Trader's Honour

by Patty Jansen

  Anmi let a few moments of silence pass. Her expression was still confused. "Iztho told me he had his family sorted out—"

  "Nothing is sorted out."

  "—he set up an account for their survival and explained the situation. You didn't know any of this?"

  "Any of what?"

  Anmi glanced at Daya, who looked incredulous back at her, and then opened the book. She took out a document and handed it to Mikandra.

  It was an official note, a message recorded by the Exchange. The header said that it was confidential, to be delivered to Iztho's family on the same day Mikandra had received her acceptance. A line across the top said duplicate in Coldi. The main body of the letter was written in Mirani, in what was unmistakably Iztho's classic, old-fashioned handwriting.

  Rehan, Braedon and Taerzo,

  By the time you read this, I'll be gone. Do not try to look for me because I do not want to be found. After years of trying to please you and our parents, I am bowing out and taking the step to make a living from music. I fear my reputation as Trader has been damaged too much from events in the recent past. This letter serves to formally hand back my licence.

  Very soon, you will receive a court summons on a charge of smuggling. The summons will be aimed at me, but brought against the Andrahar Traders. This is a fabricated charge that is the result of a long association that has gone sour.

  There is something you need to know.

  Many years ago, I befriended a young merchant Nikala man. He and I shared a passion for history and spent many a night in the library with ancient books and scripts. He was also passionate in his belief in our nation, and when he rose to prominence, I believed that he could make a difference. His name, of course, was Nemedor Satarin.

  But over the past years, I grew increasingly uneasy with his actions. While we both acknowledged the potential of the powers of the ability that people in Barresh call avya, I was horrified with persistent rumours that he is sweeping up poor and disenfranchised people from Barresh and zhadya-born from Hedron. He is obsessed with this avya. He calls those people human explosives.

  Things came to a head last year when he appealed to me to do him a favour as a friend, to pick up a person who he said he had contracted to come to Miran for 'research'. The woman in question was Anmi and not only had she not agreed anything, she knew nothing about any settled worlds other than her own, which is an isolated, non-gamra world. I saw that I had been blind to his obsession and had to make a stance. My change of mind came too late to save my relationship with the lady, but it was the main cause for the two-day war. Which, with the help of the lady, Barresh won.

  Nemedor Satarin has been on a mission to discredit me ever since.

  In this envelope you will find evidence you need to prove that the Exchange data was tampered with at the Miran Exchange on the order of certain elements in the Mirani council.

  Attend the court. Make sure you take Mother. While you are at court, stay at the Guild complex. Do not return to Miran, but pretend that you have work to do. Then quietly arrange for the business to be relocated elsewhere. Barresh will have us. Over the past year, I have relocated a lot of our accounts to Barresh. One of the attached sheets will include instructions on how to open these accounts. You can trust the Barresh council.

  Do not look for me, because you will be watched. Nemedor Satarin will not stop until he finds me. I will be happy, playing and singing and will contact you as soon as it is safe. You know I have never enjoyed the life of the Trader, and it is time that I act on it. Give my medallion to the young Bisumar girl when she completes her apprenticeship. Mother insisted that we accept her as apprentice. She's probably right in that things need to change. Fare well. Iztho.

  Mikandra looked up.

  Her heart thudded. It was not at all how she'd thought. The Barresh council had helped him. Iztho had sent the courier who had been murdered in Miran. That murder was not a random attack, but someone knew about the message he carried. Someone had made sure that this message never reached the family.

  The person who had tried to bring the Andrahar Traders down was Nemedor Satarin. Because the Andrahar brothers were the only ones who still held a foundation stone. Because only the Andrahar heir could wield that power. And because that little boy was Iztho's son. The heir. The oldest son of the oldest son.

  And if this was true, Rehan and his brothers were in immediate danger.

  Anmi spoke in a soft voice. "Do you see now that we are not at fault? After the two-day war, Iztho initially left Barresh, but he came back after the Mirani council found out that he had acted at a crucial time, which caused us to win the war. I didn't want to speak to him because I felt betrayed by him, but Daya got on well with him. Daya is also very much interested in history." She exchanged a glance with him, and he smiled. "They had many meetings and established that we can't communicate mentally with the Mirani Endri."

  "You mean—you can't see into my mind?"

  She shook her head. "Not at all."

  "And that dizzy feeling I get, that's from people trying?"

  "Iztho complained about that, too. Anyway, when the first accusations of smuggling came out, Iztho realised that his old friend in Miran was never going to forget how he had refused to hand me over to the Mirani army."

  "Couldn't you forgive him for that?"

  Her mouth twitched. She looked into the distance. "Eventually, maybe."

  Then a shrug, not as careless as she pretended to be. "Also, Iztho now knew what you also know: that the Mirani Endri are also targets for Nemedor Satarin's obsession. Iztho realised there was no way he could win, as long as his former friend had the backing of an entire government, so he decided to disappear, after setting up a way out for his family. He'd been dreaming of becoming a musician for a long time."

  Mikandra's head was still reeling. "The family never got his message. The courier was murdered. His satchel was empty." She had sat by his bed watching him die. Someone in Miran had removed the message to the Andrahar family. Isandra had said have you heard from Iztho? She had expected to hear from her son. She knew at least some of what was going on. Trimon had said something about Iztho getting on well with his mother.

  "What about the boy?"

  "I never knew the child was Iztho's until after his birth. It was not thought to be possible. If anything, it proves the heritage of the Mirani Endri. It means a lifeline for our project to restore the Aghyrians."

  "Yet, you've hidden his parentage."

  "I don't want the Mirani council to know. I understand what he means. This is a very powerful boy. I want him to be safe."

  True. "What's his name?"

  "He carries my father's name, Vayra Perling Dinzo."

  There was nothing familiar in those names, although she thought of the Mirani of old, who also used to have three names. "He should have the Andrahar name. The family should have a say in this."

  "Yes, when he's safe. When all of you are safe. Please, believe me and trust us." She gestured.

  A guard in black approached the table and placed Mikandra's familiar bag on it. She opened it and dug inside. Her pouch had been ripped to shreds. Whatever small change was gone, but her notebook and account details were still there. Her apprentice uniform was still there. Anmi placed the ID card on the table.

  Mikandra took it and held it against her chest. "Thank you."

  "I'm sorry that we didn't speak to you earlier. I hope you can understand that we thought you might be a risk to us. Barresh is too small to annoy any of its large enemies, especially Miran."

  Mikandra nodded.

  "I have the details to the accounts that Iztho set up with the family's money. If you come to us tomorrow, we can supply you with new codes. You can use the funds immediately."

  Mikandra shook her head. "The brothers can do that later. First, I have a court case to attend."

  Chapter 29

  Mikandra had thought she'd miss the court session, what with her missing ID and lack of money, but
now everything had changed. She even had her clothes back.

  She could go to Kedras and prove the setup. She had Iztho's evidence and could save the business.

  She ran from the guesthouse to the Exchange where she booked the first flight to Kedras, which, unfortunately, didn’t leave until the next morning. After paying for it, she had exactly three credits left in her personal account.

  It was going to ruin her, but this was worth fighting for.

  After she came back, she found Jocasssa and Dalit in the courtyard. They looked at her when she came in, but said nothing.

  "The Trader Guild, huh?"

  Mikandra sat down at the table with a sigh. "I'm sorry about telling you lies."

  "Why din' youz say who youz were?"

  "And stay here? With no money?"

  "Surely youz had money somewhere?"

  Mikandra shook her head. "The thugs took everything I had. My father disowned me after I accepted my offer for the Trader Guild. I didn't lie about being alone and running away from home."

  His mouth twitched. He looked like he might not believe her. "So who exactly is yer father?"

  "Asitho Bisumar."

  A flicker of distaste went over his face. "That makes sense." In a if-he-was-my-father-I'd-run-away-too kind of tone.

  Dalit said, "That makes High Councillor Amandra Bisumar your aunt, right?"

  Mikandra nodded. "I asked to apprentice with her, but she didn't want to sponsor me, so I went to the Andrahar Traders."

  Jocassa stared at the table, his mouth twitching.

  "Mind you, no one expected me to do that. Our family isn't up there with the Andrahars at all. I was astounded that I was accepted." Which had been Isandra's doing.

  Jocassa kept staring. All the politics in the Endri were so far removed from him that the differences between the families meant nothing to him. The only emotion the Nikala felt towards the Endri was distrust. While the Endri held up ideals, the Nikala had stopped believing in Foundation long ago.

  Mikandra felt horrible. These men had trusted her. In a strange sort of way, she'd come to like Jocassa with his mock-innocent ways and the raw intelligence that lurked under the surface. He'd certainly changed the way she thought of Mirani Nikala. She'd been just as selfish as she accused them of being.

  "I'm sorry," she said again. "I don't know what else to say."

  "What else t' say? Youz can tell all yer friends that youz lived with th' real poor people 'n' joke about it."

  "No, I'm not going to do that, and you know it. I will fight for what's fair."

  Jocassa shrugged. "Give it a few days 'n' you've forgotten us already. Fair t' youz means that youz get t' feel good about unimportant stuff."

  "I told you I'd pay back what you gave me."

  "It's not about th' flaming money. That's th' problem. Youz think it's about money, that youz can fix anything by giving money and telling us what t' do. We don' want t' be told what t' do. We want t' be treated as equals. That's what Nemedor Satarin wants: he wants us t' have th' same chance as th' Endri people. No, don' say anything 'cause youz don' get it. Youz go back to th' rich life, 'n' we jus' work our guts out 'n' die young."

  They sat in silence for a while. Mikandra was lost for anything to say. In a horrible way, he was right, and there was nothing she could do.

  She rose. "Anyway, I better go to bed. Have a very early flight to catch tomorrow."

  He looked up at her, unblinking. "T' where?"

  "Kedras. I'm going to deliver the letter she gave me to the court."

  He didn't say anything for a while. His face showed how he was processing the emotions—anger, disappointment, jealousy. "Good luck." He regarded her with sadness in his eyes.

  She nodded, and almost reluctantly, broke eye contact.

  As she walked up the stairs, that bitter tone in his voice continued to haunt her. He'd probably hoped that by helping her, she'd give him a chance. That might have been the sole purpose of his friendship, and it was a friendship of sorts. Jocassa had taught her more than she had taught him.

  Yes, she owed him.

  She stopped on the stairs and listened to their voices in the courtyard, the meaning beyond her hearing.

  Damn right, she owed him, and once again, she had nothing left to give.

  I'll pay him back later. When she finished at the Academy, she would need employees.

  But then again, would he still be around, or would he and his mis-matched band of friends have shifted to some other place. Or, more disturbingly, would they have died?

  She went to the dorm, undressed, but lay awake all night, listening to the sounds of other people snoring.

  She had thought she would be happy to solve the Andrahars' innocence, but the truth it revealed about Miran was so ugly that it would shake her life, and that of many others, forever. She would never be able to go home. If the Andrahar Traders left Miran, where would that leave her? What about her family, about Liseyo, and what about Aunt Amandra? Did she even know about these captured people? Did she know about the cruelty?

  Leitho had foreseen all this. He was always telling her to free his people. The hallucinations didn't make people see nonsense; it made them see the truth of things that happened to their kin.

  After she went to court with this document, Miran would never be the same. There would be a wedge driven in the society that had functioned well for thousands of years. The contract was broken. Foundation was useless. Everything she knew and loved about Miran was coming to a hard, merciless crash.

  * * *

  Eventually, she got sick of staring at the darkness and got up. She dressed in her plain apprentice uniform—which was much too hot for this climate—and packed up her bags by the light of the small light pearl. Everyone else in the room was still asleep, so she sneaked out as quietly as she could. Then she dropped her bags at the door, sneaked back and placed the cute pearl and its stand next to Jocassa's bed.

  She would be back, and she would do the right thing by these men.

  When Mikandra walked down the end of Market Street and crossed the square to the airport gate, the bluish glow of coming daylight gathered over the edge of the escarpment. The marshlands ahead were shrouded in filaments of low-hanging mist. The air was so still that not a leaf moved on the trees.

  A handful of bleary-eyed people had gathered at the airport gate. Local businessmen, all keihu in various degrees of rotund-ness, a few Kedrasi returning home, a couple of Damarcians who looked suspiciously like builders, a Mirani merchant. When she joined the group, there were a few respectful nods. People glanced at the Guild emblem on her tunic.

  So, Barresh had no Traders.

  How about she changed that? There were plenty of offices, and plenty of workers. It might be hard to find good ones, but they could be trained . . . whether they were uneducated Mirani ex-soldiers or nimble Pengali.

  Of course the airport was a disgrace and would need upgrading, but that work was already underway. The new Exchange was very good and there were plenty of builders in this place. The city was vibrant with opportunity instead of laden with responsibility.

  While she waited in the line, she built dream cities in her mind. She paved the airport and painted lines on the ground. She cut down the bushes and ripped out the fence and gate to make way for an airy modern building. One section for general passengers, one for commercial. There could be an upstairs office complex for the to-be-formed local chapter of the Trader Guild. It would be a large open structure with a common room that looked out over the airport and the marshland. There would be a hub fed directly from the Exchange. The square outside, that horribly bare and hot place would be covered with shade roofs. There would be shops and eating houses. Machizu would occupy a huge stand with lots of tables. There could even be an aerial walkway between the airport and the Exchange. Of course there would need to be better guesthouses for all those visitors, but there was room for those on the northern side of the square.

  Market Street would remain the
same, only better, cleaner, and tidied up. She liked Market Street. The cheap guesthouse would become a meeting point for young artists and musicians.

  Barresh needed trains. Kedrasi were good at building trains. They—

  —a shuttle came down and landed not far from the gate with a roar of downward jets. The first rays of sunlight peeped over the escarpment reflected in its brilliant metallic surface. This was a common Asto-built model, in service for many years, reliable in a wide range of conditions.

  The door opened. The passengers streaming out of the craft were mainly Kedrasi, a lot of them women. More workers for the council.

  The guard opened the gate to let them through. Mikandra waited behind him while he checked the incoming passengers. He gave cursory looks at the ID card reader. However, when two keihu people came past, he ignored them altogether. The data storage unit on his reader, which he carried on his belt, flashed briefly when they passed.

  Barresh looked a low-tech city, but, like in Hedron, locals carried ID chips. It accentuated everything she had learned about the city. Everything here said, we do not yet look like much, but do not under-estimate us. She vowed she never would.