The Crystal Variation

by Sharon Lee

  Jethri felt his ears warm. He hadn’t thought his stomach’s complaint had been that loud!

  Master ven’Deelin paused before a large metal door, and swiped a card through the scan. The light clicked from yellow to orange, and the door opened. She strolled through, Jethri at her heels.

  Inside, he paused, somewhat taken aback by the scope of the thing. The hall stretched out, the ceiling just this side of uncomfortably high, with long vents cut into it, allowing the outside light to fall through and down to brighten up the red stone floor. The walls were white and nubbly. A long wooden ledge has been built into the right-hand wall, a light red cushion laid along its length. The left wall was covered in a large tapestry of surpassing ugliness, which was undoubtedly, Jethri thought, catching the tell-tale signs, handmade—and probably historic, too.

  Along the back wall was a wooden counter, and that was what Master ven’Deelin was on course for, her boots making little gritty skritches against the stone floor.

  Jethri stretched his legs to catch up with her, passing through pockets of sunlight, and caught up just as she put her hand over a plate built into the counter.

  Somewhere far back, a chime sounded. A heartbeat later, a young man in an orange jacket embroidered with the sign of the Liaden Trade Guild stepped to the other side of the counter and inclined his head respectfully.

  “Master Trader. How may I serve you?”

  “I wish to speak with the hall master. You may say that it is ven’Deelin who asks it.”

  The head-tip this time was a little deeper, Jethri saw, as if ‘ven’Deelin’ was worth an extra measure of respect even above ‘master trader.’

  “I will inform the hall master of your presence. A moment only, of your goodness.”

  He vanished back the way he’d come. Master ven’Deelin moved her shoulders and looked up at Jethri, though he hadn’t said anything.

  “Soon, my child. This should encompass but moments.”

  He was going to tell her that he wasn’t that hungry when the door at the end of the counter opened and the man in the orange jacket bowed.

  “Master Trader. Sir. The hall master is honored to speak with you. Please, attend me now.”

  “MASTER TRADER VEN’DEELIN, well-met.” The man who stood up from behind the glossy black desk was white-haired; his face showing lines across his forehead, by his eyes, around his mouth. He stood tall and straight-backed as a younger, though, and his eyes were blue and clear.

  “I am Del Orn dea’Lystra, master of Modrid Trade Hall. How may I be of service to you?”

  “In a small matter of amending the record, Hall Master. I am embarrassed that I must need bring it to your attention. But, before we continue, allow me to introduce to you my apprentice, Jethri Gobelyn.” She moved a hand, calling the hall master’s attention to Jethri, who tried to stand tall without looking like a threat. He might have saved himself the trouble.

  Hall Master dea’Lystra’s clear blue eyes turned chilly, and he didn’t bother to incline his head or take any other notice of Jethri other than, “I see,” directed at Master ven’Deelin.

  “Do you?” she asked. “I wonder. But! A hall master is not one who has many moments at leisure. Allow me, please, to proceed directly to my business.”

  The hall master inclined his head, granting her permission with, Jethri thought, a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

  “So,” said Master ven’Deelin. “As it happens, Elthoria achieved orbit yesterday. We, of course, took advantage of the time incoming to place goods and make purchases.” She moved her hand, once again showing Jethri to the hall master, who once again didn’t bother to look.

  “At my direction, and using his assigned sub-account, this my apprentice did make numerous purchases. And yet, when the trading was done and recorded, what do I have but a message from Modrid Trade Hall, demanding that I recertify all the purchases made by my apprentice, at my direction, using the proper codes.” She inclined her head, slightly.

  “Clearly, something has gone awry with the records. I would ask that you rectify this problem immediately.”

  The hall master moved his shoulders and showed his hands, palm up, in a gesture meaning, vaguely, ‘alas’.

  “Master Trader, I am desolate, but we may not allow a Terran guild status.”

  “May we not?” Master ven’Deelin asked, soft enough to send a chill running down Jethri’s neck, if the hall master didn’t have so much sense. “I wonder when that regulation was accepted by the masters.”

  Hall Master dea’Lystra bowed, lightly and with irony. “Some things are self-evident, I fear. No one disputes a master trader’s right to take what apprentice she will. Guild status is another consideration all together.” He spared Jethri a brief, scathing stare. “This person has no qualifications to recommend him.”

  Like being Norn ven’Deelin’s ‘prentice wasn’t a qualification? Jethri thought, feeling his temper edge up—which was no good thing, the Gobelyns being known for their tempers. He took a breath, trying to swallow it, but then what did the fool do but incline his head and say, like Master ven’Deelin was no more account than a dock monkey, “I trust that concludes our business. Good-day.”

  “No,” Jethri heard his own voice say, in the mode between traders, “it does not conclude our business. Your assertion that I have no qualifications pertinent to the guild is, alas, in error. I hold a ten-year key from the Terran Combine.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Master ven’Deelin throw him a stare. The hall master moved his shoulders, indifferent.

  “Produce this ten-year key,” he said, and his mode was superior to inferior, which was no way to cool a het-up Gobelyn.

  Jethri reached inside his collar and pulled the chain up and over his head, holding it high, so the key could be plainly seen.

  “If you will show me your Combine computer, I will verify that it is in fact a valid key, registered—”

  “It is a matter of indifference to me and to this hall,” Hall Master dea’Lystra interrupted, “who holds the registration for that key.” He turned back to Master ven’Deelin.

  “Master Trader, good-day,” he said, trying to be rude, now, or so Jethri heard it.

  Norn ven’Deelin didn’t budge. She did cock her head to a side and look thoughtfully, and maybe a touch sorrowfully upon the hall master.

  “You, the master of Modrid Trade Hall, give as your judgement that the possession of a Combine key is insufficient to demonstrate that the trader who holds the key is qualified to stand as an apprentice in the Guild. Is that correct?”

  Hall Master dea’Lystra inclined his head.

  “The master of Modrid Trade Hall gives as his judgement that possession of a Combine key is insufficient to demonstrate that the Terran who holds the key is qualified to stand as an apprentice in the Guild. That is correct.”

  Master ven’Deelin inclined her head. “That is most wonderfully plain. My thanks to you. Jethri, attend me, of your kindness.”

  Of course, he had to attend her—he was her ‘prentice. Still, thought Jethri, following her out the door and down the hall, he would have welcomed the opportunity to put some of Pen Rel’s lessons to the test, with Hall Master dea’Lystra as his subject.

  “Peace, child,” Master ven’Deelin murmured as they marched across the wide entrance hall. “A brawl is neither seemly nor warranted.”

  “Not seemly,” Jethri said, keeping his voice low, “but surely warranted, ma’am.”

  The only answer was a soft, “Young things.” Then they were at the door and through it, back on the noisy, odoriferous street.

  “Come,” she said. “There is a very pleasant restaurant just down this next street. Let us bespeak a booth and a nuncheon, so that we may be comfortable, and private, while you tell me the tale of that key.”

  THE “BOOTH” WAS MORE like a well-appointed small room, with comfy seats, and soft music coming out of a grid in the wall, and a multi-use computer within reach at a corner of the table.<
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  Master ven’Deelin called for wine, which came quickly, and gave the order for a “mixed tray”, whereupon the server bowed and went away, closing the booth’s door behind him.

  “So,” Master ven’Deelin poured wine into a glass and set it on the table by Jethri’s hand, before pouring another glass for herself. “This Combine key, child. May I have the honor of seeing it?”

  For the second time in an hour, Jethri slipped the chain over his head. He put the key into Master ven’Deelin’s palm and watched as she considered the inscription on the face, then turned it over and read the obverse.

  “A ten-year key, in truth. How came you to have it?”

  Jethri fingered his wine glass—and that wouldn’t do at all, he thought suddenly. Master tel’Ondor would pin his ears back good if he caught him fidgeting in public. Casually, he released the glass and folded his hands in bogus serenity on the table top, looking straight into Norn ven’Deelin’s amused—he would swear it—black eyes.

  “As an apprentice on Gobelyn’s Market, I brought a favorable buy to the attention of the trader. A remaindered pod, it was, and more than a third of it vya, in stasis. I knew Ynsolt’i was on the schedule, and I thought it might do well there. Uncle Paitor said, if it did, he would sponsor a key.” He glanced down at the table, then made himself look back to her eyes. “A ten-year key—that was unexpected, but the vya had done—very well for the ship.”

  “Hah.” Master ven’Deelin put the key on the table between them and picked up her wine glass.

  “What else was in the pod?”

  He frowned, trying to remember. “A couple of crates of broken porcelain—plates and cups, we thought. Cris sold the pieces to an art co-op—that covered what we had in the pod. Some textile—that was a loss, because there had also been . . . a syrup of some kind, which had escaped its containers. The porcelain and the vya cans both were double-sealed, and the syrup was easily rinsed off the outer cases with water. The textile, though. . .” He sighed, still regretting the textile, and reached for his wine glass, taking a tiny cautious sip.

  Dry, bitter with tannin, and—just as he was about to ask for water—a surprising and agreeable tang of lemon.

  Across from him, Norn ven’Deelin smiled a small smile. “You approve of the wine?”

  ‘Approve’ didn’t exactly seem to cover it, though he found himself anticipating his next sip. “It’s—unexpected,” he offered, tentatively.

  “Indeed it is, which is why we drink it in your honor.” She raised her glass in a tiny salute and sipped, eyes slitted.

  “Yes, excellent.” Another sip, and she set the wine aside, leaned forward and tapped the power switch on the multi-use. The screen snapped live; she ran her guild card through the slot, then typed a rapid string of letters into the keyboard. Jethri raised his wine glass.

  The multi-use clicked, loudly, and a drawer popped out of its face, displaying an indentation that could only accommodate a Combine key.

  Jethri lowered his glass.

  Master ven’Deelin touched his key with a delicate forefinger. “You permit?”

  Well sure, he permitted, if only to watch the multi-use in action. He’d never seen such a—he inclined his head.

  “I believe I see a theme,” he said, and moved his hand in the “sure, go ahead” gesture. “By all means, ma’am.”

  Deftly, she had the key off its chain and pressed it into the indentation. The multi-use hesitated a moment, then emitted a second click as the drawer withdrew into the face of the machine.

  There was a moment of inaction, then the screen flickered and displayed the key’s registration code, registered to one Jethri Gobelyn, with ‘free trade’ checked instead of a ship name. A trade history was indicated. Master ven’Deelin touched the access key.

  There, written out in a few terse sentences, was the vya deal, with himself listed as acquiring trader and Paitor Gobelyn assisting, which was, Jethri thought, eyes stinging, more than good of Uncle Paitor.

  Master ven’Deelin touched the access key once more and there was the cellosilk sale, Cris Gobelyn acquiring, Jethri Gobelyn assisting. No more history was available.

  “So.” She typed another string of letters, the multi-use clicked one more time and the drawer extruded. When the key was removed, the drawer disappeared back into the console’s face. Jethri remembered his wine and had another sip, anticipating the lemon note.

  Master ven’Deelin threaded his key back onto the silver chain and held them out. He slipped it over his head and tucked the key into its usual position inside his shirt.

  “Del Orn dea’Lystra is a fool,” she said conversationally, picking up her glass.

  Jethri paused with his hands at his collar. “You won’t let him get away with—ma’am, he insulted you!” he blurted.

  Her eyebrows lifted. She sipped her wine and put the glass down. “No more than he insulted you. But tell me, my son, why did you not show me this key ere now?”

  His face heated. “Truthfully, ma’am, I didn’t think to do so. The key—I had not understood Trader Gobelyn’s—his melant’i in the matter. I saw the key as a—sop, or as a going-away present, and of no interest to yourself.”

  There was a small silence, followed by a non-committal, “Ah.”

  In his experience, Master ven’Deelin’s ‘ah’ was chancy ground. Jethri sipped his wine, determined to wait her out.

  “You raised the question of Balance,” she said eventually. “It seems to me that the failure of Elthoria to any longer stop at a port which had realized some profit from her presence is not too strong an answer. A port that will not alter itself to accommodate the trade—that is not a port Elthoria cares to accommodate.”

  He gaped at her. “You’re going to cut them off?”

  She looked at him serenely. “You think the Balance too stringent? Please, speak what it in your heart.”

  He thought about it, frowning down at the composite table top. Consider a fool of a hall master, he thought, insulting a master trader, insulting a master trader’s apprentice, thereby calling into question the master trader’s judgement, if not her sanity—and then there had been the by-play about the masters not having accepted the no-Terrans rule . . .

  Jethri looked up, to find her gazing thoughtfully upon him.

  “On consideration,” he said slowly, “I think it an appropriate Balance, Master.”

  She inclined her head, by all appearances with serious intent. “My thanks, young Jethri. It shall be done—on behalf of ourselves and the trade.”

  A chime sounded, discretely, and the door opened to admit their server, bearing a tray laden with foodstuffs, most of which, Jethri’s stomach announced, smelled wonderful.

  “Indeed,” said Master ven’Deelin. “We have done work this day, my son. Now, let us relax for an hour and enjoy this delightful repast, and speak of pleasant things.”

  DAY 135

  Standard Year 1118

  Elthoria

  THE PATTERN OF HIS studies changed again, with more emphasis on the modes of High Liaden, which meant more time with Master tel’Ondor and much more time with the language tapes—even tapes that played while he slept!

  Despite the frenzy, he and Gaenor and Vil Tor had managed to meet in the cafeteria to share a meal—late-shift dinner for Jethri, on-shift lunch for Vil Tor and mid-sleep-shift snack for Gaenor.

  “So, you will be leaving us for a time,” Vil Tor said. “I am envious.”

  “Not I,” Gaenor put in. “Tarnia frightens me to death.” She glanced up, catching the edge of Jethri’s baffled stare. “She frightens you, too, does she? I knew you for a man of good sense!”

  “Indeed,” he stammered. “I have no idea who the gentle may be. As for leaving you—why would I do such a thing?”

  “Has the master trader’s word no weight with you, then?” Gaenor asked, while Vil Tor sent a speculative glance into Jethri’s face. “In that wise, you have no need to fear Tarnia. ven’Deelin will have you first.”
/>   “Don’t tease him, Gaenor,” Vil Tor said suddenly. “He hasn’t been told.”

  She blinked at him. “Not been told? Surely, he has a need to know, if only to have sufficient time to properly commend himself to his gods.”

  “I was told,” Jethri said, before his leg broke proper, “that we would be visiting an old friend of Master ven’Deelin’s, who is delm of a house on Irikwae.”

  “Then you have been given the cipher, but not the key,” Gaenor said, reaching for her tea. “Never fear, Vil Tor and I will unlock it for you.”

  Jethri looked to the librarian, who moved his shoulders. “Stafeli Maarilex has the honor to be Tarnia, which makes its seat upon Irikwae. She stands as the ven’Deelin’s foster mother, even as the ven’Deelin stands foster mother to you.”

  So now I have a foster-granmam? Jethri thought, but decided that was taking silly too far into nonsense.

  “Who better, then,” Gaenor said, jumping in where Vil Tor had stopped, “to shine you?”

  Now I have a foster-granmam. He sighed, and frowned down at his dinner plate.

  “No, never put on such a long face!” Vil Tor chided. “Irikwae is a most pleasant world and Tarnia’s gardens are legendary. You will enjoy yourself excessively, Jethri.”

  He bit his lip, reminding himself that Vil Tor meant well. It was just that—well, him and Gaenor and—all of Elthoria’s crew, really—were grounders. They all had homes on planets, and it was those homes, down ‘midst the dust and the mud and the stinks, that they looked forward to going back to, when Elthoria’s run was through.

  Well, at least the visit wouldn’t be long. He’d been over the route Elthoria would take through the Inner Worlds, Master ven’Deelin having made both route and manifest a special area of his studies since they’d quit Modrid, and knew they was scheduled for a three-day layover before moving on to Naord. What kind of polish the old lady could be expected to give him in such a short time wasn’t clear, and Jethri took leave to privately doubt that he’d take much shine, anyway. Still, he guessed she was entitled to try.