Crystal Dragon (24 page)

Jela waved him to a stool. "Take your jacket off, then, lad, and let's see what you have." He crossed the room to get the kit from Scholar tay'Nordif's travel bag.

"Well," Jela said a few minutes later, keeping his voice light for his patient's peace of mind. "That's as pretty a burn as I've seen in some time." It would leave a black, ridged scar on the boy's soft golden skin, but that was minor. The important news was that it was healing well, with no sign of infection or any ancillary damage. "I've got something here that'll leach the last of the heat," he said, easily. "It'll feel cold." He broke the ampule and rubbed the lotion into the burn site. His patient hissed, shoulders tensing, but otherwise made no complaint.

"Give that a count of twelve to set, then we'll get a dermal-bond on it."

"Thank you," the boy murmured, the starch already leaching out of his shoulders, which would be the topical anaesthesia starting its work.

"How did you come by that particular wound?" Jela asked, sorting through the supplies and pulling out a sealed bond pack. "If it can be told."

Tor An sighed and moved his shoulder experimentally.

"The captain of the garrison on Korak ordered me shot," he said in a tone Jela thought was meant to be expressionless, but which carried a payload of anger and terror.

If that were the case, the boy was lucky in his own right. Jela began to repack the kit.

"Why?" he asked, though he thought he knew.

"I went to them—to the garrison. I thought the military commander might investigate the fact of the Ringstars... vanishing. The trade office would only—" hard breath—"would only list the route closed and the ports unavailable."

Jela cracked the seal on the dressing and stretched it wide between his fingers, eyeing the burn site.

"The soldier—on guard," Tor An continued, and despite his best efforts his voice was sounding a trifle ragged. "The guard said that the Ringstars were far from the first to go missing, and that in anywise it was none of Korak Garrison's affair, as they'd been called back—called back to the Inner Arm."

"Well, the guard was right that the military's being moved back," Jela said judiciously. "You'll feel some pressure now, and it might nip you a bit, which I know you won't regard, Pilot."

He moved quick, and as sure as he was able. Despite the topical it must've hurt, but Tor An yos'Galan sat a quiet board.

"Good lad," Jela murmured approvingly. "You'll do fine, now."

The boy sighed, and simply sat for a moment, then slid off the stool and reached for his shirt, which the cat was sitting on, all four feet poised beneath it. Tor An smiled.

"I believe my need is greater," he said politely and extended one slim hand, scooping the cat up beneath its belly, cool as you please, while liberating his clothing with the other.

"Thank you," he said, replacing the cat in its spot. "Your understanding during this difficult time is appreciated."

The cat, which had endured both handling and nonsense with nary a spit nor a glare, settled itself flat onto its belly and curled its front feet against its chest. Tor An shook out his shirt—good quality, Jela saw, but plain. Respectful and quiet. Much like the boy himself.

Jela finished his own tidying up, and carried the kit back across the room, replacing it in the scholar's baggage.

A chime sounded.

Jela spun, pleased to see that the boy had done so as well, fingers gone quiet on the fastenings of his shirt.

The chime sounded again.

Tor An sent a questioning glance in his direction; Jela replied with a quick flicker of pilot hand-talk:
Answer
.

The lad blinked. "Who is it?" he called, finishing up with the shirt.

"Please," called a stilted, childlike voice. "Food arrives for Scholar tay'Nordif's pilot."

"Ah. Just a moment." He moved, while Jela stayed where he was, out of the immediate line of sight, with his kobold mask in place, on the principle of taking as few chances as possible.

Came the sound of the door opening

"Food arrives for Scholar tay'Nordif's pilot," the high voice repeated, clearer now without the filtering of the announcement system. "It is hoped that the meal pleases. Also given are tickets for future meals in the grudents' cafeteria, after the pilot is rested. The pilot is not permitted to dine with the scholars in the common room. If the pilot has other needs, he may petition Scholar tay'Nordif. Has the pilot questions?"

"None whatsoever, I thank you," the boy said gravely. He bent; there was a small clamor of cutlery as he received a tray."Scholar tay'Nordif sends that she will be a little delayed this evening," the Small chirped, "and prays that in her absence the pilot will regard her quarters as his own, stinting his comfort in no wise. Scholar tay'Nordif very much regrets the delay."

"I thank you," Tor An said again, "for bearing this message. I am made quite comfortable here, and anticipate the Scholar's arrival so that I may express to her my gratitude for her care."

"The scholar also asks," the Small continued, "that the pilot honor her by feeding the cat, and seeing that he has fresh water."

Jela closed his eyes.

"I will do so, gladly. He is a fine cat and has made me very welcome."

"Message ends. Responses on file," the high voice announced, and Jela caught the sound of bare feet on tile before Tor An closed the door.

He bore the covered tray to the counter and put it down, giving Jela a troubled look.

"She sends no meal for you?"

"Kobolds don't each much," he answered lightly. Tor An frowned.

"You, my friend, are no kobold. And I am ashamed that I failed to see you as a pilot until you bespoke me just now."

"I have," Jela said, leaning a companionable elbow on the counter, "been doing my best not to seem pilot-like."

"And doing rather well," Tor An allowed, making a brave attempt not to look famished. "However, you do not seem quite kobold-like, either, if you will forgive my saying so."

Jela sighed and nodded at the tray. "Eat your dinner, Pilot."

But it appeared the lad was stubborn as well as mannerly, which, Jela allowed wryly, was only what could be expected from a pilot.

"Why," asked Tor An, "are you pretending to be a kobold?" He hesitated before adding, politely, "If it can be told."

Not a bad question, though it meant Jela had to make an immediate decision regarding how much truth it was going to be necessary to tell Tor An yos'Galan.

"Well," he said, giving the boy a straight, earnest look, "for one thing, Scholar tay'Nordif believes I'm a kobold, and I don't like to disappoint a lady."

That earned him an unamused glare from those dark purple eyes before the pilot moved 'round the counter.

"Why," he asked, "are you deceiving the scholar in this manner?" He opened the cabinet door and extracted a ration pack of cat food. Jela sighed to himself.

"That's a bit complicated," he said, watching the cat dance back and forth along the counter ahead of the boy, doing its all to impede any progress that might be made in opening its rations.

"The Ringstars vanishing is also a bit complicated," Tor An said tartly, his gaze on the task in hand. "I am not a child, Jela—" He looked up. "What is your name? Pilot."

"As it happens, my name's Jela," he said easily and offered a comfortable grin. The other pilot looked away and put the open ration pack down on the counter. The cat, tail straight up and quivering, fell to. Tor An picked up the water bowl and turned to the sink.

"My full name," Jela said, having decided on his course in the heartbeat between his last sentence and this, "is M. Jela Granthor's Guard. My rank is captain and wingleader; and I'm on detached duty to acquire that which may, just possibly, keep the rest of the Arm from following the Ringstars into Enemy territory."

The slim shoulders tensed. "You are a soldier, then," Tor An said, a little too breathless to be as uncaring as he obviously wished to appear.

"I am," Jela said. "But I'm not the sort of soldier who shoots civilians for sport. At a guess, those guards and their captain at Korak were X Strain soldiers—tall, eh? With maybe tattoo work on their faces?"

"Yes," the boy whispered.

"Right," Jela said, voice deliberately companionable. "They're the new design. I'm the old design. M Strain. If there were more Ms and less Xs it might be that the military wouldn't be quite so easy with those orders to pull back and cede the Rim and the mid-Arm to the
sheriekas
."

Tor An carried the refreshed water bowl to the counter and put it down beside the cat. He looked up, eyes troubled.

"There is something—here?—that will prevent any more disappearances like—
do you know what happened to the Ringstars
?" It burst out of him like a war cry, and for a moment Jela thought he might put his head down on the counter and weep—but Tor An yos'Galan was tougher than he looked. He mastered himself, took a deep breath and waited, hands folded tightly on the counter.

"I do," Jela said, warming to the lad. "And I can show you the math. The short of it is that the
sheriekas
—the Enemy—have perfected a way to decrystalize portions of space. Like the guard at Korak told you, the Ringstars are only the latest in a list that's getting long fast, and will pretty soon encompass the whole galaxy, unless we liberate the equations that describe the counter-crystallization process from where they're hidden inside this very Tower."

Tor An yos'Galan closed his eyes.

"Pilot Jela..." he began.

"I know," Jela said soothingly. "I know it sounds lunatic, but I do have those equations for you. I'll set them up on a tile array while you eat your dinner."

Tor An opened his eyes. "What will you eat for dinner?" he asked, and Jela gave him a comfortable smile.

"I'll just have a ration bar while I work," he said easily. "It's what I'm used to."

Exhaustion, youth and hunger were Jela's allies, but for a long moment, he thought they wouldn't be enough. Then the boy inclined his head, moved down-counter and lifted the lid off of the tray.

TOR AN LOOKED UP from the grid, purple eyes bleak.

"These equations are rather ...dense, are they not?"

Jela looked at him with sympathy. "The process for folding up bits of the galaxy and putting them away in some other alternity takes some describing," he said. "I've been studying those numbers for ...a good long while, now, I'm almost sure I've got the major points mastered."

"Ah." The boy touched the frame. "May I have the use of this?"

Jela waved a hand. "It's yours," he said—and waited. He was in his usual place by the tree; Tor An was cross-legged atop the counter, cat on one knee, grid balanced precariously on the other.

"I think," he said, "that you had better tell me what place Scholar tay'Nordif has in your mission. Is it she who has formulated these equations you seek?"

The boy knew how to ask a question, Jela thought, and took a moment to resettle himself against the wall and breathe in a good, deep breath of tree-filtered air.

"Scholar tay'Nordif," he said, then, because he had to make some start or risk losing whatever small trust he'd managed to instill in the lad—"Scholar tay'Nordif is part of the effort to recover the equations. Without her, I wouldn't have been able to gain access to the Tower. She provides misdirection and cover. This operation depends on her abilities. She—" He closed his eyes, considering the tangle of it all—and what well-mannered and respectful boy from out of a well-mannered and respectful trading family would believe in
aelantaza
, or line edits, or the Uncle, or—

"Why," Tor An asked, "does the scholar believe you to be a kobold?"

Jela sighed and produced the most believable part-truth he had to hand.

"There are ...certain protocols available, which ...help certain people to believe things other than what they usually know to be true," he said slowly. "The lady you see here as Scholar tay'Nordif is in fact my pilot and my partner. She volunteered to subscribe to those protocols, in order that the mission have the best chance of success."

Tor An gave that grave consideration as he stroked the cat on his knee.

"Is she a soldier, then?" He asked finally.

"We're all soldiers," Jela said, "in the last effort to defeat the
sheriekas
. But, no—if by 'soldier' you mean to ask if she's enrolled in the military. She's a volunteer, like I said. The best damn' pilot I've ever seen—" His eyes stung, and the room wavered a little before he blinked them clear.

"A pilot," he said again, "and a true, courageous friend. The safety of the galaxy rests on her, Pilot, and I'll tell you straight out that I would rather it was her than anyone else I can name."

TOR AN WAS IN HIS garden. That bothered him momentarily—but then he remembered that Melni, who had the tutoring of him and Cor Win in the afternoons, had been called to a Family Meeting. He was supposed to be reading trade protocol, and it would go badly for him if he failed of being the master of the assigned chapter by dinner—but the breeze wafting in the open window had tempted him to step outside for just a
little
while, and walk down to garden's end to visit his tree.

The zang flowers were blooming, their tiny blue and green blossoms like so many stars against the pale yellow grass. He was conscious of a feeling of deep approval as he skipped down the path, pleased that the plants had been given leave to grow as they would, not tamed and confined, as were the showier, costlier plants the gardeners tended in the public gardens at the front of the house. The back garden was for children, and for elders, a comfort—and an occasional temptation for shirking one's lessons.

The grass flowed like water beneath the subtle wind, and he could hear the bell he'd hung in the piata tree's branches. A deep breath brought the taste of leaf and bloom onto his tongue—and there before him was the piata, its branches heavy with fruit. As he approached, one of the high branches dipped down toward him. He raised cupped hands and a fruit dropped into his palms.