The Crystal Variation (83 page)

The cage contracted, poison rising in the heat from the lines. Rool exerted his will, knowing that she would see the effort it cost him; leached the poison and stilled the contraction.

His lady’s sister laughed.

“Rool Tiazan!” She commanded him; and he shuddered to hear her.

“Lady,” he answered, forcefully projecting calm.

“You will bind yourself to this promise: At the Moment, you will wholly support my action.”

“There is another yet to convince,” his lady spoke briskly, “who will also wish to seal our bond with power. It is mete and fitting that guarantees be made. Therefore, at the Moment of the Question, you shall one-third of what you have measure here and now of our worth, in support of your Answer.”

Power rolled and clashed. The lady’s thought enclosed him, violating him on every level; and he would certainly have screamed, had she left him any means to do so.

An eternity of torment passed—and he was released. He collapsed within the poisoned walls of their prison, bleeding energy from a thousand wounds.

His lady’s sister relaxed into the chaise, her eyes bright and cruel, crimson smoke wreathing her head.

“We are in accord,” she said. “Have your submissive weave a strand to mine, so that I may draw my portion, when it is due.”

“Indeed. Rool.”

Unsteadily, he did what was needful, spinning out a thread of his essence to weave into that of the scarred, mad submissive.”It is done,” his lady said. “Look for contact—soon, I think, sister. The process accelerates.”

“So I have noted, as well. Simbu, relax the energies.”

The cage wavered, lines loosening. Rool collected himself and snatched them out of that place, a star blazing thinly against the flickering purple of the Rim, and then gone.

Twenty-Three

TWENTY-THREE

Solcintra

TOR AN YOS’GALAN MOVED
down the hallway at a pace just slightly less than a run, passing many soldiers, Ms and Xs, Ys and natural human. Most ignored him, some acknowledged him with a casual salute or tip of the head. None molested him, for which he believed Captain Wellik was to thank, though that large, brusque individual swore otherwise.

“Don’t judge all soldiers by a bunch of rowdies with a withdrawal order on their belts. Troops here are disciplined, and we know our duty—to hold this world against attack, and to guard the civilians, should attack become imminent.”

Though he could hardly credit it himself, Tor An had developed a liking for Captain Wellik, who remembered Jela fondly, and received Scholar dea’Syl with reverence. He had immediately installed the scholar in spacious apartments within the garrison, gathering each and any small thing the old man could think to want. Captain Wellik had even taken the third member of their party in his long stride, merely observing that Lucky was an exemplary name for a cat.

The hallway opened into the garrison commons, and Tor An allowed himself to stretch into a real run.

That he had stayed on as man of all work for Scholar dea’Syl—was reasonable. The old man was comfortable with him; he had young legs and a willingness to be of use. And—it wasn’t as if he were needed elsewhere.

Today’s errand necessitated a trip down into the town, to the wine-shop of one Tilthi bar’Onig, there to pick up the Scholar’s mid-week order. Of course, there was no real reason for Tor An to go himself—the errand could have been accomplished by any one of the soldiers attached to the garrison quartermaster’s office. However, it was a tonic—so said Master dea’Syl, and Tor An found himself in agreement—to be able to leave the garrison and walk among civilians.

“Mark me, I have been a prisoner,” the old man had said to him, as he sat in the window of his apartments and looked out over the evening commons. “You might say that everyone is bound by duty, and thus each stands a prisoner in his own jail—and you would be correct. To a point. Do you know what that point is, young trader?”

This examination was familiar enough. Tor An had looked up from the newsfeed, and considered the old man’s silhouette.

“Choice, sir?”

For a moment, there had been no response. Then Scholar dea’Syl sighed.

“Choice,” he repeated, as if it were some rare and precious gem laid out on the trade cloth for his consideration. “You’ve been well-schooled, I see.” He’d held out his glass then, not looking away from the window.

“Be a good lad and fetch me some more of the same.”

Tor An slowed to a brisk walk, and waved his pass at Corporal Hanth on the gate, as his partner Jarn was engaged with a—

Tor An spun on his heel.

“Scholar tay’Nordif!”

The woman in trade leathers did not turn her head, and Tor An hesitated. Perhaps he was mistaken, he thought. It had taken him some days not to see Jela in every M Series soldier he passed; perhaps this lady—tall and slim, with pretty tan hair and strong profile—perhaps this lady merely had the seeming of—

“I’ll explain myself to Captain Wellik, and none other,” she was saying, her husky, laconic voice bearing a Rim accent—and that was certainly wrong. Maelyn tay’Nordif had spoken with a scholar’s finicking care, her voice high and clear.

“You can call him here or I can go to him there,” she told Jarn. “Either way, your job’s to clear me, and what you need for that is this:
Jela sent me
. Send it on. My name’s—”

He was
not
mistaken!

“Scholar tay’Nordif!” Tor An moved toward her, aware that Hanth had shifted, and that Jarn was looking stubborn. The scholar herself—she turned to face him, pilot smooth, the line of frown between her brows.

“You’re talking to me, Pilot?” There was no glimmer of recognition in her face, and yet, if Jela had sent her—surely there could not be two such! Tor An took a deep breath and bowed.

“Scholar, perhaps you will recall me. It is Tor An yos’Galan. I had not expected—has Captain Jela come with you? Just yesterday, the master was wishful of speaking to him, in regard to—”

He stopped. The lady was no longer frowning; indeed there was a complete and frightening absence of expression on her face.

“Jela’s dead,” she said flatly. “And my name, if you’ll do me the favor of recalling it, Pilot, is Cantra yos’Phelium.” She moved a hand, showing him Hanth and Jarn. “Might be you’re able to talk sense to the gate guard? I’m bearing a message from Jela to Captain Wellik, and I’ll not hide from you, Pilot, that my temper’s on a thin tether at this day and hour.”

Dead. Yet another loss. Tears rose. He blinked them away and inclined his head.

“How?” he asked, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat, and raised his head to meet her eyes. “If it can be told. Pilot.”

Something moved in the foggy green eyes, and the lady’s mouth tightened.

“He took rear guard,” she said softly. “I see you honor him, Pilot. Get me to Captain Wellik, and we’re both in the way of following last orders.”

“Certainly.” He turned to Jarn, who was still looking stubborn, and then to Hanth, who was looking wary.

“This pilot,” he said to both, “is known to me. I vouch for her.”

“She’s so known to you,” Jarn answered, “that she had to tell you what name she’s using today.”

“I knew her as Maelyn tay’Nordif,” Tor An admitted. “However, Captain Jela—who I know you honor, Hanth—told me that this lady is vital to the profitable outcome of the scholar’s work. Captain Wellik will wish to see her. If you will not pass her, then call him to the gate.”

Hanth exchanged a glance with Jarn; she hitched a shoulder and jerked her head, using her chin to hit the comm switch set inside her collar.

“Captain,” she murmured. “Pilot at the gate asking for you by name. Says she carries a message from Captain Jela. The boy claims to know her, but calls her by a different name than the one she gives to us.” Silence, then— “Cantra yos’Phelium,” she murmured. “The boy says Maelyn tay’Nordif.” A shorter silence. “Yes, sir.”

A sigh and another jerk of the chin, then Jarn looked up at the tall pilot.

“Captain’s sending an escort,” she said.

Cantra yos’Phelium inclined her head and moved to a side, leaning an indolent hip against the wall and crossing her arms across her breast. Tor An hesitated, his mind half on Scholar dea’Syl’s errand, and yet loath to let the scho—Pilot yos’Phelium—go.

“How,” he began, moving toward her. She looked up, face neutral in a way that he recognized. He paused, and showed her empty hands. She inclined her head.

“How did you escape?” he asked, letting his hands fall slowly his sides. “We—the captain would have the duel a diversion engineered to allow us to win free with Master dea’Syl. When we had raised
Light Wing
, and the scholar was safe inside, then he—he and the tree—left us. They were going back to Osabei Tower, he said. For you.”

She sighed and closed her eyes briefly. “Stupid damn’ thing,” she muttered, then opened her eyes and gave him a hard look.

“I came out through the smaly tube, since the topic’s stupidity. Jela scraped me up off the floor and took me back to my ship.”

Tor An stared at her. “The smaly tube?” he breathed. “You might have been—”

“Killed,” she finished. “That’s right.”

She seemed to find the matter of no particular interest, nor the fact of her survival astonishing. And yet—this was the pilot Jela had claimed as partner, who had accepted self-delusion in order that Scholar dea’Syl might be brought out of his prison, and his work placed at the disposal of—

A tall shadow moved inside the gate, resolving into Corporal Kwinz, her tattoos blue and vivid in the sunlight. Her gaze passed over Tor An and settled on Cantra yos’Phelium.

“You’re the one with a message from Captain Jela?” she asked.

“That’s right,” the pilot answered, straightening out of her lean to stand tall and ready on the balls of her feet.

“Come on, then,” Kwinz said. “You’re late for the party.”

The pilot fell in behind the soldier, and the two of them marched away across the commons. Tor An tarried, in case she should have need—but she never looked back. For all he was able to tell, she had forgotten his existence entirely.

“You’ll want to move smart,” Hanth said, “if you expect to be back from town by curfew.”

Tor An blinked. He should have asked her, he thought, if she wanted her cat.

“The pilot—” he said to Hanth, but that soldier jerked a shoulder.

“The pilot has business with the captain,” he said. “You have business outside. And if you’re not back by curfew,
you’ll
have business with the captain, which I think you’d rather avoid, eh?”

Well—yes.

Sighing, Tor An took up his errand, moving into a jog, and finally into a run, keeping his thoughts determinedly on the scholar’s mid-week order.

* * *

THE SOLDIER WITH the blue
tattoos didn’t waste any time marching them through the garrison’s center and into the dim quiet of inside. Cantra followed, keeping her hand away from her gun and projecting calm good citizenship. She tried not to think about the yellow-haired pilot at the gate, who’d been a breath away from crying true tears on hearing of Jela’s demise—and who’d looked so happy to see her that on-lookers might’ve supposed them kin. Clearly, she’d made an impression on the kid, though she couldn’t say the same for him. If she put her mind to it, she could probably dredge some tenuous recollection of him out the mists that served as Maelyn tay’Nordif’s memory. Memories she shouldn’t have, come right down to it, and best left alone. Might be they’d fade full away, over time.

She could hope.

“Down here,” her guide said, triggering a door and standing aside to let her pass, then closing up behind her as they moved down a narrower, more private hall.

“First door on the left,” the soldier said, and Cantra squared her shoulders and marched on.

She sighed, feeling the weight of Jela’s book in the inside pocket. Now it came to turning it in to its rightful owner, she felt a certain reluctance to let it go, which was nothing more than plain and fancy nonsense. She’d read it, o’course—as much of it as she could read. A firm, precise, strong hand, that was what Jela wrote—who would expect different?—and the most of what he’d set down had been in cipher. Even stipulating she could crack it—which she likely could, given time and
Dancer’s
brain—the information would only be of interest to Captain Wellik and his kind, now that Jela’s commander was gone.

The passages not in cipher were descriptions of people he’d seen, cogitations on this or that thing that had caught his fancy. At the back, he’d kept an informal ship’s log, detailing
Dancer’s
ports o’call, cargo movement, and interaction of ship’s personnel. Reading those firm, precise words, it seemed he’d found the time pleasant and easeful—comforting, in some way that defied belief, yet was no less true for being incomprehensible.

“Right here,” said the soldier, and Cantra stopped, turning to face the door.

The soldier leaned over her shoulder and hit the button set in the frame.

“Corporal Kwinz escorting Pilot Cantra yos’Phelium,” she said, nice and smart.

The door hesitated, as if weighing the likelihood of such an assertion, then slid silently up and out of the way.

CAPTAIN WELLIK
was a big man, which she’d expected; his only concession to the X Strain fashion of facial decoration a tan star tattooed high up on his tan cheek.

What she hadn’t expected was to find him standing three steps inside the room, dwarfing the chairs along the side walls, his arms crossed over his not-inconsiderable chest, legs braced wide, and an ice-blue glare aimed at the center of her forehead.

Cantra stopped, there being no place to go save through him, which course of action she thought she’d reserve until later, and craned her head back.

“I ain’t,” she said tiredly, “in any mood for games. Jela said you were a true man and stood his friend. If that’s so, then cut the pose and we can deal.”

The glare didn’t abate, nor even did Captain Wellik uncross his arms.

“And if it’s not?” he thundered.

She sighed. “If it’s not, then I’m gone.”

The glare stayed steady, but the eyebrows were seen to twitch.