Events quieted. Gem went about his several businesses, though he kept a wary eye out, and on the evening of the third day he allowed himself to believe that the Vornet had relinquished its interest in him. Nor, indeed, did the next disturbance in his life come from that quarter.
He was at Kayje's Concourse, having a light nuncheon and watching the play, when Phred approached and bowed.
"Master Gem, there is one here who asks to share your table."
He frowned, because here, of course, was the Vornet again, when he had dared to think them safely settled.
"The young person in scarlet, sir;" Phred murmured, under the guise of refreshing Gem's wine.
He turned his head slightly to look and found his glance captured across the room by a pair of enormous black eyes, sparkling bright in the dimness of the club; he broke the contact and picked up his glass.
"Send her away."
"Yes, sir. Your pardon, sir."
Gem returned his attention to the action at the Spyro, sipping now and then, but abruptly without taste for his nuncheon. Out of the corner of an eye, he saw Phred speak to the young person in scarlet, saw her begin to protest; saw the discreet intercession of the bouncer. Confronted with both headman and bully, she hesitated and finally left, shoulders defiantly straight in the bright cloth.
Gem joined the crowd in the center of the Concourse; wagered a bit on the Wheel; had another glass of wine and bought a deck at the Knave's table. In due time he collected his winnings and turned his steps toward home.
He had barely stepped away from the brightly lit pedstrip and onto the DownRamp when he felt her fall in beside him; heard a young, firm voice:
"Anjemalti Kristefyon."
He neither quickened his pace nor slowed it; nor did he glance aside or give any sign that he had heard.
"I am Corbinye Faztherot," she continued, hurriedly, matching him, stride for stride. "I know that this is not done seemly, but the need is great, and I ask that you forgive the informality forced upon me. My rooms are nearby, if you would but step aside. . .."
Still, he did not alter his pace; her voice might have been the whisper of river wind against his ears for all the heed he gave it.
"We are kin!" she cried, shockingly loud in the stillness of the 'Ramp. "Of the same Ship and Captain! You must hear me—the courtesy, at least, of a reply—" Her hand was on his arm and at last he did stop and spun to face her in the dimness; saw with noontime clarity the space-tanned face; the huge light-sensitive eyes; the short pale hair and the long, lithe grace of her; felt the strength in her fingers and ripped his arm away.
"I do not know you," he said coldly, "and I do not know your kinsman. I am Gem ser Edreth and I have no kin, and none to order me, now that my master is dead. You should mind your manners and not be snatching the arms of strangers in the dark, young miss, or you'll find yourself hurt—or wronged and in the Blue House."
"You are Anjemalti Kristefyon," her voice was low; exultant in its surety; "child of Captain Marjella Kristefyon of the Ship Gardenspot. You carry the genes of the Crew; you are the Captain-to-Be, who is now the Captain-in-Truth. The Ship is in danger and you are foretold in the Tomorrow Log—"
"And you," he snarled, "are mad! Good-night, moonling, and may the gods conspire to allow you live through the night!"
He spun away then, and ran to the base of the 'Ramp; going from there through all the backways home, trying with all his skill to lose her. When he finally did reach Jilvon Court, he hovered long at the entrance-way, straining ears and dark-seeing eyes.
At last, convinced that she was no longer with him, he entered his house, went straight to the bar, and poured himself a brandy.