Before Killashandra could say anything in acknowledgment, Olav had stepped back. So, she could only smile her gratitude for his vote of confidence and proceed to the waiting boat. Impatiently she brushed aside the tears in her eyes before anyone could notice, and took a seat under the awning amidships. She was not surprised when Lars did not elect to join her for she could well imagine that he had been equally astonished by Olav’s farewell.
She sat staring at the squat bulk of the cruiser, and liked it less the nearer she got to it. Nor did her opinion change during the three-day voyage back to the City. The Captain, a dour man named Festinel, was waiting at the top of the gangplank and escorted her himself to her cabin, explaining that her bodyguard would be quartered in the next cubicle, within hearing distance. She did not groan but saw this trip would be a repetition of the Trundomoux voyage. Well. she had survived that, too. Lars came along the companionway at that point and was greeted almost effusively by Captain Festinel.
During the evening meal, it was apparent from Festinel’s deference to Lars that the man had been impressed by the islander’s seamanship, or rather, the false account of his rescue of Killashandra from the dangerously positioned islet of exile. Killashandra added only her physical presence to the officers’ mess. She was tired. She could feel muted crystal resonance in her body, though it was insufficient to raise the hair on those nearby. She was pleasant when addressed but limited her answers, contenting herself with enigmatic smiles. Elder Torkes kept shooting her wary, surreptitious glances but did not engage her in conversation. Which satisfied her. Keep him guessing about her, and off balance. Only how were she and Lars to have any sort of normal relationship if her quarters in the Conservatory were monitored?
On the crowded cruiser there was no way for them to have a private word or even the chance of a caress. Abstinence after the feast did nothing for her temper. So, preoccupied, she didn’t notice the subliminal whine until the second evening, when she twitched all through dinner, rubbing at her neck and ear. Something was wrong.
“You’re very unsettled tonight, Guildmember,” Lars said finally, having endured her contortions throughout dinner. He spoke quietly, for her ears only, but his voice carried.
“Nerves – No, it’s not nerves. Does this cruiser use a crystal drive?” She spoke in a loud, accusing tone, looking to Captain Festinel for her answer.
“It does, Guildmember, and I regret to inform you that we are experiencing some difficulty with it.”
“It urgently needs to be retuned. As soon as you’re in port. The way it sounds right now, it’ll be broad-casting secondary sonics by morning.”
“The engineer has been monitoring an uneven drive thrust but it should see us safely to the Mainland.”
“You have reduced speed?”
“Of course, Crystal Singer, the moment the instrumentation recorded resonance.”
“What is the matter with the cruiser?” Elder Torkes asked, only then aware of the nature of the discussion.
“Nothing for you to worry about,” Killashandra said curtly, without glancing in his direction, for she was rubbing that side of her neck. She felt Lars stiffen beside her, and heard the tiny intake of her left-hand partner’s breath. “I hope.” She rose. “The whine is subsonic but highly irritating. Good evening, gentlemen.”
Lars followed her and for a miracle they were alone in the companionway as he escorted her to her cramped quarters.
“Is it monitored?” she asked him in a low voice. He nodded.
“Do you require any medication to sleep, Guildmember?”
“Yes, if you can find some polly wine, Captain.”
“The steward will bring a decanter to your quarters.”
With a bottle of that inside her, Killashandra slept in spite of the increasingly audible distortion. The next morning, the noise was almost audible. Even Lars was affected. She was relieved when Captain Festinel requested her presence on the bridge. And concerned when she was shown the drive print-out. Festinel and his engineering officer were justifiably concerned.
“We were due for an overhaul when this emergency came up, Guildmember. The Broad Sea had more turbulence than we had anticipated putting a strain on the compensators as well as the stabilizers, especially at speed.” The Captain was flatteringly deferential so Killashandra nodded as he made his points, and frowned wisely at the print-out as if she knew what she was seeing Fortunately the bridge was buffered against crystal noise as the rest of the ship was not, giving her a respite from the sound. Until she put her hand on the bulkhead and felt it coursing through the metal.
“The drive is losing efficiency,” Killashandra said, recalling the phrases which Carrik had used at the shuttle port on Fuerte, and obscurely pleased with herself that her memory remained lucid for that period, now so completely divorced from her present life.
“Frankly, I’d prefer heaving to and having a good look at the crystal drive, but our orders are to proceed with all possible speed to the Mainland.” The Captain shrugged and sighed.
Killashandra decided against reassuring him. The drive was souring: she didn’t need the printouts to tell her that. But she had only the one experience on which to base an opinion and had no intention of ruining the image she had projected by a bad guess.
Then Captain Festinel asked hesitantly, “Do you really hear crystal resonance?”
Killashandra was aware of the expectant hush in the bridge as junior and senior officers, not to mention Lars at her side, waited for her reply.
“Yes, indeed. Like a dull ache from my earbones to my heels. If it were any louder, you’d find me asking for a life raft!”
“We know so little about your profession . . .”
“It is one like any other, Captain, with its dangers, its rewards, an apprenticeship to pass, and then years of refining one’s skills.” Killashandra was conscious, as she spoke, of one set of ears listening more keenly than others. She dared not look at Lars. “One facet of my training was retuning soured crystals.” She made a rueful grimace. “Not my favorite occupation.”
“Are there any prerequisites for the profession?” the older engineer asked, as he looked up from the print-out.
“Perfect and absolute pitch is the one essential.”
“Why?” Lars asked, surprised by that unexpected condition.
“We’re called crystal singers because we must tune our subsonic cutters to the dominant pitch of the crystal we cut from the ranges. A dangerous and exhausting task.” She held out her hands so that all could see the fine white scars that crisscrossed the skin.
“I was told,” Lars said in an amused drawl, “that crystal singers have amazing recuperative powers.”
“That is quite true. Crystal resonance apparently slows the degenerative processes and accelerates the regenerative. Crystal singers retain their youthful appearance well into the third century.”
“How old are you, Guildmember?” a brash young voice asked.
Frowning, the Captain turned about to seek the source of such insolence but Killashandra laughed. “I am a relatively new member of the Heptite Guild, and in my third decade.”
“Are you able to travel anywhere you wish?” Did she detect a note of yearning?
“All crystal singers travel,” she said with commendable restraint and then realized that her statement was hardly politic on Optheria. She had shown few examples of the tact for which Trag had chosen her. “But we always return to Ballybran,” and she tried to make it sound as if going home was more desirable than traveling far away. No sense in arousing hopes on Optheria, especially in the presence of the cruiser’s senior officers. “Once a crystal singer, always a crystal singer!”
In the same instant the printer extruded an impatient sheet, Killashandra felt a stab of crystal shock travel painfully from her heelbone to her ears.