In a Familiar Space-Time Continuum,
Consider the Young Gentlemen
Stateroom Number Two
Liaden Tradeship Wynhael, Outbound from Banth, a Backworld
The debt book was out and held before him, thirty-one prior pages covered in his cramped and careless hand. Although considered young by most of the society he ventured among, his debt book looked that of an old and garrulous fellow with multiple Balances in play. He’d learned early that Balance against those not properly of the society he walked among need not be counted, else the book might be full three times over, for he was never one to miss nor forgive a slight that might mean advantage for him, now or later. Still, if the book fell into nosy hands to be riffled—or through his untimely demise was passed on to one to complete—the pages already writ held among them the names of some of the cream of Liaden society, some in the person of individuals and others being named in line or clan as owing him. Of the Fifty High Houses of Liad, fully forty-one were directly represented, including, perhaps oddly, his own. This was not a book to be left idly about.
He brought the book to his table with the intent to write in it; then he’d placed it facedown, still sealed to his hand, while he’d allowed the ministrations of his lifelong lackey. Doubtless his man knew what the book was, doubtless he had some minor idea of what was to be written, and why.
He took stock. His nosebleed—acquired quite unexpectedly—had stopped. He’d removed his ruined overshirt. He was, if called upon by unfortunate circumstance, barely presentable to his mother after she’d already seen his bloodied condition once. The damage done his melant’i needed urgent remedy, for she’d always had a long memory.
His face hurt, the headache still not gone since he’d refused the pain-saver he’d been offered as well as the wine.
He’d soon enough have wine, as soon as he felt his stomach proof against that surge of adrenal rage and fear and the distant iron of the blood in his mouth. In the moment he shivered in the dim safety of his stateroom, the words of his man reverberating:
“I am not a fully trained warrior, but it appears that if you’ll be among the Terrans and the thieves, my lord, it would be best should you wear at least the web armor for the torso, if not also a stranded sleeve jacket and vest, which would have made your stand more feasible. We have packed such, though I dare say they’re last year’s fashion.”
That had been sufficient for him to send the valet off to bring him a complete change of wardrobe, and the wine, asking it for a quarter bell, so he’d have time to write in his debt book.
Yes indeed, debt book. This occasion needed Balance, and more Balance, for not only had . . .
The sight was in his mind again, as were the words. He’d offered the Terran woman the opportunity to buy her beast-brother of a Gobelyn out of the Balance—a tidy profit it would have been at 400 cantra!—and after a hint of consideration she’d snubbed him, him, Rinork-to-be! Turned her back with a smirk and some snide words in Trade, and walked away . . .
Bar Jan chel’Gaibin’s shiver again threatened to disgorge his meal and more: who’d have thought he’d ever be so close to death at the hands of an alien?
He’d reached to prevent her escape and his hand had barely been on her shoulder when she’d turned impossibly fast and struck him. Not a mere push away, not a shake-off, but a fully realized jaw-snapping strike to the face. He’d been flung off his feet by the force of the blow, vision gone to stars and darkness, not quite senseless but certainly defenseless.
As much as he might deny it, there’d been no way to rise and strike back with his fellows, for by the time his breath allowed sight again, his fellows were held at bay by her knife and the silent approbation of a roomful of Terrans. Animals they all were, and armed, too, with hands eager and draw-ready.
No, there could be no proper Balance there and then. Had he risen then the chance was his throat would have been cut. And the speed!
The woman Gobelyn had been permitted to escape, followed by his ignominious return to Wynhael, still leaning on the shoulder of a pilot, nose dripping trail of his disgrace. Then had come his mother’s tongue and censure before the co-conspirators.
But the Terran woman . . .
Four hundred cantra! By stars he’d first thought she was going to pay or offer to deal! He could have used the cash—the number had twice measured a pressing debt. And then, the violence, so quick and sure. That kind of animal response was a danger. Surely then the plans they were laying were going to make space safer for Liadens. Surely the Terrans would be better off staying around their own uncultured worlds, with most traffic carried to civilized worlds elsewhere by Liadens and only the local traffic carried by Terran shuttles and ferries. Yet that happy result was not enough of a full Balance for one who’d struck him in the face and made him appear a weak fool . . .
Now, yes, he would write the debts owed out of this, Terran and Liaden. To have Therinfel’s own captain laugh at him, saying, “My lord, she’s a pilot and you’re not, and we could all see she’s a bar fighter, which Rinork never allowed you. She had speed on you, and experience, and likely the muscle, too!”
There’d been amused agreement by the others as they’d hurried along, and then what he supposed now was actual advice and not a hidden slur:
“The only way for someone like you to take a chance like that with a pilot is from behind, and with a gun, and only a sure shot to the head. You pushed in front of other Terrans, and that’s stupid—why that’s full gravity fail, boy! Did no one ever explain to you that touching a Terran woman in public could cost you your throat? You’re lucky she walked away and that no late lover took your kidneys out from behind.”
* * *
In ordinary times Lord Rinork would have been sitting comfortable on Liad, overseeing the growing empire of ships and merchants amassed by his predecessors and especially by his mother, the delm. He should have been home on Liad, waiting his turn as delm, with perhaps the occasional off-world tour to show that he could in fact be a trader, and to enjoy the fruits of being one of the Fifty High Houses.
He’d already found being a lord among the Fifty convenient, for his mother or his qe’andra made sure his bills were paid if he happened to forget, and even when his bills were so very personal that they oughtn’t be shared with others, he was never pushed or prodded by those he owed, for quartershare time came, and he always paid from the oldest to the newest—or loudest—first, eventually.
But in this time, being of the Fifty was not as convenient as it may have been, for the Terrans were encroaching on Liaden space lanes and trade zones, proving remarkably willing to take smaller profit and the worst of them proud to be planet-free. The most ambitious of them, though, were ambitious indeed, gathering together old technologies and hoping to leap far ahead of both Liad’s fine ships and the combined might of the growing Combine. For all that their efforts were thought secret, they cost him money, unless of course such ships could be brought first to Rinork’s hand.
On other fronts there was Korval, meddling as always, and then the constant bickering and begging of his mother’s chosen partners and lackeys. Some were criminals if the news were out, and he supposed in passing that he need correct his man, for clearly when he’d warned of the need for armor among the “Terrans and the thieves” the thieves were the crew of the ships following his mother’s plan, and his man Khana vo’Daran was in danger if anyone heard the clarity of his knowledge. His mother’s plan, now, that he would not say was criminal, for the Terrans had no recognition among Liaden councils . . .
He sat now, thinking of luck and the fact that he was the Rinork heir and not that get of Quiptic . . . of the fact that the mines of Quiptic, which would be his soon enough and maybe sooner, and that he was far too old to be pleased to be called a boy, or have his shortcomings pointed out to him publicly, by anyone, pilot or not.
He had no misunderstanding: he was never, in fact, at his best in a fair fight unless that fight put him with dueling pistol in hand at a length of twenty or thirty paces. He was not fast, but that was not what dueling was about. Dueling took nerves—which he had—and accuracy, which he also had, especially given a chance to work with the house pistols, which would recognize his hand and engage auto-correction and target templating, the while passing for being old-fashioned. At no time would either pistol fire first for one not of proper blood.
This, of course, was not fair.
But he had no qualms about not being a fair fighter—the family history told the futility of “fair fights” as its shame ran through the rabbit’s hutch! But who had understood that he’d personally have to right the wrongs foisted on him by an overconfident predecessor?
Obviously, the problems were many, and one of them that had now twice cost him dearly was lack of information. The other problems were proper Balances. So, the information situation could be dealt with by money spread wisely: this Gobelyn thing—the Jethri Gobelyn sucked into the rabbit’s den for Balance, his kinswoman willing to slice a Liaden lord for him—this could not be left unsettled. Nor could the laughter of Liaden captains be left unanswered.
Bar Jan chel’Gaibin’s debt book had fewer unused pages by the time valet Vo’daran returned with wine and new clothes. Given the views of the other conspirators, his mother the delm refused him another venture to the planet, and Rinork-to-be added plots to plots all night long.
Trade Hall, Cherdyan City, Verstal, on the Flinder-to-Liad Route
Trader ven’Sambra’s departing bows performed, the squarely turned back was an indication that the session was acknowledged as complete. That worthy continued to pull wares and bundles together, and finally departed, while the properly jeweled and name-badged Jethri ven’Deelin, recently adopted of Clan Ixin, checked files and waited respectfully to place the returning for trade after break sign until the visiting trader was actually gone from in front of his booth.
The booth was much like a market stall, the counter having tall wings or walls so that the action and conversation of the next booth were not shared—and so that the sight lines made it difficult for those behind the wait-here line to see or hear as well. Beyond the wing walls traffic might go forth at a steady and crowded pace as it had earlier, or be near nonexistent as it was now, without meaningfully affecting one’s ability to trade in quiet confidence.
As for Trader Jethri, the sweat was receding, finally, and he’d deduced that it was not the stress of trade that was at fault, it was the leftover heat of the short walk from their local quarters to the hall, and the hall itself, conditioned as it was for the locals. He’d fiddled with the broad flat ring on his trade finger—sweat was under it and the ring was long enough with him to leave an impression.
On duty, at least, he was to wear the ring, though it was far, far from the Master’s trade ring he longed to wear one day. The key around his neck—the Terran trade key—would serve the same purpose on a Terran world, but here, Elthoria’s trade budget had bought this modest ring of silver with four simple stone insets. He’d change the insets, one per trade world, until none were the current crystal quartz but were all changed to topaz, and from topaz, he’d move to garnet, and from garnet, to amethyst insets. The big move of course was the boldest: the large amethyst of the tested and confirmed Master Trader, in platinum or better. Today, though, he was the lowly floor trader, and he’d be glad to see the end of this day, and the packing to return to Elthoria’s splendid climate.
There’d been a short enough line when he opened for the day, one that had gotten shorter suddenly when the fourth in line, a graying Liaden gentleman of very unquiet demeanor, departed the area hastily after a semisuppressed bout of coughing, which cough had apparently unnerved the third in line, who’d gone off in the opposite direction—leaving a curiosity seeker first and Trader ven’Sambra second.
The curiosity seeker came to exchange cards, and to test Jethri’s bows, in effect, for his offer to assist Jethri in learning basic trade concepts fell just short of a Balance-worthy insult. Jethri thanked his visitor, allowed as how he was trading only in tangible real goods for Elthoria and Clan Ixin, and looked forward to meeting again on the next voyage, should the trader have such goods to offer at that time.
Trader ven’Sambra’s failed attempt at Terran required some soothing, and made Jethri wish he’d been back on Elthoria’s trade deck buying and selling bulk items and novelties from multirouted trade-sats and certified world-net screens instead of dealing with a slow man who sought to outwit the must-be-stupid Terran turned Ixin. What a world! He was beginning to hate it.
Sometimes, in truth, he hated being on any world. Despite all his time in the vineyards of Irikwae not a year before, Jethri couldn’t admire the atmospherics here, where the water often hung so thick in the air that it obscured the vision, even at ground level. Yes, he’d seen rain and worse at Irikwae, but this morning it had taken him a full half-shift to get physically comfortable in his trading. The lunch chime’s quiet vibration gave little joy and he decided that today he would pass on another visit to the famous restaurant row out of doors just two damp streets over in favor of a quiet lunch in the trade hall’s own small but properly ventilated feedery.
The desk in front of him had been his for three days now, along with the chair, and at least that was comfortable, once adjusted. He’d gotten to think of the desk as much defense as a counter since this was the pushiest group of people he’d met at one place since he’d joined Elthoria’s crew aside those of Rinork.
Wasn’t much choice here, though, since the locals all insisted on trading face-to-face and they were all full of formal types who couldn’t be bothered to do anything without top-notch bowing and the longest sentences this side of a melant’i play, and then they insisted in ways he thought were entirely un-Liaden, being unsubtle at best.
And that wasn’t fair. He almost grimaced—Elthoria’s comm crew had done him the dubious favor of sending along a copy of several reports on the arrival of Elthoria in Verstal’s trading orbit, the information shared included the number of pods the ship carried, the recent routings, the names of captains, sub-captains, and traders, and anticipated destinations along with his own name and extremely modest biography among the more interesting tidbits.
He kept the twitch away from his lips: he’d thought perhaps he should send a copy on to Khat and to Miandra—but Khat might not get the Liaden part of it, and Miandra would get it only too well, embroiled as she was with issues of melant’i and power in her dramliz training. It was just that he was named as the new associate trader on the ship, and it was mentioned he was a newly adopted son of the house with specialties including textiles and trade in Terran regions. That was a kind of gossipy thing traders might need to know—but somewhere along the way the information that he formerly shipped as an apprentice on the Terran trade-certified Gobelyn’s Market had dropped into the news.
His first two days at trade here had been spent as much dealing with the curious and the tricky as with honest traders—often by himself—since the Master Trader was in heavy talks on a deal that might keep the clan’s ships busy for years.
The trade hall was grown somewhat quieter than it had been earlier; and Jethri again caught sight of the gray-haired fellow who’d abandoned line with the coughs. He’d been in and out of sight while Trader ven’Sambra had been the only one in line, sometimes peering at the rotating display screens on the ships-in wall and other times standing back near an exit—and now he approached!
Jethri scooped the taking a break sign into place, but he was, just perhaps, too late, as the man actually rushed toward him, urgency unreasonably plain upon his face.
The bow was startling, offering to Jethri as it did honor due to a master of trade with decades of experience, and the undertone of appeasement indicating that one understood he was treading on the goodwill of another by merely appearing in front of him in an untimely way.
Three steps away from the counter he’d stopped; awaiting permission, and it was Jethri’s curiosity which drove him to bow at all, using the merest of acknowledgments, thus accepting the honors heaped upon himself!
A good trader might have hesitated to come close to the counter with receipt of such a bow, but this man closed to the trading counter immediately, offering yet another effusive bow, and too, bringing with him the mixed scents of recent alcohol and oily foods, and perhaps of vya as well.
“Honored Trader, my certifications, if I may. You will understand that I am largely retired from trade but seeing the news of Elthoria’s arrival, and your own, I thought we should both profit greatly from some odds and ends of interest to collectors and specialists, which I have possessed from my own trading years gone by.”
They traded names then, Jethri adding Gobelyn with his clan name, and then he dutifully glanced at the material presented, his own melant’i being certified by his seat in the hall as well as by his ring and his clan signs.
The trader’s certifications were worn, and local, and showed a penchant for foods and kitchen goods. The local license typography was awkward to read, and the dates—well, some were older than Jethri. Likely this man, this Trader tel’Linden, had never been off-world, had only dealt in the local markets. His manner was unpolished and . . .
As if reading Jethri’s careful study as concern, the man broke rapidly into a locally accented Liaden rush of words.
“I have always been a man of modest means, dealing with modest items, Trader, yet one in my position has been favored over the years to have seen many items of rarity and worth, the small riches of the clans and lines not of the High Houses, and some not of the Mid Houses. These riches I have accumulated as I may, of interest to myself. The research to make use of these, and to find the proper home and buyer, this has been difficult, and it comes time now to reduce my private collections and give back to my clan my investments, as well as give to the universe of buyers goods which are outside the standard trade lines of my clan.”
The trader paused then, stood straighter, and bowed his best bow yet, with a reasonable flourish and an understanding that his sleeves were not long enough to give emphasis . . .
“If you will honor me with a gift of time I believe I have trades that will be worth the time we both invest, and yours, star-trader, much more than myself! Understand me, this is not my catalog, but my stock!”
The man raised his large leather-look trade case, withdrew keys from an inner pocket, eyes intent on Jethri’s reaction.
“There is a seat you may use,” Jethri admitted, “if you would care to join in an exploration of our trading possibilities.”
* * *
The trader’s portfolio, lined as it was with sheets of impossibly thin black leather, was itself an item Jethri might like, but the first object revealed, gaudy and antique at once, left him speechless.
He turned his hand over to palm up—a request to hold the item—and wished Paitor was here to see this, or Dyk, who would have wildly differing opinions on the desirability of possessing such a thing. Dyk would love it for incongruity, and Paitor . . . well, what would Paitor actually say about such a ring as this?
“Yes,” the trader crooned, “this is an object one might wear in many places, secure that it would be noticed and appreciated. The stone, of course, is flawless, and the setting is true multi-banded flash-formed Triluxian!”
The ring was deposited oh-so-gently in Jethri’s hand for inspection. After a moment he sighed, looking at it from this way and that—and requested, with a bow, “May I use my handscan for a closer look?”
Triluxian—bonded of microlayered titanium, gold, platinum, with a salting of rhodium—was not something to be ignored. The style of the thing suggested it was a very old ring, and the slight signs of wear suggested it was an artifact someone had actually used—which is to say, displayed on their hand in public—frequently. Thus the scanner, looking for details, and giving back the certifiable purity of the finding. There was value here, but not riches.
As for the stone—he held back a chuckle mightily. Firegem, yes, truly a flawless firegem, but for the worth of it in any state . . . it was a fluted cabochon firegem, which made it odd, but other than that? What it was doing set in—
“Of course,” said the trader, though his face tensed enough for Jethri to see it. “You’ll find some odd lettering, I believe . . .”
Handscan again. Jethri studied the band of the thing, and indeed, there was odd lettering, which likely appeared even odder to the trader for it being Terran lettering, and very tiny. Perhaps it was someone’s name, perhaps there was also a date, Cobol 426 . . . he let the scanner record the thing to look at later. Might as well set blast glass in the thing as a firegem, unless it dated to the original discovery of the things, or was the first . . .
“An extremely unusual item,” Jethri admitted, allowing the trader to have the ring back. The ring must be more than it looked . . . else a story worth sharing if it could found.
The trader flipped to the next display page.
There, a simple sheet of metal with rolled edges, almost like one of Dyk’s small cooking pans upside down, with diagrammatic instructions inscribed on it, and a few words in oddly stilted Liaden. Instructions for what? Might be of interest to a specialist but didn’t touch him very much . . .
A twitch of fingers—within the sheets, for there were two of them interlocking, were fractins.
Fractins. Four of them. Fakes, he thought, just looking and needing no scanner to vet them. The color was—not right. The man’s hands shook. As common as these were in Terran space, on this side of the trade line they were deemed Old Tech, and thus contraband, and unmarketable in the bargain. Of course, if they were fakes they might not be illegal—he hadn’t got to that section of Liaden trade laws yet, and would have to study,
As noncommittally as possible, he flicked fingers, and there were three more fractins, fitted together, and they were real. They were not only real, they knew he was there, he was sure, knew that they were recognized as real, knew—it was as if they called for him to buy them and take them away.
He blinked. He’d had that reaction several times as a child, the feeling that real fractins looked back at him. He’d liked his own fractin, and was always glad it was his lucky piece; he’d been convinced that his fractin liked him, too. When Arin, his father, had talked with him about his fractin collections, he’d never doubted Jethri when Jethri could point to his own fractin amidst a score of true-and-fake fractins. Arin hadn’t argued, either, when they’d built the fractin frames and Jethri’d insisted that his fractin wasn’t comfortable with being put in with the others in this order, but must be in that order or in this position . . .
Jethri realized that he’d taken several seconds too long this time, that he could still feel the fractins calling, even though he knew he shouldn’t—no, couldn’t—be found in possession of them. So he permitted himself a slight grimace, as if disinterested, or perhaps bored by seeing more of the same . . . and flicked his fingers.
And next was another of the curious pans, with a mark he recognized: this side down.
Struck by an idea, and still feeling the call of fractins, he could see the outline of the pan in the leather sheet; saw what might be alignment points, judged that if filled with properly aligned fractins . . .
He flicked fingers, to find the next sheet of leather to be pocketed, with nine pockets, and in each pocket showed a portion of similar but not identical . . . things. Devices. Kahjets. They were built on the scale and size of the weather device he’d handled to such strange effect on Irikwae, a device that called an unseasonable wind-twist to the vineyards and indirectly led to Miandra’s banishment to Liad. These, too, felt like they were interested, as if they recognized hands that knew . . .
He flicked his glance to the man’s face, where there was now sweat. Jethri realized the trader was at risk and his own melant’i as well. He had not, of course, promised to the Scouts he would unmask other owners . . .
“Not these machines, Trader, nor others like them if there are more in your stock; I have clear instructions about such.”
The trader’s eyes got big and his hands shook. He glanced down, looked up, hopeful.
“Yet these will be treasures, I understand, in Terran markets. These are . . .”
Jethri offered a placating motion and conciliatory bow.
“Alas, as you may not know, given the circumstance of your retirement, my ship aims for no such market in this voyage, Trader, and I am not of an age or melant’i to carry devices such as this aboard my ship, nor to secure them, against the hope that sometime I might visit a Terran port. Show me other things, if you have them, since we are here, and you have sought me out.”
The trader, crestfallen, flipped past two more sheets, and now there were other oddities, more than a dozen keys in the style used by Terran ships on one of the sheets, and a trade calendar on a flexible sheet, some two hundred standards old, with illustrations of—of star systems.
Practicality and necessity warred—lunch and a rest break called, even more so since he knew that the trader was offering contraband amidst this trade lot.
“Against time we run,” Jethri said emulating one of Norn ven’Deelin’s phrases. “Let us proceed with pace,” he suggested—and there, the next page was shown, a very, very skinny, blade looking perhaps Terran, and flick—
A page passed over, and another, and then a small flat guidebook, with real pages, the title, in Liaden: Dealing with Terrans. He signaled stop, requested and received the opportunity to look at it. The book was of the age as the trade calendars, and produced by a trade station he’d never heard of, offering hints on language and demeanor, and showing known and anticipated trade routes . . .
“Enough,” he said, entranced. “My time presses. Price me this, the two shipping plates and the calendars, as a unit. Also, the firegem ring, which is interesting, but hardly a rarity in these days, if ever it was. Honest price gets honest return.”
“Trader, I’d hoped to sell the lot—”
“I hear this from your lips, Trader, but from mine you have heard I will not touch the items from the old machines, nor will I have the squares such as I had as a child for toys.”
“Four cantra for the whole I was asking . . .”
Jethri bowed from his seat and stood.
“I’ll not have the whole. The partial lot I have outlined only. Only the items, with the firegem—altogether an eighth-cantra, paid now. I cannot use the others and there’s no market to test their value or their worth.”
There was nothing in the broke-lot that he knew he could sell, but for his own uses, say the information that such concentrations of Old-Tech might exist among the Liadens—that was worth much—and the old trade route information. He’d had the same feeling when he’d discovered the vya that had gone to pay for the Market’s overhaul. Even the firegem, silly as it was . . .
The man before him began to fold his sales portfolio sadly and ventured, “One half-cantra, Trader, and you break my back at that.”
Jethri worked the feeling in his head, remembered Paitor’s earnest lessons of give-and-take . . .
“I have the eighth cantra in my pocket for you, and some Terran funds, ten kais. Also, paying cash we need not use the hall’s sales registry nor fund transfers. Else, my meeting awaits. Understand, paying cash, I will forget your name.”
Jethri handed the trade case back, very concerned. Not about his offer, but about the contents that called to him and made his hands itch to hold them and have them and use them.
The trader’s eyes were large. Jerhri’d not meant to threaten, but now he could see the man before him losing composure. Surely, then, he was a desperate man, even more desperate than Jethri.
The man’s hands were shaking, but he was already reopening his portfolio. “Done.”
As the transaction settled, it turned out that the Terran coins broke to fifteen rather than ten kais, which Jethri allowed without hesitation. Now his urge was to be away from this man and his ragged breathing . . .
The trader gone, Jethri slammed the sign onto the table, tucked his haul into his cloak’s storage pockets. He realized he was shivering now, and wondered what he’d done to suddenly feel so cold.
Those kahjets! Not toys, not toys, not toys. Paitor would have perhaps denounced the man, and perhaps Grig would have bought it all . . .
It would not do to dine, even alone, while still so unsettled.
Succor was to hand after a dizzying riot of panic, which he knew he must not succumb to, and then a reminder that some called trade “the quiet war.”
With the aid of one of Pen Rel’s warrior tricks of centering, he let the hard floor be his base, let the world of breathing be his focus, closed his eyes for a moment to visualize the coming reality of the big ring, firmly on his hand, and he a trader of competence, and hurried for his break. With luck, tomorrow he’d sleep on Elthoria!