by Sharon Lee
“Done,” Shan said, and nodded at the card the man still held in his hand. “There’s a beam code on that. If you’ll do me the favor of sending a confirmation. These receptions leave me quite scrambled.”
Master Seirt laughed.
“Aye, I’ll lay odds they do just that. I’m looking forward to our next meeting—and tell you, now! Bring your ’prentice, eh?”
“You are very kind.”
“Non, non, nothing kind there. It’s the duty of experience to teach inexperience, so said m’mother, and I find the same.” Another comfortable laugh. “If we don trainem up right we’ve only ourselfs to blame when they make hash in place o’profit.”
Shan laughed softly.
“I agree! We both look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”
Master Seirt bowed then, a peculiarly wooden bending at the waist, until his back was straight and his face was pointed at the floor. It was a mercifully brief exercise, which Shan exchanged for a slight bow between business associates, as Master Seirt straightened and moved away toward the wine table.
Shan sighed. Thus far, the reception was going well. Indeed, now that he had a chance to properly survey the room, it would seem that they had managed to convene a crush. Caterer Hartensis stood at the corner of the wine table, serving as quantity control and, so he suspected, to enforce the local age law regarding the imbibing of spirits, while a helper wearing a long red apron over his white skirts brought out a new plate of breads and slipped it deftly into place.
Padi—
Padi was in the midst of an animated discussion with three respectably dressed port brokers. Even as he spied her, two of her interlocutors ambled off, like Master Siert, to the wine table. The third moved closer to Padi, and bent somewhat, as if to put a question. To the outer eyes, Padi was tense, but no more than one might expect of someone hosting her first reception.
Shan opened a tight road, from him to her, and caught the brittle edge of her headache. He considered rubbing it away, but even as he did, shadows moved at his elbow, and he turned to bow to a new pair of Langlast merchants.
—•—
“The family finances are sound, sir,” Padi said, which was no more than she had heard Father answer to other, like inquiries, at other ports. “Of course, there were expenses involved in our relocation, and of course, now that we are settled, we are looking for new partners, and new routes to business. There is no expectation at all that we shall founder, as trade remains at our core.”
Herst Plishet nodded gravely, and sipped from his cup.
“That’s pretty said, that is, nor I won’t hide from you that I expected to hear the gloss. But I’m a serious man, Trader, and gloss won’t hold me. Have ye numbers—statistics, it might be said—to reassure me?”
She tried to concentrate through the flickering pain in her head. It seemed that Broker Plishet wished to be given proof that Korval would endure…forever. Aunt Anthora could, perhaps, prove the future—Priscilla might, indeed, prove the future, when the necessity was upon her…but Apprentice Trader Padi yos’Galan lacked their advantages.
She took a breath.
“These are questions better put to the master trader,” she murmured. “May I bring you to him, sir?”
“Oh, no, never put yerself to such trouble! I’ve spoken to the master trader, and stood a bye and listened to him. He’s an apt lad, and non dummy, I’ll wager. If I ask it hard enough of him, he may give me a nugget more, that the head o’family might’ve allowed him to say—no disrespect to the master trader or the da at home! But yerself, Trader, you’ve got nothing to tell me but what you know, seeit? And I already got from you that there’s something not quite what it ought to be.”
Her head was going to explode, gods. She dare not close her eyes and access board rest, not with this man watching her so closely.
Padi raised her head and met the broker’s eyes.
“Sir, you ask me to prove the future. I have no such abilities. I can only point to our record—the past—and extrapolate from that. Those records are available, and I would be pleased to send them you, when I return to the ship. May I have an address capable of receiving a download? I should warn you that our trade history is long, and the download large.”
He was clearly amused.
“Now, there’s plain speaking, and a generous offer alongside it! But, Trader, much as I agree with you that non can scry tomorra; sure it is you’ll agree with me, that the past is gone and puts no weight on the future.”
“No,” Padi said, around the jagged pain in her head, “there we disagree, sir. If the past has no bearing on the future, you would not be asking me for a guarantee that I’ll wager you, yourself, would not give, were our roles reversed. Indeed, let us test it now, as we stand here together.
“Can you provide me with proof that will prove Langlast’s textile mills will not founder and fold some short while after we have concluded an agreement?”
“Why, Trader, Langlast’s mills have endured these two hundred Standards and more! What d’you imagine might cause them to fail—all of them to fail—now?”
“My imagination is not at issue, sir. I seek assurance for the future, and you offer me the dead and dusty past. How am I to make a rational decision unless I have hard facts?”
He threw his head back then, and laughed so loudly that the rest of the room quietened as all eyes turned toward them.
If Herst Plishet were the least bit discomfited by the attention he had gathered, it did not display itself in a return to seemliness. Indeed, he laughed the harder, and slapped his leg, in addition.
Padi felt her ears growing warm and her head pounding fit to burst…
A large, warm hand landed lightly on her shoulder. She turned her head to look up into Father’s face. He was smiling his trade smile, which was nothing at all like his real smile, and his eyes were…rather cool.
“Are you quite well, sir?” he asked, and his voice was cool, too.
“Oh, I’m well, and weller, too!” the broker said, his hilarity subsiding to a point where he might speak. He raised a hand to wipe his eyes, and gave Padi a wide grin.
“Trader, it’s been a long time since I’ve been so masterfully sassed! All honor to you, and I’ll be offering you my own key—” Two fingers dipped into one of the pouches suspended from his belt and brought forth an infokey, which he offered to her across the palm of his hand, as if he offered her his dirk.
“Come to the Textile Hall tomorrow, if your schedule allows it, and ask for me by name. There are some items I think you might find of interest. If you do, well, then, we two will come to an agreement made in the present, with neither the past weighing overheavy on us, nor the future only black.”
“Thank you,” Padi said, taking the key gingerly from his palm, and tucking it into a jacket pocket. “Have you a beam code? My schedule tomorrow—”
“On the key, Trader,” he said, grinning anew. “All of it on the key.”
“Thank you,” she said again, Father’s hand still gentle on her shoulder.
“My pleasure, Trader, and it’s truth as I say it.” He bowed then, the stiff-backed salutation that seemed to be common here.
Padi bowed as to a business associate, and Father inclined his head. Broker Plishet straightened and strode away, toward the back of the room and the wine table.
The rest of the guests seemed to take a collective breath before they turned back to their interrupted conversations.
“Now I wonder…did you sass our guest?” Father asked, for her ears alone.
She sighed, and did not lift a hand to rub at her forehead.
“I fear that I must have done. He was pushing me to prove that Korval’s fortunes would remain firm, and I—in order to show him how insupportable his…his demand was, I asked that he provide me proof that the Langlast mills would not fail…”
She shook her head, waking bright blades of pain.
“I should not have done so,” she murmured. “He wished to ma
ke some point about Korval’s relocation, and my head was—” She stopped, biting her lip. She had not meant to mention her headache.
Father’s fingers exerted pressure, and she sighed, relaxing somewhat under the warmth of his touch.
“May I assist you with the headache, Trader?”
It was a small thing, she thought; only a headache, scarcely worthy of a Healer’s attention. Yet—it could have as easily gone the other way, the matter with Broker Plishet, and the Passage come under the frown of the Langlastport merchants entire, for she remembered how the others had deferred to him, and cut short their own game.
“If you please,” she murmured. “It’s the stupidest thing…”
“Not at all. The day has scarcely been free of stress…of which I will speak more in a moment. Close your eyes, child, and take a deep breath…”
She did so, and felt a subtle embrace, as if everyone who loved her had wrapt her in their arms at once. A cool breeze wafted sweetly through the hallways and closed rooms inside her head, cooling the pain, loosening knots and straightening…things…she had not known were awry.
The breeze subsided by degrees so small that she did not mark its cessation, and only knew, with an intensity that brought tears to her eyes—that her head no longer hurt.
She cleared her throat and took a moment to gather herself.
“Thank you,” she said, turning to face Father.
She surprised what might have been distress on his face—gone before she could be certain.
“You are quite welcome, Trader,” he said in a light, teasing tone. “Please do not hesitate to request assistance from this office again. It is, I assure you, my pleasure to serve. Now, attend me, child: we have an appointment tomorrow to meet with Master Seirt, of the Langlast Technology Exchange. He particularly requested your attendance. You, of course, are to visit the worthy textile broker, and we shall doubtless gather more invitations before this event is concluded. Constrained as we are to wander as a threesome, I hope you will not find it too tiresome to tour the port with me—”
“Not at all!” Padi said, perhaps a little too loudly. Certainly, her enthusiasm was genuine.
“Excellent. What I propose is a small tour after the reception is over, of the portion of the port between the Happy Occasion and our hotel. We will dine, you and I will compare our various appointments, and we will speak together before seeking our beds.
“Tomorrow morning, assuming all proceeds as it ought this evening, we shall begin in earnest. Does this schedule find approval with you?”
“Yes, sir, it does,” she said, smiling and eager. Her excitement was plain to a Healer’s senses…
…and so was the cold adamancy of stone.
—•—
“Admiral Bunter, this is Hazenthull nor’Phelium, piloting Tarigan. Am I heard?”
There was delay, naturally enough; the Admiral was very nearly at the Jump point.
“Pilot nor’Phelium, you are heard,” came the Admiral’s voice—the Admiral’s new voice as she thought of it, so much more energy and strength came with the words.
“I would speak with Pilot-Mentor Jones,” she said. “If he is able to come to the comm.”
“Tolly Jones is not permitted comm,” Admiral Bunter said, and added, after a small hesitation. “If you wish to record a message, I will ensure that he receives it.”
“Why is he not permitted comm?” Hazenthull asked. “Is he a prisoner?”
“He is…” Admiral Bunter’s voice faded, then came back, though not quite as strong as previously, “He is a pirate.”
“A pirate?” Hazenthull stared at the comm, utterly dumfounded. “Tolly Jones, a pirate? He fought pirates when we were partnered, and ensured the safety and order of the port. He is no more a pirate than—” She knew a moment’s qualm, regarding those persons who might be considered, by the Admiral’s still-stringent reckoning, to be pirates, and had a happy inspiration.
“Tolly Jones is no more a pirate than you are!”
“Tolly Jones withholds from the Lyre Institute a valuable item which rightfully belongs to the directors of the institute. He knowingly withholds this valuable and is, thereby, a pirate.”
That had a strong feel of a lesson learnt by rote, thought Hazenthull, no stranger to such things. However, time was too short to enter into a protracted debate with a stubborn AI, even had she a hope of prevailing. She was an Explorer, and as such more able than a common troop to enter into debate. However, she had observed Tolly and Inki at their work, and was able to concede, without dishonoring her own skills, that she was no mentor. If Tolly himself had not been able to argue the Admiral free of this lesson…
“Pilot nor’Phelium, I urge you to record quickly, if you wish to leave Tolly Jones a message. I am nearing a mark.”
“Yes,” she said, and for a long precious minute could think of nothing to say.
“Pilot? Your message?”
She took a breath.
“Tolly, it is Haz. I have your back.”
Another breath.
“Message ends,” she said.
“Recorded,” Admiral Bunter said. “Out.”
The comm light went dark. Hazenthull contemplated it for a moment, then touched the switch that activated the pinbeam.
“To Captain Miri Robertson,” she said. “Jelaza Kazone, Surebleak. From House Guard Hazenthull nor’Phelium, on detached duty…”
—•—
“A message arrives for you, Tolly Jones,” the Admiral said. “Do you wish to hear it?”
“Yes,” he said, which might’ve been a little brief, but the Admiral didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did, because there was no acknowledgment of his preference—so that Haz suddenly saying his name made him jump in his seat.
“Tolly,” she said, sounding solid and on task, just like Haz always sounded. “I have your back.”
Dammit.
It brought tears to his eyes, that simple statement, like everything wrong was suddenly set right, ’cause Haz had his back, which was foolishness. Big and tough she might be and a soldier bred, born, and trained—all that meant in the end was that she was a little harder to kill. That was all it meant.
Damned if he was going to have Haz’s death on him.
Damned if he was going to let them hurt one short bristly brown hair on her head.
“Admiral, please relay a message to Haz.” He wondered what message he could possibly send that would turn her from her purpose, even if the Admiral agreed to—
“Recording,” the Admiral stated. “I suggest brevity, we are about to transition.”
Right.
He took a breath.
“Haz, it’s Tolly,” he said, his voice clipped and hard. “Go home. I don’t want you, and I don’t need you. Message ends.”
He closed his eyes then, and leaned back in his chair, sick to his stomach, his palms cold and sweaty. That oughta do the trick. Kick her a good one right where she was most vulnerable. In the temper, that was one place.
In the heart, that was the other.
Always trust the training.
—•—
Shan moved to the juice display, and accepted a glass from the attendant. He would have rather had wine, but the casks were overseen by Caterer Hartensis herself, and he had no wish to find himself admired at the moment.
Padi—
Her gift was straining at the stony restraints she had placed upon it. The assault of so many emotional grids, some, as he had noticed himself, quite distractingly loud; the stress of responsibility—how could one not be stressed as the host of one’s very first reception? He remembered his first reception with a thrill of nerves even now, though he had been only a very little older then than Padi was now, and already trained in Healer protocols, as well as in bed manners.
Well.
He had done what he could for the moment. The absence of the headache alone would lessen her general levels of stress. He’d also performed a very basic Sort, to calm her; a
nd placed a block, a measure in which he placed not much confidence, considering the weight of power he felt building, like a thunderhead towering over his child’s head.
He wished he had a more thorough understanding of the structure Padi had created; and how, precisely, those walls had been formed, and with what materials. However, a public reception was no place in which to perform an in-depth examination, and he did believe that his small efforts would hold well until they arrived at the hotel. Once they could be private, more appropriate measures could be applied.
Briefly, he considered sending her back to the Passage while he and Vanner remained on port—very briefly. Padi would feel—and justly—that she was being denied an experience vital to her growth as a trader.
Shan sighed, and raised the cup to sip juice.
His mouth puckered and dried—which was, as Priscilla might say, a blessing in disguise, as he could scarcely breathe for a moment, much less gasp aloud. The sensation passed, leaving his mouth feeling perfectly clarified and clean.
Carefully, he lowered the cup and looked inside.
Blue juice.
He sighed.
Padi had warned him, after all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Happy Occasion
Langlastport
The flowers had been a gift, after all, and Ms. Hartensis had been a good steward and made certain that the wine had not been overdrunk, which would have been an extra cask charge.
The leftover breads, sweets and vegetables would, Ms. Hartensis said, be packed up so that Padi might send them up to the ship.
“You have, after all, paid for these items, Trader,” she said.
That was certainly true, though there was scarcely enough to feed the Passage, and if they were to be made a gift to odd-shift, or maintenance…
“I wonder,” Father said, “if there may not be a local…public kitchen, where those who are momentarily without means might find a meal. Forgive me if the question offends.”
But it was evident from Ms. Hartensis’ smile that the question did not offend at all.
“In fact, the local corner kitchen would welcome these donations to their supplies, which we will gladly make in your name, Traders.”