Balance of Trade (37 page)

She blinked, glanced down at the device and then back to his face.

"I think we do you no favor in teaching you to sharpen your words," she said. "What would you have said to me just then, if we had been speaking in your home-tongue."

"Eh?" He shrugged, feeling a brief sense of dislocation before the words slid into his mouth. "Figure it yourself, if you know so much."

Miandra blinked again. "I see—irritation sharpens your words, not our teaching."

"Well, see—" he began, and shook his head, hearing himself back in Terran. He raised a hand, signaling that he required a moment to himself, closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting his mind just sort of go blank for a moment. . . .

"Jethri, are you well?" Miandra's voice was worried, her words in Low Liaden. He felt something sort of twist inside his head, and opened his eyes.

"I am well," he said. "A momentary dislocation of language. To continue—my father wasn't able to break the puzzle of this device—nor was his cousin, and neither was a shy man with a puzzle. I've only been trying to work out how to operate it for last few days, but I am afraid my frustration—has the better of me. For something that seems so simple, it is remarkably difficult to understand!"

She laughed, and shifted closer to him, holding the device between them. "Well, let us see what we may deduce between us, then. Surely,
this
—" she ran her finger under a simple straight line, "is clear skies—no weather, as we say, though of course there is always weather. . . " Her voice trailed off, and she bent her head closer, reaching up absently to tuck a curl of reddish hair behind her ear. Jethri stared, then pulled his attention back to the problem at hand.

"This. . . " She tapped her finger on a crazy, swirly mess of lines. "Surely," she said, tapping again, "this is a wind-twist? No other weather pattern would be so—" She gasped to a stop, staring down at a screen gone smokey and opaque.

"What is happening?" She thrust the device at him, her eyes wide and panicked. "Jethri—what is it doing?"

Almost, he laughed at her. Almost. And then he remembered all the times neither she nor her sister had laughed at him, though he didn't doubt he was nothing less than comical.

So. Gently, he slid the little machine out of her hand. The transitional clouds were thinning on the screen, and he tipped it so she could see.

"It's only going to the next phase—see? Here is a picture of our day, here and now."

And so it was. Miandra gazed at it in silence, then looked back to him, her dark blue eyes showing unease.

"Now what does it do?"

"Nothing," he said, and smiled down at her. "We can go back to the icon screen—" he touched the go-back button; the screen swirled, then solidified. He held the device out to her. "Touch another icon. Any one."

She raised her hand, then slowly lowered it, her face troubled. "I—believe that I do not wish to do that."

"It's all right," he assured her. "Nothing else will happen at all. See?" He pressed the symbol for rain. The icons in place; the screen steady.

"I—see," she replied, but he got the idea she wasn't made easy by the demonstration.

"It's just an old weather predictor," he said, trying to jolly her, "and probably not very stable. I just thought it would be . . . convenient. . .  if we had warning of—frost, or any other weather damaging to the vines."

"The weather net is in place," she pointed out.

"But you said it wasn't accurate," he countered.

She used her chin to point at the device in his hand. "That does not appear to be accurate, either."

He had to admit that she looked to be right there, and slipped the device into his sleeve.

"I suppose," he said, a trifle glumly.

Miandra laughed. "Come now, Jethri, do not be cast down! It is a most marvelous puzzle!"

Her laugh was infectious and he grinned in response. "I guess I like my puzzles to have answers."

"As who does not?" she said gaily, and bounced to her feet, the ruby pendant flashing in the brilliant day.

"It is nearly time for the gather-bell. Let us be at our places early and astonish Ren Lar!"

Since Ren Lar actually expected everyone to be in the yard the instant the shift-bell sounded, this was a remarkably sensible suggestion and Jethri got to his feet with alacrity, following her out of the small garden and toward the wine yard.

"What are wind-twists?" he asked as he came to her side. She glanced up at him, her face serious.

"Very destructive and unpredictable weather," she said. "A wind-twist might level a vineyard with a touch, or fling a house into the tops of the trees."

A breeze touched his face, moving off the side of the hill. "
Wind
can do that?" he asked, starting to believe that this was a joke.

"Oh, yes," she assured him. "Fortunately, they are very rare. And never in this season."

The hydraulics was up to spec for a wonder, and the yard boss wasn't available to talk. That was all right. Myra Goodin, his second, didn't talk much, but she did listen a treat, and tagged his specific concerns and problems in her clipboard, after which, she handed the 'board to him.

Grig read over what she'd input, nodded and thumbprinted it.

"Yard's doing good for us," he said, easy and companionable, as he handed the 'board back. "We appreciate the attention."

Myra looked him firm in the eye. Firm sort of woman, and not one to joke. Serious about her work in a way her boss didn't appear to emulate—or value. Which was too bad, so Grig thought, given that the reputation of the yard sat square on her shoulders.

She took the clipboard back, and counter-printed it, her eyes steady on his. "We got off to a rugged start," she said seriously. "I place the blame equal, there. Your captain shouldn't have popped off like she did and Roard shouldn't've egged her." She nodded. "We've been able to get back on a business-like footing since you and Seeli took over the inspections. I appreciate that you took the initiative, there. This is a joint project—we're all here to see that the refit's done right."

Which was true enough, but not something you'd hear comin' outta Boss Roard's mouth. Grig smiled at Myra.

"Joint project, right enough—and a pleasure to be working on it with you." He stood, and nodded at the 'board in her hand. "When d'you want me by to okay those?"

She frowned and touched the keypad, calling up her schedule.

"Three-day," she said after a moment. "I'll give you a pass."

Myra had been the one who had worked out the pass system that allowed them in the yard more often than Roard's so-called Official Inspection Schedule. It was best for all of them, if okays on inspection problems didn't have to wait 'til the next scheduled inspection, which you'd think a yard boss would understand. Well, Grig amended, a yard boss who wasn't thinking with his spite gland.

He reached out a long arm and snagged his jacket from where he'd thrown it across the back of a chair. Myra went across the room, pulled a green plastic pass from its hook, set it in the 'coder and tapped a quick sequence in. The machine beeped, she slid the card free and held it out.

"We will speak again in three days," she said, which was dismissal, and right enough, busy as she was.

Grig took the card with smile and put it away in an inner pocket of the jacket. "Three days, it is," he said, gave her a nod for good-day, and let himself out of the office.

He cleared the gate and was maybe eight, nine steps on his way back toward the lodgings when he was joined by a long, soft-walking shadow. He sighed, and didn't bother to look, knowing full well what he'd see.

"Grigory," her voice was familiar. Well, of course it was.

"Raisy," he answered, still not looking, which maybe wasn't right, when a man hadn't seen his sister in so long, but
damn
it. . . 

"Uncle wants to see you," she said, which he'd known she was going to, so it wasn't exactly surprise that spun him around, boot heels stamping the road.

'Well, now, there's welcome news!" he snapped, and watched Raisy's eyebrows go up on her long forehead.

"Trouble?" she asked, quiet enough to make him ashamed of showing temper.

"Not til you showed up."

She grinned. "Same could be said for yourself."

"'cept I'm where I was, doin' what I've been, and didn't go lookin' for relatives to complicate my life," Grig said. "And you know for a space cold fact that Uncle is more trouble than any of the rest of us, living or dead."

She appeared to consider that, head tipped to one side. "Exceptin' Arin."

He laughed, short and still sharp with temper.

"True enough. We'd none of us be anywhere, if it wasn't for Arin." He sighed. "What's Uncle want?"

His sister shrugged. "Wants to talk to you. Catch up. It's been—what?—twenty years?"

"Long as that?" He closed his eyes, not wanting it. Not wanting it down deep in his bones. Seeli—Seeli'd be after takin' his head, and she'd have nothing but the right of it on her side.

"Time flows," Raisy was saying, "when life is good."

He opened his eyes and looked at her, long and hard. "Life's
been
good," he said, sternly. "Don't laugh at me, Raisy."

She shook her head, and put a long hand on his sleeve. "No mocking here, brother," she said, serious as only Raisy could be. Her fingers tightened briefly, then withdrew.

"You know Uncle won't let it rest. Why not come along, get it over with? Be a shame to make him send an escort."

Uncle would, too, as Grig knew from bitter experience. Still—"What're you?" He asked Raisy.

She smiled. "Your older sister, here to show you the best course to not getting your arm broke. Or didja forget what happened the last time you turned stubborn?"

"I remember," he said and sighed, accepting it, because Uncle
wouldn't
let it go and there was some small advantage to showing meek and biddable in the first round.

"All right," he told Raisy. "You're persuadable; I'll come. They're expecting me back at the lodgings by a certain time. Lemme find a comm and file an amended course. Then Uncle can have me."

THE JOB TODAY WAS gathering up all the clippings they'd clipped over the last week and putting them in a cart parked at the end of each row. Filled carts were taken away, and an empty arrived to replace it.

Meicha was on cart duty, along with some youngers from the kitchen and maintenance staff. Jethri was on gather-up, and Miandra, too, him working the left hall off the main corridor, her working the right. Flinx was about, lazing under the vines, and amusing himself however cats did; Jethri'd see him out of the side of an eye when he'd bend down to pick up a bundle of sticks.

On one level, it was stupid, repetitive work—worse even than Stinks. But, where Stinks was a solitary aggravation that let a bad mood grow on you, the stick picking up was a group effort—and it was by large a merry group. The kitchen youngers sang when they pushed their carts, and laughter could be heard along the rows. The weather might have helped the spirit of the day, too—cool, with a light breeze to fan away the sweat of exertion, and some progressively denser clouds to cut the glare of the sun, as the day went on.

Jethri met Miandra at the cart. She threw her armful of sticks onto the growing pile, smiling. He placed his more carefully, because the cart was almost full and he didn't want to start a cascade of sticks to the ground.

"That's all for me!" the tender said cheerfully, reaching down to touch the power switch. She glanced up at the sky. "Hope it's not going to—Gods!"

Instinctively, Jethri looked along her line of sight, blinking up into a sky now almost entirely overcast with green-gray clouds, that seemed to be orbiting each other, picking up speed as he watched.

"Wind-twist!" the cart driver shouted, and shouted again, loud enough to hurt Jethri's ears. "Wind-twist! Everybody get to shelter!"

Apparently suiting her actions to her words, she snapped off the power switch, turned and ran down the hill, toward the house, and the cellar.

The green-gray clouds were moving faster, now, elongating, and there came a downward roar of ice-cold air, slapping the vines flat and abusing the ears, and he felt his arm grabbed and tore his attention away from the spectacle in the sky to Miandra's horrified face, her hair twisting and tangling in the wind.

"Jethri, quickly!" Close as she was, and shouting, too, he could barely hear her above the growing roar of the wind. "To the cellar!"

"You go!" He yelled back. "I'll get Flinx!"

"No!" She grabbed his arm. "Jethri, a wind-twist can pick you up and break you—"

"And you!" he yelled, and pushed her. "Run! I'm right behind you!" And he threw himself forward, away from the wagon, back down the row he'd been working. The vines were snapping like wild cable in the growing disturbance, and about halfway down the row, where he hadn't finished cleaning up yet, some loose twigs started to stir, and dance above the ground, following a spiral path up into the sky.

Just before that, crouched under a vine, all four feet under him, tail twice its normal size and ears laid back, was Flinx.

Jethri jumped, grabbed the cat by the loose fur at the back of his neck, hauled him up and got him against his chest, arms wrapped tight. Flinx bucked, and he might have yowled, but the wind was roaring too loud for Jethri to be certain. Cat crushed against him, head down, so that none of the airborne sticks would hit his face, he ran.

All around him, the wind roared, and there was the end of the corridor, and the abandoned cart, and a slender figure in wind-torn red hair, her ruby pendant flaring bright as a sun—

"Hurry!" she shouted, and he heard her, somewhere between the inside of his head and the outside of his ears. "Hurry! It's slipping!"

He hurried, stretching his legs and the cat wrapped close, and he was past the cart and Miandra was beside him and they were running faster,
faster
, down the hill, and—

Behind them came a boom like a ship giving up all its energy at once. Ahead of them, a meteor-shower of sticks and metal shred. Jethri faltered, felt Flinx's claws in his flesh—