Balance of Trade

by Sharon

  "No!" Jethri jumped forward, meaning to grab the gun, but something solid slammed into his right side, knocking him to the barge's deck. There was a crack of sound, very soft, and Jethri rolled to his feet—

  Sirge Milton was crumbled face down on the cold decking, the gun in his hand. The back of his head was gone. Jethri took a step forward, found his arm grabbed and turned around to look down into the grave blue eyes of Master ven'Deelin's assistant.

  "Come," the Liaden said, and his voice was not—quite—steady. "The master trader must be informed."

  * * *

  THE YELLOW-HAIRED assistant came to an end of his spate of Liaden and inclined his head.

  "So it is done." Norn ven'Deelin said in Trade. "Advise the portmaster and hold yourself at her word."

  "Master Trader." The man swept a bow so low his forehead touched his knees, straightened effortlessly and left the Market's common room with nothing like a backward look. Norn ven'Deelin turned to Jethri, sitting shaken between his mother and Uncle Paitor.

  "I am regretful," she said in her bad Terran, "that solving achieved this form. My intention, as I said to you, was not thus. Terrans—" She glanced around, at Paitor and the captain, at Dyk and Khat and Mel. "Forgive me. I mean to say that Terrans are of a mode most surprising. It was my error, to be think this solving would end not in dyings." She showed her palms. "The counterfeit-maker and the, ahh—distributor—are of a mind, both, to achieve more seemly Balance."

  "Counterfeiter?" asked Paitor and Norn ven'Deelin inclined her head.

  "Indeed. Certain cards were copied—not well, as I find—and distributed to traders of dishonor. These would then use the—the—melant'i—you would say, the worth of the card to run just such a shadow-deal as young Jethri fell against." She sat back, mouth straight. "The game is closed, this Port, and information of pertinence has been sent to the Guild of Traders Liaden." She inclined her head, black eyes very bright. "Do me the honor, Trader Gobelyn, of informing likewise the association of Traders Terran. If there is doubt of credentials at a Liaden port, there is no shame for any trader to inquire of the Guild."

  Paitor blinked, then nodded, serious-like. "Master Trader, I will so inform Terratrade."

  "It is well, then," she said, moving a hand in a graceful gesture of sweeping away—or, maybe, of clearing the deck. "We come now to young Jethri and how best I might Balance his service to myself."

  The captain shot a glance at Paitor, who climbed to his feet and bowed, low and careful. "We are grateful for your condescension, Master Trader. Please allow us to put paid, in mutual respect and harmony, to any matter that may lie between us—"

  "Yes, yes," she waved a hand. "In circumstance far otherwise, this would be the path of wisdom, all honor to you, Trader Gobelyn. But you and I, we are disallowed the comfort of old wisdom. We are honored, reverse-ward, to build new wisdom." She looked up at him, black eyes shining.

  "See you, this young trader illuminates error of staggering immensity. To my hand he delivers one priceless gem of data: Terrans are using Liaden honor to cheat other Terrans." She leaned forward, catching their eyes one by one. "Liaden honor," she repeated; "to cheat other Terrans."

  She lay her hand on her chest. "I am a master trader. My—my duty is to the increase of the trade. Trade cannot increase, where honor is commodity."

  "But what does this," Dyk demanded, irrepressible, "have to do with Jethri?"

  The black eyes pinned him. "A question of piercing excellence. Jethri has shown me this—that the actions of Liadens no longer influence the lives only of Liadens. Reverse-ward by logic follows for the actions of Terrans. So, for the trade to increase, wherein lies the proper interest of trader and master trader, information cross-cultural must increase." She inclined her head.

  "Trader, I suggest we write contract between us, with the future of Jethri Gobelyn in our minds."

  Uncle Paitor blinked. "You want to—forgive me. I think you're trying to say that you want to take Jethri as an apprentice."

  Another slight bow of the head. "Precisely so. Allow me, please, to praise him to you as a promising young trader, strongly enmeshed in honor."

  "But I did everything wrong!" Jethri burst out, seeing Sirge Milton laying there, dead of his own choice, and the stupid waste of it. . .

  "Regrettably, I must disagree," Master ven'Deelin said softly. "It is true that death untimely transpired. This was not your error. Pen Rel informs to me your eloquence in beseeching Trader Milton to the path of Balance. This was not error. To solicit solving from she who is most able to solve—that is only correctness." She showed both of her hands, palms up. "I honor you for your actions, Jethri Gobelyn, and wonder if you will bind yourself as my apprentice."

  He wanted it. In that one, searing moment, he knew he had never wanted anything in his life so much. He looked to his mother.

  "I found my ship, Captain," he said.

  Day 42

  Standard Year 1118

  Gobelyn's Market

  Departing

  WHEN IT WAS ALL counted and compressed, his personal possessions fit inside two crew-bags. He slung the larger across his back, secured by a strap across his chest, snapped at shoulder and hip. Hefting the smaller, he took one more look around the room—a plain metal closet it was, now, with the cot slid away and the desk folded into the wall. He'd tried to give the com chart back, but Dyk insisted that it would fit inside the bag with a little pushing, and so it had.

  There was nothing left to show the place had been his particular private quarters for more than half his lifetime. Looking at it, the space could be anything, really: a supply closet; a specialty cargo can. . .

  Jethri shook his head, trying to recapture the burning joy he'd felt, signing his line on the 'prentice contract, finding himself instead, and appallingly, on the near side of bawling his eyes out.

  It's not like you're wanted here, he told himself, savagely. You were on the good-riddance roster, no matter what.

  Still, it hurt, staring around at what had once been his space, feeling his personals no considerable weight across his back.

  He swallowed, forcing the tears back down into his chest. Damned if he would cry. Damned if he would.

  Which was well. And also well to remember that value wasn't necessarily heavy. In fact, it might be that the most valuable thing he carried away from the ship weighed no more than an ounce—Uncle Paitor had come through with the Combine key, springing for the ten-year without a blink—a measure of how good the vya had done. Khat had donated a true-silver long-chain, and now it hung round his neck, with key in place.

  He'd been afraid, nearly, that Khat would kiss him right then, when she put the key on the chain and dropped it round his neck, then stood close and reached out to tuck the key sudden-like down his day-shirt.

  "Promise me you'll wear this and remember us!" she said, and hugged him, as unexpected as the potential kiss, and missed as greatly as soon as she released him.

  And so he had promised, and could feel the key becoming familiar and comfortable as he got himself together.

  Then there was his ship-share, which had come to a tidy sum, with a tithe atop that, that he hadn't expected, and which Seeli'd claimed was his piece of the divvy-up from his father's shares.

  "Payable in cash," Seeli had said, further, not exactly looking at him. "On departure from the ship. Since you're going off to trade for another ship, this counts. Those of us who stay, the ship carries our shares in General Fund."

  He'd also taken receipt of one long, assaying, straight-eyed glance from the captain with the words said, in front of Dyk before they signed those papers—

  "You chose your ship, you got your inheritance, you think you know what you want. So I witness you, Jethri son of Arin, a free hand." She'd shook his hand, then, like he was somebody, and turned away like he was forgot.

  So, now, here he stood, on the edge of an adventure, kit and cash in hand. A goodly sum of cash, for a Terran juniormost; an adequate kit, fo
r the same. 'mong Liadens, who knew where he stood?—though soon enough he'd find out.

  He felt his private pocket, making sure he had coin and notes and his fractin, then patted his public pocket, making sure of the short-change stowed there.

  The ship clock chimed, echoing off the metal walls. Jethri took one more look around the bare cubby. Right. Time to get on with it.

  * * *

  AS SOON AS THE door slid closed behind him he remembered the last thing Paitor had said, leaning over to tap his finger against the nameplate set in the door.

  "You pull that on the way out, y'hear? Rule is, when crew moves on, they take their nameplate so there ain't any confusion 'case of a crash." He nodded, maybe a little wise with the Smooth, and clapped Jethri on the shoulder. "That's yours as much as anything on this ship ever was."

  Right.

  Jethri slid the duffle off his shoulder, opened the door, and pulled the wrench-set off his belt. The nameplate showed through a blast resistant window set into the body of the door, with the access hatch on the inside. One-handed, he quickly undid the eight inset-togs probably last touched by his father, second hand held ready to catch the hatch when it fell.

  Except, even with the togs loose the cover didn't fall right out, so he sighed and reached for his side-blade, and unsnapped it from the holster.

  Who'd have thought this would be so tough?

  He could see that asking for help getting his nameplate out of the door wouldn't play too well with his cousins—and wasn't it just like Mister Murphy to be sure and make an easy task hard, when he was needing to be on time. . . If Paitor and Grig hadn't kept him up clear through mid-Opposite—

  The captain had made it plain that she'd look dimly on any celebration of Jethri's new status—which was bad form when any crew left a ship but 'specially bad when a child of the ship went for a new berth. Strictly speaking, they should've called 'round to the other ships on port, and had a party, if not a full-blown shivary. In time, the news would spread through the free-ships—and news it was, too. But, no; it was like the captain was embarrassed that her son was 'prenticed to a Liaden master trader; which, as far as Jethri could find, was a first-time-ever event.

  So, everyone was nice to him, 'cept the captain, and there wasn't any party, so he'd taken his time going through his belongings and packing up, finding so much of what he had was left over from being a kid; so much was stuff he didn't need, or even want. And, o'course, there was the stuff that he did want that he hadn't had since his father died. The fractin collection, of which his lucky tile was the last link; the pictures of Arin; the trade journal they'd been working on together—Seeli'd let on, without exactly coming out and saying so, that the captain had spaced it all years ago, so it wasn't no sense feeling like he'd just been stripped of what was his.

  But, still, he wished he had those things to pack.

  All that being so, he was in something of a mood when the tap came on his door, just after Opposite shift rang in. And he'd been surprised right out of that mood to find Grig and Paitor on the other side; asking permission to enter.

  Lanky Grig—back-up navigator, back-up pilot, back-up cook, back-up trader, and in-system engineer—folded himself up on the edge of the bunk /acceleration couch while Jethri and Paitor took the magna-tracked swivel stools.

  Once they were situated, Paitor pulled a green cloth bag from his pocket, and Grig brought three stainless drinking cups from his pouch. Jethri sat, his fractin snug in his hand, and wondered what was up.

  "Jethri," Paitor began, then stopped as if he'd forgot what he was going to say for a second. He took a look at the bag on his knee, then untied the silver cord with its pendant tag from around the top, and handed the cord off to Jethri, who slid it into his public pocket, along with the fractin.

  Paitor slipped the bag down, revealing a blue bottle, sealed with gold foil.

  "The time has come, ol' son," Grig said quietly. "You're a free hand now—time for you to have a drink with your peers."

  Paitor smiled like he only half wanted to, and lifted the bottle in two hands, like it was treasure.

  "If I may do the honors here," he said, holding the bottle out so Jethri could read the label. "This here's Genuine Smooth Blusharie. Been with us since the day you was born. Arin picked it up, see? Since the captain drinks a meaner line than this, bottle was just gathering dust in the locker, and we figured we'd better make use of it before someone who don't really 'preciate it drinks it by mistake."

  He smiled again, more like he meant it this time, and twisted the seal. There was a crackle as it gave way, and sharp pop a moment later, as the cork come out. Grig held the cups out, carefully, one after the other, and Paitor filled each with gem-colored liquid.

  When they were each holding a cup and the bottle was recorked and stowed next to Grig on the bunk, Paitor cleared his throat.

  * * *

  "NOW, JETHRI," he said, talking slow, "I know you heard a lot of advice from me over your years and you probably got right tired of it—" Grig snorted a laugh and Jethri nodded in rueful agreement, holding his cup carefully—"but there's just a little bit more you got to hear. First is this: Don't never gulp Blusharie, whether it's smooth or whether it's not. If it ain't smooth, gulping it will knock you off your pins so hard you'll think you had a code red collision. If it is smooth, you'll be wasting one of the rare joys of this life and didn't deserve to have it."

  Paitor lifted his cup and Grig, his. Jethri lifted his, looking from one lifelong familiar face to another, seeing nothing but a concentration on the moment.

  "To Jethri Gobelyn, free hand!"

  "Long may he trade!" Grig added, and he and Paitor clinked their cups together, Jethri joining them a second late. He looked into the amber depths of the liquid, and sipped himself a tiny sip.

  It all but took his breath, that sip, leaving a smooth tartness on his tongue and a tingling at the back of his throat. Fiery and mellow at once—

  He noticed that he was being watched, and had a second sip, smiling.

  "It's not like ale or beer at all!"

  Grig laughed, low and comfortable. "No, not at all."

  "So there, Jethri, that's some advice for you, and a secret, of a kind," said Paitor, sipping at his own cup. "There's traders all over the Combine who got no idea where to get this or why they'd want to. But you find yourself someone who fancies himself a knowing drinker, and you can get yourself a customer for life."

  Jethri nodded, remembering the silver cord on his pocket, with the name of the vintage and the cellar stamped on the seal.

  "'Course, there's more to life than Smooth Blusharie, too," Paitor said after another gentle sip. "So, what we got to tell you, is—there's things you gotta know."

  His latest sip of Smooth Blusharie heavy on his tongue, Jethri looked up into Paitor's face, noting that it had changed again, from sadly serious to trading-bland, and sat up straight on his stool.

  "All families have their secrets," Paitor said slowly. "This ship and this family're no different'n most. Thing is, sometimes not all secrets get shared around so good, and some things that should've been kept so secret they're forgot get talked about too much." He took a short sip from his cup. "One of the things that might've been kept secret but wasn't, was how you wasn't expected."

  Jethri looked down into his cup, biting his lip, and figured this was a good time to have another sip.

  "Now," Paitor went on, still talking slow and deliberate. "What likely was kept secret was what Arin and Iza were doing together in the first place, seein' as some would call—and did call—them a mismatch from ignition to flare out."

  What was this? Seeli, his source of all information about his parents, had never hinted that there'd been any trouble between Iza and Arin. All the trouble had come later, with Jethri.

  "What it was, see, Jethri," his uncle was saying, "is that the Gobelyn side goes back a long way in the Combine. Gobelyns was founding members of the Combine—and part of the trade teams befo
re that. An' even before the trade teams, Gobelyns was ship folk."

  Jethri frowned. "That's no secret, Uncle. The tapes. . . "

  Grig snorted, and had a sip of the Smooth. His face was hooded; closed, like he was misdirecting a buyer around a defect. Paitor looked across to him.

  "Your turn now?" he asked, real quiet.

  Grig shook his head. "No, sir—and I'm damned if that ain't another secret been kept! But, no. Go on."

  After a minute, Paitor nodded, and sipped and leaned over to gently shake the bottle.

  "That's fine, then," he murmured. "A glass to talk on and a glass to clear it."

  "We'll do it," Grig said, nodding, too, with his face still a study in grim. "Really."

  "Right. We will." Paitor took a hard breath. "So, Jethri, the way it was—Arin come along about the time the Gobelyns was set to call precedence at a shipowner meeting. Timing was bad, you might say, it being right near the time when the internal power-shift went from ship-base to world-base. The Combine had got so big, it owned pieces of planets, big and small, not to mention controlling shares in a good many grounder corps, and its interest shifted from securing the trade-lanes to protecting its investments. Which meant that the ships and shipowners who'd founded the Combine and built it strong wasn't in charge no more.

  "So, anyway, they'd called an owners' meeting there on Caratunk, and the Gobelyns had the backin' they needed. That's when Arin showed up with the word that the owners' meeting had been downgraded from rule-making to advisory, by a twenty-seven to three commissioner vote. Now understand, Arin come from trade background too, but he'd started real young gettin' formal educated. Spent years on-planet—went to college planet-side, went to University, took history courses, took pilot courses, took trading and economics—and so when that vote came up, he was one of the three commissioners on the losing end."

  Jethri blinked, cup half-way to his lips, Smooth Blusharie forgotten in blank astonishment.

  "My father was a commissioner?"

  Grig laughed, short and sharp.