The Dreaming Void by Peter F. Hamilton Page B

annexed to the hall. Edeard already could perceive through a couple of stone walls, sensing physical structures as if they were shadows, while minds buzzed with an iridescent glow. That vision was of a caliber that eluded a lot of adults; it made Akeem inordinately proud of his apprentice’s ability, claiming his own training was the true key to developing Edeard’s potential.
    The old shaper came into the hall to find the ge-monkeys ready with his breakfast. He grunted favorably as he gave Edeard’s shoulder a paternal squeeze. “Did you sense me getting up in my bedroom, boy?” he asked, gesturing at his waiting plate of sausage and tomato.
    â€œNo, sir,” Edeard said happily. “Can’t manage to get through four walls yet.”
    â€œWon’t be long,” Akeem said as he lifted his tea. “The way you’re developing, I’ll be sleeping outside the village walls by midsummer. Everyone’s entitled to some privacy.”
    â€œI would never intrude,” Edeard protested. He mellowed and grinned sheepishly as he caught the amusement in the old shaper’s mind. Master Akeem had passed his hundred-eightieth birthday several years back, so he claimed, though he was always vague about the precise year that had happened. Life expectancy on Querencia was supposed to be around two hundred years, though Edeard did not know of anyone in Ashwell or the surrounding villages who actually had managed to live that long. However, Akeem’s undeniable age had given him a rounded face with at least three chins rolling back into a thick neck. A lacework of red and purple capillaries decorated the pale skin of his cheeks and nose, producing a terribly wan appearance. The thin stubble left behind after his perfunctory daily shave was now mostly gray, which didn’t help the careworn impression everyone received on seeing him for the first time. Once a week the old man used the same razor on what was left of his silver hair.
    Despite his declining years, he always insisted on dressing smartly. His personal ge-monkeys were well versed in laundry work. Today his tailored leather trousers were clean, his boots polished, a pale yellow shirt washed and pressed. He wore a jacket woven from magenta and jade yarn with the egg-in-a-twisted-circle crest of the Eggshaper Guild on the lapel. The jacket might not be as impressive as the robes worn by guild members in Makkathran, but in Ashwell it was a symbol of prestige, earning him respect. None of the other village elders dressed as well.
    Edeard sheepishly realized he was fingering his own junior apprentice badge, a simple metal button on his collar; the emblem was similar to Akeem’s, but with only a quarter circle. Half the time he forgot to pin it on in the morning; after all, nobody showed him any respect, ever. But if all went well today, he would be entitled to a badge with half a circle. Akeem said he could never remember anyone attempting a shaping so sophisticated for a senior apprentice assessment.
    â€œNervous?” the old man asked.
    â€œNo,” Edeard said immediately. Then he ducked his head. “They work in the tank, anyway.”
    â€œOf course they do. They always do. Our true skill comes in determining what works in real life. From what I’ve seen, I don’t believe there will be a problem. That’s not a guarantee, mind. Nothing in life is certain.”
    â€œWhat did you shape for your senior apprentice assessment?” Edeard asked.
    â€œAh, now, well, that was a long time ago. Things were different back then, more formal. They always are in the capital. I suspect they haven’t changed much.”
    â€œAkeem!” Edeard pleaded. He loved the old man dearly, but oh, how his mind wandered these days.
    â€œYes, yes. As I recall, the assessment required four ge-spiders, functional ones, mind; they had to spin drosilk at the Grand Master’s presentation, so everyone wound up