CHAPTER EIGHT
* * * * *
Chessel’s World
Padi settled into a hard plastic chair in the seller’s section of the Chesselport Grand Auction Hall. There was no real reason for her to be in the hall; all of the important transactions—saving the sale, of course—had been handled at the auctioneer’s docket, in the antechamber. There, she had registered her cargo, provided a unit sample, her receipt, and the certifications and verifications from Andireeport and the Laster Cooperative. The cargo had previously been moved to the bidding bin assigned to the Passage, along with the goods Master Trader yos’Galan had on offer—tame stuff, there, the Number Three Mix; none of the goods he had taken on at Andiree, nothing at all interesting, really. Number Three Mix was the blandest of the six standard trade mixes the master trader had to hand.
In Padi’s opinion.
Of course, she thought, looking up at the upcoming auctions board, he probably wanted to learn something from his offering: how many bid and at what price; who had bid; if they accepted or rejected the trade catalog offered free to all who asked; how many actually made contact with him after accepting the catalog; and if they had anything potentially interesting, or only useful, to offer the habitants of an upcoming port.
He, of course, wasn’t here to watch the auction—master traders had far more lucrative matters to tend. The auction was…an introduction, that was all. A way—one way—to get his name out on the port and into the mouths of the street vendors. He, himself, had been invited to a reception at the portmaster’s office later in the local day, and was currently contacting prominent names on port, to arrange for meetings before and after.
Padi sighed where she sat, her eyes on the board. One vendor had bid on her offering, at the usual market rate. She twisted her fingers together and reminded herself that this was only one bid—and likely an automatic, as it had come so quickly. The bidder hadn’t had a chance to read the documentation, really, and to understand why what she had on offer had value.
She sighed. The reception. Ordinarily, she would have been at the reception, too, as the master trader’s ’prentice, but the invitation had specified “Master Trader yos’Galan” and “no guests.” It seemed an odd thing, and she had said so. Father had merely said that he had seen odder and told her that she would, therefore, need to see to the auction of her cargo without his help.
Which was a joke, naturally enough, and the reason why Padi came to be able to indulge herself at the public auction, with only Third Mate and Pilot Dil Nem Tiazan, and Comm Tech Sally Triloff at her side. The third mate was kin, of course—Korval and Erob allowed such relationships, so often had the lines been crossed—though very much her elder. He had, in fact, come out of retirement to oblige the captain when she sought to fill those posts left vacant by the…events on Liad. Despite his age, his hair was quite red; he was stern, and had little to say for himself. He had voiced no objection to Padi’s scheme of sitting for a while to watch the bidding; merely, he had settled into a chair near, though not next to, her, pulled a reader out of his pocket and was immediately immersed in a book, or a report, or…
Sally was another matter. Padi felt that Sally would rather have liked to walk about the port, instead of sitting in an auditorium watching the apprentice trader stare at the bid boards and bite her fingernails. She really ought to suggest that they wander to Sally’s whim; after all, the auctioneer had her comm code and would transmit the details when—if—the lot sold. The auctioneer also had her account information on file; her portion of the sale, less the auctioneer’s percentage and such taxes as the port levied, would be automatically forwarded to it.
There really was no reason to sit here and monitor the board herself, as if her attention might influence the outcome.
She leaned toward Sally, her eyes still on the board—and abruptly straightened, breath-caught.
Another bid had come in, appreciably higher than the first; a bid more in line with the worth of the product described in the documentation she had provided the auctioneer. Padi forced herself to breathe, swallowed—and a third bid came in, this one even more substantial than the second.
Padi’s chest hurt. She was…it was going according to plan! Her milaster would be known as a superior product and she would be paid…her research had suggested that she would net…between two and three percent more than the degraded milaster that came to Chessel’s World via the loop ships. The profit was good, of course, but the real prize would be if she could parlay today’s sale into a standing order. If she could turn that trump, why, she would have had a hand in shaping the route itself, and would win for Chessel’s World the honor of a scheduled stop.
She stared up at the board, her hands clenched on her lap, blinking as a fourth bid came in, slightly higher than the bid before, which might mean that momentum was slowing, but it couldn’t have topped out already…
“Padi?” A light hand pressed her sleeve. “You okay?”
Padi felt a jolt of guilt. Sally. She had been going to offer Sally the lead, which was only balanced and fair.
She turned, and smiled deliberately into the tech’s dark eyes.
“It is my first large offer at auction,” she said, and saw a tiny expression of disappointment cross the woman’s face.
“But,” Padi continued, “I can follow the bidding on my comm.” She pulled the unit from her belt. “I will make certain of my channel, and then let us go out onto the port—if you will lead us?”
Sally smiled widely, pleased. Good.
“I’d really like that,” she said—and her smile faded slightly. She turned to look at Dil Nem.
“Sir, do you wish to lead, on port?”
It was a courtesy for his rank, Padi knew, and it spoke well of Sally that she offered it, when she plainly wished the position herself.
The third mate looked up from his reader, and lifted a shoulder.
“I have no need to lead,” he said, in strongly accented, but perfectly intelligible Terran. “Please, find for us the hidden delights of the port.”
Sally took that as a challenge; Padi saw it in the flash of her eyes.
“I’ll be happy to do so, sir,” she said, and looked to Padi. “Have you found your channel?”
“I have,” she said. “I may be heard to ping every now and then, as new bids come in.”
“Fair warning,” Sally said. She stood, a grin on her face, and nodded toward the closest exit. “There’s our way out.”
* * *
Chesselport was open to the weather, which was agreeable. Her research had revealed that Chessel’s World at this latitude and longitude enjoyed clement weather, with no great variation in temperatures and no extended rainy season. Other geographies on-world did labor under these inconveniences, but they did not intrude upon the port. Following Sally down broad streets lined with shops, Padi was reminded of the days when she had accompanied Father up and down Solcintra Port as he pursued his duties there.
The comm on her belt pinged as they walked, but she resisted the temptation to look at the screen every time. Every other time, that was well enough; it was a good compromise between a trader’s care for the trade, and a proper enthusiasm for a crew mate’s skills.
For Sally was a skilled leader. Unlike some other crew mates, whom Padi charitably did not name, even to herself, Sally had a sure instinct for interesting streets and a good eye for a shop likely to hold unusual wares.
Padi was particularly impressed by a shop hosting a live demonstration of what she gathered was a traditional dyeing technique. It would seem that Dil Nem and Sally were similarly struck, for neither protested Padi’s suggestion that they stay to watch a second demonstration.
The dyer noticed their interest and rewarded it by draping a finished scarf in graduating shades of green around Dil Nem’s neck with a smile.
“It becomes ’ee,” he said. “Wear it in health.”
For a moment, it seemed to Padi as if Dil Nem might refuse the gift—then he bowed smoothly.
“I thank you,” he said, and Padi, just behind him, added, “Have you a card? If anyone asks my kinsman where he came by such a handsome scarf, we want to give good directions.”
The man grinned. He produced a card from the pocket of his apron with a flourish, and handed it to Padi.
“There’s a smart kitlet,” he said. “For that, your own scarf, and your friend, too!”
He was as good as his word: Sally’s scarf was a deep crimson with pale pink borders, and Padi’s sported a swirling pattern of misty violet and deep purple.
After leaving the dye shop, Padi’s comm pinged three times, on a rising tone. She snatched it off her belt and thumbed on the screen.
She stopped, staring.
“Bad news?” Sally asked, from beside her.
“No…” she said slowly. “I don’t think so. My lot sold at”—three-and-a-half percent over average!—“a good price. But I am wanted by the auctioneer, to sign an…affidavit.”
* * * * *
The traders of Chesselport were a standoffish lot, Shan thought, leaning back in his chair with a frown. Working with the port directory and trade bios, he had created a list of traders to contact, from most desirable to least, and had spent the last hour and a half calling them, in order. He had not expected to complete the list before it was time to depart for the portmaster’s reception, but he had expected that he would have at least six appointments to keep afterward.
As it happened, he was disappointed in both of his expectations, for he had called every name on the list, and still lacked three-quarters of an hour to his departure time, and…he had not one appointment to show for his labors.
True, he had only managed to speak to a handful of traders personally, but every one of them had been busy, or had nothing to offer at this time. To the latter, he had said that it was an introductory visit only, whereupon they, too, were busy.
It was…unprecedented. Staring up at the ceiling, arms folded behind his head, Shan tried to recall if he had ever in his life found a port where no one cared to speak to him. Even on Dayan, so long as he remained in the port proper, and in the company of a woman, he found traders willing to talk with him. Not necessarily to trade with him, he having made the genetic error of being male, but to show wares, in case he happened to know of a ship properly captained by a woman, where the trader was also a woman of a clan whose delm was a woman.
Really, it was quite lowering. He was beginning to enter into Theo’s feelings of rejection.
Perhaps he had erred in the matter of the auction. He had wished to feel out the market, as, one had assumed, the market had wished to feel out a new trader come to port. Lot Number Three, commonplace as it was, generally produced good results in that regard. The simplicity of the offerings very often served to soothe those who might be wary of that new trader on port, thinking that he might be too dear, or one of those fellows who dandled in exotic wares and would scarcely admit that there might ever be the possibility of a market for hairbrushes.
He sighed at the ceiling, and closed his eyes.
Had he come up against local custom? Was he, in fact, precipitate? Ought he to have waited until the portmaster’s reception? The Chesselport World Book had not mentioned an introduction protocol, but the books were sometimes blind in…interesting ways. If it was so ingrained—that one must be introduced to a stranger by a person of suitable status before one might interact with said stranger—it might very well go without saying, for what civilized person would behave differently?
He snorted lightly.
“Assume that you’ve sinned against custom, Shan,” he said aloud. “Go to the portmaster’s gather, become introduced, and hope that the traders you contacted out of order are of a uniformly forgiving—”
A gong sounded loudly.
Shan spun the chair, his hand flashing out to the keyboard—alert incoming, that ugly noise meant.
Something bad had happened.
* * * * *
“No, I will not sign that.”
Padi looked directly into the auctioneer’s eyes.
“I did not enter stolen goods into the auction, and I do not agree to forfeit my profit. I showed you the receipts and the certifications. You accepted them and placed them in the bid packet with the rest of the information.” She paused, and deliberately lifted an eyebrow. “Did you not?”
That was, perhaps, a bit too much, from a ’prentice trader to an auctioneer, but she was angry, and she was certainly not going to sign this…this affidavit admitting a crime she did not commit, nor was she going to allow them to keep the proceeds of her sale—the considerable proceeds of her sale.
“The receipts and certifications are legitimate,” the auctioneer said. “I regret that we accepted them before we were informed that the lot is part of an ongoing criminal enterprise. I advise you that signing the affidavit and forfeiting the funds is your best option.”
“I will do no such thing! I am connected with a registered and well-respected tradeship, the Dutiful Passage herself! Show me this ongoing criminal enterprise.”
“The burden of proof is not on me,” the auctioneer said.
“Relinquish my profits,” Padi said, proud of how stern and steady her voice was. “I will not sign the affidavit; you may take it away.”
“Trader, I cannot. The law is clear. Profits from a criminal enterprise are forfeit to the port. Those who do not sign the affidavit reveal themselves as criminals in fact and are taken up by Security.”
She felt a presence by her left shoulder; heard low-voiced Liaden in her ear.
“Trader, perhaps it is best to sign.”
“No!” she said sharply, to Dil Nem and the auctioneer alike. “I shall not sign. What I will do, however, is file a report with TerraTrade. This is theft.”
“Very good, Trader,” Dil Nem said, in loud Terran. “Let us return to the ship.”
He took her arm. She thought about resisting him, but what more could she do here? The auctioneer was adamant; there seemed little hope of recovering what was hers, short of holding him at gunpoint—and perhaps not even then.
The pressure on her arm increased. She relaxed, deliberately, and allowed Dil Nem to turn—a simple pivot, very smoothly done—and the three of them exited the hall.
No one stepped forward to prevent it.
“The shuttle,” Dil Nem said, once they were outside, “quickly. Comm Tech, please call ahead, inform the pilot that we will require immediate entry.”
“Yes, Third Mate,” Sally said, and in a moment Padi heard her on the comm, crisply relaying the third mate’s orders.
Padi’s knees were shaking, and she could scarcely think, for the anger burning in her breast. Her plan had merit! She had sold her cargo at a fine profit—which the auctioneer refused to pay out—and it wasn’t fair! It was theft, and she would not—
“Best to bring it before the master trader,” Dil Nem murmured, and more loudly, “Comm Tech, please ask the pilot to contact Captain Mendoza and Master Trader yos’Galan. Say that the trader has lost her profit to…port legalities. Say, ongoing criminal enterprise.”
“Yes, Third Mate,” Sally said again, and once more there was the sound of quiet consultation behind Padi’s back.
“You may,” Padi said, “release me, Third Mate.”
He cast a measuring look at her. She met his eyes firmly, and after a moment, he released her arm.
At the same time, however, he increased his pace—not running, never running. A person running on port only inspired others to run after her. He was, however, walking very briskly, and therefore several steps ahead of their small group when they came ’round the corner and onto the street that lead to the shipyard.
“Halt!”
Three large persons dressed in the livery of Chesselport Security stood before them, two with weapons leveled.
Dil Nem halted, and threw out an arm to stop Padi. She, in turn, looked over her shoulder for Sally, who was looking over her shoulder…
…at three more uniformed persons behind them, each also holding a weapon.
* * * * *
“Master Trader, a message from Comm Tech Sally Triloff, on port with Third Mate Tiazan and Trader yos’Galan, forwarded by the shuttle pilot on-world.”
A chilly breeze blew across the back of Shan’s neck. He took a deep, quiet breath.
“Please proceed, Comm Tech.”
“Yes, sir. Message follows: Trader yos’Galan has lost her profit to…port legalities. The auctioneer wanted her to sign an affidavit, which she refused to do. Reason given for confiscation: involvement in an ongoing criminal enterprise.”
Roner Jerethine, that was the tech’s name. An unflappable individual, in Shan’s experience, this moment sounding just a bit breathless.
“Continues,” the tech said. “The three have been placed under arrest by armed Chesselport Security, and are being escorted to the magistrate’s office, where they will be incarcerated, fined, or both. The pilot heard, through the open comm, a man’s voice state in Trade that those found to be complicit in crimes against a planet have in the past been executed.”
There was a small pause, as if Comm Tech Jerethine was swallowing his horror as Shan was swallowing his, then, “At this juncture, the pilot says the comm was taken away from Tech Triloff; he heard her protesting, and demanding that it be returned. There was a very loud noise and the unit went dead.”
But this was ridiculous, Shan thought. Crimes against a planet meant piracy and aggression, and while some worlds did, indeed, hang convicted pirates, the charge itself was ludicrous. Dutiful Passage was an honorable and well-known tradeship. She…
He closed his eyes.
Dutiful Passage had stood above Liad, weapons live, backing an action that had seen Terran mercenaries on the ground at the spaceport, that left a gaping hole in its largest city; an action that had killed people, innocent people, who had simply been going about their lives…
Crimes against a planet, indeed.
“Same message relayed to Captain Mendoza, sir,” Tech Jerethine said. “She’s talking to Chesselport Magistrate Office now.”
“Thank you, Roner,” he said, as calmly as if Padi was on board and at daibri’at, beyond all possible threats against her life. “Please ask the captain to call me, when she’s done with the magistrate.”
“Will do.” Shan thought he heard a note of sympathy in the man’s voice. “Anything else for me, sir?”
“Not at the moment, I thank you.”
“Right then.” A deep breath. “Jerethine out.”