by Sharon Lee
Well.
Master Trader ven’Deelin had proposed Booth 11 Spinward. Shan picked the key up at the counter and continued into the private hall.
The light was on at Booth 11; Master Trader ven’Deelin had arrived ahead, as befitted the host. Shan slid his key into the door slot and entered.
“Master Trader yos’Galan.”
A young man bearing an extreme resemblance to Dyoli ven’Deelin rose from his seat at the table and bowed.
“I thank you for agreeing to meet at such very short notice.”
“Master Trader ven’Deelin.” Shan returned the bow. “I am pleased that we were able to agree so easily on a time.”
“Yes . . . ” the younger man said, and moved his hand, showing the table, with its still-sealed bottle of wine and two glasses.
The wine, Shan saw, seating himself, was not one of those on offer at the Trade Bar. Rather, it bore the reserve label of ni’Mauryx Vineyard; clearly, a bottle from the young master trader’s own cellar. A pleasing vintage, though extravagant for the occasion, Shan thought. On the other hand, which bottle might he be moved to offer, were Nova, or even Anthora, unexpectedly returned to him after he had thought them lost?
“Please,” said young ven’Deelin, “open for us, Master Trader.”
Obligingly, Shan used the wine knife from his own pocket, slit the seal and removed the cork. Then he set the bottle back in the center of the table.
They sat together a moment in respectful silence, allowing the wine to breathe.
“Will you pour?” Shan asked, and ven’Deelin did so, with pretty precision.
Both raised their glasses, and sipped. Shan sighed, pleased, and heard an echo from the far side of the table.
They put their glasses down with reluctance, and ven’Deelin inclined his head.
“Master Trader, please allow me to thank you for succoring my sister. She had been long away from us, and—frankly, I had despaired. It was unlike Dyoli to simply . . . vanish, with no word. Well. I will say, with no word to me, at least. We have lived in each other’s pockets all of my life. Dyoli is the elder, you see.”
He sighed sharply, reached for his glass, and held it for a long moment of meditation, which it surely deserved, before he sipped.
Shan took the opportunity to address his own glass, and when he again put it aside, found himself confronting a pair of earnest brown eyes.
“In a word, I am grateful to know that she did not simply cast us away. Though I confess I find the true cause of her disappearance . . . disturbing in the extreme.”
Shan raised a eyebrow.
“She told you all?” he asked.
The soft mouth tightened somewhat.
“Not a full measure; she would spare me the worst, so she had it. But between herself and her partner, I believe I have information sufficient for many nights of ill dreaming.”
“Her partner is still with her?”
“Well, what would you, when he was, so she insists, the instrument of Dyoli’s survival? I have also been assured that you, yourself, found him a very good sort of man, as had Lady Selph.” He paused, and cast out a whimsical glance.
“Pray enlighten me: Who is Lady Selph?”
“Lady Selph is a norbear, very old, well-connected, and wise. I have never known her to be wrong in taking the measure of a heart.”
“Hah.”
Another taste of wine; a brief moment of closed eyes. Shan sipped, giving the wine its proper appreciation, and waited.
At last Master Trader ven’Deelin opened his eyes again.
“This,” he said, “is difficult for me. I will say that I am guided by my sister, who had been given a firm grounding in trade before she came Healer, and chose to follow that life-path. In addition to having been trained in the business of our House, and being, from what I understand the masters of the Guild to say, an extremely capable Healer, she has one other talent which I am told is considered small.” He produced an ironic glance. “This being, I apprehend, a technical term.”
“Yes,” Shan said, intending to spare him any more embarrassment. “She has Short-Sight. It is rare, and not much . . . appreciated by the masters of the Guild, because it is considered unstable. Had your sister had only that one gift, she would have not been admitted to the Healer’s Guild, nor would she have received training in the use of her gift.”
“Precisely. Which is why Dyoli neglects to mention the existence of this second gift. I know of it, but we lived, as I said, in each other’s pockets, and this . . . small talent . . . manifested some years before her Healer abilities.”
He paused, glanced aside, and met Shan’s eyes again.
“It is . . . quite remarkable, what she Sees. It is very specific.”
“Yes,” Shan said again.
“It comes about—but you know this, of course—that Mar Tyn pai’Fortana also possesses a small talent—he is able to influence random events within a certain range around him. He represents this gift as being very little in his control and says, rather, that it largely controls his actions.”
“That is, I believe, the way of it,” Shan said. “There are very few old Lucks. It is a difficult gift.”
“It is a terrifying gift!” Til Den ven’Deelin said hotly. “Especially so, when it is paired with my sister’s small talent.”
He took a hard breath.
“Do you know,” he asked, as Shan refreshed their glasses. “Do you know what they can do—together?”
“Survive?” Shan murmured.
ven’Deelin gave him a conscious look.
“Yes, survive. I do not wish to seem ungrateful. But, also, Master Trader, what they can do is . . . bring their gifts to operate simultaneously and on the same plane, whence they may, in a very small way, so Dyoli assures me, influence upcoming events.”
Shan took a careful breath. “Does Master pai’Fortana also believe this?” he asked. “He is the elder in these matters, I believe.”
“Yes, so I believe as well. He is less certain of their effect, though he allows me to know that, when they are together engaged in a . . . working, the sense he has is very much as if his gift had woken and is exercising itself.”
“I . . . see.” Shan sipped his wine. Really, an excellent vintage.
He sighed, and looked to young ven’Deelin.
“You are telling me these things for a reason,” he said. “If you wish an . . . intervention, I may give you an introduction to a very able Healer resident in the Volmer Hall.”
“I may wish that, but first allow me to conclude the particular business on which I wished us to meet.”
He looked wry.
“I swear, there is only a little more.”
“Pray continue,” Shan said, and gave him a smile. “I admit that it is a compelling narrative.”
“Perhaps. Briefly, then, with her partner’s assistance, my sister has Seen that ven’Deelin and Korval may be of use to each other, and also some third party, which she styles as Civilization. Her instruction to me is that I offer partnership in your efforts to bring Civilization into trade, and give you Dyoli as Ixin’s representative in this venture.”
He paused, and added, as one making a point perfectly clear, “Master pai’Fortana would, naturally, accompany her.”
“Naturally,” Shan said, when he could speak again. Really, the thing was audacious. It solved Dyoli ven’Deelin’s problems neatly enough, and certainly a partnership, with Ixin as the junior, would do much to repair Korval’s reputation with the old Liaden trade families . . .
“You need not hold shy,” Til Den ven’Deelin said dryly, “from telling me it is entirely self-serving, and mad besides.”
“Not entirely self-serving,” Shan said, reaching for the bottle and dividing what was left between their glasses. “I see . . . opportunity, in fact, for Korval, and also for Ixin. Your sister has good instincts. I cannot speak to the benefits possible for . . . Civilization, yet. One intends to open a new market, you see.
“However . . . ”
Shan sipped wine, sighed, and shook his head.
“Are you willing to listen to a business proposition, Master Trader?” he asked.
“I am always willing to listen to a business proposition, Master Trader. The more so when it comes to me from one of the most highly skilled of those who wear the amethyst.”
ven’Deelin raised a hand, his own ring glittering. “I offer no idle flattery.”
“No, I see that you do not, though it does not save my blushes.”
Shan finished his wine with another sigh for the vintage, and put the glass aside.
“Here is how I think we ought to go forward. You will call for a meal, a pot of tea, and a light bottle for us here, to be charged to Dutiful Passage’s account. In the meanwhile, I will call my ship. There is someone I must consult regarding the . . . compatibility of the gifts involved. This is an added complexity, and I feel it must be addressed.”
“I understand,” said the young master.
“Do you? I hardly think I do, but let us meet as traders on this, and find how far we may walk together. Are you willing?”
Seated as he was, Til Den ven’Deelin bowed.
“Master Trader, I am willing.”
“They do what?” Priscilla stared at Shan’s face in the comm screen. “Is that . . . possible?”
He moved his shoulders.
“The two people with the most experience of this melding of talents believe that it is. They also believe that neither the Passage nor its crew will take harm from them. I wish I could be so certain. The question comes down to—do we believe them and, if so, are we willing to gamble all and everything on what we have chosen to believe?”
“Do either of them know why they are destined to take part in this benefit to—Civilization, was it?”
“Civilization indeed. Aside that such a remote placement honorably guarding Ixin’s interests allows Healer ven’Deelin and Master pai’Fortana to stay together? No. They both swear that benefit will be received by all three participants, and again we come to our question: Do we believe them?”
Priscilla took a breath.
“I have Long-Sight,” she said quietly.
Shan went still.
She nodded.
“Do you and Master Trader ven’Deelin still have something to negotiate, if we refuse Healer ven’Deelin and Master pai’Fortana as Ixin’s representatives?”
“I believe so. I will put it to him. He’s a sharp lad, new to the amethyst and eager to stretch himself. I believe he sees benefit aside from what might accrue to his sister and her affairs, or he would not have brought the matter to me at all.”
His smile was rather crooked. “What do you propose?” he asked.
“Tell the master trader that your analyst on board requires some time to research the question thoroughly and fairly. Their answer ought to arrive within the hour. In the meantime, if it is acceptable, the two of you may begin negotiations.”
“It sounds well enough,” he said. “I wonder, though, how my analyst will go about her thorough and balanced research.”
“I will pray,” Priscilla said calmly, “and open my eyes to the future.”
The table had been set for a working dinner: small plates and a tea service, with the wine and glasses set to one side awaiting the conclusion of negotiations, successful or no, when they would drink together to demonstrate that no good will had been lost.
“So,” Shan said, sitting down, “I have spoken to my analyst, who needs time, naturally enough, and will call with her results within the hour. Before we commence—if necessary, can Ixin provide a representative to the market who is not Dyoli ven’Deelin?”
“Ixin can provide a very able trader to stand for its interests, should we find ourselves moving forward in a collaborative effort. The inclusion of Dyoli ven’Deelin is not necessary to a successful outcome.”
“Excellent,” Shan said, around a pang in his chest.
ven’Deelin reached for the pot and poured tea in order of precedence—Shan’s cup first, then his own.
That done, he settled back comfortably in his chair, and gave Shan a blandly interested look from amiable brown eyes.
“So, Master Trader—about this market you are seeking to open . . . ”
Priscilla marked herself unavailable for the next hour, locked the door, and brought down the lights. She took off her jacket, loosened her shirt, and took off her boots.
At the temple where she had been trained as a priestess, she would have placed sweet-smelling candles at the thirteen points, and herself in the center of that circle, naked and upright, hands raised over her head as she clapped—once, twice, three times—to gain the attention of the Goddess.
None of that was necessary to prayer. Any space occupied by a pure heart and a willing spirit was a temple, after all. Nor was it necessary to pray prior to opening her Long Eyes. But unlike the sweet cloying candles, and the inevitable cool breeze raising goose bumps on naked flesh—all of which was the merest stage dressing, as Lute so famously had it—it was prudent to pray before looking upon the shapes of the futures.
Priscilla stood tall in the center of her office, closed her eyes, raised her hands over her head, and clapped—three times.
Who is it? asked a voice out of the gold-laced ether.
“It is . . . ” she faltered, and caught herself up. “It is Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza.”
The golden strands blew slightly, in a gust that sounded like laughter.
Do you know yourself so little? We wonder that you dare pray.
“I’ve recently been returned to myself alone,” Priscilla told the voice. “And I dare to do very much more than pray.”
I remember you, said the voice of the Goddess. For what, then, do you pray?
“I pray for a clear sight of the most probable future.”
No future is guaranteed.
“I am aware. I pray for clear sight of the most probable future.”
Hah. So you said. Open your Eyes then, Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza, and Look.
Priscilla felt her faraway body shift, as if it had taken a deep, fortifying breath.
She opened her Eyes, and Looked.
For a heartbeat, all her Sight brought her was a confused roiling of black and gold. Abruptly, the view steadied and she was looking slightly downward, as if she floated above a lens or a window.
On the far side of the window, she could see the Passage’s familiar lock, ramp running down to the dock. Shadows moved across her Sight—other, less probable futures; souls brushing by on their own journeys with fate . . .
Below her, at the base of the ramp, two shadows solidified, wearing the livery of Clan Ixin. Each carried a ready-case; both were well-groomed, and walked with confidence. One was taller, plumper than the other—and Priscilla recognized Dyoli ven’Deelin’s pale red hair.
The two of them walked up the ramp, and were admitted to the Passage.
The lens darkened.
Priscilla waited, deliberately keeping her mind thought-free and receptive.
The lens brightened, and there again was the Passage, at dock. Down the ramp came Shan and herself, Padi, the two from Ixin, and one of the Passage’s security personnel, face indistinct. At some small distance from the end of the ramp was a group of strangers, two standing forward of the rest.
The lens darkened, brightening again almost immediately, this time showing a hillside beneath a twilit sky, glowing ribbons unfurling in a slow dance with the meager stars. She saw Shan’s distinctive white hair among the group, standing next to a woman she thought might be herself. No one else of the surrounding group was familiar—neither Dyoli ven’Deelin nor Mar Tyn pai’Fortana was present, and if Padi was there, she was well-back among the crowd.
Priscilla bent closer to the lens, but the scene was already fading—vanishing in a snap, like a switch had been closed—but not before she had seen Shan crumple to his knees.
“It sounds the most
wonderful venture possible,” Master Trader ven’Deelin was saying, with an enthusiasm better suited to his youth than his ring. “I declare myself desolate, not to be accompanying you myself.”
Shan laughed.
“You do realize that it may all end in ashes?” he said. “Truly, Master Trader, this is the maddest throw of my career.”
“Better yet,” ven’Deelin said, and reached for his cup and the dregs of his tea.
“I believe we have an accord, sir. Your terms are acceptable to me. If an office is established, Ixin will do its part. If it happens that Dyoli will be our representative, we will both be very fortunate; she is a wizard with inventories, but her real gift is for just-in-time scheduling.”
“The identity of Ixin’s representative being the sole detail left to us . . . ” Shan glanced down at his notes and nodded. “Yes, let us send this to the business office, and have it drawn up properly—there will be an extra fee for expedited service. We will manually fill in the identity of—”
There came a loud click, and a voice spoke through the room’s intercom.
“Master Trader yos’Galan, you have a call at Screen Nine. I’m to say from Dutiful Passage.”
Shan rose.
“This will be my analyst. Your pardon, Master Trader.”
“Certainly.”
Shan left the room, and crossed the hall to the comm screens. His particular screen was blank. He placed his palm over the pad, felt the scan—and was looking at Priscilla’s face.
Her too-pale face, and tight lips.
“Shan,” she said, a note in her voice that he was not at all accustomed to hearing. Priscilla Mendoza was not a woman who frightened easily.
“Priscilla, what’s amiss?”
“Amiss?” she repeated, with a sense of shaking her head. “Nothing’s amiss . . . Not—now.”
“Excellent,” he said, still wary. “What has your analysis shown?”
“I have Seen Dyoli ven’Deelin and Mar Tyn pai’Fortana enter this ship wearing Ixin livery, and each carrying a case,” she said slowly. “I have Seen you and I and Padi; ven’Deelin, pai’Fortana, and one of our security people arrive—someplace, where we are met by an indistinct group.
