The Crystal Variation

by Sharon Lee

  “How was it the salvager let the pod go before the transfer was made?” He asked.

  Tan Sim lowered his cup, looking sheepish. “As it happens, I made the full transfer out of my account, knowing that you will place the coin for your portion in my hand.”

  “Such trusting ways,” Jethri said, and Tan Sim sighed, holding up a hand.

  “I knew you were going to say so, and I cannot but agree, that, in the normal way of things, it was an extremely foolhardy thing to do. However, I am adamant. My partner in this endeavor is a man of honor, who pays his just debts promptly.”

  “And so he is,” Jethri said quietly, reaching into the depths of his jacket and extracting the purse containing four kais, six tor. He placed it on the table by Tan Sim’s plate.

  “My thanks,” Tan Sim said softly, and lifted an eyebrow. “Now, may I tell you that the shop desires a call back in—” he glanced at the watch wrapped around his left wrist— “only a few minutes now. A side profit of the scanning is that it will give a rough image of the contents of the pod. When we call back, you will be able to know, with fair certainty, whether you have in fact taken an option on that reasonable return. Indeed, you may well be able to increase that reasonable return, with some judicious and well-placed announcements.”

  “You may tell me so,” Jethri said. “But now you must tell me what you mean by it.”

  “I expect he means that you might upload the image to the tradenet, and invite advance bids,” Miandra said, surprisingly.

  Tan Sim raised his cup to her. “Precisely.” He glanced at Jethri. “I can show you the way of it, if you like.”

  “I would very much like,” Jethri assured him.

  “Good.” He put his teacup down and reached for the multipurpose screen. “Finish your meals, children. I will find if the shop has uploaded that image yet.”

  There wasn’t that much to finish by then, but he and Miandra made quick work of what there was and by the time Jethri had drunk the last of his tea, Tan Sim said, “Ah!” and spun the screen around.

  The image was a muddle of shape, shadow, hard edges, and glare, reminding Jethri of the relative densities screen on a piloting board. He looked up.

  “Traders will bid on the strength of this image?”

  “Traders,” Tan Sim said, “will very often buy on the strength of such an image.” He spun the screen so they all could see it, though Miandra had to scrunch against Jethri’s side, and sort of lean her head against his chest, which was comforting and distracting at the same time.

  “Attend me, now,” Tan Sim said severely and Jethri obediently put his eyes on the screen, trying not to notice that Miandra’s hair smelled like Lady Maarilex’s favorite flowers.

  “You see these, here, here, here—” He touched the screen over three of the glare spots. “Those are stasis boxes that have failed. These—” Quick finger touches on half-a-dozen bland blobs, “are stasis boxes that are still functioning as they should.” He flicked a glance at Jethri.

  “Already, your gains outnumber your losses.”

  “Depending on the contents of the boxes,” Jethri pointed out. “The manifest listed ores, gems and metals. Not the sort of cargo that normally ships in stasis.”

  Tan Sim tipped his head. “I thought we had agreed that manifests do not always reflect cargo?”

  Jethri smiled. “So we had. Please, continue.”

  “Very well, what else have we?” He turned his attention back to the screen, subjecting the image to frowning study. “Ah.” A finger tap on a particularly muddy blur. “This, I believe, may be your ore. Were I interested in ore, I might well wish to be at hand when the pod is opened. For the rest . . .” He moved his hand, showing palm in a quick flip. “Who can tell? But there is enough possibility in the stasis boxes alone to warrant putting the image to the tradenet.”

  Jethri inclined his head. “I bow to the wisdom of an elder trader in this. May I impose further and ask that you teach me the way of putting an image to the tradenet?”

  “Truly,” Tan Sim said, round-eyed, “is this the lad I found practicing his bows in a back hallway, half-ill for fear of giving offense?”

  “Who very shortly thereafter proceeded to give offense most spectacularly?” Jethri retorted.

  The other trader grinned. “From which act springs both our fortunes.”

  “So you say.” Jethri used his chin, Liaden style, to point at the screen. “How do I upload this image and invite bids?”

  “Nothing simpler. First, feed your guild card to the unit.”

  “Already, we find difficulty. I have no guild card.”

  “What?” Tan Sim frankly stared. “Would the guild not grant you a card, after all?”

  “I am at the hall in order to be certified, as apprentice, or junior trader—”

  “Or master trader,” Miandra put in, her head against his chest.

  “Certified?” Tan Sim repeated. “But—”

  “I was registered as Master ven’Deelin’s apprentice,” Jethri explained. “Despite that, the hall at Modrid declined to accept any of the purchases I had made on her account, because the hall master did not believe that Terrans belonged in the guild.”

  “Hah. The master of Modrid hall oversteps. As I am certain the ven’Deelin will demonstrate, in the fullness of time. So you tell me that you are on a hall account at the moment?”

  “I have some liquid.”

  “Which you put into your speculation cargo, here. I see. However, matters become awkward if you lack a valid—”

  “Will a Combine key do?” Jethri interrupted.

  Tan Sim blinked at him. “Certainly,” he said, adding delicately. “Have you a Combine key?”

  “Yes.” He reached inside his collar for the chain. Miandra ducked under his elbow and sat up, watching him pull the key up and then lift the chain over his head.

  Tan Sim caught the key and held it in his palm, frowning at the inscription.

  “A ten-year key?”

  “With two trades on it—an acquisition and an assisting.”

  “And you are at the hall for certification?” Tan Sim raised a hasty palm. “No, do not tell me. I am merely a trader. The ways of the masters are too subtle for me. So.” He released the key, and it swung gently at the end of the chain. “Well, then. If the young trader will do me the honor of using his key to access the Combine computer in the main bar, I will be pleased to guide him through the procedure for uploading an invitation to bid to the tradenet.”

  SCOUT CAPTAIN TER’ASTIN received them in Scout Hall’s book cluttered common room. After tea had been called for and tasted, he inquired as to the purpose of their visit, and listened in attentive silence while Miandra recounted her tale.

  “And I cannot go home, sir, though I know you will think me beyond the pale for saying it—and I will not go back to the Healers,” she finished, heatedly, her hands folded tightly on her lap.

  “A knotty situation,” the Scout said seriously. “I am honored that you thought me worthy of advising you. Let me consider.”

  He picked up his teacup and sipped, Jethri and Miandra following suit, and sat for some few minutes, eyes not quite focused on the overladen bookshelf just behind Miandra’s shoulder.

  “I wonder,” he said eventually, bringing his gaze to her face, “if you might consider going on with the evaluation, should a different master healer be found to conduct it.”

  Miandra’s frowned, not liking the idea much—and the Scout held up a hand.

  “I have in mind a particular master healer—in fact, a master healer attached to the scouts. I am able to vouch for her personally, having several times made use of her skill. I think you will find her a deft touch, with a proper respect for the perceptions of others. I have never known her to cause inadvertent suffering. As a Healer-in-training, I am sure you understand that it is not always possible to spare the patient all pain.”

  “I do understand that, yes,” Miandra said, somewhat stiffly, to Jethri’s ear.
“The master healer at the hall believes that pain strengthens.”

  “Ah,” said Captain ter’Astin. He put his hands flat on the arms of his chair and made a show of pushing himself to his feet.

  “If you like,” he said, extending a hand to Miandra. “I will introduce you to the lady I have in mind and the two of you may consult. Should you both agree to go forward, then Healer Hall will be notified of your whereabouts, and you may complete your evaluation while remaining here as a guest of the Scouts. Will that answer, do you think?”

  Miandra hesitated and surprised Jethri by throwing him a look. He inclined his head.

  “Truly, Miandra, it sounds as though the captain’s solution answers all difficulties,” he said, and of course right then what happened but that another possible problem jumped to the front of his brain. He looked to the scout, who inclined his head, black eyes amused.

  “Healer Hall may take offense.”

  “No fear,” Captain ter’Astin said. “I believe that my powers of diplomacy are equal to the task of explaining the matter to Healer Hall in such a way that they cannot possibly take offense.”

  DAY 180

  Standard Year 1118

  Irikwae

  IT WAS A GOOD thing Raisy’d insisted on coming along, Grig thought, drinking off the last of his ‘mite. A fastship was one thing, but pilots needed to sleep.

  They’d done the run from Kinaveral to Irikwae straight through, manning the boards in shifts, six hours on, six hours off; ‘mite and crackers at the station. He’d done many a run just that way, back when him and Arin was active on Uncle’s business. ‘Course, he’d been a couple hundred Standards younger then.

  “Hull’s cool,” Raisy said. Grig sighed, spun the chair and came to his feet, pitching the cup at the wall recycler.

  “Let’s go, then.” Raisy handed him his jacket, and he shrugged into it as he followed her down the cramped hallway. She unsealed the hatch and swung out down the ladder; Grig followed, feeling the solid thunk of the hatch resealing as a vibration in the rungs.

  On the tarmac, Raisy was surveying things, hands on hips, eyes squinted.

  “Nice little port,” she said as Grig came up beside her. “You got an approach planned, brother?”

  “Figured to check the exhibit halls and Trade Bar—boy’s ‘prenticed, after all. Guild oughta have a record of him and his location.” He shrugged, pulling his jacket straight. “How’s your Liaden, Raisy?”

  “Better’n yours,” she answered, which wasn’t strictly true.

  “Good.” He paused, giving the port his own stare, and pointed. “Exhibition hall.”

  “Right,” said Raisy. “Let’s go.”

  HE’D FINALLY FOUND masks.

  Red leather half-masks, with gilding around the eye, nose and mouth holes. Jethri accessed the detail screens and found an image. The red-and-gold reminded him of the books in the Ruby Club’s public parlor, and he thought the house master might find them to be exactly what he wanted.

  Trouble was, he’d have to buy at least a gross of the things, and they were dear at that level.

  Grumbling to himself, he filed the information to his personal account, so he could access it from the computer in his quarters.

  He’d also found depilatory, which was a far cheaper proposition at the gross level, but still more than he either wanted or needed. In fact, Meicha’s work showed no signs of failing yet, so it could be that he was fixed good and proper and would never sprout another whisker. He made a mental note to ask Miandra if she could figure out what her sister’d done, the next time he saw her. Since she’d opted to have the Scout’s master healer do the evaluation and report, that meant three days. They’d promised to share a meal with Captain ter’Astin on the evening of her last day of evaluation, and he was looking forward to it, anxious to hear what the tests showed—

  He brought his mind ruthlessly back to the matter at hand.

  It might be, he thought, pulling up the secondary detail screen, that the master of the Ruby Club would be willing to buy a skid, less two tubes, of depilatory. He had been interested in the masks, though, and now Jethri was interested in the masks, too, as an unexpected, and unexpectedly complex, exercise in trade.

  He filed the depilatory info to his personal account, ended his session with the Combine computer and waited for his key to be returned to him.

  “Ah, here is the earnest trader, in the midst of his labors,” a distinctive voice said behind his shoulder. Jethri inclined his head without turning around.

  “Trader sig’Lorta. How may I serve you?” The machine whirred and his key was extruded. He stood, slipping it into an inner pocket.

  His mentor looked up at him. “Have you time to join me in a cup of tea, Jethri Gobelyn? I wish to discuss your progress with you.”

  Not that there had been much progress, Jethri thought, grumpily, with him on rest leave for two days. Still, when a man’s mentor wanted tea and a chat, it was a good idea to have time for him.

  So, he inclined his head again, murmured, “Certainly, sir,” and followed the trader to a booth, where a pot and cups were already set out on the table.

  “If you would do me the honor of pouring?” Trader sig’Lorta murmured, pulling the multi-use screen toward him.

  Teapots were tricksy, the handles being just a bit too small to comfortably accept his hand. That aside, nobody could say that Lady Maarilex had neglected the niceties in her efforts to give him polish, no matter how many teapots it cost her.

  He poured, with efficiency if not style, setting the first cup by his mentor’s hand, taking the second for himself. Carefully, he replaced the pot on its warmer and composed himself to wait, cup simmering gently before him.

  “Yes, here we are,” murmured Trader sig’Lorta. He looked up from the screen, took his cup in hand and raised it to taste, Jethri doing the same.

  Manners taken care of, the trader put his cup aside and folded his hands on the table.

  “I hope,” he said courteously, “that your injury no longer pains you.”

  “No, sir. The house doctor renewed the dressing this morning and is very pleased with the progress of healing.”

  “That is well, then.” He moved a hand, showing Jethri the multi-screen. “I find that you have been at trade on the days granted you to recover from your wound.”

  Uh-oh.

  Jethri inclined his head. “Yes, sir.”

  “Ah.” Trader sig’Lorta smiled. “You begin to demonstrate to me that you are, indeed, a trader, Jethri Gobelyn. I am further compelled by the . . . ambitiousness . . . of your offering on the tradenet. However, I am puzzled by something with regard to that, and I hope you may help me understand why I find no credit to your account, covering what I must believe to be a rather substantial cost.”

  “Sir, the merchandise under discussion was bought as a private speculation. Therefore, I used my own resources.”

  There was a small pause, then Trader sig’Lorta inclined his head.

  “I see that I did not explain the process as well as I might have done,” he said slowly. “In essence, any business that you conduct on port should be recorded to your file, so that the certification will reflect your actual skill level as nearly as possible. This includes private deals, side trades, and day-brokering. Have you any questions?”

  So, he could have used the guild account to buy the speculation cargo, could he? Jethri sighed. Being as he had formed the intention to buy the pod’s cargo to help Tan Sim out of defaulting on his contract in a way that wouldn’t raise prideful Liaden hackles—maybe not.

  “Thank you, sir. I had not understood that all my actions as a trader on port would be taken into balance by the master who will evaluate my file. The matter is now made plain.”

  “Good.” Trader sig’Lorta sipped his tea, appreciatively. Setting the cup down, he reached again for the multi-use screen.

  “I see that you have used your Combine key to record your offer—very good. I also see that the pod
is scheduled to be opened this afternoon, so you should leave me very soon in order to be in good time. When you are returned this evening, I ask that you write a trade report of this particular transaction, and forward it to me. I will review it and enter it into your file.”

  Jethri inclined his head. “I will do so, sir.” He hesitated. “Is there anything else I might do for you?”

  “For today, I believe that will suffice.” He raised his cup. “Drink your tea, Jethri Gobelyn, and may your speculation bring profit.”

  THE EXHIBIT HALL had a decent number of goods on display. Raisy, who’d never had any interest in that side of the business, strode right on past all the tables spread with tantalizing merchandise. Despite being wishful of locating Jethri, Grig’s step slowed, his gaze darting from side to side, until Raisy retraced her steps, wrapped strong fingers around his wrist and pulled him along with her.

  “I thought you wanted Jethri.”

  “Well, I do. But where’s harm in seeing what’s here and whether any of it could be had for a profit?”

  She sighed gustily and dropped his arm. “Grigory, you are incorrigible.”

  “Maybe so—” He stopped, his eye drawn to one of the dozens of ceiling-suspended info screens. This one was only ten paces away, clearly visible over Raisy’s left shoulder, and the phrase that had caught his eye—

  Jethri Gobelyn.

  “Raisy, turn around.”

  She caught the tone, and turned, cautious, checking for threats first, then put her attention on the screen, which had a resonance scan on display.

  “Are you seeing what I’m seeing, brother?” Raisy breathed.