The Crystal Variation (72 page)

These random thoughts which afflicted her, now, at the moment of her trial . . . Surely, the port police had not required her to look upon a certain broken and battered corpse which she then claimed for her mother? Not only did she remember her mother very well, she thought, taking deep, calming breaths as the noise of the seats filling continued around her, but she was still alive, and serving in the Distaff House of Nordif, which was charged with keeping the ‘counts and inventories of the mercantile branch. Her mother was a senior receivables manager—a respected and respectable woman of a respected and respectable House. It had been her mother’s support and encouragement which had given her the courage to pursue her scholarly studies, and to stand in defiance before Aunt Tilfrath, who had wished her to remain and serve the House as had her mother, and her mother, and—

And
surely
, she thought in cold horror, as the sounds of the gathering observers began to settle into some semblance of quiet,
surely
she had never—never allowed a—a
kobold
—

She took a shuddering breath, hoping to still the roiling of her stomach, and thrust the thought away. Such things were the stuff of nightmares; and like nightmares, were mere disorders of the imagination. She was neither mad nor depraved. She would meet what was to come with sure mind and sure blade, and rightly overcome this challenge. Her work was elegant; pure. She would not be found in error.

“Silence, Scholars!” Prime Chair tay’Welford’s voice sounded near at hand. She raised her head, and forced her eyes open. Across from her in the proving court stood a scholar not immediately familiar . . . She mentally reviewed her acquaintance of the common room—ah, of course! Scholar ven’Orlud, whose speciality was . . . pretransitional spatial coordinates, was it not? What could such a person find to prove or disprove in her own work?

“Scholar ven’Orlud,” Prime Chair said loudly enough to be heard in the back seats, “challenges Scholar tay’Nordif to defend the point made in her Wander-thesis Number Three that intermittent vectorization within the universal metacrystal could prevent accurate energy-field summation.”

Scholar tay’Nordif felt a jolt go up her spine.

But I later refuted those findings myself! How can I be called to prove an error which I later corrected?

“This is a true proving, not merely a point of personal honor,” Prime Chair continued. “Blades will be engaged, and scholarship rests upon the outcome. Scholars, prepare to defend the Truth.”

“This is a fraudulent proving!” The voice rang against the high ceiling, struck the walls and rebounded—by which time, Maelyn tay’Nordif had recognized it as her own.

THEY WERE IN WHAT
once had been a cold storage room. Here and there, vacuum cells and yellowed foam could be seen through the scored laminate walls. Looking about them, Tor An felt a certain sense of dismay.

“Forgive me, Scholar,” he said politely when some time had passed without their guide continuing. “This scarcely seems an apartment suited to the honor of one of your Tower’s great masters.”

Scholar vel’Anbrek smiled humorlessly. “Quick off the mark,” he said obscurely. “Good.”

Tor An frowned. “Scholar, I must insist that you bring me to Master dea’Syl, so that I may present Scholar tay’Nordif’s gift, as she bade me to do.”

“Patience, Pilot. You will be with Master dea’Syl—ah!—very soon now, I hear.”

Were
all
the scholars here mad? Tor An wondered, and gathered his patience, for, mad or no, that had been well-advised.

“Sir,” he began again—and stopped as the wall directly opposite vanished in a cloud of golden vapor, and a carry-chair bore through, silent on its supportive pad of air.

The man in the chair had an abundance of white hair plaited into a single thick braid and tied off with a plain red cord. He was bent forward, his shoulders bowed beneath the weight of the robe, and his thin hands rested one atop the other on the control stick.

Halfway across the room, he made a minute adjustment, and the chair’s forward progress halted, though it did not settle to the floor.

Slowly, as if the braid hanging across his shoulder was nearly too heavy a burden, the old scholar raised his head.

His brow was high, his eyes deep, his nose noble, and time had writ its passage boldly upon his features. Tor An bowed, reflexively, and straightened into the scholar’s thoughtful regard.

“Now, here’s a pretty behaved lad,” he said, his voice thin and clear. “By which sign I know him to be something other than a scholar of Osabei Tower.”

vel’Anbrek stepped forward and placed his hand on the chair’s tumble guard.

“This is the pilot, Liad. The one of whom I spoke.”

“Pilot?” The thin lips bent in a smile. “He scarcely seems old enough.” A hand lifted, trembling slightly, showing Tor An an empty palm. “I mean no offense, Pilot; when one reaches a certain age, the galaxy itself seems a child.”

“I have not been insulted,” Tor An assured him, and felt his cheeks heat as the scholar’s smile grew momentarily more pronounced.

“I am pleased to hear it, for I do not hide from you, Pilot, that it would go badly for me, were we to meet on the field of honor.”

“Liad—” Scholar vel’Anbrek said urgently.

“Yes, yes, my friend. Time is precious. Allow me a dozen heartbeats more, that I might beg you to reconsider your position.”

“I never had a taste for adventuring,” the other scholar said, taking his hand from the guard and going two deliberate steps back. “I will remain, and do what might be done here.”

The old man sighed. “So it shall be, then. Keep well, old friend, as long as that state is possible.”

vel’Anbrek bowed. “Go forth and do great deeds, Master.” He turned on his heel and strode away; the wall misted before him, and reformed behind, as solid-seeming as Jela, standing patiently to the rear, tree cradled in his arms.

Tor An blinked. It had seemed for a moment as if the bark had grown ears, but—

With a burble of joy, Lucky the cat leapt out of the tree’s pot and galloped, tail high in ecstacy, toward the carry chair, and without hesitation bounded over the tumble bar and into Master dea’Syl’s lap.

“Well.” The old man presented a finger, and received an enthusiastic bump. “You must tell me who this fine fellow is, Pilot.”

“That is Scholar tay’Nordif’s cat, sir,” Tor An said politely, unaccountably relieved to see the animal again. “She calls him Lucky.”

“Does she so? May she be correct in her estimation.”

Tor An took a breath, reached into his jacket and pulled out the documents the scholar had entrusted to his care.

“If you please, sir,” he said. The master’s dark, sapient gaze lifted courteously to his face. “If you please,” Tor An repeated, stepping forward. “Scholar tay’Nordif sends you these tidings.”

“Ah.” The master considered the packets gravely and at last held out a hand. Greatly relieved, Tor An surrendered them, and then turned, gesturing toward the immobile Jela and his burden.

“Scholar tay’Nordif also makes you a gift, sir.”

There was a small silence; the master absently skritching the cat’s chin with one hand, the documents on his knee, unopened and apparently unregarded, while he looked past Tor An, to Scholar tay’Nordif’s offering.

“A gift of an M Series soldier is generous indeed,” Master dea’Syl said at last. “I believe I have not seen the like since my Wander days. Introduce me, pray, Pilot.”

Tor An stared at Jela, stricken. The soldier smiled slightly and inclined his sleek head.

“My name’s Jela, sir,” he said in his easy voice. “Am I right in thinking you intended to hire Pilot yos’Galan to lift you out of here?”

“Indeed you are. Am I correct in thinking that the military has at last come to its senses and will act upon my findings?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Jela said seriously. “I’m working with an independent corps of specialists. Our mission is to liberate your work and use it to aid as much of the galaxy as possible in escaping the
sheriekas
.”

“A worthy mission, and one with which I find myself in harmony. I willingly align myself with your corps of specialists. Pray put down your camouflage and let us depart.”

“No camouflage,” Jela said, “but a member of the team.”

“Ah? Fascinating. Please, M. Jela, place your associate on the cargo rack at the rear of this chair. I shall be honored to bear it with me.”

Jela hesitated, then stepped ‘round and slid the tree into the rack, using the straps to fasten it securely.

“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

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.