The Crystal Variation (142 page)

Grig took a breath, forcing it all the way down past tight chest muscles, to the very bottom of his lungs.

“I’ll go,” he said. “I owe.”

Paitor frowned. “Owe? What can you possibly owe the boy?”

Grig looked him in the eye. “I’m still settlin’ with Arin,” he said evenly.

The other man studied him a long moment, then nodded, slow. “Can’t argue with that.”

“Grig.” Seeli wasn’t liking this. He turned to face her. “How’re you goin’? Got a fastship in your back pocket?”

“Know a pilot-owner,” he said, which was true enough. “Might be they’re still settlin’ with Arin, too.”

“Back-up,” Khat said, nodding. “Seeli, you know we all got back-up. Grig’s got it here, then he’s the one to go. ‘Less you can think of any other way to get Jethri the news, and an offer of his ship?”

Seeli hesitated; shook her head. “I can’t. But we
offer him
ship, and if he wants it, we
give him
a ship—and Iza can deal with me! You hear it?” She rounded on Grig.

“I hear it, Seeli.” He reached out and touched her cheek with his fingertip. “Khat.”

“Sir?”

“My Seeli here’s on the increase. I’d take it favorable, if you went off roster and devoted yourself to not letting any headcases inside her phase space.”

“You got it,” Khat said, sending a grin to Seeli, and pushing back from the table. “I’ll file that change right now.”

“Good.” Khat had the right of it, Grig thought. No use putting it off.

Seeli reached out and grabbed his hand, pulling him with her as she stood up. She looked down at Paitor, ignoring his grin, and nodded her head, formal as a Liaden.

“Excuse us, Uncle. Grig and me got some business before he flies out.”

IRIKWAE TRADE BAR
was modest, and modestly busy—three of the six working public terminals were engaged, and four of the twelve meeting booths. A seventh terminal had been pushed into a corner—probably awaiting a repairman.

At the bar, a mixed cluster of traders, cargo masters and general crew sipped tea, or wine, or ate a quick-meal, while the status board over their heads showed a good dozen ships at port.

Goods on offer, portside, were heavily weighted toward agristuff—soybeans, rice, yams—with a smattering of handicrafts, textiles, and wine. The ships were offering metals—refined and unrefined—patterns, textiles, furniture, gemstones, books—a weird mix, Jethri thought, and then thought again. Irikwae was what Norn ven’Deelin was pleased to call an “outworld,” far away from Liad’s orbit. Ships bearing luxuries, small necessities, and information from the homeworld itself ought to do pretty well here.

“Are you lost, sir?” a voice asked at his elbow. He turned and looked down into the amused, wrinkled face of a woman. Her hair was gray, though still showing some faded strands of its original yellow color, and she had the trade guild’s sign embroidered on the sleeve of her bright orange shirt.

“Only distractable, I fear,” he answered, turning his palms up mock despair. “I am here for a meeting with a trader, but of course, the board caught my eye, and my interest . . .”

“Information is advantage,” she said sagely. “Of course the board caught you—how not? At which booth were you to meet your trader?”

“Three.”

“Ah. Just over here, then, sir, if you will follow me.”

No choices there, Jethri thought wryly, and followed her to the back wall, where meeting booth three showed a bold blue numeral. The door was closed and the privacy light was lit.

His guide looked up at him. “Your name, sir?”

“Jethri—” he began, and caught himself. “Jeth Ree ven’Deelin.”

Her eyebrows lifted, but she said nothing, only turned to put her hand on the door, which slid open, despite the privacy light, to reveal two traders, obviously interrupted in earnest conversation, and of two different minds of how to take it.

The woman seemed inclined toward amused resignation, the man—and wouldn’t it just be the same stern-faced trader who’d been on door-duty?—was tending toward anger.

The staffer, unperturbed by either, bowed gently to the table, and murmured. “Jeth Ree ven’Deelin has a meeting with a trader in booth three.”

The female trader sent a sharp glance to his face, and inclined her head slightly. Jethri received the impression that she was more amused and less resigned. The male trader frowned ferociously.

“Yes, Jeth Ree ven’Deelin is expected shortly, however—” he stopped, and favored Jethri with a hard stare.

In this moment of frozen disbelief, the staffer bowed once more to the table and went, soft-footed, away.

“
You
are Jeth Ree ven’Deelin?” the man demanded.

Not exactly encouraging
, Jethri thought, and bowed—not low.

“In fact, I am Jethri Gobelyn, apprentice and foster son of Master Trader Norn ven’Deelin. The communication from the hall named me Jeth Ree ven’Deelin, and I felt it wise to continue under that construction until I was able to ask that the database be amended.”

“ven’Deelin’s Terran,” the female trader murmured, and inclined her head when he looked at her. “Forgive me, sir. I am Alisa kor’Entec. Your fame precedes you, to the wonderment of us all.”

“I had heard the ven’Deelin signed a Terran apprentice,” the stern-faced trader said, looking to his mate. “I thought then that she had run mad. But—foster son?”

“Even so,” she assured him, with relish. “Precisely so. Is it not diverting?”

“Dangerously demented, say rather,” the other snapped, and Jethri felt himself warm to the man. Still, no matter his own doubts and feelings on the subject of his adoption, he couldn’t—really couldn’t—son or ‘prentice, just stand by while Master ven’Deelin was made mock of.

He drew himself up stiffly where he stood and stared down his nose at the stern-faced trade, and then at the other.

“The
melant’i
of Master Trader Norn ven’Deelin is above reproach,” he said, with all the dignity he could bring to it and hoping the phrase was on-point.

Alisa kor’Entec
smiled
at him. “It is, indeed. Which makes the matter infinitely more diverting.”

“Perhaps for you,” the man said irritably. He looked up at Jethri and moved a hand. “Of your goodness, Apprentice . . . Gobelyn. Trader kor’Entec and I must finish a small matter of business. Please, have a cup of tea and rest somewhat from your labors. I will be with you in a very short time.”

A cup of tea would actually be welcome, Jethri thought, abruptly aware that the gone feeling in his middle wasn’t all due to his upcoming testing, whatever it was.
And maybe a snack, too
. He inclined his head.

“Thank you, sir. I will await you at the bar.” He looked to the lady. “Ma’am. Fair trading.”

She gave him a slight, conspiratorial nod. “Good profit, Jethri Gobelyn.”

“SORRY TO BE LATE,”
Raisy said, slipping onto the bench across.

“‘preciate you comin’ at all,” Grig answered, pushing the second brew across to her.

She cocked him an eyebrow. “Thought that’s Uncle you was peeved with.”

“I’m not
peeved
with anybody.” Grig snapped open the seal on his brew. “It’s just—time’s done, Raisy. We gotta move to something else. Thing’s—aren’t stable, and you know that for truth. You want to talk birth defects, for starters?”

Raisy opened her brew, took a long draught, leaned back, and sighed. “You bring me out on an Urgent for this?”

He glanced sideways, out over the rest of the bar—slow night, slim on customers—and back to his sister.

“No,” he said, quiet. “Sorry.” He had some brew, put the bottle back on the table and frowned at it.

“News, Raisy,” he said, raising his eyes. “Seeli’s increasing. I’m bound for dad duty.”

She grinned, broad and honest, and leaned across the table to smack him upside the shoulder.

“News, he says! That’s
great
news, brother! You give your Seeli my congrats, hear it? Tell her I said she couldn’t have no finer man—nor her kid no finer dad.”

He smiled, warmed. “I’ll tell her that, Raisy. You ought to come by, meet her.”

“Maybe I will,” she said, but they both knew she wouldn’t.

“So, that was the Urgent?” she said, after a small pause.

He shook his head, pulled the two Priorities out his pocket and passed them over.

“These’re the Urgent.”

She sent him a sharp look, took the papers and unfolded them with a snap.

Grig drank brew and watched her read.

She went through both twice, folded them together and passed them back. Grig slipped them away and sat waiting.

“So, we got a renegade Liaden, do we? Who depends on us not being able to check up on the rules?”

“Like that,” Grig said.

“Right. And then we got this side issue of what’s to have on Banth, which I’ll second Khat on and say—nothing.”

“How side an issue is that? If we got a buncha pirates lookin’ to set up a base there?”

She stared at him. “Dammit—you think like Uncle.”

Grig laughed.

“OK, let’s look at where Banth is, ease-of-route speakin’.” Raisy closed her eyes, accessing her pilot brain. Grig, who had pulled up star maps to study on Banth’s location when Khat’s letter had first arrived, sat back and waited.

She sighed. “I’d have to check the maps to be sure, but—first look, it’s in a nice spot for someone wanting to do a little slip-trading from one Edge to the other.” She reached for her brew. “Now, Banth’s got tight admin.”

“But what if they get used to these Liaden ships comin’ in an’ there always seems to be a problem, but it always turns out not to be, so the inspectors start thinkin’ they got the pattern of it—”

“And then the Liadens change the pattern, and start ops for real, right under the clipboards of the inspectors?” Raisy shrugged. “Way I’d do it.”

“OK,” she said, briskly, counting off on her fingers. “Renegade Liaden. Smugglin’ ring maybe settin’ up on Banth. What else? Oh—Arin’s boy on the ground in Liaden space with no warning going his way. You think the master trader is in with the renegade?”

No surprise that Raisy’s thoughts went there—he’d considered the same thing himself. Still—he shook his head.

“I think she’s square. This business about Jethri being safe with Tarnia on Irikwae? Strikes me she might’ve been giving us the Liaden for ‘the kid has a ship to call on.’ I’m leaning toward that.”

“But you got something that’s still bothering you.”

“I do.” He leaned his elbows on the table, reached out and put his hands loosely around the brew bottle.

“I’m thinking we need to let Jeth know that he’s got trouble. Could be, he’s got trouble enough for all of us, if you take me.”

“You’re thinking this chel’Gaibin boy might make a hobby out of hunting Gobelyns?”

“And Tomases,” Grig said. “Yeah, I do.”

Raisy finished off her brew and put the bottle down with a thump.

“What do you want, Grig?”

“Lend of a fastship,” he said. “Last I knew, you owned one.”

“If you think I’m gonna let you fly my ship,
you’re
a headcase!” Raisy said and Grig felt his stomach sink as she pushed slid out of the booth and stood there, looking down at him.

“I’m coming with you,” she said.

“I HAVE REVIEWED
your file and I confess myself bewildered on several levels,” Trader Ena Tyl sig’Lorta said, waving his hand at the screen on the table between them. “First, I find that there is no database error; you are correctly recorded as Jethri Gobelyn. A secondary entry was created for Jeth Ree ven’Deelin by the hall master’s override. When it is accessed, however, the record it calls is precisely your own.”

Jethri felt his stomach clench.

“Perhaps it was a test?” he offered, with as much delicacy as he could muster while cussing himself for plain and fancy mud-headedness.

Trader sig’Lorta stared at him, hard gray eyes wide with something near to shock. “You mean to suggest that the hall master had an interest in knowing how you would present yourself—as apprentice or as foster son?” His sharp face grew thoughtful. “That is possible. Indeed, now that I consider it—very possible. I see my task is not so simple as I had considered. Here . . .” He reached for the keypad, flicked open a log page and began, quickly, to type.

“I record in my mentor’s notes—which will, you understand, be reviewed by a master at the end of your certification period—that your first request upon meeting your mentor was that the database be made to reflect your precise name.” Another few lines, then a flick at the ‘record’ tab.

“So. That is well. We move on to lesser bewilderments.” He touched a key, frowning down at the screen.

“I read here that the hall master at Modrid disallowed the trades you had completed at the word of your master trader—for which you utilized monies drawn on her accredited and known apprentice sub-account—and that he required the master trader to re-authorize each transaction recorded under that sub-account. Is this summation correct?”

Just a bit giddy with having escaped the name fiasco with his
melant’i
intact, Jethri inclined his head.

“Trader, it is.”

“Hah.” He touched another key, and sat frowning down at the screen.

“I also find that you are the holder of a ten-year Combine key, and have two trades of some small level of complexity attached to your name.”

Jethri inclined his head once more. “Trader, that is so.”

“Good. We have a Combine terminal here. When we have finished, you will use it to record your location, so that any trades you may make during the course of your certification will be appropriately recorded to your key, as well as entering your guild file.”

Despite himself, Jethri blinked, which lapse went unnoticed by Trader sig’Lorta, who was still staring down at the screen.

Silence stretched, then Jethri cleared his throat.

“The hall master at Modrid said that no Terrans would be allowed into the guild.”

His mentor shot him a hard, gray glance. “That is a matter for the masters, who—in all truth—could not have met and decided on any such question, as you are the first Terran who has sought entry into the guild. The rule as it is written—the rule which binds both the guild and yourself is:
Any candidate who has demonstrated mastery over the requirements put forth in the previous section may enter the guild as a trader. Those who once fail that demonstration may reapply after one Standard Year. Those who twice fail are banned from a third attempt.