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Day 165
Standard Year 1118
Irikwae

"WHAT IS THAT?" Miandra asked. Jethri started and looked up, fingers closing automatically around the gadget. "A mirror?" She settled onto the bench beside him, her arm pressing his as she craned to see.

"Not exactly." He held it out; displaying the screen in its transition phase. "It's a weather device."

She frowned down at it, extended a hand—and paused, sending a direct glance into his face. "May I?"

"Of course." He opened his fingers wide and she plucked the thing from his palm, eyes on the swirling screen, head cocked a little to one side. Jethri twisted around, so he could watch, too, without giving himself a crick in the neck.

Eventually, the swirls cleared and the icon dictionary appeared. Miandra's frown deepened.

"What does it do?"

"More than I know about," he said truthfully. "I'm trying to study it out, because one of the things it does do is show weather patterns. There should be a way to set it to watch for particular patterns in a specific area, and give a warning." He shrugged. "I haven't figured out quite how to do that, though."

"Perhaps if you consulted the instructions?" She murmured, her attention still on the screen.

"That would be a good idea," Jethri admitted, "if I had the instructions. There might be instructions on-board, but, if so, I've never found them—nor even my father."

"What a peculiar device." She extended a long forefinger and touched the screen, carefully between the rows of icons. "What do these symbols mean?"

"They represent kinds of weather." He put his finger under a sort of squiggle with dashes falling out of it. "That's rain. And this one—" a similar squiggle shape, but the stuff falling out of it was rounder and fuzzy looking—"that's snow. Snow is frozen rain."

Miandra looked up at him, still frowning. "I know what snow is. We have enough of it during the cold season."

He felt his ears heat and inclined his head. "Forgive me. Of course, you know more of these matters than a ship-born. Perhaps you might do me the favor of identifying those symbols that match weather you are familiar with."

She blinked, glanced down at the device and then back to his face.

"I think we do you no favor in teaching you to sharpen your words," she said. "What would you have said to me just then, if we had been speaking in your home-tongue."

"Eh?" He shrugged, feeling a brief sense of dislocation before the words slid into his mouth. "Figure it yourself, if you know so much."

Miandra blinked again. "I see—irritation sharpens your words, not our teaching."

"Well, see—" he began, and shook his head, hearing himself back in Terran. He raised a hand, signaling that he required a moment to himself, closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting his mind just sort of go blank for a moment. . . .

"Jethri, are you well?" Miandra's voice was worried, her words in Low Liaden. He felt something sort of twist inside his head, and opened his eyes.

"I am well," he said. "A momentary dislocation of language. To continue—my father wasn't able to break the puzzle of this device—nor was his cousin, and neither was a shy man with a puzzle. I've only been trying to work out how to operate it for last few days, but I am afraid my frustration—has the better of me. For something that seems so simple, it is remarkably difficult to understand!"

She laughed, and shifted closer to him, holding the device between them. "Well, let us see what we may deduce between us, then. Surely, this—" she ran her finger under a simple straight line, "is clear skies—no weather, as we say, though of course there is always weather. . . " Her voice trailed off, and she bent her head closer, reaching up absently to tuck a curl of reddish hair behind her ear. Jethri stared, then pulled his attention back to the problem at hand.

"This. . . " She tapped her finger on a crazy, swirly mess of lines. "Surely," she said, tapping again, "this is a wind-twist? No other weather pattern would be so—" She gasped to a stop, staring down at a screen gone smokey and opaque.

"What is happening?" She thrust the device at him, her eyes wide and panicked. "Jethri—what is it doing?"

Almost, he laughed at her. Almost. And then he remembered all the times neither she nor her sister had laughed at him, though he didn't doubt he was nothing less than comical.

So. Gently, he slid the little machine out of her hand. The transitional clouds were thinning on the screen, and he tipped it so she could see.

"It's only going to the next phase—see? Here is a picture of our day, here and now."

And so it was. Miandra gazed at it in silence, then looked back to him, her dark blue eyes showing unease.

"Now what does it do?"

"Nothing," he said, and smiled down at her. "We can go back to the icon screen—" he touched the go-back button; the screen swirled, then solidified. He held the device out to her. "Touch another icon. Any one."

She raised her hand, then slowly lowered it, her face troubled. "I—believe that I do not wish to do that."

"It's all right," he assured her. "Nothing else will happen at all. See?" He pressed the symbol for rain. The icons in place; the screen steady.

"I—see," she replied, but he got the idea she wasn't made easy by the demonstration.

"It's just an old weather predictor," he said, trying to jolly her, "and probably not very stable. I just thought it would be . . . convenient. . .  if we had warning of—frost, or any other weather damaging to the vines."

"The weather net is in place," she pointed out.

"But you said it wasn't accurate," he countered.

She used her chin to point at the device in his hand. "That does not appear to be accurate, either."

He had to admit that she looked to be right there, and slipped the device into his sleeve.

"I suppose," he said, a trifle glumly.

Miandra laughed. "Come now, Jethri, do not be cast down! It is a most marvelous puzzle!"

Her laugh was infectious and he grinned in response. "I guess I like my puzzles to have answers."

"As who does not?" she said gaily, and bounced to her feet, the ruby pendant flashing in the brilliant day.

"It is nearly time for the gather-bell. Let us be at our places early and astonish Ren Lar!"

Since Ren Lar actually expected everyone to be in the yard the instant the shift-bell sounded, this was a remarkably sensible suggestion and Jethri got to his feet with alacrity, following her out of the small garden and toward the wine yard.

"What are wind-twists?" he asked as he came to her side. She glanced up at him, her face serious.

"Very destructive and unpredictable weather," she said. "A wind-twist might level a vineyard with a touch, or fling a house into the tops of the trees."

A breeze touched his face, moving off the side of the hill. "Wind can do that?" he asked, starting to believe that this was a joke.

"Oh, yes," she assured him. "Fortunately, they are very rare. And never in this season."

The hydraulics was up to spec for a wonder, and the yard boss wasn't available to talk. That was all right. Myra Goodin, his second, didn't talk much, but she did listen a treat, and tagged his specific concerns and problems in her clipboard, after which, she handed the 'board to him.

Grig read over what she'd input, nodded and thumbprinted it.

"Yard's doing good for us," he said, easy and companionable, as he handed the 'board back. "We appreciate the attention."

Myra looked him firm in the eye. Firm sort of woman, and not one to joke. Serious about her work in a way her boss didn't appear to emulate—or value. Which was too bad, so Grig thought, given that the reputation of the yard sat square on her shoulders.

She took the clipboard back, and counter-printed it, her eyes steady on his. "We got off to a rugged start," she said seriously. "I place the blame equal, there. Your captain shouldn't have popped off like she did and Roard shouldn't've egged her." She nodded. "We've been able to get back on a business-like footing since you and Seeli took over the inspections. I appreciate that you took the initiative, there. This is a joint project—we're all here to see that the refit's done right."

Which was true enough, but not something you'd hear comin' outta Boss Roard's mouth. Grig smiled at Myra.

"Joint project, right enough—and a pleasure to be working on it with you." He stood, and nodded at the 'board in her hand. "When d'you want me by to okay those?"

She frowned and touched the keypad, calling up her schedule.

"Three-day," she said after a moment. "I'll give you a pass."

Myra had been the one who had worked out the pass system that allowed them in the yard more often than Roard's so-called Official Inspection Schedule. It was best for all of them, if okays on inspection problems didn't have to wait 'til the next scheduled inspection, which you'd think a yard boss would understand. Well, Grig amended, a yard boss who wasn't thinking with his spite gland.

He reached out a long arm and snagged his jacket from where he'd thrown it across the back of a chair. Myra went across the room, pulled a green plastic pass from its hook, set it in the 'coder and tapped a quick sequence in. The machine beeped, she slid the card free and held it out.

"We will speak again in three days," she said, which was dismissal, and right enough, busy as she was.

Grig took the card with smile and put it away in an inner pocket of the jacket. "Three days, it is," he said, gave her a nod for good-day, and let himself out of the office.

He cleared the gate and was maybe eight, nine steps on his way back toward the lodgings when he was joined by a long, soft-walking shadow. He sighed, and didn't bother to look, knowing full well what he'd see.

"Grigory," her voice was familiar. Well, of course it was.

"Raisy," he answered, still not looking, which maybe wasn't right, when a man hadn't seen his sister in so long, but damn it. . . 

"Uncle wants to see you," she said, which he'd known she was going to, so it wasn't exactly surprise that spun him around, boot heels stamping the road.

'Well, now, there's welcome news!" he snapped, and watched Raisy's eyebrows go up on her long forehead.

"Trouble?" she asked, quiet enough to make him ashamed of showing temper.

"Not til you showed up."

She grinned. "Same could be said for yourself."

"'cept I'm where I was, doin' what I've been, and didn't go lookin' for relatives to complicate my life," Grig said. "And you know for a space cold fact that Uncle is more trouble than any of the rest of us, living or dead."

She appeared to consider that, head tipped to one side. "Exceptin' Arin."

He laughed, short and still sharp with temper.

"True enough. We'd none of us be anywhere, if it wasn't for Arin." He sighed. "What's Uncle want?"

His sister shrugged. "Wants to talk to you. Catch up. It's been—what?—twenty years?"

"Long as that?" He closed his eyes, not wanting it. Not wanting it down deep in his bones. Seeli—Seeli'd be after takin' his head, and she'd have nothing but the right of it on her side.

"Time flows," Raisy was saying, "when life is good."

He opened his eyes and looked at her, long and hard. "Life's been good," he said, sternly. "Don't laugh at me, Raisy."

She shook her head, and put a long hand on his sleeve. "No mocking here, brother," she said, serious as only Raisy could be. Her fingers tightened briefly, then withdrew.

"You know Uncle won't let it rest. Why not come along, get it over with? Be a shame to make him send an escort."

Uncle would, too, as Grig knew from bitter experience. Still—"What're you?" He asked Raisy.

She smiled. "Your older sister, here to show you the best course to not getting your arm broke. Or didja forget what happened the last time you turned stubborn?"

"I remember," he said and sighed, accepting it, because Uncle wouldn't let it go and there was some small advantage to showing meek and biddable in the first round.

"All right," he told Raisy. "You're persuadable; I'll come. They're expecting me back at the lodgings by a certain time. Lemme find a comm and file an amended course. Then Uncle can have me."

* * *

THE JOB TODAY WAS gathering up all the clippings they'd clipped over the last week and putting them in a cart parked at the end of each row. Filled carts were taken away, and an empty arrived to replace it.

Meicha was on cart duty, along with some youngers from the kitchen and maintenance staff. Jethri was on gather-up, and Miandra, too, him working the left hall off the main corridor, her working the right. Flinx was about, lazing under the vines, and amusing himself however cats did; Jethri'd see him out of the side of an eye when he'd bend down to pick up a bundle of sticks.

On one level, it was stupid, repetitive work—worse even than Stinks. But, where Stinks was a solitary aggravation that let a bad mood grow on you, the stick picking up was a group effort—and it was by large a merry group. The kitchen youngers sang when they pushed their carts, and laughter could be heard along the rows. The weather might have helped the spirit of the day, too—cool, with a light breeze to fan away the sweat of exertion, and some progressively denser clouds to cut the glare of the sun, as the day went on.

Jethri met Miandra at the cart. She threw her armful of sticks onto the growing pile, smiling. He placed his more carefully, because the cart was almost full and he didn't want to start a cascade of sticks to the ground.

"That's all for me!" the tender said cheerfully, reaching down to touch the power switch. She glanced up at the sky. "Hope it's not going to—Gods!"

Instinctively, Jethri looked along her line of sight, blinking up into a sky now almost entirely overcast with green-gray clouds, that seemed to be orbiting each other, picking up speed as he watched.

"Wind-twist!" the cart driver shouted, and shouted again, loud enough to hurt Jethri's ears. "Wind-twist! Everybody get to shelter!"

Apparently suiting her actions to her words, she snapped off the power switch, turned and ran down the hill, toward the house, and the cellar.

The green-gray clouds were moving faster, now, elongating, and there came a downward roar of ice-cold air, slapping the vines flat and abusing the ears, and he felt his arm grabbed and tore his attention away from the spectacle in the sky to Miandra's horrified face, her hair twisting and tangling in the wind.

"Jethri, quickly!" Close as she was, and shouting, too, he could barely hear her above the growing roar of the wind. "To the cellar!"

"You go!" He yelled back. "I'll get Flinx!"

"No!" She grabbed his arm. "Jethri, a wind-twist can pick you up and break you—"

"And you!" he yelled, and pushed her. "Run! I'm right behind you!" And he threw himself forward, away from the wagon, back down the row he'd been working. The vines were snapping like wild cable in the growing disturbance, and about halfway down the row, where he hadn't finished cleaning up yet, some loose twigs started to stir, and dance above the ground, following a spiral path up into the sky.

Just before that, crouched under a vine, all four feet under him, tail twice its normal size and ears laid back, was Flinx.

Jethri jumped, grabbed the cat by the loose fur at the back of his neck, hauled him up and got him against his chest, arms wrapped tight. Flinx bucked, and he might have yowled, but the wind was roaring too loud for Jethri to be certain. Cat crushed against him, head down, so that none of the airborne sticks would hit his face, he ran.

All around him, the wind roared, and there was the end of the corridor, and the abandoned cart, and a slender figure in wind-torn red hair, her ruby pendant flaring bright as a sun—

"Hurry!" she shouted, and he heard her, somewhere between the inside of his head and the outside of his ears. "Hurry! It's slipping!"

He hurried, stretching his legs and the cat wrapped close, and he was past the cart and Miandra was beside him and they were running faster, faster, down the hill, and—

Behind them came a boom like a ship giving up all its energy at once. Ahead of them, a meteor-shower of sticks and metal shred. Jethri faltered, felt Flinx's claws in his flesh—

"Run!" screamed Miandra.

And he ran.

The family had lodgings in an up-port hotel, which shouldn't have surprised him any. Raisy's jumpsuit was a serviceable, sensible garment, but it weren't spacer togs, no more than his good jacket and respectful trading clothes could pass him as a credit-heavy grounder.

He did see some of those they passed in the lobby notice him, then look back to Raisy and form certain opinions not particularly generous of either of them.

"Should've stopped and bought me some dirt duds," he muttered, and Raisy sent him a Look before pulling a key out of her pocket and sliding it into a call box. Up on the lift board, a light glowed blue and a second or two later a door opened, showing carpet, mirrors, and soft lights.

"After you, brother," Raisy said, and he stepped in, boots sinking into the carpet.

Raisy settled herself beside him. The door slid closed, soundless, and the lift engaged with a subtle purr. Grig glanced to the side, catching their reflections in the mirror: Two long bottles of brew, craggy in the face and lean in the frame, both a little wilted with the heat. The man had his dark hair in a spacer's buzz; the woman kept hers long enough to cover her ears. Despite that, and given a change of clothes for either, they looked remarkably similar. Family resemblance, thought Grig, and laughed a little, under his breath.

"Something funny?" Raisy asked, but he shook his head and pointed at the numbers flicking by on the click-plate.

"Rent the rooftop?" He asked, not quite joking.

"Uncle likes the view," she answered, matching his tone precisely. "The equipment needs to be dry, though. So we compromise."

The numbers stopped flicking, settling on 30. The almost subliminal purr of the machinery stopped and the door slid open.

Raisy stepped out first, and turned to look back to where he stood, hesitating at the door, having fourth and fifth thoughts, and staring down a hall as deep in carpeting and showy with mirror as the lift.

"Come on, brother," she said, holding out a hand, like she was offering a tow. "Let's get you a brew, and a chance to clean up."

Grig shook his head and came into the hall under his own power, though he did give Raisy's hand a quick squeeze.

"Why not fast-forward?" he asked, with a lightness he didn't particularly feel. "I've always found Uncle went down better on an empty stomach."

Her smile flickered, and she shrugged, turning to lead the way. "Your call."

* * *

JETHRI SETTLED HIS shoulders against the cool wall and closed his eyes. His chest hurt, inside and out, and multicolored stars were spinning around inside the dark behind his eyelids. Miandra had been appropriated by Meicha the second they cleared the winery door. He'd dropped Flinx about that same time and gone to find himself a nice, secluded piece of wall to lean up against.

It came to him, in painful bursts of thought uncomfortably timed to his gasps for air, that the weather device in his pocket was far more powerful—and far more dangerous—than he, or his father, had ever guessed. Definitely not a toy for a child. Possibly not a toy for a trader grown and canny. Certainly, the occasions that he mistily remembered, when Arin had used the device to "predict" rain, might just as easily been cases of rain being somehow produced by an action of the device. His father and Grig used to argue about it, he remembered, his breathing less labored now, and his brain taking advantage of the extra oxygen. His father and Grig used to argue about it, right. Arin had insisted that the little device was a predictor, Grig had thought otherwise—or said he thought otherwise. Jethri remembered thinking that Grig was just saying it, to tease, but what if—

"There he is!" A voice cried, 'way too loud, sending his overbusy brain into a stutter. He opened his eyes.

Meicha was standing close, Miandra a little behind her shoulder. Both were staring at his chest.

"Unfortunate," Meicha commented.

"Flinx was frightened," Miandra said, her voice slow and limp sounding. The other girl's mouth twisted into a shape that was neither smile nor grin.

"Flinx was not alone." She extended a thin hand, and brushed her palm down the front of Jethri's shirt.

"Hey!" He flinched, the contact waking long slices of pain.

"Hush," she said, stepping closer. "There's blood all over your shirt." She brushed his chest again—a long, unhurried stroke—and again, just the same, except now it didn't hurt.

"Much improved, I think." She stepped back. "Ren Lar wishes to speak with you."

Now there was an unwelcome piece of news, though not exactly unexpected. Ren Lar would have a duty to find out in what shape the foster son of his mother's foster child had survived his first encounter with wild weather. A duty he was probably more than a little nervous about, considering he had just lately almost lost that same fosterson to a wild animal attack. Wild reptile. Whatever.

Still, Jethri thought, pushing away from the wall, he wished he could put the meeting off until he had sorted out his personal thoughts and feelings regarding the weather. . .  device.

"Ren Lar," Meicha murmured, "is very anxious to see you, Jethri."

He sighed and gave the two of them the best smile he could pull up, though it felt unsteady on his mouth.

"I supposed you had better take me to him, then."

* * *

REN LAR WAS PERCHED on a stool behind the lab table, but the calibration equipment was dark. A screen over the table displayed an intricate and changing pattern of lines, swirls and colors that Jethri thought, uneasily, might be weather patterns, the depiction of which held Ren Lar's whole attention. Flinx the cat sat erect at his elbow, ears up and forward, tail wrapped neatly 'round his toes. He squinted his eyes in a cat smile as the three of them approached. Ren Lar didn't stir.

"Cousin?" Miandra said in her limp voice. "Here is Jethri, come to speak with you."

For a moment, nothing happened, then the man blinked, and turned, frowning into each of their faces in turn.

"Thank you," he said to the twins. "You may leave us."

They bowed, hastily, it seemed to Jethri, and melted away from his side. Flinx jumped down from the lab table and went after them. Jethri squared his shoulders and met Ren Lar's eyes, which weren't looking dreamy at all.

"Miandra tells me," the man said, with no polite inquiry into Jethri's health, or even an invitation to sit down on the stool opposite. "That you have in your possession a . . . device. . .  which she believes has the ability to influence weather. I have never seen nor heard of such a device, and I have made weather a lifelong study. Therefore, son of ven'Deelin, I ask that you show me this wonder."

Mud. He'd been hoping for time to think, to—but he couldn't, in justice, blame Miandra for bringing the business straight to her senior. Nor blame the senior for wanting a looksee.

Reluctant, he slipped the little machine out of his pocket and put it on the table. Ren Lar extended a hand—and then snatched it back like he'd been burned, a phrase Jethri didn't catch coming off of his tongue like a curse.

Ren Lar drew a hard breath and treated Jethri to a full-grown glare. "So. Put it away." He turned his head, calling out into the depths of the workroom. "Graem?

"Master?" Her voice came from somewhere deep within the shadow of the barrels.

"Call the Scouts."

* * *

"GRIGORY," THE MAN who stood up from behind the desk was long, craggy and lean. His hair was hullplate gray, short, but not buzzed; his eyes dark and deep. He smiled, which was worth sixth thoughts. Uncle in an affable mood was never good news.

Well, there wasn't nothing for it, now. He was here. Just get it over with, like Raisy said.

Thinking that, he nodded, respectful-like, and made himself smile.

"Uncle Yuri," he said, soft-voiced. "You're lookin' well, sir."

The older man nodded, pleased with him. "I'm doing well," he allowed, "for an old fellow." He moved a hand, showing Grig a deep, soft chair at the corner of the desk.

"Sit, be comfortable! Raisana, your brother wants a brew."

Grig sat, though he wouldn't have owned to comfortable, and raised a hand. "No brew for me, thanks. Can't stop long."

Uncle didn't frown, but he did let his smile dim a bit. "What's this? You haven't seen your family—your own sister!—for twenty Standards and you can't stop for a couple hours, have a brew, catch us up on your news?"

Raisy had settled on the arm of a chair somewhat back from the desk; Grig dared a quick look at her out of the corner of his eye, much good it did him. She had on her card-playing face, and if there was only one thing certain in the universe as it was configured, it was that Grig would never be his sister's equal at cards. Sighing to himself, he put his attention back on Uncle Yuri.

"Raisy said you wanted to talk to me, Uncle. Made it sound urgent, or I wouldn't have come today. Ship's down for refit and there's only me and Seeli to do the needful, with part-time help from young Khat."

Uncle's smile had dimmed even more. He sat, carefully, and folded his hands on the desk. "I didn't realize you were doing the refit yourself," he said, only a little sarcastic. "I'd've thought even Iza Gobelyn would be smart enough to bring her ship to a yard."

Grig sighed, letting it be heard. "She did, but there's issues and the yard wants close watching. They started out shorting us on the shielding and when Iza called it, the boss pushed her into a fistfight and had her banned from the yard, on risk of losing the Market."

Uncle's face was a study in disinterest. Tough. Grig settled his shoulders against the back of the chair and made himself smile again.

"So, we got Iza bailed out and off-planet with a nice, safe pilot's berth, and the rest of the crew'd already done the same, excepting Khat, who signed on as a willfly for the port—and Seeli, who's Admin and hasn't got no choice but to stay. And me, backing up, just like I was born to do."

That last, it maybe wasn't smart; a sideways glance at Raisy's face certainly left him with that impression, but Uncle was still holding course on affable, despite the provocation—and that was bad.

"I'm glad to hear you're such a rich resource for your ship," Uncle said. "You do your family proud."

Uh-huh. Grig ducked his head. "Thank you, sir."

There was a small pause, during which Uncle traded stares with Raisy, which didn't do much for Grig's stomach. Raisy was his sister, but she advised Uncle—and handled him—that too. Another thing she'd always been better at than Grig.

"In fact," Uncle said, having gotten whatever advice Raisy had to give him, "it was about your ship that I wanted to talk. Word is that Arin's youngest brother is missing—and that Gobelyn's Market no longer trades in fractins."

Grig shrugged. "There's a wobble in your info, sir. For instance, the boy ain't 'missing'—he's 'prenticed. The fractins—what there was left of 'em, after certain experiments and explorations—he's got them, too."

Uncle's smile was back, full-force, mixed with no little measure of relief.

"The work continues, then. Excellent. And you are to be commended for your part in securing the position with the Liaden trader. Our studies indicate that there are many caches within Liaden-held space."

Old studies, those were. Extrapolations and wishful thinking. Gettin' wishfuller as the timonium ran down toward inertia.

"I didn't have no part in gettin' Jethri his 'prenticeship—he did that his own self," he said, into the teeth behind Uncle's smile. "And I don't exactly think he knows that there's any work he oughta be carrying on, for the good of the family, or otherwise."

Uncle frowned.

"Surely, you saw to his education, after Arin's death. Why else were you on that ship?"

Grig sat up straight, feeling his mouth forming a frown to match Uncle Yuri's. "I was there as Arin's back-up, and after he died, it fell on me to make sure the boy survived to adult. Which mostly came down to making sure Iza didn't shove him out an airlock or leave him grounded somewhere. It sure didn't have nothing to do with teaching him the family trade. If I'd tried, Iza'd've spaced me."

Uncle stared, not saying nothing—which was more natural. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Raisy shake her head, just a mite, but the hell with that. Grig sat forward and gave Uncle his full attention.

"Arin shouldn't've played Iza Gobelyn for a fool. He knew it __ an' spent the rest of his life trying to amend it. If he'd lived, he might've reconciled her to the boy. If he'd lived, she might've been able to forget how she'd got him. Might've. So, anyhow, there's Iza, and she's got the cipher. Then Toad went down with the tilework overridin' ship's comps."

"Toad knew the risk." That was Raisy. Grig sent her a glance.

"They did. Some of us, though, we started asking if the risk was worth the prize."

"You're telling me that Arin thought of giving up on the project?" Grig could almost taste Uncle's disbelief.

Grig shook his head. "I'm tellin' you that the fractins are dying. They're dying, no matter what we do. It's inevitable. Irreversible. We need to give it up, Uncle."

"Give it up," Yuri repeated. "You're asking us to embrace death, Grigory."

"No, sir. I'm asking you to embrace life. We know what some of the Befores are capable of. We've made them the study of generations. Now—while the old ones still function and can serve as a baseline—now's the time for us to start trying to build our own, based in science that we understand."

"Grig," said Raisy, "some of that tech does stuff that is no way based in science we understand."

"That's right," he said, turning to face her. "That's right. And we been lucky—lucky that all we did was lose a ship every now an' then, or a couple arms and legs from somebody getting careless with a light-wand. Do you thank the ghosts of space that we never come across a planet-cracker? Do you, Raisy? I do."

"We don't know that they built planet-crackers."

"Do we know that they didn't?" he countered.

She said nothing.

"Grigory," Uncle said, talking soft, like maybe Grig needed calming down. "Where, exactly, is Arin's brother?"

"Arin's son," Grig snapped, and closed his eyes. "He's 'prenticed to Master Trader Norn ven'Deelin. Jethri's good at the trade—got a real flair for it. Wouldn't surprise me if Master Trader ven'Deelin sets him up as the first trader fully licensed by Terra and by Liad, both. It's sure how I'd work it, given what we're seeing at trade level."

"And where," Uncle continued, "are Arin's notes?"

Grig shrugged. "Jeth's got 'em, if anybody does. Understand, Iza went a little crazy when Arin died, spaced a lot stuff right off. Cris talked her into stowing the rest til she was cooler. That's what went after Jethri—the rest. His by right." He grinned. "Which you can't dispute."

"Of course not." Uncle put his hands flat on the desk and pushed down, though he didn't quite stand up.

"Grigory, it is time for you to return to the bosom of your family. We have need of your talents and your . . . particular. . .  viewpoint."

"No."

Uncle blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said," Grig explained, and not daring to look at Raisy. "No. I'm staying with the Market."

"Grig. . . " Raisy began, but he shook his head without looking at her yet, and rose to his full, gangly height.

"Sorry to leave so soon, sir," he said to Uncle, real polite. "But, like I said, I've got business elsewhere." At last he looked at his sister.

"Favor, Raisy."

"You got it," she answered, which he'd known she would.

"Keep that headcase you got working for you away from Seeli. He wants to talk to Paitor, that's your business, I guess. But you oughta know he was asking for duplicating units."

She nodded. "I'll take care of it."

"Good," he said and smiled, warmed, and feeling a little gone in the guts. Uncle allowed deviance, but there was always a price.

"Grigory, if you leave this room, you no longer have any call on us." Uncle's voice was cool, spelling exactly out how much this was gonna cost. Grig nodded.

"I can afford that, sir," he said, his own voice just as cool. "Good-bye, now."

He walked out and neither one stopped him, down the long hall, to where the lift stood, door open, waiting.

* * *

"HEALER HALL IS SENDING one of the masters," Miandra said, her voice a little stronger, and her hair neatly combed behind her ears. "I wonder who will arrive first?"

They were sitting in the parlor where Jethri had first met Lady Maarilex, in company with Norn ven'Deelin—and wouldn't he give a can full of canaries to see her walk through the door right now! Jethri had changed his sliced shirt for a whole one, taking a moment to marvel at the pale pink lines down his chest, each of which matched a cut in the ruined shirt. There hadn't been much time to wonder about it, though, and he'd hurried into the fresh shirt, hauled a brush over his hair, which mostly stayed flat, for a wonder, and run downstairs, to this very parlor, to find Miandra ahead of him, seated in the precise center of the white couch, one hand a fist around her ruby, and her face outright gloomy.

"Maybe," Jethri offered, deliberately trying to lighten her gloom, "the Healer and the Scout will arrive together and will entertain each other, leaving us free for other endeavors."

She didn't smile. He thought she clenched the ruby tighter.

The silence grew. Jethri shifted in his chair, looked around the room, and back at Miandra. She was staring, with great intensity, at a spot he calculated to be some ten feet beneath the vermillion floorboards.

Jethri cleared his throat. "An . . . unusual. . .  thing," he said. "When I took my shirt off, there were these pink stripes—like brand-new scars—down my chest. I had expected, because there was blood, you know, to have found fresh cuts."

Miandra looked up. "Flinx was frightened," she said, as she had in the winery. "He is a very strong cat, and I am afraid he clawed you rather badly. The adrenaline masked the pain, but you would have felt it soon enough, so Meicha Healed you."

Sitting in the chair, he heard the words, blinked, listened to them again in his mind's ear, and then repeated the phrase, with the inflection that signaled a query: "Meicha Healed me?"

Miandra's mouth tightened. "Indeed. It is what we train to be—Healers. Meicha is—more skilled than I."

"Oh." He considered that, running his hand absently down his chest. No pain. He looked, tucking his chin in order to stare down his own front. No blood on the fresh shirt. Beyond dispute, he was patched, but—

"She—you—can make fresh wounds into new scars? In moments? How?"

Miandra moved her shoulders. "It is a talent, much like a talent for music, perhaps—or trade. For those of us with the particular talent to Heal, the . . . physics. . .  and the methods are obvious. Intuitive." She smiled, very faintly. "Control is what must be taught, and . . . efficient use of one's energy."

Right. He had the idea she was simplifying things in order to save his feelings and almost laughed, considering what he carried around in his pocket.

"What else do Healers do?" he asked, to keep her talking, mostly. Talking, she seemed less gloom-filled, more like her usual self.

"Heal afflictions of the spirit. That is why a Healer is most often called. Someone is—sick at heart, or frightened. Perhaps they see things which are not there, or refuse to see those things which are directly before them. Those sorts of things. Physical Healing—there are not many Healers who can do that." Her face lightened a little—with pride, he thought. "Meicha will be a Healer to behold."

Well, that wasn't too unlikely, he allowed, given Meicha. But, wait—

"So it was—you or Meicha—who calmed me down that first day, when the curtains were open and I had the widespaces panic?"

"Yes," she said. "I calmed you and Meicha closed the curtains. It was not very difficult—you project a very solid . . . pattern, we call it. You are extremely easy to work with."

He didn't know as he particularly liked the sound of that, but before he could pursue the matter the door to the parlor opened and Lady Maarilex entered, leaning heavily on her cane and followed by a ginger-haired man whose thinness was accentuated by his black leather clothing.

"Scout Lieutenant Fel Dyn yo'Shomin," said the old woman. "Here is Jethri Gobelyn, foster son of ven'Deelin. Jethri, if you please, make your bow to the Lieutenant."

Cautiously, Jethri rose, and Lieutenant yo'Shomin's ginger-colored eyes followed his progress. There was something in the man's stance that irritated Jethri straight off. A little bit of a thrust in the shoulder, maybe, or an attitude with respect to the hips—a subtle something that said Scout Lieutenant yo'Shomin was the better of most men alive, and infinitely superior to grimy Terran 'prentice traders, no matter whose foster son they claimed to be.

That being his reading of the man, in between the time it took to start to rise and reach his full height, he made short shrift of the bow—crisp and brief, it was, and it could be that it would have given Master tel'Ondor pleasure. Certainly, its recipient took the point, and his sharp face got even sharper, the narrow mouth thinning 'til the lips all but disappeared.

The return bow was hardly more than a heavyish tip of the head, which was arrogant, but, then, Jethri thought, wasn't that what he had expected?

"It has been reported that you have in your possession a piece of forbidden technology," the lieutenant said, not even trying to sound polite. "You will surrender it at once."

"No." It had been his intention to hand the device over to the Scout. It was possible, after all, that the thing had somehow called the big wind, and if that was so, then it was better off in the keeping of folks who knew its treacheries. Too bad for him, the Scout had shown him reason to doubt. He'd rather take his own chances with the device than meekly hand it over to this . . . incompetent.

Jethri crossed his arms over his chest like Uncle Paitor did to show there was no joking going on, and added an out-and-out frown, for good measure.

The ginger-haired Scout drew himself up as tall as he could and delivered a respectable glare.

"The Scouts have jurisdiction in this. You will relinquish the dangerous device to me immediately."

Jethri kept the frown in place. "Prove it," he said.

The ginger eyebrows pulled together. "What?"

"Prove that the device is dangerous," Jethri said.

The Scout stared.

"Well," Lady Maarilex said, still leaning on her cane across next to the door. "I see that this may be amusing, after all. Miandra, child, help me to the chair, of your goodness. If you please, gentlemen—a moment."

"Yes, Aunt Stafeli." Miandra leapt up and moved to the old lady's side, solicitously guiding her the first of the blue chairs, and seeing her seated.

"Yes—ah. A pillow for my back, child—my thanks." Lady Maarilex leaned back in the chair and put her cane by. Miandra took a step toward the couch—"Bide," Lady Maarilex murmured, and Miandra drifted back to stand at the side of the chair, hands folded demurely, her pendant—Jethri blinked. There was something odd about her pendant, like it was—

"Now," said Lady Maarilex, "the play may continue. The line is yours, Lieutenant. You have been challenged to prove that the device is dangerous. How will you answer?"

For a heartbeat, the Scout said nothing, then he bowed, very slightly, to the old woman in the chair, and glared up into Jethri's face.

"The device described by Lord Ren Lar Maarilex as being in the possession of the Terran Jethri Gobelyn, is unquestionably of the forbidden technology. The form and appearance of such things are well known to the Scouts, and, indeed, to Lord Maarilex, who has attended several seminars offered by the Scouts on the subject of the Old War and its leavings."

"Adequate," commented Lady Maarilex, "but will it compel your opponent?"

Jethri shrugged. "I admit that the device is old technology," he told Lieutenant yo'Shomin. "You, sir, stated that it is dangerous, an assertion you have not yet proved."

The Scout smiled. "It called the wind-twist, did it not? I think we may all agree that wind-twists are dangerous."

"Undoubtedly, wind-twists are dangerous," Jethri said. "But you merely put yourself in the position of needing to prove that the device created the wind-twist—and I do not believe you can do that, sir."

"No?" The Scout's smiled widened. "The weather charts describe a most unusual wind pattern, spontaneously forming from conditions antithetical to those required to birth a wind-twist—and yet a wind-twist visited the Maarilex vineyard, a very short time after you were seen experimenting with the forbidden technology."

"I was the one," Miandra said, quietly, from the side of the chair, "who touched the icon for 'wind-twist'."

"And yet," Jethri countered, keeping his eyes on the Scout's face, "wind-twists do sometimes arrive out of season. I wonder if the same weather pattern anomaly was present on those past occasions, as well."

"Well played!" Lady Maarilex applauded from the blue chair. "Bravo!"

The Scout glowered. "Certainly, they would be," he snapped. "Out of season wind-twists must obey the same rule that forms all wind-twists."

"Then you agree," Jethri pursued, "that, unless it was proven in the case of all out-of-season wind-twists that they were every one created by grubby Terrans playing with old technology, it is as least just as likely—if not more likely—that the device which I own, and which was given me by a kinsman, is a predictor, rather than an agent to form weather."

Not bad, he congratulated himself, though, truth told, he didn't quite buy in to his own argument. . . 

"This is a waste of my time," the Scout snarled. "You may well have possession of a device that cures blindness, restores lost youth, and everything else that is wholly beneficial—and still it would be forfeit! Forbidden technology is forbidden, in all its manifestations."

So much for that, Jethri thought. You didn't really think this was gonna work, did you kid?

Truth told, he hadn't. On the other hand, it was a poor trader who admitted defeat so easily. What was it Uncle Paitor had said? About keeping your opposite in a trade uncertain on his feet, to your best profit?

Jethri inclined his head and changed the ground.

"I am a Terran citizen," he said.

"Ah," Lady Maarilex murmured.

"As anyone can see," the Scout replied, nastily. "However, the point is unimportant. You are currently in Liaden space and are subject to Liaden law and regulations."

"Hah!" said Lady Maarilex.

Jethri raised a hand. "I am a Terran citizen and the device you wish to confiscate is a gift from a kinsman. Thus far, I have only your assertion that the confiscation of old technology falls into the duty of the Scouts. I will see the regulation in question before I relinquish what is mine." He lowered his hand. "Nor will I relinquish it to you, sir."

"You. . . " the lieutenant breathed and Jethri could see him tally up the insult and store it away for later Balancing. Much luck to him.

"I will relinquish the device—if it is proved that I must relinquish it at all—to Scout Captain Jan Rek ter'Astin."

There was a long moment of silence, strongly tinged with disbelief.

"Scout Captain ter'Astin is a field Scout," the lieutenant said, with a slight edge of distaste on the word field. "It will take some time to locate him, during which time the device will remain a danger to us all."

"Scout Captain ter'Astin was seen as soon as Day sixty-six at Kailipso Station, and I am persuaded that you will find him there still, for he had just recently been transferred," Jethri countered.

"Send for him," Miandra said, sharp and unexpected. "Jethri will swear not to use the device until the captain comes to claim it. And it will be better to give it over into the hands of a field Scout than a man who prefers the comforts of the regulations and his own bed—and who cares not to associate with beastly Terrans."

The Scout gaped at her.

"Do I have that correctly?" she asked, and there was a wild note to her voice that lifted the hairs up straight on Jethri's nape.

The Scout bowed, with precision, and straightened, his ginger-colored eyes like stone. "You have that most precisely," he said. "Dramliza."

Jethri shivered. Miandra had just made an enemy. A powerful enemy, with her stuck to the same ball of mud and not able to lift ship out of trouble. . . 

"There are no dramliz in this house," Lady Maarilex snapped. "Merely two young Healers who are fond of parlor tricks."

"Of course," the Scout said cordially, and bowed once more.

"I will have the oath the Healer has promised for you," he said to Jethri. "And then I will go."

Jethri hesitated, wondering what this fellow might accept as a valid oath—and nearly laughed, despite the worry and upset in the air.

"I swear on my name—Jethri Gobelyn—that I will not use the old technological device and that I will hold it safe and harmless until such time as it is claimed by Scout Captain ter'Astin, bearing the regulation giving him the right."

"Witnessed," murmured Lady Maarilex.

Scout Lieutenant Fel Dyn yo'Shomin bowed. "On behalf of the Scouts, I accept your oath. Captain ter'Astin shall be summoned."

"Good," said Jethri. "I look forward to seeing him."

* * *

THE SCOUT WAS GONE, intercepted by a pale-faced Meicha at the hall door. Jethri let out a long, quiet sigh, and very carefully didn't think about what he had just done.

"Miandra," Lady Maarilex said, very quietly.

"Yes, aunt?"

"May I ask at what date and time you lost your wits?"

Silence.

Slowly, Jethri turned. Miandra was standing, rigid, eyes straight ahead, hands fisted at her sides. The ruby pendant swung in an arc at the end of its long silver chain.

"Your ruby," he said, seeing it now. "It's melted."

Miandra shot him a look from eloquent sapphire eyes, though what they were eloquent of he couldn't exactly have said. A bid for allies—it might be that, though what she thought he might do to divert one of Lady Maarilex's high octane scolds, he didn't know.

"Melted?" the old lady repeated, frowning up at Miandra. "Nonsense. Do you have idea how much heat is required to melt a—" Her voice died. Miandra closed her eyes, her mouth a white line of pinched-together lips.

"Give it to me," Lady Maarilex said, absolutely neutral.

Eyes closed, fists at her sides, Miandra stood like a life-size doll.

"Now," said Lady Maarilex.

Miandra wet her lips with her tongue. "If not this error, another," she said, speaking rapidly, raggedly, her eyes screwed tight. "I cannot—Aunt Stafeli. It is—too big. I drown in it. Let it be known, and done."

"Done it surely will be, witless child!" Lady Maarilex held out an imperious hand. "Give me the pendant!"

The last was said with enough force that Jethri felt his own muscles jerk in response, but still Miandra stood there, rigid, willfully disobedient, with tears starting to leak from beneath her long dark lashes.

It came to Jethri in that moment, that, for all she sat there stern and awful, Lady Maarilex was frightened.

"Miandra," she said, very softly. "Child."

Miandra turned her face away.

He had no business interfering in what he didn't understand—and no possible right to short circuit whatever decision Miandra had made for herself. But Lady Maarilex was afraid—and he thought that whatever could scare her was something no lesser mortals ever needed to meet.

Jethri took three steps forward, caught the chain in one hand and the misshapen ruby in the other and lifted them over the girl's head.

Miandra made a soft sound, and brought her hands up to hide her face, shoulders shaking. Jethri stepped back, feeling awkward and more than a little scared himself, and dropped the pendant into the old woman's waiting palm.

"My thanks, young Jethri," she said. He looked down into her eyes, but all he saw was bland politeness.

"What's amiss, ma'am?" He asked, knowing she wouldn't answer him, nor did she surprise him.

"Nothing more than an unseemly display by a willful child," she said, and the pendant was gone, vanished into pocket or sleeve. "I ask that you not regard it."

Right. He looked at Miandra, her face still hidden in her hands. No question, Stafeli Maarilex was fearless—Miandra was no hide-me-quick, neither. Despite which, both her and her sister managed to mostly keep within the law laid down by their seniors, and answer up clear and sharp when they were asked a question. In his experience, willful disobedience wasn't their style—though he didn't put covert operations out of their range—no more than just standing by, crying.

"Hey," he said, and reached out to touch her sleeve. "Miandra, are you well?"

She sniffed, shoulders tensing, then very slowly lowered her hands, her chin coming up as they went down.

"Thank you," she said, with the dignity of a ship's captain. "Your concern warms me."

"Yes," he replied. "But are you well?"

Her lips moved—he thought it might have been a smile. "As well as may be," she answered, and seemed about to say something more, but the door came open just then and there was Meicha making her bow and announcing—

"Healer Tilba sig'Harat."

Jethri turned and dropped back a couple steps as the Healer strode into the room: Long in the leg—relatively speaking—and gaunt, her hair done in a single pale braid, falling over her shoulder to her belt. She was dressed in regulation calling clothes, and looked a little rumpled, like she had started her shift early and was looking to end it late.

"Healer," Lady Maarilex said, and inclined her head in welcome. "You honor us."

Tilba sig'Harat paused just before the chair, her head to one side. "The message did say that the matter was urgent."

"One's son certainly believed it to be so," Lady Maarilex replied, evenly.

So, Jethri thought, Ren Lar had called the Healers off his own board and his mother thought he'd overreacted. That could explain the particular sharpness of her tongue so far.

But it didn't explain the fear.

"Just so," the Healer was saying, and looked beyond Lady Maarilex to Miandra, who was standing tall now, chin up and face defiantly bland. "Miandra, your cousin has said that you told him you had held the wind-twist back from the vineyard for a period of time before its strength overcame you. Is this correct?"

Miandra inclined her head. "It is."

"Ah. Would you care to explain this process of holding the wind back?"

Silence. Jethri, ignored, cast a quick glance aside and saw the girl lick her lips, her defiant chin losing a little altitude.

"Well?" asked the Healer, somewhat sharply. "Or is it that you cannot explain this process?"

Miandra's chin came back up.

"It is very simple," she said coolly. "I merely placed my will against the wind and—pushed."

"I—see." The Healer held up a hand. "Open for me, please."

The chin wavered; kept its position. Miandra closed her eyes and the Healer did the same. For the space of a dozen heartbeats, there was complete silence in the parlor, then Miandra sighed and the Healer opened her eyes and bowed to Lady Maarilex.

"I see that she believes what she has said, and that she has undergone a profound disturbance of the nerves. This is entirely commonplace; wind-twists unsettle many people. The hallucination—that she held back the winds until her friends reached her side—that is less common, but not unknown. In the immediacy of peril, knowing oneself helpless to aid those whom one holds dear, the mind creates a fantasy of power in which the wind is held back, the sea is parted, the avalanche turned aside. Sometimes, the mind remains convinced even after the peril has been survived. In its way, it is a kindly affliction, which is easily dispelled by a display of the facts—in this case, a recording of the path and pattern of the wind-twist."

Lady Maarilex inclined her head. "The child shall be shown the weather logs, Healer, I thank you." She moved a hand.

"Yes?" the Healer asked.

"You will see that Miandra has lost her apprentice's pendant in the wind. I would ask that the Hall send another."

A glance at Miandra showed her fingers curling into fists at her side, but no one was looking at Miandra except Jethri.

"Certainly," the Healer was saying to Lady Maarilex and Jethri cleared his throat.

"Well?" snapped Lady Maarilex, which Jethri chose, deliberately, to interpret as permission to speak.

He inclined his head. "If Healer sig'Harat pleases," he murmured, as polite as polite could be. "Isn't it possible that Miandra held the winds back? She and her sister do other things that seem just as impossible to myself, an ignorant Terran."

The Healer sent him a sharp glance.

"Jethri," Lady Maarilex murmured, "fostered of ven'Deelin."

"Ah." The Healer inclined her head.

"Certainly, Healers may work many marvels, young sir. But to do that which Miandra . . . believes herself to have done—that would require power and discipline as far from the abilities of a half-trained and erratic Healer as—as Liad is from Terra."

Well, and there was an answer that meant nothing at all, Jethri thought, though a quick glance at Miandra's rigid face suggested that maybe it meant something to her.

"Thank you, Healer," he said, politely. "I am grateful for the information."

"It is my pleasure to inform," she said, and bowed again to Lady Maarilex.

"My duty done, I depart," she said formally.

"Healer," the old lady replied. "We thank you for your care."

And so the Healer was hustled away by a pale-faced Meicha, the door closing behind both with a solid thump.

In the blue chair, Stafeli Maarilex stirred and reached for her cane.

"So, we survive this round," she said, using her cane as a lever, and struggling to ger her feet under her. Jethri stepped forward and caught her arm to help her rise. Miandra held her position, face frozen.

"My thanks," Lady Maarilex gasped, straightening to her full height. She looked from one to the other and used her chin to point at the door.

"Both of you, go to your apartments. You will be served dinner there. Study, rest and recruit yourselves. It has been a long and tiring day—for all of us."

"Yes, Aunt Stafeli," Miandra said tonelessly. She bowed, stiffly, and was on her way toward the door before Jethri could do more than gape and make his own hurried bow.

By the time he reached the hallway, she was gone.

* * *

"WHERE'VE YOU BEEN?" Seeli asked, sharper maybe than she needed to.

On the other hand, Grig thought, taking a deep breath, a talk with Uncle had a way of making the whole universe seem edgy, if not outright dangerous.

"I left a message," he said, trying to trump sharp with mild.

"He left a message, the man says." Seeli flung her hands out in a gesture of wide frustration, by which he knew she wouldn't be bought by a smile and a cuddle. He closed his eyes, briefly. Dammit, he didn't need a fight with Seeli. Regardless of which, it looked like he was going to get one.

" Yes, you left a message," she snapped. "You left a message six hours ago saying you'd met an old mate and was going to share a brew. Six hours later, you manage to get your sorry self back to your ship—and you ain't even drunk!"

Trust Seeli to grab the whole screen in a glance. He was in for it bad, now—Seeli had a temper to match her mam's, except it was worse when she'd been worried.

Grig took another breath, looking for center. Despite that his whole life had been one form of lie or another, he'd never been near as casual with the truth as Arin. Well, and he was light on most all the family talents, wasn't he?

"Grig?"

He met her eye—nothing otherwise with Seeli—and cleared his throat. He'd worked this out, in the hours between leaving Uncle and arriving back at the lodgings. His choice was his choice, and he'd made it, for good or for bad. Despite which, there was family considerations. He owed Raisy and the rest of his sibs and cousins—and Uncle, too, damn him—the right to their own free lives. Parsing out his truth from their safety—that was what kept him hours on the Port, walking 'til his legs shook. He'd found what he believed to be a course that would pass close enough to the truth to satisfy Seeli, without baring the others to danger. Assuming he could find the brass to fly it.

"I gotta ask you again?" she said, real quiet.

He spread his hands. "Sorry, Seeli. Truth is, I wasn't straight in that message, and I'm not feelin' good about that. What it was—you remember that headcase? Wantin' to buy fractins and Befores?"

He saw exasperation leach some of the mad out of her face, and took heart. Maybe he could pull this off, after all.

"Thought we agreed to leave that to Paitor."

"We did," he said. "We did—and I should've. No question, it was stupid. I figured, if I talked to the big man, I could show him there wasn't no sense promisin' to buy what we had none of, and tell him—" This was the approach to tricky. Grig kept his eyes straight on Seeli's. "Tell him that Arin's dead and the Market ain't in the business of sellin' Befores."

"Great," Seeli said, and shook her head. "So, what? The big man not at home?"

"He was home," Grig said, "and pleased to see me. Turns out, him, I knew—from the old days, when Arin was still Combine and we was dealing in the stuff pretty regular. Anyhow. He spent some considerable amount of persuasion, trying to get me to buy back in." He broke her gaze, then—it was that or die. "I'm not gonna hide it, Seeli—it was a mistake going to see this man."

She sighed. "If you'd called back, I'd've saved you the brain work. How much trouble you in?"

"Now, Seeli." He held up a hand and met her eyes, kinda half-shy. "I ain't in trouble. The man made me an offer—couple offers, as it happens. Didn't want to take 'no' for his final course, and it took some while to persuade him."

She frowned. "He likely to stay persuaded?" she asked, and trust Seeli to think of it. "Or might he want to talk to you again?"

"I—" Grig began.

The door to the hallway snapped open, spinning both of them around to stare as Paitor flung in, face flushed, and jacket rumpled.

Seeli started forward, hands out. "Uncle? What's gone wrong?"

He stopped and just stared down at her. Grig light-footed around him and pushed the door closed, resetting the lock.

"Got a beam from Khat," Paitor said as Grig made it back to Seeli's side. He put a hand inside his jacket and pulled out a piece of hardcopy—blue, with an orange stripe down the side. Grig felt his stomach clench. Priority beam—expensive, reserved for life and death or deals that paid out in fortunes. . . 

"We got trouble," Paitor said, pushing the paper at Seeli. "Take a look."

* * *

HE SHOWERED, standing a long time under the pulsing rays of hot water, oblivious, for once, to the waste. By the time the water turned cool and he stepped out into the mirrored drying room, his fingertips were as wrinkled up as dried grapes, and he was feeling a little breathless from the steam.

Absently, he pulled the towel off its heated bar and applied it vigorously, first to his head and working methodically downward, where he noted that his toes were as wrinkled as his fingers.

Probably your face is wrinkled up, too, he thought, trying to josh himself out of a growing mood. Bet your whole head's nothing but one big wrinkle.

Nothing more than I traded for, he thought back at himself, in no state to be joshed, though he did, by habit, look into the mirror to see how bad his hair looked this time.

The hair was about as bad as he expected, but what made him frown was the smudge over his lip.

"Mud," he muttered. "All that time under water and your face isn't even clean?"

He used a corner of the towel to rub the smudge and looked again.

The smudge was still there, looking even darker against the pink rub mark.

"What the—" He leaned toward the mirror, frowning—and then lifted his hand, fingertips stroking the first hopeful hairs of a mustache.

"Well." He smiled at his reflection, and stroked the soft smudge again, then turned to the supply cabinet, in search of depilatory cream.

Several minutes later, he was frowning again. The supply cabinet was more comprehensive than most ship's medical lockers, and included several ointments that were meant to be rubbed into the skin—but nothing like a depilatory.

* * *

SIGHING, JETHRI CLOSED the cabinet, and went to the bench where he had piled his fresh clothes. Tomorrow, he'd ask Mr. pel'Saba to provide the needed item. In the meantime, he had other rations to chew on.

Barefoot, shirt untucked, he walked into his sleeping room, and knelt next to the bench. Deliberately, he unsealed the B crate and pulled open the bit bottom hatch.

Deliberately, he removed the boxes of fractins, good and bad, the wire frame, and his old pretend trade journal and put them, one by one, on the rug by his knee.

Closing the crate, he settled down cross-legged and reached for the tattered little book, flipping through the laborious pages of lists—income, outgo, exchange rates and Combine discounts—

The door-chime sounded. Biting down on a curse, Jethri grabbed the box of true fractins—and then shook his head. No doubt fractins were old tech—and if Lady Maarilex or Ren Lar or the Scouts entire had decided that they was within their rights to search his room and belongings for old tech, then they'd find the fractins, whether they were on the rug or in the B crate.

The door-chime sounded again.

On the other hand, it was probably one of the kitchen crew, come to collect his untouched dinner tray.

Sighing, Jethri came to his feet and went to answer the door.

The twins tumbled over the threshold and skittered 'round to the far side of the door.

"Close it!"

"Quickly, close it!"

So much for wilful disobedience. Still, he did close the door, and locked it for good measure.

The twins stood in a tangle beside the wall, their reddish hair damp and curling wildly. As usual, they were dressed identically, this time in plain black jerseys and slacks, soft black boots on their feet. One wore a silver chain 'round her neck, supporting a big ruby.

"I thought the pair of you were confined to quarters," he said, hands on hips, trying for the stern-but-friendly look Cris had employed on similar past occasions, with Jethri on the wrong side of the captain's word.

"And so we are in quarters," snapped the twin with the ruby 'round her neck. "Your quarters."

"Come, Jethri," said the other, stepping away from her sister's side and looking gravely up into his face. "We are in need of companionship—and counsel."

Good line, Jethri thought. He'd never been smart enough to come up with something half so clever for Cris.

And, besides, he was glad to see them.

He let his hands fall from his hips and waved them into the parlor. "Come in, then, and welcome."

"Thank you," they murmured in unison and drifted deeper into the room, silent on their soft boots. Meicha wandered over to the table, where his untasted dinner sat under covers. Miandra went further, to the window, and stood gazing out at the sunset clouds crowding the shoulders of the mountains. High up, where the sky was already darkening, stars could be seen, shimmering in the atmosphere.

"The wide spaces do not frighten you now?" She asked, and Jethri moved across the room to join her, bare feet soundless on the carpet.

"I am—becoming accustomed," he said, pausing just behind her shoulder, and looking out. There were purple shadows down deep in the folds of the rockface. 'Way out, he could just see the Tower at the port, gleaming bright in the last of the sunlight.

"Mrs. tor'Beli sent delicacies," Meicha said from behind them. "Are you not hungry, Jethri?"

"Not much," he said, turning around to offer her a half-smile. "If you are hungry, have what you like."

She frowned, and put the lid back over the plate. "Perhaps later," she said, and sent an openly worried glance at Miandra's back.

"Sister?"

There was a pause, and a sigh. Miandra turned around and faced her twin.

"They are still arguing," she said.

"They are," Meicha replied. "And will be, I think, for some time. Aunt Stafeli will not yield the point. Nor yet will Ren Lar."

"Though surely it is his portion to yield to the word of the delm," said Miandra, "nadelm or no."

Meicha laughed. "Allow Ren Lar to tend the vines and he is complacent and calm. Invoke his melant'i as nadelm and remind him of his larger duty to the clan, and he is implacable." She paused, shrugged. "Aunt Stafeli trained him, after all."

Miandra actually smiled, though faintly. "True enough."

"What," asked Jethri, "are they arguing about? The old technology?"

Meicha and Miandra exchanged a glance.

"The old technology—that was the beginning," Meicha said, moving over to perch on the edge of one of his chairs, her ruby winking in the light. Miandra went forward and dropped to the rug at her twin's feet, legs crossed, face serious.

After a second, Jethri took the chair across, and leaned back, pretending he was comfortable.

"So," he said, "the argument started with the old technology."

"Just so," said Miandra. "Ren Lar, of course, wished the weather device to be away, now—the potential of harm to the vines distresses him, and rightly so. He is master of the vine, and it is his duty to protect and nourish them.

"Aunt Stafeli, however, felt that you had reckoned your melant'i correctly, that the Scout Lieutenant was well answered, and your oath rightly given. Ren Lar could scarcely argue with that."

Silence fell, stretched. Meicha was uncharacteristically quiet, sitting tense on the edge of the chair. Miandra—Miandra sat easily, her wrists resting on her knees, her fingers hanging loose, blue eyes considering a point just over his left shoulder.

Jethri cleared his throat; her eyes focused on his face.

"Yet, they are still arguing—your aunt and your cousin. About the two of you?"

"About me," Miandra said, with a depth of bitterness that startled him. Meicha reached down and put her hand on her sister's shoulder, but said nothing.

"It is well enough, to be a Healer," Miandra continued after a moment, her voice less bitter, though her eyes sparked anger. "But to be of the dramliz, here on Irikwae—that. . . " Her voice faded.

"Is untenable," Meicha finished quietly. "Irikwae was colonized by those clans who felt that the dramliz should be. . . should be. . . "

"Eradicated," Miandra said, and the bitterness was back in her voice. "It was believed that a mutation which allowed one such . . . abilities—that such a mutation endangered the entire gene pool. A purge was called for. The matter went to the Council of Clans, in very Solcintra, and debate raged for days, for who is truly easy in the presence of one who might hear your thoughts, or travel from port to center city in the blink of an eye? Korval Herself led the opposition, so the history texts tell us, and at last prevailed. The existing dramliz were allowed to live, unsterilized. The clans of the dramliz retained their rights of contract marriage, mixing their genes with the larger pool as they saw fit. And a guild was formed, much like the pilots guild, or traders guild, which gave the dramliz protection as a valuable commercial enterprise."

"The dissenting clans," Meicha said after a moment, "left the homeworld, and colonized Irikwae. At first, there was a ban on Healers, too. That was eventually lifted, as it became apparent that Healers worked for . . .  social stability. . . "

Mentally breathless, Jethri held up a hand.

"Give me a little time," he said, and his voice sounded breathless, too. "Terrans do not commonly run to these mutations. You are the first Healer—and dramliza—I have encountered, and I am still not certain that I understand why one person who does things which are impossible is favored, while another, who does things which are just as impossible, is—feared."

Miandra actually grinned. "Prejudice is not necessarily responsive to cold reason—as you surely know."

He gaped at her, and Meicha laughed.

"Are all grounders stupid? Why else would they live among the mud and the smells and the weather?"

"Ouch," he said, but mildly, because they were right—or had been right. "I am—growing accustomed—on that front, as well. Learning takes time."

"So it—" Meicha began—and froze, head turning toward the door.

It came again, a scratching noise, as if a file were being applied, lightly, to the hall side face of the door.

Jethri rose and crossed the room. Hand on the latch, he sent a glance to the twins, sitting alert in their places. Miandra moved her hand, motioning him to open the door.

All right, then. He snapped the lock off and turned the latch, opening the door wide enough to look out into—

An empty hall.

Frowning, he looked down. Eyes the color of peridot gleamed up at him; and something else as well.

Jethri stepped back. Flinx pranced across the threshold, head high, silver chain held in his mouth, ruby dragging on the floor beneath his belly. As soon as he was inside, Jethri closed and locked the door. By the time he turned back to the room, Flinx had reached Miandra.

She sat perfectly still as the big cat put his front feet on her knee. Slowly, she extended a hand and Flinx bent his head, dropping the chain on her palm.

"My thanks," she said, softly, and held it high. The melted ruby spun slowly in the light, glittering.

"Flinx is proud of himself," Meicha said. "Aunt Stafeli had thrown it in the bin for the incinerator."

Jethri came forward and knelt on the carpet next to Miandra and the cat. Flinx left the girl's knee and danced over to butt him in the thigh. Miandra looked up at him, blue eyes curious.

"May I see it?" he asked, and she put the chain in his hand without hesitation.

He sat back on his haunches and gave the thing some study. The fine silver links were neither deformed nor blackened. The ruby was—distorted, asymmetrical, the bottom bloated, as if it were an overfull water bulb, the force of the liquid within it distending the bulb nearly to the bursting point.

"So," he said, handing it back. "How did you do that?"

She moved her shoulders. "I—am not precisely certain. It—it may be that the gem, the facets, served as a focus for the power I expended but—I do not know!" she cried, sudden and shocking. "I need to be trained, before I—before. . .  And all Aunt Stafeli will say is that I must be a Healer and a Healer only." She bent her head. "She does not know what it is like," she whispered. "I am—I am a danger."

He considered her. "Even if you cannot be trained on Irikwae, there are other places, isn't that so? Places where the guild of dramliz is recognized?"

"There are those a-plenty," Meicha said after Miandra had said nothing for half-a-dozen heartbeats. "The challenge lies in persuading Aunt Stafeli—and there we have been unsuccessful."

"What about Ren Lar?"

Meicha grimaced. "Worse and worse."

"Ren Lar," whispered Miandra, "sees the dramliz as no more nor less dangerous than the old technology." She laughed suddenly, and looked Jethri in the eye.

"Well, he is not so far in the wrong as that."

Despite himself, he grinned, then let it fade as he rocked off his knees and sat down on the carpet, crossing his legs in an awkward imitation of her pose.

"What about Master ven'Deelin?" he asked.

Two pair of sapphire blue eyes stared at him, blankly.

"What about her, I wonder?" asked Meicha.

"Well, she hails from Solcintra, on Liad, where the dramliz are allowed to go about their business unimpeded. She's your aunt's fosterling—who better to escort you?"

"Hear the lad," Miandra murmured, on a note of awe. "Sister—"

"We are still impeded," said Meicha. "Well to say that the ven'Deelin will escort you, yet it is empty hope unless Aunt Stafeli may be persuaded to let you go."

"Norn ven'Deelin is a master trader," Jethri commented, stroking Flinx's head while the big cat stood on his knee and purred.

"And master traders are all that is persuadable," Meicha concluded and inclined her head. "I take your point and raise another."

He moved his free hand in the gesture that meant "go on."

She took a deep breath. "It comes to me that Norn ven'Deelin—all honor to her!—may not love dramliz. Recall your first meal with us? And the ven'Deelin all a-wonder that there were dramliz in the house."

He had a particularly sharp memory of that meal, and he thought back on it now, looking for nuance he had been ill-able to detect, then. . . 

"I think, perhaps," he said slowly, "that she was . . . joking. Earlier in the day—just before we met in the hall—I had understood that Lady Maarilex was about to read her a ringing scold for—for fostering a Terran and breaking with tradition. Seeing dramliz at the table, it might be that she merely remarked that she was not the only one who had broken with tradition."

"Hah," said Meicha, and bent her head to look at Miandra, who sat silent, running her chain through her fingers, eyes absent.

Jethri skritched Flinx under the chin.

"I judge that Jethri has the right of it," Miandra said abruptly. "Norn ven'Deelin has Aunt Stafeli's mark upon her. It is too much to hope that she would forgo her point, when the cards were delivered to her hand."

"True." Meicha slid back into her chair, looking relaxed for the first time since they had tumbled into his room. "The ven'Deelin is due back with us at the end of next relumma."

Jethri sent a glance to Miandra. "Can you hold so long?"

She moved her shoulders. "I will do what I might, though I must point out the possibility that the Scout Lieutenant will seek Balance."

"He would not dare!" Meicha declared stoutly. "Come against Aunt Stafeli in Balance? He is a fool if he attempts it."

"Jethri had already established him as a fool," Miandra pointed out. "And it was not Balance against the House that concerns me."

Meicha stared at her.

"He may try me, if he likes," Jethri said, the better part of his attention on Flinx.

"You are not concerned," Miandra murmured, and it was not a question. He looked up and met her eyes.

"Not overly, no. Though—I regret. He threatened you, and I did not understand that at the time. You need not be concerned, either."

Silence. Then Meicha spoke, teasing.

"You have a champion, sister."

"It was kindly meant," Miandra said placidly, and, deliberately, as if she had reached a firm decision, put the silver chain over her head. The deformed ruby swung once against her jersey, then stilled.

"I would like to hear more of this Scout captain you invoked over the head of the so-kind lieutenant," she said.

"I met him when I jumped off the edge of Kailipso Station," he began, and tipped his head, recalled of a sudden to his manners. "Would you like some tea?"

"Masterful!" Meicha crowed. "You have missed your trade, Jethri! You should 'prentice to a teller of tales."

He made his face serious, like he was considering it. "I don't think I'd care for that, really," he said, which earned him another crow of laughter.

"Wretch! Yes, tea, by all means—and hurry!"

Grinning, he put Flinx on the carpet and unwound, moving toward the galley. There, he filled the tea-maker, pulled the tray from its hanger and put cups on it. He added the tin of cookies Mrs. tor'Beli had given him a few days ago—it had been full, then; now it was about half-full. The tea-maker chimed at him; he put the pot on the tray and carried it out to the main room, being very careful of where he set his feet, in case Flinx should suddenly arrive to do his dance around Jethri's ankles.

He needn't have worried about that. The cat was sitting tall on the floor next to Miandra, tail wrapped tightly around his toes, intently observing the plates of goodies set out on the cloth from his table. The twins had set his neglected dinner out like party food. He grinned and went forward.

Meicha leapt to her feet and handed the cups, pot and tin down to Miandra, who placed them on the cloth. Jethri put the tray on the table and sat on the carpet between the two of them, accepting a cup of tea from Miandra with a grave inclination of his head.

"My thanks."

Meicha passed him a goody plate and he pinched one of the cheese roll-ups he was partial to and passed the plate around to Miandra. When they were all provided with food and tea, and each of them had taken a sip and a bite, Miandra looked up with a definite gleam in her eye.

"And, now, sir, you will tell us about your Scout captain and how it was you came to jump off the edge of a spacestation!"

He hid the grin behind another sip of tea. "Certainly," he murmured, as dignified as could be. "It happened this way . . . ."

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Framed