It were the handlooms the lady was after, which was good news of its kind. Jethri moved up-counter to where the bolts were stowed and pulled down the book. He looked over his shoulder, then, just to be aware how closely Master ven'Deelin was shadowing his work.
To his horror, she was about no such thing, but stood deep in conversation with another customer at the counter; all of her attention on that transaction and none whatsoever on him. . .
"Forgive me," murmured boxy-built lady. "I regret that my time is limited."
"Certainly, ma'am," Jethri murmured, opening the book on the counter in front of her. "As you can see, we have many fine weavings to choose from. . . "
For a lady short of time, she showed no disposition to rush her decision. She had him pull this bolt and that, then this again, and that other. With each, he steadied a little, found the words coming more smoothly, remembered the trick—taught by Uncle Paitor—of flipping the end over the top of the bolt, so that he could speak of the underweave and the irregularities born of hand looming.
In the end, the lady bought nothing, though she thanked him for the gifts of his time and expertise.
Jethri, shirt damp with exertion, racked the book and ordered the samples, then stepped back to Norn ven'Deelin's side.
Through the course of the shift, he heard her invite no fewer than two dozen traders and merchants to her dinner party. Three more times, she gave him to customers desirous of textile; twice, he scored chip and card, which he triumphantly threaded on the wires he found near the bolts.
And at last, the bell sounded, signaling the end of day-trading. Norn ven'Deelin reached up and turned off the booth light. Jethri closed his eyes and sagged against the bolt rack, head pounding. It was over. He had lived. He had, just maybe, not done anything irrevocably stupid. Now, they would go back to the ship, get out of the dirt, and the noise.
"So," Norn ven'Deelin said brightly, and he heard her clap her palms gently together. "Do me the honor of bearing me company on a stroll, Jethri Gobelyn. We shall amaze Tilene-port!"
He opened his eyes and looked at her, meeting bright black eyes. There was something in the way she stood, or maybe in the set of her face, that conveyed itself as a challenge. Jethri ground his teeth, straightened out of his lean and squared his shoulders, despite the holler put up by his back muscles.
"Yes, ma'am," he said, and bowed obedience to the Master Trader's word.
THE WALK WAS LEISURELY, and they stopped often to acknowledge the bows of Master ven'Deelin's numerous acquaintances, who every one stared at him like he was the four-headed calf from Venturis. Jethri sighed behind his mask of bland politeness. You'd think he'd be used to the stares by now, but someway every new one scraped a little deeper, hurt a little more.
Otherwise, the stroll was a better idea than he'd thought. Tilene's gravity was a hair less than ship's grav, which he'd at last gotten used to. And the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other seemed enough to ease the ache in his head, and smooth the kinks out of his spine.
Master ven'Deelin paused to receive a particularly low bow, augmented by the hand-sign for "greatest esteem" from a red-haired woman in upscale trading clothes.
"Bendara Tiazan," Master ven'Deelin inclined her head. "Allow me to be delighted to see you! You must dine with me upon the morrow."
The redhead straightened. Her eyes showed a little stretch, but give her credit, Jethri thought sourly, she didn't stare at him—her whole attention was on Norn ven'Deelin. "I am honored, Master Trader," she said, in the mode of junior to senior.
Again, Master ven'Deelin inclined her head. "Until tomorrow, Bendara Tiazan."
"Until tomorrow, Master Trader," the redhead murmured, and bowed herself out of the way.
Master ven'Deelin continued her stately progress, Jethri keeping pace, just behind her left elbow.
"So, Jethri Gobelyn," she murmured as they passed out of the red-haired trader's hearing. "What do you deduce from our guest list so far?"
He blinked, thinking back over those she had pressed to dine with her tomorrow.
"Ma'am, I scarcely know who these traders are," he said carefully. "But I wonder at the number of them. It seems less like a dinner and more like a—" he groped for the proper word. After a moment, he decided that it wasn't in his Liaden repertoire and substituted a ship-term, "shivary."
"Hah." She glanced at him, black eyes gleaming. "You will perhaps find our poor entertainment to be a disappointment. I make no doubt that there will be dancing until dawn, nor no more than two or three visits from the proctors, bearing requests for silence."
He grappled the laugh back down deep into his chest and inclined his head solemnly. "Of course not, ma'am."
"Ah, Jethri Gobelyn, where is your address?" she said surprisingly. "A silver-tongue would grasp this opportunity to assure me that nothing I or mine might do could ever disappoint."
Jethri paused, looking down into her black eyes, which showed him nothing but tiny twin reflections of his own serious face. Was she pulling his leg? Or had he just failed a test? He licked his lips.
"I suppose," he said, slowly, "that I must not be a silver-tongue, ma'am."
Her face did not change, but she did put out a hand to pat him, lightly, on the arm. "That you are not, child. That you are not."
They moved on, Jethri trying to work out how to ask if being a silver-tongue was a good thing—and if it was how to go about learning the skill—without sounding a total fool. Meanwhile, Master ven'Deelin took the bows of three more traders of varying ranks, as Jethri read their clothing, and invited each to dine with her upon the morrow. If she kept at her current pace, he thought, they'd have to empty the trade theater itself to accommodate the crowd.
They strolled further down the flowered promenade. There were fewer people about now, and Master ven'Deelin picked up the pace a bit, so Jethri needed to stretch his legs to keep up. Ahead, the walkway split into three, the center portion rising into an arch, the others going off at angles to the right and left. Somewhere nearby was the sound of water running, enormous amounts of water, it must be, from the racket it was making, and the air was starting to feel unpleasantly soggy.
Jethri frowned, maybe lagging a little from his appointed spot at Master ven'Deelin's elbow, trying to bear down on the feeling that he was breathing
water
, which was by no means a good thing. . .
From the left hand path came voices, followed quickly by three top-drawer traders: A woman, star blond and narrow in the face, flanked by two young men—one as fair and as narrow as she and the other taller, with hair of a darker gold, his face somewhat rounder, and his eyes a trifle a-squint, as if he had a headache.
With a start, Jethri recognized his friend of the utility corridor, who had been so patient and understanding in the matter of bows. His first notion was to break into a fool-wide grin and rush forward to grab the man by the shoulders in a proper spacer greeting—which would never do, naturally, besides being one of the three top ways, if Arms Master sig'Kethra was to be believed, to take delivery of a knife between the ribs.
Still, if it would be rude to give way to the full scope of his feelings, he could at least give Tan Sim pen'Akla the honor of a proper bow.
Jethri placed himself before the threesome, and paused, awaiting their attention. The woman saw him first, her pale narrow brows plunging into a frown, but he cared not for her. He looked over her shoulder, made eye contact with Tan Sim and swept the bow of greeting the other had shown him, supplemented with the gesture that meant "joy."
He quickly realized he should have gone with his initial notion.
The fair, narrow young man shouted something beyond Jethri's current lexicon, his hand slapping at his belt, which gesture he understood all too nicely. He fell back a step, looking for a leap-to, when Tan Sim jumped instead, knocking the other's hand aside, with a sharp, "Have done! Will you harm the ven'Deelin's own apprentice?"
"You!" The other shouted. "You saw how he bowed to you! If you had the least bit of proper feeling—"
Oh. Jethri felt his stomach sink to the soles of his boots. He
had
botched it. Badly.
Stepping forward, he bowed again—this a simple bow of contrition.
"Please forgive me if my bow offended," he said, speaking in the mode of junior to senior, which
had
to be right, no matter which of the three chose to hear him. "Master Tan Sim himself is aware that I am . . . less conversant with bows than I would be. My only thought was to honor one who had given me kindness and fellowship. I regret that my error has caused distress."
"It speaks Liaden, of a fashion." The woman said, apparently to her sons, Jethri thought, but meaning for him to hear and take damage from it.
"He speaks Liaden right well for one new come to it," Tan Sim returned, heatedly. "And shows an adult's
melant'i
, as well. I taught him that bow myself—which he does not tell you, preferring to take all blame to himself."
"Speak soft to my mother, half-clan!" The pale young man jerked his arm out of Tan Sim's grip and spun, palm rising, his intent plain. Jethri jumped forward, arm up, intercepted the man's slap at the wrist, and grabbed hold just tight enough to get the message across.
"Here now!" he said in Terran, sounding remarkably like Cris, to his own ears. "None of that."
"Unhand me!" shouted the man, trying, unsuccessfully, to pull his wrist free, and "Call the proctors!"
"No need for proctors, young chel'Gaibin," Master ven'Deelin's voice was shockingly cool in that heated moment. "Jethri, of your goodness, return to Lord chel'Gaibin the use of his arm."
"Yes, ma'am," he said, and did as she asked, though he stayed close, in the event the lordship took it into his head to swing out at Tan Sim again.
He needn't have worried; all eyes were on Master ven'Deelin, who stood calm and unworried, her hands tucked in her belt, considering the other trader.
"Norn ven'Deelin," the woman said at last, and it didn't sound respectful at all.
The master trader inclined her head. "Infreya chel'Gaibin. It has been some years since we last spoke. I trust I find you well."
"You find me insulted and assaulted,
Master Trader
. I will have Balance for the harm done."
Master ven'Deelin tipped her head. "Harm? Has the heir's sleeve been crushed?"
Infreya chel'Gaibin glared. "You may put the assault of an unregulated Terran upon a registered guildsman no higher than amusing, if it pleases you. I assure you that the guild and the port will take a far different view."
"And yet," Master ven'Deelin murmured. "Jethri is hardly unregulated. He stands as my apprentice—"
"Oh, very good!" chel'Gaibin interrupted. "A 'prentice lays hands upon a trader while the master stands by and smiles!"
". . . and my son," Master ven'Deelin finished calmly. Jethri bit his lip, hard, and concentrated on keeping his face empty of emotion. He darted a quick look at Tan Sim, but found that young man standing at his ease, watching the proceedings with interest but no apparent dismay.
"Your son!" Apparently Trader chel'Gaibin wasn't convinced, for which Jethri blamed her not at all.
Master ven'Deelin swept a languid hand in the general direction of Tan Sim. "As much mine as that one is yours." She tipped an eyebrow. "But come, you wished satisfaction for insult and assault. We may settle that between us now, you and I."
Trader chel'Gaibin licked her lips and though she seemed to Jethri a woman unlikely to back down in a tight spot, there was something to the cast of her shoulders that strongly suggested she was looking for a way out of this one.
Behind her, Tan Sim shifted, drawing all eyes to himself. "Mother, surely there is no insult here? Jethri bowed as I had taught him, and when he saw one who was to him a stranger threaten one with whom he has had honorable dealings, he acted to nullify the threat—and most gently, too!"
"Gently!"" spat the other man. Tan Sim turned wondering eyes his way.
"Never tell me he bruised you, brother! A mere halfling? Surely—"
"This must be the Terran, Mother!" Lord chel'Gaibin interrupted excitedly, turning his back on his brother. "Recall that it was a Terran off of
Elthoria
who began the brawl at Kailipso—"
"Enough," the woman snapped. She stood silent for a moment, staring, none-too-pleasantly, at Tan Sim. Jethri felt his chest tighten in sympathy: Exactly did Iza Gobelyn stare just before she cut loose of mayhem and brought a body to wishing he'd been born to another ship, if at all.
Composing her face, she turned back to Master ven'Deelin and inclined her head, grudging-like.
"Very well. My son speaks eloquently in defense of yours, Master Trader. We are to see nothing more than halfling high spirits—and a misunderstanding of custom."
"It would seem indeed to be the case," Master ven'Deelin said calmly; "and no cause for experienced traders such as ourselves to be calling for Balance. Well we know what halflings are." Her eyes moved to Tan Sim, and she inclined her head gently. "Young pen'Akla."
Tan Sim's eyes widened and he bowed low with graceful haste. "Master ven'Deelin."
"Enough!" Tan Sim's mother snapped again. She turned her glare on the master trader and gave a bare dip of the head.
"Master Trader. Good evening." She didn't wait for a return bow—maybe, Jethri thought, because she knew she didn't rate one. Turning, she gathered her boys by eye, and stalked off.
When they were alone, Jethri turned and bowed, very low and very careful—and held it, eyes pointing at the toes of his boots.
Above him, him heard Master ven'Deelin sigh.
"In all truth, young Jethri, you have a knack. How came you by chel'Gaibin's Folly?"
Bent double, he blinked. "Ma'am?"
"Stand up, child," she interrupted and, when he had, said, "Tan Sim pen'Akla. How came you to his attention?"
Jethri cleared his throat. "I was—practicing my bows in the service corridor and he came upon me. He was most k-kind and helpful, ma'am, and when I said that I was in his debt, he declared no such thing. So then I thought to ask how I should bow to him, if we were to meet again, and he showed me thus—"