Free The Tatja Grimm's World by Vinge Vernor

stories of fate and gods, the ones you’re so down on? If they were true, she would fit right in, a godling who is just awakened. When she understands this,
and sees her place in the world … . She talked to me after the Welcoming Back. Her Spräk is good now; there was no mistaking her meaning. She thanked me for the Hrala coaching. She thanked me for showing her the power of fraud, for showing her that people can be used as easy as any other tool.”
    For a long while, Rey had no response.

SIX
    T he tavern was old, luxurious—even respectable. Its slopping floor and high ceiling created the illusion that the hall was an open bowl. Crystal spheres cast an even, unwavering twilight over tables and patrons. Svir Hedrigs squinted gloomily at the newly polished table surface. Barely visible beneath the varnish were three centuries of minor vandalism. Krirsarque had been a university city for almost ten generations; unnumbered students had carved their names in the durable furniture of the Bayside Arbor.
    It was still early and not a third of the tables were occupied. The jongleurs were up on their platform, playing songs and doing acrobatics. So far their amusements had not drawn a single couple onto the dance floor. Svir grunted his disgust, and extended long legs under the table. He absently caressed the furry body of the creature sitting on the table. The animal turned its outsized
head toward him and regarded him with limpid black eyes. A deep purring sound came from its wide, pointed ears. Then it turned away and scanned the hall. The ears that were not ears flicked this way and that. Far across the hall, a waiter looked severely in their direction, and began walking toward them. When he got to within three tables of Svir, he stopped, puzzled, with the air of someone who has forgotten his purpose. The waiter shook his head confusedly and headed back to the bar.
    “Good boy, Ancho,” murmured Svir. Tonight he didn’t want to argue with anyone about his pet’s presence in the tavern. He had come out for one last fling before sailing tomorrow. Fling—hah! He knew he would just sit lumpishly till closing time. For the thousandth time he cursed his bad luck. Who’d have thought that his thesis topic would require him to sail all the way to Crownesse? Because of the season, that was more than ten days sailing time, unless one could afford hydrofoil passage—which he certainly could not.
    The hall was filling now, but there weren’t many unattached girls. Svir concluded with sick self-pity that this night he didn’t have the courage to play either side of catch-and-be-caught. He slouched back and made a determined effort to finish his drink in one draft.
    “May I join you?” The soft voice came from behind and above. Svir choked violently on his skaal. He looked up to see that the speaker was as pretty as her voice.
    “Please do!” he gasped painfully, trying to regain some shred of poise. “Miss, uh … ?”
    “Tatja Grimm.” The miracle lowered herself gracefully into
the chair next to his, and set her drink on the table next to Ancho’s forepaws. Svir felt himself staring. He constantly daydreamed of encounters like this, but now that he was confronted by reality he didn’t know what to do. In fact, Tatja Grimm was not pretty: she was beautiful, beautiful in an especially wonderful way. From a distance she would have appeared to be a slender girl with a superb figure and reddish-brown hair. But Tatja Grimm was more than six feet tall—nearly as tall as Svir himself. Her hands were slim and delicate—and larger than the hands of most men. But the most wonderful thing of all was the look of genuine interest and intelligence in her gray-green eyes.
    “And your name?” Tatja smiled dazzlingly.
    The wheels went round and Svir remembered his name: “Svir Hedrigs.”
    Tatja rubbed Svir’s pet about the neck. “And that,” spoke Svir, happy at finding something to say, “is Ancho.”
    “A dorfox?