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Seignur Veeoni’s Private Workroom


The room vibrated with emotion; the patterns and associations twisty and complex.

Anthora was not often tempted to close her Inner Eyes entirely, but she considered that option now—and rejected it. She had been called into this meeting to give her perspective and possibly her advice. It was a rather remarkable request—Anthora had the distinct impression that Seignur Veeoni rarely asked for advice.

And to ask advice from one of Korval—no, she must stand firm as the clan’s representative in this negotiation, if for no other reason than it would astonish her brothers.

Seignur Veeoni folded her hands.

“That is the summation. The Lyre Institute must be made to pay for these insults. I ask, Technician Bell, if the Directors are likely to accept more tile-and-rack systems, if they are acquired in the same way as the first?”

Delia sighed.

“They might. I could prolly make a case for having found the real articles, bring ’em into the lab, and show how they’re clearly not the same as the ones that were snatched before.”

“That can be arranged,” Seignur Veeoni said. “The pattern I have in mind will be far more fatal than that which was purloined previously. I erred in thinking that mere failure would discourage more interference. Clearly, there must be blood in it.”

Anthora stirred.

“You disagree, Healer yos’Galan?”

“I offer perspective,” Anthora said. The density of the woman’s pattern made it difficult to read intent with any subtlety. And there was—just there—one block of weaving remarkable for its evenness and consistency. Anthora placed most of her attention on that section.

As for this other…

“Balance is art,” she said, meeting the researcher’s eyes. “An ideal personal Balance only involves principals who have fallen out of Balance.

“Certainly, the accounts between you and the Lyre Institute require rectification. However, it is plain that an ideal Balance is not possible. In such cases, it is proper to stand away for a time to consider your melant’i, and how your actions will affect the greater Balance of the universe. Once again, the ideal—the Liaden ideal—is to leave the Universe richer for one’s actions.”

“I have very little to do with art,” Seignur Veeoni said. “The Lyre Institute has affronted me, and they must learn better.”

“Yes, but this plan will not teach them better,” Anthora said. “Worse, you will abuse your own melant’i. The goal of Balance is to prove your stance superior, and your actions correct.”

“I am superior to the Lyre Institute,” Seignur Veeoni stated.

Anthora raised an eyebrow.

“And yet you would do as they do and spend the lives of innocents in order to win the game.”

She put as much distaste as she could muster into that last, though she failed to observe that it affected the other woman in the least.

Or perhaps it had.

“Innocents,” Seignur Veeoni repeated and glanced at their third.

“Are you innocent, Technician Bell?”

Delia took breath and sighed it out.

“I think it can be fairly said that I didn’t commit all my sins freely,” she said. “An’ I see what Healer yos’Galan’s on about: If you keep answering the Directors on their same field, with their same weapons, then you’re just another Director.”

“The Directors do not care about their weapons, or their weapon-bearers,” Anthora said softly, and saw her words strike and ignite that particular close-woven section. “They have attempted to steal your work, which you care about—deeply. They have materially damaged you; they have disrupted your household, and taken the lives of those with whom you were entangled. No one suggests that the harm they have done to you is trivial.”

A flicker caught her Inner Eye, and she glanced away from Seignur Veeoni’s pattern to that of M Traven, standing quietly at the researcher’s side. Yes. M Traven had suffered losses, but M Traven did not want blood. M Traven, Anthora thought, wanted justice. Well, and perhaps Balance would do.

She paused, and sharpened her tone even as she softened her voice, leaning slightly toward the researcher.

“What can you do that will harm them in the same manner as you were harmed? What do the Directors value as much as you valued your peace, your household, and your work?”

Delia Bell stirred.

Seignur Veeoni turned to look at her.

“You have an answer, Technician Bell?”

Delia looked wary, as well she might, Anthora thought.

“Understanding that I got no real idea how much those things meant to you, but if you wanna hit the Directors where it hurts, you’ll take out the patterns and the gene-bank.”

Seignur Veeoni frowned.

“That’s a fair accounting,” M Traven said, and Seignur Veeoni glanced at her.

“I was just informed that the Directors do not care about their players.”

“They don’t care about the players on the field ’cause there’s plenty more where we come from,” Delia said flatly.

Seignur Veeoni said nothing. Anthora watched her pattern, which reflected deep thought.

“Such an approach will take time,” she said, finally.

“Surely you have time,” Anthora dared to suggest, “to craft a perfect answer.”

Seignur Veeoni smiled, very slightly.

“Possibly, I may,” she said. “Technician Bell, what are your plans, going forward?”

“Said I’d be of use to you,” Delia said, eyes narrowed. “I don’t say I’d welcome being sent back home, but—”

“I offer you a place in my—household. I foresee that there will be work for a rack-and-tile specialist. Also, you have other skills that will serve us all. As a tech, you will take your orders from me. As security, you will be second to M Traven, if she accepts.”

“I accept,” M Traven said, and saluted. “Welcome, Tech Bell.”

“Best to go right to Delia, an’ save us all some time,” Delia said with a certain wryness. “Security-wise, you gotta know that the Directors don’t let us go easy, it being a matter of pride.”

M Traven inclined slightly from the waist. “I am forewarned. And you are not helpless.”

Delia frowned—and then smiled. “Well, no, now you mention it, I’m not. If Tolly Jones can stay outta bad trouble, no reason I can’t, too.”

“I believe our definitions of bad trouble mesh,” M Traven said. “Again—welcome.”

“Thank you,” Delia said, and Anthora Saw determination, and a flicker of pain in her pattern, as she nodded to Seignur Veeoni.

“Thank you, Researcher. I’ll be pleased to be part of your household. I’m lookin’ forward to learning everything you can teach me ’bout racks and tiles.”

“I believe we may find ourselves teaching each other,” Seignur Veeoni said surprisingly. “That is settled, then. Move your belongings as you have time. M Traven will show you to your quarters. If you have any needs, tell her. If you have any extraordinary needs, tell me.”

She put her attention on Anthora.

“Healer yos’Galan.”

“Yes.”

“You are able to differentiate between agents of the Lyre Institute and those who are otherwise affiliated.”

“I am, yes. The switches are unmistakable, as is the core structure of the Director pattern.”

“Are you able to Heal those who are presently on the Light?”

Anthora shook her head.

“We come to my melant’i and my position in the universe. I am a Healer, and I do not alter souls without permission of the owner.”

She paused.

Neither Seignur Veeoni nor Delia Bell spoke.

“However,” Anthora said slowly, “this station will find most of its clientele from among the Free Ships whom the Lyre Institute seek to enslave. I believe it would be in Korval’s interest if the agents of the Lyre Institute were…to find Tinsori Light too dangerous for them—at least for a time. That, I can—and do—engage for.”


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Framed