Balance of Trade (10 page)

He felt his ears warm, and bowed again. "Thank you, ma'am."

She tipped her head. "The tutor will attend likewise to the matter of bows. Continue in your present mode and you will be called to answer honor before ever we arrive at gemstones."

Jethri blinked. He had just assumed that, the deeper the bow the better, and that, as juniormost everywhere he walked, he could hardly go wrong bowing as low as he could without doing structural damage.

"I . . . hope that I haven't given offense, ma'am," he stammered, in Terran.

She waved a tiny hand, the big purple ring glittering. "Worry not," she answered, in her version of the same tongue. "You are fortunate in your happenstances. We of
Elthoria
are of a mode most kind-hearted. To children and to Terrans, we forgive all. Others," she folded her hands together solemnly; "are less kindly than we."

Oh. He swallowed, thinking of Honored Buyer bin'Flora, and others of his uncle's contacts, on the Liaden side of the trade.

"There are those," Master ven'Deelin said softly, switching to Trade, "for whom the trade is all. There are others for whom . . . the worth of themselves is all. Are these things not likewise true of Terrans?"

Another flash of memory, then, of certain other traders known to him, and he nodded, though reluctantly. "Yes, ma'am. I'm afraid they are."

"No fear, Jethri Gobelyn. A man armored and proficient with his weapons need have no fear." A small hesitation, then—"But perhaps it is that you are wise in this. A man without weapons—it is best that he walk wary."

"Yes, ma'am," he said again, his voice sounding breathless in his own ears.

If Master ven'Deelin noted anything amiss, she didn't say so. Instead, she waved him over to her desk, where she pressed the promised ship's map upon him, pointing out the location of his quarters and of the ship's library, where he would find his study tapes and his tutor awaiting him at some hour that slid past his ear in an arpeggio of Liaden.

"I—" he began, but Master ven'Deelin had thought of that, too. From the riot of papers atop her desk, she produced a timepiece, and a schedule, printed out in Liaden characters.

"So, enough." She clapped her hands and made shooing motions toward the door. "This shift is your own. Next shift, you are wanted at your station. Myself, yourself, we will speak again together before the trade goes forward on Tilene. In the meanwhile, it is your duty to learn, quickly and well. The ship accepts only excellence."

Dismissed, clutching the papers and the watch untidily to his chest, he bowed, not without a certain feeling of danger, but Master ven'Deelin had turned back to her desk, her attention already on the minutiae of trade.

In the hall outside her office, he went down on a knee and took a few moments to order his paperwork, slap the watch 'round his wrist, and glance through the schedule. Running his finger down the table, being careful with the Liaden words, and checking his timepiece frequently, he established that the shift which was "his own" had just commenced. More searching in the schedule produced the information that "nuncheon" was on buffet in the galley.

Squinting at the map, he found that the galley was on the short route to his quarters, at which point his stomach commented rather pointedly that his breakfast of 'mite and crackers was used up and more.

One last squint at the map, and he was on his way.

THERE WERE MAYBE a dozen people in the galley when he swung in. They all stopped talking and turned to look at him, smooth Liaden faces blank of anything like a smile or any honest curiosity. Just . . .  silence. And stares. Jethri swallowed, thinking that even a titter, or a "Look at the Terran!" might be welcome.

Nothing like it forthcoming, he walked over to the cool-table where various foods were laid out, and spent some while looking over the offerings, hoping for something familiar, while all the time he felt the eyes boring bland, silent holes into his back.

It got to him, finally, all that quiet, and the sense of them staring at him, so that he snatched up a plate holding something that looked enticingly like a pan-paste handwich and bolted for the door, map and schedule clutched under one arm.

His dash was two steps old when a dark-haired woman swung into his path, one hand held, palm out, and aiming for his chest.

He skidded to a halt, all but losing the papers, the handwich dancing dangerously on its plate, and stood there staring like a stupid grounder, wondering what piece of politeness he had, all unknowing, shattered, and whether word had gotten out to the crew that they were more forgiving than most.

The woman before him said something, the sounds sliding past his ear,
almost
sounding like. . .  He blinked and leaned slightly forward.

"Say again," he murmured. "Slowly."

She inclined her head, and said again, slowly, in Terran so thickly accented he could barely make out the words, though he was craning with all his ears: "Tea will be wanting you."

"Tea," he repeated, and smiled, from unadorned relief. "Thank you. Where is the tea?"

"Bottle," she said, waving a quick hand toward a second table, set at right angles to the first, lined with what looked to be single serving vacuum bottles. "Cold. Be for to drinking with works."

"I see. Thank you. . . " He frowned at the badge stitched onto her shirt. . .  "First Officer Gaenor tel'Dorbit."

Eyebrows rose above velvet brown eyes, and she tipped her head, face noncommittal.

"Apprentice Terran, you?" She asked, and put her hand against her chest. "Terran student, I."

He nodded and smiled again. "I'm Master ven'Deelin's apprentice. I'll be helping you with your Terran. Here. . . " He fumbled the schedule out from beneath his arm and held it out, gripped precariously between two fingers, while the handwich jigged on its plate. "What's your shift? I've got—"

She slipped the paper from between his fingers, gave it a quick, all-encompassing glance, and ran a slim fingertip under a certain hour, showing him.

"Hour, this," she said, and waved briefly around the galley. "Here we meet."

"Right." He nodded again.

Gaenor tel'Dorbit inclined her head and left him, angling off to the left, where a table for three showed one empty chair and a half-eaten meal; the other two occupants considering him with silent blandness.

Jethri grabbed a tea bottle from the table and all but ran from the room.

Using the map, he found his assigned quarters handily, and stood for a long couple minutes, staring at his name, painted in Liaden letters on the door, before sliding his finger into the scanner.

The scan tingled, the door opened and he was through, staring at a cabin maybe three times the size of his quarters on the
Market
. The floor was covered in springy blue carpet, in the center of which sat his bags. The bed and desk were folded away, and he couldn't have said if it was the strangeness of it, or the sameness of it, but all at once he was crying in good earnest, the tears running fast and dripping off his chin.

Carefully, he put the handwich and the bottle on the floor next to his bags, then sat himself down next to them, taking care to put schedule and map well out of harm's way. That done, he folded up, head on knees, and bawled.

KINAVERAL HUNG MIDDLING big in the central screen. Khat had filed her approach with Central, done her system checks and finally leaned back in the pilot's chair, exhaling with a will.

Cris looked up from the mate's board with a half-grin and a nod. "Two to six, Central will argue the path."

Khat laughed. "I look a fool, do I, coz? Of
course
Central will argue the path. I once had a fast-look at a Lane Controller's manual. First page, Lesson One, writ out in letters as high as my hand was, 'Always Dispute the Filed Approach.'"

Cris' smile widened to a grin. "First lesson, you say? There was pages after that?"

"Some few," Khat allowed, straight-faced; "some few. Mind, the next six after was blank, so the student could practice writing out the rule."

"Well, it being so large and important a rule. . . " Cris began, before the intercom bell cut him short.

He spun back to his board and slapped the toggle. "Mate."

"First Mate," Iza Gobelyn's voice came out of the speaker, gritty with more than 'com buzz. "I'm looking for the approach stats."

"Captain," Cris said, even-voiced. "We're on the wait for Central's aye."

There was a short, sizzling pause.

"As soon as we're cleared, I'll have those stats," Iza snapped.

"Yes, Captain, "Cris murmured, but he might just as easily said nothing; Iza had already signed off.

Cris sighed, sharp and exasperated. Khat echoed him, softer.

"I thought she'd lighten, once Jeth was gone," she said.

Cris shook his head, staring down at his board.

"It ain't Jethri being gone so much as Arin," he muttered. "She's gotten harder, every Standard since he died."

Khat thought about that, staring at Kinaveral, hanging in the center screen. "There's a lot more years ahead, and Arin in none of them," she said, eventually.

Cris didn't answer that—or, say, he answered by not answering, which was Cris' way.

Instead, he said, "I got a reply on that franchise job. They want me to stop by their office, dirtside, take the test. If that's a go, it'll mean a temp berth for the next ten months, Standard."

Khat nodded, her eyes still on Kinaveral. "Paitor figures to pick up some training or consulting at Terratrade," she said. "Me, I'll file with Central as a freewing."

"Sensible. The rest sticking to dirt?"

She laughed. "Now, how likely is that? Might take a few port cycles til they get tired of breathing dust, but you know they'll be looking for space work, too."

"Huh," Cris said, fiddling with a setting on his board. "Iza?"

Khat shrugged. "Way I heard it, she was staying dirtside, with the
Market
." She held up a hand. "Paitor did try to talk her out of it. Pointed out that Seeli's able. Iza wasn't having any. She's the captain, the job's hers, and by all the ghosts of space, she'll do it."

"Huh," Cris said again—and seemed on the edge of saying something more when the comm screen came live with Central's request that
Gobelyn's Market
amend her filed approach.

ELTHORIA
KEPT A twenty-eight hour "day," divided into four shifts, two on, two off, which made for a slightly longer work day than the
Market's
twenty-four hour, two-shift cycle. Jethri, who had been used to reading and studying well into his off-shift, scarcely noticed the additional hours.

His work now—that was different. No more Stinks. If
Elthoria
had Stinks, which Jethri took leave to doubt, it was nothing mentioned to him by his new acquaintances, though they were careful to show him as much of the ship as an apprentice trader might need to know. His new status meant no more assisting in the galley, a duty he might've missed, if there'd been any time for it, which there wasn't, his time being entirely and systematically crammed full with lessons, study and more lessons.

Some things were routine, and it eased him somehow to find that
Elthoria
kept emergency protocols—in which he was relentlessly trained by no lesser person than Arms Master sig'Kethra. Over the course of three shifts, he was drilled in the location and operation of the lifeboats, shown the various boltholes, emergency hatches and hand-grabs. He was also measured for a suit, it being discovered to the chagrin of the supply master that none of those on draw would fit.

Other things, they weren't so routine—more of that, which is what he'd figured to find. For instance, he had a trade locker all to himself, which was scrupulously the same size as his stateroom, it being the policy on
Elthoria
that traders should have as much room to work in as they had to sleep in. He wished he'd thought to convert some of his cash to something useful out of the
Market
—but he hadn't had much time to cry about that missed opportunity, either.

First thing on shift, right after breakfast, he sat with the tutor-tapes in the ship's library, brushing up on his written and spoken Liaden. Then, he met with Protocol Officer Ray Jon tel'Ondor, which was more language lessons, putting dry learning into practical use. Master tel'Ondor was also of an ambition to teach Jethri his bows, though he made no secret of the fact that Jethri was the least apt pupil he had encountered in long years of tutoring arrogant young traders in protocol.

After Master tel'Ondor, there was exercise—a mandated ship's hour every day at the weights and the treadmills, then a shower, a meal, and more reading, this on the subjects of trade guild rules and custom regs. After that, there was the Terran-tutoring with Gaenor tel'Dorbit. The first mate being of a restless habit, that meant more exercise, as they walked the long hallways of
Elthoria
. Despite the extra walking, Jethri quickly came to look forward to this part of his duty-day. Gaenor was younger than Master ven'Deelin and Pen Rel, and she smiled nicely from time to time in her lessons, which Jethri particularly liked.

Gaenor's idea of being tutored was to just start talking—about the events of the previous shift, her family's home in a dirt-based city called Chonselta, the latest book she was reading, or the ship's itinerary. Jethri's responsibility was to stop her when she misspoke, and say the words over in the right order and pronunciation. So it was that he became informed of ship's policy, gossip and ports o'call, as well as the names of certain flowers which Gaenor particularly missed from home.

The first mate having access to just about every portion of the ship, Jethri also found himself informed of various lockers and pod connections, and was introduced to each of the ship's company as they were encountered during the ramble. Some of the crew seemed not so pleased to see him, some seemed . . .  puzzled. Most seemed not to care much, one way or the other. All were grave and polite, like they oughta be, Jethri thought, with the first mate looking on. Still, he thought that these catch-as-can introductions at the mate's side. . .  helped. Helped him put names and faces and responsibilities together. Helped them to see he really was part of the crew, pulling his weight, just like they were.