by Sharon Lee
“Why did she—did Trader chel’Gaibin adopt Tan Sim? I mean, if the only reason her clan—”
“Rinork,” said Master ven’Deelin.
He nodded impatiently. “Rinork—if the only reason Rinork started the kid in the first place was to trap Quiptic and steal his mines, then why did she care what happened to him?”
There was a small pause, during which Master ven’Deelin took some care about arranging the way her fingers nested against each other as she folded her hands together.
“An excellent question, young Jethri. I have often wondered the same. Perhaps it was merely self-preservation; if the child were left to be absorbed by whatever clan might take him, questions would possibly arise regarding the contract which had produced him, and whether certain parties could have been said to be acting in good faith.
“Or, perhaps, she could not bear to see of her blood—even half-blooded—slide away into obscurity. They have a great deal of self-worth, Rinork.” She moved her shoulders. “In the end, why does not matter. The boy was brought into the house of his mother and has been given an education and a place in the clan’s business. I find him to be a young trader of note, in his talents far superior to the honorable chel’Gaibin heir.” As careful as she had been in their folding, she unfolded her hands all at once, and put them palm-flat against the desk.
“It is late and tomorrow we trade early and shivary to meet the dawn, eh? As my fostered son, you will stand at my side and be made known to all. You will wear this—” She extended a hand; something gleamed silver between her fingers. Jethri leaned forward and took the small token: The Clan Ixin moon-and-rabbit, cast in—he weighed the thing thoughtfully in his hand—platinum, with a punch pin welded to the back.
“You will honor me by wearing that at all times,” Norn ven’Deelin said, pushing herself to her feet, “so that all will know you for one of Ixin.
“In keeping with your new status, your course of study will be accelerated and broadened.” Suddenly, amazingly, she smiled.
“We will make a Liaden from you yet, young Jethri.”
DAY 107
Standard Year 1118
Elthoria and Tilene
HE HIT THE BUNK with half his sleep-shift behind him, closed his eyes, touched sleep—and dropped it as the wake-up chime dinned.
“Mud,” he muttered, pushing himself upright and blinking blearily at the clock across the room. It displayed a time more than an hour in advance of his usual wake-up.
“Mud, dirt, dust and pollen!” he expanded, and swung his feet over the edge, meaning to go over and slap the buzzer off, then get himself another hour’s snooze.
He was halfway across the cabin on this mission when his eye caught the amber glow over his inbox. Frowning, bleary and bad-tempered, he changed course, and scooped a short handful of ship’s flimsies out of the bin.
The top sheet was his amended schedule for the day, by which he saw he was presently in danger of being late for a “security meeting” with Pen Rel. He’d been late for a meeting with Pen Rel once, and had no ambition to repeat the experience. That being the case, he did turnabout and headed for the ‘fresher, sorting pages as he went.
The second flimsy was from Cargo Master Gar Sad per’Etla, informing him that a crate had arrived and been placed in his personal bin. He nodded; that would be Khat’s B crate. He’d need to check that out soon, if he could pry five personal minutes between lessons and trade.
The third flimsy was from Norn ven’Deelin and that one stopped him cold.
Greetings to you, my son. I trust that the new day finds you in health and high spirits. Pray bestow the gift of your presence upon me immediately you conclude your business with Arms Master sig’Kethra. We shall break our fast together and tell over the anticipated joys of the day.
Jethri rubbed his head. She was taking this mother-and-son thing serious, he thought and then sighed. After all, it was a matter of keeping her word. In a sense—no, he thought, mouth suddenly dry—in fact she had given him her name. And she’d expect him to set the same value on that priceless commodity as she did herself.
“Mud,” he whispered. “Oh, mud and dust, Jethri Gobelyn, what’ve you got yourself into?”
“AS YOU HAVE NO doubt learned from your study of our route, we remain at Tilene for five more days. At the end of that time, we shall set course for Modrid, and thence the inner worlds, which, as you will readily perceive, is a change of schedule.”
Jethri stifled a yawn and sipped his morning tea. There was caffeine present in the beverage, true enough, but he found himself wishing after a cup of true coffee—aye, and maybe a mug o’mite, too.
“You are disinterested,” the master trader said softly, “and yet it is solely for the benefit of yourself that we alter our itinerary.”
Soft it was said, yet it hit the ear hard. Jethri put his cup down, and looked at her.
“You do not approve?” she asked, face bland.
He took a breath, wishing he felt more awake. “Ma’am, it’s only that I wonder why the ship’s route needs to be changed on my account.”
“An excellent question.” She spread jam on her roll and took a bite. Jethri looked down at his plate, picked up a roll and tore it in half, releasing the scent of warm, fresh bread.
“It is understood that a son of ven’Deelin will need training which is not available to those of one ship, on a trade tour of the far outworlds. Thus, we plot a course nearer to the centers of civilization, where you may receive those things which you lack. You will, also, I hope, benefit by observing a different style of trade than that which is practiced along the edge.” She picked up her teacup.
Roll forgotten in his hand, Jethri sat, thinking back on names and honor and Balance, and on his deficiencies as so far discovered. He cleared his throat.
“Ma’am,” he said slowly, feeling his way around phrasing that she might find disrespectful of her honor. “I’ve been thinking and it—I don’t think that I would be a—an exemplary son. Not,” he amended quickly, as her eyebrows lifted quizzically, “that I wouldn’t do my best, but—I wouldn’t want to dishonor you, ma’am.”
“Ah.” She put her cup down and inclined her head. “Your concern speaks well of you. However, I know that it is not possible for you to dishonor me. I know you for a person of melant’i, whose every instinct is honorable. I repose the utmost confidence in you, my child, and I am at peace, knowing that you hold my name in your hands.”
Jethri’s stomach dropped, even as his eyes filled with tears. “Ma’am . . .”
She held up a hand. “Another way, then. Say that the dice have been cast—there is a similar saying in Terran, is there not? So. We play the game through.”
Except that her good name was nothing like a game, Jethri thought—and he knew so little.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, trying not to sound as miserable as he felt.
“Good. Now, while we are in the mode of change—you will find your duty cycle has likewise changed. You will spend tomorrow and the following four days assisting Cargo Master per’Etla with the pods. It is mete that you have an understanding of the intricacies of the cargo master’s art.”
As it happened, he had a pretty good understanding of the cargo master’s art, the Market not exactly shipping a cargo master. He remembered sitting next to his father, staring in fascination while Arin worked out the logistics of mass and spin. Come to that, neither Paitor nor Grig was likely to have let him get away without knowing how to balance a pod. Granted, Elthoria could probably ship all Market’s pods in one of hers, but the art of the thing ought to be constant.
Jethri cleared his throat. “I have had some training in this area, Master Trader,” he said, hoping he had the right mix of polite and assured.
“Ah, excellent!” she said, spreading jam over the second half of her roll. “Then you will be more of a help than a hindrance to my good friend per’Etla.”
Somehow, Jethri thought, that didn’t sound as encouraging as i
t might have. He glanced down at the roll in his hand, and reached for the jam pot.
“I have some news from the Guild which you may find of interest,” Norn ven’Deelin murmured.
Jethri glanced up from spreading jam. “Ma’am?”
“Another game of counterfeit cards has been exposed and closed, this at the port of Riindel.”
He blinked, at a loss for a heartbeat, then memory caught up with him. “They weren’t using your card, ma’am, were they?”
“Our card, my son. But no—you may put any fear of a taint to our melant’i aside. Those at Riindel had chosen to honor Ziergord with their attention.”
Whoever Ziergord was. Jethri inclined his head. “I’m glad the wrongdoers were caught,” he said, which had the advantage of being both true and unlikely to be found an improper response. “Surely any others who have been tempted will see that the . . . game . . . is dangerous and refuse to play.”
There was a small silence. “Indeed, perhaps they will,” Master ven’Deelin said politely.
Too politely, to Jethri’s ear. He looked up, questioning, only to be met with a smile and a small movement of her hand.
“Eat your breakfast, my son,” she murmured. “It will not do to be late to trade.”
* * *
BUSINESS WAS BRISK at the booth, with merchant folk and traders lined up to have a word of business with Master ven’Deelin. As near as Jethri could tell, every last one of them was invited to “dinner”—not that he had all that much time to eavesdrop, being busy with customers of his own.
Today, the textile was of interest. Over and over, he showed his samples, and gave his speech about hand looming and plant dyes. Occasionally, he caught what was—he thought—a careful glance at his new pin, claiming him of Ixin. Yet it was not curiosity which drew these people, it was the trade, and he reveled in it. Often enough, the client left him with a counter and a trade-card, which he took great care to keep paired and ordered on the wire above his station.
He hung the last pair up and looked down, face arranged politely, to greet the next in line—and froze.
Before him stood Bar Jan chel’Gaibin, hands tucked into his sleeves and a gleam in his pale eyes that reminded Jethri forcibly of Mac Gold in a mood for a brawl.
Casually, the Liaden inclined his head. “Good day to you, son of ven’Deelin. I bring you tidings of your friend, Tan Sim pen’Akla, who has been sent to make his way along the tertiary trade lanes, for the best good of the clan.” He inclined his head again, snarky-like, daring Jethri to hit him. “I thought you might find the news of interest.”
Teeth grinding, face so bland his cheeks hurt, Jethri inclined his head—not far.
“One is always grateful for news of friends,” he said, which was about as far as he could trust his voice with Tan Sim thrown off his ship in sacrifice of this man’s spite. . .
chel’Gaibin lifted his eyebrows. “Just so,” he said softly, and with no further courtesy turned his back and walked away.
In the momentary absence of customers, Jethri let his breath out in a short, pungent Terran phrase, and turned his attention to the samples, which were sorely in need of order.
“Young Jethri,” Master ven’Deelin said some while later, during a lull in the business. “I wonder if you might enlighten me as to a certain Terran—I assume it is Terran—phrase that I have recently heard.”
Ears warming, he turned to look at her. “I will do my best, ma’am.”
“Certainly, when have you ever failed at that? I confess myself quite terrified of you—but, there, I will give over teasing you and only ask: This word sobe. What is its meaning?”
He blinked. “Sobe? I do not think . . .”
“Sobe,” Master ven’Deelin interrupted. “I am certain that was the word. Perhaps it was directed at the departing back of a certain young trader. Yes, that is where I heard it! ‘You sobe,’ was the very phrase.”
“Oh.” His ears were hot now, and well on the way to spontaneous combustion. “That would, um, denote a person of—who has no manners, ma’am.”
“Ah, is it so?” She tipped her head, as if considering the merit of his answer. “Yes, the particular young trader—it could perhaps be said that his manner wants polish. A useful word, my son; I thank you for making it known to me.”
“Yes ma’am. Um.” He cleared his throat. “I note that it is not . . .a courteous word.”
“Understood. In the High Tongue, we say, ‘thus-and-so has no melant’i.’ It is not a statement made lightly.”
“No, ma’am.”
She reached out and patted him on the arm. “We shall speak of these matters at greater length. In the meanwhile, I have extinguished the light for an hour. Pray do me the kindness of seeking out the booth of Clan Etgora—it will be the glass and star on the flag—and say to my old friend del’Fordan that it would ease my heart greatly to behold his face, and that he must, of his kindness, dine with us this evening. Eh? After that, you may find yourself something to eat. If I am not here when you return, light the lamp and do your part. Any who have need of me will wait a few moments.” She cocked her head. “Is that understood, young Jethri?”
He bowed. “Master Trader, it is.”
“Hah.” Once more, she patted his arm. “We must teach you, ‘obedience to an elder.’ Go now, and take my message to del’Fordan.”
THE TRADE LAMP was still out when he returned to the booth, just under an hour later. Despite this, there were two lines of traders waiting patiently, a long line on the Master Trader’s side; and a much shorter on his.
Jethri hurried forward, reached up and turned the key, waiting until the disk glowed blue before he ducked under the counter and pulled back the curtain. He ran a quick eye over his samples, then bowed to his first prospect.
“Good-day to you, sir. May I be honored to bring to your attention to these examples of the textile maker’s art?”
He was deep into his third presentation when Master ven’Deelin arrived, took her place and began to trade. It seemed to him, even from his side of the booth, that her cadence and attention were off a bit, as if she were bothered by a bad stomach or headache or other ill.
It was some hours before there was a lull sufficient for him to ask her if something was wrong.
“Wrong?” She moved her shoulders. “Perhaps not—surely not.” Her mouth tightened and she looked aside and he thought she would say no more, but after a moment she sighed and murmured.
“You surprise, Jethri my son. It is nothing so definite as wrong—but there, you have a proper trader’s eye for detail, and a sense of the rhythm of trade . . .” She moved a hand, fingers flicking as if she cast that line of chat aside.
“It came to me,” she said softly, reaching to the counter to straighten a display book that didn’t need it, “that perhaps a certain practice—which is not, you understand, entirely against guild rule—had lately surfaced upon Tilene. So, I betook myself to the Trade Bar to learn if this was the case.”
Jethri looked at her, feeling a little chilly, of a sudden.
Master ven’Deelin moved her shoulders. “Well, and it is not entirely against guild rule, as I said. Merely, it is a measure found . . . inefficient. . . and not clearly to the best interest of the trade.” It seemed to Jethri that she sagged—and then straightened, shoulders thrown back with a will and a sparkle showing hard in her black eyes.
“Well, it is not ours, and never was. I had thought to meddle, but, there—the thing is done.”
“But—” said Jethri, but just then a customer came up to his side of the booth, and he had no more chance to talk to Norn ven’Deelin for the rest of the long, busy day.
DAY 107
Standard Year 1118
Elthoria and Tilene
MASTER TEL’ONDOR BOWED, low and extravagant, Honor to a Lord Not One’s Own, or so it read to Jethri, who was in no mood to be tweaked, tutor or no. His head ached from a long day on the floor, the spanking new shirt with its lacy cuffs foret
old disasters involving sauces and jellies across its brilliant white field. And now, he was here to learn the way to go on at an intimate dinner for two hundred of Master ven’Deelin’s closest friends—all in the next twelve minutes.
Curtly, he answered the Protocol Officer’s bow—nothing more than the sharpest and starkest of bows, straightening to glare straight into the man’s eyes.
Master tel’Ondor outright laughed.
“Precisely!” he crowed, and held his hand out, fingers smoothing the air in the gesture that roughly meant “peace.”
“Truly, young Jethri, I am all admiration. Thus shall impertinence be answered—and yes, I was impertinent. Some you may meet—at this gather this evening, or at other times—some may wish to dazzle you, some may wish to take advantage. You would do well to answer them all so—a ven’Deelin born would do no less.”
Jethri considered him. “And what about those who merely wish to establish a proper mode?”
“Ah, excellent.” Master tel’Ondor’s eyes gleamed. “It will perhaps be done thus—” The bow between equals, that was. “Or this—” Child of the House of an Ally. “Or even—” Senior Trader to Junior.
“Anything more . . . elaborate, we shall say, may be viewed with the sharpest suspicion. I leave to you to decide—as I see your intuition is sound—the scope of your answers there.”
Jethri closed his eyes. “Master tel’Ondor . . .”
“Yes, yes! You are to learn the entire mode of High House fosterling in the next eight heartbeats, eh? I will be plain with you, young Jethri—neither your skills nor mine are sufficient to meet this challenge. Demonstrate, if you please, your bow of introduction—yes. And of farewell? . . . adequate. Once more—yes. Now—of obedience?”
Jethri complied and heard the protocol officer sigh.
But: “It will suffice,” Master tel’Ondor said, and moved his hands, shooing Jethri toward the door. “Go. Contrive not to shame me.”
Jethri grinned and inclined his head. “Good evening, sir.”
