THE PATTERN OF HIS studies changed again, with more emphasis on the modes of High Liaden, which meant more time with Master tel'Ondor and much more time with the language tapes—even tapes that played while he slept!
Despite the frenzy, he and Gaenor and Vil Tor had managed to meet in the cafeteria to share a meal—late-shift dinner for Jethri, on-shift lunch for Vil Tor and mid-sleep-shift snack for Gaenor.
"So, you will be leaving us for a time," Vil Tor said. "I am envious."
"Not I," Gaenor put in. "Tarnia frightens me to death." She glanced up, catching the edge of Jethri's baffled stare. "She frightens you, too, does she? I knew you for a man of good sense!"
"Indeed," he stammered. "I have no idea who the gentle may be. As for leaving you—why would I do such a thing?"
"Has the master trader's word no weight with you, then?" Gaenor asked, while Vil Tor sent a speculative glance into Jethri's face. "In that wise, you have no need to fear Tarnia. ven'Deelin will have you first."
"Don't tease him, Gaenor," Vil Tor said suddenly. "He hasn't been told."
She blinked at him. "Not been told? Surely, he has a need to know, if only to have sufficient time to properly commend himself to his gods."
"I was told," Jethri said, before his leg broke proper, "that we would be visiting an old friend of Master ven'Deelin's, who is delm of a house on Irikwae."
"Then you have been given the cipher, but not the key," Gaenor said, reaching for her tea. "Never fear, Vil Tor and I will unlock it for you."
Jethri looked to the librarian, who moved his shoulders. "Stafeli Maarilex has the honor to be Tarnia, which makes its seat upon Irikwae. She stands as the ven'Deelin's foster mother, even as the ven'Deelin stands foster mother to you."
So now I have a foster-granmam? Jethri thought, but decided that was taking silly too far into nonsense.
"Who better, then," Gaenor said, jumping in where Vil Tor had stopped, "to shine you?"
Now I have a foster-granmam. He sighed, and frowned down at his dinner plate.
"No, never put on such a long face!" Vil Tor chided. "Irikwae is a most pleasant world and Tarnia's gardens are legendary. You will enjoy yourself excessively, Jethri."
He bit his lip, reminding himself that Vil Tor meant well. It was just that—well, him and Gaenor and—all of Elthoria's crew, really—were grounders. They all had homes on planets, and it was those homes, down 'midst the dust and the mud and the stinks, that they looked forward to going back to, when Elthoria's run was through.
Well, at least the visit wouldn't be long. He'd been over the route Elthoria would take through the Inner Worlds, Master ven'Deelin having made both route and manifest a special area of his studies since they'd quit Modrid, and knew they was scheduled for a three-day layover before moving on to Naord. What kind of polish the old lady could be expected to give him in such a short time wasn't clear, and Jethri took leave to privately doubt that he'd take much shine, anyway. Still, he guessed she was entitled to try.
The hour bell sounded and Vil Tor hurriedly swallowed the last of his tea as he pushed back from the table.
"Alas, duty," he murmured. "Gaenor—"
She waved a hand. "Yes, with delight. But, go now, dear friend. Stint not."
He smiled at that, and touched Jethri on the shoulder as he passed. "Until soon, Jethri. Be well."
Across the table, Gaenor yawned daintily. "I fear I must desert you, as well, my friend. Have the most enjoyable visit possible, eh? I look forward to hearing every detail, when you are returned to us."
She slipped out of her chair and gathered her empties together, and, like Vil Tor, touched him on the shoulder as she left him. "Until soon, Jethri."
"Until soon, Gaenor."
He sat there a little while longer, alone. His dinner wasn't quite eaten, but he wasn't quite hungry. Back at quarters, he had packing to do, and some bit of sleep to catch on his own, his regular shift having been adjusted in order to accommodate a morning arrival, dirt-side. Wouldn't do to show stupid in front of Master ven'Deelin's foster mother. Not when he was a son of the house and all.
Sighing, and not entirely easy in his stomach, he gathered up the considerable remains of his meal, fed the recycler and mooched off toward quarters, the fractin jigging between his fingers.