Fledgling (6 page)

Warmth spread from the utility pocket where she kept her mumu. She pulled it out, flicking the screen on with a practiced one-handed motion.

It was a text from Kamele, short and, Theo thought, terse.

Agenda lengthy. Home before ninebell. Do your solos. Don't forget to eat.

Eat. Theo sighed wistfully as she slid the mumu away. She didn't suppose the kaf would be able to deliver one of Father's melted cheese sandwiches and a mug of evening tea. Her eyes filled, blurring the desk. She bit her lip, turned, her foot slid and she went down, hard, on her rump on the cold floor.

"Chaos!" she yelled—and began, to her utter embarrassment, to cry.

She'd been lucky in her timing. Not only did she catch the direct bus to Efraim, which was Nonactown's official name, but she got a seat by the screen, where she could pretend to be absorbed in the map and condition reports and ignore the superior looks of the half-dozen Chapelia acolytes in their baggy gray uni-suits and half-face gauze.

She did bite her lip when the 'change for Greensward highlighted, but she didn't tap for a stop; she stayed in her seat, hands folded decorously on her lap, and only had to blink once or twice to clear her eyes as the bus continued on its way.

Strictly speaking, she should have had her mother's permission, if not an actual bluekey, for a solitary expedition outside the Wall. She
had tried
to text Kamele. All she'd gotten was the "away" message, though, which meant the meeting with the lengthy agenda was level two confidential or higher, a fact that might have been more interesting if Theo hadn't been focused on other things.

In the end, and after a consultation with Coyster, she'd left a short message in Kamele's in-queue, grabbed a sweater, and ran for the bus. There should be no problem accomplishing her errand and getting back to the Wall before Kamele's meeting broke up.

She did think that her mother might not be delighted to hear that Theo had been out alone to Nonactown. But it wasn't, Theo thought, like she was
wandering
. She had a goal and a destination—Gently Used, on Merchant Street. Father had taken her there—if not
often
, then at least several times. He'd introduced her to the proprietor, too. While that didn't exactly put her or the shop on the Safe List, Theo felt sure that Father wouldn't have taken her anyplace
dangerous
.

Despite the bus being a Direct, transit time to Merchant Street this evening was slightly longer than she had estimated. The Chapelia de-bussed ahead of her, en masse and in step, going right while she would be going left, and she breathed a sigh of relief to see them go.

Her feet had barely touched the street when her mumu sang sevenbells. Still, she thought as she walked down the pathway—no belts in Nonactown—or in the suburbs where her—where Father's—house was, either—it shouldn't take
that
long to buy a rug.

The evening breeze made her glad she had her sweater and reminded her that walking within the Wall, or in its shadow, made both time-keeping and weather-minding by sight difficult. Father did that—used the position of the sun in the sky to tell the time, and the type of clouds and wind-direction to predict coming weather—he said it "kept him close to the world"—and he'd taught Theo the way of it, to Kamele's amusement.

"We have devices called clocks, Jen Sar," she'd said, from her seat on the garden bench. "Which tell us the time when we're inside, too."

"Indeed," Father had answered gravely. "And yet sometimes—we are outside. And in some circumstances—rare, I allow!—devices fail."

Kamele had shaken her head with a small smile and returned to her book; and Father had continued Theo's lesson.

Speaking of time, Theo thought, shaking herself out of her memory, it was passing, and the clouds were moving from the west, on the back of the brisk evening breeze.

The street was busy this evening, light spilling out into the dusk from unshuttered shop windows and doors. Theo walked carefully, her stomach grumbling as the breeze brought the scent of frying spice bread to her. Almost, she crossed the street to buy a slice, but the recollection that there were only twenty-four creds left on her card moved her on past.

First, she told herself, she'd buy the rug. Then, she'd have a piece of fried bread.

The door to Gently Used stood open; on the walk outside, Gorna Dail was talking vivaciously to an old man with an electronic zither strapped to his back.

Theo slipped past the animated conversationalists and into the store. She passed the low counter with its light-guarded displays of rings, fobs, bracelets, and dangles with only a cursory glance. Father wore jewelry—a twisted silver ring on the smallest finger of his right hand—but Kamele said that honors were decoration enough.

The rugs were in the back of the store, piled together by size. Theo located the pile she wanted and knelt beside it, her fingers busy over the fabric.

"Is there something in particular you're looking for, young student?"

Theo gasped, and blinked up into the worn face and smiling eyes of Gorna Dail.

"Such concentration," the shopkeeper said, and the smile moved from her eyes to her lips. "Theo Waitley, that's your name, isn't it? Has the housefather commissioned you for solo flight?"

Theo looked down, and rubbed her hand over the nap of the rug she'd dragged across her knees. It felt good, springy and soft at the same time. Like Coyster.

"My mother and I have . . . relocated to the Wall," she said to the rug.

There was a small silence, then a neutral, "I see." Gorna Dail hunkered down next to Theo and ran her hand over the rug, like she was considering its merits, too.

"It's good to have something to break up all the white," she said, "inside the Wall."

Theo looked at her in surprise. "You've been inside?"

Gorna Dail laughed. "Long ago—and only for a semester. I was a Visiting Expert, so they gave me an apartment on—Three?—no, I'm wrong.
Topthree
. It was well enough. By the standards of fourth-class ship quarters, it was spacious. But I remember those walls, and the floors—all white and slick. Easy to clean and to sanitize, I suppose, but not very restful." She glanced at Theo. "In my opinion, of course."

"Not only that," Theo said feelingly, "you can hardly stand up without your feet sliding out from under you!"

"Yes," said Gorna Dail placidly. "I remember that, too." She stroked the rug on Theo's lap again, frowning slightly, and reached out, running an expert thumb down the side of the stack.

"You were a Visiting Expert?" Theo asked, diverted.

"Oh, yes. Years and years ago. Before you were born, I daresay. It's what I did, in those days, to make a name for myself. You won't believe me, maybe, but I have
two
master certifications, from University itself."

Theo looked at her, but the older woman's attention was on the rugs. "But," she blurted, "what are you doing in Nonac—in Efraim?"

That got her a sideways smile.

"Hah. I
had
forgotten that . . . Non-academic! Everyone who is not studying or teaching is non-academic! Do you think I should be living inside the Wall?" She shook her head. "I'm retired, now."

"Then," Theo said. "Why are you on Delgado?"

Gorna Dail laughed. "Because, after all my traveling, I wanted to settle on a nice, quiet, boring little world, where nothing of note ever happens. And Delgado—aside the college and its great work, of course!—is certainly that. Ah." She slid her hand into the pile of rugs, and pushed them up. "Pull that one out, if you will, and tell me what you think of it."

Theo grabbed the rug indicated, and pulled. It was heavier than she had expected, with a sheen to the mixed blues and greens that reminded her of water.

"Betinwool and silk," Gorna Dail murmured. "It's used, but whoever owned it before me took care of it. It could pass for new."

"New—" Theo snorted as she flipped the edge of the rug up and looked at the knots on the underside. "The new rugs at the co-op are all made out of plaslin."

"And you won't have that, eh?" Gorna Dail smiled again. "I don't blame you in the least, Theo Waitley. Now, tell me honestly—what do you think of this rug?"

Theo ran her hand over it, pleased with the way the nap silked along her skin, and smiled at the cool, swirling colors. It would almost, she thought, be like having her water mosaic again.

"I like it," she said to Gorna Dail.

"Good. Now, let's talk price."

"All right," Theo said steadily. "How much is it?"

Gorna Dail laughed, and sat back on her heels. "No dickering here, I see!"

Theo looked down, cheeks hot. "I don't know what you mean," she said, her voice sounding sullen in her own ears.

"A joke, Theo Waitley," the shopkeeper said placatingly. "Only a joke. On many worlds, in many cities, a price is . . . mutable. It changes with the weather, the time of the day, the demeanor of the buyer, the mood of the shopkeeper. It is not an entertainment of which Delgado partakes, more's the pity. So, for you, the price on the rug is forty cred."

Theo licked her lips, and ran her hand over the rug again, which was a mistake, because it only made her want it more.

"I can't spend that much today," she said, and looked up into the woman's face. "Could you—I can pay twenty-four cred today, if you can put it aside for me? And tomorrow—well, no, not tomorrow," she corrected herself. "I've got teamplay after class. But, I'll bring the rest the day after tomorrow for sure."

Gorna Dail tipped her head. "And carry the rug home on the bus?"

Theo paused, then found her solution. "I'll take a cab."

"Excellent," the old woman said, with a slight smile; "but I think I may have a better answer, if you'll allow me."

"I'd be glad to learn," Theo said politely, and wondered why Gorna Dail chuckled.

"I propose this: I will charge your card for the full amount—" Theo opened her mouth—and subsided when the shopkeeper held up a hand. "Wait until you've heard it all. What I propose is charging your card for the full amount,
tomorrow
."

Theo blinked. "Can you do that?"

"Easily," the woman assured her. "Also, because you're such an accommodating customer, I'll throw in a pack of grippers, so your rug won't slide all over that slick floor, and—" She paused and smiled at Theo. "
And
I'll have them and this rug delivered to you tomorrow evening, after teamplay."

"Really?"

"Really. All you need do is swipe your card and give me your direction. Will that suit you, Theo Waitley?"

"It will!" Theo smiled, relieved. "Thank you!"

"My pleasure, child," Gorna Dail huffed as she pushed to her feet. "My pleasure."

History of Education Department
Oriel College of Humanities
University of Delgado

"So, then," Kamele Waitley said, with a calm authority she was far from feeling; "we're agreed."

She looked carefully around the table at her colleagues, who had not seen the need, who had not wanted to commit the funds—and whom she had one by tedious one brought to her side. She wished that it had been finesse or gamesmanship, pure reason, or anything other than brute will that had carried the day. If she had come back to the Wall sooner or, failing that, taken the necessary time to strengthen her ties inside the department—but she had come late, and reluctant, driven by what Jen Sar dignified as "necessity." If it were discovered—and it would be!—that the Educational History Department at Delgado University had failed to pursue an investigation after one of their own professors was dismissed for falsifying data—they would lose students, funding; perhaps their accreditation! And it would not happen, Kamele had sworn—not on her watch.

Your honor is in peril as much as the department's,
Jen Sar had said, after listening to her lay out her observations and her fears.
Of course you must do what is necessary to bring all into Balance.

Balance, as Kamele had learned over the years of their life together, was the Liaden ideal. And it was deucedly difficult to maintain.

Which did not mean that it should not be pursued.

"It appears that we have indeed agreed to an
in situ
forensic literature search," Mase Toilyn said quietly from half-way 'round the table. "In order to be certain that the two instances of dishonest scholarship of which we have become aware are, as we believe, the only such instances."

"It's expensive," Jon Fu said, which had been his constant objection throughout the meeting. This time, however, the note of complaint had given way to resignation.

"Expensive, yes, but prudent," Ella ben Suzan, Kamele's oldest friend and her only ally at the table, concluded firmly.

". . . prudent," EdHist Chair Orkan Hafley repeated, sighing as her hands fluttered over her note-taker. Flandin had been her protégé; that Admin had allowed her to remain as chair was, in Kamele's opinion, worrisome. It hinted at alliances extending into the Tower itself, but even so, Kamele assured herself for the twentieth time, it did not mean that Hafley's position was robust, or that true scholarship could not prevail.

"Yes," Hafley said, finally, frowning down the table at Kamele. "Yes,
Sub-Chair,
we're agreed that it's our duty to husband the reputation of the college and its scholars. What we
haven't
agreed upon is which of the numerous protocols should be implemented, or, indeed, who should do the work. Perhaps," she concluded, with heavy irony, "
you
have a suggestion."

Kamele forced herself to meet that frown and counter it with a smile.

"But remember that the Emeritus Oversight Committee was formed for this very purpose!" she said with false cheerfulness. "We'll apply to them for dispassionate searchers."

"Well," the chair sniffed. "And the protocol?"

Kamele reached to the notepad, fingers dancing over the lightkeys. Three blue links hovered inside the Group Space at the center of the table.

"Please," she said, looking 'round at her four colleagues once more, "everyone contribute three links concerning your favored protocol."