CHAPTER SEVEN
* * * * *
Andireeport
Master Trader yos’Galan had purchased handmade papers and pens turned from local woods. Padi watched as he was now examining pottery bowls with a crystalline glaze that the attending artisan swore made them virtually unbreakable.
“What an interesting idea,” he said to the square-faced woman. “Is this a house glaze, or your own innovation?”
“My own,” she said with a slight bow. “I have always been a great reader. Some years back, I found a monograph regarding crystal knives produced by a certain tribe of beings known in the broader universe as Clutch Turtles. Their knives were proven to be virtually indestructible, and—well. Pottery is a fragile thing, and we suffer in the far trade for it. So, I set myself the task.”
She picked a bowl up from the display shelf, a winsome work in swirling deep blues, the fluted lip all cream and white. It reminded Padi of a wave racing toward shore; she yearned to hold it, and find how the shape fit her hand.
The artisan threw the bowl at the tiled floor.
Padi cried out in protest, and felt her face heat, even as the bowl struck the tiles with a bell-like clang, and settled, entirely unshattered.
“I am impressed,” the master trader said.
The artisan bowed, and continued the motion, plucking the bowl up, and straightening. She looked to Padi, a smile on her face, and glanced at the master trader.
“It is permitted to give a gift to one who would not see beauty destroyed?”
“It is a handsome gift, for an apprentice,” he said, his voice perfectly neutral.
Padi felt her cheeks warm again. She had displeased him. Well, of course she had! What trader squeaked aloud during the trade?
“We were all apprentices once,” the artisan said, the bowl balanced delicately on the tips of her fingers. “I still have the bowl my own master gave me to place by my bed, so that every morning when I opened my eyes, I would see it, and recall that I strove to bring beauty and balance into the world.”
“A wise master. I hope that I may be as wise.” He bowed slightly. “I am honored, that my apprentice should receive so apt a gift.”
The artisan smiled even more fully. Padi bowed to her honor, more deeply than Father had done.
“It is a wonderful bowl,” she said. “I will strive to be worthy of it. Thank you.”
“You are very welcome,” the artisan said. “The bowl pleases me, as well. And it will please me to think of it voyaging in space, supporting an eager apprentice along her path to master.”
Her bow suggested master to apprentice, though there was something in the hand motion—perhaps, Padi thought, master-to-an-apprentice-not-her-own.
“Allow me, please, to wrap this, and place it in a sack, so that you may carry it more easily on port.”
* * *
The sack had long handles. Padi hitched them over one shoulder and nestled the bowl against her side. The master trader had spent another few minutes with the artisan, arranging for the Passage to take samples of her work, and had left a beam code and an infokey for the guild master’s pleasure.
They paused now in the common corridor: the master trader, herself, and Vanner Higgs, who made their third. Mr. Higgs’s official title was Technician First Class; he was also part of the Passage’s security detail. Before coming to them, he had been a technical sergeant with a mercenary unit. His primary responsibilities there, too, had to do with technologies and connectivities, though he had of course had battle training, as well. He had told her, when a previous schedule had placed them on port together, that it was much more peaceful being a tech on the Passage, because no one was trying to kill him while he was setting up the equipment.
He stood now, patiently, a little apart from her and the master trader, his eyes alert; not a technician at this moment, but a security person, on duty.
“Well, Apprentice? What do you think of the potter’s wares?”
“They’re very beautiful,” Padi said, recalling the bowls, cups, and art objects on display. Everything in the shop had been pottery—down to the glazed tile floor. “But they’re handmade; she cannot possibly produce enough to make it profitable for her to trade off-planet.”
“Now, there’s an interesting question. Did you see the discreet sign above the wrapping desk, Contact the Guildmaster for Bulk Orders?”
Padi frowned. She hadn’t seen the sign; she had been too interested in the wares. Another failure; a trader sees everything, just as much as a security guard.
“No, sir; I didn’t,” she confessed.
“It was, as I say, discreet. I have asked that the guildmaster be in touch, should our information interest her. I confess that I am agog to hear how they manage bulk orders—and what ‘bulk’ may mean to them.”
“I am interested in those topics, as well,” she said.
“I will be certain to keep you informed,” he said affably, and looked over her head to give Mr. Higgs a nod.
“Vanner. We’re about to forsake the halls of civilization for the noise and confusion of the Fruit and Flower Market. Are you afraid?”
“Not so much, sir,” Mr. Higgs said genially. “I been on Gaston Prime during the Feast of the Founder. That spoilt me, kinda, for fruit markets.”
“I understand. I will, therefore, content myself with a warning concerning the flowers.”
“Always look twice at the flowers, sir.”
“An excellent policy.” Master Trader yos’Galan turned to Padi. “You are now lead trader. I will recuse myself, insofar as I may. Does this satisfy?”
“Yes, Master Trader.”
“Splendid. Allow me to carry your parcel. A trader should have her hands and her wits about her when she goes in to negotiate.”
“Yes,” she said slipping the bag off her shoulder and handing it to him. She felt a slight pang as he slipped the handles over his own shoulder, which was ridiculous, of course. Father would certainly take very good care of such a bowl.
“Thank you,” she said, and nodded to Mr. Higgs before setting a brisk pace down the cool hallway, through the door, and out into the day port.
* * *
Padi had done her research, so she knew where the nearest east-west jitney station was, where to debark and which slideway would convey them directly to the fruit section of the Fruit and Flower Market. She told over this information to Father and to Mr. Higgs, in case they should become separated, which was wise, for she and Mr. Higgs did lose Father on the slideway, which was very crowded.
They stepped off at the Fruit Market landing, just the two of them. Padi turned just as Father exited the slideway. He gave her a nod.
“What a terrible crush, to be sure! How fortunate that they all seem to be going someplace else!”
“Fortunate, indeed,” she said, drawing a deep breath to calm the flutters in her middle. She felt like she had when she had taken the test to find if she was, indeed, a pilot of Korval.
Well, one knew how to cope with sky-nerves, after all. She closed her eyes briefly, accessing a quick calming exercise. Her stomach settled into its usual place, and her hands immediately felt steadier.
Opening her eyes, she nodded to Father and to Mr. Higgs, and pointed toward the platform stairs.
* * *
Technically, milaster was not a fruit, but a nut—the kernel of the laster fruit, very little of which escaped the appetites of the population of Andiree. The kernel, however, was not so well-regarded, though it was perfectly edible, and, indeed the population of Chessel’s World regarded it with a passion to rival that of Andiree for the fruit.
In terms of trade, the matter could not have fallen out more satisfactorily. The kernel, which was durable and easy to ship, was desired off-world, while the delicate fruits were desired on-world.
Padi paused to take her bearings by the corner markers. Her destination was at the intersection of Blue-Flower and Green-Fruit, which was—there, to her left. She had turned right one row too soon at the top of the grid.
“There’s our corner,” she said, turning to Mr. Higgs, who smiled and nodded. She glanced beyond him, to where Father…
Father was gone.
No, that was absurd; there was no crush of slideway travelers here in the hall, merely a few dozens of shoppers, some merchants standing at the entrance to their booths, and a few ’bot cleaners. Padi spun slowly on her heel, as if seeking the corners one more time, for verification.
Father was nowhere to be seen.
She blinked, feeling a little unsettled in her stomach. It was true that he had said he would recuse himself. But, surely, he would not have left the group without a word at least to Mr. Higgs. And certainly he would not have violated the order that all crew on port travel in threes, or in the company of a member of the ship’s security team.
One more breath; one more glance around—the last, lest she attract the attention of a floor monitor, and that would be embarrassing, to be delivered to her destination by a monitor, as if she were too green to have studied the map beforetime.
Her glance crossed that of Vanner Higgs. He tipped his head, very slightly, to the left. Padi looked beyond his shoulder, her eyes snagging at once on the merest shadow; a faint suggestion of silver hair, strong nose, and shoulders outlined by a dark blue shirt sketched upon the warm, market air.
It would appear that Father had, indeed, suggested to those surrounding that he simply…was not present.
While it disturbed her that such a subterfuge—even born of Healer talent, as it must be—had very nearly fooled her, at the same time she was grateful that Father had found a way to clear the trade for her.
Padi sighed, quietly, and raised her hand to point again at their corner before moving off in that direction.
* * * * *
Well, that had been unexpected!
Shan looked down at his own hand, relieved to see that broad, brown member, with the carved amethyst of a master of trade sparkling cheerfully—one might say, smugly—there.
It had given him a bad turn, just a moment ago, to look down and see nothing, though he could feel the hand perfectly well, and each finger when he wriggled them and the weight of the ring.
Granted, he didn’t often suggest that he wasn’t present, but on those occasions when he had, the effect had been more as if those around him had simply forgotten that he was there. If one was determined enough, one could see beyond the suggestion, as he had found one evening to his sorrow, when he had been trying to avoid an overzealous suitor.
In no case had he ever forgotten he was present—nor had he ever vanished before his very eyes.
Happily, he had been able to bring himself back from total absence to what seemed to be a shadow of himself by concentrating on what he should be seeing. It was as if he had applied too much force to the original suggestion, and gone one step deeper, into actual invisibility.
Which was nonsense.
At least, he thought it was nonsense.
He felt his fingers moving and glanced down at his hand, watching the shadowy red counter walk across foggy knuckles.
Drat the thing, he thought irritably. The counter hesitated in its journey, as if it had heard the thought. That was interesting.
He focused his attention on the counter.
Go away! he thought at it, as sternly as he was able.
Between one knuckle and the next, it vanished.
Shan blinked, and reached into the usual pocket.
No counter.
He checked the other pocket.
No counter.
Well, good. He was delighted to be rid of the blasted thing.
Only…
Where had it gone?
He took a breath. A problem for later, if problem it was. He’d speak to Priscilla about it. In the meantime, he followed Padi down a narrow, sparsely populated aisle to a booth sporting a red-and-blue checked awning; a rosy-cheeked man wearing a white apron over a bright red shirt stood behind a red counter supporting four large glass jars, each containing a brightly colored foodstuff.
Padi pulled her Andireeport trade card from her pocket, and approached the counter. Vanner stopped just short of entering the shop, standing at ease, his eyes roving up and down the aisle, surveying the meager crowd.
Shan stepped into the shop itself, though not so close as the counter. He wanted to be able to watch, and to hear. Padi had seemed rather nervous earlier, though this was not by any means her first time as a buyer.
Well, and sometimes the work itself steadied the nerves. Certainly, she seemed cool enough now, as she bowed to the gentleman, and extended the card.
* * * * *
“Trader yos’Galan, welcome!” the red-cheeked man bellowed, his smile showing an amazing number of very white teeth. “I am Gustav rel’Ana, proprietor of the Laster Garden. How may I serve you? We have, fresh and amenable to stasis, candied trovyul, salted ginger, and dehydrated spinginach. For your special customers, we have also a small amount of laster chutney. Such a treasure does not often come to our port location, but last year saw a laster harvest as none before, and we are able to offer a few—a very few!—cases of this Andiree delicacy to discerning buyers.”
Merchant rel’Ana’s voice was loud, as if he were shouting at her from across the aisle, rather than the width of the counter. Padi kept her face smooth and did not back away from the assault upon her ears. She did, however, answer in a soft and mannerly voice that would have astonished Cousin Kareen.
“The chutney,” she said, diverted briefly from her agenda, “can it be put into stasis?”
The man’s smile became…less broad, and his cheeks became redder. Padi wondered if she had been maladroit.
“The chutney, Trader, no. You do not put laster chutney into stasis. You tuck it tenderly into the best stateroom, as if it were your own child.”
She had been maladroit; she scolded herself, she should have known better. Hadn’t her research told her how fragile the laster fruit was? Surely that would be the case for anything made from it.
“I am desolate to have no such tender accommodations available to the chutney,” she said. “I have only heard tales of this rare foodstuff, and for a moment, I allowed my hope to interfere with my good sense.”
The smile widened again. She had redeemed herself.
“But, if not the chutney, what brings you to me?”
“I am in search of milaster,” she said. “Quite a bit of milaster. I am informed that you sell in bulk.”
“I do, yes! However, Trader, I must warn you that the kernels, they will lose…taste, texture, nutritional values after only a very short time in stasis. They remain edible, but they do not remain excellent!”
“I understand,” Padi assured him. “I plan to deliver within the toleration period.”
“Hm.” That was said quite softly; the smile entirely vanished now, as he studied her from brown eyes squinted into slits.
“How much bulk milaster will you buy, Trader?”
Now they were approaching the correct course. Padi looked directly into those calculating brown eyes.
“That will depend upon how much you have to sell, and at what price and condition,” she answered.
Gustav rel’Ana’s eyebrows rose.
“Well, then,” he said. “If you please, Trader, step over to the side counter, just there. I will call for assistance here, and then—we will talk.”
* * * * *
There was a tiny ripple in the air by her ear, as if a flutterbee had passed quite near.
Priscilla looked up from her work screen, frowning slightly. Flutterbees were not expectable in the office of a captain hard at work inside of a starship in orbit…
There.
A glow of dusty red drew her eye, on the desk between her coffee mug and the keyboard. She took a careful breath, and extended her attention, remembering how this very same game counter had been waiting for her—for Moonhawk—when she had come to Weapons Hall, to gather those things that she would need, as the captain of a warship around an embattled planet. Then, the counter had been sparkling with Shan’s presence, when he had been separated from the ship, his fate unknown. It had comforted her to know without doubt that he was alive.
When matters were settled, and they were rejoined, the counter had left her and…returned, to Shan.
“Stupid object,” he’d told it, “I’m not Lute.”
Only he was Lute, in the same way that she was Moonhawk, old souls both. She had been taught at Temple that she was “Moonhawk’s vessel,” and that her strength as a Witch came from that special relationship with one of the oldest priestesses of their order.
Lute had, according to history and myth, been Moonhawk’s companion…across many lifetimes. He was not himself a priest—there were no priests at the temples on Sintia—but he had, often, been acknowledged as a Man of Power, though some histories referred to him as a mere cunningman.
While she would never suggest to Shan that his gift came from his special relationship with Lute, it was clear to her that there was…an interest.
She touched the red counter with the tip of one finger, read the tale of its recent adventures, and smiled.
Shan had sent it away in a fit of pique, and it had come to her, apparently being unwilling yet to return to Lute, or to Weapons Hall.
Priscilla focused on the battered item, imprinting I love you into its wooden soul, and then murmured, “Return.”
She lifted her finger.
There was a flash of red, brighter than the counter itself, followed by that small disturbance in the quiet air of her office.
The tiny uncluttered triangle of desk space between her coffee mug and the keyboard was empty.
Still smiling, Priscilla returned to work.
* * * * *
Padi’s knees were shaking, and her hair was damp with sweat, but she had managed the deal, and gotten what she wanted, at a price that was…very nearly…what she had intended to pay.
Gustav rel’Ana had produced a sample of what was in his storerooms, along with certifications from the growers and harvesters. She had scanned them with the reader provided by the port, and found them authentic—which was to say, the port transmitted to her the Laster Cooperative’s confirmation that the information she had been given was true and correct.
The samples tasted good to her—the nutmeat was firm and a little sweet, very pleasant in the mouth—but she was certainly not an expert on freshness. The certifications from the growers co-op included a list of nutrients, and a graph showing the rate at which each degraded, in stasis and on the shelf.
Gustav rel’Ana wanted more per unit than Padi’s limit, but again, her research stood her well. She didn’t quite have to walk away from the counter before her view prevailed, though it had been a near thing.
And in the end, he had gotten a little of his own back: because of the method by which the nuts were packed and sold, she was required to overbuy, for he would not break a sealed unit.
She signed the sales chit; gave him the code for the tug which would be bringing the Passage’s pod into orbit, and the deal was done.
“It has been a pleasure, Trader yos’Galan!” the vendor told her, shouting again. “Come to me whenever you have need of milaster. I will be very glad to do business with you again!”
That made her a little uneasy, but the papers had been signed; the delivery scheduled, and the money, she was certain, already transferred out of the port account with her name on it. Master Trader yos’Galan would surely critique her performance on the shuttle lift to the Passage, and she would learn then if she had been foolish beyond measure.
She exchanged bows with the vendor and found her way out of the booth, Mr. Higgs falling in beside her, Father—still rather indistinct—beside him. Gods, she wanted a cup of tea and a quiet place to sit and gather her composure.
That…was not her usual reaction to a completed trade. Most usually, she felt exhilarated, and curious to see what else the market might offer. Today, she only wanted to leave. However, she was not alone. Indeed, she was in the company of a master trader, who had not necessarily shared all of his requirements with her.
“Is there business yet to do?” she asked.
There was a slight pause, as if Mr. Higgs waited for the master trader to speak. When there was no contribution from that quarter, he said that he had no other business, and that they were coming up on time for the shuttle, anyway.
Padi nodded and led the way toward the slideway, her stride somewhat less energetic than it had been on the way in. She wondered if Gustav rel’Ana had a nerligig or another, less legal, mood regulator concealed inside his booth.
The slideway platform was just ahead. She forced herself to walk more quickly.
* * * * *
Shan felt something settle in the depths of his pocket, and sighed.
It was nice while it lasted, he thought, watching Padi, ahead of them. The child looked exhausted, which was likely those short sleep shifts catching up with her at the far end of an unexpectedly vigorous session of trade.
He had been wary of broaching the topic of sleep shifts. As a mere father, his concern would surely be set aside for her own necessities, and he was loath to bring the master trader into the matter.
Well, they would have a conference on the lift to the Passage; he would mention it then, in the context of the effectiveness of the trader on the floor. That might set her to thinking.
He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out the red counter; it was glowing somewhat, and he felt, as plain as a kiss on his cheek, Priscilla’s love, warm and steady.
Closing his fingers around the token, he smiled to himself. At least now he knew where it had gone. Best if it had returned to Weapons Hall and the improbable edition of himself he had met there, Lute the magician. Failing that, it was…good that it took itself off to Priscilla, who had the skill to deal with it, rather than landing in the pocket of some random trader, or dealer in antiquities.
Ahead, Padi was angling toward the ramp that led to the slideway platform. Several people were clustered near a booth there, and one of those turned his head, spotted Padi and detached himself, his course set to intercept.
Shan took a deep breath, thrusting the counter back into his pocket, and deliberately thought himself very visible, indeed.
* * * * *
Padi saw him out of the corner of her eye, a male in local clothing, perhaps a little older than she was, his height and his features combined to convince her that he was Liaden. He was coming toward her, deliberately, as if he knew her.
She had never seen him before; she was certain of it.
Liadens were no longer safe, and the agents of the Department of the Interior were demonstrably stupid enough to walk up to them openly and demand that she, and Father, and Mr. Higgs come with them.
If he didn’t try anything stupider.
Still, she thought, recalling to mind her lessons in daibri’at and Arms Master Schneider’s advice…Still, it might be something else. He might be on another trajectory altogether, and not on course for them.
She altered her course somewhat; the boy altered his course, still aiming to cut her off.
Padi took a breath, taking in the surroundings with a quick glance. Open enough, some people, but not a crowd, and he seemed to be by himself.
She stopped, centered, and faced him.
He smiled, wide and delighted—not Liaden—and came forward more rapidly.
She flexed her knees. Though he wouldn’t be much to throw, she was briefly grateful that she had given Father her bowl.
“Well, what’s this, an acquaintance late met?”
Father’s voice was loud in her ear, and there he was, completely solid, and abruptly between her and the approaching target, her bowl in its sack over his shoulder.
“Padi, do you know this young person?”
The boy stopped, confusion on his face. Perhaps, Padi thought, he was wondering where Father had come from.
“No, sir,” she said, in answer to his question. “We have not met.”
“Ah. But perhaps it was myself you wished to speak with?” Father asked.
The boy shook his head.
“Your pardon, sir, it was…the lady. I thought I did know her, the resemblance—but I see that I’m wrong! Pardon, sirs! Lady!”
He bowed, a shapeless thing, neither Liaden nor Terran, and without waiting for an acknowledgment, turned back the way he had come.
Padi let out a long, shaking breath.
“Well, now,” Father said, looking down at her from his height. His voice was mocking, but his eyes…were not.
“Wasn’t that easier than killing the poor lad?”
She hadn’t been going to kill him, Padi thought. Unless he had proven a threat, of course.
“I didn’t know him,” she said, her voice sounding angry in her own ears. “If he was a threat, I wanted to be prepared.”
“Exactly correct,” Father said. “And now that he has been properly chastised, I suggest we board the slideway and go home.”