Trade Secret Read online

  He kept the twitch away from his lips: he’d thought perhaps he should send a copy on to Khat and to Miandra—but Khat might not get the Liaden part of it, and Miandra would get it only too well, embroiled as she was with issues of melant’i and power in her dramliz training. It was just that he was named as the new associate trader on the ship, and it was mentioned he was a newly adopted son of the house with specialties including textiles and trade in Terran regions. That was a kind of gossipy thing traders might need to know—but somewhere along the way the information that he formerly shipped as an apprentice on the Terran trade-certified Gobelyn’s Market had dropped into the news.

  His first two days at trade here had been spent as much dealing with the curious and the tricky as with honest traders—often by himself—since the Master Trader was in heavy talks on a deal that might keep the clan’s ships busy for years.

  The trade hall was grown somewhat quieter than it had been earlier; and Jethri again caught sight of the gray-haired fellow who’d abandoned line with the coughs. He’d been in and out of sight while Trader ven’Sambra had been the only one in line, sometimes peering at the rotating display screens on the ships-in wall and other times standing back near an exit—and now he approached!

  Jethri scooped the taking a break sign into place, but he was, just perhaps, too late, as the man actually rushed toward him, urgency unreasonably plain upon his face.

  The bow was startling, offering to Jethri as it did honor due to a master of trade with decades of experience, and the undertone of appeasement indicating that one understood he was treading on the goodwill of another by merely appearing in front of him in an untimely way.

  Three steps away from the counter he’d stopped; awaiting permission, and it was Jethri’s curiosity which drove him to bow at all, using the merest of acknowledgments, thus accepting the honors heaped upon himself!

  A good trader might have hesitated to come close to the counter with receipt of such a bow, but this man closed to the trading counter immediately, offering yet another effusive bow, and too, bringing with him the mixed scents of recent alcohol and oily foods, and perhaps of vya as well.

  “Honored Trader, my certifications, if I may. You will understand that I am largely retired from trade but seeing the news of Elthoria’s arrival, and your own, I thought we should both profit greatly from some odds and ends of interest to collectors and specialists, which I have possessed from my own trading years gone by.”

  They traded names then, Jethri adding Gobelyn with his clan name, and then he dutifully glanced at the material presented, his own melant’i being certified by his seat in the hall as well as by his ring and his clan signs.

  The trader’s certifications were worn, and local, and showed a penchant for foods and kitchen goods. The local license typography was awkward to read, and the dates—well, some were older than Jethri. Likely this man, this Trader tel’Linden, had never been off-world, had only dealt in the local markets. His manner was unpolished and . . .

  As if reading Jethri’s careful study as concern, the man broke rapidly into a locally accented Liaden rush of words.

  “I have always been a man of modest means, dealing with modest items, Trader, yet one in my position has been favored over the years to have seen many items of rarity and worth, the small riches of the clans and lines not of the High Houses, and some not of the Mid Houses. These riches I have accumulated as I may, of interest to myself. The research to make use of these, and to find the proper home and buyer, this has been difficult, and it comes time now to reduce my private collections and give back to my clan my investments, as well as give to the universe of buyers goods which are outside the standard trade lines of my clan.”

  The trader paused then, stood straighter, and bowed his best bow yet, with a reasonable flourish and an understanding that his sleeves were not long enough to give emphasis . . .

  “If you will honor me with a gift of time I believe I have trades that will be worth the time we both invest, and yours, star-trader, much more than myself! Understand me, this is not my catalog, but my stock!”

  The man raised his large leather-look trade case, withdrew keys from an inner pocket, eyes intent on Jethri’s reaction.

  “There is a seat you may use,” Jethri admitted, “if you would care to join in an exploration of our trading possibilities.”

  * * *

  The trader’s portfolio, lined as it was with sheets of impossibly thin black leather, was itself an item Jethri might like, but the first object revealed, gaudy and antique at once, left him speechless.

  He turned his hand over to palm up—a request to hold the item—and wished Paitor was here to see this, or Dyk, who would have wildly differing opinions on the desirability of possessing such a thing. Dyk would love it for incongruity, and Paitor . . . well, what would Paitor actually say about such a ring as this?

  “Yes,” the trader crooned, “this is an object one might wear in many places, secure that it would be noticed and appreciated. The stone, of course, is flawless, and the setting is true multi-banded flash-formed Triluxian!”

  The ring was deposited oh-so-gently in Jethri’s hand for inspection. After a moment he sighed, looking at it from this way and that—and requested, with a bow, “May I use my handscan for a closer look?”

  Triluxian—bonded of microlayered titanium, gold, platinum, with a salting of rhodium—was not something to be ignored. The style of the thing suggested it was a very old ring, and the slight signs of wear suggested it was an artifact someone had actually used—which is to say, displayed on their hand in public—frequently. Thus the scanner, looking for details, and giving back the certifiable purity of the finding. There was value here, but not riches.

  As for the stone—he held back a chuckle mightily. Firegem, yes, truly a flawless firegem, but for the worth of it in any state . . . it was a fluted cabochon firegem, which made it odd, but other than that? What it was doing set in—

  “Of course,” said the trader, though his face tensed enough for Jethri to see it. “You’ll find some odd lettering, I believe . . .”

  Handscan again. Jethri studied the band of the thing, and indeed, there was odd lettering, which likely appeared even odder to the trader for it being Terran lettering, and very tiny. Perhaps it was someone’s name, perhaps there was also a date, Cobol 426 . . . he let the scanner record the thing to look at later. Might as well set blast glass in the thing as a firegem, unless it dated to the original discovery of the things, or was the first . . .

  “An extremely unusual item,” Jethri admitted, allowing the trader to have the ring back. The ring must be more than it looked . . . else a story worth sharing if it could found.

  The trader flipped to the next display page.

  There, a simple sheet of metal with rolled edges, almost like one of Dyk’s small cooking pans upside down, with diagrammatic instructions inscribed on it, and a few words in oddly stilted Liaden. Instructions for what? Might be of interest to a specialist but didn’t touch him very much . . .

  A twitch of fingers—within the sheets, for there were two of them interlocking, were fractins.

  Fractins. Four of them. Fakes, he thought, just looking and needing no scanner to vet them. The color was—not right. The man’s hands shook. As common as these were in Terran space, on this side of the trade line they were deemed Old Tech, and thus contraband, and unmarketable in the bargain. Of course, if they were fakes they might not be illegal—he hadn’t got to that section of Liaden trade laws yet, and would have to study,

  As noncommittally as possible, he flicked fingers, and there were three more fractins, fitted together, and they were real. They were not only real, they knew he was there, he was sure, knew that they were recognized as real, knew—it was as if they called for him to buy them and take them away.

  He blinked. He’d had that reaction several times as a child, the feeling that real fractins looked back at him. He’d liked his own fractin, and was always glad it wa
s his lucky piece; he’d been convinced that his fractin liked him, too. When Arin, his father, had talked with him about his fractin collections, he’d never doubted Jethri when Jethri could point to his own fractin amidst a score of true-and-fake fractins. Arin hadn’t argued, either, when they’d built the fractin frames and Jethri’d insisted that his fractin wasn’t comfortable with being put in with the others in this order, but must be in that order or in this position . . .

  Jethri realized that he’d taken several seconds too long this time, that he could still feel the fractins calling, even though he knew he shouldn’t—no, couldn’t—be found in possession of them. So he permitted himself a slight grimace, as if disinterested, or perhaps bored by seeing more of the same . . . and flicked his fingers.

  And next was another of the curious pans, with a mark he recognized: this side down.

  Struck by an idea, and still feeling the call of fractins, he could see the outline of the pan in the leather sheet; saw what might be alignment points, judged that if filled with properly aligned fractins . . .

  He flicked fingers, to find the next sheet of leather to be pocketed, with nine pockets, and in each pocket showed a portion of similar but not identical . . . things. Devices. Kahjets. They were built on the scale and size of the weather device he’d handled to such strange effect on Irikwae, a device that called an unseasonable wind-twist to the vineyards and indirectly led to Miandra’s banishment to Liad. These, too, felt like they were interested, as if they recognized hands that knew . . .

  He flicked his glance to the man’s face, where there was now sweat. Jethri realized the trader was at risk and his own melant’i as well. He had not, of course, promised to the Scouts he would unmask other owners . . .

  “Not these machines, Trader, nor others like them if there are more in your stock; I have clear instructions about such.”

  The trader’s eyes got big and his hands shook. He glanced down, looked up, hopeful.

  “Yet these will be treasures, I understand, in Terran markets. These are . . .”

  Jethri offered a placating motion and conciliatory bow.

  “Alas, as you may not know, given the circumstance of your retirement, my ship aims for no such market in this voyage, Trader, and I am not of an age or melant’i to carry devices such as this aboard my ship, nor to secure them, against the hope that sometime I might visit a Terran port. Show me other things, if you have them, since we are here, and you have sought me out.”

  The trader, crestfallen, flipped past two more sheets, and now there were other oddities, more than a dozen keys in the style used by Terran ships on one of the sheets, and a trade calendar on a flexible sheet, some two hundred standards old, with illustrations of—of star systems.

  Practicality and necessity warred—lunch and a rest break called, even more so since he knew that the trader was offering contraband amidst this trade lot.

  “Against time we run,” Jethri said emulating one of Norn ven’Deelin’s phrases. “Let us proceed with pace,” he suggested—and there, the next page was shown, a very, very skinny, blade looking perhaps Terran, and flick—

  A page passed over, and another, and then a small flat guidebook, with real pages, the title, in Liaden: Dealing with Terrans. He signaled stop, requested and received the opportunity to look at it. The book was of the age as the trade calendars, and produced by a trade station he’d never heard of, offering hints on language and demeanor, and showing known and anticipated trade routes . . .

  “Enough,” he said, entranced. “My time presses. Price me this, the two shipping plates and the calendars, as a unit. Also, the firegem ring, which is interesting, but hardly a rarity in these days, if ever it was. Honest price gets honest return.”

  “Trader, I’d hoped to sell the lot—”

  “I hear this from your lips, Trader, but from mine you have heard I will not touch the items from the old machines, nor will I have the squares such as I had as a child for toys.”

  “Four cantra for the whole I was asking . . .”

  Jethri bowed from his seat and stood.

  “I’ll not have the whole. The partial lot I have outlined only. Only the items, with the firegem—altogether an eighth-cantra, paid now. I cannot use the others and there’s no market to test their value or their worth.”

  There was nothing in the broke-lot that he knew he could sell, but for his own uses, say the information that such concentrations of Old-Tech might exist among the Liadens—that was worth much—and the old trade route information. He’d had the same feeling when he’d discovered the vya that had gone to pay for the Market’s overhaul. Even the firegem, silly as it was . . .

  The man before him began to fold his sales portfolio sadly and ventured, “One half-cantra, Trader, and you break my back at that.”

  Jethri worked the feeling in his head, remembered Paitor’s earnest lessons of give-and-take . . .

  “I have the eighth cantra in my pocket for you, and some Terran funds, ten kais. Also, paying cash we need not use the hall’s sales registry nor fund transfers. Else, my meeting awaits. Understand, paying cash, I will forget your name.”

  Jethri handed the trade case back, very concerned. Not about his offer, but about the contents that called to him and made his hands itch to hold them and have them and use them.

  The trader’s eyes were large. Jerhri’d not meant to threaten, but now he could see the man before him losing composure. Surely, then, he was a desperate man, even more desperate than Jethri.

  The man’s hands were shaking, but he was already reopening his portfolio. “Done.”

  As the transaction settled, it turned out that the Terran coins broke to fifteen rather than ten kais, which Jethri allowed without hesitation. Now his urge was to be away from this man and his ragged breathing . . .

  The trader gone, Jethri slammed the sign onto the table, tucked his haul into his cloak’s storage pockets. He realized he was shivering now, and wondered what he’d done to suddenly feel so cold.

  Those kahjets! Not toys, not toys, not toys. Paitor would have perhaps denounced the man, and perhaps Grig would have bought it all . . .

  It would not do to dine, even alone, while still so unsettled.

  Succor was to hand after a dizzying riot of panic, which he knew he must not succumb to, and then a reminder that some called trade “the quiet war.”

  With the aid of one of Pen Rel’s warrior tricks of centering, he let the hard floor be his base, let the world of breathing be his focus, closed his eyes for a moment to visualize the coming reality of the big ring, firmly on his hand, and he a trader of competence, and hurried for his break. With luck, tomorrow he’d sleep on Elthoria!

  Chapter One

  Clan Ixin’s Tradeship Elthoria, in Jump

  Jethri settled himself at his personal desk, breakfast a comfortable fullness. His standard-G weight was easy on him these days, even if that meant his attempted left-side braid tickled his forehead when he moved his head.

  As he was no pilot, the longer trader-style hair was something he’d been reaching for ever since his ship-cut, lovingly fashioned by Dyk into Jethri’s signature hairsculpt, had been denounced during his first planetside training. Planetdwellers, he was informed, were often put off by the shave-head designs of shipfolk.

  He swiped the growing hair back carelessly, the triple topaz of his ring catching light that the crystal let through. He leaned on his left-side armrest despite his best effort to break the habit. Maybe all right-handed loopers did it, but his time at stinks patrol had shown him that his relatives on Gobelyn’s Market surely had the habit and he’d been busily trying to erase such Terran tendencies in favor of Liaden—or at least Liaden ship-style—balance. Maybe if he could sit straight the lengthening hair wouldn’t tickle so much.

  Around him the room was both cabin and office, his bed hidden now by the drop down research screen. His chair was a hybrid, an oversized trade-deck extra fitted with the normal connections for a working trader as w
ell as a student’s amplified speakers and note takers. All in all, it was the best study spot he’d ever had, though at times he missed the social contact of the library and took sessions there or in the staff room.

  Despite the ship dropping out—and then back in—to Jump, yesterday had been one of those social contact days, spent between the library, the staff room, the cafeteria, and the exercise courts where he struggled with the intricacies of menfri’at, the Liaden martial arts the arms master worked hard to teach him, as well as with the weight machines and other exercise devices, since he’d been needing to be “world-worthy” as Pen Rel put it—a level of planetary physical readiness many spacers lost over time. He was to be dealing with traders and social necessities and ought not appear—or be!—as weak as an elder if it could be avoided.

  Being on rush-learning, there were some ordinary things he did not do on his social days yet—like join in ship committee event planning—which had taken his hoped-for lunch with Gaenor off the schedule since she was, of course, much involved in such. They still copracticed their Liaden and Terran together, but walking the ship at odd moments, throwing words and ideas at each other as they talked was even more a part of that duty than it had been; certainly it would be good to have some quiet time together once in a while.

  Yesterday was day three of his five-day regime, and the fact that Elthoria had “stopped” at a star they’d barely seen mattered little. Khat would have called what they did a skate-by—the primary was so distant from the pickup point that its light took several Standard Hours to get there—and what they did was all piloting: drop off two pods of supplies and equipment and pick up two pods of compressed and freeze-dried seaweed. None of this had impinged on his duties or schedule other than to inform his current search for the rules of delivery with a little more poignancy since there’d been threat of a glitch that might have delayed them for days.