Killashandra (11 page)

There was no way the collection could have been assembled and spirited into her apartment in the time elapsed since she stormed out of the dining room. Then she remembered her remarks on the trip from the spaceport. Well, Elder Pentrom might be a prissy, dogmatic, abstemious man, but obviously her every whim was someone’s command.

Because her guide had mentioned Bascum, her choice
among so many finally settled on the neat brown bottle in the cold chest. She flipped the top off and let the mid-brown brew slowly descend into an appropriate beaker. The malty scent that rose to her nostrils suggested good things to come.

“And about time, too,” she said, scooping up a random selection of nibbles and sinking into the nearest comfortable seat. “To absent friends!” She lifted her beaker high then took her first sip.

She regarded the brew with respect and delight. “Could Bascum possibly have come from Yarra?” she asked herself. “This might not be so bad an assignment after all!”

B
y the time the quick Optherian sunset had finished its evening display, Killashandra had sampled nine beverages, wishing she had someone with whom to share the largesse, especially since there was a prohibition against it. Which brought Corish to mind, and that mythical uncle of his. Unless she could discover how much surveillance she would be having from her discreet quartette—and how easy it would be to outwit it—she didn’t want to risk meeting him. Would they think it odd if she left a message in at the Piper Facility? Corish had considerably piqued her curiosity and she was somewhat motivated by a desire to show him that two could play the exploitation gambit.

Someone tapped on her apartment door and, when Mirbethan entered on her permission, Killashandra caught the shade of uncertainty in the Optherian’s manner.

“Since you’re not accompanied by any priss-mouthed
ancients, you are welcome. And if that excuse for a meal is a state dinner here, no wonder you’re a lean bunch.”

Mirbethan flushed. “Since Elder Pentrom graciously accepted our invitation, we are obliged to cater to his dietary preferences. Didn’t Elder Ampris mention this to you?”

“He failed to put me in the know. However, all this,” and Killashandra waved expansively at the beverage table’s load, “makes up for that deficiency, though solid food would assist my investigations …”

“There was no time to show you the catering facility.” Mirbethan glided to one of the discreet wall cabinets. Its doors opened on a catering unit. “Alcoholic beverages are not included. Students have a distressing aptitude for breaking restricted codes.” Killashandra decided that she merely thought she detected a note of tolerant humor in Mirbethan’s voice. “That is why we have supplied you with a sampling of the available intoxicants.”

“In spite of Elder Pentrom.”

Mirbethan cast her eyes downward.

“Tell me, Mirbethan, would you happen to know if Bascum the brewmaster originated from the planet Yarra?”

“Bascum?” Mirbethan looked up, startled, and confused. When Killashandra waved the long-emptied bottle at her, she blushed. “Oh, that Bascum.” Now she glided to a second ornate cabinet which opened into a full size terminal, and a panel in the wall slid aside to reveal a large screen. She typed an entry as Killashandra made a private wager. “Why, how under the suns did you know?”

“The best brewmasters in the galaxy hail from that planet. I haven’t sampled everything yet,” Killashandra went on, “but I shall be very well suited indeed if you’ll undertake to keep me supplied with Bascum’s brew.”

“As you require, Guildmember. But for now, the concert is about to start in the Red Hall. Only the single manual organ, but the performer was last year’s prize winner.”

Killashandra was tempted, but she was a shade hungrier and drier than she liked to be. “The Elders are present?” When Mirbethan solemnly nodded, Killashandra sighed deeply. “Convey my apologies on the grounds of travel fatigue … and the stress of metabolic readjustment after the assault and the wound.” Killashandra ran the silk up her arm, exposing her shoulder where only a thin red line gave evidence of an injury.

Mirbethan’s eyes widened significantly and then, with a subtle shift, she inclined a bow to Killashandra.

“Your apologies will be conveyed. Call code MBT 14 if you require any further assistance from myself, Thyrol, Pirinio, or Polabod.”

Killashandra wished her a pleasant evening and Mirbethan withdrew. As soon as the door had closed on the woman, Killashandra discarded her languor and made for the catering unit. Once again, Optherian peculiarities inhibited her, for when she called up a menu, there was no scrolling of delectable, mouthwatering selections but a set dinner, with only three choices for the main course. She opted for all three, and immediately the catering unit queried her. She repeated her request and, when the unit wanted to know how many were dining, she tapped in “three.” At which point the unit informed her that the apartment was recorded as having a single occupant. She replied that she had guests. Their names and codes were required. She responded with the names of Elders Pentrom and Ampris, codes unknown.

The food was promptly dispensed, two of the meager servings that she had observed in the dining hall. Fortunately the third one was substantial enough to abort the kick that she had been about to bestow on the catering unit.

Once she had solid food in her stomach, she continued her liquor sampling. While not in the least inebriated, thanks to her Ballybran-altered digestion, Killashandra was very merry and sang lustily as she ventured into the hygiene rooms and splashed in the scented water of the bath. She continued to sing, her fancy latching onto a riotous ballad generally rendered by a tenor, as she made her way to the bedroom. A lambent radiance augmented the soft lighting and, curious, she went to the window, observing three of Optheria’s four small moons, one near enough for the craters and vast sterile plains to be clearly visible. Entranced, Killashandra broke off the ballad and began the haunting love duet from Baleef’s exotic opera,
Voyagers
, which seemed particularly appropriate to the setting.

When a tenor voice joined her on cue, she faltered a moment. Then, despite her astonishment at spontaneity in such a rigidly controlled environment, she continued.
Voyagers
had been her last opera as a student on Fuerte, so she knew it well enough to divert some of her attention from the words. And a fine, rich, well produced voice he had. Might need a bit more support for the G’s and A’s in the last three measures—she’d be amazed if he could hit the high C along with her—but he had a firm sense of the dynamic requirements and sang with great sensitivity. As the tenor took up the melody, she gathered herself for the taxing finale, delighted to find her singing voice still flexible enough for the dynamics, and the high C. The tenor, with no loss of vibrance, opted for the A, but it was a grand ringing A and she applauded his judgment.

She sustained her note, perversely wishing him to drop but, as it happened, they broke off at the same instant, as if they had had the innumerable rehearsals such inspired singing required.

“ ‘When shall our paths cross again?’ ” she asked in the recitative which followed that spectacular duet.

“ ‘When the moons of Radomah make glorious the sky with measured dance.’ ” The invisible tenor also had a vibrant speaking voice, and, better yet, an appreciation of the humor in their impromptu performance for she caught the ripple of laughter in his chanted phrases. Did he also find the words, and the opera, a trifle ludicrous in the austere setting of the Optherian Complex?

All of a sudden, the courtyard below was floodlighted. Figures erupted onto the paving, shouting commands for silence. Before she stepped back from the window, Killashandra caught a glimpse of a figure, in a window directly opposite hers but a story above, withdrawing into the shielding darkness. Soprano and tenor exited the stage while the extras made a diligent and vain search for the conspirators.

Killashandra poured herself a full glass of something which its label identified as a fortified wine. This was an odd music center if impromptu singing, particularly of so high a caliber, was answered by punitive force.

She downed the drink, doused all the lights in the suite and, in the milky light of the moons, sought the comfort of her bed. Despite a wish for sleep, her mind ranged through the scenes of the Baleef opera and the sorrows of the star-crossed lovers. She must remember to ask Mirbethan who that tenor was. Fine voice! Much better than the pimple-faced little oaf who had sung the role opposite her on Fuerte!

Morning chimes, soft but insidious, roused her. She lifted herself on one elbow, saw that dawn was just breaking, groaned and, flinging the light coverlet over her head, went back to sleep. A second sequence of chimes, louder, sounded. Cursing, Killashandra strode to the console, coded the number Mirbethan had given her. “Is there any way to stop the wretched chimes in this apartment? Imagine, having to wake up at dawn!”

“That is the way here, Guildmember, but I shall advise Control that your apartment is to be excluded from the Rising Chimes.”

“And all others, please! I will not be ordered about by bells, drums, whistles, shrills, or inaudibles. And who possesses that remarkably fine tenor voice?”

Mirbethan shot Killashandra a startled look. “You were disturbed by it—”

“Not in the least. But if that’s the quality of natural musical talent on Optheria, I’m impressed.”

“The Center does not encourage vocalizing.” Mirbethan’s cool denial roused Killashandra’s instant hostility.

“You mean, that tenor is a reject from your opera school?”

“You misunderstand the situation, Guildmember. All the teaching centers on Optheria emphasize keyboard music.”

“You mean, only that organ?”

“Of course. The organ is the ultimate of instruments, combining the—”

“Spare me the hype, Mirbethan.” Killashandra took an obscure pleasure in the shock her statement gave the woman. Then she relented. “Oh, I concur that the Optherian organ is a premier instrument, but that tenor voice was rather spectacular on its own merit.”

“You should not have been disturbed—”

“Fardles! I enjoyed singing with him.”

Mirbethan’s eyes rounded in a secondary shock. “You … were the other singer?”

“I was.”
File that for future reference
! “Tell me, Mirbethan, if only a few of the hundreds who must study at this Center ever attain the standard required to play the Optherian organ, what happens to those who don’t?”

“Why, suitable situations are found for them.”

“In music?” Mirbethan shook her head. “I’d think
that crystal singing would provide a marvelous alternative.”

“Optherians do not care to leave their planet, whatever their minor disappointments. You will excuse me, Guildmember—” Mirbethan broke the connection.

Killashandra stared at the blank screen for a long moment. Of course, neither Mirbethan nor any of the quartette knew of her early background in music. Certainly none of them could possible know of her disappointment, nor how she would relate that to what Mirbethan had just admitted. If you failed to make the grade at the organ, there was nothing else for you on Optheria? There was no way in which Killashandra would buy Mirbethan’s statement that frustrated Optherian musicians would prefer to remain on the planet, even if they had been conditioned to the restriction from birth.

And that tenor had sung with absolute pitch. It’d be a bloody shame to muzzle that voice in preference to an organ, however “perfect” an instrument it might be. Hazardous crystal singing might be as a profession, but it sure beat languishing on Optheria. A sudden thought struck her and, with a fluid stride, she went to the terminal, tapped for Library, and the entry on Ballybran. A much expurgated entry scrolled past, ending with the Code Four restriction. She queried the Files for political science texts and discovered fascinating gaps in that category. So, censorship was applied on Optheria. Not that that ever accomplished its purpose. However, an active censorship was not grounds for charter-smashing, and the Guild had only been requested to discover if the planetary exit restriction was popularly accepted.

Well, she knew one person she could ask—the tenor—if he hadn’t gone into hiding after last night’s hunt. Killashandra grinned. If she knew tenors …

She had breakfasted—the catering unit did offer a substantial breakfast—and dressed by the time Thyrol
arrived to inquire if she had rested, and more importantly, if she would like to start the repairs. He tactfully indicated her arm.

“You’ve apprehended the assailant?”

“Merely a matter of time.”

“How many students in the Complex?” she asked amiably as Thyrol led her down the hall to the lift.

“At present, four hundred and thirty.”

“That’s a lot of suspects to examine.”

“No student would
dare
attack an honored guest of the planet.”

“On most planets, they’d be the prime suspects.”

“My dear Guildmember, the selection process by which this student body is chosen considers all aspects of the applicant’s background, training, and ability. They uphold all our traditions.”