Context (50 page)

Back
at the hostel, he spread his new crystals across the sleeping pallet. There
were tragicomic Hedolik epics, the entire ten crystals of the
Nazalam
Chronicles,
and a couple of old favourites—Duke Caldwin’ s
Ode to a
Sword,
and Jay’ s
Dark Cape.

From the poetry section, he had
chosen Zelakrin’s
Twisted Cat
and
Gone Up In Smoke,
along with
the infamous Kendrahl’s two-century-old epic,
Tantala Daiquiri.

And some serious treatises.
Bioemergenics:
An Introduction
was far beyond most scholars; its self-effacing title was a
joke. Also
Conflict Calculus,
Count Carnbull’s
Originatio
in the
original Vektrohl, and Mel-Ynchon’s classic
Space-Time Tensegrity.

Tom picked up
Ode to a Sword,
inserted
the crystal into his holopad, and settled down to read.

But he had scarcely got as far as
the young hero’s first encounter with the eponymous blade when there was a clap
from outside, and the hanging drew back. Kraiv’s muscular presence filled the archway.

‘We have a problem, Tom.’

And then Tom saw the bronze
armlet gleaming on Kraiv’s massive upper arm, and his heart sank.

Kraiv
told the story in all the detail he knew, but at heart it was a simple one.
Draquelle, passing an inn by herself, had been unable to resist. Inside,
lacking funds—for Kraiv had them in safekeeping—she had pawned her travel-tag
to the owner, funding a massive binge.

At some point, she had bought a
round of drinks for every person in the crowded, raucous tavern, while zeitdeco
music pulsed, and ganja fumes warmed the darkness.

This morning, the owner, a man
named Lochlen, had agreed to return the travel-tag to Kraiv, in exchange for
something of equal value.

And so Kraiv was indentured as a
housecarl to the House Of The Golden Moth, for a period of half a Standard
Year.

‘Where’s
Draquelle now?’

Kraiv shrugged, then gestured
towards the public wash chambers along the tunnel.

‘Not just sick, Tom. Too
embarrassed to face you.’

Tom bit his lip.

‘What about your debt to Manse
Hetreece?’

‘That remains.’

Kraiv’s bulging shoulder muscles
looked ready to burst through his tunic. Every day, he lifted massive weights—all
three laden packs, one-handed, if he could find no boulders—which Tom could not
imagine raising off the ground.

His self-discipline was
inspiring. And he would pay whatever price Horush’s family, in the Manse
Hetreece, demanded of him: even his own death.

And that severity grew more
likely, surely, the longer his journey took.

‘Does Draquelle deserve it?’ Tom
asked.

But if people had given upon me...

He raised his hand before Kraiv
could speak.

‘Forget I said that.’

Later,
Kraiv asked: ‘What about you, Tom? Do you journey on alone, or will you stay
here?’

‘I don’t know. I...’

There would be difficulties,
without a travel-tag, but perhaps that was not the prime consideration. For
there had never been any guarantee that travelling to Corduven’s Academy would
bring him closer to his goals.

Suddenly, he smiled beatifically.

Why not?

‘Don’t worry about me,’ he said.

In
the morning, he slung his small pack over his shoulder, adjusted his cloak, and
set out. Avoiding the meditation chambers, he found a public cavern, one side
of which was filled by a vast, translucent emerald block, in which complex wave
patterns pulsed and propagated.

He sat down before a small
open-fronted daistral house at the cavern’s far end.

‘It’s phonon-based,’ said the
waitress who brought Tom’s breakfast. ‘Turing-capable, they say.’

‘Really?’

Tom gazed at the block, wondering
what computations took place inside, and whether it was aware of the world in
which it existed.

At that moment, a small tawny
form leaped across Tom’s table, seized a portion of krilbar, and bounded
towards its fellows who had exploded from nowhere.

‘Sorry.’ The waitress shooed them
away. ‘Them marmies. What a nuisance.’

The troop of tiny primates boiled
across the ground, then leaped upwards, climbing the cavern walls faster than
Tom could sprint, and he laughed at the joyful exuberance of their motion.

Smiling, the waitress went back
inside.

On top of the translucent block,
one chattering marmie sat. Then it began to pound the surface with a tiny, very
human-looking hand. Tom could see the shivering vibrations it caused.

Do you dream?
he silently asked the computation
block.
Or have you got a headache now?

It was almost in a dream-state of
his own that Tom rose, placed cred-spindles on the tabletop, picked up his pack
and left.

He was at the cavern’s exit when
the waitress’s voice called him back.

‘You’ve paid far too much! It
only costs—’

‘That’s OK.’ Tom’s voice was
gentle. ‘I don’t need credit.’

Not where I’m going.

There
were two monks running, side by side. Tom did not try to run with them; but he
noted the direction they went, and followed at an easy walk.

Soon, beyond a long market place,
he found himself standing before a circular, membrane-protected, glistening
bronze door. But the membrane dissolved and the door swung inwards at his
approach, revealing the courtyard within.

Orange-clad monks and
shaven-headed novitiates were practising a walking meditation.

There were guardian monks, but
they stepped aside as an elder came forward, passing through the walking group
without disturbing their movements, and stopped before Tom.

‘Sir—’

Shedding his pack, Tom dropped to
his knees.

It draws me …

Forehead to the gritty stone, Tom
made full obeisance, then sat back on his heels, and spoke without gazing
directly at the elder monk’s impassive, stony features.

‘I crave permission, an it be
your will’—Tom spoke softly—‘to study with the Order.’

For a moment, he feared the
guardians would strike, and turn him away.

Please...

But then, miraculously, the elder
monk smiled.

~ * ~

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