Trader's Leap (Liaden Universe Book 23)

by Sharon Lee

  She seemed calmer, this meeting. Perhaps she realized that no one need be cut in this contact; in fact, no one need be afraid.

  Tekelia wove warmth and hopeful friendship into the modest line of goodwill, the while subjecting those shields to closer scrutiny.

  Bulky, yes, but not ill-formed; there was in fact a certain whimsy about them. Still, they felt . . . laborious, as if they had been built by one who was uncomfortable with the protocols she had been taught.

  She was a student then; perhaps a student who was not so apt as her tutors would prefer, which Tekelia found oddly pleasing. Mayhap it was this trait that had drawn them together—strangers, but each, perhaps, a Child of Chaos.

  “Who is that?” the woman asked, possibly of her tutor, and Tekelia felt . . . a touch, and the sense of someone who was more dream than voice. The information came through the ambient, directly to Tekelia’s understanding—ears and whiskers; age, curiosity, purpose; a suggestion of green leaves and growing things . . .

  A norbear, Tekelia realized. One’s fierce and comely contact was tutored by a norbear.

  That . . . was interesting.

  Tekelia held very still, open to the ambient, accepting of anything and all that might come.

  What came was a . . . feeling . . . a . . . designation—nothing that the mind might make sense from, though intuition did—a particular and unique signature, which could be confused with no other.

  Carefully, Tekelia offered their own signature; felt it accepted by the norbear—who withdrew, leaving the student alone, hesitant and growing warier by the heartbeat, on the very edge of shutting down their rapport.

  Once again, Tekelia offered their signature; felt the other catch it; felt, too, her startled amaze.

  Nothing else came through, the silence stretching so long that their delicate connection began to tremble. The ambient . . . tightened . . . flickered, as if with lightning or with rage. Smoke swirled, or fog.

  Tekelia looked to their own shields, anticipating a strike; the smoke thickened, swirled, and blew away, leaving the ambient as clear as a drop of amber, against which a signature began, tentatively, to form.

  Fierce it was, and winged and . . . definite, like an etching in the very fabric of time and space.

  Tekelia felt the signature strike, quartz to fire-steel, and looked into the dragon’s eyes.

  The ambient warmed . . . considerably.

  It might have been horror at her own boldness; it might have been exhaustion—that quickly, the woman was gone; sharp shields folding shut as gently as the petals of a flower; and the ambient was smaller without her.

  Dutiful Passage

  Pommierport

  * * *

  I

  It was a subdued group of eight who accompanied Captain Mendoza and the ’prentice trader onto the shuttle. Even once away from the Passage, there was scarcely any talk, much less the chatter one would expect between crew mates.

  Possibly, thought Padi, that was the problem. Very soon, they would cease to be crew mates, and would instead be eight individuals with varying skill sets, each looking for a new berth.

  Pommierport would house them in dormitories, and feed them from the transients’ cafeteria until they had either found new berths, or thirty Standard Days had elapsed, all according to Guild regs. There was no guarantee that the eight would be housed in the same dorm, nor share a common mealtime. Once they were accepted as wards of the port, it was probable that they would never see each other again.

  Padi wondered if they were sad, second-guessing perhaps their choice to leave the Passage and their mates, or if they would welcome the final break. Her curiosity on that point was surely unseemly, yet she longed to open her Inner Eyes to take just one very quick look, assuming that she would be able to make sense of anything she saw . . . but, no.

  Aside her poor Sight, which made it doubtful that she would learn anything instructive, it was rude to Look without permission.

  Also, to even make the attempt would require her to drop her shields, which was absolutely forbidden.

  Padi sighed lightly.

  Let it be known that she did not like her shields. After much practice with Lina, and promptings from Lady Selph, she had managed something not quite so evocative of hull plate, but nor did they approach Father’s supple silver, Priscilla’s lambent lapis, nor even Lina’s cheerful multihued door.

  According to Lina, in fact, Padi’s shields were rather . . . sinister.

  “No, you must not look so downcast!” Lina had said, catching Padi’s hand between both of hers. “They are very plainly shields; they not only do the job you intended them to do, they give what may be termed fair warning. Anyone attempting those shields must know that there will be a cost.”

  Padi herself wasn’t so certain of that. On the other hand, if the mere aspect of her shields discouraged attack, that was all to the good.

  For the rest of it, now that they were in place, it took—well, it took no effort at all to keep them in place, which Lina said was just as it ought to be. Only they . . . itched, to which Lina had nothing to say save, “Perhaps they will not, once you become accustomed.”

  Also, having the shields up made Padi feel . . . distant, rather as if she were wearing earplugs, which Priscilla found interesting.

  “You must be hearing something of the ambient noise,” she said. “Enough that you miss it when you’re shielded. We’ll test you, once we’re back on the ship and unshielded, to find out how much awareness you have. It may be that you’ll benefit from focusing exercises.”

  The trouble with being of the dramliz, Padi reflected, was that there was always something more to learn. That was also true of trading, of course, but she wanted to be a trader, so those lessons were not burdensome.

  In the seat beside her, Priscilla had her portable unit open and was already at work. The eight soon-to-be-former crew members sat stoic, even grim, in their seats, some reading from handhelds, others with closed eyes, meditating or asleep.

  Padi had also brought her portable, since she had not been scheduled at the board for this descent, despite needing both the flight time and the practice—in her opinion. No, for this trip, her melant’i was apprentice trader and captain’s escort.

  Therefore, she touched her screen, opened the study file in-queue and was very shortly absorbed.

  II

  “Thank you, Captain Mendoza,” said Station Intake Specialist Hanssen. “The records you have provided are exemplary, and I have no further questions.”

  He extended a soft, freckled hand and tapped the recorder off. Then, instead of pushing his chair back and rising, or merely waving them toward the door—he sat, hand resting on the machine, head bent as if he were thinking very hard.

  Or, Padi thought, annoyed, he had fallen asleep there.

  “Is there some other way in which we may assist you?” Priscilla asked, when the silence had grown uncomfortably long.

  A sigh escaped Specialist Hanssen; he raised his head to meet her eyes.

  “You must understand that my next questions are not part of the formal interview,” he said, folding his hands on the table before him. “You are under no obligation to answer.”

  He paused, to Padi’s eye rather uneasy, as if he were breaking some small but important rule. Priscilla, for her part, considered him without comment, face expressionless. Once more, the silence stretched. This time, it was Padi who broke it.

  “Will we place ourselves at a disadvantage, if we choose to answer or to not answer?”

  He flashed her a startled look, then smiled slightly.

  “Trust a trader,” he murmured, and inclined his head. “Your answers will not place you in peril of any kind. Your ship will not suffer for the answers you give, nor will it be rewarded. If you do not wish to answer questions off the record, you only need say so, and the matter is concluded.”

  “Perhaps if we heard the question,” Priscilla said gently. “If you are asking for confidential information
, of course we are not at liberty to answer.”

  “Of course.”

  He cleared his throat, and once again met Priscilla’s eyes, his face tense.

  “On my way to our interview here, I was stopped by a colleague who had just concluded an intake interview with one of your former crew. The person interviewed stated that she had taken the offered buyout because of her concern that Dutiful Passage had been hounded by its enemies into adopting the very course those enemies claim for it—in short . . . ”

  He paused, ears red, but to his credit he did not look away from Priscilla’s eyes.

  “In short, it was the opinion of this person that Dutiful Passage had come to be a wandering ship; if not an outright pirate, then a trader of opportunity. If not black, then certainly grey.”

  He stopped, and Padi received the distinct impression that he was regretting his course of inquiry, and also that he had been given no choice but to pursue it.

  “I must ask Dutiful Passage if this . . . allegation by former crew has merit.”

  “It does not,” Priscilla answered serenely.

  Padi was impressed; certainly, there was nothing to add to that calm denial. She kept her trade-face in place and remained modestly silent, even when Specialist Hanssen looked her way. Surely, there was no more he might feel compelled to say, having received the assurances of Dutiful Passage’s captain.

  “Forgive me,” he said, and cleared his throat. “May I know the route which Dutiful Passage pursues?”

  Priscilla raised her eyebrows.

  “You’re aware that Dutiful Passage is a master trader’s ship,” she said, and there was an edge to her voice now. “Master Trader yos’Galan has been charged to develop new routes and to found new business alliances. What may look like wandering to general crew may have a place in the greater shape seen by the master trader.”

  Padi took a careful breath, not quite willing to draw Captain Mendoza’s eye.

  Specialist Hanssen’s broad face was flushed. He licked his lips.

  “Do you have any other questions for us?” Captain Mendoza asked him.

  He pulled himself together with a deep breath.

  “Captain, I do not. Thank you for your information . . . and for your consideration. I will apprise my colleague of your answer.”

  He rose, and they did, to follow him out of the conference room.

  * * *

  They had gathered their third, Security Officer Tima Fagen, from the waiting room, and moved out into Pommierport, pausing on the walk outside the administration building to survey their surroundings.

  This, according to Lina, was the worst of remaining behind shields. One needed to depend far too much upon other, less efficient senses to scan for threat or anomaly in the area.

  Padi, however, had not, until very recently, had access to any senses save those less reliable, so this pause to glance up and down the street seemed quite usual to her.

  Tima scanned the street with professional competence, glanced at Priscilla, and nodded.

  “Good to go, Cap’n,” she said easily.

  Priscilla, who had confided to Padi that it was much more difficult to go back behind shields after training herself to be open to all the nuances of life, returned the nod with a slight smile.

  “The question being—where will we go? Trader? Have you a commission from the master trader perhaps?”

  Padi sighed.

  “The master trader asked me to especially look out for tourist guides to The Redlands,” she said, and met Priscilla’s eyes frankly, kin to kin.

  “One is not certain that he was offering a jest.”

  Priscilla considered her. “Well,” she said, “is it likely that there are tourist guides to The Redlands?”

  “Were it anyone other than Master Trader yos’Galan asking me to look them out,” Padi said, with feeling, “I would say, oh, no; of course not.”

  Priscilla laughed. “I understand completely!”

  Padi shook her head. “Then you will understand why I researched bookstores and infotainment kiosks once we had a map of the port available. All such resources are to be found in Enlightenment Square.” She gave Priscilla a conscious glance. “We may, if you wish, hail a taxi.”

  Priscilla raised her eyebrows. “How far is Enlightenment Square?” she asked.

  Padi swallowed.

  “It’s the next square,” she admitted, beginning to fear that she’d been inept. “Across four avenues.”

  “Am I showing signs of being frail?” Priscilla pursued, and Padi sighed.

  “Pommier enjoys heavier gravity than we maintain aboard,” she said. “Med texts indicate that such conditions are more noticeable when one is pregnant.”

  “I see! You were trying to spare me discomfort. Thank you.”

  Priscilla smiled and took Padi’s hand; a touch between kin, which was fitting, as Padi had been . . . trying to exercise care of kin.

  “I am pregnant, but not yet so very pregnant, and the truth is that I had been looking forward to a walk after all that stuffiness inside.” Priscilla pointed at the administration building with her chin.

  “We don’t have time to do a proper port ramble, but a stroll over to this Enlightenment Square sounds like what I was wishing for”—she glanced around—“unless Tima would prefer to take a taxi.”

  Tima grinned.

  “I been looking forward to stretching my legs since we got on the shuttle, Captain.”

  “Well enough, then. Ramble we will.”

  Priscilla released Padi’s hand.

  “Lead on, Trader.”

  III

  “How does he do it?” Padi asked. She raised the slim, carefully wrapped package over her head, and paused on the bookstore’s front walk.

  “When I’ve asked him, on similar occasions,” Priscilla answered, “I’ve been told that he is, after all, a master of trade.”

  “Which properly put you in your place,” said Padi, her voice carrying an undercurrent of laughter.

  “It did indeed,” Priscilla said seriously. She looked over her shoulder. “Tima, you pick our next destination.”

  “Well, I was kinda curious about that shop we passed just at the corner, with the—”

  “Aid!” a man’s voice cut across hers. A man’s voice speaking Liaden. “A rescue, Tree-and-Dragon! My partner is wounded, and I beg your consideration!”

  Padi turned, half-expecting untamed hair, fierce face, and mismatched, feral eyes. But the man who came forward two careful steps, hands held out at belt-height, showing fingers spread wide and empty palms, was ferocity’s simple opposite. His hair was pale and close-trimmed; his skin dark brown and smooth; his eyes were lighter than his face, glowing like chips of amber. His clothing was unexceptionable—a plain jacket over a dark sweater, crew-grade trousers, and good boots that had been worn into comfort. There was a gun on his belt, peace-bonded according to port regs, and a hook, where a comm should have hung.

  He looked, Padi thought, a little undergrown, as if he had known want in his early years, and had never caught himself up.

  Tima matched his two steps forward, which put her in a position to intercept him should he make a sudden lunge. A flicker of his eyes acknowledged her, but it was to Priscilla that he spoke, respectfully, though his mode was a trifle uncertain, as if he did not speak the High Tongue often.

  “Captain, of your kindness,” he said, petitioner-to-authority.

  Padi stood close enough that she heard Priscilla sigh before she answered him in kind.

  “What is your name?”

  “I am Mar Tyn pai’Fortana; my partner is Dyoli ven’Deelin Clan Ixin. I beg on her behalf, Captain, not mine.”

  pai’Fortana was not precisely a Line name—so much Padi knew. She had some vague notion of it having to do with gaming—and also that it was not, quite, respectable.

  ven’Deelin, however—ven’Deelin was respectable in the extreme, and Clan Ixin as old in trade as Korval itself.

  “Wh
y have you not taken your partner to the port medics?” asked Priscilla. “Or have you?”

  The man—Mar Tyn pai’Fortana—lowered his hands, one eye on Tima, who made no objection.

  “Captain, the nature of her wounds would only baffle a Terran medic, and I find no Hall nor Healer inside the port.”

  That, Padi knew, was true. She had made the same discovery during her researches of Pommierport, and had noted it as . . . slightly odd.

  In such sections of space where trade and worlds were clustered, and a port would expect to see Liaden crews and Terran, small Halls and individual Healers were frequently found.

  Pommier, though, could be said to occupy a space of its own. While Liaden ships might occasionally stop, it was not so frequent a thing that the port saw profit in installing what it might think of as Liaden-specific comforts.

  “Captain,” Mar Tyn pai’Fortana said softly. “For her life, I beg you.”

  Priscilla . . . moved. Padi could not say precisely how, but she was suddenly in receipt of the very strong notion that Priscilla had stepped out from behind her shields. Before them, the man’s pale eyes blazed in his dark face. He bent in a profound bow, and did not straighten.

  “You have secrets,” Priscilla said at last.

  Mar Tyn pai’Fortana unfolded, slowly, from his bow, and stood with shoulders rounded and eyes averted, a humble mouse confronting a hawk.

  “Captain, I do—who does not? I swear I mean no harm to you or to yours. Bind me, if you wish; I submit—to all and to anything. Only extend your care to Dyoli.”

  It was love, Padi realized at that moment. This insignificant and probably disreputable person loved his High House partner. She wondered if the esteem was returned, and if, perhaps, this explained the presence of a ven’Deelin so far from the orderly lanes Clan Ixin most usually plied.

  Beside her, she felt Priscilla move once more, stepping back, so Padi was certain, behind her protections.

  “I won’t bind you,” she said to Mar Tyn pai’Fortana. “But I will kill you, if one of your secrets is treachery.”