Trade Secret

by Sharon Lee

  Jethri turned—and found her at once, not half a dozen steps to his right, her back rigid and her head up. He could only see the side of her face, but her expression appeared to be perfectly, politely bland. She was addressing Bar Jan chel’Gaiban, whose face Jethri could see all too clearly: also politely bland, though showing a little color along the cheekbones, his stance suggesting that he was amused by something, as an adult might be amused at a child’s tantrum.

  “How should I be condescending?” he said, spreading his hands. “I merely speak the truth as we both know it. We two are well-matched in clan and in melant’i, and there is then no question but that we may pleasure each other more satisfactorily than any other pairing available to either. Come, I offer bed-sport with a well-trained and well-regarded companion in luxury surely not available in any room on this . . . station. Let us go, before the evening becomes too short for pleasure.”

  He offered his arm.

  Jethri hadn’t thought Samay could get any stiffer.

  “You misunderstand me,” she said, her voice steady, and her tone cold enough it was a wonder Bar Jan’s hair didn’t show icicles. “I mean to say that I have already arranged for company this evening!”

  She turned suddenly, and held out her hand to Jethri, her smile rather . . . forced.

  “Trader, you find me at last! I hope your business has gone well?”

  Clear at once was that Samay wasn’t tolerating Bar Jan’s advances, and wanted to be rid of him. Well, Jethri thought, he could certainly help her extricate herself from his attentions. He did feel a little pang, that it was a subterfuge, but still—Samay had been a pleasant and gracious companion all evening. She had submitted with good humor to the role of “arbiter” for the ridiculous auction, and had gracefully acted as Doricky’s assistant. If she needed his help now to avoid an unwelcome connection, he would be churlish to refuse her.

  So, he stepped forward with a slight, intimate bow, and a smile that deliberately excluded Bar Jan chel’Gaibin, offering his arm with a will.

  “My business is well concluded,” he told her. “Will you forgive me, that it took me from your side?”

  She tipped her head, as if considering her options, then slipped her arm through his.

  “I think that I might, since it ended well. But, come, shall we retire, before more business finds you?”

  “I think that is the course of wisdom,” he said. “Let us go, and quickly.”

  He allowed Samay to turn him toward the door, glancing over his shoulder to afford the jilted lover a cordial nod. “Trader. Good fortune to you.”

  Bar Jan chel’Gaibin turned away without a word and stalked off toward the bar.

  * * *

  Samay and her uncle had rooms on the station, an honor reserved for few, since there were, as Jethri understood, not very many hotel rooms yet ready for occupancy. They were still comfortably arm in arm, when they found the proper door. Jethri was pleased to see that Samay had become noticeably less stiff, as they put hallways between her and the Rinork heir, and by the time of their arrival at that door, they were chatting together comfortably, once more on the easy terms they had established in Gallery 770.

  “Here,” she said, pulling a key card from her sleeve.

  Jethri stepped back, releasing her arm with a bow.

  “I will leave you to your rest, and seek . . .” he began, but got no further.

  She turned to look at him, her eyes. wide.

  “But what is this? Come inside, Trader . . . Oh!” Her eyes widened. “Have you made arrangements?”

  “No arrangements, but I thought—”

  A door closed somewhat down the hall. Samay looked over her shoulder, then caught his hand.

  “Come in, Trader, please, where we can discuss this in comfort.”

  She pushed the door open and bowed him in ahead of her. He could understand that she might not wish to air her business in a public hall, so he inclined his head and stepped inside.

  * * *

  “Comfort” was perhaps not the correct word for the room in which he found himself.

  It was a nice room, and would one day be elegant, but for the moment it was filled with a temporary mix of furniture and fixtures brought together to permit the half-finished station to present itself at all.

  Too, the room was set up for entertaining a crowd—cheeses and chernubia, wine and other drinks, and a dozen-plus chairs—

  The single couch . . . was large enough that they could have reclined, their booted feet sole to sole at the center, and neither head would have quite touched the armrests. The lighting was also very bright—startling so, after the comfortable low lights of Gallery 770.

  Jethri paused and looked around him.

  “This will be a room for large events, I believe,” Samay said, stepping in behind him and locking the door, “and I believe that the spaces are used differently . . .”

  “Not,” he agreed, “a place meant for quiet times. And large, if I may say, for one person . . .”

  The merest trace of a blush whispered across Samay’s face and she bowed lightly, acknowledging a hit. Jethri found much to favor in her forthrightness.

  “My delm insisted I was to be treated as her representative here, which is absurd though I’m not to say so. This worked well in the Gallery, at least! So my uncle travels with his two favorites, as he always does, achieving a suite half as large . . . and I have been gifted with a suite sized for a Festival gathering! It is perplexing. By myself, I have not even a stuffed toy to speak to!”

  She looked to him earnestly then, and offered lightly, “There are options for us, Trader. We have, off of this room, aside from the usual amenities, not less than three bedchambers, though one is rather small, and—”

  “Wait.” He raised a hand, and she stopped speaking, her head tipped slightly to one side, and her eyes very wide.

  “You must forgive me,” he said, “if I offend, but I must be clear regarding the intention of the evening. My understanding was that I assisted a comrade in evading a potentially distasteful situation. I gave that assistance with no expectation of . . . of . . . usurping your company for myself.”

  Samay’s blush this time was more noticeable.

  “It is I who must ask forgiveness. Indeed, it had been in my mind to ask if you might be available to celebrate mutual pleasure this evening, but the opportunity . . . then here comes Bar Jan chel’Gaibin, who informs me that I needn’t worry that I will be importuned by Wynhael’s associates; he has already lain his claim, for clearly of all the station, only he and I are a worthy night match!”

  Jethri felt his jaw drop, which he ought by this point in his training be proof against, and manfully pressed his lips together. At least, he comforted himself, he hadn’t let the gasp loose. The effrontery was, well, breathtaking! Chel’Gaibin was High House; he must have had lessons: in protocol, in bed-sport, in—he must have meant the insult!

  “I thank you,” Samay said, “for your very complete understanding. Please, allow me to offer you refreshment—perhaps some fruit juice?—and we will discuss this matter properly between us.”

  * * *

  Both of them deeming the formal parlor too . . . big, they had carried a tray of light snacks and another, with pitcher and glasses, to the room Samay described as the “small parlor.” Though there was a bunk bed in the room, it was easily ignored in favor of the grouping at the front of the space. Here was adjustable lighting, and a couch piled with pillows, and two comfortable chairs that friends might arrange to accommodate soft voice and subtle gesture.

  The chairs placed, then, and the lights softened, they each settled, fruit juice in hand, smiled, and lifted their glasses in a toast.

  “To enjoyable connections,” Samay murmured, and Jethri did not demur.

  “Now, Trader, I must tell you—it would please me very much if you will stay. I know too well that the manner of your coming here is not, entirely, to Code. I say now that it was not my intent to . . . to coe
rce you. Please, you must not feel compelled to stay here, and I will beg you to inform me, if we have become . . . out of Balance.”

  She stopped, her eyes bright, leaning slightly forward in her chair.

  Seated as he was, Jethri bowed slightly. “As I count, we are in perfect Balance. If my arrival was irregular, I am still happy to be here.”

  Tension left her shoulders; she leaned back in her chair, her slight, enchanting smile on display.

  “Good, that is good.” She sipped her juice, then gave him one of her clear, straight looks.

  “You must understand that I am not yet . . . fully in the habit of—which is to say . . . I have not previously invited a night friend into my own bedchamber! Doubtless had I more experience, I might have found opportunity to speak earlier in the evening, and thus prevented . . . the slight disorder which we have together overcome. However, you need not be concerned that I have no skills. Certainly, I have been properly, and thoroughly, tutored in the art. More, I have been to several Festivals. Surely, I should say that, if it pleases you, you may call me this evening by my small name, my friend name of Maya, or even, if you like—I offer you this for quietest moments, which my nanny and my aunt both called me—Nera, after the small birds. I find it soothing, but it is not a public name!”

  Jethri felt his throat catch, for he knew that such a name was indeed a gift.

  Carefully, he smiled. “I hope I shall earn such good names for my tongue,” he murmured. “I do hope you will call me Jethri, and the short form is simply ‘Jeth’ if you like. I am not so lucky as to be short-named for a bird or a cloud or a jewel!”

  He sipped his juice, recalling the rest of what he ought, in respect of shared pleasure, to likewise reveal to his partner.

  “I fear that I bring rather less to the evening than might be assumed. Indeed, at the time you were being tutored in the arts and graces, I would scarcely have been bundling. My own I’gaina Prenada has given me what is said to be a thorough introduction, and was kind enough to pronounce me an apt and energetic scholar. However, this was well within the relumma. I have no Festival gleanings to increase our delight, nor even, I fear, very much skill.”

  “Appreciation and energy are very welcome in a bed-friend,” Samay said firmly. “I expect that we will deal well; certainly, we must between us produce a unique pleasure. But you must tell me, Jeth, what is this bundling? A Terran art?”

  He laughed.

  “Say, rather, a Terran work-around.” He said the last word in Terran, saw her puzzled glance, and held up his hand for a moment while he made a translation, “A circumvention,” he achieved, in Liaden.

  “I understand the word,” she said after a moment, “but what would the problem be, that bundling . . . works-around?”

  “That . . .” He discovered that his glass was empty, and reached for the pitcher. “May I refresh your glass?”

  “Please.”

  That done, he sat back again, and looked to her face, seeing interest.

  “You must understand, that I grew up on a Terran family ship. Such ships are not to compare with Liaden tradeships. They are typically very small, and privacy is . . . not very easy to achieve.

  “That being so, when two ships or more came together, and bed-friends were chosen, the adults—those experienced in the arts—were given rooms and formal privacy. Those of us who were not yet experienced, but who knew the pangs. . .we bundled.

  “We would find a corner in the kitchen, or back in a storeroom, or down in ‘ponics, make it all nice and soft with shipping cushions all around, drape blankets over all, make the lights dim, and . . . cuddle. There is, you will appreciate, not much room in such an arrangement, though it is, I will say, comfortable, and comforting. Typically, there was insufficient room to undress and, as the bundle was within public space, there was the possibility of being interrupted at any moment, so clothes . . . may have become disordered, but were rarely discarded.”

  Compared to the lessons Samay must have had—assuming that Gaenor’s tutoring had been typical—his experience sounded . . . somewhat cramped and limited in joy. And yet, he remembered certain encounters, even now, with breathless—

  “We shall do this!” Samay announced, rising to her feet.

  He blinked up at her. “Your pardon?”

  “Teach me this art, of your goodness, Jeth. My own tutors taught that there is infinite variation upon delight. I would learn this variation, if you would teach.”

  She was serious; he could read it in the lines of her body. For a moment, he thought to demur, then recalled that Gaenor, too, had told him that delight had many faces. Who was he to deny a previously unknown joy to a night friend?

  Jethri laughed, and rose.

  “If you will learn, then I will teach. First, we shift the pillows.”

  * * *

  They’d left one small light on, but blocked it to get good shadow, and he’d allowed the taking off of boots sufficient preparation.

  Samay entered the tent first, as he held the cover back courteously. He followed, tucking the entrance snug around them. The bottom bunk made a slightly softer, and larger, bundling space than had been standard on-ship, but since he was was slightly larger than he’d been, back then, he considered it authentic enough.

  “This is . . . cozy,” Samay murmured. “And now, do we . . . ?”

  He stretched out on his side, and patted the mattress beside him. “Lie down, Maya, with your back against my chest.”

  She did so, making a warm, seductive, and nicely fragrant armful. He raised a hand and stroked her hair where it began to curl—where it would curl again, once she was back to Liad and had returned to the fashions of dirtside society.

  She sighed, and nestled her cheek into his shoulder; then, taking the initiative, she stroked tempting fingers along the inside of his wrist. He gasped at the unexpected pleasure, and she laughed, soft and wicked.

  * * *

  A little later, he shocked her—not by using her softest and most private name, Nera, for, after all she had given him free use of it, for this time of shared pleasure. No, she had asked, as he nuzzled the back of her neck, what they might—had this been a bundling on his own ship—do next.

  He had kissed and nibbled her ear, whispering that they might stroke each other’s faces. Her gasp had been very noticeable, her demur gentle. It was, after all, nothing more than he had expected. He wouldn’t have mentioned it—or dared it—if she hadn’t asked. And really it was more than fine, since just then she’d executed a stretch like a dance move, offering the hollow of her throat to his lips.

  A small while later, she had shocked him, holding his head to her breast, and murmuring. “Jeth, this will be a fine thing to recall when I am married, for my delm is aiming me at old”—here she barely managed to suppress the name of the lucky groom—“a qe’andra of extreme melant’i and form. He is unhappy with his heirs, one hears, and thus wishes more of them to confound expectations. I think if that is the marriage she makes for me I shall request to travel on Elthoria to and from it so you may tell me of things not covered by the Code!”

  Alas, that thought had sobered them both, with Jethri trying not to think of Maya in a boring old man’s arms—well, really, in any boring man’s arms!—or himself locked a year away in a contract marriage allowing no sound of Terran or Trade . . .

  Despite such shocks and thoughts, they found comfort together, play at last ceding place to drowsiness, as she tucked herself into the curve of his chest and settled her cheek on his arm, he with his cheek on her hair under the doubled bedspreads.

  “Sleep well, my friend,” Nera murmured, and he answered, mistily, “I thank you for the honor.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Tradedesk, Framinham Cafe

  He left Nera still drowsing beneath their tent, and returned at all speed to Keravath, there to shower and to don fresh clothes, remembering to shift cards and other pocket items, and also to replace the earring he had given to Doricky with a s
imple topaz stud, which pleasantly echoed the stones in his trade ring, and was therefore appropriate for a modest young trader’s day wear.

  Scout ter’Astin was not in evidence, nor did the ship report his return since he had exited the ship with Jethri, last evening. Jethri hesitated, wondering if he ought to be concerned, then he remembered spying the Scout and his companion last night, and half-smiled. Very possibly, the Scout had found something to occupy him elsewhere.

  Jethri finished his braid, and left the ship a-pace, arriving in the doorway of the Framinham Cafe on the note of ninth hour.

  He cast about him, but neither Uncle nor his companion was immediately present.

  “Good morning, Trader,” said a lyrical female voice from behind him, speaking Terran.

  He turned, as Dulsey Omron stepped through the door, closely followed by Uncle. Both were dressed as they had been last evening; both looked well rested, though Jethri somehow caught a sense of hurry from Uncle—was that how his face looked, when he was working with short time?

  “You are prompt, and that is excellent,” Uncle said with a nod. “We suddenly find ourselves needed elsewhere, but our consultation—that, we must have! Come, we’ve reserved our usual booth.”

  Scarcely had they seated themselves than the tray arrived, slotting into, and sealing, the booth’s door. They were now private—and, Jethri saw, as Dulsey pulled a small box from her belt, they were about to go off the grid entirely. She touched the box’s face, placed it in the center of the table, and nodded, while sliding a plate of steamed rolls off the tray.

  “I hope you’ll forgive our little eccentricities,” Uncle murmured, pouring tea into three mugs. “We like our private business to remain private.” He glanced up. “I am, by the way, your Uncle Yuri, Arin’s brother. And this lady is Dulsey Omron.”

  Uncle Yuri was wearing the firegem ring on the third finger of his left hand, where it fit like it had been made for him.

  Jethri smiled, a little wistfully, and nodded. “It becomes you, sir.”