WHEN IT WAS ALL counted and compressed, his personal possessions fit inside two crew-bags. He slung the larger across his back, secured by a strap across his chest, snapped at shoulder and hip. Hefting the smaller, he took one more look around the room—a plain metal closet it was, now, with the cot slid away and the desk folded into the wall. He'd tried to give the com chart back, but Dyk insisted that it would fit inside the bag with a little pushing, and so it had.
There was nothing left to show the place had been his particular private quarters for more than half his lifetime. Looking at it, the space could be anything, really: a supply closet; a specialty cargo can. . .
Jethri shook his head, trying to recapture the burning joy he'd felt, signing his line on the 'prentice contract, finding himself instead, and appallingly, on the near side of bawling his eyes out.
It's not like you're wanted here, he told himself, savagely. You were on the good-riddance roster, no matter what.
Still, it hurt, staring around at what had once been his space, feeling his personals no considerable weight across his back.
He swallowed, forcing the tears back down into his chest. Damned if he would cry. Damned if he would.
Which was well. And also well to remember that value wasn't necessarily heavy. In fact, it might be that the most valuable thing he carried away from the ship weighed no more than an ounce—Uncle Paitor had come through with the Combine key, springing for the ten-year without a blink—a measure of how good the vya had done. Khat had donated a true-silver long-chain, and now it hung round his neck, with key in place.
He'd been afraid, nearly, that Khat would kiss him right then, when she put the key on the chain and dropped it round his neck, then stood close and reached out to tuck the key sudden-like down his day-shirt.
"Promise me you'll wear this and remember us!" she said, and hugged him, as unexpected as the potential kiss, and missed as greatly as soon as she released him.
And so he had promised, and could feel the key becoming familiar and comfortable as he got himself together.
Then there was his ship-share, which had come to a tidy sum, with a tithe atop that, that he hadn't expected, and which Seeli'd claimed was his piece of the divvy-up from his father's shares.
"Payable in cash," Seeli had said, further, not exactly looking at him. "On departure from the ship. Since you're going off to trade for another ship, this counts. Those of us who stay, the ship carries our shares in General Fund."
He'd also taken receipt of one long, assaying, straight-eyed glance from the captain with the words said, in front of Dyk before they signed those papers—
"You chose your ship, you got your inheritance, you think you know what you want. So I witness you, Jethri son of Arin, a free hand." She'd shook his hand, then, like he was somebody, and turned away like he was forgot.
So, now, here he stood, on the edge of an adventure, kit and cash in hand. A goodly sum of cash, for a Terran juniormost; an adequate kit, for the same. 'mong Liadens, who knew where he stood?—though soon enough he'd find out.
He felt his private pocket, making sure he had coin and notes and his fractin, then patted his public pocket, making sure of the short-change stowed there.
The ship clock chimed, echoing off the metal walls. Jethri took one more look around the bare cubby. Right. Time to get on with it.
AS SOON AS THE door slid closed behind him he remembered the last thing Paitor had said, leaning over to tap his finger against the nameplate set in the door.
"You pull that on the way out, y'hear? Rule is, when crew moves on, they take their nameplate so there ain't any confusion 'case of a crash." He nodded, maybe a little wise with the Smooth, and clapped Jethri on the shoulder. "That's yours as much as anything on this ship ever was."
Right.
Jethri slid the duffle off his shoulder, opened the door, and pulled the wrench-set off his belt. The nameplate showed through a blast resistant window set into the body of the door, with the access hatch on the inside. One-handed, he quickly undid the eight inset-togs probably last touched by his father, second hand held ready to catch the hatch when it fell.
Except, even with the togs loose the cover didn't fall right out, so he sighed and reached for his side-blade, and unsnapped it from the holster.
Who'd have thought this would be so tough?
He could see that asking for help getting his nameplate out of the door wouldn't play too well with his cousins—and wasn't it just like Mister Murphy to be sure and make an easy task hard, when he was needing to be on time. . . If Paitor and Grig hadn't kept him up clear through mid-Opposite—
The captain had made it plain that she'd look dimly on any celebration of Jethri's new status—which was bad form when any crew left a ship but 'specially bad when a child of the ship went for a new berth. Strictly speaking, they should've called 'round to the other ships on port, and had a party, if not a full-blown shivary. In time, the news would spread through the free-ships—and news it was, too. But, no; it was like the captain was embarrassed that her son was 'prenticed to a Liaden master trader; which, as far as Jethri could find, was a first-time-ever event.
So, everyone was nice to him, 'cept the captain, and there wasn't any party, so he'd taken his time going through his belongings and packing up, finding so much of what he had was left over from being a kid; so much was stuff he didn't need, or even want. And, o'course, there was the stuff that he did want that he hadn't had since his father died. The fractin collection, of which his lucky tile was the last link; the pictures of Arin; the trade journal they'd been working on together—Seeli'd let on, without exactly coming out and saying so, that the captain had spaced it all years ago, so it wasn't no sense feeling like he'd just been stripped of what was his.
But, still, he wished he had those things to pack.
All that being so, he was in something of a mood when the tap came on his door, just after Opposite shift rang in. And he'd been surprised right out of that mood to find Grig and Paitor on the other side; asking permission to enter.
Lanky Grig—back-up navigator, back-up pilot, back-up cook, back-up trader, and in-system engineer—folded himself up on the edge of the bunk /acceleration couch while Jethri and Paitor took the magna-tracked swivel stools.
Once they were situated, Paitor pulled a green cloth bag from his pocket, and Grig brought three stainless drinking cups from his pouch. Jethri sat, his fractin snug in his hand, and wondered what was up.
"Jethri," Paitor began, then stopped as if he'd forgot what he was going to say for a second. He took a look at the bag on his knee, then untied the silver cord with its pendant tag from around the top, and handed the cord off to Jethri, who slid it into his public pocket, along with the fractin.
Paitor slipped the bag down, revealing a blue bottle, sealed with gold foil.
"The time has come, ol' son," Grig said quietly. "You're a free hand now—time for you to have a drink with your peers."
Paitor smiled like he only half wanted to, and lifted the bottle in two hands, like it was treasure.
"If I may do the honors here," he said, holding the bottle out so Jethri could read the label. "This here's Genuine Smooth Blusharie. Been with us since the day you was born. Arin picked it up, see? Since the captain drinks a meaner line than this, bottle was just gathering dust in the locker, and we figured we'd better make use of it before someone who don't really 'preciate it drinks it by mistake."
He smiled again, more like he meant it this time, and twisted the seal. There was a crackle as it gave way, and sharp pop a moment later, as the cork come out. Grig held the cups out, carefully, one after the other, and Paitor filled each with gem-colored liquid.
When they were each holding a cup and the bottle was recorked and stowed next to Grig on the bunk, Paitor cleared his throat.
"NOW, JETHRI," he said, talking slow, "I know you heard a lot of advice from me over your years and you probably got right tired of it—" Grig snorted a laugh and Jethri nodded in rueful agreement, holding his cup carefully—"but there's just a little bit more you got to hear. First is this: Don't never gulp Blusharie, whether it's smooth or whether it's not. If it ain't smooth, gulping it will knock you off your pins so hard you'll think you had a code red collision. If it is smooth, you'll be wasting one of the rare joys of this life and didn't deserve to have it."
Paitor lifted his cup and Grig, his. Jethri lifted his, looking from one lifelong familiar face to another, seeing nothing but a concentration on the moment.
"To Jethri Gobelyn, free hand!"
"Long may he trade!" Grig added, and he and Paitor clinked their cups together, Jethri joining them a second late. He looked into the amber depths of the liquid, and sipped himself a tiny sip.
It all but took his breath, that sip, leaving a smooth tartness on his tongue and a tingling at the back of his throat. Fiery and mellow at once—
He noticed that he was being watched, and had a second sip, smiling.
"It's not like ale or beer at all!"
Grig laughed, low and comfortable. "No, not at all."
"So there, Jethri, that's some advice for you, and a secret, of a kind," said Paitor, sipping at his own cup. "There's traders all over the Combine who got no idea where to get this or why they'd want to. But you find yourself someone who fancies himself a knowing drinker, and you can get yourself a customer for life."
Jethri nodded, remembering the silver cord on his pocket, with the name of the vintage and the cellar stamped on the seal.
"'Course, there's more to life than Smooth Blusharie, too," Paitor said after another gentle sip. "So, what we got to tell you, is—there's things you gotta know."
His latest sip of Smooth Blusharie heavy on his tongue, Jethri looked up into Paitor's face, noting that it had changed again, from sadly serious to trading-bland, and sat up straight on his stool.
"All families have their secrets," Paitor said slowly. "This ship and this family're no different'n most. Thing is, sometimes not all secrets get shared around so good, and some things that should've been kept so secret they're forgot get talked about too much." He took a short sip from his cup. "One of the things that might've been kept secret but wasn't, was how you wasn't expected."
Jethri looked down into his cup, biting his lip, and figured this was a good time to have another sip.
"Now," Paitor went on, still talking slow and deliberate. "What likely was kept secret was what Arin and Iza were doing together in the first place, seein' as some would call—and did call—them a mismatch from ignition to flare out."
What was this? Seeli, his source of all information about his parents, had never hinted that there'd been any trouble between Iza and Arin. All the trouble had come later, with Jethri.
"What it was, see, Jethri," his uncle was saying, "is that the Gobelyn side goes back a long way in the Combine. Gobelyns was founding members of the Combine—and part of the trade teams before that. An' even before the trade teams, Gobelyns was ship folk."
Jethri frowned. "That's no secret, Uncle. The tapes. . . "
Grig snorted, and had a sip of the Smooth. His face was hooded; closed, like he was misdirecting a buyer around a defect. Paitor looked across to him.
"Your turn now?" he asked, real quiet.
Grig shook his head. "No, sir—and I'm damned if that ain't another secret been kept! But, no. Go on."
After a minute, Paitor nodded, and sipped and leaned over to gently shake the bottle.
"That's fine, then," he murmured. "A glass to talk on and a glass to clear it."
"We'll do it," Grig said, nodding, too, with his face still a study in grim. "Really."
"Right. We will." Paitor took a hard breath. "So, Jethri, the way it was—Arin come along about the time the Gobelyns was set to call precedence at a shipowner meeting. Timing was bad, you might say, it being right near the time when the internal power-shift went from ship-base to world-base. The Combine had got so big, it owned pieces of planets, big and small, not to mention controlling shares in a good many grounder corps, and its interest shifted from securing the trade-lanes to protecting its investments. Which meant that the ships and shipowners who'd founded the Combine and built it strong wasn't in charge no more.
"So, anyway, they'd called an owners' meeting there on Caratunk, and the Gobelyns had the backin' they needed. That's when Arin showed up with the word that the owners' meeting had been downgraded from rule-making to advisory, by a twenty-seven to three commissioner vote. Now understand, Arin come from trade background too, but he'd started real young gettin' formal educated. Spent years on-planet—went to college planet-side, went to University, took history courses, took pilot courses, took trading and economics—and so when that vote came up, he was one of the three commissioners on the losing end."
Jethri blinked, cup half-way to his lips, Smooth Blusharie forgotten in blank astonishment.
"My father was a commissioner?"
Grig laughed, short and sharp.
"Not once he got out to Caratunk he wasn't," Paitor answered, sparing a quick glare for the lanky man on the bunk. "Left his vote card right there on the table, grabbed up his money, his collections, and his co-pilot, and quit on the spot. Figured the best way to help the owners an' preserve the routes was to be out with us. And so he did that."
"Finish your sip, boy," Grig instructed, taking one of his own. Jethri followed suit. He'd met a commissioner once, when he was young—
"RIGHT," SAID PAITOR, "you might remember the ship was busy once. Lots of folks comin' by when we was in port, lots of talk, presents for the youngers. . . Even though Arin wasn't a commissioner no more, him knowing how the systems worked, Combine and planet-side—the owners, they come to him for advice, for planning out how to maybe not rely so heavy on Combine contacts and Combine contracts."
"But it stopped. After . . . the accident." Jethri could vaguely remember a day when they were in port and Arin got called away—as he so often did—and then the ship was locked down, and his mother screamed and—
"It was a bad time. Thought we'd lose your mother too. Blamed herself for lettin' him go, like there was some way she could have stopped him."
"But see, your dad, he was from old stock, too. Not ship-folk; not 'til later. They was kinda roamers—archaeologists, philosophers, librarians. . . Had strange ideas, some of 'em. Figured us Terrans had been around a longer time than we got the history for, that Terra—what they call the homeworld—is maybe the third or fourth Terra we've called home in sequence. Some other—"
"Paitor. . . " Grig's voice was low and warning. Jethri froze on his stool; he'd never heard long, easy-going Grig so much as sharp, never mind out-'n-out menacing.
"Your turn then," Paitor said, after a pause. He lifted his cup.
"My turn," Grig said, and sighed. He leaned forward on the bunk, looking hard into Jethri's face.
"YOU KNOW I was your father's co-pilot. We were cousins, yeah, but more than that in someways, 'cause we had the same mentor when we was growing up, and we both got involved in what Paitor calls useless politicking and we thought was more than that. A lot more than that. Now thing is, your mam, and her-side of the cousins, like the Golds—they're Loopers. Know what that is?"
Jethri nodded. "I know what it is. But I don't like to hear the captain—"
Grig held up a hand, fingers wagging in the hand-talk equivalent of "pipe down."
"Tell me what it is before you get riled."
My last night on ship and I draw a history quiz, Jethri thought, irritated. He had a sip of Smooth to take the edge of his temper, and looked back to Grig.
"Loopers is backwards. Don't want to come out to the bigger ports, only want to deal with smaller planets, and places where they don't have to deal with regs or with. . . "
Grig flicked a couple fingers—"stop," that was.
"Part right and part wrong. See, Loopers comes from an article in the Combine charter which was writ awhile back and got pretty popular—probably have five copies of in the records on-board here if you know where to look. The idea came from the fact that most ship-folk believe in following a loop of travel—pretty often it's a closed loop. And some Looper families, they've been on ship for a hundred Standards, maybe, and everybody onboard knows that month seventeen of the trip means they're putting into so-and-so port to pick up fresh 'runion concentrate.
"Fact is, 'way back when this was all first worked out, the idea was that every route would be a Loop, with some Loops intersecting others, for transshipping and such.
"Now, I think you know, and I think I know, and I think Paitor knows, that's nonsense. This closed system stuff only works so long—and as long—as the economy of most of the ports in the Loop're expanding. Everybody does their bit, nobody introduces no major changes—then your Loop's stable and everybody profits. Now, though, just speaking of changes, we got Liadens, who got no interest in our expanding system—they got their own systems and routes to care about. Then you got some of the planets putting their own ships into the mix without knowing history, nor caring. So now you got instability and running a Loop ain't such a good notion no more. You got the trading families losing out to the planets, and the Combine—well, buying up all them shares and corporations cost money, which means we pay more taxes and fees, not less. 'Cause the Combine, see, it can't let the ships go altogether, though we're getting troublesome; it needs to keep a certain control, exercise a certain authority, and bleed us 'til we—"
Next to Jethri, Paitor coughed. Grig jerked to halt and rubbed a hand over his head.
"Right," he said. "Sorry." He sipped, and sighed lightly.
"So, where was I? Trade theory, eh? Say f'rinstance that you, Jethri Ship-Owner, want to live off the smaller ports and set yourself up a pretty good Loop. Sooner or later the good business is going to shift, and your Loop'll be worth less to the ship. You end up like Gold Digger, runnin' stones from place to place and maybe something odd on the side to make weight.
"What Arin saw was that the contract runs was the money runs. You go hub-to-hub, you don't ship empty; if conditions change—you can adapt; you ain't tied to the Loop.
"Arin had a good eye for basic contracts, and the ones he fixed up for the Market are just now needing adjustment. That's why this is a great time for the overhaul—your mam's on course, there. And you—you're in a spot to be big news. 'prentice trader on a Liaden ship? Studying under a master trader? You not only got a shot to own a ship, boy. Unless I read her wrong, that master trader is seeing you as—kind of like a commissioner 'tween Liaden interests and Terran."
Jethri blinked. "I don't—"
Grig glanced at Paitor, then back to Jethri.
"Let it go then," he said. "Learn your lessons, do good—for yourself and for your name." He moved a hand, apologetic-like. "There's one more thing, and then we can finish up this nice stuff and let you get some sleep." He took a breath, nodded to himself.
"There are secrets in all families. That's a phrase. You meet someone else who believes, who knows, they'll get that phrase to you. You don't know nothing but there's a secret, and that's all you have to know, now. But put that in your backbrain—there are secrets in all families. It might serve you; it might not. Course you're charting, who knows?"
Jethri was frowning in earnest now, his cup empty and his thought process just a little slow with the Smooth.
"But—what does it mean? What happens if somebody—"
Grig held up his hand. "You'll know what'll happen if it ever does. What it means. . . It means that there's some stuff, here and there around the galaxy left over from the time of the Old War—the big war, like Khat tells about in stories. It means that your lucky fractin, there, that's not a game piece, no matter how many rules for playing with 'em we all seen—it's a Fractional Mosaic Memory Module—and nobody exactly knows what they're for." He looked at Paitor. "Though Arin thought he had an idea."
Paitor grunted. "Arin had ideas. Nothin' truer said."
Grig ran his hand over his head and produced a grin. "Paitor ain't a believer," he said to Jethri, and sat back, looking thoughtful.
"Listen," he said, "'cause I'll tell you this once, and it might sound like ol' Grig, he's gone a little space-wise. But just listen, and remember—be aware, that's all. Paitor don't want to hear this again—didn't want to hear it the first time, I'm bettin'—but him and me—we agreed you need a place to work from; information that Iza don't want you to have." He paused.
"These fractins, now—they're Old Tech. Really old tech. Way we figured it, they was old tech when the big war started. And the thing is—we can't duplicate them."
Jethri stared, and it did occur to him that maybe Grig had started his drinking before the Blusharie. The big war—the Old War—well, there'd been one, that much was sure; most of the Befores you'd come up with, they was pieces from the war—or from what folks called the war, but could've been some other event. Jethri'd read arguments for and against had there been or had there not been a war, as part of history studies. And the idea of a tech that old that couldn't be duplicated today. . .
"What kind of tech?" he asked Grig. "And why can't we copy it?"
"Good questions, both, and I'd be a happier man if I had an answer for either. What I can tell you is—if that fractin of yours is one of the real ones—one of the old ones—it's got a tiny bit of timonium in there. You can find that from the outside because of the neutrinos—and all the real ones ever scanned had its own bit of timonium. Something else you find is that there's structure inside—they ain't just poured plastic or something. Try to do a close scan, though, maybe get a looksee at the shape of that structure, and what happens? Zap! Fried fractin. The timonium picks up the energy and gives off a couple million neutrinos and some beta and gamma rays—and there's nothing left but slagged clay. Try to peel it? You can't; same deal."
Jethri took a sip of his dwindling drink, trying to get his mind around the idea that there was tech hundreds of Standards old that couldn't be cracked and duplicated.
"As I say," Grig said, soft-like, "Paitor ain't a believer. What him, and Iza and a whole lot of other folks who're perfectly sane, like maybe I'm not on the subject, nor Arin neither—what they think is that the Old War wasn't nearly as big as others of us believe. They don't believe that war was fought with fractins, and about fractins. Arin thought that; and he had studies—records of archeological digs, old docs—to back him. He could map out where fractins was found, where the big caches were, show how they related to other Before caches—and when the finds started to favor the counterfeits over the real thing." He sighed.
"So, see, this just ain't our family secret. Some of the earlier studies—they went missing. Stolen. Arin said some people got worried about what would happen if Loopers and ship owners got interested in Befores as more than a sometime high-profit oddity. If they started looking for Old Tech, and figured out how to make 'em work.
"Arin didn't necessarily think we should make these fractins work—but he thought we should know what they did—and how. In case of need. Then, he got an analysis—"
Grig sipped, and sat for a long couple heartbeats, staring down into his cup.
"You know what half-life is, right?" He asked, looking up.
Jethri rolled his eyes, and Paitor laughed. Grig sighed.
"Right. Given the half-life of that timonium, Arin figured them for about eighteen hundred Standards old. Won't be long—say ten Standards, for some of the earlier ones; maybe a hundred for the latest ones—before the timonium's too weak to power—whatever it powers. Might be they'll just go inert, and anybody's who's interested can just take one, or five, or five hundred apart and take a peek inside.
"Arin, now. Arin figured fractins was maybe memory—warship, library, and computer, all rolled into one, including guidance and plans. That's what Arin thought. And it's what he wanted you to know. Iza and the Golds and all them other sane folks, they think they don't need to know. They say, only a fool borrows trouble, when there's so much around that's free. Me? I think you ought to know what your father thought, and I think you ought to keep your eyes and your mind open. I don't know that you particularly need to talk to any Liadens about it—but you'll make that call, if and when you have to."
He looked deep into his cup, lifted it and drained what was left.
"That it?" Paitor asked, quietly
Grig nodded. "It'll do."
"Right you are, then." He held out a hand; Grig passed him the bottle, and he refilled the cups, one by one.
He stood, and Grig did, and after a moment, Jethri did. All three raised their cups high.
"To your success, your honor, and your duty, Free Hand!" His kin said, loud enough to set the walls to thrumming. And Jethri squared his shoulders, and blinked back the sudden tears—and they talked of easier things until the cups were empty again.
"MUD," JETHRI MUTTERED, as his blade scraped across the hatch. Lower lip caught between his teeth, he had another go with the wrench-set, and was at last rewarded with an odd fluttering hiss, that sent him skipping back a startled half-step.
Pressure differential, he thought, laughing at himself.
The sound of squeezing air faded and the cover plate popped away when he probed it with the blade point.
Stuffed into the cavity was some paper, likely to stop the plate from rattling the way Khat's did whenever they were accelerating, and he pulled it out, ready to crumple and toss it—and checked, frowning down at the paper itself.
Yellow and gritty—it was printout from the comm-printer the captain didn't use any more. She'd always called it Arin's printer, like she didn't want anything to do with it, anyway, 'cause she didn't like to deal with nothing ciphered. Curiously, he separated the edges and opened the paper. There was his birth date, a series of random letters and numbers that likely weren't random at all if you knew what you was looking at and—
. . . WILDETOAD WILDETOAD WILDETOAD like an emergency beacon might send out.
WildeToad? Jethri knew his ship histories, but he would've known this one, anyway, being as Khat told a perfect hair-raiser about Toad's last ride. WildeToad had gone missing years ago, and none of the mainline Wildes had been seen since. Story was, they'd gone to ground, which didn't make no sense, them having been spacers since before there was space, as the sayin' went.
Jethri squinted at the paper.
Mismatch, there's a mismatch, going down
WILDETOAD WILDETOAD WILDETOAD
We're breaking clay. Check frequency
WILDETOAD WILDETOAD WILDETOAD
Thirty hours. Warn away Euphoria
WILDETOAD WILDETOAD WILDETOAD
Racks bare, breaking clay
WILDETOAD WILDETOAD WILDETOAD
Lake bed ahead. We're arming. Stay out.
L.O.S. TRANSMISSION ENDS
Lake bed, he thought. And, gone to ground. Spacer humor, maybe; it had that feel. And it got him in the stomach, that he held in his hand the last record of a dying ship. Why had his father used such a thing to shim the plate in his door? Bad luck. . . He swallowed, read the page again, frowning after nonsense phrases.
Breaking clay? Racks bare? This was no common ship-send, he thought, the grainy yellow paper crackling against his fingers. Arin's printer. The message had come into Arin's printer. Coded, then—but—
A chime sounded, the four notes of "visitor aboard." Jethri jumped, cussed, and jammed the paper and the nameplate into his duffle, resealed the hatch as quick as he could, and took off down the hall at a run.
IT WAS A SMALL group at the main lock: Khat, Iza, and Uncle Paitor to witness his farewell. Master ven'Deelin's assistant, Pen Rel, stood more at his ease than seemed likely for a man alone on a stranger ship, his smooth, pretty face empty of anything like joy, irritation, or boredom. His eyes showed alert, though, and it was him who caught Jethri first, and bowed, very slightly.
"Apprentice. The master trader assigns me your escort."
Jethri paused and bowed, also slightly—that being the best he could manage with the bag slung across his back.
"Sir. The master trader does me too much honor," he said.
The blue eyes flickered—very likely Pen Rel agreed—but give the man his due, neither smirk nor smile crossed his face, either of which he had every right to display, according to Jethri's counting.
Instead, he turned his attention to Iza Gobelyn and bowed again—deep, this time, displaying all proper respect to the captain-owner.
"The master trader sends felicitations, Captain. She bids me say that she has herself placed a child of her body into the care of others, for training, knowing the necessity at the core of her trader's heart. A mother's heart, however, is both more foolish and more wise. She therefore offers, mother to mother, route-list and codes. Messages sent by this method will reach Jethri Gobelyn immediately. Its frequent use is encouraged."
Another bow—this one no more than a heavy tip of the head—a flourish, and there was a data card between the first and second fingers of his extended hand.
Iza Gobelyn's mouth pursed up, as if she'd tasted something sour. She didn't quite place her hands behind her back—not quite that. But she did shake her head, side-to-side, once, decisive-like.
Jethri felt himself draw breath, hard. Not that he had expected his mother would have wanted to keep in touch with him when he was gone, like she'd never bothered to do when he was a member of her crew. It was just—the rudeness, when Master ven'Deelin. . . He blinked, and sent a short glance straight to Khat, who caught it, read it, and stepped forward, smooth and soft-footed.
Gently, she slipped the card from between Pen Rel's fingers, and bowed, deeper than he had done, thereby showing respect for the master trader's emissary.
"Please convey to the master trader our appreciation of her kindness and her forethought," she said, which deepened the frown on Iza's face, and put some color back into Paitor's.
For his part, Jethri felt his chest ease a little—catastrophe averted, he thought, which should have been the truth of it, except that Master ven'Deelin's aide stood there for a heartbeat too long, his head cocked a mite to one side, waiting. . .
. . . and then waiting no longer, but bowing in general farewell, while his eyes pegged Jethri and one hand moved in an unmistakable sweep: Let's go, kid.
Swallowing, Jethri went, following the Liaden down the ramp.
"'bye Jethri," he heard Khat whisper as he went past her. "We'll miss you."
Her hand touched his shoulder fleetingly, and under his shirt the key clung a bit, then Gobelyn's Market clanged as the portals closed behind him.
AT THE END OF the Market's dock, Pen Rel turned left, walking light, despite the gravity. Jethri plodded along half a step behind, and pretty soon worked up a sweat, to which the Port dust clung with a will.
Traffic increased as they went on, and he stretched his legs to keep his short guide in sight. Finally, the man paused, and waited while Jethri came up beside him.
"Jethri Gobelyn." If he noticed Jethri's advanced state of dishevelment, he betrayed it by not the flicker of an eyelash. Instead, he blandly inclined his bright head.
"Shortly, we will be rising to Elthoria. Is there aught on port that you require? Now is the time to acquire any such items, for we are scheduled to break orbit within the quarter-spin."
Breathless, Jethri shook his head, caught himself, and cleared his throat.
"I am grateful, but there is no need." He lifted the smaller bag somewhat. "Everything that I require is in these bags."
Golden eyebrows rose, but he merely moved a languid hand, directing Jethri's attention down the busy thoroughfare.
"Alas, I am not so fortunate and must fulfill several errands before we board. Do you continue along this way until you find Ixin's sign. Present yourself to the barge crew, and hold yourself at the pilot's word. I will join you ere it is time to lift."
So saying, he stepped off the curb into the thronging traffic, vanishing, to Jethri's eye, into the fast-moving crowd.
Mud! he thought, his heart picking up its rhythm, then, "Mud!" aloud as a hard elbow landed on his ribs with more force than was strictly necessary to make the point, while a sharp voice let out with a liquid string of Liaden, the tone of which unmistakably conveyed that this was no place for ox-brained Terrans to be napping.
Getting a tighter grip on his carry-bag, Jethri shrugged the backpack into an easier position and set off, slow, his head swiveling from one side to the next, like a clean 'bot on the lookout for lint, craning at the signs and sigils posted along both sides of the way.
It didn't do much to calm the crazy rhythm of his heart to note that all the signs hereabouts were in Liaden, with never a Terran letter to be found; or that everyone he passed was short, golden-skinned, quick—Liaden.
Now that it was too late, he wondered if Master ven'Deelin's aide was having a joke on him. Or, worse, if this was some sort of Liaden test, the which of, failing, lost him his berth and grounded him. There was the horror, right there. Grounded. He was a spacer. All ports were strange; all crews other than his own, strangers. Teeth drilling into his bottom lip, Jethri lengthened his stride, heedless now of both elbows and rude shouts, eyes scanning the profusion of signage for the one that promised him clean space; refuge from weight, dirt, and smelly air.
At last, he caught it—half-a-block distant and across the wide street. Jethri pulled up a spurt of speed, forced his dust-covered, leaden body into a run and lumbered off the curb.
Horns, hoots and hollers marked his course across that street. He heeded none of it. The Moon-and-Rabbit was his goal and everything he had eye or thought for. By the time the autodoor gave way before him, he was mud-slicked, gasping and none-too-steady on his feet.
What he also was, was safe.
Half-sobbing, he brought his eyes up and had a second to revise that opinion. The three roustabouts facing him might be short, but they stood tall, hands on the utility knives thrust through wide leather belts, shirts and faces showing dust and the stains of working on the docks.
Jethri gulped and ducked his head. "Your pardon, gentles," he gasped in what he hoped they'd recognize for Liaden. "I am here for Master ven'Deelin."
The lead roustabout raised her eyebrows. "ven'Deelin?" she repeated, doubt palpable in her tone.
"If you please," Jethri said, trying to breathe deeply and make his words more than half-understandable gasps. "I am Jethri Gobelyn, the—the new apprentice trader."
She blinked, her face crumpling for an instant before she got herself in hand. The emotion she didn't show might have been anything, but Jethri had the strong impression that she would have laughed out loud, if politeness had allowed it.
The man at her right shoulder, who showed more gray than brown in his hair, turned his head and called out something light and fluid, while the man at her left shoulder stood forward, pulling his blade from its nestle in the belt and thoughtfully working the catch. Jethri swallowed and bent, very carefully, to put his carry-bag down.
Twice as careful, he straightened, showing empty palms to the three of them. This time, the woman did smile, pale as starlight, and put out a hand to shove her mate in the arm.
"It belongs to the master trader," she said in pidgin. "Will you be the one to rob her of sport?"
"Not I," said the man. But he didn't put the knife away, nor even turn his head at the clatter of boot heels or the sudden advent of a second Liaden woman, this one wearing the tough leather jacket of a pilot.
She came level with the boss roustabout and stopped, a crease between her eyebrows.
"Are we now a home for the indigent?" she snapped, and apparently to the room at large.
Jethri exerted himself, bowing as low as his shaking legs would allow.
"Pilot. If you please. I am Jethri Gobelyn, apprenticed to Master Trader Norn ven'Deelin. I arrive at the word of her aide, Pen Rel, who bade me hold myself at your word."
"Ah. Pen Rel." The pilot's face altered, and Jethri again had the distinct feeling that, had she been Terran, she would have been enjoying a fine laugh at his expense. "That would be Arms Master sig'Kethra, an individual to whom it would be wise to show the utmost respect." She moved a graceful hand, showing him the apparently blank wall to his left.
"You may place your luggage in the bay; it will be well cared for. After that, you may make yourself seemly, so that you do not shame Master sig'Kethra before the ven'Deelin." She looked over her shoulder at the third roustabout. "Show him."
"Pilot." He jerked his head at Jethri. "Attend, boy."
Seen close, the blank wall was indented with a series of unmarked squares. The roustabout held up an index finger, and lightly touched three in sequence. The wall parted along an all-but invisible seam, showing a holding space beyond, piled high with parcels and pallets. Jethri took a step forward, found his sleeve caught and froze, watching the wall slide shut again a bare inch beyond his nose.
When there was nothing left to indicate that the wall was anything other than a wall, the roustabout loosed Jethri's sleeve and jerked his chin at the indentations.
"You, now."
He had a good head for patterns—always had. It was the work of a moment to touch his index finger to the proper three indentations in order. The wall slid aside and this time he was not prevented from going forward into the holding bay and stacking his bags with the rest.
The door stayed open until he stepped back to the side of the roustabout, who jerked his head to the left and guided him to the 'fresher, where he was left to clean himself up as best he might, so Master ven'Deelin wouldn't take any second thoughts about the contract she'd made.
SOME WHILE LATER Jethri sat alone in the hallway next to the pilot's office, face washed, clothes brushed, and nursing a disposable cupful of a hot, strong, and vilely sweet beverage his guide had insisted was "tea."
At least it was cool in the hallway, and it was a bennie just to be done with walking about in grav, and carrying all his mortal possessions, too. Sighing, he sipped gingerly at the nasty stuff in the cup and tried to order himself.
It was clear that his spoken Liaden wasn't as close to tolerable as he had thought. He didn't fool himself that dock-pidgin and Trade was going to go far at the trading tables Norn ven'Deelin sat down to. Language lessons were needful, then; and a brush-up on the protocols of cargo. His math was solid—Seeli and Cris had seen to that. He could do OK here. Better than he'd have done on an ore ship running a dying Loop. . .
That thought brought him back to now and here. Damn straight Norn ven'Deelin didn't run no Loop.
He leaned back in the chair, considering what sorts of cargo might come to a ship bearing a master trader. Gems, he figured, and rare spice; textile like Cris would weep over; artworks. . . He considered that, frowning.
Art was a chancy venture, given differing planetary taboos and ground-hugger religions. Even a master trader might chart a careful course, there. Khat told a story—a true one, he thought—regarding the tradeship Sweet Louise, which had taken aboard an illustrated paper book of great age. The pictures had been pretty, the pages hand-sewn into a real leather cover set with flawed, gaudy stones. The words were in no language that any of Louise's crew could read, but the price had been right; and the trader had a line on a collector of uniquities two planets down on the trade-hop. Everything should have been top-drawer, excepting that the powers of religion on the planet between the collector and the book declared that item "blasphemous," meaning the port police had it off ship in seconds and burned it right there on the dock. Louise lost the investment, the price, the fine—and the right to trade on that port, which was no loss, as far as Jethri could see. . .
A light step at the top of the hall pulled him out of his thoughts; a glance and he was on his feet, bowing as low as he could without endangering the tea.
"Arms Master sig'Kethra."
The man checked, neither surprise on his face, nor parcels in his hands, and inclined his head. "Apprentice Trader. Well met. A moment, if you please, while I consult with the pilot."
He moved past, walking into the pilot's office with nary a ring, like he had every right to the place, which, Jethri thought, he very well might. The door slid shut behind him and Jethri resumed his seat, reconciled to another longish wait while business was discussed between pilot and arms master.
Say that Pen Rel was a man of few words. Or that the pilot was eager for flight. In either case, they were both coming out the door before Jethri had time to start another line of thought.
"We lift, Jethri Gobelyn," Pen Rel said. "Soon we will be home."
And that, at least, Jethri thought, rising with alacrity, was a proper spacer's sentiment. Enough of this slogging about in the dust—it was time and past time to return to the light, clean corridors of a ship.