by Sharon Lee
“My thanks.”
Meicha passed him a goody plate and he pinched one of the cheese roll-ups he was partial to and passed the plate around to Miandra. When they were all provided with food and tea, and each of them had taken a sip and a bite, Miandra looked up with a definite gleam in her eye.
“And, now, sir, you will tell us about your Scout captain and how it was you came to jump off the edge of a spacestation!”
He hid the grin behind another sip of tea. “Certainly,” he murmured, as dignified as could be. “It happened this way . . .”
DAY 166
Standard Year 1118
Elthoria
“MASTER TRADER, the captain bids me deliver this message to you.” The first mate’s voice was somber, and it was that which drew Norn ven’Deelin’s attention away from the file she had under study. Gaenor tel’Dorbit was not a somber woman, and while she enjoyed a contract of pleasure with the librarian Norn had specifically instructed to deny her to all seekers, it could hardly be supposed that his melant’i was so lacking that he had let his paramour by on a mere whim.
Norn sighed. Somber first mates and disobedient, dutiful librarians. Surely, the universe grew too complex. She looked up.
Gaenor tel’Dorbit bowed and produced from her sleeve a folded piece of green priority paper.
The paper crackled as Norn received it and glanced at the routing line.
“Hah,” she said, extending it. “Pray have communications forward this to my son at Irikwae.”
The first mate bit her lip. “Master Trader,” she said, more somberly, if possible, than previously, “the captain bids me deliver this message to you.”
Oh, and indeed? Norn looked again at the routing: from Khatelane Gobelyn. The pilot cousin, was it not? And the same who had written before. That she sent now a priority message—that was notable. It was also notable that it had been some days in transit, for Khatelane had sent it to Avrix, where Elthoria would have been, had the schedule not been amended.
She glanced up at Gaenor tel’Dorbit, who was watching her with no small amount of anticipation. It came to her that Gaenor read Terran well and would certainly have been asked by the communications officer to vet a message written in Terran. She had also taken a liking to Jethri himself, saying that he reminded her pleasantly of the young brothers she left at home. Which handily explained, Norn thought, Kor Ith yo’Lanna’s involvement in the proper disposition of a letter meant for a mere apprentice of trade.
“I expect,” she said gently to Gaenor’s tense face, “to read that Jethri’s honored mother, Captain Iza Gobelyn, has passed from this to a more gentle plane, and that Jethri is called back to his kin, to mourn.”
“Master Trader,” the first mate inclined her head slightly. “To my knowledge, the health of Jethri’s honored mother remains robust.”
Well. Obviously, she was not going to be quit of Gaenor until she had read and made some disposition of Jethri’s letter.
Leaning back in her chair, she flicked the page open and began, laboriously, to read.
Dear Jethri,
Never thought I’d be sending you a Priority, but I think I made a bad situation worse for you, so I’m sending a heads-up quick. I’m here on Banthport at the Trade Bar and run into Keeson Trager and Coraline.
Bunch of Liadens on the place, which don’t figure, because you know as well as me, Jeth, Banth doesn’t have nothing but the gold mines. But, anyhow, lots of Liadens, and one of them hears Kee name me. Pretty boy, in a skinny, sulky sort of way. Name of Barjohn Shelgaybin, near as I can make out. Said he knows you, that you lost him a brother, and you didn’t settle up like you should’ve. Said, that being so, and me standing right there, he could take exact balance, or I could pay him four hundred cantra in compensation, which, if I could’ve done I wouldn’t’ve been at Banth on Kinaveralport business, because I’d be captain-owner of a brand-new Cezna with nothing less than twelve pod-mounts.
So, it was stupid, and I figure it’s best for all to leave, except he up and grabs me and—I decked him. Conked his head on the floor and went out cold. Another boy tells me I got safe passage—though he didn’t tell me his name—so I left it and come back to the crash. I’m sending this to Elthoria, and a copy to Paitor.
For what it’s worth, Farli Trager worked out the names of the Liaden ships on Banth: Winhale, Tornfall, Skeen, Brass Cannon. Don’t know which your friend is off of, but you might, if he hasn’t made the whole thing up out of spare parts. Skeen and Brass Cannon hold Combine keys.
I’m real sorry, Jeth, and I hope you’re OK. If this is some kind of Liaden blood feud, let us know, will you? If that pretty boy’s a headcase, let us know that, too—and tell us how you’re getting on.
I’m gone by the time you get this—follow-ups to Paitor at Terratrade, Kinaveral.
Love,
Khat
Norn ven’Deelin folded the sheet and put it, carefully, atop the reader. She sat for a few heartbeats, eyes on the green paper, then looked up to Gaenor tel’Dorbit, standing patiently, her hands tucked into her belt, her face tense—worried. And she was right to worry, Norn thought. Indeed she was.
“So,” she said softly. “I am informed. Of your goodness, First Mate, ask Arms Master sig’Kethra to join in my office for prime in—” she glanced at the clock—”one hour.”
“Master Trader.” Gaenor bowed, relief palpable, as if the problem—the problems—were now solved, with Jethri and his kin rendered impervious to chel’Gaibin spite. If only it were so.
The first mate removed herself from the study room. Norn ven’Deelin sat quietly for half-a-dozen heartbeats more, then slipped the green letter away into her sleeve, marked her place in the file, and went over to the wall unit to call the kitchen and alert the cook to her need for a working dinner for two to arrive in her office in an hour.
“SO,” PEN REL SAID, putting the green paper down and reaching for his wine. “The chel’Gaibin heir aspires to the melant’i of a port tough. Are you surprised?”
“Alas, I am not—and we will not discuss what that might say about ven’Deelin’s melant’i.” She sipped her own wine, staring sightlessly at the meal neither had addressed with vigor.
“What I believe we have, old friend,” she murmured, “is a play in two acts. I hope that you will lend me the benefit of your wisdom in crafting an appropriate answer to each.”
“Now, I know a matter to be dire when ven’Deelin comes to me with sweet words of flattery in her mouth,” he commented, irreverently. “All I have is yours to command. Has it ever been otherwise?”
“Surely, it must have been, at one time—but, stay! I will not insult you with more flattery. As I said, a play in two acts, their separate action linked by the chel’Gaibin heir. Indeed, if what I believe is true, I can only suppose Infreya chel’Gaibin to be in a goodly rage regarding the heir’s impromptu freelancing—for I believe the approach upon young Khatelane to be nothing more nor less than a moment seized to determine what profit might be wrung from it. And why, you may wonder, would Infreya chelbe quite so angry at her heir’s attempt to terrorize a mere Terran?”
“The ships,” Pen Rel murmured. “The transliterations are . . . challenging. However, if the name the pilot renders as Brass Cannon is, indeed, our own beloved Bra’ezkinion, then it’s certain there’s piracy afoot.”
“And if Tornfall may be discovered to be Therinfel, we may add mayhem to the brew,” Norn said, and fell silent for a long moment, her wineglass forgotten in her hand.
Pen Rel reached out and captured the letter, frowning at the Terran words.
“The pilot is right to wonder,” he said eventually, “what interest Banth holds for such a mixed flight of ships—” He looked up and made a rueful face. “Only hear me assume that Wynhael stands in association with Bra’ezkinion and Therinfel.”
“Not invalid, I think,” Norn said, absently. “Not invalid. I allow the pilot to be a clever child and her questions on-point. For, indeed, there is
nothing to want at Banth that cannot be had elsewhere, with less cost and more convenience. And yet four Liaden ships—two of them known to us as rogues, in addition to the most excellent Wynhael, and the as-yet-undiscovered Skeen—simultaneously converge upon this port. Credulity strains to the breaking point, my friend.”
“Past the breaking point, I would say. So, Master Trader, what is there to want at Banth, after all?”
She glanced at him, eyes gleaming. “How many times must I explain that the skills of a master trader are not those of the dramliz?”
“Until I lay down my last duty, I expect,” he retorted. “I have seen you too often work magic.”
“Pah! Now who flatters whom, sir? However, your question has merit, despite your deplorable manners. What, indeed, does Banth have which is desirable and has been overlooked, thus far, by all?” She moved her hand, discovered the wine glass and sipped.
“I do not know. And perhaps I may never know. However, the convergence of those four ships—two rejoicing in substantial guild misdemeanor files—allows me to call upon the masters of trade to interview the traders involved, immediately, to determine if there has been any breach of guild rule.”
“Thereby infuriating Infreya chel’Gaibin and the so-honorable heir.”
“Very possibly,” Norn agreed, tranquilly. “But Infreya will not resist a guild investigation—she is, when all is counted, too canny a trader to bargain for her own downfall. It must be in her best interest to cooperate with the guild—and that is where we gain the small hope that we will, after all, learn what it is that Banth has of value.”
“You will need to know for certain the names of those ships,” Pen Rel said. “I will undertake that proof.”
“I thank you,” she smiled, briefly, and sipped her wine. “So, that act. The second, I own, may be knottier, for it involves dramliz skills. One or both of us must look into the future and see whether chel’Gaibin will pursue its false Balance against Gobelyns, all and sundry, and, if they will, what measures we must take—in protection, I would say, preferring not to wait upon the necessity of retribution.”
“I understand.” He considered the matter for some time, frowning abstractedly at the table top. Norn sipped her wine and waited for him to return to himself.
“I believe that the larger population of Gobelyns need have no fear that the chel’Gaibin heir will attempt to pursue his Balance,” he said after a considerable time had passed. “Like you, I consider that the attack upon Pilot Gobelyn was an opportunistic act, which it is unlikely he will repeat.”
“Unlikely? Tell me why you say so.”
He rattled the green paper. “The pilot states that she knocked him down for his impertinence in laying a hand upon her—and rightly so, may I say. You, yourself, know well that chel’Gaibins have no taste for being knocked down. I would consider that the encounter with the pilot will have provided a laudatory lesson to the heir.” He raised his glass.
“And, too, when does Wynhael run so far out? Further opportunity to meet Gobelyns must be limited by the usual routes pursued by both.”
“Fair enough,” Norn murmured, “though I submit that Wynhael was at Banth as nearly as a few days ago.”
“An isolated incidence, I believe,” Pen Rel said stoutly. “I think we may assume that Gobelyns as a set reside at a safe distance from chel’Gaibins of any sort.” He sipped his wine. “No, where we must focus our concern, I believe, is upon Jethri, who is at this moment well within Liaden space and, while more tutored regarding the rules of Balance than his most excellent kinswoman, is perhaps not as conversant with nuance as one might like.”
“He has been living this while in the house of my foster mother,” Norn said dryly. “Be assured that he will by this time be breathing and dreaming nuance. However, your point is taken. One does not leave an inexperienced player unshielded to danger. We know that Bar Jon chel’Gaibin has publicly proposed a grievance against Jethri Gobelyn—” she fluttered her fingers at the paper in his hand. “He must pursue satisfaction, or his melant’i suffers.”
Pen Rel snorted. “As if it had not already. Shall we to Irikwae, then?”
She moved a shoulder. “Alas, we cannot. The cargo we have guaranteed for Lylan—”
“Ah,” he murmured. “I had forgotten.”
Norn sipped her wine. “Immediately, let us beam to Tarnia, with full particulars and a request to be vigilant. We have a little time, I calculate, purchased by the guild investigation. We will fulfill our contract, and transship what we may.” She sighed. “Gar Sad will pin my ears to my head.”
“Of course he will.” Pen Rel put his glass and the letter on the table and came to his feet, not quite as lightly as was his wont. “You will have clear proof of the ships involved by the end of next shift.”
She smiled at him. “Old friend. My thanks to you, on behalf of my student and son.”
“My student, also, remember,” he said bowing lightly. “By your leave, Norn.”
She flicked a hand in bogus impatience. “Go then, if you are so eager for work.”
He smiled, placed his hand briefly over his heart, and left her.
DAY 166
Standard Year 1118
Irikwae
THE ALARM CHIMED, insistent. Jethri groaned and resisted the temptation to push his head under the bank of pillows to shut out the noise.
The chime grew louder. Manfully, Jethri flung the sheets back, got his feet on the floor. A few steps brought him to the alarm, which he disarmed, and then simply stood there, savoring the silence.
The clock displayed a time a few minutes later than his usual waking hour, which meant he was going to have to engage jets to get to breakfast on time. He yawned, the idea of engaging jets infinitely less attractive than collapsing back onto the bed and taking another half-shift of sleep.
Instead, he moved, at something less than his usual speed, on course for the ‘fresher.
The twins had stayed late, trading stories of their own for his of Kailipso Station and Scout Captain ter’Astin, until Miandra looked out the window.
“The third moon has set,” she said, whereupon Meicha pronounced the word Jethri considered to be the Liaden rendering of “mud!” and they both jumped up and took their leave, with smiles and wishes for his sweet dreaming, flitting like the ghosts of space down the dim-lit hall, Flinx the ghost of a cat, weaving ‘round their silent feet.
Trouble was, he hadn’t been at all sleepy and had spent some time more huddled over his old “trade journal,” until he realized he had read the same entry three times, without making sense of it once, closed the old book and gone to bed.
Two hours ago.
He stepped into the shower and punched the button for cold, gasping when the blast hit him. Quickly, he soaped and rinsed, then jumped out, reaching for the towel. Drying briskly, he glanced in the mirror—and glanced again, moving closer and touching his upper lip, where last evening a hopeful mustache sprouted.
Gone now, stroked into oblivion by Meicha’s magic fingers.
“I don’t know how long that will last,” she had said, half-scolding. “But you really cannot, Jethri, go among polite people with hair on your face.”
“I was going to ask Mr. pel’Saba for depilatory, tomorrow,” he’d said, and Miandra had laughed, reaching over her twin’s shoulder to put her palm against his cheek.
“He would not have had the least idea what you asked for,” she said. “Leave it to Meicha until you may purchase some of this substance for yourself, perhaps at the port?”
“Miandra . . .” Meicha hissed, and her sister laughed again and withdrew her hand, leaving Jethri wishing that she hadn’t.
In the bedroom, the alarm began again, signaling five minutes until breakfast.
Jethri swore and jumped for his closet.
THE BREAKFAST ROOM was empty, for all the food was laid out just like always on the long sideboard and the places were set at the table set in the tall windowed alcove overlooking the f
lower garden. Someone had thought it a mellow enough day to prop open the middle pane, and the smells of flowers and growing things danced into the room on the back of a dainty little breeze.
Jethri paused at the window, looking out over the banks of sweet smelling, prickle stemmed flowers that Lady Maarilex favored.
The garden appeared as always: pink and white blossoms crowding the stone pathways; the sunlight dappled with shade from the tall tree at the garden’s center. Nothing seemed disturbed by yesterday’s rogue wind.
“Good morning, Master Jethri,” murmured a voice grown very familiar to him. Jethri turned and inclined his head.
“Mr. pel’Saba.” He looked into the butler’s bland, give-nothing face. “I fear I have overslept.”
“If you did, it was not by many minutes,” the old man said. “However, Master Ren Lar went early to the vines—and Mrs. tor’Beli has instructions to send a tray up to their ladyships.” That would be Meicha and Miandra, Jethri thought with a start.
“For yourself . . .” Mr. pel’Saba continued, reaching into his sleeve and producing a creamy, square envelope, “there is a letter.”
A letter. Jethri took the envelope with a small bow, fingertips tingling against the kiss of high-rag paper. “My thanks.”
“It is my pleasure to serve,” Mr. el’Saba assured him. “Please enjoy your breakfast. If anything is required, you have but to ring.” He bowed and was gone, vanishing through the door at the back of the room.
Jethri turned his attention to the envelope. An irregular blob of purple wax glued the flap shut; pressed into the wax was a design. He brought the blob closer to the end of his nose, squinting—and recognized the sign of the traders guild.
Reverently, he flipped the creamy square over and stood staring at the name, written in purple ink the exact shade of the lump of sealing wax, the Liaden letters a thought too ornate: Jeth Ree ven’Deelin.
Now, he thought, here’s a message. If only he knew how to read it.