The Crystal Variation (147 page)

Jethri sighed again and made a long arm, hooking the desk chair to him. He sat down and looked up at her, showing her his hands, palm up, fingers spread, empty.

“I think you had better lay it out for me, one step at a time.”

“Yes, I suppose I had better.” She closed the book and put it on the table beside her, then leaned forward, elbow propped against a knee, chin nestled on her palm.

“As you know, I was to be evaluated by the Healers. Indeed, by the master healer himself. The evaluation—” she shot him a sharp glance. “You understand, Jethri, that when I say in this context that I was pushed, or prodded or that thus-and-so hurt me, I am not speaking of physical things, but rather use those words as an approximation of the exact . . . sensation . . . because there are no words precisely for those sensations.”

He inclined his head. “But I may still understand that you found those things so described to be distressing and not at all what you could like, is that so?”

She smiled. “That is so, yes.”

“Very well, then,” Jethri said, starting to feel grim. “The master healer himself was assigned to your evaluation. What came next?”

“I was asked to—to take my shields down and to submit my will to the will of the master,” she began, after a moment—and sent him another sharp glance. “This is not at all unusual and I did as I was bid. The master then began his examination, pushing here, prodding there—nothing terribly painful, but nothing pleasant either.”

It sounded, Jethri owned, tiresome enough, something like a clinic check-up, with the medic pushing hard fingers here and there, trying to determine what was in line and what was out.

“Unpleasant, but hardly worth running away,” he commented.

Miandra inclined her head. “I agree. After a time, the master began to concentrate on—say, a section of my will—and to—assault it. The first strike was so painful that I threw my shields up before I had even thought to do so. The master, of course, was very angry and had me lower them, whereupon he once again brought all of his scrutiny to bear on—on this anomaly in my—in my pattern.” She sighed sharply. “By which I mean to convey that there are certain . . . constructions of intertwining ego, will, and intellect, which are intelligible to those who have Healer talent. While each pattern is unique, there are those which tend to be formed in a certain way—and which, more often than not, are indicative of Healer ability.”

“So, the master healer was saying he thought your pattern was—shaped oddly,” Jethri said, to show he was following this.

Miandra inclined her head. “Indeed, he went so far as to state that he felt it was this anomaly which was responsible for limiting my growth as a Healer, and he proposed to—restructure that portion, in order to allow my talent to flow more freely.”

Jethri frowned. “He can do that?”

“That, easily,” she assured him. “It is what Healers do.”

Right. Jethri closed his eyes. Opened them.

“All right. So the master decided he would reshape you so you would look more like he thinks a Healer ought to. Then?”

She bit her lip.

“It—I told him that the process was . . . causing me pain. He assured me that it was not, and—pushed—harder.” She glanced aside, took a hard breath and looked back to him, blue eyes swimming with tears.

“The pain was—immense. Truly, Jethri, I felt that I was afire, my flesh crisping off my bones as I stood there. I
pushed
, and threw my shields up.”

“I see.” He considered that, staring down at his hands where they rested on his knee, the one sporting a slightly grubby bandage. He looked up to find her watching him worriedly.

“Which moon did he fall onto?” he asked, mildly.

Miandra smiled, shakily. “You overestimate my poor abilities, cousin. I merely put him onto the top shelf of the bookcase.” She took a breath. “Then I walked out, through the main reception hall. I willed that no one would see me, and no one did. And then I came here, and—overrode the lock and sat down to wait for you.”

“Are they looking for you?”

“I suppose they must be, eventually.” Another shaky smile appeared. “But as long as I keep my shields in place, they will not find me.”

For however long that might be. He forbore from asking what happened to her shields when she slept. First order of business was to tell her what she’d done right. So—

“The rule on the ship I was born to was that one is allowed to defend oneself. Defense should be delivered as quickly and as decisively as possible, in order to prevent a second attack.” He inclined his head, solemnly. “You have fulfilled ship rule admirably and I have no complaint to make regarding your actions to this point.”

Relief washed her face.

“Our challenge now,” Jethri continued, “is to be certain that our actions from this point on continue to be honorable and in the best interest of the ship.” He tipped his head.

“That means you can’t just hide on the port for the rest of your life.”

Miandra outright laughed. “My shields aren’t that good.”

Jethri grinned, and let it fade into as serious a look as he could muster.

“You will need to let the house know where you are. Sooner or later, the Healers will have to call and admit that you’ve gone missing. That information is certain to distress your sister, your cousins and your delm, unless they know you are safe.”

Miandra’s look had turned stubborn.

“If I go home, Ren Lar will send me back. If I call, Aunt Stafeli will order me to return to Healer Hall.”

Both probably true. But—

“If you explained to them what you have explained to me, that the examination was painful in the extreme and that you fear for your health if it continues?”

She considered it, chewing her lip. “That might bear weight with Aunt Stafeli, but Ren Lar—I do not believe that Ren Lar would be swayed, if I told him that the evaluation would, without doubt, murder me.” She sighed. “Ren Lar is a badly frightened man. Old Technology and wizard’s get,
both
in his household! It is too much to bear.”

“What if the evaluation proves that you are a dramliza?” Jethri asked.

She moved her shoulders. “I don’t know.”

This, Jethri thought, was ‘way too snarly for a junior’s simple brain. Clearly, Miandra needed help—and not just in this present mess. She needed schooling, whether or not Ren Lar or Stafeli Maarilex chose to believe in wizards. Jethri was pretty sure he didn’t believe in wizards, himself. Still, there was no doubt Miandra had some very strange talents and that she needed to be trained in their proper use before she up and hurt somebody. If she hadn’t already.

“Is the master healer harmed?” he asked.

She sighed. “No.”

Jethri suppressed a grin.

“This is what I propose: That you come with me to the Trade Bar and be my guest for lunch. My friend and I have some business to discuss, which I hope you won’t find too tedious. After, you and I will go together to the Scouts and ask Captain ter’Astin to advise us. For you know I’m a block, Miandra, and we are well past anything I can think of to assist you.”

“Well, I don’t know that you’re a block,” she retorted, and sat for a moment, contemplating the floor. Jethri sighed and stretched in his chair, careful of protesting muscles.

“I think that asking the captain’s advice at this juncture is the wisest thing that I—that we—may do,” she said, unfolding her legs and sliding to the floor. “It was very clever of you to have thought of it.”

TAN SIM HAD ORDERED
a cold platter of finger-nibbles, cheese, crackers, and tea—more than enough to feed two, Jethri thought—and possibly enough to cover three, if Miandra wasn’t feeling particularly peckish.

He inclined his head. “I thank you. My cousin and I are needed elsewhere later in the day, and she has graciously said that she will allow us to conclude our business before hers.”

“On condition,” Miandra said, and Jethri could almost hear the glint in her eye, “that you feed me.”

Jethri moved his hand. “You can see that Tan Sim has already thought of that.”

“Indeed.” She bowed, hand over heart. “Miandra Maarilex Clan Tarnia.”

Seated, Tan Sim returned her bow. “Tan Sim pen’Akla Clan Rinork.” He moved a hand, showing them both the laden table. “Please, join me.”

Join him they did and there was a small pause in the proceedings while they each took the edge off.

“Well.” Tan Sim sat back, teacup in hand. “While you and your cousin dealt kin to kin, Jeth Ree, I have performed wonders.”

Jethri eyed him. “What, not marvels?”

Tan Sim waved an airy hand. “Tomorrow is soon enough for marvels. Behold my labors of today! Moon Mountain Refit Shop has been called. By the luck, the hauler was enroute to deliver scrap and other oddments at the very salvage yard where our pod awaited. They simply off-loaded their scrap, onloaded our pod and very soon now it should be in a bay at the shop. They say they will immediately perform a magnetic resonance scan. They do this to locate any hidden flaws or structural damage, so that they may adjust their entry protocol as necessary.” He raised his cup and sipped, slowly, teasing, Jethri thought—and then thought of something else.

“How was it the salvager let the pod go before the transfer was made?” He asked.

Tan Sim lowered his cup, looking sheepish. “As it happens, I made the full transfer out of my account, knowing that you will place the coin for your portion in my hand.”

“Such trusting ways,” Jethri said, and Tan Sim sighed, holding up a hand.

“I knew you were going to say so, and I cannot but agree, that, in the normal way of things, it was an extremely foolhardy thing to do. However, I am adamant. My partner in this endeavor is a man of honor, who pays his just debts promptly.”

“And so he is,” Jethri said quietly, reaching into the depths of his jacket and extracting the purse containing four kais, six tor. He placed it on the table by Tan Sim’s plate.

“My thanks,” Tan Sim said softly, and lifted an eyebrow. “Now, may I tell you that the shop desires a call back in—” he glanced at the watch wrapped around his left wrist— “only a few minutes now. A side profit of the scanning is that it will give a rough image of the contents of the pod. When we call back, you will be able to know, with fair certainty, whether you have in fact taken an option on that reasonable return. Indeed, you may well be able to increase that reasonable return, with some judicious and well-placed announcements.”

“You may tell me so,” Jethri said. “But now you must tell me what you mean by it.”

“I expect he means that you might upload the image to the tradenet, and invite advance bids,” Miandra said, surprisingly.

Tan Sim raised his cup to her. “Precisely.” He glanced at Jethri. “I can show you the way of it, if you like.”

“I would very much like,” Jethri assured him.

“Good.” He put his teacup down and reached for the multipurpose screen. “Finish your meals, children. I will find if the shop has uploaded that image yet.”

There wasn’t that much to finish by then, but he and Miandra made quick work of what there was and by the time Jethri had drunk the last of his tea, Tan Sim said, “Ah!” and spun the screen around.

The image was a muddle of shape, shadow, hard edges, and glare, reminding Jethri of the relative densities screen on a piloting board. He looked up.

“Traders will bid on the strength of this image?”

“Traders,” Tan Sim said, “will very often
buy
on the strength of such an image.” He spun the screen so they all could see it, though Miandra had to scrunch against Jethri’s side, and sort of lean her head against his chest, which was comforting and distracting at the same time.

“Attend me, now,” Tan Sim said severely and Jethri obediently put his eyes on the screen, trying not to notice that Miandra’s hair smelled like Lady Maarilex’s favorite flowers.

“You see these, here, here, here—” He touched the screen over three of the glare spots. “Those are stasis boxes that have failed. These—” Quick finger touches on half-a-dozen bland blobs, “are stasis boxes that are still functioning as they should.” He flicked a glance at Jethri.

“Already, your gains outnumber your losses.”

“Depending on the contents of the boxes,” Jethri pointed out. “The manifest listed ores, gems and metals. Not the sort of cargo that normally ships in stasis.”

Tan Sim tipped his head. “I thought we had agreed that manifests do not always reflect cargo?”

Jethri smiled. “So we had. Please, continue.”

“Very well, what else have we?” He turned his attention back to the screen, subjecting the image to frowning study. “Ah.” A finger tap on a particularly muddy blur. “This, I believe, may be your ore. Were I interested in ore, I might well wish to be at hand when the pod is opened. For the rest . . .” He moved his hand, showing palm in a quick flip. “Who can tell? But there is enough possibility in the stasis boxes alone to warrant putting the image to the tradenet.”

Jethri inclined his head. “I bow to the wisdom of an elder trader in this. May I impose further and ask that you teach me the way of putting an image to the tradenet?”

“Truly,” Tan Sim said, round-eyed, “is this the lad I found practicing his bows in a back hallway, half-ill for fear of giving offense?”

“Who very shortly thereafter proceeded to give offense most spectacularly?” Jethri retorted.

The other trader grinned. “From which act springs both our fortunes.”

“So you say.” Jethri used his chin, Liaden style, to point at the screen. “How do I upload this image and invite bids?”

“Nothing simpler. First, feed your guild card to the unit.”

“Already, we find difficulty. I have no guild card.”

“
What
?” Tan Sim frankly stared. “Would the guild not grant you a card, after all?”

“I am at the hall in order to be certified, as apprentice, or junior trader—”

“Or master trader,” Miandra put in, her head against his chest.

“Certified?” Tan Sim repeated. “But—”

“I was registered as Master ven’Deelin’s apprentice,” Jethri explained. “Despite that, the hall at Modrid declined to accept any of the purchases I had made on her account, because the hall master did not believe that Terrans belonged in the guild.”