by Sharon Lee
Doricky paused for another sip of wine, before leaning toward Samay, and beckoning her closer. Samay bent in, as did Jethri; even Master Trader pin’Aker leaned a little toward the storyteller.
“It was said,” Doricky continued at the necessary volume to be heard over the noise of the room, her posture giving the impression that she whispered into their ears. “It was said, Master Trader, that Emdy Sternako once sold sawdust to a lumberyard—and at a handsome profit!” She leaned back, with a small smile.
“He was clever, and talented, too. More, he taught; he put together co-op deals that would benefit traders who were maybe not so clever, or a little less talented. He went out of his way to introduce other traders to profitable connections; he made himself available for consultation.” She paused as if in silent reflection upon the virtues of Trader Sternako.
“A trader of rare melant’i,” Master Trader pin’Aker murmured. “These are the qualities the Liaden guild looks for in candidates for Master.”
“Oh, he was Master class, all right. If he’d been Liaden, he’d’ve had himself a purple ring, no question. Thing was, you might’ve thought he was Trollian—or even Liaden—except for one thing . . . .”
She waited. Samay being too patient to see the cue, Doricky finally gave in, waggling prompting fingers in Jethri’s direction.
“And why wouldn’t this Emdy Sternako be confused with a Liaden, Grandma?” Jethri asked with a little emphasis.
She smiled knowingly, her palms forward directly beneath her chin, allowing the stretched thumbs to frame the bottom of her face.
“Sternako came from an old family, and said he got into trading because he was poor as a child. He said he financed himself on his first trip by not buying razors or depilatories. Since his first trip was a success, he decided it was because he didn’t take off his beard, and he didn’t want to jinx his luck. So, he never took that beard off, and I swear, it went out to his shoulders!”
Samay took a deep breath, perhaps shocked at the idea. Clearly, going on a trade mission was widening her horizons.
“Ah,” said the more experienced pin’Aker solemnly, “so he looked a bush with a face in it, which never you will find among Liadens!”
Doricky shook her head in agreement. “Bush is correct. First time I saw him it was so dark a brown it was almost black. Next time it was so gray it was just about white, shoulder to shoulder.
“Well, Emdy, he was one of the traders who early supported the building of this station, and the notion that all traders, no matter their language or their homeworld, ought to come together and do business as equals. For the first six of our trade shows, he made it a point to come to a party at the show—let’s call it this party!—and offer to outtrade anybody . . . and he did, most every time.”
She sighed then, long and hard.
“Then, we sent an invitation, but he didn’t come. Energia was listed as late. Over a Standard they listed her as late, then they listed her as missing—not only here, but at all of his regular ports. He never exactly made firm commitments, you see—but we always expected him to show up. That empty chair there—that’s his chair. Only two or three folks I know would dare sit in it!”
She nodded to Master Trader pin’Aker. “There’s your history, right there.”
“I am grateful,” he said. “I concur, the history of such a man is a treasure, reminding Masters of our obligations, and providing a standard to which all may aspire.”
“That’s right,” Doricky said. “Something to aspire to, is Emdy Sternako. And there’s the bell! The trade-off’s about to start.”
* * *
The laughter had died down from the start of the challenge, which apparently was a joke of long standing between two friends, each offering to trade fair-value items they’d brought in ancient transport sacks.
“I have here,” the first offered, sipping loudly from a very large mug of ale and displaying the object at the same time, “a used mechanical grease gun, as favored on Ynsolt’i. You may inquire after the age of the grease in it if you like or have an expert on hand verify that it is still usable. I paid a great sum for it, and I challenge you to make it worth my while to trade with you!”
He showed the grease gun to all and sundry, offered side challenges, quaffed his beer.
“You hardly have better than this, I believe,” the second trader said haughtily, “so you’ll wish to offer me cash plus if you want me to take your . . .” Here she looked to the ceiling and the far walls with exaggerated expression while she puffed on her lectrostim pipe, and held a seal-pak high. “This is a genuine top-of-the-line antique cake-art multispatula! Hard to find in many systems, since some folks don’t appreciate proper cake. Do know, rascal, that this is a new and never-used item, still hygienically sealed.”
“You’ve taken up cake-baking, have you, Trader?” The first trader, Donpa Auely, looked startled, and took a large sip from his mug while eying his opponent suspiciously.
“Much more likely,” she offered with a sniff, “than you’d take up the care and greasing of anything but a beer keg!”
The banter worked, drawing a crowd to the stage. The audience now joined in as the traders sparred prices, throw-ins, add-ons, delivery fees, and celebrated the taxless free-trade status of Gallery 770. Side bids and side bets rained down upon the pair as they showed off their silly goods until, practically nose to nose, they traded a mix of friendly insults.
“Antique, but brand new, never used!”
The telling points, according to many whistles from the audience.
“Used and we know it works!”
There were not nearly as many supporters for this view, but they were very loud with their cheers. Oddly, Master Trader pin’Aker seemed to take the used-and-proven view, while Jethri’d been willing to make noise in support of the spatula. He’d seen such tools properly employed by Dyk and tried them himself, and knew a little, at least, of its worth.
He shifted in his seat, and very nearly brushed cheeks with Samay, who had leaned in his direction, perhaps for a better view of the action . . .
Jethri staved off the startle in favor of enjoying the view, a light bow and slight smile presenting themselves as the proper form for the moment; his blush a momentary and comfortable warmth.
Her smile was as wry as his, and they shared a near silent chuckle, each retreating from their lean. Jethri sighed and felt warmth in his cheek again, but Samay’s smile became a passing grin as they both turned again to the trading, which was by now getting very energetic, if not decisive.
From the direction of the bar came a distinct and musical female voice, speaking Trade.
“This calls for an arbitrator!”
Doricky laughed out loud. “Yes, excellent . . . I say do it!”
The sentiment moved in a wave then, Doricky’s approval having been a fulcrum; names were thrown out as possibilities.
“Arbitration needs someone neutral!” suggested another voice. “Who here can be neutral—those two scoundrels have bested us all at one time or another!”
“A first timer!” called someone from near the bar, and Jethri felt a thrill. Was Grig here?
“Here is someone unknown!” called Donpa Auely, using his chin to point at the first row . . .
At, Jethri saw, Samay.
Suddenly, the whole room was looking at Samay.
Her cheek darkened, and it seemed that her command of language failed, for only a moment. Then she took a breath, much like one would take a centering breath before beginning a menfri’at pattern, and rose. She bowed acceptance of a necessity, and spoke in Trade. “What needs done? I am unfamiliar with these protocols!”
Into the cheers of Samay’s bows came another sound—Doricky’s voice, getting louder and louder, saying the same words over and over.
“Hold launch, hold launch, hold launch!”
She repeated that phrase a dozen times by Jethri’s count, standing and waving the walking stick over her head until the two tra
ders stopped motioning for Samay to come up on the stage.
“Problem, Grandma?” asked the trader of the multiuse spatula.
“Could be. You two—you been busting through space for almost a hundred Standards, between you—and this person here is on her first trip to space, and never signed off on her own trade in her life.”
The crowd hushed and Doricky took that as a sign to keep talking.
“You want neutral? Two of you up there to cook up trouble and tell jokes, and you can’t even close the deal? You ought to have two arbitrators maybe—one for each!”
With this Doricky brought her stick down, leaned on it, and whispered at Jethri, her voice full of either meaning or menace, “Stand up like you want to and let me talk!”
Perforce, he stood, and there were cheers, apparently just because something had happened and they’d had enough to drink to make that good.
Doricky turned back to the pair on stage. “Have either of you traded with this man?”
They signaled no, and she went on.
“This man has a trade ring, and he’s got a ten-year key—show ’em, Jethri!”
Glancing at Samay, he managed a quick, slight bow of joint endeavor. He then raised the hand adorned by his trade ring over his head, and pulled the ten-year key up on its chain and waved it energetically.
More cheers. Samay looked up at him expectantly and he dared to offer her a small smile.
“So he ain’t a Master Trader, but he’s lived ships his whole life I bet, and he’s done something only a couple people in this room have ever done—been a trader on a ship out of Liad!”
There was a smattering of applause, but Doricky wasn’t finished yet.
“Then, he bested that by being the first Terran trading off of a Liaden ship! Folks, this trader here is the walking ideal of the whole Tradedesk project!”
That grabbed people’s attention well enough, and really started them buzzing.
“So, let’s have these fine folks identify themselves. After they do it’ll be this: Cheers, and they’ll do the deal. No cheers, well then, we’ll let these guys talk your ears off through another brew or two!”
She turned, and waved at Samay.
“Sing out, and make an intro! And remember, this is fun!”
Jethri saw the confusion cross Samay’s face and he leaned in close, whispering, “‘Sing out’ is theater talk, show-off talk for speak up or speak out.”
She bowed to him, and to the crowd she bowed an embellished, deliberately exotic bow of welcome and introduction, twined ’round an amplified version of her first bow, accepting necessity and challenge. When she spoke, it was with authority and with her head held high. Yes, Jethri thought, High House indeed!
“Samay pin’Aker Clan Midys, A’thodelm pin’Aker. I am an assistant trade accountant on Barskalee. After I finish my training, in two Standards, I will become head of my line, of pin’Aker, and fourth to the head of my clan, Clan Midys. Thank you for this honor.”
Some talk and respectful cheering—good. Jethri gathered himself, following her excellent example with a bow, and then trying as best he could to emulate her unconcerned assurance.
“Jethri Gobelyn ven’Deelin Clan Ixin.” He didn’t have a position in his clan’s line of succession, except least likely to succeed, but he continued with what had impressed Blinda—and probably Samay, too, for that matter—“I learned to trade on Gobelyn’s Market, I’m guest pilot on Keravath, and second trader on Elthoria.” For emphasis he raised his trade ring again, then bowed.
“Thank you for this honor.”
* * *
“Donpa Auely,” the trader touched his left hand thrice to forehead in the direction of Samay and then at Jethri, trader and pilot. While his badge told the same story, it couldn’t tell the tale of his smile up close, nor that it was obvious that his apparent steady drinking had left no impression at all on his full beer mug. “I really appreciate you taking this dare, the both of you!”
“Jadith Sabemis, Trader-at-Large, sir and ma’am,” bowed the other—with her stim-stick giving off the very lightest scent of an herb that wasn’t vya. “Thanks. Just so you know, since you’re new and might not have the plan, anything we make out of this goes right into the Distressed Travelers Fund—mostly used for spacers and pilots who get stranded without resource. We both donate what we get!”
Samay bowed, first to the contestants, then to Jethri. “A contest worthy of a melant’i play, is it not? The one who wins loses the most!”
Her Trade was clear, her amusement plain.
“You good with that, Trader?” Estimable Trader Donpa Auely held his brew high in hands as steady as his eyes. “We’ll take your consultations in the spirit that we’re all giving something to pay forward since we can’t pay it backward.”
Jethri’s nod came quickly, and lurched into an awkward bow of joint endeavor as startling noise erupted beside him.
“Someone bring their drinks up here!” Sabemis shouted out over the crowd. “In fact, bring me a drink, too! D’you think we’re all gonna work dry?”
There were cheers, and after the drinks arrived, more.
* * *
They’d managed to cheer the bidding and the crowd on to a total of two thousand Terran bits by dint of letting the groups form confederations, each promising aid to one side or the other, while the “arbiters” enthusiastically backed up the claims for the unlikely virtues assigned this particular used grease gun or that special unused spatula, surely the very last of its class as yet unused, think of the history!
When the joke was wrung dry, and the bidding come to an end, Samay leaned to Jethri, her face bright.
“So much enjoyment! And for you?”
He assured her that he had also enjoyed the show, and was about to ask her if she’d care to have a private drink with him, away from her uncle and Grandma Doricky, but—
“Samay! C’mon help an old woman collect money from these rascals!”
“Duty,” she whispered, and left Jethri’s side for Doricky’s, who was standing in front of the stage, facing the audience, her stick held high.
“All right, folks, we’re gonna do our final formal trade for tonight, now. Trader Sternako used to have this spot in the program, but he’s not been with us for a while, so we take turns, in his memory. Since we already got Trader ven’Deelin up on his feet, we’ll see if he can get us back to real-time trading. So, Trader, you got the whole floor in front of you. What do you have to trade?”
With that, she left, on course for the counting table, donors trailing her. Some of the remaining crowd moved away to the bar, but a disturbing number, in Jethri’s opinion, were willing to watch this next act, in which the new trader made a perfect fool of himself.
What was Doricky thinking? He hadn’t brought anything to trade. Who would bring—to dinner and a reception—who would bring trade items?
“Traders trade, young Jethri,” Norn ven’Deelin murmured in his memory. “Is that surprising?”
He took a breath. No; it wasn’t surprising. He was a trader; of course he would trade.
But, what would he trade?
News? But they’d been trading news all day among themselves, informally—or had the more experienced been keeping count, even there?
Cold panic in the pit of his stomach. He took a sip of Misravot to warm it.
His uncle Paitor’d told a story more than once about how, given someone with money and a need, a trader had sold his own socks to make the deal.
And he’d better do something, now, or he’d lose the tempo.
A breath, to center himself—and a broad look out over the audience, both hands raised in surprise, one palm out, the other wrapped around his wine glass.
The crowd laughed, understanding his consternation. Surely, he might have been better prepared?
He had their attention, and he needed to keep it. He also needed to think, so he talked.
Instinctively, he bowed. “Thank you for this honor!” he sa
id, with a little too much sincerity—which got another rumble of laughter—the while his mind raced.
“I must admit, Traders, that I have left my pods on Elthoria in order to hurry here to be among you!”
Grins and nods from those gathered, as some more, drinks refreshed, came back to see what the kid was doing.
“I have no bulk deals as you might imagine, and I’m too fond of my socks to offer them up!”
Laughter and nods there—more laughter than he’d expected—so apparently Paitor’d not been the first to tell that tale. He saw Samay look toward him as she passed a handful of trade coins over to Doricky, felt the blush rising, as half the crowd must have seen him look in that direction as well.
It struck him then that he’d hit the right note, and he went on, in a slightly softer tone.
“In fact, I’m fond of everything I have with me this evening . . .”
That brought guffaws and titters—and Samay smiled.
He shook his head, raised the free hand—and called out: “As traders you all know that we’re fond of the things we trade. We believe in them. Like tubes of grease or special spatulas, they are all important and useful. After all, someone somewhere always needs something!”
He got agreement, and the crowd was still willing to listen.
“And so, with this opportunity come unexpectedly upon me, I am happy to recall that I have a special item with me this evening, and a knowledgeable audience, an audience willing to understand that I offer real value.”
He moved his free hand, not quite randomly, so that the stone in his ring glittered and flashed in the stage lights. Taking a quick sip of Misravot, he carefully brought the glass in front of his hand, and slipped the ring free.
“I have here,” he said, “a rare item of fine make and properties. I will entertain bids, but if I find the prevailing bid not high enough, I reserve the right to match it. If no one is interested, I will understand, and even find it fortunate—for this item will show best on the hand of one with a true affinity for uniquity!”
He’d carefully enclosed the gem within his fist, showing only the high-shine band peeking out from between his fingers, and recalling the seller’s words. That was another trick he’d picked up from Paitor: If the words are good enough to sell something to you, those could be the right words to sell it to someone else!
