Balance of Trade (43 page)

"I thank you," she smiled, briefly, and sipped her wine. "So, that act. The second, I own, may be knottier, for it involves dramliz skills. One or both of us must look into the future and see whether chel'Gaibin will pursue its false Balance against Gobelyns, all and sundry, and, if they will, what measures we must take—in protection, I would say, preferring not to wait upon the necessity of retribution."

"I understand." He considered the matter for some time, frowning abstractedly at the table top. Norn sipped her wine and waited for him to return to himself.

"I believe that the larger population of Gobelyns need have no fear that the chel'Gaibin heir will attempt to pursue his Balance," he said after a considerable time had passed. "Like you, I consider that the attack upon Pilot Gobelyn was an opportunistic act, which it is unlikely he will repeat."

"Unlikely? Tell me why you say so."

He rattled the green paper. "The pilot states that she knocked him down for his impertinence in laying a hand upon her—and rightly so, may I say. You, yourself, know well that chel'Gaibins have no taste for being knocked down. I would consider that the encounter with the pilot will have provided a laudatory lesson to the heir." He raised his glass.

"And, too, when does
Wynhael
run so far out? Further opportunity to meet Gobelyns must be limited by the usual routes pursued by both."

"Fair enough," Norn murmured, "though I submit that
Wynhael
was at Banth as nearly as a few days ago."

"An isolated incidence, I believe," Pen Rel said stoutly. "I think we may assume that Gobelyns as a set reside at a safe distance from chel'Gaibins of any sort." He sipped his wine. "No, where we must focus our concern, I believe, is upon Jethri, who is at this moment well within Liaden space and, while more tutored regarding the rules of Balance than his most excellent kinswoman, is perhaps not as conversant with nuance as one might like."

"He has been living this while in the house of my foster mother," Norn said dryly. "Be assured that he will by this time be breathing and dreaming nuance. However, your point is taken. One does not leave an inexperienced player unshielded to danger. We know that Bar Jon chel'Gaibin has publicly proposed a grievance against Jethri Gobelyn—" she fluttered her fingers at the paper in his hand. "He must pursue satisfaction, or his melant'i suffers."

Pen Rel snorted. "As if it had not already. Shall we to Irikwae, then?"

She moved a shoulder. "Alas, we cannot. The cargo we have guaranteed for Lylan—"

"Ah," he murmured. "I had forgotten."

Norn sipped her wine. "Immediately, let us beam to Tarnia, with full particulars and a request to be vigilant. We have a little time, I calculate, purchased by the guild investigation. We will fulfill our contract, and transship what we may." She sighed. "Gar Sad will pin my ears to my head."

"Of course he will." Pen Rel put his glass and the letter on the table and came to his feet, not quite as lightly as was his wont. "You will have clear proof of the ships involved by the end of next shift."

She smiled at him. "Old friend. My thanks to you, on behalf of my student and son."

"My student, also, remember," he said bowing lightly. "By your leave, Norn."

She flicked a hand in bogus impatience. "Go then, if you are so eager for work."

He smiled, placed his hand briefly over his heart, and left her.

THE ALARM CHIMED, insistent. Jethri groaned and resisted the temptation to push his head under the bank of pillows to shut out the noise.

The chime grew louder. Manfully, Jethri flung the sheets back, got his feet on the floor. A few steps brought him to the alarm, which he disarmed, and then simply stood there, savoring the silence.

The clock displayed a time a few minutes later than his usual waking hour, which meant he was going to have to engage jets to get to breakfast on time. He yawned, the idea of engaging jets infinitely less attractive than collapsing back onto the bed and taking another half-shift of sleep.

Instead, he moved, at something less than his usual speed, on course for the 'fresher.

The twins had stayed late, trading stories of their own for his of Kailipso Station and Scout Captain ter'Astin, until Miandra looked out the window.

"The third moon has set," she said, whereupon Meicha pronounced the word Jethri considered to be the Liaden rendering of "mud!" and they both jumped up and took their leave, with smiles and wishes for his sweet dreaming, flitting like the ghosts of space down the dim-lit hall, Flinx the ghost of a cat, weaving 'round their silent feet.

Trouble was, he hadn't been at all sleepy and had spent some time more huddled over his old "trade journal," until he realized he had read the same entry three times, without making sense of it once, closed the old book and gone to bed.

Two hours ago.

He stepped into the shower and punched the button for
cold
, gasping when the blast hit him. Quickly, he soaped and rinsed, then jumped out, reaching for the towel. Drying briskly, he glanced in the mirror—and glanced again, moving closer and touching his upper lip, where last evening a hopeful mustache sprouted.

Gone now, stroked into oblivion by Meicha's magic fingers.

"I don't know how long that will last," she had said, half-scolding. "But you really
can
not, Jethri, go among polite people with hair on your face."

"I was going to ask Mr. pel'Saba for depilatory, tomorrow," he'd said, and Miandra had laughed, reaching over her twin's shoulder to put her palm against his cheek.

"He would not have had the least idea what you asked for," she said. "Leave it to Meicha until you may purchase some of this substance for yourself, perhaps at the port?"

"
Miandra
. . . " Meicha hissed, and her sister laughed again and withdrew her hand, leaving Jethri wishing that she hadn't.

In the bedroom, the alarm began again, signaling five minutes until breakfast.

Jethri swore and jumped for his closet.

THE BREAKFAST ROOM was empty, for all the food was laid out just like always on the long sideboard and the places were set at the table set in the tall windowed alcove overlooking the flower garden. Someone had thought it a mellow enough day to prop open the middle pane, and the smells of flowers and growing things danced into the room on the back of a dainty little breeze.

Jethri paused at the window, looking out over the banks of sweet smelling, prickle stemmed flowers that Lady Maarilex favored.

The garden appeared as always: pink and white blossoms crowding the stone pathways; the sunlight dappled with shade from the tall tree at the garden's center. Nothing seemed disturbed by yesterday's rogue wind.

"Good morning, Master Jethri," murmured a voice grown very familiar to him. Jethri turned and inclined his head.

"Mr. pel'Saba." He looked into the butler's bland, give-nothing face. "I fear I have overslept."

"If you did, it was not by many minutes," the old man said. "However, Master Ren Lar went early to the vines—and Mrs. tor'Beli has instructions to send a tray up to their ladyships." That would be Meicha and Miandra, Jethri thought with a start.

"For yourself. . . " Mr. pel'Saba continued, reaching into his sleeve and producing a creamy, square envelope, "there is a letter."

A letter. Jethri took the envelope with a small bow, fingertips tingling against the kiss of high-rag paper. "My thanks."

"It is my pleasure to serve," Mr. el'Saba assured him. "Please enjoy your breakfast. If anything is required, you have but to ring." He bowed and was gone, vanishing through the door at the back of the room.

Jethri turned his attention to the envelope. An irregular blob of purple wax glued the flap shut; pressed into the wax was a design. He brought the blob closer to the end of his nose, squinting—and recognized the sign of the traders guild.

Reverently, he flipped the creamy square over and stood staring at the name, written in purple ink the exact shade of the lump of sealing wax, the Liaden letters a thought too ornate: Jeth Ree ven'Deelin.

Now
, he thought,
here's a message
. If only he knew how to read it.

Sighing, the envelope heavier in his hand than its weight accounted for, Jethri went to the sideboard, poured himself a cup of tea, and carried both to his usual place at the breakfast table. Only when he had seated himself and taken a sip of tea, did he slip his finger under the purple wax and break the seal.

Inside the envelope was a single sheet of paper, folded once in the middle. It crackled crisply when he unfolded it to find five precise lines, written in that over-ornate hand:
Jeth Ree ven'Deelin, apprentice to Master Trader Norn ven'Deelin, will present himself at Irikwae Guildhall on Standard Day 168 at sixth hour, local.

In order to undertake testing for certification. The course will encompass one-half relumma. The candidate will be housed at the guildhall for the duration of the certification program.

That was it, the last line being a signature so over-written as to be nearly unreadable. Jethri sipped his tea, frowning at the thing until he finally puzzled out:
Therin yos'Arimyst, Hall Master, Irikwae Port.

"Such a studious demeanor so early in the day!" Lady Maarilex remarked a few moments later, stumping to a halt on the threshold of the breakfast room. "Truly, Jethri, you are an example to us all."

He put the letter down next to his teacup and rose, crossing the room to offer her his arm.

"After yesterday, I wonder that you can say so, ma'am," he murmured, as he guided her to her usual place, and pulled back her chair.

She laughed. "Certainly, the portions of your yesterday which I was privileged to observe seemed to go very well, indeed. Your demeanor before the Scout Lieutenant—I live in the liveliest anticipation of sharing the tale with your foster mother."

Oh, really?
"Do you think she will enjoy it, ma'am?" he asked.

She looked up at him, old eyes sparkling.

"Immensely, young Jethri. Immensely."

"Well, then," he said, with a lightness he didn't particularly feel, "I will judge that I have acquitted myself well, in the matter of the Scout." He paused. "May I bring you something, ma'am?" he asked, since neither Meicha nor Miandra was there to perform the service.

"Tea, if you will, child, and a bit of the custard."

He moved off to fulfill this modest commission, and returned to the table with tea and custard, and a sweet roll for himself.

"Ma'am, I wonder," he said, glancing at the letter as he took his place. "Does Hall Master Therin yos'Arimyst hold Master ven'Deelin in despite?"

She paused with her teacup halfway to her lips and shot him a sharp glance over the rim.

"Now, here's a bold start. What prompts it?"

Wordlessly, he passed her the letter and the envelope.

"Hah." She put her cup down, read the letter in a glance, considered the envelope briefly, and put both on the table between them.

"He gives you little enough time to arrive," she commented, reaching for her custard. "Today, you will pack—take what books you will from the library, too. I recall Norn telling us that there was precious little to read at the hall, saving manifests and regulations."

"Thank you, ma'am," he murmured, genuinely warmed.

A flick of her fingers dispensed with his thanks. "As to the other. . .  Despite—perhaps not, though I would be surprised to learn that Therin yos'Arimyst counted Norn ven'Deelin among his favored companions." She spooned custard, contemplatively. Jethri broke his roll open and did his best to cultivate patience.

"It is, you understand," Lady Maarilex said eventually, "a difference in mode that separates Norn and the yos'Arimyst. In him, you will find a trader, oh,
most
conservative! Ring a rumor of change and be certain that Therin yos'Arimyst will be with the portmaster within the hour, speaking eloquently in defense of the proven ways. Norn, as I am certain you have yourself observed, is one to dance with risk and court change."

"I can see that the two of them might not have much to talk about," Jethri said, when a few moments had passed and she had said nothing else.

"Certainly, they would seem to be unlikely to agree on any topic of importance to either," she murmured, her eyes, and apparently her thoughts, on her custard.

Jethri sipped his tea, found it less than tepid and rose to warm his cup. When he returned, Lady Maarilex had finished her custard and was holding her cup between her two hands, eyes closed.

He slipped into his seat as quietly as he could, not wanting to disturb her if she was indulging in a nap. She opened her eyes before he was rightly settled, and extended a hand to tap the letter where it was between them on the table.

"I believe what you have here is politics, child. Mind you, I do not have the key to the yos'Arimyst's mind, but it comes to me that he
must
see you as a challenge to his beloved changelessness—indeed, you
are
just such a challenge—and never mind that change will come, no matter how he may abhor it, or speak against it, or forbid it within his hall. Norn ven'Deelin, who loves the trade more than any being alive, has taken a Terran apprentice. Surely, the foundations of the homeworld ring with the blow! And, yet, if not Norn, if not now—then another, later. Terrans exist. Not only do they exist, but they insist upon trading—and on expanding the field upon which they
can
trade. We ignore them—we deny them—at our very great peril."

Jethri leaned forward, watching her face. "You think that she was right, then, ma'am?"

"Oh, I believe she is correct," the old lady murmured. "Which is not to say—diverting and delightful as I find you!—that I would not have preferred another, and later. It is not comfortable, to be an agent of change." She shot him an especially sharp glance. "Nor is it comfortable, I imagine, to be change embodied."

He swallowed. "I—am not accustomed to thinking of myself so. An apprentice trader, set to learn from a . . . most astonishing master—that is how I think of myself."