A Working of Stars by Debra Doyle, James D. MacDonald Page B

years.
    Diplomatic relations between Cazdel and the Federated Quarter hadn’t been particularly good lately, but so far the peace accords were holding. Arekhon was able to secure passage for himself and Maraganha on a commercial jumpshuttle for a suborbital hop. They picked up a glidecab at the Cazdel shuttle port, and Arekhon instructed the driver to take them to the Guildhouse.
    “You do business with those people?” the driver asked.
    “Sometimes.”
    “Better watch it. They mess around with things to make stuff come out right. Right for them, anyhow. They don’t care so much about the rest of us.”
    “I’ll bear that in mind,” said Arekhon. It was yet another strangeness of this world that he’d never grown accustomed to: the idea that people who could see the eiran would not work with them on behalf of others. Next to him in the rear of the glidecab, he saw that Maraganha looked disapproving, though whether it was the driver’s prejudice or the local Adepts’ indifference that had moved her, he couldn’t tell.
    The Cazdel Guildhouse, despite its formal name, turned out to be an ordinary-looking commercial building with offices below and apartments above, located near the middle of town. Arekhon knew from Ty’s letters that the house sheltered almost two score men and women—enough to fill more than one Circle, had they known how to work in that fashion.
    In the Guildhouse lobby, a gated wooden railing blocked the way to the offices and meeting rooms beyond. The young woman at the desk behind the rail wore simply cut garments in dusty beige. From her age and general demeanor, Arekhon placed her as a student of sorts, assigned to gate duty as part of her training.
    “You two have business here?” she asked.
    He nodded. “We need to talk with one of your people … Ty, his name is. He knows that we’re coming.”
    “Wait in Room Five, down at the end of the hall. I’ll let him know that you’ve arrived.”
    She touched a control on the desk, and the railing buzzed as the gate lock opened. Arekhon and Maraganha passed through and went on to Room 5, a bare conference room furnished only with a table and a number of uncomfortable-looking folding chairs. A lecture board and a rack of light-markers covered most of one wall; the board was powered down, revealing nothing. There were no windows.
    Arekhon unfolded one of the metal chairs and sat down at the table to wait. Maraganha hesitated, then did likewise.
    “You’re shading the truth a bit, you know,” she said.
    “By not mentioning you when I sent the message?” He shook his head. “With all respect, etaze —Maraganha—that’s a bit more strangeness than I felt like explaining in an open text.”
    “You know, I used to wonder whether you were naturally secretive or if it was an acquired habit.”
    “And now?”
    She laughed quietly. “I’m beginning to suspect you were born that way.”
    “My sister would probably agree with you. She had the sorrowful task of raising me after our parents died—my brother Natelth had to take over the family at the same time—and she said later that she found it easier to instruct and maintain a house full of quasi-organics than to bring up one infant sibling.”
    “She sounds interesting,” Maraganha said.
    “Perhaps you’ll meet her when we … ah, here comes Ty.”
    The youngest surviving member of the Demaizen Circle hadn’t changed much over the years, at least externally. He still wore his hair cut short in back and long over his forehead like a Hanilat street tough, and dressed like a laborer-for-hire—albeit one who wore plain grey and black and carried a long wooden staff.
    Arekhon looked at it and raised an eyebrow. “What became of the staff you used to carry?”
    “I put it away,” said Ty. He propped the long staff in the corner and unfolded another of the metal chairs. In Eraasian, he added, “How about you, ’Rekhe? I don’t see you carrying a staff at all.”
    “No, you