The Crystal Variation

by Sharon Lee

  “No, ma’am,” he said respectfully. “What happened was that I met a man in Port who needed loan of a kais to hold a deal. He said he had lent his liquid to—to Norn ven’Deelin, master trader. Of Clan Ixin. He said he was to collect tomorrow—today, mid-day, that would be—a guaranteed return of four-on-one. My—my payout contingent on his payout.” He stopped and did not bite his lip, though he wanted to.

  There was a short silence, then, “Four-on-one. That is a very large profit, young Jethri.”

  He ducked his head. “Yes, ma’am. I thought that. But he had the—the card of the—man—who had guaranteed the return. I read the name myself. And the clan sign—just like the one on your door and—other places on Port. . .” His voice squeaked out. He cleared his throat and continued.

  “I knew he had to be on a straight course—at least on this deal—if it was backed by a Liaden’s card.”

  “Hah.” She plucked something flat and rectangular from her sleeve and held it out. “Honor me with your opinion of this.”

  He took the card, looked down and knew just how stupid he’d been.

  “So wondrously expressive a face,” commented Norn ven’Deelin. “Was this not the card you were shown, in earnest of fair dealing?”

  He shook his head, remembered that the gesture had no analog among Liadens and cleared his throat again.

  “No, ma’am,” he said as steady as he could. “The rabbit-and-moon are exactly the same. The name—the same style, the same spacing, the same spelling. The stock was white, with black ink, not tan with brown ink. I didn’t touch it, but I’d guess it was low-rag. This card is high-rag content. . .”

  His fingers found a pattern on the obverse. He flipped the card over and sighed at the selfsame rabbit-and-moon, embossed into the card stock, then looked back to her bland, patient face.

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am.”

  “So.” She reached out and twitched the card from his fingers, sliding it absently back into her sleeve. “You do me a service, young Jethri. From my assistant, I hear the name of this person who has, yet does not have, my card in so piquant a fashion. Sirge Milton. This is a correctness? I do not wish to err.”

  The ice was back in Jethri’s veins. Well he knew that Khat’s stories of blood vengeance were just that—fright tales to spice an otherwise boring hour. Still and all, it wasn’t done, to put another Terran in the way of Liaden Balance. He gulped and bowed.

  “Ma’am, I—please. The whole matter is—is my error. I am the most junior of traders. Likely I misunderstood a senior and have annoyed yourself and your household without cause. I—”

  She held up a hand, stepped forward and laid it on his sleeve.

  “Peace, child. I do nothing fatal to your galandaria—your countryman. No pellet in his ear. No nitrogen replacing good air in an emergency tank. Eh?” 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 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 yellow-haired assistant stepped inside with a bow of his own.

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

  * * *

  “SHE SAID SHE wouldn’t kill him,” Jethri 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 ‘prentice 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, understand me?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Wobbling, Jethri got to his feet, nodded to 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.”

  DAY 35

  Standard Year 1118

  Gobelyn’s Market

  Dockside

  “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’ve got.”

  “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-gee 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 traded 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 killing 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 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 his feet—

  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.”

  THE YELLOW-HAIRED assistant came to an end of his spate of Liaden and inclined his head.

  “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 Market’s common room with nothing like a backward look. 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 be 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 information of pertinence has been sent to the Guild of Traders Liaden.” She inclined her head, black eyes very bright. “Do me the honor, Trader Gobelyn, of informing likewise the association of Traders Terran. If there is doubt of credentials at a Liaden port, there is no shame for any trader to inquire of the Guild.”

  Paitor blinked, then nodded, serious-like. “Master Trader, I will so inform Terratrade.”

  “It is well, then,” she said, moving a hand in a graceful gesture of sweeping away—or, maybe, of clearing the deck. “We come now to young Jethri and how best I might Balance his service to myself.”

  The captain shot a glance at Paitor, who climbed 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, 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.

  DAY 42

  Standard Year 1118

  Gobelyn’s Market

  Departing

  WHEN IT WAS ALL COUNTED and compressed, his personal possessions fit inside two crew-bags. He slung the larger across his back, secured by a strap across his chest, snapped at shoulder and hip. Hefting the smaller, he took one more look around the room—a plain metal closet it was, now, with the cot slid away and the desk folded into the wall. He’d tried to give the com chart back, but Dyk insisted that it would fit inside the bag with a little pushing, and so it had.

  There was nothing left to show the place had been his particular private quarters for more than half his lifetime. Looking at it, the space could be anything, really: a supply closet, a specialty cargo can . . .

  Jeth
ri shook his head, trying to recapture the burning joy he’d felt, signing his line on the ‘prentice contract, finding himself instead, and appallingly, on the near side of bawling his eyes out.

  It’s not like you’re wanted here, he told himself, savagely. You were on the good-riddance roster, no matter what.

  Still, it hurt, staring around at what had once been his space, feeling his personals no considerable weight across his back.

  He swallowed, forcing the tears back down into his chest. Damned if he would cry. Damned if he would.

  Which was well. And also well to remember that value wasn’t necessarily heavy. In fact, it might be that the most valuable thing he carried away from the ship weighed no more than an ounce—Uncle Paitor had come through with the Combine key, springing for the ten-year without a blink—a measure of how good the vya had done. Khat had donated a true-silver long-chain, and now it hung round his neck, with key in place.

  He’d been afraid, nearly, that Khat would kiss him right then, when she put the key on the chain and dropped it round his neck, then stood close and reached out to tuck the key sudden-like down his day-shirt.

  “Promise me you’ll wear this and remember us!” she said, and hugged him, as unexpected as the potential kiss, and missed as greatly as soon as she released him.

  And so he had promised, and could feel the key becoming familiar and comfortable as he got himself together.

  Then there was his ship-share, which had come to a tidy sum, with a tithe atop that, that he hadn’t expected, and which Seeli’d claimed was his piece of the divvy-up from his father’s shares.

  “Payable in cash,” Seeli had said, further, not exactly looking at him. “On departure from the ship. Since you’re going off to trade for another ship, this counts. Those of us who stay, the ship carries our shares in General Fund.”

  He’d also taken receipt of one long, assaying, straight-eyed glance from the captain with the words said, in front of Dyk before they signed those papers—

  “You chose your ship, you got your inheritance, you think you know what you want. So I witness you, Jethri son of Arin, a free hand.” She’d shook his hand, then, like he was somebody, and turned away like he was forgot.