Trader's Leap (Liaden Universe Book 23)

by Sharon Lee

  “No, I don’t allow you to have a failing. It is only exactly who you are, correct on your own terms.”

  He paused, then said, in a more serious tone, “May I ask a question? It bears on trade. If I am impertinent, I will withdraw.”

  “I hope you mean that you will withdraw the question, not that you will yourself leave me,” Padi said, keeping her tone light. “I think that this notion of the elders has worked out very well, never mind their reasons. Being able to discuss various offerings with a colleague has been pleasant and useful.”

  “So it has! I think we have had good trade today, each complementing the other. I promise I won’t withdraw from our company if my question is awkward, only that I’ll withdraw the question.”

  “Fair enough, then,” Padi said. “Ask.”

  “I wonder after your next port,” Vanz said slowly. “I see you buying wide . . . but you are not buying deep. I wonder . . . well, I wonder why, there’s the short of it.”

  He was a perceptive lad, Padi thought. Of course he was! Great things were expected of him, and he was ’prenticed to one of the major traders in the Syndicate.

  The master trader had not given her any instructions regarding the limits of frankness, or if there was any secrecy surrounding their next port of call. She must therefore suppose that there were no secrets between herself and Trader Vanz.

  “My master trader,” she said, “is opening a long-dormant market. We are therefore bringing a wide range of goods, but as you notice, we are not deeply invested in any one offering. Once we have seen what is needed, talked to the merchants, and tested the markets, then we will know better what to bring on subsequent visits.”

  “Excitement!” said Vanz, his eyes sparkling. “We’ll be reopening ports as well, with the Dust thinning in sectors we haven’t seen in nearly a hundred Standards. I’ll tell you that I’m very much looking forward! The Loops are well enough, and without the Loops how would we live? But to open what is essentially a new port? To discover what is needed, what is wanted, and engage to bring it? That will be exciting, yes!”

  “Yes,” Padi said. “It will be—exciting. I am looking forward to seeing my master trader at work, of course, but I also am anticipating this new port. What will they have on offer? What can we fulfill for them? How best can we get to know each other?”

  Vanz sighed, smiled—and pointed.

  “Here. Do you think this is your artisan?”

  Padi followed the direction of his nod, finding a pavilion draped with silks; the entrance was narrow, and there was a length of ebony fabric hung from a rod at the top. A flag fluttered in an artificial breeze, teasing the eye with a pattern, until one had seen enough to realize that the pattern was, instead, a word: WHIMSIES.

  “It certainly looks as if it might be,” Padi said, feeling her expectations sharpen, for surely here was an artist in textile. She would, she warned herself, need to keep her wits about her, and to recall that she was not buying deep. For all and everything that she knew, the folk of The Redlands were wizards with silks, or they revered synth.

  “Shall we?” Vanz asked.

  “Of course,” Padi answered.

  “Together?” This with a mischievous glance she was beginning to know.

  “Why not?”

  * * *

  The inside of the pavilion was strangely dim, with here and there a spotlight on an artfully tumbled avalanche of silk; a heavy banner woven from some oily, dark thread, that gave back pure gold where the light struck; a gay tail of ribbons, fluttering before an air vent, changing colors as they moved.

  So much were they allowed to see. Six steps into the shop, Padi stopped. The displays were admirable, and she admired them, but the rest—

  “Ah, is it too dim?” came a languid voice from deep in the darkness. “Forgive, Traders, forgive. Too much light and I am blind. Too little light and you are. I cannot seem to achieve a level that is well for all. Here, now let us see if this will do . . . ”

  The light brightened slowly, like a compact, slightly blue sun rising. Padi blinked as display racks dripping with textiles began to glitter and beckon under the caress of the light.

  “Tell me, does it yet offend?”

  “Thank you,” Vanz said from slightly ahead of Padi, “it’s just right now.”

  The corner from which the voice had emanated was still darker than the rest of the shop, but some portion of the darkness moved and separated itself, resolving into a bipedal form draped in dull black. A long silver braid fell, gleaming, across one bulky shoulder.

  Her face was pale and pointed, her eyes very large and very dark.

  “Greetings, Traders. I am Madame Zoe,” she said, her eyes on Vanz. “How may I assist you?”

  “We were told of your shop in the textile quarter,” Padi said when Vanz said nothing, “and knew that we must do ourselves the honor of visiting.”

  Madame Zoe turned her head, the large black eyes focusing—or so Padi thought—on her.

  “And so we are all honored. Please, Trader, look at your will. If you have questions, I will do my humble best to answer. My fabrics are unique. They have been treated with my special dyes and emulsions. You will find them irresistible.”

  Irresistible? Padi frowned, and moved to the right to inspect a jumble of what might have been scarves. Madame Zoe apparently felt that her wares showed better in disarray than in tidy rolls or folds or bundles. Padi, considering the display, thought she might have a point, but such showmanship made it more difficult to understand what one was seeing.

  She moved closer, wanting to get her hand on a bit of that silk, to feel the texture of the cloth, to test the weight of the dye, to . . .

  There was an . . . aroma. A scent.

  Padi sniffed absently. Had the silk been treated with perfume, too? That would be unfortunate. Scent was so individual. What was sweet bliss to one was a dreadful stink to—

  She stopped, her hand extended, and licked her lips. She recognized the scent now.

  Vya.

  No wonder Madame Zoe’s goods were irresistible.

  Padi turned on her heel, half expecting to bump into Karna—but her security was not at her back.

  Karna was standing by a table piled with bright tapestry, her hands buried wrist deep.

  Padi strode over.

  “Security, attend me!” she snapped, with all the force she could put into the Command mode.

  It was enough—just.

  Karna jerked to attention, blinking.

  “Trader?” she gasped. “I—”

  “Remove your hand from those textiles and attend me!” Padi snapped, going with what had worked.

  Karna did as she was told, though her fingers lingered on the last bit of fringe.

  When Padi was certain of her, she turned to look for Vanz.

  And swallowed.

  Madame Zoe was standing under a fall of sapphire light, and her formerly impenetrably black robes were now . . . transparent, putting her on full display.

  Vanz was, apparently, entranced by the view, oblivious to everything else.

  “You like what you see, eh?” Madame Zoe was crooning. “I am irresistible, am I not?”

  “Irresistible,” Vanz repeated, but not, Padi thought, like he . . . entirely . . . believed it.

  Madame smiled and leaned forward slightly.

  “Tell me your name.”

  Have they taught you yet, Lute whispered in memory, that names are to conjure by?

  Vanz licked his lips. One boot shifted against the floor, as if he were trying to move aside. Madame’s eyes narrowed; she raised a hand.

  Padi’s vision twisted, showing her a silver cat, paw up, claws out, looming over a cowering mouse.

  She caught her breath, and stamped forward.

  . . . to conjure by.

  “Vanz! It’s time to go! We must meet your uncle!”

  It was an enormous breach to speak to an equal in Command mode, but it would be an even greater breach if she left a D
enobli trader in the hands of a . . . an unscrupulous person.

  Vanz’s shoulder twitched. He turned his head—and Madame Zoe flung her raised hand out, toward Padi.

  The air crackled; Padi staggered, her vision greying under the sudden stabbing pain of a headache. She caught her stumbling feet with a move out of daibri’at and thrust herself forward.

  “Vanz!” she snapped again, and grabbed his arm. She felt a frisson; he gasped, leaning just the slightest bit toward her.

  She pressed her advantage.

  “Your uncle!” she snarled. “We don’t dare keep him waiting! You remember what happened last time!”

  “Don’t I just, just remember what happened last time,” he stammered, his voice shaking, but he was moving—he was moving with her.

  “Vanz, come here to me,” Madame said calmly.

  Padi shivered; Vanz groaned softly, but he kept moving, with her, toward the door.

  “Don’t let go,” he muttered, and Padi kept her grip on his arm.

  They made it to the door, out of the pavilion, and into the market proper. Padi guided them down the aisle and around the corner. Vanz was shivering, but he kept her pace, pressed close to her side. On her other side Karna walked, silent.

  “Karna,” Padi said. “Status?”

  “I’m able, Trader.”

  “Good. There’s a tea shop,” Padi said, seeing the sign glowing halfway down the aisle. “We’ll stop there and take stock.”

  “Too close,” Karna said. “If Trader Denobli is able, it would be best to keep moving to a known quarter.”

  “Vanz?”

  “Security’s advice is good,” he answered, his voice unsteady.

  “We go on then,” Padi said.

  “So that, for the business managers,” said Denobli, sitting back in his chair and smiling at the shared work screen with an air of satisfaction. “There will be astonishment, I predict.”

  Shan smiled. He was pleased; he was exhilarated; he was, just a bit, weary. They had done good work at their round table already, and he was confident that they would do even more before this day was out. Really, it had been too long since he had met an equal in trade. Trader Denobli was not audacious. Not particularly audacious. Merely, he did not recognize the boundary between possible and impossible. It was a trait that made for stimulating conversation.

  “How long shall we tarry at station?” Shan asked now. “Agents need time to work.”

  “As do traders! So we have made it that agents know where and how to find us, eh? Between us we have built a strong outline. Our intentions are clear, and we have given thought to which routes may bear the test. It would amaze me, Master Trader, to learn that our agents would discover any difficulties in marshaling mere details.”

  “Very true,” Shan said, reaching for his glass.

  “Are you well, Master Trader?” Denobli’s voice lacked its usual note of slightly mad exuberance.

  Shan glanced at him, eyebrow up.

  The other trader raised his hands, showing empty palms.

  “I mean no offense. Word had reached us of the attack at Langlast. Gossip has it that you were injured—not slightly.”

  “Ah. No offense taken. I am moderately well, and continue to recover myself. Slowly. Which is maddening. I believe we may find ourselves as one mind on this topic, as well.”

  “Do we not! What is this rest that the medics are so much invested in!”

  Shan smiled. “Exactly.” He put his glass aside, and inclined his head. “I wonder if I might speak to you, frankly, regarding our next port of call.”

  Denobli cast him a reproachful glance.

  “Master Trader, you must know that I am eaten up by curiosity on the subject of your next port. Trader yos’Galan shops the market of Volmer—ably and with a true eye, I make no doubt! But—Volmer? Everyone stops at Volmer. There may be finds, but are they worth the profit?”

  “Who can know, when you have your eye on a port at the new edge of the Dust?”

  Denobli looked thoughtful.

  “We ourselves maintain a station at Edmonton Beacon,” he said. “At Dust-edge.”

  “I have heard this,” Shan assured him solemnly. “Which is why I particularly wish to hear your opinion of The Redlands.”

  “Hah! The Redlands, is it?”

  He sat, eyes narrowed, perhaps studying the tabletop, though Shan rather thought not.

  “The Redlands . . . we have not much seen,” Denobli said slowly. “I will tell you that some who are newly emerged feel no need to rejoin the universe in any way. Some are thirsty—parched!—for news. Others are shy, they need to be wooed, to be shown the benefits of trade and the distribution of goods and ideas. The Redlands . . . ”

  He sighed.

  “The Redlands were . . . difficult before Dust came between them and everything else. In truth, they have not sent word to the universe, though the Dust has been spinning away from them for some years. It may be—I tell you frankly—it may be that they will not want you, Master Trader, no matter how sweetly you woo.”

  “That is always possible,” Shan said. “It is also possible that they are simply awaiting a particular suitor.”

  “True. How, if another trader might ask it, did you hit upon The Redlands?”

  Shan hesitated, and into that hesitation came a sharp three-toned chime.

  He snatched at the comm on his belt, met Denobli’s eyes, said, “Security call,” and into the comm, “yos’Galan.”

  “Do not, I beg you, let me go,” Vanz whispered.

  “I swear it. Not until we find your uncle or your ship. Tell me which.”

  “Uncle.”

  “At the Trade Bar,” Padi said, to be certain he understood.

  “No! Gods . . . ” He shivered again.

  “Karna,” Padi said sharply. “How do you go on?”

  “I’m able, Trader. I have a headache from the vya. But Trader Denobli was getting special attention, I think.”

  “Yes. Call . . . ” She hesitated. It was no small thing to disturb the master trader at his work, and such work as he undertook with the Denobli—it was scarcely to be thought of. And yet Vanz—it might well be Vanz’s life in play.

  “Call the master trader,” she said to Karna. “Give him our location; tell him we have a situation and require an immediate meeting, himself and Trader Denobli, at a discreet location.”

  “Yes, Trader.”

  “Trader,” Vanz whispered.

  “It is Padi, had we not agreed? What may I do for your comfort?”

  “Do not let me go.”

  “Not until your uncle takes you into his care. I swear it, on my honor and Korval’s.”

  He was shivering still, but she felt relief wash through him.

  “Padi,” he murmured. “This was not your blame. I know it. Security Karna knows it. My uncle will know it, from my lips. You—you should know it.”

  “I—”

  “It was a setup,” Karna said from behind them, her voice clipped. “The master trader directs us to Finley’s Corner Bar, three aisles to spinward. We’re to ask for Charlie.”

  “Yes,” said Padi. “Vanz. Do you hear?”

  “I hear.”

  “Tell me true, can you manage the walk? Shall I call for a chair?”

  “No! I can walk. I will walk. Only hold me, Padi. Do not let me go. I—there is something, pulling . . . ”

  Padi swallowed, remembering the strike against her head—

  No, she thought suddenly. Against her shields.

  “I understand,” she said. “Come. Let us to Charlie.”

  * * *

  Vanz’s shivering became acute, and his pace began to drag, the more hallways they put between themselves and Madame Zoe’s Whimsies. Padi began to think that they might need a chair, after all, when Karna stepped to the trader’s other side and slipped her arm through his.

  “Merry we go, eh, Traders?” she said, looking far more grim than merry.

  “M-Merry wanderers
of the port are we,” Vanz quavered, not at all on-key.

  “That’s the ticket,” Karna said approvingly, and capped his line, her singing voice unexpectedly fine.

  Padi did her bit with humming, being unsure of all the words, and by holding onto Vanz’s arm until it seemed a good possibility that she might break it.

  But, there, at last: FINLEY’S CORNER BAR glowed in friendly amber letters at the far end of the aisle they had just entered. Padi dared increase their pace, fairly pushing Vanz along, and Karna pulling, and there at last the door, opening as they approached into a dim, crowded, and noisy foyer. Stepping out of the crowd toward them was a tall Terran woman in a pair of clean, but well-worn coveralls, sporting a breast tag that read “Charlie.”

  She stopped close to them, her smile at once rueful and fond.

  “There you are! Your party’s waiting for you.”

  Padi hauled Vanz with her to Charlie’s side.

  “Are we terribly late?” she asked.

  “I don’t think you’ve crossed into terribly, yet,” the woman told her, maneuvering them deftly out of the foyer and down a modestly lit hallway, “though you’re definitely into worrisome.”

  The babble of voices faded behind them, and Charlie spoke again, her voice lower.

  “Are there special requirements? We’ve got a medic on site.”

  “We will know better after we’ve joined our party,” Padi said. “May we call?”

  “Sure thing. There’s a panic button in the booth. Here we are.”

  She swung sideways, and put her hand against the doorjamb. The door opened, and Padi pushed Vanz in ahead of her, still keeping a grip on his arm. Karna came after, and the door slid shut behind her.

  Father and Trader Denobli were seated at a table laid and provisioned for nuncheon, both wearing trade-faces, waiting.

  “Uncle!” Vanz said. “I’m struck.”

  “I see it,” Trader Denobli said easily. “Come, sit, and tell me.”

  “Yes,” Vanz said, shuffling forward a step. Padi loosened her grip—and his hand flashed out, fingers tightening around her wrist.

  “Padi, don’t let me go!”

  “No, I won’t,” she said softly, and held his arm firmly while he moved to the bench and sat next to his uncle, she on his other side, facing Father, who pierced her with a look, eyebrows up.