by Sharon Lee
Hazenthull took a breath, and brought her index finger to her forehead in the gesture that meant, among the Troop, that a promise was offered.
“Let us make a pledge,” she said, “to trade the tales of ourselves.”
Tolly blinked, then returned her salute.
“Let’s do that,” he said solemnly. “Soon.”
—•—
They had attacked Pale Wing, the stupid, stupid Department of the Interior, because it was of course the Department of the Interior, the mode of attack was exactly the same that they had used to contain—to try to contain—Cousin Theo, whose very refusal to be captured, or to stand by to be boarded, ought (one would think!) to have taught them something.
But, no, they were idiots, the entire Department of them, however many there were, and surely not one over the age of six!
Pale Wing! She had served on Pale Wing! She knew Trader tel’Brakin well, and Captain ven’Tyrlit, too! She had friends among the crew! Why, she might have been on board herself—but no, that route went nowhere. What was at issue was the stupidity of the entire Department of the Interior. They were so completely incapable of learning anything that they would very likely continue to assault Korval ships! Why, they were so stupid they might even try to capture the Passage in this witless manner, despite Cousin Theo having actually killed at least one of their ships, and Pale Wing—
Padi drew a breath.
What Captain ven’Tyrlit had done…had been very wrong. To endanger the station, and the lives of all who lived and worked there? No, that was not the choice of an honorable pilot. The safety of the ship could not trump the lives of those who were not of the ship.
And, yet, one did perfectly understand why the captain had made that particular choice. She may even have thought it a safe enough bluff, perhaps failing to understand the depths of stupidity from which the enemy operated. Captain ven’Tyrlit would not have known, perhaps, that those pursuing might well have fired upon Pale Wing, despite her position, simply because they were too stupid to comprehend that sometimes missiles go wide of their mark.
Or, Padi thought, they might not have cared if they holed the station, so long as they had also taken their prize.
She had been at the debriefing session, of course, with the rest of the ship’s pilots. Priscilla—the captain, rather—had taken the few questions which had been raised, including one regarding perhaps modifying Bechimo’s “specialized equipment” so that it could be installed in other Korval ships. The captain had said solemnly that she would consult with Captain Waitley, and then recalled the Passage’s own capabilities to the minds of those assembled.
“The Passage does have smart shielding and patterned defense shields,” the captain said. “We welcome ideas for upgrading, or improving our existing systems—anything that may increase our ability to defend ourselves in the case of such a close-in attack. It would seem that our enemy has a bias. Ways in which we can exploit that bias to our advantage would also be helpful. Any suggestions or ideas should be presented to Third Mate Tiazan.”
She had then asked for more questions, of which there were none, and dismissed everyone to stations.
And that was where Padi was headed now—to the trade bridge, the master trader having left the meeting during the question period.
It would, Padi thought, hardly be wise to arrive at her station in a state of active anger. She needed to concentrate her mind on the incoming catalogs and offers.
Therefore, she punched the call button for the elevator, then danced a few steps of daibri’at right there in the hallway, confining her anger to the stone keep that already held her fear.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Andireeport
Master Trader yos’Galan had purchased handmade papers and pens turned from local woods. Padi watched as he was now examining pottery bowls with a crystalline glaze that the attending artisan swore made them virtually unbreakable.
“What an interesting idea,” he said to the square-faced woman. “Is this a house glaze, or your own innovation?”
“My own,” she said with a slight bow. “I have always been a great reader. Some years back, I found a monograph regarding crystal knives produced by a certain tribe of beings known in the broader universe as Clutch Turtles. Their knives were proven to be virtually indestructible, and—well. Pottery is a fragile thing, and we suffer in the far trade for it. So, I set myself the task.”
She picked a bowl up from the display shelf, a winsome work in swirling deep blues, the fluted lip all cream and white. It reminded Padi of a wave racing toward shore; she yearned to hold it, and find how the shape fit her hand.
The artisan threw the bowl at the tiled floor.
Padi cried out in protest, and felt her face heat, even as the bowl struck the tiles with a bell-like clang, and settled, entirely unshattered.
“I am impressed,” the master trader said.
The artisan bowed, and continued the motion, plucking the bowl up, and straightening. She looked to Padi, a smile on her face, and glanced at the master trader.
“It is permitted to give a gift to one who would not see beauty destroyed?”
“It is a handsome gift, for an apprentice,” he said, his voice perfectly neutral.
Padi felt her cheeks warm again. She had displeased him. Well, of course she had! What trader squeaked aloud during the trade?
“We were all apprentices once,” the artisan said, the bowl balanced delicately on the tips of her fingers. “I still have the bowl my own master gave me to place by my bed, so that every morning when I opened my eyes, I would see it, and recall that I strove to bring beauty and balance into the world.”
“A wise master. I hope that I may be as wise.” He bowed slightly. “I am honored, that my apprentice should receive so apt a gift.”
The artisan smiled even more fully. Padi bowed to her honor, more deeply than Father had done.
“It is a wonderful bowl,” she said. “I will strive to be worthy of it. Thank you.”
“You are very welcome,” the artisan said. “The bowl pleases me, as well. And it will please me to think of it voyaging in space, supporting an eager apprentice along her path to master.”
Her bow suggested master to apprentice, though there was something in the hand motion—perhaps, Padi thought, master-to-an-apprentice-not-her-own.
“Allow me, please, to wrap this, and place it in a sack, so that you may carry it more easily on port.”
* * *
The sack had long handles. Padi hitched them over one shoulder and nestled the bowl against her side. The master trader had spent another few minutes with the artisan, arranging for the Passage to take samples of her work, and had left a beam code and an infokey for the guild master’s pleasure.
They paused now in the common corridor: the master trader, herself, and Vanner Higgs, who made their third. Mr. Higgs’ official title was Technician First Class; he was also part of the Passage’s security detail. Before coming to them, he had been a technical sergeant with a mercenary unit. His primary responsibilities there, too, had to do with technologies and connectivities, though he had had battle training, as well. He had told her, when a previous schedule had placed them on port together, that it was much more peaceful being a tech on the Passage, because no one was trying to kill him while he was setting up the equipment.
He stood now, patiently, a little apart from her and the master trader, his eyes alert; not a technician at this moment, but a security person, on duty.
“Well, Apprentice? What do you think of the potter’s wares?”
“They’re very beautiful,” Padi said, recalling the bowls, cups, and art objects on display. Everything in the shop had been pottery—down to the glazed tile floor. “But they’re handmade; she cannot possibly produce enough to make it profitable for her to trade off-planet.”
“Now, there’s an interesting question. Did you see the discreet sign above the wrapping desk, Contact the Guildmaster for Bulk Orders?”
Padi frowned. She hadn’t seen the sign; she had been too interested in the wares. Another failure; a trader sees everything, just as much as a security guard.
“No, sir; I didn’t,” she confessed.
“It was, as I say, discreet. I have asked that the guildmaster be in touch, should our information interest her. I confess that I am agog to hear how they manage bulk orders—and what ‘bulk’ may mean to them.”
“I am interested in those topics, as well,” she said.
“I will be certain to keep you informed,” he said affably, and looked over her head to give Mr. Higgs a nod.
“Vanner. We’re about to forsake the halls of civilization for the noise and confusion of the Fruit and Flower Market. Are you afraid?”
“Not so much, sir,” Mr. Higgs said genially. “I been on Gaston Prime during the Feast of the Founder. That spoilt me, kinda, for fruit markets.”
“I understand. I will, therefore, content myself with a warning concerning the flowers.”
“Always look twice at the flowers, sir.”
“An excellent policy.” Master Trader yos’Galan turned to Padi. “You are now lead trader. I will recuse myself, insofar as I may. Does this satisfy?”
“Yes, Master Trader.”
“Splendid. Allow me to carry your parcel. A trader should have her hands and her wits about her when she goes in to negotiate.”
“Yes,” she said slipping the bag off her shoulder and handing it to him. She felt a slight pang as he slipped the handles over his own shoulder, which was ridiculous, of course. Father would certainly take very good care of such a bowl.
“Thank you,” she said, and nodded to Mr. Higgs before setting a brisk pace down the cool hallway, through the door, and out into the day port.
* * *
Padi had done her research, so she knew where the nearest east-west jitney station was, where to debark and which slideway would convey them directly to the fruit section of the Fruit and Flower Market. She told over this information to Father and to Mr. Higgs, in case they should become separated, which was wise, for she and Mr. Higgs did lose Father on the slideway, which was very crowded.
They stepped off at the Fruit Market landing, just the two of them. Padi turned just as Father exited the slideway. He gave her a nod.
“What a terrible crush, to be sure! How fortunate that they all seem to be going someplace else!”
“Fortunate, indeed,” she said, drawing a deep breath to calm the flutters in her middle. She felt like she had when she had taken the test to find if she was, indeed, a pilot of Korval.
Well, one knew how to cope with sky-nerves, after all. She closed her eyes briefly, accessing a quick calming exercise. Her stomach settled into its usual place, and her hands immediately felt steadier.
Opening her eyes, she nodded to Father and to Mr. Higgs, and pointed toward the platform stairs.
* * *
Technically, milaster was not a fruit, but a nut—the kernel of the laster fruit, very little of which escaped the appetites of the population of Andiree. The kernel, however, was not so well-regarded, though it was perfectly edible, and, indeed the population of Chessel’s World regarded it with a passion to rival that of Andiree, for the fruit.
In terms of trade, the matter could not have fallen out more satisfactorily. The kernel, which was durable and easy to ship, was desired off-world, while the delicate fruits were desired on-world.
Padi paused to take her bearings by the corner markers. Her destination was at the intersection of Blue-Flower and Green-Fruit, which was—there, to her left. She had turned right one row too soon at the top of the grid.
“There’s our corner,” she said, turning to Mr. Higgs, who smiled and nodded. She glanced beyond him, to where Father…
Father was gone.
No, that was absurd; there was no crush of slideway travelers here in the hall, merely a few dozens of shoppers, some merchants standing at the entrance to their booths, and a few ’bot cleaners. Padi spun slowly on her heel, as if seeking the corners one more time, for verification.
Father was nowhere to be seen.
She blinked, feeling a little unsettled in her stomach. It was true that he had said he would recuse himself. But, surely, he would not have left the group without a word at least to Mr. Higgs. And certainly he would not have violated the order that all crew on port travel in threes, or in the company of a member of the ship’s security team.
One more breath; one more glance around—the last, lest she attract the attention of a floor monitor, and that would be embarrassing, to be delivered to her destination by a monitor, as if she were too green to have studied the map beforetime.
Her glance crossed that of Vanner Higgs. He tipped his head, very slightly, to the left. Padi looked beyond his shoulder, her eyes snagging at once on the merest shadow; a faint suggestion of silver hair, strong nose, and shoulders outlined by a dark blue shirt sketched upon the warm, market air.
It would appear that Father had, indeed, suggested to those surrounding that he simply…was not present.
While it disturbed her that such a subterfuge—even born of Healer talent, as it must be—had very nearly fooled her, at the same time she was grateful that Father had found a way to clear the trade for her.
Padi sighed, quietly, and raised her hand to point again at their corner before moving off in that direction.
—•—
Well, that had been unexpected!
Shan looked down at his own hand, relieved to see that broad, brown member, with the carved amethyst of a master of trade sparkling cheerfully—one might say, smugly—there.
It had given him a bad turn, just a moment ago, to look down and see nothing, though he could feel the hand perfectly well, and each finger when he wriggled them and the weight of the ring.
Granted, he didn’t often suggest that he wasn’t present, but on those occasions when he had, the effect had been more as if those around him had simply forgotten that he was there. If one was determined enough, one could see beyond the suggestion, as he had found one evening to his sorrow, when he had been trying to avoid an overzealous suitor.
In no case had he ever forgotten he was present—nor had he ever vanished before his very eyes.
Happily, he had been able to bring himself back from total absence to what seemed to be a shadow of himself by concentrating on what he should be seeing. It was as if he had applied too much force to the original suggestion, and gone one step deeper, into actual invisibility.
Which was nonsense.
At least, he thought it was nonsense.
He felt his fingers moving and glanced down at his hand, watching the shadowy red counter walk across foggy knuckles.
Drat the thing, he thought irritably. The counter hesitated in its journey, as if it had heard the thought. That was interesting.
He focused his attention on the counter.
Go away! he thought at it, as sternly as he was able.
Between one knuckle and the next, it vanished.
Shan blinked, and reached into the usual pocket.
No counter.
He checked the other pocket.
No counter.
Well, good. He was delighted to be rid of the blasted thing.
Only…
Where had it gone?
He took a breath. A problem for later, if problem it was. He’d speak to Priscilla about it. In the meantime, he followed Padi down a narrow, sparsely populated aisle to a booth sporting a red-and-blue checked awning; a rosy-cheeked man wearing a white apron over a bright red shirt stood behind a red counter supporting four large glass jars, each containing a brightly colored foodstuff.
Padi pulled her Andireeport trade card from her pocket, and approached the counter. Vanner stopped just short of entering the shop, standing at ease, his eyes roving up and down the aisle, surveying the meager crowd.
Shan stepped into the shop itself, though not so close as the counter. He wanted to be able to watch,
and to hear. Padi had seemed rather nervous earlier, though this was not by any means her first time as a buyer.
Well, and sometimes the work itself steadied the nerves. Certainly, she seemed cool enough now, as she bowed to the gentleman, and extended the card.
—•—
“Trader yos’Galan, welcome!” the red-cheeked man bellowed, his smile showing an amazing number of very white teeth. “I am Gustav rel’Ana, proprietor of the Laster Garden. How may I serve you? We have, fresh and amenable to stasis, candied trovyul, salted ginger, and dehydrated spinginach. For your special customers, we have also a small amount of laster chutney. Such a treasure does not often come to our port location, but last year saw a laster harvest as none before, and we are able to offer a few—a very few!—cases of this Andiree delicacy to discerning buyers.”
Merchant rel’Ana’s voice was loud, as if he were shouting at her from across the aisle, rather than the width of the counter. Padi kept her face smooth and did not back away from the assault upon her ears. She did, however, answer in a soft and mannerly voice that would have astonished Cousin Kareen.
“The chutney,” she said, diverted briefly from her agenda, “can it be put into stasis?”
The man’s smile became…less broad, and his cheeks became redder. Padi wondered if she had been maladroit.
“The chutney, Trader, no. You do not put laster chutney into stasis. You tuck it tenderly into the best stateroom, as if it were your own child.”
She had been maladroit; she scolded herself, she should have known better. Hadn’t her research told her how fragile the laster fruit was? Surely that would be the case for anything made from it.
“I am desolate to have no such tender accommodations available to the chutney,” she said. “I have only heard tales of this rare foodstuff, and for a moment, I allowed my hope to interfere with my good sense.”
The smile widened again. She had redeemed herself.