by Sharon Lee
Would that he did not.
But, there, that line of thought ventured too close to the quadrant he wished to avoid. Resolutely, Tan Sim turned his consideration to the franchise Alt Lyr had for sale. A well enough venture—or so it seemed on the surface. He had set word about, before his visit to the wine shop, and he would be wanting to do more research before mentioning the matter to his mother, but . . .
He checked, whistle dying on his lips, eyes rapt upon a performance the like of which he had not beheld since—well, since he had first come to Rinork, and spent so many hours before the mirror, shining his bows for High House display.
Alas, the person bowing so earnestly and with such . . . interesting . . . results in the wide space in the hall meant to accommodate a service jitney, had no mirror. Style was also sadly absent, though there was, Tan Sim allowed, after observing for a few heartbeats, a certain vivacity in delivery that was not . . . entirely . . . displeasing.
At just that point, the person in the shadows executed a bow with a vivacity sufficient to set them staggering and Tan Sim felt it was time to take a hand.
“Here then!” he called out in the mode spoken between comrades, which would surely have set Bar Jan to ranting. “There’s no sense breaking your head over a bow, you know.”
The figure in the shadows turned to face him, light falling on a face pale, angular and wholly unLiaden. There was an unfinished appearance about the jaw and shoulders which said halfling to Tan Sim, though he had to look up to meet the chocolate brown eyes. Despite he was indisputably Terran, he was dressed in well-tailored trading clothes, made very much in the Liaden style, down to the fine leather boots which encased his feet and the short blue jacket that proclaimed him an apprentice in trade.
In fact, he was a riddle.
Tan Sim delighted in riddles.
Delighted, he swept a bow of introduction to the startled youth.
“Tan Sim pen’Akla Clan Rinork.”
The boy hesitated infinitesimally, then bowed in return, with somewhat less verve, and stated, laboriously, and very nearly in the mode of introduction:
“Jethri Gobelyn, apprentice trader aboard Elthoria.”
Ixin’s lead tradeship, forsooth. Tan Sim allowed his interest to be piqued. The ven’Deelin was canny and devious—even when held against other masters of trade, a lot known for their devious ways. Indeed, he had long admired her from afar—necessary, as Ixin and Rinork did not meet—and studied her guild files closely, so that he might, perhaps, upon one far distant day, aspire to even one-twelfth of her trading acumen.
And this lad here, this Terran lad, was the ven’Deelin’s apprentice? He filed that away, for sober thought on the far side of the hangover, and moved a hand, softly, offering aid.
“I see you in the throes of just such a task as I myself have undertaken in the past. Wretched, aren’t they? Who would suppose that one race could need so many bows?”
The angular face wavered as the lips bent in a quickly suppressed smile—and, aye, that, too, struck an uneasy memory. Tan Sim felt a spurt of sympathy and deliberately let his own smile show.
Some of the starch went out of the thin shoulders, and the boy—Jeth Ree, was it?—inclined his head.
“Indeed,” he stammered, almost in the mode between equals—which was an impertinence, thought Tan Sim, but what else was the lad to do? “It is . . . difficult . . . to bear so much in mind. I have been tutored, but I fear that I am not fully . . . cognizant . . .”
“Hah.” Tan Sim held up his hand. “I understand. You have been given a set number and form, eh? And you wish to shame neither your teacher nor your trader.” He smiled again, gently. “Nor take delivery of a scold.”
Jeth Ree fairly grinned—a dazzling display, too soon vanished.
“Well,” said Tan Sim, “you won’t find me a scolding fellow. I have only admiration for one who is so devoted to his duty that he uses his break-time to hone his skill. Such diligence. . .” He left the sentence for a moment as he recalled again that Ixin and Rinork did not meet. The proper course for himself, as one of Rinork, then, was to turn his back on this boy and—
And what did he care for some long-ago, cold quarrel? Depend upon it, he thought, sadly unfilial, the whole brangle, whatever it was, could be squarely lain at Rinork’s feet. Here before him stood an apprentice trader in need of the guidance of a trader. His melant’i—and Guild rule, if it came to that—was plain.
He showed Jeth Ree another smile, and was pleased to gain one in return.
“Well, then, let us see what we might manage between us,” he said, settling comfortably against the friendly wall. “Show me your repertoire.”
This, the boy was willing enough to do, and Tan Sim spent the next while leaning, tipsy, against the wall, observing a series of common mercantile bows. Happily, the task was not more than his befogged faculties could accommodate, nor Jeth Ree any less apt than the larger number of new ‘prentices Tan Sim had now and then had occasion to observe. The lad had apparently been driven to this lonely practice site in a fit of stage fright. Which Tan Sim quite understood. So.
“You are well-enough,” he said, when the boy had straightened from his last endeavor, “for an apprentice newly come to the floor. It speaks well that you wish to bring only honor to your master, but you must not allow your sensibilities to overset your good sense.” He inclined his head. “You will do exceedingly, Jeth Ree Gobelyn.”
The boy stood a moment, as if struck, then bowed once more; this very precise, indeed. “I am in your debt, Tan Sim pen’Akla.”
And wouldn’t THAT be a grand thing to bring to the table? Tan Sim thought in sudden horror. “Mother, I have the advantage of ven’Deelin’s Terran apprentice in a matter of Balance.” Gods.
He moved a hand, smoothing the debt away. “Honor me by forgetting the incident, as I have done.”
Jeth Ree looked doubtful—then proved himself a lad of sense and worthy to be the ven’Deelin’s apprentice, by inclining his head.
“Thank you,” he said, in what Tan Sim knew to be Terran, that being another of his clandestine studies.
“You are welcome,” he replied in the same tongue, somewhat more slowly than he would have liked. The boy did not burst into derisive laughter, or even smile overmuch, which gave him hope for a successful outcome of study.
“If you please,” Jeth Ree said abruptly. “How shall I bow to you, if we meet again on the floor? Since we are known to each other. . .”
Tan Sim pushed away from his wall. How, indeed, should the lad acknowledge him, should they meet? Almost, he laughed aloud at the unlikelihood of such an event.
Still, it was a reasonable question and deserved a fitting reply. He took a moment to be sure his feet were well under him, then swept the bow he’d practiced in his own ironic honor as a youth—most honored child of the house. He watched as the boy reproduced it, several times, and inclined his head, satisfied.
“Twill do. And now I must depart, amiable companion that you have been. My brother requires my assistance at our booth. Fare thee well, Jeth Ree Gobelyn.”
He bowed, jauntily, the beginning of a headache teasing in back of his eyes, straightened to receive the boy’s farewell, and walked away down the hall, whistling.
JETHRI’S TIMING WAS fortunate; he returned to Ixin’s trade booth just as the floor opened for the second shift. Master ven’Deelin inclined her head, which he hoped meant she was impressed with his promptness, and reached beneath the counter.
“Our Tilene agent took delivery of this message for you, young Jethri. You may have a moment to read it. There was also a crate—that has been moved to your trade-bin on ship.”
Heart thumping heavy, he slipped a folded sheet of paper from between her fingers. He did remember his bow, and to give a soft, “My thanks, Master Trader.” Courtesy satisfied, he took himself to the back corner of the booth, hunkered down on his heels beside the hanging rugs and strings of spice, and unfolded the crackling thin paper.
/>
To Jethri Gobelyn, in the care of Norn ven’Deelin Clan Ixin
From Khatelane Gobelyn, Pilot on Duty, Gobelyn’s Market
Transmit Standard Day 75, SY 1118
Hey, Jeth. Don’t let the POD fool you—I’m doing administrative while Seeli catches up some stuff with the yard. It’s looking like a long process; actually a near complete refit. I don’t know if they told you. A Standard dirtside, minimum. Iza said she’d be staying with the ship, but—before you hear it from some Looper you run into, what it was, she had a disagreement with the local gendos and got herself a couple levels of arrested. Wasn’t what you’d call pretty, or quiet, and even made some of the portside print papers. Point is, she’s not stir-stuck here like she might be if we hadn’t been around but off on the longest run she could fit inside the schedule. Seeli’s acting as agent-on-the-spot, with Grig to keep her company. I’m on willfly with the Port, and running part-time back-up for the two of them. Cris has a gig with a franchise ship—and the rest of us found some little thing to do off-dirt, so we’ll be a scattered crew for the next while. I’ll try to keep in touch, Jethri, but—no promises, you know? Be sure I’ll zap you the news when the Market lifts out of here. I’m sending this in front of Elthoria’s published route; if they keep schedule it’ll only be a bit old when you get it.
I’m also sending along a size B shipping crate; Iza says you’re to have it.
The rest of the circumstance is that I had chance to look over the duty roster for the past few Standards and noticed that you was default on Stinks. Thing is, Stinks carries a pay premium that somehow didn’t make it to your account. It’s kind of a joke on a per-shift, but I totted up the last five Standards’ worth and figured in the interest, and it came out to a nice round number. We all figured you was saving up to buy a ship, Jeth, but who thought you’d finance it out of Stinks?
Paitor’s running jobs for Terratrade, and I didn’t know how to make the transfer, so that cash is in the crate with the other stuff.
Anyhow, I know you’re in the middle of the biggest adventure ever, learning all you can from Master ven’Deelin, so I won’t keep you any longer. Think about us sometime; we think about you often.
With love,
Khat
He refolded the paper along its creases, and slid it away into the inner pocket of his jacket, in spite of which he didn’t immediately rise to his duty. Instead, he stayed where he was, sitting low on his heels, head bent while he blinked the sudden fog of tears away.
Wasn’t no cause for crying, he told himself. The ghosts of space witness, Khat’s news was slim enough—hardly news at all, really. It was given that his cousins would reach for quick-jobs and temp berths—none of them had been born with mud on their feet. Likewise, he could have foretold that the detail work would fall to Seeli, and that Grig would stand her second. The captain . . . that was bad news, but almost expectable the way she tended to get a bit wild anytime she was planet-side. Probably there was more to it—and come to think of it, it seemed like there was more to a bunch of stuff than he’d realized.
Still, nothing to cry about in any of that, not with him having the biggest adventure ever.
He cleared his throat, raised his head and stood, pausing for a moment to be sure his face was properly ordered; then moved to his station at Master ven’Deelin’s elbow.
HIS JOB THIS SHIFT, as it had been last, was to stand next and two steps behind Master ven’Deelin, where he could look and listen and soak up her style of trade and converse. More of that last was available to him than he would’ve thought, for the customers kept to the trading mode, and after one blank-faced stare at himself, would follow Master ven’Deelin into a more deliberate way of talking, which mostwise fell intelligible on his ear.
He had it as a working theory that a Liaden-born apprentice might likewise stand in need of practice in the trading mode, as it might not have been one they’d necessarily been taught in their growing-up years. With all those modes available between High and Low, surely no one but a lifelong student could be proficient in them all?
Whatever the reason, the customers treated him respectful—treated Master ven’Deelin respectful—and he was learning so much his head was in a fair way to exploding.
“That is well, then,” Master ven’Deelin told the present customer—a black-haired man with a diamond drop in his left ear, wearing a jacket so heavy with embroidery that Jethri had to remind himself not to squint in protest. “We shall deliver no later than the third hour of Day Port, two days hence.”
“Precisely so, Master Trader,” the customer said, his voice quick and light. He held out a counter and a trade-card. Master ven’Deelin received both gravely and slotted them on the wires strung overhead—third one in, for “two day delivery.”
“I am hosting a dinner party tomorrow evening, in the Little Hall,” she murmured, as she finished with the card and token. “You would honor me by attending.”
“Master Trader.” The customer bowed, low. “The honor would be mine.”
“That is well, then.” She inclined her head and the customer moved off, giving up his place to the next in line, a boxy-built lady whose look-out was textile.
“Ah.” Master ven’Deelin inclined her head. “This, my apprentice will assist you. Textile is his specialty.” She moved her hand, discovering Jethri to the lady, who gave no sign of either pleasure or dismay at being turned over to himself.
Jethri’s feelings were all a-spin, though he did his best to maintain a bland and polite expression. He did take a deep breath, to center himself, which might have been too long, since the Master Trader murmured.
“Young Jethri?”
“Yes, Master,” he said, and was mortified to hear his voice wobble.
Knees knocking, he stepped up the counter and bowed to the customer.
“Ma’am,” he said, painfully slow, and deliberate. “How may I be honored to assist you?”
It were the handlooms the lady was after, which was good news of its kind. Jethri moved up-counter to where the bolts were stowed and pulled down the book. He looked over his shoulder, then, just to be aware how closely Master ven’Deelin was shadowing his work.
To his horror, she was about no such thing, but stood deep in conversation with another customer at the counter; all of her attention on that transaction and none whatsoever on him . . .
“Forgive me,” murmured boxy-built lady. “I regret that my time is limited.”
“Certainly, ma’am,” Jethri murmured, opening the book on the counter in front of her. “As you can see, we have many fine weavings to choose from . . .”
For a lady short of time, she showed no disposition to rush her decision. She had him pull this bolt and that, then this again, and that other. With each, he steadied a little, found the words coming more smoothly, remembered the trick—taught by Uncle Paitor—of flipping the end over the top of the bolt, so that he could speak of the underweave and the irregularities born of hand looming.
In the end, the lady bought nothing, though she thanked him for the gifts of his time and expertise.
Jethri, shirt damp with exertion, racked the book and ordered the samples, then stepped back to Norn ven’Deelin’s side.
Through the course of the shift, he heard her invite no fewer than two dozen traders and merchants to her dinner party. Three more times, she gave him to customers desirous of textile; twice, he scored chip and card, which he triumphantly threaded on the wires he found near the bolts.
And at last, the bell sounded, signaling the end of day-trading. Norn ven’Deelin reached up and turned off the booth light. Jethri closed his eyes and sagged against the bolt rack, head pounding. It was over. He had lived. He had, just maybe, not done anything irrevocably stupid. Now, they would go back to the ship, get out of the dirt, and the noise.
“So,” Norn ven’Deelin said brightly, and he heard her clap her palms gently together. “Do me the honor of bearing me company on a stroll, Jethri Gobelyn. We shall am
aze Tilene-port!”
He opened his eyes and looked at her, meeting bright black eyes. There was something in the way she stood, or maybe in the set of her face, that conveyed itself as a challenge. Jethri ground his teeth, straightened out of his lean and squared his shoulders, despite the holler put up by his back muscles.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and bowed obedience to the Master Trader’s word.
THE WALK WAS LEISURELY, and they stopped often to acknowledge the bows of Master ven’Deelin’s numerous acquaintances, who every one stared at him like he was the four-headed calf from Venturis. Jethri sighed behind his mask of bland politeness. You’d think he’d be used to the stares by now, but someway every new one scraped a little deeper, hurt a little more.
Otherwise, the stroll was a better idea than he’d thought. Tilene’s gravity was a hair less than ship’s grav, which he’d at last gotten used to. And the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other seemed enough to ease the ache in his head, and smooth the kinks out of his spine.
Master ven’Deelin paused to receive a particularly low bow, augmented by the hand-sign for “greatest esteem” from a red-haired woman in upscale trading clothes.
“Bendara Tiazan,” Master ven’Deelin inclined her head. “Allow me to be delighted to see you! You must dine with me upon the morrow.”
The redhead straightened. Her eyes showed a little stretch, but give her credit, Jethri thought sourly, she didn’t stare at him—her whole attention was on Norn ven’Deelin. “I am honored, Master Trader,” she said, in the mode of junior to senior.
Again, Master ven’Deelin inclined her head. “Until tomorrow, Bendara Tiazan.”
“Until tomorrow, Master Trader,” the redhead murmured, and bowed herself out of the way.
