The Crystal Variation (113 page)

Iza nodded, solemn-like, and looked over to Paitor.

“I’m on-port, doing some little chores for Terratrade,” he said, not uncrossing his arms. “Seeli needs me, she calls, I come.”

“Just like you always done, eh, brother?”

His mouth thinned some, but the rest of his face stayed bland. “That’s right, Captain.”

Iza turned again, past Seeli, and showed her back to Khat, full face to Grig.

“You’re staying on-dirt to back up Admin, is that so, Grig Tomas?”

“That’s so, Captain.”

“Then you’ll see the jettison list attended to proper. That would be an order, which I know you can take,” she said, provoking-like, ‘cept it didn’t make no sense, as far as Khat had ever seen, to provoke Grig. He just went all soft and agreeable on you, an’ took his revenge when you needed it least.

Except not this time.

“Beggin’ the captain’s pardon, but there’s some things on that jettison list belong to absent crew.”

“Absent crew.” Khat didn’t need to see Iza’s face; the tone of voice was enough. She drew a careful breath and indulged in a spot of wishful telepathy, trying to send Grig a message not to whip Iza into a rage—not now, when she’d been so reasonable . . .

“You’ll be referring to Arin’s son?” Iza was asking Grig.

There was a short pause, before he answered, voice neutral, “That’s right, Captain.”

“Spit of his father, ain’t he, Grig?”

And what was this? Khat thought. Iza sounded almost conversational.

“Jethri’s a good-lookin’ boy. Smart, too. Done you proud, Iza.”

“Ain’t done me proud. Nothing to do with me,
as
you know it. Arin’s boy, clear through—wouldn’t you say so, Grig?” She shifted of a sudden, leaning forward hard, like she was going to grab him by the shoulders and haul him up to face her.

“Done’s done, Iza. Arin’s gone, and Jethri, too. Send the boy his things, and call it square.”

“It’d be what’s right, Iza,” Paitor put in, calm, while the rest of them sat mum and stupid.

She spun to glare at him, shoulders stiff. “You think so, do you, brother? Fine, then. Send Arin’s boy his things. So long as they’re finally gone from my ship, I don’t care where they are—destroyed or on Liad makes the same difference to me.”

“That’s settled then,” said Seeli, shockingly matter-of-fact. “What ain’t settled is what you’ll do, Captain.”

“Didn’t think I had a choice,” Iza said, turning back, and showing Seeli empty hands. “I’ll go down to the hire-hall tomorrow and find myself a berth.”

“I’ll come with you,” Khat heard her own voice say, and looked up to catch Iza’s glance coming at her over one bony shoulder.

“Thanks, cousin,” she said, with no shortin’ the irony.

“No trouble,” Khat answered, forcing herself to sound calm. “I’m not flying tomorrow and I know a couple of the sign-ons at the hall.”

“Then we’re square, captain and crew,” Seeli said. Paitor nodded and got back on his feet.

“The crew talked, the captain heard. The ship’s in harmony.”

There was an uneasy sort of silence, then, like nobody knew exactly what to do, now the agreement was made and the right phrases spoke. When it had gone on long enough for Khat to start feeling it in her gut, she stood up and stretched, hands reaching for the ceiling.

“Let’s all have us some brew and a snack,” she said. “And say our good-byes and be-wells. We’re going to be scattered across the star lanes this next while. Let’s part on terms.”

Dyk laughed and bounced to his feet in a sudden return to normal behavior. “Maybe I should ship out more often!”

“Maybe you should,” Mel said cordially, standing up. Zam laughed. Across the circle, Seeli was up, Grig beside her, lanky and limpid like always, watching as Paitor held a hand out to Iza.

“Buy you a brew, sister?” he asked, and after a moment Iza put her hand in his.

“A brew’d be welcome, brother.”

Day 106

DAY 106

Standard Year 1118

Tilene Trade Theater

TAN SIM PEN’AKLA,
adopted of Clan Rinork, left the Tilene Star Bar in a wine-induced glow of good fellowship for all beings, everywhere.

That the glow was wine-induced, Tan Sim well knew, having entered the establishment in question some hours previous with the specific intent of imbibing wine sufficient to ease the sting of the latest slight delivered by his foster kin. Since he had not cut his teeth yesterday, he was also well-aware that the wine on draw at the Star Bar was of a more virulent vintage than he was accustomed to drink, and that he had thereby made an appointment on the morrow with the very devil of a hangover.

That, however, was in the future. For the present, restored to good humor and only slightly unsteady on his feet, he sauntered, whistling unmelodically, down the supply hallway which was a shortcut to the main trading theater.

It would not do to be late to the second round of trading. Of course, his beloved foster brother Bar Jan would smell the wine; and wouldn’t it just grate along his fine-drawn, High House sensibilities to be unable to send his drunkard junior away. But he dared not do that, Tan Sim thought waggishly. Oh, no, Bar Jan dared not send him away and hold the booth on his own while their mutual mother was gone a-calling. A
melant’i
-blind idiot Bar Jan might be, but he knew well enough that Tan Sim was the superior trader, in his cups or sober.

Would that he did not.

But, there, that line of thought ventured too close to the quadrant he wished to avoid. Resolutely, Tan Sim turned his consideration to the franchise Alt Lyr had for sale. A well enough venture—or so it seemed on the surface. He had set word about, before his visit to the wine shop, and he would be wanting to do more research before mentioning the matter to his mother, but . . .

He checked, whistle dying on his lips, eyes rapt upon a performance the like of which he had not beheld since—well, since he had first come to Rinork, and spent so many hours before the mirror, shining his bows for High House display.

Alas, the person bowing so earnestly and with such . . . interesting . . . results in the wide space in the hall meant to accommodate a service jitney, had no mirror. Style was also sadly absent, though there was, Tan Sim allowed, after observing for a few heartbeats, a certain vivacity in delivery that was not . . . entirely . . . displeasing.

At just that point, the person in the shadows executed a bow with a vivacity sufficient to set them staggering and Tan Sim felt it was time to take a hand.

“Here then!” he called out in the mode spoken between comrades, which would surely have set Bar Jan to ranting. “There’s no sense breaking your head over a bow, you know.”

The figure in the shadows turned to face him, light falling on a face pale, angular and wholly unLiaden. There was an unfinished appearance about the jaw and shoulders which said
halfling
to Tan Sim, though he had to look up to meet the chocolate brown eyes. Despite he was indisputably Terran, he was dressed in well-tailored trading clothes, made very much in the Liaden style, down to the fine leather boots which encased his feet and the short blue jacket that proclaimed him an apprentice in trade.

In fact, he was a riddle.

Tan Sim delighted in riddles.

Delighted, he swept a bow of introduction to the startled youth.

“Tan Sim pen’Akla Clan Rinork.”

The boy hesitated infinitesimally, then bowed in return, with somewhat less verve, and stated, laboriously, and very nearly in the mode of introduction:

“Jethri Gobelyn, apprentice trader aboard
Elthoria
.”

Ixin’s lead tradeship, forsooth. Tan Sim allowed his interest to be piqued. The ven’Deelin was canny and devious—even when held against other masters of trade, a lot known for their devious ways. Indeed, he had long admired her from afar—necessary, as Ixin and Rinork did not meet—and studied her guild files closely, so that he might, perhaps, upon one far distant day, aspire to even one-twelfth of her trading acumen.

And this lad here, this
Terran
lad, was the ven’Deelin’s apprentice? He filed that away, for sober thought on the far side of the hangover, and moved a hand, softly, offering aid.

“I see you in the throes of just such a task as I myself have undertaken in the past. Wretched, aren’t they? Who would suppose that one race could
need
so many bows?”

The angular face wavered as the lips bent in a quickly suppressed smile—and, aye, that, too, struck an uneasy memory. Tan Sim felt a spurt of sympathy and deliberately let his own smile show.

Some of the starch went out of the thin shoulders, and the boy—Jeth Ree, was it?—inclined his head.

“Indeed,” he stammered, almost in the mode between equals—which was an impertinence, thought Tan Sim, but what else was the lad to do? “It is . . . difficult . . . to bear so much in mind. I have been tutored, but I fear that I am not fully . . . cognizant . . .”

“Hah.” Tan Sim held up his hand. “I understand. You have been given a set number and form, eh? And you wish to shame neither your teacher nor your trader.” He smiled again, gently. “Nor take delivery of a scold.”

Jeth Ree fairly grinned—a dazzling display, too soon vanished.

“Well,” said Tan Sim, “you won’t find me a scolding fellow. I have only admiration for one who is so devoted to his duty that he uses his break-time to hone his skill. Such diligence. . .” He left the sentence for a moment as he recalled again that Ixin and Rinork did
not
meet. The proper course for himself, as one of Rinork, then, was to turn his back on this boy and—

And what did he care for some long-ago, cold quarrel? Depend upon it, he thought, sadly unfilial, the whole brangle, whatever it was, could be squarely lain at Rinork’s feet. Here before him stood an apprentice trader in need of the guidance of a trader. His
melant’i
—and Guild rule, if it came to that—was plain.

He showed Jeth Ree another smile, and was pleased to gain one in return.

“Well, then, let us see what we might manage between us,” he said, settling comfortably against the friendly wall. “Show me your repertoire.”

This, the boy was willing enough to do, and Tan Sim spent the next while leaning, tipsy, against the wall, observing a series of common mercantile bows. Happily, the task was not more than his befogged faculties could accommodate, nor Jeth Ree any less apt than the larger number of new ‘prentices Tan Sim had now and then had occasion to observe. The lad had apparently been driven to this lonely practice site in a fit of stage fright. Which Tan Sim quite understood. So.

“You are well-enough,” he said, when the boy had straightened from his last endeavor, “for an apprentice newly come to the floor. It speaks well that you wish to bring only honor to your master, but you must not allow your sensibilities to overset your good sense.” He inclined his head. “You will do exceedingly, Jeth Ree Gobelyn.”

The boy stood a moment, as if struck, then bowed once more; this very precise, indeed. “I am in your debt, Tan Sim pen’Akla.”

And wouldn’t THAT be a grand thing to bring to the table?
Tan Sim thought in sudden horror.
“Mother, I have the advantage of ven’Deelin’s Terran apprentice in a matter of Balance.” Gods.

He moved a hand, smoothing the debt away. “Honor me by forgetting the incident, as I have done.”

Jeth Ree looked doubtful—then proved himself a lad of sense and worthy to be the ven’Deelin’s apprentice, by inclining his head.

“Thank you,” he said, in what Tan Sim knew to be Terran, that being another of his clandestine studies.

“You are welcome,” he replied in the same tongue, somewhat more slowly than he would have liked. The boy did not burst into derisive laughter, or even smile overmuch, which gave him hope for a successful outcome of study.

“If you please,” Jeth Ree said abruptly. “How shall I bow to you, if we meet again on the floor? Since we are known to each other. . .”

Tan Sim pushed away from his wall. How, indeed, should the lad acknowledge him, should they meet? Almost, he laughed aloud at the unlikelihood of such an event.

Still, it was a reasonable question and deserved a fitting reply. He took a moment to be sure his feet were well under him, then swept the bow he’d practiced in his own ironic honor as a youth—
most honored child of the house
. He watched as the boy reproduced it, several times, and inclined his head, satisfied.

“Twill do. And now I must depart, amiable companion that you have been. My brother requires my assistance at our booth. Fare thee well, Jeth Ree Gobelyn.”

He bowed, jauntily, the beginning of a headache teasing in back of his eyes, straightened to receive the boy’s farewell, and walked away down the hall, whistling.

JETHRI’S TIMING WAS fortunate;
he returned to Ixin’s trade booth just as the floor opened for the second shift. Master ven’Deelin inclined her head, which he hoped meant she was impressed with his promptness, and reached beneath the counter.

“Our Tilene agent took delivery of this message for you, young Jethri. You may have a moment to read it. There was also a crate—that has been moved to your trade-bin on ship.”

Heart thumping heavy, he slipped a folded sheet of paper from between her fingers. He did remember his bow, and to give a soft, “My thanks, Master Trader.” Courtesy satisfied, he took himself to the back corner of the booth, hunkered down on his heels beside the hanging rugs and strings of spice, and unfolded the crackling thin paper.

To Jethri Gobelyn, in the care of Norn ven’Deelin Clan Ixin

From Khatelane Gobelyn, Pilot on Duty, Gobelyn’s Market

Transmit Standard Day 75, SY 1118

Hey, Jeth. Don’t let the POD fool you—I’m doing administrative while Seeli catches up some stuff with the yard. It’s looking like a long process; actually a near complete refit. I don’t know if they told you. A Standard dirtside, minimum. Iza said she’d be staying with the ship, but—before you hear it from some Looper you run into, what it was, she had a disagreement with the local gendos and got herself a couple levels of arrested. Wasn’t what you’d call pretty, or quiet, and even made some of the portside print papers. Point is, she’s not stir-stuck here like she might be if we hadn’t been around but off on the longest run she could fit inside the schedule. Seeli’s acting as agent-on-the-spot, with Grig to keep her company. I’m on willfly with the Port, and running part-time back-up for the two of them. Cris has a gig with a franchise ship—and the rest of us found some little thing to do off-dirt, so we’ll be a scattered crew for the next while. I’ll try to keep in touch, Jethri, but—no promises, you know? Be sure I’ll zap you the news when the Market lifts out of here. I’m sending this in front of Elthoria’s published route; if they keep schedule it’ll only be a bit old when you get it.