by Sharon Lee
“Come down close if you wish to trade, and look you on an ancient ring, made of multibanded flash-formed Triluxian!”
It was true that not every trader is interested in every trade, that some preferred soft finery and some preferred multi-Standard lots of supplies of staples, or even things that were profitably unchallenging like bulk ore. Still, Triluxian . . . had adherents.
Some moved nearer to the stage, and Samay had come back to her seat, so she was close enough to smile to him rather than to the room.
“Triluxian, with an old inscription I’ve not definitively interpreted!”
It was true, as far it went—he’d not researched the ring after he’d bought it—the plan, insofar as he had formed one, was to eventually show it to Grig . . . but . . .
“Who will bid?” he called, raising his hand over his head.
There was a movement from the front. He glanced down—and into a face he had never hoped to see again. His father stood before him, in clothing so plain it might have been ship togs, just loose pants and a light sweater, with a stylized crystal on the right breast.
He opened his mouth, but he had no breath to speak. He met his father’s eyes—no, not his father’s eyes, for there was no welcome, no joy at their reunion, only . . . curiosity. The man—the stranger—shook his head slightly, and Jethri closed his mouth.
He looked away with an effort: merely a trader measuring the audience. His glance again swept over the man who was not his father, this time taking in his companion.
The woman was dark, spare, with a touch of exotic mixed genes about her face that could have been Liaden and Trollian and looper all rolled into one. There was perhaps something familiar about the set of her chin, the angle of her jaw.
“Dulsey Omron,” he remembered Doricky telling him, “the pilot who companions Uncle . . . Arin Gobelyn’s for-real brother, and Arin was the spit of him.”
He smiled over the audience—and with a flourish opened his hand to reveal the whole ring.
The firegem caught in the light, multiplied it and sent it blaring back. Brilliant scattered dots and rainbow flashes like sudden meteors dashed around the room. The ring, band and gem spread delight and consternation as it glittered and gathered attention.
Some laughed, some gasped, some stared.
“Who will make me an offer on this item? Shall we have an auction?” Jethri challenged the room, keeping his own gaze on the ring as more moved toward the front.
Some with a drink or two in them yelled out, “Firegem? I’ll give a half-bit, if you polish it up and swear it’ll catch me a virgin!”
Against the laughter and chatter rising from that noise, Jethri held steady, seeing in the back of the room Scout ter’Astin, and beside him the woman who had been standing heir-side to Rinork earlier.
Down front, Jethri went on with the business of trade.
“I have one bid, well below reserve. Who will give me a proper bid? I will prefer bids in hundreds of bits, or in cantra!”
That declaration drew gasps and complaints, sending a few away and drawing a few more in.
From closer to the front, Donpa Auely astutely asked, “What’s it inscribed?”
Jethri looked, the lighting not being best for seeing it whole, but he remembered the shabby trader sitting across the table from him, and the tiny, ornate legend . . .
“Cobol 426 . . .”
“One hundred bits,” Auely said, leaning forward, his hands resting on the back of Doricky’s chair.
The man with the crystal on his chest made the sign for inspection, and Jethri moved toward him, but then slowed as the man spoke low to his companion.
Jethri tried to display the inscription, but the hand motion was clear—the man wanted to see the firegem!
Jethri showed it close, spilling brilliant refractions over Master Trader pin’Aker’s face; Samay’s and Doricky’s as well.
“Two hundred bits,” said Uncle.
There was a large soft noise as if the whole room had sighed at once.
“Yep,” said Auely, and, “three hundred.”
“Four hundred bits,” countered Uncle.
Auely laughed lightly, looked to Sabemis, who leaned on his shoulder, whispering and nodding.
“Twelfth cantra,” he said with a note of triumph.
“One-quarter cantra.” The bid was given mildly, even carelessly.
“One-half cantra!” That was Sabemis, glaring . . . and she looked about, making hand signs asking for spot loans from friends . . .
The room stared at these bidders, back and forth.
The man in the plain apparel sighed, and bowed toward Jethri—obviously a capitulation . . .
“One cantra, plus four hundred bits. Also, I will buy your breakfast and an hour Standard of your time for a consult. I can pay you now.”
Jethri looked up, where Sabemis and Auely were shaking heads and shrugging while the shocked silence became a buzz.
“Out here, Trader,” he admitted, nodding to the opposition and then to Jethri.
“Offers?” Jethri asked politely.
No sound but clinks from the bar.
Doricky surprised him by slowly rising, using her cane to support her at first and then pointing to the empty chair, Sternako’s chair.
“Sit there, Trader ven’Deelin. Sit there, I say, and let the man pay you. Someone bring us all a glass!”
Then there was applause. Uncle and Dulsey nodded at him distantly, eyes still on the ring.
Chapter Twenty
Tradedesk, Gallery 770
The wine arrived—Misravot, of course. Jethri wondered if the bar had run out of their supply yet, then decided that wasn’t his problem. He accepted his glass from Samay, with an inclination of the head and a smile.
“You were magnificent, Jethri,” she murmured.
That gave him a warm glow, which increased somewhat when Trader Auely raised his glass and announced, “Profit to the trader; pleasure to the buyer!”
“Profit and pleasure,” those gathered by the chair murmured together, and all drank.
Jethri scarcely wet his lips, and smiled all around before putting his glass aside and nodding to Uncle.
“It remains to exchange profit and pleasure,” he said. “If we may be excused, Gentles?”
That hint peeled off the casual observers, which left Uncle and Dulsey Omron—the victors—Traders Sabemis and Auely—the losers—Doricky, Samay, and a slim trader standing just at the edge of his eye . . .
“Trader ven’Deelin.” Uncle gave his glass to his companion and came up to the chair. He extended his hand, opening the fingers to display the cantra piece, and the four hundred-bit coins.
Jethri inclined his head.
“Fair price,” he acknowledged. “Please, Grandma Ricky; accept this gentleman’s coin for the Distressed Travelers Fund.”
“Right you are, Trader, thank you for the gift of your skill.”
Uncle turned and offered the coins with a flourish; she accepted them solemnly.
“Enjoy your purchase, sir; it was fairly won.”
Uncle turned back to Jethri, who rose and offered the ring on his palm. The firegem flared and flickered, outshining the artificial flame in the fireplace.
“Sir. I will tell you that I am sorry, a little. The ring pleased me. My hope is that it will please you, as well.”
Uncle smiled, which altered his face, making him seem a little more like his own man, and considerably less like Arin.
“Trader, I cannot adequately express my pleasure in owning this ring. Never fear; I will honor it appropriately, and I will also honor you, who put me in the way of it.”
With that, Uncle raised the ring and slid it immediately onto his own finger. The gem seemed to flash even brighter, for an instant, as if it knew the hand, and was pleased to adorn it.
There came a collective sigh from those around, who, one by one, bowed to the trader and the buyer, and moved away, quietly, to other pursuits.
When
they were alone, Uncle reached into another pocket, and produced a quarter-cantra, which he again offered on his palm.
Jethri folded his hands together. “We are in Balance, sir; each fairly compensated for this night’s efforts.”
“You mistake me, sir. This”—he raised his hand slightly, to show the offered coin—“is your consulting fee, for one Standard hour of your time, tomorrow morning, at breakfast.”
“Surely it is customary to pay such a fee after the consultation?”
“Surely it is not,” Dulsey Omron said, entering the conversation with a laugh. “Take my advice, Trader ven’Deelin, and always collect for a consult ahead. Then you are certain of being paid, even if the client dislikes your advice!”
He bowed to her. “That’s good advice, Pilot; thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Trader. We leave you now to enjoy the rest of your evening. We breakfast tomorrow at ninth hour, at the Framinham Cafe!”
* * *
Jethri watched his . . . clients? . . . relatives? walk away toward the bar. He should, he thought, be exhausted after the various exigencies of the evening, but instead he felt. . . energized. Even overenergized. Maybe there would be dancing, after all . . .
He took a breath, half-turned—
And there was the figure from the corner of his eye, considering him with an expression of perplexity, amazement, and . . . was it pique?
“It is an honor to observe the level of your art, sweet Jeth Ree, but tell me what I must do to persuade you to answer your mail!”
“Tan Sim!”
Jethri went two quick steps forward, arms outstretched for a hug.
Grinning, Tan Sim grabbed his forearms, a public touch permitted between close associates, Jethri recalled.
He hastily altered course, and gripped Tan Sim’s arms, and the two of them stood gripping and holding, a riot of emotion for Liaden eyes, and the picture of restraint to Terran.
“Your pardon,” Jethri muttered. “Misravot.”
“What? Hasn’t that head hardened yet?”
“Oh, it’s hard enough, but in all the wrong ways—as you well know! As for my mail—I answered your last! Unless there’s been one since I’ve been traveling . . .”
“Of a certainty you answered! You have every faith in my abilities. I own—it’s well that one of us does so, but when one writes for advice, one does not wish for reassurance, one wishes for . . . advice.”
“But, what could I have advised?”
“Had I known that, tumultuous youth, I might have advised myself!”
Jethri laughed. “I think I see the problem, here—you want a glass of Misravot.”
After a moment, Tan Sim smiled.
“Do you know, I think I might.”
“Well, then, here . . .” Jethri offered his arm, which Tan Sim took, and they moved in the direction of the bar.
“Now, give over scolding,” Jethri said, “and tell me how you have come here.”
“As for that—Captain sea’Kera was persuaded to put Genchi to the test after it was most carefully explained to him by his trader how wonderful an opportunity this gathering is, so wonderful that it must on no account be missed. Alas, Genchi is not a courier ship, and we have only just arrived. I see that there are seminars scheduled for tomorrow and the next day, Standard, so I still hope to make good connections.”
“I have no doubt,” Jethri said, as they moved forward in line toward the bar. “Also, I might introduce you to some of the honoreds I have met—and to Doricky, who will introduce you to a hundred more, I warrant.”
“If you will introduce me to the trader with very deep pockets, who bought your pretty little ring, I would be most obliged. At least you must tell me who he is.”
Jethri bit his lip. Tan Sim was his partner, and he needed to know this. Probably.
“The trader is known to everyone as Uncle,” he said. “As it comes about, he is, in truth, my own uncle—the brother of my father. Tonight was my first meeting with him; I had only learned of his existence an hour before.” They arrived at the bar, and Ranny Suki smiled to see him.
“Trader ven’Deelin! Another of your party?” She turned the smile on Tan Sim.
“My partner, in fact: Trader pen’Akla. He’s only just arrived and is very much in need of a glass of the Misravot, should there be any more available.”
“Indeed, I have the last bottle of your case here, sir! Allow me to pour. Also, there is a cold nuncheon laid at the back of the room, Trader pen’Akla. Please refresh yourself.”
“I thank you.” Tan Sim gave her one of his more charming smiles and a bow.
“Thank you,” Jethri said, also, and they received their glasses and moved away.
“Do you wish to eat?”
“Do you know, a cold nuncheon sounds delightful. Tell me more about—”
“Trader ven’Deelin,” a lately familiar voice spoke at his elbow.
Jethri turned carefully. “Master Trader pin’Aker,” he murmured.
“Forgive me for intruding, Trader, I merely wished to express my congratulations on an excellent piece of trading and a very fine recover. A trader must sometimes think quickly to preserve the tempo and rescue the trade. These skills require practice. It was good of Host Doricky to arrange so neat a lesson for you.”
Jethri blinked. Had he or had he not seen a twinkle in the Master Trader’s eye? Best to answer modestly, in any wise.
He inclined his head respectfully. “Indeed, sir. I must remember to thank her for her care of me.”
“You must, Trader; I strongly advise it. Perhaps, too, a small gift, if something appropriate comes to your hand.”
“Thank you, Master Trader, for your advice. It will be my very great pleasure to choose a present for Grandma Ricky.” He took a breath and laid his hand on Tan Sim’s sleeve. “By your leave, sir, may I present to you my partner, Tan Sim pen’Akla Clan—”
“Pen’Akla!” the Master Trader interrupted. “Exactly the trader I had wished to find! Have you a moment to give me, sir? That is, if I do not interrupt business . . .”
Tan Sim blinked, and bowed prettily—but it was Tan Sim, with pretty bows something of a specialty. In spite of which, Jethri thought he saw a tremor along the carefully curved fingers, and remembered, darkly, that Genchi’s rations tended toward the low end of recommended daily caloric intake.
“My pressing business,” he said, “is to find Tan Sim something to eat, as he has only just arrived among us.”
Master Trader pin’Aker was seen to smile gently upon Jethri.
“Allow me, please, Trader, to take that pleasant duty from you. I promise that I will take most excellent care of him and return him to you in good order.”
“Truly, Jeth Ree,” Tan Sim added, sounded slightly panicked, “my meal can easily wait upon the Master Trader’s business.”
“No, no, Trader ven’Deelin and I are quite agreed!” said pin’Aker with a slight, indulgent bow. “I will see you properly fed, and we shall pursue our mutual business over what I am told are ‘handwiches made of fresh-bake bread, local cheese, and the finest soy meats’!” He offered his arm, and dropped back into Liaden. “Come, Trader, who can resist such a treat?”
“Jeth Ree . . .”
“Go, please, eat! Master Trader, my thanks to you again, for your care. Tan Sim—I’m on Keravath!”
“Yes,” Tan Sim said, and allowed himself to be borne off by the Master Trader.
Jethri turned away, sipping his wine absently, his mind occupied with the problem of a “small gift” for Doricky. Properly, such a gift, commemorating a service acknowledged, was small and personal. The more personal the gift, the greater the service.
He raised his hand to tug at his earlobe—and suddenly grinned.
Chapter Twenty-One
Tradedesk, Gallery 770
“Grandma Ricky.” He stopped before her chair and bowed, as a child to a favored elder.
She looked up at him with a tired smile.
&nbs
p; “Now, Trader, you’re not looking to me for bed-games, I’m thinking.”
“I would be honored, if you think you might find me of use,” he said, which was the proper response, and he would be honored, if she decided so.
She laughed, right out loud.
“Forty Standards! Hell, twenty Standards! But now? And having been crushed? Find somebody who can keep up with you!”
“But I came,” he said earnestly, “to thank you.”
She eyed him shrewdly. “Thank me for what?”
“For the opportunity to succeed,” he said seriously, which was almost exactly what he would have said in Liaden. He dropped to one knee beside her chair.
“May I give a gift?”
“I’m never one to turn down a present. Is it a nice one?”
“You must be the judge,” he said, and reached up to detach the modest gold ring that adorned his ear. Leaning forward, he affixed it to hers, and leaned back smiling.
“Like it was made for you,” he said.
She lifted her fingers, felt the adornment gently, and shook her head at him.
“You’re a fool, boy,” she said, precisely as if her eyes hadn’t become just a little damp. “A fool, but a pretty-mannered one. You can come find me again at tomorrow’s banquet. ’Til then, go away and let an old woman rest!”
“Yes, ma’am. Rest well.”
He rose, and took himself off, heading vaguely toward the door, though he was still feeling energy twitching in his fingers and toes. Common sense suggested that it was late, the first seminar on the morrow was early, and a trader might be best served by going back to his cramped berth on Keravath and trying to exchange energy for sleep. It did seem as if Gallery 770 had lost a number of partiers, so perhaps he wouldn’t be alone in—
“You are very condescending, sir!” he heard Samay say, from very close at hand. She was speaking High Liaden and her voice was even colder than that aloof dialect demanded.
