Her step did break as she passed by the Ship'n Shore, but the prospect of ten hours or more of sleep was more compelling than a brew and a bite, so she moved on, and caught a tram at the meeting of the cross streets.

She was in a light doze when her stop was called; got her feet under her and bumbled down the steps to the street, where she stood for far too long, eyes narrowed against the glare, trying to sort out where, exactly, she was, with specific relation to her cubby and her cot. Eventually, she located the right building, mooched on in at quarter-speed, swiped her key through the scanner and took the lift to the eighth floor.

The Gobelyn Family Unit was, thanking all the ghosts of space, quiet and dim. Khat charted a none-too-steady course across the main room to her cubby, stripping off her clothes as she went. She stuffed the wad of them into the chute, pushed aside the drape and fell into her cot, pulling the blanket up and over het head.

It occurred to her that she ought to hit the shower; her being at least as ripe as her clothes, but she was asleep almost as soon as she'd thought it.

 

* * *

 

"All crew on deck!"

There are those things that command a body's attention, no matter how deep asleep it is. Khat jerked awake with a curse, flung the blanket aside and jumped for the common room, stark naked and reeking as she was.

Seeli stood in the center of the room, hands on hips and looking none too pleased. Apparently Khat was the sole crew the all-hands had roused.

"Are you the only one here?" Seeli snapped, which wasn't her usual way. Seeli snapping was Seeli upset, so Khat made allowance and answered civil.

"I'm guessing. Place was empty when I come in--" she looked across the room at the clock. "Two hours ago."

Her cousin vented an exasperated sigh.

"It's our shift, then," she muttered, and then appeared to see Khat's condition for the first time. "Just down from the free-wing job?"

"Two hours ago," Khat said. "They had me running solo. Sleep is high on the list of needfuls, followed by a shower and food."

Seeli nodded. "I'm sorry. If there was anybody else to hand--but it's you an' me, an' it's gotta be now." She pointed to the 'fresher. "Rinse an' get decent. I'll fix you a cup o'mite and some coffee. You can drink it on the way."

Khat stared. "What's gone wrong?"

Seeli was already moving toward the galley, and answered over her shoulder. "Iza got in a cuffing match with the yard boss, and the port cops have her under key."

"Shit," Khat said, and sprinted for the 'fresher.

 

* * *

 

Seeli'd gone down to the yard, to talk with the boss and smooth over what she could, which left Khat to bail Iza out.

It was a cross-port ride on the tram, by which time the 'mite and the caffeine were working, and she walked into the cop shop more or less awake, if none too easy in the stomach.

"Business?" The bored woman behind the info counter asked.

"Come to pay a fine and provide escort," Khat said, respectfully. She wasn't over-fond of port police--what spacer was?--but saw no reason to pay an extra duty for her attitude. The ghosts of space bear witness, Iza had likely scored enough of that for the crew at large, if they'd interrupted her in a cuffing match.

"Name?" the cop asked.

"Iza Gobelyn. Brought in this afternoon from the yards."

The cop looked down at her screen, grunted, and jerked her head to the right.

"Down the end of the hall. If you step lively, you can get her out before the next hour's holding fee kicks in."

"Thank you," Khat said, and made haste down the hall, there to stand before another counter just like the one at the front door, and repeat her information to an equally bored man.

"Kin?" he asked, peering at her over the edge of his screen.

"Yessir. Cousin. Khatelane Gobelyn."

"Hmph." He poked at some keys, frowned down at the screen, poked again. Khat made herself stand quiet and not shout at him to hurry it along, and all the while the big clock behind the counter showed the time speeding toward the hour-change.

"Gobelyn," the cop muttered, head bobbing as he bent over the screen. "Here we are: public display of hostility, striking a citizen, striking a port employee, striking a law enforcement officer, swearing at a law enforcement officer, Level Two arrest, plus transportation, booking, three hours' lodging, usage fees, tax and duty, leaving us with a total due of eight hundred ninety-seven bits." He looked up. "We also accept trade goods, or refined gold. There is a surcharge for using either of those options."

Sure there was. Khat blinked. Eight hundred--

"Duty?" she asked.

The cop nodded, bored. "You're offworld. All transactions between planetaries and extra-planetaries are subject to duty."

"Oh." She slipped a hand into her private pocket, brought out her personal card, and swiped it through the scanner on the front of the counter. There was a moment of silence, then the cop's screen beeped and initiated a noisy printout.

"Your receipt will be done in a moment," he said. "After you have it, please go down the hall to the first room on your left. Your cousin will be brought to you there."

"Thanks," Khat muttered. She took the printout when it was done with a curt nod went to wait for Iza to be brought up.

 

* * *

 

"Level Two arrest" involved sedation--the construction of the drug, duration of affect, known adverse reactions, and chemical antidotes were all listed at the bottom of the two-page receipt. Khat scowled. The drug lasted plus-or-minus four hours. Iza had been arrested three-point-five hours ago. There wasn't enough credit left on her card to rent a car to take them cross port, and the prospect of woman-handling a half-unconscious Iza onto the tram was ... daunting, not to dance too lightly on it.

She'd barely started to worry when the door to the waiting room opened, admitting a port cop in full uniform, a thin woman in bloodstained overalls and spectacularly bruised face walking, docile, at her side.

"Khatelane Gobelyn?" The cop asked.

"That's me." Khat stepped forward, staring into Iza's face. Iza stared back, blue eyes tranquil and empty.

"She's good for about another forty minutes," the cop said. "If I was you, I'd have her locked down in thirty. No sense running too close to the edge."

"Right," Khat said, and then gave the cop a nod, trying for cordial. "Thank you."

"Huh." The cop shook her head. "You keep her outta trouble, space-based. You copy that? She put Chad Perkin in the hospital when he tried to get the restraints on her--broken kneecap, broken nose, cracked ribs. You hurt a cop on this port once, and you're a good citizen ever after, because there ain't no maybes the second time."

Khat swallowed. "I don't--"

"Understand?" The cop hit her in the chest with an ungentle forefinger. "If your buddy here gets into another fistfight and the cops are called on it, she ain't likely to survive the experience. That plain enough for you, space-based?"

"Yes," Khat breathed, staring into the broad, hard face. "That's plain."

"Good. Now get her outta here and tied down before the stuff wears out."

"Yes," Khat said again. She reached out and took Iza's hand, pulling her quick time down the hall.

 

* * *

 

The tram was within two blocks of the lodgings and the time elapsed from the cop shop was rising onto forty-two minutes, when Khat felt Iza shift on the seat beside her. The shifting intensified, accompanied by soft growls and swear words. Khat bit her lip, in a sweat for the tram to hurry--

"'scuse me." A hand landed, lightly, on Khat's shoulder. She looked up into the face of an older grounder woman.

"'scuse me," the woman said again, her eyes mostly on Iza. "Your friend just fresh from the cop shop?"

"Yes."

"You take my advice--get her off this tram an' down. That drug they use has a kick on the exit side. M'brother threw seven fits when it wore offa him--took all us girls to hold him down, and my uncle, too."

"Damn dirtsider," Iza muttered beside her. "Trying to cheat me. Short my ship, will he..."

Khat grabbed her arm, leaned over and yanked the cord. The tram slowed and she leapt to her feet, dragging Iza with her.

"Thank you," she said to the grounder woman, and then thought to ask it--"What happened to your brother?"

The woman shrugged, eyes sliding away. "He was born to trouble, that one. Cop broke his neck not a year later--resisting arrest, they said."

The tram stopped, the side door slid open. "Mud sucker!" Iza yelled, and Khat jumped for the pavement. Perforce, Iza followed; she staggered, swearing, and Khat spun, twisting her free hand in Iza's collar, using momentum and sheer, naked astonishment to pitch the older woman off the main walk and into a gap between two buildings.

"Cheat! Filth!" shouted Iza. Khat hooked a foot around her ankle, putting her face down into the mud, set a knee into the small of her back, and pulled both arms back into a lock.

Iza bucked and twisted and swore and shouted--to not much effect, though there were a few bad seconds when Khat thought she was going to lose the arm-lock.

After half an hour or an eternity, the thrashing stopped, then the swearing did, and all Iza's muscles went limp. Cautiously, Khat let the lock down, and eased her knee off. Iza lay, face down, in the mud. Khat turned her over, checked her breathing and her pulse, then, stifling a few curses herself, she got Iza into a back carry and staggered off toward the lodgings.

The lodgings were in sight when Seeli showed up on Khat's left. Wordlessly, she helped ease Iza down, and then the two of them got her distributed between them and walked her the rest of the way. Seeli swiped her key through the scan and they maneuvered Iza into the lift, then through the common room and into her own quarters, where they dropped her, muddy and bloody as she was, atop her cot.

"How bad at the yard?" Khat asked Seeli as they moved toward the galley.

"Bad enough," Seeli said after more hesitation than Khat liked to hear. She sighed, and opened the coldbox. "Brew?"

"Nothing less. And some cheese, if there's any." She closed her eyes, feeling the electric quiver of adrenaline-edged exhaustion in her knees and arms.

"Brew," Seeli said, and Khat heard a solid, welcome thump on the table before her. She opened her eyes just as a block of spicy local cheese and a knife landed next to the bottle.

Sighing, she had a mouthful of brew, then sliced about a third of the cheese.

Seeli sat down across, cradling her brew between her two hands, and looking about as grim as she got.

"How bad," Khat asked between bites of cheese, "is bad enough?"

Seeli sighed. "The yard wants an extra bond posted. They want a guarantee that Iza will be kept from their premises. They want the name and contact code for somebody--not Iza--who is empowered to speak for the ship. That person will be allowed in the offices of the yard no more than once per port-week, at pre-scheduled times. Monthly inspection of process stays in force, so long as the inspector ain't Iza Gobelyn. Any further disturbance, and the yard will invoke breach and impound the Market."

Khat had another piece of cheese and a swallow of brew.

"That's bad enough," she allowed, and pointed at the cheese. "Eat."

"Later," Seeli said, and made a production out of sipping her beer.

Khat sighed. "Understand, there was a couple bad minutes when the drug went over, but I gathered that Iza had reason to believe the yard was cheatin' us."

"There might be some of that. Problem is, Iza going off the dial put us into the disadvantage with regard to amicable discovery. I've got a call in to Paitor. Crew meeting here, tomorrow port-night."

"What about Cris?"

Seeli shrugged, and stared hard down into her brew. "I beamed a precis and a plea for a recommend to his ship. Could be we'll have his answer by meeting." She looked up, face hard, which was Seeli when she'd taken a decision, no different from her ma. "We gotta settle this, Khat. Iza goes off the dial again, we could lose the Market. It's that near the edge."

"I hear it," Khat said, and finished her brew. "I'm for sleep, coz. Central's got me on for a hop to the station tomorrow middle day. I'll be down in plenty of time for the meeting." She stood and stretched.

"Best thing would be for Iza to take a temp berth--you know she's always crazy on the ground."

"I know," Seeli said, too soft. "Sleep sound, cousin. 'preciated the assist, today."

Khat nodded and headed for the door. Before she got there, she checked and looked over her shoulder.

"Almost forgot--eight hundred ninety seven paid out from my personal account."

Seeli closed her eyes briefly. "I'll authorize the transfer from Ship's General."

"'preciate it," Khat said, and left, on a course for sleep.

 

 

Day 81
Standard Year 1118
Kinaveral

 

It was a grim-faced lot of Gobelyns gathered in the lodging's common room when Khat finally got there, dusty, hungry and all too out of patience with stationer attitude and port red tape, both.

"Sorry," she said to Seeli, who was sitting center-circle with Grig at her left hand and Paitor at her right. "They told me about the lift. Nobody thought to mention there'd be three hours of paperwork waitin' for me on station, and a matching three portside, when I got back down."

It was notable that Dyk, sitting between Mel and Zam, didn't bother to assure her that she looked fine in red tape. Seeli only nodded and pointed at the empty chair between Mel and Paitor, which seat Khat took with a fair amount of trepidation. Seeli'd called Full Circle on Iza. This was not going to be fun.

No sooner had she sat then Paitor got his feet under him and come to his full standing height. "Captain," he said, loud enough to be heard down the hall and into the next lodgings over. "Your crew wants a Word."

Khat felt some of the tightness in her gut ease. They were going to do the reasonable--well, 'course they was, she told herself, with Seeli settin' it up. So, a Word, first, with Ship's Judgement held in reserve, in case Iza wasn't inclined to meet reasonable with reasonable. Whether she'd be so inclined, Khat couldn't have said--and by the look on Seeli's face, she didn't know which way Iza was likely to jump, either.

"Iza Gobelyn," Paitor said, stern and loud. "Your crew's waitin'."

For what seemed like a long time, nothing happened. Khat realized she was holding her breath, and took note of the fact that the palms of her hands were damp.

Away down the room, something stirred, and there was Iza, long and lean and tough and walking with something less than her usual swagger.

She stopped walking just behind Grig's chair and raised her face, catching Paitor's eyes on hers. "Well, brother?" she snapped, and Khat winced, her voice was that sharp.

"Just a Word with you, Captain," Paitor answered, smooth and calm as you please. "On a matter of ship's safety."

Say what you would about Iza Gobelyn, she was all of that, and canny, too. Another two heartbeats, she stood behind Grig, her eyes flicking 'round the Circle, touching each of their faces in turn, letting each of them see her--their mother, their cousin, their captain, who had kept them out of trouble and bailed them out of trouble; who'd kept ship and crew together for all of Khat's lifetime--and before.

When they'd all had a good look at her, and her at them, that's when she slid between Grig and Seeli and walked forward to stand in the center of the Circle, and hold her hands out, palms up and showing empty.

"I'm listenin'," she said, and let her hands fall to her sides.

Paitor sat down again, and folded his arms over his chest, face shut, eyes alert. Next to him, Seeli straightened.

"There's concern," she said, her voice firm and clear. "The yard boss ain't happy with the captain's behavior. He's gone so far as to state he'll invoke breach and impound the Market, in the case that Iza Gobelyn's seen on his deck again."

Iza turned lazily on her heel until she faced Seeli, which gave Khat the side of her face. "They was shortin' us on the shielding, Admin."

"Yes, Captain, I don't doubt they was, having seen it with my own eyes. Fact remains, the yard boss has the legal on his side. He's filed a paper with the local cops, stating that one Iza Gobelyn approaches his yard at her peril. If she's found on or around, the Market's forfeit."

Iza glared; Khat could see it in the thrust of a shoulder.

"That's legal, is it?"

"It is," Seeli said. "And if it weren't, we'd still be outta luck, being as the cops ain't sworn to aid us."

Iza's shoulder twitched.

"On account," said Grig, his voice as hard as Khat had ever heard it, "you pitched the cop you swung on into light duty til his knee and his ribs and his nose all heal, and the cops here-port don't care to look out for them who break their mates."

"Worse," Khat said, leaning forward in her chair as Iza swung 'round to face her. "There's active malice involved. Woman on the bus told me. Comes to that, cop down the shop told me. You hurt a cop on this port, you stay outta trouble forevermore, because the day you come against another cop is the day you stop breathing."

Iza stared at her, eyes hooded, then gave her a nod. "'preciate the bail-out, cousin."

"It was expensive enough," Khat told her.

"Looks like getting more expensive before it gets less," Iza answered and turned back to face Seeli. "Lay it out, Admin."

"All right, Captain," Seeli's voice was cool as the skin of a cargo can. "What I'm seeing is this--I'11 take oversight of the upgrades and repairs. Grig, here, he's my expert on shielding, and he's already found us a second opinion, like the contract says we can have. We'll keep close watch and we won't let them get away with nothin', but we won't take no risks, neither, nor put the ship at peril."

"Fine work for you and yours, Admin. What about the captain?"

"The captain," Seeli said firmly, "should find herself a long-berth, get off Kinaveral until we're ready to go, and stay outta trouble."

In the center of the Circle, Iza laughed. "By this age in my life, you think I'd be expert in that." She turned, rotating lazily on her heel, and looked at them, one by one.

"Anybody else have a Word? Or does Admin speak for all of you?"

"In the case, Admin's on it," Mel said, while Dyk muttered, "No other Words, Captain," and Zam just shrugged his shoulders.

"And you're all staying dirtside, as I hear it, to give Admin a hand?"

"I'm signed as cook on a private yacht," Dyk said. "Lift in two days, back in 'leven month."

"Me an' Mel're for a miner," Zam said, looking down at his boots. "Signed the papers today. Lift tomorrow. Back, like, Dyk, in 'leven, and trusting our ship'll be here for us."

"Cris is already on long-haul," Khat said, since it was her turn. It've been easier to talk to her boots, like Zam, but pilots were bolder than that--Khat Gobelyn was bolder than that--and she met her captain's eyes, level. "Me, I'm all fixed as a freewing, based on-port. There's some longer lifts comin', they tell me, but most of what's on offer is shuttle work and short hops. Don't fly every day, can file 'unavailable' at decent notice, so Seeli'll have an extra hand, when she needs one."

Iza nodded, solemn-like, and looked over to Paitor.

"I'm on-port, doing some little chores for Terratrade," he said, not uncrossing his arms. "Seeli needs me, she calls, I come."

"Just like you always done, eh, brother?"

His mouth thinned some, but the rest of his face stayed bland. "That's right, Captain."

Iza turned again, past Seeli, and showed her back to Khat, full face to Grig.

"You're staying on-dirt to back up Admin, is that so, Grig Tomas?"

"That's so, Captain."

"Then you'll see the jettison list attended to proper. That would be an order, which I know you can take," she said, provoking-like, 'cept it didn't make no sense, as far as Khat had ever seen, to provoke Grig. He just went all soft and agreeable on you, an' took his revenge when you needed it least.

Except not this time.

"Beggin' the captain's pardon, but there's some things on that jettison list belong to absent crew."

"Absent crew." Khat didn't need to see Iza's face; the tone of voice was enough. She drew a careful breath and indulged in a spot of wishful telepathy, trying to send Grig a message not to whip Iza into a rage--not now, when she'd been so reasonable...

"You'll be referring to Arin's son?" Iza was asking Grig.

There was a short pause, before he answered, voice neutral, "That's right, Captain."

"Spit of his father, ain't he, Grig?"

And what was this? Khat thought. Iza sounded almost conversational.

"Jethri's a good-lookin' boy. Smart, too. Done you proud, Iza."

"Ain't done me proud. Nothing to do with me, as you know it. Arin's boy, clear through--wouldn't you say so, Grig?" She shifted of a sudden, leaning forward hard, like she was going to grab him by the shoulders and haul him up to face her.

"Done's done, Iza. Arin's gone, and Jethri, too. Send the boy his things, and call it square."

"It'd be what's right, Iza," Paitor put in, calm, while the rest of them sat mum and stupid.

She spun to glare at him, shoulders stiff. "You think so, do you, brother? Fine, then. Send Arin's boy his things. So long as they're finally gone from my ship, I don't care where they are--destroyed or on Liad makes the same difference to me."

"That's settled then," said Seeli, shockingly matter-of-fact. "What ain't settled is what you'll do, Captain."

"Didn't think I had a choice," Iza said, turning back, and showing Seeli empty hands. "I'll go down to the hire-hall tomorrow and find myself a berth."

"I'll come with you," Khat heard her own voice say, and looked up to catch Iza's glance coming at her over one bony shoulder.

"Thanks, cousin," she said, with no shortin' the irony.

"No trouble," Khat answered, forcing herself to sound calm. "I'm not flying tomorrow and I know a couple of the sign-ons at the hall."

"Then we're square, captain and crew," Seeli said.

Paitor nodded and got back on his feet. "The crew talked, the captain heard. The ship's in harmony."

There was an uneasy sort of silence, then, like nobody knew exactly what to do, now the agreement was made and the right phrases spoke. When it had gone on long enough for Khat to start feeling it in her gut, she stood up and stretched, hands reaching for the ceiling.

"Let's all have us some brew and a snack," she said. "And say our good-byes and be-wells. We're going to be scattered across the star lanes this next while. Let's part on terms."

Dyk laughed and bounced to his feet in a sudden return to normal behavior. "Maybe I should ship out more often!"

"Maybe you should," Mel said cordially, standing up. Zam laughed. Across the circle, Seeli was up, Grig beside her, lanky and limpid like always, watching as Paitor held a hand out to Iza.

"Buy you a brew, sister?" he asked, and after a moment Iza put her hand in his.

"A brew'd be welcome, brother."

 

 

Day 106

Standard Year 1118

Tilene Trade Theater

 

Tan Sim pen'Akla, adopted of Clan Rinork, left the Tilene Star Bar in a wine-induced glow of good fellowship for all beings, everywhere.

That the glow was wine-induced, Tan Sim well knew, having entered the establishment in question some hours previous with the specific intent of imbibing wine sufficient to ease the sting of the latest slight delivered by his foster kin. Since he had not cut his teeth yesterday, he was also well-aware that the wine on draw at the Star Bar was of a more virulent vintage than he was accustomed to drink, and that he had thereby made an appointment on the morrow with the very devil of a hangover.

That, however, was in the future. For the present, restored to good humor and only slightly unsteady on his feet, he sauntered, whistling unmelodically, down the supply hallway which was a shortcut to the main trading theater.

It would not do to be late to the second round of trading. Of course, his beloved foster brother Bar Jan would smell the wine; and wouldn't it just grate along his fine-drawn, High House sensibilities to be unable to send his drunkard junior away. But he dared not do that, Tan Sim thought waggishly. Oh, no, Bar Jan dared not send him away and hold the booth on his own while their mutual mother was gone a-calling. A melant'i-blind idiot Bar Jan might be, but he knew well enough that Tan Sim was the superior trader, in his cups or sober.

Would that he did not.

But, there, that line of thought ventured too close to the quadrant he wished to avoid. Resolutely, Tan Sim turned his consideration to the franchise Alt Lyr had for sale. A well enough venture--or so it seemed on the surface. He had set word about, before his visit to the wine shop, and he would be wanting to do more research before mentioning the matter to his mother, but...

He checked, whistle dying on his lips, eyes rapt upon a performance the like of which he had not beheld since--well, since he had first come to Rinork, and spent so many hours before the mirror, shining his bows for High House display.

Alas, the person bowing so earnestly and with such ...interesting... results in the wide space in the hall meant to accommodate a service jitney, had no mirror. Style was also sadly absent, though there was, Tan Sim allowed, after observing for a few heartbeats, a certain vivacity in delivery that was not ...entirely... displeasing.

At just that point, the person in the shadows executed a bow with a vivacity sufficient to set them staggering and Tan Sim felt it was time to take a hand.

"Here then!" he called out in the mode spoken between comrades, which would surely have set Bar Jan to ranting. "There's no sense breaking your head over a bow, you know."

The figure in the shadows turned to face him, light falling on a face pale, angular and wholly unLiaden. There was an unfinished appearance about the jaw and shoulders which said halfling to Tan Sim, though he had to look up to meet the chocolate brown eyes. Despite he was indisputably Terran, he was dressed in well-tailored trading clothes, made very much in the Liaden style, down to the fine leather boots which encased his feet and the short blue jacket that proclaimed him an apprentice in trade.

In fact, he was a riddle.

Tan Sim delighted in riddles.

Delighted, he swept a bow of introduction to the startled youth.

"Tan Sim pen'Akla Clan Rinork."

The boy hesitated infinitesimally, then bowed in return, with somewhat less verve, and stated, laboriously, and very nearly in the mode of introduction:

"Jethri Gobelyn, apprentice trader aboard Elthoria."

Ixin's lead tradeship, forsooth. Tan Sim allowed his interest to be piqued. The ven'Deelin was canny and devious--even when held against other masters of trade, a lot known for their devious ways. Indeed, he had long admired her from afar--necessary, as Ixin and Rinork did not meet--and studied her guild files closely, so that he might, perhaps, upon one far distant day, aspire to even one-twelfth of her trading acumen.

And this lad here, this Terran lad, was the ven'Deelin's apprentice? He filed that away, for sober thought on the far side of the hangover, and moved a hand, softly, offering aid.

"I see you in the throes of just such a task as I myself have undertaken in the past. Wretched, aren't they? Who would suppose that one race could need so many bows?"

The angular face wavered as the lips bent in a quickly-suppressed smile--and, aye, that, too, struck an uneasy memory. Tan Sim felt a spurt of sympathy and deliberately let his own smile show.

Some of the starch went out of the thin shoulders, and the boy--Jeth Ree, was it?--inclined his head.

"Indeed," he stammered, almost in the mode between equals--which was an impertinence, thought Tan Sim, but what else was the lad to do? "It is ...difficult... to bear so much in mind. I have been tutored, but I fear that I am not fully ...cognizant..."

"Hah." Tan Sim held up his hand. "I understand. You have been given a set number and form, eh? And you wish to shame neither your teacher nor your trader." He smiled again, gently. "Nor take delivery of a scold."

Jeth Ree fairly ginned--a dazzling display, too soon vanished.

"Well," said Tan Sim, "you won't find me a scolding fellow. I have only admiration for one who is so devoted to his duty that he uses his break-time to hone his skill. Such diligence..." He left the sentence for a moment as he recalled again that Ixin and Rinork did not meet. The proper course for himself, as one of Rinork, then, was to turn his back on this boy and--

And what did he care for some long-ago, cold quarrel? Depend upon it, he thought, sadly unfilial, the whole brangle, whatever it was, could be squarely lain at Rinork's feet. Here before him stood an apprentice trader in need of the guidance of a trader. His melant'i--and Guild rule, if it came to that--was plain.

He showed Jeth Ree another smile, and was pleased to gain one in return.

"Well, then, let us see what we might manage between us," he said, settling comfortably against the friendly wall. "Show me your repertoire."

This, the boy was willing enough to do, and Tan Sim spent the next while leaning, tipsy, against the wall, observing a series of common mercantile bows. Happily, the task was not more than his befogged faculties could accommodate, nor Jeth Ree any less apt than the larger number of new 'prentices Tan Sim had now and then had occasion to observe. The lad had apparently been driven to this lonely practice site in a fit of stage fright. Which Tan Sim quite understood. So.

"You are well-enough," he said, when the boy had straightened from his last endeavor, "for an apprentice newly come to the floor. It speaks well that you wish to bring only honor to your master, but you must not allow your sensibilities to overset your good sense." He inclined his head. "You will do exceedingly, Jeth Ree Gobelyn."

The boy stood a moment, as if struck, then bowed once more; this very precise, indeed. "I am in your debt, Tan Sim pen'Akla."

And wouldn't THAT be a grand thing to bring to the table? Tan Sim thought in sudden horror. ''Mother, I have the advantage of ven'Deelin's Terran apprentice in a matter of Balance." Gods.

He moved a hand, smoothing the debt away. "Honor me by forgetting the incident, as I have done."

Jeth Ree looked doubtful--then proved himself a lad of sense and worthy to be the ven'Deelin's apprentice, by inclining his head.

"Thank you," he said, in what Tan Sim knew to be Terran, that being another of his clandestine studies.

"You are welcome," he replied in the same tongue, somewhat more slowly than he would have liked.

The boy did not burst into derisive laughter, or even smile overmuch, which gave him hope for a successful outcome of study.

"If you please," Jeth Ree said abruptly. "How shall I bow to you, if we meet again on the floor? Since we are known to each other..."

Tan Sim pushed away from his wall. How, indeed, should the lad acknowledge him, should they meet? Almost, he laughed aloud at the unlikelihood of such an event.

Still, it was a reasonable question and deserved a fitting reply. He took a moment to be sure his feet were well under him, then swept the bow he'd practiced in his own ironic honor as a youth--most honored child of the house. He watched as the boy reproduced it, several times, and inclined his head, satisfied.

"Twill do. And now I must depart, amiable companion that you have been. My brother requires my assistance at our booth. Fare thee well, Jeth Ree Gobelyn."

He bowed, jauntily, the beginning of a headache teasing in back of his eyes, straightened to receive the boy's farewell, and walked away down the hall, whistling.

 

* * *

 

Jethri's timing was fortunate; he returned to Ixin's trade booth just as the floor opened for the second shift. Master ven'Deelin inclined her head, which he hoped meant she was impressed with his promptness, and reached beneath the counter.

"Our Tilene agent took delivery of this message for you, young Jethri. You may have a moment to read it. There was also a crate--that has been moved to your trade-bin on ship."

Heart thumping heavy, he slipped a folded sheet of paper from between her fingers. He did remember his bow, and to give a soft, "My thanks, Master Trader." Courtesy satisfied, he took himself to the back corner of the booth, hunkered down on his heels beside the hanging rugs and strings of spice, and unfolded the crackling thin paper.

To Jethri Gobelyn, in the care of Norn ven'Deelin Clan lxin

From Khatelane Gobelyn, Pilot on Duty , Gobelyn's Market

Transmit Standard Day 75, SY 1118

Hey, Jeth. Don't let the POD fool you--I'm doing administrative while Seeli catches up some stuff with the yard. It's looking like a long process; actually a near complete refit. I don't know if they told you. A Standard dirtside, minimum. Iza said she'd be staying with the ship, but--before you hear it from some Looper you run into, what it was, she had a disagreement with the local gendos and got herself a couple levels of arrested. Wasn't what you'd call pretty, or quiet, and even made some of the portside print papers. Point is, she's not stir-stuck here like she might be if we hadn't been around but off on the longest run she could fit inside the schedule. Seeli's acting as agent-on-the-spot, with Grig to keep her company. I'm on willfly with the Port, and running part-time back-up for the two of them. Cris has a gig with a franchise ship--and the rest of us found some little thing to do off-dirt, so we'll be a scattered crew for the next while. I'll try to keep in touch, Jethri, but--no promises, you know? Be sure I'll zap you the news when the Market lifts out of here. I'm sending this in front of Elthoria's published route; if they keep schedule it'll only be a bit old when you get it.

I'm also sending along a size B shipping crate; lza says you're to have it.

The rest of the circumstance is that I had chance to look over the duty roster for the past few Standards and noticed that you was default on Stinks. Thing is, Stinks carries a pay premium that somehow didn't make it to your account. It's kind of a joke on a per-shift, but I totted up the last five Standards' worth and figured in the interest, and it came out to a nice round number. We all figured you was saving up to buy a ship, Jeth, but who thought you'd finance it out of Stinks?

Paitor's running jobs for Terratrade, and I didn't know how to make the transfer, so that cash is in the crate with the other stuff.

Anyhow, I know you're in the middle of the biggest adventure ever, learning all you can from Master ven'Deelin, so I won't keep you any longer. Think about us sometime; we think about you often. With love,

Khat

He refolded the paper along its creases, and slid it away into the inner pocket of his jacket, in spite of which he didn't immediately rise to his duty. Instead, he stayed where he was, sitting low on his heels, head bent while he blinked the sudden fog of tears away.

Wasn't no cause for crying, he told himself. The ghosts of space witness, Khat's news was slim enough--hardly news at all, really. It was given that his cousins would reach for quick-jobs and temp berths--none of them had been born with mud on their feet. Likewise, he could have foretold that the detail work would fall to Seeli, and that Grig would stand her second. The captain... that was bad news, but almost expectable the way she tended to get a bit wild anytime she was planet-side. Probably there was more to it--and come to think of it, it seemed like there was more to a bunch of stuff than he'd realized.

Still, nothing to cry about in any of that, not with him having the biggest adventure ever.

He cleared his throat, raised his head and stood, pausing for a moment to be sure his face was properly ordered; then moved to his station at Master ven'Deelin's elbow.

 

* * *

 

HIS JOB THIS SHIFT, as it had been last, was to stand next and two steps behind Master ven'Deelin, where he could look and listen and soak up her style of trade and converse. More of that last was available to him than he would've thought, for the customers kept to the trading mode, and after one blank-faced stare at himself, would follow Master ven'Deelin into a more deliberate way of talking, which mostwise fell intelligible on his ear.

He had it as a working theory that a Liaden-born apprentice might likewise stand in need of practice in the trading mode, as it might not have been one they'd necessarily been taught in their growing-up years. With all those modes available between High and Low, surely no one but a lifelong student could be proficient in them all?

Whatever the reason, the customers treated him respectful--treated Master ven'Deelin respectful--and he was learning so much his head was in a fair way to exploding.

"That is well, then," Master ven'Deelin told the present customer--a black-haired man with a diamond drop in his left ear, wearing a jacket so heavy with embroidery that Jethri had to remind himself not to squint in protest. "We shall deliver no later than the third hour of Day Port, two days hence."

"Precisely so, Master Trader," the customer said, his voice quick and light. He held out a counter and a trade-card. Master ven'Deelin received both gravely and slotted them on the wires strung overhead--third one in, for "two day delivery."

"I am hosting a dinner party tomorrow evening, in the Little Hall," she murmured, as she finished with the card and token. "You would honor me by attending."

"Master Trader." The customer bowed, low. "The honor would be mine."

"That is well, then." She inclined her head and the customer moved off, giving up his place to the next in line, a boxy-built lady whose look-out was textile.

"Ah." Master ven'Deelin inclined her head. "This, my apprentice will assist you. Textile is his specialty." She moved her hand, discovering Jethri to the lady, who gave no sign of either pleasure or dismay at being turned over to himself.

Jethri's feelings were all a-spin, though he did his best to maintain a bland and polite expression. He did take a deep breath, to center himself, which might have been too long, since the Master Trader murmured.

"Young Jethri?"

"Yes, Master," he said, and was mortified to hear his voice wobble.

Knees knocking, he stepped up the counter and bowed to the customer.

"Ma'am," he said, painfully slow, and deliberate. "How may I be honored to assist you?"

It were the handlooms the lady was after, which was good news of its kind. Jethri moved up-counter to where the bolts were stowed and pulled down the book. He looked over his shoulder, then, just to be aware how closely Master ven'Deelin was shadowing his work.

To his horror, she was about no such thing, but stood deep in conversation with another customer at the counter; all of her attention on that transaction and none whatsoever on him...

"Forgive me," murmured boxy-built lady. "I regret that my time is limited."

"Certainly, ma'am," Jethri murmured, opening the book on the counter in front of her. "As you can see, we have many fine weavings to choose from..."

For a lady short of time, she showed no disposition to rush her decision. She had him pull this bolt and that, then this again, and that other. With each, he steadied a little, found the words coming more smoothly, remembered the trick--taught by Uncle Paitor--of flipping the end over the top of the bolt, so that he could speak of the underweave and the irregularities born of hand looming.

In the end, the lady bought nothing, though she thanked him for the gifts of his time and expertise. Jethri, shirt damp with exertion, racked the book and ordered the samples, then stepped back to Norn ven'Deelin's side.

Through the course of the shift, he heard her invite no fewer than two dozen traders and merchants to her dinner party. Three more times, she gave him to customers desirous of textile; twice, he scored chip and card, which he triumphantly threaded on the wires he found near the bolts.

And at last, the bell sounded, signaling the end of day-trading. Norn ven'Deelin reached up and turned off the booth light. Jethri closed his eyes and sagged against the bolt rack, head pounding. It was over. He had lived. He had, just maybe, not done anything irrevocably stupid. Now, they would go back to the ship, get out of the dirt, and the noise.

"So," Nom ven'Deelin said brightly, and he heard her clap her palms gently together. "Do me the honor of bearing me company on a stroll, Jethri Gobelyn. We shall amaze Tilene-port!"

He opened his eyes and looked at her, meeting bright black eyes. There was something in the way she stood, or maybe in the set of her face, that conveyed itself as a challenge. Jethri ground his teeth, straightened out of his lean and squared his shoulders, despite the holler put up by his back muscles.

"Yes, ma'am," he said, and bowed obedience to the Master Trader's word.

 

* * *

 

The walk was leisurely, and they stopped often to acknowledge the bows of Master ven'Deelin's numerous acquaintances, who every one stared at him like he was the four-headed calf from Venturis. Jethri sighed behind his mask of bland politeness. You'd think he'd be used to the stares by now, but someway every new one scraped a little deeper, hurt a little more.

Otherwise, the stroll was a better idea than he'd thought. Tilene's gravity was a hair less than ship's grav, which he'd at last gotten used to. And the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other seemed enough to ease the ache in his head, and smooth the kinks out of his spine.

Master ven'Deelin paused to receive a particularly low bow, augmented by the hand-sign for "greatest esteem" from a red-haired woman in upscale trading clothes.

"Bendara Tiazan," Master ven'Deelin inclined her head. "Allow me to be delighted to see you! You must dine with me upon the morrow."

The redhead straightened. Her eyes showed a little stretch, but give her credit, Jethri thought sourly, she didn't stare at him--her whole attention was on Norn ven'Deelin. "I am honored, Master Trader," she said, in the mode of junior to senior.

Again, Master ven'Deelin inclined her head. "Until tomorrow, Bendara Tiazan."

"Until tomorrow, Master Trader," the redhead murmured, and bowed herself out of the way. Master ven'Deelin continued her stately process, Jethri keeping pace, just behind her left elbow. "So, Jethri Gobelyn," she murmured as they passed out of the red-haired trader's hearing. "What do you deduce from our guest list so far?"

He blinked, thinking back over those she had pressed to dine with her tomorrow.

"Ma'am, I scarcely know who these traders are," he said carefully. "But I wonder at the number of them. It seems less like a dinner and more like a--" he coped for the proper word. After a moment, he decided that it wasn't in his Liaden repertoire and substituted a ship-term, "shivary."

"Hah." She glanced at him, black eyes gleaming. "You will perhaps find our poor entertainment to be a disappointment. I make no doubt that there will be dancing until dawn, nor no more than two or three visits from the proctors, bearing requests for silence."

He grappled the laugh back down deep into his chest and inclined his head solemnly. "Of course not, ma'am."

"Ah, Jethri Gobelyn, where is your address?" she said surprisingly. "A silver-tongue would grasp this opportunity to assure me that nothing I or mine might do could ever disappoint."

Jethri paused, looking down into her black eyes, which showed him nothing but tiny twin reflections of his own serious face. Was she pulling his leg? Or had he just failed a test? He licked his lips. "I suppose," he said, slowly, "that I must not be a silver-tongue, ma'am."

Her face did not change, but she did put out a hand to pat him, lightly, on the ann. "That you are not, child. That you are not."

They moved on, Jethri trying to work out how to ask if being a silver-tongue was a good thing--and if it was how to go about learning the skill--without sounding a total fool. Meanwhile, Master ven'Deelin took the bows of three more traders of varying ranks, as Jethri read their clothing, and invited each to dine with her upon the morrow. If she kept at her current pace, he thought, they'd have to empty the trade theater itself to accommodate the crowd.

They strolled further down the flowered promenade. There were fewer people about now, and Master ven'Deelin picked up the pace a bit, so Jethri needed to stretch his legs to keep up. Ahead, the walkway split into three, the center portion rising into an arch, the others going off at angles to the right and left. Somewhere nearby was the sound of water running, enormous amounts of water, it must be, from the racket it was making, and the air was starting to feel unpleasantly soggy.

Jethri frowned, maybe lagging a little from his appointed spot at Master ven'Deelin's elbow, trying to bear down on the feeling that he was breathing water, which was by no means a good thing...

From the left hand path came voices, followed quickly by three top-drawer traders: A woman, star blond and narrow in the face, flanked by two young men--one as fair and as narrow as she and the other taller, with hair of a darker gold, his face somewhat rounder, and his eyes a trifle a-squint, as if he had a headache.

With a start, Jethri recognized his friend of the utility corridor, who had been so patient and understanding in the matter of bows. His first notion was to break into a fool-wide gin and rush forward to grab the man by the shoulders in a proper spacer greeting--which would never do, naturally, besides being one of the three top ways, if Arms Master sig'Kethra was to be believed, to take delivery of a knife between the ribs.

Still, if it would be rude to give way to the full scope of his feelings, he could at least give Tan Sim pen'Akla the honor of a proper bow.

Jethri placed himself before the threesome, and paused, awaiting their attention. The woman saw him first, her pale narrow brows plunging into a frown, but he cared not for her. He looked over her shoulder, made eye contact with Tan Sim and swept the bow of greeting the other had shown him, supplemented with the gesture that meant "joy."

He quickly realized he should have gone with his initial notion.

The fair, narrow young man shouted something beyond Jethri's current lexicon, his hand slapping at his belt, which gesture he understood all too nicely. He fell back a step, looking for a leap-to, when Tan Sim jumped instead, knocking the other's hand aside, with a sharp, "Have done! Will you harm the ven'Deelin's own apprentice?"

"You!" The other shouted. "You saw how he bowed to you! If you had the least bit of proper feeling--"

Oh. Jethri felt his stomach sink to the soles of his boots. He had botched it. Badly.

Stepping forward, he bowed again--this a simple bow of contrition.

"Please forgive me if my bow offended," he said, speaking in the mode of junior to senior, which had to be right, no matter which of the three chose to hear him. "Master Tan Sim himself is aware that I am ...less conversant with bows than I would be. My only thought was to honor one who had given me kindness and fellowship. I regret that my error has caused distress."

"It speaks Liaden, of a fashion," the woman said, apparently to her sons, Jethri thought, but meaning for him to hear and take damage from it.

"He speaks Liaden right well for one new come to it," Tan Sim returned, heatedly. "And shows an adult's melant'i, as well. I taught him that bow myself--which he does not tell you, preferring to take all blame to himself."

"Speak soft to my mother, half-clan!" The pale young man jerked his arm out of Tan Sim's grip and spun, palm rising, his intent plain. Jethri jumped forward, arm up, intercepted the man's slap at the wrist, and grabbed hold just tight enough to get the message across.

"Here now!" he said in Terran, sounding remarkably like Cris, to his own ears. "None of that."

"Unhand me!" shouted the man, trying, unsuccessfully, to pull his wrist free, and "Call the proctors!"

"No need for proctors, young chel'Gaibin," Master ven'Deelin's voice was shockingly cool in that heated moment. "Jethri, of your goodness, return to Lord chel'Gaibin the use of his arm."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, and did as she asked, though he stayed close, in the event the lordship took it into his head to swing out at Tan Sim again.

He needn't have worried; all eyes were on Master ven'Deelin, who stood calm and unworried, her hands tucked in her belt, considering the other trader.

"Norn ven'Deelin," the woman said at last, and it didn't sound respectful at all.

The master trader inclined her head. "Infreya chel'Gaibin. It has been some years since we last spoke. I trust I find you well."

"You find me insulted and assaulted, Master Trader. I will have Balance for the harm done."

Master ven'Deelin tipped her head. "Harm? Has the heir's sleeve been crushed?"

Infreya chel'Gaibin glared. "You may put the assault of an unregulated Terran upon a registered guildsman no higher than amusing, if it pleases you. I assure you that the guild and the port will take a far different view."

"And yet," Master ven'Deelin murmured. "Jethri is hardly unregulated. He stands as my apprentice--"

"Oh, very good!" chel'Gaibin interrupted. "Apprentice lays hands upon a trader while the master stands by and smiles!"

"...and my son," Master ven'Deelin finished calmly. Jethri bit his lip, hard, and concentrated on keeping his face empty of emotion. He darted a quick look at Tan Sim, but found that young man standing at his ease, watching the proceedings with interest but no apparent dismay.

"Your son!" Apparently Trader chel'Gaibin wasn't convinced, for which Jethri blamed her not at all.

Master ven'Deelin swept a languid hand in the general direction of Tan Sim. "As much mine as that one is yours." She tipped an eyebrow. "But come, you wished satisfaction for insult and assault. We may settle that between us now, you and I."

Trader chel'Gaibin licked her lips and though she seemed to Jethri a woman unlikely to back down in a tight spot, there was something to the cast of her shoulders that strongly suggested she was looking for a way out of this one.

Behind her, Tan Sim shifted, drawing all eyes to himself. "Mother, surely there is no insult here? Jethri bowed as I had taught him, and when he saw one who was to him a stranger threaten one with whom he has had honorable dealings, he acted to nullify the threat--and most gently, too!"

"Gently!" spat the other man. Tan Sim turned wondering eyes his way.

"Never tell me he bruised you, brother! A mere halfling? Surely--"

"This must be the Terran, Mother!" Lord chel'Gaibin interrupted excitedly, turning his back on his brother. "Recall that it was a Terran off of Elthoria who began the brawl at Kailipso--"

"Enough," the woman snapped. She stood silent for a moment, staring, none-too-pleasantly, at Tan Sim. Jethri felt his chest tighten in sympathy: Exactly did Iza Gobelyn stare just before she cut loose of mayhem and brought a body to wishing he'd been born to another ship, if at all.

Composing her face, she turned back to Master ven'Deelin and inclined her head, grudging-like. "Very well. My son speaks eloquently in defense of yours, Master Trader. We are to see nothing more than halfling high spirits--and a misunderstanding of custom."

"It would seem indeed to be the case," Master ven'Deelin said calmly; "and no cause for experienced traders such as ourselves to be calling for Balance. Well we know what halflings are." Her eyes moved to Tan Sim, and she inclined her head gently. "Young pen'Akla."

Tan Sim's eyes widened and he bowed low with graceful haste. "Master ven'Deelin."

"Enough!" Tan Sim's mother snapped again. She turned her glare on the master trader and gave a bare dip of the head.

"Master Trader. Good evening." She didn't wait for a return bow--maybe, Jethri thought, because she knew she didn't rate one. Turning, she gathered her boys by eye, and stalked off.

When they were alone, Jethri turned and bowed, very low and very careful--and held it, eyes pointing at the toes of his boots.

Above him, he heard Master ven'Deelin sigh.

"In all truth, young Jethri, you have a knack. How came you by chel'Gaibin's Folly?"

Bent double, he blinked. "Ma'am?"

"Stand up, child," she interrupted and, when he had, said, "Tan Sim pen'Akla. How came you to his attention?"

Jethri cleared his throat. "I was--practicing my bows in the service corridor and he came upon me. He was most k-kind and helpful, ma'am, and when I said that I was in his debt, he declared no such thing. So then I thought to ask how I should bow to him, if we were to meet again, and he showed me thus--"

He performed the thing--and heard Master ven'Deelin sigh once more.

"Yes, of course. Well he might yearn to receive such a bow--" She moved a hand, eloquent of exasperation.

"Young things. All is anguish and high drama." She turned her head; a moment later Jethri heard it too--voices approaching down the right hand way.

"Come along, young Jethri. Our evening has just become full."

Obediently, he took his place at her elbow, and they moved on. But for themselves, the promenade was empty and Jethri cleared his throat.

"Please, ma'am. I am not really--really your son."

"Indeed you are; did you not hear me say it? Surely, a momentous occasion for us both. We return now to our ship to discuss the matter in more detail. Until then, I ask that you to repose in silence. I have thoughts to think."

Jethri bit his lip. "Yes ma'am," he whispered.

 

 

Day 106
Standard Year 1118
Elthoria

 

"You know too little of our customs." Master ven'Deelin folded her hands on her desk and considered him out of her sharp black eyes. "Indeed, how could it be otherwise? Similarly, you are ignorant of the--histories that may lie between clans and the children of clans. The child of a Terran trade vessel has no need to know these things. And I--foolishly, I thought we might separate trade from clan. Pah! Trade and culture are twined more deeply than I had wished to understand. And now we are together caught in the nets of culture, and a child of ven'Deelin may not be a fool."

Jethri shifted miserably in the chair across from her. "Ma'am, I'm not a child of ven'Deelin--" She held up a hand, and he swallowed the rest of his protest.

"Peace. The tale unfolds. Listen, and cultivate patience. They are two skills which serve every trader well."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, folding his hands tightly on his knee and pressing his lips together. After a moment, she lowered her hand and continued.

"A child of ven'Deelin must need know both history and custom. We commence your education now, with excerpts of both."

"First, custom. It is Law that each member of each clan shall marry as the clan instructs, to produce children for the clan and also to seal and cement what alliances the clan may require in order to prosper. I have myself been contracted twice; once in order that the clan should have my heir to replace me as Ixin's master of trade, in due time. Again, to seal the peace between Ixin and Aragon; the child of that contract of course went to Aragon. So it is with most of us; some may be required to marry but once, some several times. Some few unfortunates discover themselves to be the perfect halves of a wizard's match--but those matings need not concern us here.

"Here, we discuss contract marriage and the fact that Infreya chel'Gaibin--a dutiful daughter of Clan Rinork--did some twenty-five Standards gone marry as her delm instructed, the fruit of that union being Bar Jen chel'Gaibin, her heir.

"Six Standards later, she married again, somewhat behind the fact as it is said and counted, into Clan Quiptic--a House of the lower mid-tier." Once more she held up her hand, though Jethri hadn't made a sound.

"I know that this will seem odd to you, Rinork being, as it is, so very High, but there were reasons beyond the fact that she was already pregnant by the time the thing was arranged, and by none other than Quiptic Himself. A very young delm he was, and not by any means stupid. But Infreya was a beauty in her youth and his mother had died before tutoring him sufficiently in all the faces that treachery might wear.

"In any case, the child--young Tan Sim--went to Quiptic, and Quiptic's mines went to Rinork, in settlement of the contract fees." She paused, eyes closed, then shifted sharply in her chair, as if annoyed with herself, and continued.

"The loss of the mines was very close to a mortal blow in itself, but as I said, the young delm was no fool. With the leverage he gained from his alliance with Rinork, he thought to win certain short term--but decisive!--advantages in several trades. Very nearly, he brought Quiptic about. In the end, alas, it was a quirk of the Exchange which pushed the blade home. The clan was dissolved; the young delm hung himself. Infreya petitioned Rinork and received permission to adopt Tan Sim pen'Akla, who might well have one day been Quiptic Himself, as a child of the clan alone." She moved her shoulders.

"So, that tale. You may consider it located here, if your stories need locations. The other story you need to hear takes place at a tavern in far Solcintra Port, where one For Don chel'Gaibin cheated a certain young trader at a game of cards. The trader, understanding that the play had been underhanded, called his lordship to answer her on the field of honor." She sighed. "Young things. All is anguish and high drama. I doubt it ever occurred to her to call the games master and ask that he set the thing right, though she thought it many a time, after. No, it must be a duel. For Don, who was a fool besides being many years the trader's senior, accepted the challenge and chose pistols at twenty-four paces. They met at the appointed place, at dawn, their seconds in train. The duel itself was over in a matter of moments. The young trader had killed her man." She looked at Jethri, and there was nothing that he could read on her smooth, golden face.

"Depend upon it, Ixin was displeased. As was Rinork, of course. How they roared for Balance, though the witnesses to a soul swore it was fairly done and For Don the favorite for the victor--as the tavern wager book clearly showed! Well, you have seen how it is with Rinork and Balance. In any wise, nothing was owed and the price was met. Ixin sent me on the long route, to learn, as she would have it, common sense. By the time I returned to Liad, there were new scandals to occupy the gossips, and Rinork and Ixin had agreed not to meet. This evening was the first time we have done so, in more than three dozen Standards." She inclined her head, possibly ironic.

"All hail to you, young Jethri."

Jethri blinked, trying to picture a young Norn ven'Deelin, alone with her pistol in the dawn, facing down a man older and more skilled than she...

"Oh, aye," Master ven'Deelin said, as if reading his mind--though more likely, Jethri thought, it had been his unguarded face--"I was a sad rogue in my youth. But there--a mother has no secrets from her son.

Right. Jethri frowned at her. "If you please, Master Trader, how am I now your son?"

"Because I had told Rinork so, child--else their Balance would have been worth your life. An 'unregulated Terran', 'prenticed to ven'Deelin or no, is nothing to give a Rinork pause in a rage." She moved a hand, showing him the litter of papers on her desk.

"When I and your true-kin wrote contract, it was with the best interest of the trade in our minds. I contracted to teach you the art, as well as a certain understanding of matters Liaden--this to improve and facilitate the trade, which is the duty of a master trader. Nowhere was it intended that you should take your death of this, Jethri Gobelyn. Forgive me, but, should you die, there will be damage dealt to more than those who value you for yourself. Pray bear this in mind the next time you befriend strangers in back hallways."

Jethri felt his ears heat. This whole mess was his fault, right enough...

"Have you other questions?" Norm ven'Deelin's voice cut through the thought.

Other questions? Only dozens. He shook his head helplessly, and chose one at random.

"Why did she--did Trader chel'Gaibin adopt Tan Sim? I mean, if the only reason her clan--"

"Rinork," said Master ven'Deelin.

He nodded impatiently. "Rinork--if the only reason Rinork started the kid in the first place was to trap Quiptic and steal his mines, then why did she care what happened to him?"

There was a small pause, during which Master ven'Deelin took some care about arranging the way her fingers nested against each other as she folded her hands together.

"An excellent question, young Jethri. I have often wondered the same. Perhaps it was merely self-preservation; if the child were left to be absorbed by whatever clan might take him, questions would possibly arise regarding the contract which had produced him, and whether certain parties could have been said to be acting in good faith.

"Or, perhaps, she could not bear to see of her blood--even half-blooded--slide away into obscurity. They have a great deal of self-worth, Rinork." She moved her shoulders. "In the end, why does not matter. The boy was brought into the house of his mother and has been given an education and a place in the clan's business. I find him to be a young trader of note, in his talents far superior to the honorable chel'Gaibin heir." As careful as she had been in their folding, she unfolded her hands all at once, and put them palm-flat against the desk.

"It is late and tomorrow we trade early and shivary to meet the dawn, eh? As my fostered son, you will stand at my side and be made known to all. You will wear this--" She extended a hand; something gleamed silver between her fingers. Jethri leaned forward and took the small token: The Clan Ixin moon-and-rabbit, cast in--he weighed the thing thoughtfully in his hand--platinum, with a punch pin welded to the back.

"You will honor me by wearing that at all times," Norn ven'Deelin said, pushing herself to her feet, "so that all will know you for one of kin.

"In keeping with your new status, your course of study will be accelerated and broadened." Suddenly, amazingly, she smiled.

"We will make a Liaden from you yet, young Jethri."

 

 

Day 107
Standard Year 1118
Elthoria and Tilene

 

He hit the bunk with half his sleep-shift behind him, closed his eyes, touched sleep--and dropped it as the wake-up chime dinned.

"Mud," he muttered, pushing himself upright and blinking blearily at the clock across the room. It displayed a time more than an hour in advance of his usual wake-up.

"Mud, dirt, dust and pollen!" he expanded, and swung his feet over the edge, meaning to go over and slap the buzzer off, then get himself another hour's snooze.

He was halfway across the cabin on this mission when his eye caught the amber glow over his inbox. Frowning, bleary and bad-tempered, he changed course, and scooped a short handful of ship's flimsies out of the bin.

The top sheet was his amended schedule for the day, by which he saw he was presently in danger of being late for a "security meeting" with Pen Rel. He'd been late for a meeting with Pen Rel once, and had no ambition to repeat the experience. That being the case, he did turnabout and headed for the 'fresher, sorting pages as he went.

The second flimsy was from Cargo Master Gar Sad per'Etla, informing him that a crate had arrived and been placed in his personal bin. He nodded; that would be Khat's B crate. He'd need to check that out soon, if he could pry five personal minutes between lessons and trade.

The third flimsy was from Norn ven'Deelin and that one stopped him cold.

Greetings to you, my son. I trust that the new day finds you in health and high spirits. Pray bestow the gift of your presence upon me immediately you conclude your business with Arms Master sig'Kethra. We shall break our fast together and tell over the anticipated joys of the day.

Jethri rubbed his head. She was taking this mother-and-son thing serious, he thought and then sighed. After all, it was a matter of keeping her word. In a sense--no, he thought, mouth suddenly dry--in fact she had given him her name. And she'd expect him to set the same value on that priceless commodity as she did herself.

"Mud," he whispered. "Oh, mud and dust, Jethri Gobelyn, what've you got yourself into?"

 

* * *

 

"As you have no doubt learned from your study of our route, we remain at Tilene for five more days. At the end of that time, we shall set course for Modrid, and thence the inner worlds, which, as you will readily perceive, is a change of schedule."

Jethri stifled a yawn and sipped his morning tea. There was caffeine present in the beverage, true enough, but he found himself wishing after a cup of true coffee--aye, and maybe a mug o'mite too.

"You are disinterested," the master trader said softly, "and yet it is solely for the benefit of yourself that we alter our itinerary."

Soft it was said, yet it hit the ear hard. Jethri put his cup down, and looked at her. "You do not approve?" she asked, face bland.

He took a breath, wishing he felt more awake. "Ma'am, it's only that I wonder why the ship's route needs to be changed on my account."

"An excellent question." She spread jam on her roll and took a bite. Jethri looked down at his plate, picked up a roll and tore it in half, releasing the scent of warm, fresh bread.

"It is understood that a son of ven'Deelin will need training which is not available to those of one ship, on a trade tour of the far outworlds. Thus, we plot a course nearer to the centers of civilization, where you may receive those things which you lack. You will, also, I hope, benefit by observing a different style of trade than that which is practiced along the edge." She picked up her teacup.

Roll forgotten in his hand, Jethri sat, thinking back on names and honor and Balance, and on his deficiencies as so far discovered. He cleared his throat.

"Ma'am," he said slowly, feeling his way around phrasing that she might find disrespectful of her honor. "I've been thinking and it--I don't think that I would be a--an exemplary son. Not," he amended quickly, as her eyebrows lifted quizzically, "that I wouldn't do my best, but--I wouldn't want to dishonor you, ma'am."

"Ah." She put her cup down and inclined her head. "Your concern speaks well of you. However, I know that it is not possible for you to dishonor me. I know you for a person of melant'i, whose every instinct is honorable. I repose the utmost confidence in you, my child, and I am at peace, knowing that you hold my name in your hands."

Jethri's stomach dropped, even as his eyes filled with tears. "Ma'am..."

She held up a hand. "Another way, then. Say that the dice have been cast--there is a similar saying in Terran, is there not? So. We play the game through."

Except that her good name was nothing like a game, Jethri thought--and he knew so little. "Yes, ma'am," he said, trying not to sound as miserable as he felt.

"Good. Now, while we are in the mode of change--you will find your duty cycle has likewise changed. You will spend tomorrow and the following four days assisting Cargo Master per'Etla with the pods. It is mete that you have an understanding of the intricacies of the cargo master's art."

As it happened, he had a pretty good understanding of the cargo master's art, the Market not exactly shipping a cargo master. He remembered sitting next to his father, staring in fascination while Arin worked out the logistics of mass and spin. Come to that, neither Paitor nor Grig was likely to have let him get away without knowing how to balance a pod. Granted, Elthoria could probably ship all Market's pods in one of hers, but the art of the thing ought to be constant.

Jethri cleared his throat. "I have had some training in this area, Master Trader," he said, hoping he had the right mix of polite and assured.

"Ah, excellent!" she said, spreading jam over the second half of her roll. "Then you will be more of a help than a hindrance to my good friend per'Etla."

Somehow, Jethri thought, that didn't sound as encouraging as it might have. He glanced down at the roll in his hand, and reached for the jam pot.

"I have some news from the Guild which you may find of interest," Norn ven'Deelin murmured. Jethri glanced up from spreading jam. "Ma'am?"

"Another game of counterfeit cards has been exposed and closed, this at the port of Riindel."

He blinked, at a loss for a heartbeat, then memory caught up with him. "They weren't using your card, ma'am, were they?"

"Our card, my son. But no--you may put any fear of a taint to our melant'i aside. Those at Riindel had chosen to honor Ziergord with their attention."

Whoever Ziergord was. Jethri inclined his head. "I'm glad the wrongdoers were caught," he said, which had the advantage of being both true and unlikely to be found an improper response. "Surely any others who have been tempted will see that the ...game... is dangerous and refuse to play."

There was a small silence. "Indeed, perhaps they will," Master ven'Deelin said politely.

Too politely, to Jethri's ear. He looked up, questioning, only to be met with a smile and a small movement of her hand.

"Eat your breakfast, my son," she murmured. "It will not do to be late to trade."

 

* * *

 

Business was brisk at the booth, with merchant folk and traders lined up to have a word of business with Master ven'Deelin. As near as Jethri could tell, every last one of them was invited to "dinner"-not that he had all that much time to eavesdrop, being busy with customers of his own.

Today, the textile was of interest. Over and over, he showed his samples, and gave his speech about hand looming and plant dyes. Occasionally he caught what was--he thought--a careful glance at his new pin, claiming him of Ixin. Yet it was not curiosity which drew these people, it was the trade, and he reveled in it. Often enough, the client left him with a counter and a trade-card, which he took great care to keep paired and ordered on the wire above his station.

He hung the last pair up and looked down, face arranged politely, to greet the next in line--and froze.

Before him stood Bar Jan chel'Gaibin, hands tucked into his sleeves and a gleam in his pale eyes that reminded Jethri forcibly of Mac Gold in a mood for a brawl.

Casually, the Liaden inclined his head. "Good day to you, son of ven'Deelin. I bring you tidings of your friend, Tan Sim pen'Akla, who has been sent to make his way along the tertiary trade lanes, for the best good of the clan." He inclined his head again, snarky-like, daring Jethri to hit him. "I thought you might find the news of interest."

Teeth grinding, face so bland his cheeks hurt, Jethri inclined his head--not far.

"One is always grateful for news of friends," he said, which was about as far as he could trust his voice with Tan Sim thrown off his ship in sacrifice of this man's spite...

chel'Gaibin lifted his eyebrows. "Just so," he said softly, and with no further courtesy turned his back and walked away.

In the momentary absence of customers, Jethri let his breath out in a short, pungent Terran phrase, and turned his attention to the samples, which were sorely in need of order.

"Young Jethri," Master ven'Deelin said some while later, during a lull in the business. "I wonder if you might enlighten me as to a certain Terran--I assume it is Terran--phrase that I have recently heard." Ears warming, he turned to look at her. "I will do my best, ma'am."

"Certainly, when have you ever failed at that? I confess myself quite terrified of you--but, there, I will give over teasing you and only ask: This word sobe. What is its meaning?"

He blinked. "Sobe? I do not think..."

"Sobe," Master ven'Deelin interrupted. "I am certain that was the word. Perhaps it was directed at the departing back of a certain young trader. Yes, that is where I heard it! 'You sobe,' was the very phrase."

"Oh." His ears were hot now, and well on the way to spontaneous combustion. "That would, um, denote a person of--who has no manners, ma'am."

"Ah, is it so?" She tipped her head, as if considering the merit of his answer. "Yes, the particular young trader--it could perhaps be said that his manner wants polish. A useful word, my son; I thank you for making it known to me."

"Yes ma'am. Um." He cleared his throat. "I note that it is not... a courteous word."

"Understood. In the High Tongue, we say, 'thus-and-so has no melant'i.' It is not a statement made lightly."

''No, ma'am."

She reached out and patted him on the arm. "We shall speak of these matters at greater length. In the meanwhile, I have extinguished the light for an hour. Pray do me the kindness of seeking out the booth of Clan Etgora--it will be the glass and star on the flag--and say to my old friend del'Fordan that it would ease my heart greatly to behold his face, and that he must, of his kindness, dine with us this evening. Eh? After that, you may find yourself something to eat. If I am not here when you return, light the lamp and do your part. Any who have need of me will wait a few moments." She cocked her head. "Is that understood, young Jethri?"

He bowed. "Master Trader, it is."

"Hah." Once more, she patted his arm. "We must teach you, 'obedience to an elder.' Go now, and take my message to del'Fordan."

 

* * *

 

The trade lamp was still out when he returned to the booth, just under an hour later. Despite this, there were two lines of traders waiting patiently, a long line on the Master Trader's side; and a much shorter on his.

Jethri hurried forward, reached up and turned the key, waiting until the disk glowed blue before he ducked under the counter and pulled back the curtain. He ran a quick eye over his samples, then bowed to his first prospect.

"Good-day to you, sir. May I be honored to bring your attention to these examples of the textile maker's art?"

He was deep into his third presentation when Master ven'Deelin arrived, took her place and began to trade. It seemed to him, even from his side of the booth, that her cadence and attention were off a bit, as if she were bothered by a bad stomach or headache or other ill.

It was some hours before there was a lull sufficient for him to ask her if something was wrong.

"Wrong?" She moved her shoulders. "Perhaps not--surely not." Her mouth tightened and she looked aside and he thought she would say no more, but after a moment she sighed and murmured.

"You surprise, Jethri my son. It is nothing so definite as wrong--but there, you have a proper trader's eye for detail, and a sense of the rhythm of trade...." She moved a hand, fingers flicking as if she cast that line of chat aside.

"It came to me," she said softly, reaching to the counter to straighten a display book that didn't need it, "that perhaps a certain practice--which is not, you understand, entirely against guild rule--had lately surfaced upon Tilene. So, I betook myself to the Trade Bar to learn if this was the case."

Jethri looked at her, feeling a little chilly, of a sudden.

Master ven'Deelin moved her shoulders. "Well, and it is not entirely against guild rule, as I said. Merely, it is a measure found ...inefficient... and not clearly to the best interest of the trade." It seemed to Jethri that she sagged--and then straightened, shoulders thrown back with a will and a sparkle showing hard in her black eyes.

"Well, it is not ours, and never was. I had thought to meddle, but, there--the thing is done."

"But--" said Jethri, but just then a customer came up to his side of the booth, and he had no more chance to talk to Norn ven'Deelin for the rest of the long, busy day.

 

 

Day 107

Standard Year 1118

Elthoria and Tilene

 

Master tel'Ondor bowed, low and extravagant, Honor to a Lord Not One's Own, or so it read to Jethri, who was in no mood to be tweaked, tutor or no. His head ached from a long day on the floor, the spanking new shirt with its lacy cuffs foretold disasters involving sauces and jellies across its brilliant white field. And now he was here to learn the way to go on at an intimate dinner for two hundred of Master ven'Deelin's closest friends--all in the next twelve minutes.

Curtly, he answered the Protocol Officer's bow--nothing more than the sharpest and starkest of bows, straightening to glare straight into the man's eyes.

Master tel'Ondor outright laughed.

"Precisely!" he crowed, and held his hand out, fingers smoothing the air in the gesture that roughly meant "peace."

"Truly, young Jethri, I am all admiration. -shall impertinence be answered-and yes, I was impertinent. Some you may meet--at this gather this evening, or at other times--some may wish to dazzle you, some may wish to take advantage. You would do well to answer them all so--a ven'Deelin born would do no less."

Jethri considered him. "And what about those who merely wish to establish a proper mode?"

"Ah, excellent." Master tel'Ondor's eyes gleamed. "It will perhaps be done thus--" The bow between equals, that was. "Or this--" Child of the House of an Ally. "Or even--" Senior Trader to Junior. "Anything more ...elaborate, we shall say, may be viewed with the sharpest suspicion. I leave to you to decide--as I see your intuition is sound--the scope of your answers there."

Jethri closed his eyes. "Master tel'Ondor..."

"Yes, yes! You are to learn the entire mode of High House fosterling in the next eight heartbeats, eh? I will be plain with you, young Jethri--neither your skills nor mine are sufficient to meet this challenge. Demonstrate, if you please, your bow of introduction--yes. And of farewell? ...adequate. Once more--yes. Now--of obedience?"

Jethri complied and heard the protocol officer sigh.

But: "It will suffice," Master tel'Ondor said, and moved his hands, shooing Jethri toward the door. "Go. Contrive not to shame me."

Jethri grinned and inclined his head. "Good evening, sir."

"Bah," said Master tel'Ondor.

 

* * *

 

He needn't have worried about ruining his pretty new shirt with sauce stains or soup spots. It soon became clear that, while Master ven'Deelin expected her guests to eat--and eat well--from the buffet spread along three of four walls of the so-called Little Hall, she herself--with him a shadow attached to her left elbow--prowled the room, with the apparent intent of speaking with everyone present.

She did supply herself with a glass of wine, and insisted that he do the same, with instructions to sip when she did, then slipped into the crowd, where her headway went down to a step or two at a time, in between bows and conversation.

Jethri found the conversation singularly frustrating; spoken wholly in modes other than the mercantile, and much more rapidly than his half-trained ear could accommodate.

The exception to this was the beginning of every exchange, in which he was brought a step forward by a soft hand on his arm. "One's foster child, Jethri," Master ven'Deelin would say, and he would make his plain bow of greeting. Then she would make him known to the person she was speaking with, who, almost without exception bowed as to the child of an ally.

He would then repeat their name, with a polite dip of the head, and the talk would jet over his head in a poetry of alien syllables.

A word or two here and there--he did catch those. Sometimes, a whole phrase unrolled inside his ears. Rarely enough to help him piece together the full sense of the conversation. He did find time to be glad that the default mode for facial expression was bland; at least he didn't have to pretend to be interested in what he couldn't understand. And he used his idle time to consider the scale and scope of the 'dinner party,' trying to figure what the point of it might be.

A gathering less like a common spacer's shivary would be hard to find, he thought. Where there'd be music and singing and boozing and smooching at a shivary, here there was the music of many different and low-key conversations. While everyone he could see had a wine glass in one hand, nobody seemed drunk, or even boisterous. And if there was any smooching going on... Well, frankly, he'd come to wonder how it was that any new Liadens got made.

"Good evening," a soft voice purred in his ear. Trade had never sounded so pretty, and Jethri jerked around and looked down, meeting a melting pair of gray eyes set at a slight angle in a heart-shaped golden face, framed by wispy gilt hair.

"Good ...evening," he managed and bowed the bow of introduction. "Jethri Gobelyn. In what way may I serve you, ma'am?"

Her lips curved in a tightly controlled smile. "Parvet sig'Flava. I had in mind a way in which we might each serve the other, if you are of like mind. The evening grows tedious and I would welcome a ...diversion... such as yourself." She swayed half a step forward, her melting gray gaze never leaving his face.

Jethri jumped back, ears burning. He'd just been propositioned for bed duty, or all Dyk's tales and teasing was for naught. That everything he knew on the subject was from tales and health tapes was due again to being juniormost. None of his cousins had wanted to bed the baby...

"Come," Parvet sig'Flava murmured--and he thought her voice was a little slurred, like maybe this wasn't her first, or even her third, glass of wine on the evening. "My ship departs within the two-day, and shall, regrettably, miss Tilene's Festival. So," she leaned toward him, her pretty face upturned to him like one of the flowers that Gaenor so missed from her home.

"So," she said again, "since we will be denied the opportunity to meet in the park, perhaps we may embrace Festival a few days early. Perhaps we might rent us an hour-room and have joy of each other before dawn calls us each to our duty."

"Ma'am, I--that is--"

"That is," Norn ven'Deelin's voice cut in over his stammer, and very firmly, too, "that this my son is needed at his station this evening, though he thanks you most sincerely for your offer."

"Indeed," Jethri gabbed at his lagging wits and inclined his head, very respectful. "I am flattered, ma'am, but duty calls."

She looked at him, gray eyes unreadable, then bowed, senior to junior, which was right enough, Jethri thought bitterly, though making him even more aware of the potential gifts she'd had on offer. "I understand. Fair profit." She bowed then to Norn ven'Deelin, trader to master.

"Master Trader," she murmured and faded away into the crowd.

Ears on fire, and uneasily aware of the blood pounding in his veins. Jethri turned to face Norn ven'Deelin.

"Truly, young Jethri," she said softly, "you have a knack. No one less than the sig'Flava wishes to attach you. Indeed, you are a paragon." She moved her hand, inviting him to walk with her.

"Attend me, now. Later, we will speak of Festival and...those other... lessons which you may require."

"Yes, Master Trader," he murmured, feeling four kinds of fool, and not quite able to make up his mind whether he was more grateful to her for the rescue or aggravated with himself for needing one.

She patted his arm. "Softly, child," she said, and then used her chin to point out a certain black-haired gentleman in the crowd. "Look, there is del'Fordan's heir. We must make you known to him."

 

 

Day 108
Standard Year 1118
Tilene Docks

 

Scheduled to meet Cargo Master per'Etla on the stroke of the shift-change, Pen Rel and Jethri arrived a dozen ticks or more before time--unusual, Pen Rel being a man who valued punctuality.

The unusual was explained soon enough, as, Jethri at his shoulder, Pen Rel inspected the dockside security cameras and checked the duty clerk's roster of scheduled deliveries. After that was done, there was still some time left over to wait.

Together, they leaned on the waist-high boundary wall, Jethri trying not to yawn.

Tilene's docks, like many world-side docks, were covered topside against the outside elements with sealable domes and great sliding panels. Unlike worlds where the ambient temperature or atmosphere was downright noxious, Tilene's docks were an integral part of the city, with portions of local roads and transit lines running through at odd heights.

As Pen Rel explained it, pointing here and there to make his points, the expanse of stained 'crete they stood on--currently crowded with modular bins destined for transshipment in Elthoria's pods--was just a wide spot in an industrial ribbon that extended across the continent in both directions, being part of a celebrated world-spanning planned city. The tremble beneath them was not from starship generators but from the flow of traffic tunneled beneath the floor they stood on; the overhead transit sets joined them to flow as an artery across mountain, farm, and plains.

The wonder of it all was somewhat lost on Jethri, who didn't much care how Grounders got from place to place, though he did try to pay attention. Knowing Pen Rel, there'd be a test--and when he least expected it, too.

A low groan came from overhead. Jethri glanced upward, and saw the dome in motion, beyond it an empty and horrifying blue-green sky. Stomach churning, he started to look away, but a sudden glitter in the high air caught his gaze.

"ware!" he yelled, jerking right out of the lean. Grabbing Pen Rel's arm, he spun toward Elthoria's ramp.

"Hold!" His own arm was gripped, none too gently. "It is merely water!"

Perforce, he froze, heart pounding, and in a few moments there came a massive splash as the falling sheets met the 'crete a pod's length away, and settled into a fading mist. Pen Rel released his arm.

"It must have rained overnight," he said, shockingly calm. "The water would have collected in the guide channels." As if it explained everything. Clearly he was not concerned, and probably thought Jethri an idiot, though, as usual, he didn't say so.

From the edge of his eye, Jethri saw some winged creature pass over head, and next a silver jetship lifting for the stratosphere. He quickly averted his gaze, staring instead at the waiting bins.

"Yes, there is much to see in a city!" Pen Rel, said, apparently agreeing with something Jethri was supposed to have said.

He took a hard breath.

"You pardon," he said, glad to hear that his voice held steady. "I wonder why they opened the dome. There are no ships preparing to leave, nor any warning of an incoming..."

Pen Rel glanced fearlessly upward, and then back to Jethri.

"Ah, I see. Proper ship-board concerns." He swept an arm over his head, encompassing not only the dome, but the wide, empty sky beyond. "One likes to keep control of the ports, the atmosphere, and access--and how is that to be done if birds are free to fly where they might?"

Jethri almost shook his head, the neck muscles protesting as he caught the motion and produced instead a small bow of acknowledgment.

"Ah," Pen Rel said again, and inclined his head. "Mostly, it is a matter of temperature control.
How much simpler, after all, to let the wandering air take the heat away than to condition the dock entire."

"My thanks," Jethri said, remembering to keep his voice soft, his gaze stringently at dock level.

A dusty vehicle trailing modular pallets was arriving hastily at their section of 'crete, various warning beeps and the noisy whine of high power hybrid electric motors an active discouragement to conversation. The victualer's sigil on the side of the vehicle was familiar enough--Jethri had seen a half-dozen or more of the same type of van running up and down the concourse as they'd waited.

The driver swung his rig in a final semi-circle, stopping amidst the puddled remains of the recent downpour. The clerk looked up from his record-keeping with a grimace.

"Well before shift-change we ask for, and what do we get? Excuses and a delivery at the hour."

"It is always thus," Pen Rel said, and then in a lighter voice, "Jethri, turn about please."

Behind him and at very nearly his own height, stood a Liaden of indeterminate age. What most distinguished him was not his height, nor even the fact that he was out-and-out grinning, but his dark, wide-brimmed hat, which he failed to doff in greeting, though he bowed a sort of all-purpose greeting in Pen Rel's general direction.

"So, my friend. You bring to me the sudden son, that we may instill in him my sixty Standards of experience in sixty hours?"

His bow to Jethri was much more complex--layered, even: retainer to son of the house, master to adult student--and a hint of something else. There was a careful extravagance in his motion Jethri put down to dealing with an awkward situation in good humor.

"Jethri ven'Deelin Clan Ixin, I--Cargo Master Gar Sad per'Etla--I welcome you to my dirt-side office. I advise you that we must hurry, for your new mother would have you ready to take any position on the ship at short notice. And, given my age, I suspect she means you to replace me soonest."

Jethri returned the bow as honestly as he could, junior to senior, with an attempt--he hoped subtle--at member of the house to retainer.

"All very pretty," Pen Rel said briskly, "but allow me to take my leave of both of you else the tradespeople will run me down." A quick bow, encompassing perhaps the entirety of the dock, its length and height, the cars beneath and the stars above, and he was off.

"We are here, young sir," the cargo master said after a moment, "to insure that you understand how the cargo department on Elthoria operates--and how it may vary from other tradeships you may be expected to deal with as one soon to be trading on your own. You will note that, on Elthoria, my department is responsible for all items coming on board, other than hand luggage."

"Now, let me ask you this: In all of your life, how many pods have you loaded?"

Later, it came to Jethri that perhaps the question had been intended rhetorically. Caught in the moment, however, he bent his brain to the count, frowning slightly at the victualers's van...

The cargo master laughed. If he'd been a Terran, Jethri would have considered him just a little dotty.

"No need to be embarrassed that you have no experience, young sir," the old man said.

"But I do, Master," Jethri interrupted. "I have never loaded an entire pod by myself, but in the last ten Standards I have done initial load checks on at least seventeen pods, and was final load check assistant on about the same number. I did the initial strap-downs on ten or so, and did net-string on a bunch of odd lots. I..."

"Enough!" Cargo Master per'Etla waved a hand. "I am cheered immensely! Now instead of needing to cover sixty years of knowledge in sixty hours we'll need only cover the final fifty-five years in sixty hours! We are saved!"

Despite himself, Jethri laughed.

"Ah, so now," the man in the hat went on, with a smile and a wink, "will you share with me? How came you by all this experience when you are so new to a house of trade?"

They leaned together on the boundary wall, per'Etla honestly interested in his charge's background. Periodically, he inclined his head, so slightly as to appear a nod, as Jethri explained how a family ship was unlikely to have a full-time cargo master and how at certain ports and with certain cargo, the entire crew might be pressed into the loading and offloading.

As he spoke, Jethri absently watched the food truck's driver using a lift-cart to offload pallets, which he deposited on the 'crete regardless of the puddled water or the marked driving lanes. Finally, he stacked them into a pile, and Jethri could see distance water dripping from the top pallets onto those lower in the pile--which pile he aimed in the general direction of the ship's dock as his lift-cart gathered speed.

Stopping in mid-sentence, Jethri pointed toward the incoming tradesman, whose approach was yet unnoticed by the clerk.

"The modules, master, contaminated in the dock-water!"

Master per'Etla glanced to the clerk, who was concentrating on his computer.

The master gestured toward the clerk, and then looked Jethri hard in the face. "What would you do, apprentice? The dock is yours to direct."

Jethri bowed quickly and strode forward, stepping into the gate and holding his hands up, palms forward, to stop the cart.

The driver appeared oblivious, then attempted to wave Jethri aside.

"Halt!"

The driver turned his rig so sharply that it tilted, pallets shifting, and finally came to a stop. He came off the seat angry, yelling so hard and fast that Jethri couldn't get more than the basic idea of what the guy was saying, which was close enough to fighting words.

Jethri found himself turning sidewise to the man, reacting automatically to the volume and the threat...

The driver got closer, and now the clerk was at Jethri's side, adding his voice to the general clamor, but no matter--it was suddenly like the deliveryman had gotten a good, hard look at one of the scarier ghosts of space.

Again his words came so quickly that Jethri wasn't completely sure of what they were, but the depth of the bows, and the number of them, convinced him that the driver was seriously sorry. "I would say that your clan-pin was noted," said per'Etla quietly from his left side, "I suggest you continue with your instructions."

Jethri took a breath, and centered himself like Pen Rel was always tell him to do.

"These items here--" He pointed to the dripping edges of the pallets, to the wet tire tracks--"did you plan to bring them into the ship's hold that way? This is not some storeroom where the wind blows as it might. A ship must control its environment and avoid contamination. As a youth I once spent two dozen hours sealed in a space suit while a hold was decontaminated from a careless spot of walked-in goo. What will you have brought us on these?"

"Sir, pardon, I had not considered. Normally, I deliver to warehouses and such is not a difficulty. I mean no--"

"These cannot come onto the ship. Our clerk will contact your office and have replacements brought. These--" Jethri waved a hand, trying for one of Master tel'Ondor's showier effects--"I care not what you do with them. "

The clerk, whose name Jethri still didn't have, bowed and began to speak, sternly, to the driver. Jethri turned his back on them both, feeling a little gone in the knees, and looked to the attentive cargo master.

"That is what I would do, were I directing the dock, Master."

The old man inclined his head.

"Indeed. I cannot argue with you entire; it is in fact the most efficient way to approach the problem, and the lesson was well given. But let me speak a moment."

Jethri took a deep breath, and inclined his head

The master motioned him toward the open port and began walking. Jethri, perforce, followed.

"Our ship is, I suspect, somewhat larger than that of your family. True it is that the sheer random nature of the dockside might permit some contaminant--oh, what a wonderful word you have taught me!--some goo as it were, to belabor our air system or corrode our floors.

"There are measures we can take which would likely require none of us to be suited for a Standard Day, or even a Standard Hour. Some of these measures will be taught you--must be taught you--that you know the capabilities of Elthoria. But, for the moment, you are correct. The clerk ought to have been more alert, and I believe your lesson has taught him as well as the driver; I shall not belabor him more on this.

"Yet still, sir," the master continued, as they crossed the threshold into the ship's cargo port itself, "I ask you to riddle me this: what shall the master trader and the captain feed to their guests at luncheon?"

Jethri froze between one step and the next, face heating.

"Lunch?"

"Indeed." The cargo master laughed lightly. "I do believe that what you have turned back just now was the afternoon meal my friend Norn has ordered in for the local jeweler's shop association."

 

* * *

 

The flow of schedules was such that Jethri found himself in the hold, cargo deck, and pod-control offices more than in his regular haunts. When he saw someone he knew well--Pen Rel or Gaenor for example--they were usually going the opposite direction and in conversation with someone else. By day three he'd nearly forgotten the incident with the lunch-truck; indeed, for two nights he'd dreamed cargo density patterns for three different pod styles, lading codes, and the structural dynamics of orbital pod transfer.

On his way to the dockside galley for a quick lunch--he still had to finish a test balance on the bulk--he ducked unwittingly by someone ambling slowly down the 'crete.

"Ah," came Master tel'Ondor's familiar voice, "do you wish to avoid speaking with me as much as that?

Ears a-fire, Jethri ducked back, bowing a hasty apology.

"Your pardon, sir. My mind was on my numbers and my stomach on lunch."

"A compelling combination, I agree," the master allowed. "I rejoice to see you thus engaged upon the work of your house. You bring joy to your mother."

A test. Great. Jethri kept his sigh to himself and bowed, wincing only a little when his stomach audibly growled.

Master tel'Ondor moved a languid hand, motioning Jethri onward.

"Please, you have need. But first, let me congratulate you upon your defense of our ship at dockside."

Jethri stiffened. Not a lesson, then--a lecture.

"But no," said the master, apparently recognizing something in Jethri's face, despite his efforts to remain bland--"this is not a problem. The ship speaks well of you, as does the cargo master and the clerk. I am told that you had the mode perfectly in dealing with the incident. The cargo master insists that you were prepared to take a charge and repel boarders!"

He bowed, gently. "I wish merely that all the traders I have taught would have the sense you've shown. I believe you will be quite ready for the next part of your voyage!"

And with that, he swept his hand forward again, and Jethri went, thinking as much about inertial restraints as about lunch.

 

 

Day 116
Standard Year 1118
Elthoria

 

They were four Standard Days out of Tilene, bound for Modrid. There, they'd do a couple days of fill-in trading and set course for the inner worlds.

Inner Liaden worlds, where somebody as Terran as a Jethri Gobelyn would speedily become a three-day wonder. At best.

Say that he worried; it was true enough. Gaenor and Vil Tor, together and separately, assured him that he'd do better than fine, but he considered that they might be a thought biased, being friends. Pen Rel sig'Kethra, who wasn't necessarily a friend, had responded to the news of their amended route by intensifying the self-defense sessions 'til they weren't much shy of a shore-leave brawl. Master tel'Ondor had done the same with the protocol lessons, though at least those didn't leave bruises.

And Norn ven'Deelin, who should've been as terrified of the whole business as he was--if not more so, having, as he blackly suspected, a much sharper understanding of what exactly would happen if he made hash out of things--Norn ven'Deelin smiled, and patted his arm, and called him her son, and said that she was certain he would acquit himself with honor.

All that being so, it was no wonder, Jethri thought, throwing back the blanket and slapping on the light, that he couldn't sleep.

He pulled on the most comfortable of his Liaden-made clothes--a pair of tough tan trousers, with a multitude of pockets, and an equally tough brown shirt--which was close enough to the coveralls that'd been standard ship wear on the Market to be comforting--slipped on a pair of soft ship slippers, and sorted through his pile of pocket stuff until he had his fractin, the Combine key and the general ship key. He slipped them into a pocket; a wrench set and folding blade into another and left his quarters.

There wasn't any need to sneak overtime studies on Elthoria, where the rule 'mong the crew was that the trader knew best what the trader required. He'd come to have a fondness for that rule, no more so than now, as he swung down the wide corridor toward his personal bin.

He'd several times over the last ten ship-days thought of the B-crate from home. Finding time to do something about it was the challenge there, his schedule being as crammed as it was.

Which made his present state of nervous sleeplessness nothing less than a gift, looked at in a certain way. At least he'd be able to open the crate at his leisure, and take care over those things his mother had said he should have.

He passed one other person on the way to the cargo section--Kilara pin'Ebit, who inclined her head, murmuring a polite, "Sir."

"Technician," he replied, and that was that--no muss, no fuss, as Dyk used to say--and a few minutes later was standing in front of his bin.

He touched the lock pad in the proper sequence; the door slid open, the interior lights coming up as he stepped into the room.

Lashed against the far wall was one Terran-standard B crate, looking like it'd taken the rocky route through an asteroid belt to reach him.

Releasing the netting, he knelt down, feeling in his pocket for the wrench set.

There was a dent the size of his head in the side of the crate. Frowning, Jethri ran his hand over it. B crates were tough, and the most likely outcome of taking a whack at one with a heavy object was that the object would bounce--unless it broke. Something hard enough to stave in the side of one...

"Must've got hit by a flying rock," Jethri muttered, fitting his wrench around the first tog.

There were a couple bad seconds with the third and sixth togs, which had gotten jammed when the crate deformed, but he finally got them loose, pulled the panel out, and leaned it against the wall.

Inside, the crate was divided into four smaller magnetically sealed compartments over one larger compartment. Jethri reached for the seal of the upper right hand compartment, then sat back, his hand dropping to his knee, fingers suddenly cold.

"C'mon," he whispered. "It's just kid stuff."

'cept it was kid stuff his mother had seen fit to take into custody, hold for more'n ten years before sending it all after him. Say what you would about Iza Gobelyn's temper, and no question she was cold. Say it all--and when it was said, the fact remained that she was a canny and resourceful captain, who held the best good of the ship in her heart. That being so, she would've had a reason, beyond her own personal grief, for locking his things away. And a reason for finally letting them loose.

He felt the scarebumps rise up on his arms--and then he laughed, breathy and a little too light.

"Get a grip! What? You think Iza set you up for a double-cross, like one of Khat's scare-stories? She sent your stuff because it's yours by right an' Paitor talked her into doing the decent."

Which Khat hadn't said, but, then, Khat wouldn't. The more he thought on it, though, the likelier it did seem that such a conversation had taken place; he could almost hear Uncle Paitor's voice rumbling around inside his ears, comforting and comfortable.

Jethri leaned forward and pulled open the top right door.

A plain black purse sat in the center of the small space, a piece of paper sticking out of the fold. Slowly, he reached in and pulled the paper free; unfolded it and blinked at Khat's messy scrawl, laboriously spelling out, "Stinks Money."

Jethri sat back, a breath he hadn't known he was holding escaping in a whoosh! He put the paper on his knee, flipped open the purse and counted out a ridiculous amount of Combine paper. All this, from Stinks? It was hard to believe. Harder, in the end, to believe that Khat could cheat the ship. A right stickler, Khat. In a lot of ways, he thought suddenly, she'd've made a good Liaden. He slipped the purse and the note into a pocket and looked back to the crate.

Feeling less spooky about the process, he opened the next door, withdrew a small metal box, and held it between his two hands. The metal was red-gold, burnished 'til it glowed. The sides were decorated-etchings of stars, comets and moons. Three fancy letters were etched into the flat lid, intertwined like some dirtside creepers--AJG. Arin Jethri Gobelyn.

The lock was a simple hook-and-eye; he slid it back with a thumb and raised the lid with care. Inside, it was lined with deep blue velvet. Scattered 'round the velvet, like stars, were half-a-dozen expired Combine keys, a long flat piece of what might be carved and polished bone--and a ring.

He picked it up between thumb and forefinger. It was a massive thing--arrogant, if jewelry could be said to have attitude--the wide band engraved with stars, comets, moons--just like the side of the box. The top was oval, showing the stylized ship-and-planet of the official Combine seal.

Jethri frowned. His father hadn't been one to wear rings--plainly said, rings on a working ship were foolish, they had too much of a tendency to get caught in machinery and on rough edges. A commissioner, though--a commissioner might well wear a ring or a patch or somelike, to alert folks to the fact that here was somebody with connections.

The gold was cold and unfriendly against his skin. He put it back in the box and reached for the bit of bone.

As soon as his fingers touched it, he knew it wasn't bone. Cool and slick, the symbol repeating down one face eerily familiar, it felt just like his lucky fractin.

Frowning, he had that piece out of his pocket and put it side-by-side on his knee with the--whatever it was.

By eye and touch, the two of them were made of the same material. Not exactly scientific, but it would do for now. And the repeating symbol? The very same as the big doughnut-shape on the face of his fractin, set end-to-end down the whole length of the thing.

He picked it up and held it on his palm. Thing had some weight to it--heavier than you expected, like his fractin, which Grig had said enclosed alien workings. A sort of large economy size fractin, then, Jethri thought, smoothing his thumb over the soothing surface. That would have appealed to Arin, with his fascination with the regular sort of fractin. Jethri ran his thumb over it once more, then replaced it on its nest of old Combine keys, lowered the lid then put the box aside.

The next compartment gave up a pair of photocubes. He snatched one out, hands shaking, and flicked through the images quickly, breathless, then more slowly, as he registered that the pictures were of people he didn't know, had never seen. Spacers, most of them, but a few ground-based folk, too, the lot of them looking tired and wary. He put it down.

The second cube--that was the one he had expected, and missed, and wished for. Images of family--Arin, naturally, with the half-grin on his face and his hands tucked into the pockets of his coverall, broad in the shoulder and stubborn in the jaw, brown eyes sitting deep under thick black eyebrows. After that was Seeli, Cris; a picture of Dyk up to his elbows in some cooking project, and a manic grin on his round face; and another of a thin and serious young Khat, bent over a piloting simboard.

Another picture of Arin, with his arm around a woman that it took two blinks to recognize as Iza--the two of them laughing at some forever secret joke. Then a picture of a skinny kid, big eyes and his ears sticking out, coverall grubby, sitting on the floor of the galley at Arin's side, the two of them contemplating the mosaic they'd fitted together. Jethri grinned at the memory. They'd used three dozen fractins in that design, and held up dinner for primary shift, while Arin snapped close-ups from every angle, like he did with every design they'd built.

Still grinning, he clicked the button again, and came back to the first picture of Arin. He put the cube down and opened the last of the small compartments, discovering a notebook and a thick sheaf of hardcopy

Grinning wider, he pulled out the book, riffling the pages, seeing the meticulous lists that Jethri-the-kid had kept of imaginary cargo, imaginary sales, imaginary buys, all worked out with his father's help; each pretend deal discussed as seriously as if the merchandise and money were real. The pages fluttered toward the back, his eye snagged on a different script, and he flipped back...

Angular and as plain as printout, Arin's writing marched down the page in a simple list of ship names. Jethri ran a quick glance down the line, seeing names he was familiar with, names he wasn't--

WildeToad. He blinked, remembering the gritty yellow paper crackling in his, and the printout of a ship's dying.

Breaking clay...

And why had Arin been keeping a ship list in the back of a kid's pretend trade journal?

Jethri shook his head. A mystery for later--or never. Likely it had just been a doodle, on a shift when things were slow; or an illustration meant to go with a conversation long talked out and forgotten. Come to remember it, his father had often doodled in the margins of his book--he riffled the pages again, slower this time, catching glimpses of the odd shapes Arin had drawn to help his thinking along.

Jethri closed the book and reached for the hardcopy, already knowing they'd be the various rules for the games invented to put use to fractins.

Something was left behind, though--and Jethri let out a whoop, dropping the game rules unceremoniously to the floor. He'd almost forgotten

A mirror no bigger than the palm of his father's hand, framed and backed in some light black metal. Except, the reflecting surface didn't reflect, not even the ghost a spacer might catch in the back of a work screen, which was his own face. As a kid, Jethri had amused himself periodically by trying to surprise the mirror into giving him a reflection, pressing his nose against the glassy surface, or leaving the device on a table top and sneaking up around the side, rushing forward at the last second, more often than not yelling "boo!" into the bargain.

But the mirror never reflected one thing.

What it did do, was predict the weather.

Not a gadget that'd be much use on a spaceship, some might say, and they'd be right. No telling that it was all that useful dirt-side, just at first. Between them, though, him and Arin had puzzled out the symbol system and by the time his father died and his mother locked the thing away with the fractins and his trade journal--by that time, if they was dirt-side, Jethri could tell with a glance whether rain was due, or snow; lightning or hail, and from which planetary direction it would come.

Grinning, he looked into the black, unreflective surface, for old time's sake, then slipped it away into his shirt pocket.

That left the big bin--no surprises, there.

Except it was a surprise--he hadn't remembered that there'd been so many. He opened the box and scooped up a handful of the cool squares, letting them run through his fingers, watching the shapes flicker, hearing the gentle clatter as the tiles tumbled against each other.

The second box was counterfeits and brokens--what his father had called the ancillary collection. Some of the fakes looked pretty good, until you'd held a couple genuine fractins, and saw how fine and precise they were, no rough edges, each notch in exactly the same place, no deviation. Once you had that experience, you were unlikely ever to mistake a fake for the real thing again.

He closed the box, looked back into the compartment...

A rectangular wire frame lay in the far back corner. He brought it out, surprised at how light it was. He didn't immediately place the metal, or the thing itself--a simple rectangle, sealed at the bottom, open at the top, the four walls gridlike. Not a big thing, in fact it looked to be about the size to--

He reached into the box holding the genuine fractins, fingered one out and dropped it into the top opening. It slid down the rack to the bottom.

Jethri smiled, eyeing the thing, figuring maybe fifty-sixty fractins would fit in the frame. Why anybody'd want to slot sixty fractins into a metal holder was another question--probably a new game variation.

Still smiling, he yawned, and looked down at his wrist, stifling a curse. He was scheduled to be in Master ven'Deelin's office, bright-eyed, intelligent and awake in something less than five hours.

Moving quickly, he packed the fractins, sealed the lids and slid them and the wire frame back into their compartment, along with the game rules, his old trade journal, Arin's box, and the photocube of the strange spacers and grounders.

Then, he resealed the crate, and netted it snug against the wall.

Rising, he slipped the purse into a side pocket. The photocube was too big for any of his pockets, so he carried it with him, down the hall and back to his quarters.

 

 

Day 123
Standard Year 1118
Elthoria
Modrid Approach

 

The alarm bounced Jethri out of sleep two subjective seconds after he hit the bunk.

He threw the blanket back and swung out immediately, having learned from his newly accelerated shifts that the best thing to do when the alarm sounded was get up and get the blood moving toward the brain.

His feet hit the floor and he rubbed his hands briskly over his face, trying to encourage the blood--or maybe his brain--and began to review his shift schedule. First thing was a breakfast meeting with Pen Rel, who wanted to talk about the theory of self-defense. Then, he needed to go over the list of Ixin's regular local trading partners, and a history of Elthoria's last six trading missions to Modrid, that Vil Tor had pulled for him. Gaenor's Terran lessons had gone on hold since the change of course, though they'd been managing impromptu sessions on the run; so, after his hour in the library, he was scheduled for a long session with Master tel'Ondor, and after that--

The door chimed, interrupting his thoughts. He snatched up his robe and pulled it on as he crossed the room and slapped the plate.

Gaenor stood in the hall, in full uniform. She bowed formally as the door slid open.

"The captain's compliments, Apprentice Trader," she said, speaking each word distinctly, so that he would have no trouble following her, though she spoke in a mode other than the mercantile. "You are invited to join the master trader at the trade bench as soon as convenient. The master trader bids you 'be sure to breakfast heartily'."

Jethri bowed his thanks and straightened to find her outright grinning. Her hand rose, making a sign he did not recognize. "At last we have you in the thick of things! I will see you soon!"

Invited to the bridge by the captain to watch the master trader at her work, up close and personal? Jethri ginned a grin of his own, though he did remember to bow again, in light agreement. When he came up from that, she was gone, leaving him blinking at an empty hall.

He closed the door and ran for the shower, talking to himself as he soaped and rinsed.

"'kay, kid-you're going live crew on a live deck, ain't that something special? Watch the master and learn your heart out..."

He skimped a little on the dry cycle and bounded, damp, to the closet, pulled out a blue shirt and darker blue trousers and hurriedly dressed, pausing in front of the mirror to affix Ixin's pin to his collar and run hasty palms over his spiky, growing-out hair.

Grabbing his pocket stuff, he rushed from the room, heading for the cafeteria at just under a run, and wishing, not for the first time, that Elthoria kept 'mite available to its crew.

 

* * *

 

He chose his breakfast not by what he wanted to eat, but by which lines were shortest at the serving tables. Fortunately, there were two lines for tea--tea being to Liadens what coffee was to Terrans; and his choice of the shorter one put him next to Pen Rel.

The arms master glanced to him, and bowed what looked to be the bow between comrades, which, Jethri thought, had to be him reading wrong. He made sure his answering bow was the perfectly safe and unexceptional junior to senior.

Pen Rel cocked his head to a side, and while it couldn't precisely be said that he smiled, there was a noticeable lightening of his usually stern face.

"I see that our schedule has been altered by the captain's order, young Jethri," he said, selecting a tea bottle from those on the table. "Never fear, we will pursue your studies as time--and the captain--allow us." He inclined his head. "Good shift to you."

"Good shift," Jethri answered, snagging a bottle for himself and moving off to an empty table to gulp down his meal.

 

* * *

 

He made the bridge in good time, his fractin dancing between his fingers, and found Technician Rantel ver'Borith, who he had met a couple times in the library, waiting for him at the door.

"Apprentice Trader." She bowed, and handed him a pocket locator clip and an ear-and-mouth com. He put the button in his ear and smoothed the wire against his cheek. When she saw he was situated, Rantel put her hand against the door, and led him across the threshold, past Captain yo'Lanna, who glanced up and acknowledged their presence with a seated bow strongly reminiscent of Iza Gobelyn's usual curt nod to outsiders on her bridge, and down-room.

It was an eerily quiet bridge, with none of the cheerful chatter that had been common 'mong his cousins as they brought Market into approach. They went by Gaenor's station, she intent on her screens to the exclusion of all else. In fact, the bridge crew, to a man, sat in rapt concentration over their screens, monitors, and map displays.

Nom ven'Deelin sat at a station far removed from the captain, her nearest neighbor what looked to be an automatic weather scanner. She greeted him with a smile and tapped her finger on the arm of the empty chair beside her.

He slid in, finding the seat a bit tighter than he might have liked, and a thought too close to the floor, so that he needed to fold his legs around the base.

"Apprentice, you made excellent time," Master ven'Deelin said, very softly. "Your expertise will be required very soon. Now, if you please, we will familiarize you with the equipment. Please touch the blue switch--yes--now, press forward one click, and your console will come to observer status."

He followed her instructions carefully, feeling a tingle in the pit of his belly when the screen lit and the button purred static in his ear.

"Good," Master ven'Deelin said, her voice in his ear an odd, but definite, comfort.

"When you press again--which you will do, but not touch anything else--your board is now live and in tandem trade mode. That means you will be seeing what trades I see. The green boxes represent my offers. If you suggest an offer it will appear on my screen, and I will accept it or not." She paused.

"Now, if you go forward once more--which you will do now but not touch anything else--you are in the solo trade mode. In that mode you commit us as utterly as if I had signed my name on a contract or placed hard cantra on the counter." Another pause.

"Take a moment to study what the screen tells you, child."

Truth told, he needed a chance to study the screen. He bent forward eagerly, one hand fiddling with the fractin, the other curled into a fist on his knee.

The screen was beyond high-info--it was dense info. At the bottom left corner was a schematic of Elthoria, full cans and cargo holds limned in green; empties colored red. Bottom right was marked Funds and showed a balance of zero. The top half of the screen was divided into columns-Incoming, Outgoing, Bids Made, Bids Taken, Bids Refused. Right now, there wasn't much action, but he thought the columns would start to fill up quick as soon as they came into Modrid's approach space.

His fractin slipped out of his fingers. He caught it before it had fallen far, palmed it, slipped it into his pocket--and looked up to find that Norn ven'Deelin had noticed his movement. He braced himself, waiting for her to ask what silly toy he had in his pocket; then she spoke and he realized that she had misunderstood his sudden movement.

"Forgive me. Please return your board to observer status with the reverse-ward clicks. Very good. Now on either side of your seat you will find several tabs and buttons. I suggest you take some time with them until your hands know what they do--they are adjustments for length and height, for spin and--but you must discover them and adjust what is necessary, for we may sit for some time today."

He put his hands down, fingers discovering the advertised buttons and tabs. He quickly found that one button adjusted the inflation of his seat, and another the angle compared to the console, another the height of the seat relative to the deck, which allowed him to straighten his legs. Only the pilot's chair had these kinds of extra adjustments on the Market, and if a lowly 'prentice trader's observation chair was so equipped what must the captain have available? Meditatively, he cycled the chair to the very back of its track, then slowly forward.

"...and when you are comfortable," Norn ven'Deelin murmured, "you will say something to me so that we know your com is working and at proper volume..."

Face burning, he locked the chair where it was and touched the button in his ear.

"Yes, Master Trader."

She smiled at him, gently. "Always the silver tongue, my child. Perhaps you will tell me what you think of the two offers at the top of the board, which came in as you were adjusting your chair."

Startled, he glanced at his screen and saw an offer to sell two MUs of cheese... he blinked, then laughed. Two MUs--that was two cargo pods!

"Ma'am, I'd tell the first one thanks but no thanks," he said, dropping into Trade. "At that price we'd need to be carting locally on a prepaid rush delivery--or we'd need to broker it on planet, and that's a time waster."

"Yes, thank you, we shall decline. And the second?"

That was harder, the offer being a half-can of specialty spices and herbs. Jethri frowned, mentally running through the manifests he had studied.

"Ma'am, in general I don't believe you have Elthoria carrying foodstuff," he said tentatively. "Excellent," she murmured in his ear. "You see what they wish us to do--to broker this and that. Were we at leisure, perhaps I might allow myself--but this is not such a trip. Now, attend your controls once more."

He brought his attention to the console.

"You see the red tabs set on either side of the blue control wheel. For details of what is on offer, if needed, select the right, and again if need be--sometimes there are as many as a dozen detail levels. If these leave you uninformed, make a record--that is the left tab--and we will add it to our analysis list. Now, if you see something which you think I should note, click the yellow button above the wheel here--and I will have a highlight informing me."

Jethri began to nod, caught it and inclined his head. "I understand," he said, and looked at his screen, where two more offers had appeared in the Incoming column.

"Ah, good," the master trader said.

The run-in to orbit took several hours and for awhile he sat in observer mode, watching as she filed Elthoria's availables. As he'd suspected, the incoming offers picked up momentum as they moved further in. Teeth indenting lower lip, he bent forward, trying to move his eyes fast enough; caught an offer of a twelfth MU of compressed textiles--highlighted it, and heard her murmur, "Yes, that looks likely. However, there is history--we have not used that source for some time. There was a bad load. Watch and see if the price falls..."

The bridge behind them got busy--maneuvers as they entered planetary near-space, or so he thought, and she said quietly in his ear

"Please go to tandem. Note that we have emptied a pod entire; check on that textile and if it is still available highlight it for me...also, I have accepted a tranship of a half pod; that will show up as a block on your diagram about now..."

The original lot of textile was gone, but he found another near enough, and a better price, highlighted it, and continued down the list, as the incoming column filled, spawned an overflow column and did its utmost to overfill it. He highlighted an offer of raw lumber; another of frozen chicken embryos, billed as genuine Roque Eyeland Reds and a marvelous low price the seller was asking for them, if true.

"We have now the odd-spots to fill in three pods," Master ven'Deelin said. "'You will finish Pod Seventeen--note your cubes and balance limits. Your credit draw is unlocked and our complete manifest is open to you. Do not purchase anything we already own without asking. Please click one forward now--yes. You are the buyer of record. If desirable items which will not fit into your space come to note, please highlight."

In moments, he was sweating, leaning over the screen, shoulders stiff with tension. The credit account showed a ridiculous number of cantra for him to draw on. He flicked down the lists, trying for density; found hand tools at a good price, reached to place his bid--and the lot was gone, snatched away by a quick-fingered trader on another incoming ship.

Frustrated, he went back to the list, found a case of Genuine Blusharie on offer, touched the tab for more information--and the item vanished from his screen, claimed by another.

He put his hand on the buy switch and hunched forward, breath maybe a little short--and suddenly there was Uncle Paitor, frowning at him from memory and delivering a lecture on "auction fever"--the urge to buy quickly in order to buy first, or to buy first in order to beat the market--and how a trader above all needed a cool head in a hot situation.

Carefully, Jethri sat back and eased his hand off the switch. He flipped back through the items that had been on offer for awhile--and smiled. Reasonable cost, good density, real wooden products that would likely sell in both Terran and Liaden markets. Yes. He reached out and pushed the buy button.

The screen blinked at him; the offer accepted, the trade made. Jethri nodded and returned to the list, calmer for having committed some of his capital to solid stock.

The diagram at the bottom left showed Pod Seventeen ninety-two percent full. He could use something like that twelfth of textiles, or maybe some stasis wheat...

Concentrating, he barely noticed when Elthoria achieved orbit, though he did register Gaenor's voice, speaking over the intercom.

It seemed that the offerings were coming in slower now; he had time to access the deep infoscreens. He highlighted several, and heard the master trader murmur once, "Excellent," and, again, "I think this is too large a quantity to carry in, Apprentice."

Pod Seventeen glowed green in the diagram--full. He blinked, and sat back, felt a light touch on his sleeve and looked over to Norn ven'Deelin. She smiled.

"If you buy anything more, my son, you will be buying for yourself. We have done well, you and I. Now, I suggest a meal, if you will honor me."

Now that he thought about it, he was hungry, Jethri realized. Carefully, he shut down his console, slid the chair back on its track and looked around.

About a third of the bridge crew was gone, relieved while he sat over his console, their work done while his continued. Gaenor's station was empty; at the far end of the bridge, the captain sat his board.

Jethri rose, cleared the chair's settings in case someone followed him in it, and walked with Norn ven'Deelin toward the door. She reached out and put her palm against the plate

"Master Trader." Captain yo'Lanna had spun his chair and was looking at them, his face empty of any emotion that Jethri could read. "A moment of your time, if you will."

Master ven'Deelin sighed, largely. "Bah. Details, always details." She patted his arm. "Go--eat. When you are through, present yourself to Pen Rel and learn about those things he considers it prudent for you to carry portside here."

"Yes, ma'am." He inclined his head and she hurried away.

He touched his ear, remembering the comm, and looked to the officer on deck.

"Keep it, of your kindness, Trader," he said. "Doubtless, you will have need of it again." That warmed him, and he slipped the comm off and stowed it in a pocket.

From across the bridge came the master trader's voice, sounding outright irritated. Jethri paused, frowning. He was beginning to be able to follow her quicker conversations, and this one was fraught with words sounding like, "Vouch for every transaction?" "Recertification is absurd!" and "I will speak to the Guild, and I am a master!"

None of that sounded like business for a 'prentice, and, besides, he'd been given his orders and his course--lunch; then Pen Rel.

He strode out and away from the bridge, feeling something just this side of a headache and just that side of an earache trying to form. Despite which, he did note that he was in possession of a good deal more information about his ship and its business than he had before this shift.

It was off-schedule for lunch, but the second cook filled him a plate of goodies, which he ate by himself in the empty cafeteria, mulling over the cargo buys that had gotten away.

 

 

Day 125
Standard Year 1118
Modrid

 

The trading tour of Modrid went at lightspeed, with Jethri doing nothing more useful than stand at the master trader's elbow while she negotiated for luxury pieces and high-sell items--gemstones, wines, porcelains, and three packs of what were billed as "playing cards" that cost twice what the rest had, total.

"So, now, that is done," Master ven'Deelin said, turning away from the last table, and motioning him to walk with her. "What did you learn, young Jethri?"

"Well," he said, thinking over her approach, the deft assurance with which she had negotiated--it had been like watching a play-act, or a port bully shaking down a mark. "I learned that I have a fair distance to go before anyone mistakes me for a master trader."

"What's this?" She threw a bright black glance into his face. "Do you aspire to silver tongue after all?"

He blinked at her. "No, ma'am--at least, not unless it's something you think I should learn. I was merely trying to convey that I am all admiration of your style and skill."

"Worse and worse!" She put her hand on his sleeve. "As to whether it is something you should learn... You should know how to flatter, and you should cultivate a reputation as one who does not flatter. Do you understand me?"

He thought he did, as it seemed to echo something of Master tel'Ondor's philosophy of bows.

"A reputation as someone who does not flatter is a weapon. If I ...am required to flatter someone in order to gain advantage, then they will know me to be sincere, and be disarmed."

Her eyebrows lifted, and her fingers tightened, exerting brief pressure before she withdrew her hand.

"You learn quickly, my child. Perhaps it will not be so long until you wear the amethyst." She waved her hand, perhaps by way of illustration, the big purple ring flashing its facets.

"We will now adjourn to Modrid trade hall to set you properly on the path to glory." Which could, Jethri thought, mean just about anything.

"I would be interested," she said as they walked on, "in hearing your opinion of our last items of trade, if you would honor me, young Jethri."

He thought back to the decks--sealed with a pale blue ribbon and a blot of wax. The vendor had set the price at two kais per and Master ven'Deelin had barely dickered at all, taking him down to one kais six per more as a matter of keeping her hand in, as it seemed to Jethri, than because she had thought the original price over-high.

"I could not see the seal properly from where I stood, ma'am," he said slowly, "but I deduce that the decks may have been bought for certain collectors of your acquaintance, who set a high value on sealed decks from gaming." He paused, considering the price again, and added. "It may be that these particular decks are a rarity--perhaps from a gaming house which no longer operates."

"Hah." She inclined her head slightly. "Well reasoned, and on point. We have today purchased three decks of cards made for the Casino Deregar, which had been built in the depleted mining tunnels of an asteroid, and enjoyed much renown until it disintegrated some twenty-three Standards ago. We are very fortunate to have found three in their original condition, and at a price most commonly paid for broken decks."

Her praise warmed him, and he nearly smiled, which would never do, out here in public. He took a second to order his face before he asked, "How are the broken decks pedigreed?"

"An excellent question!" Master ven'Deelin said as they passed a food stall. The spicy smell woke Jethri's stomach, as they moved on, walking briskly. "Deregar cards are most distinctive. I have a broken deck aboard Elthoria. When we return, you must examine it. Ah, here we are! I ask your indulgence for a short time more, my son, and then we will provide us both with a well-deserved meal."

Jethri felt his ears warm. He hadn't thought his stomach's complaint had been that loud!

Master ven'Deelin paused before a large metal door, and swiped a card through the scan. The light clicked from yellow to orange, and the door opened. She strolled through, Jethri at her heels.

Inside, he paused, somewhat taken aback by the scope of the thing. The hall stretched out, the ceiling just this side of uncomfortably high, with long vents cut into it, allowing the outside light to fall through and down to brighten up the red stone floor. The walls were white and nubbly. A long wooden ledge has been built into the right-hand wall, a light red cushion laid along its length. The left wall was covered in a large tapestry of surpassing ugliness, which was undoubtedly, Jethri thought, catching the tell-tale signs, handmade--and probably historic, too.

Along the back wall was a wooden counter, and that was what Master ven'Deelin was on course for, her boots making little gritty skritches against the stone floor.

Jethri stretched his legs to catch up with her, passing through pockets of sunlight, and caught up just as she put her hand over a plate built into the counter.

Somewhere far back, a chime sounded. A heartbeat later, a young man in an orange jacket embroidered with the sign of the Liaden Trade Guild stepped to the other side of the counter and inclined his head respectfully.

"Master Trader. How may I serve you?"

"I wish to speak with the hall master. You may say that it is ven'Deelin who asks it."

The head-tip this time was a little deeper, Jethri saw, as if 'ven'Deelin' was worth an extra measure of respect even above 'master trader!

"I will inform the hall master of your presence. A moment only, of your goodness."

He vanished back the way he'd come. Master ven'Deelin moved her shoulders and looked up at Jethri, though he hadn't said anything.

"Soon, my child. This should encompass but moments."

He was going to tell her that he wasn't that hungry when the door at the end of the counter opened and the man in the orange jacket bowed.

"Master Trader. Sir. The hall master is honored to speak with you. Please, attend me now."

 

* * *

 

"Master Trader ven'Deelin, well-met." The man who stood up from behind the glossy black desk was white-haired; his face showing lines across his forehead, by his eyes, around his mouth. He stood tall and straight-backed as a younger, though, and his eyes were blue and clear.

"I am Del Orn dea'Lystra, master of Modrid Trade Hall. How may I be of service to you?"

"In a small matter of amending the record, Hall Master. I am embarrassed that I must need bring it to your attention. But, before we continue, allow me to introduce to you my apprentice, Jethri Gobelyn." She moved a hand, calling the hall master's attention to Jethri, who tried to stand tall without looking like a threat. He might have saved himself the trouble.

Hall Master dea'Lystra's clear blue eyes turned chilly, and he didn't bother to incline his head or take any other notice of Jethri other than, "I see," directed at Master ven'Deelin.

"Do you?" she asked. "I wonder. But! A hall master is not one who has many moments at leisure. Allow me, please, to proceed directly to my business."

The hall master inclined his head, granting her permission with, Jethri thought, a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

"So," said Master ven'Deelin. "As it happens, Elthoria achieved orbit yesterday. We, of course, took advantage of the time incoming to place goods and make purchases." She moved her hand, once again showing Jethri to the hall master, who once again didn't bother to look.

"At my direction, and using his assigned sub-account, this my apprentice did make numerous purchases. And yet, when the trading was done and recorded, what do I have but a message from Modrid Trade Hall, demanding that I recertify all the purchases made by my apprentice, at my direction, using the proper codes." She inclined her head, slightly.

"Clearly, something has gone awry with the records. I would ask that you rectify this problem immediately."

The hall master moved his shoulders and showed his hands, palm up, in a gesture meaning, vaguely, 'alas'.

"Master Trader, I am desolate, but we may not allow a Terran guild status."

"May we not?" Master ven'Deelin asked, soft enough to send a chill running down Jethri's neck, if the hall master didn't have so much sense. "I wonder when that regulation was accepted by the masters."

Hall Master dea'Lystra bowed, lightly and with irony. "Some things are self-evident, I fear. No one disputes a master trader's right to take what apprentice she will. Guild status is another consideration all together." He spared Jethri a brief, scathing stare. "This person has no qualifications to recommend him."

Like being Non ven'Deelin's 'prentice wasn't a qualification? Jethri thought, feeling his temper edge up-which was no good thing, the Gobelyns being known for their tempers. He took a breath, trying to swallow it, but then what did the fool do but incline his head and say, like Master ven'Deelin was no more account than a dock monkey, "I trust that concludes our business. Good-day."

'No," Jethri heard his own voice say, in the mode between traders, "it does not conclude our business. Your assertion that I have no qualifications pertinent to the guild is, alas, in error. I hold a ten-year key from the Terran Combine."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Master ven'Deelin throw him a stare. The hall master moved his shoulders, indifferent.

"Produce this ten-year key," he said, and his mode was superior to inferior, which was no way to cool a het-up Gobelyn.

Jethri reached inside his collar and pulled the chain up and over his head, holding it high, so the key could be plainly seen.

"If you will show me your Combine computer, I will verify that it is in fact a valid key, registered--"

"It is a matter of indifference to me and to this hall," Hall Master dea'Lystra interrupted, "who holds the registration for that key." He turned back to Master ven'Deelin.

"Master Trader, good-day," he said, trying to be rude, now, or so Jethri heard it.

Norn ven'Deelin didn't budge. She did cock her head to a side and look thoughtfully, and maybe a touch sorrowfully upon the hall master.

"You, the master of Modrid Trade Hall, give as your judgement that the possession of a Combine key is insufficient to demonstrate that the trader who holds the key is qualified to stand as an apprentice in the Guild. Is that correct?"

Hall Master dea'Lystra inclined his head.

"The master of Modrid Trade Hall gives as his judgement that possession of a Combine key is insufficient to demonstrate that the Terran who holds the key is qualified to stand as an apprentice in the Guild. That is correct."

Master ven'Deelin inclined her head. "That is most wonderfully plain. My thanks to you. Jethri, attend me, of your kindness."

Of course, he had to attend her--he was her 'prentice. Still, thought Jethri, following her out the door and down the hall, he would have welcomed the opportunity to put some of Pen Rel's lessons to the test, with Hall Master dea'Lystra as his subject.

"Peace, child," Master ven'Deelin murmured as they marched across the wide entrance hall. "A brawl is neither seemly nor warranted."

"Not seemly," Jethri said, keeping his voice low, "but surely warranted, ma'am."

The only answer was a soft, "Young things." Then they were at the door and through it, back on the noisy, odoriferous street.

"Come," she said. "There is a very pleasant restaurant just down this next street. Let us bespeak a booth and a nuncheon, so that we may be comfortable, and private, while you tell me the tale of that key."

 

* * *

 

The "booth" was more like a well-appointed small room, with comfy seats, and soft music coming out of a grid in the wall, and a multi-use computer within reach at a corner of the table.

Master ven'Deelin called for wine, which came quickly, and gave the order for a "mixed tray", whereupon the server bowed and went away, closing the booth's door behind him.

"So," Master ven'Deelin poured wine into a glass and set it on the table by Jethri's hand, before pouring another glass for herself. "This Combine key, child. May I have the honor of seeing it?"

For the second time in an hour, Jethri slipped the chain over his head. He put the key into Master ven'Deelin's palm and watched as she considered the inscription on the face, then turned it over and read the obverse.

"A ten-year key, in truth. How came you to have it?"

Jethri fingered his wine glass--and that wouldn't do at all, he thought suddenly. Master tel'Ondor would pin his ears back good if he caught him fidgeting in public. Casually, he released the glass and folded his hands in bogus serenity on the table top, looking straight into Norn ven'Deelin's amused--he would swear it--black eyes.

"As an apprentice on Gobelyn's Market, I brought a favorable buy to the attention of the trader. A remaindered pod, it was, and more than a third of it vya, in stasis. I knew Ynsolt'i was on the schedule, and I thought it might do well there. Uncle Paitor said, if it did, he would sponsor a key." He glanced down at the table, then made himself look back to her eyes. "A ten-year key--that was unexpected, but the vya had done--very well for the ship."

"Hah." Master ven'Deelin put the key on the table between them and picked up her wine glass. "What else was in the pod?"

He frowned, frying to remember. "A couple of crates of broken porcelain--plates and cups, we thought. Cris sold the pieces to an art co-op--that covered what we had in the pod. Some textile--that was a loss, because there had also been ...a syrup of some kind, which had escaped its containers. The porcelain and the vya cans both were double-sealed, and the syrup was easily rinsed off the outer cases with water. The textile, though..." He sighed, still regretting the textile, and reached for his wine glass, taking a tiny cautious sip.

Dry, bitter with tannin, and--just as he was about to ask for water--a surprising and agreeable tang of lemon.

Across from him, Non ven'Deelin smiled a small smile. "You approve of the wine?"

'Approve' didn't exactly seem to cover it, though he found himself anticipating his next sip. "It's--unexpected," he offered, tentatively.

"Indeed it is, which is why we drink it in your honor." She raised her glass in a tiny salute and sipped, eyes slitted.

"Yes, excellent." Another sip, and she set the wine aside, leaned forward and tapped the power switch on the multi-use. The screen snapped live; she ran her guild card through the slot, then typed a rapid string of letters into the keyboard. Jethri raised his wine glass.

The multi-use clicked, loudly, and a drawer popped out of its face, displaying an indentation that could only accommodate a Combine key.

Jethri lowered his glass.

Master ven'Deelin touched his key with a delicate forefinger. "You permit?"

Well sure, he permitted, if only to watch the multi-use in action. He'd never seen such a--he inclined his head.

"I believe I see a theme," he said, and moved his hand in the "sure, go ahead" gesture. "By all means, ma'am."

Deftly, she had the key off its chain and pressed it into the indentation. The multi-use hesitated a moment, then emitted a second click as the drawer withdrew into the face of the machine.

There was a moment of inaction, then the screen flickered and displayed the key's registration code, registered to one Jethri Gobelyn, with 'free trade' checked instead of a ship name. A trade history was indicated. Master ven'Deelin touched the access key.

There, written out in a few terse sentences, was the vya deal, with himself listed as acquiring trader and Paitor Gobelyn assisting, which was, Jethri thought, eyes stinging, more than good of Uncle Paitor.

Master ven'Deelin touched the access key once more and there was the cellosilk sale, Cris Gobelyn acquiring, Jethri Gobelyn assisting. No more history was available.

"So." She typed another string of letters, the multi-use clicked one more time and the drawer extruded. When the key was removed, the drawer disappeared back into the console's face. Jethri remembered his wine and had another sip, anticipating the lemon note.

Master ven'Deelin threaded his key back onto the silver chain and held them out. He slipped it over his head and tucked the key into its usual position inside his shirt.

"Del Ott dea'Lystra is a fool," she said conversationally, picking up her glass.

Jethri paused with his hands at his collar. "You won't let him get away with--ma'am, he insulted you!" he blurted.

Her eyebrows lifted. She sipped her wine and put the glass down. "No more than he insulted you. But tell me, my son, why did you not show me this key ere now?"

His face heated. "Truthfully, ma'am, I didn't think to do so. The key--I had not understood Trader Gobelyn's--his melant'i in the matter. I saw the key as a--sop, or as a going-away present, and of no interest to yourself."

There was a small silence, followed by a non-committal, "Ah."

In his experience, Master ven'Deelin's 'ah' was chancy ground. Jethri sipped his wine, determined to wait her out.

"You raised the question of Balance," she said eventually. "It seems to me that the failure of Elthoria to any longer stop at a port which had realized some profit from her presence is not too strong an answer. A port that will not alter itself to accommodate the trade--that is not a port Elthoria cares to accommodate."

He gaped at her. "You're going to cut them off?"

She looked at him serenely. "You think the Balance too stringent? Please, speak what it in your heart."

He thought about it, frowning down at the composite table top. Consider a fool of a hall master, he thought, insulting a master trader, insulting a master trader's apprentice, thereby calling into question the master trader's judgement, if not her sanity--and then there had been the by-play about the masters not having accepted the no-Terrans rule...

Jethri looked up, to find her gazing thoughtfully upon him.

"On consideration," he said slowly, "I think it an appropriate Balance, Master."

She inclined her head, by all appearances with serious intent. "My thanks, young Jethri. It shall be done--on behalf of ourselves and the trade."

A chime sounded, discreetly, and the door opened to admit their server, bearing a tray laden with foodstuffs, most of which, Jethri's stomach announced, smelled wonderful.

"Indeed," said Master ven'Deelin. "We have done work this day, my son. Now, let us relax for an hour and enjoy this delightful repast, and speak of pleasant things."

 

 

Day 135
Standard Year 1118
Ethoria

 

The pattern of his studies changed again, with more emphasis on the modes of High Liaden, which meant more time with Master tel'Ondor and much more time with the language tapes--even tapes that played while he slept!

Despite the frenzy, he and Gaenor and Vil Tor had managed to meet in the cafeteria to share a meal--late-shift dinner for Jethri, on-shift lunch for Vil Tor and mid-sleep-shift snack for Gaenor.

"So, you will be leaving us for a time," Vil Tor said. "I am envious."

"Not I," Gaenor put in. "Tarnia frightens me to death." She glanced up, catching the edge of Jethti's baffled stare. "She frightens you, too, does she? I knew you for a man of good sense!"

"Indeed," he stammered. "I have no idea who the gentle may be. As for leaving you--why would I do such a thing?"

"Has the master trader's word no weight with you, then?" Gaenor asked, while Vil Tor sent a speculative glance into Jethri's face. "In that wise, you have no need to fear Tarnia. ven'Deelin will have you first."

"Don't tease him, Gaenor," Vil Tor said suddenly. "He hasn't been told."

She blinked at him. "Not been told? Surely, he has a need to know, if only to have sufficient time to properly commend himself to his gods."

"I was told," Jethri said, before his leg broke proper, "that we would be visiting an old friend of Master ven'Deelin's, who is delm of a house on Irikwae."

"Then you have been given the cipher, but not the key," Gaenor said, reaching for her tea. "Never fear, Vil Tor and I will unlock it for you."

Jethri looked to the librarian, who moved his shoulders. "Stafeli Maarilex has the honor to be Tarnia, which makes its seat upon Irikwae. She stands as the ven'Deelin's foster mother, even as the ven'Deelin stands foster mother to you."

So now I have a foster-granmam? Jethri thought, but decided that was taking silly too far into nonsense.

"Who better, then," Gaenor said, jumping in where Vil Tor had stopped, "to shine you?"

Now I have a foster-granmam. He sighed, and frowned down at his dinner plate.

"No, never put on such a long face!" Vil Tor chided. "Irikwae is a most pleasant world and Tarnia's gardens are legendary. You will enjoy yourself excessively, Jethri."

He bit his lip, reminding himself that Vil Tor meant well. It was just that--well, him and Gaenor and--all of Elthoria's crew, really--were grounders. They all had homes on planets, and it was those homes, down 'midst the dust and the mud and the stinks, that they looked forward to going back to, when Elthoria's run was through.

Well, at least the visit wouldn't be long. He'd been over the route Elthoria would take through the Inner Worlds, Master ven'Deelin having made both route and manifest a special area of his studies since they'd quit Modrid, and knew they was scheduled for a three-day layover before moving on to Naord. What kind of polish the old lady could be expected to give him in such a short time wasn't clear, and Jethri took leave to privately doubt that he'd take much shine, anyway. Still, he guessed she was entitled to try.

The hour bell sounded and Vil Tor hurriedly swallowed the last of his tea as he pushed back from the table.

"Alas, duty," he murmured. "Gaenor--"

She waved a hand. "Yes, with delight. But, go now, dear friend. Stint not."

He smiled at that, and touched Jethri on the shoulder as he passed. "Until soon, Jethri. Be well."

Across the table, Gaenor yawned daintily. "I fear I must desert you, as well, my friend. Have the most enjoyable visit possible, eh? I look forward to hearing every detail, when you are returned to us."

She slipped out of her chair and gathered her empties together, and, like Vil Tor, touched him on the shoulder as she left him. "Until soon, Jethri."

"Until soon, Gaenor."

He sat there a little while longer, alone. His dinner wasn't quite eaten, but he wasn't quite hungry. Back at quarters, he had packing to do, and some bit of sleep to catch on his own, his regular shift having been adjusted in order to accommodate a morning arrival, dirt-side. Wouldn't do to show stupid in front of Master ven'Deelin's foster mother. Not when he was a son of the house and all.

Sighing, and not entirely easy in his stomach, he gathered up the considerable remains of his meal, fed the recycler and mooched off toward quarters, the fractin jigging between his fingers.

 

 

Day 139
Standard Year 1118
Irikwae

 

Irikwae was heavy, hot and damp. The light it received from its primary was a merciless blare that stabbed straight through the eyes and into the skull, where the brain immediately took delivery of a headache.

Jethri closed his eyes, teeth clenched, despite being only inches away from a port street full of vehicles, all moving at insane velocity on trajectories that had clearly been plotted with suicide in mind.

"Tch!" said Master ven'Deelin. "Where have my wits gone? A moment, my child."

Through slitted eyes, he watched her bustle back into the office they had just quit. In the street, the traffic roared on. Jethri closed his eyes again, feeling the sun heating his scalp. The damp air carried a multitude of scents, none of them pleasant, and he began to hope they'd find that Master ven'Deelin's friend wasn't to home, so they could go back to Elthoria today.

"Here you are, my son. Place these over your eyes, if you will."

Jethri opened his eyes to slits, saw a tiny hand on which a big purple ring glittered holding a pair of black-lensed spectacles under his nose. He took them, hooked the curved earpieces over his ears, settled the nosepiece.

The street was just like it had been before he put the glasses on, except that the brutal sunlight had been cut by a factor of ten. He sighed and opened his eyes wider.

"Thank you, ma'am."

"You are welcome," she replied, and he saw that she wore a similar pair of glasses. "I only wish I had recalled beforetime. Have you a headache?"

It had faded considerably; still...

"A bit," he owned. "The glasses are a help."

"Good. Let us then locate our car--aha!--it arrives."

And a big green car was pulling up to the curb before them. It stopped, its driver oblivious to the horns of the vehicles in line behind--or maybe, Jethri thought, she was deaf. Whichever, the back door rose and Master ven'Deelin took his arm, urging him forward.

The inside of the car was cool, and dim enough that he dared to slip his glasses down his nose, then off entirely, smiling at the polarized windows, while keeping his eyes off the machinery hurtling by. Prudently, he slipped the glasses into the pocket of his jacket.

"Anecha," Master ven'Deelin called into the empty air, as the car pulled away from the walk and accelerated heedlessly into the rushing traffic, "is it you?"

"Would I allow anyone else to fetch you?" came the answer, from the grid set into the door. "It has been too many years, Lady. The delm is no younger, you know."

"Nor am I. Nor am I. And we must each to our duty, which leaves us too little time to pursue that for which our hearts care."

"So we are all fortunate," commented the voice from the grid, "that your heart cares so well for the trade."

Master ven'Deelin laughed.

"Look now, my son," she said, turning to him and directing his attention through the friendly windows. "There is the guildhall, and just beyond the Trade Bar. After you are settled at the house, you must tour the bazaar. I think you will find Irikwae to be something unique in the way of ports."

Jethri's stomach was beginning to register complaints about the motion and the speed. He breathed, slow and deep, concentrating on keeping breakfast where it belonged, and let her words flow by him.

Suddenly, the car braked, swung to the right--and the traffic outside the window was less, and more moderately paced. The view was suddenly something other than port-tile-fronted buildings heavily shaded by the trailing branches of tall, deeply green vegetation.

"Rubiata City," Master ven'Deelin murmured. He glanced at her and she smiled. "Soon, we shall be home."

 

* * *

 

"Awaken, my child, we are arrived." The soft voice was accompanied by a brisk tap on his knee. Jethri blinked, straightened, and blinked again. He didn't remember falling asleep, but he must've, he thought--the view outside the windows was entirely changed.

There was no city. The land fell away on either side of the car and rose up again in jagged teeth of grayish blue rock; on and on it went, and there, through the right window and far below--a needle glint which must be--could it be?--the port tower.

Jethri gasped, his hand went out, automatically seeking a grab-bar--and found warm fingers instead.

"Peace," Norn ven'Deelin said, in her awful Terran. "No danger is there here, Jethri. We come up into the home of my heart."

Her fingers were unexpectedly strong, gripping him tightly.

"All is well. The mountains are friendly. I promise you will find them so, eh? Eh?"

He swallowed and forced himself to look away from the wide spaces and dangerous walls--to look at her face.

The black eyes held his. "Good. No danger. Say to me."

"No danger," he repeated, obedient, if breathless.

She smiled slightly. "And soon will you believe it. Never have you seen mountains?"

He shook his head. "I--the port. There's no use us going out into--" He swallowed again, engaging in a brief battle of wills with his stomach. "I'm ship-born, ma'am. We learn not to look at the open sky. It makes us--some of us--uncomfortable."

"Ah." Her fingers tightened, then she released him, and smiled. "Many wonders await you, my son."

 

* * *

 

They had passed between high pillars of what looked to be the local blue rock, smoothed and regularized into rectangles. Afterward, the view out the window was of lawns, interrupted now and then by groups of middle tall plants. Gaenor's descriptions of the pleasant things she missed from her home led him to figure that the groups scratched an artistic itch. If this lawn had been done the way Gaenor thought was proper, then there'd be some vantage point overlooking the whole, where the pattern could be seen all at once.

The car took a long curve, more lawn sweeping by the windows, then came to a smooth halt, broadside to a long set of stairs cut from the blue rock.

The doors came up, admitting a blare of unpolarized sunlight and an unexpectedly cool breeze, bearing scents both mysterious and agreeable.

Master ven'Deelin patted him on the knee.

"Come along, young Jethri! We are arrived!"

She fairly leapt out of the vehicle. Jethri paused long enough to put the black glasses on, then followed rather more slowly.

Outside, Master ven'Deelin was in animated conversation with a gray-haired woman dressed in what looked to be formal uniform--their driver, maybe... Anecha, he reminded himself, mindful of Uncle Paitor's assertion that a successful trader worked at keeping name and face on file in the brainbox--which was, by coincidence, a point Master tel'Ondor also made.

So--Anecha the driver. He'd do better to find her last name, but for now he could get away with "Master Anecha" if he was called upon to do the polite. Not that that looked likely any time in the near present, the way her and Master ven'Deelin were jawing.

Deliberately keeping his eyes on objects nearby--no need to embarrass Master ven'Deelin or himself with another widespaces panic--he moved his gaze up the stony steps, one at a time, until all at once, there was a house at the tiptop, posed like a fancy on the highest tier of one of Dyk's sillier cakes.

Up it went, three levels, four--rough blue rock, inset with jewel colored windows. There was
greenery climbing the rock walls: vines heavy with white, waxy flowers, that swayed in the teasing breeze.

Nearer at hand, he heard his name and brought his eyes hurriedly down from the heights, to find Master ven'Deelin at his right hand.

"Anecha will see to our luggage," she said, with a sweep of her hand that encompassed both stair and house. "Let us ascend."

Ascend they did--thirty-six stone steps, one after the other, at a pace somewhat brisker than he would have chosen for himself, Master ven'Deelin bouncing along beside like gravity had nothing to do with her.

They did pause at the top, Jethri sucking air deep into his lungs and wishing that Liadens didn't considered it impolite for a spacer to mop his face in public.

"You must see this," Master ven'Deelin said, putting her hand on his arm. "Turn about, my child." Panting, Jethri turned about.

What he didn't do--he didn't throw himself face down on the deck and cover his head with his arms, nor even go down on his knees and set up a yell for Seeli.

He did go back a step, breath throttling in his throat, and had the native sense to bring his eyes down, away from the arcing empty pale sky and the unending march of rock and peak--down to the long stretch of green lawn, which outrageous open space was nothing less than homey by comparison with the horror of the sky.

So--the lawn, and the clumps of bushes, swimming before his tearing eyes, and suddenly, the random clumps weren't random, but the necessary parts of a larger picture showing a common cat, folded in and poised on the feet, ready to jump.

Jethri remembered to breathe. Remembered to look to Master ven'Deelin and incline his head, politely.

"You approve?" she murmured, her head tipped a little to a side.

"It is--quite a work," he managed, shamelessly swiping Master tel'Ondor's phrase. He cleared his throat. "Is the hunting cat the sign of the house?"

Her eyebrows lifted.

"An excellent guess," she said. "Alas, that I must disappoint you. The sign of the house is a grapevine, heavy with fruit. However, several of the revered Maarilex ancestors bred cats as an avocation. The breed is well-established now, and no more to do with Tarnia, save that there are usually cats in the house. And the sculpture, of course." She inclined her head, gravely. "Well done, Jethri. Now, let us announce ourselves."

She turned back to the door, and Jethri did, keeping his eyes low. He had the understanding that he'd just passed a test--or even two--and wished that he felt less uncertain on his legs. All that openness, and not a wall or a corridor or an avenue to confine it. He shuddered.

Facing the door was a relief, and it took an active application of will not to lean his head against the vermillion wood. As it happened, that was a smart move, because the door came open all at once, snatched back into the house by a boy no older than ten Standards, Jethri thought--and then revised that estimate down as the kid bowed, very careful, hand over heart, and lisped, "Who requests entry?"

Master ven'Deelin returned the bow with an equal measure of care. "Norn ven'Deelin Clan Ixin is come to make her bow to her foster mother, who has the honor to be Tarnia. I bring with me my apprentice and foster son."

The kid's eyes got round and he bowed even lower, a trifle ragged, to Jethri's eye, and stepped back, sweeping one arm wide.

"Be welcome in our house, Norn ven'Deelin Clan Ixin. Please follow. I will bring you to a parlor and inform the delm of your presence."

"We are grateful for the care of the House," Master ven'Deelin murmured, stepping forward.

They followed the kid across an entry chamber floored with the blue stone, polished to a high gloss, from which their boot heels woke stony echoes, then quieted, as they crossed into a carpeted hallway. A dozen steps down the carpet, their guide paused before an open door and bowed.

"The delm comes. Please, be at ease in our house."

The parlor was smallish--maybe the size of Master ven'Deelin's office on Elthoria--its walls covered in what Jethri took to be pale blue silk. The floor was the same vermillion wood as the front door, and an oval rug figured in pale blue and white lay in the center, around which were situated two upholstered chairs--pale blue--a couch--white--and a low table of white wood. Against the far wall stood a wine table of the same white wood, bottles racked in three rows of six. The top was a polished slab of the local stone, on which half-a-dozen glasses stood, ready to be filled.

"Clan Tarnia makes wine?" he asked Master ven'Deelin, who was standing beside one of the blue chairs, hands tucked into her belt, watching him like he was doing something interesting.

She tipped her head to one side. "You might say so. Just as you might say that Korval makes pilots or that Aragon makes porcelains."

Whoever, Jethri thought, irritable with unexpended adrenaline, they are.

"Peace," Master ven'Deelin said. "These things will be made known to you. Indeed, it is one of the reasons we are come here."

"Another being that even you would be hard put to explain this start to Ixin!" a sharp voice said from the doorway.

Jethri spun, his boot heels squeaking against the polished floor. Master ven'Deelin turned easier, and bowed lightly in a mode he didn't know.

"Mother, I greet you."

The old, old woman leaned on her cane, bright eyes darting to his face. Ears burning, he bowed, junior to senior.

"Good-day, ma'am."

"An optimist, I apprehend." She looked him up and looked him down, and Jethri wasn't exactly in receipt of the notion that she liked what she saw.

"Does no one on Elthoria know how to cut hair?"

As near as he could track it, the question was asked of the air, and that being so, he should've ignored it or let Master ven'Deelin deal. But it was his hair under derision, and the theory that it had to grow out some distance before he was presentable as a civilized being wasn't original with him.

"The barber says my hair needs to grow before he can do anything with it," he told her, a little more sharply than he had intended.

"And you find that a great impertinence on the side of the barber, do you?"

He inclined his head, just slightly. "I liked it the way it was."

"Hah!" She looked aside, and Jethri fair sagged in relief to be out from under her eye. "Norn--I ask as one who stands as your mother: Have you run mad?"

Master ven'Deelin tipped her head, to Jethri's eye, amused.

"Now, how would I know?" she said, lightly, and moved a hand. "Was my message unclear? I had said I was bringing my foster son to you for--"

"Education and polish," the old lady interrupted. "Indeed, you did say so. What you did not say, my girl, is that your son is a mess of fashion and awkwardness, barely beyond halfling, and Terran besides!"

"Ah." Master ven'Deelin bowed--another mystery mode. "But it is precisely because he is Terran that I took him as apprentice. And precisely because of chel'Gaibin that he is my son."

"chel'Gaibin?" There was a small pause, then a wrinkled hand moved, smoothing the air irritably. "Never mind. That tale will keep, I think. What I would have from you now is what you think we might accomplish here. The boy is Terran, Norn--I say it with nothing but respect. What would you have me teach him?"

"Nothing above the ordinary: The clans and their occupations; the High modes; color and the proper wearing of jewels; the Code."

"In short, you wish me to sculpt this pure specimen of a Terran into a counterfeit Liaden."

"Certainly not. I wish you to produce me a gentleman of the galaxy, able to treat with Liaden and Terran equally."

There was another short pause, while the old lady gave him second inspection, head-top to boot-bottom.

"What is your name, boy?" she asked at last.

He bowed in the mode of introduction. "Jethri Gobelyn."

"So." She raised her left hand, showing him the big enameled ring she wore on the third finger. "I have the honor to be Tarnia. You may address me informally as Lady Maarilex. Is there a form of your personal name that you prefer?"

"I prefer Jethri, if you please, ma'am."

"I will then address you informally as Jethri. Now, I have no doubt that you are fatigued from your journey. Allow me to call one of my house to guide you to your rooms. This evening, prime meal will be served in the small dining room at local hour twenty. There are clocks in your quarters." She glanced to Master ven'Deelin.

"We have him in the north wing."

"Excellent," Master ven'Deelin said.

Jethri wasn't so sure, himself, but the thought of getting doors and walls between himself and this intense old lady; to have some quiet time to think--that appealed.

So he bowed his gratitude, and Lady Maarilex thumped the floor with her cane loud enough to scare a spacer out of his suit, and the kid who had let them in to the house was there, bowing low.

"Thawlana?"

"Pet Ric, pray conduct Jethri to his rooms in the north wing."

Another bow, this to Jethri. "If you please?"

He wanted those walls--he did. But there was another portion of him that didn't want to go off into the deep parts of a grounder house on a planet no Terran ship had ever touched, leaving his last link with space behind. It wasn't exactly panic that sent him looking at Master ven'Deelin, lips parting, though he didn't have any words planned to say.

She forestalled him with a gentle bow. "Be at peace, my child. We will speak again at Prime. For now, this my foster mother wishes to ring a terrifying scold down upon me, and she could not properly express herself in the presence of a tender lad." She moved her hand, fingers wriggling in a shooing gesture. "Go now."

And that, thought Jethri, was that. Stiffly, he turned back to the kid--Pet Ric--and bowed his thanks.

"Thank you," he said. "I would be glad of an escort."

 

* * *

 

They were hardly a dozen steps from the parlor when a shadow moved in one of the doorways and a girl flickered out into the hallway, one hand raised imperiously. His guide stopped, and so did Jethri, being unwilling to run him down. The girl was older than Pet Ric--maybe fourteen or fifteen Standards, Jethri guessed--with curly red-brown hair and big, dark blue eyes in a pointy little face. She was dressed in rumpled and stained tan trousers, boots and a shirt that had probably started the day as yellow. A ruby the size of a cargo can lug nut hung round her neck by a long silver chain.

"Is it him? The ven'Deelin's foster son?" She whispered, looking up and down the hall like she was afraid somebody might overhear her.

"Who else would he be?" Pet Ric answered, sounding pettish to Jethri's ears.

"Anybody!" she said dramatically. She lowered her hand, raised her chin and looked Jethri straight in the eye.

"Are you Jethri ven'Deelin, then?"

"Jethri Gobelyn," he corrected. "I have the honor to be Master ven'Deelin's apprentice."

"Apprentice?" another voice exclaimed. A second girl stepped out of the doorway, this one an exact duplicate, even in dress, of the first. "Aunt Stafeli said foster son."

"Well, he could be both, couldn't he?" asked the first girl, and looked back at Jethri. "Are you both apprentice and foster son?"

No getting out of it now, he thought and inclined his head. "Yes."

The first girl clapped her hands together and spun to face her sister. "See, Meicha? Both!"

"Both or neither," Meicha said, cryptically. "We will take over as guide, Pet Ric."

The boy pulled himself up. "My grandmother gave the duty to me."

"Aren't you on door?" asked the girl who wasn't Meicha.

This appeared to be a question of some substance. Pet Ric hesitated. "Ye-es."

"What room has the guest been given?" Meicha asked.

"The Mountain Suite."

"All the way at the end of the north wing? How will you guard the door from there?" She asked, folding her arms over her chest. "It was well for you we happened by, cousin. We will escort the guest to his rooms. You will return to your post."

"Yes!" applauded her twin. "The house cares for the guest, and the door is held. All ends in honor."

It might have been that Pet Ric wasn't entirely convinced of that, Jethri thought, but--on the one hand, his granmam had given him the duty of escorting the guest, and on the second, it seemed clear she'd forgotten about the door.

Abruptly, the boy made up his mind, and bowed to Jethri's honor.

"I regret, Jethri Gobelyn--my duty lies elsewhere. I leave you in the care of my cousins Meicha and Miandra and look forward to seeing you again soon."

Jethri bowed. "I thank you for your care and honor your sense of duty. I look forward to renewing our acquaintance."

"Very pretty," Meicha said to Miandra. "I believe Aunt Stafeli will have him tutoring us in manner and mode."

Jethri took pause and considered the two of them, for that might well have been a barb, and he was in no mood for contention.

Miandra it was who raised her hand. "It was a jest, Jethri--may we call you Jethri? You may call us Meicha and Miandra--or Meichamiandra, as Ren Lar does!"

"You will find us frightfully light-minded," Meicha added. "Aunt Stafeli despairs, and says so often."

"Jethri wants to be alone in his room to rest his head before prime," Miandra stated, at an abrupt angle to the conversation.

"That's sensible," Meicha allowed, and turned about face, marching away down the hall. Between amused and irritated, Jethri followed her, Miandra walking companionably at his side.

"We'll take you by the public halls this time, though it is longer. Depend upon Aunt Stafeli to quiz you on every detail of the route at Prime. Later, we'll show you the back halls."

"That is very kind of you," Jethri said, slowly. "But I do not think I will be guesting above a few days."

"Not above a few days?" Meicha looked at him over her shoulder. "Are you certain of that, I wonder, Jethri?"

"Certain, yes. Elthoria breaks orbit for Naord in three Standard Days."

Silence greeted this, which didn't do much for the comfort of his stomach, but before he could ask them what they knew that he didn't, Miandra redirected the flow of conversation.

"Is it very exciting, being at the ven'Deelin's side on the trade floor? We have not had the honor of meeting her, but we have read the tales."

"Tales?" Jethri blinked at her as they rounded a corner.

"Certainly. Norn ven'Deelin is the youngest trader to have attempted and achieved the amethyst. Alone, she re-opened trade with the Giletti System, which five ambassadors could not accomplish over the space of a dozen years! She was offered the guildmaster's duty and turned it aside, saying that she better served the Guild in trade."

"She has taken," Meicha put in here, "a Terran apprentice trader under her patronage and has sworn to bring him into the Guild."

The last, of course, he knew. The others, though--

"I am pleased to hear these stories, which I had not known," he said carefully. "But it must go without saying that Master ven'Deelin is legend."

They laughed, loudly and with obvious appreciation; identical notes of joy sounding off the wooden walls.

"He does well. In truth," gasped Meicha, "the ven'Deelin is legend. Yes, even so."

"We will show you the journals, in the library, if you would enjoy them," Miandra said. "Perhaps tomorrow?"

"That would be pleasant," he said, as they began to ascend a highly polished wooden staircase of distressing height. "However, I stand at Master ven'Deelin's word, and she has not yet discussed my duties here with--"

"Oh, certainly!" Meicha cut him off. "It is understood that the ven'Deelin's word must carry all before it!"

"Except Aunt Stafeli," said Miandra.

"Sometimes," concluded Meicha; and, "Do you find the steps difficult, Jethri?"

He bit his lip. "My home ship ran light gravity, and I am never easy in heavy grav."

"Light gravity," Miandra repeated, in caressing tones. "Sister, we must go to space!"

"Let Ren Lar catch us 'mong the vines again and we shall."

Miandra chuckled and put a light hand quickly on Jethri's sleeve.

"Be of good heart, friend. Six steps more, and then to the end of a very short hallway, I promise you."

"Take good advice and first have yourself a nap," Meicha said. "Time enough to unpack when you are rested."

That seemed sensible advice, he allowed, though he was not wanting to sleep so much as to think.

"I thank you," he said, rather breathlessly, to Meicha's back.

She reached the top of the flight and turned, dancing a few steps to the right.

"Is your home light as well?" she asked, seriously, as he achieved the landing, and turned to look at her.

"My home..." He sighed, and reached up to rub his head where the growing-out hair itched. "I am ship-born. My home is--was--a tradeship named Gobelyn's Market."

The two of them exchanged a glance rich in disbelief.

"But--did you never come to ground?" Miandra asked.

"We did--for trade, repairs, that sort of thing. But we didn't live on the ground. We lived on the ship."

Another shared glance, then--

"He speaks the truth," said Meicha.

"But to always and only live on a ship?" wailed Miandra.

"Why not?" Jethri asked, irritated. "Lots of people live on ships. I'd rather that than live planet-side. Ships are clean, the temperature is consistent, the grav is light, there's no bad smells, or dust, or weather--" He heard his voice heating up and put the brake on it, bowing with a good measure of wariness.

"Forgive me," he murmured.

"Truth," Meicha said again, as if he hadn't spoken.

Miandra sighed. "Well, then, it is truth, and we must accept it. It seems an odd way to live, is all." She turned and put her hand on his sleeve.

"You must forgive us for our ignorance," she said. "I hope you will talk to us about your ship at length, so that we are no longer ignorant."

"And in trade," Meicha added, "we will teach you about gardens, and streams, and snow and other planet-side pleasures, so that you are no longer ignorant."

Jethri blinked, throat tightening with a sudden realization that he had been as rude as they had, and as such was a fitting object for Balance--

Except, he thought then, they had already declared Balance--him to teach them about ship-living, them to teach him about planet-life. He sighed, and Meicha grinned.

"You are going to be interesting, Jethri Gobelyn," she said.

"Later, he will interesting," Miandra ordered, and waved a hand under her sister's nose. "At this present, we have given our word to guide him to his rooms in enough time that he might nap and recruit his strength before prime, none of which is accomplished by standing here."

"You sound like Aunt Stafeli." Meicha turned, crooking a finger behind her. "Come along then. Less than six dozen steps, Jethri, I promise you."

In fact, it was a couple dozen steps more than six, though Jethri wasn't inclined to quibble. Now that the room was near, he found himself wanting that nap, though he slept in the car--and a shower, too, while he was wanting comforts...

"We arrive!" Meicha announced, flourishing a bow in no mode Jethri could name.

The door was wood, dark brown in color. Set off-center was a white porcelain knob painted with what he thought might have been intended to be grapes.

"Turn the knob and push the door away from you," Miandra coached. "If you like, we will show you how to lock it from the inside."

"Thank you," he said. The porcelain was cool and smooth, vaguely reminiscent of his fractin.

The door moved easily under his push, and he came a little too quickly into the room, the knob still in his hand.

This time he shouted, and threw an arm up over his eyes, all the while his heart pounded in his ears, and his breath burned in his chest.

"The curtains!" a high voice shrilled, and there were hands on his shoulders, pushing him, turning him, he realized, in the midst of his panic and willingly allowed it, the knob slipping from his hand.

"Done!"

"Done," repeated an identical voice, very near at hand. "Jethri, the curtain is closed. You may open your eyes."

It wasn't as easy as that, of course, and there was the added knowledge, as he got his breathing under control, that he'd made a looby outta himself in front of the twins, besides showing them just as plain as he could where he stood vulnerable.

Mud, dust and stink! He raged at himself, standing there with his arm over his face and his eyes squeezed tight. His druthers, if it mattered, was to sink down deep into the flooring and never rise up again. Failing that, he figured dying on the spot would do. Of all the stupid--but, who expected bare sky and mountain peaks when they opened a sleeping room door? Certainly, not a born spacer.

"You are a guest of the house," one of the twins said from nearby, "and valued."

"Besides," said the other, "the ven'Deelin would skin us if harm came to you and then Aunt Stafeli would boil us."

That caught him in the funny bones, and he sputtered a laugh, which somehow made it easier to get the arm down and the eyes, cautiously, open.

One of the twins--now that they were out of formation, he couldn't tell one from her sister--was standing practically toe-to-toe with him, her pointed face quite plainly showing concern. To her right and little back, the other twin's face wore an identical expression of dismay.

"Not smart," he managed, still some breathless. "You stand back, in case I swing out."

She tipped her head. "You are not going to swing out," she stated, with absolute conviction. "You are quite calm, now."

And, truth told, he did feel calmer and neither in danger or dangerous. He took a breath, getting the air all the way down into his lungs, and sighed it out.

"What's amiss?" asked the twin who stood farthest from him. "Are you afraid of mountains?"

He shook his head. "Openness," he said, and, seeing their blank stares, expanded. "All that emptiness, with no walls or corridors--it's not natural. Not what a space-born would know as natural. You could fall, forever..."

They exchanged another one of their identical looks, and then the nearer twin stepped back, clearing his sight of the room, which was bigger than the Market's common room, and set up like a parlor, with a desk against one wall, upholstered chairs here and there, low tables, and several small cases holding books and bric-a-brac. The floor was carpeted in deep green. Across the room, a swath of matching deep green shrouded the window.

"The bedroom boasts a similar vista, in which the house takes pride, and takes care that all of our most honored guests are placed here," said the girl nearest him. She paused before asking, "Shall we close the curtains, or show you how to use them?"

Good question, Jethri thought, and took another breath, trying to center himself, like Pen Rel had taught him. He nodded.

"I think I should learn how to operate the curtains myself, thank you."

That pleased them, though he couldn't have said how he knew, and they guided him through a small galley, which, thank the ghosts of space, had no window, to his bedroom.

The bed alone was the size of his quarters on the Market, and so filled up with pillows that there wasn't any room left for him. His duffle, and of all things, the battered B crate from his storage bin sat on a long bench under ... the window.

He was warned, now, and knew to keep his eyes low, so it wasn't bad at all, just a quick spike in the heart rate and a little bit of buzz inside the ears.

"In order to operate the curtain," said the twin on his left, "you must approach the window. There is a pulley mechanism at the right edge..."

He found it by touch, keeping his eyes pinned to the homey sight of his bag on the bench. The pull was stiff, but he gave it steady pressure, and the curtain glided across the edge of his sight, casting the room into shade.

He sighed, and sat down on the bench.

Before him, Meicha and Miandra bowed.

"So, you are safely delivered, and will be wanting your rest," the one on the left said.

"We will come again just ahead of twentieth hour to escort you to the small dining room," the one on the right said. "In the meanwhile, be easy in our house."

"And don't forget to set the clock to wake you in good time to dress," the twin on the left added. He smiled, then recalled his manners, and got to his feet to bow his gratitude.

"Thank you for your care."

"We are pleased to be of assistance," said the twin on the right, as the two of them turned away. "Aunt Stafeli will not allow you to fear mountains, or open space, or any being born," the girl on the left said over her shoulder.

"Then it is fortunate that I will only be with her for a few days," Jethri answered lightly, following them.

Silence from both as they passed through the galley and into the parlor.

"Recruit your strength," one said finally. "In case."

He smiled. Did they expect him to stay while Elthoria continued on the amended route? He was 'prenticed to learn trade, not to learn mountains.

Still, it would be rude to ignore their concern, so he bowed and murmured, "I will. Thank you." One twin opened the door and slipped out into the hallway. The second paused a moment, and put her finger on a switch under the inner knob.

"Snap to the right is locked," she said. "To the left is unlocked. Until prime, Jethri."

"Until prime," he said, but she was already gone, the door ghosting shut behind her.

 

* * *

 

The mirror showed brown hair growing out in untidy patches, an earnest, scrubbed clean face, and a pair of wide brown eyes. Below the face, the body was neatly outfitted in a pale green Liaden-style shirt and dark blue trousers. Jethri nodded, and his reflection nodded, too, brown eyes going a little wider.

"You're shipshape and ready for space," he told himself encouragingly, reaching for the Ixin pin.

One eye on the clock, he got the pin fixed to his collar, and stood away from the mirror, pulling his shirt straight. It lacked six minutes to twentieth hour. He wondered how long he should wait for the twins before deciding that they had forgotten him and--

A chime rang through the apartment. Jethri blinked, then ginned, and went quick-step to the main room. He remembered to order his face into bland before he opened the door, which was well.

He had been expecting the same grubby brats who had guided him a few hours before, faces clean, maybe, in honor of dinner.

What he hadn't expected was two ladies of worth in matching white dresses, a flower nestled among the auburn curls of each, matching rubies hanging from matching silver chains. They bowed like they were one person, neither one faster or slower than the other--honor to the guest.

His answer--honor to a child of the house--was a bow that Master tel'Ondor had drilled him on until his back ached, so he was confident of his execution--until the cat.

He had seen cats before, of course--port cats. Small and fierce, they worked the docks tirelessly, keeping the rat and mouse populations in check. Their work took a toll, in shredded ears, crooked tails, and rough, oily fur.

This cat--the one standing between the twins and looking up into his face as if it was trying to memorize his features--this cat had never done a lick of work in its life.

It was a tall animal; the tips of its sturdy ears easily on a level with the twins' knees, with a pronounced and well-whiskered muzzle. Its fur was a plush gray; its tail a high, proud sweep. The eyes which considered him so seriously were pale green--rather like two large oval-shaped peridots.

Timing ruined, Jethri straightened to find the twins watching him with interest.

"What is that doing here?"

"Oh, don't mind Flinx--"

"He was waiting outside our rooms for us--"

"Very likely he heard there was a guest--"

"And came to do proper duty."

He frowned, and looked down at the animal. "It's not intelligent?"

"No, you mustn't say so! Flinx is very intelligent!" cried the twin on the right--Jethri thought she might be Miandra.

"Bend down and offer your forefinger," the other twin--Meicha, if his theory was correct--said. "We mustn't be late for prime and duty must be satisfied."

Jethri threw her a sharp glance, but as far as he could read her--which was to say, not at all--she appeared to be serious.

Sighing to himself, he bent down and held his right forefinger out toward the cat's nose, hoping he wasn't about to get bit. Cat-bite was serious trouble, as he knew. 'Way back, when he was still a kid, Dyk had gotten bit by a dock cat. The bite went septic before he got to the first aid kit and it had taken two hits of super heavy duty antibiotics to bring him back from the edge of too sick to care.

This cat, though--this Flinx. It moved forward a substantial step and touched its cool, brick colored nose to the very tip of his finger. It paused, then, and Jethri was about to pull back, duty done. But, before he did, Flinx took a couple more substantial steps and made sure it rubbed its body down the entire length of his fingers and arm.

"A singular honor!" one of the twins said, and Jethri jumped, having forgotten she was there.

The cat blinked, for all of space like he was laughing, then stropped himself along Jethri's knee and continued on into his rooms.

"Hey!" He turned, but before he could go after the interloper, his sleeve was gabbed by one of the twins and his hand by the other.

"Leave him--he won't hurt anything," said the girl holding his sleeve.

"Flinx is very wise," added the girl holding his hand, pulling the door shut, as they hustled him down the hall. "And we had best be wise and hurry so that we are not late for prime!"

 

* * *

 

Thank all the ghosts of space, the small dining room did not have a famous view on exhibit. What it did have was a round table laid with such an amount of dinnerware, utensils and drinking vessels that Jethri would have suspected a shivary was planned, instead of a cozy and quiet family dinner.

They were the last arriving, on the stroke of twenty, according to the clock on the sideboard. The twins deserted him at the door and plotted a course for two chairs set together between Delm Tarnia and a black-haired man with a soft-featured face and dreamy blue eyes. At Tarnia's right sat Master ven'Deelin, observing him with that look of intent interest he seemed lately to inspire. Next to Master ven'Deelin was an empty chair.

Grateful that this once the clue was obvious, he slipped into the empty seat, and darted a quick look down table at the twins. They were sitting side by side, as modest as you please, hands folded on their laps, eyes downcast.

"Jethri," the old lady said, claiming his attention with a flutter of frail old fingers. "I see that you have had the felicity of meeting Miandra and Meicha. Allow me to present my son, Ren Lar, who is master of the vine here. Ren Lar, here is Norn's fosterling, Jethri Gobelyn."

"Sir." Jethri inclined his head deeply--as close to a seated bow as he could come without knocking his nose against the table.

"Young Jethri," Ren Lar inclined his head to a matching depth, which Jethri might have suspected for sarcasm, except there was Tarnia sitting right there. "I am pleased to meet you. We two must hold much in common, as sons of such illustrious mothers."

Oh-ho, that was it. The man's bow was courtesy paid to Master ven'Deelin, through her fosterson, and not necessarily to the son himself. The universe had not quite gone topsy-turvy.

"I am sure that we will have many stories to trade, sir," he said, which was what he could think of as near proper, though not completely of the form Master tel'Ondor had given him. On the other, Ren Lar's greeting hadn't been of the form Master tel'Ondor had given him, either.

"Trade stories at your leisure, and beyond my hearing," the old lady directed. "Normally, we are not quite so thin of company as you find us this evening, Jethri. Several of the House are abroad on business, and one has made the journey to Liad, in order to complete his education."

"And Pet Ric," said one of the twins, quietly, though maybe not quietly enough, "eats in the nursery, with the rest of the babies."

Lady Maarilex turned her head, and considered the offending twin with great blandness. "Indeed, he does," she said after a moment. "You may join him, if you wish."

The twin ducked her head. "Thank you, ma'am. I would prefer to remain here."

"Your preference has very little to do with the matter. From my age, young Meicha, there is not so much difference between you and Pet Ric, that he naturally be confined to the nursery, while you dine with the adults." A pause. "Note that I do not say, with the other adults."

Meicha bit her lip. "Yes, ma'am."

"So," the old lady turned away. "You must forgive them," she said to Master ven'Deelin. "They have no address."

"One would not expect it," Master ven'Deelin answered softly, "if they are new come from the nursery. Indeed, I am persuaded that they are progressing very well indeed."

"You are kind to say it."

'Not at all. I do wonder, though, Mother, to find dramliz in the house."

The old lady looked up sharply. "Hah. Well, and you do not find dramliz in the house, mistress. You find Meicha and Miandra, children of the clan. Healer Hall has taken an interest in them."

Master ven'Deelin inclined her head. "I am most pleased to see them."

"You say so now." She moved a hand imperiously. "House-children, make your bows to my foster daughter, Norn ven'Deelin Clan Ixin."

They inclined, deeply and identically, and with haste enough to threaten the mooring of the flowers they wore in their hair.

"Norn ven'Deelin," Meicha murmured.

"We are honored," Miandra finished.

"Meicha and Miandra, I am pleased to meet you." Master ven'Deelin inclined her head, not by much, but to judge by the way the twins' eyes got wide, maybe it was enough.

Somebody--Lady Maarilex or Ren Lar--must have made a sign that Jethri didn't catch, because right then, the door at the back of the room opened and here came an elder person dressed in a tight black tunic and tight black pants. He bowed, hands together.

"Shall I serve, Lady?"

"Yes, and then leave us, if you will."

 

* * *

 

There was talk during the meal, family catch up stuff, which Jethri followed well enough, to his own surprise. Following it and making sense of it were two different orbits, though, and after a while he just let the words slide past his ear and concentrated on his dinner.

"Of course, I will be delighted to have Jethri's assistance in the vineyard--and in the cellars, too." Ren Lar's voice, bearing as it did his own name, jerked Jethri's attention away from dinner, which was mostly done anyway, and back to the conversation.

"That is well," Master ven'Deelin was answering calmly. "I intend to start him in wine after he has completed his studies here, and it would be beneficial if he had a basic understanding of the processes."

"Very wise," Ren Lar murmured. "I am honored to be able to assist, in even so small a way, with the young trader's education."

Carefully, Jethri looked to the twins. Miandra was studying her plate with an intensity it didn't deserve, being empty. Meicha met his eye square, and he got the distinct idea she'd've said, I told you so right out if she hadn't already earned one black mark on the meal.

Jethri felt himself go cold, felt the breath shortening in his lungs. Thrown off, he thought, and didn't believe. Couldn't believe it, not of Master ven'Deelin, who, unlike his blood mother, had wanted him, at least as her apprentice. Who had plans for him, and who thought he might one day be useful to--

And there was the B crate sitting in the room upstairs, which he surely didn't need for a three-day visit..

"Ma'am," he heard his own voice, breathless and a thought too sharp. "You're not leaving me here?"

She tipped her head, black eyes very bright. "You object to the house of my foster mother?"

He took a breath, centering himself--trying to--like Pen Rel kept insisting on. It was important to be calm. People who panicked made mistakes, and, by all the ghosts of space, a mistake now could doom him to life in the mud...

Another breath, deliberately deep, noticing that the conversation had stopped and that Master ven'Deelin's question hung in the air, vibrating with an energy he wasn't near to understanding.

"The house of your foster mother is a fine house, indeed," he said, slowly, carefully. "Ignorant as I am, it is all but certain that I will disgrace the honor of the house, or of yourself, all unknowning. I am space-born, ma'am. Planet ways--"

Master ven'Deelin moved a hand in the Liaden version of "stop". Gulping, Jethri stopped.

"You see how it is with him," she said to Lady Maarilex. "So much concern for my honor!"

"That is not an ill thing, I judge, in a foster child," the old lady said gravely. "Indeed, I am charmed and heartened by his care of you, Norn. For surely, his concern for you is but a pure reflection of the care you have shown him. I am pleased, but in no wise surprised."

Trapped. Jethri bit his lip, feeling panic clawing at his throat, adrenaline arguing with his dinner.

Across the table, he saw Miandra swallow hard, and Meicha close her eyes, throat working.

"So, then," Master ven'Deelin continued. "Wine lore, surely, and a decreasing of the sensibilities. Modesty becomes a lad of certain years, but a lad who hovers on the edge of being a trader grown must have more to his repertoire than modesty and a pleasant demeanor."

Lady Maarilex inclined her head. "We shall do our possible," she murmured. "A relumma may see some progress."

A relumma? Ninety-six Standard Days? He stayed in his chair. He didn't yell or give in to bawling. Across from him, though, Meicha sniffled.