Balance of Trade (11 page)

One person who seemed outright happy to welcome him was Vil Tor, ship's librarian. As it happened that Vil Tor also had an ambition to add Terran to his speakables, Gaenor and Jethri had taken to including the library as a regular stop. This time out, though, they'd found the door locked, lights out. Gaenor sighed, slim shoulders dropping for a moment, then turned and started back down the hall, swinging out with a will.

"This our ship,
Elthoria
," Gaenor said, as they hit the end of the hall and swept left, toward Hydroponics; "will be inputting to Spacestation Kailipso. . . "

"Putting in," Jethri panted. "
Elthoria
will be putting in to Kailipso Station."

"Hah." Gaenor flicked a glance his way;
she
wasn't even breathing hard. "
Elthoria
," she repeated, slowing her pace by a fraction, "will be putting in to Spacestation Kailipso—bah!—
Kailipso Station
—putting in to Kailipso Station within three ship days. There is a—a . . . " She stopped entirely and turned to face Jethri, holding two hands up, palm out, signifying she had not the necessary Terran words to hand.

"It is to have a meeting of the masters, on subjects interested in the masters. . . "

The immediate phrase that came to mind was "jaw-fest," which Jethri thought might not be the sort of Terran Master ven'Deelin wanted Gaenor to be learning. He frowned after the polite and after a moment was able to offer, "a symposium."

"Sim-po-zium," Gaenor said, her mouth pinching up like the word tasted bad. "So, there is a
sim-po-zium
upon Kailipso. The ven'Deelin attends—the ven'Deelin
will attend
. The crew will be at leave." She moved her shoulders, not quite a Terran shrug, but not quite admiring of Kailipso Station, all the same.

"Don't like Kailipso much?" he ventured, and Gaenor's mouth pinched again before she turned and recommenced marching down the hall.

"It is cold," she said to the empty corridor, and then began to tell him of the latest developments in the novel she was reading. He had to catch up, hoping that she put his delay down to his being somewhat less fit, and not his taking a moment to admire her walk.

BEFORE THEY CLEARED a freewing to fly, Kinaveral Central wanted to be assured that candidate could find her way through a form or six. That done, there were the sims to fly, then a chat with the stable boss, at the end of which a time was named on the morrow when the candidate was to return and actually lift one of Central's precious ships—and an observer—for the final and most telling part of the test.

In between now and then, Khat knew, they'd be checking her number and her ship, and verifying her personals. She'd hoped to have the test lift today, but, there, the stable boss needed to know if the applicant free-wing tended toward sober in the morning.

No problem for the applicant on that approach, Khat thought, walking down the dusty, noisy main street. Not to say that a brew would be unwelcome at the moment. Make that a brew and a handwich, she amended, as her stomach filed notice that the 'mite and crackers she'd fed it for breakfast were long past gone.

Up ahead, she spied the flashing green triangle which was the sign of an eat-and-drinkery, and stretched her legs, grimacing at the protest of overworked muscles.
That'll teach you to stint your weight exercise
, she scolded herself, and turned into the cool, comfortably dim doorway.

A lightscape over the counter showed a old style fin-ship down on a flat plain, mountains marking the horizon. Beneath, a tag box spelled out the name of the joint:
Ship 'n Shore
.

There was a scattering of folk at the tables—spacers, mostly—and plenty of room at the counter. It being only herself, Khat swung up onto a stool 'neath the tag box and waved at the barkeep.

"Dark brew and a handwich for a woman in need!"

The keeper grinned, drew the beer and sat it on the counter by her hand. "There's the easy part," he said. "What's your fondness for food? We got local cheese and vegs on fresh bake bread; potmeat on the same; 'mite paste and pickles; side o' fish—"

Khat leveled a finger. "Local cheese without the vegs?"

"We can do it," he promised.

"That's a deal, then. Bring her on."

"Be a sec. Let me know how you find the beer." He moved down counter, still grinning, and Khat picked up the mug.

The beer was cold, which was how she liked it. Bitter, too, and thick. She'd brought the mug down to half-full by the time her handwich arrived, two generous halves sharing a plastic plate with a fistful of saltpretzel.

"Brew's good," Khat said. "I'll want another just like it in not too long."

The keeper smiled, pleased, and put a couple disposable napkins next to the plate. "Just give a yell when you're ready," he said.

She nodded and picked up one of the halves. The unmistakable smell of fresh bake bread hit her nose and her stomach started clamoring. For the next while, she concentrated on settling that issue. The bread was whole grain, brown and nutty; the cheese butter smooth and unexpectedly spicy. Khat finished the first half and the brew, waved the empty mug at the barkeep and started in on the second round.

Couple times, folk from the tables came up to the counter for refills. A crew of three came in from the street and staked out stools at the end of the row. Khat paid none of them particular notice, except to register that they were spacers, and nobody she knew.

At last, the final saltpretzel was gone. Khat pushed the plate away with a regretful sigh and reached for her mug. A couple more sips, settle her bill and then back to the lodgings, she thought, with a sinking in her well-full stomach. Wasn't nothing wrong with the lodgings, mind, except that they was full-grav lodgings, and dirtside, and subject to the rules of the lodge-owner. But still,
Market's
crew had a section to themselves, inside which each had their own cubby, with cot and desk and entertainment bar. No complaints.

Excepting that Captain Iza was nothing but complaints—well, she hated dirt, always had; and didn't have much of a fondness for worldsiders. Without the routine of her ship, she stood at sevens and eights and spent 'way too much of her time down to the yards, doubtless making life a hell for the crew boss assigned to
Market's
refit.

Zam had suggested the captain might file as freewing with Central, for which insubordination he had his head handed to him. Seeli'd come by no gentler treatment when she spoke to her mother, and Dyk declined even to try. Paitor had his own quarters at Terratrade, and when the temp slot went solid on Cris their second day a-ground, he all but ran to the space field.

Which left them a mixed bag—and bad tempered, too, held uneasy by Iza's moods.

And the year was barely begun.

Khat sighed again, and finished off her brew. She put the mug down and waved at the keeper for the bill. He, up-counter with the crew of three, held up two fingers—
be there in a few
. She nodded, shifted on the stool. . . 

"Hey, Khati," an unwelcome voice came from too near at hand.

"Shit," Khat muttered beneath her breath and spun the stool around to face Mac Gold.

He hadn't changed much since the last time she'd seen him—some taller, maybe, and a little broader in the shoulders. Khat nodded, curt.

"Mac."

He grinned, and ran a hand over his head. His hair was pale yellow; buzzed, it was nearly invisible, which his eyelashes were. Behind those invisible lashes, his eyes were a deep and unlikely blue, the rest of his face square and bony. A well enough looking boy, taken all together. If he hadn't also happened to've been Mac Gold.

"Good to see you," he said, now, deliberately aiming those unlikely eyes at her chest. "Buy you a brew?"

She shook her head, teeth gritting. "Just on my way. Next time, maybe."

"Right," he said, but he didn't move, other than to cock his head. "Listen, while we're face to face—square with me?"

She shrugged. "Maybe."

"I'm just wondering—what happened to Jethri? I mean, what
really
happened to Jethri?"

"He's 'prenticed to the trader of a big ship," she said. "Cap'n Iza must've told your dad so."

"She did," Mac agreed, "and I'm sharing no secrets when I tell you my dad was some pissed about the whole business. I mean, here's Iza asking us to make room for your extra, and m'dad willing to accommodate, and what happens but then she says, no, the boy ain't coming after all. He's gone someplace else." Mac shook his head and held up a hand, thumb and forefinger a whisper apart.

"Dad was
this close
to calling breach."

Khat sighed. "Breach of what? The legal wasn't writ."

"Still, there'd be the verbal—"

"Deals fall through every day," Khat interrupted and caught sight of the barkeep out of the corner of her eye. She turned on the stool and smiled at him.

Behind her, Mac, raised his voice conspicuously—

"Rumor is, Khat, that Paitor sold the boy to Liadens!"

That drew starts and stares from those close enough to hear; some turned carefully away but others lifted eyebrows and raised their heads to watch.

Deliberately, Khat turned, away from the barkeep and back to Mac Gold. Deliberately, she drew a deep breath, and glared straight into those blue eyes.

"The
boy
holds a Combine key. He's as legal as you or me. He's a 'prentice trader—signed his own papers. Jethri ain't no
boy
."

"Well, rumor is that Liadens paid for this upgrade the
Market's
gettin'."

Khat laughed and rolled her eyes.

"Least now Mr. Rumor's got it right. Jethri sold a load of cellosilk back at Ynsolt'i, and on top of that, Paitor bought some special risk merchandise Jethri'd pointed out—an' didn't
that
turn into high-count coin in the private hall—just like Jethri said it would! So, sure, Liadens bought this upgrade all right—cans, nodes, and engines."

"But someone got shot, they say, and next thing—"

Khat sighed, loud and exasperated.

"Look, Jethri was ready to trade, Mac, and captain told him if he wanted something more than pushing gravel from here to there, he'd have to find his own ship. Can't fault him for that call. So he found himself a better berth, 'prenticed to nothing less than a master trader, and for a good-bye, he buys us new drives and a full upgrade."

She paused, hearing a slight thump of glass behind her and raised her hand, fingers wriggling "just sec."

"Jethri's got him a berth, Mac. Papers're signed proper and legal.
His
business—not mine, not yours. That other stuff Mr. Rumor been tellin' you—nobody got shot but some fool who decided it was easier to die than clear an honest debt. Not your problem." She tipped her head, like she was considering that, and asked, sweetly, "Or is it?"

Mac's eyes tightened and his face reddened.

"It sure is my problem if the word gets out Jethri'd rather crew with a bunch of Liadens than come with an honest ship like—"

"You better watch your mouth, Mac Gold," Khat snapped. "Lest somebody here figures you was gonna say something about how
Gold Digger's
honest and Jethri's ship ain't. Not the kind of thing you'd be wanting to discuss with a Liaden, now, is it?"

Mac blinked, and swallowed hard. Point won, Khat turned back to the bartender, raised her eyes briefly and expressively at the ceiling, and smiled.

"What's the damage?"

He smiled back. "Two bit."

"Done." She slid four across the counter and dropped to her feet, leg muscles sending up a shout for their team leader. She ignored them. The walk back to the lodgings would work the kinks out. Or cripple her for life.

"So, Khat—" Mac said from beside her.

"So, Mac," she overrode, and turned sharp, feeling a dangerous tingle along the brawlin' nerves when he went back a step. She kept going, and he kept backin', until she got the throttle on it and stopped.

Mac's pretty blue eyes was showing some red, and his face was damp. Khat gave one more hard glare, before she nodded, kinda half-civil.

"See you 'round port," she said, and forced her aching legs to swing out, carrying her down the room and out in the dusty day.

"COME, COME, YOUNG Jethri, tarry not!" Pen Rel's voice was brisk, as he waved Jethri ahead of him into the entry tube. "All the wonders of Kailipso Station await your discovery! Surely, your enthusiasm and spirit of adventure are aroused!"

Had it been Dyk behind him in the chute, Jethri would have counted both his legs yanked proper, and been alert for second stage mischief. He thought Pen Rel too dignified for Dyk's sort of rough-'n-tumble; he was less sure of his tendencies on the leg-pulling side of things.

Jethri felt the odd twitter of the grav field where it intersected the station's own grav-well; though flat and level to the eyes the deck felt as if it fell away into the chute. Maybe Pen Rel was watching for a bobble, but such boundaries were learned by shipcrew at the knees of their mates and family.

The airflow, that was a surprise—definitely a positive, cool flow
toward
the ship—No, Jethri discovered, after a moment's study; the tube itself had a circulation system, and he could see the filters set flush to the walls. He gave a quiet sigh of relief for this homey precaution—all long-spacers did their most to keep station, port, or planet air
out
in favor of proper controlled and cleaned ship air.

Curiosity satisfied, Jethri stepped forward—and then stepped back, his hand going up, fingers shaping the hand-talk for "hold".

Two Liadens were coming up the slanted ramp at a pace that made Jethri's chest ache in sympathy. One—by far the pudgiest Liaden Jethri had seen so far—was carrying a full duffle; his slimmer companion clutched what looked to be a general business comp to his chest. They were in earnest conversation, heads turned aside and eyes only for each other.

"What is—" Pen Rel began, but by then the duo was on the flat and heading full throttle out, never realizing that they was anything but alone.