Trade Secret

by Sharon Lee

  He opened his mouth to speak, took a step toward her—

  “No shivaree today, Jeth—we gotta talk. Get in, take the coat off, dry a little. Sit somewhere, so I know where I should sit.”

  * * *

  It was safer to be sitting. He still had the urge—apparently shared by Freza—to rush into a hug. Also, since she was sitting, he wasn’t as obviously taking her in as he might have been if she was standing. He resisted, not entirely successfully, his urge to break into a grin.

  “I’m thinking to be out of here pretty quick, Jeth—how long do you have?”

  Brought back to the present, he admitted to the appointment at Elthoria’s local trade advisor’s office and the time of it, which argued for enough time to talk . . .

  “Then, let me start, because meter’s working from my account. Is that good?”

  He short-circuited his bow in favor of a nod and a “Yes.” This made sense melant’i wise as well as from Terran manners, after all.

  “First, I’ve seen you, and you look well. Don’t look starved, or slaved, or nothing. That’s a start—they are treating you good, right?”

  She waved vaguely at the port, and he took the “they” to mean his ship—

  “Elthoria has been wonderful to me,” he said, “and also, they are my new ship, owned by my new clan. I have nothing but praise for Trader ven’Deelin.”

  “So your ship is good to you? But you’re flying a Scout ship. You aren’t a prisoner or—”

  He laughed, and caught his tongue before he spoke, holding back the urge to rush out with the whole story, for indeed, the whole story would be worth nights at a traders’ bar if he was so inclined, and besides, time was short.

  The smile came anyway as he started in. “Closer the Scout is my prisoner than I his. This is not my regular berth, I assure you! We are attempting to right an error, to permit the Scout to make good on a promise he made and which has been broken by others. My ship—my new mother and Master Trader—agrees with me, and with the Scout, that this error ought to be corrected. It is . . . a technical matter of melant’i, let us say.”

  She shook her head. “Never thought I’d be hearing that from a Gobelyn, I guess, that they had a melant’i problem to take care of!”

  He shrugged, laughed, reheard his sentences and could hear the Liaden and Terran phrases warring, the careful timing of one language feeling odd in the other. “Life goes as it does.”

  “You know the rumors, I guess? That Paitor or Iza sold you to the Liadens.”

  He nodded and kept from shrugging this time.

  “Khat sent a message telling me as much. They may say it, but I say not true. What happened—and you can tell anyone asking, because it is true—is that the Market was getting crowded and wasn’t no one really comfortable with getting out. I was low on the lists, and old enough. Iza’d made some arrangements, I guess, with Gold Digger, but I . . . argued with the captain and said no to that, and she told me to find my own ship. Happened I did, in the next port. Happened it was Elthoria.”

  Freza’d been watching him intently, which he liked, and let a wry smile cross her face. “Yeah, a bunch of folks have heard stuff from Digger alright. Seems like Mac Gold can’t get to port and talk ten sentences before he’s blamed you twice and three times for the Digger being late on the route because they were waiting for you and you’d been sold out to a tradeship . . .”

  He bowed, hearing the words only after they were out of his lips: “I will recall this as it becomes appropriate. Your information is noted.”

  She leaned back some, taken aback.

  “I don’t mean to be starting trouble, Jeth, it’s just that Mac . . .”

  He raised both his hands significantly, “Slow, Freza, please. Mac Gold has never been on my good side, but any quarrel I have with him is his and not yours. If he is a friend, be not concerned . . .”

  She laughed lightly. “Geesh, now I got you up into the high decks. I don’t see Mac often and when I do see him it’s because I got to walk past him to get somewhere. I think he’s figured it out and he don’t buy me a beer no more. He still stares like he does, but I think that runs across the whole crew there and is just worst on him. He’s got bad eyes and a bad mouth.”

  Jethri nodded. “Always to both,” he agreed, “but he’ll need to be careful with such talk if he’s around Liadens. If someone from my clan or my ship were to hear it, they might take it badly. I’ll see if I can figure out how to get word to him to stop such tales else if Clan Ixin or a crew mate hears it, they may take his tongue for it.”

  Freza closed her eyes and he laughed gently.

  “Figure of speech, I believe it, but Mac’s not good social with Terrans, so he’s probably really bad social with Liadens, and things could get out of hand double-quick. That’s how I ended up with a new mother!”

  “It’s confusing, Jethri, it is. We hear you called a trader, we hear you called son of a trader . . .”

  He looked to the chronometer, sighed as he tapped at it. “When we have our shivaree we’ll save some time for that stuff.” He said it jestingly, he thought, but it came out sounding like an invite to him, too.

  She looked at him, calculation in her eyes and a smile on the corners of her mouth.

  “Well, here’s the thing—I’m not against it in the general way of things. But you got to know that if you come around ships—our ships, the central and north central loops, even the west central loops—there’s some other stuff that Mac Gold’s been pushing at people, and being this close to you, and you dressed up to take the shine off a hull, I can see his point.”

  He held out his hand, showed the apprentice ring—

  “I’m a trader. Really.” He caught her eye then by spreading the collar of his tunic, reaching for a pair of chains. On one was his Terran trade key—and on the other was his clan sigil, rabbit-and-moon.

  “And this, he said, holding the key, says I’m a trader, too. This”—he leaned in her direction—“calls me a son of the house, Clan Ixin.”

  Now Freza shook her head, ear jewels not distracting him from watching her face.

  “Not what I mean. Not the issue, really, not concerned about that stuff, Jeth. Mac Gold’s claiming that you wasn’t true crew on the Market—that you was a side accident from one of Arin’s Commission runs . . .”

  Jethri sighed and she held her hand up.

  “Jeth, it don’t matter to me, but it might to shipfolk. It’s true though, it doesn’t look like there’s drop one of Iza’s blood in you. You look so much of Arin—”

  He overrode her then, his voice gaining tension with each word.

  “I . . . look so much like Arin I could be his twin!” He closed his eyes as part of his pause, opened them to find Freza’s attention riveted. “And since I only knew him after I was born, I can’t tell you how it happened!”

  Startled by his vehemence Freza sat back, her face serious. It took a moment for her to find words, and then they were uncertain.

  “Yeah, Jethri, you could. I didn’t really know Arin, but I’d seen him. And now, with you all dressed up, you could pass for him when he was doing the official bit. Hair’s different, and that’s good, but . . .”

  “But rumors I’m a copy are exactly the kind of thing Mac Gold would go for, aren’t they? Mad at everyone so not anyone, anywhere, can be as pure a looper as he is.”

  Freza smiled, nodded, and said lightly, carefully, “You know, you even sound more like Arin when you’re mad. I was there, toting drinks for the common room, when he had to bust up the Glenleg shivaree. You even got a flashy ring on your hand!”

  He glanced at the ring again, nodded. “Guess it does look flashy if you don’t know it’s a starter ring . . .” He paused, looked to her face, saw a lot to like there, went on “I keep finding stuff out about Arin that everyone thinks I know. Kind of hard sometimes. It’s almost worse than learning what I need to do to get by with my new crew, since they know I’m outside the culture. But there’s a lot I d
idn’t know, and don’t. I keep trying to learn it all . . .”

  “But, like you say, there’s schedules to do things, and learning to do, and we can’t get all done at once.”

  He hadn’t exactly said that, but she went on before he could correct her.

  “Several things are happening, Jethri Arin’s son; one is that someone’s watching out for the Market. It’s been on port a couple places that if anyone knows where the Market’s been or where it’s going, it might be worth some big money. And then there’s your name, same thing, and then some folks are after the Envidaria, too . . .”

  His bow became a nod—he fought against the shrug, but once that happened, he let the grimace come to his face too.

  “Envidaria?”

  She laughed, “Well, yeah, I mean they’ve been after that for years so it doesn’t make any difference, does it? If someone needs it, we carry a copy, but it’s not just handed around . . . and the Golds don’t have it from us, so they can’t sell it, that’s for sure!”

  Too much at once—

  “Who is buying what?” he finally managed.

  “That’s the thing. Mostly it seems to be regular ship trackers, like finance folk might put out, I guess. Seems to me the questions are thicker closer we are to Liaden ports, and closer to where we hear the Market’s already been, but I haven’t put analysis to that.”

  A gentle buzzing noise then: “Gotta go, Jethri. I swear I’m watching for you. We’ll catch you up on everything! Here’s our schedule—you got one?”

  He stood, pulled a card from his public pocket, his trader’s card, handed that across and sighed: “Elthoria’s got a long-posted route—you can drop messages along there and I’ll get ’em. I have to set up some personal boxes, I guess. And your route, I’ll watch for news and send it. I don’t know how long this business with the Scout’s going to take . . . “

  They hugged again as they parted at the door, his ear still smarting from the nip she’d given it and his grin not well-hidden as he played her parting words over in his mind.

  “More where that came from, Trader, and that’s a contract!”

  “Done!” he’d managed, but then she was away, and the world around him was dimmer.

  He sighed, and folded the borrowed rain cloak into his carry case before searching out his appointment with the law-jaw.

  * * *

  The first time he’d come through here he’d still been in the wind-blown rain slicks, his hair and face as damp as the cloak. Now, though, he’d had time to recover not only from the rain but from the combing and shaping for his ID photoshots and vidclip made for his meeting. He had his collars right, some of his Ixin jewelry showing around his neck and his ring was showing color.

  He felt good, having gotten work done, and he walked like he felt good and in charge. Thus, he was visible.

  His new visibility meant there were a couple of bows, two salutes, some quiet near-whispered conversation after he passed—yes, it was obvious that Balfour wasn’t really used to Liaden traders in full dress-up walking their corridors, no matter that they might see and handle an occasional Liaden ship.

  The sides of the rain tunnel were furled now, with the edges of the passage just ended glittering with rain drips.

  The drips showed that the rain had not long been gone, and the breeze still whistled through the covered way, the puddles not as deep as they’d been.

  Deep in thought over the day’s work—and with an early morning appointment facing him on the morrow—Jethri hardly noticed the cooling temperatures nor the glow on the horizon where the local star was rapidly falling below sight level. There were sounds of work nearby, and voices, and he caught the flash of port landing lights. In the lowering light he sensed a wide glow that domed the rest of the city.

  Since he’d not been beyond the customs zone he had no idea of its size by sight or by numbers: ter’Astin had been far too canny to have Jethri doing more than covering incoming radio transmission during the inclement landing. What the Scout ship gave way in size to even a compact family trader like Gobelyn’s Market meant local weather could make landings unstable.

  He operated the entry with quick touches, casually turning to be sure that no one was close enough to see his codes or be sure if he’d used a card or keypads—of such things was security built!

  Once in, Keravath was fairly quiet, only the comforting whisper of air circulation now, along with the occasional tick of one or another piece of equipment comparing the state of Board One against that of Board Two. Maybe the ship was a little noisier than usual—when the Scout was on sleep shift it often seemed as though there were more sounds and not fewer.

  The ship’s interior was more comfortable than the breezy world outside and Jethri tucked the dry raingear away. Out of new habit he dropped into the second’s seat. Curious, touching controls that brought up the ship’s outside eyes, he saw the city as Keravath could: glows of air currents in one screen, energy levels of the clouds and distant storm in another, and nearby—

  And nearby, well within the ship’s stay-away zone, were two figures in workers’ gear moving slowly away, a hip-height tractor following obediently behind.

  Inexpertly he sought the camera controls, triggering an external light as well as the video control he wanted. The workers sped up slightly, leaving the ship’s zone empty, and by the time he’d figured out the image zoom and follow, the zone was clear. And boring.

  He stared at the screens absently, leaning into his seat as the fingers of his right hand twiddled idly with his right ear halfway up the rim. He laughed then—that was where Freza had nipped him to promise a contract for shivaree . . .

  He allowed his fingers to continue their ruminative exploration a few moments longer, far happier to consider that bit of contract than the maze of notions and motions laid out for him this day by Jay Rivenkid Dorster, Esquire. He stared into the screen, seeing nothing but his post-Freza meeting.

  * * *

  Despite the obvious police in other sections of the complex, Jethri hadn’t seen any once he stepped down the two shallow steps to the section marked as “Upper Old Gate Mall” on the wall maps.

  The people were many, sitting at tables or standing at small food and beverage booths, dressed Terran, or local Terran, with a fair number in kilts or skirts. Most of the others, in bland bluish or grayish trousers and mixed color shirts could have been from other back-ports Jethri’d been on, and the clothes of day workers. If Jethri’s underbrain knew anything about it, many of them weren’t all that well-off, though there was no air of desperation about the place.

  There was an undercurrent of sound, which he took to be the rain, which he could see through sheeting the upper windows, elsewise the sounds were low voices calmly shared, either tired, indolent, or both.

  He was watched with minor interest, and watched back, glad at least that his hair was no longer ship-smooth, for many of these wore their hair long and bordering on the unkempt, a mix of hats, scarves, and visors not hiding the prevalence of reddish-brown heads; a few watched harder and were dressed in a more forward and provocative fashion with shorter kilts or skirts and more open shirts, but none approached asking for his custom and he didn’t slow, since time was coming closer.

  His walk was short, and down three more steps in another section, this with a roof that leaked in several spots. He shivered, a touch of his world-side phobia returning to imagine a place where leaks weren’t plugged and gases were free to escape hither and yon . . . but the directions were good even if the door he came to at Fifty-Six Gate Court Lower looked to be made out of polished wood set into a raw stone wall instead of something properly airtight.

  He passed through that swinging door, taking the enter sign at its word, and discovered the door was indeed wood, not even as thick as his fist—and if the wall on the other side was not of the same raw stone, it was instead a matching tone of gray bricks.

  The other walls of the room were a treasure. His trader’s eye went to w
ork cataloging the shelf space of books—hardcopy books!—the sidewalls full, the back wall full except for two doors, a hip-high shelf wall of books split the room. He closed the door, saw that the front wall held a treasure of paintings on cloth, and . . .

  “Yes?”

  Startled, Jethri turned, caught sight of a quizzically smiling face peering over the wall—from a seat on the other side of it. He bowed to the woman: by her lined face and near colorless hair, an elder . . .

  “I regret I failed to see you. I am Jethri Gobelyn. An appointment made for Ixin and Gobelyn—”

  “Why, yes, your name is here in the book. You are several moments early. Please, make yourself at home and I’ll let Jay know you are arrived.”

  Making himself at home took the form of approaching the closer left wall and peering at the titles at easy eye height. The books stopped just short of the ceiling . . . and the shelves were wood, too!

  He caught a motion out of the corner of his eyes—the elder had risen and was walking toward the back, from where presently arose some mumbles. She was dressed in trousers and top much like those in the courtyard outside, though not as strained with wear, and her shoes were simple sandals.

  The sound continued, but Jethri’s eyes were drawn to the wall again, which he moved along slowly, trying to absorb exactly what it was he was looking at. Some of the books matched in series, and each had the name of a planet, or a system, or a ship manufacturer or—

  “Sir, Jay will see you now.”

  Jethri blushed beneath his bow, the lady’s nice smile from just an arm’s length away taking away part of the sting of his being quite so inadvertent in his attention. She turned and walked away, and he smelled something flowery—likely one of the scents the world-bound use to disguise themselves.

  “Come on in and find a seat, Trader Gobelyn, and welcome!” The words were in ship-deck Terran, broad and loud, with a depth and smoothness so easy it was almost sung.

  Jethri stood, transfixed. The man behind the huge desk stood, bushy red hair brushing the room’s ceiling and cascading down to his shoulders, merging as it fell into an impossible mask of gray-red that left his face, temple to nose, open to view and the rest covered in a roiling mass of self-grown hair.