The Crystal Variation (132 page)

“FLINX IS A HERO!”
Meicha cried, swooping down to snatch the big cat into her arms. He flicked his ears and lifted his head to rub a cheek against her chin. She laughed, and spun away, her feet describing patterns that Jethri thought might be Liaden dancing.

“Are you well, Jethri?” Miandra had come forward to stand next to him, her eyes serious.

He grinned and shrugged, Terran-style. “Too ignorant to know my own danger. I shouted for Ren Lar, true enough, but because I didn’t think it was right for Flinx to kill that thing. It turns out that it was a good job he didn’t get bit, since I learn that the . . . kylabra . . . bite will leave you ill.”

“The kylabra bite,” she corrected, her eyes even more serious. “Will leave you dead, more often than not. If you have been bitten by a young snake, or one newly wakened, perhaps you will merely become ill, but it is wisest to assume that any snake you encounter is both mature and operating at full capacity.”

He considered that, remembering how small the snake had been. But, then, he thought, a mouthful of anhydrous cyanide will kill you, sure as stars, no matter how big you are. If the kylabra carried concentrated poison . . .

He frowned.

“Why allow them to remain in the vineyard, then? Wouldn’t it be better to simply kill them all and be sure that the workers are safe?”

“You would think so,” Miandra agreed, her eyes on Meicha, who was bending so that Flinx might jump from her arms to the upholstered window ledge. “And, indeed, the winery logs show that there had at one time been a war waged upon the kylabra. However, the vines then fell victim to root-eaters and other pests, which are the natural prey of the snakes. The damage these pests gave to the vines was much greater than the danger kylabra posed to the staff, and so an uneasy truce was struck. The snakes are shy by nature and attack only when they feel that they have been attacked. And it is true that they do not usually wake so early.”

“The weather has been unseasonable, Ren Lar said.”

She glanced up at his face, her own unreadable. “Indeed, it has been. We pray that it remains so, and we have no sudden frosts, to undo what the early warmth has given us.”

Jethri frowned. Frost was condensed water vapor, but— “I am afraid I do not understand weather as it occurs on-planet,” he said slowly. “Is there not an orderly progression—?”

She laughed and Meicha smiled as she rejoined them. “Is Jethri telling jokes?”

“Not quite,” her sister said. “He merely inquires into the progression of weather and wonders if it is orderly.”

Meicha’s smile widened to a grin. “Well, if it were, Ren Lar would be a deal more pleased, and the price of certain years of wine would plummet.”

He worked it out. “The vines are vulnerable to the . . . frost. So, if there is a frost after a certain point, there are less grapes and the wine that is made from those grapes becomes more valuable, because less available.”

Together, they turned to look at him, and as one brought their palms together in several light claps.

“Well reasoned,” said Meicha and he shrugged a second time.

“Economic sense. Rare costs more.”

“True,” Miandra murmured. “But weather is random and there are some grapes of which we need to have no shortage. It is better, if rarity is desirable, to reserve the vintage to the house and sell it higher, later.”

That made sense. The weather, though, you’d think something could be done.

“Do you watch the weather?”

“Certainly.” That was Meicha. “Ren Lar has a portable station which he carries on his belt and listens to all his waking hours—and his sleeping hours, too, I’ll wager! However and alas, the reports are not always—one might say, hardly ever—accurate, so that one must always expect that the weather will turn against you. Only think, Jethri! Before you is yet the experience of being awakened by the master in the still of night, in order that you might assist in tending the smudge pots, which will keep the frost from the buds.”

There had to be a better way
, he thought, vaguely thinking of domes, or the
Market’s
hydroponics section, or—

“Good-day, good-day, Lady Meicha, Lady Miandra!” The voice was brisk and light and closely followed by an elderly gentlemen in evening clothes. He paused just inside the room, bright brown eyes on Jethri’s face.

“And this—I find Jethri, the son of ven’Deelin?”

He made his bow, light and buoyant. “Jethri Gobelyn,” he said in the mode of introduction. “Adopted of Norn ven’Deelin.”

“Delightful!” The elderly gentleman rubbed his hands together in clear anticipation. “I am Zer Min pel’Oban. You may address me as Master pel’Oban. Now, tell me, young Jethri, have you been instructed in the basic forms and patterns?”

“I can dance a jig and a few line dances,” he said, neither of which likely hit any of the basic forms and patterns, whatever they might be. Still, he was accounted spry on his feet, and at the shivary during which he came to sixteen, Jadey Winchester—mainline, right off the
Bullet
—had danced with him to the positive exclusion of the olders who were trying to court her—or, rather, to court the
Bullet
, since Jadey was in line for captain, as he found out later. But not ‘til him and Mac Gold had come to blows over who had a right to dance and who was just a kid.

“A jig,” Master pel’Oban murmured. “I regret, I am unfamiliar. Might you, of your goodness, produce a few steps? Perhaps I may recognize it.”

Not likely
, thought Jethri, but since he’d brought the subject up, there really wasn’t any way he could ease out of a demo.

So— “I will attempt it, sir,” he said, politely, and closed his eyes, trying to hear the music inside his head—flutes, spoons, banjo, drums, some ‘lectric keys, maybe—
that
was shivary music. Loud, fast and jolly for a jig. Jethri smiled to himself, feeling his feet twitch as the remembered twang of Wilm Guthry’s banjo echoed through his head. He closed his eyes, and there was Jadey, smiling a challenge and tossing her head, kicking high, once, twice—and on the third kick he joined her, then both feet down and hands on hips, look to the left and look to the right, and your feet moving quick through the weaving steps. . .

“Thank you!” he heard, and opened his eyes to the dancing room with its wooden floor and blue-covered walls, and Master pel’Oban standing before him, his hands folded and a look on his face that Jethri thought might have been shock. The twins, at his right and left hands, were visibly trying not to smile.

He let his feet still, dropped his hands from his hips and inclined his head.

“A few steps only, sir. I hope it was—instructive.”

Master pel’Oban eyed him. “Instructive. Indeed. You have grace, I see, and an athletic nature. Now, we will show you how the dance is done on Irikwae.” He waggled his fingers at Miandra and Meicha.

“If the ladies will oblige me by producing a round dance?”

THE BAR WAS LESS frenzied now.
In fact, the blue-haired bartender was leaning at her ease at the near end, in earnest conversation with a little girl wearing a ship’s coverall, sitting cross-legged atop the bar.

“This one yours, Long Space?”

“Belongs to a friend,” Khat said, sparing a hard frown for Coraline. “Her ship’s going up in a quarter-clock and her brother’s lookin’ for her.”

The ‘keeper produced a frown of her own. “Bad business, worrying your brother,” she said sternly.

Coraline bit her lip and stared down at the bar. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“You tell him that,” the barkeep recommended and tapped her on the knee. “Hey.”

The girl looked up and the woman smiled. “It’s been good talking to you. Next time you’re here, stop by and give me the news, right, Cory?”

Coraline smiled. “Right.”

“That’s set, then. Go on now and find your brother.”

“All right. Good flight.” Coraline scooted to the edge of the bar and dropped to the floor, landing without a stagger.

Khat held out her hand. “Let’s go.” She said, and the two of them crossed the last bit of the bar and went out into the corridor.

* * *

“YOU!” KEESON’S BELLOW
got the frowning attention of a cluster of Liadens near the door. He ignored them and swept his sister up in his arms.

“I oughta break you in half,” he snarled, giving her a hug that looked close to doing the job.

Coraline put her head next to his. “I’m sorry, Kee.”

“You’re
always
sorry,” he said. “What you gotta be is
on time
. You keep up like this an’ captain’ll confine you to ship for sure.” He set her on her feet, keeping a tight grip on her hand, and turned to give Khat a grin and an extravagant salute.

“Khat Gobelyn, you’re my hero!”

She sputtered a laugh and shooed him down the tunnel. “Go on, or your captain’ll leave both of you.”

“And count herself ahead,” Keeson agreed. He gave her another salute and tugged on Coraline’s hand. “C’mon, Spark. Show me how fast you can run in grav.”

“‘bye, Khat,” the little girl called and the two of them were gone, moving out with a will.

Khat shook her head and raised a hand to stifle a sudden yawn.
Time to get back to the crash
, she thought, and looked around for her guiding arrows.

“Gobelyn,” a soft malicious voice said behind her. Khat spun, and met the cold blue eyes of the yellow-haired trader who’d been giving Intake so much grief.

“What about it?” she asked him in pidgin, not even trying to sound sociable.

He frowned. “Kin you are to
Jethri
Gobelyn?”

What was this? One of Jeth’s new mates? “Yes,” she allowed, slightly more sociable, trying to see Jethri having anything cordial to do with such a spoiled, pretty fellow, and having a tough go of it, even given that business was business . . .

“Your kin has damaged my kin,” the Liaden was saying, and Khat felt her skin pebble with chill. “You owe Balance.”

The Liadens standing all around were real quiet, watching them. A couple of Terrans slammed through the door, talking loudly, barged through the crowd without seeing it and disappeared down the tunnel.

“What did he do?” Khat asked the Liaden. “And who are you?”

“I am Bar Jan chel’Gaibin. Jethri Gobelyn by his actions has stolen from me a brother. He does not pay the lifeprice. You are his kin. Will I Balance the loss exactly? Or will you pay the lifeprice?”

What
was
this? Khat wondered wildly. Jethri had killed somebody—this man’s brother? And now she was being threatened with—exact Balance—death? Or she could pay up? And Master ven’Deelin was allowing Jeth to dodge a legitimate debt? That seemed unlikely at the least.

Khat drew a careful breath, not cold now that her brain was engaged.

“How much?”

His eyes changed, though the rest of his face remained bland.

“For a gifted trader at the start of a profitable career—four hundred cantra.”

She almost laughed—if he’d been Terran, she
would have
laughed. If he’d been Terran, they wouldn’t be having this conversation.

She shrugged, indifferent. “Too much,” she said and turned away, tracking the yellow arrows out of the side of her eye, moving firm but not so fast that he’d think she was running.

He
grabbed
her, the damned fool. Grabbed her arm, hard, and yanked her back around.

She came around, all right; she came around swinging, and caught him full across the face. The force of the blow lifted him off his feet and dropped him flat, backbone to deck, and there he laid, winded, at least, or maybe out cold.

A shout came out of the watching Liadens, and she figured it was time to show she was serious, so she kept on turning, until she was facing the lot of them, crouched low and the boot knife in her hand.

She let them see it, and when nobody seemed disposed to argue with it, eased out of the crouch.

“We can take it to Security, or we can leave it,” she snarled. “We take it to Security, be sure I’ll let them know that this man tried to rob me, and made threats against my cousin and myself—and that you stood by and watched.”

There was a stir among the group of them, and another boy, not quite so pretty as the one on the floor, stepped forward.

“We leave it,” he said. “No Security.” He moved a hand so deliberately that the gesture must have meant something. “Safe passage.”

Well, now, wasn’t that sweet?

Khat bared her teeth at him, in no way a smile. “You bet,” she said, and turned away, keeping the blade ready.

Nobody tried to stop her.

IT WAS EDGING
onto the middle of the world-night, and he should have been well a-bed. Thoughts were buzzing loud inside his head, though, most notably thoughts regarding supply and demand and the unpredictability of weather.

So it was that Jethri was kneeling on the bench beneath the window in his bedroom, swearing at the latch, instead of sweetdreaming in his bunk.

The latch came down all at once and the window swung out on well-oiled hinges. He damn near swung out with it, in the second before he remembered to let go and lean back, and then he just knelt there, waiting for his heart to slow down, breathing deep breaths of the cool mid-night air.

The breeze was slightly damp, and carried a confusion of odors. Tree-smells, he guessed, and flowers; rocks, grapes and snakes. The sky showed a ribbon of stars and two of Irikwae’s three moons, riding the shoulders of the mountains.

The cushion he was kneeling on moved and he looked down to find Flinx. The cat looked at him, eye to eye, and blinked his, in what Miandra insisted was a cat-smile.

“Guess I owe you Balance,” Jethri said, reaching down and tickling the underneath of the chin. Flinx purred and his eyes melted into mere slits of peridot. “Your life ever needs saving, you don’t hesitate, take me?” Flinx purred even louder, and Jethri grinned again, gave the chin another couple skritches for good measure, then sat carefully back on his knees and pulled the weather device out of his pocket.

Sometime during the endless repetitions of the basic pattern of a round dance, it had come to him that the little machine might be well-used on behalf of Ren Lar’s grapes. He frowned down into the screen, touched the icon which him and his father had figured out accessed the predictive program and knelt tall once more, elbows on the window ledge, the device held firmly between his two hands, slightly extended, allowing it to taste the night.