by Sharon Lee
“Bah,” said Master tel’Ondor.
HE NEEDN’T HAVE WORRIED about ruining his pretty new shirt with sauce stains or soup spots. It soon became clear that, while Master ven’Deelin expected her guests to eat—and eat well—from the buffet spread along three of four walls of the so-called Little Hall, she herself—with him a shadow attached to her left elbow—prowled the room, with the apparent intent of speaking with everyone present.
She did supply herself with a glass of wine, and insisted that he do the same, with instructions to sip when she did, then slipped into the crowd, where her headway went down to a step or two at a time, in between bows and conversation.
Jethri found the conversation singularly frustrating; spoken wholly in modes other than the mercantile, and much more rapidly than his half-trained ear could accommodate.
The exception to this was the beginning of every exchange, in which he was brought a step forward by a soft hand on his arm. “One’s foster child, Jethri,” Master ven’Deelin would say, and he would make his plain bow of greeting. Then she would make him known to the person she was speaking with, who, almost without exception bowed as to the child of an ally.
He would then repeat their name, with a polite dip of the head, and the talk would jet over his head in a poetry of alien syllables.
A word or two here and there—he did catch those. Sometimes, a whole phrase unrolled inside his ears. Rarely enough to help him piece together the full sense of the conversation. He did find time to be glad that the default mode for facial expression was bland; at least he didn’t have to pretend to be interested in what he couldn’t understand. And he used his idle time to consider the scale and scope of the ‘dinner party,’ trying to figure what the point of it might be.
A gathering less like a common spacer’s shivary would be hard to find, he thought. Where there’d be music and singing and boozing and smooching at a shivary, here there was the music of many different and low-key conversations. While everyone he could see had a wine glass in one hand, nobody seemed drunk, or even boisterous. And if there was any smooching going on . . . Well, frankly, he’d come to wonder how it was that any new Liadens got made.
“Good evening,” a soft voice purred in his ear. Trade had never sounded so pretty, and Jethri jerked around and looked down, meeting a melting pair of gray eyes set at a slight angle in a heart-shaped golden face, framed by wispy gilt hair.
“Good . . . evening,” he managed and bowed the bow of introduction. “Jethri Gobelyn. In what way may I serve you, ma’am?”
Her lips curved in a tightly controlled smile. “Parvet sig’Flava. I had in mind a way in which we might each serve the other, if you are of like mind. The evening grows tedious and I would welcome a . . . diversion. . . such as yourself.” She swayed half a step forward, her melting gray gaze never leaving his face.
Jethri jumped back, ears burning. He’d just been propositioned for bed duty, or all Dyk’s tales and teasing was for naught. That everything he knew on the subject was from tales and health tapes was due again to being juniormost. None of his cousins had wanted to bed the baby. . .
“Come,” Parvet sig’Flava murmured—and he thought her voice was a little slurred, like maybe this wasn’t her first, or even her third, glass of wine on the evening. “My ship departs within the two-day, and shall, regrettably, miss Tilene’s Festival. So,” she leaned toward him, her pretty face upturned to him like one of the flowers that Gaenor so missed from her home.
“So,” she said again, “since we will be denied the opportunity to meet in the park, perhaps we may embrace Festival a few days early. Perhaps we might rent us an hour-room and have joy of each other before dawn calls us each to our duty.”
“Ma’am, I—that is—”
“That is,” Norn ven’Deelin’s voice cut in over his stammer, and very firmly, too, “that this my son is needed at his station this evening, though he thanks you most sincerely for your offer.”
“Indeed,” Jethri grabbed at his lagging wits and inclined his head, very respectful. “I am flattered, ma’am, but duty calls.”
She looked at him, gray eyes unreadable, then bowed, senior to junior, which was right enough, Jethri thought bitterly, though making him even more aware of the potential gifts she’d had on offer.
“I understand. Fair profit.” She bowed then to Norn ven’Deelin, trader to master.
“Master Trader,” she murmured and faded away into the crowd.
Ears on fire, and uneasily aware of the blood pounding in his veins, Jethri turned to face Norn ven’Deelin.
“Truly, young Jethri,” she said softly, “you have a knack. No one less than the sig’Flava wishes to attach you. Indeed, you are a paragon.” She moved her hand, inviting him to walk with her.
“Attend me, now. Later, we will speak of Festival and . . . those other . . . lessons which you may require.”
“Yes, Master Trader,” he murmured, feeling four kinds of fool, and not quite able to make up his mind whether he was more grateful to her for the rescue or aggravated with himself for needing one.
She patted his arm. “Softly, child,” she said, and then used her chin to point out a certain black-haired gentleman in the crowd. “Look, there is del’Fordan’s heir. We must make you known to him.”
DAY 108
Standard Year 1118
Tilene Docks
SCHEDULED TO MEET Cargo Master per’Etla on the stroke of the shift-change, Pen Rel and Jethri arrived a dozen ticks or more before time—unusual, Pen Rel being a man who valued punctuality.
The unusual was explained soon enough, as, Jethri at his shoulder, Pen Rel inspected the dockside security cameras and checked the duty clerk’s roster of scheduled deliveries. After that was done, there was still some time left over to wait.
Together, they leaned on the waist-high boundary wall, Jethri trying not to yawn.
Tilene’s docks, like many world-side docks, were covered topside against the outside elements with sealable domes and great sliding panels. Unlike worlds where the ambient temperature or atmosphere was downright noxious, Tilene’s docks were an integral part of the city, with portions of local roads and transit lines running through at odd heights.
As Pen Rel explained it, pointing here and there to make his points, the expanse of stained ‘crete they stood on—currently crowded with modular bins destined for transshipment in Elthoria’s pods—was just a wide spot in an industrial ribbon that extended across the continent in both directions, being part of a celebrated world-spanning planned city. The tremble beneath them was not from starship generators but from the flow of traffic tunneled beneath the floor they stood on; the overhead transit sets joined them to flow as an artery across mountain, farm, and plains.
The wonder of it all was somewhat lost on Jethri, who didn’t much care how Grounders got from place to place, though he did try to pay attention. Knowing Pen Rel, there’d be a test—and when he least expected it, too.
A low groan came from overhead. Jethri glanced upward, and saw the dome in motion, beyond it an empty and horrifying blue-green sky. Stomach churning, he started to look away, but a sudden glitter in the high air caught his gaze.
“‘ware!” he yelled, jerking right out of the lean. Grabbing Pen Rel’s arm, he spun toward Elthoria’s ramp.
“Hold!” His own arm was gripped, none too gently. “It is merely water!”
Perforce, he froze, heart pounding, and in a few moments there came a massive splash as the falling sheets met the ‘crete a pod’s length away, and settled into a fading mist. Pen Rel released his arm.
“It must have rained overnight,” he said, shockingly calm. “The water would have collected in the guide channels.” As if it explained everything. Clearly he was not concerned, and probably thought Jethri an idiot, though, as usual, he didn’t say so.
From the edge of his eye, Jethri saw some winged creature pass over head, and next a silver jetship lifting for the stratosphere. He quickly averted his gaze,
staring instead at the waiting bins.
“Yes, there is much to see in a city!” Pen Rel, said, apparently agreeing with something Jethri was supposed to have said.
He took a hard breath.
“You pardon,” he said, glad to hear that his voice held steady. “I wonder why they opened the dome. There are no ships preparing to leave, nor any warning of an incoming. . .”
Pen Rel glanced fearlessly upward, and then back to Jethri.
“Ah, I see. Proper ship-board concerns.” He swept an arm over his head, encompassing not only the dome, but the wide, empty sky beyond. “One likes to keep control of the ports, the atmosphere, and access—and how is that to be done if birds are free to fly where they might?”
Jethri almost shook his head, the neck muscles protesting as he caught the motion and produced instead a small bow of acknowledgment.
“Ah,” Pen Rel said again, and inclined his head. “Mostly, it is a matter of temperature control. How much simpler, after all, to let the wandering air take the heat away than to condition the dock entire.”
“My thanks,” Jethri said, remembering to keep his voice soft, his gaze stringently at dock level.
A dusty vehicle trailing modular pallets was arriving hastily at their section of ‘crete, various warning beeps and the noisy whine of high power hybrid electric motors an active discouragement to conversation. The victualer’s sigil on the side of the vehicle was familiar enough—Jethri had seen a half-dozen or more of the same type of van running up and down the concourse as they’d waited.
The driver swung his rig in a final semi-circle, stopping amidst the puddled remains of the recent downpour. The clerk looked up from his record-keeping with a grimace.
“Well before shift-change we ask for, and what do we get? Excuses and a delivery at the hour.”
“It is always thus,” Pen Rel said, and then in a lighter voice, “Jethri, turn about please.”
Behind him and at very nearly his own height, stood a Liaden of indeterminate age. What most distinguished him was not his height, nor even the fact that he was out-and-out grinning, but his dark, wide-brimmed hat, which he failed to doff in greeting, though he bowed a sort of all-purpose greeting in Pen Rel’s general direction.
“So, my friend. You bring to me the sudden son, that we may instill in him my sixty Standards of experience in sixty hours?”
His bow to Jethri was much more complex—layered, even: retainer to son of the house, master to adult student—and a hint of something else. There was a careful extravagance in his motion Jethri put down to dealing with an awkward situation in good humor.
“Jethri ven’Deelin Clan Ixin, I—Cargo Master Gar Sad per’Etla—I welcome you to my dirt-side office. I advise you that we must hurry, for your new mother would have you ready to take any position on the ship at short notice. And, given my age, I suspect she means you to replace me soonest.”
Jethri returned the bow as honestly as he could, junior to senior, with an attempt—he hoped subtle—at member of the house to retainer.
“All very pretty,” Pen Rel said briskly, “but allow me to take my leave of both of you else the tradespeople will run me down.” A quick bow, encompassing perhaps the entirety of the dock, its length and height, the cars beneath and the stars above, and he was off.
“We are here, young sir,” the cargo master said after a moment, “to insure that you understand how the cargo department on Elthoria operates—and how it may vary from other tradeships you may be expected to deal with as one soon to be trading on your own. You will note that, on Elthoria, my department is responsible for all items coming on board, other than hand luggage.”
“Now, let me ask you this: In all of your life, how many pods have you loaded?”
Later, it came to Jethri that perhaps the question had been intended rhetorically. Caught in the moment, however, he bent his brain to the count, frowning slightly at the victualers’s van . . .
The cargo master laughed. If he’d been a Terran, Jethri would have considered him just a little dotty.
“No need to be embarrassed that you have no experience, young sir,” the old man said.
“But I do, Master,” Jethri interrupted. “I have never loaded an entire pod by myself, but in the last ten Standards I have done initial load checks on at least seventeen pods, and was final load check assistant on about the same number. I did the initial strap-downs on ten or so, and did net-string on a bunch of odd lots. I . . .”
“Enough!” Cargo Master per’Etla waved a hand. “I am cheered immensely! Now instead of needing to cover sixty years of knowledge in sixty hours we’ll need only cover the final fifty-five years in sixty hours! We are saved!”
Despite himself, Jethri laughed.
“Ah, so now,” the man in the hat went on, with a smile and a wink, “will you share with me? How came you by all this experience when you are so new to a house of trade?”
They leaned together on the boundary wall, per’Etla honestly interested in his charge’s background. Periodically, he inclined his head, so slightly as to appear a nod, as Jethri explained how a family ship was unlikely to have a full-time cargo master and how at certain ports and with certain cargo, the entire crew might be pressed into the loading and offloading.
As he spoke, Jethri absently watched the food truck’s driver using a lift-cart to offload pallets, which he deposited on the ‘crete regardless of the puddled water or the marked driving lanes. Finally, he stacked them into a pile, and Jethri could see distance water dripping from the top pallets onto those lower in the pile—which pile he aimed in the general direction of the ship’s dock as his lift-cart gathered speed.
Stopping in mid-sentence, Jethri pointed toward the incoming tradesman, whose approach was yet unnoticed by the clerk.
“The modules, master, contaminated in the dock-water!”
Master per’Etla glanced to the clerk, who was concentrating on his computer.
The master gestured toward the clerk, and then looked Jethri hard in the face. “What would you do, apprentice? The dock is yours to direct.”
Jethri bowed quickly and strode forward, stepping into the gate and holding his hands up, palms forward, to stop the cart.
The driver appeared oblivious, then attempted to wave Jethri aside.
“Halt!”
The driver turned his rig so sharply that it tilted, pallets shifting, and finally came to a stop. He came off the seat angry, yelling so hard and fast that Jethri couldn’t get more than the basic idea of what the guy was saying, which was close enough to fighting words.
Jethri found himself turning sidewise to the man, reacting automatically to the volume and the threat . . .
The driver got closer, and now the clerk was at Jethri’s side, adding his voice to the general clamor, but no matter—it was suddenly like the deliveryman had gotten a good, hard look at one of the scarier ghosts of space.
Again his words came so quickly that Jethri wasn’t completely sure of what they were, but the depth of the bows, and the number of them, convinced him that the driver was seriously sorry.
“I would say that your clan-pin was noted,” said per’Etla quietly from his left side, “I suggest you continue with your instructions.”
Jethri took a breath, and centered himself like Pen Rel was always tell him to do.
“These items here—” He pointed to the dripping edges of the pallets, to the wet tire tracks— “did you plan to bring them into the ship’s hold that way? This is not some storeroom where the wind blows as it might. A ship must control its environment and avoid contamination. As a youth I once spent two dozen hours sealed in a space suit while a hold was decontaminated from a careless spot of walked-in goo. What will you have brought us on these?”
“Sir, pardon, I had not considered. Normally, I deliver to warehouses and such is not a difficulty. I mean no—”
“These cannot come onto the ship. Our clerk will contact your office and have replacements brought. These—”
Jethri waved a hand, trying for one of Master tel’Ondor’s showier effects— “I care not what you do with them. “
The clerk, whose name Jethri still didn’t have, bowed and began to speak, sternly, to the driver.
Jethri turned his back on them both, feeling a little gone in the knees, and looked to the attentive cargo master.
“That is what I would do, were I directing the dock, Master.”
The old man inclined his head.
“Indeed. I cannot argue with you entire; it is in fact the most efficient way to approach the problem, and the lesson was well given. But let me speak a moment.”
Jethri took a deep breath, and inclined his head.
The master motioned him toward the open port and began walking. Jethri, perforce, followed.
“Our ship is, I suspect, somewhat larger than that of your family. True it is that the sheer random nature of the dockside might permit some contaminant—oh, what a wonderful word you have taught me!—some goo as it were, to belabor our air system or corrode our floors.
“There are measures we can take which would likely require none of us to be suited for a Standard Day, or even a Standard Hour. Some of these measures will be taught you—must be taught you—that you know the capabilities of Elthoria. But, for the moment, you are correct. The clerk ought to have been more alert, and I believe your lesson has taught him as well as the driver; I shall not belabor him more on this.
“Yet still, sir,” the master continued, as they crossed the threshold into the ship’s cargo port itself, “I ask you to riddle me this: what shall the master trader and the captain feed to their guests at luncheon?”
Jethri froze between one step and the next, face heating.
“Lunch?”
“Indeed.” The cargo master laughed lightly. “I do believe that what you have turned back just now was the afternoon meal my friend Norn has ordered in for the local jeweler’s shop association.”
THE FLOW OF SCHEDULES was such that Jethri found himself in the hold, cargo deck, and pod-control offices more than in his regular haunts. When he saw someone he knew well—Pen Rel or Gaenor for example—they were usually going the opposite direction and in conversation with someone else. By day three, he’d nearly forgotten the incident with the lunch-truck; indeed, for two nights he’d dreamed cargo density patterns for three different pod styles, lading codes, and the structural dynamics of orbital pod transfer.