Balance of Trade

by Sharon

"Jethri Gobelyn." If he noticed Jethri's advanced state of dishevelment, he betrayed it by not the flicker of an eyelash. Instead, he blandly inclined his bright head.

  "Shortly, we will be rising to Elthoria. Is there aught on port that you require? Now is the time to acquire any such items, for we are scheduled to break orbit within the quarter-spin."

  Breathless, Jethri shook his head, caught himself, and cleared his throat.

  "I am grateful, but there is no need." He lifted the smaller bag somewhat. "Everything that I require is in these bags."

  Golden eyebrows rose, but he merely moved a languid hand, directing Jethri's attention down the busy thoroughfare.

  "Alas, I am not so fortunate and must fulfill several errands before we board. Do you continue along this way until you find Ixin's sign. Present yourself to the barge crew, and hold yourself at the pilot's word. I will join you ere it is time to lift."

  So saying, he stepped off the curb into the thronging traffic, vanishing, to Jethri's eye, into the fast-moving crowd.

  Mud! he thought, his heart picking up its rhythm, then, "Mud!" aloud as a hard elbow landed on his ribs with more force than was strictly necessary to make the point, while a sharp voice let out with a liquid string of Liaden, the tone of which unmistakably conveyed that this was no place for ox-brained Terrans to be napping.

  Getting a tighter grip on his carry-bag, Jethri shrugged the backpack into an easier position and set off, slow, his head swiveling from one side to the next, like a clean 'bot on the lookout for lint, craning at the signs and sigils posted along both sides of the way.

  It didn't do much to calm the crazy rhythm of his heart to note that all the signs hereabouts were in Liaden, with never a Terran letter to be found; or that everyone he passed was short, golden-skinned, quick—Liaden.

  Now that it was too late, he wondered if Master ven'Deelin's aide was having a joke on him. Or, worse, if this was some sort of Liaden test, the which of, failing, lost him his berth and grounded him. There was the horror, right there. Grounded. He was a spacer. All ports were strange; all crews other than his own, strangers. Teeth drilling into his bottom lip, Jethri lengthened his stride, heedless now of both elbows and rude shouts, eyes scanning the profusion of signage for the one that promised him clean space; refuge from weight, dirt, and smelly air.

  At last, he caught it—half-a-block distant and across the wide street. Jethri pulled up a spurt of speed, forced his dust-covered, leaden body into a run and lumbered off the curb.

  Horns, hoots and hollers marked his course across that street. He heeded none of it. The Moon-and-Rabbit was his goal and everything he had eye or thought for. By the time the autodoor gave way before him, he was mud-slicked, gasping and none-too-steady on his feet.

  What he also was, was safe.

  Half-sobbing, he brought his eyes up and had a second to revise that opinion. The three roustabouts facing him might be short, but they stood tall, hands on the utility knives thrust through wide leather belts, shirts and faces showing dust and the stains of working on the docks.

  Jethri gulped and ducked his head. "Your pardon, gentles," he gasped in what he hoped they'd recognize for Liaden. "I am here for Master ven'Deelin."

  The lead roustabout raised her eyebrows. "ven'Deelin?" she repeated, doubt palpable in her tone.

  "If you please," Jethri said, trying to breathe deeply and make his words more than half-understandable gasps. "I am Jethri Gobelyn, the—the new apprentice trader."

  She blinked, her face crumpling for an instant before she got herself in hand. The emotion she didn't show might have been anything, but Jethri had the strong impression that she would have laughed out loud, if politeness had allowed it.

  The man at her right shoulder, who showed more gray than brown in his hair, turned his head and called out something light and fluid, while the man at her left shoulder stood forward, pulling his blade from its nestle in the belt and thoughtfully working the catch. Jethri swallowed and bent, very carefully, to put his carry-bag down.

  Twice as careful, he straightened, showing empty palms to the three of them. This time, the woman did smile, pale as starlight, and put out a hand to shove her mate in the arm.

  "It belongs to the master trader," she said in pidgin. "Will you be the one to rob her of sport?"

  "Not I," said the man. But he didn't put the knife away, nor even turn his head at the clatter of boot heels or the sudden advent of a second Liaden woman, this one wearing the tough leather jacket of a pilot.

  She came level with the boss roustabout and stopped, a crease between her eyebrows.

  "Are we now a home for the indigent?" she snapped, and apparently to the room at large.

  Jethri exerted himself, bowing as low as his shaking legs would allow.

  "Pilot. If you please. I am Jethri Gobelyn, apprenticed to Master Trader Norn ven'Deelin. I arrive at the word of her aide, Pen Rel, who bade me hold myself at your word."

  "Ah. Pen Rel." The pilot's face altered, and Jethri again had the distinct feeling that, had she been Terran, she would have been enjoying a fine laugh at his expense. "That would be Arms Master sig'Kethra, an individual to whom it would be wise to show the utmost respect." She moved a graceful hand, showing him the apparently blank wall to his left.

  "You may place your luggage in the bay; it will be well cared for. After that, you may make yourself seemly, so that you do not shame Master sig'Kethra before the ven'Deelin." She looked over her shoulder at the third roustabout. "Show him."

  "Pilot." He jerked his head at Jethri. "Attend, boy."

  Seen close, the blank wall was indented with a series of unmarked squares. The roustabout held up an index finger, and lightly touched three in sequence. The wall parted along an all-but invisible seam, showing a holding space beyond, piled high with parcels and pallets. Jethri took a step forward, found his sleeve caught and froze, watching the wall slide shut again a bare inch beyond his nose.

  When there was nothing left to indicate that the wall was anything other than a wall, the roustabout loosed Jethri's sleeve and jerked his chin at the indentations.

  "You, now."

  He had a good head for patterns—always had. It was the work of a moment to touch his index finger to the proper three indentations in order. The wall slid aside and this time he was not prevented from going forward into the holding bay and stacking his bags with the rest.

  The door stayed open until he stepped back to the side of the roustabout, who jerked his head to the left and guided him to the 'fresher, where he was left to clean himself up as best he might, so Master ven'Deelin wouldn't take any second thoughts about the contract she'd made.

  * * *

  SOME WHILE LATER Jethri sat alone in the hallway next to the pilot's office, face washed, clothes brushed, and nursing a disposable cupful of a hot, strong, and vilely sweet beverage his guide had insisted was "tea."

  At least it was cool in the hallway, and it was a bennie just to be done with walking about in grav, and carrying all his mortal possessions, too. Sighing, he sipped gingerly at the nasty stuff in the cup and tried to order himself.

  It was clear that his spoken Liaden wasn't as close to tolerable as he had thought. He didn't fool himself that dock-pidgin and Trade was going to go far at the trading tables Norn ven'Deelin sat down to. Language lessons were needful, then; and a brush-up on the protocols of cargo. His math was solid—Seeli and Cris had seen to that. He could do OK here. Better than he'd have done on an ore ship running a dying Loop. . .

  That thought brought him back to now and here. Damn straight Norn ven'Deelin didn't run no Loop.

  He leaned back in the chair, considering what sorts of cargo might come to a ship bearing a master trader. Gems, he figured, and rare spice; textile like Cris would weep over; artworks. . . He considered that, frowning.

  Art was a chancy venture, given differing planetary taboos and ground-hugger religions. Even a master trader might chart a careful course, there. Khat told a story—a true o
ne, he thought—regarding the tradeship Sweet Louise, which had taken aboard an illustrated paper book of great age. The pictures had been pretty, the pages hand-sewn into a real leather cover set with flawed, gaudy stones. The words were in no language that any of Louise's crew could read, but the price had been right; and the trader had a line on a collector of uniquities two planets down on the trade-hop. Everything should have been top-drawer, excepting that the powers of religion on the planet between the collector and the book declared that item "blasphemous," meaning the port police had it off ship in seconds and burned it right there on the dock. Louise lost the investment, the price, the fine—and the right to trade on that port, which was no loss, as far as Jethri could see. . .

  A light step at the top of the hall pulled him out of his thoughts; a glance and he was on his feet, bowing as low as he could without endangering the tea.

  "Arms Master sig'Kethra."

  The man checked, neither surprise on his face, nor parcels in his hands, and inclined his head. "Apprentice Trader. Well met. A moment, if you please, while I consult with the pilot."

  He moved past, walking into the pilot's office with nary a ring, like he had every right to the place, which, Jethri thought, he very well might. The door slid shut behind him and Jethri resumed his seat, reconciled to another longish wait while business was discussed between pilot and arms master.

  Say that Pen Rel was a man of few words. Or that the pilot was eager for flight. In either case, they were both coming out the door before Jethri had time to start another line of thought.

  "We lift, Jethri Gobelyn," Pen Rel said. "Soon we will be home."

  And that, at least, Jethri thought, rising with alacrity, was a proper spacer's sentiment. Enough of this slogging about in the dust—it was time and past time to return to the light, clean corridors of a ship.

  Day 42

  Standard Year 1118

  Elthoria

  Arriving

  "IS THE WHOLE ship heavy, then?" he asked Pen Rel's back.

  The Liaden glanced over his shoulder, then stopped and turned right around in the center of the ridiculously wide hallway, something that might actually have been puzzlement shadowing the edges of his face.

  "Is the gravity worrisome, Jethri Gobelyn? I did note that you disliked the port, but I had assumed an aversion to . . . the noise, perhaps—or the dirt. I regret that it had not occurred to me that the ship of your kin might have run weightless."

  Jethri shook his head. "Not weightless," he panted. "Just—light. The core—admin, you know—was near enough to heavy, but the rest of the ship ran light, and the rim was lightest of all." He drew a deep breath, caught by the sudden and awful realization that no one knew what the normal grav of the Liaden homeworld was. It could be that Ynsolt'i normal was light to them, and if the ship got heavier, the further in they—

  Pen Rel moved his hand like he was smoothing wrinkles out of the air. "Peace, Jethri Gobelyn. Most of Elthoria runs at constant gravity. The areas that do not are unlikely to be of concern to one of your station. You will suffer no more than you do at this moment."

  Jethri gaped at him. "Runs constant," he repeated, and shook his head. "How big is this ship?"

  The Liaden moved his shoulders. "It is large enough. Doubt not that the master trader will provide a map—and require you to memorize it, as well."

  Where he came from, holding the map of the ship and the location of bolt holes, grabs and emergency suits in your head was only commonsense. He shrugged, no where near as fluid as his companion. "Well sure she will. No problem with that."

  "I am pleased to hear you say so," Pen Rel said, and turned about-face, moving briskly out down the hall. "Let us not keep the master trader waiting."

  In fact, she kept them waiting, which Jethri could only see as a boon, for he used the time to catch his breath and surreptitiously stretch his sore muscles, so he wasn't blowing like a grampus when they were finally let in to see her.

  Her office wasn't as big as admin entire—not quite. Nor was her workspace quite as wide as his private quarters on the Market. Screens were set above the desk, which was itself a confusion of lading slips, catalogs and the ephemera of trade—that much was familiar, so much so that he felt the tears rising to his eyes.

  The master trader, she was familiar, too, with her gray hair and her snapping black eyes.

  "So," she said, rising from her chair and coming forward. "It is well." She inclined her head and spoke to Pen Rel—a rapid burst of Liaden, smooth and musical. The arms master made brief reply, swept a bow to her honor, treated Jethri to a heavy tip of the head, and was gone, the door snapping behind him like a hungry mouth.

  Black eyes surveyed him blandly. Belatedly, Jethri remembered his manners and bowed, low. "Master ven'Deelin. I report for duty, with joy."

  "Hah." She tipped her head slightly to the right. "Well said, if briefly. Tell me, Jethri Gobelyn, how much will it distress you to find that your first duty is dry study?"

  He shrugged, meeting her gaze for gaze. "Uncle Pai—Trader Gobelyn taught me that trade was study, ma'am. I wouldn't expect it otherwise."

  "A man of excellent sense, Trader Gobelyn. My admiration of him knows no limit. Tell me, then, oh wise apprentice, what will you expect to study firstly? Say what is in your heart—I would know whether I must set you to gemstones, or precious metals, or fine vintage."

  Had she been Terran, Jethri would have considered that she was teasing him. Liadens—none of his studies had led him to believe that Liadens held humor high. Honor was the thing, with Liadens. Honor and the exact balancing of any wrong.

  "Well, ma'am," he said, careful as he was able. "I'm thinking that the first thing I'll be needing is language. I can read Liaden, but I'm slow—and my speaking is, I discover, nothing much better than poor."

  "An honest scholar," Master ven'Deelin said after a moment, "and of something disheartened." She reached out and patted his sleeve. "Repine not, Jethri Gobelyn. That you read our language at all is to be noted. That you have made some attempt to capture the tongue as it is spoken must be shown for heroic." She paused.

  "Understand me, it is not that we of the clans seek to hide our customs from those traders of variant ilk. Rather, we have not overindulged in future thinking, whereby it would have been immediately understood that steps of education must be taken." She moved her shoulders in that weird not-shrug, conveying something beyond Jethri's ken.

  "Very nearly, the masters of trade have walked aside from their duty. Very nearly. You and I—we will repair this oversight of the masters and rescue honor for all. Eh?" She brought her palms together sharply.

  "But, yes, firstly you must speak to be understood. You will be given tapes, and a tutor. You will be given the opportunity to Balance these gifts the ship bestows. There is one a-ship who wishes to possess the Terran tongue. Understand that her case is much as yours—she reads, but there is a lack of proficiency in the spoken form. She, you will tutor, as you are tutored. You understand me?"

  So, he had something of worth that he could trade for his lessons and his keep. It was little enough, and no question the ship bore the heavier burden, but it cheered him to find that he would be put to use.

  Smiling, he nodded; caught himself with a sharp sigh and bowed. "I understand you, ma'am. Yes."

  "Hah." Her eyes gleamed. "It will be difficult, but the need is plain. Therefore, the difficult will be accomplished." She clapped her hands once more. "You will be a trader to behold, Jethri Gobelyn!"

  He felt his ears warm, and bowed again. "Thank you, ma'am."

  She tipped her head. "The tutor will attend likewise to the matter of bows. Continue in your present mode and you will be called to answer honor before ever we arrive at gemstones."

  Jethri blinked. He had just assumed that, the deeper the bow the better, and that, as juniormost everywhere he walked, he could hardly go wrong bowing as low as he could without doing structural damage.

  "I . . . hope that I haven't giv
en offense, ma'am," he stammered, in Terran.

  She waved a tiny hand, the big purple ring glittering. "Worry not," she answered, in her version of the same tongue. "You are fortunate in your happenstances. We of Elthoria are of a mode most kind-hearted. To children and to Terrans, we forgive all. Others," she folded her hands together solemnly; "are less kindly than we."

  Oh. He swallowed, thinking of Honored Buyer bin'Flora, and others of his uncle's contacts, on the Liaden side of the trade.

  "There are those," Master ven'Deelin said softly, switching to Trade, "for whom the trade is all. There are others for whom . . . the worth of themselves is all. Are these things not likewise true of Terrans?"

  Another flash of memory, then, of certain other traders known to him, and he nodded, though reluctantly. "Yes, ma'am. I'm afraid they are."

  "No fear, Jethri Gobelyn. A man armored and proficient with his weapons need have no fear." A small hesitation, then—"But perhaps it is that you are wise in this. A man without weapons—it is best that he walk wary."

  "Yes, ma'am," he said again, his voice sounding breathless in his own ears.

  If Master ven'Deelin noted anything amiss, she didn't say so. Instead, she waved him over to her desk, where she pressed the promised ship's map upon him, pointing out the location of his quarters and of the ship's library, where he would find his study tapes and his tutor awaiting him at some hour that slid past his ear in an arpeggio of Liaden.

  "I—" he began, but Master ven'Deelin had thought of that, too. From the riot of papers atop her desk, she produced a timepiece, and a schedule, printed out in Liaden characters.

  "So, enough." She clapped her hands and made shooing motions toward the door. "This shift is your own. Next shift, you are wanted at your station. Myself, yourself, we will speak again together before the trade goes forward on Tilene. In the meanwhile, it is your duty to learn, quickly and well. The ship accepts only excellence."

  Dismissed, clutching the papers and the watch untidily to his chest, he bowed, not without a certain feeling of danger, but Master ven'Deelin had turned back to her desk, her attention already on the minutiae of trade.