There are several million Traders in the galaxy, but only 300 Master Traders registered with the Trade Commission on VanDyk. Until recently, all 300 were Liaden. This has been changing slowly, as Terrans become more successful in the trade arena and able to afford the costly and extensive certification tests.
Terran or Liaden, a Master Trader's work is exacting, requiring intimate knowledge of the regulations of a thousand ports of call, as well as a sure instinct for what will gain a profit at each. Master Traders often chart their ship's course as the trade develops, some running as long as five years between visits to the home port.
Less exalted Traders most usually ply an established route, which has most likely been researched and planned by a Master Trader.
The very best Master Traders are described as cool-headed, analytical, persuasive generalists who are filled with the passion to deal.—From A Young Person's Book of Trade
ER THOM FROWNED at the remote's cramped screen and wondered just how much—and who—Jyl ven'Apon had paid for the privilege of being known as a Master of Trade.
"Lithium, by all gods," he muttered, reaching for the mug of tea set to hand. "An enterprise as substantial as moonbeams, and she begs my hundred cantra buy-in cool as if she has a right! What can she be about? And to claim she enjoys yo'Laney's support—and Ivrex!" He paused, sipping the horrible Terran tea and considering that so-blithe claim of support.
Neither yo'Laney nor Ivrex was master-class, but two solid, substantial traders from solid, substantial clans. By all rights, they should have smelled the overripeness of the scheme even as Er Thom had.
Was ven'Apon's claim of support false, upon which face she was even more foolish than he had suspected? Or was her claim true, and she out to lighten as many pouches as possible before she was called to face the Guild Masters and her license—
"Mirada!" The demand was punctuated by a bump on his elbow that barely missed sending the mug's contents into orbit.
Carefully, he put the tea aside and turned his chair so he faced his petitioner.
"Shan-son," he said in grave Low Liaden. "How may I serve you?"
The boy looked at him doubtfully, gripping the red plastic keyboard-and-screen unit with both hands.
Er Thom smiled and reached out to stroke the snow-white hair. Such an odd color, he thought. Doubtless it will darken, when he is older . . .
"My son," he murmured in his careful Terran, "what may I do for you?"
The small face relaxed into a smile and Shan swung the toy onto Er Thom's knees.
"All done," he said with the air of one making himself perfectly clear.
"Ah." Er Thom glanced down at the thing. Dirty white plastic letters spelled out Mix-n-Match, against the bright red case. The screen was narrow, and the keys overlarge—to accommodate those too young to possesses fine manipulative skills, Er Thom thought. He touched a key at random.
"This module has been satisfactorily completed," a woman's bright voice told him. "Please insert upgrade module number five to continue progression."
"All done," Shan amplified, leaning cozily against Er Thom's thigh and pointing at the blank screen. "Need new, Mirada."
"A moment, if you please," Er Thom replied, putting his left arm around the child's body in a loose hug and adjusting the tiny screen for less glare. "I would like to look at the old . . ."
In very short order he had located and accessed the toy's resident manual, from which he learned that Mix-n-Match aimed to teach pattern recognition, eye-hand coordination, improve memory and lay the foundation for understanding of cause and effect. Module four, which Shan had just completed, was rated for the use of children having from 36 to 40 months. Er Thom frowned.
A bit more searching uncovered the module's database, which revealed the fascinating information that Shan's scores were in the ninety-eighth achievement percentile of all those who had completed the module.
"Well done," Er Thom said, touching the power-off and putting the simple computer onto Anne's desk. He bent and gave Shan a hug, rubbing his cheek against the soft, odd-colored hair. "Ge'shada, Shan-son. You have done very well, indeed."
Shan wriggled in his embrace. "Gee-shad-a," he announced and laughed.
Er Thom echoed the sound, softly, and let the child go. "Where are the new modules, then, my bright one?"
He had forgotten himself—the question was asked in Low Liaden. But Shan barely hesitated an instant before catching Er Thom's hand and pulling on it.
"Come on, Mirada. Needs new."
"So I am told." He stood and allowed himself to be tugged across the room to where Anne's ancient and battered half-chora slept, plastic-shrouded, atop a table made of real wood.
"Here," Shan announced, dropping Er Thom's hand to bend down and paw fruitlessly at the table's single drawer. He sighed gustily and straightened, looking up at Er Thom out of guileless silver eyes. "Stuck."
"I see." He bent and pulled.
The drawer was a little sticky, but not to signify. Once opened, however, it proved to be—empty.
"All gone," Shan discovered, peering into the depths. He shook his head. "Oh, well."
Oh, well, indeed, Er Thom thought. And the child already outpacing the modules . . .
"Shall I show you how my computer works?" he asked, holding down a hand. Shan took it with his usual lack of hesitation and they went back to Anne's desk.
Er Thom sat in the big chair and lifted the child onto his lap. He filed Jyl ven'Apon's audacious letter away for the moment and pulled the remote closer, adjusting the screen height.
Bintell Products was the manufacturer of Mix-n-Match, according to the resident manual.
"It happens," Er Thom murmured to his son, fingers moving over the keys, "that Korval trades with subsidiaries of Bintell Products. We should be able to locate an entire set of modules with very little trouble."
It took a few minutes, with Shan sitting rapt astride his knees, eyes never moving from the screen and the data flickering across it.
"There." He froze the screen, highlighted his choices and called for fuller information.
"I think perhaps we will have this Edu-Board for you," he murmured, absently and in Low Liaden. "You find Mix-n-Match far too simple, eh? Edu-Board has complexity—self-programming, individually-structured learning—yes. I think you will like this extremely, denubia." He issued the order—to be delivered, alas, to Trealla Fantrol, as a special shipment to University would not arrive until several weeks after Shan was on Liad.
"So then." He shut down the goods list and called up his work screen. On his lap, Shan gave a sigh of utter satisfaction.
"Fast," he commented, hand moving toward the remote's keyboard.
Er Thom caught the small, questing fingers in his and squeezed them lightly. "This is mine," he said in firm Terran. "You may watch me do my work, if you like, or you may do something else."
"Watch," his son decided without hesitation, and snuggled his back into Er Thom's chest. "Say—tell—me your—work—Mirada."
"Ah." He touched keys, accessing the information for Mandrake, one of Korval's lesser trade ships. "We must consider how best to utilize Dil Ton sig'Erlan upon this route. He is young, you see, though not entirely untried. Indeed, he may have the ability to achieve master-rank. It is the duty of one already master to give him opportunity to expand himself and hone his talent—but not too quickly. We do not wish to ruin him with too much failure—or with too much success . . ."
He leaned back and Shan did also, so that his head was under Er Thom's chin. The man smiled and lay his arms about the child and closed his eyes, considering Dil Ton sig'Erlan.
There was not much scope for creativity on the Lytaxin run. It was a minor route at best, encompassing a total of seven Outworlds, existing by reason of Korval's ancient ties with Erob, Lytaxin's ascendant clan. Still, there ought to be some way to test sig'Erlan's mettle, to place him out of context and force him into unexpected—
"Hah!" Er Thom opened his eyes, having bethought himself of a certain very odd something that had reposed, undisturbed, these several years in a corner of Korval's third Solcintra warehouse. "I believe that will do nicely, yes." He leaned forward and added the item to Mandrake's manifest.
"What you do?" Shan demanded, grabbing at the man's sleeve.
"I have given young sig'Erlan a gift," Er Thom replied, touching the "send" key. "May he reap joy of it."
He smiled and stretched, eye snagging on the time-bar in the upper corner of the remote's screen.
"Are you hungry?" he asked Shan, and received an enthusiastic affirmative.
"Very well." He lifted the child to the floor and stood, offering a hand. "Let us then eat lunch."
THE SKY WAS OF A BLUE just tinged with green and the air was laden with flower-scents.
Daav yos'Phelium sent the sleek groundcar through the various twists and turns of Trealla Fantrol's drive with expert negligence. As he pulled into the carport, he saw Er Thom's mother sitting on the East Patio, taking the sun, a bound book unopened on her lap. He sighed, pushing aside the old sorrow as he walked across the grass toward her.
"Good morning, Aunt Petrella!"
She looked up, making no move to rise from her chair. A bad day, then.
"Good enough, I suppose, for those who have nothing better to do than fidget about in fancy cars."
He grinned. "Ah, but I have much more to do than fidget about! You behold me, in fact, atremble with busy-ness. I have this day received a pin-beam from my brother Er Thom, bidding me purchase in his name a concert-quality omnichora and have it delivered to this house immediately. In my brother's name I have done this thing. It should arrive this afternoon."
She glared at him. "An omnichora?"
"An omnichora," he agreed, with appropriate gravity.
"Er Thom does not play the omnichora," that gentleman's mother announced darkly.
"Ah. Then perhaps it is for the guest," Daav speculated, eyes wide with wholly counterfeit innocence. "It is our duty, you know, Aunt, to arrange all for the comfort and well-being of the guest."
"A lesson in Code, I apprehend," Petrella said scathingly. "Uncounted thanks to the instructor."
Bland-faced, Daav bowed, graciously acknowledging the offered thanks. Petrella sniffed.
"Awake upon all suits, are you? One supposes you know the name of the respected scholar who is to be our guest, but wonders when you will judge it proper to share that information."
"From you, Aunt Petrella, I have no secrets," her nephew told her audaciously. "The scholar's name is Anne Davis."
"Anne Davis," she repeated, mouth tightening. "And Anne Davis is—naturally!—a scholar of the omnichora. Met perhaps at some delightful musical soiree engineered by those who must delight in—"
"I believe," Daav interrupted gently, "that Anne Davis is a scholar of comparative linguistics, attached to the Languages Department based upon University. If you wish, I will forward copies of her publications to your screen—" he bowed, "in order that you may enjoy informed conversation with the guest."
"Yet another lesson in manners! I am quite overcome. In the meanwhile, what has a concert-quality omnichora to do with a scholar of language?"
"Perhaps," Daav offered, ever more gently, "it is an avocation."
Petrella hesitated, considering him out of narrowed eyes. Daav was notoriously—even foolishly—sweet-tempered. Yet that tone of caressing gentleness was clear warning to those who knew him well: Daav hovered on the edge of displeasure, in which state even his cha'leket was hard-put to deal with him sanely.
Accordingly, Petrella relented somewhat in her attack and inclined her head. "Perhaps it is, as you say, an avocation. Doubtless we shall learn more when the scholar is with us." She glanced up, moving both hands in the formal gesture of asking. "One cannot help but wonder why the scholar comes to us at all."
There was a small pause.
"My cha'leket allows me to know that Scholar Davis had been a friend of Scholar yo'Kera of Solcintra University. Scholar yo'Kera has recently died and duty of friendship calls Scholar Davis to Solcintra."
"I see." An entirely reasonable explanation, saving only that the mystery of Er Thom's acquaintanceship with Scholar Davis remained—deliberately, as Petrella strongly suspected—unresolved.
Still, another measuring glance at her nephew's face argued the best course was to leave the matter until she might have the entire tale, start to finish, from the lips of her heir.
Embracing thus the more prudent course, Petrella inclined her head. "My thanks. Is there anything else one should know beforehand of the guest, so all may be arranged for her comfort and well-being?"
Amusement gleamed in the depths of Daav's dark eyes. He bowed slightly.
"I believe not. Now, if you will excuse me, aunt, I must away. Duty calls."
"Certainly. Give you good day."
"Give you good day, Aunt Petrella." He was gone, noiseless across the blue-green grass.
An omnichora, she thought, watching Daav's car down the drive. To be delivered this afternoon, by all the gods. And if the guest is an expert in her avocation . . .
Grumbling to herself, she rang for Mr. pak'Ora.
"An omnichora will be arriving this afternoon. See it situated."
"Situated, Thodelm?"
She drew herself up in the chair, ignoring the pain the effort cost her. "Yes, situated. The Bronze Room is said to have good acoustics—put it there. We'll have a music room."
The butler bowed. "Very good, Thodelm," he said, careful of her mood, and left her.
Alone, she fingered her book, but did not open it. Eventually she nodded off in the warm sun and slept so soundly she did not hear either the arrival of the omnichora or of the technician hastily summoned to tend to the Bronze Room's acoustics.