The Crystal Variation

by Sharon Lee

  Jethri opened the first bag—bright blue, with the Tarnia crest embroidered on it—and commenced unpacking, carrying his clothes over to the built-in dresser. He took his time, making sure everything went away neat; that his shirts were hung straight and his socks were matched up, but at last he was shaking out his second-best trading coat—the one Master ven’Deelin’d had made for him—out of the bottom of the bag, and hanging it with his shirts on the rod.

  That done, he sealed the bag up, folded it and stowed it on the shelf over the rod.

  The second duffle was dull green, Gobelyn’s Market spelled out in stark white stenciling down one side. He unsealed it and pulled out the books he had borrowed from Tarnia’s library. He’d taken mostly novels—some titles that he remembered from Gaenor’s talks, and others at random—as well as a history of Irikwae, and another, of the Scouts, and a battered volume that appeared to be an account of the Old War.

  He lined the books up on the worktable, and stood for a long moment, admiring them, before diving back into his duffle and emerging with the photocube showing his father, and Arin’s metal box, with its etched stars, moons and comets.

  He supposed he could’ve left his stuff in his room at Tarnia’s house, but he’d got to thinking that maybe that wasn’t a good idea, considering the fractins and the prevailing feeling against old tech—and he surely hadn’t wanted to leave the weather gadget anywhere but secure in the inside pocket of his jacket, which was where it was right now. So, in the end, he’d tossed everything into his old duffle and left the empty B crate behind.

  The photocube he placed with great care in the center of a low black wooden table in the corner by the windows. Arin’s box, he put on top of the dresser. He stepped back to consider the room and found it . . . better, though still too much trader’s hall and too little Jethri Gobelyn.

  He returned to the duffle and pulled out the other photocube, with its record of strangers, and carried it over to the black table. The family cube, he placed near the keyboard on the table, where he could see it while he worked.

  The remainder of the duffle’s contents were best not displayed, he thought, those contents being fractins, true and false, the wire frame, and his pretend trade journal—though on second thought, there wasn’t any reason that the old notebook couldn’t be in with the rest of the books. Nobody who might visit him here was going to be interested in old kid stuff—even assuming that they could read Terran.

  He resealed the duffle and put it on the shelf in the wardrobe next to the blue bag, closed the door and went back to the work table. He settled as well as he was able into the short chair and reached for the keyboard, meaning to explore the remainder of the options available to him.

  A single line of tall red letters marched across the center of the computer screen. It seemed that his mentor, Trader Ena Tyl sig’Lorta would see him at the top of the hour, at meeting booth three, in the Irikwae Trade Bar.

  Jethri looked at his watch. Not much time, but no need for a full-tilt run, either, if his understanding of the scale of the house was correct.

  He tapped the ‘received’ key, slid out of the chair, brushed his hands down the front of his coat and went off to meet his mentor.

  “GOT SOME NEWS,” Seeli said, serious-like.

  Grig looked up from his calcs. The yard had filed an amended, which they were required by contract to do, whenever section costs overran estimate by more than five percent. It was lookin’ to be damn near five percent on the new galley module and Myra wanted to talk downgrade on some of the back up systems so as to make up the difference. He was doing the first pass over the numbers because Seeli’d been feeling not at the top of her form, and he’d finally this morning gotten her talked into going to the port clinic.

  So, he looked up and got on a smile that the calcs made a little lopsided.

  “Good news, I hope,” he said, and even as he did felt his gut clench with the possibility of the news being bad.

  “You might say.” She sat down next to him, her arm companionably touching his. “Fact is, I hope you will say.” She touched his hand. “I’m on the increase.”

  For a second he just sat there, heart in acceleration, mind blank—then all at once his brain caught up with his heart. He gave a shout of laughter and got his arms around her, and she was laughing, too, hugging him hard around the ribs, and for a while it was a mixup of kisses and hugs and more laughing, but finally they made it back to adult and sat there quiet, her head on his shoulder, their arms ‘round each other still.

  “How far along?” he asked, that being the first sensible sentence he’d made in the last half-hour.

  “Couple Standard Months, the nurse said.”

  He felt his mouth pulling into another idiot grin. “The yard gets its promises in order, she’ll be born in space, first newcrew on the refit.”

  Seeli snuggled a little closer against him. “We don’t know what Mel might have cookin’. Come to it, Iza ain’t beyond.”

  That took a little of the glow.

  “Iza’s done, beyond or not,” he said, too seriously. “But I take your point about Mel. Girl’s got the morals of a mink.”

  “What’s a mink?” Seeli wanted to know, and it might’ve taken him the rest of the day to explain it to her, but the door come open and it was Paitor and Khat, each one looking as grim as Grig felt happy.

  Seeli stirred, pushing against his chest to get upright. He let her go, and sighed gustily at the printout showing in the trader’s hand.

  “Paitor, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this growing habit with the Priorities.”

  He shook his head. “Believe that I’d pay good cash never to get another.” He tossed it on the table atop the printouts from the yard and headed into the galley.

  “Who else wants a brew?” he called over his shoulder.

  “I do,” Khat said sitting in the chair across from Seeli, and rubbing a sleeve across her face. “Hot on the port.”

  “Brew’d be fine,” Grig said, and looked over to Seeli, eyebrows up, asking.

  “Juice for me,” she called. “Thanks, Uncle.”

  Paitor could be heard clanking about in the cold box. Grig picked up the Priority, flicking a glance to Khat.

  She shrugged. “I read it.”

  “All right, then,” he said, unfolding the paper, with Seeli leaning close to read over his shoulder:

  Honored Gobelyns:

  Felicitations and fair profit to you and to your ship.

  The priority message sent to the attention of Jethri from the esteemed Pilot Khatelane arrives at Elthoria. Your forbearance is requested, that I read this message, intended for the eyes of true kin only.

  I commend Pilot Khatelane for the information she sends regarding certain Liaden vessels at dock on Port Banth. Several of these vessels are known to us adversely. A Guild inquiry has been called and you may repose faith that intentions of mischief or mayhem will quickly be learned.

  Of the matter concerning the chel’Gaibin, I give you assurance that there lies no debt between himself and Jethri. The brother deprived was hale when we beheld him last, though deeply in the anger of his mother.

  In the event, Jethri has been set down at Irikwae, at the house of Tarnia in the mountains of the moons. There, he is tutored in the ways of custom and of wine. Be assured that Tarnia values him high, as I do, and will stand as his shield and his dagger, should a false debt be called.

  I am hopeful that these tidings will find you in good health, and I remain

  Norn ven’Deelin Clan Ixin

  Master at Trade

  “Set down?” Seeli said, sounding every bit as horrified as Grig felt. “She left Jethri alone, on a Liaden world?”

  “With a Liaden headcase after him for evenin’ up a debt,” Khat added, wearily, accepting a brew from Paitor. “Thanks.”

  “Welcome.” He handed Seeli her drink, thumped Grig’s down and folded into the chair next to Khat.

  “Thing is,” Grig said,
glancing up from his second read. “She don’t say the brother is alive now. She says he was OK the last time she saw him.”

  “Right.” Khat nodded. “And the headcase, if you parse it right, never did say the boy was dead—though that’s what I thought he must’ve meant. Thinking cold, though, it comes to me that there’s more ways to ‘deprive’ somebody of a brother than by killing him. If Jeth had—what? Called the proctors and got the boy put in the clink for a couple years—that’d deprive his family of him, wouldn’t it? Or if Jeth had somehow gotten the brother’s license pulled—”

  “The point is,” Seeli interrupted, sharp, but, there—she’d been Jethri’s mother more’n Iza’d ever tried to be. “The point is that this master trader has gone off and left Jethri on a mudball, with no ship to call on, and there’s a headcase lookin’ for him, and she hasn’t even told him!”

  They blinked at her, in unison. Seeli snatched the Priority out of Grig’s hand and snapped it at Paitor’s face. He pulled back, impassive.

  “Where does it say on this piece of paper that she’s sending Khat’s letter on to Jethri? Where does it say she’s going back for him? Or that she’s called—anybody at all!—to have the headcase taken under advisement, or, or whatever it is you do when somebody tries to collect on a ‘false debt?’”

  “We could send again,” Khat said, making a long arm and tweaking the paper away.

  “No beam code for Tarnia,” Grig said quietly. “And no guarantees that this chel’Gaibin won’t pursue his debt ‘gainst the rest of us, like he tried with Khat.” He looked at Seeli and his breath came short.

  “One of us could go for him,” Paitor said. “Not knowing the headcase’s trajectory, that’s tricky. For all we know, he’s based outta Irikwae, wherever it is, and is on the route for home.”

  Grig took a breath, forcing it all the way down past tight chest muscles, to the very bottom of his lungs.

  “I’ll go,” he said. “I owe.”

  Paitor frowned. “Owe? What can you possibly owe the boy?”

  Grig looked him in the eye. “I’m still settlin’ with Arin,” he said evenly.

  The other man studied him a long moment, then nodded, slow. “Can’t argue with that.”

  “Grig.” Seeli wasn’t liking this. He turned to face her. “How’re you goin’? Got a fastship in your back pocket?”

  “Know a pilot-owner,” he said, which was true enough. “Might be they’re still settlin’ with Arin, too.”

  “Back-up,” Khat said, nodding. “Seeli, you know we all got back-up. Grig’s got it here, then he’s the one to go. ‘Less you can think of any other way to get Jethri the news, and an offer of his ship?”

  Seeli hesitated; shook her head. “I can’t. But we offer him ship, and if he wants it, we give him a ship—and Iza can deal with me! You hear it?” She rounded on Grig.

  “I hear it, Seeli.” He reached out and touched her cheek with his fingertip. “Khat.”

  “Sir?”

  “My Seeli here’s on the increase. I’d take it favorable, if you went off roster and devoted yourself to not letting any headcases inside her phase space.”

  “You got it,” Khat said, sending a grin to Seeli, and pushing back from the table. “I’ll file that change right now.”

  “Good.” Khat had the right of it, Grig thought. No use putting it off.

  Seeli reached out and grabbed his hand, pulling him with her as she stood up. She looked down at Paitor, ignoring his grin, and nodded her head, formal as a Liaden.

  “Excuse us, Uncle. Grig and me got some business before he flies out.”

  IRIKWAE TRADE BAR was modest, and modestly busy—three of the six working public terminals were engaged, and four of the twelve meeting booths. A seventh terminal had been pushed into a corner—probably awaiting a repairman.

  At the bar, a mixed cluster of traders, cargo masters and general crew sipped tea, or wine, or ate a quick-meal, while the status board over their heads showed a good dozen ships at port.

  Goods on offer, portside, were heavily weighted toward agristuff—soybeans, rice, yams—with a smattering of handicrafts, textiles, and wine. The ships were offering metals—refined and unrefined—patterns, textiles, furniture, gemstones, books—a weird mix, Jethri thought, and then thought again. Irikwae was what Norn ven’Deelin was pleased to call an “outworld,” far away from Liad’s orbit. Ships bearing luxuries, small necessities, and information from the homeworld itself ought to do pretty well here.

  “Are you lost, sir?” a voice asked at his elbow. He turned and looked down into the amused, wrinkled face of a woman. Her hair was gray, though still showing some faded strands of its original yellow color, and she had the trade guild’s sign embroidered on the sleeve of her bright orange shirt.

  “Only distractable, I fear,” he answered, turning his palms up mock despair. “I am here for a meeting with a trader, but of course, the board caught my eye, and my interest . . .”

  “Information is advantage,” she said sagely. “Of course the board caught you—how not? At which booth were you to meet your trader?”

  “Three.”

  “Ah. Just over here, then, sir, if you will follow me.”

  No choices there, Jethri thought wryly, and followed her to the back wall, where meeting booth three showed a bold blue numeral. The door was closed and the privacy light was lit.

  His guide looked up at him. “Your name, sir?”

  “Jethri—” he began, and caught himself. “Jeth Ree ven’Deelin.”

  Her eyebrows lifted, but she said nothing, only turned to put her hand on the door, which slid open, despite the privacy light, to reveal two traders, obviously interrupted in earnest conversation, and of two different minds of how to take it.

  The woman seemed inclined toward amused resignation, the man—and wouldn’t it just be the same stern-faced trader who’d been on door-duty?—was tending toward anger.

  The staffer, unperturbed by either, bowed gently to the table, and murmured. “Jeth Ree ven’Deelin has a meeting with a trader in booth three.”

  The female trader sent a sharp glance to his face, and inclined her head slightly. Jethri received the impression that she was more amused and less resigned. The male trader frowned ferociously.

  “Yes, Jeth Ree ven’Deelin is expected shortly, however—” he stopped, and favored Jethri with a hard stare.

  In this moment of frozen disbelief, the staffer bowed once more to the table and went, soft-footed, away.

  “You are Jeth Ree ven’Deelin?” the man demanded.

  Not exactly encouraging, Jethri thought, and bowed—not low.

  “In fact, I am Jethri Gobelyn, apprentice and foster son of Master Trader Norn ven’Deelin. The communication from the hall named me Jeth Ree ven’Deelin, and I felt it wise to continue under that construction until I was able to ask that the database be amended.”

  “ven’Deelin’s Terran,” the female trader murmured, and inclined her head when he looked at her. “Forgive me, sir. I am Alisa kor’Entec. Your fame precedes you, to the wonderment of us all.”

  “I had heard the ven’Deelin signed a Terran apprentice,” the stern-faced trader said, looking to his mate. “I thought then that she had run mad. But—foster son?”

  “Even so,” she assured him, with relish. “Precisely so. Is it not diverting?”

  “Dangerously demented, say rather,” the other snapped, and Jethri felt himself warm to the man. Still, no matter his own doubts and feelings on the subject of his adoption, he couldn’t—really couldn’t—son or ‘prentice, just stand by while Master ven’Deelin was made mock of.

  He drew himself up stiffly where he stood and stared down his nose at the stern-faced trade, and then at the other.

  “The melant’i of Master Trader Norn ven’Deelin is above reproach,” he said, with all the dignity he could bring to it and hoping the phrase was on-point.

  Alisa kor’Entec smiled at him. “It is, indeed. Which makes the matter infinit
ely more diverting.”

  “Perhaps for you,” the man said irritably. He looked up at Jethri and moved a hand. “Of your goodness, Apprentice . . . Gobelyn. Trader kor’Entec and I must finish a small matter of business. Please, have a cup of tea and rest somewhat from your labors. I will be with you in a very short time.”

  A cup of tea would actually be welcome, Jethri thought, abruptly aware that the gone feeling in his middle wasn’t all due to his upcoming testing, whatever it was. And maybe a snack, too. He inclined his head.

  “Thank you, sir. I will await you at the bar.” He looked to the lady. “Ma’am. Fair trading.”

  She gave him a slight, conspiratorial nod. “Good profit, Jethri Gobelyn.”

  “SORRY TO BE LATE,” Raisy said, slipping onto the bench across.

  “‘preciate you comin’ at all,” Grig answered, pushing the second brew across to her.

  She cocked him an eyebrow. “Thought that’s Uncle you was peeved with.”

  “I’m not peeved with anybody.” Grig snapped open the seal on his brew. “It’s just—time’s done, Raisy. We gotta move to something else. Thing’s—aren’t stable, and you know that for truth. You want to talk birth defects, for starters?”

  Raisy opened her brew, took a long draught, leaned back, and sighed. “You bring me out on an Urgent for this?”

  He glanced sideways, out over the rest of the bar—slow night, slim on customers—and back to his sister.

  “No,” he said, quiet. “Sorry.” He had some brew, put the bottle back on the table and frowned at it.

  “News, Raisy,” he said, raising his eyes. “Seeli’s increasing. I’m bound for dad duty.”

  She grinned, broad and honest, and leaned across the table to smack him upside the shoulder.

  “News, he says! That’s great news, brother! You give your Seeli my congrats, hear it? Tell her I said she couldn’t have no finer man—nor her kid no finer dad.”

  He smiled, warmed. “I’ll tell her that, Raisy. You ought to come by, meet her.”