then the walls crumble around us where we stand!” She spun, raising her hand to point at each section of seats in turn. “I call upon the scholars gathered here to do the math!” she shouted. “How many of your colleagues have fallen in proof during the last dozen semesters? How many of them stood between Ala Bin tay’Welford and his ultimate goal—the Prime Chair?”
There was murmuring in the stands now, and consternation. Some scholars rose to their feet, others brought out math-sticks and personal diaries.
“Do the math!” she cried again, as she fought the strange, false conviction that she knew tay’Welford in some other guise, and that she perfectly understood his purpose, which was neither the glory of the Tower nor the preservation of its scholars and their work. “Tally the loss to the field since this man came among you! Consider his purpose!”
“What can we know of his purpose?” someone called down from the stands. “He is a scholar, as we all are; his purpose must be the peaceful pursuit of his work!”
“It is not!” she returned, and knew it for truth. She turned and faced tay’Welford, who stood as a man quick-frozen, as sometimes were the laborers at home, if night caught them outside the dome. His smile was rigid, and his eyes full with dire warning. Behind him, Scholar ven’Orlud frankly gaped.
Fascinated, Maelyn watched her hand rise, the wedge of her fingers pointing directly at Ala Bin tay’Welford.
“This man is no scholar,” she shouted; “he is a liar and a thief. His whole purpose in being here is to lay this Tower to waste in the name of his masters, and to steal away our most precious treasure!”
“You fool!” tay’Welford hissed, and snatched the blade from his sash.
MASTER DEA’SYL SET a brisk pace, leading them through a maze of dusty tunnels, up yet another cargo lift, and thence into another tunnel, this one bearing all the markings of being in current use.
“This way,” Tor An panted, “is not so secret as some.”
“That is correct, Pilot,” the master said, unperturbed. “There is a measurable risk of discovery in this section of our journey. I do assure you, however, that the risk is acceptable—and in any case, it must be run. There is no other path from where we were to the place we must come to. Quickly, now; we are almost—”
Abruptly, the chair braked, skewing sideways on its cushion of air. The pot in the cargo bay slammed against its restraints; the tree’s limbs trembled. Jela flung out an arm, stopping Tor An in his tracks, then crept forward alone, stealthy and silent, to peer ‘round the next corner.
Tor An gripped the side of the carry-chair, watching as Jela raised a hand, palm out, fingers waggling briefly in something that might have been hand-talk for wait.
Moments dragged by; Tor An’s whole attention was focused upon that broad, steady palm—when a spot of damp coolness touched the fingers that gripped the sled’s tumble bar so tightly, he jumped and bit his tongue in his endeavor not to gasp. Glancing down, he saw Lucky the cat looking earnestly up into his face, amber eyes depthless and clear. Carefully, one eye still on Jela, he moved his free hand and rubbed the cat’s ear. His attention was rewarded with a purr so soft he scarcely heard it where he stood—and then Jela’s hand swept out and up—come on.
THE BLADE CAME IN low, impossibly fast. She knew a heartbeat of utter terror before she sidestepped, spinning out of the path of danger in a swirl of robes.
“Murderer!” she shouted. “Thief! Take him! Hold him for the Governors!”
For a instant, it seemed as if every scholar present had been quick-frozen, then a few found their feet and surged forward, shouting. Their movement thawed the others, who swarmed down the stands, some with blades drawn, others with math-sticks still in hand. Crying aloud, they closed on Ala Bin tay’Welford. Scholar ven’Orlud, who yet stood by, abruptly came to life, snatching at tay’Welford’s sleeve, her hand going to the knife in her sash. tay’Welford spun, blade flashing—
Maelyn tay’Nordif did not stay to see more. The onrushing wave of scholars was no longer interested in her, and by dint of dodging, ducking, and simple pushing, she quickly reached clear floor. She paused a moment to take her bearings, thoughts a-whirl with half-grasped questions and calculations—what matter to her where the spaceport lay?—while she pulled the hem of her robe up through the sash, freeing her legs for quick movement. She had the clear sense that a decision had been made, though what it might be, she could not have said. Her feet, however, were better informed. She spun, spied a hallway that matched some parameter of that unknown decision, and began to run.
ONCE AGAIN, they were in an ancient and long-undisturbed supply tunnel. They went more slowly now, Master dea’Syl setting a pace that showed some respect for the tricky footing his carry-chair floated above.
“How time does render us all obsolete,” the old man remarked. “Would you believe, gentles, that this was the main supply line for Osabei when I was a child? Many ho
urs did I labor at the receiving dock, absorbing the principles of practical mathematics. Far too often, I was called to right a supply train which had jumped the track, or to carry out some measure from a barge which had foundered from overload.”
Tor An blinked. “You were a child within these walls, Master?”
“Indeed, I was once a child, Pilot, though I grant one might find it difficult to credit. In those days, you see, it was possible for Houses of a certain status to pledge a child to the Tower from which the House elders wished to receive notice. I am not able to tell you what it was my own House sought, as of course this was never disclosed to me. However, when I ascended to grudent, I was shown the contract of pledge, on which the signatures of all six elders appeared.”
“It seems a hard price,” Tor An observed, blinking away a sudden rising of tears, as he thought of the bustling and busy house that was no more—
“Perhaps. Certainly others have thought so. I cannot fault the arrangement, myself, as in it I found my lifework and perhaps—as M. Jela may have imparted to you—the means to preserve humankind from oblivion.”
The tunnel, Tor An thought, was widening gradually and tending somewhat to the right. He shot a glance to Jela, walking in his chosen position at the rear, and saw that the walls no longer crowded those wide shoulders quite so nearly.
“We are in fact, approaching the very thing which first struck fire from my mathematical curiosity,” Master dea’Syl said, and raised his voice somewhat. “M. Jela, you will find this interesting, I think.”
The tunnel continued steadfast in its rightward tending; the walls widening even more, into a neglected receiving bay. Carts and barges lined the left wall, awaiting cargos; on the right, empty twine spindles were set into the walls, a hose dangled untidily from a cobweb-covered cannister, the graphic denoting spray sealant barely visible through the dust. A shelf still held a set of dust-shrouded tools, neatly laid out by function; a hand-cart and a cargo-sled leaned against the wall beneath. Three tracks described a tricksy dance through the dust—in-going, out-going, and in-process, Tor An thought, oddly soothed by the simple ordinariness of the arrangements. It was plain that the bay had been abandoned for some time, and yet, with only a little bit of cleaning and stocking, it could be made as functional as it had been during Liad dea’Syl’s long-ago boyhood.
At the far end of the hall, where the bay doors would normally be, was a curved blank wall of made of some unfamiliar milky orange material. It gave back no reflection; seemed, indeed to absorb what feeble light came from the panels set into the ceiling, and there appeared to be . . . things . . . moving within and beneath the milkiness. Tor An walked forward, eyes squinted against the vaguely unsettling color, trying to get a clear sight of those . . . things. As he approached, he felt his skin prickle, as if a charge leaked from the . . . whatever it—
“Where,” Jela said, in a voice that Tor An registered as too quiet, “did Osabei Tower acquire this thing?”
“M. Jela, you delight me!” the master exclaimed, as Tor An turned to face the two of them. “Am I really to believe that you know what this is?”
“I’m a generalist, sir,” Jela said, still in that too-quiet voice, “with a special interest over the last few years in sheriekas technology.” He nodded toward the milky orange wall. “Based on my studies, I’d guess that was a shortcut, left over from the First Phase.”
“Your guess is admirably on-target,” Master dea’Syl said, stroking the cat absently. “As to where Osabei Tower acquired it—I cannot say. When I had status enough to gain access to the documents regarding the device, I only found that it had been purchased from a company called Oracle Odd Lots, and that Osabei Tower had—and has—a standing order to purchase objects related to its area of scholarship.”
There was a small silence before Jela spoke again. “In the deep files of Osabei Tower, there is mention of a world-shield, which is based—or was based—on Vanehald. I’m interested in that device, also, and would appreciate anything you can tell me about it.”
“Ah. I regret, M. Jela. I know very little of that device—merely its location and the fact that no patron was found to fund a study of it. It has languished for some very long number of years, as you will have seen from the file. Very likely, it is no longer in place; or no longer functions.”
“I understand,” Jela said quietly. “Thank you, sir.”
“You are quite welcome. Well! Time, as my dear vel’Anbrek would no doubt remind us if he were here, runs quickly. If you gentles are quite prepared, let us proceed to the port.”
Jela held up a hand. “Consider, sir, that this device—fully as ancient as the world-shield, and by the state of the bay, many years unused—may no longer function.”
Master dea’Syl inclined his head. “You are a soldier and it is your nature to be cautious. Allow me to put your fears to rest, M. Jela; I have over the last few years been seeing to the maintenance and upkeep of the device, as I was taught to do as a boy. Its functionality—while I daresay not optimal—is adequate. You observe it in its ready state, which I initiated as soon as vel’Anbrek brought me news that chance had at last placed an unaffiliated pilot-owner within my grasp.”
It seemed to Tor An that Jela stiffened; certainly the face he turned toward the unsettling hatchway was devoid of any expression, lips tight, black eyes bleak.
“My pilot, who has some experience of the Enemy’s devices, and who sat co-pilot for yet another pilot who had even more practical knowledge of such things, holds as truth that the devices of the Enemy never forget who made them, and that they call out to their makers,” Jela said slowly. “What they say, not the elder pilot, or my pilot, or I can hazard—though I believe we agree it holds nothing that we’d call good.”
The master sighed. “You would caution me that I put a world at risk by employing this device. I would remind you, sir, that the galaxy is at risk, and this is the only door which will open to its possible rescue. Created by the Enemy, it certainly was, and no doubt treacherous beyond our ability to understand. Yet, in this instance it is our ally, and we must grasp the means that come to hand.”
“Soldier’s logic,” Jela said, “which ought to sway a soldier.” He was quiet for a moment, and it seemed to Tor An that he stood less straight, as if the weight of what they were about to do was heavier even than a strong man could bear.
“Go,” he said.
MAELYN TAY’NORDIF RAN as she had never run before, down the hallway that mad, secret portion of her mind had chosen. Past empty labs and lecture rooms, she ran, the shouts and noise from the proving court fading behind her. Surely, she thought, she was now beyond any immediate danger. Best to utilize one of the vacant rooms for a period of rest and meditation.
She slowed to a jog, her soft slippers raising faint chuffing sounds from the smooth floor, and then to a walk, passing three sealed doors, status lights glowing red—reserved rooms, and keyed to the palms of particular scholars and their disciples. Maelyn passed on.
The sixth door showed a green light—general use. She placed her palm against the plate and stepped inside a modest lecture hall; sixty work chairs arranged in six curving rows of ten, the scholar’s station front and centered, with only the most minimal expanse of floor to separate her from the students. The air was frigid, the lighting dim.
Sighing, Maelyn tay’Nordif ordered herself; unkilting her robe and brushing it smooth with hands that trembled rather a lot; making certain that her sash was tidy, the truth-blade in its place. Her stomach cramped at the recollection of her unscholarly behavior. She could not, in fact, imagine what might face her in the scholar’s common room this evening. To call down a mad crowd upon the department’s Prime Chair—on causes that could scarcely be thought to contain a grain of fact, fabricated as they must have been on the edge of the moment—
It was true, she admitted, folding her arms tightly beneath her breasts and hugging herself in an attempt to ease the trembling, that she was not very skilled in
the art of the blade. Indeed, if she were to be honest with herself, she would own that the survival of her Wander years was due not so much to her vigilance and ability to protect herself, but to her habit of affiliating herself with a succession of “patrons,” some of whom had been no better than bandits. She had been gently raised, she thought, beginning to pace, and her talents lay elsewhere than in brute physical—
The door opened.
She spun, feet tangling in her robe, and scrambled for balance as Ala Bin tay’Welford stepped into the room.
THE OLD SCHOLAR went first, his chair moving with deliberation toward the pass-portal. As Jela watched, the energies within the portal began to swirl, forming an unsettling vortex into which chair, man, cat and tree receded until they were indistinguishable from the dancing milky motes.
The process was eerily silent, though Jela noticed a slight breeze brushing his cheeks as the vortex sucked air into it.
At the side of the bay, Tor An yos’Galan hesitated, for which Jela blamed him not at all. The thought of surrendering himself to the action of the vortex was . . . unnerving at best, and if the whole business was enough to twitch nerves spun out of data-wire—or so they had assured each other in creche, when they were learning the basic skills of soldiering—
“Pilot,” he said, keeping his voice matter-of-fact, like stepping off into infinity was an everyday affair. “I’ll take rear guard.”
The boy threw him one wide glance out of those improbable flower-colored eyes, took a breath, faced about like a good troop, and walked determinedly into the swirling doom, hands loose at his sides. The energies swirled, shrouded—and Tor An yos’Galan was gone, swallowed by the vortex.
Jela considered the energies before him, his feet planted flat on the floor, as if he intended to take root in the considerable dust. Duty lay before him—the old scholar, with his equations locked safe and secret in his head; the tree; the pilot he’d appropriated . . .
