Ghost Ship (31 page)

“Yes, Theo? But, what a becoming blush! Are you about to be interesting?”

She glared at him. “It depends. I just wanted to know . . .” She took a breath. “Is Val Con . . . delusional?”

“Not that I have observed,” Father said composedly. “Is there anything in particular that leads to the asking of this question?”

Theo, you’re a nidj,
she told herself, but there wasn’t any way to pretend she’d never asked, or that there was no particular reason for having asked. Father had taught her how to observe and how to form questions, just as much as Kamele had done. And, being Father, now that she’d started, he wasn’t going to let her off with anything less than the truth.

She sighed, stopped and turned to face him.

“I asked Val Con if there was a mathematician available, because of a . . . situation . . . with
Bechimo
. He told me to apply to you, for—for Scholar Caylon.”

“Ah,” said Father.

Theo waited. Father slipped a hand under her elbow and turned her toward the house, resuming his stroll. Perforce, she went with him.

“It’s about
Bechimo
’s Jump capabilities,” she said finally. “I . . . don’t have the math.”

“I understand,” Father murmured. “Come to the morning parlor for breakfast, tomorrow. We will assay your difficulty then.”

THIRTY-ONE

Jelaza Kazone

Surebleak

Theo went down the hall toward the morning parlor with a spring in her step. Apparently Anthora had done
some
thing, even though Theo hadn’t been able to cooperate. The dreams hadn’t come back and it was—it was almost as if they had had a physical weight that was gone now, and left her feeling like she was on a low-grav dance floor.

By her measure, it was early in the morning; she hoped she wasn’t too early for Father. If she was, she’d talk to whoever else was up on her schedule today, or just have another cup of tea in the window seat and think about whether she really wanted to remain in Uncle’s employ.

The talk with Shan and Ms. dea’Gauss yesterday had been illuminating on a number of levels, now that she’d had a chance to think about it in context. Uncle had said that he had wanted to hire her because she was Father’s daughter. No, she corrected herself, moving down the hall apace—because she was genetically a yos’Phelium.

Because yos’Pheliums were pretty often excellent pilots, because yos’Pheliums tended to survive.

. . . and because
the luck
moved roughly around yos’Pheliums and therefore they sometimes accomplished the impossible.

She shook her head, sweeping into the morning parlor, and coming to an abrupt and somewhat graceless halt.

Father looked ’round from the window. He was dressed in the wide-sleeved green shirt he’d worn to dinner last night, and his face looked . . . soft, like maybe he hadn’t slept as well as Theo had—or hadn’t yet gone to bed.

“Such energy,” he said, and smiled to take the sting. “Good morning, Theo.”

“Good morning,” she said. “I thought I was going to be too early for you.”

“I hope I haven’t disappointed you?”

“No,” she said, moving over to the teapot. She poured, then turned and raised the pot. “Would you like me to refresh your cup?”

“Thank you,” he said, coming forward, pilot smooth, yet a little less smooth in his step than he had been at dinner.

Theo hesitated. Father held the cup out between his two hands, and gave her a quizzical look.

“Are you well, Theo?”

“I’m well,” she said, pouring, “but I was wondering the same of you. Should you rest? You seem . . . tired.”

“Only careful,” he said, smiling down at the cup cradled between his palms. “Please, break your fast.”

That was an excellent idea, Theo thought. There was in particular a kind of vegetable-and-cheese-stuffed roll that she had become very fond of. She slipped one from the warming basket and looked over her shoulder.

“Would you like a roll, Father? Or fruit?”

“Thank you, no; I am quite content.”

Theo frowned slightly; it seemed like Father’s voice—no, his
accent
was . . . different. She didn’t think of him having an accent, exactly; he always sounded precisely like Father. Now, however, he didn’t . . . quite. Something about his voice was . . .
wrong
. Off.

“Please,” he said, “join me on the window seat. The view is quite remarkable. I never thought to see the lawns in such disarray.”

He turned and moved back to the window seat, a pilot—absolutely a pilot, but—

“You aren’t Father.”

It sounded idiotic—it
was
idiotic. Who else could it be, save Father? But the sentence was out now, sharp against the quiet air. The pilot had turned to face her again, and bowed—Approval-of-the-Student, a bow she happened to know well, since Padi had taken to using it whenever Theo mastered a dance sequence.

“That is—very astute. In fact, I am Aelliana Caylon. I was told that you are need of a
binjali
mathematician.” He—she—Scholar Caylon, raised the cup and smiled. “I am at your service, Pilot.”

Lifemates,
Theo thought wildly.
Sharing thought and emotion
. But Scholar Caylon was
dead
.

Except Val Con had said . . .

Theo sighed and looked into the pilot’s face, seeing not much of Father there, but not a complete stranger, either. It seemed that she was observing Father in one of the rare soft moods that had sometimes come upon him.

“Val Con said that I should apply to his mother,” she said slowly, “but I thought . . .”

“Perhaps you thought that Val Con is a little odd in his head?” The pilot before her smiled. “He is, you know—but not on this particular topic.”

“
Where
is Father?” Theo asked.

Aelliana Caylon tipped her head. “He is asleep. I would not attempt this, if he were not, even with his permission, which I assure you I do have.” She paused, considering Theo’s face. “It is very inconvenient, I allow, there only being one body between us. Except that it would have meant a lack of yourself in our lives, I would say that I would very much rather it were otherwise. But, there! Anne had used to say that there was no cloud so dark that it wasn’t silver, at its heart.”

She used her chin to point at the window seat.

“Come, Theo,” she said cajolingly. “You can’t be so unkind as to place a call upon my skills and then withhold the problem!”

Theo shook her head. “Does Kamele—do you know my mother?”

Aelliana Caylon stepped forward and met Theo’s eyes seriously.

“I value Kamele highly. She is quite the sister of my heart.”

She extended the hand on which the old silver ring gleamed and touched Theo’s wrist.

“It is more than passing strange, I do agree, and I wish that we might spend more time getting to know each other as we should. However, if you truly need an interspatial mathematician, then, please, place your concern before me without delay. I do not wish to risk giving Daav a headache.”

Theo took a breath.
Inner calm,
she told herself, and inclined her head.

“Please,” she said, “let us sit together while I explain the problem. I have a data stick and a description.”

Aelliana Caylon smiled, bright and joyous.

“Excellent!” she said, settling into the seat as if she were used to it being larger or she being smaller. “Tell me everything.”

- - - - -

The locals were easily led, and had an enthusiasm for their work that was remarkable in the lower order.

They had at first held back from the suggestion that there be no blood shed in this discussion of planetary rights. After all, theirs was a—one could not call it a
civilization
, so much as a circumstance—in which “retirement” by extreme means was the norm.

He had been persuasive; he had been adamant, and they had at last agreed: only machines were to be harmed and progress impeded in this campaign. Those who repaired the road and built the schools were, after all, their neighbors, working by sufferance of the usurpers. No need to harm those who were innocent.

Especially when those who were guilty would soon be within range.

- - - - -

Something . . . changed. The light coming in the window behind them, maybe, or the temperature of the air in the room. Distracted, Theo looked up from the notes she bent over with Scholar Caylon, blinking at Val Con, who was pouring himself a cup of tea from the pot on the sideboard.

As if he felt her eyes on him, he turned his head and smiled, nodding agreeably.

“Good morning, Mother. Theo.”

“Good morning, my son,” Scholar Caylon said from Theo’s side, without looking up from the notes.

“Good morning,” Theo added, and stood up, bringing both empty cups with her.

At the sideboard, she held them out, and her brother poured.

“Thanks,” she said.

“My pleasure,” he answered. “Have you eaten yet? If not, allow me to recommend Ms. ana’Tak’s cheese—”

“Val Con,” Scholar Caylon said.

He turned neatly. “Yes.”

Scholar Caylon raised her head, her expression calm; the faint edge of satire that Father usually brought to that exact expression entirely absent.

“You have been on board
Bechimo
?”

“I have,” Val Con answered, “and fortunate I was to have escaped with my life.”

“Did you examine the drive settings?”

“Alas. I fear I was on my very best behavior, having given my sister, your foster-daughter, my word.”

Scholar Caylon inclined her head with complete seriousness.

“I commend you.”

Val Con bowed a bow Theo thought might not be exactly as respectful as it looked.

“I wonder,” Scholar Caylon continued, unruffled, “if you might procure for me a recording of
Bechimo
’s landing at Surebleak Port.”

“Certainly. Is there urgency attached?”

“If I could examine that record today, then I may have an answer for Theo before she leaves us.”

“Today it shall be, then,” Val Con said jauntily. “Is there any other service I might perform for you?”

“Thank you, no.” Scholar Caylon smiled, bright and uncomplicated as a daisy. “You are a patient child. I do very much admire the trait, but wonder how you achieved it.”

“Ah.” Val Con’s smile was subtle. “I believe we must lay the blame at Uncle Er Thom’s feet, who was, so my foster-mother swore, the longest-tempered man in three sectors.”

Scholar Caylon tipped her head, eyebrows drawn.

“Which three sectors?”

“Do you know,” Val Con answered seriously, “she never said.”

Scholar Caylon laughed.

Val Con bowed once more, and left them.

- - - - -

Kamele read the Board’s letter for the third time. Satisfied that it granted everything she had asked for, she filed it, leaned back in her chair, and closed her eyes.

“That,” she said, perhaps to Phileas, dozing on her lap, “was . . . easy.”

The cat puffered a sleepy purr. Of course it had been easy, that soft rasp implied; who dared stand between Scholar-Administrator Kamele Waitley and that which the Scholar-Administrator desired?

She half laughed. Jen Sar had been in the habit of concocting conversational gambits, and occasional amusing setdowns, on behalf of the cats. She had been pleased to style it a harmless male eccentricity, considerably less annoying than similarly petty habits adopted by the
onagrata
of some of her acquaintance. It seemed, however, that the cats insisted on their rights, and in Jen Sar’s absence, she had become the voice of their often outrageous opinions.

“Still,” she said to Phileas, “they might have been a bit more obstructive. I would have been equal to a battle.”

In fact, she would have welcomed a warm battle of protocols, and just like the Board to disoblige her, granting her application for academic leave without so much as a request for confirmation of her years of service.

“I suppose my colleagues have been gossiping even more loudly than usual.”

And how could they not? Her household arrangement had been for many years of general interest. First, her choice of an
onagrata
—he so much her elder, in years and in honors—who routinely turned down offers to become attached to much more senior and honored women, in order to sit as housefather to a mere professor in a minor field. Add to that very nearly
irregular
relationship a daughter known campus-wide for her . . . odd ways, and one could scarcely fail to be an oft-revisited topic.

Theo’s successes off-world in a trade that very few scholars understood had placed her outside of gossip. Even Kamele’s continued, strange, but not quite anti-social, preference for the company of one man had become, by dint of long standing, almost . . . usual.

Until
he
left
her
.

Suddenly, all the old gossip was new again—especially as she was now a wealthy and propertied woman. Such things were outside the notice of scholars, of course, but—grist for the mill, and sauce for the goose, nonetheless.

And, now, the Board’s quick approval of her request . . .

“I do believe I’m emotionally fragile,” Kamele told Phileas, “and must be treated with care. It may be that the Board thinks I’m going to take treatment.”

The cat sighed, opining that the Board’s delusions made no matter, so long as Kamele was free to do as she wished.

After a few more moments of frowning consideration, Kamele was inclined to agree.

THIRTY-TWO

Jelaza Kazone

Surebleak

“Good evening, Theo. You look charming.”

She turned carefully, minding the long hem, and bowed to Boss Conrad, her cousin Pat Rin, Quin’s father. He smiled and bowed back, utterly at ease in his pretty ruffled shirt and tight black pants. The ballroom lights struck glints of red from the depths of his dark hair.

“We have been so hectic down in the city that I have not yet made the two of you known to each other.”

The lady he brought forward was dressed in what appeared to be a quantity of diaphanous scarves patterned in bronze and green, draped in a way that bared shapely brown shoulders.