direct progression to Tlaxce City. It was more than irregular; it was making his Master’s instincts scream.
‘I shall have to call his mother,’ he said unwillingly. It was almost a lie. On Monday, when the fog of a strangely tiring and unproductive weekend had somewhat lifted from his brain, he had tried to contact first the grandmother, then the aunt. Both were unavailable: the former was likely on a boat somewhere in the middle of Tlaxce Lake; the latter . . . well, her comm cheerfully invited him to leave a message, but none of his messages had been answered.
The mother, Maria Delarua (formerly Adafydd) o-Montserrat i-Tlaxce, had never been in the habit of replying to messages, hence her position as third on Rafi’s emergency contact list.
Ntenman winced, and that ridiculous aura of pure honesty became dimmed with an awkwardness that was far more trustworthy. ‘His mother doesn’t really like us Lyceum types, does she?’
Silyan gave him a hard look. ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘She doesn’t.’ Varicella indeed! No doubt after the three-week period was up there would be some other excuse, or else complete silence. It was hardly the first time a relative had tried to take a student out of the Lyceum without going through the proper channels. The psi-normal ones were particular offenders in their suspicion and dislike for the school. He would have to submit a report to the Lyceum Board and let their surveyors deal with the recalcitrant family.
He tapped the screen on his handheld clear and straightened in his seat. ‘That will be all.’
Ntenman got up and was already at the door until the realisation that Serendipity had not moved from her chair slowed his haste. He gave her a look of puzzled concern; she responded with a brief, reassuring nod which he accepted with some reluctance. Continuing to glance over his shoulder, he stepped out of the office and closed the door behind him.
Silyan frowned slightly. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Today I submitted my withdrawal from the Lyceum, but it felt rude not to say something to someone in person,’ she explained.
He smiled. ‘You have always been a guest, Serendipity, not a student. I am only sorry that you will not stay until the end of term.’
She lowered her eyes. ‘Some of the others are enjoying their time here. I believe there will always be a connection between the Lyceum and my community.’
He waved off her embarrassment and her stiff attempt at diplomacy. ‘Quite understandable. We Sadiri tend to keep to ourselves. The Lyceum is Terran of a very specific era, and what isn’t Terran is as much concentrated Ntshune as you could hope to find on Cygnus Beta. They like their communities, too, but they don’t mind pulling Terrans in. Once they can keep up, of course.’
She stared at him. ‘Are you taSadiri, Master Silyan? I didn’t know that.’
‘Yes, and no. Most Sadiri pilots live up to their reputation of being totally attached to their ships. A few act more like the Terran sailor stereotype, with a lover in every port. It only becomes unfortunate when psi-gifted offspring are born into a society that isn’t really equipped for them. You at least have developed and maintained a culture that supports telepathy. Galia and I have lacked such advantages, and we need the Lyceum far more than you do.’
He truly could not read her mind, nor did he need to when he could see the changes in her face. She appeared to be encountering the sensation of empathy and finding it a new but not unlikeable experience. The moment inspired an unexpected thought that passed unchecked into speech. ‘Maybe you should come to visit us.’
He was ridiculously surprised and pleased at the spontaneous invitation. ‘I should say yes,’ he replied sadly. ‘I should say yes and thank you and how soon will you be able to receive us . . . but Galia and I have a special kind of tenure at the Lyceum, a tenure that does not permit us to travel beyond its
‘I shall have to call his mother,’ he said unwillingly. It was almost a lie. On Monday, when the fog of a strangely tiring and unproductive weekend had somewhat lifted from his brain, he had tried to contact first the grandmother, then the aunt. Both were unavailable: the former was likely on a boat somewhere in the middle of Tlaxce Lake; the latter . . . well, her comm cheerfully invited him to leave a message, but none of his messages had been answered.
The mother, Maria Delarua (formerly Adafydd) o-Montserrat i-Tlaxce, had never been in the habit of replying to messages, hence her position as third on Rafi’s emergency contact list.
Ntenman winced, and that ridiculous aura of pure honesty became dimmed with an awkwardness that was far more trustworthy. ‘His mother doesn’t really like us Lyceum types, does she?’
Silyan gave him a hard look. ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘She doesn’t.’ Varicella indeed! No doubt after the three-week period was up there would be some other excuse, or else complete silence. It was hardly the first time a relative had tried to take a student out of the Lyceum without going through the proper channels. The psi-normal ones were particular offenders in their suspicion and dislike for the school. He would have to submit a report to the Lyceum Board and let their surveyors deal with the recalcitrant family.
He tapped the screen on his handheld clear and straightened in his seat. ‘That will be all.’
Ntenman got up and was already at the door until the realisation that Serendipity had not moved from her chair slowed his haste. He gave her a look of puzzled concern; she responded with a brief, reassuring nod which he accepted with some reluctance. Continuing to glance over his shoulder, he stepped out of the office and closed the door behind him.
Silyan frowned slightly. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Today I submitted my withdrawal from the Lyceum, but it felt rude not to say something to someone in person,’ she explained.
He smiled. ‘You have always been a guest, Serendipity, not a student. I am only sorry that you will not stay until the end of term.’
She lowered her eyes. ‘Some of the others are enjoying their time here. I believe there will always be a connection between the Lyceum and my community.’
He waved off her embarrassment and her stiff attempt at diplomacy. ‘Quite understandable. We Sadiri tend to keep to ourselves. The Lyceum is Terran of a very specific era, and what isn’t Terran is as much concentrated Ntshune as you could hope to find on Cygnus Beta. They like their communities, too, but they don’t mind pulling Terrans in. Once they can keep up, of course.’
She stared at him. ‘Are you taSadiri, Master Silyan? I didn’t know that.’
‘Yes, and no. Most Sadiri pilots live up to their reputation of being totally attached to their ships. A few act more like the Terran sailor stereotype, with a lover in every port. It only becomes unfortunate when psi-gifted offspring are born into a society that isn’t really equipped for them. You at least have developed and maintained a culture that supports telepathy. Galia and I have lacked such advantages, and we need the Lyceum far more than you do.’
He truly could not read her mind, nor did he need to when he could see the changes in her face. She appeared to be encountering the sensation of empathy and finding it a new but not unlikeable experience. The moment inspired an unexpected thought that passed unchecked into speech. ‘Maybe you should come to visit us.’
He was ridiculously surprised and pleased at the spontaneous invitation. ‘I should say yes,’ he replied sadly. ‘I should say yes and thank you and how soon will you be able to receive us . . . but Galia and I have a special kind of tenure at the Lyceum, a tenure that does not permit us to travel beyond its
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