Killashandra (10 page)

“We will have time to talk later on, Guildmember. In the meantime, let us gild their afternoon with the gold and scarlet of our presences.” His negligent wave took in the whole room, not just the high dignities patiently awaiting the dissolution of the reception line.

Thyrol glanced at Killashandra, her hand on Ampris’s arm, then he turned to the nearest Elder woman and offered his arm. No fuss, no confusion, no dithering about altered escorts or who would be left to descend alone: everything was already worked out, planned down to the last detail, including the unexpected. For, obviously, no one could have expected Ampris to confer such an honor as his personal escort on Killashandra.

Killashandra wondered if the foodstuffs had been minutely measured, for two bites disposed of each of the four small tidbits, five mouthfuls emptied the wine glass. But she was among the lucky minority who had their glasses refilled and were offered additional canapes.

“This will be over soon,” Ampris murmured to her, his lips barely moving. “A proper meal will be served us when the lesser orders have dutifully taken their sip
and sup and toddled back to the comfort of their routines.”

He spoke with neither scorn nor malice: Ampris was stating a fact about the majority of the assembled.

“Having had their rare treats of standing in the same room with a real live breathing Crystal Singer?”

“You are that!” Ampris’s gaze returned hers with no trace of guile or evasion but he had a definite twinkle in his eye. “Three minutes after you reached the infirmary, the news of your regenerative powers had seeped to the basements.”

“Surely you are not housed in a basement?”

Ampris’s bright brown eyes twinkled again. “The seat of all knowledge …”

“So you can get to the bottom of things?”

“Of course.”

“And a position of maximum security?” Killashandra taunted him. Why shouldn’t she start at the top with her covert inquiries?

“Security is never a problem on such a well-ordered world as Optheria.” He inclined his head to acknowledge the passing of three of the dignitaries circulating the gathering. “Everyone is secure”—he paused—“on Optheria, each knowing his place and his duties. Security is the foundation of the serenity of spirit which typifies this natural world.”

Killashandra could find no mockery in his words nor any special inflection in his voice. No sparkle of amusement lit his eye, no cynical expression molded his face, yet Killashandra heard the denial as clearly as if he had phrased it.

“Someone must have had a momentarily troubled spirit to launch that little star-knife at me.”

“An island weapon,” Ampris said. “We allowed that settlement too much leeway during the early years on Optheria. Its original colonists were, naturally, of our
mind, but before we could reestablish contact with them, they had deviated from the original intent. Optheria was to be an autonomous world: not to consist of autonomous groups.” Ampris’s humorless voice and manner implied the treatment which had undoubtedly been meted out to the dissenters. “The matter of that outrageous attack on your person will be resolved, I can assure you, Guildmember Killashandra.”

“I don’t doubt that for a moment.”

Ampris searched her face. “On an ordered planet, the unusual is always remarkable.”

“Ampris, you may not monopolize our distinguished visitor,” said a deep grating voice and Killashandra turned to find herself scrutinized by one of the other male Elders. He had the eyes of a scavenger, bright, dark, piercing. His thin, hooked nose did much to encourage the analogy. His skin had a curious lacquered look, crinkling at the edges of his face from whatever minor shift of expression he permitted. His glance dropped briefly to her left shoulder, as if his gaze could penetrate the silk and examine the healing wound beneath.

“Monopoly has never been my passion, Torkes,” Ampris said. “My associate, Torkes, holds the Communications Seat on Optheria. We work closely together in our adjacent disciplines. He maintains that Music is dependent on Communications, and I, of course, take the position that Music is independent and without it, Communications would have nothing to disseminate!”

“But of course!” Killashandra mustered a broad and giddy smile with which she favored both men impartially. Ampris accepted her evasion with a slight smile while Torkes bowed as if her ambiguous reply awarded him the decision. “What sort of crystal network does your facility use, Elder Torkes?”

“Crystal?” Torkes’s piercing stare was affronted.
“We have no funds to waste on that sort of technology. Crystal is reserved for musicians!”

“Really?” And Killashandra caught the barest glimpse of the satisfied reaction from Ampris. Torkes seemed totally oblivious to the implication of his statement. “Even when crystal is a very natural—”

“Crystal is not natural to Optheria. Not a native product, you understand. And we must maintain the integrity of our Charter.”

“Indeed? Do you not violate that integrity by using alien instrumentation?”

Torkes dismissed her argument with a flick of his bony fingers. “Music is an art form which we were able to bring with us, within the mind. It is intangible—”

“And what is communication, then? Can it be touched? Smelt? Tasted?”

Torkes stared at her so fiercely that Killashandra was made aware of the fact that not only had she dared to interrupt an Elder but she had argued with him. She sensed rather than saw Ampris’s intense amusement then, in the blink of his eyes, when Torkes was faced with the unpalatable realization that a Heptite Guildmember, an invited specialist urgently required by his planet, held equal status with himself.

“Of course,” Ampris said, breaking the heavy silence that ensued, “the organ was developed by an Optherian for Optherian purposes and is, in fact, unique to our planet.”

“Yes, yes, quite so,” Torkes mumbled just as a mellow chime discreetly ended the reception.

Torkes made an adroit escape.

“So, one does not dispute with you Elders here?” Killashandra asked, watching him move off through the throng.

“It is good for us, I assure you,” Ampris replied with a chuckle. “Fortunately Torkes is more flexible than he
sounds, for when he changes Seats, he becomes totally committed to his immediate responsibility.” When Killashandra looked quizzical, he added: “We Elders change our duties every four years, so as not to become too narrow in our understanding of the overview.”

“I see.”

“Then you are wiser than your years,” Ampris said, “for I cannot believe that an administrator who is tone deaf can effectively guide Music: or that an Elder who cannot integrate should have charge of the Treasury. However, the governmental mechanism is so weighty that four years of mismanagement generally produce no more than annoying miscalculations and minor blunders easily corrected. The brilliance of the Founding Fathers of Optheria is once more unquestionably elucidated.”

Thyrol appeared, respectfully inclining his upper body at his interruption.

“Elder Ampris, Guildmaster Ree, if you will proceed to the dining chamber?”

The beauty of the hall, the elegantly set table and Elder Ampris’s earlier comment deceived Killashandra into anticipating a far better meal. Although presented in appealing style, the miniscule portions did not appeased Killashandra’s heavy appetite. Nor was she offered enough of any one food to make a positive identification of its constituents or savor its taste. The courses were accompanied by beverages which were so bland that the water had more zest to it—and not a brew or a ferment among them. Killashandra’s exasperated sigh caught the attention of Elder Pentrom, her right-hand dinner partner.

“Something is amiss?” he asked politely and then stared for a brief moment at her clean plate. He was but halfway through the food on his.

“Doesn’t Optheria produce brews, or vintages or something with more taste than these, Elder Pentrom?”

“You mean an
alcoholic
beverage?” he said, as if she had made a particularly obscene suggestion.

Killashandra favored him with a longer look and decided that with his prim mouth, sharp chin, and tiny eyes, no other reaction could have been expected.

“Indeed I do mean alcoholic beverages.” He opened his mouth to protest, but before he could utter a word she said, “Alcohol is essential to the proper metabolic function of a crystal singer.”

“I have never heard that in all my years as Medical Supervisor of this planet.”

“Have you encountered many crystal singers in your career?” Piqued by yet another dogmatic encounter, Killashandra discarded any semblance of tact. These people needed a set-down and she was in the enviable position of being able to give it with impunity.

“In actual fact, no—”

“Then how can you possibly dispute my statement? Or question my requirements? This,” and she waved a scornful hand at the goblet before her, “
bilge—
”

“That
beverage
is a nutritious liquid, carefully combined to supply the adult daily requirements of vitamins and minerals to ensure—”

“No wonder it tastes so revolting. And may I point out that any brewmaster worth his license provides the same vitamins and minerals in a form palatable enough to satisfy the inner man as well.”

The Medical Supervisor hitched his chair back, throwing his serviette on the table in preparation for harangue, and suddenly they were the center of attention. “Young woman—”

“Spare me your condescension, Elder,” Killashandra replied as she rose gracefully to her feet and glared down at him. She swept the table with a reproving look. “I shall retire to my apartment until such time as my dietary requirements can be met with enough food”—she
flipped over her empty plate—“to satisfy my appetite and sufficient alcoholic beverages to keep my metabolism functioning. Good evening!”

In the stunned silence, Killashandra left the room. Doors the size and density of the ones securing the dining chamber did not slam satisfactorily but she had enjoyed her exit so much that she did not miss that part of the finale. In the corridor, she startled minions, lounging against the walls.

“Does anybody know where my apartments are in this mausoleum?” she demanded. When all raised their hands, she pointed to the nearest. “Take me there.” When he hesitated and looked anxiously at the door, she repeated her order in a louder and more authoritative tone. He scurried forward, more desirous of avoiding her immediate wrath than courting disfavor of an absent authority.

“Tell me,” she asked in a pleasant tone when they had entered a small lift, “is food plentiful on Optheria?”

He cast her a very nervous glance and when she smiled winningly at him, relaxed a little, though he kept as far from her in the carriage as possible.

“There is plenty of food on Optheria. Too much. This year only half the fields may be planted, and I know that early fruit has been left to rot on the vine.”

“Then why did I get three mouthfuls at dinner?”

Something approaching levity touched the young man’s face. “All the Elders are old: they don’t eat much.”

“Hmm! That’s one explanation. But a good brew or a nice dry vintage would have helped!”

A smile tugged at the young man’s lips. “Well, Elder Pentrom was present and he is death on any sort of alcoholic beverage. Says it saps the energy of the young and disrupts thought in the mature.”

“And he was my dinner partner!” Killashandra’s
crow of malice resounded in the enclosed space. “My timing is, as ever, superb! Well, I’m not under his jurisdiction and, if Optheria really needs that organ repaired, the Elders will have to placate me, not him.” The young man was obviously shocked. “Tell me,” she said in her kindest, most wheedling voice, “you seem to be a knowledgeable fellow, what sort in interesting beverages are produced on this planet?”

“Oh, there are brews and vintages,” he assured her promptly and with some pride, “and some rather potent spiritous drinks manufactured in the mountains and the islands—but that sort of stuff isn’t permitted in the Conservatory.” The lift’s doors slid open, and the Optherian bustled out.

“More’s the pity.” Killashandra strode on down the hallway after her guide. “What do you drink? No, abort the question,” and she grinned at his startled glance. “What is the most popular drink?”

“The most popular one on this continent is a brew called Bascum.”

“Is Bascum a plant or a person?”

“Person.” Her guide was warming to his subject. He indicated they take the left-hand corridor at the junction. “One of the Founding Fathers.”

“So his brewery is allowed to function in the face of the Medical Supervisor’s displeasure?” Killashandra grinned as he nodded. “I infer from your remarks that there are other popular drinks? Any wines?”

“Oh, yes, the western continent produces some very fine vintages, both white and red, and some doubly distilled liqueurs. I’m not familiar with the wines at all.”

“And those islands you mentioned, they go for the spiritous liquors?”

“The polly tree.”

“The polly tree?”

“Its fermented fruit makes a brandy which, I’m told,
is more potent than anything else in the universe. The polly tree provides foliage for shelter, a fine-grained wood for building, its roots burn for a long time, its bark can be pounded into a fiber which the islanders use for weaving cloth, its pith is extremely nutritious, and its large fruit is delicious as well as nutritious—”

“When it isn’t fermented—”

“Exactly.”

“And the polly tree only grows on the islands?”

“That’s right, and here is your apartment, Guildmember.” He opened the door.

“There’s no privacy lock on this?” Killashandra had not noticed the lack in her first hurried inspection.

“There is no need for such in the Complex.” Her guide appeared surprised at her reaction. “No one would presume to enter without your express permission.”

“There are no thieves on Optheria?”

“Not in the
Conservatory
!”

She thanked him for his escort and entered her sacrosanct apartment, closing the door behind her with a sigh of relief. Only then did her eye fall on the table. She exclaimed aloud at the display of bottles of all sizes and shapes, at the beakers, goblets, wine glasses that waited in pristine array on the white cloth. A separate tray offered an assortment of tidbits, nuts, and small wafers. A small chest opened to exhibit chilled bottles and two pottery amphoras.