by Sharon Lee
Sighing, the envelope heavier in his hand than its weight accounted for, Jethri went to the sideboard, poured himself a cup of tea, and carried both to his usual place at the breakfast table. Only when he had seated himself and taken a sip of tea, did he slip his finger under the purple wax and break the seal.
Inside the envelope was a single sheet of paper, folded once in the middle. It crackled crisply when he unfolded it to find five precise lines, written in that over-ornate hand: Jeth Ree ven’Deelin, apprentice to Master Trader Norn ven’Deelin, will present himself at Irikwae Guildhall on Standard Day 168 at sixth hour, local.
In order to undertake testing for certification. The course will encompass one-half relumma. The candidate will be housed at the guildhall for the duration of the certification program.
That was it, the last line being a signature so over-written as to be nearly unreadable. Jethri sipped his tea, frowning at the thing until he finally puzzled out: Therin yos’Arimyst, Hall Master, Irikwae Port.
“Such a studious demeanor so early in the day!” Lady Maarilex remarked a few moments later, stumping to a halt on the threshold of the breakfast room. “Truly, Jethri, you are an example to us all.”
He put the letter down next to his teacup and rose, crossing the room to offer her his arm.
“After yesterday, I wonder that you can say so, ma’am,” he murmured, as he guided her to her usual place, and pulled back her chair.
She laughed. “Certainly, the portions of your yesterday which I was privileged to observe seemed to go very well, indeed. Your demeanor before the Scout Lieutenant—I live in the liveliest anticipation of sharing the tale with your foster mother.”
Oh, really? “Do you think she will enjoy it, ma’am?” he asked.
She looked up at him, old eyes sparkling.
“Immensely, young Jethri. Immensely.”
“Well, then,” he said, with a lightness he didn’t particularly feel, “I will judge that I have acquitted myself well, in the matter of the Scout.” He paused. “May I bring you something, ma’am?” he asked, since neither Meicha nor Miandra was there to perform the service.
“Tea, if you will, child, and a bit of the custard.”
He moved off to fulfill this modest commission, and returned to the table with tea and custard, and a sweet roll for himself.
“Ma’am, I wonder,” he said, glancing at the letter as he took his place. “Does Hall Master Therin yos’Arimyst hold Master ven’Deelin in despite?”
She paused with her teacup halfway to her lips and shot him a sharp glance over the rim.
“Now, here’s a bold start. What prompts it?”
Wordlessly, he passed her the letter and the envelope.
“Hah.” She put her cup down, read the letter in a glance, considered the envelope briefly, and put both on the table between them.
“He gives you little enough time to arrive,” she commented, reaching for her custard. “Today, you will pack—take what books you will from the library, too. I recall Norn telling us that there was precious little to read at the hall, saving manifests and regulations.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he murmured, genuinely warmed.
A flick of her fingers dispensed with his thanks. “As to the other . . . Despite—perhaps not, though I would be surprised to learn that Therin yos’Arimyst counted Norn ven’Deelin among his favored companions.” She spooned custard, contemplatively. Jethri broke his roll open and did his best to cultivate patience.
“It is, you understand,” Lady Maarilex said eventually, “a difference in mode that separates Norn and the yos’Arimyst. In him, you will find a trader, oh, most conservative! Ring a rumor of change and be certain that Therin yos’Arimyst will be with the portmaster within the hour, speaking eloquently in defense of the proven ways. Norn, as I am certain you have yourself observed, is one to dance with risk and court change.”
“I can see that the two of them might not have much to talk about,” Jethri said, when a few moments had passed and she had said nothing else.
“Certainly, they would seem to be unlikely to agree on any topic of importance to either,” she murmured, her eyes, and apparently her thoughts, on her custard.
Jethri sipped his tea, found it less than tepid and rose to warm his cup. When he returned, Lady Maarilex had finished her custard and was holding her cup between her two hands, eyes closed.
He slipped into his seat as quietly as he could, not wanting to disturb her if she was indulging in a nap. She opened her eyes before he was rightly settled, and extended a hand to tap the letter where it was between them on the table.
“I believe what you have here is politics, child. Mind you, I do not have the key to the yos’Arimyst’s mind, but it comes to me that he must see you as a challenge to his beloved changelessness—indeed, you are just such a challenge—and never mind that change will come, no matter how he may abhor it, or speak against it, or forbid it within his hall. Norn ven’Deelin, who loves the trade more than any being alive, has taken a Terran apprentice. Surely, the foundations of the homeworld ring with the blow! And, yet, if not Norn, if not now—then another, later. Terrans exist. Not only do they exist, but they insist upon trading—and on expanding the field upon which they can trade. We ignore them—we deny them—at our very great peril.”
Jethri leaned forward, watching her face. “You think that she was right, then, ma’am?”
“Oh, I believe she is correct,” the old lady murmured. “Which is not to say—diverting and delightful as I find you!—that I would not have preferred another, and later. It is not comfortable, to be an agent of change.” She shot him an especially sharp glance. “Nor is it comfortable, I imagine, to be change embodied.”
He swallowed. “I—am not accustomed to thinking of myself so. An apprentice trader, set to learn from a . . . most astonishing master—that is how I think of myself.”
She smiled. “That is very sensible of you, Jethri Gobelyn, fostered of ven’Deelin. Consider yourself so, and comport yourself so.” She tapped the letter again, three times, and withdrew her hand.
“And do not forget that there are others abroad who find your existence threatens them, and who will do their all to see you fail.”
Nothing new there, Jethri thought, retrieving his letter. Just a description of trade-as-usual. He folded the paper and slipped it into the pocket of his jacket.
“Anecha will drive you to the port and see you safe inside the hall,” Lady Maarilex said. “If you require funds, pray speak to Mr. el’Saba—he will be able to rectify the matter for you.”
He inclined his head. “I thank you, ma’am, but I believe I am well-funded.”
“That is well, then,” she said and pushed back from the table. He leapt to his feet—and was waved back to his chair.
“Please. I am not so frail as that—and you have eaten nothing. A custard may tide an old woman until nuncheon, but a lad of your years wants more than a shredded roll for his breakfast.”
He looked down at his plate, feeling his ears warm. “Yes, ma’am,” he murmured, and then looked back to her face. “Thank you for your care.”
She smiled. “You are courteous child.” She bowed, very slightly. “Until soon, young Jethri.”
“Until soon, ma’am,” he answered, and watched her stump down the room, leaning heavy on her cane, until she reached the hall and turned right, toward her office.
DAY 168
Standard Year 1118
Irikwae Port
“I DON’T KNOW WHY he needs you here so early,” Anecha muttered as she opened the big car’s cargo compartment.
Jethri reached in, got hold of the strap and pulled his duffle out, slinging the strap over one shoulder.
“The port never closes,” he said, softly. “Master yos’Arimyst has likely done me the courtesy of being sure that I arrive during his on-shift.”
Anecha sent him one of her sharp, unreadable glances. “So, you interpret it as courtesy, do you? You’ve a
more giving melant’i than some of us, then, Jethri Gobelyn.” She swung the second bag out of the boot and got it up on a shoulder.
“I can carry that,” he said mildly. She snorted and used her chin to point at the bag he already wore.
“Can isn’t should,” she said. “I’ll have that one, too. Or do you think I will allow Norn ven’Deelin’s son to walk into the guildhall dragging his own luggage, like a Low House roustabout?”
He blinked at her. “It can’t be improper for an apprentice to carry his own bags—and his master’s, too.”
“Nothing more proper, if the master is present. However, when the apprentice is the representative of the master—”
Right. Then the honors that would properly go to the master were bestowed upon her ‘prentice. Jethri sighed, quietly. Eventually—say, a couple years after he saw his eightieth birthday, he’d have melant’i thoroughly understood.
“So,” said Anecha, with a great deal of restraint, really, “if the good apprentice will deign to give me his bag?”
The other option being a long stop in the street while they argued the point—which would earn neither his melant’i nor Master ven’Deelin’s any profit. Jethri stifled a second sigh and handed over the duffle, settled his jacket over his shoulders and crossed the walk to the door of the Irikwae Port traders guild hall.
The door was locked, which didn’t surprise him. He swiped his crew card from Elthoria through the lock-scanner, and then set his palm against the plate.
The status light blared red, accompanied by a particularly raucous buzzer—and the door remained locked.
“I see you are expected,” Anecha commented drily from behind him, “and that every courtesy has been observed.”
Thinking something closely along those lines himself, Jethri slipped his crew card into a pocket and put his hand against the plate, as might any general visitor to the hall.
The status light this time flared yellow, and there was an absence of rude noise, circumstances that Jethri tentatively considered hopeful. He dropped back two steps, head cocked attentively, waiting for the doorkeeper to open the door.
“Every courtesy observed,” Anecha repeated some minutes later, voice edged.
Jethri moved forward to ring the bell again. His hand had scarcely touched the plate when it and the rest of the door was snatched away, and he found himself looking, bemusedly, down into the stern face of a man in full trade dress.
“What is the meaning of this?” The man snapped. “This is the traders’ hall. The zoo is in the city.”
Behind him, Jethri heard Anecha draw a sharp, outraged breath, which pretty much summarized his own feelings. Still, as Master tel’Ondor had taught him, it was best to answer rudeness with courtesy—and to remember the name of the offender.
Jethri bowed, gently, and not nearly so low as apprentice ought to a full trader. He straightened, taking his time about it, and met the man’s hard gray eyes.
“I arrive at the hall at this day and hour in obedience to the word of Hall Master yos’Arimyst.” He slipped the letter out of his pocket and offered it, gracefully, all the while meeting that hull-steel stare, daring him to compound his rudeness.
The man’s fingers flicked—and stilled. He inclined his head, which was proper enough from trader to ‘prentice, and stepped back from the door, motioning Jethri within.
The vestibule was small and stark, putting Jethri forcibly in mind of an airlock. Two halls branched out of it—one left, one right.
“‘prentice!” the trader shouted. “‘prentice, to the door!”
Jethri winced and heard Anecha mutter behind him, though not what she said. Which was probably just as well.
From the deeps of the hall came the sound of boots hitting the floor with a will, and shortly came from the left-most corridor a girl about, Jethri thought, the same age as the twins, her hair pale yellow and her pale blue eyes heavy with sleep.
“Yes, Trader?”
He flicked nearly dismissive fingers in Jethri’s direction.
“A candidate arrives. See him to quarters.”
She bowed, much too low, Jethri thought, catching the frown before it got to his face. “Yes, Trader. It shall be done.”
“Good,” he said, and turned toward the right hall, his hard glance scraping across Jethri’s face with indifference.
Behind him, Anecha stated, dispassionately, “Every courtesy.”
Jethri turned his head to give her a Look. She returned it with an expression of wide innocence Khat would have paid hard credit to possess.
“Your pardon, gentles,” the girl who had been summoned to deal with them stammered. “It is—understand, it is very early in the day for candidates to arrive. Though of course!—the hall stands ready to receive . . . at any hour . . .”
Jethri raised a hand, stopping her before she tied her sentence into an irredeemable knot.
“I regret the inconvenience to the hall,” he said, as gently as he could, and showed her the folded paper. “Master yos’Arimyst’s own word was that I arrive at the hall no later than sixth hour today.”
THE ‘PRENTICE BLINKED. “But Master yos’Arimyst is scarcely ever at the hall so early in the day. Though, of course,” she amended rapidly, her cheeks turning a darker gold with her blush, “I am only an apprentice, and cannot hope to understand the necessities of the hall master.”
“Certainly not,” Jethri said smoothly. “I wonder if Master yos’Arimyst is in the hall this morning?”
Her eyes widened. “Why, no, sir. Master yos’Arimyst left planet yesterday on guild business. He will return at the end of the relumma.”
He heard Anecha draw a breath, and moved one shoulder, sharply. The crude signal got through; Anecha held her tongue.
“Certainly, guild business has precedent,” he said to the waiting girl. “My name is Jethri Gobelyn. I may be in your lists as Jeth Ree ven’Deelin.”
“Oh!” The girl bowed, not as deeply as she had for the irritable trader who had opened the door, but too deep, nonetheless. Briefly, Jethri wondered about the hall’s protocol master.
“Parin tel’Ossa, at your word, sir.” She said, eyes wide. “Please, if you will follow me, I will show you to your quarters.”
“Certainly,” Jethri said, and followed her down the left hall, pausing a moment to send a glance to Anecha, who managed not to meet his eyes.
THE QUARTERS WERE unexpectedly spacious, on the top level, with windows overlooking an enclosed garden. Having thanked and rid himself of both Parin and Anecha, Jethri worked the latch and pushed one of the windows wide, admitting the early breeze and the muffled sounds of the morning port.
It certainly seemed that Master yos’Arimyst intended deliberate insult to Norn ven’Deelin, through her apprentice and foster son. Or, thought Jethri, leaning his hands on the window still and sticking his nose out into the chilly air, did he?
After all, he, Jethri, was here for a certification—a test. What if this deliberate rudeness had a point other than insult? Suppose, for instance, that the masters and traders of the hall wanted a reading on just how well a beastly Terran understood civilized behavior?
He closed his eyes. Tough call. If the measuring stick for civilized was Liaden, then he ought to be making plans for a vendetta right about now—or ought he? A true Liaden would have the sense to know if he was being offered an insult or a test.
Jethri exhaled, with vigor, and turned from the window to inspect the rest of his quarters.
A worktable sat against the wall to the right of the window. A screen and keyboard sat ready before a too-short chair. Jethri leaned over to touch a key, and was gratified to see the screen come up, displaying an options menu.
He chose map, and was in moments engaged in a close study of the interior layout of the hall. Not nearly as complex as Tarnia’s house, with its back stairs, back rooms and half-floors, but a nice mix of public, private and service rooms.
The quarters were in what appeared to be an older w
ing—perhaps the original hall—the public and meeting rooms were off the right-hand hall from the vestibule—and could also be accessed from the Trade Bar, which opened into the main port street.
Map committed to memory, Jethri recalled the menu—yes. There was an option called check-in. He chose it.
A box appeared on the screen, with instructions to enter his name. Fingers extended over the keypad, he paused, staring down at the Liaden characters. Slowly, he typed in the name under which he had been summoned for certification; the name that Parin had recognized.
Jeth Ree ven’Deelin.
The computer accepted his entry; another screen promised that his mentor would be informed of his arrival. Great.
He returned to the options menu, lifting a hand to cover a sudden yawn. Despite the fact that he’d been able to nap in the car coming down from Tarnia’s house, he was feeling short on sleep, which was not a good way to start a test. He glanced at his watch. If he was still at Tarnia’s house, he’d have just under six seconds to get to breakfast.
He blinked, eyes suddenly teary and throat tight. He wanted to be in Tarnia’s house, running as hard as he could down the “secret” back stairs and sweating lest he be late for breakfast. He missed Miandra and Meicha, Mrs. tel’Bonti, Lady Maarilex, Mr. pel’Saba, Flinx and Ren Lar. And while he was listing those he missed, there was Norn ven’Deelin and Gaenor and Vil Tor, Pen Rel, Master tel’Ondor; Khat and Cris and Grig and Seeli. . .
He sniffed, and reached into his pocket for a handkerchief.
Put it in a can, he told himself, which is what Seeli’d tell him when he’d been a kid and got to blubbering over nothing. He unfolded the handkerchief and wiped his face with the square of silk, swallowing a couple times to loosen his throat.
Might as well unpack, he thought, putting the handkerchief away. Get everything all shipshape and comfortable, and you’ll feel more like the place belongs to you.
Anecha had left his bags on the bare wooden floor against the opposite wall, under the control panel for the bed. That item of furniture at the moment formed part of the wall. When he wanted it down, according to Parin, all he had to do was slide the blue knob from left to right. To raise the bed, slide the knob from right to left, and up she went, freeing a considerable area of floor space.
