by Sharon Lee
“Thank you!” he heard, and opened his eyes to the dancing room with its wooden floor and blue-covered walls, and Master pel’Oban standing before him, his hands folded and a look on his face that Jethri thought might have been shock. The twins, at his right and left hands, were visibly trying not to smile.
He let his feet still, dropped his hands from his hips and inclined his head.
“A few steps only, sir. I hope it was—instructive.”
Master pel’Oban eyed him. “Instructive. Indeed. You have grace, I see, and an athletic nature. Now, we will show you how the dance is done on Irikwae.” He waggled his fingers at Miandra and Meicha.
“If the ladies will oblige me by producing a round dance?”
THE BAR WAS LESS frenzied now. In fact, the blue-haired bartender was leaning at her ease at the near end, in earnest conversation with a little girl wearing a ship’s coverall, sitting cross-legged atop the bar.
“This one yours, Long Space?”
“Belongs to a friend,” Khat said, sparing a hard frown for Coraline. “Her ship’s going up in a quarter-clock and her brother’s lookin’ for her.”
The ‘keeper produced a frown of her own. “Bad business, worrying your brother,” she said sternly.
Coraline bit her lip and stared down at the bar. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“You tell him that,” the barkeep recommended and tapped her on the knee. “Hey.”
The girl looked up and the woman smiled. “It’s been good talking to you. Next time you’re here, stop by and give me the news, right, Cory?”
Coraline smiled. “Right.”
“That’s set, then. Go on now and find your brother.”
“All right. Good flight.” Coraline scooted to the edge of the bar and dropped to the floor, landing without a stagger.
Khat held out her hand. “Let’s go.” She said, and the two of them crossed the last bit of the bar and went out into the corridor.
* * *
“YOU!” KEESON’S BELLOW got the frowning attention of a cluster of Liadens near the door. He ignored them and swept his sister up in his arms.
“I oughta break you in half,” he snarled, giving her a hug that looked close to doing the job.
Coraline put her head next to his. “I’m sorry, Kee.”
“You’re always sorry,” he said. “What you gotta be is on time. You keep up like this an’ captain’ll confine you to ship for sure.” He set her on her feet, keeping a tight grip on her hand, and turned to give Khat a grin and an extravagant salute.
“Khat Gobelyn, you’re my hero!”
She sputtered a laugh and shooed him down the tunnel. “Go on, or your captain’ll leave both of you.”
“And count herself ahead,” Keeson agreed. He gave her another salute and tugged on Coraline’s hand. “C’mon, Spark. Show me how fast you can run in grav.”
“‘bye, Khat,” the little girl called and the two of them were gone, moving out with a will.
Khat shook her head and raised a hand to stifle a sudden yawn. Time to get back to the crash, she thought, and looked around for her guiding arrows.
“Gobelyn,” a soft malicious voice said behind her. Khat spun, and met the cold blue eyes of the yellow-haired trader who’d been giving Intake so much grief.
“What about it?” she asked him in pidgin, not even trying to sound sociable.
He frowned. “Kin you are to Jethri Gobelyn?”
What was this? One of Jeth’s new mates? “Yes,” she allowed, slightly more sociable, trying to see Jethri having anything cordial to do with such a spoiled, pretty fellow, and having a tough go of it, even given that business was business . . .
“Your kin has damaged my kin,” the Liaden was saying, and Khat felt her skin pebble with chill. “You owe Balance.”
The Liadens standing all around were real quiet, watching them. A couple of Terrans slammed through the door, talking loudly, barged through the crowd without seeing it and disappeared down the tunnel.
“What did he do?” Khat asked the Liaden. “And who are you?”
“I am Bar Jan chel’Gaibin. Jethri Gobelyn by his actions has stolen from me a brother. He does not pay the lifeprice. You are his kin. Will I Balance the loss exactly? Or will you pay the lifeprice?”
What was this? Khat wondered wildly. Jethri had killed somebody—this man’s brother? And now she was being threatened with—exact Balance—death? Or she could pay up? And Master ven’Deelin was allowing Jeth to dodge a legitimate debt? That seemed unlikely at the least.
Khat drew a careful breath, not cold now that her brain was engaged.
“How much?”
His eyes changed, though the rest of his face remained bland.
“For a gifted trader at the start of a profitable career—four hundred cantra.”
She almost laughed—if he’d been Terran, she would have laughed. If he’d been Terran, they wouldn’t be having this conversation.
She shrugged, indifferent. “Too much,” she said and turned away, tracking the yellow arrows out of the side of her eye, moving firm but not so fast that he’d think she was running.
He grabbed her, the damned fool. Grabbed her arm, hard, and yanked her back around.
She came around, all right; she came around swinging, and caught him full across the face. The force of the blow lifted him off his feet and dropped him flat, backbone to deck, and there he laid, winded, at least, or maybe out cold.
A shout came out of the watching Liadens, and she figured it was time to show she was serious, so she kept on turning, until she was facing the lot of them, crouched low and the boot knife in her hand.
She let them see it, and when nobody seemed disposed to argue with it, eased out of the crouch.
“We can take it to Security, or we can leave it,” she snarled. “We take it to Security, be sure I’ll let them know that this man tried to rob me, and made threats against my cousin and myself—and that you stood by and watched.”
There was a stir among the group of them, and another boy, not quite so pretty as the one on the floor, stepped forward.
“We leave it,” he said. “No Security.” He moved a hand so deliberately that the gesture must have meant something. “Safe passage.”
Well, now, wasn’t that sweet?
Khat bared her teeth at him, in no way a smile. “You bet,” she said, and turned away, keeping the blade ready.
Nobody tried to stop her.
IT WAS EDGING onto the middle of the world-night, and he should have been well a-bed. Thoughts were buzzing loud inside his head, though, most notably thoughts regarding supply and demand and the unpredictability of weather.
So it was that Jethri was kneeling on the bench beneath the window in his bedroom, swearing at the latch, instead of sweetdreaming in his bunk.
The latch came down all at once and the window swung out on well-oiled hinges. He damn near swung out with it, in the second before he remembered to let go and lean back, and then he just knelt there, waiting for his heart to slow down, breathing deep breaths of the cool mid-night air.
The breeze was slightly damp, and carried a confusion of odors. Tree-smells, he guessed, and flowers; rocks, grapes and snakes. The sky showed a ribbon of stars and two of Irikwae’s three moons, riding the shoulders of the mountains.
The cushion he was kneeling on moved and he looked down to find Flinx. The cat looked at him, eye to eye, and blinked his, in what Miandra insisted was a cat-smile.
“Guess I owe you Balance,” Jethri said, reaching down and tickling the underneath of the chin. Flinx purred and his eyes melted into mere slits of peridot. “Your life ever needs saving, you don’t hesitate, take me?” Flinx purred even louder, and Jethri grinned again, gave the chin another couple skritches for good measure, then sat carefully back on his knees and pulled the weather device out of his pocket.
Sometime during the endless repetitions of the basic pattern of a round dance, it had come to him that the little machine might
be well-used on behalf of Ren Lar’s grapes. He frowned down into the screen, touched the icon which him and his father had figured out accessed the predictive program and knelt tall once more, elbows on the window ledge, the device held firmly between his two hands, slightly extended, allowing it to taste the night.
The screen displayed its characteristic transitional swirls, then cleared, showing a mosaic of symbols. Jethri frowned at them, then at the starry and brilliant night.
Rule of opposites, he thought, which was nothing more than whimsy, and touched the icon for “rain”.
The screen swirled and cleared, showing him a duplicate image of the sky outside his window—and nothing else.
Well, that didn’t exactly prove anything, did it?
Jethri tapped the upper right corner of the screen, and the icons reappeared. He touched another, at exact random. Nothing at all happened this time; the screen continued to display its mosaic of exotic icons, unblinking, unchanging.
He sighed, loud and frustrated. Beside him, the cat sputtered one of his rustier purrs and banged his head deliberately against Jethri’s elbow.
“You’re right,” he said, reaching down and rubbing a sturdy ear. “The brain’s on overdrive. Best to get some sleep, and think better tomorrow.” He gave Flinx’s ear one more tug, slid off the window seat and headed for the bed, taking a small detour to leave the weather gadget on the table with the rest of his pocket things.
He snapped the light off and climbed into bed, hitting a solid lump with his knee. Flinx grunted, but otherwise didn’t move.
“Leave some room for me, why don’t you?” Jethri muttered, pushing slightly.
The cat sighed and let himself be displaced sufficiently for Jethri to curl on his side under the covers, head on his favorite pillow, eyes drooping shut. He yawned, once. Flinx purred, briefly.
“GOT A PRINTOUT for you,” the doorman said. “Come down from Trager’s Wager.”
It took a second, her mind still being on the problem back at the Trade Bar and thinking maybe Security’d be waiting for her at the crash, wanting to discuss the open showing of knives in a Combine port. But, no—Keeson had promised to send Farli’s list, when he got back to the ship.
“Thanks,” she said taking the gritty yellow sheet. She unfolded it, read the names—Winhale, Tornfall, Skeen, Brass Cannon—and tried to remember why she’d cared.
Right. Paitor would’ve been interested in the names, especially the ones that carried the keys. She glanced back at the paper and half-smiled. Never let it be said that Farli Trager was anything less than thorough. Both Skeen and Brass Cannon carried a key behind their names.
Well, Paitor would be happy, anyway. Assuming Khat managed to get off Port in one piece, and without acquiring a Liaden knife in her back. Which brought her back to wondering if Jethri had killed the blond Liaden’s brother and if in that case he was all right. Or if, as she considered more likely, the boy had been trying to earn a little—a lot—of extra money by playing the stupid Terran for an idiot.
“You OK?” the doorman sounded genuinely concerned.
Khat shook herself and looked up at him.
“Had a little trouble at the Trade Bar. Heard some bad news about kin. You got a fastbeam I can use?”
He shrugged. “We got one. It’ll cost you, though.”
Well, what else were bonuses for? Khat nodded.
“I can cover it.”
DYK’S BEEN MESSING with the climate control again, Jethri thought muzzily, pulling his blanket up around his chin. Khat’s gonna take his ear this ti—
He sat up, clumsily, because of the heavy, hot boulder resting against his hip, blinked stupidly at the huge space, looming away into darkness—Tarnia’s house, he remembered then, and shivered in a sudden flow of cool air, from, from—
“Mud!” He flung out of bed and went over to the open window, climbed up on the window seat, leaned out, got a grip on the cold, wet latch and hauled the window closed, pushing down on the lock with considerable energy.
“Ship kid,” he muttered. “Think you’d know enough to be sure the hatches was sealed.” He shook his head, and slid off the ledge, which was slightly damp where the rain had come in, and, yawning, went back to bed, shoved the cat out of his spot and snuggled back under the covers.
DAY 165
Standard Year 1118
Irikwae
“WHAT IS THAT?” Miandra asked. Jethri started and looked up, fingers closing automatically around the gadget. “A mirror?” She settled onto the bench beside him, her arm pressing his as she craned to see.
“Not exactly.” He held it out, displaying the screen in its transition phase. “It’s a weather device.”
She frowned down at it, extended a hand—and paused, sending a direct glance into his face. “May I?”
“Of course.” He opened his fingers wide and she plucked the thing from his palm, eyes on the swirling screen, head cocked a little to one side. Jethri twisted around, so he could watch, too, without giving himself a crick in the neck.
Eventually, the swirls cleared and the icon dictionary appeared. Miandra’s frown deepened.
“What does it do?”
“More than I know about,” he said truthfully. “I’m trying to study it out, because one of the things it does do is show weather patterns. There should be a way to set it to watch for particular patterns in a specific area, and give a warning.” He shrugged. “I haven’t figured out quite how to do that, though.”
“Perhaps if you consulted the instructions?” She murmured, her attention still on the screen.
“That would be a good idea,” Jethri admitted, “if I had the instructions. There might be instructions on-board, but, if so, I’ve never found them—nor even my father.”
“What a peculiar device.” She extended a long forefinger and touched the screen, carefully between the rows of icons. “What do these symbols mean?”
“They represent kinds of weather.” He put his finger under a sort of squiggle with dashes falling out of it. “That’s rain. And this one—” a similar squiggle shape, but the stuff falling out of it was rounder and fuzzy looking— “that’s snow. Snow is frozen rain.”
Miandra looked up at him, still frowning. “I know what snow is. We have enough of it during the cold season.”
He felt his ears heat and inclined his head. “Forgive me. Of course, you know more of these matters than a ship-born. Perhaps you might do me the favor of identifying those symbols that match weather you are familiar with.”
She blinked, glanced down at the device and then back to his face.
“I think we do you no favor in teaching you to sharpen your words,” she said. “What would you have said to me just then, if we had been speaking in your home-tongue.”
“Eh?” He shrugged, feeling a brief sense of dislocation before the words slid into his mouth. “Figure it yourself, if you know so much.”
Miandra blinked again. “I see—irritation sharpens your words, not our teaching.”
“Well, see—” he began, and shook his head, hearing himself back in Terran. He raised a hand, signaling that he required a moment to himself, closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting his mind just sort of go blank for a moment . . .
“Jethri, are you well?” Miandra’s voice was worried, her words in Low Liaden. He felt something sort of twist inside his head, and opened his eyes.
“I am well,” he said. “A momentary dislocation of language. To continue—my father wasn’t able to break the puzzle of this device—nor was his cousin, and neither was a shy man with a puzzle. I’ve only been trying to work out how to operate it for last few days, but I am afraid my frustration—has the better of me. For something that seems so simple, it is remarkably difficult to understand!”
She laughed, and shifted closer to him, holding the device between them. “Well, let us see what we may deduce between us, then. Surely, this—” she ran her finger under a simple straight line, “is clear skies—no weat
her, as we say, though of course there is always weather . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she bent her head closer, reaching up absently to tuck a curl of reddish hair behind her ear. Jethri stared, then pulled his attention back to the problem at hand.
“This . . .” She tapped her finger on a crazy, swirly mess of lines. “Surely,” she said, tapping again, “this is a wind-twist? No other weather pattern would be so—” She gasped to a stop, staring down at a screen gone smokey and opaque.
“What is happening?” She thrust the device at him, her eyes wide and panicked. “Jethri—what is it doing?”
Almost, he laughed at her. Almost. And then he remembered all the times neither she nor her sister had laughed at him, though he didn’t doubt he was nothing less than comical.
So. Gently, he slid the little machine out of her hand. The transitional clouds were thinning on the screen, and he tipped it so she could see.
“It’s only going to the next phase—see? Here is a picture of our day, here and now.”
And so it was. Miandra gazed at it in silence, then looked back to him, her dark blue eyes showing unease.
“Now what does it do?”
“Nothing,” he said, and smiled down at her. “We can go back to the icon screen—” he touched the go-back button; the screen swirled, then solidified. He held the device out to her. “Touch another icon. Any one.”
She raised her hand, then slowly lowered it, her face troubled. “I—believe that I do not wish to do that.”
“It’s all right,” he assured her. “Nothing else will happen at all. See?” He pressed the symbol for rain. The icons in place; the screen steady.
“I—see,” she replied, but he got the idea she wasn’t made easy by the demonstration.
“It’s just an old weather predictor,” he said, trying to jolly her, “and probably not very stable. I just thought it would be . . . convenient . . . if we had warning of—frost, or any other weather damaging to the vines.”
“The weather net is in place,” she pointed out.