Lanzecki had been in the habit, over the preceding two weeks, of appearing as if teleported, generally when Killashandra was retuning crystal under Trag's scrutiny. Once Lanzecki had sat in the observer's seat of the sled simulator while she flew a particularly hazardous course. Instead of making her nervous, his presence had made her fly with heightened perception. Lanzecki also roamed through the Commons in the evenings, stopping for a word with this or that group, sorter, or technician. Now, when she very much wished him to materialize, he wasn't anywhere to be seen.
The fourth day, she casually asked Concera if she'd encountered the Guild Master and was told that Trag would know better where to find him. Trag was not the easiest person to question or converse with at all except in the handling of cutter or about incisions into crystal. Gathering all her self-assurance, Killashandra resorted to stratagem on the sixth day.
Trag had her shaving cones: she had ruined three the day before and quite expected to spend the morning's lesson avoiding future failures. After she had made a cut, she would look behind her. The fourth time, Trag frowned.
“Your attention span has been longer. What's the matter?”
“I keep thinking the Guild Master will appear. He does, you know, when I least expect it.”
“He's on Shankill. Attend to your business.”
She did, with less enthusiasm than ever, deeply grateful that the morrow was a rest day. She had half promised to spend that evening and the next day with Rimboclass="underline" half promised because her urgency to reach the ranges was in no way shared by the young Scartine. Trag released her at the end of the gruelingly precise session, his impassive face giving her no indication that she had learned to cut cones properly, though she felt in every muscle of her aching hands that she had achieved some proficiency.
She considered a radiant bath before the afternoon's flight practice. Instead, she put in a call for Rimboclass="underline" his company would be a soothing anodyne for her increasing frustration. Waiting for his answer, she had a quick hot shower. She paced her apartment, wondering where in hell's planets Rimbol had got to. Her mealtime was nearly gone, and she hadn't eaten. She ordered a quick meal from the catering unit, bolting the hot food, adding a seared mouth to her catalog of grievances before she went to the hangar level.
She was now one of many using the sled simulator so she had to be on time. She knew the flight was only an hour long, but this one, a complicated wind and night problem that kept her preternaturally alert and made her wish she'd taken the radiant bath instead of the shower, seemed endless. She was very pleased to avoid several crashes and emerge unscathed from the simulator. She waved impudently at the flight training officer in his booth above the sled and passed the next student, Jezerey, on her way.
“He's either crash happy or he hates me,” Killashandra commented to Jezerey.
“Him? He's crazy. He killed me three times yesterday.”
“Kill or cure?”
“That's the Guild's motto, isn't it?” Jezerey replied sourly.
Killashandra watched the girl enter the simulator, wondering. She hadn't been killed yet. She thought of going to the ready room and watching Jezerey's flight. No one else was in the ready room, so she dialed a carbohydrate drink to give her blood sugar level a boost. She was watching Jezerey take off when she became conscious of someone in the doorway. She turned and saw the Guild Master.
“I understand you've been looking for me,” he said to compound her astonishment.
“You're on Shankill. Trag told me so this morning.”
“I was. I am here now. You have finished your afternoon's exercises?”
“I think they've about finished me.”
He stood aside to indicate she should precede him.
“The severity of the drills may seem excessive, but the reality of a mach storm is far more violent than anything we can simulate in the trainers,” he said, moving toward the lift while touching her elbow to guide her. “We must prepare you for the very worst that can occur. A mach storm won't give you a second chance. We try to insure that you have at least one.”
“I seem to hear that axiom a lot”
“Remember it.”
Killashandra expected the lift to plummet to the Singers' level. Instead, it rose and, tired as she was, she swayed uncertainly. Lanzecki steadied her, hand cupped under her elbow.
“The next bad storm is Passover, isn't it?” She was making conversation because Lanzecki's touch had sent ripples along her arm. His appearance in the ready room had already unnerved her. She glanced sideways at him as unobtrusively as possible, but his face was in profile. His lips were relaxed, giving no hint of his thoughts.
“Yes, eight weeks from now is your first Passover.”
The lift stopped, and the panels retracted. Killashandra stepped with him out into the small reception area. No sooner had he turned to the right than the third door opened. The large room they entered was an office, with one wall covered by a complex data retrieval system. Printout charts hung neatly from the adjacent wall. Before it, a formidable console printed out fax sheets that neatly folded into a bin. Several comfortable chairs occupied the center of the room, one centered at the nine screens that displayed the meteorology transmissions from the planet's main weather installations and the three moons.
"Yes, eight weeks away," Killashandra said, taking a deep breath, "and if I don't get out to the ranges before it comes, it will be weeks, according to every report I've scanned – "
Lanzecki's laugh interrupted her.
“Sit.” He pushed two chairs together and pointed a commanding finger to one.
Amazed that the Master of the Heptite Guild laughed and infuriated because she had not been able to state her case, she dropped without much grace into the appointed chair, her self-confidence pricked and drained. Presently she heard the familiar clink of beakers. She looked up as he handed one to her.
“I like Yarran beer myself, having originated on that planet. I'm obliged to the Scartine for reminding me of it.”
Killashandra masked her confusion by drinking deeply. Lanzecki knew a great deal about Class 895. He raised his glass to her.
“Yes, we must get you out to the ranges. If anyone can find Keborgen's claim, it's likely to be you.”
Feeling the beaker slip through fingers made nerveless by shock, she was grateful when he took the glass and put it on the table he swung before her.
«Conceit in a Singer – voice or crystal – can be a virtue, Killashandra Ree. Do not let such single-mindedness blind you to the fact that others can reach the same conclusions from the same data.»
“I don't. That's why I've got to get out into the ranges as soon as possible.” Then she frowned. “How did you know? No one followed me that night. Only you and Enthor knew I'd reacted to Keborgen's crystals.”
Lanzecki gave her a long look that she decided must be pity, and she dropped her gaze, jamming her fingers together. She wanted to pound him or stamp her feet violently or indulge in some release from the humiliation she was experiencing.
Lanzecki, sitting opposite her, began to unlock her fingers one by one.
“You played the pianoforte as well as the lute,” he said, his finger tips gently examining the thick muscle on the heel of her hand, the lack of webbing between her fingers, their flexible joints and callused tips. If this hadn't been her Guild Master, Killashandra would have enjoyed the semicaress. “Didn't you?”
She mumbled an affirmative, unable to remain quite silent. She was relieved, taking a deeply needed breath as he leaned back and took up his drink, sipping it slowly.
“No one did follow you. And only Enthor and I knew of your sensitivity to Keborgen's black crystal. Very few people know the significance of a Milekey transition beyond the fact that you somehow escaped the discomforts they had to endure. What they will never appreciate is the totality of the symbiotic adjustment.”