Trader's Leap (Liaden Universe Book 23)

by Sharon Lee

Bentamin inclined his head.

  “Thank you,” he said, and moved through the familiar rooms to the alcove, where the Oracle sat at a small table, surrounded on three sides by windows overlooking the civilization which needed to be protected from her as much as she needed to be protected from it.

  When she had first taken up her duty as Oracle, she had used to meet him in other rooms—the parlor, the library, the kitchen. Now, though, it was the alcove always. Staff reported that she spent most of her days at this table, gazing down at the city below.

  “Good morning, Asta,” Bentamin said, pausing by the side of the table. “I trust I find you well?”

  “As well as ever I am,” she said, turning her head to smile at him. “Oh! Flowers. Now, whose?”

  “Jasy,” he said, putting the little bouquet of pale blooms into her hand. “He’s coming along well, I think.”

  “Jasy,” she repeated, running light fingers over the flowers. They purred slightly and followed her touch. “Sarrell’s?”

  “His youngest.”

  “Well, he is a very talented boy! Tell him that his Aunt Asta would like him to visit her someday.”

  “I will,” he said, and thought that he actually might. Jasy was a kind boy who knew what was owed to kin. And while he was inarguably talented, he also had a core of cold iron which wouldn’t likely be influenced by his aunt’s—his grand-aunt’s—energies.

  He put the teacup on the table by her hand and took the seat across from her, retrieving his own cup from the kitchen counter in his apartment, one floor down, where he’d left it.

  He sipped, deliberately relaxing into the chair. Asta had returned to gazing out the window, one hand absently stroking her flowers.

  “Do you have anything to tell me this morning?” he asked eventually.

  Asta sighed.

  “The dark has risen,” she said, turning away from the windows with visible reluctance. “The universe resides in its direst hour, though so few of us can know it.”

  Bentamin sighed to himself.

  The universe, according to Aunt Asta, had been increasingly at risk from the darkness for some numbers of years. Asta’s uncle, the previous Oracle, had spoken of the danger from time to time during Bentamin’s mother’s tenure as Warden. Over the last six years, however, Asta had grown increasingly more agitated on the topic, insisting that the darkness would eat them all—and now, it appeared that the universe had entered its inevitable moment of trial. It saddened him that Aunt Asta clung to this—delusion, as he must suppose it to be. Oracles were not, after all, immune to afflictions of reason—in fact, they were rather more susceptible, Seeing as they did down multiple lines of possibility.

  Bentamin was no Oracle. He was, as his mother, the Warden before him, had been, only a very strong multi-talent. All the Wardens were so, and thus he was, very slightly, in comparison to Aunt Asta, Foresighted.

  He had Looked, reasoning that so large an event as the end of the universe must be visible even to his limited Vision. He had Looked, more than once, and gained nothing for his Looking but several dreadful headaches.

  That being so, the obvious conclusion was that Aunt Asta, Oracle to the Civilized, had acquired a delusion. These things happened. It was the Warden’s part to do all and everything to ensure the Oracle’s health, comfort, and peace of mind, until it became the Warden’s duty to remove the Oracle from their post.

  In service of preserving the Oracle’s peace of mind, he inclined his head gravely and asked the approved follow-up question.

  “How may the universe prevail in this, its hour of trial?”

  “A hero must arise,” she replied, as she always did, “and do what is needful.”

  Yes, well. Heroes, in Bentamin’s experience, were not precisely thick on the ground. He counted that a blessing, heroes mixing less well with Civilization than even Oracles.

  Still, the third question, too, had to be asked.

  “Will this hero arise from among us?”

  “Us?” Asta was frowning down at the busy streets; she extended a hand to her teacup, picking it up without even glancing aside.

  “From among the populations of The Redlands,” he clarified, and saw her brows draw closer.

  “Oh. I do not See the hero, only a gleam of steel and gold among The Ribbons. Is this a hero, or merely the possibility of a hero? I do not know.”

  The same answer, always ambiguous, that half persuaded Bentamin that . . . perhaps this struggle between the dark universe and their own might, after all, have some basis in . . . fact. Would not delusion, insisting that a hero arise, provide that hero to the deluded Sight?

  This was an uncomfortable thought. If this were not delusion and the hero was to stand up from among themselves—Civilized or Haosa—it would then fall to the Warden to take the hero in hand once they had done what was needful, and sequester them, as the Oracle was sequestered.

  For the good of Civilization.

  Best for the hero, Bentamin thought, that they bought the continuation of the universe with their life.

  He sipped his tea to the dregs, banished the cup to his kitchen counter, and considered the side of Asta’s face. She was not, he thought, seeing the streets below, but some inner landscape. That likely meant she had something more to tell him this morning, and his mandated hour was nearly gone. If she did not speak soon, he would be constrained to ask, risky though that was.

  He cleared his throat. Asta turned her head to look—toward him, her face pleasant and her eyes unfocused.

  “Great Ones will arrive among us,” she said matter-of-factly. “They desire of us a service.”

  He frowned.

  “Great Ones,” he repeated. “Dramliz?”

  Before the Dust had claimed its long dance with The Redlands, dramliz had arrived, three times, to study the progress of their small-kin, the Least Talents, in the strange environment into which they had been introduced. Coincidentally, a new talent had arisen soon after the first such visit of dramliz, that inflicted a growing uneasiness in those who were not welcome—and the dramliz did not stay long among their cousins in exile.

  To dignify dramliz as great, however—Bentamin did not think Aunt Asta would do so, even in irony.

  “Not dramliz.” Asta interrupted his thoughts. “Greater than dramliz.”

  That, he decided, was . . . unsettling. Had the dramliz evolved another level of talent, to which they stood as small-kin? Talents did evolve; new talents did arise, as they knew from their own experience. But, surely, any such . . . mega-dramliz—ah. No. The behemoth did not ask the mouse, but ordered. A service desired could easily be a service compelled.

  He sat forward in his chair.

  “The Reavers, they are not returning?”

  One could scarcely call the Reavers great—at least not the Reavers they had seen before they had succumbed to their mysterious illness. The Reavers had been dangerous. But, in fairness, no more dangerous than their very own Haosa, in whom the Reavers had met their match.

  But how if those sad, vanquished Reavers had been only small talents, in the context of their own lives? What if, lacking reports, with scheduled check-ins missed—what should the upper ranks do, but mobilize and come looking for their oathsworn?

  The Haosa were formidable. Further, they had learned from the Reavers, or they were not the Haosa he knew them to be. Bentamin had no doubt that they had absorbed numerous new concepts, and were even now playing with them, as his cousin Tekelia styled it, thereby learning even more.

  “The Reavers have been mown down, severed from their source. We will not see their like again.” There was a certain amount of savage satisfaction there, appropriate to an Oracle sitting in defense of Civilization.

  Though there did remain the question of the source, of which the Oracle seemed dismissive. And it was not, Bentamin told himself, the Oracle to whom that line of questioning ought to be addressed, but to the Haosa. He would make it a point to do that. Soon.

  In the meanwhile
. . .

  “Also,” Asta said, interrupting these thoughts, “another comes, in the train of the Great Ones, bringing static and disruption. She may be a tool to your hand, Bentamin. Or you may be a tool to hers.”

  That was disturbing, too, in its way. He did not care to use others as tools, though he had done so in the past and doubtless would do so again in future. He liked being a tool set to another’s purpose even less. Still, that was of much less import than this other thing. Clearly, Asta had gone past his topic, and one disliked to insist . . . indeed, one knew very well what was likely to come from insisting. Yet, necessity was, and duty demanded.

  “These Great Ones,” he said lightly, carefully. “What service will they beg of us?”

  Asta laughed, picked up her bouquet, and raised it above her head. The flowers struggled briefly—and fell still.

  “See the Great Ones beg!” Asta cried, as if addressing the gods themselves. “Oh, yes. Very fine. Very fine they are, indeed, in their supplications!”

  She lowered the flowers, and waved them at him like a wand.

  “Go away, Bentamin. I’m tired of you.”

  Well, and he had known how it would be now, hadn’t he?

  He rose and bowed to her honor.

  “Good-day to you, Aunt. I will carry your message to Jasy.”

  She said nothing, having turned again to the window.

  He waited a polite minute, then went away, back to the constraints of Civilization.

  Dutiful Passage

  Approaching Jump

  * * *

  Shan considered his desk with some trepidation.

  What with the travesty at Langlast, he had fallen behind in his correspondence. That would have to be dealt with first. Trade existed in a webwork of relationships; relationships were formed and sustained by communication.

  He was particularly anxious to know if Trader Janifer Carresens-Denobli had replied to his “return thoughts” for a mutual trade route, partaking equally of routes developed by the Syndicate and Tree-and-Dragon. Such a venture would be difficult. Perhaps even dangerous. Certainly, it would be exciting—and very possibly profitable.

  The Looper Families and the Carresens Syndicate were old in trade. Their routes and Korval’s had rarely brushed—before. Now, with Korval’s master trader flailing like an inept ’prentice trying to design his first three-stop subroute—now, with Korval’s base relocated to Surebleak in the Daiellen Sector—now they came much closer to the space and trade lanes the Carresens Syndicate was accustomed to considering their own. It would not have been wonderful, had Korval’s initial overture to the Syndicate been rejected. Forcefully.

  Instead, that overture had been met with serious thoughtfulness, and a beginning exploration of how a route might be built, serving both Korval’s base on Surebleak and Nomi-Oxin-Rood, a Carresens port.

  That had been unexpected and wonderful. Shan found himself eager to personally meet and entertain Trader-at-Large Janifer Carresens-Denobli. He could learn much of value from such a contact, and he flattered himself that he might teach, as well.

  But for all these rose-colored dreams to become reality, there had to be more correspondence, open and frank, as it had begun.

  He took a breath, half-smiling.

  “Well, now,” he told himself, “that’s more the thing. Don’t fear your work, Master Trader; anticipate it!”

  He poured himself a cup of cold tea, strode over to the desk, sat down, and spun ’round to address the screen.

  A finger tap woke it, and he considered the note he had left for himself.

  Design a profitable new trade route, Shan.

  Well, that hardly seemed difficult. He was, after all, a master trader. Designing profitable routes was what master traders did.

  And, he acknowledged, taking a sip of tea, he did need to get on with that task—almost immediately.

  But first . . . the mail.

  * * *

  The mail . . . was disappointing.

  There was no letter from Trader Carresens-Denobli; the jolt of dismay telling him rather too clearly how much he had been depending on the trader to solve his problems for him.

  Worse, there was a letter from his foster-son—which was to say Trader Gordon Arbuthnot, junior trader under Trader per’Cadmie on the tradeship Sevyenti. It was painfully stilted, which no doubt reflected his correspondent’s dismay at being forced to the point of having to write such a letter, either to his master trader or to his foster-father.

  Shan accessed the record of Trader Arbuthnot’s recent trades, brows drawn into a frown. The frown grew more decided when he brought up the record of Trader per’Cadmie’s most recent trades.

  Yes, well . . .

  Tapping up a screen, Shan wrote to his distressed trader, counseling both patience and an attitude of alert waiting. He also thanked the trader for having provided information so that his master trader could act appropriately.

  The last letter in-queue was the worst yet.

  It was in fact a memo from Minh Velkesa of Keyrz and Pearholder, Economic Analysts and Advisors to the Trade, one of several such firms utilized by Tree-and-Dragon Trading. Shan had some experience of Minh Velkesa, and respected both his analytical powers and the scope of his information network. Analyst Velkesa did not presume to advise, so much as he placed his information—arranged by fact, rumor, gossip, and fiction—in a mosaic designed to lead the mind to certain conclusions.

  Sadly, the analyst never wrote when there was good news, though it might not be anything so dire as bad news that motivated him to publish a memo.

  “Send it’s interesting,” Shan murmured, and tapped the screen.

  Hugglelans Increasing Pressure on Tree-and-Dragon Markets, read the subject line.

  Shan sighed. Hugglelans Galactica was a respected force in trade; had been so for more than a hundred Standards. Their profits were made in base-point trade, and they were known to be conservative in their dealings, which had been the wisdom of the elders.

  Lately, however, it seemed that the wisdom of the elders had given way before the ambition of the rising youth. There had been a move to expand opportunity. There had been, one might say, a move to . . . manipulate opportunity.

  While there were many advantages to base-point trading—notably, lesser investment, lesser risk, and the support of the community surrounding the base—there were other advantages attached to free-market trade and semi-Loops. The risks were not inconsiderable, and the rewards not always comparable; still, there was only so much growth available in the base-point model. One could scarcely find fault with ambition or with a conservative expansion into a Loop or two.

  There is, however, always an element of luck to the business of trade. Unforeseen events occur and rewards loom large for those with the boldness to act.

  Korval’s recent actions having resulted in its ships and contractors being banned from a half-dozen or more ports had created . . . an opportunity for the bold. Shan had wondered who might aspire to fill the gap.

  According to Analyst Velkesa, Hugglelans had thrown itself into the breach.

  The good analyst had, according to his nature, provided graphs, facts, and copies of documents. He had also supplied rumor, and a commentary.

  It would seem that Hugglelans agents had twice signed in support of a complaint brought against a Korval contractor incoming to a port where ship, captain, and crew were well known. The original complainants had in each case been one of several names, as Analyst Velkesa put it so delicately, that they had seen previously.

  There was, Analyst Velkesa felt compelled to add, no evidence that the Hugglelans’ agent was involved with the originating complainant, only that they had seen—and seized—opportunity.

  There were also some . . . disquieting threads of intelligence slightly more substantial than rumor—that Hugglelans had been noted targeting the chains that supplied various Korval, and Korval-affiliated, yards, bases, and repair stations. Analyst Velkesa was pursuing those th
reads and would send a supplemental report.

  And that—was the awful whole.

  Shan sighed, closed the memo, shut his eyes and reached for a simple balancing exercise. He experienced yet another jolt of dismay when the exercise proved to be . . . rather difficult to accomplish.

  That was simply absurd. Balancing exercises were among the first taught to nascent Healers: a necessity, given that nascent Healers tended to arrive at their talents riding a wave of strong emotion.

  Truly, the arrival of talent was an unsettling experience. He still recalled the noise and dismay surrounding the manifestation of his own gift, and his gratitude when the House shields closed ’round him, after his father had brought him to Healer Hall.

  He recalled also the sharp eyes of Master Healer Iselle, looking at and into him, her voice cool enough to make him shiver.

  “Attend me, boy. I am going to show you something. I cannot say how it will appear to you, but appear it will. Attend closely, for it will become one of your most-used techniques.”

  Certainly, it had been his most-used—and very nearly only—technique, during those first days in the Hall, when he was taught how to understand, and accept his gift. In those days, he had learned, as all scarcely budded Healers learned, many patterns, the building blocks of useful tools that were now woven so tightly into the tapestry of himself that they were merely facets of his own skills.

  Until just this moment, when he found the most basic tool of all came but slowly to his hand, and only after he had deliberately formed its outlines in his mind.

  It did come, however, and he was, with the application of entirely too much effort, able to access it for its intended use.

  His feelings of dismay and turmoil faded, leaving him—

  Exhausted.

  Which was absurd, not to say . . . counterproductive.

  No, he thought. Wait.

  Shan sat with his eyes closed and simply—breathed. Carefully, he emptied his mind of every thought, every emotion, everything, save the sensation of his breathing; the air flowing in and out of his lungs; the unlabored rise and fall of his chest. He felt a twitch along trained nerves—an instinctive reach for Healspace. Gently, he denied instinct, breathing it into calmness.