by Sharon Lee
Master ven’Deelin continued her stately progress, Jethri keeping pace, just behind her left elbow.
“So, Jethri Gobelyn,” she murmured as they passed out of the red-haired trader’s hearing. “What do you deduce from our guest list so far?”
He blinked, thinking back over those she had pressed to dine with her tomorrow.
“Ma’am, I scarcely know who these traders are,” he said carefully. “But I wonder at the number of them. It seems less like a dinner and more like a—” he groped for the proper word. After a moment, he decided that it wasn’t in his Liaden repertoire and substituted a ship-term, “shivary.”
“Hah.” She glanced at him, black eyes gleaming. “You will perhaps find our poor entertainment to be a disappointment. I make no doubt that there will be dancing until dawn, nor no more than two or three visits from the proctors, bearing requests for silence.”
He grappled the laugh back down deep into his chest and inclined his head solemnly. “Of course not, ma’am.”
“Ah, Jethri Gobelyn, where is your address?” she said surprisingly. “A silver-tongue would grasp this opportunity to assure me that nothing I or mine might do could ever disappoint.”
Jethri paused, looking down into her black eyes, which showed him nothing but tiny twin reflections of his own serious face. Was she pulling his leg? Or had he just failed a test? He licked his lips.
“I suppose,” he said, slowly, “that I must not be a silver-tongue, ma’am.”
Her face did not change, but she did put out a hand to pat him, lightly, on the arm. “That you are not, child. That you are not.”
They moved on, Jethri trying to work out how to ask if being a silver-tongue was a good thing—and if it was how to go about learning the skill—without sounding a total fool. Meanwhile, Master ven’Deelin took the bows of three more traders of varying ranks, as Jethri read their clothing, and invited each to dine with her upon the morrow. If she kept at her current pace, he thought, they’d have to empty the trade theater itself to accommodate the crowd.
They strolled further down the flowered promenade. There were fewer people about now, and Master ven’Deelin picked up the pace a bit, so Jethri needed to stretch his legs to keep up. Ahead, the walkway split into three, the center portion rising into an arch, the others going off at angles to the right and left. Somewhere nearby was the sound of water running, enormous amounts of water, it must be, from the racket it was making, and the air was starting to feel unpleasantly soggy.
Jethri frowned, maybe lagging a little from his appointed spot at Master ven’Deelin’s elbow, trying to bear down on the feeling that he was breathing water, which was by no means a good thing . . .
From the left-hand path came voices, followed quickly by three top-drawer traders: A woman, star blond and narrow in the face, flanked by two young men—one as fair and as narrow as she and the other taller, with hair of a darker gold, his face somewhat rounder, and his eyes a trifle a-squint, as if he had a headache.
With a start, Jethri recognized his friend of the utility corridor, who had been so patient and understanding in the matter of bows. His first notion was to break into a fool-wide grin and rush forward to grab the man by the shoulders in a proper spacer greeting—which would never do, naturally, besides being one of the three top ways, if Arms Master sig’Kethra was to be believed, to take delivery of a knife between the ribs.
Still, if it would be rude to give way to the full scope of his feelings, he could at least give Tan Sim pen’Akla the honor of a proper bow.
Jethri placed himself before the threesome, and paused, awaiting their attention. The woman saw him first, her pale narrow brows plunging into a frown, but he cared not for her. He looked over her shoulder, made eye contact with Tan Sim and swept the bow of greeting the other had shown him, supplemented with the gesture that meant “joy.”
He quickly realized he should have gone with his initial notion.
The fair, narrow young man shouted something beyond Jethri’s current lexicon, his hand slapping at his belt, which gesture he understood all too nicely. He fell back a step, looking for a leap-to, when Tan Sim jumped instead, knocking the other’s hand aside, with a sharp, “Have done! Will you harm the ven’Deelin’s own apprentice?”
“You!” The other shouted. “You saw how he bowed to you! If you had the least bit of proper feeling—”
Oh. Jethri felt his stomach sink to the soles of his boots. He had botched it. Badly.
Stepping forward, he bowed again—this a simple bow of contrition.
“Please forgive me if my bow offended,” he said, speaking in the mode of junior to senior, which had to be right, no matter which of the three chose to hear him. “Master Tan Sim himself is aware that I am . . . less conversant with bows than I would be. My only thought was to honor one who had given me kindness and fellowship. I regret that my error has caused distress.”
“It speaks Liaden, of a fashion.” The woman said, apparently to her sons, Jethri thought, but meaning for him to hear and take damage from it.
“He speaks Liaden right well for one new come to it,” Tan Sim returned, heatedly. “And shows an adult’s melant’i, as well. I taught him that bow myself—which he does not tell you, preferring to take all blame to himself.”
“Speak soft to my mother, half-clan!” The pale young man jerked his arm out of Tan Sim’s grip and spun, palm rising, his intent plain. Jethri jumped forward, arm up, intercepted the man’s slap at the wrist, and grabbed hold just tight enough to get the message across.
“Here now!” he said in Terran, sounding remarkably like Cris, to his own ears. “None of that.”
“Unhand me!” shouted the man, trying, unsuccessfully, to pull his wrist free, and “Call the proctors!”
“No need for proctors, young chel’Gaibin,” Master ven’Deelin’s voice was shockingly cool in that heated moment. “Jethri, of your goodness, return to Lord chel’Gaibin the use of his arm.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and did as she asked, though he stayed close, in the event the lordship took it into his head to swing out at Tan Sim again.
He needn’t have worried; all eyes were on Master ven’Deelin, who stood calm and unworried, her hands tucked in her belt, considering the other trader.
“Norn ven’Deelin,” the woman said at last, and it didn’t sound respectful at all.
The master trader inclined her head. “Infreya chel’Gaibin. It has been some years since we last spoke. I trust I find you well.”
“You find me insulted and assaulted, Master Trader. I will have Balance for the harm done.”
Master ven’Deelin tipped her head. “Harm? Has the heir’s sleeve been crushed?”
Infreya chel’Gaibin glared. “You may put the assault of an unregulated Terran upon a registered guildsman no higher than amusing, if it pleases you. I assure you that the guild and the port will take a far different view.”
“And yet,” Master ven’Deelin murmured. “Jethri is hardly unregulated. He stands as my apprentice—”
“Oh, very good!” chel’Gaibin interrupted, “A ‘prentice lays hands upon a trader while the master stands by and smiles!”
“. . . and my son,” Master ven’Deelin finished calmly. Jethri bit his lip, hard, and concentrated on keeping his face empty of emotion. He darted a quick look at Tan Sim, but found that young man standing at his ease, watching the proceedings with interest but no apparent dismay.
“Your son!” Apparently Trader chel’Gaibin wasn’t convinced, for which Jethri blamed her not at all.
Master ven’Deelin swept a languid hand in the general direction of Tan Sim. “As much mine as that one is yours.” She tipped an eyebrow. “But come, you wished satisfaction for insult and assault. We may settle that between us now, you and I.”
Trader chel’Gaibin licked her lips and though she seemed to Jethri a woman unlikely to back down in a tight spot, there was something to the cast of her shoulders that strongly suggested she was looking for
a way out of this one.
Behind her, Tan Sim shifted, drawing all eyes to himself. “Mother, surely there is no insult here? Jethri bowed as I had taught him, and when he saw one who was to him a stranger threaten one with whom he has had honorable dealings, he acted to nullify the threat—and most gently, too!”
“Gently!”” spat the other man. Tan Sim turned wondering eyes his way.
“Never tell me he bruised you, brother! A mere halfling? Surely—”
“This must be the Terran, Mother!” Lord chel’Gaibin interrupted excitedly, turning his back on his brother. “Recall that it was a Terran off of Elthoria who began the brawl at Kailipso—”
“Enough,” the woman snapped. She stood silent for a moment, staring, none too pleasantly, at Tan Sim. Jethri felt his chest tighten in sympathy: Exactly did Iza Gobelyn stare just before she cut loose of mayhem and brought a body to wishing he’d been born to another ship, if at all.
Composing her face, she turned back to Master ven’Deelin and inclined her head, grudging-like.
“Very well. My son speaks eloquently in defense of yours, Master Trader. We are to see nothing more than halfling high spirits—and a misunderstanding of custom.”
“It would seem indeed to be the case,” Master ven’Deelin said calmly, “and no cause for experienced traders such as ourselves to be calling for Balance. Well we know what halflings are.” Her eyes moved to Tan Sim, and she inclined her head gently. “Young pen’Akla.”
Tan Sim’s eyes widened and he bowed low with graceful haste. “Master ven’Deelin.”
“Enough!” Tan Sim’s mother snapped again. She turned her glare on the master trader and gave a bare dip of the head.
“Master Trader. Good evening.” She didn’t wait for a return bow—maybe, Jethri thought, because she knew she didn’t rate one. Turning, she gathered her boys by eye, and stalked off.
When they were alone, Jethri turned and bowed, very low and very careful—and held it, eyes pointing at the toes of his boots.
Above him, him heard Master ven’Deelin sigh.
“In all truth, young Jethri, you have a knack. How came you by chel’Gaibin’s Folly?”
Bent double, he blinked. “Ma’am?”
“Stand up, child,” she interrupted and, when he had, said, “Tan Sim pen’Akla. How came you to his attention?”
Jethri cleared his throat. “I was—practicing my bows in the service corridor and he came upon me. He was most k-kind and helpful, ma’am, and when I said that I was in his debt, he declared no such thing. So then I thought to ask how I should bow to him, if we were to meet again, and he showed me thus—”
He performed the thing—and heard Master ven’Deelin sigh once more.
“Yes, of course. Well he might yearn to receive such a bow—” She moved a hand, eloquent of exasperation.
“Young things. All is anguish and high drama.” She turned her head; a moment later Jethri heard it too—voices approaching down the right hand way.
“Come along, young Jethri. Our evening has just become full.”
Obediently, he took his place at her elbow, and they moved on. But for themselves, the promenade was empty and Jethri cleared his throat.
“Please, ma’am. I am not really—really your son.”
“Indeed you are; did you not hear me say it? Surely, a momentous occasion for us both. We return now to our ship to discuss the matter in more detail. Until then, I ask that you to repose in silence. I have thoughts to think.”
Jethri bit his lip. “Yes ma’am,” he whispered.
DAY 107
Standard Year 1118
Elthoria
“YOU KNOW TOO LITTLE of our customs.” Master ven’Deelin folded her hands on her desk and considered him out of her sharp black eyes. “Indeed, how could it be otherwise? Similarly, you are ignorant of the—histories that may lie between clans and the children of clans. The child of a Terran trade vessel has no need to know these things. And I—foolishly, I thought we might separate trade from clan. Pah! Trade and culture are twined more deeply than I had wished to understand. And now we are together caught in the nets of culture, and a child of ven’Deelin may not be a fool.”
Jethri shifted miserably in the chair across from her. “Ma’am, I’m not a child of ven’Deelin—”
She held up a hand, and he swallowed the rest of his protest.
“Peace. The tale unfolds. Listen, and cultivate patience. They are two skills which serve every trader well.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, folding his hands tightly on his knee and pressing his lips together.
After a moment, she lowered her hand and continued.
“A child of ven’Deelin must need know both history and custom. We commence your education now, with excerpts of both.”
“First, custom. It is Law that each member of each clan shall marry as the clan instructs, to produce children for the clan and also to seal and cement what alliances the clan may require in order to prosper. I have myself been contracted twice; once in order that the clan should have my heir to replace me as Ixin’s master of trade, in due time. Again, to seal the peace between Ixin and Aragon; the child of that contract of course went to Aragon. So it is with most of us; some may be required to marry but once, some several times. Some few unfortunates discover themselves to be the perfect halves of a wizard’s match—but those matings need not concern us here.
“Here, we discuss contract marriage and the fact that Infreya chel’Gaibin—a dutiful daughter of Clan Rinork—did some twenty-five Standards gone marry as her delm instructed, the fruit of that union being Bar Jen chel’Gaibin, her heir.
“Six Standards later, she married again, somewhat behind the fact as it is said and counted, into Clan Quiptic—a House of the lower mid-tier.” Once more, she held up her hand, though Jethri hadn’t made a sound.
“I know that this will seem odd to you, Rinork being, as it is, so very High, but there were reasons beyond the fact that she was already pregnant by the time the thing was arranged, and by none other than Quiptic Himself. A very young delm he was, and not by any means stupid. But Infreya was a beauty in her youth and his mother had died before tutoring him sufficiently in all the faces that treachery might wear.
“In any case, the child—young Tan Sim—went to Quiptic, and Quiptic’s mines went to Rinork, in settlement of the contract fees.” She paused, eyes closed, then shifted sharply in her chair, as if annoyed with herself, and continued.
“The loss of the mines was very close to a mortal blow in itself, but as I said, the young delm was no fool. With the leverage he gained from his alliance with Rinork, he thought to win certain short term—but decisive!—advantages in several trades. Very nearly, he brought Quiptic about. In the end, alas, it was a quirk of the Exchange which pushed the blade home. The clan was dissolved; the young delm hung himself. Infreya petitioned Rinork and received permission to adopt Tan Sim pen’Akla, who might well have one day been Quiptic Himself, as a child of the clan alone.” She moved her shoulders.
“So, that tale. You may consider it located here, if your stories need locations. The other story you need to hear takes place at a tavern in far Solcintra Port, where one For Don chel’Gaibin cheated a certain young trader at a game of cards. The trader, understanding that the play had been underhanded, called his lordship to answer her on the field of honor.” She sighed. “Young things. All is anguish and high drama. I doubt it ever occurred to her to call the games master and ask that he set the thing right, though she thought it many a time, after. No, it must be a duel. For Don, who was a fool besides being many years the trader’s senior, accepted the challenge and chose pistols at twenty-four paces. They met at the appointed place, at dawn, their seconds in train. The duel itself was over in a matter of moments. The young trader had killed her man.” She looked at Jethri, and there was nothing that he could read on her smooth, golden face.
“Depend upon it, Ixin was displeased. As was Rinork, of course. How they roared fo
r Balance, though the witnesses to a soul swore it was fairly done and For Don the favorite for the victor—as the tavern wager book clearly showed! Well, you have seen how it is with Rinork and Balance. In any wise, nothing was owed and the price was met. Ixin sent me on the long route, to learn, as she would have it, common sense. By the time I returned to Liad, there were new scandals to occupy the gossips, and Rinork and Ixin had agreed not to meet. This evening was the first time we have done so, in more than three dozen Standards.” She inclined her head, possibly ironic.
“All hail to you, young Jethri.”
Jethri blinked, trying to picture a young Norn ven’Deelin, alone with her pistol in the dawn, facing down a man older and more skilled than she . . .
“Oh, aye,” Master ven’Deelin said, as if reading his mind—though more likely, Jethri thought, it had been his unguarded face—“I was a sad rogue in my youth. But there—a mother has no secrets from her son.”
Right. Jethri frowned at her. “If you please, Master Trader, how am I now your son?”
“Because I had told Rinork so, child—else their Balance would have been worth your life. An ‘unregulated Terran,’ ‘prenticed to ven’Deelin or no, is nothing to give a Rinork pause in a rage.” She moved a hand, showing him the litter of papers on her desk.
“When I and your true-kin wrote contract, it was with the best interest of the trade in our minds. I contracted to teach you the art, as well as a certain understanding of matters Liaden—this to improve and facilitate the trade, which is the duty of a master trader. Nowhere was it intended that you should take your death of this, Jethri Gobelyn. Forgive me, but, should you die, there will be damage dealt to more than those who value you for yourself. Pray bear this in mind the next time you befriend strangers in back hallways.”
Jethri felt his ears heat. This whole mess was his fault, right enough. . .
“Have you other questions?” Norn ven’Deelin’s voice cut through the thought.
Other questions? Only dozens. He shook his head helplessly, and chose one at random.