The Crystal Variation (114 page)

I’m also sending along a size B shipping crate; Iza says you’re to have it.

The rest of the circumstance is that I had chance to look over the duty roster for the past few Standards and noticed that you was default on Stinks. Thing is, Stinks carries a pay premium that somehow didn’t make it to your account. It’s kind of a joke on a per-shift, but I totted up the last five Standards’ worth and figured in the interest, and it came out to a nice round number. We all figured you was saving up to buy a ship, Jeth, but who thought you’d finance it out of Stinks?

Paitor’s running jobs for Terratrade, and I didn’t know how to make the transfer, so that cash is in the crate with the other stuff.

Anyhow, I know you’re in the middle of the biggest adventure ever, learning all you can from Master ven’Deelin, so I won’t keep you any longer. Think about us sometime; we think about you often.

With love,

Khat

He refolded the paper along its creases, and slid it away into the inner pocket of his jacket, in spite of which he didn’t immediately rise to his duty. Instead, he stayed where he was, sitting low on his heels, head bent while he blinked the sudden fog of tears away.

Wasn’t no cause for crying, he told himself. The ghosts of space witness, Khat’s news was slim enough—hardly news at all, really. It was given that his cousins would reach for quick-jobs and temp berths—none of them had been born with mud on their feet. Likewise, he could have foretold that the detail work would fall to Seeli, and that Grig would stand her second. The captain . . . that was bad news, but almost expectable the way she tended to get a bit wild anytime she was planet-side. Probably there was more to it—and come to think of it, it seemed like there was more to a bunch of stuff than he’d realized.

Still, nothing to cry about in any of that, not with him having the biggest adventure ever.

He cleared his throat, raised his head and stood, pausing for a moment to be sure his face was properly ordered; then moved to his station at Master ven’Deelin’s elbow.

HIS JOB THIS SHIFT,
as it had been last, was to stand next and two steps behind Master ven’Deelin, where he could look and listen and soak up her style of trade and converse. More of that last was available to him than he would’ve thought, for the customers kept to the trading mode, and after one blank-faced stare at himself, would follow Master ven’Deelin into a more deliberate way of talking, which mostwise fell intelligible on his ear.

He had it as a working theory that a Liaden-born apprentice might likewise stand in need of practice in the trading mode, as it might not have been one they’d necessarily been taught in their growing-up years. With all those modes available between High and Low, surely no one but a lifelong student could be proficient in them all?

Whatever the reason, the customers treated him respectful—treated
Master ven’Deelin
respectful—and he was learning so much his head was in a fair way to exploding.

“That is well, then,” Master ven’Deelin told the present customer—a black-haired man with a diamond drop in his left ear, wearing a jacket so heavy with embroidery that Jethri had to remind himself not to squint in protest. “We shall deliver no later than the third hour of Day Port, two days hence.”

“Precisely so, Master Trader,” the customer said, his voice quick and light. He held out a counter and a trade-card. Master ven’Deelin received both gravely and slotted them on the wires strung overhead—third one in, for “two day delivery.”

“I am hosting a dinner party tomorrow evening, in the Little Hall,” she murmured, as she finished with the card and token. “You would honor me by attending.”

“Master Trader.” The customer bowed, low. “The honor would be mine.”

“That is well, then.” She inclined her head and the customer moved off, giving up his place to the next in line, a boxy-built lady whose look-out was textile.

“Ah.” Master ven’Deelin inclined her head. “This, my apprentice will assist you. Textile is his specialty.” She moved her hand, discovering Jethri to the lady, who gave no sign of either pleasure or dismay at being turned over to himself.

Jethri’s feelings were all a-spin, though he did his best to maintain a bland and polite expression. He did take a deep breath, to center himself, which might have been too long, since the Master Trader murmured.

“Young Jethri?”

“Yes, Master,” he said, and was mortified to hear his voice wobble.

Knees knocking, he stepped up the counter and bowed to the customer.

“Ma’am,” he said, painfully slow, and deliberate. “How may I be honored to assist you?”

It were the handlooms the lady was after, which was good news of its kind. Jethri moved up-counter to where the bolts were stowed and pulled down the book. He looked over his shoulder, then, just to be aware how closely Master ven’Deelin was shadowing his work.

To his horror, she was about no such thing, but stood deep in conversation with another customer at the counter; all of her attention on that transaction and none whatsoever on him . . .

“Forgive me,” murmured boxy-built lady. “I regret that my time is limited.”

“Certainly, ma’am,” Jethri murmured, opening the book on the counter in front of her. “As you can see, we have many fine weavings to choose from . . .”

For a lady short of time, she showed no disposition to rush her decision. She had him pull this bolt and that, then this again, and that other. With each, he steadied a little, found the words coming more smoothly, remembered the trick—taught by Uncle Paitor—of flipping the end over the top of the bolt, so that he could speak of the underweave and the irregularities born of hand looming.

In the end, the lady bought nothing, though she thanked him for the gifts of his time and expertise.

Jethri, shirt damp with exertion, racked the book and ordered the samples, then stepped back to Norn ven’Deelin’s side.

Through the course of the shift, he heard her invite no fewer than two dozen traders and merchants to her dinner party. Three more times, she gave him to customers desirous of textile; twice, he scored chip and card, which he triumphantly threaded on the wires he found near the bolts.

And at last, the bell sounded, signaling the end of day-trading. Norn ven’Deelin reached up and turned off the booth light. Jethri closed his eyes and sagged against the bolt rack, head pounding. It was over. He had lived. He had, just maybe, not done anything irrevocably stupid. Now, they would go back to the ship, get out of the dirt, and the noise.

“So,” Norn ven’Deelin said brightly, and he heard her clap her palms gently together. “Do me the honor of bearing me company on a stroll, Jethri Gobelyn. We shall amaze Tilene-port!”

He opened his eyes and looked at her, meeting bright black eyes. There was something in the way she stood, or maybe in the set of her face, that conveyed itself as a challenge. Jethri ground his teeth, straightened out of his lean and squared his shoulders, despite the holler put up by his back muscles.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and bowed obedience to the Master Trader’s word.

THE WALK WAS LEISURELY,
and they stopped often to acknowledge the bows of Master ven’Deelin’s numerous acquaintances, who every one stared at him like he was the four-headed calf from Venturis. Jethri sighed behind his mask of bland politeness. You’d think he’d be used to the stares by now, but someway every new one scraped a little deeper, hurt a little more.

Otherwise, the stroll was a better idea than he’d thought. Tilene’s gravity was a hair less than ship’s grav, which he’d at last gotten used to. And the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other seemed enough to ease the ache in his head, and smooth the kinks out of his spine.

Master ven’Deelin paused to receive a particularly low bow, augmented by the hand-sign for “greatest esteem” from a red-haired woman in upscale trading clothes.

“Bendara Tiazan,” Master ven’Deelin inclined her head. “Allow me to be delighted to see you! You must dine with me upon the morrow.”

The redhead straightened. Her eyes showed a little stretch, but give her credit, Jethri thought sourly, she didn’t stare at him—her whole attention was on Norn ven’Deelin. “I am honored, Master Trader,” she said, in the mode of junior to senior.

Again, Master ven’Deelin inclined her head. “Until tomorrow, Bendara Tiazan.”

“Until tomorrow, Master Trader,” the redhead murmured, and bowed herself out of the way.

Master ven’Deelin continued her stately progress, Jethri keeping pace, just behind her left elbow.

“So, Jethri Gobelyn,” she murmured as they passed out of the red-haired trader’s hearing. “What do you deduce from our guest list so far?”

He blinked, thinking back over those she had pressed to dine with her tomorrow.

“Ma’am, I scarcely know who these traders are,” he said carefully. “But I wonder at the number of them. It seems less like a dinner and more like a—” he groped for the proper word. After a moment, he decided that it wasn’t in his Liaden repertoire and substituted a ship-term, “shivary.”

“Hah.” She glanced at him, black eyes gleaming. “You will perhaps find our poor entertainment to be a disappointment. I make no doubt that there will be dancing until dawn, nor no more than two or three visits from the proctors, bearing requests for silence.”

He grappled the laugh back down deep into his chest and inclined his head solemnly. “Of course not, ma’am.”

“Ah, Jethri Gobelyn, where is your address?” she said surprisingly. “A silver-tongue would grasp this opportunity to assure me that nothing I or mine might do could ever disappoint.”

Jethri paused, looking down into her black eyes, which showed him nothing but tiny twin reflections of his own serious face. Was she pulling his leg? Or had he just failed a test? He licked his lips.

“I suppose,” he said, slowly, “that I must not be a silver-tongue, ma’am.”

Her face did not change, but she did put out a hand to pat him, lightly, on the arm. “That you are not, child. That you are not.”

They moved on, Jethri trying to work out how to ask if being a silver-tongue was a good thing—and if it was how to go about learning the skill—without sounding a total fool. Meanwhile, Master ven’Deelin took the bows of three more traders of varying ranks, as Jethri read their clothing, and invited each to dine with her upon the morrow. If she kept at her current pace, he thought, they’d have to empty the trade theater itself to accommodate the crowd.

They strolled further down the flowered promenade. There were fewer people about now, and Master ven’Deelin picked up the pace a bit, so Jethri needed to stretch his legs to keep up. Ahead, the walkway split into three, the center portion rising into an arch, the others going off at angles to the right and left. Somewhere nearby was the sound of water running, enormous amounts of water, it must be, from the racket it was making, and the air was starting to feel unpleasantly soggy.

Jethri frowned, maybe lagging a little from his appointed spot at Master ven’Deelin’s elbow, trying to bear down on the feeling that he was breathing
water
, which was by no means a good thing . . .

From the left-hand path came voices, followed quickly by three top-drawer traders: A woman, star blond and narrow in the face, flanked by two young men—one as fair and as narrow as she and the other taller, with hair of a darker gold, his face somewhat rounder, and his eyes a trifle a-squint, as if he had a headache.

With a start, Jethri recognized his friend of the utility corridor, who had been so patient and understanding in the matter of bows. His first notion was to break into a fool-wide grin and rush forward to grab the man by the shoulders in a proper spacer greeting—which would never do, naturally, besides being one of the three top ways, if Arms Master sig’Kethra was to be believed, to take delivery of a knife between the ribs.

Still, if it would be rude to give way to the full scope of his feelings, he could at least give Tan Sim pen’Akla the honor of a proper bow.

Jethri placed himself before the threesome, and paused, awaiting their attention. The woman saw him first, her pale narrow brows plunging into a frown, but he cared not for her. He looked over her shoulder, made eye contact with Tan Sim and swept the bow of greeting the other had shown him, supplemented with the gesture that meant “joy.”

He quickly realized he should have gone with his initial notion.

The fair, narrow young man shouted something beyond Jethri’s current lexicon, his hand slapping at his belt, which gesture he understood all too nicely. He fell back a step, looking for a leap-to, when Tan Sim jumped instead, knocking the other’s hand aside, with a sharp, “Have done! Will you harm the ven’Deelin’s own apprentice?”

“You!” The other shouted. “You saw how he bowed to you! If you had the least bit of proper feeling—”

Oh. Jethri felt his stomach sink to the soles of his boots. He
had
botched it. Badly.

Stepping forward, he bowed again—this a simple bow of contrition.

“Please forgive me if my bow offended,” he said, speaking in the mode of junior to senior, which
had
to be right, no matter which of the three chose to hear him. “Master Tan Sim himself is aware that I am . . . less conversant with bows than I would be. My only thought was to honor one who had given me kindness and fellowship. I regret that my error has caused distress.”

“It speaks Liaden, of a fashion.” The woman said, apparently to her sons, Jethri thought, but meaning for him to hear and take damage from it.

“He speaks Liaden right well for one new come to it,” Tan Sim returned, heatedly. “And shows an adult’s
melant’i
, as well. I taught him that bow myself—which he does not tell you, preferring to take all blame to himself.”

“Speak soft to my mother, half-clan!” The pale young man jerked his arm out of Tan Sim’s grip and spun, palm rising, his intent plain. Jethri jumped forward, arm up, intercepted the man’s slap at the wrist, and grabbed hold just tight enough to get the message across.

“Here now!” he said in Terran, sounding remarkably like Cris, to his own ears. “None of that.”