Sharon Lee - Steve Miller - Liaden 1118 - Balance of Trade - Book

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There are secrets in all families--
- George Farquhar, 1678-1707
Liaden Currency
12 dex to a tor
12 tor to a kais
12 kais (144 tor) to a cantra
1 cantra = 35,000 Terran bits
Standard Year
8 Standard Days in One Standard Week
32 Standard Days in One Standard Month
384 Standard Days in One Standard Year
Liaden Year
96 Standard Days in One Relumma
12 Standard Months in One Standard Year
One Relumma is equal to 8 twelve-day weeks
Four Relumma equal One Standard Year
Cast of Characters
Gobelyn's Market out of New Carpathia
Arin Gobelyn, Iza's deceased spouse, Jethri's father
Cris Gobelyn, first mate, La's eldest child
Dyk Gobelyn, cook
Grig Tomas, back-up everything, Arin's cousin
Iza Gobelyn, captain-owner
Jethri Gobelyn
Khatelane Gobelyn, pilot
Mel Gobelyn
Paitor Gobelyn, trader, Iza's brother
Seeli Gobelyn, admin, La's second child
Zam Gobelyn
Elthoria out of Solcintra
Kor Ith yo'Lanna, captain
Noire ven'Deelin, master trader
Pen Rel sig'Kethra, arms master
Gar Sad per'Etla, cargo master
Gaenor tel'Dorbit, first mate
Ray Jon tel'Ondor, protocol master
Vil Tor, ship's librarian
Kilara pin'Ebit, technician
Rantel ver'Borith, technician
Tarnia's Clanhouse
Stafeli Maarilex, Delm Tarnia
Ren Lar Maarilex, Master of the Vine
Pet Ric Maarilex, his son
Pen Dir, a cousin, off at school
Meicha Maarilex, a daughter of the house
Miandra Maarilex, a daughter of the house
Flinx, a cat
Mr. pel'Saba, the butler
Mrs. tor'Beli, the cook
Anecha, a driver
Graem, Ren Lar's second in the cellars
Sun Eli pen'Jerad, tailor
Zer Min pel'Oban, dancing master
Day 29
Standard Year 1118
Gobelyn's Market
Opposite Shift
"Down all that long, weary shift, they kept after Byl," Khat's voice was low and eerie in the
dimness of the common room. The knuckles of Jethri's left hand ached with the grip he had on his cup
while his right thumb and forefinger whirled ellipses on the endlessly cool surface of his lucky fractin.
Beside him, he could hear Dyk breathing, fast and harsh.
"Once--twice--three times!--he broke for the outring, his ship, and his mates. Three times, the
Liadens turned him back, pushing him toward the center core, where no space-going man has right nor
reason to be.
"They pushed him, those Liadens, moving through the night-levels as swift and sure as if it were
bright world-day. Byl ran, as fast as long legs and terror could speed him, but they were always ahead of
him, the canny Liadens. They were always ahead--'round every corner, past every turning in the hall."
Mel, on Jethri's left, moaned softly. Jethri bit his lip.
"But then!" Khat's voice glittered in the gloom. "Then, all at once, the luck changed. Or, say, the
gods of spacers smiled. He reached a corridor that was empty, turned a corner where no Liaden
crouched, gun aiming for his heart. He paused then, ears craned to the rear, but heard no stealthy
movement, nor boot heels sounding quick along the steel floor.
"He ran then, light of heart and all but laughing, and the way stood clear before him, from
downring admin all the way to the outing, where his ship was berthed; where his mates, and his love, lay
awaiting his return.
"He came to the bay door--Bay Eight, that was where. Came to the bay door, used his card and
slipped through as soon as the gap was wide enough to fit him. Grinning, he pushed off in the lighter grav,
taking long bounds toward Dock Three. He took the curve like he'd grown wings, singing now, so glad
to be near, so glad to be home...
"That was when he saw the crowd, and the flashing lights that meant ring cops--and the others,
that meant worse.
"He shouted and ran, waving his arms as if it all made a difference. Which it didn't. Those lifelines
had been cut good hours ago, while he had been harried, hounded and kept away--and there was eight
zipped bags laid out neat on the dockside, which was all that was left of his mates and his love."
Silence, Jethri's jaw was so tight he thought teeth might shatter. Mel gasped and Dyk groaned.
"So," said Khat, her voice shockingly matter-of-fact. "Now you see what comes to someone
who cheats a Liaden on cargo."
"Except," Jethri managed, his voice breathless with tension, though he knew far better than what
had been told--Khat on a story was that good. "Excepting, they'd never done it that way--the Liadens.
Might be they'd've rigged something with the docking fees--more like, they'd've set the word around, so
five ports later Byl finds himself at a stand--full cans and no buyers, see? But they wouldn't kill for
cargo--that's not how their Balancing works."
"So speaks the senior'prentice!" Dyk intoned, pitching his voice so deep it rumbled inside the
steel walls like a bad encounter with a gabber-hook.
"C'mon, Jeth," Mel put in. "You was scared, too!"
"Khat tells a good story," he muttered, and Dyk produced a laugh.
"She does that--and who's to say she's wrong? Sure, you been studying the tapes, but Khat's
been studying portside news since before you was allowed inside ship's core!"
"Not that long," Khat protested mildly, over the rustle and scrape that was her moving along the
bench 'til she had her hand on the controls. Light flooded the cubby, showing four startlingly similar faces:
broad across the cheekbones and square about the jaw. Khat's eyes, and Jethri's, were brown; Dyk and
Mel had blue--hers paler than his. All four favored the spacer buzz, which left their scant hair looking like
dark velvet caps snugged close 'gainst their skulls. Mel was nearest to Jethri in age--nineteen Standards
to his seventeen. Khat and Dyk were born close enough to argue minutes when questions of elder's
precedence rose--twenty Standard Years, both, and holding adult shares.
Their surname was Gobelyn. Their ship was Gobelyn's Market, out of New Carpathia, which
homeworld none of them had ever seen nor missed.
"Yah, well maybe Jethri could tell us a story," said Dyk, on the approach of mischief, "since he
knows so many."
Jethri felt his ears heat, and looked down into his cup. Koka, it had been--meant to warm his
way to slumber. It was cold, now, and Khat's story was enough to keep a body awake through half his
sleep-shift. Even if he did know better.
"Let him be, Dyk," Khat said, surprisingly. "Jethri's doing good with his study--Uncle's pleased.
Says it shows well, us having a Liaden speaker 'mong us."
Dyk started to laugh, caught something in her face and shrugged instead. Jethri wisely did not
mention that his "Liaden speaking" was barely more than pidgin.
Instead, he drank off the dregs of his cold koka, managing without much of a shudder, then got
himself up and across the room, right hand still fingering the ancient tile in search of comfort. He put the
cup in the washer, and nodded to his cousins before he left to find his bunk.
"Good shift," he murmured.
"Good shift, Jethri," Khat said warmly. "Wide dreaming."
"Sleep tight, kid," Dyk added and Mel fluttered her fingers, smiling. "Be good, Jeth."
He slipped out of the cubby and paused, weighing the likelihood of sleep against the lure of a
history search on the fate of Byl--and the length of Uncle Paitor's lecture, if he was found reading through
his sleep shift again.
That was the clincher, his uncle being a man who warmed to a scolding. Sighing, Jethri turned to
the right. Behind him, in the cubby, he heard Dyk say, "So tell us a scary one, Khat; now that the kid's
away."
* * *
Having found sleep late, it was only natural that Jethri overslept the bell, meaning hard biscuit and
the dregs of the pot for breakfast. Chewing, he flipped through the duty roster and discovered himself on
Stinks. "Mud!" he muttered, gulping bitter coffee. It wasn't that he begrudged his cousins their own round
of duty--which they had, right enough; he wasn't callin' slackers--just, he wished that he might progress
somewhat above the messy labor and make-work that fell his lot all too often. He had his studies, which
was work, of its kind; emergency drill with Cris; and engine lore with Khat. 'Course, him being youngest,
with none on the ladder 'neath him--that did go into the equation. Somebody had to do the scutwork,
and if not juniormost, then who?
Cramming the last of the biscuit into his mouth, he scanned down to dinner duty--and nearly
cussed again. Dyk was on cook, which meant the meal would be something tasty, complicated and
needful of mucho cleanup. Jethri himself being on clean up.
"That kind of shift," he consoled himself, pouring the dregs of the dregs into the chute and setting
the cup into the washer. "Next shift can only be better."
Being as they were coming into Ynsolt'i Port next shift, barring the unexpected, that at least was a
given. Which realization did lighten his mood a fraction, so he was able to bring up a thin, tuneless whistle
to stand him company on his way down to the utility lockers.
* * *
He worked his way up from quarters, stripping the sweet-sheets off sleeping pallets, rolling up
the limp, sweat-flavored mats and stuffing them into the portable recycler. Zam, Seeli, and Grig were on
Opposite; the doors to their quarters sealed, blue privacy lights lit. Jethri left new sheets rolled up and
strapped outside their doors and moved on, not in any particular scramble, but not dallying, either. He
had it from experience that doing Stinks consumed considerably less time than was contained inside a
duty-shift. Even doing Stinks thoroughly and well--which he had better or the captain'd be down his
throat with her spacesuit on--he'd have shift left at the end of his work. He was allowed to use leftover
duty time for study. What had to be measured with a fine rule was how much time he could claim before
either Uncle Paitor or the captain called slacker and pulled him down to the core on discipline.
Stinks being a duty short on brain work, the brain kept itself busy. Mostly, Jethri used the time to
review his latest studies, or daydream about the future, when he would be a trader in his own right, free
to cut deals and commit the ship, without having to submit everything to Uncle Paitor, and getting his
numbers second-guessed and his research questioned.
Today, the brain having started on a grump, it continued, embroidering on the theme of scutwork.
Replacing the sheets in his own cubby, he tried to interject some happy-think into what was threatening
to become a major mood, and found himself on the losing side of an argument with himself.
He was juniormost, no disputing that--youngest of Captain Iza Gobelyn's three
children--unintended, and scheduled for abort until his father's golden tongue changed her mind.
Despite unwelcome beginnings, though, he was of value to the ship. Uncle Paitor was teaching
him the trade, and had even said that Jethri's researches into the Liaden markets had the potential to be
profitable for the ship. Well, Uncle Paitor had even backed a major buy Jethri had suggested, last port,
and if that didn't show a growing faith in the juniormost's skill, then nothing did.
That's all right, the half of himself determined to set into a mood countered. Uncle Paitor
might allow you value to the ship, but can you say the same for your mother?
Which was hardly a fair question. Of course, he couldn't say the same for his mother, who had
put him into Seeli's care as a babe and hadn't much use for him as a kid. When his father died--and only
owning the truth--captain'd had a lot of changes to go through, one of them being she'd lost the lover and
listening post she'd had since her second voyage out of her homeship, Grenadine. She taken three days
of wild-time to try to recover some balance--come back drunk and black and blue, proclaiming herself
cured. But after that, any stock Jethri'd held with his mother had vanished along with everything that had
anything to do with his father, from photocubes to study certificates to his and Jethri's joint collection of
antique fractins. It was almost as if she blamed him for Arin's death, which was plain senseless, though
Seeli did her best to explain that the human heart wasn't notoriously sensible.
Quarters finished, and in a fair way to seeing that mood set in plate steel, Jethri went down to
Ops. The door whined in its track when it opened and Jethri winced, sending a quick glance inside to see
if his entrance had disturbed anybody at their calcs.
Khat was sitting at the big board, the captain shadowing her from second. Cris, on data, glanced
over his shoulder and gave Jethri a quick jerk of the chin. Khat didn't turn, but she did look up and smile
into the screen for him. The captain never stirred.
Dragging the recycler to the wall, he moored it, then went back to the door, fingering the greaser
pen from his kit belt. He pulled open the panel and switched the automatic off. Kneeling, he carefully
penned a beaded line of grease along the outer track. The door whined again--slightly softer--when he
pushed it open, and he applied a second row of grease beads to the inner track.
He tucked the pen away and stood, pushing the door back and forth until it ran silent in its tracks,
nodded, and switched on the automatics again.
That minor chore taken care of, he moved along the stations, backmost first, working quick and
quiet, replacing the used sweet-sheets with new, strapping fresh sheets to the board at each occupied
station. "Thanks, Jeth," Cris said in his slow, easy voice. "'preciate the door, too. I shoud've got it myself,
three shifts back."
Thanks from Cris was coin worth having. Jethri ducked his head, feeling his ears heat.
"'welcome," he murmured, putting the new mat down at second and reaching for the strap.
The captain stood. "You can replace that," she said, her cool brown eyes barely grazing Jethri
before she turned to Khat. "Keep course, Pilot."
"Aye, Cap'n."
She nodded, crossed the room in two long strides and was gone, the door opening silently before
her. Jethri bit his lip, spun the chair and stripped off the used sheet. Glancing up, he saw his cousins pass
a glance between the two of them, but didn't catch its meaning, being short of the code. He smoothed the
new mat into place, stowed the old one with all the rest, unmoored the recycler and left.
Neither Khat nor Cris looked 'round to see him go.
* * *
Stinks was a play in two parts. Between them, Jethri took a break for a mug of 'mite, which was
thick and yellow and smelled like yeast--and if anyone beyond a spacer born and bred could stomach
the stuff, the fact had yet to be noted.
One mug of 'mite delivered a cargo can load of vitamins and power nutrients. In the old days,
when star travel was a new and risky undertaking, crews had lived on 'mite and not much else, launch to
planetfall. Nowadays, when space was safe and a ship the size of Gobelyn's Market carried enough
foodstuffs to supply a body's needed nutrients without sacrificing taste and variety, 'mite lingered on as a
comfort drink, and emergency ration.
Jethri dunked a couple whole grain crackers in his mug, chomped and swallowed them, then
drank off what was left. Thus fortified, he ambled down to the utility lockers, signed the camera out,
slotted the empties and a tray of new filters into the sled and headed out to the bounceway.
* * *
Ops ran Market's grav in a helix, which was standard for a ship of its size and age. Smaller
vessels ran whole-ship light-, or even no-grav, and weight work was a part of every crew member's daily
duty roster. Market was big enough to generate the necessary power for a field. Admin core was damn'
near one gee, as was Ops itself. Sleeping quarters was lighter; you slept strapped in and anchored your
possessions to the wall. The outer edges of the ship, where the cans hooked in, that was lighter still--as
near to no grav as mattered. On the outermost edge of E Deck, there was the bounceway, a rectangular
space marked out for rec, where crew might swoop, fly, bounce off the walls, play free-fall tag, and--just
coincidentally--sharpen their reaction times and grav-free moves.
It being a rec area, there were air vents. It being the largest open atmosphere section on the ship,
it also had the highest amount of ship air to sample for pollen, spores, loose dust, and other contaminants.
Jethri's job was to open each vent, use the camera to record the visual patterns, change the camera to
super and flash for spectrographic details, remove the used filter, install a fresh, and reseal the vent. That
record would go right to command for analysis as soon as he plugged the camera into the charge socket
Not quite as mindless as replacing sweet-sheets, but not particularly demanding of the thought
processes, either.
Mooring the sled, he slid the camera into the right pocket of his utility vest, a new filter and an
envelope into the left, squinted thoughtfully at the position of the toppest vent--and kicked off.
Strictly speaking, he could have gone straight-line, door to vent. In the unlikely circumstance that
there'd been hurry involved, he would, he told himself, curling for the rebound off the far wall, have
chosen the high leap. As it was, hands extended and body straight, he hit the corner opposite the vent,
somersaulted, arcing downward, hit the third wall with his feet, rising again, slowing, slowing--until he
was floating, gentle and easy, next to the target vent.
Bracing himself, he slid the door open, used the camera, then unsnapped the soiled filter, slipped
it into the envelope and snapped in the replacement. Making sure his pockets were sealed, he treated
himself to cross-room dive, shot back up to the opposite corner, dove again, twisted in mid-dive,
bounced off the end wall, pinwheeled off the ceiling, hit the floor on his hand, flipped and came upright
next to the sled.
Grinning like a certified fool, he unsealed his pocket, slotted the used filter, took on a clean one,
turned and jumped for the next vent.
* * *
It might've been an hour later and him at the trickiest bit of his day. The filter for the aromatics
locker was special--a double-locking, odor-blocking bit of business, badly set over the door, flush to the
angle with the ceiling. Aromatics was light, but by no means as light as the bounceway, so it was
necessary for anyone needing to measure and change the filter to use their third hand to chin themselves
on the high snatch-rod, knees jammed at right angles to the ceiling, while simultaneously using their first
and second hands to do the actual work.
Normal two-handers were known to lament the lack of that crucial third appendage with
language appropriate to the case. Indeed, one of Jethri's fondest memories was of long, easy-speaking
Cris, bent double against the ceiling, hanging over the vent in question, swearing, constantly and
conversationally, for the entire twenty minutes the job required, never once repeating a cuss word. It had
been a virtuoso performance to which Jethri secretly aspired.
Unfortunately, experience had taught him that he could either hang and cuss, or hang and work.
So it was that he wrestled in silence, teeth drilling into lower lip, forcing himself to go slow and easy, and
make no false moves, because it would be a serious thing if an aromatics spill contaminated the ship's
common air.
He had just seated and locked the clean inner filter, when the hall echoed with a titanic clang,
which meant that the cage had cycled onto his level.
Jethri closed his eyes and clenched into the corner, forcing himself to wait until the wall had
stopped reverberating.
"It's settled," the captain's voice echoed in the wake of the larger noise.
"Might be settled." That was Uncle Paitor, his voice a rumble, growing slightly fainter as the two
of them walked outward, toward the cans. "I'm not convinced we've got the best trade for the ship in
this, Iza. I'm thinking we might be underselling something--"
"We've got space issues, which aren't leaving us," the captain interrupted. "This one's Captain's
Call, brother. It's settled."
"Space issues, yeah," Paitor said, a whole lot more argumentative than he usually was when he
was talkin' to the captain, and like he thought things weren't settled at all. "There's space issues. In what
case, sister o'mine, you'd best remember those couple o'seal-packs of extra you been carrying in your
personal bin for damn' near ten Standards. You been carrying extra a long time, and some of what's there
ought to get shared out so choices can be made--"
"No business of yours--none of it, Paitor."
"You's the one called kin just now. But I'm a trader, and what you got's still worth something to
somebody. You make this trade and that stuff ought to be gone, too!"
"We'll chart that course when we got fuel for it. You done?"
Paitor answered that, but Jethri only caught the low sound of his voice, no words.
Cautiously, he unclenched, reached for the second filter and began to ease back the locks,
forcing himself to attend to the work at hand, rather than wonder what sort of trade might be Captain's
Call...
* * *
Later, in the galley, Dyk was in a creative frenzy.
Jethri, who knew his man, had arrived well before his scheduled time, and already there were
piles of used bowls, cruets, mixers, forks, tongs, spoons and spice syringes littering every possible
surface and the floor. It was nothing short of awesome. Shaking his head, he pulled on his gloves and
started in on first clean up.
"Hey, Jeth! Unship that big flat pan for me, willya?"
Sighing, Jethri abandoned the dirties, climbed up on the counter and pulled open the toppest
cabinet, where the equipment that was used least was stowed. Setting his feet careful among the welter of
used tools, he reached for the requested pan.
The door to the galley banged open, Jethri turned his head and clutched the edge of the cabinet,
keeping himself very still.
Iza Gobelyn stood in the doorway, her face so tight the lines around her mouth stood in stark
relief. Dyk, lost in his dream of cookery, oblivious to clear danger, smiled over his shoulder at her, the
while beating something in a bowl with a power spoon.
"Good shift, Captain!" he called merrily. "Have we got a surprise ordered in for you tonight!"
"No," said Iza.
That got through.
Dyk blinked. "Ma'am?"
"I said, no," the captain repeated, her voice crackling with static. "We'll want a quick meal, no
surprises."
The spoon went quiet. Dyk put the bowl aside, real careful, and turned to face her. "Captain, I've
got a meal planned and on course."
"Jettison," she said, flat and cold. "Quick meal, Dyk. Now."
There was a moment--a long moment, when Jethri though Dyk would argue the point, but in the
end, he just nodded.
"Yes'm," he said, real quiet, and turned away toward the cabinet.
The captain left, the door swinging shut behind her.
Jethri let out the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding, slid the flat pan back into its gips,
closed the door, and carefully got himself down to the floor, where he started back in collecting dirties.
He was loading the washer when it came to him that Dyk was 'way too quiet, and he looked up.
His cousin was staring down at the bowl, kinda swirling the contents with the power spoon
turned off. Jethri moved a couple steps closer, until Dyk looked at him.
"What was you making?" Jethri asked.
"A cake," Dyk said, and Jethri could believe it was tears he saw in the blue eyes. "I--" he cleared
his throat and shook his head, pushing the bowl away. "It was a stupid idea, I guess. I'll get the quick
meal together and then help you with clean up, right?"
Dyk wasn't a prize as a partner in clean up, and Jethri was about to decline the favor. And a
cake--why would he have been after making a cake, just coming into port? Another one of those
everybody-knows-but-me things, Jethri thought, frowning at his larger cousin.
Something about the set of his shoulders, or even the tears, Dyk not being one to often cry,
counseled him to think better of refusing the offered aid. He nodded, trying to remake his frown into
something approaching agreeable.
"Sure," he said. "Be glad of the help."
Day 32
Standard Year 1118
Gobelyn's Market
Jethri's Quarters
Jethri was behind closed door--which he didn't usually do on his off-shift--because the volume on
the recorder was iffy at best, and besides, there were a couple of the cousins who weren't all that happy
to hear Liaden words, even if they was spoke on archive, by a relative.
"If you trade with Liadens, trade careful, and for the gods' love don't come sideways of honor."
One upside of having the door closed was an unimpeded view of the gift Dyk had given him two
ports back, to much guffawing at the entrance hatch. The Unofficial Up-To-Date Combine Com-Code
Chart issued by Trundee's Tool and Tow. Besides the codes, most of which hadn't changed in the dozen
or so years Jethri had been aware of them, there was a constantly changing view, in simulated 3D, of the
self-declared "Best Saltwater Bathing Beach in the Galaxy."
Jethri had--on several occasions, truth told--tried to count the different views offered by the chart.
Dyk had helpfully showed him how to change the pace, or even stop on a particular image. Jethri
discovered, by plain accident, that you could "tune out" the images of people without bathing suits--or the
ones with bathing suits, for that matter, and also how to close up on the people and the sand, blocking
out the long, unsettling sweep of sky.
His eye was caught now by a series that intrigued him. A couple, hand in hand, moved across
several images, walking along the sandscape by the roiling, splashing waves, each wearing a suit (if
something covering only a very small part of the anatomy could really be called a suit!) Both suits had
decorations on them, shapes very much like his lucky fractin. The woman's suit was basically white, with
the fractins arrayed in several fetching patterns, but they were blue, with the lettering in yellow. Her
partner's suit was blue, the fractins white and the lettering black, which was like no fractin he'd ever
seen--not that he thought he'd seen them all.
The distraction of the woman's shape and beauty, and the way she moved, made it hard for him to
pay attention to the old tape. He sighed, so loud he might have been heard in the companionway if
anyone was there to listen.
He had work to do. They were set to put in at a Liaden port right soon, and now was time to
study, not indulge high-oxy dreams of walking hand-held with a lady 'way too pretty to notice a
ship-kid...
Teeth chewing lower lip, he punched the button on the recorder, backing up to the last sentence
he remembered hearing.
This set of notes was old: recorded by Great-Grand-Captain Larance Gobelyn more than forty
Standard years ago, dubbed to ship's library twenty Standards later from the original deteriorating tape.
Jethri fiddled with the feed on the audio board, but only succeeded in lowering the old man's voice.
Sighing, he upped the gain again, squinting in protest of the scratchy, uneven sound.
"Liaden honor is--active. Insult--any insult--is punished. Immediately. An individual's name is his
most important possession and--"
"Jethri?" Uncle Paitor's voice broke across Cap'n Larance's recitation. Jethri sighed and thumbed
'pause'."Yessir," he said, turning his head toward the intercom grid set in the wall.
"Come on down to the trade room, will you? We need to talk over a couple things."
Jethri slipped the remote out of his ear. As senior trader, Paitor was specifically in charge of the
senior apprentice trader's time and education.
"Yessir," Jethri repeated. Two quick fingertaps marked his place in the old notes file. He left at a
brisk walk, his thoughts half on honor, and only slightly less than half on the image of the woman on the
poster.
* * *
His uncle nodded him into a chair and eased back in his. They were coming in on Ynsolt'i and next
hour Paitor Gobelyn would have time for nothing but the feed from the port trade center. Now, his
screen was dark, the desk-top barren. Paitor cleared his throat.
"Got a couple things," he said, folding his hands over his belt buckle. "On-Port roster: Dyk an'
me'll be escorting the payload to the central trade hall and seeing it safe with the highest bidder. Khat's
data, Grig's eatables, Mel's on tech, Cris'll stay ship-side. You..."
Paitor paused and Jethri gipped his hands together tight on his lap, willing his face into a trader's
expression of courteous disinterest. They had textile on board--half a dozen bolts of cellosilk that Cris
had taken on two stops back, with Ynsolt'i very much in his mind. Was it possible, Jethri wondered, that
Uncle Paitor was going to allow...
"Yourself--you'll be handling the silk lot. I expect to see a kais out of the lot. If I was you, I'd call
on Honored Sir bin'Flora first."
Jethri remembered to breathe. "Yes, sir. Thank you." He gipped his hands together so hard they
hurt. His own trade. His own, very first, solo trade with no Senior standing by, ready to take over if the
thing looked like going awry.
His uncle waved a hand. "Time you were selling small stuff on your own. Now." He leaned
forward abruptly, folded his arms on the desk and looked at Jethri seriously. "You know we got a lot
riding on this trip."
Indeed they did--more than a quarter of the Market's speculation capital was tied up in eighteen
Terran pounds of vya, a spice most commonly sold in five gram lots. Jethri's research had revealed that
vya was the active ingredient in fa'yya, a Liaden drink ship's library classified as a potent aphrodisiac.
Ynsolt'i was a Liaden port and the spice should bring a substantial profit to the ship. Not, Jethri reminded
himself, that profit was ever guaranteed.
"We do well with the spice here," Paitor was saying, "and the captain's going to take us across to
Kinaveral, do that refit we'd been banking for now, rather than two Standards from now."
This was the news that might have had Dyk baking a cake. Jethri sat up straighter, rubbing the
palms of his hands down the rough fabric of his work pants.
"Refit'll keep us world-bound 'bout a Standard, near's we can figure. Captain wants that engine
upgrade bad and trade-side's gonna need two more cargo pods to balance the expense." He grinned
suddenly. "Three, if I can get 'em."
Jethri smiled politely, thinking that his uncle didn't look as pleased with that as he might have and
wondering what the down-side of the trade was.
"While refit's doing, we figured--the captain and me--that it'd be optimum to re-structure crew.
So, we've signed you as senior 'prentice with Gold Digger."
It was said so smoothly that Jethri didn't quite catch the sense of it.
"Gold Digger?" he repeated blankly, that much having gotten through, by reason of him and Mac
Gold having traded blows on last sighting--more to Jethri's discomfort than Mac's. He hadn't exactly told
anyone on the Market the full details of the incident, Gold Digger's crew being cousins of his mother,
and his mother making a point more'n once about how she'd nearly ended up being part of that ship
instead of this.
Jethri came forward in his chair, hearing the rest of it play back inside the whorlings of his ears.
"You signed me onto Gold Digger?" he demanded. "For how long?"
His voice echoed into the hall, he'd asked that loud, but he didn't apologize.
Paitor raised a hand. "Ease down, boy. One loop through the mines. Time they're back in port,
you'll be twenty--full adult and able to find your own berth." He nodded. "You make yourself useful like
you and me both know you can and you'll come off Digger a full trader with experience under your
belt--" "Three Standards?" Jethri's voice broke, but for once he didn't cringe in shame. He was too busy
thinking about a converted ore ship smaller than the Market, its purely male crew crammed all six into a
common sleeping room, and the trade nothing more than foodstuffs and ore, ore and mining tools, oxy
tanks and ore...
"Ore," he said, staring at his uncle. "Not even rough gem. Industrial ore." He took a breath,
knowing his dismay showed and not caring about that, either. "Uncle Paitor, I've been studying. If there's
something else I--"
Paitor showed him palm again. 'Nothing to do with your studying. You been doing real good. I'll
tell you--better than the captain supposed you would. Little more interested in the Liaden side of things
than I thought reasonable, there at first, but you always took after Arin, anyhow. No harm in learning the
lingo, and I will say the Liadens seem to take positive note of you." He shook his head. "Course, you
don't have your full growth yet, which puts you nearer their level."
Liadens were a short, slight people, measured against Terran averages. Jethri wasn't as short as a
Liaden, but he was, he thought bitterly, a damn sight shorter than Mac Gold.
"What it is," Paitor said slowly. "We're out of room. It's hard for us, too, Jethri. If we were a
bigger ship, we'd keep you on. But you're youngest, none of the others're inclined to change berth, and,
well--Ship's Option. Captain's cleared it. Ben Gold states himself willing to have you." He leaned back,
looking stern. "And ore needs study, too, 'prentice. Nothing's as simple as it looks."
Thrown off, thought Jethri. I'm being thrown off of my ship. He thought that he could have
borne it better, if he was simply being cast out to make his own way. But the arranged berth on Gold
Digger added an edge of fury to his disbelief. He opened his mouth to protest further and was forestalled
by a ping! from Paitor's terminal.
The senior trader snapped forward in his chair, flipping the switch that accepted the first of the
trade feeds from Ynsolt'i Port. He glanced over at Jethri.
"You get me a kais for that silk, now. If the spice sells good for us, I'll OK that Combine key you
been wanting. You'll have earned it."
That was dismissal. Jethri stood. "Yessir," he said, calm as a dry mouth would let him, and left the
trade room.
Day 33
Standard Year 1118
Ynsolt'i Port
Textile Hall
"Premium grade, honored sir," Jethri murmured, keeping his eyes modestly lowered, as befit a
young person in discourse with a person of lineage and honor.
Honored Sir bin'Flora moved his shoulders and flipped an edge of the fabric up, frowning at the
underweave. Jethri ground his teeth against an impulse to add more in praise of the hand-loomed
Gindoree cellosilk.
Don't oversell! he could hear Uncle Paitor snap from memory. The Trader is in control of the
trade. "Eight tor the six-bolt," the buyer stated, tossing the sample cloth back across the spindle. Jethri
sighed gently and spread his hands.
"The honored buyer is, of course, distrustful of goods offered by one so many years his inferior in
wisdom. I assure you that I am instructed by an elder of my ship, who bade me accept not a breath less
than two kais."
"Two?" The Liaden's shoulders moved again--not a shrug, but expressive of some emotion.
Amusement, Jethri thought. Or anger.
摘要：

Therearesecretsinallfamilies---GeorgeFarquhar,1678-1707LiadenCurrency12dextoator12tortoakais12kais(144tor)toacantra1cantra=35,000TerranbitsStandardYear8StandardDaysinOneStandardWeek32StandardDaysinOneStandardMonth384StandardDaysinOneStandardYearLiadenYear96StandardDaysinOneRelumma12StandardMonthsinO...

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