A Liaden Universe Constellation: Volume I

by Sharon Lee

Almost, it seemed to Jethri that she smiled.

  “Such tales. We of the clans listen in Port-bars—and discover ourselves monsters.” She patted his arm, lightly. “But no. Unless he adopts a mode most stupid, fear not of his life.” She stepped back, her hand falling from his sleeve.

  “Your own actions reside in correctness. Very much is this matter mine of solving. A junior trader could do no other, than bring such at once before me.

  “Now, I ask, most humbly, that you accept Ixin’s protection in conveyance to your ship. It is come night-Port while we speak, and your kin will be distressful for your safety. Myself and yourself, we will speak additionally, after solving.”

  She bowed again, hand over heart, and Jethri did his best to copy the thing with his legs shaking fit to tip him over. When he looked up the door was closing behind her. It opened again immediately and the assistant stepped inside with a bow of his own.

  “Jethri Gobelyn,” he said in his accentless Trade, “please follow me. A car will take you to your ship.”

  Gobelyn’s Market

  “SHE SAID SHE wouldn’t kill him,” he said hoarsely. The captain, his mother, shook her head and Uncle Paitor sighed.

  “There’s worse things than killing, Son,” he said and that made Jethri want to scrunch into his chair and bawl, like he had ten Standards fewer and stood about as tall as he felt.

  What he did do, was take another swallow of coffee and meet Paitor’s eyes straight. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “You’ve got cause,” his uncle acknowledged.

  “Double-ups on dock,” the captain said, looking at them both. “Nobody works alone. We don’t want trouble. We stay close and quiet and we lift as soon as we can without making it look like a rush.”

  Paitor nodded. “Agreed.”

  Jethri stirred, fingers tight ’round the coffee mug. “Ma’am, she—Master Trader ven’Deelin said she wanted to talk to me, after she—settled—things. I wouldn’t want to insult her.”

  “None of us wants to insult her,” his mother said, with more patience than he’d expected. “However, a master trader is well aware that a trade ship must trade. She can’t expect us to hang around while our cargo loses value. If she wants to talk to you, boy, she’ll find you.”

  “No insult,” Paitor added, “for a junior trader to bow to the authority of his seniors. Liadens understand chain of command real well.” The captain laughed, short and sharp, then stood up.

  “Go to bed, Jethri—you’re out on your feet. Be on dock second shift—” she slid a glance to Paitor. “Dyk?”

  His uncle nodded.

  “You’ll partner with Dyk. We’re onloading seed, ship’s basics, trade tools. Barge’s due Port-noon. Stick close, you understand me?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Wobbling, Jethri got to his feet, saluted his seniors, put the mug into the wash-up and turned toward the door.

  “Jethri.”

  He turned back, thinking his uncle’s face looked—sad.

  “I wanted to let you know,” Paitor said. “The spice did real well for us.”

  Jethri took a deep breath. “Good,” he said and his voice didn’t shake at all. “That’s good.”

  Gobelyn’s Market

  Loading Dock

  “OK,” SAID DYK, easing the forks on the hand-lift back. “Got it.” He toggled the impeller fan and nodded over his shoulder. “Let’s go, kid. Guard my back.”

  Jethri managed a weak grin. Dyk was inclined to treat the double-up and Paitor’s even-voiced explanation of disquiet on the docks as a seam-splitting joke. He guided the hand-lift to the edge of the barge, stopped, theatrically craned both ways, flashed a thumbs-up over his shoulder to Jethri, who was lagging behind, and dashed out onto the Market’s dock. Sighing, Jethri walked slowly in his wake.

  “Hey, kid, hold it a sec.” The voice was low and not entirely unfamiliar. Jethri spun.

  Sirge Milton was leaning against a cargo crate, hand in the pocket of his jacket and nothing like a smile on his face.

  “Real smart,” he said, “setting a Liaden on me.”

  Jethri shook his head, caught somewhere between relief and dismay.

  “You don’t understand,” he said, walking forward. “The card’s a fake.”

  The man against the crate tipped his head. “Is it, now?”

  “Yeah, it is. I’ve seen the real one, and it’s nothing like the one you have.”

  “So what?”

  “So,” Jethri said patiently, stopping and showing empty hands in the old gesture of goodwill, “whoever gave you the card wasn’t Norn ven’Deelin. He was somebody who said he was Norn ven’Deelin and he used the card and her—the honor of her name—to cheat you.”

  Sirge Milton leaned, silent, against the cargo bail.

  Jethri sighed sharply. “Look, Sirge, this is serious stuff. The Master Trader has to protect her name. She’s not after you—she’s after whoever gave you that card and told you he was her. All you have to do—”

  Sirge Milton shook his head, sorrowful, or so it seemed to Jethri. “Kid,” he said, “you still don’t get it, do you?” He brought his hand out of the pocket and leveled the gun, matter-of-factly, at Jethri’s stomach. “I know the card’s bogus, kid. I know who made it—and so does your precious master trader. She got the scrivener last night. She’d’ve had me this morning, but I know the back way outta the ’ground.”

  The gun was high-g plastic, snub-nosed and black. Jethri stared at it and then looked back at the man’s face. Trade, he thought, curiously calm. Trade for your life.

  Sirge Milton grinned. “You ratted another Terran to a Liaden. That’s stupid, Jethri. Stupid people don’t live long.”

  “You’re right,” he said, calmly, watching Sirge’s face and not the gun at all. “And it’d be real stupid for you to kill me. Norn ven’Deelin said I’d done her a service. If you kill me, she’s not going to have any choice but to serve you the same. You don’t want to corner her.”

  “Jeth?” Dyk’s voice echoed in from the dock. “Hey! Jethri!”

  “I’ll be out in a second!” he yelled, never breaking eye contact with the gunman. “Give me the gun,” he said, reasonably. “I’ll go with you to the master trader and you can ‘make it right.’ “

  “ ‘Make it right’,” Sirge sneered and there was a sharp snap as he thumbed the gun’s safety off.

  “I urge you most strongly to heed the young trader’s excellent advice, Sirge Milton,” a calm voice commented in accentless Trade. “The master trader is arrived and Balance may go forth immediately.”

  MASTER VEN’DEELIN’S yellow-haired assistant walked into the edge of Jethri’s field of vision. He stood lightly on the balls of his feet, as if he expected to have to run. There was a gun, holstered, on his belt.

  Sirge Milton hesitated, staring at this new adversary.

  “Sirge, it’s not worth dying for,” Jethri said, desperately.

  But Sirge had forgotten about him. He was looking at Master ven’Deelin’s assistant. “Think I’m gonna be some Liaden’s slave until I worked off what she claims for debt?” He demanded. “Liaden Port? You think I got any chance of a fair hearing?”

  “The Portmaster—” the yellow-haired Liaden began, but Sirge cut him off with a wave, looked down at the gun and brought it around.

  “No!” Jethri jumped forward, meaning to grab the gun, but something solid slammed into his right side, knocking him to the barge’s deck. There was a crack of sound, very soft, and Jethri rolled to hisfeet—

  Sirge Milton was crumbled face down on the cold decking, the gun in his hand. The back of his head was gone. Jethri took a step forward, found his arm grabbed and turned around to look down into the grave blue eyes of Master ven’Deelin’s assistant.

  “Come,” the Liaden said, and his voice was not—quite—steady. “The master trader must be informed.”

  Gobelyn’s Market

  Common Room

  THE YELLOW-HAIRED assistant came to an end of his spate of Liade
n and bowed low.

  “So it is done,” Norn ven’Deelin said in Trade. “Advise the Portmaster and hold yourself at her word.”

  “Master Trader.” The man swept a bow so low his forehead touched his knees, straightened effortlessly and left the common room. Norn ven’Deelin turned to Jethri, sitting shaken between his mother and Uncle Paitor.

  “I am regretful,” she said in her bad Terran, “that solving achieved this form. My intention, as I said to you, was not thus. Terrans—”

  She glanced around, at Paitor and the captain, at Dyk and Khat and Mel. “Forgive me. I mean to say that Terrans are of a mode most surprising. It was my error, to think this solving would end not in dyings.” She showed her palms. “The counterfeit-maker and the, ahh—distributor—are of a mind, both, to achieve more seemly Balance.”

  “Counterfeiter?” asked Paitor and Norn ven’Deelin inclined her head.

  “Indeed. Certain cards were copied—not well, as I find—and distributed to traders of dishonor. These would then use the—the—melant’i—you would say, the worth of the card to run just such a shadow-deal as young Jethri fell against.” She sat back, mouth straight. “The game is closed, this Port, and I come now to Balance young Jethri’s service to myself.”

  His mother shot a glance at Paitor, who rose to his feet and bowed, low and careful. “We are grateful for your condescension, Master Trader. Please allow us to put paid, in mutual respect and harmony, to any matter that may lie between us—”

  “Yes, yes.” She waved a hand. “In circumstance far otherwise, this would be the path of wisdom, all honor to you, Trader Gobelyn. But you and I, we are disallowed the comfort of old wisdom. We are honored, reverse-ward, to build new wisdom.” She looked up at him, black eyes shining.

  “See you, this young trader illuminates error of staggering immensity. To my hand he delivers one priceless gem of data: Terrans are using Liaden honor to cheat other Terrans.” She leaned forward, catching their eyes one by one. “Liaden honor,” she repeated, “to cheat other Terrans.”

  She lay her hand on her chest. “I am a master trader. My—my duty is to the increase of the trade. Trade cannot increase, where honor is commodity.”

  “But what does this,” Dyk demanded, irrepressible, “have to do with Jethri?”

  The black eyes pinned him. “A question of piercing excellence. Jethri has shown me this—that the actions of Liadens no longer influence the lives only of Liadens. Reverse-ward by logic follows for the actions of Terrans. So, for the trade to increase, wherein lies the proper interest of trader and master trader, information cross-cultural must increase.” She inclined her head.

  “Trader, I suggest we write contract between us, with the future of Jethri Gobelyn in our minds.”

  Uncle Paitor blinked. “You want to—forgive me. I think you’re trying to say that you want to take Jethri as an apprentice.”

  Another slight bow of the head. “Precisely so. Allow me, please, to praise him to you as a promising young trader, of learned instinct and strongly enmeshed in honor.”

  “But I did everything wrong!” Jethri burst out, seeing Sirge Milton laying there, dead of his own choice, and the stupid waste of it . . .

  “Regrettably, I must disagree,” Master ven’Deelin said softly. “It is true that death untimely transpired. This was not your error. Pen Rel informs to me your eloquence in beseeching Trader Milton to the path of Balance. This was not error. To solicit solving from she who is most able to solve—that is only correctness.” She showed both of her hands, palms up. “I honor you for your actions, Jethri Gobelyn, and wonder if you will bind yourself as my apprentice.”

  He wanted it. In that one, searing moment, he knew he had never wanted anything in his life so much. He looked to his mother.

  “I found my ship, Captain,” he said.

  A Choice of Weapons

  The number of High Houses is precisely fifty.

  And then there is Korval.

  —From the Annual Census of Clans,

  on file with the Council of Clans, Solcintra, Liad

  “I AM NOT worthy.”

  Daav yos’Phelium bowed low. When he straightened, it was not to his full height, but with carefully rounded shoulders and half-averted face: a lesser being, faint with terror at his own audacity.

  His mother would have laughed aloud at such obvious mummery. His delm—Korval Herself, she who held the future and life of each clanmember in her sedately folded hands—merely lifted an elegant golden eyebrow.

  Daav schooled himself to stillness—small challenge for one who was a scout—face yet averted. He did not quite bite his lip, though the inclination was strong. Not all of his present display was artifice; it was no inconsiderable thing to bring Korval’s Own Eye upon onself, true-son though he be.

  A full Standard minute passed before Korval shifted slightly in her chair.

  “In the one face,” she said, reflectively, and in no higher mode than that of parent to child, “the question of how long you might stand there, cowed and silent, beguiles my closest interest. On the other face, it is Daav before me, and one cannot be certain but that this is a ploy engineered to rob us both of the pleasure of attending Etgora’s certain-to-be-tedious evening gather.” The mode shifted, and she was his Delm once more, chin up and eyes no warmer than ice.

  “Elucidate this sudden unworthiness. Briefly.”

  Mode required that a petitioner accept the Delm’s Word with a bow. Daav did so, forehead brushing knees, and returned to the round-shouldered pose of inferiority.

  “I have today received my quartershare accounting from dea’Gauss and with it certain documents needful of my attention. One of those documents was the Delm’s Formal Declaration of Heir, in which I discover myself named Korval-in-future.” He moved his shoulders, easing tension that was born not only of the unnatural posture.

  “The information amazes?” Korval-in-present inquired. “Surely you are aware that you have been trained for the duty since you had sense of language.”

  Daav inclined his head. “But I was not trained alone. Er Thom has been at my side, schooled as I was, word and gesture. We studied the same diary entries. We learned our equations at the same board. All in accordance with Delm’s Wisdom—that two be conceived and trained to the duty, to insure that Korval would have its delm, though yos’Phelium’s genes twice proved inadequate.”

  He paused, daring a quick glance at his delm’s face from beneath modestly lowered lashes. No sign—of irritation, impatience, boredom. Or humor. Chi yos’Phelium had been a scout herself before duty called her to delmhood, forty Standard years ago. Her face would reveal whatever she wished to show.

  “Er Thom,” Daav murmured, “has a steady nature; his understanding of our history and our present necessities is entirely sound. Of course, he is a master pilot—indeed, his skill over-reaches my—”

  Korval raised her hand.

  “A discussion of your fosterbrother’s excellencies is extraneous to the topic.” She lowered her hand. “Daav yos’Phelium professes himself unworthy to assume the duty he was bred and trained for, thus calling a Delm’s Decision into question—that is your chosen theme. Speak to it.”

  Daav took a deep breath, bowed. She was correct—of course she was correct. A delm could not be wrong, in matters of clan. That the delm had mischosen her heir was no fault of her judgement, but his own error, in withholding information she required. He had intended to speak ere she had chosen, but he had not expected her to have chosen so soon.

  He came to his full height and met his delm’s chill eyes squarely.

  “Perhaps, then, I should have put it that I am unfit for the duty. While I am off Liad, performing even the most tedious of tasks required by Scout Headquarters, my temper is serene and my judgement sound. I am scarcely a day on the homeworld and I am awash in anger. People annoy me to the edge of endurance. Mode and measure grate my patience. I cannot say with any certainty that my judgement is sound. Indeed, I fear it is
dangerously unsound.” He bowed again, buying time, for this next was difficult, for all it needed to be said.

  “I had been to the Healers, last leave, and asked that the distemper be mended.”

  “Ah,” said Korval. “And was it so?”

  Daav felt his lips twitch toward a smile—most inappropriate when one was in conversation with one’s delm—and straightened them with an effort..

  “Master Healer Kestra,” he said, “was pleased to inform me that many people find Liadens irritating.”

  “So they do,” his delm agreed gravely. “Most especially do yos’Pheliums who have not yet attained their thirtieth Name Day find Liadens annoying. If you will accept the experience of one who is your elder, I will certify that the annoyance does ease, with time.”

  Daav bowed acceptance of an elder’s wisdom. “I would welcome instruction on how not to do a murder in the interim.”

  Korval tipped her head, looking into his eyes with such intensity he thought she must see into his secret soul. It required effort, to neither flinch nor look away, but less effort—noticeably less effort—than had been required, even five years ago.

  “As concerned as that,” Korval murmured and looked down at her folded hands, releasing him. She was silent for a few moments, then looked back to his face.

  “Very well. The delm will take her Decision under review.”

  Daav felt his knees give, and covered the slight sag with a bow of gratitude.

  “All very fine,” said Korval. “But I will not start you in the habit of questioning Delm’s Decision.”

  “Of course not.” He bowed again, every line eloquent of respect.

  “So very well-trained,” Korval murmured, rising from her chair. “It’s nothing short of marvelous.”

  FROWNING, DAAV CONSIDERED the gun.

  It was not a pretty gun, in the way meant by those who admired jeweled grips and platinum-chased cylinders. It was a functional gun, made to his own specifications and tuned by Master Marksman Tey Dor himself. It was also small, and could be hidden with equal ease in Daav’s sleeve or his palm.