The Crystal Variation (122 page)

A chime sounded, discretely, and the door opened to admit their server, bearing a tray laden with foodstuffs, most of which, Jethri’s stomach announced, smelled
wonderful
.

“Indeed,” said Master ven’Deelin. “We have done work this day, my son. Now, let us relax for an hour and enjoy this delightful repast, and speak of pleasant things.”

Day 135

DAY 135

Standard Year 1118

Elthoria

THE PATTERN OF HIS studies
changed again, with more emphasis on the modes of High Liaden, which meant more time with Master tel’Ondor and much more time with the language tapes—even tapes that played while he slept!

Despite the frenzy, he and Gaenor and Vil Tor had managed to meet in the cafeteria to share a meal—late-shift dinner for Jethri, on-shift lunch for Vil Tor and mid-sleep-shift snack for Gaenor.

“So, you will be leaving us for a time,” Vil Tor said. “I am envious.”

“Not I,” Gaenor put in. “Tarnia frightens me to death.” She glanced up, catching the edge of Jethri’s baffled stare. “She frightens you, too, does she? I knew you for a man of good sense!”

“Indeed,” he stammered. “I have no idea who the gentle may be. As for leaving you—why would I do such a thing?”

“Has the master trader’s word no weight with you, then?” Gaenor asked, while Vil Tor sent a speculative glance into Jethri’s face. “In that wise, you have no need to fear Tarnia. ven’Deelin will have you first.”

“Don’t tease him, Gaenor,” Vil Tor said suddenly. “He hasn’t been told.”

She blinked at him. “Not been told? Surely, he has a need to know, if only to have sufficient time to properly commend himself to his gods.”

“I was told,” Jethri said, before his leg broke proper, “that we would be visiting an old friend of Master ven’Deelin’s, who is delm of a house on Irikwae.”

“Then you have been given the cipher, but not the key,” Gaenor said, reaching for her tea. “Never fear, Vil Tor and I will unlock it for you.”

Jethri looked to the librarian, who moved his shoulders. “Stafeli Maarilex has the honor to be Tarnia, which makes its seat upon Irikwae. She stands as the ven’Deelin’s foster mother, even as the ven’Deelin stands foster mother to you.”

So now I have a foster-granmam?
Jethri thought, but decided that was taking silly too far into nonsense.

“Who better, then,” Gaenor said, jumping in where Vil Tor had stopped, “to shine you?”

Now I have a foster-granmam.
He sighed, and frowned down at his dinner plate.

“No, never put on such a long face!” Vil Tor chided. “Irikwae is a most pleasant world and Tarnia’s gardens are legendary. You will enjoy yourself excessively, Jethri.”

He bit his lip, reminding himself that Vil Tor meant well. It was just that—well, him and Gaenor and—all of
Elthoria’s
crew, really—were grounders. They all had homes on
planets
, and it was those homes, down ‘midst the dust and the mud and the stinks, that they looked forward to going back to, when
Elthoria’s
run was through.

Well, at least the visit wouldn’t be long. He’d been over the route
Elthoria
would take through the Inner Worlds, Master ven’Deelin having made both route and manifest a special area of his studies since they’d quit Modrid, and knew they was scheduled for a three-day layover before moving on to Naord. What kind of polish the old lady could be expected to give him in such a short time wasn’t clear, and Jethri took leave to privately doubt that he’d take much shine, anyway. Still, he guessed she was entitled to try.

The hour bell sounded and Vil Tor hurriedly swallowed the last of his tea as he pushed back from the table.

“Alas, duty,” he murmured. “Gaenor—”

She waved a hand. “Yes, with delight. But, go now, dear friend. Stint not.”

He smiled at that, and touched Jethri on the shoulder as he passed. “Until soon, Jethri. Be well.”

Across the table, Gaenor yawned daintily. “I fear I must desert you, as well, my friend. Have the most enjoyable visit possible, eh? I look forward to hearing every detail, when you are returned to us.”

She slipped out of her chair and gathered her empties together, and, like Vil Tor, touched him on the shoulder as she left him. “Until soon, Jethri.”

“Until soon, Gaenor.”

He sat there a little while longer, alone. His dinner wasn’t quite eaten, but he wasn’t quite hungry. Back at quarters, he had packing to do, and some bit of sleep to catch on his own, his regular shift having been adjusted in order to accommodate a morning arrival, dirt-side. Wouldn’t do to show stupid in front of Master ven’Deelin’s foster mother. Not when he was a son of the house and all.

Sighing, and not entirely easy in his stomach, he gathered up the considerable remains of his meal, fed the recycler and mooched off toward quarters, the fractin jigging between his fingers.

Day 139

DAY 139

Standard Year 1118

Irikwae

IRIKWAE WAS HEAVY,
hot and damp. The light it received from its primary was a merciless blare that stabbed straight through the eyes and into the skull, where the brain immediately took delivery of a headache.

Jethri closed his eyes, teeth clenched, despite being only inches away from a port street full of vehicles, all moving at insane velocity on trajectories that had clearly been plotted with suicide in mind.

“Tch!” said Master ven’Deelin. “Where have my wits gone? A moment, my child.”

Through slitted eyes, he watched her bustle back into the office they had just quit. In the street, the traffic roared on. Jethri closed his eyes again, feeling the sun heating his scalp. The damp air carried a multitude of scents, none of them pleasant, and he began to hope they’d find that Master ven’Deelin’s friend wasn’t to home, so they could go back to
Elthoria
today.

“Here you are, my son. Place these over your eyes, if you will.”

Jethri opened his eyes to slits, saw a tiny hand on which a big purple ring glittered holding a pair of black-lensed spectacles under his nose. He took them, hooked the curved earpieces over his ears, settled the nosepiece.

The street was just like it had been before he put the glasses on, except that the brutal sunlight had been cut by a factor of ten. He sighed and opened his eyes wider.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“You are welcome,” she replied, and he saw that she wore a similar pair of glasses. “I only wish I had recalled beforetime. Have you a headache?”

It had faded considerably; still . . .

“A bit,” he owned. “The glasses are a help.”

“Good. Let us then locate our car—aha!—it arrives.”

And a big green car was pulling up to the curb before them. It stopped, its driver oblivious to the horns of the vehicles in line behind—or maybe, Jethri thought, she was deaf. Whichever, the back door rose and Master ven’Deelin took his arm, urging him forward.

The inside of the car was cool, and dim enough that he dared to slip his glasses down his nose, then off entirely, smiling at the polarized windows, while keeping his eyes off the machinery hurtling by. Prudently, he slipped the glasses into the pocket of his jacket.

“Anecha,” Master ven’Deelin called into the empty air, as the car pulled away from the walk and accelerated heedlessly into the rushing traffic, “is it you?”

“Would I allow anyone else to fetch you?” came the answer, from the grid set into the door. “It has been too many years, Lady. The delm is no younger, you know.”

“Nor am I. Nor am I. And we must each to our duty, which leaves us too little time to pursue that for which our hearts care.”

“So we are all fortunate,” commented the voice from the grid, “that your heart cares so well for the trade.”

Master ven’Deelin laughed.

“Look now, my son,” she said, turning to him and directing his attention through the friendly windows. “There is the guildhall, and just beyond the Trade Bar. After you are settled at the house, you must tour the bazaar. I think you will find Irikwae to be something unique in the way of ports.”

Jethri’s stomach was beginning to register complaints about the motion and the speed. He breathed, slow and deep, concentrating on keeping breakfast where it belonged, and let her words flow by him.

Suddenly, the car braked, swung to the right—and the traffic outside the window was less, and more moderately paced. The view was suddenly something other than port—tile-fronted buildings heavily shaded by the trailing branches of tall, deeply green vegetation.

“Rubiata City,” Master ven’Deelin murmured. He glanced at her and she smiled. “Soon, we shall be home.”

“AWAKEN, MY CHILD,
we are arrived.” The soft voice was accompanied by a brisk tap on his knee.

Jethri blinked, straightened, and blinked again. He didn’t remember falling asleep, but he must’ve, he thought—the view outside the windows was entirely changed.

There was no city. The land fell away on either side of the car and rose up again in jagged teeth of grayish blue rock; on and on it went, and there, through the right window and far below—a needle glint which must be—could it be?—the port tower.

Jethri gasped, his hand went out, automatically seeking a grab-bar—and found warm fingers instead.

“Peace,” Norn ven’Deelin said, in her awful Terran. “No danger is there here, Jethri. We come up into the home of my heart.”

Her fingers were unexpectedly strong, gripping him tightly.

“All is well. The mountains are friendly. I promise you will find them so, eh? Eh?”

He swallowed and forced himself to look away from the wide spaces and dangerous walls—to look at her face.

The black eyes held his. “Good. No danger. Say to me.”

“No danger,” he repeated, obedient, if breathless.

She smiled slightly. “And soon will you believe it. Never have you seen mountains?”

He shook his head. “I—the port. There’s no use us going out into—” He swallowed again, engaging in a brief battle of wills with his stomach. “I’m ship-born, ma’am. We learn not to look at the open sky. It makes us—some of us—uncomfortable.”

“Ah.” Her fingers tightened, then she released him, and smiled. “Many wonders await you, my son.”

THEY HAD PASSED BETWEEN
high pillars of what looked to be the local blue rock, smoothed and regularized into rectangles. Afterward, the view out the window was of lawns, interrupted now and then by groups of middle tall plants. Gaenor’s descriptions of the pleasant things she missed from her home led him to figure that the groups scratched an artistic itch. If this lawn had been done the way Gaenor thought was proper, then there’d be some vantage point overlooking the whole, where the pattern could be seen all at once.

The car took a long curve, more lawn sweeping by the windows, then came to a smooth halt, broadside to a long set of stairs cut from the blue rock.

The doors came up, admitting a blare of unpolarized sunlight and an unexpectedly cool breeze, bearing scents both mysterious and agreeable.

Master ven’Deelin patted him on the knee.

“Come along, young Jethri! We are arrived!”

She fairly leapt out of the vehicle. Jethri paused long enough to put the black glasses on, then followed rather more slowly.

Outside, Master ven’Deelin was in animated conversation with a gray-haired woman dressed in what looked to be formal uniform—their driver, maybe . . .
Anecha
, he reminded himself, mindful of Uncle Paitor’s assertion that a successful trader worked at keeping name and face on file in the brainbox—which was, by coincidence, a point Master tel’Ondor also made.

So—Anecha the driver. He’d do better to find her last name, but for now he could get away with “Master Anecha” if he was called upon to do the polite. Not that that looked likely any time in the near present, the way her and Master ven’Deelin were jawing.

Deliberately keeping his eyes on objects nearby—no need to embarrass Master ven’Deelin or himself with another widespaces panic—he moved his gaze up the stony steps, one at a time, until all at once, there was house at the tiptop, posed like a fancy on the highest tier of one of Dyk’s sillier cakes.

Up it went, three levels, four—rough blue rock, inset with jewel-colored windows. There was greenery climbing the rock walls: vines heavy with white, waxy flowers, that swayed in the teasing breeze.

Nearer at hand, he heard his name and brought his eyes hurriedly down from the heights, to find Master ven’Deelin at his right hand.

“Anecha will see to our luggage,” she said, with a sweep of her hand that encompassed both stair and house. “Let us ascend.”

Ascend they did—thirty-six stone steps, one after the other, at a pace somewhat brisker than he would have chosen for himself, Master ven’Deelin bouncing along beside like gravity had nothing to do with her.

They did pause at the top, Jethri sucking air deep into his lungs and wishing that Liadens didn’t considered it impolite for a spacer to mop his face in public.

“You must see this,” Master ven’Deelin said, putting her hand on his arm. “Turn about, my child.”

Panting, Jethri turned about.

What he didn’t do—he didn’t throw himself face down on the deck and cover his head with his arms, nor even go down on his knees and set up a yell for Seeli.

He did go back a step, breath throttling in his throat, and had the native sense to bring his eyes
down
, away from the arcing empty pale sky and the unending march of rock and peak—
down
to the long stretch of green lawn, which outrageous open space was nothing less than homey by comparison with the horror of the sky.

So—the lawn, and the clumps of bushes, swimming before his tearing eyes, and suddenly, the random clumps weren’t random, but the necessary parts of a larger picture showing a common cat, folded in and poised on the feet, ready to jump.

Jethri remembered to breathe. Remembered to look to Master ven’Deelin and incline his head, politely.

“You approve?” she murmured, her head tipped a little to a side.

“It is—quite a work,” he managed, shamelessly swiping Master tel’Ondor’s phrase. He cleared his throat. “Is the hunting cat the sign of the house?”