The Crystal Variation (141 page)

“Parin tel’Ossa, at your word, sir.” She said, eyes wide. “Please, if you will follow me, I will show you to your quarters.”

“Certainly,” Jethri said, and followed her down the left hall, pausing a moment to send a glance to Anecha, who managed not to meet his eyes.

THE QUARTERS WERE
unexpectedly spacious, on the top level, with windows overlooking an enclosed garden. Having thanked and rid himself of both Parin and Anecha, Jethri worked the latch and pushed one of the windows wide, admitting the early breeze and the muffled sounds of the morning port.

It certainly seemed that Master yos’Arimyst intended deliberate insult to Norn ven’Deelin, through her apprentice and foster son. Or, thought Jethri, leaning his hands on the window still and sticking his nose out into the chilly air, did he?

After all, he, Jethri, was here for a certification—a test. What if this deliberate rudeness had a point
other than
insult? Suppose, for instance, that the masters and traders of the hall wanted a reading on just how well a beastly Terran understood civilized behavior?

He closed his eyes. Tough call. If the measuring stick for civilized was Liaden, then he ought to be making plans for a vendetta right about now—or ought he? A true Liaden would have the sense to know if he was being offered an insult or a test.

Jethri exhaled, with vigor, and turned from the window to inspect the rest of his quarters.

A worktable sat against the wall to the right of the window. A screen and keyboard sat ready before a too-short chair. Jethri leaned over to touch a key, and was gratified to see the screen come up, displaying an options menu.

He chose
map
, and was in moments engaged in a close study of the interior layout of the hall. Not nearly as complex as Tarnia’s house, with its back stairs, back rooms and half-floors, but a nice mix of public, private and service rooms.

The quarters were in what appeared to be an older wing—perhaps the original hall—the public and meeting rooms were off the right-hand hall from the vestibule—and could also be accessed from the Trade Bar, which opened into the main port street.

Map committed to memory, Jethri recalled the menu—yes. There was an option called
check-in
. He chose it.

A box appeared on the screen, with instructions to enter his name. Fingers extended over the keypad, he paused, staring down at the Liaden characters. Slowly, he typed in the name under which he had been summoned for certification; the name that Parin had recognized.

Jeth Ree ven’Deelin
.

The computer accepted his entry; another screen promised that his mentor would be informed of his arrival. Great.

He returned to the options menu, lifting a hand to cover a sudden yawn. Despite the fact that he’d been able to nap in the car coming down from Tarnia’s house, he was feeling short on sleep, which was not a good way to start a test. He glanced at his watch. If he was still at Tarnia’s house, he’d have just under six seconds to get to breakfast.

He blinked, eyes suddenly teary and throat tight. He
wanted
to be in Tarnia’s house, running as hard as he could down the “secret” back stairs and sweating lest he be late for breakfast. He missed Miandra and Meicha, Mrs. tel’Bonti, Lady Maarilex, Mr. pel’Saba, Flinx and Ren Lar. And while he was listing those he missed, there was Norn ven’Deelin and Gaenor and Vil Tor, Pen Rel, Master tel’Ondor; Khat and Cris and Grig and Seeli. . .

He sniffed, and reached into his pocket for a handkerchief.

Put it in a can
, he told himself, which is what Seeli’d tell him when he’d been a kid and got to blubbering over nothing. He unfolded the handkerchief and wiped his face with the square of silk, swallowing a couple times to loosen his throat.

Might as well unpack
, he thought, putting the handkerchief away.
Get everything all shipshape and comfortable, and you’ll feel more like the place belongs to you.

Anecha had left his bags on the bare wooden floor against the opposite wall, under the control panel for the bed. That item of furniture at the moment formed part of the wall. When he wanted it down, according to Parin, all he had to do was slide the blue knob from left to right. To raise the bed, slide the knob from right to left, and up she went, freeing a considerable area of floor space.

Jethri opened the first bag—bright blue, with the Tarnia crest embroidered on it—and commenced unpacking, carrying his clothes over to the built-in dresser. He took his time, making sure everything went away neat; that his shirts were hung straight and his socks were matched up, but at last he was shaking out his second-best trading coat—the one Master ven’Deelin’d had made for him—out of the bottom of the bag, and hanging it with his shirts on the rod.

That done, he sealed the bag up, folded it and stowed it on the shelf over the rod.

The second duffle was dull green,
Gobelyn’s Market
spelled out in stark white stenciling down one side. He unsealed it and pulled out the books he had borrowed from Tarnia’s library. He’d taken mostly novels—some titles that he remembered from Gaenor’s talks, and others at random—as well as a history of Irikwae, and another, of the Scouts, and a battered volume that appeared to be an account of the Old War.

He lined the books up on the worktable, and stood for a long moment, admiring them, before diving back into his duffle and emerging with the photocube showing his father, and Arin’s metal box, with its etched stars, moons and comets.

He supposed he could’ve left his stuff in his room at Tarnia’s house, but he’d got to thinking that maybe that wasn’t a good idea, considering the fractins and the prevailing feeling against old tech—and he surely hadn’t wanted to leave the weather gadget anywhere but secure in the inside pocket of his jacket, which was where it was right now. So, in the end, he’d tossed everything into his old duffle and left the empty B crate behind.

The photocube he placed with great care in the center of a low black wooden table in the corner by the windows. Arin’s box, he put on top of the dresser. He stepped back to consider the room and found it . . . better, though still too much trader’s hall and too little Jethri Gobelyn.

He returned to the duffle and pulled out the other photocube, with its record of strangers, and carried it over to the black table. The family cube, he placed near the keyboard on the table, where he could see it while he worked.

The remainder of the duffle’s contents were best not displayed, he thought, those contents being fractins, true and false, the wire frame, and his pretend trade journal—though on second thought, there wasn’t any reason that the old notebook couldn’t be in with the rest of the books. Nobody who might visit him here was going to be interested in old kid stuff—even assuming that they could read Terran.

He resealed the duffle and put it on the shelf in the wardrobe next to the blue bag, closed the door and went back to the work table. He settled as well as he was able into the short chair and reached for the keyboard, meaning to explore the remainder of the options available to him.

A single line of tall red letters marched across the center of the computer screen. It seemed that his mentor, Trader Ena Tyl sig’Lorta would see him at the top of the hour, at meeting booth three, in the Irikwae Trade Bar.

Jethri looked at his watch. Not much time, but no need for a full-tilt run, either, if his understanding of the scale of the house was correct.

He tapped the ‘received’ key, slid out of the chair, brushed his hands down the front of his coat and went off to meet his mentor.

“GOT SOME NEWS,”
Seeli said, serious-like.

Grig looked up from his calcs. The yard had filed an amended, which they were required by contract to do, whenever section costs overran estimate by more than five percent. It was lookin’ to be damn near five percent on the new galley module and Myra wanted to talk downgrade on some of the back up systems so as to make up the difference. He was doing the first pass over the numbers because Seeli’d been feeling not at the top of her form, and he’d finally this morning gotten her talked into going to the port clinic.

So, he looked up and got on a smile that the calcs made a little lopsided.

“Good news, I hope,” he said, and even as he did felt his gut clench with the possibility of the news being bad.

“You might say.” She sat down next to him, her arm companionably touching his. “Fact is, I hope you will say.” She touched his hand. “I’m on the increase.”

For a second he just sat there, heart in acceleration, mind blank—then all at once his brain caught up with his heart. He gave a shout of laughter and got his arms around her, and she was laughing, too, hugging him hard around the ribs, and for a while it was a mixup of kisses and hugs and more laughing, but finally they made it back to adult and sat there quiet, her head on his shoulder, their arms ‘round each other still.

“How far along?” he asked, that being the first sensible sentence he’d made in the last half-hour.

“Couple Standard Months, the nurse said.”

He felt his mouth pulling into another idiot grin. “The yard gets its promises in order, she’ll be born in space, first newcrew on the refit.”

Seeli snuggled a little closer against him. “We don’t know what Mel might have cookin’. Come to it, Iza ain’t beyond.”

That took a little of the glow.

“Iza’s done, beyond or not,” he said, too seriously. “But I take your point about Mel. Girl’s got the morals of a mink.”

“What’s a mink?” Seeli wanted to know, and it might’ve taken him the rest of the day to explain it to her, but the door come open and it was Paitor and Khat, each one looking as grim as Grig felt happy.

Seeli stirred, pushing against his chest to get upright. He let her go, and sighed gustily at the printout showing in the trader’s hand.

“Paitor, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this growing habit with the Priorities.”

He shook his head. “Believe that I’d pay good cash never to get another.” He tossed it on the table atop the printouts from the yard and headed into the galley.

“Who else wants a brew?” he called over his shoulder.

“I do,” Khat said sitting in the chair across from Seeli, and rubbing a sleeve across her face. “Hot on the port.”

“Brew’d be fine,” Grig said, and looked over to Seeli, eyebrows up, asking.

“Juice for me,” she called. “Thanks, Uncle.”

Paitor could be heard clanking about in the cold box. Grig picked up the Priority, flicking a glance to Khat.

She shrugged. “I read it.”

“All right, then,” he said, unfolding the paper, with Seeli leaning close to read over his shoulder:

Honored Gobelyns:

Felicitations and fair profit to you and to your ship.

The priority message sent to the attention of Jethri from the esteemed Pilot Khatelane arrives at Elthoria. Your forbearance is requested, that I read this message, intended for the eyes of true kin only.

I commend Pilot Khatelane for the information she sends regarding certain Liaden vessels at dock on Port Banth. Several of these vessels are known to us adversely. A Guild inquiry has been called and you may repose faith that intentions of mischief or mayhem will quickly be learned.

Of the matter concerning the chel’Gaibin, I give you assurance that there lies no debt between himself and Jethri. The brother deprived was hale when we beheld him last, though deeply in the anger of his mother.

In the event, Jethri has been set down at Irikwae, at the house of Tarnia in the mountains of the moons. There, he is tutored in the ways of custom and of wine. Be assured that Tarnia values him high, as I do, and will stand as his shield and his dagger, should a false debt be called.

I am hopeful that these tidings will find you in good health, and I remain

Norn ven’Deelin Clan Ixin

Master at Trade

“Set
down
?” Seeli said, sounding every bit as horrified as Grig felt. “She left Jethri
alone
, on a Liaden world?”

“With a Liaden headcase after him for evenin’ up a debt,” Khat added, wearily, accepting a brew from Paitor. “Thanks.”

“Welcome.” He handed Seeli her drink, thumped Grig’s down and folded into the chair next to Khat.

“Thing is,” Grig said, glancing up from his second read. “She don’t say the brother is alive now. She says he was OK the last time she saw him.”

“Right.” Khat nodded. “And the headcase, if you parse it right, never did say the boy
was
dead—though that’s what I thought he must’ve meant. Thinking cold, though, it comes to me that there’s more ways to ‘deprive’ somebody of a brother than by killing him. If Jeth had—what? Called the proctors and got the boy put in the clink for a couple years—that’d deprive his family of him, wouldn’t it? Or if Jeth had somehow gotten the brother’s license pulled—”

“The point is,” Seeli interrupted, sharp, but, there—she’d been Jethri’s mother more’n Iza’d ever tried to be. “The
point
is that this master trader has gone off and left Jethri on a mudball, with no ship to call on,
and
there’s a headcase lookin’ for him, and she hasn’t even told him!”

They blinked at her, in unison. Seeli snatched the Priority out of Grig’s hand and snapped it at Paitor’s face. He pulled back, impassive.

“Where does it say on this piece of paper that she’s sending Khat’s letter on to Jethri? Where does it say she’s going back for him? Or that she’s called—anybody at all!—to have the headcase taken under advisement, or, or whatever it is you do when somebody tries to collect on a ‘false debt?’”

“We could send again,” Khat said, making a long arm and tweaking the paper away.

“No beam code for Tarnia,” Grig said quietly. “And no guarantees that this chel’Gaibin won’t pursue his debt ‘gainst the rest of us, like he tried with Khat.” He looked at Seeli and his breath came short.

“One of us could go for him,” Paitor said. “Not knowing the headcase’s trajectory, that’s tricky. For all we know, he’s based outta Irikwae, wherever it is, and is on the route for home.”