He moved his free hand in the gesture that meant "go on."

She took a deep breath. "It comes to me that Norn ven'Deelin--all honor to her!--may not love dramliz. Recall your first meal with us? And the ven'Deelin all a-wonder that there were dramliz in the house."

He had a particularly sharp memory of that meal, and he thought back on it now, looking for nuance he had been ill-able to detect, then...

"I think, perhaps," he said slowly, "that she was ...joking. Earlier in the day--just before we met in the hall--I had understood that Lady Maarilex was about to read her a ringing scold for--for fostering a Terran and breaking with tradition. Seeing dramliz at the table, it might be that she merely remarked that she was not the only one who had broken with tradition."

"Hah," said Meicha, and bent her head to look at Miandra, who sat silent, running her chain through her fingers, eyes absent.

Jethri skritched Flinx under the chin.

"I judge that Jethri has the right of it," Miandra said abruptly. "Nora ven'Deelin has Aunt Stafeli's mark upon her. It is too much to hope that she would forgo her point, when the cards were delivered to her hand."

"True." Meicha slid back into her chair, looking relaxed for the first time since they had tumbled into his room. "The ven'Deelin is due back with us at the end of next relumma."

Jethri sent a glance to Miandra. "Can you hold so long?"

She moved her shoulders. "I will do what I might, though I must point out the possibility that the Scout Lieutenant will seek Balance."

"He would not dare!" Meicha declared stoutly. "Come against Aunt Stafeli in Balance? He is a fool if he attempts it."

"Jethri had already established him as a fool," Miandra pointed out. "And it was not Balance against the House that concerns me."

Meicha stared at her.

"He may try me, if he likes," Jethri said, the better part of his attention on Flinx.

"You are not concerned," Miandra murmured, and it was not a question. He looked up and met her eyes.

"Not overly, no. Though--I regret. He threatened you, and I did not understand that at the time. You need not be concerned, either."

Silence. Then Meicha spoke, teasing.

"You have a champion, sister."

"It was kindly meant," Miandra said placidly, and, deliberately, as if she had reached a firm decision, put the silver chain over her head. The deformed ruby swung once against her jersey, then stilled.

"I would like to hear more of this Scout captain you invoked over the head of the so-kind lieutenant," she said.

"I met him when I jumped off the edge of Kailipso Station," he began, and tipped his head, recalled of a sudden to his manners. "Would you like some tea?"

"Masterful!" Meicha crowed. "You have missed your trade, Jethri! You should 'prentice to a teller of tales."

He made his face serious, like he was considering it. "I don't think I'd care for that, really," he said, which earned him another crow of laughter.

"Wretch! Yes, tea, by all means--and hurry!"

Grinning, he put Flinx on the carpet and unwound, moving toward the galley. There, he filled the tea-maker, pulled the tray from its hanger and put cups on it. He added the tin of cookies Mrs. tor'Beli had given him a few days ago--it had been full, then; now it was about half-full. The tea-maker chimed at him; he put the pot on the tray and carried it out to the main room, being very careful of where he set his feet, in case Flinx should suddenly arrive to do his dance around Jethri's ankles.

He needn't have worried about that. The cat was sitting tall on the floor next to Miandra, tail wrapped tightly around his toes, intently observing the plates of goodies set out on the cloth from his table. The twins had set his neglected dinner out like party food. He grinned and went forward.

Meicha leapt to her feet and handed the cups, pot and tin down to Miandra, who placed them on the cloth. Jethri put the tray on the table and sat on the carpet between the two of them, accepting a cup of tea from Miandra with a grave inclination of his head.

"My thanks."

Meicha passed him a goody plate and he pinched one of the cheese roll-ups he was partial to and passed the plate around to Miandra. When they were all provided with food and tea, and each of them had taken a sip and a bite, Miandra looked up with a definite gleam in her eye.

"And, now, sir, you will tell us about your Scout captain and how it was you came to jump off the edge of a spacestation!"

He hid the grin behind another sip of tea. "Certainly," he murmured, as dignified as could be. "It happened this way ...."

 

 

Day 166
Standard Year 1118
Elthoria

 

"Master Trader, the captain bids me deliver this message to you." The first mate's voice was somber, and it was that which drew Norn ven'Deelin's attention away from the file she had under study. Gaenor tel'Dorbit was not a somber woman, and while she enjoyed a contract of pleasure with the librarian Norn had specifically instructed to deny her to all seekers, it could hardly be supposed that his melant'i was so lacking that he had let his paramour by on a mere whim.

Norn sighed. Somber first mates and disobedient, dutiful librarians. Surely, the universe grew too complex. She looked up.

Gaenor tel'Dorbit bowed and produced from her sleeve a folded piece of green priority paper. The paper crackled as Norn received it and glanced at the routing line.

"Hah," she said, extending it. "Pray have communications forward this to my son at Irikwae."

The first mate bit her lip. "Master Trader," she said, more somberly, if possible, than previously, "the captain bids me deliver this message to you."

Oh, and indeed? Norn looked again at the routing: from Khatelane Gobelyn. The pilot cousin, was it not? And the same who had written before. That she sent now a priority message--that was notable. It was also notable that it had been some days in transit, for Khatelane had sent it to Avrix, where Elthoria would have been, had the schedule not been amended.

She glanced up at Gaenor tel'Dorbit, who was watching her with no small amount of anticipation. It came to her that Gaenor read Terran well and would certainly have been asked by the communications officer to vet a message written in Terran. She had also taken a liking to Jethri himself, saying that he reminded her pleasantly of the young brothers she left at home. Which handily explained, Norn thought, Kor Ith yo'Lanna's involvement in the proper disposition of a letter meant for a mere apprentice of trade.

"I expect," she said gently to Gaenor's tense face, "to read that Jethri's honored mother, Captain Iza Gobelyn, has passed from this to a more gentle plane, and that Jethri is called back to his kin, to mourn."

"Master Trader," the first mate inclined her head slightly. "To my knowledge, the health of Jethri's honored mother remains robust."

Well. Obviously, she was not going to be quit of Gaenor until she had read and made some disposition of Jethri's letter.

Leaning back in her chair, she flicked the page open and began, laboriously, to read.

Dear Jethri,

Never thought Pd be sending you a Priority, but I think I made a bad situation worse for you, so I'm sending a heads-up quick.

Pm here on Banthport at the Trade Bar and run into Keeson Trager and Coraline.

Bunch of Liadens on the place, which don't figure, because you know as well as me, Jeth, Banth doesn't have nothing but the gold mines. But, anyhow, lots of Liadens, and one of them hears Kee name me. Pretty boy, in a skinny, sulky sort of way. Name of Barjohn Shelgaybin, near as I can make out. Said he knows you, that you lost him a brother, and you didn't settle up like you should've. Said, that being so, and me standing right there, he could take exact balance, or I could pay him four hundred cantra in compensation, which, if I could've done I wouldn't've been at Banth on Kinaveralport business, because I'd be captain-owner of a brand-new Cezna with nothing less than twelve pod-mounts.

So, it was stupid, and I figure it's best for all to leave, except he up and grabs me and--I decked him. Conked his head on the floor and went out cold. Another boy tells me I got safe passage--though he didn't tell me his name--so I left it and come back to the crash. I'm sending this to Elthoria, and a copy to Paitor.

For what it's worth, Farli Trager worked out the names of the Liaden ships on Banth: Winhale, Tornfall, Skeen, Brass Cannon. Don't know which your friend is off of, but you might, if he hasn't made the whole thing up out of spare parts. Skeen and Brass Cannon hold Combine keys.

I'm real sorry, Jeth, and I hope you're OK. If this is some kind of Liaden blood feud, let us know, will you? If that pretty boy's a headcase, let us know that, too--and tell us how you're getting on. I'm gone by the time you get this--follow-ups to Paitor at Terratrade, Kinaveral.

Love,

Khat

Norn ven'Deelin folded the sheet and put it, carefully, atop the reader. She sat for a few heartbeats, eyes on the green paper, then looked up to Gaenor tel'Dorbit, standing patiently, her hands tucked into her belt, her face tense-worried. And she was right to worry, Norn thought. Indeed she was.

"So," she said softly. "I am informed. Of your goodness, First Mate, ask Arms Master sig'Kethra to join in my office for prime in--" she glanced at the clock--"one hour."

"Master Trader." Gaenor bowed, relief palpable, as if the problem--the problems--were now solved, with Jethri and his kin rendered impervious to chel'Gaibin spite. If only it were so.

The first mate removed herself from the study room. Norn ven'Deelin sat quietly for half-a-dozen heartbeats more, then slipped the green letter away into her sleeve, marked her place in the file, and went over to the wall unit to call the kitchen and alert the cook to her need for a working dinner for two to arrive in her office in an hour.

 

* * *

 

"So," Pen Rel said, putting the green paper down and reaching for his wine. "The chel'Gaibin heir aspires to the melant'i of a port tough. Are you surprised?"

"Alas, I am not--and we will not discuss what that might say about ven'Deelin's melant'i." She sipped her own wine, staring sightlessly at the meal neither had addressed with vigor.

"What I believe we have, old friend," she murmured, "is a play in two acts. I hope that you will lend me the benefit of your wisdom in crafting an appropriate answer to each."

"Now, I know a matter to be dire when ven'Deelin comes to me with sweet words of flattery in her mouth," he commented, irreverently. "All I have is yours to command. Has it ever been otherwise?"

"Surely, it must have been, at one time--but, stay! I will not insult you with more flattery. As I said, a play in two acts, their separate action linked by the chel'Gaibin heir. Indeed, if what I believe is true, I can only suppose Infreya chel'Gaibin to be in a goodly rage regarding the heir's impromptu freelancing--for I believe the approach upon young Khatelane to be nothing more nor less than a moment seized to determine what profit might be wrung from it. And why, you may wonder, would Infreya chel'Gaibin be quite so angry at her heir's attempt to terrorize a mere Terran?"

"The ships," Pen Rel murmured. "The transliterations are ...challenging. However, if the name the pilot renders as Brass Cannon is, indeed, our own beloved Bra'ezkinion, then it's certain there's piracy afoot."

"And if Tornfall may be discovered to be Therinfel, we may add mayhem to the brew," Norn said, and fell silent for a long moment, her wineglass forgotten in her hand.

Pen Rel reached out and captured the letter, frowning at the Terran words.

"The pilot is right to wonder," he said eventually, "what interest Banth holds for such a mixed flight of ships--" He looked up and made a rueful face. "Only hear me assume that Wynhael stands in association with Bra'ezkinion and Therinfel."

"Not invalid, I think," Norn said, absently. "Not invalid. I allow the pilot to be a clever child and her questions on-point. For, indeed, there is nothing to want at Banth that cannot be had elsewhere, with less cost and more convenience. And yet four Liaden ships--two of them known to us as rogues, in addition to the most excellent Wynhael, and the as-yet-undiscovered Skeen--simultaneously converge upon this port. Credulity strains to the breaking point, my friend."

"Past the breaking point, I would say. So, Master Trader, what is there to want at Banth, after all?"

She glanced at him, eyes gleaming. "How many times must I explain that the skills of a master trader are not those of the dramliz?"

"Until I lay down my last duty, I expect," he retorted. "I have seen you too often work magic."

"Pah! Now who flatters whom, sir? However, your question has merit, despite your deplorable manners. What, indeed, does Banth have which is desirable and has been overlooked, thus far, by all?" She moved her hand, discovered the wine glass and sipped.

"I do not know. And perhaps I may never know. However, the convergence of those four ships--two rejoicing in substantial guild misdemeanor files--allows me to call upon the masters of trade to interview the traders involved, immediately, to determine if there has been any breach of guild rule."

"Thereby infuriating Infreya chel'Gaibin and the so-honorable heir."

"Very possibly," Norn agreed, tranquilly. "But Infreya will not resist a guild investigation--she is, when all is counted, too canny a trader to bargain for her own downfall. It must be in her best interest to cooperate with the guild--and that is where we gain the small hope that we will, after all, learn what it is that Banth has of value."

"You will need to know for certain the names of those ships," Pen Rel said. "I will undertake that proof."

"I thank you," she smiled, briefly, and sipped her wine. "So, that act. The second, I own, may be knottier, for it involves dramliz skills. One or both of us must look into the future and see whether chel'Gaibin will pursue its false Balance against Gobelyns, all and sundry, and, if they will, what measures we must take--in protection, I would say, preferring not to wait upon the necessity of retribution."

"I understand." He considered the matter for some time, frowning abstractedly at the table top. Norn sipped her wine and waited for him to return to himself.

"I believe that the larger population of Gobelyns need have no fear that the chel'Gaibin heir will attempt to pursue his Balance," he said after a considerable time had passed. "Like you, I consider that the attack upon Pilot Gobelyn was an opportunistic act, which it is unlikely he will repeat."

"Unlikely? Tell me why you say so."

He rattled the green paper. "The pilot states that she knocked him down for his impertinence in laying a hand upon her--and rightly so, may I say. You, yourself, know well that chel'Gaibins have no taste for being knocked down. I would consider that the encounter with the pilot will have provided a laudatory lesson to the heir." He raised his glass.

"And, too, when does Wynhael run so far out? Further opportunity to meet Gobelyns must be limited by the usual routes pursued by both."

"Fair enough," Norn murmured, "though I submit that Wynhael was at Banth as nearly as a few days ago."

"An isolated incidence, I believe," Pen Rel said stoutly. "I think we may assume that Gobelyns as a set reside at a safe distance from chel'Gaibins of any sort." He sipped his wine. "No, where we must focus our concern, I believe, is upon Jethri, who is at this moment well within Liaden space and, while more tutored regarding the rules of Balance than his most excellent kinswoman, is perhaps not as conversant with nuance as one might like."

"He has been living this while in the house of my foster mother," Nora said dryly. "Be assured that he will by this time be breathing and dreaming nuance. However, your point is taken. One does not leave an inexperienced player unshielded to danger. We know that Bar Jon chel'Gaibin has publicly proposed a grievance against Jethri Gobelyn--" she fluttered her fingers at the paper in his hand. "He must pursue satisfaction, or his melant'i suffers."

Pen Rel snorted. "As if it had not already. Shall we to Irikwae, then?"

She moved a shoulder. "Alas, we cannot. The cargo we have guaranteed for Lylan--"

"Ah," he murmured. "I had forgotten."

Nora sipped her wine. "Immediately, let us beam to Tarnia, with full particulars and a request to be vigilant. We have a little time, I calculate, purchased by the guild investigation. We will fulfill our contract, and transship what we may." She sighed. "Gar Sad will pin my ears to my head."

"Of course he will." Pen Rel put his glass and the letter on the table and came to his feet, not quite as lightly as was his wont. "You will have clear proof of the ships involved by the end of next shift."

She smiled at him. "Old friend. My thanks to you, on behalf of my student and son."

"My student, also, remember," he said bowing lightly. "By your leave, Norn."

She flicked a hand in bogus impatience. "Go then, if you are so eager for work."

He smiled, placed his hand briefly over his heart, and left her.

 

 

Day 166
Standard Year 1118
Irikwae

 

The alarm chimed, insistent. Jethri groaned and resisted the temptation to push his head under the bank of pillows to shut out the noise.

The chime grew louder. Manfully, Jethri flung the sheets back, got his feet on the floor. A few steps brought him to the alarm, which he disarmed, and then simply stood there, savoring the silence.

The clock displayed a time a few minutes later than his usual waking hour, which meant he was going to have to engage jets to get to breakfast on time. He yawned, the idea of engaging jets infinitely less attractive than collapsing back onto the bed and taking another half-shift of sleep.

Instead, he moved, at something less than his usual speed, on course for the 'fresher.

The twins had stayed late, trading stories of their own for his of Kailipso Station and Scout Captain ter'Astin, until Miandra looked out the window.

"The third moon has set," she said, whereupon Meicha pronounced the word Jethri considered to be the Liaden rendering of "mud!" and they both jumped up and took their leave, with smiles and wishes for his sweet dreaming, flitting like the ghosts of space down the dim-lit hall, Flinx the ghost of a cat, weaving 'round their silent feet.

Trouble was, he hadn't been at all sleepy and had spent some time more huddled over his old "trade journal," until he realized he had read the same entry three times, without making sense of it once, closed the old book and gone to bed.

Two hours ago.

He stepped into the shower and punched the button for cold, gasping when the blast hit him. Quickly, he soaped and rinsed, then jumped out, reaching for the towel. Drying briskly, he glanced in the mirror--and glanced again, moving closer and touching his upper lip, where last evening a hopeful mustache sprouted.

Gone now, stroked into oblivion by Meicha's magic fingers.

"I don't know how long that will last," she had said, half-scolding. "But you really cannot, Jethri, go among polite people with hair on your face."

"I was going to ask Mr. pel'Saba for depilatory, tomorrow," he'd said, and Miandra had laughed, reaching over her twin's shoulder to put her palm against his cheek.

"He would not have had the least idea what you asked for," she said. "Leave it to Meicha until you may purchase some of this substance for yourself, perhaps at the port?"

"Miandra..." Meicha hissed, and her sister laughed again and withdrew her hand, leaving Jethri wishing that she hadn't.

In the bedroom, the alarm began again, signaling five minutes until breakfast.

Jethri swore and jumped for his closet.

 

* * *

 

The breakfast room was empty, for all the food was laid out just like always on the long sideboard and the places were set at the table set in the tall windowed alcove overlooking the flower garden. Someone had thought it a mellow enough day to prop open the middle pane, and the smells of flowers and growing things danced into the room on the back of a dainty little breeze.

Jethri paused at the window, looking out over the banks of sweet smelling, prickle stemmed flowers that Lady Maarilex favored.

The garden appeared as always: pink and white blossoms crowding the stone pathways; the sunlight dappled with shade from the tall tree at the garden's center. Nothing seemed disturbed by yesterday's rogue wind.

"Good morning, Master Jethri," murmured a voice gown very familiar to him. Jethri turned and inclined his head.

"Mr. pel'Saba." He looked into the butler's bland, give-nothing face. "I fear I have overslept."

"If you did, it was not by many minutes," the old man said. "However, Master Ren Lar went early to the vines--and Mrs. tor'Beli has instructions to send a tray up to their ladyships." That would be Meicha and Miandra, Jethri thought with a start.

"For yourself..." Mr. pel'Saba continued, reaching into his sleeve and producing a creamy, square envelope, "there is a letter."

A letter. Jethri took the envelope with a small bow, fingertips tingling against the kiss of high-rag paper. "My thanks."

"It is my pleasure to serve," Mr. el'Saba assured him. "Please enjoy your breakfast. If anything is required, you have but to ring." He bowed and was gone, vanishing through the door at the back of the room.

Jethri turned his attention to the envelope. An irregular blob of purple wax glued the flap shut; pressed into the wax was a design. He brought the blob closer to the end of his nose, squinting--and recognized the sign of the traders guild.

Reverently, he flipped the creamy square over and stood staring at the name, written in purple ink the exact shade of the lump of sealing wax, the Liaden letters a thought too ornate: Jeth Ree ven'Deelin.

Now, he thought, here's a message. If only he knew how to read it.

Sighing, the envelope heavier in his hand than its weight accounted for, Jethri went to the sideboard, poured himself a cup of tea, and carried both to his usual place at the breakfast table. Only when he had seated himself and taken a sip of tea, did he slip his finger under the purple wax and break the seal.

Inside the envelope was a single sheet of paper, folded once in the middle. It crackled crisply when he unfolded it to find five precise lines, written in that over-ornate hand:

Jeth Ree ven'Deelin, apprentice to Master Trader Norn ven'Deelin, will present himself at Irikwae Guildhall on Standard Day 168 at sixth hour, local, in order to undertake testing for certification. The course will encompass one-half relumma. The candidate will be housed at the guildhall for the duration of the certification program.

That was it, the last line being a signature so over-written as to be nearly unreadable. Jethri sipped his tea, frowning at the thing until he finally puzzled out: Therin yosArimyst, Hall Master, Irikwae Port.

"Such a studious demeanor so early in the day!" Lady Maarilex remarked a few moments later, stumping to a halt on the threshold of the breakfast room. "Truly, Jethri, you are an example to us all." He put the letter down next to his teacup and rose, crossing the room to offer her his arm.

"After yesterday, I wonder that you can say so, ma'am," he murmured, as he guided her to her usual place, and pulled back her chair.

She laughed. "Certainly, the portions of your yesterday which I was privileged to observe seemed to go very well, indeed. Your demeanor before the Scout Lieutenant--I live in the liveliest anticipation of sharing the tale with your foster mother."

Oh, really? "Do you think she will enjoy it, ma'am?" he asked.

She looked up at him, old eyes sparkling.

"Immensely, young Jethri. Immensely."

"Well, then," he said, with a lightness he didn't particularly feel, "I will judge that I have acquitted myself well, in the matter of the Scout." He paused. "May I bring you something, ma'am?" he asked, since neither Meicha nor Miandra was there to perform the service.

"Tea, if you will, child, and a bit of the custard."

He moved off to fulfill this modest commission, and returned to the table with tea and custard, and a sweet roll for himself.

"Ma'am, I wonder," he said, glancing at the letter as he took his place. "Does Hall Master Therin yos'Arimyst hold Master ven'Deelin in despite?"

She paused with her teacup halfway to her lips and shot him a sharp glance over the rim. "Now, here's a bold start. What prompts it?"

Wordlessly, he passed her the letter and the envelope.

"Hah." She put her cup down, read the letter in a glance, considered the envelope briefly, and put both on the table between them.

"He gives you little enough time to arrive," she commented, reaching for her custard. "Today, you will pack--take what books you will from the library, too. I recall Norn telling us that there was precious little to read at the hall, saving manifests and regulations."

"Thank you, ma'am," he murmured, genuinely warmed.

A flick of her fingers dispensed with his thanks. "As to the other... Despite--perhaps not, though I would be surprised to learn that Therin yos'Arimyst counted Norn ven'Deelin among his favored companions." She spooned custard, contemplatively. Jethri broke his roll open and did his best to cultivate patience.

"It is, you understand," Lady Maarilex said eventually, "a difference in mode that separates Norn and the yos'Arimyst. In him, you will find a trader, oh, most conservative! Ring a rumor of change and be certain that Therin yos'Arimyst will be with the portmaster within the hour, speaking eloquently in defense of the proven ways. Norn, as I am certain you have yourself observed, is one to dance with risk and court change."

"I can see that the two of them might not have much to talk about," Jethri said, when a few moments had passed and she had said nothing else.

"Certainly, they would seem to be unlikely to agree on any topic of importance to either," she murmured, her eyes, and apparently her thoughts, on her custard.

Jethri sipped his tea, found it less than tepid and rose to warm his cup. When he returned, Lady Maarilex had finished her custard and was holding her cup between her two hands, eyes closed.

He slipped into his seat as quietly as he could, not wanting to disturb her if she was indulging in a nap. She opened her eyes before he was rightly settled, and extended a hand to tap the letter where it was between them on the table.

"I believe what you have here is politics, child. Mind you, I do not have the key to the yos'Arimyst's mind, but it comes to me that he must see you as a challenge to his beloved changelessness--indeed, you are just such a challenge--and never mind that change will come, no matter how he may abhor it, or speak against it, or forbid it within his hall. Norn ven'Deelin, who loves the trade more than any being alive, has taken a Terran apprentice. Surely, the foundations of the homeworld ring with the blow! And, yet, if not Norn, if not now--then another, later. Terrans exist. Not only do they exist, but they insist upon trading--and on expanding the field upon which they can trade. We ignore them--we deny them--at our very great peril."

Jethri leaned forward, watching her face. "You think that she was right, then, ma'am?"

"Oh, I believe she is correct," the old lady murmured. "Which is not to say--diverting and delightful as I find you!--that I would not have preferred another, and later. It is not comfortable, to be an agent of change." She shot him an especially sharp glance. "Nor is it comfortable, I imagine, to be change embodied."

He swallowed. "I--am not accustomed to thinking of myself so. An apprentice trader, set to learn from a ...most astonishing master--that is how I think of myself."

She smiled. "That is very sensible of you, Jethri Gobelyn, fostered of ven'Deelin. Consider yourself so, and comport yourself so." She tapped the letter again, three times, and withdrew her hand.

"And do not forget that there are others abroad who find your existence threatens them, and who will do their all to see you fail."

Nothing new there, Jethri thought, retrieving his letter. Just a description of trade-as-usual. He folded the paper and slipped it into the pocket of his jacket.

"Anecha will drive you to the port and see you safe inside the hall," Lady Maarilex said. "If you require funds, pray speak to Mr. el'Saba--he will be able to rectify the matter for you."

He inclined his head. "I thank you, ma'am, but I believe I am well-funded."

"That is well, then," she said and pushed back from the table. He leapt to his feet--and was waved back to his chair.

"Please. I am not so frail as that--and you have eaten nothing. A custard may tide an old woman until nuncheon, but a lad of your years wants more than a shredded roll for his breakfast."

He looked down at his plate, feeling his ears warm. "Yes, ma'am," he murmured, and then looked back to her face. "Thank you for your care."

She smiled. "You are a courteous child." She bowed, very slightly. "Until soon, young Jethri."

"Until soon, ma'am," he answered, and watched her stump down the room, leaning heavy on her cane, until she reached the hall and turned right, toward her office.

 

 

Day 168
Standard Year 1118
Irikwae Port

 

"I don't know why he needs you here so early," Anecha muttered as she opened the big car's cargo compartment.

Jethri reached in, got hold of the strap and pulled his duffle out, slinging the strap over one shoulder.

"The port never closes," he said, softly. "Master yos'Arimyst has likely done me the courtesy of being sure that I arrive during his on-shift."

Anecha sent him one of her sharp, unreadable glances. "So, you interpret it as courtesy, do you? You've a more giving melant'i than some of us, then, Jethri Gobelyn." She swung the second bag out of the boot and got it up on a shoulder.

"I can carry that," he said mildly. She snorted and used her chin to point at the bag he already wore.

"Can isn't should," she said. "I'll have that one, too. Or do you think I will allow Norn ven'Deelin's son to walk into the guildhall dragging his own luggage, like a Low House roustabout?"

He blinked at her. "It can't be improper for an apprentice to carry his own bags--and his master's, too."

"Nothing more proper, if the master is present. However, when the apprentice is the representative of the master--"

Right. Then the honors that would properly go to the master were bestowed upon her 'prentice.

Jethri sighed, quietly. Eventually--say, a couple years after he saw his eightieth birthday, he'd have melant'i thoroughly understood.

"So," said Anecha, with a great deal of restraint, really, "if the good apprentice will deign to give me his bag?"

The other option being a long stop in the street while they argued the point--which would earn neither his melant'i nor Master ven'Deelin's any profit. Jethri stifled a second sigh and handed over the duffle, sealed his jacket over his shoulders and crossed the walk to the door of the Irikwae Port traders guild hall.

The door was locked, which didn't surprise him. He swiped his crew card from Elthoria through the lock-scanner, and then set his palm against the plate.

The status light blared red, accompanied by a particularly raucous buzzer--and the door remained locked.

"I see you are expected," Anecha commented drily from behind him, "and that every courtesy has been observed."

Thinking something closely along those lines himself, Jethri slipped his crew card into a pocket and put his hand against the plate, as might any general visitor to the hall.

The status light this time flared yellow, and there was an absence of rude noise, circumstances that Jethri tentatively considered hopeful. He dropped back two steps, head cocked attentively, waiting for the doorkeeper to open the door.

"Every courtesy observed," Anecha repeated some minutes later, voice edged.

Jethri moved forward to ring the bell again. His hand had scarcely touched the plate when it and the rest of the door was snatched away, and he found himself looking, bemusedly, down into the stern face of a man in full trade dress.

"What is the meaning of this?" The man snapped. "This is the traders' hall. The zoo is in the city."

Behind him, Jethri heard Anecha draw a sharp, outraged breath, which pretty much summarized his own feelings. Still, as Master tel'Ondor had taught him, it was best to answer rudeness with courtesy--and to remember the name of the offender.

Jethri bowed, gently, and not nearly so low as apprentice ought to a full trader. He straightened, taking his time about it, and met the man's hard gray eyes.

"I arrive at the hall at this day and hour in obedience to the word of Hall Master yos'Arimyst." He slipped the letter out of his pocket and offered it, gracefully, all the while meeting that hull-steel stare, daring him to compound his rudeness.

The man's fingers flicked--and stilled. He inclined his head, which was proper enough from trader to 'prentice, and stepped back from the door, motioning Jethri within.

The vestibule was small and stark, putting Jethri forcibly in mind of an airlock. Two halls branched out of it--one left, one right.

"'prentice!" the trader shouted. "'prentice, to the door!"

Jethri winced and heard Anecha mutter behind him, though not what she said. Which was probably just as well.

From the deeps of the hall came the sound of boots hitting the floor with a will, and shortly came from the left-most corridor a girl about, Jethri thought, the same age as the twins, her hair pale yellow and her pale blue eyes heavy with sleep.

"Yes, Trader?"

He flicked nearly dismissive fingers in Jethri's direction.

"A candidate arrives. See him to quarters."

She bowed, much too low, Jethri thought, catching the frown before it got to his face. "Yes, Trader. It shall be done."

"Good," he said, and turned toward the right hall, his hard glance scraping across Jethri's face with indifference.

Behind him, Anecha stated, dispassionately, "Every courtesy."

Jethri turned his head to give her a Look. She returned it with an expression of wide innocence Khat would have paid hard credit to possess.

"Your pardon, gentles," the girl who had been summoned to deal with them stammered. "It is--understand, it is very early in the day for candidates to arrive. Though of course!--the hall stands ready to receive... at any hour..."

Jethri raised a hand, stopping her before she tied her sentence into an irredeemable knot.

"I regret the inconvenience to the hall," he said, as gently as he could, and showed her the folded paper. "Master yos'Arimyst's own word was that I arrive at the hall no later than sixth hour today."

The apprentice blinked.

"But Master yos'Arimyst is scarcely ever at the hall so early in the day. Though, of course," she amended rapidly, her cheeks turning a darker gold with her blush, "I am only an apprentice, and cannot hope to understand the necessities of the hall master."

"Certainly not," Jethri said smoothly. "I wonder if Master yos'Arimyst is in the hall this morning?"

Her eyes widened. "Why, no, sir. Master yos'Arimyst left planet yesterday on guild business. He will return at the end of the relumma."

He heard Anecha draw a breath, and moved one shoulder, sharply. The crude signal got through; Anecha held her tongue.

"Certainly, guild business has precedent," he said to the waiting girl. "My name is Jethri Gobelyn. I may be in your lists as Jeth Ree ven'Deelin."

"Oh!" The girl bowed, not as deeply as she had for the irritable trader who had opened the door, but too deep, nonetheless. Briefly, Jethri wondered about the hall's protocol master.

"Parin tel'Ossa, at your word, sir." She said, eyes wide. "Please, if you will follow me, I will show you to your quarters."

"Certainly," Jethri said, and followed her down the left hall, pausing a moment to send a glance to Anecha, who managed not to meet his eyes.

 

* * *

 

The quarters were unexpectedly spacious, on the top level, with windows overlooking an enclosed garden. Having thanked and rid himself of both Parin and Anecha, Jethri worked the latch and pushed one of the windows wide, admitting the early breeze and the muffled sounds of the morning port.

It certainly seemed that Master yos'Arimyst intended deliberate insult to Norn ven'Deelin, through her apprentice and foster son. Or, thought Jethri, leaning his hands on the window still and sticking his nose out into the chilly air, did he?

After all, he, Jethri, was here for a certification--a test. What if this deliberate rudeness had a point other than insult? Suppose, for instance, that the masters and traders of the hall wanted a reading on just how well a beastly Terran understood civilized behavior?

He closed his eyes. Tough call. If the measuring stick for civilized was Liaden, then he ought to be making plans for a vendetta right about now--or ought he? A true Liaden would have the sense to know if he was being offered an insult or a test.

Jethri exhaled, with vigor, and turned from the window to inspect the rest of his quarters.

A work table sat against the wall to the right of the window. A screen and keyboard sat ready before a too-short chair. Jethri leaned over to touch a key, and was gratified to see the screen come up, displaying an options menu.

He chose map, and was in moments engaged in a close study of the interior layout of the hall. Not nearly as complex as Tarnia's house, with its back stairs, back rooms and half-floors, but a nice mix of public, private and service rooms.

The quarters were in what appeared to be an older wing--perhaps the original hall--the public and meeting rooms were off the right-hand hall from the vestibule--and could also be accessed from the Trade Bar, which opened into the main port street.

Map committed to memory, Jethri recalled the menu--yes. There was an option called check-in. He chose it.

A box appeared on the screen, with instructions to enter his name. Fingers extended over the keypad, he paused, staring down at the Liaden characters. Slowly, he typed in the name under which he had been summoned for certification; the name that Parin had recognized.

Jeth Ree ven'Deelin.

The computer accepted his entry; another screen promised that his mentor would be informed of his arrival. Great.

He returned to the options menu, lifting a hand to cover a sudden yawn. Despite the fact that he'd been able to nap in the car coming down from Tamia's house, he was feeling short on sleep, which was not a good way to start a test. He glanced at his watch. If he was still at Tarnia's house, he'd have just under six seconds to get to breakfast.

He blinked, eyes suddenly teary and throat tight. He wanted to be in Tarnia's house, running as hard as he could down the "secret" back stairs and sweating lest he be late for breakfast. He missed Miandra and Meicha, Mrs. tel'Bonti, Lady Maarilex, Mr. pel'Saba, Flinx and Ren Lar. And while he was listing those he missed, there was Norn ven'Deelin and Gaenor and Vil Tor, Pen Rel, Master tel'Ondor; Khat and Cris and Grig and Seeli...

He sniffed, and reached into his pocket for a handkerchief.

Put it in a can, he told himself, which is what Seeli'd tell him when he'd been a kid and got to blubbering over nothing. He unfolded the handkerchief and wiped his face with the square of silk, swallowing a couple times to loosen his throat.

Might as well unpack, he thought, putting the handkerchief away. Get everything all shipshape and comfortable, and you'll feel more like the place belongs to you.

Anecha had left his bags on the bare wooden floor against the opposite wall, under the control panel for the bed. That item of furniture at the moment formed part of the wall. When he wanted it down, according to Parin, all he had to do was slide the blue knob from left to right. To raise the bed, slide the knob from right to left, and up she went, freeing a considerable area of floor space.

Jethri opened the first bag--bright blue, with the Tarnia crest embroidered on it--and commenced unpacking, carrying his clothes over to the built-in dresser. He took his time, making sure everything went away neat; that his shirts were hung straight and his socks were matched up, but at last he was shaking out his second-best trading coat--the one Master ven'Deelin'd had made for him--out of the bottom of the bag, and hanging it with his shirts on the rod.

That done, he sealed the bag up, folded it and stowed it on the shelf over the rod.

The second duffle was dull green, Gobelyn's Market spelled out in stark white stenciling down one side. He unsealed it and pulled out the books he had borrowed from Tarnia's library. He'd taken mostly novels--some titles that he remembered from Gaenor's talks, and others at random--as well as a history of Irikwae, and another, of the Scouts, and a battered volume that appeared to be an account of the Old War.

He lined the books up on the worktable, and stood for a long moment, admiring them, before diving back into his duffle and emerging with the photocube showing his father, and Arin's metal box, with its etched stars, moons and comets.

He supposed he could've left his stuff in his room at Tarnia's house, but he'd got to thinking that maybe that wasn't a good idea, considering the fractins and the prevailing feeling against old tech--and he surely hadn't wanted to leave the weather gadget anywhere but secure in the inside pocket of his jacket, which was where it was right now. So, in the end, he'd tossed everything into his old duffle and left the empty B crate behind.

The photocube he placed with great care in the center of a low black wooden table in the corner by the windows. Arin's box, he put on top of the dresser. He stepped back to consider the room and found it ...better, though still too much trader's hall and too little Jethri Gobelyn.

He returned to the duffle and pulled out the other photocube, with its record of strangers, and carried it over to the black table. The family cube, he placed near the keyboard on the table, where he could see it while he worked.

The remainder of the duffle's contents were best not displayed, he thought, those contents being fractins, true and false, the wire frame, and his pretend trade journal--though on second thought, there wasn't any reason that the old notebook couldn't be in with the rest of the books. Nobody who might visit him here was going to be interested in old kid stuff--even assuming that they could read Terran.

He resealed the duffle and put it on the shelf in the wardrobe next to the blue bag, closed the door and went back to the work table. He settled as well as he was able into the short chair and reached for the keyboard, meaning to explore the remainder of the options available to him.

A single line of tall red letters marched across the center of the computer screen. It seemed that his mentor, Trader Ena Tyl sig'Lorta would see him at the top of the hour, at meeting booth three, in the Irikwae Trade Bar.

Jethri looked at his watch. Not much time, but no need for a full-tilt run, either, if his understanding of the scale of the house was correct.

He tapped the 'received' key, slid out of the chair, brushed his hands down the front of his coat and went off to meet his mentor.

 

* * *

 

"Got some news," Seeli said, serious-like.

Grig looked up from his calcs. The yard had filed an amended, which they were required by contract to do, whenever section costs overran estimate by more than five percent. It was lookin' to be damn near five percent on the new galley module and Myra wanted to talk downgrade on some of the backup systems so as to make up the difference. He was doing the first pass over the numbers because Seeli'd been feeling not at the top of her form, and he'd finally this morning gotten her talked into going to the port clinic.

So, he looked up and got on a smile that the calcs made a little lopsided.

"Good news, I hope," he said, and even as he did felt his gut clench with the possibility of the news being bad.

"You might say." She sat down next to him, her arm companionably touching his. "Fact is, I hope you will say." She touched his hand. "I'm on the increase."

For a second he just sat there, heart in acceleration, mind blank--then all at once his brain caught up with his heart. He gave a shout of laughter and got his arms around her, and she was laughing, too, hugging him hard around the ribs, and for a while it was a mixup of kisses and hugs and more laughing, but finally they made it back to adult and sat there quiet, her head on his shoulder, their arms 'round each other still.

"How far along?" he asked, that being the first sensible sentence he'd made in the last half-hour.

"Couple Standard Months, the nurse said."

He felt his mouth pulling into another idiot grin. "The yard gets its promises in order, she'll be born in space, first newcrew on the refit."

Seeli snuggled a little closer against him. "We don't know what Mel might have cookin'. Come to it, Iza ain't beyond."

That took a little of the glow.

"Iza's done, beyond or not," he said, too seriously. "But I take your point about Mel. Girl's got the morals of a mink."

"What's a mink?" Seeli wanted to know, and it might've taken him the rest of the day to explain it to her, but the door come open and it was Paitor and Khat, each one looking as grim as Grig felt happy.

Seeli stirred, pushing against his chest to get upright. He let her go, and sighed gustily at the printout showing in the trader's hand.

"Paitor, I've been meaning to talk to you about this growing habit with the Priorities."

He shook his head. "Believe that I'd pay good cash never to get another." He tossed it on the table atop the printouts from the yard and headed into the galley.

"Who else wants a brew?" he called over his shoulder.

"I do," Khat said sitting in the chair across from Seeli, and rubbing a sleeve across her face. "Hot on the port."

"Brew'd be fine," Grig said, and looked over to Seeli, eyebrows up, asking.

"Juice for me," she called. "Thanks, Uncle."

Paitor could be heard clanking about in the cold box. Grig picked up the Priority, flicking a glance to Khat.

She shrugged. "I read it."

"All right, then," he said, unfolding the paper, with Seeli leaning close to read over his shoulder:

Honored Gobelyns:

Felicitations and fair profit to you and to your ship.

The priority message sent to the attention of Jethri from the esteemed Pilot Khatelane arrives at Elthoria. Your forbearance is requested, that I read this message, intended for the eyes of true kin only.

I commend Pilot Khatelane for the information she sends regarding certain Liaden vessels at dock on Port Banth. Several of these vessels are known to us adversely. A Guild inquiry has been called and you may repose faith that intentions of mischief or mayhem will quickly be learned.

Of the matter concerning the chel'Gaibin, I give you assurance that there lies no debt between himself and Jethri. The brother deprived was hale when we beheld him last, though deeply in the anger of his mother.

In the event, Jethri has been set down at Irikwae, at the house of Tarnia in the mountains of the moons. There, he is tutored in the ways of custom and of wine. Be assured that Tarnia values him high, as I do, and will stand as his shield and his dagger, should a false debt be called.

I am hcpeful that these tidings will find you in good health, and I remain

Norn ven'Deelin Clan Ixin

Master at Trade

"Set down?" Seeli said, sounding every bit as horrified as Grig felt. "She left Jethri alone, on a Liaden world?"

"With a Liaden headcase after him for evenin' up a debt," Khat added, wearily, accepting a brew from Paitor. "Thanks."

"Welcome." He handed Seeli her drink, thumped Grig's down and folded into the chair next to Khat.

"Thing is," Grig said, glancing up from his second read. "She don't say the brother is alive now. She says he was OK the last time she saw him."

"Right." Khat nodded. "And the headcase, if you parse it right, never did say the boy was dead--though that's what I thought he must've meant. Thinking cold, though, it comes to me that there's more ways to 'deprive' somebody of a brother than by killing him. If Jeth had--what? Called the proctors and got the boy put in the clink for a couple years--that'd deprive his family of him, wouldn't it? Or if Jeth had somehow gotten the brother's license pulled--"

"The point is," Seeli interrupted, sharp, but, there--she'd been Jethri's mother more'n Iza'd ever tried to be. "The point is that this master trader has gone off and left Jethri on a mudball, with no ship to call on, and there's a headcase lookin' for him, and she hasn't even told him!"

They blinked at her, in unison. Seeli snatched the Priority out of Grig's hand and snapped it at Paitor's face. He pulled back, impassive.

"Where does it say on this piece of paper that she's sending Khat's letter on to Jethri? Where does it say she's going back for him? Or that she's called--anybody at all!--to have the headcase taken under advisement, or, or whatever it is you do when somebody fries to collect on a 'false debt?"'

"We could send again," Khat said, making a long arm and tweaking the paper away.

"No beam code for Tarnia," Grig said quietly. "And no guarantees that this chel'Gaibin won't pursue his debt 'gainst the rest of us, like he tried with Khat." He looked at Seeli and his breath came short.

"One of us could go for him," Paitor said. "Not knowing the headcase's trajectory, that's tricky. For all we know, he's based outta Irikwae, wherever it is, and is on the route for home."

Grig took a breath, forcing it all the way down past tight chest muscles, to the very bottom of his lungs.

"I'll go," he said. "I owe."

Paitor frowned. "Owe? What can you possibly owe the boy?"

Grig looked him in the eye. "I'm still settlin' with Arin," he said evenly.

The other man studied him a long moment, then nodded, slow. "Can't argue with that."

"Grig." Seeli wasn't liking this. He turned to face her. "How're you goin'? Got a fastship in your back pocket?"

"Know a pilot-owner," he said, which was true enough. "Might be they're still settlin' with Arin, too."

"Back-up," Khat said, nodding. "Seeli, you know we all got back-up. Grig's got it here, then he's the one to go. 'Less you can think of any other way to get Jethri the news, and an offer of his ship?"

Seeli hesitated; shook her head. "I can't. But we offer him ship, and if he wants it, we give him a ship--and Iza can deal with me! You hear it?" She rounded on Grig.

"I hear it, Seeli." He reached out and touched her cheek with his fingertip. "Khat."

"Sir?"

"My Seeli here's on the increase. I'd take it favorable, if you went off roster and devoted yourself to not letting any headcases inside her phase space."

"You got it," Khat said, sending a grin to Seeli, and pushing back from the table. "I'll file that change right now."

"Good." Khat had the right of it, Grig thought. No use putting it off.

Seeli reached out and grabbed his hand, pulling him with her as she stood up. She looked down at Paitor, ignoring his grin, and nodded her head, formal as a Liaden.

"Excuse us, Uncle. Grig and me got some business before he flies out."

 

* * *

 

Irikwae Trade Bar was modest, and modestly busy--three of the six working public terminals were engaged, and four of the twelve meeting booths. A seventh terminal had been pushed into a corner--probably awaiting a repairman.

At the bar, a mixed cluster of traders, cargo masters and general crew sipped tea, or wine, or ate a quick-meal, while the status board over their heads showed a good dozen ships at port.

Goods on offer, portside, were heavily weighted toward agristuff--soybeans, rice, yams--with a smattering of handicrafts, textiles, and wine. The ships were offering metals--refined and unrefined--patterns, textiles, furniture, gemstones, books--a weird mix, Jethri thought, and then thought again. Irikwae was what Norn ven'Deelin was pleased to call an "outworld," far away from Liad's orbit. Ships bearing luxuries, small necessities, and information from the homeworld itself ought to do pretty well here.

"Are you lost, sir?" a voice asked at his elbow. He turned and looked down into the amused, wrinkled face of a woman. Her hair was gray, though still showing some faded strands of its original yellow color, and she had the trade guild's sign embroidered on the sleeve of her bright orange shirt.

"Only distractable, I fear," he answered, turning his palms up mock despair. "I am here for a meeting with a trader, but of course, the board caught my eye, and my interest..."

"Information is advantage," she said sagely. "Of course the board caught you--how not? At which booth were you to meet your trader?"

"Three."

"Ah. Just over here, then, sir, if you will follow me."

No choices there, Jethri thought wryly, and followed her to the back wall, where meeting booth three showed a bold blue numeral. The door was closed and the privacy light was lit.

His guide looked up at him. "Your name, sir?"

"Jethri--" he began, and caught himself. "Jeth Ree ven'Deelin."

Her eyebrows lifted, but she said nothing, only turned to put her hand on the door, which slid open, despite the privacy light, to reveal two traders, obviously interrupted in earnest conversation, and of two different minds of how to take it.

The woman seemed inclined toward amused resignation, the man--and wouldn't it just be the same stern-faced trader who'd been on door-duty?--was tending toward anger.

The staffer, unperturbed by either, bowed gently to the table, and murmured. "Jeth Ree ven'Deelin has a meeting with a trader in booth three."

The female trader sent a sharp glance to his face, and inclined her head slightly. Jethri received the impression that she was more amused and less resigned. The male trader frowned ferociously.

"Yes, Jeth Ree ven'Deelin is expected shortly, however--" he stopped, and favored Jethri with a hard stare.

In this moment of frozen disbelief, the staffer bowed once more to the table and went, soft-footed, away.

"You are Jeth Ree ven'Deelin?" the man demanded.

Not exactly encouraging, Jethri thought, and bowed--not low.

"In fact, I am Jethri Gobelyn, apprentice and foster son of Master Trader Norn ven'Deelin. The communication from the hall named me Jeth Ree ven'Deelin, and I felt it wise to continue under that construction until I was able to ask that the database be amended."

"ven'Deelin's Terran," the female trader murmured, and inclined her head when he looked at her. "Forgive me, sir. I am Alisa kor'Entec. Your fame precedes you, to the wonderment of us all."

"I had heard the ven'Deelin signed a Terran apprentice," the stern-faced trader said, looking to his mate. "I thought then that she had run mad. But--foster son?"

"Even so," she assured him, with relish. "Precisely so. Is it not diverting?"

"Dangerously demented, say rather," the other snapped, and Jethri felt himself warm to the man.

Still, no matter his own doubts and feelings on the subject of his adoption, he couldn't--really couldn't--son or 'prentice, just stand by while Master ven'Deelin was made mock of.

He drew himself up stiffly where he stood and stared down his nose at the stern-faced trade, and then at the other.

"The melant'i of Master Trader Norn ven'Deelin is above reproach," he said, with all the dignity he could bring to it and hoping the phrase was on-point.

Alisa kor'Entec smiled at him. "It is, indeed. Which makes the matter infinitely more diverting."

"Perhaps for you," the man said irritably. He looked up at Jethri and moved a hand. "Of your goodness, Apprentice ....Gobelyn. Trader kor'Entec and I must finish a small matter of business. Please, have a cup of tea and rest somewhat from your labors. I will be with you in a very short time."

A cup of tea would actually be welcome, Jethri thought, abruptly aware that the gone feeling in his middle wasn't all due to his upcoming testing, whatever it was. And maybe a snack, too. He inclined his head.

"Thank you, sir. I will await you at the bar." He looked to the lady. "Ma'am. Fair trading." She gave him a slight, conspiratorial nod. "Good profit, Jethri Gobelyn."

 

* * *

 

"Sorry to be late," Raisy said, slipping onto the bench across.

"'preciate you comin' at all," Grig answered, pushing the second brew across to her.

She cocked him an eyebrow. "Thought that's Uncle you was peeved with."

"I'm not peeved with anybody." Grig snapped open the seal on his brew. "It's just--time's done, Raisy. We gotta move to something else. Thing's--aren't stable, and you know that for truth. You want to talk birth defects, for starters?"

Raisy opened her brew, took a long draught, leaned back, and sighed. "You bring me out on an Urgent for this?"

He glanced sideways, out over the rest of the bar--slow night, slim on customers--and back to his sister.

"No," he said, quiet. "Sorry." He had some brew, put the bottle back on the table and frowned at it. "News, Raisy," he said, raising his eyes. "Seeli's increasing. I'm bound for dad duty."

She grinned, broad and honest, and leaned across the table to smack him upside the shoulder.

"News, he says! That's great news, brother! You give your Seeli my congrats, hear it? Tell her I said she couldn't have no finer man--nor her kid no finer dad."

He smiled, warmed. "I'll tell her that, Raisy. You ought to come by, meet her."

"Maybe I will," she said, but they both knew she wouldn't.

"So, that was the Urgent?" she said, after a small pause.

He shook his head, pulled the two Priorities out his pocket and passed them over.

"These're the Urgent."

She sent him a sharp look, took the papers and unfolded them with a snap.

Grig drank brew and watched her read.

She went through both twice, folded them together and passed them back. Grig slipped them away and sat waiting.

"So, we got a renegade Liaden, do we? Who depends on us not being able to check up on the rules?"

"Like that," Grig said.

"Right. And then we got this side issue of what's to have on Banth, which I'll second Khat on and say--nothing."

"How side an issue is that? If we got a buncha pirates lookin' to set up a base there?"

She stared at him. "Dammit--you think like Uncle."

Grig laughed.

"OK, let's look at where Banth is, ease-of-route speakin'." Raisy closed her eyes, accessing her pilot brain. Grig, who had pulled up star maps to study on Banth's location when Khat's letter had first arrived, sat back and waited.

She sighed. "I'd have to check the maps to be sure, but--first look, it's in a nice spot for someone wanting to do a little slip-trading from one Edge to the other." She reached for her brew. "Now, Banth's got tight admin."

"But what if they get used to these Liaden ships comin' in an' there always seems to be a problem, but it always turns out not to be, so the inspectors start thinkin' they got the pattern of it--"

"And then the Liadens change the pattern, and start ops for real, right under the clipboards of the inspectors?" Raisy shrugged. "Way I'd do it."

"OK," she said, briskly, counting off on her fingers. "Renegade Liaden. Smugglin' ring maybe settin' up on Banth. What else? Oh--Arin's boy on the ground in Liaden space with no warning going his way. You think the master trader is in with the renegade?"

No surprise that Raisy's thoughts went there--he'd considered the same thing himself. Still--he shook his head.

"I think she's square. This business about Jethri being safe with Tarnia on Irikwae? Strikes me she might've been giving us the Liaden for 'the kid has a ship to call on.' I'm leaning toward that."

"But you got something that's still bothering you."

"I do." He leaned his elbows on the table, reached out and put his hands loosely around the brew bottle.

"I'm thinking we need to let Jeth know that he's got trouble. Could be, he's got trouble enough for all of us, if you take me."

"You're thinking this chel'Gaibin boy might make a hobby out of hunting Gobelyns?"

"And Tomases," Grig said. "Yeah, I do."

Raisy finished off her brew and put the bottle down with a thump.

"What do you want, Grig?"

"Lend of a fastship," he said. "Last I knew, you owned one."

"If you think I'm gonna let you fly my ship, you're a headcase!" Raisy said and Grig felt his stomach sink as she pushed slid out of the booth and stood there, looking down at him.

"I'm coming with you," she said.

 

* * *

 

"I have reviewed your file and I confess myself bewildered on several levels," Trader Ena Tyl sig'Lorta said, waving his hand at the screen on the table between them. "First, I find that there is no database error; you are correctly recorded as Jethri Gobelyn. A secondary entry was created for Jeth Ree ven'Deelin by the hall master's override. When it is accessed, however, the record it calls is precisely your own."

Jethri felt his stomach clench.

"Perhaps it was a test?" he offered, with as much delicacy as he could muster while cussing himself for plain and fancy mud-headedness.

Trader sig'Lorta stared at him, hard gray eyes wide with something near to shock. "You mean to suggest that the hall master had an interest in knowing how you would present yourself--as apprentice or as foster son?" His sharp face grew thoughtful. "That is possible. Indeed, now that I consider it--very possible. I see my task is not so simple as I had considered. Here..." He reached for the keypad, flicked open a log page and began, quickly, to type.

"I record in my mentor's notes--which will, you understand, be reviewed by a master at the end of your certification period--that your first request upon meeting your mentor was that the database be made to reflect your precise name." Another few lines, then a flick at the 'record' tab.

"So. That is well. We move on to lesser bewilderments." He touched a key, frowning down at the screen.

"I read here that the hall master at Modrid disallowed the trades you had completed at the word of your master trader--for which you utilized monies drawn on her accredited and known apprentice sub-account--and that he required the master trader to re-authorize each transaction recorded under that sub-account. Is this summation correct?"

Just a bit giddy with having escaped the name fiasco with his melant'i intact, Jethri inclined his head.

"Trader, it is."

"Hah." He touched another key, and sat frowning down at the screen.

"I also find that you are the holder of a ten-year Combine key, and have two trades of some small level of complexity attached to your name."

Jethri inclined his head once more. "Trader, that is so."

"Good. We have a Combine terminal here. When we have finished, you will use it to record your location, so that any trades you may make during the course of your certification will be appropriately recorded to your key, as well as entering your guild file."

Despite himself, Jethri blinked, which lapse went unnoticed by Trader sig'Lorta, who was still staring down at the screen.

Silence stretched, then Jethri cleared his throat.

"The hall master at Modrid said that no Terrans would be allowed into the guild."

His mentor shot him a hard, gray glance. "That is a matter for the masters, who--in all truth--could not have met and decided on any such question, as you are the first Terran who has sought entry into the guild. The rule as it is written--the rule which binds both the guild and yourself is: Any candidate who has demonstrated mastery over the requirements put forth in the previous section may enter the guild as a trader. Those who once fail that demonstration may reapply after one Standard Year. Those who twice fail are banned from a third attempt."

He tapped his finger sharply against the table top--click,click,click--and touched the forward key again.

"In your case, we have something of a conundrum. In the first wise, Modrid Hall had no authority to disallow a master trader's apprentice for any reason. That, however, is another matter for the masters, and I make no doubt that Norn ven'Deelin will see it discussed and decided ere long.

"In the second wise, a hopeful trader with two trades comparable to those recorded upon your key in his guild file would certainly rejoice in the melant'i of a junior trader, did he have no trader or master to whom he stood apprenticed." He gave the screen one more frowning glance and flicked the 'off' key.

"You and your master presented two claims to the hall master at Modrid--contracted association with a master trader, and the trades recorded on the key. Either should have assured you a place in the guild--as an apprentice, or as a junior trader. Since Modrid Hall allowed neither claim to be sufficient, you now are come to Irikwae Hall with a request from your master trader that you be independently certified, and given a formal ranking within the guild." He looked up, face serious.

"Understand, this is an unusual step. It has been done rarely in the past, most often when a dispute arose between traders regarding the talents or qualifications of a particular apprentice. In this instance, I would say that your master trader is wise to request independent certification--and doubly wise to ask it of Irikwae, where the hall master is known to be both conservative and stringent."

So, he was going to have to work his butt off, Jethri thought, and was surprised to find himself on his mettle, but not concerned. He was Norn ven'Deelin's apprentice, wasn't he? Hadn't he learned his basics from Arin and Paitor Gobelyn, neither one a slacker, if not precisely a master trader? Come to that, Trader sig'Lorta was shaping up to be the sort of mentor somebody might want for the upcoming tests--hard, and not exactly happy about Jethri personally, but a trader of virtue for all that, and upholding of the regs. He'd have to prove himself, right enough, but he didn't get the sense that his mentor would be changing the rules, if it got to looking like Jethri was about to win the game.

"May I know," he asked, "what the certification entails?"

"Surely, surely." Trader sig'Lorta flicked impatient fingers at the dark screen. "You will, I think, find it not at all unlike your apprenticeship. The hall will make an account available to you and you will be given various assignments of trade on the port. Those transactions will be recorded to your file, and at the end of the testing period, the file will be reviewed by a master trader, who will rule upon your precise level of skill. You will then be issued a card reflecting your standing within the guild. Of course, as you successfully complete more, and more complex, trades, your standing will increase, and your guild card will reflect that, as well."

Jethri took a couple minutes to think about that.

"The purpose of this exercise," he said, slowly, "is to gain a guild card, so that I may not be denied the benefits and assistance of the guild."

"Say, so that it will be less likely that you will be denied those benefits," Trader sig'Lorta said, practically. "Certainly, there will be some who will risk the wrath of the masters over such niceties as whether Terrans may belong to the guild--but less, I think, than might, had you no certified standing."

"I see," Jethri said. He shot a straight look at his mentor's face and decided to risk it: "I wonder, Trader, if you might tell me where you personally stand on the issue of Terrans in the guild."

The hard gray eyes narrowed, with amusement or annoyance, Jethri couldn't have said.

"I believe that traders trade, Jethri Gobelyn. Show me that you are a trader, and I will accord you the respect due a guild brother."

Well enough. Jethri inclined his head. "Thank you, Trader. I will certainly endeavor to show you that I am a trader."

 

 

Day 177
Standard Year 1118
Irikwae Port

 

During his first week at the hall, Jethri shadowed Trader sig'Lorta, learning the general lay of the port. In the evening, he set himself to solving the trade problems that had been uploaded to his screen. All of which was better than bowing lessons, but wasn't exactly what he was craving.

Waking on the morning of the day that he had decided he would ask his mentor straight out when he could expect to start his own trading, his first assignment was on his work screen. The timing led Jethri to suspect that maybe the week-long set-up had been a test of his own, and he'd shaken his head a little as he shrugged into his good trading coat.

First day, it had been soybeans. Next, it had been ore. Today, it was something a little odd--toys.

Jethri's assignment was to assess the items on offer from the trader of the good ship Nathlyr, and, if he found the items to have value, to make an offer on no more than a dozen lots and no less than six. If he found the items wanting, he was to write up a report detailing their defects.

It was an interesting assignment on the face of it, and Jethri left the hall with a whistle on his lips, which gained him a frown from passersby, and recalled him to a sense of where he was and what was proper behavior for a trader on the street.

So far, he was liking his certification just fine. Soybeans were deadly dull--nothing more or less than trading the day-price off the board. Not quite enough to put a body right to sleep, but scarce enough to keep him full awake, either. Still, he'd moved his lot with precision, and added the extra tor to his drawing account.

The ore had been a bit more interesting. He'd needed to put some of his capital into trade goods. Soybeans, of course--that was sure--and an odd lot of blended wine from the Maarilex cellars--which wasn't so sure, but not a bad risk, either, especially not after he'd talked the co-op seller into taking another twelve percent off the lot on account it was odd and would have to be hand-sold, most likely one barrel at a time. Since that had been the precise problem the co-op had been having, the twelve percent came off pretty easy.

So, he'd had one barrel sent to the Irikwae trade hall to be placed in his trade space, and betook himself and his soybean ticket down to the tables, where he found a trader willing to talk ore.

The soybeans got some interest, which they had to, but the "short lot" of wine sweetened the deal to the tune of a side measure of rough cut turaline, which Jethri thought he might place with a port jeweler, to his profit.

He received the tickets with a bow and took himself off to the Street of Gems, where he was fortunate enough to locate a jeweler who was willing to take the turaline ticket off him for roughly double what he had paid for the short lot of wine.

He closed the deal, feeling some sharp--and found later that night, as he went over his comparisons, that he had let the gems go too cheap. Still, he consoled himself, he'd had a quick turnover, and doubled his money, too, which wasn't bad, even if not as good as could have been.

So, now, the toys, and he was looking forward to them, as he strode down the street to the exhibit halls.

He was early to the day hall, but not so early that there weren't traders there before him. The toy exhibit, in a choice center hall location, had not drawn a large crowd, which seemed strange--and then didn't as he got a closer look at what was on offer.

Exhibit hall protocol required a trader to show no less than three and no more than twelve pieces representative of that which he wished to sell. If Nathlyr's trader had followed the protocol, he stood in clear and present danger of going away with his hold still full of the things.

The examples set out were seemingly made of porcelain, badly shaped, with unexpected angles and rough-looking finish. Nothing about them invited the hand, or delighted the eye or engaged the mind, in the way that something billed as a toy ought.

Jethri picked up one of the pieces--in outline, it looked something like an old fin ship. It felt as gritty as it looked, and was slightly heavier than he had anticipated. Uncle Paitor had taught him that it sometimes helped to get a sense for a thing by holding it in the palm and getting comfortable with the shape and the weight of--

The thing in his hand was buzzing, slightly reminiscent of Flinx, setting up a nice fuzzy feeling between his ears. The buzzing grew louder and it was almost as if he could hear words inside of it--words in a language not quite Terran and not quite Liaden, but close--so close. He screwed his eyes shut, straining to hear--and gasped awake as pain flared, disrupting the trance.

Quickly, he replaced the toy among its fellows, and glanced down at his hand. There was a brand of red across the palm, already starting to blister. The...toy... had malfunctioned.

Or not.

He bit his lip, fingers curled over his burned palm. That the so-called toys were Befores of a type he had personally never seen was obvious. Befores being specifically disallowed on Irikwae at least, it seemed that his duty was to alert the Master of Exhibits to the problem.

And then, he thought, grimacing as he slipped his wounded hand into his pocket, he would go down to one of the philter shops on the main way and get a dressing for his burn.

As it happened, somebody else had been dutiful sooner. He hadn't got half-way to the offices in the back of the big hall when he met a crowd heading in the opposite direction.

Two grim-faced port proctors, a woman in the leather clothing of a Scout, and the Master of Exhibits himself, walking arm in arm with a slightly wide-eyed trader not much older, Jethri thought, than he was. Nathlyr was fancy-stitched across the right breast of the trader's ship jacket.

Respectfully, Jethri stepped aside to let them pass, though he doubted any of the bunch saw him, except the Scout, then changed course for the exit. His hand was hurting bad.

 

* * *

 

"Certainly! Certainly!" The philterman took one look at the angry wound across Jethri's palm and ran to the back of the shop. By the time Jethri had arranged himself on the short stool and put his hand on the counter, the man was back, clutching a kit to his chest.

"First, we cleanse," he murmured, breaking the seal on an envelope bearing the symbol for "medical supply," and shaking out an antiseptic wipe.

Jethri braced himself, and it was well he did; the pressure of the wipe across his skin was painful, and the cleaning solution added another level of burn to his discomfort.

"Ow!" He clamped his mouth tight on the rest of it, ears hot with embarrassment. The philterman looked up, briefly.

"It is uncomfortable, I know, but with such a wound we must be certain that the area is clean. Now..." He pulled out a second envelope and snapped the seal, shaking out another wipe. "This, I think, you will find a bit more pleasant."

The pressure still hurt--and then it didn't, as his skin cooled and the pain eased back to something merely annoying.

Jethri sighed, his relief so great that he forgot to be embarrassed.

"Yes, that is better, eh?" The philterman murmured, reaching again into his kit. "Now, we will dress it and you may continue your day, Trader. Remember to have the hall physician re-examine you this evening. Burns have a difficult nature and require close observation."

The dressing was an expandable fingerless glove that had a layer of all-purpose antibiotic against the skin. The largest in stock stretched to fit Jethri's hand.

"Else," the philterman said, "we should have had to wrap it in treated gauze, with an over wrap of sterile tape. So." He gathered up the spent wipes and broken envelopes and fed them into the countertop recycler.

"If I might suggest a portable kit, Trader?" he murmured. "It fits easily into a pocket, and includes three each of cleansing and pain alleviation wipes, and a small roll of antibiotic-treated gauze and wrapping tape. Two dex, only."

And cheap insurance at that, Jethri thought, glancing down at his gloved hand. Who expected toys to bite, anyway?

"An excellent suggestion," he said to the philterman. "I will have one of your kits. Also--" he said, suddenly remembering another item that might be found in such a shop. "I wonder if you have a sort of cream which is commonly sold to Terrans, which dissolves facial hair and keeps the face pleasing."

"Ah!" The man looked up at him interestedly. "Is there such a thing? I had no notion. We do not, you understand, much deal with Terrans at Irikwae. But hold..."

He bustled to the back and returned with a flat plastic pack prominently marked with the symbol for medical supplies. Slipping a finger under the seal, he unfolded the pack to display its contents--three each, cleaning wipes and painkiller wipes; one small roll of antibiotic gauze, one small roll of tape. Check.

"I thank you," Jethri murmured, slipping two dex from his public pocket and putting them on the counter.

"It is my pleasure to serve," the man said, folding the kit and resealing it. Jethri picked it up; it fit into one of the smaller of his jacket's numerous inner pockets, with room to spare.

"Of this other product," the philterman murmured. "There is a shop at the bottom of the street which does from time to time have specialty items on offer. It may be that you will find what you are seeking there. The shop is the last on the left side of the street. It has a green-striped awning."

"I thank you," Jethri said again and got himself disentangled from the stool and on his feet, heading for the door.

 

* * *

 

"Dissolves hair?" The woman behind the counter at the philtershop at the bottom of the street stared at him as if he'd taken leave of his senses. "Nothing like that here, young trader--nor likely to be! We offer oddities from time to time, but nothing--well. Perhaps you want the Ruby Club? The director has been known to keep ...exotic items on hand."

"Perhaps I do," Jethri said, by no means certain. "My thanks to you." He departed the shop of the green awning, feeling the woman's eyes on his back as he paused, looking up and down the street for a public map.

The Ruby Club was somewhat behind and at a angle to the warehouse district, not quite adjacent to the salvage yards. Well. The toys having fallen through, he figured he had an hour or two at liberty and, while Meicha's handiwork had so far stood up, he didn't know how long that would be so, or if his first warning of its failure would be on the morning he woke up to find he'd overnight gown a beard down to his knees.

Prepared is better'n scared, he thought, which was something his father used to say, and Grig, too--and pushed the button on the bottom of the map to summon a taxi to him.

 

* * *

 

"You are certain that this is the location to which you were directed?" The taxi driver actually sounded worried, and Jethri didn't know as how he particularly blamed her.

The Ruby Club itself was kept up and lighted; with a red carpet extending from its carved red door right across the walkway to the curb. The surrounding buildings, though, were dark, not in repair, and in some cases overgrown with plants that Jethri's time in the vineyards had taught him were weeds.

"Is there another Ruby Club on the port?" he asked, half-hoping to hear that there was, and that it stood next to the Irikwae Trade Bar.

To his surprise, the driver leaned forward and tapped a command into her on-board map. After a moment, he heard her sigh, lightly.

"There is only this one."

"Then this is my location," Jethri said, with more certainty than he felt. He wasn't liking the looks of this street, at all. On the other hand, he thought, given the general feeling that Terrans were pretty good zoo material, maybe it wasn't surprising that a place known for carrying exotic Terran items was situated well away from the main port. He pushed open the door.

"Wait for me," he said to the cabbie. She looked over the seat at him.

"How long?"

Good question. "I shouldn't be above twelve minutes," he said, hoping for less.

She inclined her head. "I will wait twelve minutes."

"My thanks."

He left the cab and walked briskly down the red carpeting. Seen close, the red door was carved; the carving showing a lot of naked people having sex with each other, and maybe some things that weren't exactly sex--or if so, not the kind that had been covered in either his hygiene courses or the bits of the Code the twins' tutor had marked out for him to read.

It did come to him that he was not prepared to deal with the consequences of that door, and he began to turn away, to go back to the cab and uptown and his quarters at the trade hall--The door opened.

He glanced back, and down, into a pair of jade green eyes, slightly tip-tilted in a soft, oval face. Jade-colored flowers were painted along the ridge of ...the person's... cheekbones, and their lips were also painted jade. They were dressed in a deep red tunic and matching trousers, beneath which red boots gleamed.

"Service, Trader," the doorkeeper said huskily, and the voice gave no clue to gender. Jethri bowed, slightly. "I was sent here by a merchant uptown," he said, keeping his voice stringently in the mercantile mode. "It was thought that there might be depilatory for sale here."

"Why, perhaps there is," the doorkeeper said, standing back, and opening the door wide. "Please, honor our house by entering. I will summon the master to your aid."

It was either go in or cut and run. He didn't especially want to go in, but found his pride wouldn't support cut and run. Inclining his head, he stepped into the house.

 

* * *

 

The doorkeeper installed him in a parlor just off the main entryway and left him. Jethri looked about him, eyes slightly narrowed in protest of the decorating. A deep napped crimson carpet covered the floor from crimson wall to crimson wall. A couch in crimson brocade and two crimson brocade chairs were grouped 'round a low table covered with a crimson cloth. A black wooden bookshelf along one short wall held volumes uniformly bound in red leather, titles outline in gilt.

Jethri was starting to feel a little uneasy in the stomach by the time the hall door opened and the master of the house joined him.

This was an older man, entirely bald, dressed in a lounging robe of simple white linen. His face was finely lined and unpainted, though a row of tiny golden hoops pierced the skin and followed the curve of his right cheekbone from the inner corner of his eye out to the ear.

Two paces into the room, he paused to bow, low, and to Jethri's eye, with irony.

"Trader. How may our humble house be of service?"

"House Master." Jethri inclined his head. "Pray forgive this unseemly disturbance of your peace. I had been told at a shop in the main port that perhaps I might find a certain cream here--it is often used by Terrans such as myself to remove hair and to condition the face."

"Ah." The man raised a hand and touched his shining bald head. "Yes, we sometimes have such a commodity in the house."

Jethri blinked. The amount of cream necessary to unhair a whole head would be considerable.

Once the head in question was bald, it would take less cream to keep it that way, but the supply would need to be steady. The woman at the second philtershop had not sent him astray.

"I wonder," he said to the house master, "if I might purchase a small quantity of this cream from you. Perhaps, a vial--no more than two."

"Purchase? Let me consider...." The man ran his forefinger, slowly, along the line of tiny hoops, his eyes narrowed, as if it were pleasant to feel the gold slide against his cheek.

"No," he said softly. "I really do not think we can sell you any of our supply, Trader."

Well, there was a disappointment, Jethri thought. He took a breath, preparatory to thanking the man for his time....

"But we will trade for it," the house master said.

"Trade for it?" Jethri repeated, blankly.

"Indeed." Again, the slow slide of the forefinger along the row of piercings and the long look of narrow-eyed pleasure. "You are a trader, are you not?"

When I'm not busy being what Lady Maarilex calls a moonling, well yes, Jethri thought, I am. He inclined his head.

"I am a trader, sir, and willing to undertake a trade for the item under discussion. However, it is so small a transaction that I am somewhat at a loss to know what might be fair value."

"There, I can provide guidance," the man said, turning his hand palm up in the gesture that meant, roughly, 'service'. "I understand, as you do, that the item under discussion is a rarity upon this port, as much as it might be commonplace upon other ports. We receive, as I am sure you have surmised, a small but steady supply, from a source that I am really not at liberty to share with you. This source also provides other ...specialties... to the house. However, we have not been able to procure formal masks. In trade for two tubes of the cream, I will accept four half-face masks made from crimson leather, or two whole-face masks."

Red leather masks?

"Forgive me, sir, but the trade is uneven," Jethri said, which was sheer reflex, rather than any real knowledge of how costly red leather masks were likely to be. "Two half-masks for two tubes achieves symmetry."

The house master blinked--and bowed.

"Of course," he said smoothly, "you are correct, Trader. Two half-masks in red leather for two tubes of Terran depilatory cream. It is done." Straightening, he motioned to the door.

"When you acquire the masks, return, and we will make the exchange."

"Certainly, sir."

Jethri inclined his head, and took the hint. At the outside door, the person with the flower-painted face bowed him out.

"Fair profit, Trader. Come again."

"Joy to the house," he answered and went down the red carpet to the taxicab, waiting at the curb. He sealed into the back seat with an audible sigh.

"I thank you for waiting above the twelve minutes," he said to the cabbie.

She slammed the car into gear and pulled away from the curb more sharply than she should have. "Are all Terrans fools?" she asked, sounding merely interested in his answer.

"Only the ones that apprentice to master traders and take certification at the Irikwae Trade Hall," he answered, feeling like she'd earned honesty from him-and a good sized tip, too.

"Hah," she said, and nothing more. Jethri leaned back as well as he could in the short seat and looked out the window at the unkempt streets.

The cab glided through an intersection, Jethri glanced down the cross-street--and jerked forward, hand on the door release.

"Stop the cab!" he shouted.

The driver braked and he was out, running back toward the scene he had glimpsed: four people, one on his knees, and all four showing fists.

Jethri had size and surprise, if not speed or sense. He grabbed a handful of jacket and yanked one of the attackers back from the victim, putting him down hard on his ass. The other two shouted, confused by the arrival of reinforcements, while the lone defender seized the opportunity and the room to leap to his feet and land a nice, solid punch on the jaw of the man nearest. In the meantime, Jethri faced off with the third attacker, his body curling into the crouch Pen Rel had drilled him on, knees bent, hands ready.

The man yelled and swung, putting himself off-balance. Jethri ducked, gabbed the man's wrist and elbow, twisted--and shouted with joy as the attacker flew over his shoulder to land hard and flat on his back on the street.

His victory was short-lived. The first man was back on his feet, and moving in fast. This one had a cooler head--and maybe some training in Pen Rel's preferred style of brawl. Jethri dropped back, turning, caught sight of the yellow-haired victim, face cut and jacket torn, having heavy going with his man.

The guy stalking Jethri kicked. He sank back--but not quick enough. The edge of the man's boot caught his knee.

This time, the shout was pain, but he kept his feet, and there was a roaring in the street, growing louder, and then the blare of a klaxon, and it was the taxicab accelerating toward them, the cabbie's face implacable behind the windscreen.

The three attackers yelled and scrambled for the safety of the rotting sidewalk.

The taxi slammed to a halt, back door snapping open.

"In!" Jethri pushed the other man, and the two of them tumbled into the back seat, legs and arms tangled as the cab roared off, back door swinging. It slammed itself into place a few seconds later, when the cabbie took the next corner on two screaming wheels.

Fighting inertia, Jethri and the erstwhile victim slowly sorted out which legs and arms belonged to who and got themselves upright in the seats.

The yellow-haired man sank back on his seat with an audible sigh, and sat for a second, eyes closed. Jethri, blowing hard, leaned his head back, considering his rescue. It came to him that the man looked familiar, and he frowned, trying to bring the memory closer.

Across from him, the other opened his eyes a slit--and then considerably wider as he snapped straight upright.

"You! Jeth Ree Gobelyn, is it not?"

The voice rang the memory right up to the top of the brain. Jethri stared.

"Tan Sim?" he heard himself say, in a mode insultingly close to the one he used when talking with the twins. "What are you doing here?"

Tan Sim grinned, widely, then winced. "I could ask the same of you! Never tell me that the ven'Deelin sends you to the low port unguarded."

"That one," the taxi driver said over her shoulder, "should not be let to roam the high port alone. Where shall I have the extreme pleasure of dropping the two of you off?"

 

* * *

 

Patched and well-scolded by the hall physician, it occurred to them in a simultaneous way that they were hungry. Accordingly, they adjourned to the Trade Bar, where they were fortunate to find a booth open.

"Bread," Jethri said to the waiter. "And two of whatever the day meal is. Fresh fruit."

"Wine," Tan Sim added, and the waiter bowed.

"At once, traders."

Tan Sim sank into deep upholstery with a gusty sigh. "There's a day's work done and the afternoon still before us!"

Jethri grinned. "Now, tell me why you were walking alone on such streets."

"The short answer is--returning from inspecting a pod offered at salvage," Tan Sim retorted. "The longer answer is--longer."

"I have the time, if you have the tale," Jethri murmured, moving his hand in an expression of interest.

Tan Sim smiled. "Gods look upon the lad. Jeth Ree, you are more Liaden than I!"

"Surely not," he began, but a discreet knock upon the door heralded the arrival of the requested wine--a bottle of the house red, a comfortable blend, as Jethri knew--and two glasses.

"The meals are promised quickly, traders," the waiter said and left them, pulling the door closed behind him.

"Well." Tan Sim took charge of the bottle and poured for both of them. "If you will join me first in a sip to seal our friendship--"

Jethri put his glass down. Tan Sim paused, eyebrows up.

"What's amiss?"

Jethri tipped his head, considering the other. The physician had cleaned and taped the cut on Tan Sim's face, muttering that bruises would rise by nightfall, and suggesting, with a fair load of irony, that perhaps the trader might wish to cancel any engagements for the next few days.

Truth told, bruises were starting to rise already, but it wasn't that which took Jethri's notice. It was the face beneath the cut--thinner than he had remembered, the mouth tighter. The torn jacket hung loose, which bore out Jethri's impression that maybe Tan Sim had been eating short rations lately.

"I believe," he said delicately, wishing neither to offend nor expose a weakness, "that there is a matter of Balance unresolved between us."

"Which would--naturally!--constrain you from drinking with me. Very nice. If such an unresolved Balance sat between us, I would commend you for the precision of your melant'i."

Meaning that Tan Sim didn't think there was a debt, and that didn't jibe.

"I had considered you my most grievous error," Jethri said, making another pass at getting it out in the open where they both could look at it. "It has troubled me that, all unknowing, and wishing only to honor one who had shown me the greatest kindness, I brought to that one only grief, and separation from clan and kin."

"If you believe for one moment that separation from my honored mother or my so-beloved brother is a matter of grief, then I must allow you to be in your cups," Tan Sim retorted and paused, face arrested.

"No, that cannot be. We've not yet had to drink." He leaned forward slightly, to look earnestly into Jethri's face.

"My sweet fool--does it occur to you that you have just now preserved my life for me? Even supposing that I held you to book for my mother's temper and my brother's spite--that small matter would put paid to all." He raised his glass.

"Come, do not be churlish! At least drink to the gallantry of a taxi driver."

Well, Jethri thought, 'round a mental grin, he could hardly refuse that. He raised his glass. "To the gallant driver, who preserved both our lives--"

"And refused any tip, save a scold!" Tan Sim finished with a flourish of his glass.

They sipped, and again, the wine tasting more than usually pleasant.

"So, tell me then," Jethri said, putting his glass aside and relaxing into the cushions.

Tan Sim laughed lightly. "Demanding youth. Very well." He put his glass down and folded his elbows onto the table, leaning forward.

"Now, it happens that my mother was very angry indeed over the incident with the bow. She swore that I was a disgrace to her blood and that she would have no more of me. For some significant time, it did appear that she would simply cancel my contract and send me out to earn my own way. A not entirely unpleasing prospect, as you might imagine."

He extended a hand and picked up his glass, twirling it idly by the stem, his eyes on the wine swirling inside the bowl.

"Alas, it was then that my brother entered the negotiations, with a plea for leniency, which my mother was disposed to hear." He lifted the glass.

"Rather than cancel my contract, she sold it. I am now the trader of record aboard the good ship Genchi, which Captain sea'Kira allows me to know has never carried such a thing. Nor needs one."

A quick knock, and the door was opened by their waiter, bearing a tray well-loaded with eatables.

He set it all out with noiseless efficiency, bowed and was gone, the door snicking shut behind him. There was a pause in the tale, then, while the two of them took the day meal under consideration, Tan Sim eating with an elegant ferocity that confirmed Jethri's fears regarding short rations.

"Well," Tan Sim said at last, selecting a fruit from the basket between them. "Where did I leave the tale?"

"Your mother sold your contract to Genchi, though it had no need of a trader," Jethri said, around his last bit of bread.

"Ah. Genchi. Indeed. It happened that the ship owner had a desire to improve Genchi's fortunes and thought that a trader aboard might produce a rise in profit. Unfortunately, the owner is a person who has ...limited funding available to him--and, very possibly, limited understanding as well. For I put it to you, friend Jethri: How does a ship on a fixed route raise profit?"

Jethri paused in the act of reaching for a fruit and looked over to him.

"By shipping more."

Tan Sim raised his fruit in an exuberant toast. "Precisely!"

"And Genchi is podded out," Jethri guessed, in case there were bonuses involved.

Tan Sim smiled upon him tenderly. "It's a dear, clever lad. But, no--there you are slightly out. It happens that Genchi can accept two additional pods. Which the trader is to purchase from the elevated profits his very presence upon the ship will produce."

Jethri stared at him. "Your mother signed that contract?" he demanded.

Tan Sim dipped his head modestly. "She was most wonderfully angry."

"How long?"

"Until I am in default? Or until the contract is done?"

"Both."

"Pah! You have a mind like a trader, Jeth Ree Gobelyn!" He bit into his fruit and chewed, meditatively.

"I will default at the end of the relumma. The contract has six years to run."

Jethri blinked. "She's trying to kill you."

Tan Sim moved a shoulder. "Break me only. Or so I believe. And, in truth, I am not without some blame. Were I less like my mother, I might send a beam, begging her grace, and asking for terms to come home."

Jethri snorted.

"Yes," Tan Sim said gently. "Exactly so."

Glumly, Jethri finished his fruit, wiped his fingers and reached for his glass.

"But you aren't going to default," he said. "You went down to the salvage yard this morning to look at a pod."

"Indeed I did. I found it to be a most excellent pod, of an older construction. Older, even, than Genchi. It is in extraordinarily good shape--sealed and unbreached--and the yardman's final price is ...not beyond reach. However, it's all for naught, for it must have new clamps if it is to marry Genchi, and while I may afford those--I cannot afford those and the pod."

Jethri sipped wine, frowning slightly. "Still sealed, you say. What does it hold?"

"Now, that, I do not know. As old as the pod is, its contents are unlikely to have much value. Were matters otherwise, I might take the gamble, but--I do not scruple to tell you, cash is at present too dear."

Jethri finished his wine and set the glass aside. There was an idea, buzzing around in the back of his brain, slowly gaining clarity and insistence. He let it grow, while across the table Tan Sim wrestled silently with whatever thoughts engaged him.

"How much?" he asked softly, so as not to joggle the idea before it was set.

"The yard wants to see a cantra for the pod, entire. Clamps are four kais."

The idea had set firm, and he was liking it from all the angles he could see. He had a knack for salvage, Uncle Paitor'd always said so...

"I wonder," he said, looking up into Tan Sim's bruised and weary face, "if you might have time tomorrow to introduce me to the salvage yard?"

"Oh," said Tan Sim wisely; "do you think you might manage it? I wish you shall. Certainly. Meet me here at the opening of day port and I will show you where."

"And this time," Jethri said with a smile. "We will take a taxi."

 

* * *

 

It looked like red leather masks were going to be a problem, Jethri thought, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his eyes. He had written his report on the toys, and seen that his tomorrow's schedule had been amended to reflect the hall physician's orders that he "rest"--by which it was apparently meant that he not go on the port to trade, a concept that struck him as wrongheaded, at best. Still, it did give him a good piece of time to go to the salvage yards with Tan Sim and inspect the pod he had found.

But the masks, now. Never mind red leather--masks at all was a missing item along any of the lists open to the guild computer. He sighed and leaned way back in the chair, stretching--and grimacing, when the stretch woke muscles that had been pulled in the day's fisticuffs.

Nothing for it but to go back to the Trade Bar and use his key to find masks on the Combine net.

Come to think of it, he might forget masks altogether and go for a pallet of depilatory, since there seemed to be a market.

He stood and reached for his second best jacket, his first being down at the laundry--and started badly when the door chime sounded.

Probably Trader sig'Lorta, come to read him Ship's General. Shrugging into his jacket, he walked over to the door and keyed it open.

"Why, look how the boy has grown!" Scout Captain ter'Astin said in cheery Terran. Miandra stood at his elbow, her face serious.

"Well met, Jethri," she said. "The captain came to the house and Aunt Stafeli said that I should bring him to you."

Captain ter'Astin bowed, lightly, hand over heart. "Summoned, I rush to obey."

Jethri felt his cheeks warm with the blush. "I have overstepped my melant'i, I fear," he admitted.

"Not a bit of it! The Scouts tend a wide business; it is our nature to answer summonses." He cocked his head. "Some, I do allow, with more alacrity than others."

Jethri smiled and stepped back, sweeping a bow. "Please, both, enter and be welcome." The Scout entered first, Miandra trailing after, looking like a limp copy of herself.

Frowning, Jethri closed and locked the door, then turned to deal with his guests.

Miandra was already at the window, looking down into the garden. The Scout had paused to give the short row of books his consideration, and looked up as Jethri approached.

"I was asked to bring something besides myself to your side," he said, pulling a well-folded piece of paper from an inner jacket pocket. "Please, satisfy yourself. I have no other engagements to fulfill today."

"Thank you," Jethri said, receiving the paper with a bow. "May I call for tea? Wine?"

The Scout laughed. "You take polish well, Jethri Gobelyn. But, no, I thank you--I am not in need."

Jethri glanced over to the window, where his other guest still stared down into the garden. "Miandra?" He asked, softly. "Would you like tea? Cookies?"

She flicked a distracted glance over her shoulder, tight lips moving in what she might have meant to be a smile.

"Thank you, but I am not--in need."

Which was as big a clunker as he'd ever heard, including the time Grig told Capin Iza that the odd lot of sweets he'd bought was a broker deal, and then shared them all out 'mong crew.

"What's amiss?" He asked, moving closer, the Scout's paper held close in his hand.

She turned her face away, and that--hurt. Weren't they friends, after all? He touched her sleeve. "Hey," he said. "Miandra. Are you well?"

Her shoulders jerked, and a half-smothered sound escaped, sounding half laugh and half sob.

"You asked that--before," she said, and turned to face him squarely, chin up and looking more like herself, despite her wet cheeks. "Have we not taught you that strangers must keep a proper reserve?"

"Certainly, Lady Maarilex would not be behind in so basic a lesson," he allowed, inclining his head and putting on the gentleman. "However, such rules do not maintain between us, because we are kin."

Her eyes widened and the corner of her mouth twitched slightly upward. "Kin? How so?"

"What else would we be?" He held his hand up, fingers spread, and folded his thumb against the palm, counting. "I am Norn ven'Deelin's foster son." Forefinger down. "Stafeli Maarilex is Norn ven'Deelin's foster mother, my foster grandmother." Second finger joined thumb and forefinger. "You are a niece of Stafeli Maarilex." Third finger. "Therefore, we are foster cousins."

She laughed. "Well done! And the degree of consanguinity appropriate, too, I see!" He grinned and reached again to touch her sleeve.

"So, cousin, if a cousin may ask it--are you well?"

She moved her shoulders and flicked a glance aside. He looked, as well, but the Scout was perched on the edge of the work table, to all appearances immersed in one of the novels brought from Tarnia's library.

"I am... unwell in spirit," she said, lowering her voice. "Ren Lar--he treats me as if I were a piece of old technology. He forbids me the vines, the cellar, and the yards. I am scarcely allowed to come to the dining table at prime. At his insistence, Meicha and I must undergo--separately--intensive evaluation, by the Healers. Meicha completed hers last night; Anecha drove down to pick her up this morning. In the meanwhile, a car was made ready to take me to Healer Hall--so that we should not be able to speak together before I am evaluated, you know--but your Scout happened by and offered to save the house the trouble, as he was going back down to the port to find you."

He had no idea what an "intensive evaluation" might mean, but allowed as it sounded bad enough. "Do you need to report in?" he asked.

"Testing does not begin until tomorrow morning," she said. "It was arranged that I should overnight at the hall." Her mouth got tight again. "I ....would ...that other arrangements had been made."

"If they don't need you until tomorrow morning," he said, moving his hand, to show her his quarters, "you're welcome to spend the night here. I am at liberty tomorrow and can escort you to Healer Hall."

"Perhaps it might be--less stressful of the relations of kin and foster kin," the Scout said, so suddenly that both of them spun to stare at him, sitting on the edge of the table, with the book opened over his knee. "If the lady would instead accept my invitation to guest with the Scouts this evening."

"You were listening," Jethri said, sounding like a younger, even to himself.

Captain ter'Astin inclined his head. "Scouts have very sharp ears. It is required."

Miandra took a step forward, frowning slightly. "And in addition to sharp ears, you are a Healer."

He moved a hand, deprecating. "A receiver only, I fear. Though I'm told I build a most impressive wall. Honor me with your opinion, do."

To Jethri's senses, nothing happened, except that the Scout's expression maybe took on an extra degree of bland, while Miandra stared intently at the thin air above his head.

She blinked. Captain ter'Astin tipped his head to one side.

"It is," Miandra said, slowly, "a very impressive wall. But you must not think it proof against attack."

"Ah, must I not? Tell me why."

She moved her hands in a gesture of--untangling, Jethri thought. Untangling her perception into words the two of them could understand.

"You have a--need. A very powerful need to be--acutely aware of surrounding conditions, at all times. Data is survival. So, you have left a--chink, very small--in your wall, that you may continue to be aware. It is through that chink that you are vulnerable. If I can see it, others may, as well."

The Scout slid to his feet, catching the book up neatly, and bowed. Acknowledging a debt, Jethri read, and looked at Miandra in close wonder. She bit her lip and half-raised a hand.

Captain ter'Astin raised the book. "Peace. The gratitude of a Scout is worth holding, and is not given lightly. Your observation may well have saved my life. Who can say? Certainly, I shall not leave Irikwae without consulting a Healer and learning the manner of sealing this--chink."

"And now," he said, lowering the book. "I believe Jethri has a paper to read, after which he and I have business. Shall we proceed?"

Miandra moved to the table and picked up one of the novels, carrying it back to the window with her. The Scout reseated himself on the edge of the table. Jethri went to the black corner table, pushed the photocube of strangers back, unfolded the paper and smoothed it flat with his palm.

Despite that by now he read Liaden as good or better than he'd ever read Terran, it was dense going. Stoically, he kept with it and finally arrived at the last word with the understanding that the Liaden Scouts were, indeed, specifically charged with the confiscation, evaluation and appropriate disposal of "Old War technology," such technology having been designated, by an action of the Council of Clans, meeting at Solcintra City, Liad, "perilous in manufacture and intent."

Sighing, he straightened, and turned.

Miandra was sitting in his desk chair, seriously involved with her novel. The Scout was reading Jethri's old pretend journal.

"I shouldn't think that would hold much interest for you, sir," he said, moving forward, and slipping a hand into his most secret pocket.

Captain ter'Astin glanced up, bounced to his feet, turning to put the book back in its place.

"The workings of mind and custom are always of interest to me," he said. "It is the reason I am a Scout--and a field Scout, at that."

Jethri looked at him sharply. The Scout inclined his head.

"So tell me, Jethri Gobelyn, are you satisfied that the disposal of Old War technology falls within the honor of the Scouts, and that such disposal is mandated by whole law?"

"Unfortunately, I am." He placed the weather machine, lingeringly, on the table, and stood there, feeling kind of dry and gone in the throat of a sudden, staring down into the unreflective black surface. "Ah." Captain ter'Astin put a hand on Jethri's sleeve. "I regret your loss. I believe you had told Scout yo'Shomin that this device was given you by a kinsman?"

Jethri licked his lips.

"It was a gift from my father," he told the Scout. "After his death, I was without it for many years. It was only recently returned to me, with--" He waved a hand, enclosing the photocubes, Arin's box and the silly old journal--"other things of value."

"Accept my condolences," the Scout said softly. The pressure of his fingers increased briefly, then he withdrew his hand and picked up the weather machine, slipping it away somewhere inside his jacket.

Jethri cleared his throat. "I wonder if you might tell me if you will yourself be involved in the--evaluation--of this device. Whether it will be--will simply be destroyed, or if the work that my father did will be preserved."

The Scout's eyebrows rose. "Yes. I would say that you take polish very well, indeed." He paused, possibly gathering his thoughts, then inclined his head.

"I may possibly be asked for a preliminary evaluation; I do have some small expertise in the area. However, you must understand that there is a corps of Scout Experts, who have studied, built databases and cross-referenced their findings through the many dozens of Standards that this policy has been in force. If it is found that your machine, here, is unique, then it will undergo the most intense scrutiny possible by those who are entirely knowledgeable. Many of the old technology pieces that we have recovered are uniquities--that is, we have recovered only one."

Jethri bowed his gratitude. "I thank you, sir."

"Unnecessary, I assure you. A word in your ear, however, child."

"'Yes?"

"It might be wisest not to state in public that such devices were part of your father's work."

Jethri frowned. "Old technology is not illegal, in Terran space," he said, evenly.

"Very true," the Scout said and it seemed to Jethri that he was about to say more.

"Is this your father?" Miandra asked from behind them.

Jethri turned, and saw her holding up the photocube, Arin's picture on the screen.

"Yes--that's him."

She turned it 'round to face her. "You resemble him extremely, Jethri. I had supposed him to be your elder brother."

"May I see?" The Scout extended a hand, and Miandra gave him the cube.

"Ah, yes, that is how I saw him, on the day of his dying. Strong, doubt free and worthy. A remarkable likeness, indeed." Bowing slightly, he handed the cube back.

"Now, children, I suggest that we adjourn to Scout Hall, where Jethri may sign the necessary paperwork and we may place this item--" He touched the breast of his jacket--"into safekeeping. We will also contact the Healers, to advise them of Lady Miandra's guesting arrangements, and to confirm the time of her arrival tomorrow. After which, I ask you both to lend me the pleasure of your companionship over prime. There is a restaurant on Irikwaeport which has long been a favorite of mine. I would be honored to share it with friends."

Jethri glanced to Miandra, saw her eyes shining and her face looking less pinched, and bowed to the Scout.

"We are more than pleased to bear you company, sir. Lead on."

 

 

Day 178
Standard Year 1118
Irikwae

 

It was an old pod, though he'd seen older; the seals were sound, the skin whole and undented. It rested on a cradle meant for a pod decades newer and massing twice as much; though its fittings could be said to be standard they were of an older and unfavored style. At some time in the past--perhaps not all that long ago--it had been underwater and a colony of hard-shells, now empty, still adhered to the hull. On the nose was a Liaden registry number, faint, but readable.

Jethri finished his circuit and paused, considering the thing as a whole.

"Well?" asked Tan Sim, who had been watching, one hip up on the wide windowsill, one booted foot braced against the rough crete floor. "Shall you take it for your own?"

Jethri turned. "You know what is in this pod," he said, not asking.

Tan Sim blinked, and then bowed slightly from his lean. "I know what was on the manifest," he said, "and the devil's own time I had finding it, too."

"So?" Jethri walked toward him. "What were they shipping? Flegetets, dead and rotted, these sixty years? Cheeses, moldy and poisonous? Wine, now vinegar?"

Tan Sim moved a shoulder, grimacing. The bruises had risen with a will overnight, leaving his face a patchwork of yellow and purple.

"Mind you," he said, raising a hand. "I could only trace the registry number, which is in series with those ceded Clan Dartom, some sixty Standards gone. Indeed, Clan Dartom is itself fifty Standards gone, and nothing to say but that this pod was sold and sold again on the unregistered market."

"Clan Dartom is--gone?" Jethri asked, thinking epic scales of revenge, like in one of Khat's stories--or Gaenor's novels.

"Peace," Tan Sim said, as if he had read Jethri's thoughts--or was perhaps himself a reader of novels. "Dartom was based upon a young outworld; a plague destroyed them and the rest of the population, very speedily. Not even a kitten left alive. Medical analysis failed to produce anyone who might even be named a cousin." He waved a languid hand in the direction of the pod.

"So, Dartom's remaining uncontaminated assets fell to the Council of Clans, which took what it wanted, and distributed the remainder by lot. They then wrote Dartom out of the Book of Clans, and put paid to the matter."

"Anyone could have bought this pod at auction, then," Jethri said. "Or, as you say, on the unregistered market. And those who buy such things sometimes have unregistered business."

"In pursuit of which they would be foolish in the extreme to file a manifest," Tan Sim agreed.

Jethri turned back to the pod, and once again subjected the seals to the most minute scrutiny possible. Unbreached. Impossible to tell how long they had been sealed.

"You found a manifest," he said, turning back to Tan Sim. "How long ago?"

"Fifty-three years, which does put it in a ...problematic time frame."

"The pod spent some time in the sea," Jethri pointed out.

"True, but we have no date there, either." Tan Sim turned his palms up, showing them empty. "Indeed, we have but one firm date: The salvage rig's log shows that it was brought into port two Standards back, when it was purchased by this yard, in lot with another dozen newer. This--" Tan Sim wiggled his fingers in the pod's general direction. "This was on the list for break-up, but the scrap market is over-subscribed and there is for the scrappers the considerable risk involved in taking possession of unknown goods."

"So they would just as soon sell it and shift the risk to other shoulders." Jethri sighed. "The manifest is public record?" he asked.

"My friend, public record?" Tan Sim bent upon him a look of gentle reproof. "The manifest had been sealed, then deep archived after the seal expired. Your average salvager, with his mind properly on scrap, is hardly busy mucking about in municipal archives, much less completing the rather daunting forms required by the Guild before one who is not a trader may request permission to pull and cross-reference ancient databases."

Jethri bowed acknowledgment, offering honor for a difficult task well-performed.

Tan Sim's bow of acceptance was nearly lost against the wall of Jethri's thought.

Jethri looked back to the pod. He liked it. He couldn't have put it otherwise, except that he had a good feeling about whatever might prove to be inside.

"What was on the manifest?"

"Ore, raw gem, artisan's metals."

Nonperishables. High profit nonperishables, at that. If it was the right manifest. If it was the right pod, for that matter, it not being unknown for someone to borrow the legitimate registration number of a legitimate pod for illegitimate business.

"Buy the pod, sell the contents and realize more than enough profit to have the clamps refitted," he said. Again Tan Sim lifted a shoulder.

"A manifest, which may or may not be legitimate, for a pod which may or may not be this one? If I were plumper in the purse--perhaps. My present purse instructs me to assume that what is in that pod are dead flegetets, moldy cheese, and spoiled wine."

Jethri had done the math last night, worrying over his liquid. It were the Stinks money that made the difference--not quite enough to fund a ship, like Khat had joked, but close enough to fund this deal, after reserving an amount against the future. 'Course, there was more than enough money in his certification drawing account to cover the pod--and the clamps, too--but he didn't think the hall exactly wanted him to be using those funds for private deals.

"I will put four kais against the pod," he said to Tan Sim, "if we agree that the contents, whatever they are found to be, are mine, while the pod itself is yours."

Tan Sim raised his eyebrows, face thoughtful. Doing his own math, Jethri thought, and settled himself to wait.

"Four-six," Tan Sim said, eventually, which was about half the jump Jethri had been prepared to meet.

He inclined his head. "Done. Nov, we shall need the pod moved to a less precarious position. What do you suggest?"

"As to that--nothing easier. The refit shop will send a hauler. They assured me that they have the means to unseal the pod without damaging the mechanisms, so the day after tomorrow should see an answer to your gamble. After which," he said, coming creakily out of his lean, "you may have free with whatever it is, and the shop will get on with the business of the clamps."

Jethri looked at him, and Tan Sim had the grace to look, just a little, discomfited.

"I thought you might do something like you have done," he said, softly. "So I made inquiries yesterday after we had parted." He sighed.

"I hope you will realize great profit, Jeth Ree."

"As to that," Jethri retorted. "I hope for a decent return."

Tan Sim ginned and offered his arm. "Spoken like a trader! Come, let us give the yardman his deposit and return to the hall to write the partnership papers."

 

* * *

 

The partnership contract having been duly written, accepted and recorded by the hall scrivener, Jethri bounded up the stairs to his quarters, Tan Sim on his heels.

"Come and call the refit shop, so they may schedule an early pickup," he said as they moved down the hall. "For the salvage price-- my part is in coin, which I will give to you, and you may transfer the balance to the yard."

Tan Sim smiled. "Such trusting ways. How if we both put our coin into the revolving account and authorize the hall to make the transfer in our names?"

Jethri paused in the act of unlocking the door to stare at him. "I had no idea such a thing was possible."

"Innocent. When we have sent the transfer, I will quiz you on the services a trader might expect a third tier hall to provide."

The lock twittered and Jethri pushed the door open. "Is Irikwae in the third--" he began--and stopped, staring into his room.

All was neat and orderly, precisely as he had left it, with one addition.

Miandra sat cross-legged on his work table, reading a book.

Behind him, Tan Sim made a small noise, very much like a sneeze.

Miandra raised her head, showing them a face that was eerily serene.

"Cousin Jethri," she said clearly. "We need to talk."

Uh-oh.

"Certainly," Tan Sim said briskly, "the necessities of kin carry all before it. Jeth Ree, I will make that call from the Trade Bar and meet you there, when you have done here. Lady."

Jethri turned, but the door was already closing, with Tan Sim on the other side. He engaged the lock, then walked over to where Miandra sat, and stood looking down into her face.

She met his gaze without flinching, chin well up, an I-dare-you look in her eyes.

He sighed.

"How much trouble are you in?"

The chin might've quivered; the eyes never faltered.

"None, until they find me."

Well, that was the way it usually was, wasn't it? Jethri frowned.

"I thought you wanted my help."

She bit her lip. "I--indeed, Jethri, I am not certain what is that you might do. But I will not remain with the Healers, and I--fear--that I cannot go home..."

Jethri sighed again and made a long arm, hooking the desk chair to him. He sat down and looked up at her, showing her his hands, palm up, fingers spread, empty.

"I think you had better lay it out for me, one step at a time."

"Yes, I suppose I had better." She closed the book and put it on the table beside her, then leaned forward, elbow propped against a knee, chin nestled on her palm.

"As you know, I was to be evaluated by the Healers. Indeed, by the master healer himself. The evaluation--" she shot him a sharp glance. "You understand, Jethri, that when I say in this context that I was pushed, or prodded or that thus--and--so hurt me, I am not speaking of physical things, but rather use those words as an approximation of the exact ...sensation... because there are no words precisely for those sensations."

He inclined his head. "But I may still understand that you found those things so described to be distressing and not at all what you could like, is that so?"

She smiled. "That is so, yes."

"Very well, then," Jethri said, starting to feel grim. "The master healer himself was assigned to your evaluation. What came next?"

"I was asked to--to take my shields down and to submit my will to the will of the master," she began, after a moment--and sent him another sharp glance. "This is not at all unusual and I did as I was bid. The master then began his examination, pushing here, prodding there--nothing terribly painful, but nothing pleasant either."

It sounded, Jethri owned, tiresome enough, something like a clinic check-up, with the medic pushing hard fingers here and there, trying to determine what was in line and what was out. "Unpleasant, but hardly worth running away," he commented.

Miandra inclined her head. "I agree. After a time, the master began to concentrate on--say, a section of my will--and to--assault it. The first strike was so painful that I threw my shields up before I had even thought to do so. The master, of course, was very angry and had me lower them, whereupon he once again brought all of his scrutiny to bear on--on this anomaly in my--in my pattern." She sighed sharply. "By which I mean to convey that there are certain ...constructions of intertwining ego, will, and intellect, which are intelligible to those who have Healer talent. While each pattern is unique, there are those which tend to be formed in a certain way--and which, more often than not, are indicative of Healer ability."

"So, the master healer was saying he thought your pattern was--shaped oddly," Jethri said, to show he was following this.

Miandra inclined her head. "Indeed, he went so far as to state that he felt it was this anomaly which was responsible for limiting my growth as a Healer, and he proposed to--restructure that portion, in order to allow my talent to flow more freely."

Jethri frowned. "He can do that?"

"That, easily," she assured him. "It is what Healers do."

Right. Jethri closed his eyes. Opened them.

"All right. So the master decided he would reshape you so you would look more like he thinks a Healer ought to. Then?"

She bit her lip.

"It--I told him that the process was ...causing me pain. He assured me that it was not, and--pushed--harder." She glanced aside, took a hard breath and looked back to him, blue eyes swimming with tears.

"The pain was--immense. Truly, Jethri, I felt that I was afire, my flesh crisping off my bones as I stood there. I pushed, and threw my shields up."

"I see." He considered that, staring down at his hands where they rested on his knee, the one sporting a slightly grubby bandage. He looked up to find her watching him worriedly.

"Which moon did he fall onto?" he asked, mildly.

Miandra smiled, shakily. "You overestimate my poor abilities, cousin. I merely put him onto the top shelf of the bookcase." She took a breath. "Then I walked out, through the main reception hall. I willed that no one would see me, and no one did. And then I came here, and--overrode the lock and sat down to wait for you."

"Are they looking for you?"

"I suppose they must be, eventually." Mother shaky smile appeared. "But as long as I keep my shields in place, they will not find me."

For however long that might be. He forbore from asking what happened to her shields when she slept. First order of business was to tell her what she'd done right. So--

"The rule on the ship I was born to was that one is allowed to defend oneself. Defense should be delivered as quickly and as decisively as possible, in order to prevent a second attack" He inclined his head, solemnly. "You have fulfilled ship rule admirably and I have no complaint to make regarding your actions to this point."

Relief washed her face.

"Our challenge now," Jethri continued, "is to be certain that our actions from this point on continue to be honorable and in the best interest of the ship." He tipped his head.

"That means you can't just hide on the port for the rest of your life."

Miandra outright laughed. "My shields aren't that good."

Jethri grinned, and let it fade into as serious a look as he could muster.

"You will need to let the house know where you are. Sooner or later the Healers will have to call and admit that you've gone missing. That information is certain to distress your sister, your cousins and your delm, unless they know you are safe."

Miandra's look had turned stubborn.

"If I go home, Ren Lar will send me back. If I call, Aunt Stafeli will order me to return to Healer Hall."

Both probably true. But--

"If you explained to them what you have explained to me, that the examination was painful in the extreme and that you fear for your health if it continues?"

She considered it, chewing her lip. "That might bear weight with Aunt Stafeli, but Ren Lar--I do not believe that Ren Lar would be swayed, if I told him that the evaluation would, without doubt, murder me." She sighed. "Ren Lar is a badly frightened man. Old Technology and wizard's get, both in his household! It is too much to bear."

"What if the evaluation proves that you are a dramliza?" Jethri asked.

She moved her shoulders. "I don't know."

This, Jethri thought, was 'way too snarly for a junior's simple brain. Clearly, Miandra needed help--and not just in this present mess. She needed schooling, whether or not Ren Lar or Stafeli Maarilex chose to believe in wizards. Jethri was pretty sure he didn't believe in wizards, himself. Still, there was no doubt Miandra had some very strange talents and that she needed to be trained in their proper use before she up and hurt somebody. If she hadn't already.

"Is the master healer harmed?" he asked.

She sighed. "No."

Jethri suppressed a grin.

"This is what I propose: That you come with me to the Trade Bar and be my guest for lunch. My friend and I have some business to discuss, which I hope you won't find too tedious. After, you and I will go together to the Scouts and ask Captain ter'Astin to advise us. For you know I'm a block, Miandra, and we are well past anything I can think of to assist you."

"Well, I don't know that you're a block," she retorted, and sat for a moment, contemplating the floor. Jethri sighed and stretched in his chair, careful of protesting muscles.

"I think that asking the captain's advice at this juncture is the wisest thing that I--that we--may
do," she said, unfolding her legs and sliding to the floor. "It was very clever of you to have thought of it."

 

* * *

 

Tan Sim had ordered a cold platter of finger-nibbles, cheese, crackers, and tea--more than enough to feed two, Jethri thought--and possibly enough to cover three, if Miandra wasn't feeling particularly peckish.

He inclined his head. "I thank you. My cousin and I are needed elsewhere later in the day, and she has graciously said that she will allow us to conclude our business before hers."

"On condition," Miandra said, and Jethri could almost hear the glint in her eye, "that you feed me." Jethri moved his hand. "You can see that Tan Sim has already thought of that."

"Indeed." She bowed, hand over heart. "Miandra Maarilex Clan Tarnia."

Seated, Tan Sim returned her bow. "Tan Sim pen'Akla Clan Rinork." He moved a hand, showing them both the laden table. "Please, join me."

Join him they did and there was a small pause in the proceedings while they each took the edge off.

"Well." Tan Sim sat back, teacup in hand. "While you and your cousin dealt kin to kin, Jeth Ree, I have performed wonders."

Jethri eyed him. "What, not marvels?"

Tan Sim waved an airy hand. "Tomorrow is soon enough for marvels. Behold my labors of today! Moon Mountain Refit Shop has been called. By the luck, the hauler was enroute to deliver scrap and other oddments at the very salvage yard where our pod awaited. They simply off-loaded their scrap, onloaded our pod and very soon now it should be in a bay at the shop. They say they will immediately perform a magnetic resonance scan. They do this to locate any hidden flaws or structural damage, so that they may adjust their entry protocol as necessary." He raised his cup and sipped, slowly, teasing, Jethri thought--and then thought of something else.

"How was it the salvager let the pod go before the transfer was made?" He asked.

Tan Sim lowered his cup, looking sheepish. "As it happens, I made the full transfer out of my account, knowing that you will place the coin for your portion in my hand."

"Such trusting ways," Jethri said, and Tan Sim sighed, holding up a hand.

"I knew you were going to say so, and I cannot but agree, that, in the normal way of things, it was an extremely foolhardy thing to do. However, I am adamant. My partner in this endeavor is a man of honor, who pays his just debts promptly."

"And so he is," Jethri said quietly, reaching into the depths of his jacket and extracting the purse containing four kais, six tor. He placed it on the table by Tan Sim's plate.

"My thanks," Tan Sim said softly, and lifted an eyebrow. "Now, may I tell you that the shop desires a call back in--" he glanced at the watch wrapped around his left wrist--"only a few minutes now. A side profit of the scanning is that it will give a rough image of the contents of the pod. When we call back, you will be able to know, with fair certainty, whether you have in fact taken an option on that reasonable return. Indeed, you may well be able to increase that reasonable return, with some judicious and well-placed announcements."

"You may tell me so," Jethri said. "But now you must tell me what you mean by it."

"I expect he means that you might upload the image to the tradenet, and invite advance bids," Miandra said, surprisingly.

Tan Sim raised his cup to her. "Precisely." He glanced at Jethri. "I can show you the way of it, if you like."

"I would very much like," Jethri assured him.

"Good." He put his teacup down and reached for the multipurpose screen. "Finish your meals, children. I will find if the shop has uploaded that image yet."

There wasn't that much to finish by then, but he and Miandra made quick work of what there was and by the time Jethri had drunk the last of his tea, Tan Sim said, "Ah!" and spun the screen around.

The image was a muddle of shape, shadow, hard edges, and glare, reminding Jethri of the relative densities screen on a piloting board. He looked up.

"Traders will bid on the strength of this image?"

"Traders," Tan Sim said, "will very often buy on the strength of such an image." He spun the screen so they all could see it, though Miandra had to scrunch against Jethri's side, and sort of lean her head against his chest, which was comforting and distracting at the same time.

"Attend me, now," Tan Sim said severely and Jethri obediently put his eyes on the screen, trying not to notice that Miandra's hair smelled like Lady Maarilex's favorite flowers.

"You see these, here, here, here--" He touched the screen over three of the glare spots. "Those are stasis boxes that have failed. These--" Quick finger touches on half-a-dozen bland blobs, "are stasis boxes that are still functioning as they should." He flicked a glance at Jethri.

"Already, your gains outnumber your losses."

"Depending on the contents of the boxes," Jethri pointed out. "The manifest listed ores, gems and metals. Not the sort of cargo that normally ships in stasis."

Tan Sim tipped his head. "I thought we had agreed that manifests do not always reflect cargo?"

Jethri smiled. "So we had. Please, continue."

"Very well, what else have we?" He turned his attention back to the screen, subjecting the image to frowning study. "Ah." A finger tap on a particularly muddy blur. "This, I believe, may be your ore. Were I interested in ore, I might well wish to be at hand when the pod is opened. For the rest..." He moved his hand, showing palm in a quick flip. "Who can tell? But there is enough possibility in the stasis boxes alone to warrant putting the image to the tradenet."

Jethri inclined his head. "I bow to the wisdom of an elder trader in this. May I impose further and ask that you teach me the way of putting an image to the tradenet?"

"Truly," Tan Sim said, round-eyed, "is this the lad I found practicing his bows in a back hallway, half-ill for fear of giving offense?"

"Who very shortly thereafter proceeded to give offense most spectacularly?" Jethri retorted.

The other trader grinned. "From which act springs both our fortunes."

"So you say." Jethri used his chin, Liaden style, to point at the screen. "How do I upload this image and invite bids?"

"Nothing simpler. First, feed your guild card to the unit."

"Already, we find difficulty. I have no guild card."

"What?" Tan Sim frankly stared. "Would the guild not grant you a card, after all?"

"I am at the hall in order to be certified, as apprentice, or junior trader--"

"Or master trader," Miandra put in, her head against his chest.

"Certified?" Tan Sim repeated. "But--"

"I was registered as Master ven'Deelin's apprentice," Jethri explained. "Despite that, the hall at Modrid declined to accept any of the purchases I had made on her account, because the hall master did not believe that Terrans belonged in the guild."

"Hah. The master of Modrid hall oversteps. As I am certain the ven'Deelin will demonstrate, in the fullness of time. So you tell me that you are on a hall account at the moment?"

"I have some liquid."

"Which you put into your speculation cargo, here. I see. However, matters become awkward if you lack a valid--"

"Will a Combine key do?" Jethri interrupted.

Tan Sim blinked at him. "Certainly," he said, adding delicately. "Have you a Combine key?"

"Yes." He reached inside his collar for the chain. Miandra ducked under his elbow and sat up, watching him pull the key up and then lift the chain over his head.

Tan Sim caught the key and held it in his palm, frowning at the inscription.

"A ten-year key?"

"With two trades on it--an acquisition and an assisting."

"And you are at the hall for certification?" Tan Sim raised a hasty palm. "No, do not tell me. I am merely a trader. The ways of the masters are too subtle for me. So." He released the key, and it swung gently at the end of the chain. "Well, then. If the young trader will do me the honor of using his key to access the Combine computer in the main bar, I will be pleased to guide him through the procedure for uploading an invitation to bid to the tradenet."

 

* * *

 

Scout Captain ter'Astin received them in Scout Hall's book cluttered common room. After tea had been called for and tasted, he inquired as to the purpose of their visit, and listened in attentive silence while Miandra recounted her tale.

"And I cannot go home, sir, though I know you will think me beyond the pale for saying it--and I will not go back to the Healers," she finished, heatedly, her hands folded tightly on her lap.

"A knotty situation," the Scout said seriously. "I am honored that you thought me worthy of advising you. Let me consider."

He picked up his teacup and sipped, Jethri and Miandra following suit, and sat for some few minutes, eyes not quite focused on the overladen bookshelf just behind Miandra's shoulder.

"I wonder," he said eventually, bringing his gaze to her face, "if you might consider going on with the evaluation, should a different master healer be found to conduct it."

Miandra's frowned, not liking the idea much--and the Scout held up a hand.

"I have in mind a particular master healer--in fact, a master healer attached to the scouts. I am able to vouch for her personally, having several times made use of her skill. I think you will find her a deft touch, with a proper respect for the perceptions of others. I have never known her to cause inadvertent suffering. As a Healer-in-training, I am sure you understand that it is not always possible to spare the patient all pain."

"I do understand that, yes," Miandra said, somewhat stiffly, to Jethri's ear. "The master healer at the hall believes that pain strengthens."

"Ah," said Captain ter'Astin. He put his hands flat on the arms of his chair and made a show of pushing himself to his feet.

"If you like," he said, extending a hand to Miandra. "I will introduce you to the lady I have in mind and the two of you may consult. Should you both agree to go forward, then Healer Hall will be notified of your whereabouts, and you may complete your evaluation while remaining here as a guest of the Scouts. Will that answer, do you think?"

Miandra hesitated and surprised Jethri by throwing him a look. He inclined his head.

"Truly, Miandra, it sounds as though the captain's solution answers all difficulties," he said, and of course right then what happened but that another possible problem jumped to the front of his brain. He looked to the scout, who inclined his head, black eyes amused.

"Healer Hall may take offense."

"No fear," Captain ter'Astin said. "I believe that my powers of diplomacy are equal to the task of explaining the matter to Healer Hall in such a way that they cannot possibly take offense."

 

 

Day 180
Standard Year 1118
Irikwae

 

 

It was a good thing Raisy'd insisted on coming along, Grig thought, drinking off the last of his 'mite. A fastship was one thing, but pilots needed to sleep.

They'd done the run from Kinaveral to Irikwae straight through, manning the boards in shifts, six hours on, six hours off; 'mite and crackers at the station. He'd done many a run just that way, back when him and Arin was active on Uncle's business. 'Course, he'd been a couple hundred Standards younger then.

"Hull's cool," Raisy said. Grig sighed, spun the chair and came to his feet, pitching the cup at the wall recycler.

"Let's go, then." Raisy handed him his jacket, and he shrugged into it as he followed her down the cramped hallway. She unsealed the hatch and swung out down the ladder; Grig followed, feeling the solid thunk of the hatch resealing as a vibration in the rungs.

On the tarmac, Raisy was surveying things, hands on hips, eyes squinted.

"Nice little port," she said as Grig came up beside her. "You got an approach planned, brother?"

"Figured to check the exhibit halls and Trade Bar--boy's 'prenticed, after all. Guild oughta have a record of him and his location." He shrugged, pulling his jacket straight. "How's your Liaden, Raisy?"

"Better'n yours," she answered, which wasn't strictly true.

"Good." He paused, giving the port his own stare, and pointed. "Exhibition hall."

 

* * *

 

He'd finally found masks.

Red leather half-masks, with gilding around the eye, nose and mouth holes. Jethri accessed the detail screens and found an image. The red-and-gold reminded him of the books in the Ruby Club's public parlor, and he thought the house master might find them to be exactly what he wanted.

Trouble was, he'd have to buy at least a gross of the things, and they were dear at that level. Grumbling to himself, he filed the information to his personal account, so he could access it from the computer in his quarters.

He'd also found depilatory, which was a far cheaper proposition at the gross level, but still more than he either wanted or needed. In fact, Meicha's work showed no signs of failing yet, so it could be that he was fixed good and proper and would never sprout another whisker. He made a mental note to ask Miandra if she could figure out what her sister'd done, the next time he saw her. Since she'd opted to have the Scout's master healer do the evaluation and report, that meant three days. They'd promised to share a meal with Captain ter'Astin on the evening of her last day of evaluation, and he was looking forward to it, anxious to hear what the tests showed.

He brought his mind ruthlessly back to the matter at hand.

It might be, he thought, pulling up the secondary detail screen, that the master of the Ruby Club would be willing to buy a skid, less two tubes, of depilatory. He had been interested in the masks, though, and now Jethri was interested in the masks, too, as an unexpected, and unexpectedly complex, exercise in trade.

He filed the depilatory info to his personal account, ended his session with the Combine computer and waited for his key to be returned to him.

"Ah, here is the earnest trader, in the midst of his labors," a distinctive voice said behind his shoulder. Jethri inclined his head without turning around.

"Trader sig'Lorta. How may I serve you?" The machine whirred and his key was extruded. He stood, slipping it into an inner pocket.

His mentor looked up at him. "Have you time to join me in a cup of tea, Jethri Gobelyn? I wish to discuss your progress with you."

Not that there had been much progress, Jethri thought, grumpily, with him on rest leave for two days. Still, when a man's mentor wanted tea and a chat, it was a good idea to have time for him.

So, he inclined his head again, murmured, "Certainly, sir," and followed the trader to a booth, where a pot and cups were already set out on the table.

"If you would do me the honor of pouring?" Trader sig'Lorta murmured, pulling the multi-use screen toward him.

Teapots were tricksy, the handles being just a bit too small to comfortably accept his hand. That aside, nobody could say that Lady Maarilex had neglected the niceties in her efforts to give him polish, no matter how many teapots it cost her.

He poured, with efficiency if not style, setting the first cup by his mentor's hand, taking the second for himself. Carefully, he replaced the pot on its warmer and composed himself to wait, cup simmering gently before him.

"Yes, here we are," murmured Trader sig'Lorta. He looked up from the screen, took his cup in hand and raised it to taste, Jethri doing the same.

Manners taken care of, the trader put his cup aside and folded his hands on the table. "I hope," he said courteously, "that your injury no longer pains you."

"No, sir. The house doctor renewed the dressing this morning and is very pleased with the process of healing."

"That is well, then." He moved a hand, showing Jethri the multi-screen. "I find that you have been at trade on the days granted you to recover from your wound."

Uh-oh.

Jethri inclined his head. "Yes, sir."

"Ah." Trader sig'Lorta smiled. "You begin to demonstrate to me that you are, indeed, a trader, Jethri Gobelyn. I am further compelled by the ...ambitiousness... of your offering on the tradenet. However, I am puzzled by something with regard to that, and I hope you may help me understand why I find no credit to your account, covering what I must believe to be a rather substantial cost."

"Sir, the merchandise under discussion was bought as a private speculation. Therefore, I used my own resources."

There was a small pause, then Trader sig'Lorta inclined his head.

"I see that I did not explain the process as well as I might have done," he said slowly. "In essence, any business that you conduct on port should be recorded to your file, so that the certification will reflect your actual skill level as nearly as possible. This includes private deals, side trades, and day-brokering. Have you any questions?"

So, he could have used the guild account to buy the speculation cargo, could he? Jethri sighed. Being as he had formed the intention to buy the pod's cargo to help Tan Sim out of defaulting on his contract in a way that wouldn't raise prideful Liaden hackles--maybe not.

"Thank you, sir. I had not understood that all my actions as a trader on port would be taken into balance by the master who will evaluate my file. The matter is now made plain."

"Good." Trader sig'Lorta sipped his tea, appreciatively. Setting the cup down, he reached again for the multi-use screen.

"I see that you have used your Combine key to record your offer--very good. I also see that the pod is scheduled to be opened this afternoon, so you should leave me very soon in order to be in good time. When you are returned this evening, I ask that you write a trade report of this particular transaction, and forward it to me. I will review it and enter it into your file."

Jethri inclined his head. "I will do so, sir." He hesitated. "Is there anything else I might do for you?"

"For today, I believe that will suffice." He raised his cup. "Drink your tea, Jethri Gobelyn, and may your speculation bring profit."

 

* * *

 

The exhibit hall had a decent number of goods on display. Raisy, who'd never had any interest in that side of the business, strode right on past all the tables spread with tantalizing merchandise. Despite being wishful of locating Jethri, Grig's step slowed, his gaze darting from side to side, until Raisy retraced her steps, wrapped strong fingers around his wrist and pulled him along with her.

"I thought you wanted Jethri."

"Well, I do. But where's harm in seeing what's here and whether any of it could be had for a profit?"

She sighed gustily and dropped his arm. "Grigory, you are incorrigible."

"Maybe so--" He stopped, his eye drawn to one of the dozens of ceiling-suspended info screens. This one was only ten paces away, clearly visible over Raisy's left shoulder, and the phrase that had caught his eye--

Jethri Gobelyn.

"Raisy, turn around."

She caught the tone, and turned, cautious, checking for threats first, then put her attention on the screen, which had a resonance scan on display.

"Are you seeing what I'm seeing, brother?" Raisy breathed.

The screen changed to detail, all written out in plain Liaden, including the name of the trader-at-offer.

"Just like Arin!" Raisy shook her head, threw him a look over her shoulder. "I thought you said the boy didn't get his training."

"He didn't," Grig murmured, memorizing the address where the pod was due to be opened within the hour. "This has gotta be a fluke, Raisy. Boy likes salvage lots. Got a real touch with 'em. He's got a problem there, too, looks like to me."

"I saw it." She jerked her head at a sign bearing the Liaden for Information. "Get us a taxi?"

He nodded. "I've got the address."

 

* * *

 

Well, there hadn't been any advance bidders, but there was a fair crowd waiting outside Bay Fourteen of the Moon Mountain Refit Shop--at least, according to Tan Sim it was a fair crowd. Jethri counted nine traders as they followed the shop technician to the bay door.

"An additional few moments, traders," the tech said to those gathered, as he unlocked the access hatch. "We treasure the gift of your patience."

Tan Sim ducked through the hatch, Jethri on his heels, the tech on his heels. Inside it was dim and a little too warm, as if the noisy air-moving unit wasn't up to the job. The pod took up most of the available floor space; half-a-dozen porta-spots took what was left. Tan Sim went against the wall to the left of the hatch, Jethri, wondering where nine more traders were going to fit in this space, to the right.

The tech kept straight on to the pod, and wrapped both hands around the emergency stick by the hatch.

"The mechanism operated correctly, if slowly, during initial testing, but it is always best to be certain in such cases that functionality has not failed." He hauled on the stick, putting his back into it.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened, then the door began, slowly, and with a long mechanical groan, to lift.

"So." The tech notched the lever down and the door sealed. "In case the internal lights are not currently operational, we have the portable spotlights available." He stood back, wiping his palms down the side of his coveralls, his eyes on the pod.

"If one of you gentlemen would admit the others, I believe we are ready."

Tan Sim waved Jethri toward the pod and pushed the access hatch wide.

"Please, traders! Enter and be welcome!"

Jethri scooped up one of the portables and stepped to the side of the hatch opposite the tech.

The bay was rapidly filling, with traders and the voices of traders--rather more traders, Jethri thought, than the nine he had counted only a few moments before. A pair of taller shadows at the back of the crowd drew his eye--

"Business of the Scouts!" the unmistakable voice of Scout Captain Jan Rek ter'Astin rang out--and there was the captain himself, flanked by two women in the uniform of the Irikwae Port Proctors, striding briskly forward. The attending traders scrunched close to the walls, giving them a clear course to Jethri. He caught a glimpse of Tan Sim, gridlocked by the now-silent crowd.

The Scout and his proctors settled into position to the left of Jethri, between the hatch and the attending traders. Jethri inclined his head.

"Have you come to arrest me, sir?" he asked, for the Scout's ears alone, not certain himself if he was joking.

Black eyes met his firmly. "That will depend on a number of things, young Jethri. And the sooner the hatch is opened, the sooner we will both know what duty demands."

Right. Jethri looked to the tech, who stood motionless, his hands around the emergency lever. He took a breath, held it, breathed, slowly, out.

"Technician," he said, loud enough to be heard to the back of the bay, "please open the hatch."

"Trader," the man murmured, and hauled down on the stick.

The hatch hesitated, and rose, moaning all the way to the top. Inside, lights flickered, and failed. Jethri pressed the switch on the porta-spot.

The beam flared, illuminating the inside of the pod with harsh blue light. Shapes leapt into being, sharply outlined. A busted stasis box, canted on its side, a large shape that reminded Jethri of the weather machine, built a hundred times bigger, another--

"Technician, close the hatch!" Captain ter'Astin ordered. "Proctors, clear the room."

The proctors turned as one and moved toward the crowd, hands making long, sweeping motions. Jethri pressed the switch on the porta-spot, killing the glare.

"Of your goodness," said the proctor on the right, "please leave the room. Business of the Scouts."

"Move along," said the one on the left, "there is nothing here for you to see. Business of the Scouts."

Inexorably, the traders were swept back toward the door. Tan Sim held his ground, creating an eddy in the flow of departing traders. The proctor on the right paused, and moved her hands sharply. "Please, sir. We are clearing the area. There is no business here for you."

"There is business," Tan Sim said, sounding a bit breathless, but calm. "Yon trader is my partner in this matter--and that is my pod."

"That trader may remain, proctors," Captain ter'Astin said over his shoulder. He inclined his head to the technician. "Sir, you are required elsewhere."

The tech bowed, hastily--"Scout"--and was gone, not quite running, pushing past Tan Sim, who was striding forward. The tech darted between the proctors and vanished out the hatch. The proctors continued their sweep. Jethri bent to put the porta-spot down.

"Jethri!"

He snapped upright and spun, staring down the dim hall to find the proctors confronting two tall people and one of them was--

"Grig!" He spun back to the Scout.

"That man is my kin!"

The Scout's eyebrows rose. "Indeed. So we will be playing with the Liaden deck? You do trade bold, young Jethri." He raised his voice. "Proctors, those traders may remain, as well. Secure the door."

"Not a Liaden deck," Jethri said. "A human deck. In Terran, he's my shipmate."

The Scout tipped his head to one side. "I believe I begin to understand the scope of Norn's project. So-" He flicked his gaze to Tan Sim.

"Trader pen'Akla, I am Scout Captain Jan Rek ter'Astin."

"Sir," Tan Sim said stiffly. "I will be interested to learn what business Scouts have in interrupting the trading day."

Captain ter'Astin smoothed the air between them with a gentle palm. "Peace. Every matter in its time."

The confusion near the access hatch had sorted itself out and Grig was taking long strides forward, followed by a woman who looked familiar, though Jethri was sure he'd never seen her before.

"You OK, Jeth?" Grig reached out and grabbed his shoulder, squeezing, hard and comforting.

"I'm fine," Jethri said, though it took him a stupidly long time to get the Terran to his mouth. He glanced over Grig's shoulder at the woman. She smiled at him and nodded, agreeable-like. Grig turned, letting go of Jethri's shoulder.

"Don't tell me you're shy, now," he said to her. "Come up here and tell Jethri 'hey'."

She took a couple steps and came even with Grig. "Hey, Jethri," she said, her voice deep and pleasant. "I'm Grig's sister, Raisana." She held out a hand. "Call me Raisy."

He took her hand and squeezed her fingers lightly. "Raisy. I'm glad to meet you," he said, thinking that he'd never heard Grig mention a sister, but for all of that, they sure did--

"That's it," he said, the Terran coming a little too quick, now. "Couldn't place why you seemed familiar. You look like Grig, is why."

"Indeed," Scout Captain ter'Astin said, in his mud-based Terran. "It is a remarkable likeness, even for fraternal twins." He paused, head tipped to a side. "You are twins, are you not?"

Grig shrugged. "Raisy's older'n me," he said, eyeing the Scout's leathers. "Field Scout, are you?" Captain ter'Astin bowed, hand over heart.

"Grig," Jethri said, quick, before his cousin thought of another way to provoke sarcasm out of the Scout. "What're you doin' here? Where's Seeli? How's Khat? Uncle Paitor--"

Grig held up a hand, showing palm. "Easy. Easy. Everybody's fine. You'll want to know that Seeli's increasing. She sends her love. Khat sends hers, too. Paitor tells me to tell you stay outta trouble, but I got a feeling he's too late with that one."

"I think he might be," Jethri said, suddenly and grimly recalled to the looming loss of six kais-six.
He turned to glare at Captain ter'Astin, who raised an eyebrow and made a show of displaying empty palms.

"Tell me you did not know that this pod was filled with Old Technology, Jethri Gobelyn."

"He did not," said Tan Sim, speaking Terran as if it were Liaden, only much slower. He used his chin to point at the pod. "I find pod. I find manifest. Ore. Art metal. Jewels." He paused, bruised face showing grim. "I buy pod. Jeth Ree buys contents. Partners, we are."

"I see," said the Scout. "And neither one of you had the skill to read the image and deduce the presence of Old Technology?"

"Prolly neither one did," Grig said, matter-of-factly. "If the paper said ore, they'd've naturally thought the spot that caught my attention--and Raisy's--was ore. 'Course, I expect us three," he continued to the Scout's speculative eyes, "seen a lot more Old Tech than either of the youngers, there. You gonna get a blanket over that, by the way? 'Cause, if you're not, I'll beg your pardon, but me, my sister, our cousin and our cousin's partner have an urgent need to lift ship."

"As unstable as that?" Captain ter'Astin pulled a comm from his belt and thumbed it on. "ter'Astin. Dispatch a team and a containment field to Moon Mountain Refit Shop. Level three." He thumbed the device off and slipped it away.

"'preciate it," Grig said, giving him a nod. He looked to Jethri. "You seen them distortions in the scan you uploaded--kinda cloudy and diffuse?"

"Yes," Jethri and Tan Sim said in unison.

"Right. That's fractin sign. Non-industrial quantities of timonium being released as the tech degrades. Now, that blob--it does look convincing for ore, and the ghosts of space know I'd've been tempted to read it that way myself, if I was holding a paper that said ore. But what it is--it's one of the bigger pieces going unstable, releasing more timonium--and then more. That's why we gotta get a blanket over it right now. If it goes without being contained, it could leave a sizeable hole in this planet."

"Is that fact or fancy?" asked the Scout.

Grig looked at him. "Well, now, I'd say fact. My sister, there, she'd argue the point. You want to open the hatch, and we'll take a look at what else you got in there?"

"An interesting proposition," said Captain ter'Astin. "I wonder why I should."

"Grig an' me're the closest you're going to find to experts on the Old Tech," Raisy said, surprisingly. "There's better, mind you, but I don't think Uncle'd be much interested in talking with you--no offense intended.

"Now, me, I'd ask day rate, if we was gonna do the thing right and clear the stuff for you. But a quick looksee--" She shrugged. "I'm curious. Grig's curious. The boys here are curious--and you're curious. Where's the harm?"

"A compelling argument, I allow." The Scout stepped forward, gabbed the emergency stick with one hand and hauled it down.

The hatch rose, screaming in agony. Tan Sim swept forward and came up with Jethri's portable, blue-white beam aimed inside.

"All right." The five of them stepped close, staring into the depths of the pod.

"That big one over against the far wall," Raisy said. "That'll be your unstable. Look at all the busted stasis boxes around it." She shook her head.

"Now, that one," Grig said, pointing to a device that looked peculiarly coffin-like. "That one I'd recommend you hold for study. I don't say it ain't treacherous. All Befores are treacherous. But that particular one can heal terrible wounds."

The Scout looked at him. "How do you know that?"

"Well, now, that's a story. Happens our point man had made a lucky guess or he really could read some of them pages from 'way back, like he claimed. No matter the how of it, we had the location of a significant cache. Biggest any of us, 'cept Arin an' maybe Uncle, had ever seen. Trouble is, we was about a half-Jump ahead of a couple field Scouts who'd taken it into their heads that this particular world I'm talking about was interdicted an' so we needed to work fast." He shook his head.

"That meant we had to use every pair of hands we could get, whether they was attached to a trained brain or not. Which is how we happened to have the kid doing his own packing. Now, he'd been told over and over not to just turn the Befores on, or ask them to do things, or think about them doing things, or listen to them, if they started to talk in the space between his ears where his brain ought've been. He'd been told, but he was a kid, and a slow learner, besides."

"So he picked up a piece of the Old Tech and it killed him," the Scout said, softly.

"Good guess," Raisy said. "But it didn't kill him--though no question he'd've died of the damage. Chewed his left hand to bits, fingertips to elbow. Happened so fast, he didn't have time to scream, did so much damage, he dropped into shock. It was Arin who shoved him in the--we call 'em duplicating units. Don't know what gave him the idea it'd do a bit of good, but as it turned out, it was the best thing he could've done.

"By the time we'd gotten everything else loaded, the machine chimed, lid popped and there was the kid, a little groggy, with two good hands on him and not a drop of blood on his coveralls."

Scout Captain ter'Astin frankly stared. "It regenerated the hand and arm?"

"Good as new," Grig said. "Never given me a day's worth o'trouble. Though here's a funny thing." He held his hands up, palms out toward the Scout. "The fingerprints on the left hand're the same as the fingerprints on the right, just reversed." He flexed his fingers and let both hands drop to his side. "Works fine, though."

"So I see. A most fortunate circumstance."

"Nothing fortunate about it. Arin told us later he'd read that the duplicating machines could do more than what we'd been using them for. He really could read them old pages--you ever seen any? Metal, but soft and flexible, like paper, with the characters etched in, permanent."

"There are one or two specimens at Headquarters," the Scout said. "Though I admit that deciphering them has thus far proven beyond our ability. Arin Gobelyn was an exceptional man."

"Well, he'd been at it a long time," Grig said, with the air of one being fair. "He'd had a key, but I'm thinking that got spaced early, right after Iza come back from identifying the body."

"Or he may have left an abbreviated form of it in the book he had made for his heir."

"What!" Jethri squawked, shaken out of a state of blank amazement. "My journal?"

Scout Captain ter'Astin turned stern black eyes upon him. "Indeed. Your journal. You say you did not know it?"

"There were some odd--" He stopped, seeing the pages in memory; his kid notes and next to them, the various weird squiggles of his father's doodling....

"Not until this minute did I realize, sir," he said, unconsciously dropping into Liaden. "Truly, as I had told you, I had been without the book and other remembrances of my father for many years, having only recently been reunited with them."

"Boy didn't get his training," Grig said softly. "Arin died too soon."

"You didn't train him?" the Scout asked. Grig shook his head.

"If Iza--his mam, you understand--had even thought I was, the boy was forfeit--me, too, more than sure, though Raisy'll tell you that's no loss."

"No such thing," she said, stoutly.

"Ah," said the Scout. "I wonder, this planet where you were a half-Jump ahead of a pair of field Scouts intent upon enforcing the interdiction--would that have been in the Nafrey Sector?" Grig and Raisy exchanged a glance.

"Stuff's long gone," Grig said.

"True," Raisy answered. She nodded to the Scout. "You got a good mind for detail."

"I thank you. And you, if I may say so, are a great deal older than you look."

"That's because we got hold of some duplicating machines early," Raisy said, "and kept on reproducing the pure stock. We breed, like Grig here gone and done, the very next generation goes back to default."

"That's what was driving Arin to find out how to manufacture good fractins," Grig said. "The machines are going unstable, and he wanted his boy to be able to continue the line."

The Scout inclined his head. "I understand. However, the Old Technology is forbidden."

"Right," said Raisy. "Let's go."

Jethri cleared his throat. Four pair of eyes turned to him, Tan Sim's looking more bewildered than anything else.

"I'm a--clone?" he asked, very calmly. He used his chin to point at the machine Grig had recommended for study. "I was born from one of those?"

"Almost," said Grig. "I'm sorry to tell you that Arin wasn't entirely straight with Iza, Jeth. I'll give you the details when we're private." He looked at the Scout. "Family business."

The Scout bowed.

"Captain ter'Astin?" A voice inquired. They all turned.

Four Scouts stood in the cramped bay behind them, equipment packs on their backs. The lead Scout saluted. "Containment Unit reporting, sir."

"Good." The Scout waved his hand at the big piece Raisy had identified as unstable. "There is your target. We will remove ourselves until the containment is complete. After...." He considered Grig and Raisy thoughtfully.

"After, I believe I would like to pay the pair of you day-rate, and sit at your feet while you clear the Old Technology in this pod."

Raisy shrugged. "All right by me." She sent a look and a grin to Jethri, who couldn't help but grin back. "We're fast, cousin. Couple days from now, the only thing you'll have to worry you is how to profitably place what's left."

 

 

Day 185
Standard Year 1118
Irikwae

 

After the Befores were cleared and cleared out, and the broken stasis boxes sold for scrap, there'd been enough in the contents of the good boxes to return the initial investment, and one kais, three for profit.

"Not a large profit," Trader sig'Lorta commented, appending the information to Jethri's file.

"True," he'd replied. "However, if the coin had stayed in my pocket, I would have realized no profit at all."

His mentor glanced up, gray eyes amused. "The trade is in your bones, Jethri Gobelyn."

In between his assignments for the hall, and their work with the Scout, he spent time with Grig, sometimes with Raisy, though most often not. Family business, family secrets--he was clear he wasn't gettin' it all. Not even close to it all. No need, really.

As Grig said, "You ain't Arin. No need for an Arin now, if there ever was, with the machines going into unstable--but you're worried about the other. And you ain't Arin, Jeth, no more'n I'm Raisy. We're each our own self, give or take a shared gene-set. Like identical twins, if you know any.

"I will say Arin'd be proud of the way you're going about setting yourself up, building your credentials and associations. He would be proud if he was here for it--just like I'm proud. But--here's another secret for you--he'd've never gone at it like you done. Arin was smart about lots of things, but human hearts wasn't among 'em. I'm thinkin' it'll prove that your way's the better one."

"What was he trying to do with the fractins?" Jethri'd asked. "Remember how we built the patterns, an'--"

"Right." Grig nodded. "Remember what I told you? How all the fractins was dying at once? Duplicating units are powered by fractins, same as your weather maker, and that tutoring stick went bad on you in the exhibit hall. Arin, he had this theory, that if you put fractins together in certain ways--certain patterns--they'd know--and could do--some interesting things. So, he--"

"WildeToad," Jethri whispered, and Grig shot him a Look.

"What do you think you know about Toad, Jeth?"

"Nothing more than what's on the sheet of printout my father used to shim my nameplate," he said. "Breaking clay, it said. Arming and going down. If the clay was fractins, arranged in a certain pattern..."

"Then you got most of it," Grig interrupted. "Arin'd worked out what he figured to be an auxiliary piloting computer. Toad's captain agreed to give it a test run. Looked good, at first, the fractin-brain merged in with ship's comp. What they didn't figure on was ship's comp getting overridden by the fractins. Suddenly Toad was out of the control of her crew. Captain's key was worse than useless. The fractin-brain, it locked in a set of coordinates nobody'd ever seen, and started the sequence to arm the cannons..."

"They broke the fractins, but they still didn't get the ship back," Jethri said, guessing. "So, they crashed it, rather than risk whatever had their comp getting loose."

Grig sighed. "Near enough." He paused, then said, real quiet.

"It was a bad business. So bad Arin stopped trying to figure out the thinking patterns--for awhile. But he had to go back to it, Jeth. See, he was trying to find the pattern that would produce the fractin-brain that would tell him how to make more fractins."

He leaned forward to put his hand on Jethri's arm.

"You listen to me, Jethri, if you forget everything else I ever told you. Befores, Old Tech, whatever you want to call it--you can't trust it. Nobody knows what they'll do--and sometimes it's worth your life to find out." He sat back with a tired grin. "And that was before they started to go unstable."

Jethri glanced down at his palm, the burn nothing more now than a broad red scar.

"I'll remember," he promised.

Eventually, they come around to the reason Grig and Raisy were on Irikwae at all. "He said what?" Jethri demanded. "The trader who bought the pod--my partner?" They nodded.

"That trader," Jethri said, "is the brother chel'Gaibin claims to be deprived of. He's pushing a false claim against people who aren't tied by the, the Code." He took a hard breath, and inclined his head. "Thank you," he said, dropping into Liaden for the proper phrasing. "Please be assured that this matter will be brought into proper Balance."

"All right. Now, I gotta ask you, for Seeli: You sure you're OK? 'Cause if you need a ship, Seeli says you got the Market to call on--and she'll deal with Iza."

Jethri felt tears rise up and blinked them away. "Tell her--the offer means a lot to me, but I've got a ship, and a crew, and a--course that I'm wanting to see the end of."

Grig smiled, and sent a glance to his sister. "Boy's got it under control, Raisy. We can lift on that news."

And by the next morning, they had.

 

* * *

 

"What are those?" Miandra asked, as he placed the wire frame and the boxes of fractins, true and false, before Scout Captain ter'Astin. They were once again in the common room of the Scout hall, sharing a pre-dinner glass of wine to celebrate Miandra's completion of her evaluation.

"Fractins," Jethri said, and, when she gave him a perfectly blank stare. "Old Technology. Put enough fractins together in the right order and you have--a computer. Only different."

"And dangerous," she added.

"Sometimes," he said, thinking of the healing unit. He met Captain ter'Astin's eyes, and moved his shoulders. "Usually." He reached into one of his inner pockets, his fingers touched the familiar, comforting shape. His lucky fractin. With a sigh, he brought it out and placed it on the table.

"Ah," the Scout said. "I do thank you for these, young Jethri, and appreciate your display of goodwill. I wonder, however, about the journal."

Jethri bowed, slightly. "The journal is not Old Technology, sir. The contents of the journal are of no use to the Scouts and of much sentimental value to me."

"I see." The Scout glanced down at the table and its burden. "I suggest a compromise. You will place the book in my custody. I will cause it to be copied, whereupon the original will be returned to you. I give you my word that all will be accomplished within the space of one day." He looked up, black eyes bright. "Is this acceptable?"

"Sir, it is."

"Spoken like a true son of a High House! Come now, let us put business and duty both behind us and drink to Lady Miandra's very good health!"

The wine being poured, they did that, and Jethri turned to Miandra.

"What was the outcome?" he asked. "Are you dramliza, or Healer?"

She sipped her wine. "Dramliza, though untrained in the extreme. I am offered a teacher upon Liad itself. If Aunt Stafeli agrees, the thing is done."

"Oh." Jethri lowered his glass.

"What's amiss?"

He moved his shoulders. "Truly--it is all that you hoped for--and I share your joy. It is just that--I will miss you."

Miandra stared--and then her laugh pealed.

"I have missed the joke, I fear," he said, a little hurt. She leaned forward to put her hand on his sleeve.

"Jethri--cousin. You are to leave very soon, yourself. Do you recall it? Norn ven'Deelin? Elthoria? The wide star trade?"

He blinked, and blushed, and laughed a little himself. "I had forgotten," he admitted. "But I will still miss you."

Miandra had recourse to her wine, eyes dancing.

"Never fear! I will certainly remain long enough to dance at your age-coming ball!"

"When does Norn come to port?" the Scout asked, sipping his own wine.

It took a moment to remember the date. "Day three-three-one."

"Ah," the Scout moved his shoulders. "A pity. I will have gone by then."

"Back to Kailipso, sir?"

"No, thank the gods. I have been given a new assignment, which may prove ... interesting." He put his glass next to Jethri's lucky fractin.

"I have reserved our table for the top of the hour. We will stop at the desk to ask that someone from the proper unit come to collect those. Then, if you will accompany me, we may proceed to the restaurant. I believe it is a lovely evening for a stroll."

 

 

Day 189
Standard Year 1118
Irikwae

 

The alarm rang 'way too early. Jethri pitched out of bed and headed for the shower before his eyes were properly open, emerging some few minutes later, eyes open, hair damp. He pulled on trousers, boots and shirt and, still sealing that last garment, walked over to the computer to discover the instructions that would shape his day.

He was to meet Tam Sin for luncheon--a last agreeable meal before aged Genchi, now embracing a third pod, lifted. Besides that, there was a certain odd lot he wanted to have a look at, over--

Red letters blinked urgently on his screen, alerting him to a serious scheduling change. He touched a key and the day-sheet snapped into being, the new item limned in red.

Jethri swallowed a curse. He was to meet with the master trader in charge of evaluating his file in the hall master's office in--he threw a glance at the clock--now.

"Blast!"

He snatched his best trading coat off the hook and ran.

 

* * *

 

Outside the hall master's office, he did take a moment to catch his breath, pull his jacket straight, and run quick, combing fingers through his hair. One more deep breath, and he leaned to the annunciator. "Jethri Gobelyn," he said, clearly.

The door chimed. He put his hand on the latch and let himself in.

The office had the too-tidy look of a place that had been out of use for a time. The desk top was bare, and slightly dusty; the books lined up, all orderly, in their shelves. Two chairs and a low table made a pleasant grouping by the window. A portable comp and a fray holding two glasses and a bottle of wine bearing the Maarilex Reserve label sat at the center of the table.

But for himself, the room was empty, though the wine and the comp indicated that he could expect the master trader soon.

Taking a deep breath to center himself, Jethri moved to the bookshelves, and brought his attention to the titles.

He had just discovered that Hall Master yos'Arimyst had an interesting half-a-dozen novels shelved among his volumes of Guild rule and trade regs, when the door chimed and opened.

Turning, he began his bow--and checked.

"Master ven'Deelin?"

She raised her eyebrows, black eyes amused. "Such astonishment. Do I not wear the amethyst?"

"Indeed you do, ma'am," he said, bowing the bow of affectionate esteem. "It is only that one's mentor has been at pains to let me know that my file will be evaluated by an impartial master."

"As if there were ever such a thing--or could be." She paused and looked him up and down, her hands tucked into her belt.

"You look well, my son. Irikwae suits you, I think."

"I have learned much here, mother."

"Hah." Her eyes gleamed. "So it seems." She moved a hand, inviting him to walk with her to the pleasant grouping of chairs and table. "Come, let us sit and be comfortable. Open and pour for us, if you will, while I consult the notes left by the evaluating master."

He opened and poured, and settled into the chair across from her. She sat for a moment or two longer, perusing her screen, then sat back with a sigh.

"Yes, precisely did he say, when I met him just now in the Trade Bar," she murmured, and reached for her glass, lifting it in a toast, Jethri following.

"To Jethri Gobelyn, junior trader."

He sipped--a small sip, since his stomach suddenly felt like it didn't know how to behave. "Truly, ma'am?"

"What question is this?" She slipped a card out of her sleeve. "Honor me with your opinion of this."

He received it, fingers tracing the Guild sigil on the obverse. On the front, there was his name, and junior trader, right enough, and the silver gleam of the datastrip that held the records of his transactions thus far.

"I find it a handsome card, ma'am."

"Then there is no more to be said--it is yours."

One more long look and then he slipped it away, into the same inner pocket that held his Combine key.

"You do well, my child. I am pleased. We will need to talk, you and I, to discover whether you wish to continue an association with Elthoria, now that you are a trader in your own name. First, however, I must bring you news of chel'Gaibin, which I fear and trust will not delight you."

He held up a hand. "If this has to do with Trader chel'Gaibin's attack upon my kinswoman on Banthport, ma'am, I have had that tale already."

"Have you indeed? May one ask?"

"My cousins Grig and Raisy found the incident so alarming that they came to me here on Irikwae, to inform me of my need for vigilance."

"All honor to them." Master ven'Deelin sipped her wine. "I have invoked a Guild inquiry, which will hold chel'Gaibin this next while. That he claims false Balance--that is a matter for the Council, and is not a matter that you must or may take under your own melant'i. Am I understood in this?"

"Ma'am, you are." He inclined his head. "Grig asked me to tell you, ma'am, that you should consider, not what Banth has, but where it is."

She paused with her glass half-way to her lips. "So. You have remarkable kin, young Jethri. I know nothing but admiration for them. I will consider, as he has suggested."

She flicked her fingers toward the comp. "I learn here that you partnered with young pen'Akla in the pod deal. How did you find that?"

"Well enough," Jethri said carefully. He put his glass down and sat forward, elbows on knees. "Ma'am, might you buy his contract?"

"Ixin, buy the contract of one of Rinork? chel'Gaibin will cry Balance in truth!"

Right.

"I had not considered," he confessed. "Then I--wonder if you will advise me."

She considered him. "Now, this has the promise of a diversion. Of course I will advise you, my son. Only tell me what troubles you."

"I find myself plumper in purse than I had anticipated," he said, slowly. "And it came to me that a good use of my resources might be to invest in--a trader."

Master ven'Deelin tipped her head to one side. "Invest in a trader, young Jethri?"

"Indeed, ma'am. Suppose I were to buy the contract of a full trader. Not only would I, a junior, have the opportunity to learn from him, my elder in trade, but as owner of his contract, a percentage of each trade he made would be credited to--"

"Your guild card." She raised her hand. "Enough."

Jethri sat back, watching her as she sipped her wine, eyes closed.

"It only amazes me," she said eventually, "that no one has thought of this before. Truly, young Jethri, you have a gift." She opened her eyes.

"You will now tell me if this notion of yours was serious, or merely brought forward to plague me."

"Ma'am, you know I would never deliberately plague you--"

"Pah!"

"But, I had considered buying Trader pen'Akla's contract, so that he might find a ship and a route that will value him, to their mutual profit." He opened his hands, palm up, showing empty.

"I do quite see that such an arrangement would be--questionable, at best. But, if Elthoria bought his contract--" He leaned forward again, hands cupped, as if he held a rare treasure.

"Ma'am, allow me to present Tan Sim pen'Akla to you as a young trader of heart, imagination and energy. His melant'i is unimpeachable. He speaks Terran, he honors guild rule, and--" He swallowed, keeping his eyes on hers. "And if he continues on that route, ma'am, it will break his heart and suck his spirit dry."

Silence. Jethri forced himself to sit back, to pick up his wine glass--

"You make a compelling case," Master ven'Deelin said softly. "I will speak to young pen'Akla."

Seated, he bowed, as deeply as he was able. "Thank you, ma'am."

"Such drama. So, while we are making dispositions of traders and contracts--what is your wish, Junior Trader Gobelyn? Shall you write contract with Elthoria, or has another ship caught your eye?" Another ship? Jethri inclined his head.

"Ma'am, of course I wish to stay with Elthoria, and sit at the feet of her master trader. I have--much yet to learn."

"Yes," said Master ven'Deelin, smiling. "And so have I."