Chapter Two
Clan Ixin’s Tradeship Elthoria, in Jump
Delivery was not so much the successful unloading of a ship at a specific place as it was a state of ecstasy achieved when—and if—a signature of acceptance and a signature of release of invoiced goods in good order as agreed (with exceptions noted and countersigned) could be affixed to the same document (in both hardcopy and electronic format, preferably) without reservation.
Jethri pressed on. Some things were not as obvious as they appeared.
The fact that stuff was dumped at a dock was good enough in some places—by deep mud he’d seen it himself with Paitor and Dyk shoving a last lonely plascrate of a make-weight shipment of protein flour into the dust at Marrakesh, the ship’s ventilation working so hard it sounded like they had drifted too close to a star instead of landed on a habited world. In some places, it took multiple vid-captures, signatures on five lines of paper and stick-seals, ribbons, stamps, customs clips and . . . and . . .
Ownership of goods changed at different times and different places, too. Sometimes, the book warned, things were sold that weren’t owned—and so one needed to have financial recourse available, which varied by trade guild as well as by system, and even by planet and sometimes depending where on a planet . . .
Recourse for goods being mishandled varied. In Liaden-run systems, the Code and its spin-offs were guides, but guides only, dealing with reputable people was especially important with Liadens because melant’i was serious stuff with them. In other places . . .
Jethri routed the recourse stuff away to his notes: more of the legal stuff he wasn’t exactly keen on. On non-Liaden worlds—which meant Terran mostly—there might be other things to do, other legal remedies and other legal requirements. He read on, skimming, knowing he’d have to come back and knowing that if he ever had his own ship he’d employ himself a law-jaw or an assistant who had that training, at least. Skimming, Terran basis shipping law special actions . . . See Writ of Completion, Writ of Garnishment, Writ of Safe Passage, Writ of Progression, Writ of Replevin, Writ of Certiorari . . . and back to normal trade without problems . . .
Right. The proper bow of acknowledgment was the final finish on some ports, while in point of fact, in some delivery situations getting off-port without being fired on seemed to do the trick.
He bowed a bow—a bow of acknowledgment—and the snap of his wrist startled him. He really needed to move more.
Jethri let his mind focus and took delivery of the message that, yes, once again he’d let the words catch him, and the concepts, and he’d gone an extra hour. He, at least, was not on a firm food schedule at the cafeteria this day, but his stomach was growling and he really should see if the rest of the universe existed. His stomach growled again. More than once Paitor had explained to him the difference between proper study and too much study, especially if he forwent stinks duty for it. He knew he really should take a break, get lunch . . .
Pushing away from the desk he stood, immediately dropping into one of the static defense poses he was learning, and followed that with a whirling countermove that left the snapping sounds of stiff muscles bouncing in the air for longer than he liked. The yawn came unbidden, and unwanted. He was, he knew, to exorcise that particular habit from anything but intentional use, just as he was to unship his basic comfortable and agreeable face for the noncommittal and boring trade face of the professional.
He tried that, and felt the jaw muscle give a small complaint. At least it didn’t pop as loud as his wrist. He had been trying to use some of the defense moves and relaxes while he worked, at the Master Trader’s suggestion, and found that, yes, he was not as tired as he well might be.
Time being what it was, he left the in-mail button off, and jogged toward food.
* * *
Jethri was, as he expected, between shifts, the main-shift tables nearly empty and the premades looking few and far between. Elthoria was a large ship, though, especially to someone raised on a family-sized ship like the Market and there was almost always something fresh to grab. In his honor there was now a working supply of ’mite available and he’d from time to time seen others availing themselves of it, if gingerly. He suspected that for some it was a dare—but at least one of the engine room crew seemed genuinely fond of it as a start to his off-day—perhaps he used it as a hangover cure.
Whatever the cause for it being there, Jethri went for the ’mite first, the first gulp or two of the tangy drink quelling the worst of his stomach rumbles before he set off a vibration detector. Then to the covered dishes, where he found two wrapped handwiches and a plate of mixed frosted chernubia and headed toward seats while grabbing a large mug of cold tea . . .
One small table was crowded with three maintenance uniforms laughing over something, while at another table there was the back of someone in a head covering he didn’t quite place . . .
A hand motion caught his attention, and there was Gaenor making it, a hesitant half-smile on her face as she looked up from beneath a scarf made to look like the head of a bird. She was wearing one of the more formal versions of her uniform, in a brave red that could mislead an untrained Terran shipmate to thinking it emergency crew rigging. He liked the style particularly since the deep square neckline showed off skin as well the necklace she so often wore . . . but this time, that too was not the family seal but another bird.
She bowed a polite invitation, which made the birdface eyes come to him, and he juggled food and drink to take the seat close beside her since there was a pile of stuff on the other seats as well as on the table across from her. In front of her was a comm pad—with an image of birds on it. There was, staring at him from the place setting opposite, some creature with big eyes and facial side-tufts, also on a scarf like she was wearing and . . .
Her smile got wider with his bow of acceptance, which technically he should have given before sitting but he’d been concerned with dropping food unceremoniously to the floor, which impropriety he’d committed several times in the early days of his sojourn on Elthoria, always with the largest possible audience. He wasn’t a pilot, for all he knew his basic boards, and while his ongoing conversion to Liaden gentleman had helped him learn some measure of grace, he still felt awkward in front of some people, Gaenor—Elthoria’s first mate—particularly among them.
The smile got tentative again as she reached for her tea after nodding to his bow.
“And so you have managed to find me here still, my friend. Is this an accident, I wonder?”
His hands were unwrapping the first handwich with alacrity, but he caught an extra note of question, glanced up to see Gaenor’s glance go from him to her cup. He followed the glance, to her hands around the cup, and on both of them were also birds—and her clan sigil which was a geometric representation of three cut jewels, red, green, and blue.
Knowing her comfortably enough to enjoy some leeway in his manners, he finished his ’mite while he measured his actions and he fell into the mode they used so often, he speaking Liaden, with Trade to fill in the words he was unsure of, since she’d already spoken in Terran.
“I suppose it is an accident I got hungry and didn’t have rations to hand. Have I missed an order or forgotten an occasion, I wonder?”
Learned from him, she shook her head Terran-style, but the tension around her smile relaxed somewhat.
“I think, Jethri, that what you have done is worked without reference to the rest of the universe today.”
He felt his face warm, and cup in one hand and handwich in the other he bowed acknowledgment, dipping his head slightly and letting the dip turn into a nod.
“That’s true. I am learning the meaning of ‘delivery.’ It is not as easy as it seems.”
Comprehension in her eyes, and a sigh, with a slight grin.
“The trade terms, they are like pilot terms. They mean exactnesses, don’t they? I have had the short course on such things, but I am not a trader, nor aspire to be one.”
He laughed with a nod. “And I aspire to be one, one day when the rules and laws let me do the job instead of stand in the way . . .”
“So, without the news, you could not see that Vil Tor and I today for the main midday mess gave a . . . a demonstration . . . of some of the ideas for the dressing of us the crew and of the ship’s common area for the travel party, the ship’s Festival we shall have between Lastovan and Taluda. We together looked for you with interest.”
As she spoke Gaenor’s face showed an unexpectedly impish expression. She looked at him sidewise as she dipped her head a little, and then she reached up to the scarf, crossing hands to bring the sides together under her chin, and mischievously drew those hands tightly down across the chain and bird of her necklace, stretching the fabric of her blouse downward dangerously, seductively.
By main force Jethri kept his lips together and targeted his eyes relatively safely, the pink of blush slowly rising up the back of his neck and under his chin.
Breaking custom, he fell back into Terran for safety.
“Elthoria will have a ship’s Festival?” he managed, the while watching as Gaenor’s clever hands tied a knot into the end of the scarf, drawing it and her hands somewhat recklessly lower and tighter. The sidewise look, and a touch of tongue between her lips making him draw in his breath slightly he felt the blush fade for something else, for now her eyes were on his, searching, and he wasn’t sure he knew the words in Terran, either.
The fabric of her blouse slowly rebounded as her hands pulled the scarf knot down, down to perhaps her waist or belly button, and she stretching her shoulders.
Her eyes were still on him. Jethri knew only one other Liaden woman who’d had shared that look for him, and that woman had been drinking, and openly inviting his company as a bed partner . . .
“Yes, since the ship has no matching Liaden port time soon with a planetary Festival, certainly not in the next Standard, the crew has gotten permission from captain and Master Trader, for a small Festival, of ten shifts. There will be food and singing, a hall parade, perhaps, and . . . and wine and liquor and other inebriants and even all-shift Festival tents or playrooms!
“Since the ship is doing well, Ixin will be sponsor. Each of the department heads will host or co-host a party, and some will gamble and some will music and dancing and contests of . . . accomplishments.”
Inebriants and Festival tents? Accomplishments? All-shift tents? It sounded like a shivaree to make a Terran gathering proud . . .
“Vil Tor and me,” she said, touching herself in that valley between her breasts, “we are of the leaders of the committee with arrangements. The ideas, we wished to discuss with you, and perhaps . . . a party with your stamp upon it.”
“I didn’t know,” he admitted. “I have been . . . busy, I haven’t been trying to ignore crew-stuff . . .” He felt the reddening of his face, knowing she must have seen his glances.
She made one of those pilot-style hand motions—meaning off-alert, or stand down, if he read it right. Something other showed in her eyes, and he realized he was reading tension in a Liaden.
“And yes,” she bowed, “I was remiss in not placing the information on the social lists before the start of the ship-day. So, we shall talk of this event again soon, I hope, or perhaps Vil Tor will find the time. If you excuse, my shift begins quickly.”
* * *
The rest of Jethri’s meal was heavy on his stomach, the news of the upcoming Festival overwhelming any study thought he might have had. Somewhere there he’d been gifted with clues he hadn’t caught, despite his training with Ray Jon tel’Ondor, the ship’s practiced protocol master. There were things he needed to know—and he’d purposefully left his trader comm pad in its holster, on his desk, trying to get a time away from study.
Festival—a big party, a big blow-out kind of a party where folks could just let go, where for many the object was to bed a special partner or to share as widely as you could, a shivaree, all for one ship. He’d been too busy to get involved with anyone, really, and too uncomfortable to just plain ask—
He glanced down, both of his cups empty, and the chernubia dish as well. He had been going over the conversation in his mind, and also thinking on the fleeting smile and wide eyes, and the hints of skin and scarf.
Yah! That’s what Dyk would say out loud when confusion reigned, or . . .
“Mud!” That, said out loud in Terran, brought him back to the room, now down to him and a couple staff members doing the ’tween shift cleanups. For good measure, he added “Yah!”
The chernubia . . . well he regretted that going by so fast.
“There is no need to stint your meals for others, on this ship, young Jethri,” he recalled tel’Ondor telling him, “or indeed, at any entertainment you are invited to. Yes, you should eat gracefully. No, seeing that there is a single item of a treat sitting lonely, there is no need to leave it, for you are worthy, and if it beckons, you should partake.”
He knew this, or should have known it, for Stefeli Maarilex, Delm Tarnia herself, had been over these points with him: in polite society, if dinner is served, assume it is sufficient for the invited. His time in Tarnia’s clanhouse had shown him the sheer wealth of that clan. Even with Ren Lar being called stingy, he’d hardly been seen as that among the shipfolk Jethri had grown up among, in fact the economies he’d seen at Tarnia and on Elthoria were sheer extravagance on-board a Terran ship . . . and now a shivaree, out of foodstuffs and party supplies, and people on hand?
Yes, that was it. The Terrans on their loop ships and family routes were running their lives as Gobelyn’s Market always had: one bad trip from disaster, one good trip from an upgrade, with enough crew to do the job and no more, enough food on the table at a meal to hit the calorie count, enough ’mite to cover for emergencies. In fact, he’d from time to time mentally lamented not being on the refurbished Market, where Dyk had expected new bread machines and ovens, and a new galley layout with the half-century old underfloor replaced and vents, by golly the new grade vents that would have cut the stinks duty in half or more, by all he’d been promised.
But that ship style was not this ship’s style. Not his ship style. He was among Liadens who frankly expected all to go well and frankly expected to be comfortable in ways his ship family could have barely imagined. This ship’s lead cooks were chefs, and there were three of them. The ship’s protocol master was an attorney as near as Jethri could tell—not Paitor with a half-out-of-date manual!—and he, he—he was no longer just a crew member. He was, by necessity, not just acting like a trader, he was a trader. He was not just acting like a member of Clan Ixin, he was the son of Ixin’s Master Trader.
It was not quite like being a captain, but it was quite like having a say and exerting himself and—and it meant hosting Festival parties. Whatever that meant . . .
And that meant he had to learn more, quickly. And put himself forward, soon.
He stretched his way from the table, and glanced toward the food display. Leftovers were rare on the Market, but here, if they weren’t used, they would likely just get recycled . . .
Well, duty called. Study called. He’d promised Norn ven’Deelin that he would do his best to be a proper son to the house, that he had.
The single dish of chernubia remaining he took away with him to study with, and a cup of tea, wondering the while if he had left a dish or two sitting lonely after all.