Balance of Trade

by Sharon Lee

  Meicha grinned. "The vines will be safe with you, friend Jethri. For be sure that Ren Lar will not allow you to leave his sight while you are in his vineyard."

  * * *

  "HE KNEW YOUR NAME?" Grig sounded worried, and Seeli sighed, mentally giving herself a quick kick for having mentioned the headcase at all.

  "Not exactly a secret, is it?" she asked. "My name's on the clearances and the licenses, all on public file—'s'what Admin does, ain't it?"

  "Still, him stopping you in the street and wanting to talk fractins. . . "

  "Headcase," she said firmly. "Took the idea the Market was shipping fractins, and set out to do something about it. Said he was going to call on our trader. Luck to him, is what I hope, 'specially if he's hopin' to buy fractins from Paitor."

  "No problem Paitor selling him fractins, if fractins is what he'll have," Grig said, taking a sip of his brew. "Simple broker deal. Must be three, four warehouses of 'em on port here."

  "That's why he's a headcase," Seeli pointed out, glad that his thought was tending that way. Grig was a good man—none better—but he did like his theories and conspiracies. "He wants game pieces, port's prolly full of them, and no need to suppose that Market's carryin' the motherload."

  Grig looked at her, not saying anything.

  "What?" she snapped, exasperated.

  He moved his eyes. "Nothing. Likely nothing. Just—take a cab, Seeli, willya? Man being a headcase don't excuse him from being quick to grab."

  Seeli smiled, and had a slow sip of brew. "Think I can't hold my own against some spacer, Grig Tomas?"

  He smiled back, eyes warming in that way she especially liked. "Want to prove otherwise?"

  Day 145

  Standard Year 1118

  Kinaveral

  THEY WERE HAVING themselves a quiet meal—Grig and Khat and Seeli—talking over the events of the day, of which there hadn't been that many, and figuring out the share-work for the next while.

  "Port's got me scheduled for a long-fly, week after next," Khat said, putting her finger down on the grid they had on the table between them. "Liaden edge, near enough. Top rate. Bonus, too. Be good for the bank and I'd like to go, just for the jig of it. Getting tired of station shuttles and ferry-jobs."

  Seeli craned her head to read the grid upside down. "Five days out?"

  "If you need me down here, I'll tell 'em to find somebody else. No problem, Seeli."

  "I don't see any reason to do that. Got the monthly comin' up, but Grig was wantin' to do the walk-through. Got that all straight with the yard-boss, so he can't squawk crew-change and lock us out."

  "Man's a couple decimals short of an orbit," Khat muttered.

  "Yard's top-rated, though," Grig said. "Which is enough to keep a body awake at night."

  Seeli slanted him a look. "Is that what's keepin' you awake at night?"

  He gave her the Full Dignified, nose tipped up, and slightly wrinkled, mouth rumpled like he'd tasted something slightly bad. "That, and certain importunate young persons."

  She slapped her hand flat on the table. "Importunate, is it? I'll importunate you, Grig Tom—"

  "Ho, the ship!" came the hail from the outer room.

  "Paitor!" Khat yelled. "In the galley! Grab a brew and tell us the news!"

  In he came, looking dusty and tired, gave a general nod of hi-there, threw his jacket over the back of an unclaimed chair and made a line for the cold-box.

  "Handwich makin's there, too, Paitor, if you're peckish," Grig said, quiet and serious of a sudden.

  "Brew's fine," the other man said, coming back to the table with one in his hand. He dropped into the chair, broke the seal on the bottle and had a long drink.

  "That's good," he sighed, leaning back, eyes slitted, though if it was in pleasure or plain exhaustion Khat couldn't have said.

  "What's the news, Uncle?" Seeli asked, quiet, like Grig had been. Feeling out trouble, Khat thought, considering the slump of Paitor's shoulders.

  He sighed, and straightened, and got his eyes opened.

  "Funny thing," he said, and it was Grig he was looking at. "You might find it so. Fella come by Terratrade today, asking for me by name. They sent him on up. Turns out he was in the market for fractins."

  "The headcase," Seeli said, understanding, and reached for her brew. "I hope you sold him a warehouse full, and at a favorable price, too. Ship's General could use the cash."

  He flicked a glance at her, then back to Grig. "I'd've done that, but it was special fractins he was after."

  Grig shrugged, expressionless, and Khat felt something with lots of cold feet run down her spine.

  "Seems what this fella was after, was Arin's fractins. Said he was willing to offer a handsome sum—he named it, and it was. Told him I couldn't oblige, that Arin's son had everything Arin had cared to leave behind, and the boy was 'prenticed to another ship."

  There was a small pause, growing longer, as Paitor waited for Grig to say something.

  Eventually, the lanky crewman shrugged again. "Should've been an end to it, then."

  "Should've," Paitor agreed. "Wasn't. 'stead what he wants to know is if we got any other Befores on trade. Especially, he's interested in light-wands and duplicating units."

  Grig laughed, sharp and ugly. "Man's a fool."

  "Headcase," Seeli said again. "Told you."

  "Close enough," Grig agreed, and reached for his brew.

  "I'm asking," Paitor said, his hands folded 'round his own bottle and the knuckles showing, Khat saw, a shade or two pale.

  Grig looked up and put the brew down. "Ask it, then."

  "Was Arin dealing old tech?" The words came out kinda gritty and tight.

  Grig lifted an eyebrow. "Dirt makin' you squeamish? Never took cash for a fractin, I guess."

  Paitor took a hard breath, lifted his brew and had another long drink, thumping the bottle back to the table, empty. Khat got up and went to the cold-box, pulled four new bottles and brought them back to the table. She broke the seal on one and put it in front of Paitor, took another for herself and sat down. Across the table, Seeli was sitting tall, looking a frown between Paitor and Grig.

  "Sure, I sold 'em—a piece of this, a part of that," Paitor said at last, his eyes pegged to Grig's. "Maybe a frame an' some fractins. Who knows what they were, or what they did?"

  "I thought you wasn't a believer."

  Paitor grinned, no humor in it at all.

  "Don't need to be a believer when I got one across the table, asking for whole, working gadgets by name."

  "Point." Grig lifted his brew and finished it off, put the bottle back soft on the table. "So you asked—yeah, Arin traded the underside in old tech. Far as I know, he was mostly buying—bought some few things, myself, now and then, like that weather maker Jeth adopted. Most of the stuff, it went—someplace else. And before you ask—no, I don't know where it is or how it went. Arin's business, first and finish. He didn't tell me everything." He reached to the middle of the table and snagged another brew; glanced back to Paitor's face. "You know how Arin was."

  "This guy was buying," Paitor said, but Khat could see that he was finding Grig's story believable and in some part comforting.

  Grig shrugged. "Man's running with old info," he suggested, breaking the seal on his brew. "Headcase, too." He flicked a quick smile at Seeli, who didn't let go of her frown. "You want me to talk to him?"

  A pause, then a headshake. "No need. I told him we didn't have no fractins; told him we're fresh outta old tech. On planet for a refit, I told him. Got nothing worth trading at all." He lifted his bottle, but didn't quite drink. "Seemed satisfied with that. Though he left me a beam-code." Paitor's lips thinned. "In case I should come across something."

  "Which won't happen, 'cause we ain't looking," Seeli said, firmly, reaching for the last bottle and breaking the seal with a vengeance. "We're well out of it." She favored Grig with a glare, and he dipped his head, agreeable-like.

  "Sure, Seeli."

  Day 155


  Standard Year 1118

  Irikwae

  "GOOD-DAY, JETHRI." Ren Lar looked up from his lab table, meter held delicately in one hand, blue eyes soft as ever. Somehow, he managed to look cool and elegant, though his apron was liberally painted with stains, and his sleeves rolled to his elbows.

  Jethri, his own sleeves rolled up in anticipation of another long shift spent readying barrels to receive their next batch of wine, inclined his head, which he had found was considered respectful enough, in this circumstance.

  "Good-day, sir. I hope I'm not late." He wasn't, just, which was no fault of the tailor who had been summoned to produce what Lady Maarilex was pleased to call "appropriate" clothes for himself. Not satisfied with the first set of readings, the tailor—one Sun Eli pen'Jerad—had measured him again—and yet again, muttering over his readings, and at last jerked his chin at Jethri, giving him leave to cover himself decently.

  "I will bring samples, in six days," Mr. pen'Jerad said, gathering up his measuring devices and his notes. "Tarnia informs me that you are a trader-under-study, eh? What you wear now tells the world that you are a cargohand-for-hire. We will amend this." He patted his pockets, making sure of his notes and bowed farewell. "Six days."

  Six days or never—it made no nevermind to Jethri, who cut out the door as soon as he was dressed and ran down the back halls to the winery, prudently pausing on the outside of the door until his breathing had returned to something like normal before entering and presenting himself to Ren Lar.

  That gentleman looked dreamily amused. "My mother had warned me that you were with the tailor this morning. The pen'Jerad is a marvel with his needle. Would that he were as sure with his measure-tapes." A device on the table chimed, and he glanced down with a slight frown, and then back to Jethri.

  "In any case, I had not hoped to see you so soon. Now that you are here, however. . . "

  Jethri sighed to himself, knowing what he was going to hear.

  "Ah." His face must've let something slip, 'cause Ren Lar smiled his slight, dreamy smile. "The barrels grow tedious, do they? Then you will rejoice to hear that the end of the racking approaches. The last of the blends will be assembled by the end of the twelve-day. Soon, we shall take to the vineyard and the pruning."

  He said it like pruning was a high treat. On the other hand, he had shown Jethri the barrels, and explained the necessity of having them scrubbed spotless as if it were the most important job in the winery, which, Jethri thought now, having had some days to consider the matter, it might well be. Bacteria would grow in dirty barrels, and bacteria could spoil a whole batch of wine, so clean barrels was important, right enough.

  'Course, cleaning a barrel wasn't anything so simple as shoving it into an ultraviolet box, because the UV broke down the wood too fast. No, cleaning a wine barrel involved gallons of hot water, scrub brushes, sodium carbonate and of all of things a length of plain chain. After the barrel was scrubbed down on the outside, and the inside filled with water, sodium carbonate and chain, then it was sealed up tight and rolled over to the agitator, locked in and shook up but good, while the faithful barrel-scrubber rolled another dirty over to his work space and started the process over again.

  It was tiresome and tiring work, make no mistake. Empty barrels were heavy; full barrels heavier. Jethri figured he was earning gravity muscles, but that hardly made up for the ache in his arms and his shoulders and his back.

  Halfway into his first shift, he'd come up with the conviction that chemical disinfection would be the surer—and easier—way to go, but he hadn't made the mistake of saying that to Ren Lar. After a session with the house library, he was glad he'd kept his mouth shut on the point, for it transpired that disinfectants turned the taste of the wine, which meant "spoiled" just as sure as if the bacteria'd got in.

  "There are only a few barrels today," Ren Lar was saying. "When you have done with them, make yourself available to Graem, in the aging cellar. She will be able to put another pair of hands to good use."

  "Yes, sir." Jethri inclined his head again, and went to see how many barrels was only a few.

  Day 158

  Standard Year 1118

  Irikwae

  "TELL US ABOUT living on your ship," Miandra said, shuffling the cards with bewildering speed between nimble fingers.

  Jethri blinked, and shifted in his chair, trying for a position that would ease his back. The three of them were alone in a little parlor situated closer to the kitchen than the front door. In theory, the twins were teaching him to play piket, which unlikely pastime had the full approval of Lady Maarilex.

  "Indeed, a gentleman should know his cards and be able to play a polite game." She fixed the twins in her eye, one after the other. "Mark me, token wagers only. And all may practice the art of graceful loss."

  "Yes, Aunt Stafeli," said Meicha.

  "Yes, Aunt Stafeli," said Miandra.

  "Yes, ma'am," said Jethri, though he'd been taught not to show temper for losing by kin years his elder in the subtle art of poker.

  "What do you want to know?"

  "Everything," said Meicha, comprehensively, while Miandra continued to shuffle, with a thoughtful look directed downward at the dancing cards.

  "I would like to know how the kin groups sustain themselves," she said slowly.

  "Sustain themselves? Well, there's ship life support, for air, temp and—"

  Meicha laughed. Miandra didn't, though she did stop shuffling and raise her face to frown up at him.

  "That was not at all funny," she said sternly.

  "I—" he began, meaning to say he was sorry, though he didn't know, quite, what he should be sorry for, except that she was mad at him. His brain refused to pitch up the proper phrase, though, and after a moment's floundering he produced, "I am sad that you are angry with me."

  "She's not so angry that you must be sad for it," Meicha said, matter-of-factly. "Only answer her question sensibly and she will be appeased."

  "But you see, I don't understand why my previous answer was . . . annoying. We do sustain ourselves via ship's life support. If something else was meant by the question, then I don't know how to unravel it."

  There was a small silence, then Meicha spoke again.

  "He is a stranger to our tongue, sister. Recall Aunt Stafeli? We are only to speak to him in Liaden, and in proper mode and melant'i, to aid and speed his learning."

  Miandra sighed and put the cards face down on the table. "Well enough. Then he must learn idiom." She raised her hand and pointed a finger at Jethri's nose, sharply enough that he pulled back.

  "An inquiry into how the kin group sustains itself is an inquiry into genetics," she said, still tending toward the stern. "What I wish to know is how your kin group maintains its genetic health."

  Maintains its . . . Oh. Jethri cleared his throat, thinking that his Liaden, improved as it was by constant use, might not be up to this. Good enough for Lady Maarilex to set rules on the twins for the betterment of his understanding, but nobody had drawn any lines for him about what was and wasn't considered proper topics of conversations between himself and two of the house's precious youngers.

  "Is he shy?" Meicha inquired of her sister.

  "Hush! Let him order his thoughts."

  Right. Well, nothing for it but to tell the thing straight out and hope they took it for the strange custom of folk not their own—which, come to think, it would be.

  "There are . . . arrangements between ships," he said slowly. "Sometimes, those. My older brother, Cris, came from an arrangement with Perry's Promenade. Seeli—my sister—she came out of a—a shivary, we call it. That's like a big party, when a lot of ships get together and there's parties and—and—" He couldn't put his tongue to a phrase that meant the polite of "sleeping around," but it turned out he didn't have to—Miandra knew exactly what he was on course for.

  "Ah. Then your sister Seeli is as we are—Festival get and children of the house entire." She smiled, as if the translation comforted her
, and looked over to Meicha. "See you, sister? It is not so different from the usual way of things. One child of contract and one from Festival—the genes mix nicely, I think."

  "It would seem so," her sister agreed, unusually serious. "And you, Jethri? Were you contracted—or joyous accident?"

  Well, there was the question that had formed his life, now, wasn't it? He shrugged and looked down at the table—real wood, and smooth under his palm, showing stains here and there, and the marks of glasses, set down wet.

  "Unhappy accident, call it," he said to the table. "My parents were married, but my mother wasn't looking for any more children. Which is how I happened to be the extra, and available to 'prentice with Master ven'Deelin."