Trade Secret

by Sharon Lee

  He did stay, leaning lightly on the counter top, listening to the room. The banter was friendly but charged with challenge, and there was a decided feel of anticipation, as the questions “Have you seen . . . ? Did you meet . . . ? Who is new . . . ? What’s the news?” were asked and answered in variations.

  Once he had his wine in hand, he would, he knew, need to tour the room some more. He did hope that someone would talk with him, rather than simply offering or acknowledging his greeting. An exchange of names was very well, but deals were done in conversation.

  Bartender Suki must be having trouble finding the Misravon, he thought. But he waited for her still, not only because he had said he would, but because while he waited he had leisure to assess the group here. He was among the youngest—perhaps he was the youngest—a handicap, because that meant he was an unknown. He wondered exactly how the attendees were chosen; he had assumed he would be among traders of his own grade, else the invitation committee would surely have asked Master Trader ven’Deelin to represent Elthoria here. . .

  He scanned the growing crowd in earnest, specifically looking for people he knew, who might in turn introduce him to people they knew. . .

  There was Doricky, surrounded by a group of elder traders. He didn’t see Blinda, but then he didn’t want to see Blinda . . .

  Rinork’s Infreya chel’Gaiban stood in a corner near the door, talking cordially with Chally Delacorte—he’d been one of the main speakers on the topic of scheduling and turnaround early in the day. Standing beside her was a Liaden-seeming woman he didn’t know, her dress very modest, her badge bearing a pilot’s blue bar, and a slightly askew red bar. Though she was merely listening to the conversation, there was something . . . arresting in her stance. Jethri resisted the temptation to study her at length, and deliberately continued his sweep of the room—no staring like a long-lost looper in this company!

  The pilot’s presence at Rinork’s side, though, brought to mind one person he hadn’t seen yet in this more exclusive setting. Where was Bar Jan? And wasn’t it. . .interesting that his mother was here, appropriately badged, the proper position of heir at her side filled by someone who did not wear, as far as Jethri could judge, the Rinork face?

  Thinking back . . . hadn’t he seen Bar Jan earlier, in the Hall of Festivals? Jethri squinted his eyes thoughtfully . . .

  Yes! He remembered. Grandma Ricky had asked him to achieve a small third round of bloosharie candies for her. And on his way across the now-crowded space, he’d seen Samay pin’Aker, though her face had been turned slightly away from him. Then he had seen Bar Jan chel’Gaibin stalking toward the door, his badge conspicuously lacking the red bar.

  Samay’s badge, Jethri remembered, had been colored red and green, which meant he should find her among the company gathering in Gallery 770. That cheered him—and gave him a goal. He straightened, gazing round the room in good earnest.

  A nearby rattle interrupted his search, and there was Ranny Suki, guiding a small cart filled with bottles and objects . . .

  Her face lit up at seeing him, as if he were a long-time friend instead of a passing trader, and she parked the cart, efficiently pulling free several bottles to show them off.

  “Here, sir, the Misravon. I have several dozens of bottles in stock, I find, and here too, is the Misravot. We have one case of a dozen, at proper temperature . . .”

  “One dozen shall do,” he said with a slight smile, and she laughed.

  “Well, yes, unless you set the fashion, in which case the Misravon will go to anyone asking for Altanian and I’ll reserve the Misravot for you or your party, since you have requested it!”

  He bowed, but she was stacking bottles into the cooler, seeming to have one too many for easy disposition.

  “Odd numbers, I guess—oh, shipped through a Korval distributor says the label, so they’d be counted by Liaden figures. I’ll have them all ready, for when you wish to share them with your party. Shall I pour one now, so that you may be sure of it?”

  He bowed.

  “Indeed, please do,” he said, wishing he had a party. Well, perhaps the Scout would show up, or Samay. . .

  He received his glass from Ranny Suki, her anxious eyes recalling him to his obligations. Solemnly, he raised the glass and sniffed, finding the bouquet appropriately hinting of spice. A little wine on the tongue then; finding it smooth in the mouth, and the flavor—as he recalled it—tart, with an overnote of sweet-blooming flowers packing behind it a complex secondary set of notes and flavors.

  He smiled at her. “Excellent.”

  She beamed. “Thank you, Trader ven’Deelin. I’ll pass the word that you requested the beverage and pronounced it of the first quality.”

  He almost told her what his opinion of the wine was worth, having tasted Misravot precisely three times before. Then, he recalled Norn ven’Deelin, and merely smiled, with a small inclination of the head, as if they understood each other very well.

  “The trader has given the room the benefit of his experience and his opinion,” Norn had said, after they had witnessed one such do precisely that. “This is not lightly given, nor offered to the unworthy. If there are others more experienced present, let them bring their opinions forward, also. This is how we learn.”

  Of course, he being what seemed to the most junior trader in the room, there could be plenty to offer a more experienced opinion, but until then, his stood.

  Still half-smiling, he carried his drink into the crowd that was rapidly becoming a crush.

  His was a twisty course, following the least crowded portions of the floor. The gleam of a Master Trader’s ring caught his eye more than once; he had stopped counting ’prentice and working trader rings for nearly all present wore one of those.

  Eventually, his casual wandering brought him again to the fireplace, and the comfortable groupings there. One large, leather-looking chair almost directly catty-cornered from the door, was facing it. The person in the chair would be able to see everyone who came in, and be seen. It reminded him of images he’d seen of cruise liners where the captains apparently were seated in such chairs in order to impress the passengers. While it looked comfortable, and the view of the door interesting, it seemed, Jethri thought, a little too impressive for a young trader who knew his own melant’i to choose for himself.

  He chose instead another leather-look seat, central of a small group of five, as far to the big chair’s right as he could get. There was passage space behind the grouping, and to the sides, and the view of the room was very nearly the same view as might be had from the big chair, without being . . . obvious.

  He settled comfortably, the glass in his hand attracting his attention. While bloosharie tended toward the reddish-purple side of things to his eyes, Misravot—at least this glass of the same, in lighting adjusted to local seeing and star colors—was pure, unadulterated blue. There were gemstones of the first water that boasted a blue so pure, and he’d been told that there were planets with skies that looked pure blue from the ground, though he often saw leanings to green and purple.

  He twirled the glass, watching the surface where the reflections of the subtle ceiling lighting picked up the shifting colors. He recalled the room where he and Gaenor had played, and wondered if there was a secret aural mood trick going on in this room as well. He strained his ears, but if there was something to hear under the sound of voices, his ears weren’t sharp enough to catch it. He did notice, however, a slow wave in the lighting, a change he hadn’t noticed until he came to rest, nearly hypnotic if one paid . . .

  “And so much for the party of the century—I say, so much for it that a prized guest stares at his drink all alone while the festivities go on around him!” There followed a sharp snap, as if someone had deliberately broken a glass pipette.

  Startled, Jethri brought his attention to the room, where Doricky stood close to the large chair, leaning somewhat uncertainly on a walking stick.

  He rose instantly to bow, careful of his drink. Master tel’
Ondor would have been proud of his smooth combination of honor to an elder, respect to the position, thanks for the quiet correction of a social infelicity and welcome to an event equal that he managed.

  “Would you like the chair, ma’am?” he offered with a Terran’s wave at the seat he’d been in . . .

  “Happens I would like a chair, as it seems that no one’s quite sure what to do with me now that I’m not in charge of anything more than saying hello to others no longer in charge—well, and to those too new to know.”

  She nodded toward the chair in the corner.

  “I will regard that chair as reserved, and I applaud your choice, which you should sit back down in as soon as you adjust this one to your left so I enjoy the same view that you have. And don’t sit down until you fetch me the very twin of your drink. We will begin to set this place to talking, you and I!”

  * * *

  The effect wasn’t as immediate as Doricky had intimated it might be; Jethri had a short wait retrieving a glass for the lady, and took a little longer to return, due to increased traffic in the room. He did again see Samay, which he thought was good, and Infreya, which was perhaps not so good. That Samay and another person of Liaden bearing were speaking with Infreya was not to be wondered at, given Rinork’s status.

  “There you are, Trader!” Doricky greeted him upon his return. She took her glass and leaned back in her chair with a sigh and a grin. “This is becoming a crush, as we all knew it would. How do you regard it? And yes, let us at least sip your choice . . .”

  They nodded a common trader’s toast to success.

  “Ah,” was Doricky’s reaction, though Jethri wasn’t sure if it was for the wine or for the busy group of six entering the room in high conversation, all personages he recognized as having given presentations or led tours. The group headed to the bar en masse, speaking all in Terran, some of it so heavy with accents that even Jethri was hard put to follow it.

  “That’s timing for you,” Doricky said comfortably, adding, “An excellent choice in wines—someone’s been showing you the good stuff!”

  Taking another sip, she nodded again appreciatively, then made a hand motion—

  “Not being in charge this time around, I haven’t paid as much attention as I should to things. Didn’t notice who sent you the invite.”

  Jethri felt a twinge of panic—but this wasn’t a security test, it looked like.

  “I was away from the ship, but it went to Elthoria, Grandma. The note tells me a name from the committee . . .”

  She laughed briefly.

  “I suppose the note does,” she admitted. “But ships generally don’t get notes or invites, traders do. Guess that’s how we got those Rinork folks—they’ve got some exclusive runs and that kind of puts a bind on people. But you’re right new to the halls, aren’t you?”

  “That’s so, ma’am. But wait”—he fiddled in the middle pocket, pulled out the hardcopy—“here it is . . .”

  He handed her the folded sheet as the volume of noise in the room picked up. Laughter was all over, and if there was soothing sound underneath, there’d be no way of knowing it now.

  She paused, waiting for the light to change enough for a good view, and said a long drawn out, “Ohhh . . . oh.”

  Looking him hard in the face, she raised the hand with the note in it and waved it in his direction with quiet emphasis.

  “You don’t have to tell anyone else who invited you, right, Jethri? Just say you got your invite from the committee. Spare you a lot of interfering questions—and sometimes the committee don’t sign these things, anyway.”

  That touch of disquiet came again.

  “Is there a problem, ma’am?”

  She shook her head, emphatically this time.

  “No problem, none. See, the committee agrees on most of the folks who’ve come before—so that we keep things friendly. First-timers are usually run by everybody, but not always, and anyone who’s bought in before can just run an invite in if they really want to.”

  She handed the note back.

  “You know ’em, do you?” She blinked, and suddenly laughed, putting her wine in danger. “What am I asking? ’Course you know ’em! Now I see why you looked so familiar to me—and that Iza! Right, right. Your father was the Gobelyn who wasn’t—he married onto the ship. People wondered at the time, but—well. No use reheating yesterday’s ’mite.”

  Jethri looked from her to the signature on the letter—Dulsey Omron. He was perfectly certain that he’d never dealt with anyone—individual or trade group—going by the name Dulsey Omron.

  He raised his eyes to Ricky’s face, and said, quietly, “You have the advantage of me, ma’am.”

  She frowned, eyes narrowing, then nodded.

  “I see that I do that, too. Second time I run foul of Gobelyn family politics tonight! Sorry, Jethri; guess getting crushed wasn’t good for my thinking apparatus, either.”

  “As far as I can tell, you’re thinking rings around me,” Jethri said. “Please, ma’am, I’d like to know why I’m supposed to know this”—he fluttered the letter in frustration—“person.”

  She had a leisurely sip of wine, studying him over the rim. He met her eyes straightly.

  “Well,” she said, at last, “Dulsey Omron’s the pilot who companions Uncle—I reckon he’s got as good a name as any of the rest of us somewhere about, but that’s what everybody calls him, just Uncle. None of us have kin-claim on him; just, he’s been around forever—and her, too—always busy, always open to helping; scheming and hatching, like traders do.

  “We wouldn’t be hosting this party, like we’ve done all these times now, without the Uncle helping out. He’s got hands in other projects, too; some go bust; some do right nice for the investors. His company’s Midcentral Crystal Logistics—and what all this has to do with you is that he’s Arin Gobelyn’s for-real brother, and Arin was the spit of him. Which means now I can say I’ve met two somebodies who Uncle was blood-kin to.”

  Jethri took a careful sip of his wine. So, he’d gotten the invitation not because he was a notable young trader, but because his father’s brother was doing him . . . a favor? There was a blow to his ego, but what did it mean for his melant’i, he wondered—and let the wonder go, because Doricky was still talking.

  “Shoulda realized it, first thing. You’re the spit of Arin, and Arin was the spit of Uncle.”

  That, Jethri thought, was something he could have happily lived a long lifetime without hearing. Unbidden, and much too clear, rose the memory of Grig the last time he’d seen him, on Irikwae, with his sister, Raisy.

  Who had been the spit of him—or him of her, since Raisy had admitted to eldest.

  He took another sip of wine and, seated as he was, bowed in Doricky’s direction.

  “Thank you, Grandma. It’s always good to have news of kin.”

  “Isn’t it?” she answered, and abruptly came to her feet, with only minimal help from her stick. Her smile was directed over his head, and she bent as much as the stick would allow, producing an entirely credible bow of welcome to a favored acquaintance.

  Jethri slipped his letter away into an inner pocket.

  “Trader pin’Aker,” said Doricky, “good greeting! I’m so pleased to see you here. It’s been many years since I’ve been able to enjoy your company. I wonder, have you yet met Elthoria’s newest trader?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Tradedesk, Gallery 770

  Barskalee’s Master Trader Rantel pin’Aker Clan Midys, sat poised and polite beside Doricky, the small talk between the elders having quickly devolved into brief comments and questions from him and extended descriptions, histories, opinions, and genealogies from her. Samay, introduced briefly as his niece, sat beside Jethri with somewhat more equality in their discussion.

  Since neither had previously traveled to Tradedesk, and neither had experienced a Sternako Memorial Trade-off, they fell from these similarities easily into conversation, bouncing between the Trade tongue and
Liaden, with Samay showing traditional High House skill in one and a reasonable proficiency with the other. From time to time she ventured into Terran; her accent suggesting that she could use a tutor if she meant to continue.

  As juniors, they’d been dispatched to the bar to retrieve drinks for their party. Jethri noticed that Samay was shorter than Gaenor, tending toward the slender. A chance remark of how long she’d be traveling on this trip revealed two things to Jethri at once: first, that she was, possibly, as much as a Standard his elder; and two, that Gaenor had never quite told him how old she might be. He’d never thought to look it up.

  Their return with refreshment had brought a pause in the conversation between the elders, while the wine was duly tasted.

  Master Trader pin’Aker was seen to smile very slightly—a Terran might have missed it entirely. He raised his eyes to Jethri.

  “Your choice, Trader?” he murmured.

  “Yes, sir,” Jethri replied, and manfully did not add, If you wish, I will gladly bring a more pleasing beverage.

  “Most enjoyable,” the Master Trader continued, and this time raised the glass to Jethri. “Come, let us all bestow proper attention.” He drank again, inclined his head, and turned once more to Doricky.

  “This . . . trade-off, Host Doricky—will you do me the honor of explaining the history? I find myself underinformed.”

  “It’s a history not many have, sir, but those of us who do, treasure it.”

  Doricky sipped her wine, and straightened somewhat in her chair, her glance drawing Samay and Jethri into the circle of those about to be shown a treasure.

  “Emdy Sternako, of tradeship Energia had a reputation,” she began, “of being willing to go anywhere to trade anything. He studied trade reports, news feeds, history, advertising—always, he had books and reading to hand; always, he was studying. His studying, his easy ways, and—even his friends admit it!—his silver tongue gained him the reputation not only as a trader of skill and merit, but as a man who could sell anything to anyone.”