Crystal Dragon by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee
Authors: Steve Miller, Sharon Lee
Tags: Science-Fiction
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me the supplicant's coin."
The guard straddling the door spun smartly on her heel and marched forward. At the corner of his table, she bowed and opened her hand, offering on the flat of her palm a single tile, shaded green to match the supplicant's tabard—or perhaps, tay'Welford thought whimsically, to match her eyes. He took the tile, his gaze resting yet upon the supplicant's face. The ostiary went back a long step, straightened, turned and marched out of the room. The door whispered shut behind her.
The supplicant's face did not change, the calm rhythm of her breathing was preserved.
Slowly, as though it were foregone that the work preserved on the tile would be second-rate, if not actually shabby, tay'Welford pulled the logic-rack to him, deftly re-arranged the tiles and slid the green into its place within the pattern.
The green tile pulsed. Figures and notations floated to the surface of the reader tiles, framing an argument both elegant and facile. tay'Welford smiled in genuine pleasure as the theory routines accessed the supplicant's data.
"Scholar?" tay'Palin's voice carried an edge of irritated dryness. "Perhaps you might share the joke with your colleagues?"
He bowed his head and answered soft, acutely aware of the rebuke.
"Forgive me, Scholar. The theory cross-check is almost—ah." Very nearly, he smiled again. A most elegant piece of work.
"The supplicant," he said, "builds a compelling proof against Master dea'Syl's decrystallization equation."
tay'Palin met his eyes, grimly; beleaguered as he was, still the Prime Chair was no one's fool. A supplicant who came offering such a coin for her seat could in no case be allowed to depart.
Therefore did Scholar tay'Palin rise to his feet, and the others of the committee with him. Hands outstretched, he approached the supplicant, who bent her head back on her long, slender neck and watched him. The pulse at the base of her throat, tay'Welford saw, was beating a little too rapidly for perfect calm. It might be that the supplicant was not quite entirely a fool, either.
"Rise, supplicant," said tay'Palin, and she did, swaying slightly as she gained her feet. To the left, tay'Azberg and dea'Bel had risen, as well. They approached the supplicant; tay'Azberg slipped the gloves and the blade free while dea'Bel removed the yellow sash, and stepped to one side.
tay'Welford rose and received the end of the black sash offered by tay'Halsen. They then approached the supplicant and wove the dusky length about her slim waist, tay'Palin stepped forward at the last to tuck in the ends and return blade and gloves to their proper places.
He then opened his arms in the ritual gesture.
"Allow me to be the first to welcome Seated Scholar Maelyn tay'Nordif home after her long wandering," he said.
Seated Scholar tay'Nordif took a deep breath and stepped into the embrace. tay'Palin kissed her on both cheeks, and released her.
"Come," he said. "Allow me to make you known to your family in art."
* * *
"Alkia?" The Korak trade master frowned at Tor An, spun on the stool and slapped up her screen, her right hand already on the wheel. Clan names flashed by in a blur, froze, blinked and reformatted as she accessed Alkia's files.
"I'd thought there was something odd," she muttered, whether to him or to herself he was uncertain. "But it's all been odd of late; ships coming in behind-time; ships coming in ahead of time; whole routes collapsing under the weight of the damned war—Wait, wait..." She touched a button, accessing in quick sequence the shipping histories for the last month, two months, three—
And sighed of a sudden, closing the screen with a touch that seemed nearly gentle. She sat with her back to him though there was nothing but the blank screen for her to look at, and then turned on the stool again. Her face was somber, and Tor An felt his stomach clench.
"There is no record of any Alkia Trade Clan ship calling at any port in this sector across
The guard straddling the door spun smartly on her heel and marched forward. At the corner of his table, she bowed and opened her hand, offering on the flat of her palm a single tile, shaded green to match the supplicant's tabard—or perhaps, tay'Welford thought whimsically, to match her eyes. He took the tile, his gaze resting yet upon the supplicant's face. The ostiary went back a long step, straightened, turned and marched out of the room. The door whispered shut behind her.
The supplicant's face did not change, the calm rhythm of her breathing was preserved.
Slowly, as though it were foregone that the work preserved on the tile would be second-rate, if not actually shabby, tay'Welford pulled the logic-rack to him, deftly re-arranged the tiles and slid the green into its place within the pattern.
The green tile pulsed. Figures and notations floated to the surface of the reader tiles, framing an argument both elegant and facile. tay'Welford smiled in genuine pleasure as the theory routines accessed the supplicant's data.
"Scholar?" tay'Palin's voice carried an edge of irritated dryness. "Perhaps you might share the joke with your colleagues?"
He bowed his head and answered soft, acutely aware of the rebuke.
"Forgive me, Scholar. The theory cross-check is almost—ah." Very nearly, he smiled again. A most elegant piece of work.
"The supplicant," he said, "builds a compelling proof against Master dea'Syl's decrystallization equation."
tay'Palin met his eyes, grimly; beleaguered as he was, still the Prime Chair was no one's fool. A supplicant who came offering such a coin for her seat could in no case be allowed to depart.
Therefore did Scholar tay'Palin rise to his feet, and the others of the committee with him. Hands outstretched, he approached the supplicant, who bent her head back on her long, slender neck and watched him. The pulse at the base of her throat, tay'Welford saw, was beating a little too rapidly for perfect calm. It might be that the supplicant was not quite entirely a fool, either.
"Rise, supplicant," said tay'Palin, and she did, swaying slightly as she gained her feet. To the left, tay'Azberg and dea'Bel had risen, as well. They approached the supplicant; tay'Azberg slipped the gloves and the blade free while dea'Bel removed the yellow sash, and stepped to one side.
tay'Welford rose and received the end of the black sash offered by tay'Halsen. They then approached the supplicant and wove the dusky length about her slim waist, tay'Palin stepped forward at the last to tuck in the ends and return blade and gloves to their proper places.
He then opened his arms in the ritual gesture.
"Allow me to be the first to welcome Seated Scholar Maelyn tay'Nordif home after her long wandering," he said.
Seated Scholar tay'Nordif took a deep breath and stepped into the embrace. tay'Palin kissed her on both cheeks, and released her.
"Come," he said. "Allow me to make you known to your family in art."
* * *
"Alkia?" The Korak trade master frowned at Tor An, spun on the stool and slapped up her screen, her right hand already on the wheel. Clan names flashed by in a blur, froze, blinked and reformatted as she accessed Alkia's files.
"I'd thought there was something odd," she muttered, whether to him or to herself he was uncertain. "But it's all been odd of late; ships coming in behind-time; ships coming in ahead of time; whole routes collapsing under the weight of the damned war—Wait, wait..." She touched a button, accessing in quick sequence the shipping histories for the last month, two months, three—
And sighed of a sudden, closing the screen with a touch that seemed nearly gentle. She sat with her back to him though there was nothing but the blank screen for her to look at, and then turned on the stool again. Her face was somber, and Tor An felt his stomach clench.
"There is no record of any Alkia Trade Clan ship calling at any port in this sector across
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