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Thirty-Seven

 

Melchiza
City of Treasures

"Well. There you are." Monit Appletorn all but dropped his cup of coffee on the table as he slumped into the chair across from Jen Sar Kiladi. There were dark circles under his eyes and a general air of weariness about him.

"Here I am," that gentleman agreed, "and well. I hope I find you the same?"

"Seems to me that I found you," Appletorn grumbled, ignoring the question; "though it wasn't necessarily easy. How do you do it?"

Jen Sar raised an eyebrow. "Do what?"

"Vanish." He raised his cup and drank deeply. "I walked past this table twice, knowing you must be here, and my eye slid by you."

"Ah." Jen Sar moved his shoulders. "I am a short man, and you, if I may venture, are a tired man. Have you had word from our friend?"

Appletorn shook his head. "I wish I had; it would be easier to sleep."

"You don't find suspense a tonic for a restful night?" Jen Sar raised his mug and sipped tea.

"Perhaps you do!" Appletorn snapped.

"At the least, I am comforted by the observation that we both remain as yet unassassinated."

Appletorn shook his head, finished off his coffee and put the empty cup none-too-gently on the table.

"How—" he began, and stopped.

Jen Sar tipped his head in polite inquiry. "Forgive me, you were about to say?"

The other man half-laughed. "I was about to ask how Kamele Waitley . . ." Again, he hesitated.

". . . tolerated me for so many years?" Jen Sar concluded, and smiled. "The only explanation can be that she is a great-hearted and patient lady."

Appletorn shook his head again and returned to the original topic, like a dog worrying at an old bone. "Do you think we will hear anything, or will they ignore us?"

"I admit that hope of contact is growing faint. If they do ignore us, we shall need to do something . . . dramatic."

"Taking your case directly to . . ." He glanced around them, but all the nearby tables were empty on this off-meal hour. ". . . directly to our friend—that wasn't dramatic?"

"It was necessary," Jen Sar said, worry sharpening his own voice. "Time becomes . . . an issue, as we discussed." He sighed. "This is what comes of giving one's opponent time for study."

"We could hardly have done otherwise," Appletorn protested.

Jen Sar sipped tea. They could, of course, have done very much otherwise, but threatening one of the high-level Chapelia was risky, to understate the case by a magnitude of ten, and likely would have gained them no more than they held now.

On the other hand, time did grow short. If Kamele arrived home bearing proof of tampering, as he had no doubt she would, she would become a target for the as-yet-nameless outworld agent.

Locating that agent and her compatriots on Delgado, counting them and rendering them powerless—he had taken that as his responsibility, only to find that he was not equal to the challenge.

An outworld agent would not be constrained by the mores of a Safe World. One such agent had already cost him—dearly.

It would not happen again.

* * *

"What reason do you have to sabotage the work of this research team?" Kamele demanded.

Orkan Hafley gave an amused shrug. "My dear Kamele, you're overwrought. A simple error—"

"Not quite so simple," Able interrupted, raising her datapad. "There are three volumes here which are marked as having been ordered in. When they did not arrive I put it down to the ineptness of our research assistant, and there are other things, after all, on my list to console me."

"I have four," Crowley said, "in similar state. I blamed myself, for hastiness begets error."

"I have one," Kamele said, looking to Hafley. "You have been busy, Chair, but why?"

"Professor Crowley said it himself—haste begets error," Hafley said. "Furthermore, age contributes to a poor memory. All of us have been working long hours and sleeping very little. I'll admit that I made one error of placement—which Kamele recovered! All's well that ends well, with the agreement of my colleagues."

Kamele turned to Able.

"The volumes you thought you had requested," she said urgently. "Request them again."

"Certainly, Sub-Chair." She rose and walked over to the wall-mounted datapad.

"Kamele, really—"

"It has been apparent for some time," Crowley interrupted, "that this project has not enjoyed Chair Hafley's full support. My report to the Directors will reflect this, noting in particular her willingness to place this vital research into the hands of scholars unknown to us, either by reputation or by name. This incident will also be documented. I suspect that the Directors—"

"I suspect that the Directors will know how to take such a report," Hafley interrupted in her turn. "Elderly males are well-known to suffer moments of delusion. Had I the staffing of this team, we should have had Beltaire herself, whatever she may have pretended about her health. This project demanded the weight that only such an august and senior researcher could lend to it. Admin chose to override me, but they will not allow a report that is clearly nothing more than a work of spite to pass upward to the Directors."

"I—" Kamele begin, and went back a step when the older woman turned to her.

"You!" she said sternly, and shook her head. "I tried to groom you, Kamele, but you would not learn. You're ambitious—a little too much so, may I say? What sort of mother allows her desire to achieve prominence to overrule her rightful concern for her daughter's safety? Anything might happen at that school—Melchiza isn't a Safe World, you know! Who can tell but that you might find that she's been . . . harmed in some way; changed out of recognition? But you counted the possible cost to Theo too small to consider, and here you are, incommunicado, unable to protect your child—your most important duty! Small wonder you're fabricating threats out of thin air! The guilt, Kamele, that you must—"

"I have a notation on my request, Sub-Chair," Able said from her position at the datapad.

Kamele took a breath. "What is it?" Her voice was steady.

"It says those volumes are no longer available to us."

Kamele took another breath and met Hafley's hard blue eyes.

"Not just one error, Chair Hafley," she said, and turned to the remaining members of the team.

"Compare lists; see if there is a pattern to the volumes we weren't allowed to see. When Solmin comes in next, we will ask him to escort Chair Hafley to the dormitory and confine her there."

"Excellent," Crowley said. Able nodded.

"In the meantime," Kamele looked back to Hafley, feeling the quiver of horror in her stomach. Clyburn, she thought, whose mother is high in Administration. Who could have had Theo placed well in the Transit School . . . 

"In the meantime," she repeated, and her voice was breathless now. "I want to know what you've done to my daughter."

* * *

Theo extended her leg, carefully, and danced Module One in slow-time, like Phobai had shown her.

"Stretching's good for your muscles and your reactions," she'd said. "Slow stretching's good for bruises."

She sure did have bruises, though nothing as startling as Initha, who'd gotten herself a truly spectacular black eye when she'd misjudged the angle of bounce. All of them had contact burns, though only Fruma'd gotten anything broken. His hand, of course, and he'd been sent to the infirmary when Inspector Vidige broke up the game. The rest of them had been sent to clean up for dinner, without even a mention that they might've been playing a little too rough.

At lights out, Theo had been feeling a little stiff. At wake-up, she'd been feeling a lot stiff. She'd gotten carefully out of bed, done some basic stretches and hobbled down to breakfast, where she'd found the rest of the crew, just as stiff. Initha'd nodded her to a place across from her and then they'd walked to class together, settling carefully into their solo seats.

It was free study now, and standing was permitted. Theo figured that meant menfri'at, too, as long as she didn't get too energetic.

Not much chance of that.

She slid into Module Two, aware that someone was moving on her right. Turning her head, she saw Initha and, beyond her, Robit, and Stan, earrings chiming softly, as they all danced slow-time.

"Good idea," Initha said.

"Good game," Stan added.

"It was," Theo said, and flowed into the next step.

 

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