by Sharon Lee
It was clear that his spoken Liaden wasn’t as close to tolerable as he had thought. He didn’t fool himself that dock-pidgin and Trade was going to go far at the trading tables Norn ven’Deelin sat down to. Language lessons were needful, then; and a brush-up on the protocols of cargo. His math was solid—Seeli and Cris had seen to that. He could do OK here. Better than he’d have done on an ore ship running a dying Loop . . .
That thought brought him back to now and here. Damn straight Norn ven’Deelin didn’t run no Loop.
He leaned back in the chair, considering what sorts of cargo might come to a ship bearing a master trader. Gems, he figured, and rare spice; textile like Cris would weep over; artworks . . . He considered that, frowning.
Art was a chancy venture, given differing planetary taboos and ground-hugger religions. Even a master trader might chart a careful course, there. Khat told a story—a true one, he thought—regarding the tradeship, Sweet Louise, which had taken aboard an illustrated paper book of great age. The pictures had been pretty, the pages hand-sewn into a real leather cover set with flawed, gaudy stones. The words were in no language that any of Louise’s crew could read, but the price had been right; and the trader had a line on a collector of uniquities two planets down on the trade-hop. Everything should have been top-drawer, excepting that the powers of religion on the planet between the collector and the book declared that item “blasphemous,” meaning the port police had it off ship in seconds and burned it right there on the dock. Louise lost the investment, the price, the fine—and the right to trade on that port, which was no loss, as far as Jethri could see . . .
A light step at the top of the hall pulled him out of his thoughts; a glance and he was on his feet, bowing as low as he could without endangering the tea.
“Arms Master sig’Kethra.”
The man checked, neither surprise on his face, nor parcels in his hands, and inclined his head. “Apprentice Trader. Well met. A moment, if you please, while I consult with the pilot.”
He moved past, walking into the pilot’s office with nary a ring, like he had every right to the place, which, Jethri thought, he very well might. The door slid shut behind him and Jethri resumed his seat, reconciled to another longish wait while business was discussed between pilot and arms master.
Say that Pen Rel was a man of few words. Or that the pilot was eager for flight. In either case, they were both coming out the door before Jethri had time to start another line of thought.
“We lift, Jethri Gobelyn,” Pen Rel said. “Soon we will be home.”
And that, at least, Jethri thought, rising with alacrity, was a proper spacer’s sentiment. Enough of this slogging about in the dust—it was time and past time to return to the light, clean corridors of a ship.
DAY 42
Standard Year 1118
Elthoria
Arriving
“IS THE WHOLE ship heavy, then?” he asked Pen Rel’s back.
The Liaden glanced over his shoulder, then stopped and turned right around in the center of the ridiculously wide hallway, something that might actually have been puzzlement shadowing the edges of his face.
“Is the gravity worrisome, Jethri Gobelyn? I did note that you disliked the port, but I had assumed an aversion to . . . the noise, perhaps—or the dirt. I regret that it had not occurred to me that the ship of your kin might have run weightless.”
Jethri shook his head. “Not weightless,” he panted. “Just—light. The core—admin, you know—was near enough to heavy, but the rest of the ship ran light, and the rim was lightest of all.” He drew a deep breath, caught by the sudden and awful realization that no one knew what the normal grav of the Liaden homeworld was. It could be that Ynsolt’i normal was light to them, and if the ship got heavier, the further in they—
Pen Rel moved his hand like he was smoothing wrinkles out of the air. “Peace, Jethri Gobelyn. Most of Elthoria runs at constant gravity. The areas that do not are unlikely to be of concern to one of your station. You will suffer no more than you do at this moment.”
Jethri gaped at him. “Runs constant,” he repeated, and shook his head. “How big is this ship?”
The Liaden moved his shoulders. “It is large enough. Doubt not that the master trader will provide a map—and require you to memorize it, as well.”
Where he came from, holding the map of the ship and the location of bolt holes, grabs and emergency suits in your head was only commonsense. He shrugged, no where near as fluid as his companion. “Well, sure she will. No problem with that.”
“I am pleased to hear you say so,” Pen Rel said, and turned about-face, moving briskly out down the hall. “Let us not keep the master trader waiting.”
In fact, she kept them waiting, which Jethri could only see as a boon, for he used the time to catch his breath and surreptitiously stretch his sore muscles, so he wasn’t blowing like a grampus when they were finally let in to see her.
Her office wasn’t as big as admin entire—not quite. Nor was her workspace quite as wide as his private quarters on the Market. Screens were set above the desk, which was itself a confusion of landing slips, catalogs and the ephemera of trade—that much was familiar, so much so that he felt the tears rising to his eyes.
The master trader, she was familiar, too, with her gray hair and her snapping black eyes.
“So,” she said, rising from her chair and coming forward. “It is well.” She inclined her head and spoke to Pen Rel—a rapid burst of Liaden, smooth and musical. The arms master made brief reply, swept a bow to her honor, treated Jethri to a heavy tip of the head, and was gone, the door snapping behind him like a hungry mouth.
Black eyes surveyed him blandly. Belatedly, Jethri remembered his manners and bowed, low. “Master ven’Deelin. I report for duty, with joy.”
“Hah.” She tipped her head slightly to the right. “Well said, if briefly. Tell me, Jethri Gobelyn, how much will it distress you to find that your first duty is dry study?”
He shrugged, meeting her gaze for gaze. “Uncle Pai—Trader Gobelyn taught me that trade was study, ma’am. I wouldn’t expect it otherwise.”
“A man of excellent sense, Trader Gobelyn. My admiration of him knows no limit. Tell me, then, oh wise apprentice, what will you expect to study firstly? Say what is in your heart—I would know whether I must set you to gemstones, or precious metals, or fine vintage.”
Had she been Terran, Jethri would have considered that she was teasing him. Liadens—none of his studies had led him to believe that Liadens held humor high. Honor was the thing, with Liadens. Honor and the exact balancing of any wrong.
“Well, ma’am,” he said, careful as he was able. “I’m thinking that the first thing I’ll be needing is language. I can read Liaden, but I’m slow—and my speaking is, I discover, nothing much better than poor.”
“An honest scholar,” Master ven’Deelin said after a moment, “and of something disheartened.” She reached out and patted his sleeve. “Repine not, Jethri Gobelyn. That you read our language at all is to be noted. That you have made some attempt to capture the tongue as it is spoken must be shown for heroic.” She paused.
“Understand me, it is not that we of the clans seek to hide our customs from those traders of variant ilk. Rather, we have not overindulged in future thinking, whereby it would have been immediately understood that steps of education must be taken.” She moved her shoulders in that weird not-shrug, conveying something beyond Jethri’s ken.
“Very nearly, the masters of trade have walked aside from their duty. Very nearly. You and I—we will repair this oversight of the masters and rescue honor for all. Eh?” She brought her palms together sharply.
“But, yes, firstly you must speak to be understood. You will be given tapes, and a tutor. You will be given the opportunity to Balance these gifts the ship bestows. There is one a-ship who wishes to possess the Terran tongue. Understand that her case is much as yours—she reads, but there is a lack of proficiency in the spoken form. She, you
will tutor, as you are tutored. You understand me?”
So, he had something of worth that he could trade for his lessons and his keep. It was little enough, and no question the ship bore the heavier burden, but it cheered him to find that he would be put to use.
Smiling, he nodded; caught himself with a sharp sigh and bowed. “I understand you, ma’am. Yes.”
“Hah.” Her eyes gleamed. “It will be difficult, but the need is plain. Therefore, the difficult will be accomplished.” She clapped her hands once more. “You will be a trader to behold, Jethri Gobelyn!”
He felt his ears warm, and bowed again. “Thank you, ma’am.”
She tipped her head. “The tutor will attend likewise to the matter of bows. Continue in your present mode and you will be called to answer honor before ever we arrive at gemstones.”
Jethri blinked. He had just assumed that, the deeper the bow the better, and that, as juniormost everywhere he walked, he could hardly go wrong bowing as low as he could without doing structural damage.
“I . . . hope that I haven’t given offense, ma’am,” he stammered, in Terran.
She waved a tiny hand, the big purple ring glittering. “Worry not,” she answered, in her version of the same tongue. “You are fortunate in your happenstances. We of Elthoria are of a mode most kind-hearted. To children and to Terrans, we forgive all. Others,” she folded her hands together solemnly, “are less kindly than we.”
Oh. He swallowed, thinking of Honored Buyer bin’Flora, and others of his uncle’s contacts, on the Liaden side of the trade.
“There are those,” Master ven’Deelin said softly, switching to Trade, “for whom the trade is all. There are others for whom . . . the worth of themselves is all. Are these things not likewise true of Terrans?”
Another flash of memory, then, of certain other traders known to him, and he nodded, though reluctantly. “Yes, ma’am. I’m afraid they are.”
“No fear, Jethri Gobelyn. A man armored and proficient with his weapons need have no fear.” A small hesitation, then— “But perhaps it is that you are wise in this. A man without weapons—it is best that he walk wary.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said again, his voice sounding breathless in his own ears.
If Master ven’Deelin noted anything amiss, she didn’t say so. Instead, she waved him over to her desk, where she pressed the promised ship’s map upon him, pointing out the location of his quarters and of the ship’s library, where he would find his study tapes and his tutor awaiting him at some hour that slid past his ear in an arpeggio of Liaden.
“I—” he began, but Master ven’Deelin had thought of that, too. From the riot of papers atop her desk, she produced a timepiece, and a schedule, printed out in Liaden characters.
“So, enough.” She clapped her hands and made shooing motions toward the door. “This shift is your own. Next shift, you are wanted at your station. Myself, yourself, we will speak again together before the trade goes forward on Tilene. In the meanwhile, it is your duty to learn, quickly and well. The ship accepts only excellence.”
Dismissed, clutching the papers and the watch untidily to his chest, he bowed, not without a certain feeling of danger, but Master ven’Deelin had turned back to her desk, her attention already on the minutiae of trade.
In the hall outside her office, he went down on a knee and took a few moments to order his paperwork, slap the watch ‘round his wrist, and glance through the schedule. Running his finger down the table, being careful with the Liaden words, and checking his timepiece frequently, he established that the shift which was “his own” had just commenced. More searching in the schedule produced the information that “nuncheon” was on buffet in the galley.
Squinting at the map, he found that the galley was on the short route to his quarters, at which point his stomach commented rather pointedly that his breakfast of ‘mite and crackers was used up and more.
One last squint at the map, and he was on his way.
THERE WERE MAYBE a dozen people in the galley when he swung in. They all stopped talking and turned to look at him, smooth Liaden faces blank of anything like a smile or any honest curiosity. Just . . .silence. And stares. Jethri swallowed, thinking that even a titter, or a “Look at the Terran!” might be welcome.
Nothing like it forthcoming, he walked over to the cool-table where various foods were laid out, and spent some while looking over the offerings, hoping for something familiar, while all the time he felt the eyes boring bland, silent holes into his back.
It got to him, finally, all that quiet, and the sense of them staring at him, so that he snatched up a plate holding something that looked enticingly like a pan-paste handwich and bolted for the door, map and schedule clutched under one arm.
His dash was two steps old when a dark-haired woman swung into his path, one hand held, palm out, and aiming for his chest.
He skidded to a halt, all but losing the papers, the handwich dancing dangerously on its plate, and stood there staring like a stupid grounder, wondering what piece of politeness he had, all unknowing, shattered, and whether word had gotten out to the crew that they were more forgiving than most.
The woman before him said something, the sounds sliding past his ear, almost sounding like . . . He blinked and leaned slightly forward.
“Say again,” he murmured. “Slowly.”
She inclined her head, and said again, slowly, in Terran so thickly accented he could barely make out the words, though he was craning with all his ears: “Tea will be wanting you.”
“Tea,” he repeated, and smiled, from unadorned relief. “Thank you. Where is the tea?”
“Bottle,” she said, waving a quick hand toward a second table, set at right angles to the first, lined with what looked to be single serving vacuum bottles. “Cold. Be for to drinking with works.”
“I see. Thank you . . .” He frowned at the badge stitched onto her shirt . . .“First Officer Gaenor tel’Dorbit.”
Eyebrows rose above velvet brown eyes, and she tipped her head, face noncommittal.
“Apprentice Terran, you?” She asked, and put her hand against her chest. “Terran student, I.”
He nodded and smiled again. “I’m Master ven’Deelin’s apprentice. I’ll be helping you with your Terran. Here . . .” He fumbled the schedule out from beneath his arm and held it out, gripped precariously between two fingers, while the handwich jigged on its plate. “What’s your shift? I’ve got—”
She slipped the paper from between his fingers, gave it a quick, all-encompassing glance, and ran a slim fingertip under a certain hour, showing him.
“Hour, this,” she said, and waved briefly around the galley. “Here we meet.”
“Right.” He nodded again.
Gaenor tel’Dorbit inclined her head and left him, angling off to the left, where a table for three showed one empty chair and a half-eaten meal; the other two occupants considering him with silent blandness.
Jethri grabbed a tea bottle from the table and all but ran from the room.
Using the map, he found his assigned quarters handily, and stood for a long couple minutes, staring at his name, painted in Liaden letters on the door, before sliding his finger into the scanner.
The scan tingled, the door opened and he was through, staring at a cabin maybe three times the size of his quarters on the Market. The floor was covered in springy blue carpet, in the center of which sat his bags. The bed and desk were folded away, and he couldn’t have said if it was the strangeness of it, or the sameness of it, but all at once he was crying in good earnest, the tears running fast and dripping off his chin.
Carefully, he put the handwich and the bottle on the floor next to his bags, then sat himself down next to them, taking care to put schedule and map well out of harm’s way. That done, he folded up, head on knees, and bawled.
DAY 60
Standard Year 1118
Gobelyn’s Market
Approaching Kinaveral
KINAVERAL HUNG MIDDLING bi
g in the central screen. Khat had filed her approach with Central, done her system checks and finally leaned back in the pilot’s chair, exhaling with a will.
Cris looked up from the mate’s board with a half-grin and a nod. “Two to six, Central will argue the path.”
Khat laughed. “I look a fool, do I, coz? Of course, Central will argue the path. I once had a fast-look at a Lane Controller’s manual. First page, Lesson One, writ out in letters as high as my hand was, ‘Always Dispute the Filed Approach.’”
Cris’ smile widened to a grin. “First lesson, you say? There was pages after that?”
“Some few,” Khat allowed, straight-faced, “some few. Mind, the next six after was blank, so the student could practice writing out the rule.”
“Well, it being so large and important a rule . . .” Cris began, before the intercom bell cut him short.
He spun back to his board and slapped the toggle. “Mate.”
“First Mate,” Iza Gobelyn’s voice came out of the speaker, gritty with more than ‘com buzz. “I’m looking for the approach stats.”
“Captain,” Cris said, even-voiced. “We’re on the wait for Central’s aye.”
There was a short, sizzling pause.
“As soon as we’re cleared, I’ll have those stats,” Iza snapped.
“Yes, Captain,” Cris murmured, but he might just as easily said nothing; Iza had already signed off.
Cris sighed, sharp and exasperated. Khat echoed him, softer.
“I thought she’d lighten, once Jeth was gone,” she said.
Cris shook his head, staring down at his board.
“It ain’t Jethri being gone so much as Arin,” he muttered. “She’s gotten harder, every Standard since he died.”
Khat thought about that, staring at Kinaveral, hanging in the center screen. “There’s a lot more years ahead, and Arin in none of them,” she said, eventually.
Cris didn’t answer that—or, say, he answered by not answering, which was Cris’ way.
