Balance of Trade

by Sharon

  Which left them a mixed bag—and bad tempered, too, held uneasy by Iza's moods.

  And the year was barely begun.

  Khat sighed again, and finished off her brew. She put the mug down and waved at the keeper for the bill. He, up-counter with the crew of three, held up two fingers—be there in a few. She nodded, shifted on the stool. . .

  "Hey, Khati," an unwelcome voice came from too near at hand.

  "Shit," Khat muttered beneath her breath and spun the stool around to face Mac Gold.

  He hadn't changed much since the last time she'd seen him—some taller, maybe, and a little broader in the shoulders. Khat nodded, curt.

  "Mac."

  He grinned, and ran a hand over his head. His hair was pale yellow; buzzed, it was nearly invisible, which his eyelashes were. Behind those invisible lashes, his eyes were a deep and unlikely blue, the rest of his face square and bony. A well enough looking boy, taken all together. If he hadn't also happened to've been Mac Gold.

  "Good to see you," he said, now, deliberately aiming those unlikely eyes at her chest. "Buy you a brew?"

  She shook her head, teeth gritting. "Just on my way. Next time, maybe."

  "Right," he said, but he didn't move, other than to cock his head. "Listen, while we're face to face—square with me?"

  She shrugged. "Maybe."

  "I'm just wondering—what happened to Jethri? I mean, what really happened to Jethri?"

  "He's 'prenticed to the trader of a big ship," she said. "Cap'n Iza must've told your dad so."

  "She did," Mac agreed, "and I'm sharing no secrets when I tell you my dad was some pissed about the whole business. I mean, here's Iza asking us to make room for your extra, and m'dad willing to accommodate, and what happens but then she says, no, the boy ain't coming after all. He's gone someplace else." Mac shook his head and held up a hand, thumb and forefinger a whisper apart.

  "Dad was this close to calling breach."

  Khat sighed. "Breach of what? The legal wasn't writ."

  "Still, there'd be the verbal—"

  "Deals fall through every day," Khat interrupted and caught sight of the barkeep out of the corner of her eye. She turned on the stool and smiled at him.

  Behind her, Mac, raised his voice conspicuously—

  "Rumor is, Khat, that Paitor sold the boy to Liadens!"

  That drew starts and stares from those close enough to hear; some turned carefully away but others lifted eyebrows and raised their heads to watch.

  Deliberately, Khat turned, away from the barkeep and back to Mac Gold. Deliberately, she drew a deep breath, and glared straight into those blue eyes.

  "The boy holds a Combine key. He's as legal as you or me. He's a 'prentice trader—signed his own papers. Jethri ain't no boy."

  "Well, rumor is that Liadens paid for this upgrade the Market's gettin'."

  Khat laughed and rolled her eyes.

  "Least now Mr. Rumor's got it right. Jethri sold a load of cellosilk back at Ynsolt'i, and on top of that, Paitor bought some special risk merchandise Jethri'd pointed out—an' didn't that turn into high-count coin in the private hall—just like Jethri said it would! So, sure, Liadens bought this upgrade all right—cans, nodes, and engines."

  "But someone got shot, they say, and next thing—"

  Khat sighed, loud and exasperated.

  "Look, Jethri was ready to trade, Mac, and captain told him if he wanted something more than pushing gravel from here to there, he'd have to find his own ship. Can't fault him for that call. So he found himself a better berth, 'prenticed to nothing less than a master trader, and for a good-bye, he buys us new drives and a full upgrade."

  She paused, hearing a slight thump of glass behind her and raised her hand, fingers wriggling "just sec."

  "Jethri's got him a berth, Mac. Papers're signed proper and legal. His business—not mine, not yours. That other stuff Mr. Rumor been tellin' you—nobody got shot but some fool who decided it was easier to die than clear an honest debt. Not your problem." She tipped her head, like she was considering that, and asked, sweetly, "Or is it?"

  Mac's eyes tightened and his face reddened.

  "It sure is my problem if the word gets out Jethri'd rather crew with a bunch of Liadens than come with an honest ship like—"

  "You better watch your mouth, Mac Gold," Khat snapped. "Lest somebody here figures you was gonna say something about how Gold Digger's honest and Jethri's ship ain't. Not the kind of thing you'd be wanting to discuss with a Liaden, now, is it?"

  Mac blinked, and swallowed hard. Point won, Khat turned back to the bartender, raised her eyes briefly and expressively at the ceiling, and smiled.

  "What's the damage?"

  He smiled back. "Two bit."

  "Done." She slid four across the counter and dropped to her feet, leg muscles sending up a shout for their team leader. She ignored them. The walk back to the lodgings would work the kinks out. Or cripple her for life.

  "So, Khat—" Mac said from beside her.

  "So, Mac," she overrode, and turned sharp, feeling a dangerous tingle along the brawlin' nerves when he went back a step. She kept going, and he kept backin', until she got the throttle on it and stopped.

  Mac's pretty blue eyes was showing some red, and his face was damp. Khat gave one more hard glare, before she nodded, kinda half-civil.

  "See you 'round port," she said, and forced her aching legs to swing out, carrying her down the room and out in the dusty day.

  Day 66

  Standard Year 1118

  Kailipso Station

  At Leave

  "COME, COME, YOUNG Jethri, tarry not!" Pen Rel's voice was brisk, as he waved Jethri ahead of him into the entry tube. "All the wonders of Kailipso Station await your discovery! Surely, your enthusiasm and spirit of adventure are aroused!"

  Had it been Dyk behind him in the chute, Jethri would have counted both his legs yanked proper, and been alert for second stage mischief. He thought Pen Rel too dignified for Dyk's sort of rough-'n-tumble; he was less sure of his tendencies on the leg-pulling side of things.

  Jethri felt the odd twitter of the grav field where it intersected the station's own grav-well; though flat and level to the eyes the deck felt as if it fell away into the chute. Maybe Pen Rel was watching for a bobble, but such boundaries were learned by shipcrew at the knees of their mates and family.

  The airflow, that was a surprise—definitely a positive, cool flow toward the ship—No, Jethri discovered, after a moment's study; the tube itself had a circulation system, and he could see the filters set flush to the walls. He gave a quiet sigh of relief for this homey precaution—all long-spacers did their most to keep station, port, or planet air out in favor of proper controlled and cleaned ship air.

  Curiosity satisfied, Jethri stepped forward—and then stepped back, his hand going up, fingers shaping the hand-talk for "hold".

  Two Liadens were coming up the slanted ramp at a pace that made Jethri's chest ache in sympathy. One—by far the pudgiest Liaden Jethri had seen so far—was carrying a full duffle; his slimmer companion clutched what looked to be a general business comp to his chest. They were in earnest conversation, heads turned aside and eyes only for each other.

  "What is—" Pen Rel began, but by then the duo was on the flat and heading full throttle out, never realizing that they was anything but alone.

  "'ware the deck!" Jethri snapped.

  It had the desired effect, whether either of them had understood the Terran words. Both slammed to a graceless halt. The man with the comp raised it a fraction, as if to ward Jethri away.

  Pen Rel stepped forward, claiming attention with a flicker of a hand, and a slight inclination of the head.

  "Ah, Storemaster," he murmured, and Jethri thought he heard a bare thread of . . . disapproval in the bland, dry voice. "You are somewhat before time, I believe."

  The man with the comp bowed. "Arms Master. I am instructed to supply crew with specialty baking experience, and I have here such a one. It rem
ains to be found that he can operate Elthoria's ovens and bread vats. So we arrive, for a testing."

  Pen Rel looked to the second man.

  "Have you shipboard experience?"

  The pudgy guy bowed lower than Jethri would have thought possible with the duffle over his shoulder, and straightened to show a wide eyed, slightly damp face. "Three voyages, Honored. The Storemaster has my files. . . "

  "Very good." Pen Rel was back with the Storemaster. "Next time, you will come at the mate's appointed hour, eh? This time, you have interfered in ship's business."

  The applicant cook's round eyes got rounder; the Storemaster pursed his mouth up. Both bowed themselves out of the way, even sparing brief nods for the unexpected Terran in their midst.

  "So," Pen Rel said, catching Jethri's eye. He moved a hand toward the ramp. "After you, young Jethri."

  * * *

  AT THE BOTTOM OF the chute was the inevitable uniformed station ape, card-reader to hand.

  Jethri handed over his shiny new shipcard. The inspector took it, glanced at it—and paused, eyes lifting to his face.

  "Elthoria signs Terran crew," she stated—or maybe she was asking. Jethri ducked his head, wondering if she expected an answer and what, exactly, would be seen as discourteous behavior in a Terran, here on an all-Liaden station. That he was an anomaly was clear from the pair they'd surprised coming on-ship. But, then, he said to himself, you expected you were going to be an oddity. Best get used to it.

  "Must the ship clear its roster with the station?" Pen Rel asked from behind him, in Trade. "Do you find the card questionable?"

  The inspector's mouth tightened. She swiped the card sharply through the reader, displaying bit of temper, or so Jethri thought, and stood holding it in her hand until the unit beeped and the tiny screen flashed blue.

  "Verified and valid," she said, and held the card out, still something pettish.

  Jethri grabbed it and slid it away into his belt. "Thank you, Inspector," he said politely.

  She ignored him, holding out a hand to Pen Rel.

  Bland-faced, he put his card in her palm, and watched as she swiped it and handed it back. The unit beeped and the screen flashed.

  "Verified and valid," she said, and stepped back, obviously expecting them to go on about their business.

  Pen Rel stayed where he was, waiting, bland and patient, until she looked up.

  "A point of information," he said, still sticking with Trade. "Elthoria does not hold her crew lightly."

  It was said mild enough, but the inspector froze, her face losing a little of that rich golden color. Jethri counted to five before she bent in a bow and murmured, "Of course, Arms Master. No disrespect to Elthoria or to her crew was intended."

  "That is well, then," Pen Rel said, mildness itself. He moved a hand in a easy forward motion. "Young sir, the delights of the station are before you."

  As hints went, it wasn't near subtle, but apparently Pen Rel was still making his point, because the inspector looked up into his face and inclined her head.

  "Young trader, may you enjoy a profitable and pleasurable stay on Kailipso Station."

  Right. He inclined his head in turn, murmured his very best, all-Liaden, "My thanks," and quick-stepped down the dock toward the bay door.

  On the other side of the door, he pulled up. Pen Rel stepped through, and Jethri fell in beside him. The Liaden checked.

  "Forgive me, Jethri," he said. "What do you do?"

  Jethri blinked. "I thought I was partnered with you."

  "Ah." Pen Rel tipped his head to a side. "Understand that I find your companionship all that is delightful. However, I have errands on the day which are. . . of no concern to one of your station. The master trader's word was that you be put at liberty to enjoy those things which Kailipso offers." He moved a hand in the all-too-familiar shooing gesture.

  "So, enjoy. You are wanted back on board at seventh hour. I need not remind you to comport yourself so as to bring honor to your ship. And now," he swept a slight, loose-limbed half-bow; "I leave you to your pleasure, while I pursue my duties."

  And he turned and walked off, just like that, leaving the juniormost and most idiot of his crew standing staring after, jaw hanging at half-mast.

  Pen Rel had gone half the length of the corridor and turned right down a side way before Jethri shook himself into order and started walking, trying to accommodate himself to the fact that he was alone and at liberty on a Liaden owned and operated spacestation, where the official staff had already demonstrated a tendency to consider him a general issue nuisance. He shook his head, not liking the notion near so well as he should have done.

  He did get to thinking, as he walked, that Master ven'Deelin surely knew what Kailipso was—just as surely as Pen Rel did. And certainly neither of those canny old hands was likely to turn him loose in halls where he might find active danger.

  He hoped.

  An overhead sign at the junction of halls where Pen Rel had vanished offered him routes, straight on to Main Concourse, right hall to Station Administration, and left hall to Mercantile Station. Working on the theory that there would be information booths in the Main Concourse, Jethri went straight on.

  * * *

  INFOBOOTHS WERE THE least of the wonders offered by the Main Concourse and its affiliated sections. He explored Market Square first, finding it not a trading center, as he had expected, but a retail shop zone offering goods at exorbitant mark-ups.

  Nonetheless, he browsed, comparing prices shop to shop, and against his best guess of trade-side cost. Some of the items offered for sale were, by his admittedly unscientific calculation, marked up as much as six hundred percent over trade. He took a bit of a shock, for he saw in one window a timepiece identical to the one Norn ven'Deelin had casually given him—and found its price at three kais. 'Course, a master trader wasn't going to ever pay shop-price, but—He glanced down and took a second to make sure the slap strap was secure around his wrist.

  Kailipso being a station, there were special considerations. Stations were dependent on outside supply; if one needed what was here it was very much a seller's market.

  That got him to wondering just how much this particular station was dependent on outside supply, so he hunted up another booth and got directions to Education Square. Of course, it was opposite the Market, which meant a long walk back the way he'd come and through the Concourse, but he didn't grudge it. Station lived a thought lighter than Elthoria, so he fairly skipped along.

  Education was almost useless. The tapes offered for rent were every one narrated in Liaden. He was about to give up when his eye snagged on a half-sized shop, sort of crammed in sideways to the hall, in a space between a utility bay and a recycling chamber.

  The small opening spilled yellow light out into the hallway, and a table was sitting almost into the common area, holding the fabulous luxury of six bound books. Behind them was a hand-written sign, stating that all sales were final, cash only.

  Jethri moved forward, picked up the topmost book with reverence, and carefully thumbed the pages.

  Paper rustled, and a subtle smell wafted up. He allowed the book to fall open in his hands and found the Liaden words almost absurdly easy to read as he was at once captivated by an account of one Shan el'Thrassin, who was engaged in a matter of honor with a set of folk who seemed something less than honorable.

  "May I assist you, young sir?" The voice was soft, male, slightly hesitant in Trade. Jethri started, ears warming, closing the book with a snap.

  "I apologize," he said. "I was looking for information about the history, economics and structure of the station. I am looking to fill some hours while visiting. . . . This. . . " Carefully, he bent and placed the volume he had been reading back in its place on the table. He experienced a genuine pang as the book left his hand.

  ". . . I cannot possibly afford this. If I have offended by using it without pay. . . "

  The man moved a hand, slowly, formally. "Books are meant to be read,
young sir. You honor them—and me—with your interest. However, you intrigue me, for is not the entire square full with sight and sound recordings of the awesome past and glorious present of our station?"

  Jethri ducked his head. "Sir, it is. However—while I read the written form, my tongue and ear run far behind my eyes."

  "Hah." The man's eyes gleamed. "You are, in fact, a scholar. It is nothing less than my duty to assist you. Come. I believe I have just what you are wanting."

  As it happened, he did: A thin paper book simply entitled Guide To Kailipso Station.

  "It is slight, but well enough to satisfy the first level of questions and engage the mind upon the second level," the shopkeeper said easily. "It will, I think, serve you well. Though used, it is new enough that the information is reasonably dependable. "

  "I thank you," Jethri said. "However, again, I fear that my coins may be too few." And of the wrong sort, he thought suddenly, with a sinking feeling in his stomach. He was wearing his trading coat, but what he had in his public pocket was Terran bits and his fractin. He'd clean forgotten to stop at ship's bank to pull money out of his account in proper tor and kais. . .

  The man looked up at him. "Do you know, young sir, I believe we are in Balance. It is seldom enough that one sees a Terran. It is rarer to see a Terran unaccompanied and unhurried. To meet and have converse with a Terran who reads Liaden—even the gods must own themselves privileged in such an encounter." He smiled, slight and gentle.

  "Have the book, child. Your need is greater than mine."

  Jethri bit his lip. "Sir, I thank you, but—I request an elder's advice. How should a young and inexperienced person such as myself Balance so generous a gift from a stranger?"

  For a moment, he thought he'd gone well beyond bounds, though by all he knew there ought to be no offense given in asking for a clue to proper behavior. But the man before him was so still—

  The shopkeeper bowed, lightly, right hand over belt-buckle. "There is," he said, straightening to his full, diminutive height, "a . . . protocol for such things. The proper Balance for the receipt of a gift freely given is to use it wisely and with honor, so that the giver is neither shamed nor regretful of his generosity."