by Sharon Lee
“You would do well to learn the rules of Balance, Trader, before dealing with a true Liaden. Your bloodkin follow your lead and overstep, and now you bring the thing to others who can have no clue as to what might befall . . .”
“Not their quarrel,” Jethri said in colloquial Terran, then giving his closest translation in Trade before falling into a formal Liaden to say, “This is among those who have read the Code; the Code declares it!”
Bar Jan palpably stiffened and his color rose.
“You dare to declare yourself covered by the Code?”
“As well as I am able, I follow the Code,” Jethri declared, still in Liaden. “That’s what the Code is for—to help me act correctly at all times in an uncertain universe. If others act otherwise it is because they are not covered by the Code—that would be the people behind me, for example, and my cousin Khat and most of my bloodkin, who act from Terran learning—or because they are badly schooled and misapply or refuse the direction of the Code.”
Jethri pulled what he could from his lessons with Master tel’Ondor, understanding that between them, he and chel’Gaibon had wandered very far into fight-now territory. There was an out of sorts, and he sought it, wishing not to have a fight here on the docks with hard-armed Liadens and a bunch of shipfolks dressed for no more than a neighborly chat or maybe a quick-fisted brangle.
He bowed, much lower than he should, and moved closer than he liked to his tormentor, using the most formal language and most careful tones in the quietest voice to keep the words as much as could be between the two of them.
“Thus, permit me to suggest that we can keep this to ourselves and you will pass by, with forbearance of friends and acquaintances permitting us both to move on and begin anew at another and more propitious time.”
Jethri knew his reading of the Code was sketchy, but he was dealing with someone who claimed to be of a High House, someone who should recognize the offer as a way to avoid what could only be a chaotic mess if allowed to go to a portside brawl. The forbearance thing would let them both bow to their trains and suggest that something had been taken too strongly and should be set aside by all. It was one of the outs given to the very young, or the very inebriated, and each could use the melant’i of having been generous under pressure. . . .
There was, at first, no response.
“He still seeks your challenge, Second.”
The Scout’s quiet words came through Jethri’s tunneled attention and failed to chill his narrowly controlled anger. He’d almost rather be bloodied in a fight than take any more of this bashing away at his family and his right to be left alone to just trade in peace. The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to strike out . . .
“We can take them,” was Freza’s take on the situation, right behind ter’Astin’s and exactly what he didn’t want to see happen. The low sounds from the docksiders made it clear that they, too, were expecting trouble. Would someone just call the proctors? An out-and-out, cross-culture fight wouldn’t sit well on his record when it came time for a Master Trader test, nor would it sit well—he was certain—with Norn ven’Deelin, his Ixin mother on Elthoria.
Jethri’s hopes rose as chel’Gaibin turned half away as if to direct his company to move on, but then he saw the gesture the trader made with both hands, a turned back, and a shuffled left foot, as if he’d brushed something repulsive off his cape, and then kicked it away in disgust with the very tip of his boot so as not to sully himself otherwise.
Taking a deep breath, Jethri tried once more, somewhat louder, pulling to mind the proper section numbers of the Code, and in Liaden voicing the phrase, “Honored chel’Gaiban, I beg your consideration—the Code clearly states that accidental face-to-face meetings or confrontations may be treated with forbearance in cases like this . . .” Here he named the lines and numbers, emphasizing the parts that might permit chel’Gaiban to be seen as being patient with a child, a drunk, someone of distressed or untrustworthy mind—
The trader whirled then, crossing most of the distance between them in three quick steps.
“I—I am incompetent you say? I am to be excused for my behavior by you, my supposed better?”
He turned to backers then, raising his voice even louder, his Liaden rolling in melant’i play cadences. “This man harbors dangerous secrets, secrets that will cost the lives and livelihood of Liadens! He permitted himself to be adopted by Ixin so that he could move among us, and now see what he does? He stands side by side with one of the conspirators who would insure that Liad fails! He is a danger to us all. He must be stopped before his condescension convinces.”
On one side of him the Scout straightened and began to move forward, and on the other side, it was Freza, who he restrained only by putting his arm in front of her.
Before Jethri could reply, before even he’d recovered his surprise, chel’Gaiban looked about to be sure that all eyes were on him, and called out in laborious Trade:
“I spit on your condescension, you savage! I spit on your caution, I spit on your blood kin and I spit on your mothers and whatever port scum might have begotten you.”
With that he did spit on Jethri, whose efforts to cover his face only made Bar Jan laugh, while the whole performance drew mixed jeers and mutters from the locals.
“There, you fool! You have the necessity of saving your honor. I shall meet you when and where you will, and I will watch you suffer with gladness! Name your second!”
“Jethri! You can’t do this!” Freza held on to his upper arm while he wiped his face with a clean rag she’d dragged from her pocket. The Scout stood impassive guard at his back, having volunteered his services as his duel second with one quick bow.
Jethri looked over the eager crowd behind him, shaking his head at the size it had grown to.
“Certainly,” he said in Trade as he tried to center himself, “I can’t do this here . . .”
“Jeth, think!”
He nodded at her quietly, an odd calm on him now. Something needed to be done and he meant to have it solved before he supped—if ever he did again. Something needed to be solved—but they needed more room, that was certain.
“Jeth, wait. Proctors say they’ll be here in force in ten minutes!”
“We’ve got to move quickly then, don’t we?”
Jethri turned to the still-raging chel’Gaiban.
“The proctors are on their way. If you wish to do this, we’ll do it now.”
Chel’Gaibin turned—
“Come, there’s more room at the end of the deck. My second has appointed himself and I accept. We’ll do this at the end of the deck—it’ll take the proctors longer to get to us there.”
* * *
“Tell Balrog to spread the word to slow the proctors,” Jethri told Freza as they marched toward the far end, as if he had the right to give such orders. She cussed up a storm about it, and complied, the while talking in undertones as if to herself as the crowd moved and swelled.
The destination was the long wall just beyond Dulcimer, where several impromptu vendors had set up, and where stacks of hand-carted goods and free-boxed goods awaited placement on the local break-load freighters, or maybe were open-stored from Dulcimer’s own holds since they weren’t much beyond the rented rack of tools.
The Liaden contingent was outnumbered four or five to one as they started forward; Jethri took one look at them over his shoulder and thought it best to ignore them. They were not pursuing him—they were joining him.
“Have you dry-shot or sim-shot against a live opponent?” the Scout asked. “Drilled? Held a triple shot?”
“No,” said Jethri, “only targets. Only pocket guns, only to be sure I knew how they worked if I need to work them.”
“Do you intend to die or shall I seek his second and make amends if they are to be made?”
“His the fault—that is, his the challenge, is that right?”
The Scout, a quarter step back, “That is correct. He permits you to choose the field and t
he weapon—which is acceptable, as you see, else we’d not be in motion. As to the time, it is apparent that we agree on that, since he and his second shall be there promptly as well.”
“All I have gunwise is a pocket pistol—are we supposed to supply our own? The rules . . .”
“Given the haste, I am assuming that neither side will have access to well-matched dueling equipment. We can only hope for equivalences in power, and will have to, I suppose, work with a back-to-back start and pace off.”
Jethri hurried on, eyes not quite forward as he passed Dulcimer and its rented tool rack, the guardian child now joined by three adults, dusty and pale, all leaning against the rental rack, eyes on him with benign interest. A tall skinny woman barely beyond girl saluted him, and when she did, the even-taller young man beside her did the same. He’d love to be able to talk and chat, to admire the rentals which were always so pretty—and so expensive!
He could see the set of Coslet calipers, and a thankfully sealed set of contagion flamers. Less esoteric were the multiple matched sets, all properly handed, of hammers, punches, bars, and expansion sockets. Oh, to be back in the simple days when these were the things he worked with, safely out of the eyes and ken of other people!
He nodded to them all, the tools and the people, bowing a little to the child.
From his side, a harrumph . . .
“I must, according to Code, have a clear answer to my question, Jethri of Ixin. Shall you continue this, shall you beg forgiveness, or shall I work to achieve an understanding with his second?”
Jethri strode on, rounding the corner at the end of the walkway to stand on the end deck where, if there were a large ship docked, there’d be a pressure tube or other entrance. Instead the currently unassigned area’s temp users moved toward the rush, and the words, “Fight, Liadens, duel, proctors, fight, spit, mess, duel, Liadens” came from the crowd, the din not banking Jethri’s tension, but building it.
“I heard you, Pilot,” Jethri admitted, and suppressing a gulp he went on as calmly as he could, “and I think where we’re at is it needs fixing now. He can apologize, and offer a Balance amount, else we have to settle it. So talk at his second, and see if there’s a reasonable offer.”
They stopped, looked at each other, Jethri receiving the bow of will expressed and understood, which Jethri accepted with an assurance he hardly felt. Fights he knew about, and rarely to his own advantage. This stuff, these duels, full of dare and bravado and clan honor, they were not what he’d grown up to—
The Scout studied the ends of the area, waiting for Wynhael’s crew to catch up, studying the cases and boxes and vendor shanties, measuring something only he saw and moving them toward a section of blank wall, but for a single emergency door, behind them and leaving the same at the other end of the walk for the opposition.
Jethri paced, Freza nodding to herself and the saying “Jeth—if you’re sure . . .”
He nodded at her bleakly, pleased that he’d at least seen her today and sorry if he was about to bring blood and anger into her day.
“Have to,” he told her, “else they’ll be after everyone, pushing and full of themselves. Got to stop some of it—show them there’s ways around or we’ll know why not!”
She reached for his hand, nodded, dropped his hand to touch her earpiece, nodding, and looked seriously into his face.
“Balrog’s let the other levels know, and they’ll do something about being in the way if you need it to slow the proctors, in or out . . .”
He nodded, paced. The Liadens, for all their necessity, were taking their time. Freza paced beside him, wordless, soundless.
The scout came to him, pointing to the end walls and saying things Jethri didn’t really want to hear; they seemed to come in bursts, but that was, “Clear line of fire.”
The Scout’s arms pointed to spaces, waving people out of them.
“He’s some experienced,” opined the Scout. “I have no information about his performance. He’s likely more familiar with the weapons than you. He means to make you as nervous as possible with his paces . . . Your goal must be to massively disable or kill on the first shot. Do you hear me?”
Jethri bowed, felt himself almost bouncing on his feet, the energy growing in him . . .
“I do, Pilot,” he managed, glaring at the slowly approaching figure who was smiling and chuckling with his mates as if this was a common occurrence, this going to kill someone.
“We’ll pace, whatever you decide, I guess, and when I turn I keep as thin as I can toward him, showing him my shooting arm, and when I aim, I aim for the top quadrant. If he shows any chest I shoot left center line.”
“Practical. And if you’re new to it, I’ll try to keep it close. Ten paces or maybe seven.”
Jethri nodded. Something he’d hardly been accused of on the Market, this being practical.
Wynhael’s contingent was finally in the area—Jethri briefly entertained the idea that they were hoping the proctors would arrive to interrupt the proceedings—and the Scout moved forward to talk with the opposite second, who now was wearing his holstered gun openly, as were others of the Liadens. Perhaps they were not happy with the odds if something went wrong.
“We have the felicity,” said Bar Jan’s second, “of being able to offer the opportunity of using first-rate dueling weapons, long in Clan Rinork’s possession. Please feel free to inspect as we discuss distances . . .”
Jethri froze, and then he heard the words over in his mind, saw the pistols being unwrapped and displayed . . . a sealed matched set of prize pistols!
“We shall not!”
Jethri strode to his second, demanded of him, “You will not accept such coincidence in my name, Second! And you will follow first the Code!”
Bar Jan practically laughed, his smirk growing large, but Jethri ignored him.
“He is out of order, as you know! First, the terms!”
A bow of absolute obedience from the Scout, and he turned to his opposite, face serene and steady.
“Jethri ven’Deelin, Clan Ixin, sometimes known as Jethri Gobelyn, suggests that he is open to an apology from Clan Rinork, and will accept a thoughtful compensation from Rinork, after a reasonable and thoughtful apology is received. Otherwise, we reserve the right to choose weapons, as by the Code we are encouraged to do, and to prosecute this to the fullest extent, without reserve.”
The Scout looked up into the opposing dozen, and said, “Those of you who swear to Rinork, you should know your nadelm is at extreme risk. Please advise him and his second to take our offer, else your House is at risk of losing him.”
This pretty speech Jethri could not judge, but wondered was it out of hand to appeal to a group of clan members and crew to outrank the perpetrator?
Young Rinork’s face was almost as bland as the Scout’s. “Your offer infers a risk out of proportion to normal situations. Do you think we suffer that?”
“Ixin has a history of preparing children well, I believe. It is a history Rinork knows. In my role as second I must remind you of this. My primary is competent and secure in his abilities.”
Bar Jan was smiling now, which by this point he should not be: the formal was the formal and not be trifled with. He shared glances with his followers, making light by gesture and expression of the offer.
Jethri seethed, and kept seething, the sheer effrontery and trickery of his foe at the fore. Who came out walking on the docks with matched dueling pistols?
“We shall not demur nor offer tribute,” said the Liaden’s second, taking his lead on slight motions from chel’Gaibin. It was properly done, though Jethri still vaguely hoped his man would cave.
* * *
The Scout turned to Jethri, whose mind kept repeating the mantra he’d heard Paitor and his father say back and forth to each other when entering into a trade port, or talking of negotiations: “All I ask is an honest advantage.”
Clearly, chel’Gaibin was not so fussy.
And what honest advantage did
he have?
Oh, ay, he had the crowd advantage—he could see them pressing forward to watch, some with smiles and nods for him, though to many of them he was simply another fancy trader off a big ship, far away from their experience, just one who’d been wronged. Others knew he was Terran, some few knew he might be called a looper himself.
“Your kind offer has been refused. The opposition suggests dueling pistols—which they have to hand, I note—at twenty-five paces! I suggest personal arms rather than duelers, but otherwise I have little to offer if you will not consider a demur at this point.”
Jethri glanced back toward the crowd, along the line of ships were comfortable Balrog set second to Dulcimer’s hardworking crew.
Personal arms.
He said it loudly, in Trade.
“Tell them their offer to use Rinork’s weapons continues distasteful to me. Nor shall we use our personal weapons, which might give either of us an unfair or unlooked for advantage. We shall solicit neutral weapons, as may be found on any dockside. The good people here will offer what we need, I’m sure!”
The crowd buzzed, and some began unholstering guns, knives, and daggers, moving forward to display them . . .
“Again, give Rinork the opportunity to admit their error. They must have this, as their man is not capable of defeating me on this dock.”
The Scout bowed without hesitation, and repeated the information as intended, in Liaden.
Scorn on the faces of Wynhael’s crew, and chel’Gaibin laughed—
“It does not matter whose random pistol I use, the man falls to me,” he proclaimed in bad Trade, “Yes, borrowed weapons will do, neutral weapons will do, greasy weapons, I do not care! Please call for them so we might end this farce!”
Jethri looked about him and could hear the stories stirring, if he won or if he lost. This would travel even faster and further than his infamous leap.
He turned half to the crowd while looking at the trickster, and then more to the crowd, some small hope growing.
