Chapter Eight
Frenzel
Chaliceworks Aggregations
The view out of the light-rail’s window wasn’t much more interesting than the view of Frenzel Port from ground level. First, there were warehouses—the backside of warehouses, so the view wasn’t even informative—then the freight depot, with cranes settling pods on the backs of haulers; and then more scrub plain. The reddish brush seemed popular in the area.
Theo had long since pulled needle and thread from her pocket, letting her fingers work the lace while she reviewed Shan’s instructions regarding Chaliceworks.
“Captain Theo,” he’d said, which was true and somehow just like him and the rest of her newly discovered Surebleak family, to call her something different each time he spoke to her, “Captain Theo, what you’ll want to do is wait until you’re down and settled, and finished with the nice customs officers. Get your coffee or tea, or have a glass of wine on me first, before you make contact. I’m told that Frenzel is a very busy place, where things might proceed rapidly, once motion has begun. The bulk of my comments and suggestions are on the key I’ve given you—do read them, Theo.
“The broad outline is that you wish to speak to Zaneth Katrina. Do not, if it falls within your power, allow yourself to be foisted off on a secretary, or diverted to an outside trade officer. Use Korval in your request to see Zaneth Katrina. In fact, use Korval as often as you like! Politely, of course.”
“Of course,” she said, beginning to feel a little uneasy about a project that had been initially presented as a simple business call.
“Fear not, Cousin!” Shan said with a smile. “I’m not sending you into the lion’s den! Those you’re to call upon won’t bite, though they may growl. Only be resolute, keep your inner calm, and all will be well. Yes?”
She took a breath and managed a smile of her own. “Yes.”
“Bold heart. Now! Once you have your meeting with Zaneth Katrina, you will say to her that you received her name and her direction from Korval’s own Master Trader, whose emissary you are. This is courtesy, and will, we hope, put the lady at her ease. Say further that Master Trader yos’Galan is interested in dealing with their organization on the long-standing suggestion of Lead Trader Lomar Fasholt, of Fasholt and Daughters, Swunaket Port, whom he has dealt with personally and profitably in the past. Do say particularly interested in long-term arrangements because of Korval’s change of residence. If the lady has further questions, which I expect she will, answer as well as you are able. If she offers a test cargo, receive it with joy, and ’beam me the lading sheet as soon as you may.”
Theo glanced up from her lace-work. The train was now passing through an agricultural zone; the city still some distance ahead.
She had reviewed the additional information on the key Shan had given her—several times reviewed it. Though she was confident that she had the information cold, she was less confident that Shan had been quite wise to entrust her, personally, as his emissary.
Sighing, she spread the lace between her fingers, seeing starfields and Jump-spaces in the weaving of the threads. Her fingers tightened on the needle, and she began working again.
It was, she told herself carefully, perfectly natural to be nervous; this was her first contact as a—well, as a trader, actually, never mind that she didn’t have any training as a trader. She was the emissary of a Master Trader. And really, wasn’t it likely that a trade partner of Korval’s trade partner would leap at the opportunity of affiliation? There were forms to follow, that was all. Shan knew she wasn’t a trader, but he did expect that she could be polite and deliver a simple message. Which she could. More, her birth-culture traced lineage through the mother’s line. According to the information on Shan’s key, Swunaket was also a matrilineal culture. So maybe she was a good choice for an emissary, after all.
And wouldn’t it be a good thing, she thought, half-smiling as she worked the thread, if Bechimo could lift from their first port o’call with actual cargo aboard? That would call for a celebration!
That got her to wondering if Bechimo liked music—or if Clarence did—Rig Tranza’s idea of a celebration had always included some kind of musical “treat,” like he called it. And that got her to thinking about Tranza and Primadonna, and wondering how both were going on.
Wondering took her mind off of any remaining qualms about the upcoming meeting with Zaneth Katrina. She worked the thread, thinking wistfully a little wistfully about people she missed—and jumped when the automated voice announced the train’s arrival at Central City Station—her stop!
Hastily, she rolled her lace, stuck it and the needle into an inside jacket pocket, and headed for the nearest exit.
* * *
The catalogs kept them busy for the first hour, Clarence and Bechimo going over them together. Clarence had relocated to the conference room, where the big monoscreen displayed catalog pages crisp and clean.
It seemed that Fradle’s Subscription Supply was going to be the lucky recipient of their custom, Clarence thought. Good selection and prices likewise on things like teas and tarts and bread mixes, with a broad offering of non-eatables that saw some good matches with the Target of Opportunity list.
Bechimo’s find on the morning was a clearance offer on a pair of “old-style” starter hydroponics sets that were, in his estimation, the great-granddaughters of the sets that originally specified for his modules. According to the item details, the sets were “backward compatible with all RLMoore units.” It was that which made the deal worthwhile, if a slight gamble.
“The specifications indicate a few minor changes over time, as might be expected, Pilot, but assuming remotes, handsets, or the assistance of off-duty crew-members, adjustments can be made if necessary.” Bechimo didn’t have a visual presence in the conference room, but his pleasure was plain in his voice.
Clarence nodded. “Put ’em on the list, then, laddie. Pilot Theo was in agreement that fresh fruits and vegetables would be welcome, and the price is right.”
“Yes, Pilot,” Bechimo said, and the item number for the clearance units appeared on the order form displayed in the bottom right hand corner of the big screen.
It was quick work from there on, matching items on the TOO list to the Educators Mid-level Arts and Craft Supply Pack; Great Music of Seven Worlds resalable files pack, and Male Drug-and-Sundry Crew Pack, which Clarence welcomed particularly, since the beard-control cream in his ready-kit was trending rapidly toward non-existent, and he had no patience for growing and tending a set o’whiskers.
“Well, then,” he said, sitting back with a feeling of rare accomplishment. “I think it’s a fine start we have there, laddie, and filed in time to take delivery this evening. Under budget, too. Pilot Theo will sing our praises, sure enough.”
“Pilot Theo does not often sing,” Bechimo said, sounded thoughtful.
Clarence cocked a sapient eye toward the ceiling. “Nor praise either, is what you’re not sayin’, I take it? Well, she’s young, and this her first command—by which I mean crew command. First Board can weigh heavy on the shoulders ’til you’ve had a few hours in the chair.”
“Pilot Theo’s burden would be lighter, if there were a captain aboard.”
Clarence felt a cool breeze massage the back of his neck.
“That could be so,” he acknowledged. “Got somebody in mind for captain, do you?”
“Yes,” Bechimo said, and there was the not-quite-illusion of a deep breath drawn quickly. “It comes to me that one who is Pilot Theo’s elder—in years, as well as in responsibility for crew. Someone who stands aside from risk, but who is firm in the face of necessary action. Someone such as…yourself.”
“You’re proposing me for captain?” Clarence laughed and shook his head. “Better have Theo.”
“Pilot Theo is, as you say, young. She is addicted to risk, and refuses to take reasonable precautions. This very morning…”
“Took the portcomm, didn’t she? Didn’t hire a guard to go with her, but I don’t say that’s a bad decision, myself. Half o’them in the guard-for-hire trade will muscle something extra above their fee outta the customer. Theo’s capable, and Frenzel’s got a nice firm rating in the book. Nothing to worry for there. As for her being particularly addicted to risk, as you have it—the woman’s pilot! It’s risky to lift; it’s risky to land; it’s risky, as you mention, to go out among strangers on the port. Yet, we do it. All of it, over and again. Myself included. If you’re looking for a risk-free captain, laddie, you’d best be looking outside of pilot-kind. That’s my advice to you.” He paused, then nodded. While he was giving advice, he might as well give it all.
“I’ll tell what I think, since you bring the topic up—taking on a couple more crew members isn’t a bad notion. Theo and me, we’re capable, but we’re only two, and two’s a bit thin for a ship and a mission of these specific dimensions. Might want to think about that a little deeper, laddie.”
There was a longish silence, like maybe he’d hurt the lad’s feelings, which was a shame, with them having done so good together on the shopping.
“Thank you, Clarence,” Bechimo said. “I will think about what you’ve said.”
* * *
As it happened, Theo did have to say Korval several times—to the Outer Ring Receptionist, to the Inner Ring Receptionist, to the Merchanter Receptionist, to the Merchanter Secretary—each time politely, and always stating that her business was with Zaneth Katrina, who was, so she learned form the Inner Ring Receptionist, a Senior Sexton.
Whatever that was.
The Merchanter Secretary used the comm, and summoned an Assistant Senior Coordinating Secretary.
“Pilot Waitley requests an audience with Senior Sexton Katrina,” she said to that woman when she arrived, slightly breathless. “Please assist her.”
Now, Theo sat, green plants and extravagantly fragrant flowers all about her. There were also people, dozens—hundreds—of people, moving in directions obvious to them and not at all to her; people chatting with each other, talking on comms and handhelds, pushing things, riding things, striding, moving, all very busy with themselves and their duties. Theo had been in space station boarding rooms that were less busy.
The problem was that, unlike the space station boarding rooms, or even the recent train station, she felt that every one of the people passing by looked at her, and looked at her hard, some slowing, some turning their heads to stare at her, some even lingering a moment to watch Theo sit and sip from a clear chalice filled with red fruit water.
Many of the passersby were girls—schoolgirls, Theo guessed, by their uniforms and shy or brave glances—and all of them were female. All of them. Everybody in this whole echoing cavern of a place was female.
There’d been some few places on Delgado where she’d known the presence of men was discouraged…or…well…not allowed…but Theo’d never seen an installation this size quite so monosex.
Ricia Kergalen, the Assistant Senior Coordinating Secretary called to assist her, was due back any second now, or any minute now, or maybe that was any hour now. For the moment Theo sat on the raised dais in a chair of exquisite comfort, dressed in her good travel slacks and a pleasant shirt and her pilot’s jacket. Her well-worn, over large, second-hand pilot’s jacket, gift of and certification from Pilot Rig Tranza.
In the Merchanter Secretary’s antechamber, Ricia had extended a hand for the jacket, murmuring, “May I put that aside for you?”—then snatched her hand back as if she’d reached toward open flame rather than good space leather.
“Oh! You carry tools!” She bowed a non-Liaden kind of bow. “Welcome then, and follow me, if you please, Pilot, and we shall seat you appropriately for your wait.”
Theo hadn’t seen whatever it was that Ricia Kergalen saw, but a pilot was rarely if ever separated from her jacket, so she nodded into a half bow, and followed Ricia past several apparent offices and waiting rooms, down a thin hall and a wider one, to this place, this dais in the center of this broad hallway, seven chairs upholstered all in creamy white, enclosed by a white ornamental railing, just three white-speckled steps above the white-stone floor. From her chair, Theo had an unimpeded view of the most spectacular naked-lady statue she had ever seen. The statue was five or six times Theo’s height, backed by the greens and flowers. She guessed it was carved or poured from some salt-and-pepper stone that glistened with an inner glow.
Ricia had been easy enough to follow, an efficient walker with dancer writ across her demeanor and her stride, and a smile that seemed real if slightly troubled. Her hair was long, braided behind in two ropes that left an interesting view of very pretty neck and the intricate chainwork that supported the complex symbol she wore as necklace. Not a pilot, though she had very close to pilot and dancer grace, and with some other competences that Theo sensed rather than saw.
“Please, Pilot Theo, if you will be kind enough to wait I shall send refreshments and make arrangements for a discussion of your needs.”
Probably, Theo thought, sipping her juice, the passing women were pausing to admire the statue; surely, it was a delight to the eye, and the greens were such a relief in the world she seen from the train.
The fruit drink had been delivered by a trio of serious youngsters who had stared at her in her jacket as if it were made of timonium, called her Mistress Theo, and poured carefully for her, laying out first an immaculate white cloth and placing the chalice on it with a bow to the statue, another to her, and a third to the pitcher.
“Mistress Theo, it is good of you to visit with us, this day of any. Be welcome, enjoy your drink, and be pleased in the presence of the Goddess.”
More bows after the set-piece, and off they’d gone, stopping at a distance they might’ve thought was discreet to peer back at her.
The chalice was neutral to her touch; the drink was cold and tart. She was glad they’d brought the pitcher.
More people passed by the dais. Worse, Theo was sure she’d seen at least two of them pass by before. And they were looking. Looking at her. The attention was making her nervous, just when she needed to be calm.
A pilot has inner calm she reminded herself. More, she realized, that’s what Father really did when he didn’t want to be seen: he let his inner calm cloak him, as she’d been practicing the day before.
Inner calm, she said to herself; I’m at peace with this world, and with this lady.
She took time now to study the statue, to absorb its curves and textures. The lady was sensual, no doubt, with long hair blowing free in a nonexistent breeze, with hips able to guide and give, breasts capable of succor and seduction, arms and hands strong without being musclebound, looking both up and out toward some mystic necessity…
Theo relaxed; the sounds of the hall receded, inner calm blanketed her. She looked at the statue’s feet, beautiful feet set firm upon the worlds, leading to supple dancer’s legs and…
She heard steps then, hurrying toward her, and turned in her chair.
Ricia Kergalen climbed the stairs, her face troubled, braids swinging, pendant clasped in one hand.
“Lady, Pilot, I meant no disrespect, and your wait is over. There is no need for a Working here, I promise you! If you’ll kindly follow me, Zaneth Katrina will see you now, in the Senior Secretary’s office.”
* * *
The Senior Secretary was a large-boned woman with imperiously blonde hair caught in a thin silver headband, and falling long to her shoulder. She sat, not offering to rise, bare-armed in a robe of white. She wore several silver bracelets, a red fabric armband, and a pendant even more complex than Ricia’s fancy dangle. She sat in a chair probably not her own, holding a small glass ball in the palm of her hand, peering over it at Theo, blue eyes hooded. Theo wondered if the ball were a recording device.
The chair the Secretary occupied was too prosaic for a woman of such means and title, as anyone with a background in Delgado’s complex hierarchy might see with a glance.
The chair that was probably the Secretary’s by rights was occupied by a tiny pilot wearing a sleeveless red robe cut so low as to barely conceal her small breasts, and a pendant almost as large as her chest. A headband three times the width of the Senior Secretary’s bound her rusty-gray head.
Unlike the Secretary, she also wore a smile. Zaneth Katrina, that would be, Theo thought.
“If there’s a disturbance, Mothers,” Ricia said respectfully. “I believe the pilot was reaching for a cloaking as I arrived to bring her here.”
The dour-faced one continued to peer, clicking her tongue and sounding remarkably like Aunt Ella when she disapproved of one of Theo’s whims or Father’s crotchets.
“We see it all over her, young Wife. I have begun an abatement.”
A what? Theo wondered, but there—the tiny lady had risen from behind the large desk, her smile undiminished.
“Your name comes before you, Theo Waitley. Let me say welcome to Chaliceworks, Pilot-Captain. I am Zaneth Katrina, and for my work in the world, I am Senior Sexton. I have some years back put aside my piloting, as my eyes and my hands do not coordinate as they did when I was your age.”
She bowed then, artless, and straightening, offered a hand.
Theo took it firmly, as she would the hand of any other pilot, and heard Ricia gasp.
“Theo Waitley, yes,” she said to the Senior Sexton, meeting the old eyes calmly. “Thank you for your welcome.”
“Please, be seated.”
There was a momentary scramble as Ricia dragged a chair out the corner and placed it where the Sexton had pointed, at the side of the desk.
Theo sat, reading the room. She was being offered better than a standing interview, which the Senior Secretary hadn’t thought she’d rate—and far more than Ricia had expected. Despite her more intimate placement at desk side, Theo felt a slight chill, as though she’d been seated in a cold spot. She took a breath and gathered herself again with pilot calm.
“There,” said Senior Secretary, tight-lipped, “we have evened the flow. Waitley, whoever taught you should certainly have pointed out that one does not launch such a cloaking in an ambient such as this, one must bring it with you, already in place. As it is you were inducing—”
Theo looked to the woman; raised open hands.
“I’m not sure I know what you mean, ma’am,” she said respectfully.
The woman raised her eyes to the ceiling.
“Surely, you were working to slide attention from yourself. Come now, who taught you?”
Theo glanced at the Sexton, who was following the byplay with interest.
Well, she thought; maybe it’s not a rude question. Here.
She raised both hands above her knees again, open—no threat, no hidden intent.
“I learned the quiet-walk from my father,” she said carefully. “By observation.”
“Your father?” The secretary was clearly disbelieving. “And how would a man learn such a thing? Do you tell me he’s been trained in the Arts?”
Theo felt her temper flicker. How dare this person who had never met him, scorn Father? She took a breath and made herself answer in a calm, low voice.
“My father is an extraordinary man, ma’am, and all he knows is not mine to know, nor to guess. I have learned much from him—but where he learned what I imitated, I don’t know.”
She turned to fix the quiet Sexton with a glance.
“Ma’am,” she said earnestly, “you’re a pilot—you know what pilots are! We’ll learn from anybody, anywhere. We study, sometimes accidentally, sometimes on purpose.”
A hint of pilot-sign flickered from the Sexton’s tiny fingers—perhaps it really was inner calm.
“All true, of my own knowledge,” she said gently, “But your excellent father, Pilot—has he a name, an affiliation?”
Well, as it happened her father had several names; several affiliations, and for a heartbeat, Theo wondered how she might explain—but there. It was no secret why she was here—and it was therefore obvious which of Father’s names would interest this lady most.
“My father’s name is Daav yos’ Phelium Clan Korval,” she said crisply. “My mother is Kamele Waitley, a scholar of Delgado.”
The Sexton’s smile wavered, and Terran-style she shook her head.
“The Delgado connection is good; I admire it. The other…” The smile firmed. “But, there! You come to us with Korval’s name on your lips. Of course. It is plain. Now, please, allow me to apologize for trying your patience, and to ask you, as I ought to have asked at once, why you wished to speak with me.”
“I come to you,” Theo said bringing to mind her mission, “as the emissary of Master Trader yos’Galan of Clan Korval. Lead Trader Lomar Fasholt, of Fasholt and Daughters, based at Swunaket Port, recommended both yourself and Chaliceworks to him as worthy of his attention. He is particularly interested in a long-term arrangement with your organization because of Korval’s change of residence.”
“The Master Trader constructs routes to favor the new base, yes. It is understood.” The Sexton nodded, and leaned back in her chair.
“You speak well,” she said. “I see no attempt to deceive, and I have your handshake. These things are important to us, in this place, Pilot. Again, I apologize for trying you.”
She paused, put her hand on her pendant, and sighed.
“Theo Waitley, you come to us in unsettled times. Fasholt has long been a name to conjure with in Temple and in commerce; and Fasholt’s name ought by rights be enough to enable us—a Senior Sexton, and a Master Trader’s pilot-emissary—to have a small conversation; and perhaps to engage in an experiment of trade.
“But here is news the Master Trader may not as yet have. Lomar Fasholt has broken with her Temple, and her whereabouts are uncertain. We here—because these things concern all of us who serve the Goddess—we here are awaiting enlightenment. Is this break a honest disagreement, a proper complaint; a bid for a new and truer direction? Or is it schism born of disharmony and a desire for destruction?”
She looked at Theo as if Theo might have the answer in her jacket pocket, along with her lace work.
“And you—you arrive now, a now that those of us entrusted with certain powers feel is…pivotal. You come among us bearing strange tools, as my young Ricia tells us; with random event trotting at your heel like a half-trained hound. And you offer us an affiliation with Korval, Luck’s very darlings.”
Zaneth Katrina smiled a small, reluctant, smile.
“We here, who do the work of the Goddess as best we might…We do not trust Luck, Theo Waitley. Perhaps, in ordinary times, and properly warded, we would extend a hand to the Master Trader. Ordinary times…those we do not at present have.
“All this to say that, at this juncture, with all that I see in you, and with all else that is in flux, we cannot do business with Korval. Not now.”
Theo stared at her, frowning. “You won’t deal with Shan because of luck?”
Zaneth Katrina laughed. “So speaks the daughter of scholars!” Her mirth died and again she shook her head.
“Understand, Pilot, that the Temple, and Chaliceworks, one of the Temple’s major supports, continues to exist because in the face of chaos we are more careful than brave. There may come a time when the balance of things makes dealing with Korval reasonable for us. For the moment, take to Tree-and-Dragon our wish for prosperity on the Line and on the business. Also, be certain to take to this Shan yos’Galan, whose name echoes as Name by another sound, tell this Captain of Korval that his contact among the witches is valued by us, but is in transition. One need be careful.”
“Now? For now, we shall all rest easier that you be gone off-world within a day. My office will so inform the port. Event trembles, Luck stretches. Show us that ordinary times are upon us again, and we shall leap at the opportunity to deal with Korval’s ships.”
She rose then, did the Sexton, and bowed.
“Good lift, Theo Waitley.”