by Sharon Lee
That grabbed people's attention well enough, and really started them buzzing.
"So, let's have these fine folks identify themselves. After they do it'll be this: Cheers, and they'll do the deal. No cheers, well then, we'll let these guys talk your ears off through another brew or two!"
She turned, and waved at Samay.
"Sing out, and make an intro! And remember, this is fun!"
Jethri saw the confusion cross Samay's face and he leaned in close, whispering, 'Sing out' is theater talk, show-off talk for speak up or speak out."
She bowed to him, and to the crowd she bowed an embellished, deliberately exotic bow of welcome and introduction, twined 'round an amplified version of her first bow, accepting necessity and challenge. When she spoke, it was with authority and with her head held high. Yes, Jethri thought, High House indeed!
"Samay pin'Aker Clan Midys, A'thodelm pin'Aker. I am an assistant trade accountant on Barskalee. After I finish my training, in two Standards, I will become head of my line, of pin'Aker, and fourth to the head of my clan, Clan Midys. Thank you for this honor."
Some talk and respectful cheering--good. Jethri gathered himself, following her excellent example with a bow, and then trying as best he could to emulate her unconcerned assurance.
"Jethri Gobelyn ven'Deelin Clan Ixin." He didn't have a position in his clan's line of succession, except least likely to succeed, but he continued with what had impressed Blinda--and probably Samay, too, for that matter-- "I learned to trade on Gobelyn's Market, I'm guest pilot on Keravath, and second trader on Elthoria." For emphasis he raised his trade ring again, then bowed.
"Thank you for this honor."
*
"Donpa Auely," the trader touched his left hand thrice to forehead in the direction of Samay and then at Jethri, trader and pilot. While his badge told the same story, it couldn't tell the tale of his smile up close, nor that it was obvious that his apparent steady drinking had left no impression at all on his full beer mug. "I really appreciate you taking this dare, the both of you!"
"Jadith Sabemis, Trader-at-Large, sir and ma'am," bowed the other--with her stim-stick giving off the very lightest scent of an herb that wasn't vya. "Thanks. Just so you know, since you're new and might not have the plan, anything we make out of this goes right into the Distressed Travelers Fund--mostly used for spacers and pilots who get stranded without resource. We both donate what we get!"
Samay bowed, first to the contestants, then to Jethri. "A contest worthy of a melant'i play, is it not? The one who wins loses the most!"
Her Trade was clear, her amusement plain.
"You good with that, Trader?" Estimable Trader Donpa Auely held his brew high in hands as steady as his eyes. "We'll take your consultations in the spirit that we're all giving something to pay forward since we can't pay it backward."
Jethri's nod came quickly, and lurched into an awkward bow of joint endeavor as startling noise erupted beside him.
"Someone bring their drinks up here!" Sabemis shouted out over the crowd. "In fact, bring me a drink, too! D'you think we're all gonna work dry?"
There were cheers, and after the drinks arrived, more.
*
They'd managed to cheer the bidding and the crowd on to a total of two thousand Terran bits by dint of letting the groups form confederations, each promising aid to one side or the other, while the "arbiters" enthusiastically backed up the claims for the unlikely virtues assigned this particular used grease gun or that special unused spatula, surely the very last of its class as yet unused, think of the history!
When the joke was wrung dry, and the bidding come to an end, Samay leaned to Jethri, her face bright.
"So much enjoyment! And for you?"
He assured her that he had also enjoyed the show, and was about to ask her if she'd care to have a private drink with him, away from her uncle and Grandma Doricky, but--
"Samay! C'mon help an old woman collect money from these rascals!"
"Duty," she whispered, and left Jethri's side for Doricky's, who was standing in front of the stage, facing the audience, her stick held high.
"All right, folks, we're gonna do our final formal trade for tonight, now. Trader Sternako used to have this spot in the program, but he's not been with us for a while, so we take turns, in his memory. Since we already got Trader ven'Deelin up on his feet, we'll see if he can get us back to real-time trading. So, Trader, you got the whole floor in front of you. What do you have to trade?"
With that, she left, on course for the counting table, donors trailing her. Some of the remaining crowd moved away to the bar, but a disturbing number, in Jethri's opinion, were willing to watch this next act, in which the new trader made a perfect fool of himself.
What was Doricky thinking? He hadn't brought anything to trade. Who would bring--to dinner and a reception--who would bring trade items?
"Traders trade, young Jethri," Norn ven'Deelin murmured in his memory. "Is that surprising?"
He took a breath. No; it wasn't surprising. He was a trader; of course he would trade.
But, what would he trade?
News? But they'd been trading news all day among themselves, informally--or had the more experienced been keeping count, even there?
Cold panic in the pit of his stomach. He took a sip of Misravot to warm it.
His uncle Paitor'd told a story more than once about how, given someone with money and a need, a trader had sold his own socks to make the deal.
And he'd better do something, now, or he'd lose the tempo.
A breath, to center himself--and a broad look out over the audience, both hands raised in surprise, one palm out, the other wrapped around his wine glass.
The crowd laughed, understanding his consternation. Surely, he might have been better prepared?
He had their attention, and he needed to keep it. He also needed to think, so he talked.
Instinctively, he bowed. "Thank you for this honor!" he said, with a little too much sincerity--which got another rumble of laughter--the while his mind raced.
"I must admit, Traders, that I have left my pods on Elthoria in order to hurry here to be among you!"
Grins and nods from those gathered, as some more, drinks refreshed, came back to see what the kid was doing.
"I have no bulk deals as you might imagine, and I'm too fond of my socks to offer them up!"
Laughter and nods there--more laughter than he'd expected--so apparently Paitor'd not been the first to tell that tale. He saw Samay look toward him as she passed a handful of trade coins over to Doricky, felt the blush rising, as half the crowd must have seen him look in that direction as well.
It struck him then that he'd hit the right note, and he went on, in a slightly softer tone.
"In fact, I'm fond of everything I have with me this evening . . ."
That brought guffaws and titters--and Samay smiled.
He shook his head, raised the free hand--and called out: "As traders you all know that we're fond of the things we trade. We believe in them. Like tubes of grease or special spatulas, they are all important and useful. After all, someone somewhere always needs something!"
He got agreement, and the crowd was still willing to listen.
"And so, with this opportunity come unexpectedly upon me, I am happy to recall that I have a special item with me this evening, and a knowledgeable audience, an audience willing to understand that I offer real value."
He moved his free hand, not quite randomly, so that the stone in his ring glittered and flashed in the stage lights. Taking a quick sip of Misravot, he carefully brought the glass in front of his hand, and slipped the ring free.
"I have here," he said, "a rare item of fine make and properties. I will entertain bids, but if I find the prevailing bid not high enough, I reserve the right to match it. If no one is interested, I will understand, and even find it fortunate--for this item will show best on the hand of one with a true affinity for uniquity!"
He'd carefully e
nclosed the gem within his fist, showing only the high-shine band peeking out from between his fingers, and recalling the seller's words. That was another trick he'd picked up from Paitor: If the words are good enough to sell something to you, those could be the right words to sell it to someone else!
"Come down close if you wish to trade, and look you on an ancient ring, made of multibanded flash-formed Triluxian!"
It was true that not every trader is interested in every trade, that some preferred soft finery and some preferred multi-Standard lots of supplies of staples, or even things that were profitably unchallenging like bulk ore. Still, Triluxian . . . had adherents.
Some moved nearer to the stage, and Samay had come back to her seat, so she was close enough to smile to him rather than to the room.
"Triluxian, with an old inscription I've not definitively interpreted!"
It was true, as far it went--he'd not researched the ring after he'd bought it--the plan, insofar as he had formed one, was to eventually show it to Grig . . . but . . .
"Who will bid?" he called, raising his hand over his head.
There was a movement from the front. He glanced down--and into a face he had never hoped to see again. His father stood before him, in clothing so plain it might have been ship togs, just loose pants and a light sweater, with a stylized crystal on the right breast.
He opened his mouth, but he had no breath to speak. He met his father's eyes--no, not his father's eyes, for there was no welcome, no joy at their reunion, only . . . curiosity. The man--the stranger--shook his head slightly, and Jethri closed his mouth.
He looked away with an effort: merely a trader measuring the audience. His glance again swept over the man who was not his father, this time taking in his companion.
The woman was dark, spare, with a touch of exotic mixed genes about her face that could have been Liaden and Trollian and looper all rolled into one. There was perhaps something familiar about the set of her chin, the angle of her jaw.
"Dulsey Omron," he remembered Doricky telling him, "the pilot who companions Uncle . . . Arin Gobelyn's for-real brother, and Arin was the spit of him."
He smiled over the audience--and with a flourish opened his hand to reveal the whole ring.
The firegem caught in the light, multiplied it and sent it blaring back. Brilliant scattered dots and rainbow flashes like sudden meteors dashed around the room. The ring, band and gem spread delight and consternation as it glittered and gathered attention.
Some laughed, some gasped, some stared.
"Who will make me an offer on this item? Shall we have an auction?" Jethri challenged the room, keeping his own gaze on the ring as more moved toward the front.
Some with a drink or two in them yelled out, "Firegem? I'll give a half-bit, if you polish it up and swear it'll catch me a virgin!"
Against the laughter and chatter rising from that noise, Jethri held steady, seeing in the back of the room Scout ter'Astin, and beside him the woman who had been standing heir-side to Rinork earlier.
Down front, Jethri went on with the business of trade.
"I have one bid, well below reserve. Who will give me a proper bid? I will prefer bids in hundreds of bits, or in cantra!"
That declaration drew gasps and complaints, sending a few away and drawing a few more in.
From closer to the front, Donpa Auely astutely asked, "What's it inscribed?"
Jethri looked, the lighting not being best for seeing it whole, but he remembered the shabby trader sitting across the table from him, and the tiny, ornate legend . . .
"Cobol 426 . . ."
"One hundred bits," Auely said, leaning forward, his hands resting on the back of Doricky's chair.
The man with the crystal on his chest made the sign for inspection, and Jethri moved toward him, but then slowed as the man spoke low to his companion.
Jethri tried to display the inscription, but the hand motion was clear--the man wanted to see the firegem!
Jethri showed it close, spilling brilliant refractions over Master Trader pin'Aker's face; Samay's and Doricky's as well.
"Two hundred bits," said Uncle.
There was a large soft noise as if the whole room had sighed at once.
"Yep," said Auely, and, "three hundred."
"Four hundred bits," countered Uncle.
Auely laughed lightly, looked to Sabemis, who leaned on his shoulder, whispering and nodding.
"Twelfth cantra," he said with a note of triumph.
"One-quarter cantra." The bid was given mildly, even carelessly.
"One-half cantra!" That was Sabemis, glaring . . . and she looked about, making hand signs asking for spot loans from friends . . .
The room stared at these bidders, back and forth.
The man in the plain apparel sighed, and bowed toward Jethri--obviously a capitulation . . .
"One cantra, plus four hundred bits. Also, I will buy your breakfast and an hour Standard of your time for a consult. I can pay you now."
Jethri looked up, where Sabemis and Auely were shaking heads and shrugging while the shocked silence became a buzz.
"Out here, Trader," he admitted, nodding to the opposition and then to Jethri.
"Offers?" Jethri asked politely.
No sound but clinks from the bar.
Doricky surprised him by slowly rising, using her cane to support her at first and then pointing to the empty chair, Sternako's chair.
"Sit there, Trader ven'Deelin. Sit there, I say, and let the man pay you. Someone bring us all a glass!"
Then there was applause. Uncle and Dulsey nodded at him distantly, eyes still on the ring.
Chapter Twenty
Tradedesk, Gallery 770
The wine arrived--Misravot, of course. Jethri wondered if the bar had run out of their supply yet, then decided that wasn't his problem. He accepted his glass from Samay, with an inclination of the head and a smile.
"You were magnificent, Jethri," she murmured.
That gave him a warm glow, which increased somewhat when Trader Auely raised his glass and announced, "Profit to the trader; pleasure to the buyer!"
"Profit and pleasure," those gathered by the chair murmured together, and all drank.
Jethri scarcely wet his lips, and smiled all around before putting his glass aside and nodding to Uncle.
"It remains to exchange profit and pleasure," he said. "If we may be excused, Gentles?"
That hint peeled off the casual observers, which left Uncle and Dulsey Omron--the victors--Traders Sabemis and Auely--the losers--Doricky, Samay, and a slim trader standing just at the edge of his eye . . .
"Trader ven'Deelin." Uncle gave his glass to his companion and came up to the chair. He extended his hand, opening the fingers to display the cantra piece, and the four hundred-bit coins.
Jethri inclined his head.
"Fair price," he acknowledged. "Please, Grandma Ricky; accept this gentleman's coin for the Distressed Travelers Fund."
"Right you are, Trader, thank you for the gift of your skill."
Uncle turned and offered the coins with a flourish; she accepted them solemnly.
"Enjoy your purchase, sir; it was fairly won."
Uncle turned back to Jethri, who rose and offered the ring on his palm. The firegem flared and flickered, outshining the artificial flame in the fireplace.
"Sir. I will tell you that I am sorry, a little. The ring pleased me. My hope is that it will please you, as well."
Uncle smiled, which altered his face, making him seem a little more like his own man, and considerably less like Arin.
"Trader, I cannot adequately express my pleasure in owning this ring. Never fear; I will honor it appropriately, and I will also honor you, who put me in the way of it."
With that, Uncle raised the ring and slid it immediately onto his own finger. The gem seemed to flash even brighter, for an instant, as if it knew the hand, and was pleased to adorn it.
There came a collective sigh from those around, who, one
by one, bowed to the trader and the buyer, and moved away, quietly, to other pursuits.
When they were alone, Uncle reached into another pocket, and produced a quarter-cantra, which he again offered on his palm.
Jethri folded his hands together. "We are in Balance, sir; each fairly compensated for this night's efforts."
"You mistake me, sir. This"--he raised his hand slightly, to show the offered coin--"is your consulting fee, for one Standard hour of your time, tomorrow morning, at breakfast."
"Surely it is customary to pay such a fee after the consultation?"
"Surely it is not," Dulsey Omron said, entering the conversation with a laugh. "Take my advice, Trader ven'Deelin, and always collect for a consult ahead. Then you are certain of being paid, even if the client dislikes your advice!"
He bowed to her. "That's good advice, Pilot; thank you."
"You're welcome, Trader. We leave you now to enjoy the rest of your evening. We breakfast tomorrow at ninth hour, at the Framinham Cafe!"
*
Jethri watched his . . . clients? . . . relatives? walk away toward the bar. He should, he thought, be exhausted after the various exigencies of the evening, but instead he fel t. . . energized. Even overenergized. Maybe there would be dancing, after all . . .
He took a breath, half-turned--
And there was the figure from the corner of his eye, considering him with an expression of perplexity, amazement, and . . . was it pique?
"It is an honor to observe the level of your art, sweet Jeth Ree, but tell me what I must do to persuade you to answer your mail!"
"Tan Sim!"
Jethri went two quick steps forward, arms outstretched for a hug.
Grinning, Tan Sim grabbed his forearms, a public touch permitted between close associates, Jethri recalled.
He hastily altered course, and gripped Tan Sim's arms, and the two of them stood gripping and holding, a riot of emotion for Liaden eyes, and the picture of restraint to Terran.
"Your pardon," Jethri muttered. "Misravot."
"What? Hasn't that head hardened yet?"
"Oh, it's hard enough, but in all the wrong ways--as you well know! As for my mail--I answered your last! Unless there's been one since I've been traveling . . ."