The Crystal Variation

by Sharon Lee

  He wanted those walls—he did. But there was another portion of him that didn’t want to go off into the deep parts of a grounder house on a planet no Terran ship had ever touched, leaving his last link with space behind. It wasn’t exactly panic that sent him looking at Master ven’Deelin, lips parting, though he didn’t have any words planned to say.

  She forestalled him with a gentle bow. “Be at peace, my child. We will speak again at Prime. For now, this my foster mother wishes to ring a terrifying scold down upon me, and she could not properly express herself in the presence of a tender lad.” She moved her hand, fingers wriggling in a shooing gesture. “Go now.”

  And that, thought Jethri, was that. Stiffly, he turned back to the kid—Pet Ric—and bowed his thanks.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I would be glad of an escort.”

  THEY WERE HARDLY a dozen steps from the parlor when a shadow moved in one of the doorways and a girl flickered out into the hallway, one hand raised imperiously. His guide stopped, and so did Jethri, being unwilling to run him down. The girl was older than Pet Ric—maybe fourteen or fifteen Standards, Jethri guessed—with curly red-brown hair and big, dark blue eyes in a pointy little face. She was dressed in rumpled and stained tan trousers, boots and a shirt that had probably started the day as yellow. A ruby the size of a cargo can lug nut hung round her neck by a long silver chain.

  “Is it him? The ven’Deelin’s foster son?” She whispered, looking up and down the hall like she was afraid somebody might overhear her.

  “Who else would he be?” Pet Ric answered, sounding pettish to Jethri’s ears.

  “Anybody!” she said dramatically. She lowered her hand, raised her chin and looked Jethri straight in the eye.

  “Are you Jethri ven’Deelin, then?”

  “Jethri Gobelyn,” he corrected. “I have the honor to be Master ven’Deelin’s apprentice.”

  “Apprentice?” another voice exclaimed. A second girl stepped out of the doorway, this one an exact duplicate, even in dress, of the first. “Aunt Stafeli said foster son.”

  “Well, he could be both, couldn’t he?” asked the first girl, and looked back at Jethri. “Are you both apprentice and foster son?”

  No getting out of it now, he thought and inclined his head. “Yes.”

  The first girl clapped her hands together and spun to face her sister. “See, Meicha? Both!”

  “Both or neither,” Meicha said, cryptically. “We will take over as guide, Pet Ric.”

  The boy pulled himself up. “My grandmother gave the duty to me.”

  “Aren’t you on door?” asked the girl who wasn’t Meicha.

  This appeared to be a question of some substance. Pet Ric hesitated. “Ye-es.”

  “What room has the guest been given?” Meicha asked.

  “The Mountain Suite.”

  “All the way at the end of the north wing? How will you guard the door from there?” She asked, folding her arms over her chest. “It was well for you we happened by, cousin. We will escort the guest to his rooms. You will return to your post.”

  “Yes!” applauded her twin. “The house cares for the guest, and the door is held. All ends in honor.”

  It might have been that Pet Ric wasn’t entirely convinced of that, Jethri thought, but—on the one hand, his granmam had given him the duty of escorting the guest, and on the second, it seemed clear she’d forgotten about the door.

  Abruptly, the boy made up his mind, and bowed to Jethri’s honor.

  “I regret, Jethri Gobelyn—my duty lies elsewhere. I leave you in the care of my cousins Meicha and Miandra and look forward to seeing you again soon.”

  Jethri bowed. “I thank you for your care and honor your sense of duty. I look forward to renewing our acquaintance.”

  “Very pretty,” Meicha said to Miandra. “I believe Aunt Stafeli will have him tutoring us in manner and mode.”

  Jethri took pause and considered the two of them, for that might well have been a barb, and he was in no mood for contention.

  Miandra it was who raised her hand. “It was a jest, Jethri—may we call you Jethri? You may call us Meicha and Miandra—or Meichamiandra, as Ren Lar does!”

  “You will find us frightfully light-minded,” Meicha added. “Aunt Stafeli despairs, and says so often.”

  “Jethri wants to be alone in his room to rest his head before prime,” Miandra stated, at an abrupt angle to the conversation.

  “That’s sensible,” Meicha allowed, and turned about face, marching away down the hall. Between amused and irritated, Jethri followed her, Miandra walking companionably at his side.

  “We’ll take you by the public halls this time, though it is longer. Depend upon Aunt Stafeli to quiz you on every detail of the route at Prime. Later, we’ll show you the back halls.”

  “That is very kind of you,” Jethri said, slowly. “But I do not think I will be guesting above a few days.”

  “Not above a few days?” Meicha looked at him over her shoulder. “Are you certain of that, I wonder, Jethri?”

  “Certain, yes. Elthoria breaks orbit for Naord in three Standard Days.”

  Silence greeted this, which didn’t do much for the comfort of his stomach, but before he could ask them what they knew that he didn’t, Miandra redirected the flow of conversation.

  “Is it very exciting, being at the ven’Deelin’s side on the trade floor? We have not had the honor of meeting her, but we have read the tales.”

  “Tales?” Jethri blinked at her as they rounded a corner.

  “Certainly. Norn ven’Deelin is the youngest trader to have attempted and achieved the amethyst. Alone, she re-opened trade with the Giletti System, which five ambassadors could not accomplish over the space of a dozen years! She was offered the guildmaster’s duty and turned it aside, saying that she better served the Guild in trade.”

  “She has taken,” Meicha put in here, “a Terran apprentice trader under her patronage and has sworn to bring him into the Guild.”

  The last, of course, he knew. The others, though—

  “I am pleased to hear these stories, which I had not known,” he said carefully. “But it must go without saying that Master ven’Deelin is legend.”

  They laughed, loudly and with obvious appreciation; identical notes of joy sounding off the wooden walls.

  “He does well. In truth,” gasped Meicha, “the ven’Deelin is legend. Yes, even so.”

  “We will show you the journals, in the library, if you would enjoy them,” Miandra said. “Perhaps tomorrow?”

  “That would be pleasant,” he said, as they began to ascend a highly polished wooden staircase of distressing height. “However, I stand at Master ven’Deelin’s word, and she has not yet discussed my duties here with—”

  “Oh, certainly!” Meicha cut him off. “It is understood that the ven’Deelin’s word must carry all before it!”

  “Except Aunt Stafeli,” said Miandra.

  “Sometimes,” concluded Meicha; and, “Do you find the steps difficult, Jethri?”

  He bit his lip. “My home ship ran light gravity, and I am never easy in heavy grav.”

  “Light gravity,” Miandra repeated, in caressing tones. “Sister, we must go to space!”

  “Let Ren Lar catch us ‘mong the vines again and we shall.”

  Miandra chuckled and put a light hand quickly on Jethri’s sleeve.

  “Be of good heart, friend. Six steps more, and then to the end of a very short hallway, I promise you.”

  “Take good advice and first have yourself a nap,” Meicha said. “Time enough to unpack when you are rested.”

  That seemed sensible advice, he allowed, though he was not wanting to sleep so much as to think.

  “I thank you,” he said, rather breathlessly, to Meicha’s back.

  She reached the top of the flight and turned, dancing a few steps to the right.

  “Is your home light as well?” she asked, seriously, as he achieved the landing, and turned to look at her.r />
  “My home . . .” He sighed, and reached up to rub his head where the growing-out hair itched. “I am ship-born. My home is—was—a tradeship named Gobelyn’s Market.”

  The two of them exchanged a glance rich in disbelief.

  “But—did you never come to ground?” Miandra asked.

  “We did—for trade, repairs, that sort of thing. But we didn’t live on the ground. We lived on the ship.”

  Another shared glance, then—

  “He speaks the truth,” said Meicha.

  “But to always and only live on a ship?” wailed Miandra.

  “Why not?” Jethri asked, irritated. “Lots of people live on ships. I’d rather that than live planet-side. Ships are clean, the temperature is consistent, the grav is light, there’s no bad smells, or dust, or weather—” He heard his voice heating up and put the brake on it, bowing with a good measure of wariness.

  “Forgive me,” he murmured.

  “Truth,” Meicha said again, as if he hadn’t spoken.

  Miandra sighed. “Well, then, it is truth, and we must accept it. It seems an odd way to live, is all.” She turned and put her hand on his sleeve.

  “You must forgive us for our ignorance,” she said. “I hope you will talk to us about your ship at length, so that we are no longer ignorant.”

  “And in trade,” Meicha added, “we will teach you about gardens, and streams, and snow and other planet-side pleasures, so that you are no longer ignorant.”

  Jethri blinked, throat tightening with a sudden realization that he had been as rude as they had, and as such was a fitting object for Balance—

  Except, he thought then, they had already declared Balance—him to teach them about ship-living, them to teach him about planet-life. He sighed, and Meicha grinned.

  “You are going to be interesting, Jethri Gobelyn,” she said.

  “Later, he will be interesting,” Miandra ordered, and waved a hand under her sister’s nose. “At this present, we have given our word to guide him to his rooms in enough time that he might nap and recruit his strength before prime, none of which is accomplished by standing here.”

  “You sound like Aunt Stafeli.” Meicha turned, crooking a finger behind her. “Come along then. Less than six dozen steps, Jethri, I promise you.”

  In fact, it was a couple dozen steps more than six, though Jethri wasn’t inclined to quibble. Now that the room was near, he found himself wanting that nap, though he slept in the car—and a shower, too, while he was wanting comforts . . .

  “We arrive!” Meicha announced, flourishing a bow in no mode Jethri could name.

  The door was wood, dark brown in color. Set off-center was a white porcelain knob painted with what he thought might have been intended to be grapes.

  “Turn the knob and push the door away from you,” Miandra coached. “If you like, we will show you how to lock it from the inside.”

  “Thank you,” he said. The porcelain was cool and smooth, vaguely reminiscent of his fractin.

  The door moved easily under his push, and he came a little too quickly into the room, the knob still in his hand.

  This time he shouted, and threw an arm up over his eyes, all the while his heart pounded in his ears, and his breath burned in his chest.

  “The curtains!” a high voice shrilled, and there were hands on his shoulders, pushing him, turning him, he realized, in the midst of his panic and willingly allowed it, the knob slipping from his hand.

  “Done!”

  “Done,” repeated an identical voice, very near at hand. “Jethri, the curtain is closed. You may open your eyes.”

  It wasn’t as easy as that, of course, and there was the added knowledge, as he got his breathing under control, that he’d made a looby outta himself in front of the twins, besides showing them just as plain as he could where he stood vulnerable.

  Mud, dust and stink! He raged at himself, standing there with his arm over his face and his eyes squeezed tight. His druthers, if it mattered, was to sink down deep into the flooring and never rise up again. Failing that, he figured dying on the spot would do. Of all the stupid—but, who expected bare sky and mountain peaks when they opened a sleeping room door? Certainly, not a born spacer.

  “You are a guest of the house,” one of the twins said from nearby, “and valued.”

  “Besides,” said the other, “the ven’Deelin would skin us if harm came to you and then Aunt Stafeli would boil us.”

  That caught him in the funny bones, and he sputtered a laugh, which somehow made it easier to get the arm down and the eyes, cautiously, open.

  One of the twins—now that they were out of formation, he couldn’t tell one from her sister—was standing practically toe-to-toe with him, her pointed face quite plainly showing concern. To her right and little back, the other twin’s face wore an identical expression of dismay.

  “Not smart,” he managed, still some breathless. “You stand back, in case I swing out.”

  She tipped her head. “You are not going to swing out,” she stated, with absolute conviction. “You are quite calm, now.”

  And, truth told, he did feel calmer and neither in danger or dangerous. He took a breath, getting the air all the way down into his lungs, and sighed it out.

  “What’s amiss?” asked the twin who stood farthest from him. “Are you afraid of mountains?”

  He shook his head. “Openness,” he said, and, seeing their blank stares, expanded. “All that emptiness, with no walls or corridors—it’s not natural. Not what a space-born would know as natural. You could fall, forever . . .”

  They exchanged another one of their identical looks, and then the nearer twin stepped back, clearing his sight of the room, which was bigger than the Market’s common room, and set up like a parlor, with a desk against one wall, upholstered chairs here and there, low tables, and several small cases holding books and bric-a-brac. The floor was carpeted in deep green. Across the room, a swath of matching deep green shrouded the window.

  “The bedroom boasts a similar vista, in which the house takes pride, and takes care that all of our most honored guests are placed here,” said the girl nearest him. She paused before asking, “Shall we close the curtains, or show you how to use them?”

  Good question, Jethri thought, and took another breath, trying to center himself, like Pen Rel had taught him. He nodded.

  “I think I should learn how to operate the curtains myself, thank you.”

  That pleased them, though he couldn’t have said how he knew, and they guided him through a small galley, which, thank the ghosts of space, had no window, to his bedroom.

  The bed alone was the size of his quarters on the Market, and so filled up with pillows that there wasn’t any room left for him. His duffle, and of all things, the battered B crate from his storage bin sat on a long bench under . . . the window.

  He was warned, now, and knew to keep his eyes low, so it wasn’t bad at all, just a quick spike in the heart rate and a little bit of buzz inside the ears.

  “In order to operate the curtain,” said the twin on his left, “you must approach the window. There is a pulley mechanism at the right edge . . .”

  He found it by touch, keeping his eyes pinned to the homey sight of his bag on the bench. The pull was stiff, but he gave it steady pressure, and the curtain glided across the edge of his sight, casting the room into shade.

  He sighed, and sat down on the bench.

  Before him, Meicha and Miandra bowed.

  “So, you are safely delivered, and will be wanting your rest,” the one on the left said.

  “We will come again just ahead of twentieth hour to escort you to the small dining room,” the one on the right said. “In the meanwhile, be easy in our house.”

  “And don’t forget to set the clock to wake you in good time to dress,” the twin on the left added.

  He smiled, then recalled his manners, and got to his feet to bow his gratitude.

  “Thank you for your care.”

&
nbsp; “We are pleased to be of assistance,” said the twin on the right, as the two of them turned away.

  “Aunt Stafeli will not allow you to fear mountains, or open space, or any being born,” the girl on the left said over her shoulder.

  “Then it is fortunate that I will only be with her for a few days,” Jethri answered lightly, following them.

  Silence from both as they passed through the galley and into the parlor.

  “Recruit your strength,” one said finally. “In case.”

  He smiled. Did they expect him to stay while Elthoria continued on the amended route? He was ‘prenticed to learn trade, not to learn mountains.

  Still, it would be rude to ignore their concern, so he bowed and murmured, “I will. Thank you.”

  One twin opened the door and slipped out into the hallway. The second paused a moment, and put her finger on a switch under the inner knob.

  “Snap to the right is locked,” she said. “To the left is unlocked. Until prime, Jethri.”

  “Until prime,” he said, but she was already gone, the door ghosting shut behind her.

  THE MIRROR SHOWED brown hair growing out in untidy patches, an earnest, scrubbed clean face, and a pair of wide brown eyes. Below the face, the body was neatly outfitted in a pale green Liaden-style shirt and dark blue trousers. Jethri nodded, and his reflection nodded, too, brown eyes going a little wider.

  “You’re shipshape and ready for space,” he told himself encouragingly, reaching for the Ixin pin.

  One eye on the clock, he got the pin fixed to his collar, and stood away from the mirror, pulling his shirt straight. It lacked six minutes to twentieth hour. He wondered how long he should wait for the twins before deciding that they had forgotten him and—

  A chime rang through the apartment. Jethri blinked, then grinned, and went quick-step to the main room. He remembered to order his face into bland before he opened the door, which was well.

  He had been expecting the same grubby brats who had guided him a few hours before, faces clean, maybe, in honor of dinner.

  What he hadn’t expected was two ladies of worth in matching white dresses, a flower nestled among the auburn curls of each, matching rubies hanging from matching silver chains. They bowed like they were one person, neither one faster or slower than the other—honor to the guest.