by Patty Jansen
It gave a surprising amount of light, and the pearl hadn't yet needed recharging. But if it did, she knew a little shop where she could exchange this pearl for a charged one.
By its greenish light, she sat cross-legged on the bed and opened the book.
On the first page, she wrote the day that the Trader academy would start and counted the days—just forty-two.
On the next page, she wrote down two lists: one of all the things she had learned so far, and one of the things she hadn't.
The second list was much longer than the first, and contained important questions like: who is the strange man Daya? Where is he from? Why is he in Barresh? Why does Barresh care about the Andrahar Traders?
The next morning she asked Rehan for some specific dates that Iztho was said to have brought in illegal fungus. He gave her a couple, but also said that his Guild Lawkeeper had discovered that in transferring dates from the Trader calendar to the Ceren one, someone had made mistakes and records might be out by a day. Mistakes, her arse. That was not an innocent error. No one working with Exchange data all day would make stupid mistakes like that. The problem was made worse, he said, that the data came from before the Barresh Exchange installed a new core and came online with the rest of the Exchange network. According to the main Exchange node at Damarq, Barresh didn't exist before that time and all their data were entered manually by someone in Barresh, who could easily have been bribed to enter something else.
Preparations for the court case were still frustratingly slow, he told her. The Guild Lawkeeper he had hired had trouble securing almost every document needed.
Have you considered that you're working against the entire Barresh government? she asked him.
Or the Mirani one, was his reply.
That made a chill go down her back. To her shame, she hadn't thought of the situation in Miran for a while, and had stopped noticing the shuttles that came in daily and no longer scrutinised the passengers for signs that they left Miran permanently. Did the council approve the foreign residency law? She had almost forgotten the restrictive, claustrophobic feel of living in the city.
He replied, Not yet, but a group of merchants have staged a protest in the council hall. The council ordered the guard to remove them and there were fights. Part of the guard refused to obey their orders. They were, they said, not fighting their countrymen and joined the protest. Aithno Ilendar went to speak up for them. I'm not sure what possessed him, because the Guild can certainly not use another front on which to disagree with the council. Anyway, he persuaded the protesters to leave the council hall, but now they have set up an exclusion area around the Ilendar house. Their territory spans a couple of blocks of the adjoining merchant and Endri quarters where they say anyone doing real business is still welcome. Some people from elsewhere in the city with foreign wives or business partners have sought refuge there. From where I sit, overlooking the square, I can see a couple of the young guys patrolling the boundary of this area, which runs just behind the markets. Amandra Bisumar has been going in and out to negotiate a compromise that would get everybody back to work, but hasn't been successful so far. Everyone knows that it's only a matter of time before Nemedor Satarin orders the army to clean it up. The situation worries me. We don't need any wars or enemies to bring us down. Miran is tearing itself up from within.
She asked about her family, but he said that the Andrahar house was within the area, and her family's house was on the other side of the boundary and he didn't know much of what went on there, save that all people who lived there supported the council.
I'm worried for my mother and sister, she confessed to him.
He replied that he'd ask Gillay to keep an eye out for them, because the house staff could mostly still move around unhindered.
* * *
Now that she had the dates of the supposed imports, Mikandra went to the imported goods counter at the Exchange after work and tried to get a list of approved imports for that day. She told the man behind the counter a story about lost data from her merchant family.
"The data were destroyed in a fire," she said, and even the lie made her see flames in the snow and that image made her shiver.
The man gave her a sympathetic smile. "I'm sorry, but I can't give out these data to everyone. Only if you have authorisation."
"But we have nothing left, and we need the information."
"I'm sorry. Really, I am. Look, why don't I help you fill in the application? There's not much to it. We only need your ID. Then they can process it overnight, and you can have your list tomorrow." He smiled.
She sighed. "I don't have my ID on me."
He raised his eyebrows.
Mikandra mumbled something about going to get it and fled the room.
Well, so much for that. Head, meet tail.
This tactic of boldly walking up to someone and demand what you wanted appeared to have worked only once. She should think of another way to approach people, because this trick had worn out. Worse, each time she tried this, the lies multiplied.
Coming down the stairs of the Exchange and into the yard, she noticed that the airport had grown noticeably busier. A couple of private craft sat to the right-hand side of the gate, and some building activity had started there, too. A couple of workers were clearing bushes. Through the new gap in the vegetation, she spotted a Damarcian craft, probably belonging to one of the builders, and . . . there was a second Gazion. Well, it seemed they were breeding.
At a closer look, this craft was slightly smaller than the other one, looked more well-used, and carried the emblem of the Trader Guild with the number 8515.
This craft belonged to Ydana Ezmi, Aunt Amandra's lover.
Mikandra rushed to the guesthouse, in and out of the bath in a heartbeat. She rubbed her hair dry and put on a clean tunic. She wished she still had her apprentice uniform, but it had been stolen with the rest of her things. She wished she had something else that would impress a foreign Trader.
Jocassa came in and joked about her getting dressed to see a boyfriend.
Mikandra felt like a huge flashing beacon that said homeless person when she walked up the stairs to the guesthouse where not so long ago she'd been embarrassed by not having enough money. That time seemed like a world away. How rich had she been back then, and how innocent and self-conscious.
The same cranky matron with her ridiculous hairdo stood at the desk, leafing through her big book. She looked up when Mikandra came in, but if she remembered the embarrassing encounter in which she had told Mikandra It's a pity, because you look like a nice girl, her expression showed none of it.
"I have to deliver a message for Trader Ydana Ezmi," she said.
The woman nodded. "He's having dinner in the courtyard. I'll ask if he will see you."
Mikandra had to give her name—the real one this time—and the matron waddled off into the courtyard giving Mikandra a good look at her enormous wobbly behind. She came back a short time later and said that Trader Ezmi was a happy to see her.
And so it was surprisingly easy to get access to that sanctuary of the guesthouse's leafy courtyard with its neatly-clipped bushes and perfectly-matched tables and chairs where neat and civilised people sat. What a difference with the guesthouse on Market Street. What a . . . totally boring, stuffy and suspicious kind of place. There were lots of people middle-aged and older, lots of merchants wearing expensive clothing and jewellery, and a lot of sideways looks from under carefully-maintained brows. Expressions of What is she doing here? or Why is she wearing that ridiculous outfit? and What did she do to her hair? that reminded her of being at home amongst her mother's noble lady friends.
Trader Ydana Ezmi sat by himself at a table in the corner of the courtyard. As customary, he was in full uniform, a lilac tunic and trousers and dark purple cloak, which, in the case of the Hedron Traders, had a mere cosmetic function. He was reading from his reader which lay next to his plate.
He looked up, met her eyes. She had been afraid that he w
ouldn't have an idea who she was, but he smiled and gestured for her to come over.
Mikandra did and greeted him politely. Hedron was the last entity chapter to have been added to the Trader Guild, and their licence numbers were all very high, 8515, in his case.
He said, in his curiously-accented Mirani, "Would you like anything to eat?"
"I would love to, thanks." When a Trader offered, you did not refuse.
Surprising how she'd gotten over her hang-up about accepting help from other people. One day, when she was rich, she would buy everyone dinner, and buy the poor people of Miran heaters. Today was not that day.
She sat down and the matron scurried off to order another meal from the kitchen. People around them resumed eating and talking. The smells drifting through the courtyard were mouth-watering.
"I'm surprised to see you here," he said.
"I am surprised for the same reason." She replied to him in Coldi, the Trader dialect.
"Ah." His gaze went over her. He had aged a fair bit since she had last seen him, which had been long before Aunt Amandra ever considered running in the election. His hair, which for Coldi people was normally thick and black with iridescent spots in blue, green and purple, had gone white at the temples. He wore it in the typical Coldi ponytail. Like many Coldi, his irises contained a smattering of golden speckles. She remembered how gorgeous Coldi eyelashes were: dark, thick and long with metallic-looking highlights. "I was wondering if you were the same Mikandra Bisumar listed in the Guild intake."
"I am. I'm going to work with the Andrahar Traders."
"Ah," he said again, and repeated, "Ah." As if that explained it all.
A Pengali waitress brought a tray of food. It contained local rolled-up bread cut in slices so that the brown coating of spices formed a swirl in each slice, a bowl of sauce and a plate of vegetables.
Mikandra started eating, while he drank tea. She was looking for an opportunity to ask whatever questions would not make him suspicious, but he did nothing except observe her. It was strange and uncomfortable.
Finally, he said, "You look famished. What have you been doing all day?"
"I work in the library."
"For the Miran library?"
"No, for the Barresh council."
He frowned at her. "That's . . . unusual. Why not wait in Miran until the court case?"
"I came here to meet Iztho. He is my mentor. But he's no longer here. I had some . . . misfortune, and rather than go back to Miran, where my parents are angry with me, I thought I'd wait here."
He nodded, his expression thoughtful, and let another silence lapse. "Amandra has mentioned her brother at times. He is . . . very traditional."
Mikandra wasn't sure how she was supposed to take that. She didn't like the thought of discussing her parents with this man. She'd come here because she wanted to see what he knew about Barresh, the court case or anything else that might help her figure out what was going on, not to discuss her family. So she asked him, "Do you have business in this town?"
"I do. I've had talks with the council about supplying pre-made buildings for the airport."
"Pre-made buildings?"
"They come in modules. Hedron-manufactured. You can put them up in a few days. This place needs a lot of buildings quickly."
True.
Then he added, "I'd hoped while I was here to pay a visit to Miran, to—you know . . ." He shook his head and sighed. "How is she?"
Mikandra debated saying just fine, because she really didn't want to talk about her family, but with him here, it was probably unavoidable. Also, if there was anyone who had the influence to help Aunt Amandra out of her obvious unhappiness, he was sitting at the table with her. "Last time I saw her she looked tired and harassed. She's boxing against the majority."
"I told her that it was a bad idea to take the position. I never liked the way that Nemedor Satarin spoke. Next thing she was running with him. I don't understand."
"I don't think she was ever fully with him. She ran the election alongside him because she hoped to be a voice of unity. But it hasn't worked very well."
He shook his head. "I've only heard bad news since the election. Riots, merchants leaving, rumours of prisoners held in Miran. Now we have a Guild courier murdered and news has come out that Trading businesses are leaving Miran—"
"Traders leaving?" Rehan had said nothing about that this morning.
"Haven't you seen this?" He turned his reader towards her. It displayed an article from the Trader Guild Bulletin.
. . . attempts by the council to quell the riots have only had an adverse effect. Our Guild representatives affirm that most of the part of the city known as the merchant quarter is off-limits to those supporting the council. Our local members can still move freely throughout the city but are advised to exercise extreme caution when going into the lower-central region. Any of our members not of the Mirani chapter are strongly advised to reconsider their need to travel to Miran. We cannot guarantee their safety.
This advice supersedes any advice issued previously. A warning is in place for all Traders wanting to visit Miran. For more details see the Guild's warnings list.
This trouble has been fermenting for some time but came to a head after the high-profile wedding of Foundation family Trader Lihan Ilendar to Damarcian high-profile Trader Roisieli Takani Temuran . . .
What? Mikandra's heart jumped. She re-read, but there was Lihan's name in clear letters. There was no mistaking him because he had no brothers.
There was even a picture of him, smug-faced, on the arm of this woman, a tall, dark-haired Damarcian beauty wearing the Ilendar traditional wedding gown that—damn it—if Lihan wasn't going to care about succession, should have been hers to wear. That woman wasn't going to give him any children either.
Mikandra felt like someone had slapped her in the face.
The arsehole.
He knew. He knew when he was speaking to her in the Mirani Guild building that he was about to get married. He knew she had been besotted with him for years. He never meant anything with that kiss. Never took her seriously, probably even wanted her to go away.
We can be friends, huh?
And then she got angry with herself for even letting the issue distract her. It should have been clear that he wasn't interested, but she had stupidly kept hoping. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
She looked up.
Ydana Ezmi must have seen something in her face, because he asked, "Are you all right? I know it's a shock to hear this about the town you thought was safe—"
"I'm fine. Just give me a moment."
She breathed through flaring nostrils, ready to belt something. Seething.
Arsehole. The fucking arsehole.
She swallowed hard and read on, but her heart was racing. The wedding had been a private ceremony so as not to stir already-frayed emotions. The family said that while initially the couple had planned to remain in Miran, it had proven to be impossible within a few days. Every time any of the family left the house, they had to run a gauntlet of hostile people in the street. The city guard refused to guarantee protection—
Ydana Ezmi continued, oblivious to her inner turmoil. "With these riots going on, I'm not going against Guild advice not to visit Miran. A Guild courier was murdered in Miran. I have no intention to become the next victim. I have no indication whether Amandra supports the Mirani authorities. I feel that I'm just deluding myself. She probably doesn't want to see me again. I've wasted thirty years of my life waiting for her."
That made her look up. Even though he meant Trader years and not Ceren years, it was an awfully long time.
He stared into the distance, his face haunted. "You know, I'm not getting any younger, and this is not where I'd envisaged our relationship to go."
"I'd be surprised if she didn't want to see you again," Mikandra said.
The look of hope in his eyes almost made her cry. What a way to waste most of your adult life: waiting for a lover to make a decision about the
relationship.
"Has she talked to you about any of it?" His expression was wary. "Your father—"
"My father and his sister don't get a long too well. Anyway, I'm no longer at home, and my father doesn't want me back, so you can tell me anything you want, because it's not going to get back to the family in the form of gossip."
He sighed. The tense position of his shoulders relaxed a little. "Amandra has been . . . very distant. We had a very bad argument. She told me she wanted to run in the election and I didn't take her seriously enough. You'll probably know that she often has grand plans and I'm afraid I'd become used to the fact that she usually forgets about them after the buzz of the idea has died down. So I made a joke about it, and she said that I never support her and that I only ever try to pull her away from her home. I'm afraid that part is true. I've been asking many times if she wants to come and live with me, because there is no way I can live in Miran. I'm afraid I may have driven her to running in the election with that despicable man. I was surprised at how angry she got with me. It's like she put a lifetime worth of annoyances in that argument."
Mikandra spoke carefully. "She told me that the reason she went into the council was to save Miran from taking unwise turns."
"That sounds like my Amandra." He sighed. "Her heart is too big, but she can't hold the entire world in it."
Yes she remembered now: Coldi loved their proverbs. "I don't know that she can do much. It looks like she has a minority position."
"I really don't understand the Mirani voting system. How can someone be voted in if no one supports her?"
"The Traders support her." Most of them, at least. "The High Council is elected by all the people of Miran." And most of the Nikala who supported Nemedor Satarin never bothered to vote, therefore, her vote was an artificially inflated measure of her support. The truth was that most people in Miran didn't support her aunt or the Traders. They didn't care about foreign imports; they only liked the way Nemedor Satarin spoke, and he was a very good orator.
"I'm going to get her out," he said. "I'm worried. All right, she had her opportunity to make the world a better place. Now I want her home." He laughed, but there was little humour in his voice. The fact that he missed her badly was etched in his face. He sighed and folded his hands on the table. "You made a wise move to come here. Miran is imploding. Even your employers will have to leave."