Liaden Universe [19] - Alliance of Equals - eARC (8 page)

“I am desolate to have no such tender accommodations available to the chutney,” she said. “I have only heard tales of this rare foodstuff, and for a moment, I allowed my hope to interfere with my good sense.”

The smile widened again. She had redeemed herself.

“But, if not the chutney, what brings you to me?”

“I am in search of
milaster
,” she said. “Quite a bit of
milaster
. I am informed that you sell in bulk.”

“I do, yes! However, Trader, I must warn you that the kernels, they will lose…taste, texture, nutritional values after only a very short time in stasis. They remain edible, but they do not remain
excellent
!”

“I understand,” Padi assured him. “I plan to deliver within the toleration period.”

“Hm.” That was said quite softly; the smile entirely vanished now, as he studied her from brown eyes squinted into slits.

“How much bulk
milaster
will you buy, Trader?”

Now they were approaching the correct course. Padi looked directly into those calculating brown eyes, and asked, “That will depend upon how much you have to sell, and at what price and condition,” she answered.

Gustav rel’Ana’s eyebrows rose.

“Well, then,” he said. “If you please, Trader, step over to the side counter, just there. I will call for assistance here, and then—we will talk.”

—•—

There was a tiny ripple in the air by her ear, as if a flutterbee had passed quite near.

Priscilla looked up from her work screen, frowning slightly. Flutterbees were not expectable in the office of a captain hard at work inside of a starship in orbit…

There.

A glow of dusty red drew her eye, on the desk between her coffee mug and the keyboard. She took a careful breath, and extended her attention, remembering how this very same game counter had been waiting for her—for Moonhawk—when she had come to Weapons Hall, to gather those things that she would need, as the captain of a warship around an embattled planet. Then, the counter had been sparkling with Shan’s presence, when he had been separated from the ship, his fate unknown. It had comforted her to know without doubt that he was alive.

When matters were settled, and they were rejoined, the counter had left her and…returned, to Shan.

“Stupid object,” he’d told it, “I’m not Lute.”

Only he
was
Lute, in the same way that she
was
Moonhawk, old souls both. She had been taught at Temple that she was “Moonhawk’s vessel,” and that her strength as a Witch came from that special relationship with one of the oldest priestesses of their order.

Lute had, according to history and myth, been Moonhawk’s companion…across many lifetimes. He was not himself a priest—there were no priests at the temples on Sintia—but he had, often, been acknowledged as a Man of Power, though some histories referred to him as a mere cunningman.

While she would never suggest to Shan that his gift came from his special relationship with Lute, it was clear to her that there was…an interest.

She touched the red counter with the tip of one finger, read the tale of its recent adventures, and smiled.

Shan had sent it away in a fit of pique, and it had come to her, apparently being unwilling yet to return to Lute, or to Weapons Hall.

Priscilla focused on the battered item, imprinting
I love you
into its wooden soul, and then murmured, “Return.”

She lifted her finger.

There was a flash of red, brighter than the counter itself, followed by that small disturbance in the quiet air of her office.

The tiny uncluttered triangle of desk space between her coffee mug and the keyboard was empty.

Still smiling, Priscilla returned to work.

—•—

Padi’s knees were shaking, and her hair was damp with sweat, but she had managed the deal, and gotten what she wanted, at a price that was…very nearly…what she had intended to pay.

Gustav rel’Ana had produced a sample of what was in his storerooms, along with certifications from the growers and harvesters. She had scanned them with the reader provided by the port, and found them authentic—which was to say, the port transmitted to her the Laster Cooperative’s confirmation that the information she had been given was true and correct.

The samples tasted good to her—the nutmeat was firm and a little sweet, very pleasant in the mouth—but she was certainly not an expert on freshness. The certifications from the growers co-op included a list of nutrients, and a graph showing the rate at which each degraded, in stasis and on the shelf.

Gustav rel’Ana wanted more per unit than Padi’s limit, but again, her research stood her well. She didn’t quite have to walk away from the counter before her view prevailed, though it had been a near thing.

And in the end, he had gotten a little of his own back: because of the method by which the nuts were packed and sold, she was required to overbuy, for he would not break a sealed unit.

She signed the sales chit; gave him the code for the tug which would be bringing the
Passage
’s pod into orbit, and the deal was done.

“It has been a pleasure, Trader yos’Galan!” the vendor told her, shouting again. “Come to me whenever you have need of
milaster
. I will be very glad to do business with you again!”

That
made her a little uneasy, but the papers had been signed; the delivery scheduled, and the money, she was certain, already transferred out of the port account with her name on it. Master Trader yos’Galan would surely critique her performance on the shuttle lift to the
Passage
, and she would learn then if she had been foolish beyond measure.

She exchanged bows with the vendor and found her way out of the booth, Mr. Higgs falling in beside her, Father—still rather indistinct—beside him. Gods, she wanted a cup of tea and a quiet place to sit and gather her composure.

That
…was not her usual reaction to a completed trade. Most usually, she felt exhilarated, and curious to see what else the market might offer. Today, she only wanted to leave. However, she was not alone. Indeed, she was in the company of a master trader, who had not necessarily shared all of his requirements with her.

“Is there business yet to do?” she asked.

There was a slight pause, as if Mr. Higgs waited for the master trader to speak. When there was no contribution from that quarter, he said that he had no other business, and that they were coming up on time for the shuttle, anyway.

Padi nodded and led the way toward the slideway, her stride somewhat less energetic than it had been on the way in. She wondered if Gustav rel’Ana had a
nerligig
or another, less legal, mood regulator concealed inside his booth.

The slideway platform was just ahead. She forced herself to walk more quickly.

—•—

Shan felt something settle in the depths of his pocket, and sighed.

It was nice while it lasted
, he thought, watching Padi, ahead of them. The child looked exhausted, which was likely those short sleep shifts catching up with her at the far end of an unexpectedly vigorous session of trade.

He had been wary of broaching the topic of sleep shifts. As a mere father, his concern would surely be set aside for her own necessities, and he was loath to bring the “master trader” into the matter.

Well, they would have a conference on the lift to the
Passage
; he would mention it then, in the context of the effectiveness of the trader on the floor.
That
might set her to thinking.

He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out the red counter; it was glowing somewhat, and he felt, as plain as a kiss on his cheek, Priscilla’s love, warm and steady.

Closing his fingers around the token, he smiled to himself. At least now he knew where it had gone. Best if it had returned to Weapons Hall and the improbable edition of himself he had met there, Lute the magician. Failing that, it was…good that it took itself off to Priscilla, who had the skill to deal with it, rather than landing in the pocket of some random trader, or dealer in antiquities.

Ahead, Padi was angling toward the ramp that led to the slideway platform. Several people were clustered near a booth there, and one of those turned his head, spotted Padi and detached himself, his course set to intercept.

Shan took a deep breath, thrusting the counter back into his pocket, and deliberately thought himself very visible, indeed.

—•—

Padi saw him out of the corner of her eye, a male in local clothing, perhaps a little older than she was, his height and his features combined to convince her that he was Liaden. He was coming toward her, deliberately, as if he knew her.

She had never seen him before; she was certain of it.

Liadens were no longer safe, and the agents of the Department of the Interior were demonstrably stupid enough to walk up to them openly and demand that she, and Father, and Mr. Higgs come with them.

If he didn’t try anything
stupider
.

Still, she thought, recalling to mind her lessons in
daibri’at
and Arms Master Schneider’s advice…Still, it might be something else. He might be on another trajectory altogether, and not on course for them.

She altered her course somewhat; the boy altered his course, still aiming to cut her off.

Padi took a breath, taking in the surroundings with a quick glance. Open enough, some people, but not a crowd, and he seemed to be by himself.

She stopped, centered, and faced him.

He smiled, wide and delighted—
not
Liaden—and came forward more rapidly.

She flexed her knees. Though he wouldn’t be much to throw, she was briefly grateful that she had given Father her bowl.

“Well, what’s this, an acquaintance late met?”

Father’s voice was loud in her ear, and there he was, completely solid, and abruptly between her and the approaching target, her bowl in its sack over his shoulder.

“Padi, do you know this young person?”

The boy stopped, confusion on his face. Perhaps, Padi thought, he was wondering where Father had come from.

“No, sir,” she said, in answer to his question. “We have not met.”

“Ah. But perhaps it was myself you wished to speak with?” Father asked.

The boy shook his head.

“Your pardon, sir, it was…the lady. I thought I did know her, the resemblance—but I see that I’m wrong! Pardon, sirs! Lady!”

He bowed, a shapeless thing, neither Liaden
nor
Terran, and without waiting for an acknowledgment, turned back the way he had come.

Padi let out a long, shaking breath.

“Well, now,” Father said, looking down at her from his height. His voice was mocking, but his eyes…were not.

“Wasn’t that easier than killing the poor lad?”

She hadn’t been going to
kill
him, Padi thought. Unless he had proven a threat, of course.

“I didn’t know him,” she said, her voice sounding angry in her own ears. “If he was a threat, I wanted to be prepared.”

“Exactly correct,” Father said. “And now that he has been properly chastised, I suggest we board the slideway and go home.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Chessel’s World

Padi settled into a hard plastic chair in the seller’s section of the Chesselport Grand Auction Hall. There was no real reason for her to be in the hall; all of the important transactions—saving the sale, of course—had been handled at the auctioneer’s docket, in the antechamber. There, she had registered her cargo, provided a unit sample, her receipt, and the certifications and verifications from Andireeport and the Laster Cooperative. The cargo had previously been moved to the bidding bin assigned to the
Passage
, along with the goods Master Trader yos’Galan had on offer—tame stuff, there, the Number Three Mix; none of the goods he had taken on at Andiree, nothing at all
interesting
, really. Number Three Mix was the blandest of the six standard trade mixes the master trader had to hand.

In Padi’s opinion.

Of course, she thought, looking up at the upcoming auctions board, he probably wanted to learn something from his offering: how many bid and at what price; who had bid; if they accepted or rejected the trade catalog offered free to all who asked; how many actually made contact with him after accepting the catalog; and if they had anything potentially
interesting
, or only useful, to offer the habitants of an upcoming port.

He, of course, wasn’t here to watch the auction—master traders had far more lucrative matters to tend. The auction was…an introduction, that was all. A way—one way—to get his name out on the port and into the mouths of the street vendors. He, himself, had been invited to a reception at the portmaster’s office later in the local day, and was currently contacting prominent names on port, to arrange for meetings before and after.

Padi sighed where she sat, her eyes on the board. One vendor had bid on her offering, at the usual market rate. She twisted her fingers together and reminded herself that this was only one bid—and likely an automatic, as it had come so quickly. The bidder hadn’t had a chance to read the documentation, really, and to understand why what she had on offer had value.

She sighed. The reception. Ordinarily, she would have been at the reception, too, as the master trader’s ’prentice, but the invitation had specified “Master Trader yos’Galan” and “no guests.” It seemed an odd thing, and she had said so. Father had merely said that he had seen odder and told her that she would, therefore, need to see to the auction of her cargo without his help.

Which was a joke, naturally enough, and the reason why Padi came to be able to indulge herself at the public auction, with only Third Mate and Pilot Dil Nem Tiazan, and Comm Tech Sally Triloff at her side. The third mate was kin, of course—Korval and Erob allowed such relationships, so often had the lines been crossed—though very much her elder. He had, in fact, come out of retirement to oblige the captain when she sought to fill those posts left vacant by the…events on Liad. Despite his age, his hair was
quite
red; he was stern, and had little to say for himself. He had voiced no objection to Padi’s scheme of sitting for a while to watch the bidding; merely, he had settled into a chair near, though not next to, her, pulled a reader out of his pocket and was immediately immersed in a book, or a report, or…

Sally was another matter. Padi felt that Sally would rather have liked to walk about the port, instead of sitting in an auditorium watching the apprentice trader stare at the bid boards and bite her fingernails. She really
ought
to suggest that they wander to Sally’s whim; after all, the auctioneer had her comm code and would transmit the details when—if—the lot sold. The auctioneer also had her account information on file; her portion of the sale, less the auctioneer’s percentage and such taxes as the port levied, would be automatically forwarded to it.

There really was no reason to sit here and monitor the board herself, as if her attention might influence the outcome.

She leaned toward Sally, her eyes still on the board—and abruptly straightened, breath-caught.

Another bid had come in, appreciably higher than the first; a bid more in line with the worth of the product described in the documentation she had provided the auctioneer. Padi forced herself to breathe, swallowed—and a third bid came in, this one even more substantial than the second.

Padi’s chest hurt. She was…it was going according to plan!
Her milaster
would be known as a superior product and she would be paid…her research had suggested that she would net…between two and three percent more than the degraded
milaster
that came to Chessel’s World via the loop ships. The profit was good, of course, but the
real
prize would be if she could parlay today’s sale into a
standing order
. If she could turn
that
trump, why, she would have had a hand in shaping the route itself, and would win for Chessel’s World the honor of a scheduled stop.

She stared up at the board, her hands clenched on her lap, blinking as a fourth bid came in, slightly higher than the bid before, which might mean that momentum was slowing, but it couldn’t have topped out already…

“Padi?” A light hand pressed her sleeve. “You okay?”

Padi felt a jolt of guilt. Sally. She had been going to offer Sally the lead, which was only balanced and fair.

She turned, and smiled deliberately into the tech’s dark eyes.

“It is my first large offer at auction,” she said, and saw a tiny expression of disappointment cross the woman’s face.

“But,” Padi continued, “I can follow the bidding on my comm.” She pulled the unit from her belt. “I will make certain of my channel, and then let us go out onto the port—if you will lead us?”

Sally smiled widely, pleased. Good.

“I’d really like that,” she said—and her smile faded slightly. She turned to look at Dil Nem.

“Sir, do you wish to lead, on port?”

It was a courtesy for his rank, Padi knew, and it spoke well of Sally that she offered it, when she plainly wished the position herself.

The third mate looked up from his reader, and lifted a shoulder.

“I have no need to lead,” he said, in strongly accented, but perfectly intelligible Terran. “Please, find for us the hidden delights of the port.”

Sally took that as a challenge; Padi saw it in the flash of her eyes.

“I’ll be happy to do so, sir,” she said, and looked to Padi. “Have you found your channel?”

“I have,” she said. “I may be heard to ping every now and then, as new bids come in.”

“Fair warning,” Sally said. She stood, a grin on her face, and nodded toward the closest exit. “There’s our way out.”

* * *

Chesselport was open to the weather, which was agreeable. Her research had revealed that Chessel’s World at this latitude and longitude enjoyed clement weather, with no great variation in temperatures and no extended rainy season. Other geographies on-world did labor under these inconveniences, but they did not intrude upon the port. Following Sally down broad streets lined with shops, Padi was reminded of the days when she had accompanied Father up and down Solcintra Port as he pursued his duties there.

The comm on her belt pinged as they walked, but she resisted the temptation to look at the screen every time. Every other time, that was well enough; it was a good compromise between a trader’s care for the trade, and a proper enthusiasm for a crew mate’s skills.

For Sally was a skilled leader. Unlike some other crew mates, whom Padi charitably did not name, even to herself, Sally had a sure instinct for interesting streets and a good eye for a shop likely to hold unusual wares.

Padi was particularly impressed by a shop hosting a live demonstration of what she gathered was a traditional dyeing technique. It would seem that Dil Nem and Sally were similarly struck, for neither protested Padi’s suggestion that they stay to watch a second demonstration.

The dyer noticed their interest and rewarded it by draping a finished scarf in graduating shades of green around Dil Nem’s neck with a smile.

“It becomes ’ee,” he said. “Wear it in health.”

For a moment, it seemed to Padi as if Dil Nem might refuse the gift—then he bowed smoothly.

“I thank you,” he said, and Padi, just behind him, added, “Have you a card? If anyone asks my kinsman where he came by such a handsome scarf, we want to give good directions.”

The man grinned. He produced a card from the pocket of his apron with a flourish, and handed it to Padi.

“There’s a smart kitlet,” he said. “For that, your own scarf, and your friend, too!”

He was as good as his word: Sally’s scarf was a deep crimson with pale pink borders, and Padi’s sported a swirling pattern of misty violet and deep purple.

After leaving the dye shop, Padi’s comm pinged three times, on a rising tone. She snatched it off her belt and thumbed on the screen.

She stopped, staring.

“Bad news?” Sally asked, from beside her.

“No…” she said slowly. “I don’t think so. My lot sold at”—three-and-a-half percent over average!—“a good price. But I am wanted by the auctioneer, to sign an…affidavit.”

—•—

The traders of Chesselport were a standoffish lot, Shan thought, leaning back in his chair with a frown. Working with the port directory and trade bios, he had created a list of traders to contact, from most desirable to least, and had spent the last hour and a half calling them, in order. He had not expected to complete the list before it was time to depart for the portmaster’s reception, but he had expected that he would have at least six appointments to keep afterward.

As it happened, he was disappointed in both of his expectations, for he had called every name on the list, and still lacked three-quarters of an hour to his departure time, and…he had not one appointment to show for his labors.

True, he had only managed to speak to a handful of traders personally, but every one of them had been busy, or had nothing to offer at this time. To the latter, he had said that it was an introductory visit only, whereupon they, too, were busy.

It was…unprecedented. Staring up at the ceiling, arms folded behind his head, Shan tried to recall if he had ever in his life found a port where
no one
cared to speak to him. Even on Dayan, so long as he remained in the port proper, and in the company of a woman, he found traders willing to talk with him. Not necessarily
to trade
with him, he having made the genetic error of being male, but to show wares, in case he happened to know of a ship properly captained by a woman, where the trader was also a woman of a clan whose delm was a woman.

Really, it was quite lowering. He was beginning to enter into Theo’s feelings of rejection.

Perhaps he had erred in the matter of the auction. He had wished to feel out the market, as, one had assumed, the market had wished to feel out a new trader come to port. Lot Number Three, commonplace as it was, generally produced good results in that regard. The simplicity of the offerings very often served to soothe those who might be wary of that new trader on port, thinking that he might be too dear, or one of those fellows who dandled in exotic wares and would scarcely admit that there might ever be the possibility of a market for hairbrushes.

He sighed at the ceiling, and closed his eyes.

Had he come up against local custom? Was he, in fact, precipitate? Ought he to have waited until the portmaster’s reception? The Chesselport World Book had not mentioned an introduction protocol, but the books were sometimes blind in…interesting ways. If it was so ingrained—that one must be introduced to a stranger by a person of suitable status before one might interact with said stranger—it might very well go without saying, for what civilized person would behave differently?

He snorted lightly.

“Assume that you’ve sinned against custom, Shan,” he said aloud. “Go to the portmaster’s gather, become introduced, and hope that the traders you contacted out of order are of a uniformly forgiving—”

A gong sounded loudly.

Shan spun the chair, his hand flashing out to the keyboard—
alert incoming
, that ugly noise meant.

Something bad had happened.

—•—

“No, I will not sign that.”

Padi looked directly into the auctioneer’s eyes.

“I did not enter stolen goods into the auction, and I do not agree to forfeit my profit. I showed you the receipts and the certifications. You accepted them and placed them in the bid packet with the rest of the information.” She paused, and deliberately lifted an eyebrow. “Did you not?”

That was, perhaps, a bit too much, from a ’prentice trader to an auctioneer, but she was angry, and she was
certainly not
going to sign this…this
affidavit
admitting a crime she did not commit, nor was she going to allow them to keep the proceeds of her sale—the
considerable proceeds
of her sale.

“The receipts and certifications are legitimate,” the auctioneer said. “I regret that we accepted them before we were informed that the lot is part of an ongoing criminal enterprise. I advise you that signing the affidavit and forfeiting the funds is your best option.”

“I will do no such thing! I am connected with a registered and well-respected tradeship, the
Dutiful Passage
herself! Show me this ongoing criminal enterprise.”

“The burden of proof is not on me,” the auctioneer said.

“Relinquish my profits,” Padi said, proud of how stern and steady her voice was. “I will not sign the affidavit; you may take it away.”

“Trader, I cannot. The law is clear. Profits from a criminal enterprise are forfeit to the port. Those who do not sign the affidavit reveal themselves as criminals in fact and are taken up by Security.”

She felt a presence by her left shoulder; heard low-voiced Liaden in her ear.

“Trader, perhaps it is best to sign.”

“No!” she said sharply, to Dil Nem and the auctioneer alike. “I shall
not
sign. What I
will do
, however, is file a report with TerraTrade. This is theft.”

“Very good, Trader,” Dil Nem said, in loud Terran. “Let us return to the ship.”

He took her arm. She thought about resisting him, but what more could she do here? The auctioneer was adamant; there seemed little hope of recovering what was hers, short of holding him at gunpoint—and perhaps not even then.