by Sharon Lee
"So," he said, handing it back. "How did you do that?"
She moved her shoulders. "I—am not precisely certain. It—it may be that the gem, the facets, served as a focus for the power I expended but—I do not know!" she cried, sudden and shocking. "I need to be trained, before I—before. . . And all Aunt Stafeli will say is that I must be a Healer and a Healer only." She bent her head. "She does not know what it is like," she whispered. "I am—I am a danger."
He considered her. "Even if you cannot be trained on Irikwae, there are other places, isn't that so? Places where the guild of dramliz is recognized?"
"There are those a-plenty," Meicha said after Miandra had said nothing for half-a-dozen heartbeats. "The challenge lies in persuading Aunt Stafeli—and there we have been unsuccessful."
"What about Ren Lar?"
Meicha grimaced. "Worse and worse."
"Ren Lar," whispered Miandra, "sees the dramliz as no more nor less dangerous than the old technology." She laughed suddenly, and looked Jethri in the eye.
"Well, he is not so far in the wrong as that."
Despite himself, he grinned, then let it fade as he rocked off his knees and sat down on the carpet, crossing his legs in an awkward imitation of her pose.
"What about Master ven'Deelin?" he asked.
Two pair of sapphire blue eyes stared at him, blankly.
"What about her, I wonder?" asked Meicha.
"Well, she hails from Solcintra, on Liad, where the dramliz are allowed to go about their business unimpeded. She's your aunt's fosterling—who better to escort you?"
"Hear the lad," Miandra murmured, on a note of awe. "Sister—"
"We are still impeded," said Meicha. "Well to say that the ven'Deelin will escort you, yet it is empty hope unless Aunt Stafeli may be persuaded to let you go."
"Norn ven'Deelin is a master trader," Jethri commented, stroking Flinx's head while the big cat stood on his knee and purred.
"And master traders are all that is persuadable," Meicha concluded and inclined her head. "I take your point and raise another."
He moved his free hand in the gesture that meant "go on."
She took a deep breath. "It comes to me that Norn ven'Deelin—all honor to her!—may not love dramliz. Recall your first meal with us? And the ven'Deelin all a-wonder that there were dramliz in the house."
He had a particularly sharp memory of that meal, and he thought back on it now, looking for nuance he had been ill-able to detect, then. . .
"I think, perhaps," he said slowly, "that she was . . . joking. Earlier in the day—just before we met in the hall—I had understood that Lady Maarilex was about to read her a ringing scold for—for fostering a Terran and breaking with tradition. Seeing dramliz at the table, it might be that she merely remarked that she was not the only one who had broken with tradition."
"Hah," said Meicha, and bent her head to look at Miandra, who sat silent, running her chain through her fingers, eyes absent.
Jethri skritched Flinx under the chin.
"I judge that Jethri has the right of it," Miandra said abruptly. "Norn ven'Deelin has Aunt Stafeli's mark upon her. It is too much to hope that she would forgo her point, when the cards were delivered to her hand."
"True." Meicha slid back into her chair, looking relaxed for the first time since they had tumbled into his room. "The ven'Deelin is due back with us at the end of next relumma."
Jethri sent a glance to Miandra. "Can you hold so long?"
She moved her shoulders. "I will do what I might, though I must point out the possibility that the Scout Lieutenant will seek Balance."
"He would not dare!" Meicha declared stoutly. "Come against Aunt Stafeli in Balance? He is a fool if he attempts it."
"Jethri had already established him as a fool," Miandra pointed out. "And it was not Balance against the House that concerns me."
Meicha stared at her.
"He may try me, if he likes," Jethri said, the better part of his attention on Flinx.
"You are not concerned," Miandra murmured, and it was not a question. He looked up and met her eyes.
"Not overly, no. Though—I regret. He threatened you, and I did not understand that at the time. You need not be concerned, either."
Silence. Then Meicha spoke, teasing.
"You have a champion, sister."
"It was kindly meant," Miandra said placidly, and, deliberately, as if she had reached a firm decision, put the silver chain over her head. The deformed ruby swung once against her jersey, then stilled.
"I would like to hear more of this Scout captain you invoked over the head of the so-kind lieutenant," she said.
"I met him when I jumped off the edge of Kailipso Station," he began, and tipped his head, recalled of a sudden to his manners. "Would you like some tea?"
"Masterful!" Meicha crowed. "You have missed your trade, Jethri! You should 'prentice to a teller of tales."
He made his face serious, like he was considering it. "I don't think I'd care for that, really," he said, which earned him another crow of laughter.
"Wretch! Yes, tea, by all means—and hurry!"
Grinning, he put Flinx on the carpet and unwound, moving toward the galley. There, he filled the tea-maker, pulled the tray from its hanger and put cups on it. He added the tin of cookies Mrs. tor'Beli had given him a few days ago—it had been full, then; now it was about half-full. The tea-maker chimed at him; he put the pot on the tray and carried it out to the main room, being very careful of where he set his feet, in case Flinx should suddenly arrive to do his dance around Jethri's ankles.
He needn't have worried about that. The cat was sitting tall on the floor next to Miandra, tail wrapped tightly around his toes, intently observing the plates of goodies set out on the cloth from his table. The twins had set his neglected dinner out like party food. He grinned and went forward.
Meicha leapt to her feet and handed the cups, pot and tin down to Miandra, who placed them on the cloth. Jethri put the tray on the table and sat on the carpet between the two of them, accepting a cup of tea from Miandra with a grave inclination of his head.
"My thanks."
Meicha passed him a goody plate and he pinched one of the cheese roll-ups he was partial to and passed the plate around to Miandra. When they were all provided with food and tea, and each of them had taken a sip and a bite, Miandra looked up with a definite gleam in her eye.
"And, now, sir, you will tell us about your Scout captain and how it was you came to jump off the edge of a spacestation!"
He hid the grin behind another sip of tea. "Certainly," he murmured, as dignified as could be. "It happened this way . . . ."
Day 166
Standard Year 1118
Elthoria
"MASTER TRADER, the captain bids me deliver this message to you." The first mate's voice was somber, and it was that which drew Norn ven'Deelin's attention away from the file she had under study. Gaenor tel'Dorbit was not a somber woman, and while she enjoyed a contract of pleasure with the librarian Norn had specifically instructed to deny her to all seekers, it could hardly be supposed that his melant'i was so lacking that he had let his paramour by on a mere whim.
Norn sighed. Somber first mates and disobedient, dutiful librarians. Surely, the universe grew too complex. She looked up.
Gaenor tel'Dorbit bowed and produced from her sleeve a folded piece of green priority paper.
The paper crackled as Norn received it and glanced at the routing line.
"Hah," she said, extending it. "Pray have communications forward this to my son at Irikwae."
The first mate bit her lip. "Master Trader," she said, more somberly, if possible, than previously, "the captain bids me deliver this message to you."
Oh, and indeed? Norn looked again at the routing: from Khatelane Gobelyn. The pilot cousin, was it not? And the same who had written before. That she sent now a priority message—that was notable. It was also notable that it had been some days in transit, for Khatelane had sent it
to Avrix, where Elthoria would have been, had the schedule not been amended.
She glanced up at Gaenor tel'Dorbit, who was watching her with no small amount of anticipation. It came to her that Gaenor read Terran well and would certainly have been asked by the communications officer to vet a message written in Terran. She had also taken a liking to Jethri himself, saying that he reminded her pleasantly of the young brothers she left at home. Which handily explained, Norn thought, Kor Ith yo'Lanna's involvement in the proper disposition of a letter meant for a mere apprentice of trade.
"I expect," she said gently to Gaenor's tense face, "to read that Jethri's honored mother, Captain Iza Gobelyn, has passed from this to a more gentle plane, and that Jethri is called back to his kin, to mourn."
"Master Trader," the first mate inclined her head slightly. "To my knowledge, the health of Jethri's honored mother remains robust."
Well. Obviously, she was not going to be quit of Gaenor until she had read and made some disposition of Jethri's letter.
Leaning back in her chair, she flicked the page open and began, laboriously, to read.
Dear Jethri,
Never thought I'd be sending you a Priority, but I think I made a bad situation worse for you, so I'm sending a heads-up quick. I'm here on Banthport at the Trade Bar and run into Keeson Trager and Coraline.
Bunch of Liadens on the place, which don't figure, because you know as well as me, Jeth, Banth doesn't have nothing but the gold mines. But, anyhow, lots of Liadens, and one of them hears Kee name me. Pretty boy, in a skinny, sulky sort of way. Name of Barjohn Shelgaybin, near as I can make out. Said he knows you, that you lost him a brother, and you didn't settle up like you should've. Said, that being so, and me standing right there, he could take exact balance, or I could pay him four hundred cantra in compensation, which, if I could've done I wouldn't've been at Banth on Kinaveralport business, because I'd be captain-owner of a brand-new Cezna with nothing less than twelve pod-mounts.
So, it was stupid, and I figure it's best for all to leave, except he up and grabs me and—I decked him. Conked his head on the floor and went out cold. Another boy tells me I got safe passage—though he didn't tell me his name—so I left it and come back to the crash. I'm sending this to Elthoria, and a copy to Paitor.
For what it's worth, Farli Trager worked out the names of the Liaden ships on Banth: Winhale, Tornfall, Skeen, Brass Cannon. Don't know which your friend is off of, but you might, if he hasn't made the whole thing up out of spare parts. Skeen and Brass Cannon hold Combine keys.
I'm real sorry, Jeth, and I hope you're OK. If this is some kind of Liaden blood feud, let us know, will you? If that pretty boy's a headcase, let us know that, too—and tell us how you're getting on.
I'm gone by the time you get this—follow-ups to Paitor at Terratrade, Kinaveral.
Love,
Khat
Norn ven'Deelin folded the sheet and put it, carefully, atop the reader. She sat for a few heartbeats, eyes on the green paper, then looked up to Gaenor tel'Dorbit, standing patiently, her hands tucked into her belt, her face tense—worried. And she was right to worry, Norn thought. Indeed she was.
"So," she said softly. "I am informed. Of your goodness, First Mate, ask Arms Master sig'Kethra to join in my office for prime in—" she glanced at the clock—"one hour."
"Master Trader." Gaenor bowed, relief palpable, as if the problem—the problems—were now solved, with Jethri and his kin rendered impervious to chel'Gaibin spite. If only it were so.
The first mate removed herself from the study room. Norn ven'Deelin sat quietly for half-a-dozen heartbeats more, then slipped the green letter away into her sleeve, marked her place in the file, and went over to the wall unit to call the kitchen and alert the cook to her need for a working dinner for two to arrive in her office in an hour.
* * *
"SO," PEN REL SAID, putting the green paper down and reaching for his wine. "The chel'Gaibin heir aspires to the melant'i of a port tough. Are you surprised?"
"Alas, I am not—and we will not discuss what that might say about ven'Deelin's melant'i." She sipped her own wine, staring sightlessly at the meal neither had addressed with vigor.
"What I believe we have, old friend," she murmured, "is a play in two acts. I hope that you will lend me the benefit of your wisdom in crafting an appropriate answer to each."
"Now, I know a matter to be dire when ven'Deelin comes to me with sweet words of flattery in her mouth," he commented, irreverently. "All I have is yours to command. Has it ever been otherwise?"
"Surely, it must have been, at one time—but, stay! I will not insult you with more flattery. As I said, a play in two acts, their separate action linked by the chel'Gaibin heir. Indeed, if what I believe is true, I can only suppose Infreya chel'Gaibin to be in a goodly rage regarding the heir's impromptu freelancing—for I believe the approach upon young Khatelane to be nothing more nor less than a moment seized to determine what profit might be wrung from it. And why, you may wonder, would Infreya chel'Gaibin be quite so angry at her heir's attempt to terrorize a mere Terran?"
"The ships," Pen Rel murmured. "The transliterations are . . . challenging. However, if the name the pilot renders as Brass Cannon is, indeed, our own beloved Bra'ezkinion, then it's certain there's piracy afoot."
"And if Tornfall may be discovered to be Therinfel, we may add mayhem to the brew," Norn said, and fell silent for a long moment, her wineglass forgotten in her hand.
Pen Rel reached out and captured the letter, frowning at the Terran words.
"The pilot is right to wonder," he said eventually, "what interest Banth holds for such a mixed flight of ships—" He looked up and made a rueful face. "Only hear me assume that Wynhael stands in association with Bra'ezkinion and Therinfel."
"Not invalid, I think," Norn said, absently. "Not invalid. I allow the pilot to be a clever child and her questions on-point. For, indeed, there is nothing to want at Banth that cannot be had elsewhere, with less cost and more convenience. And yet four Liaden ships—two of them known to us as rogues, in addition to the most excellent Wynhael, and the as-yet-undiscovered Skeen—simultaneously converge upon this port. Credulity strains to the breaking point, my friend."
"Past the breaking point, I would say. So, Master Trader, what is there to want at Banth, after all?"
She glanced at him, eyes gleaming. "How many times must I explain that the skills of a master trader are not those of the dramliz?"
"Until I lay down my last duty, I expect," he retorted. "I have seen you too often work magic."
"Pah! Now who flatters whom, sir? However, your question has merit, despite your deplorable manners. What, indeed, does Banth have which is desirable and has been overlooked, thus far, by all?" She moved her hand, discovered the wine glass and sipped.
"I do not know. And perhaps I may never know. However, the convergence of those four ships—two rejoicing in substantial guild misdemeanor files—allows me to call upon the masters of trade to interview the traders involved, immediately, to determine if there has been any breach of guild rule."
"Thereby infuriating Infreya chel'Gaibin and the so-honorable heir."
"Very possibly," Norn agreed, tranquilly. "But Infreya will not resist a guild investigation—she is, when all is counted, too canny a trader to bargain for her own downfall. It must be in her best interest to cooperate with the guild—and that is where we gain the small hope that we will, after all, learn what it is that Banth has of value."
"You will need to know for certain the names of those ships," Pen Rel said. "I will undertake that proof."
"I thank you," she smiled, briefly, and sipped her wine. "So, that act. The second, I own, may be knottier, for it involves dramliz skills. One or both of us must look into the future and see whether chel'Gaibin will pursue its false Balance against Gobelyns, all and sundry, and, if they will, what measures we must take—in protection, I would say, preferring not to wait upon the necessity of retribution."
"I understand." He considered the matter for some time, frowning abstractedly at the table top. Norn sipped her wine and waited for him to return to himself.
"I believe that the larger population of Gobelyns need have no fear that the chel'Gaibin heir will attempt to pursue his Balance," he said after a considerable time had passed. "Like you, I consider that the attack upon Pilot Gobelyn was an opportunistic act, which it is unlikely he will repeat."
"Unlikely? Tell me why you say so."