by Sharon Lee
“The governors of this place are Terran but whole territories of it are subject to only the vaguest of regulation, Terrans having no master code and the subgroups scrupulously denying any other group’s rules. Land rights, ownership, those things count. Otherwise? Otherwise even Scouts are careful.
“And so, you and I, we will stick to the port here, where there are patrols and common sense. I’ve told several Scout encampments of our coming, but I doubt they’ll visit us, since they are perforce in the hinterlands. And the hinterlands are wild places indeed!
“So what we shall do, Jethri, is that your board will go to training mode now, and mine to live-connect. You may follow our path in screen three, and the planet’s view of it on screen four. You may follow as closely as you like, but I must be the contact so that I can in fact be backup!”
* * *
The landing was, in fact, faultless, but the final ten minutes of descent having taken place in silence, Jethri had encountered a surfeit of thought. His book would come back. His fractin would come back as well, for what worth it might have, and when the book was back, the Scout’s mission would be all but done.
Arin’s work—his father’s work—that really wasn’t being stolen from him in this trade, though still it felt a bit wrong to give up the reader. Really though it was a trade. It wasn’t really being stolen if Tradedesk was working. By now the ship Nubella would be in place, the long slow transition from orbiting Vincza to orbiting the star begun.
He’d be a trader again, all Balanced. Uncle would do whatever it was that he did, Khat would be doing what she was doing, Freza would do what she was doing, Samay would continue her training and eventually become head of her line. . .and so his thoughts went that way again.
Thus, while carefully observing the landing all the way to gearlock on hotpad, when the switch to pad power went blue he told ter’Astin, “If I may use the commlinks, Scout, I believe now would be a good time for me to send a note—to a lady of my acquaintance. You understand.”
The Scout bowed.
“Indeed, Second, I am hardly surprised. One must, after all, keep memory fresh if one wishes to send flowers again soon.”
* * *
Jethri accounted it one of his life’s great accomplishments that he no longer wished to hide his face from the sky when on-world, but in this place he wished he might hide it from the wind. As well as he knew the world was round and circled by three seas, from this viewpoint it was flatter than a chopping deck and wider than a star system, with a glaring yellow-white primary making him wonder why they were without shields. The wind rushed his ears while it tickled and tugged at his hair, throwing against him stinging bits of dust and grit. The part of his face unprotected felt hot from radiation.
Hands protecting eyes, they’d gone to a taxi, and hands over eyes emerged from it, staring into a row of bright white buildings stretching into the distance. The driver, paid handsomely ahead, agreed to wait, the vehicle quivering in the gusts that seemed never to stop. The buildings showed two flat sides and one slanted into the wind—the grit flew up and over them, building drifts of sand behind.
“Land is cheap here, the saying is, and so the locals rarely build up. The world is barely tectonic, and staying low is important. Out there—you can see a wall of wind-gatherers stealing power!”
Jethri hurried, no urge to study the things that engaged the Scout’s attention. Nonetheless the Scout pointed, “Over there government buildings, and up that street, the single brown building is a workhouse for dissenters.”
The white building in front of them showed a flat side, and gently came down fluffy sand fallen out of the airstream. There were words in Terran, and some few in Liaden on the building. “Field Relief,” it said in Terran, and in Liaden the closest was “Alien Assistance Lounge.”
Into that flat side they went, Jethri’s “Woof!” of relief at entering bounced from walls of the white rock. They walked across a sandgrid, through cool air, onto a dark and shiny stone floor, the scout pointing—“There, first door.”
Jethri’d guessed that, for a faintly familiar presence was behind that door, he was sure.
Within the first door was a small anteroom with a miniature sandgrid and beyond that was a carpeted hallway leading to a marked conference room.
Ter’Astin smiled at him and knocked on the door, entering before the answering “Come” was fully enunciated.
How was one to treat a person who held your property for ransom? Surely not a familiar greeting even if one’s name was known, surely not . . .
The woman who stood at one end of the table was a pilot dressed as a pilot, a former Scout, he’d been told, and thus, like ter’Astin in his day work, free of major jewelry or cosmetics. If she had a scent it was the scent of her warm skin and not of a perfume. Her hair was pilot-cropped and indeed, he’d seen her recently in the distance at the side of Infreya chel’Gaiban and could have picked her out of a roomful of pilots because of that.
The bow he’d started, one of acknowledging a reciprocal trade opportunity, was largely blocked by ter’Astin’s surprising—nay, shocking—bow somewhere between that of joy of seeing a comrade to delight in seeing a paramour, by his close approach to her corner of the table.
“Rand, we have come, as I promised we would. And as pleased as I am to see you, we must be gone soon, for the taxi is counting time and my expense bill for this effort becomes more extensive by the moment.”
Jethri finished his bow, gave over the idea of repeating his name to one who knew well who he was, and said, “I am here to trade what is mine for what is mine, Pilot.”
Her bow to him was an echo of his.
“Yes, a straightforward trade, is it not? In that case, let us see what we speak of.”
With main force Jethri resisted bowing again, instead pulling the reader from its pouch and placing it on the table before her. She reached into her pilot’s jacket and casually flipped a fractin there, where it slid perilously close to the edge. She reached for the reader and seemed surprised with Jethri’s speedy retrieval of it.
“I am lacking my book and my fractin, Pilot. The fractin there will not suffice.”
He replaced the reader in the holster, waiting, feeling now some reciprocity as he considered where the fractin might be.
The Scout and yos’Belin exchanged glances and some flick of hand-talk Jethri couldn’t catch, but the Scout backed him up saying, “The boy is all but Master Trader, Rand. And he is kin to the Uncle. Who knows what he sees that we don’t? The lack of the book might concern him, as well.”
She pursed her lips then, and reached into her jacket, in fact bringing forth the book and gently shoving it to him while he felt the fractin being active, declaring itself.
Jethri caught the book to him, flipped pages—complete, as far as he could see. It felt vaguely like it was welcoming his touch, but perhaps that was simply the leather surface, or the texture of the pages.
The pilot reached for an inner jacket pocket again, but Jethri shook his head Terran-style.
“Ma’am, not to be obtuse about this, but it is either in your left belt pouch or in a pocket under it.”
Having the book, Jethri detached the whole of the Envidaria’s holster and placed it on the table while she stared hard at ter’Astin’s blandness, then put the book in his side pocket.
“You did not say we were dealing with dramliz, my Scout,” she said, her hand efficiently opening the pouch and giving over several fractins.
“One does not underestimate the Uncle’s kin!” There was annoyance in ter’Astin’s reply.
Jethri took them in his left hand, rubbed his right palm on them both and bowed as he returned the one that was not his while the one that was his thrummed in his hand.
“This one belongs to someone else.”
She looked it over and was tucking it away as ter’Astin was bowing to both of them, saying, “That’s done then. We shall . . .”
“Not yet,” snapped yos’Belin,
reaching for yet another pocket.
Jethri, in the midst of rubbing his fractin as he had as a youth, saw her motion and began to shift into one of Pen Rel’s defense positions. The Scout saw him reacting, and by then her gun was out, coming up—
One or another of them had tangled their legs under the table—what Jethri saw were two struggling figures wrestling over a gun, bouncing first on the table and then on a chair top before falling . . .
Jethri’s knife was in his hand but then there was a piercing whistle and a rush of pilot jackets, with someone saying, “Please step back, Trader, you’ll not need your blade . . .”
* * *
The gun had gone off in the struggle, doing no more damage than putting a hole in the table, and now the room was clear of any but the Scout he knew, and another, this one Commander Anthara ter’Gasta Clan Idvantis.
“Has no one heard the noise, Commander?”
The Scout lounged, looking none the worse for the wear. Jethri sat several seats away, his fractin soothing, while ter’Gasta paced, periodically looking at the damaged table.
“You have luck, ter’Astin! Any of you could have been killed, or all of you. Why not wait until . . .”
“Commander, that’s not how the flow of event went. Yos’Belin had not much to say, I had not much to say, and the trader was not full of words. The issue was to make the trade, which we’d done, and thus you have your pilferer in custody. Did you also come up with her backups?”
Jethri looked up, seeing sudden levels. Not an accidental recovery, the Scout had been planning this—
“She was the one who violated Keravath then?”
“Oh yes, Guest Pilot, she was. She also violated Scout Headquarters security before her sudden retirement.”
Commander ter’Gasta bowed. “Several other areas beside the key cabinet were involved; she had on her even today a key I think is to the pharmacy.”
Ter’Astin bowed a quick acknowledgment.
“In that case, we shall proceed. You have the information and the people you can find, and likely leads to several more. I have a mission to complete, and young Jethri here wishes to make up lost time with an admirer.”
Jethri barely felt his face warm—and yes, he had several admirers he’d like to see . . .
“Your ship is on port. You’re free to go as soon as we have our items of evidence to give to the security detail.”
The Scout looked askance at the pacing Commander.
“The room is here, please take measurements and, if you need, I will speak and write a full debrief as we travel to Elthoria.”
“Captain, thank you. You will debrief en route—that is a sensible approach since we already have the incident reports you sketched on your way in. The other evidence is what we need—your associate here has them at the moment, as I understand it.”
Ter’Astin risked a glance at Jethri and then back to the commander.
“Unless Trader ven’Deelin is even more subtle than I believe, he carries his own property and no other at the moment.”
Jethri sat forward in his chair, considering his book, his fractin, his knife . . .
“Do not be absurd, Trader,” said the commander. “You’d hardly be able to overcome a pair of Scouts. Please return the items yos’Belin took from us and we will all move forward.”
“No, ma’am. The Scout is correct. I own all that I carry. The Scout has said so and he tells the truth.”
“All I want are the things that were being traded. So that would be the reader, the book, and the fractin.”
Jethri stirred, began to measure the room.
“The reader, ma’am, was transferred to me by a friend, and it is a birthright. The book was given to me by my father, and it is a birthright. The fractin I selected for myself from a pile of fractins given to my father by my uncle for me to play with. It is a birthright.”
“Trader,” she began, but ter’Astin stood.
“This man has told you the truth. The book you demand is his and always was—he lent it to me for our interest, so that it might be copied. It was copied and it is now returned to him. The other items . . .”
“The reader—”
“Is mine.”
“Surely it is Old Tech and must be . . .”
“It is Terran Tech, I say, and it is mine.”
“I’ll call in the support, Trader. Please put the items on the table. Begin with the fractin and I—”
“No, ma’am, that won’t work now. The fractin will not permit itself to be hidden away from me. It will answer my call. These are mine, and I shall walk out of here with them.”
The Scout bowed to Jethri, and addressed himself to the scowling scout.
“Commander, the agreement was that we would return the book. The reader never was ours and never was in our custody. The fractin I cannot answer for other than to say the trader is an honest man. If he says we shall not keep it, we must recall that he is kin of the Uncle.”
“Captain ter’Astin, you are risking your rank. The Scouts need these items and we shall have them . . .”
“I have a key to Keravath,” Jethri said, standing slowly and bowing to them both. “It is as much mine as the items you claim are yours belong to you. In fact, the more that you insist on these items, the more likely I am to own Keravath for a pleasure yacht. It is a pleasant enough vessel. . . .”
“What nonsense do you spout, Trader, give—”
The Scout—his Scout, ter’Astin, had slumped into a chair, mirth written across his face. “I tell you, Commander, the trader is only an honest man. We should likely forget about the fractin . . .”
Jethri stood, offering the commander no immediate attack but recalling the method Grig used to look larger and more dangerous . . . He put on the aspect he might have had when faced with chel’Gaibin’s gun, and then he gently reached into his pocket and unshipped his weapon.
There was a slap on the table as he threw it down.
“There, Commander. I invoke this. Concede my ownership of my goods or concede Keravath and whatever else your group owns on this planet.”
“What is this?” She looked at it in bewilderment, hesitating to close with it.
“In piket, Commander, it is a Scout’s Progress,” said ter’Astin. “Here, it is a Writ of Replevin. I do believe this hand is his.”
Chapter Thirty
Gobelyn’s Market, Clawswitts
Dyk was in his glory. They’d had seventeen visitors in the last two days, including several for dinner, and knowing they wouldn’t be lifting again for at least two more meant that he’d shopped fresh and was baking like mad. He’d even got to bake several very delicate cakes and a frijohn.
The rest of the crew wasn’t in the same mood. Travit seemed not to like his air quite so thick, so Seeli was spending time with the room door closed and the dehumidifier running.
Grig had been to the commissioner’s office three times and never yet in the door, since he was running side-guard to everyone else who was going there. The news hadn’t reached outside yet, but it was Paitor who’d gone in with Khat to do the official depositions, and Cris was sucking all the trip files into usable units with the help of Zam and Mel when they weren’t running here and there for Dyk.
Iza’d taken to sitting on the bridge doing optical survey, getting relief or backup from Mel and Zam, and Cris between the files stuff.
Seeli sat with the kid, mostly reading the fine print and the legal behind it after Paitor and Khat brought stuff back with them.
Therinfel’s little trick of calling them thieves and scoundrels had been the chaos point for them: they had to keep their reputation straight and make sure the harassment stopped. It had been the Gobelyn name that got them in to see a couple of commissioners at once, and it had been Khat’s good flight records that helped boost the idea that she wasn’t a danger to anyone who wasn’t a danger to themselves. To that end, they’d had witnesses come by the ship and record statements, and some of those had walked on dow
n to the Commission office with Grig to redo them under oath.
All of the commission work was going to the hard side of this: getting the official harassment complaint certified by the commissioners to Terran worlds and run to the Liaden Trade Guild and Liaden Pilots Guild, too.
Time being what it was, Dyk got permission from Iza to wave three cakes and Niglund Boilt dinners in front of the air processor so the whole ship smelled good, and after about ten minutes he declared lunch come early since Paitor and Khat and Grig had another trip all set—the Liaden Trade Guild was sending someone to receive paperwork if they cared to tell the story in person.
The other thing they’d finally done was—to the same guild—sent Khat’s personal letter of complaint against Bar Jan chel’Gaibin. Khat wasn’t sure if she’d have to give a deposition there again, but she was willing to.
The big news for Dyk was the food, and Dyk drafted Mel and Zam, and convinced Seeli to come out with Travit for a few minutes anyhow, and they took over the big room, even Iza willing to come down from the bridge as long as Zam and Mel would switch off.
They’d barely sat down when the formal note came in on channels, for Khat. She was back in a moment, sat down heavy.
“The Guild has disallowed me a complaint against chel’Gaibin,” she said, shaking her head, with Dyk making a nasty noise and Grig pointing a heavy look at Zam who’d picked up a port term not best used in a family with a Liaden trader in it.
“No need for it,” she got through the buzz, “’cause word is he’s been published as dead.”
The buzz got louder, with Khat frowning over it and Dyk trying to pass everyone a second serving of whatever they’d had. “Not the news I was expecting. He wasn’t old, and if he’d been polite I guess he was a looker. Just. I dunno. Just ‘published as dead.’”
Paitor nodded, thoughtfully. “No use complaining, unless you got an unpaid invoice or something . . .”
“They said they’ll send me something official for my files, but Delm Rinork calls all Balances even.”
