The Crystal Variation

by Sharon Lee

  “Maybe I will,” she said, but they both knew she wouldn’t.

  “So, that was the Urgent?” she said, after a small pause.

  He shook his head, pulled the two Priorities out his pocket and passed them over.

  “These’re the Urgent.”

  She sent him a sharp look, took the papers and unfolded them with a snap.

  Grig drank brew and watched her read.

  She went through both twice, folded them together and passed them back. Grig slipped them away and sat waiting.

  “So, we got a renegade Liaden, do we? Who depends on us not being able to check up on the rules?”

  “Like that,” Grig said.

  “Right. And then we got this side issue of what’s to have on Banth, which I’ll second Khat on and say—nothing.”

  “How side an issue is that? If we got a buncha pirates lookin’ to set up a base there?”

  She stared at him. “Dammit—you think like Uncle.”

  Grig laughed.

  “OK, let’s look at where Banth is, ease-of-route speakin’.” Raisy closed her eyes, accessing her pilot brain. Grig, who had pulled up star maps to study on Banth’s location when Khat’s letter had first arrived, sat back and waited.

  She sighed. “I’d have to check the maps to be sure, but—first look, it’s in a nice spot for someone wanting to do a little slip-trading from one Edge to the other.” She reached for her brew. “Now, Banth’s got tight admin.”

  “But what if they get used to these Liaden ships comin’ in an’ there always seems to be a problem, but it always turns out not to be, so the inspectors start thinkin’ they got the pattern of it—”

  “And then the Liadens change the pattern, and start ops for real, right under the clipboards of the inspectors?” Raisy shrugged. “Way I’d do it.”

  “OK,” she said, briskly, counting off on her fingers. “Renegade Liaden. Smugglin’ ring maybe settin’ up on Banth. What else? Oh—Arin’s boy on the ground in Liaden space with no warning going his way. You think the master trader is in with the renegade?”

  No surprise that Raisy’s thoughts went there—he’d considered the same thing himself. Still—he shook his head.

  “I think she’s square. This business about Jethri being safe with Tarnia on Irikwae? Strikes me she might’ve been giving us the Liaden for ‘the kid has a ship to call on.’ I’m leaning toward that.”

  “But you got something that’s still bothering you.”

  “I do.” He leaned his elbows on the table, reached out and put his hands loosely around the brew bottle.

  “I’m thinking we need to let Jeth know that he’s got trouble. Could be, he’s got trouble enough for all of us, if you take me.”

  “You’re thinking this chel’Gaibin boy might make a hobby out of hunting Gobelyns?”

  “And Tomases,” Grig said. “Yeah, I do.”

  Raisy finished off her brew and put the bottle down with a thump.

  “What do you want, Grig?”

  “Lend of a fastship,” he said. “Last I knew, you owned one.”

  “If you think I’m gonna let you fly my ship, you’re a headcase!” Raisy said and Grig felt his stomach sink as she pushed slid out of the booth and stood there, looking down at him.

  “I’m coming with you,” she said.

  “I HAVE REVIEWED your file and I confess myself bewildered on several levels,” Trader Ena Tyl sig’Lorta said, waving his hand at the screen on the table between them. “First, I find that there is no database error; you are correctly recorded as Jethri Gobelyn. A secondary entry was created for Jeth Ree ven’Deelin by the hall master’s override. When it is accessed, however, the record it calls is precisely your own.”

  Jethri felt his stomach clench.

  “Perhaps it was a test?” he offered, with as much delicacy as he could muster while cussing himself for plain and fancy mud-headedness.

  Trader sig’Lorta stared at him, hard gray eyes wide with something near to shock. “You mean to suggest that the hall master had an interest in knowing how you would present yourself—as apprentice or as foster son?” His sharp face grew thoughtful. “That is possible. Indeed, now that I consider it—very possible. I see my task is not so simple as I had considered. Here . . .” He reached for the keypad, flicked open a log page and began, quickly, to type.

  “I record in my mentor’s notes—which will, you understand, be reviewed by a master at the end of your certification period—that your first request upon meeting your mentor was that the database be made to reflect your precise name.” Another few lines, then a flick at the ‘record’ tab.

  “So. That is well. We move on to lesser bewilderments.” He touched a key, frowning down at the screen.

  “I read here that the hall master at Modrid disallowed the trades you had completed at the word of your master trader—for which you utilized monies drawn on her accredited and known apprentice sub-account—and that he required the master trader to re-authorize each transaction recorded under that sub-account. Is this summation correct?”

  Just a bit giddy with having escaped the name fiasco with his melant’i intact, Jethri inclined his head.

  “Trader, it is.”

  “Hah.” He touched another key, and sat frowning down at the screen.

  “I also find that you are the holder of a ten-year Combine key, and have two trades of some small level of complexity attached to your name.”

  Jethri inclined his head once more. “Trader, that is so.”

  “Good. We have a Combine terminal here. When we have finished, you will use it to record your location, so that any trades you may make during the course of your certification will be appropriately recorded to your key, as well as entering your guild file.”

  Despite himself, Jethri blinked, which lapse went unnoticed by Trader sig’Lorta, who was still staring down at the screen.

  Silence stretched, then Jethri cleared his throat.

  “The hall master at Modrid said that no Terrans would be allowed into the guild.”

  His mentor shot him a hard, gray glance. “That is a matter for the masters, who—in all truth—could not have met and decided on any such question, as you are the first Terran who has sought entry into the guild. The rule as it is written—the rule which binds both the guild and yourself is: Any candidate who has demonstrated mastery over the requirements put forth in the previous section may enter the guild as a trader. Those who once fail that demonstration may reapply after one Standard Year. Those who twice fail are banned from a third attempt.

  He tapped his finger sharply against the table top—click,click,click—and touched the forward key again.

  “In your case, we have something of a conundrum. In the first wise, Modrid Hall had no authority to disallow a master trader’s apprentice for any reason. That, however, is another matter for the masters, and I make no doubt that Norn ven’Deelin will see it discussed and decided ere long.

  “In the second wise, a hopeful trader with two trades comparable to those recorded upon your key in his guild file would certainly rejoice in the melant’i of a junior trader, did he have no trader or master to whom he stood apprenticed.” He gave the screen one more frowning glance and flicked the ‘off’ key.

  “You and your master presented two claims to the hall master at Modrid—contracted association with a master trader, and the trades recorded on the key. Either should have assured you a place in the guild—as an apprentice, or as a junior trader. Since Modrid Hall allowed neither claim to be sufficient, you now are come to Irikwae Hall with a request from your master trader that you be independently certified, and given a formal ranking within the guild.” He looked up, face serious.

  “Understand, this is an unusual step. It has been done rarely in the past, most often when a dispute arose between traders regarding the talents or qualifications of a particular apprentice. In this instance, I would say that your master trader is wise to request independent certification—and doubly wise to
ask it of Irikwae, where the hall master is known to be both conservative and stringent.”

  So, he was going to have to work his butt off, Jethri thought, and was surprised to find himself on his mettle, but not concerned. He was Norn ven’Deelin’s apprentice, wasn’t he? Hadn’t he learned his basics from Arin and Paitor Gobelyn, neither one a slacker, if not precisely a master trader? Come to that, Trader sig’Lorta was shaping up to be the sort of mentor somebody might want for the upcoming tests—hard, and not exactly happy about Jethri personally, but a trader of virtue for all that, and upholding of the regs. He’d have to prove himself, right enough, but he didn’t get the sense that his mentor would be changing the rules, if it got to looking like Jethri was about to win the game.

  “May I know,” he asked, “what the certification entails?”

  “Surely, surely.” Trader sig’Lorta flicked impatient fingers at the dark screen. “You will, I think, find it not at all unlike your apprenticeship. The hall will make an account available to you and you will be given various assignments of trade on the port. Those transactions will be recorded to your file, and at the end of the testing period, the file will be reviewed by a master trader, who will rule upon your precise level of skill. You will then be issued a card reflecting your standing within the guild. Of course, as you successfully complete more, and more complex, trades, your standing will increase, and your guild card will reflect that, as well.”

  Jethri took a couple minutes to think about that.

  “The purpose of this exercise,” he said, slowly, “is to gain a guild card, so that I may not be denied the benefits and assistance of the guild.”

  “Say, so that it will be less likely that you will be denied those benefits,” Trader sig’Lorta said, practically. “Certainly, there will be some who will risk the wrath of the masters over such niceties as whether Terrans may belong to the guild—but less, I think, than might, had you no certified standing.”

  “I see,” Jethri said. He shot a straight look at his mentor’s face and decided to risk it: “I wonder, Trader, if you might tell me where you personally stand on the issue of Terrans in the guild.”

  The hard gray eyes narrowed, with amusement or annoyance, Jethri couldn’t have said.

  “I believe that traders trade, Jethri Gobelyn. Show me that you are a trader, and I will accord you the respect due a guild brother.”

  Well enough. Jethri inclined his head. “Thank you, Trader. I will certainly endeavor to show you that I am a trader.”

  DAY 177

  Standard Year 1118

  Irikwae Port

  DURING HIS FIRST WEEK at the hall, Jethri shadowed Trader sig’Lorta, learning the general lay of the port. In the evening, he set himself to solving the trade problems that had been uploaded to his screen. All of which was better than bowing lessons, but wasn’t exactly what he was craving.

  Waking on the morning of the day that he had decided he would ask his mentor straight out when he could expect to start his own trading, his first assignment was on his work screen. The timing led Jethri to suspect that maybe the week-long set-up had been a test of his own, and he’d shaken his head a little as he shrugged into his good trading coat.

  First day, it had been soybeans. Next, it had been ore. Today, it was something a little odd—toys.

  Jethri’s assignment was to assess the items on offer from the trader of the good ship Nathlyr, and, if he found the items to have value, to make an offer on no more than a dozen lots and no less than six. If he found the items wanting, he was to write up a report detailing their defects.

  It was an interesting assignment on the face of it, and Jethri left the hall with a whistle on his lips, which gained him a frown from passersby, and recalled him to a sense of where he was and what was proper behavior for a trader on the street.

  So far, he was liking his certification just fine. Soybeans were deadly dull—nothing more or less than trading the day-price off the board. Not quite enough to put a body right to sleep, but scarce enough to keep him full awake, either. Still, he’d moved his lot with precision, and added the extra tor to his drawing account.

  The ore had been a bit more interesting. He’d needed to put some of his capital into trade goods. Soybeans, of course—that was sure—and an odd lot of blended wine from the Maarilex cellars—which wasn’t so sure, but not a bad risk, either, especially not after he’d talked the co-op seller into taking another twelve percent off the lot on account it was odd and would have to be hand-sold, most likely one barrel at a time. Since that had been the precise problem the co-op had been having, the twelve percent came off pretty easy.

  So, he’d had one barrel sent to the Irikwae trade hall to be placed in his trade space, and betook himself and his soybean ticket down to the tables, where he found a trader willing to talk ore.

  The soybeans got some interest, which they had to, but the “short lot” of wine sweetened the deal to the tune of a side measure of rough cut turaline, which Jethri thought he might place with a port jeweler, to his profit.

  He received the tickets with a bow and took himself off to the Street of Gems, where he was fortunate enough to locate a jeweler who was willing to take the turaline ticket off him for roughly double what he had paid for the short lot of wine.

  He closed the deal, feeling some sharp—and found later that night, as he went over his comparisons, that he had let the gems go too cheap. Still, he consoled himself, he’d had a quick turnover, and doubled his money, too, which wasn’t bad, even if not as good as could have been.

  So, now, the toys, and he was looking forward to them, as he strode down the street to the exhibit halls.

  He was early to the day hall, but not so early that there weren’t traders there before him. The toy exhibit, in a choice center hall location, had not drawn a large crowd, which seemed strange—and then didn’t as he got a closer look at what was on offer.

  Exhibit hall protocol required a trader to show no less than three and no more than twelve pieces representative of that which he wished to sell. If Nathlyr’s trader had followed the protocol, he stood in clear and present danger of going away with his hold still full of the things.

  The examples set out were seemingly made of porcelain, badly shaped, with unexpected angles and rough-looking finish. Nothing about them invited the hand, or delighted the eye or engaged the mind, in the way that something billed as a toy ought.

  Jethri picked up one of the pieces—in outline, it looked something like an old fin ship. It felt as gritty as it looked, and was slightly heavier than he had anticipated. Uncle Paitor had taught him that it sometimes helped to get a sense for a thing by holding it in the palm and getting comfortable with the shape and the weight of—

  The thing in his hand was buzzing, slightly reminiscent of Flinx, setting up a nice fuzzy feeling between his ears. The buzzing grew louder and it was almost as if he could hear words inside of it—words in a language not quite Terran and not quite Liaden, but close—so close. He screwed his eyes shut, straining to hear—and gasped awake as pain flared, disrupting the trance.

  Quickly, he replaced the toy among its fellows, and glanced down at his hand. There was a brand of red across the palm, already starting to blister. The . . . toy . . . had malfunctioned.

  Or not.

  He bit his lip, fingers curled over his burned palm. That the so-called toys were Befores of a type he had personally never seen was obvious. Befores being specifically disallowed on Irikwae at least, it seemed that his duty was to alert the Master of Exhibits to the problem.

  And then, he thought, grimacing as he slipped his wounded hand into his pocket, he would go down to one of the philter shops on the main way and get a dressing for his burn.

  As it happened, somebody else had been dutiful sooner. He hadn’t got half-way to the offices in the back of the big hall when he met a crowd heading in the opposite direction.

  Two grim-faced port proctors, a woman in the leather clothing of a Scout, and the Ma
ster of Exhibits himself, walking arm in arm with a slightly wide-eyed trader not much older, Jethri thought, than he was. Nathlyr was fancy-stitched across the right breast of the trader’s ship jacket.

  Respectfully, Jethri stepped aside to let them pass, though he doubted any of the bunch saw him, except the Scout, then changed course for the exit. His hand was hurting bad.

  “CERTAINLY! CERTAINLY!” The philterman took one look at the angry wound across Jethri’s palm and ran to the back of the shop. By the time Jethri had arranged himself on the short stool and put his hand on the counter, the man was back, clutching a kit to his chest.

  “First, we cleanse,” he murmured, breaking the seal on an envelope bearing the symbol for “medical supply,” and shaking out an antiseptic wipe.

  Jethri braced himself, and it was well he did; the pressure of the wipe across his skin was painful, and the cleaning solution added another level of burn to his discomfort.

  “Ow!” He clamped his mouth tight on the rest of it, ears hot with embarrassment. The philterman looked up, briefly.

  “It is uncomfortable, I know, but with such a wound we must be certain that the area is clean. Now . . .” He pulled out a second envelope and snapped the seal, shaking out another wipe.

  “This, I think, you will find a bit more pleasant.”

  The pressure still hurt—and then it didn’t, as his skin cooled and the pain eased back to something merely annoying.

  Jethri sighed, his relief so great that he forgot to be embarrassed.

  “Yes, that is better, eh?” The philterman murmured, reaching again into his kit. “Now, we will dress it and you may continue your day, Trader. Remember to have the hall physician re-examine you this evening. Burns have a difficult nature and require close observation.”

  The dressing was an expandable fingerless glove that had a layer of all-purpose antibiotic against the skin. The largest in stock stretched to fit Jethri’s hand.

  “Else,” the philterman said, “we should have had to wrap it in treated gauze, with an overwrap of sterile tape. So.” He gathered up the spent wipes and broken envelopes and fed them into the countertop recycler.