The Crystal Variation (133 page)

The screen displayed its characteristic transitional swirls, then cleared, showing a mosaic of symbols. Jethri frowned at them, then at the starry and brilliant night.

Rule of opposites
, he thought, which was nothing more than whimsy, and touched the icon for “rain”.

The screen swirled and cleared, showing him a duplicate image of the sky outside his window—and nothing else.

Well, that didn’t exactly prove anything, did it?

Jethri tapped the upper right corner of the screen, and the icons reappeared. He touched another, at exact random. Nothing at all happened this time; the screen continued to display its mosaic of exotic icons, unblinking, unchanging.

He sighed, loud and frustrated. Beside him, the cat sputtered one of his rustier purrs and banged his head deliberately against Jethri’s elbow.

“You’re right,” he said, reaching down and rubbing a sturdy ear. “The brain’s on overdrive. Best to get some sleep, and think better tomorrow.” He gave Flinx’s ear one more tug, slid off the window seat and headed for the bed, taking a small detour to leave the weather gadget on the table with the rest of his pocket things.

He snapped the light off and climbed into bed, hitting a solid lump with his knee. Flinx grunted, but otherwise didn’t move.

“Leave some room for me, why don’t you?” Jethri muttered, pushing slightly.

The cat sighed and let himself be displaced sufficiently for Jethri to curl on his side under the covers, head on his favorite pillow, eyes drooping shut. He yawned, once. Flinx purred, briefly.

“GOT A PRINTOUT for you,”
the doorman said. “Come down from
Trager’s Wager
.”

It took a second, her mind still being on the problem back at the Trade Bar and thinking maybe Security’d be waiting for her at the crash, wanting to discuss the open showing of knives in a Combine port. But, no—Keeson had promised to send Farli’s list, when he got back to the ship.

“Thanks,” she said taking the gritty yellow sheet. She unfolded it, read the names—
Winhale
,
Tornfall
,
Skeen
,
Brass Cannon
—and tried to remember why she’d cared.

Right. Paitor would’ve been interested in the names, especially the ones that carried the keys. She glanced back at the paper and half-smiled. Never let it be said that Farli Trager was anything less than thorough. Both
Skeen
and
Brass Cannon
carried a key behind their names.

Well, Paitor would be happy, anyway. Assuming Khat managed to get off Port in one piece, and without acquiring a Liaden knife in her back. Which brought her back to wondering if Jethri
had
killed the blond Liaden’s brother and if in that case he was all right. Or if, as she considered more likely, the boy had been trying to earn a little—a lot—of extra money by playing the stupid Terran for an idiot.

“You OK?” the doorman sounded genuinely concerned.

Khat shook herself and looked up at him.

“Had a little trouble at the Trade Bar. Heard some bad news about kin. You got a fastbeam I can use?”

He shrugged. “We got one. It’ll cost you, though.”

Well, what else were bonuses for? Khat nodded.

“I can cover it.”

DYK’S BEEN MESSING
with the climate control again
, Jethri thought muzzily, pulling his blanket up around his chin.
Khat’s gonna take his ear this ti—

He sat up, clumsily, because of the heavy, hot boulder resting against his hip, blinked stupidly at the huge space, looming away into darkness—
Tarnia’s house
, he remembered then, and shivered in a sudden flow of cool air, from, from—

“Mud!” He flung out of bed and went over to the open window, climbed up on the window seat, leaned out, got a grip on the cold, wet latch and hauled the window closed, pushing down on the lock with considerable energy.

“Ship kid,” he muttered. “Think you’d know enough to be sure the hatches was sealed.” He shook his head, and slid off the ledge, which was slightly damp where the rain had come in, and, yawning, went back to bed, shoved the cat out of his spot and snuggled back under the covers.

Day 165

DAY 165

Standard Year 1118

Irikwae

“WHAT IS THAT?”
Miandra asked. Jethri started and looked up, fingers closing automatically around the gadget. “A mirror?” She settled onto the bench beside him, her arm pressing his as she craned to see.

“Not exactly.” He held it out, displaying the screen in its transition phase. “It’s a weather device.”

She frowned down at it, extended a hand—and paused, sending a direct glance into his face. “May I?”

“Of course.” He opened his fingers wide and she plucked the thing from his palm, eyes on the swirling screen, head cocked a little to one side. Jethri twisted around, so he could watch, too, without giving himself a crick in the neck.

Eventually, the swirls cleared and the icon dictionary appeared. Miandra’s frown deepened.

“What does it do?”

“More than I know about,” he said truthfully. “I’m trying to study it out, because one of the things it
does
do is show weather patterns. There should be a way to set it to watch for particular patterns in a specific area, and give a warning.” He shrugged. “I haven’t figured out quite how to do that, though.”

“Perhaps if you consulted the instructions?” She murmured, her attention still on the screen.

“That would be a good idea,” Jethri admitted, “if I had the instructions. There might be instructions on-board, but, if so, I’ve never found them—nor even my father.”

“What a peculiar device.” She extended a long forefinger and touched the screen, carefully between the rows of icons. “What do these symbols mean?”

“They represent kinds of weather.” He put his finger under a sort of squiggle with dashes falling out of it. “That’s rain. And this one—” a similar squiggle shape, but the stuff falling out of it was rounder and fuzzy looking— “that’s snow. Snow is frozen rain.”

Miandra looked up at him, still frowning. “I know what snow is. We have enough of it during the cold season.”

He felt his ears heat and inclined his head. “Forgive me. Of course, you know more of these matters than a ship-born. Perhaps you might do me the favor of identifying those symbols that match weather you are familiar with.”

She blinked, glanced down at the device and then back to his face.

“I think we do you no favor in teaching you to sharpen your words,” she said. “What would you have said to me just then, if we had been speaking in your home-tongue.”

“Eh?” He shrugged, feeling a brief sense of dislocation before the words slid into his mouth. “Figure it yourself, if you know so much.”

Miandra blinked again. “I see—irritation sharpens your words, not our teaching.”

“Well, see—” he began, and shook his head, hearing himself back in Terran. He raised a hand, signaling that he required a moment to himself, closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting his mind just sort of go blank for a moment . . .

“Jethri, are you well?” Miandra’s voice was worried, her words in Low Liaden. He felt something sort of twist inside his head, and opened his eyes.

“I am well,” he said. “A momentary dislocation of language. To continue—my father wasn’t able to break the puzzle of this device—nor was his cousin, and neither was a shy man with a puzzle. I’ve only been trying to work out how to operate it for last few days, but I am afraid my frustration—has the better of me. For something that seems so simple, it is remarkably difficult to understand!”

She laughed, and shifted closer to him, holding the device between them. “Well, let us see what we may deduce between us, then. Surely,
this
—” she ran her finger under a simple straight line, “is clear skies—no weather, as we say, though of course there is always weather . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she bent her head closer, reaching up absently to tuck a curl of reddish hair behind her ear. Jethri stared, then pulled his attention back to the problem at hand.

“This . . .” She tapped her finger on a crazy, swirly mess of lines. “Surely,” she said, tapping again, “this is a wind-twist? No other weather pattern would be so—” She gasped to a stop, staring down at a screen gone smokey and opaque.

“What is happening?” She thrust the device at him, her eyes wide and panicked. “Jethri—what is it doing?”

Almost, he laughed at her. Almost. And then he remembered all the times neither she nor her sister had laughed at him, though he didn’t doubt he was nothing less than comical.

So. Gently, he slid the little machine out of her hand. The transitional clouds were thinning on the screen, and he tipped it so she could see.

“It’s only going to the next phase—see? Here is a picture of our day, here and now.”

And so it was. Miandra gazed at it in silence, then looked back to him, her dark blue eyes showing unease.

“Now what does it do?”

“Nothing,” he said, and smiled down at her. “We can go back to the icon screen—” he touched the go-back button; the screen swirled, then solidified. He held the device out to her. “Touch another icon. Any one.”

She raised her hand, then slowly lowered it, her face troubled. “I—believe that I do not wish to do that.”

“It’s all right,” he assured her. “Nothing else will happen at all. See?” He pressed the symbol for rain. The icons in place; the screen steady.

“I—see,” she replied, but he got the idea she wasn’t made easy by the demonstration.

“It’s just an old weather predictor,” he said, trying to jolly her, “and probably not very stable. I just thought it would be . . . convenient . . . if we had warning of—frost, or any other weather damaging to the vines.”

“The weather net is in place,” she pointed out.

“But you said it wasn’t accurate,” he countered.

She used her chin to point at the device in his hand. “That does not appear to be accurate, either.”

He had to admit that she looked to be right there, and slipped the device into his sleeve.

“I suppose,” he said, a trifle glumly.

Miandra laughed. “Come now, Jethri, do not be cast down! It is a most marvelous puzzle!”

Her laugh was infectious and he grinned in response. “I guess I like my puzzles to have answers.”

“As who does not?” she said gaily, and bounced to her feet, the ruby pendant flashing in the brilliant day.

“It is nearly time for the gather-bell. Let us be at our places early and astonish Ren Lar!”

Since Ren Lar actually expected everyone to be in the yard the instant the shift-bell sounded, this was a remarkably sensible suggestion and Jethri got to his feet with alacrity, following her out of the small garden and toward the wine yard.

“What are wind-twists?” he asked as he came to her side. She glanced up at him, her face serious.

“Very destructive and unpredictable weather,” she said. “A wind-twist might level a vineyard with a touch, or fling a house into the tops of the trees.”

A breeze touched his face, moving off the side of the hill. “
Wind
can do that?” he asked, starting to believe that this was a joke.

“Oh, yes,” she assured him. “Fortunately, they are very rare. And never in this season.”

The hydraulics
was up to spec for a wonder, and the yard boss wasn’t available to talk. That was all right. Myra Goodin, his second, didn’t talk much, but she did listen a treat, and tagged his specific concerns and problems in her clipboard, after which, she handed the ‘board to him.

Grig read over what she’d input, nodded and thumbprinted it.

“Yard’s doing good for us,” he said, easy and companionable, as he handed the ‘board back. “We appreciate the attention.”

Myra looked him firm in the eye. Firm sort of woman, and not one to joke. Serious about her work in a way her boss didn’t appear to emulate—or value. Which was too bad, so Grig thought, given that the reputation of the yard sat square on her shoulders.

She took the clipboard back, and counter-printed it, her eyes steady on his. “We got off to a rugged start,” she said seriously. “I place the blame equal, there. Your captain shouldn’t have popped off like she did and Roard shouldn’t’ve egged her.” She nodded. “We’ve been able to get back on a business-like footing since you and Seeli took over the inspections. I appreciate that you took the initiative, there. This is a joint project—we’re all here to see that the refit’s done right.”

Which was true enough, but not something you’d hear comin’ outta Boss Roard’s mouth. Grig smiled at Myra.

“Joint project, right enough—and a pleasure to be working on it with you.” He stood, and nodded at the ‘board in her hand. “When d’you want me by to okay those?”

She frowned and touched the keypad, calling up her schedule.

“Three-day,” she said after a moment. “I’ll give you a pass.”

Myra had been the one who had worked out the pass system that allowed them in the yard more often than Roard’s so-called Official Inspection Schedule. It was best for all of them, if okays on inspection problems didn’t have to wait ‘til the next scheduled inspection, which you’d think a yard boss would understand. Well, Grig amended, a yard boss who wasn’t thinking with his spite gland.

He reached out a long arm and snagged his jacket from where he’d thrown it across the back of a chair. Myra went across the room, pulled a green plastic pass from its hook, set it in the ‘coder and tapped a quick sequence in. The machine beeped, she slid the card free and held it out.

“We will speak again in three days,” she said, which was dismissal, and right enough, busy as she was.

Grig took the card with smile and put it away in an inner pocket of the jacket. “Three days, it is,” he said, gave her a nod for good-day, and let himself out of the office.

He cleared the gate and was maybe eight, nine steps on his way back toward the lodgings when he was joined by a long, soft-walking shadow. He sighed, and didn’t bother to look, knowing full well what he’d see.

“Grigory,” her voice was familiar. Well, of course it was.

“Raisy,” he answered, still not looking, which maybe wasn’t right, when a man hadn’t seen his sister in so long, but
damn
it. . .