Balance of Trade

by Sharon Lee

  "Here, we discuss contract marriage and the fact that Infreya chel'Gaibin—a dutiful daughter of Clan Rinork—did some twenty-five Standards gone marry as her delm instructed, the fruit of that union being Bar Jen chel'Gaibin, her heir.

  "Six Standards later, she married again, somewhat behind the fact as it is said and counted, into Clan Quiptic—a House of the lower mid-tier." Once more she held up her hand, though Jethri hadn't made a sound.

  "I know that this will seem odd to you, Rinork being, as it is, so very High, but there were reasons beyond the fact that she was already pregnant by the time the thing was arranged, and by none other than Quiptic Himself. A very young delm he was, and not by any means stupid. But Infreya was a beauty in her youth and his mother had died before tutoring him sufficiently in all the faces that treachery might wear.

  "In any case, the child—young Tan Sim—went to Quiptic, and Quiptic's mines went to Rinork, in settlement of the contract fees." She paused, eyes closed, then shifted sharply in her chair, as if annoyed with herself, and continued.

  "The loss of the mines was very close to a mortal blow in itself, but as I said, the young delm was no fool. With the leverage he gained from his alliance with Rinork, he thought to win certain short term—but decisive!—advantages in several trades. Very nearly, he brought Quiptic about. In the end, alas, it was a quirk of the Exchange which pushed the blade home. The clan was dissolved; the young delm hung himself. Infreya petitioned Rinork and received permission to adopt Tan Sim pen'Akla, who might well have one day been Quiptic Himself, as a child of the clan alone." She moved her shoulders.

  "So, that tale. You may consider it located here, if your stories need locations. The other story you need to hear takes place at a tavern in far Solcintra Port, where one For Don chel'Gaibin cheated a certain young trader at a game of cards. The trader, understanding that the play had been underhanded, called his lordship to answer her on the field of honor." She sighed. "Young things. All is anguish and high drama. I doubt it ever occurred to her to call the games master and ask that he set the thing right, though she thought it many a time, after. No, it must be a duel. For Don, who was a fool besides being many years the trader's senior, accepted the challenge and chose pistols at twenty-four paces. They met at the appointed place, at dawn, their seconds in train. The duel itself was over in a matter of moments. The young trader had killed her man." She looked at Jethri, and there was nothing that he could read on her smooth, golden face.

  "Depend upon it, Ixin was displeased. As was Rinork, of course. How they roared for Balance, though the witnesses to a soul swore it was fairly done and For Don the favorite for the victor—as the tavern wager book clearly showed! Well, you have seen how it is with Rinork and Balance. In any wise, nothing was owed and the price was met. Ixin sent me on the long route, to learn, as she would have it, common sense. By the time I returned to Liad, there were new scandals to occupy the gossips, and Rinork and Ixin had agreed not to meet. This evening was the first time we have done so, in more than three dozen Standards." She inclined her head, possibly ironic.

  "All hail to you, young Jethri."

  Jethri blinked, trying to picture a young Norn ven'Deelin, alone with her pistol in the dawn, facing down a man older and more skilled than she. . .

  "Oh, aye," Master ven'Deelin said, as if reading his mind—though more likely, Jethri thought, it had been his unguarded face—"I was a sad rogue in my youth. But there—a mother has no secrets from her son."

  Right. Jethri frowned at her. "If you please, Master Trader, how am I now your son?"

  "Because I had told Rinork so, child—else their Balance would have been worth your life. An "unregulated Terran," 'prenticed to ven'Deelin or no, is nothing to give a Rinork pause in a rage." She moved a hand, showing him the litter of papers on her desk.

  "When I and your true-kin wrote contract, it was with the best interest of the trade in our minds. I contracted to teach you the art, as well as a certain understanding of matters Liaden—this to improve and facilitate the trade, which is the duty of a master trader. Nowhere was it intended that you should take your death of this, Jethri Gobelyn. Forgive me, but, should you die, there will be damage dealt to more than those who value you for yourself. Pray bear this in mind the next time you befriend strangers in back hallways."

  Jethri felt his ears heat. This whole mess was his fault, right enough. . .

  "Have you other questions?" Norn ven'Deelin's voice cut through the thought.

  Other questions? Only dozens. He shook his head helplessly, and chose one at random.

  "Why did she—did Trader chel'Gaibin adopt Tan Sim? I mean, if the only reason her clan—"

  "Rinork," said Master ven'Deelin.

  He nodded impatiently. "Rinork—if the only reason Rinork started the kid in the first place was to trap Quiptic and steal his mines, then why did she care what happened to him?"

  There was a small pause, during which Master ven'Deelin took some care about arranging the way her fingers nested against each other as she folded her hands together.

  "An excellent question, young Jethri. I have often wondered the same. Perhaps it was merely self-preservation; if the child were left to be absorbed by whatever clan might take him, questions would possibly arise regarding the contract which had produced him, and whether certain parties could have been said to be acting in good faith.

  "Or, perhaps, she could not bear to see of her blood—even half-blooded—slide away into obscurity. They have a great deal of self-worth, Rinork." She moved her shoulders. "In the end, why does not matter. The boy was brought into the house of his mother and has been given an education and a place in the clan's business. I find him to be a young trader of note, in his talents far superior to the honorable chel'Gaibin heir." As careful as she had been in their folding, she unfolded her hands all at once, and put them palm-flat against the desk.

  "It is late and tomorrow we trade early and shivary to meet the dawn, eh? As my fostered son, you will stand at my side and be made known to all. You will wear this—" She extended a hand; something gleamed silver between her fingers. Jethri leaned forward and took the small token: The Clan Ixin moon-and-rabbit, cast in—he weighed the thing thoughtfully in his hand—platinum, with a punch pin welded to the back.

  "You will honor me by wearing that at all times," Norn ven'Deelin said, pushing herself to her feet, "so that all will know you for one of Ixin.

  "In keeping with your new status, your course of study will be accelerated and broadened." Suddenly, amazingly, she smiled.

  "We will make a Liaden from you yet, young Jethri."

  Day 107

  Standard Year 1118

  Elthoria and Tilene

  HE HIT THE BUNK with half his sleep-shift behind him, closed his eyes, touched sleep—and dropped it as the wake-up chime dinned.

  "Mud," he muttered, pushing himself upright and blinking blearily at the clock across the room. It displayed a time more than an hour in advance of his usual wake-up.

  "Mud, dirt, dust and pollen!" he expanded, and swung his feet over the edge, meaning to go over and slap the buzzer off, then get himself another hour's snooze.

  He was halfway across the cabin on this mission when his eye caught the amber glow over his inbox. Frowning, bleary and bad-tempered, he changed course, and scooped a short handful of ship's flimsies out of the bin.

  The top sheet was his amended schedule for the day, by which he saw he was presently in danger of being late for a "security meeting" with Pen Rel. He'd been late for a meeting with Pen Rel once, and had no ambition to repeat the experience. That being the case, he did turnabout and headed for the 'fresher, sorting pages as he went.

  The second flimsy was from Cargo Master Gar Sad per'Etla, informing him that a crate had arrived and been placed in his personal bin. He nodded; that would be Khat's B crate. He'd need to check that out soon, if he could pry five personal minutes between lessons and trade.

  The third flimsy was from Norn ven'D
eelin and that one stopped him cold.

  Greetings to you, my son. I trust that the new day finds you in health and high spirits. Pray bestow the gift of your presence upon me immediately you conclude your business with Arms Master sig'Kethra. We shall break our fast together and tell over the anticipated joys of the day.

  Jethri rubbed his head. She was taking this mother-and-son thing serious, he thought and then sighed. After all, it was a matter of keeping her word. In a sense—no, he thought, mouth suddenly dry—in fact she had given him her name. And she'd expect him to set the same value on that priceless commodity as she did herself.

  "Mud," he whispered. "Oh, mud and dust, Jethri Gobelyn, what've you got yourself into?"

  * * *

  "AS YOU HAVE NO doubt learned from your study of our route, we remain at Tilene for five more days. At the end of that time, we shall set course for Modrid, and thence the inner worlds, which, as you will readily perceive, is a change of schedule."

  Jethri stifled a yawn and sipped his morning tea. There was caffeine present in the beverage, true enough, but he found himself wishing after a cup of true coffee—aye, and maybe a mug o'mite too.

  "You are disinterested," the master trader said softly, "and yet it is solely for the benefit of yourself that we alter our itinerary."

  Soft it was said, yet it hit the ear hard. Jethri put his cup down, and looked at her.

  "You do not approve?" she asked, face bland.

  He took a breath, wishing he felt more awake. "Ma'am, it's only that I wonder why the ship's route needs to be changed on my account."

  "An excellent question." She spread jam on her roll and took a bite. Jethri looked down at his plate, picked up a roll and tore it in half, releasing the scent of warm, fresh bread.

  "It is understood that a son of ven'Deelin will need training which is not available to those of one ship, on a trade tour of the far outworlds. Thus, we plot a course nearer to the centers of civilization, where you may receive those things which you lack. You will, also, I hope, benefit by observing a different style of trade than that which is practiced along the edge." She picked up her teacup.

  Roll forgotten in his hand, Jethri sat, thinking back on names and honor and Balance, and on his deficiencies as so far discovered. He cleared his throat.

  "Ma'am," he said slowly, feeling his way around phrasing that she might find disrespectful of her honor. "I've been thinking and it—I don't think that I would be a—an exemplary son. Not," he amended quickly, as her eyebrows lifted quizzically, "that I wouldn't do my best, but—I wouldn't want to dishonor you, ma'am."

  "Ah." She put her cup down and inclined her head. "Your concern speaks well of you. However, I know that it is not possible for you to dishonor me. I know you for a person of melant'i, whose every instinct is honorable. I repose the utmost confidence in you, my child, and I am at peace, knowing that you hold my name in your hands."

  Jethri's stomach dropped, even as his eyes filled with tears. "Ma'am. . . "

  She held up a hand. "Another way, then. Say that the dice have been cast—there is a similar saying in Terran, is there not? So. We play the game through."

  Except that her good name was nothing like a game, Jethri thought—and he knew so little.

  "Yes, ma'am," he said, trying not to sound as miserable as he felt.

  "Good. Now, while we are in the mode of change—you will find your duty cycle has likewise changed. You will spend tomorrow and the following four days assisting Cargo Master per'Etla with the pods. It is mete that you have an understanding of the intricacies of the cargo master's art."

  As it happened, he had a pretty good understanding of the cargo master's art, the Market not exactly shipping a cargo master. He remembered sitting next to his father, staring in fascination while Arin worked out the logistics of mass and spin. Come to that, neither Paitor nor Grig was likely to have let him get away without knowing how to balance a pod. Granted, Elthoria could probably ship all Market's pods in one of hers, but the art of the thing ought to be constant.

  Jethri cleared his throat. "I have had some training in this area, Master Trader," he said, hoping he had the right mix of polite and assured.

  "Ah, excellent!" she said, spreading jam over the second half of her roll. "Then you will be more of a help than a hindrance to my good friend per'Etla."

  Somehow, Jethri thought, that didn't sound as encouraging as it might have. He glanced down at the roll in his hand, and reached for the jam pot.

  "I have some news from the Guild which you may find of interest," Norn ven'Deelin murmured.

  Jethri glanced up from spreading jam. "Ma'am?"

  "Another game of counterfeit cards has been exposed and closed, this at the port of Riindel."

  He blinked, at a loss for a heartbeat, then memory caught up with him. "They weren't using your card, ma'am, were they?"

  "Our card, my son. But no—you may put any fear of a taint to our melant'i aside. Those at Riindel had chosen to honor Ziergord with their attention."

  Whoever Ziergord was. Jethri inclined his head. "I'm glad the wrongdoers were caught," he said, which had the advantage of being both true and unlikely to be found an improper response. "Surely any others who have been tempted will see that the . . . game. . . is dangerous and refuse to play."

  There was a small silence. "Indeed, perhaps they will," Master ven'Deelin said politely.

  Too politely, to Jethri's ear. He looked up, questioning, only to be met with a smile and a small movement of her hand.

  "Eat your breakfast, my son," she murmured. "It will not do to be late to trade."

  * * *

  BUSINESS WAS BRISK at the booth, with merchant folk and traders lined up to have a word of business with Master ven'Deelin. As near as Jethri could tell, every last one of them was invited to "dinner"—not that he had all that much time to eavesdrop, being busy with customers of his own.

  Today, the textile was of interest. Over and over, he showed his samples, and gave his speech about hand looming and plant dyes. Occasionally he caught what was—he thought—a careful glance at his new pin, claiming him of Ixin. Yet it was not curiosity which drew these people, it was the trade, and he reveled in it. Often enough, the client left him with a counter and a trade-card, which he took great care to keep paired and ordered on the wire above his station.

  He hung the last pair up and looked down, face arranged politely, to greet the next in line—and froze.

  Before him stood Bar Jan chel'Gaibin, hands tucked into his sleeves and a gleam in his pale eyes that reminded Jethri forcibly of Mac Gold in a mood for a brawl.

  Casually, the Liaden inclined his head. "Good day to you, son of ven'Deelin. I bring you tidings of your friend, Tan Sim pen'Akla, who has been sent to make his way along the tertiary trade lanes, for the best good of the clan." He inclined his head again, snarky-like, daring Jethri to hit him. "I thought you might find the news of interest."

  Teeth grinding, face so bland his cheeks hurt, Jethri inclined his head—not far.

  "One is always grateful for news of friends," he said, which was about as far as he could trust his voice with Tan Sim thrown off his ship in sacrifice of this man's spite. . .

  chel'Gaibin lifted his eyebrows. "Just so," he said softly, and with no further courtesy turned his back and walked away.

  In the momentary absence of customers, Jethri let his breath out in a short, pungent Terran phrase, and turned his attention to the samples, which were sorely in need of order.

  "Young Jethri," Master ven'Deelin said some while later, during a lull in the business. "I wonder if you might enlighten me as to a certain Terran—I assume it is Terran—phrase that I have recently heard."

  Ears warming, he turned to look at her. "I will do my best, ma'am."

  "Certainly, when have you ever failed at that? I confess myself quite terrified of you—but, there, I will give over teasing you and only ask: This word sobe. What is its meaning?"

  He blinked. "Sobe? I do not th
ink. . . "

  "Sobe," Master ven'Deelin interrupted. "I am certain that was the word. Perhaps it was directed at the departing back of a certain young trader. Yes, that is where I heard it! 'You sobe,' was the very phrase."

  "Oh." His ears were hot now, and well on the way to spontaneous combustion. "That would, um, denote a person of—who has no manners, ma'am."

  "Ah, is it so?" She tipped her head, as if considering the merit of his answer. "Yes, the particular young trader—it could perhaps be said that his manner wants polish. A useful word, my son; I thank you for making it known to me."