by Sharon Lee
"It is my pleasure to inform," she said, and bowed again to Lady Maarilex.
"My duty done, I depart," she said formally.
"Healer," the old lady replied. "We thank you for your care."
And so the Healer was hustled away by a pale-faced Meicha, the door closing behind both with a solid thump.
In the blue chair, Stafeli Maarilex stirred and reached for her cane.
"So, we survive this round," she said, using her cane as a lever, and struggling to ger her feet under her. Jethri stepped forward and caught her arm to help her rise. Miandra held her position, face frozen.
"My thanks," Lady Maarilex gasped, straightening to her full height. She looked from one to the other and used her chin to point at the door.
"Both of you, go to your apartments. You will be served dinner there. Study, rest and recruit yourselves. It has been a long and tiring day—for all of us."
"Yes, Aunt Stafeli," Miandra said tonelessly. She bowed, stiffly, and was on her way toward the door before Jethri could do more than gape and make his own hurried bow.
By the time he reached the hallway, she was gone.
* * *
"WHERE'VE YOU BEEN?" Seeli asked, sharper maybe than she needed to.
On the other hand, Grig thought, taking a deep breath, a talk with Uncle had a way of making the whole universe seem edgy, if not outright dangerous.
"I left a message," he said, trying to trump sharp with mild.
"He left a message, the man says." Seeli flung her hands out in a gesture of wide frustration, by which he knew she wouldn't be bought by a smile and a cuddle. He closed his eyes, briefly. Dammit, he didn't need a fight with Seeli. Regardless of which, it looked like he was going to get one.
" Yes, you left a message," she snapped. "You left a message six hours ago saying you'd met an old mate and was going to share a brew. Six hours later, you manage to get your sorry self back to your ship—and you ain't even drunk!"
Trust Seeli to grab the whole screen in a glance. He was in for it bad, now—Seeli had a temper to match her mam's, except it was worse when she'd been worried.
Grig took another breath, looking for center. Despite that his whole life had been one form of lie or another, he'd never been near as casual with the truth as Arin. Well, and he was light on most all the family talents, wasn't he?
"Grig?"
He met her eye—nothing otherwise with Seeli—and cleared his throat. He'd worked this out, in the hours between leaving Uncle and arriving back at the lodgings. His choice was his choice, and he'd made it, for good or for bad. Despite which, there was family considerations. He owed Raisy and the rest of his sibs and cousins—and Uncle, too, damn him—the right to their own free lives. Parsing out his truth from their safety—that was what kept him hours on the Port, walking 'til his legs shook. He'd found what he believed to be a course that would pass close enough to the truth to satisfy Seeli, without baring the others to danger. Assuming he could find the brass to fly it.
"I gotta ask you again?" she said, real quiet.
He spread his hands. "Sorry, Seeli. Truth is, I wasn't straight in that message, and I'm not feelin' good about that. What it was—you remember that headcase? Wantin' to buy fractins and Befores?"
He saw exasperation leach some of the mad out of her face, and took heart. Maybe he could pull this off, after all.
"Thought we agreed to leave that to Paitor."
"We did," he said. "We did—and I should've. No question, it was stupid. I figured, if I talked to the big man, I could show him there wasn't no sense promisin' to buy what we had none of, and tell him—" This was the approach to tricky. Grig kept his eyes straight on Seeli's. "Tell him that Arin's dead and the Market ain't in the business of sellin' Befores."
"Great," Seeli said, and shook her head. "So, what? The big man not at home?"
"He was home," Grig said, "and pleased to see me. Turns out, him, I knew—from the old days, when Arin was still Combine and we was dealing in the stuff pretty regular. Anyhow. He spent some considerable amount of persuasion, trying to get me to buy back in." He broke her gaze, then—it was that or die. "I'm not gonna hide it, Seeli—it was a mistake going to see this man."
She sighed. "If you'd called back, I'd've saved you the brain work. How much trouble you in?"
"Now, Seeli." He held up a hand and met her eyes, kinda half-shy. "I ain't in trouble. The man made me an offer—couple offers, as it happens. Didn't want to take 'no' for his final course, and it took some while to persuade him."
She frowned. "He likely to stay persuaded?" she asked, and trust Seeli to think of it. "Or might he want to talk to you again?"
"I—" Grig began.
The door to the hallway snapped open, spinning both of them around to stare as Paitor flung in, face flushed, and jacket rumpled.
Seeli started forward, hands out. "Uncle? What's gone wrong?"
He stopped and just stared down at her. Grig light-footed around him and pushed the door closed, resetting the lock.
"Got a beam from Khat," Paitor said as Grig made it back to Seeli's side. He put a hand inside his jacket and pulled out a piece of hardcopy—blue, with an orange stripe down the side. Grig felt his stomach clench. Priority beam—expensive, reserved for life and death or deals that paid out in fortunes. . .
"We got trouble," Paitor said, pushing the paper at Seeli. "Take a look."
* * *
HE SHOWERED, standing a long time under the pulsing rays of hot water, oblivious, for once, to the waste. By the time the water turned cool and he stepped out into the mirrored drying room, his fingertips were as wrinkled up as dried grapes, and he was feeling a little breathless from the steam.
Absently, he pulled the towel off its heated bar and applied it vigorously, first to his head and working methodically downward, where he noted that his toes were as wrinkled as his fingers.
Probably your face is wrinkled up, too, he thought, trying to josh himself out of a growing mood. Bet your whole head's nothing but one big wrinkle.
Nothing more than I traded for, he thought back at himself, in no state to be joshed, though he did, by habit, look into the mirror to see how bad his hair looked this time.
The hair was about as bad as he expected, but what made him frown was the smudge over his lip.
"Mud," he muttered. "All that time under water and your face isn't even clean?"
He used a corner of the towel to rub the smudge and looked again.
The smudge was still there, looking even darker against the pink rub mark.
"What the—" He leaned toward the mirror, frowning—and then lifted his hand, fingertips stroking the first hopeful hairs of a mustache.
"Well." He smiled at his reflection, and stroked the soft smudge again, then turned to the supply cabinet, in search of depilatory cream.
Several minutes later, he was frowning again. The supply cabinet was more comprehensive than most ship's medical lockers, and included several ointments that were meant to be rubbed into the skin—but nothing like a depilatory.
* * *
SIGHING, JETHRI CLOSED the cabinet, and went to the bench where he had piled his fresh clothes. Tomorrow, he'd ask Mr. pel'Saba to provide the needed item. In the meantime, he had other rations to chew on.
Barefoot, shirt untucked, he walked into his sleeping room, and knelt next to the bench. Deliberately, he unsealed the B crate and pulled open the bit bottom hatch.
Deliberately, he removed the boxes of fractins, good and bad, the wire frame, and his old pretend trade journal and put them, one by one, on the rug by his knee.
Closing the crate, he settled down cross-legged and reached for the tattered little book, flipping through the laborious pages of lists—income, outgo, exchange rates and Combine discounts—
The door-chime sounded. Biting down on a curse, Jethri grabbed the box of true fractins—and then shook his head. No doubt fractins were old tech—and if Lady Maarilex or Ren Lar or the Scouts entire had decided t
hat they was within their rights to search his room and belongings for old tech, then they'd find the fractins, whether they were on the rug or in the B crate.
The door-chime sounded again.
On the other hand, it was probably one of the kitchen crew, come to collect his untouched dinner tray.
Sighing, Jethri came to his feet and went to answer the door.
The twins tumbled over the threshold and skittered 'round to the far side of the door.
"Close it!"
"Quickly, close it!"
So much for wilful disobedience. Still, he did close the door, and locked it for good measure.
The twins stood in a tangle beside the wall, their reddish hair damp and curling wildly. As usual, they were dressed identically, this time in plain black jerseys and slacks, soft black boots on their feet. One wore a silver chain 'round her neck, supporting a big ruby.
"I thought the pair of you were confined to quarters," he said, hands on hips, trying for the stern-but-friendly look Cris had employed on similar past occasions, with Jethri on the wrong side of the captain's word.
"And so we are in quarters," snapped the twin with the ruby 'round her neck. "Your quarters."
"Come, Jethri," said the other, stepping away from her sister's side and looking gravely up into his face. "We are in need of companionship—and counsel."
Good line, Jethri thought. He'd never been smart enough to come up with something half so clever for Cris.
And, besides, he was glad to see them.
He let his hands fall from his hips and waved them into the parlor. "Come in, then, and welcome."
"Thank you," they murmured in unison and drifted deeper into the room, silent on their soft boots. Meicha wandered over to the table, where his untasted dinner sat under covers. Miandra went further, to the window, and stood gazing out at the sunset clouds crowding the shoulders of the mountains. High up, where the sky was already darkening, stars could be seen, shimmering in the atmosphere.
"The wide spaces do not frighten you now?" She asked, and Jethri moved across the room to join her, bare feet soundless on the carpet.
"I am—becoming accustomed," he said, pausing just behind her shoulder, and looking out. There were purple shadows down deep in the folds of the rockface. 'Way out, he could just see the Tower at the port, gleaming bright in the last of the sunlight.
"Mrs. tor'Beli sent delicacies," Meicha said from behind them. "Are you not hungry, Jethri?"
"Not much," he said, turning around to offer her a half-smile. "If you are hungry, have what you like."
She frowned, and put the lid back over the plate. "Perhaps later," she said, and sent an openly worried glance at Miandra's back.
"Sister?"
There was a pause, and a sigh. Miandra turned around and faced her twin.
"They are still arguing," she said.
"They are," Meicha replied. "And will be, I think, for some time. Aunt Stafeli will not yield the point. Nor yet will Ren Lar."
"Though surely it is his portion to yield to the word of the delm," said Miandra, "nadelm or no."
Meicha laughed. "Allow Ren Lar to tend the vines and he is complacent and calm. Invoke his melant'i as nadelm and remind him of his larger duty to the clan, and he is implacable." She paused, shrugged. "Aunt Stafeli trained him, after all."
Miandra actually smiled, though faintly. "True enough."
"What," asked Jethri, "are they arguing about? The old technology?"
Meicha and Miandra exchanged a glance.
"The old technology—that was the beginning," Meicha said, moving over to perch on the edge of one of his chairs, her ruby winking in the light. Miandra went forward and dropped to the rug at her twin's feet, legs crossed, face serious.
After a second, Jethri took the chair across, and leaned back, pretending he was comfortable.
"So," he said, "the argument started with the old technology."
"Just so," said Miandra. "Ren Lar, of course, wished the weather device to be away, now—the potential of harm to the vines distresses him, and rightly so. He is master of the vine, and it is his duty to protect and nourish them.
"Aunt Stafeli, however, felt that you had reckoned your melant'i correctly, that the Scout Lieutenant was well answered, and your oath rightly given. Ren Lar could scarcely argue with that."
Silence fell, stretched. Meicha was uncharacteristically quiet, sitting tense on the edge of the chair. Miandra—Miandra sat easily, her wrists resting on her knees, her fingers hanging loose, blue eyes considering a point just over his left shoulder.
Jethri cleared his throat; her eyes focused on his face.
"Yet, they are still arguing—your aunt and your cousin. About the two of you?"
"About me," Miandra said, with a depth of bitterness that startled him. Meicha reached down and put her hand on her sister's shoulder, but said nothing.
"It is well enough, to be a Healer," Miandra continued after a moment, her voice less bitter, though her eyes sparked anger. "But to be of the dramliz, here on Irikwae—that. . . " Her voice faded.
"Is untenable," Meicha finished quietly. "Irikwae was colonized by those clans who felt that the dramliz should be. . . should be. . . "
"Eradicated," Miandra said, and the bitterness was back in her voice. "It was believed that a mutation which allowed one such . . . abilities—that such a mutation endangered the entire gene pool. A purge was called for. The matter went to the Council of Clans, in very Solcintra, and debate raged for days, for who is truly easy in the presence of one who might hear your thoughts, or travel from port to center city in the blink of an eye? Korval Herself led the opposition, so the history texts tell us, and at last prevailed. The existing dramliz were allowed to live, unsterilized. The clans of the dramliz retained their rights of contract marriage, mixing their genes with the larger pool as they saw fit. And a guild was formed, much like the pilots guild, or traders guild, which gave the dramliz protection as a valuable commercial enterprise."
"The dissenting clans," Meicha said after a moment, "left the homeworld, and colonized Irikwae. At first, there was a ban on Healers, too. That was eventually lifted, as it became apparent that Healers worked for . . . social stability. . . "
Mentally breathless, Jethri held up a hand.
"Give me a little time," he said, and his voice sounded breathless, too. "Terrans do not commonly run to these mutations. You are the first Healer—and dramliza—I have encountered, and I am still not certain that I understand why one person who does things which are impossible is favored, while another, who does things which are just as impossible, is—feared."
Miandra actually grinned. "Prejudice is not necessarily responsive to cold reason—as you surely know."
He gaped at her, and Meicha laughed.
"Are all grounders stupid? Why else would they live among the mud and the smells and the weather?"
"Ouch," he said, but mildly, because they were right—or had been right. "I am—growing accustomed—on that front, as well. Learning takes time."
"So it—" Meicha began—and froze, head turning toward the door.
It came again, a scratching noise, as if a file were being applied, lightly, to the hall side face of the door.
Jethri rose and crossed the room. Hand on the latch, he sent a glance to the twins, sitting alert in their places. Miandra moved her hand, motioning him to open the door.
All right, then. He snapped the lock off and turned the latch, opening the door wide enough to look out into—
An empty hall.
Frowning, he looked down. Eyes the color of peridot gleamed up at him; and something else as well.
Jethri stepped back. Flinx pranced across the threshold, head high, silver chain held in his mouth, ruby dragging on the floor beneath his belly. As soon as he was inside, Jethri closed and locked the door. By the time he turned back to the room, Flinx had reached Miandra.
She sat perfectly still as the big cat put his front feet on her knee. Slowly,
she extended a hand and Flinx bent his head, dropping the chain on her palm.
"My thanks," she said, softly, and held it high. The melted ruby spun slowly in the light, glittering.
"Flinx is proud of himself," Meicha said. "Aunt Stafeli had thrown it in the bin for the incinerator."
Jethri came forward and knelt on the carpet next to Miandra and the cat. Flinx left the girl's knee and danced over to butt him in the thigh. Miandra looked up at him, blue eyes curious.
"May I see it?" he asked, and she put the chain in his hand without hesitation.
He sat back on his haunches and gave the thing some study. The fine silver links were neither deformed nor blackened. The ruby was—distorted, asymmetrical, the bottom bloated, as if it were an overfull water bulb, the force of the liquid within it distending the bulb nearly to the bursting point.
