Adventures in the Liaden Universe. Collaterial Adventures (liaden) Page 24

  “You are wise,” came a cool voice from behind. “Sir, release that woman. She is neither your chattel nor your debtor.”

  The man behind the table moved a hand, beckoning. “Who are you, sir?”

  Pat Rin yos’Phelium stepped into the room, impeccable in high-town lace; his face covered by a supple black mask; blue gem blazing in his right ear.

  “I was told we name no names here, sir,” he said calmly. “However, I have business and a name for the man who has attempted to sell you that which does not belong to him.” He turned and raised his hand, pointing.

  “Hia Cyn yo’Tonin, release that person, and prepare to answer me in a matter of Balance.”

  “Balance?” Hia Cyn’s grip loosened, from pure amaze, so Betea thought, though she was quick to take advantage of his lapse. “We are in the midst of social pleasure,” Hia Cyn protested. “How may Balance go forth here?”

  “Balance goes forth in the name of Fal Den ter’Antod, whom your actions slew. Do you deny that you are Hia Cyn yo’Tonin?”

  “I neither deny nor acknowledge! You, sir, are not anonymous. I know your voice. I know that ear-stone—as who does not? I’ve seen you deep in the cards—and shooting, at Teydor’s!”

  Betea, forgotten in the argument, moved swiftly to the side, raised her hand and pulled the bright ribands.

  “What!” Hia Cyn raised his hand too late. The mask had slipped, fallen, and was held useless in his left hand. He stood revealed, his face seeming curiously naked, the skin slightly damp where the leather had cuddled his cheeks.

  Pat Rin raised a hand, showing the battered debt-book, Imtal’s sigil to the fore.

  “I have a book from the hand of a dead man, Hia Cyn yo’Tonin. Balance goes forth, here and now. What Balance is just, for the loss of a life?”

  “I repudiate this. I will not accept Balance from a masked robber.”

  “But do you know,” said a feminine voice from the door, “I think you will?” A smallish lady with gray hair, and wearing a mauve mask stepped into the room, closely followed by Eyan yo’Lanna’s emerald. The mauve mask inclined her head to Pat Rin.

  “I have only this afternoon had a message from dea’Gauss, sir. I believe I am in your debt for the very welcome information he imparted.” She raised a hand. “Your duty takes precedence over my own. Pray continue. I believe we may be in a situation where witnesses may be… appropriate.”

  Pat Rin inclined his head. “Ma’am.” He looked again to Hia Cyn yo’Tonin, and it was anger he felt. Anger, that this man lived where Fal Den ter’Antod—twelve dozen times more worthy!—had died. Died for the cause of this man’s greed. And he was to Balance this wrong? There was no Balance fitting. Even death…

  The man behind the table cleared his throat.

  “I do not wish to trespass into a private affair,” he said calmly. “However, I think it relevant to point out to those concerned that I came here to buy seven years’ of hard labor in my company’s mine. It matters not at all to me whose labor I buy, so long as the contract is valid.”

  Pat Rin turned and looked at the man behind the table.

  “Seven?”

  The man inclined his head. “The contract can, of course, be renewed, at seller’s option. I am limited to the purchase of seven year blocks.”

  “I see.” Pat Rin held looked again at Hia Cyn yo’Tonin, pale and sweating. “Let us say seven years initially, renewal to depend upon Fal Den ter’Antod’s delm.”

  “The Council!” yelped Hia Cyn.

  “I don’t think that the Council will find it difficult to name you beholden,” the lady in the mauve mask said. “And if Imtal does not impose additional terms of service, you may warm yourself by the certainty that you will have pel’Varn to reckon with on the day your indenture is done.”

  It was too much. Hia Cyn spun, knocking Eyan aside, and vaulted into the main room, Betea in hot pursuit.

  “Card-sharp!” she cried. “Stop him!”

  The pleasure-seekers—gamesters and High Houselings alike—turned to stare at the one so hideously accused; several young gentlemen were seen to cast down their dice or their cards and move in pursuit.

  Hia Cyn slammed to a halt, staring at the room full of masks, the avid eyes focused on him. He glanced down at his left hand, fingers still uselessly clutching his mask. Revealed, he thought. Revealed and ruined.

  “Do not run from the lordship’s Balance, Hia Cyn,” Betea’s voice was quite near. He jerked his head up and stared at her. “It was wrong, what we did. And now a man has died of it.”

  “A fool has died of it,” he snarled, snatching his hidden pistol free. “And not the only one.”

  He raised the weapon and pulled the trigger.

  Betea fell, someone in the crowd of pleasure-seekers screamed; someone else shouted. And Hia Cyn turned, seeking the way out—

  And found instead a tall man dressed all in evening lace and jewels, the blue stone in his ear blazing. He was showing empty hands, which marked him a third fool.

  “Put the gun aside,” Pat Rin said, pitching his voice for gentleness. “Put the gun aside and stand away. Hia Cyn. You hold no winning cards here.”

  “No?” The gun came around, the eyes wild and the face aflame with some fever of madness.

  There was no time to warn the crowd, no time to think. Pat Rin brought his right hand down, felt the little gun slide into his palm. The target…

  Hia Cyn fired as he fell; the pellet from Pat Rin’s palm gun had already shattered his heart.

  There was silence among the pleasure-seekers, and Pat Rin, shaking, slipped his weapon away. Several of the young gentlemen were bending over what was left of Hia Cyn yo’Tonin. He went to kneel beside Betea sen’Equa, discovering a heartbeat, and a wound to the upper arm. She opened her eyes as he bent over her.

  “Lord,” she said breathily to Pat Rin as he stooped near her, “the masks!”

  “Yes.”

  It was absurdly difficult to untie the ribands that held his own mask in place. If only his fingers wouldn’t shake so…

  Finally, the thing was done and he stood, raising his hand for silence against the sudden storm of chatter: “yos’Phelium!” “Suicide to draw against a yos’Phelium!” “He must have been in his cups!” “Card-sharp! The hostess herself accused him!”

  Someone—he thought it was Dela bel’Urik—called, stridently, for silence.

  It fell, and Pat Rin cleared his throat.

  “If someone would be so good as to call the Port Proctors? Also, it would be well to remove your masks.”

  These things were done, and when the Proctors did arrive, in goodly time, since they also knew the street, the only mask in the room was held in the death grip of Hia Cyn yo’Tonin.

  * * *

  IMTAL HERSELF RECEIVED the debt-book from his hands, riffled the pages, and read the four accountings, lingering over the fourth. She lay the book aside.

  “Our House is honored,” she said, bowing.

  “It was an honor to serve,” Pat Rin replied, properly, and bowed even lower.

  “Hah.” She considered him out of tired brown eyes. “And what else do you bring me, child of Korval?”

  Pat Rin moved his hand and Betea came forward, bowing as he had shown her.

  “This is Betea sen’Equa; her name appears in the last entry in the book. Alas, Fal Den wrote neither a plus nor minus beside her name, nor any other elaboration; and I am unable to precisely reconstruct his will regarding her.”

  The brown eyes narrowed. “I have read the last entry, and found it unilluminating. ‘In consideration of the melant’i of all involved, all debts in this pairing must be considered satisfied, pending the delm’s acceptance of the matter’.”

  Pat Rin bowed acknowledgment. “Just so. Betea took part in the scheme which caused Fal Den’s death; it was something in which I feel she was also a victim. Your kinsman could not himself squarely place the debt, nor can I. The best Balance I may craft is to suggest that you spea
k with this person, candidly and at length, and that a new Balance be struck if need be, to Balance the loss of Fal Den’s worth.” He paused, then added, with utmost delicacy.

  “I also suggest that you consult most closely with your business advisors about the matters this woman may reveal before setting that worth. Had it not been for the unfortunate public suicide of Hia Cyn…”

  “Yo’Tonin. I have heard the news of that, and I have—as you may understand—heard other news of that. I would not have had such a necessity forced upon you.”

  “The necessity was mine, Imtal. I could hardly have refused to serve Fal Den’s wishes.”

  There was a short silence, then an inclination of the head. “As you say. I assume that this is the young person who was wounded in the service our House?”

  “Imtal, it is.”

  “Hah.” The brown eyes now frankly swept Betea. “My father knew your Grandmother. Well.”

  Betea managed a strong voice: “My grandmother knew many people. Well.”

  It was the correct response. Imtal smiled. “Assuredly, we shall need to talk—candidly and at length.”

  To Pat Rin and inclined her head. “My thanks for your service to our House."

  That was a dismissal. Pat Rin bowed. “My thanks for the forbearance of the House. I grieve for your loss, as well as my own.”

  That said, and most properly, he allowed himself to be ushered from the room.

  Trading In Futures

  Adventures in the Liaden Universe #5

  2001

  ISBN 1-58787-208-0

  Balance of Trade

  “If you trade with Liadens, trade careful, and for the gods’ love don’t come sideways of honor.”

  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 gripped 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 gripped 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’vya, 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.

  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 cantra.”

  “Two?” The Liaden’s shoulders moved again—not a shrug, but expressive of some emotion. Amusement, Jethri thought. Or anger.