Fledgling (30 page)

"I believe that Professor Kiladi is well-thought-of at the Administrative levels," Kamele said, carefully now.

"I'm certain that
he
is," Hafley said, with heavy sarcasm, "but are
you
?" She plucked a pink sponge cake flower from the pastry tray on the table between them and disposed of it in one bite.

"You are not thought of by Admin at all!" she said, answering her own question somewhat stickily. "And that was not very forward-looking. If you wish to solidify your position, you'll need Admin behind you. Unless," she continued, giving Kamele a speculative look, "unless
that
is the reason you've come back? The Liaden is getting long in the tooth, and I daresay he isn't as . . . satisfactory . . . as he might once have been. A rising young Administrator, however . . . Parlay the position you gained from the old man, and, of course, your own worth as a full professor and a woman at the height of her powers. Yes, that might well open the Tower to you. A young man warms the bed nicely, if I may offer the benefit of my experience—and so eager to be led! It will be quite a change for you."

Kamele thought about her coffee, but did not reach for it. Her anger was gaining on her puzzlement—and Hafley
must not
see her hand shake.

"It's kind of you to say, Chair," she said, keeping her voice calm. "One does like to know that one's planning is appropriate."

"Appropriate," Hafley agreed, reaching for the pot and pouring herself more coffee. She did not offer to warm Kamele's cup.

"Appropriate," she said again, as if the word had savor, "but so time-consuming. Had you not lingered so long outside the Wall, this plan might have served you better. As it is, I believe I may save you some time—and perhaps some effort."

"You . . . intrigue me," Kamele said honestly.

"Of course I do; you are a woman of ambition. Now, how if I were to offer you entree to highest levels of the Tower, immediately upon our return to Delgado? Of course you may still wish to secure that warm and eager-to-please ornament to your sagacity. But! Your choice need not then be constrained by a job title."

She didn't care if her hands shook or not, Kamele thought; she needed coffee.

The cup was tepid now; she drank it anyway. A memory rose: Jen Sar's first polite sip of the coffee she had made for the two of them to share: a special blend, purchased for the occasion. By the measuring glance he'd given the satiny dark beverage, he'd been braced for staff-room coffee, and it had been liquid bliss to see his eyebrows rise in surprise, and his lips soften into a smile when he lowered the cup.

"I wonder, Chair," Kamele said, putting her cup down and reaching for the pot. Her hands were quite steady, after all. What a surprise. "I wonder what you mean to say?"

Hafley laughed and chose another sweet cake from the tray. "Why, only that I can forward your ambition, Scholar. All you need do is ally yourself with me, and to support my purpose."

* * *

Phobai took off her jacket and tossed it into a far corner.

"It might be tall enough," she said, tilting a measuring eye toward the ceiling; "if we're careful!"

"Oh, we'll be careful, we will," Cordrey said, stripping out of his jacket and dropping it casually next to hers.

Theo looked up, and shook her head. "I don't think I can jump that high, even if the gravity shifts and I dance real hard!"

Cordrey laughed, and leapt straight up, arm over head, fingers extended. He might, Theo thought, have been trying to touch the ceiling. If so, he missed by several hand-lengths, and dropped lightly to the floor.

"See?" he said to Phobai. "Careful."

He went off to the side and began tapping at the walls, his ear close. At a little distance, Win Ton was paying serious attention to the floor, scuffing at some spots, tapping at others.

Curious, Theo looked down, surprised to find that the surface was like the Scavage court—elastic and slick. She bounced experimentally on her toes, pleased at the give. Maybe she could touch the ceiling, after all.

"Hey, Theo."

She turned to face Phobai, who had taken off her jersey, to reveal a sleeveless stretchy shirt that looked like a dance top. She lifted her arms, swept her hair up, gave it a twist and pinned it into a smooth knot at the back of her neck. Theo felt a pang, lost when the pilot smiled at her.

"You might want to take off that sweater. Things are likely to get warm."

"Oh!" Theo looked down at herself, disconcerted by the long sleeves, so comfortable for most of the ship's tourist areas—and not comfortable at all for dancing.

She sighed and looked back to Phobai. "I'm afraid I didn't bring any dance clothes."

"You're among friends," Phobai said, smiling. She leaned forward and brushed Theo's hair off her forehead. "If you need to get comfortable, we'll understand."

"Phobai!" Cordrey called from across the room. "Listen to this, will you?"

No one had asked her to do anything, so Theo walked out into the center of the floor, and began Stretch Sequence Three from dance class. The sequence ended with a jump, and she surprised herself—maybe she could touch the ceiling after all!

She landed light, gasping a laugh, and glanced around her. Phobai and Cordrey were down-room, their heads together over a section of wall.

Well. She danced a step, another; heard Professor Noni's high voice chanting the time in her head—"One,
two
, three;
one
, two three; one, two, three,
four
!"—swayed, her arms moving in pattern across her chest and belly, the steps unrolling, as her hands came up, pushing air . . . 

As she spun into the last sentence, and there was Win Ton, moving with her, his steps a flowing reflection of hers. They came to rest on the final
four,
and she heard him say, softly. "Again, one,
two
 . . ."

She stepped into the dance again, delighted as they moved, each the perfect reflection of the other. The module flowing around them like water.

Four
.

Theo came to rest, hands folded before her.

Win Ton spun to the left, hands describing the dimensions of an invisible ball—and stopped, flat-footed and abruptly graceless, as he realized that he danced alone.

"Shall we not continue?" His voice was wistful.

"I . . . don't know any more," she said, feeling more than a little wistful herself. "Professor Noni was going to teach us the next module, but my mother took me out of school to travel with her." Funny, she thought, how she wasn't so sure that was a bad thing, anymore. "I—could
you
teach me the next part? Bek says I catch new steps quicker than anyone he's seen, and he's been dancing since he was a littlie."

Win Ton was seen to take a breath.

"I can and I will teach you the next part, Theo Waitley," he said, sounding stern, and much older. "Your instructor should be—to leave a student with only the first four moves of the most basic self-defense? How can this—"

"Wait!" She threw her hands up; they settled into the pushing-air gesture, left hand slightly ahead of the right. Win Ton shifted, his weight going to his right leg—then stood down, somehow, as if he retracted a motion he'd made in his head and stored it away for some future moment.

"Caught between dreams and called to waken from both!" he exclaimed, bringing his hands to belt-level, palms facing Theo, fingers spread wide. "For what am I to wait, Sweet Mystery?"

"You said, self-defense," she stammered, lowering her hands to her side. "But—that's just a dance routine we were learning. It's called the
Suwello
."

"Ah," he said, sounding very much like Father in that monosyllable. "Yes, in some places where self-defense is frowned upon . . . 
menfri'at
may be taught as the
Suwello
."

He looked about. Theo followed his gaze, finding Cordrey and Phobai dancing the
Suwello
some distance down the room. Their tempo was quicker than Professor Noni had taught—so quick that it almost looked like the soft, air-pushing hand-motions were . . . strikes, and some of the footwork—surely Phobai hadn't meant to
kick
at her partner, like that!

"Pilots?" Win Ton called. "
Menfri'at
some other day!"

Cordrey spun in a move that looked related to the one Win Ton had left unfinished, his hands twisting toward Phobai's shoulder.

"Pilots, tell the tale, pray!"

Cordrey ducked, and stopped moving, his arms straight down at his side. Phobai did the same, neatly. They turned together as if continuing the dance and jogged forward, moving with that economy of motion that Win Ton and Captain Cho displayed, as if the whole ship and everyone in it were part of the same dance. The same way that Father moved, she realized, though it was hard to see because of the cane . . . 

"The walls are strong enough for light bounces," Cordrey said upon his and Phobai's arrival, "but not for us, I fear. We don't want to risk tearing the fabric, or damaging the wiring behind some of the panels."

"We are well warned then," said Win Ton. He jammed his foot hard at the floor, his boot squealing against the slick stuff. "The floor requires footwear, but is well enough for dives if need be, if you tuck skin."

"Warned!" said both the pilots in unison, now nearly as close to her as Win Ton.

"Warned for what?" Theo asked.

Phobai chuckled. "Just warned, and kind we are to do so."

Theo blinked at her, before Win Ton claimed her attention with a wave of his hand—just a wave, not the deliberate motion he used at Captain Cho, or the pilots.

"Admit it, Theo," he said, "you have been warned about the walls, the ceiling has been mentioned, and you have now heard of the floors."

She laughed, not informed at all.

"Yes," she agreed. "I heard it so I guess I'm warned!"

"Good." He reached inside his jacket. "We are going to teach you something that will change your life, Theo Waitley," he said, and his voice was serious, indeed.

She sputtered a laugh, but the two pilots nodded gravely.

Win Ton pulled his hand out of his jacket.

"Let's move!" Phobai yelled, and backed rapidly away, while Cordrey turned and ran up-room.

Win Ton spun, throwing . . . something underhanded to Phobai, who caught it, and flashed it toward Cordrey . . . who threw it quite hard toward Win Ton. It was a ball, Theo thought, but it didn't arc right, it danced and shimmied as it flew, then made a sudden, illogical dive, which Win Ton managed to intercept just above his foot.

He straightened, holding his captive high, and cried, "Pause!"

Turning, he displayed the object to Theo. It
was
 . . . sort of a ball, she saw, globular rather than round, sporting every color of the rainbow and a few Theo thought it had made up on the spot.

"Sixty-four sides, none the same color," Win Ton said softly, leaning forward to let her get a good look at it, but keeping a firm hold. "This, Sweet Mystery, is a bowli ball. It is bad form to permit it to touch the ground. It should only cease motion by mutual agreement. Play most generally begins slowly and builds, and I believe you will discover it a most exquisite dance."

He leaned closer and placed the bowli ball in her hand, closing her fingers over it. She felt a purring, almost like a norbear, and felt the device move against her fingers, as if it was trying to get free.

Win Ton leaned closer still, as if, Theo thought, her face heating—as if he were going to kiss her!

Instead, he whispered into her ear.

"Call pause, if you need to stop or to be left out of the circle. The ball is the thing, and all of us wish you to do well. Once the game starts, there is no quarter, without a call of
pause
or
halt
. Because this is a game between friends, and you new-come to the play, you may drop a ball thrice before you are required to bow out." He stepped back and grinned, eyes sparkling. "This is the challenge level, Theo."

He backed away quickly, then, waving his hand in a broad motion that included including the pilots and himself.

"No quarter, Theo! Throw as you will—pilot's choice!"

History of Education Department
Oriel College of Humanities
University of Delgado

Ella ben Suzan leaned back in her chair and rubbed her hands over her face as if the friction would order her tumbling thoughts. It did not, she told herself forcefully, bear considering by what unsubtle means Kamele had secured concessions from Admin. Far better to dwell on the happy outcome—Ella named TempChair of EdHist, Hafley forced to lend her countenance to the Research Team, and Emeritus Professor Beltaire attached to EdHist as an archival advisor.

True, these things had not come without price. There was, for instance, the annoying but easily led Jon Fu elevated to TempSubChair, not to mention the disordered nerves of the department as a whole. Bad enough to have discovered and dismissed Flandin. Ten times worse, to find that Flandin might only be the crumbling edge of a very steep cliff.

Ella leaned back in her chair and sipped staff-room coffee. For a wonder, she had no meetings scheduled until tomorrow morning, and nothing on her extensive to-do list that couldn't wait for ten hours. It might not be the worst thing she could do, to go home and get some sleep.

She put the coffee cup on top of one of the small piles of hard copy and reached for her 'book. Sleep would be—

The buzzer rang.

Ella closed her eyes. "Enter," she snapped.

The door mechanism rasped. She opened her eyes and immediately wished she hadn't.

"Ella." Jen Sar Kiladi bowed gently over his cane. "I hope I find you well."

"You find me exhausted, overworked, and impatient," she told him bluntly. She was always blunt with Jen Sar, but he never returned the favor.

"Then you will enjoy a quiet moment of conversation with an old friend," he answered, and sat in the empty visitor's chair, folding his hands over the knob of the Gallowglass cane.

Ella sighed, and did not give voice to her thought that it would be a good thing indeed, were an old friend present. There was no reason to escalate plain speaking to rudeness—and it wouldn't rid her of the man one heartbeat sooner than he intended to go.