by Sharon Lee
“Yes, consider us of the Market if you will, Gentles. It is good of you to have noticed.”
Khat inwardly chuckled, for to her eye Grig’s stance was exactly what was needed in close quarters. He’d looked to have gained twenty percent in volume and ten percent in height and he’d managed to speak both softly and at volume at once. He spoke a well-accented Trade, and then in Liaden said something Khat only caught part of, the part that was Therinfel.
A different bow from the tall one; a pause of the machine brought them with a press of gravity to an intermediate floor where none entered and five exited, squeezing between the Liadens gingerly. The lift dropped again, the Liadens ignoring the locals.
Grig chuckled, saying quietly to Khat, “Yes, our friends are of Therinfel, as we’d surmised.” He switched then to sotto voce loop lingo, adding, “Stinks shifties can’t sneeze no-perm, brain slogs mudtrap.”
Right. These were flunkies, boss must be waiting at the main exit, mudtrap clearly being ground level.
She nodded agreeably to Grig, smiled at the Liadens, said nothing, shifted slightly, saw one of the Liadens shift, too. Was there a point to this or had the Liadens accidentally taken the same lift? Perhaps they were merely recognizing fellow traders, after all. Or perhaps being two on two she’d just determined which Liaden was supposed to cover her.
Another intermediate floor brought an exchange of locals, three off and three on, and Khat used that change of circumstance to put a squarely built citizen between her and her cover. She also shook her shoulder out, likely giving her cover concern about her handedness. She was ambidextrous, for what it was worth, but feeling rusty of her weapons training. She’d been so busy in the supposed off year that some things had been let to slip.
The stop at the bottom was smooth, and Khat leveraged the square fellow’s lack of speed with her own quickness, taking eye motions from Grig to mean she’d go left and he right.
“Talk with us,” the taller Liaden was saying as the passengers all proceeded forward at once, and Khat took her left, turned, saw that both of Therinfel’s crew were following her, went to slip around a pedestrian snarl and found herself face to face with the pilot she’d seen on Banth, and then today, heading into the meeting room. Beside him was a silent and cold-eyed Liaden woman wearing unmarked pilot leathers and an open sidearm.
He offered, politely and in Trade, “I see you and you see me, how good a thing this is to be recognized, Pilot. Recognized, if not met, perhaps we have some shared melant’i. We should talk of Gobelyn’s Market, yes, Khatelane Gobelyn? Yes. And of this Jethri and his errors. And perhaps of Balance. And of this Arin who is dead. There is a beverage shop nearby, where we have arranged a table seating. You should come.”
* * *
They did come, Grig looking first to her for direction—she higher on the family charts than he, she second pilot overall to his reserve, damn the luck. But she asked his opinion with a raised eyebrow and got his reply in the form of a half-tick nod, a relief.
The beverage shop served local teas, coffee toot, and brews, with Khat’s choice quick toward the high-power root tea and Grig’s the same, spiced.
“You have the advantage: you know I am Khatelane Gobelyn, and this is Grig Tomas, our clan being our ship Gobelyn’s Market. You and you—I do not know.”
The woman gave a short bow and said nothing, while a larger bow came from the man, who admitted to being Ved bel’Mora Clan Traybin, a pilot of Therinfel. “You’ll perhaps not be familiar with my clan, as we are not currently housed on Liad.”
Khat nodded, repeated his name and thanked him for the share, knowing it would take a deep check for her to be sure of any clan’s existence much less prove a homeworld. She turned to the female pilot beside him, who bowed again lightly, making as well a vague motion perhaps indicating lack of language.
Khat looked to Grig, who bowed to the silent woman, said a few words Khat didn’t know, adding, “Grig Ric Tomas, sustaining pilot, tradeship Gobelyn’s Market.”
His head motion was a clear follow-on and the bow she made became deeper, again unreadable by Khat, followed by a few words or names.
“Cousin, we have here, I’m told, Pilot Trainee tol’Vera Clan Croyn, apprentice applicant to Therinfel. She has not had training of the tongues as yet, her clan not affording that necessity until proof of competence in her trade.”
Khat repeated that information as best she could, despite a great deal of surety that this was no trainee pilot, nor one of any clan she’d be likely to locate in a reference source. Her language ability? Why bring one with no understanding to the table?
The others were not acknowledged, though there were five of them scattered around the room like guards. She’d dealt with retrieving Iza often enough to consider them as such. . . .
“And so,” Khat said as the drinks arrived and the waitress dismissed after being sure that they’d each gotten their own order, the waitress having an accent best described as thick, “we have come to speak with you, as you are sure we have much to talk about and so much in common.”
The others got what they got, with Khat remembering to offer a pseudo bow indicating thay were all able to sip now. It was as much ceremony as she had on the topic.
There was a hint of a smile on bel’Mora’s face.
He bowed, saying in a slow if clear Trade, “It is clear we deal now pilot to pilot, as pilots are as direct as traders are long-winded.” He made a hand motion full of emphasis, encompassing the lot of them.
“It is as I suggested, Pilot. We share a certain melant’i, all of us here, the melant’i of the practical who must reach a destination necessary for others though the others have no understanding of how the course is laid or calculated.
“Thus, directly, I shall acknowledge I am requested by the head of my trade mission, for Therinfel is not here alone, nor by accident, to determine if your presence here is due to ours? When traveling far from common routes, one must know and be concerned of complications—are you in fact tracking Therinfel on an account of a perceived incomplete Balance?”
Khat shook her head briefly, suppressing the urge to laugh and weighing the information offered. So, Therinfel was once again part of a mission? And this pilot not the one in charge, but following orders.
“And how would we know Therinfel’s destination? When last I saw your ship and yourself you were at a backworld I barely recall.”
That brought bright eyes, and perhaps a glance from the woman who spoke neither Trade nor Terran.
“We do trade, Pilot, and so often traders tell other traders, just as crew tell other crew.”
Khat nodded acknowledgment.
“This coincidence is that—my home ship is just now finished refits and starting on our new route, and I back to it after my hire contracts are done. Since our ship’s travels are determined by the captain after the trader makes his deals, indeed, we go where the trade moves us and how the captain takes us. My job is to make it happen safely, backup to the captain. That is why I am here today, representing the ship as the captain properly stays with the ship in a system and on a world new to us.”
An awkward pause, then, “You must understand that the young chel’Gaiban took much of a fall to his melant’i there on Banth. He was rigorously schooled on his errors by those of us senior to him in travel and port etiquette, and I doubt will ever make such an error again. Yet your proper response to his mistake becomes less sure in following after the error of your kin. That young chel’Gaibin also erred in attempting to directly deal with you on a Balance price is not in question—he should have arranged for a meeting of qe’andra and men of business to determine such a Balance price in an orderly fashion, don’t you think?”
At this Grig bowed his way into the conversation, oddly enough speaking quick sentences to the apprentice rather than the supposed master. She briefly opened her mouth as if to reply.
Grig turned quickly to Khat—“Pardon, Khat Gobelyn, but I felt that the apprentice was bei
ng left out, and ought to know that her over pilot, who says he is not a trader, is merely pressing my pilot to admit a falsity as truth under cover of polite discourse. Since she acts backup to him, it was clear that she should know, as a matter of courtesy.”
Khat blinked: yes, it would have been possible for her to have conceded a wrong point, pressed in such a fashion. Liadens, even speaking Trade, were famous for their complex contracts and hidden meanings.
An interesting bow then from the shipmaster.
“Your point is taken, sir; one must not permit a dependent to remain uninformed in a complex situation. The question of fault is always one meriting extreme attention, since badly attributed it may lead to confused action . . .”
Khat saw the hand motion of the apprentice and thought she saw a response as she continued speaking with Grig.
“And tell me, if I do not trespass on secret, how is it that you have such a clear understanding of our tongue when it is so rarely of interest among Terran spacers? An odd accent to it, perhaps an old-fashioned one.”
Here Grig spread his hands wide and smiled, gently, going on in Trade. “Spacers are of many molds, Pilot, and oft have much time to spend between stars doing other than polishing brightwork. My family and my cousins have had this interest of languages—you have spoken of my cousins Jethri and Arin, and thus of my own line as well. While not proficient in all things Liaden, I believe Jethri’s interest was sparked by Arin, his father.”
Grig spoke a quick word to the apprentice, then turned back to Trade:
“Cousin Arin came from a family ship long involved in active study during Jump, and he’d been apprenticed to a ship where learning was prized as much as piloting. Indeed, I became Arin’s pilot because of those habits of his, for he needed to study and be prepared as a commissioner. Arin refreshed his languages with me, as well as his piloting and his math and his chemistry.
“Thus Jethri’s mistake—his error, if you will—might have come from his father Arin, or perhaps from before that, from our Uncle, who had the teaching of both of us. My accent surely was from him.”
Grig paused with a pilot’s hand flourish, indicating operation in progress continues.
“Now of my Uncle, what can I say? His learning? I wish I’d have the time to tell you of the things he thinks of and talks about! History is a playroom to him, culture and art his familiars! Last I saw him he was an aging man with a large library and a younger mate who challenged him not to let his mind rest, not to feel old. His travels and sources were not much shared, only the results of them.
“That is what I can tell you, Pilot, if my Liaden is old-fashioned or out dialect.”
Therinfel’s pilot bowed. “Ah, but see, you already have it that you are among those who are not of Liad’s Highest Houses, unlike Infreya chel’Gaibin and her heir. We need not quibble over who has a better accent—as you are a learned man and I a native, we each must admit the other’s facility with words adequate.”
It was that pilot’s turn to wave hands as if in thought.
“Still, sir, we find ourselves at odds and I wonder if we may act for a moment more as traders and less as pilots to bring our melant’i more in tune with one another. For my part I will begin with the assertion that your cousins are very interesting people, this Arin and this Jethri. Both holders of the Liaden tongue. Both, I gather, traders of some ability. Both, in fact, involved not only with trade usually falling within the basic—do you call them ‘loops,’ I think?—of Terran trade interest, but moving beyond to the larger trade spheres and routes of Liaden interests.”
Grig looked to Khat, shrugged, offered to bel’Mora a nod.
“All true. As I mentioned, the family studies.”
“Agreed,” said the Liaden with a slight bow, “you have said. And like a good scholar, your cousin Arin, he has published, is that so?”
“He was an active man, often quoted.”
“Then let me offer this, if I may. It is my belief that while young chel’Gaiban is overcareful of his melant’i among Liadens and undercareful of it among Terrans, his mother Infreya, as Delm Rinork, will be at pains not to involve her clan in more”—here he fell to a rolling, tumbling hand wave—“disorderly events. It is my belief that Infreya would, as a trader of some worth and cunning, be interested in the study your cousin Arin Gobelyn performed for his duties before quitting his position as commissioner. It is a document, this Envidaria, which is exceeding difficult to come by. In return for a copy of this study, which would of course be kept in extreme confidence, I feel Infreya might invoke a homeworld existence for her heir, since he becomes troublesome away from Liad. His means of achieving Balance, direct or indirect, against your Jethri—or against you personally, Khatelane Gobelyn—would be much reduced!”
He’d looked right at Khat with that, and so had the apprentice.
“I am not a trader,” Khat allowed after a moment. “I’m a pilot, and second in command of a ship. You offer to intercede in a matter of a potential threat I’m aware of in exchange for a document I’ve never seen. This becomes a difficult moment for me, Pilot bel’Mora.”
She sipped tea.
Grig shifted slightly, ostensibly also to have another sip of his tea. The apprentice shifted, as did Pilot bel’Mora. Eyes were careful, hands even more so.
Cup in her off hand, Khat continued with some heat and careful volume, “You must understand that the boy did wrong to grab me, but I’ve knocked him down and bloodied his nose in front of a bunch of people, and that’s what he deserved. That’s Balance, and I count that done.”
She sipped more tea, weighing the cup, light angles, Grig’s position . . . looked up and continued.
“Not only is there a hint of threat to me, but more to Jethri, and as far as I can see, that’s done, too. It ought to be done, anyhow, the way we do things, since he’s not here to agree or disagree to it. So here’s what I see. You’ve made me a hypothetical offer to fix something that’s not broken anymore, if it ever was.”
Khat looked the apprentice in the eye this time, shaking her head, jetting on, “Under this hypothetical offer from someone not present is the insinuation that a failure to agree—a failure to produce what I don’t have—will both continue and extend the threat. I can only program so many alternative courses, Pilot, and I’m seeing the best one for me is for my shipmate to finish our tea and then to continue our day, with thanks for your time and hospitality, and let you continue yours.”
She set the empty cup down, firmly. The hand moved from the cup, clearly making the hand-sign time, and the follow-up movement indicating we go.
Grig nodded to her, placed his cup down soundlessly.
Pilot bel’Mora looked between them dispassionately, a bow which meant something she didn’t know tilted toward Khat. He said something in Liaden which brought the apprentice a little straighter in the chair . . .
“Not a mistake, Pilot,” Grig suggested. “Khat here, she’s First in my view. Her melant’i must be served. We have been patient, we drank your tea, and we have heard you. If you tell us that the offer is not theoretical, but . . . but you have not done that.”
“Also, Pilot,” Khat broke in, “you misunderstand my view of the situation. I said I’d finished with my Balance. It was stupid of him. But I’m a spacer. I was born in space and I live in space. Shouldn’t be anything that gives me a right to lock a man on a planet for his whole life, just on my say-so. Offering me that is like offering me a chance to stab him in the back for free—and that’s not how Khat Gobelyn works. You can take your melant’i and walk through the mud with it!”
That brought both of the Liadens straight in their chairs but by then Grig was standing, half in front of Khat as he helped her pull her chair out, gun hand free, for all of a sudden, the stakes had risen.
“My melant’i need not be part of this discussion, Pilot, if you will simply admit your error. Else Therinfel’s bad will toward you accumulates with chel’Gaibin’s. Have you no understanding . . .�
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“You’re not even good enough to pay for my tea,” Khat said, throwing a coin on the table to cover their due, and then to Grig, “we’re gone.”
* * *
Gone was easier said than done, what with the uncertainty of the tearoom’s staff over their hurried departure and the rush of the other Liadens to attempt to block their exit. A few seconds were wasted going around wait staff and they were out the door.
“Called off the help,” Grig said as they hurried down the still-crowded large hall. The sound of loud voices rose behind them, and a clanging, scraping noise. He signaled and they took a quick right down a service stairway, and then into a larger room with an exit onto a busy loading dock. Ignoring protests they dropped a few feet to the pavement and strode out into the hazy-bright afternoon.
“Yes,” she said. “But back to the ship anyway unless you have a better plan.”
He didn’t. “Taxi stands are on the main routes, I’m sure.”
Finding a main route that wasn’t the one leading to the building they’d just left wasn’t easy, but they crested a small hill and saw a corner populated with the little cars.
“Do we have one?” Khat asked as they jogged that way, their plain garb marking them against the colorful dress of the local citizens. Ahead, the taxi stand . . .
“One of what?”Grig sounded slightly winded.
“A copy of Arin’s study.”
“If Paitor hasn’t told you, you’re not supposed to know.”
She said something quite impolite under her breath. “I’ve been told something now by someone, haven’t I?”
They hurried around the pedestrians, sweat breaking out on both of them.
“Until we can talk to Paitor, quiet on it. He should have said something.”
“Other way?” Khat said, pointing to one of the Liadens from the tea shop arriving at the taxi stand—
“Transit this way,” Grig suggested, pointing to a sign Khat couldn’t decipher.
“No, wait. We might as well just get a taxi,” Khat insisted. “There’s only one of them!”