Trading in Futures (4 page)

"So." She reached out and twitched the card
from his fingers, sliding it absently back into her sleeve. "You do
me a service, young Jethri. From my assistant I hear the name of
this person who has, yet does not have, my card in so piquant a
fashion. Sirge Milton. This is a correctness? I do not wish to
err."

The ice was back in Jethri's veins. Never
insult a Liaden. Liadens lived for revenge, and to throw another
Terran into Liaden revenge was about the worst--

"Ma'am, I--please. The whole matter is--is
my error. I am the most junior of traders. Very likely I
misunderstood a senior and have annoyed yourself and your household
without cause. I--"

She held up a hand, stepped forward and lay
it on his sleeve.

"Peace, child. I do nothing
fatal to your
galandaria
--your countryman. No
pellet in his ear. No nitrogen replacing good air in an emergency
tank. Eh?"

Almost, it seemed to Jethri that she
smiled.

"Such tales. We of the Clans listen in Port
bars--and discover ourselves monsters." She patted his arm,
lightly. "But no. Unless he adopts a mode most stupid, fear not of
his life." She stepped back, her hand falling from his sleeve.

"Your own actions reside in correctness.
Very much is this matter mine of solving. A junior trader could do
no other, than bring such at once before me.

"Now, I ask, most humbly, that you accept
Ixin's protection in conveyance to your ship. It is come night-Port
while we speak, and your kin will be distressful for your safety.
Myself and yourself, we will speak additionally, after
solving."

She bowed again, hand over heart, and Jethri
did his best to copy the thing with his legs shaking fit to tip him
over. When he looked up the door was closing behind her. It opened
again immediately and the assistant stepped inside with a bow of
his own.

"Jethri Gobelyn," he said in his accentless
Trade, "please follow me. A car will take you to your ship."

Gobelyn's Market

"SHE SAID SHE wouldn't kill him," he said
hoarsely. The Captain, his mother, shook her head and Uncle Paitor
sighed.

"There's worse things than killing, son," he
said and that made Jethri want to scrunch into his chair and bawl,
like he had ten Standards fewer and stood about as tall as he
felt.

What he did do, was take another swallow of
coffee and meet Paitor's eyes straight. "I'm sorry, sir."

"You've got cause," his uncle
acknowledged.

"Double-ups on dock," the Captain said,
looking at them both. "Nobody works alone. We don't want trouble.
We stay close and quiet and we lift as soon as we can without
making it look like a rush."

Paitor nodded. "Agreed."

Jethri stirred, fingers tight 'round the
coffee mug. "Ma'am, she--Master Trader ven'Deelin said she wanted
to talk to me, after she--settled--things. I wouldn't want to
insult her."

"None of us wants to insult her," his mother
said, with more patience than he'd expected. "However, a Master
Trader is well aware that a trade ship must trade. She can't expect
us to hang around while our cargo loses value. If she wants to talk
to you, boy, she'll find you."

"No insult," Paitor added, "for a junior
trader to bow to the authority of his seniors. Liadens understand
chain of command real well." The captain laughed, short and sharp,
then stood up.

"Go to bed, Jethri--you're out on your feet.
Be on dock second shift--" she slid a glance to Paitor. "Dyk?"

His uncle nodded.

"You'll partner with Dyk.
We're onloading seed, ship's basics, trade tools. Barge's due
Port-noon. Stick
close
, you understand me?"

"Yes, ma'am." Wobbling, Jethri got to his
feet, saluted his seniors, put the mug into the wash-up and turned
toward the door.

"Jethri."

He turned back, thinking his uncle's face
looked--sad.

"I wanted to let you know," Paitor said.
"The spice did real well for us."

Jethri took a deep breath. "Good," he said
and his voice didn't shake at all. "That's good."

Gobelyn's Market

Loading Dock

"OK," SAID DYK, easing the forks on the
hand-lift back. "Got it." He toggled the impeller fan and nodded
over his shoulder. "Let's go, kid. Guard my back."

Jethri managed a weak grin.
Dyk was inclined to treat the double-up and Paitor's even-voiced
explanation of disquiet on the docks as a seam-splitting joke. He
guided the hand-lift to the edge of the barge, stopped,
theatrically craned both ways, flashed a thumbs-up over his
shoulder to Jethri, who was lagging behind, and dashed out onto
the
Market's
dock.
Sighing, Jethri walked slowly in his wake.

"Hey, kid, hold it a sec." The voice was low
and not entirely unfamiliar. Jethri spun.

Sirge Milton was leaning against a cargo
crate, hand in the pocket of his jacket and nothing like a smile on
his face.

"Real smart," he said, "setting a Liaden on
me."

Jethri shook his head, caught somewhere
between relief and dismay.

"You don't understand," he said, walking
forward. "The card's a fake."

The man against the crate tipped his head.
"Is it, now?"

"Yeah, it is. I've seen the real one, and
it's nothing like the one you have."

"So what?"

"So," Jethri said
patiently, stopping and showing empty hands in the old gesture of
goodwill, "whoever gave you the card wasn't Norn ven'Deelin. He was
somebody who
said
he was Norn ven'Deelin and he used the card and her--the honor
of her name--to cheat you."

Sirge Milton leaned, silent, against the
cargo bail.

Jethri sighed sharply. "Look, Sirge, this is
serious stuff. The Master Trader has to protect her name. She's not
after you--she's after whoever gave you that card and told you he
was her. All you have to

do--"

Sirge Milton shook his head, sorrowful, or
so it seemed to Jethri. "Kid," he said, "you still don't get it, do
you?" He brought his hand out of the pocket and leveled the gun,
matter-of-factly, at Jethri's stomach. "I know the card's bogus,
kid. I know who made it--and so does your precious Master Trader.
She got the scrivener last night. She'd've had me this morning, but
I know the back way outta the 'ground."

The gun was high-gee
plastic, snub-nosed and black. Jethri stared at it and then looked
back at the man's face.
Trade
, he thought, curiously
calm.
Trade for your
life
.

Sirge Milton grinned. "You ratted another
Terran to a Liaden. That's stupid, Jethri. Stupid people don't live
long."

"You're right," he said, calmly, watching
Sirge's face and not the gun at all. "And it'd be real stupid for
you to kill me. Norn ven'Deelin said I'd done her a service. If you
kill me, she's not going to have any choice but to serve you the
same. You don't want to corner her."

"Jeth?" Dyk's voice echoed in from the dock.
"Hey! Jethri!"

"I'll be out in a second!" he yelled, never
breaking eye contact with the gunman. "Give me the gun," he said,
reasonably. "I'll go with you to the Master Trader and you can
'make it right.' "

" 'Make it right'," Sirge sneered and there
was a sharp snap as he thumbed the gun's safety off.

"I urge you most strongly to heed the young
trader's excellent advice, Sirge Milton," a calm voice commented in
accentless Trade. "The Master Trader is arrived and Balance may go
forth immediately."

* * *

MASTER VEN'DEELIN'S yellow-haired assistant
walked into the edge of Jethri's field of vision. He stood lightly
on the balls of his feet, as if he expected to have to run. There
was a gun, holstered, on his belt.

Sirge Milton hesitated, staring at this new
adversary.

"Sirge, it's not worth dying for," Jethri
said, desperately.

But Sirge had forgotten about him. He was
looking at Master ven'Deelin's assistant. "Think I'm gonna be some
Liaden's slave until I worked off what she claims for debt?" He
demanded. "Liaden Port? You think I got any chance of a fair
hearing?"

"The Portmaster--" the yellow-haired Liaden
began, but Sirge cut him off with a wave, looked down at the gun
and brought it around.

"No!" Jethri jumped
forward, meaning to grab the gun, but something solid slammed into
his right side, knocking him to the barge's deck. There was
a
crack
of sound,
very soft, and Jethri rolled to his

feet--

Sirge Milton was crumbled face down on the
cold decking, the gun in his hand. The back of his head was gone.
Jethri took a step forward, found his arm grabbed and turned around
to look down into the grave blue eyes of Master ven'Deelin's
assistant.

"Come," the Liaden said, and his voice was
not--quite--steady. "The Master Trader must be informed."

Gobelyn's Market

Common Room

THE YELLOW-HAIRED assistant came to an end
of his spate of Liaden and bowed low.

"So it is done." Norn ven'Deelin said in
Trade. "Advise the Portmaster and hold yourself at her word."

"Master Trader." The man swept a bow so low
his forehead touched his knees, straightened effortlessly and left
the common room. Norn ven'Deelin turned to Jethri, sitting shaken
between his mother and Uncle Paitor.

"I am regretful," she said in her bad
Terran, "that solving achieved this form. My intention, as I said
to you, was not thus. Terrans--"

She glanced around, at
Paitor and the captain, at Dyk and Khat and Mel. "Forgive me. I
mean to say that Terrans are of a mode most surprising. It was my
error, to be think this solving would end not in dyings." She
showed her palms. "The counterfeit-maker and the,
ahh--
distributor
--are of a mind, both, to achieve more seemly
Balance."

"Counterfeiter?" asked Paitor and Norn
ven'Deelin inclined her head.

"Indeed. Certain cards were
copied--not well, as I find--and distributed to traders of
dishonor. These would then use the--the--
melant'i
--you would say, the
worth
of the card to run
just such a shadow-deal as young Jethri fell against." She sat
back, mouth straight. "The game is closed, this Port, and I come
now to Balance young Jethri's service to myself."

His mother shot a glance at Paitor, who rose
to his feet and bowed, low and careful. "We are grateful for your
condescension, Master Trader. Please allow us to put paid, in
mutual respect and harmony, to any matter that may lie between
us--"

"Yes, yes," she waved a hand. "In
circumstance far otherwise, this would be the path of wisdom, all
honor to you, Trader Gobelyn. But you and I, we are disallowed the
comfort of old wisdom. We are honored, reverse-ward, to build new
wisdom." She looked up at him, black eyes shining.

"See you, this young trader illuminates
error of staggering immensity. To my hand he delivers one priceless
gem of data: Terrans are using Liaden honor to cheat other
Terrans." She leaned forward, catching their eyes one by one.
"Liaden honor," she repeated; "to cheat other Terrans."

She lay her hand on her
chest. "I am a Master Trader. My--my
duty
is to the increase of the trade.
Trade cannot increase, where honor is commodity."

"But what does this," Dyk demanded,
irrepressible, "have to do with Jethri?"

The black eyes pinned him. "A question of
piercing excellence. Jethri has shown me this--that the actions of
Liadens no longer influence the lives only of Liadens. Reverse-ward
by logic follows for the actions of Terrans. So, for the trade to
increase, wherein lies the proper interest of Trader and Master
Trader, information cross-cultural must increase." She inclined her
head.

"Trader, I suggest we write contract between
us, with the future of Jethri Gobelyn in our minds."

Uncle Paitor blinked. "You want to--forgive
me. I think you're trying to say that you want to take Jethri as an
apprentice."

Another slight bow of the head. "Precisely
so. Allow me, please, to praise him to you as a promising young
trader, of learned instinct and strongly enmeshed in honor."

"But I did everything wrong!" Jethri burst
out, seeing Sirge Milton laying there, dead of his own choice, and
the stupid waste of it...

"Regrettably, I must disagree," Master
ven'Deelin said softly. "It is true that death untimely transpired.
This was not your error. Pen Rel informs to me your eloquence in
beseeching Trader Milton to the path of Balance. This was not
error. To solicit solving from she who is most able to solve--that
is only correctness." She showed both of her hands, palms up. "I
honor you for your actions, Jethri Gobelyn, and wonder if you will
bind yourself as my apprentice."

He wanted it. In that one, searing moment,
he knew he had never wanted anything in his life so much. He looked
to his mother.

"I found my ship, Captain," he said.

A Choice of
Weapons

The number of High Houses is precisely
fifty.

And then there is Korval.

-- From the Annual Census of Clans

On file with the Council of Clans,
Solcintra, Liad

"I AM NOT worthy."

Daav yos'Phelium bowed low. When he
straightened, it was not to his full height, but with carefully
rounded shoulders and half-averted face: a lesser being, faint with
terror at his own audacity.