Except that her good name was nothing like a game, Jethri thought—and he knew so little.
"Yes, ma'am," he said, trying not to sound as miserable as he felt.
"Good. Now, while we are in the mode of change—you will find your duty cycle has likewise changed. You will spend tomorrow and the following four days assisting Cargo Master per'Etla with the pods. It is mete that you have an understanding of the intricacies of the cargo master's art."
As it happened, he had a pretty good understanding of the cargo master's art, the
Market
not exactly shipping a cargo master. He remembered sitting next to his father, staring in fascination while Arin worked out the logistics of mass and spin. Come to that, neither Paitor nor Grig was likely to have let him get away without knowing how to balance a pod. Granted,
Elthoria
could probably ship all
Market's
pods in one of hers, but the art of the thing ought to be constant.
Jethri cleared his throat. "I have had some training in this area, Master Trader," he said, hoping he had the right mix of polite and assured.
"Ah, excellent!" she said, spreading jam over the second half of her roll. "Then you will be more of a help than a hindrance to my good friend per'Etla."
Somehow, Jethri thought, that didn't sound as encouraging as it might have. He glanced down at the roll in his hand, and reached for the jam pot.
"I have some news from the Guild which you may find of interest," Norn ven'Deelin murmured.
Jethri glanced up from spreading jam. "Ma'am?"
"Another game of counterfeit cards has been exposed and closed, this at the port of Riindel."
He blinked, at a loss for a heartbeat, then memory caught up with him. "They weren't using your card, ma'am, were they?"
"Our card, my son. But no—you may put any fear of a taint to our
melant'i
aside. Those at Riindel had chosen to honor Ziergord with their attention."
Whoever Ziergord was. Jethri inclined his head. "I'm glad the wrongdoers were caught," he said, which had the advantage of being both true and unlikely to be found an improper response. "Surely any others who have been tempted will see that the . . . game. . . is dangerous and refuse to play."
There was a small silence. "Indeed, perhaps they will," Master ven'Deelin said politely.
Too politely, to Jethri's ear. He looked up, questioning, only to be met with a smile and a small movement of her hand.
"Eat your breakfast, my son," she murmured. "It will not do to be late to trade."
BUSINESS WAS BRISK at the booth, with merchant folk and traders lined up to have a word of business with Master ven'Deelin. As near as Jethri could tell, every last one of them was invited to "dinner"—not that he had all that much time to eavesdrop, being busy with customers of his own.
Today, the textile was of interest. Over and over, he showed his samples, and gave his speech about hand looming and plant dyes. Occasionally he caught what was—he thought—a careful glance at his new pin, claiming him of Ixin. Yet it was not curiosity which drew these people, it was the trade, and he reveled in it. Often enough, the client left him with a counter and a trade-card, which he took great care to keep paired and ordered on the wire above his station.
He hung the last pair up and looked down, face arranged politely, to greet the next in line—and froze.
Before him stood Bar Jan chel'Gaibin, hands tucked into his sleeves and a gleam in his pale eyes that reminded Jethri forcibly of Mac Gold in a mood for a brawl.
Casually, the Liaden inclined his head. "Good day to you,
son
of ven'Deelin. I bring you tidings of your friend, Tan Sim pen'Akla, who has been sent to make his way along the tertiary trade lanes, for the best good of the clan." He inclined his head again, snarky-like, daring Jethri to hit him. "I thought you might find the news of interest."
Teeth grinding, face so bland his cheeks hurt, Jethri inclined his head—not far.
"One is always grateful for news of friends," he said, which was about as far as he could trust his voice with Tan Sim thrown off his ship in sacrifice of this man's spite. . .
chel'Gaibin lifted his eyebrows. "Just so," he said softly, and with no further courtesy turned his back and walked away.
In the momentary absence of customers, Jethri let his breath out in a short, pungent Terran phrase, and turned his attention to the samples, which were sorely in need of order.
"Young Jethri," Master ven'Deelin said some while later, during a lull in the business. "I wonder if you might enlighten me as to a certain Terran—I assume it is Terran—phrase that I have recently heard."
Ears warming, he turned to look at her. "I will do my best, ma'am."
"Certainly, when have you ever failed at that? I confess myself quite terrified of you—but, there, I will give over teasing you and only ask: This word
sobe
. What is its meaning?"
He blinked. "Sobe? I do not think. . . "
"Sobe," Master ven'Deelin interrupted. "I am certain that was the word. Perhaps it was directed at the departing back of a certain young trader. Yes, that is where I heard it! 'You sobe,' was the very phrase."
"Oh." His ears were hot now, and well on the way to spontaneous combustion. "That would, um, denote a person of—who has no manners, ma'am."
"Ah, is it so?" She tipped her head, as if considering the merit of his answer. "Yes, the particular young trader—it could perhaps be said that his manner wants polish. A useful word, my son; I thank you for making it known to me."
"Yes ma'am. Um." He cleared his throat. "I note that it is not. . . a courteous word."
"Understood. In the High Tongue, we say, 'thus-and-so has
no melant'i
.' It is not a statement made lightly."
"No, ma'am."
She reached out and patted him on the arm. "We shall speak of these matters at greater length. In the meanwhile, I have extinguished the light for an hour. Pray do me the kindness of seeking out the booth of Clan Etgora—it will be the glass and star on the flag—and say to my old friend del'Fordan that it would ease my heart greatly to behold his face, and that he must, of his kindness, dine with us this evening. Eh? After that, you may find yourself something to eat. If I am not here when you return, light the lamp and do your part. Any who have need of me will wait a few moments." She cocked her head. "Is that understood, young Jethri?"
He bowed. "Master Trader, it is."
"Hah." Once more, she patted his arm. "We must teach you, 'obedience to an elder.' Go now, and take my message to del'Fordan."
THE TRADE LAMP was still out when he returned to the booth, just under an hour later. Despite this, there were two lines of traders waiting patiently, a long line on the Master Trader's side; and a much shorter on his.
Jethri hurried forward, reached up and turned the key, waiting until the disk glowed blue before he ducked under the counter and pulled back the curtain. He ran a quick eye over his samples, then bowed to his first prospect.
"Good-day to you, sir. May I be honored to bring to your attention to these examples of the textile maker's art?"
He was deep into his third presentation when Master ven'Deelin arrived, took her place and began to trade. It seemed to him, even from his side of the booth, that her cadence and attention were off a bit, as if she were bothered by a bad stomach or headache or other ill.
It was some hours before there was a lull sufficient for him to ask her if something was wrong.
"Wrong?" She moved her shoulders. "Perhaps not—surely not." Her mouth tightened and she looked aside and he thought she would say no more, but after a moment she sighed and murmured.
"You surprise, Jethri my son. It is nothing so definite as
wrong
—but there, you have a proper trader's eye for detail, and a sense of the rhythm of trade. . . ." She moved a hand, fingers flicking as if she cast that line of chat aside.
"It came to me," she said softly, reaching to the counter to straighten a display book that didn't need it, "that perhaps a certain practice—which is not, you understand, entirely against guild rule—had lately surfaced upon Tilene. So, I betook myself to the Trade Bar to learn if this was the case."
Jethri looked at her, feeling a little chilly, of a sudden.
Master ven'Deelin moved her shoulders. "Well, and it is not entirely against guild rule, as I said. Merely, it is a measure found . . . inefficient. . . and not clearly to the best interest of the trade." It seemed to Jethri that she sagged—and then straightened, shoulders thrown back with a will and a sparkle showing hard in her black eyes.
"Well, it is not ours, and never was. I had thought to meddle, but, there—the thing is done."
"But—" said Jethri, but just then a customer came up to his side of the booth, and he had no more chance to talk to Norn ven'Deelin for the rest of the long, busy day.
MASTER TEL'ONDOR BOWED, low and extravagant, Honor to a Lord Not One's Own, or so it read to Jethri, who was in no mood to be tweaked, tutor or no. His head ached from a long day on the floor, the spanking new shirt with its lacy cuffs foretold disasters involving sauces and jellies across its brilliant white field. And now he was here to learn the way to go on at an intimate dinner for two hundred of Master ven'Deelin's closest friends—all in the next twelve minutes.
Curtly, he answered the Protocol Officer's bow—nothing more than the sharpest and starkest of bows, straightening to glare straight into the man's eyes.
Master tel'Ondor outright
laughed
.
"Precisely!" he crowed, and held his hand out, fingers smoothing the air in the gesture that roughly meant "peace."
"Truly, young Jethri, I am all admiration.
Thus
shall impertinence be answered—and yes, I was impertinent. Some you may meet—at this gather this evening, or at other times—some may wish to dazzle you, some may wish to take advantage. You would do well to answer them all so—a ven'Deelin born would do no less."
Jethri considered him. "And what about those who merely wish to establish a proper mode?"
"Ah, excellent." Master tel'Ondor's eyes gleamed. "It will perhaps be done thus—" The bow between equals, that was. "Or this—" Child of the House of an Ally. "Or even—" Senior Trader to Junior.
"Anything more . . . elaborate, we shall say, may be viewed with the sharpest suspicion. I leave to you to decide—as I see your intuition is sound—the scope of your answers there."
Jethri closed his eyes. "Master tel'Ondor. . . "
"Yes, yes! You are to learn the entire mode of High House fosterling in the next eight heartbeats, eh? I will be plain with you, young Jethri—neither your skills nor mine are sufficient to meet this challenge. Demonstrate, if you please, your bow of introduction—yes. And of farewell? . . . adequate. Once more—yes. Now—of obedience?"
Jethri complied and heard the protocol officer sigh.
But: "It will suffice," Master tel'Ondor said, and moved his hands, shooing Jethri toward the door. "Go. Contrive not to shame me."
Jethri grinned and inclined his head. "Good evening, sir."
"Bah," said Master tel'Ondor.
HE NEEDN'T HAVE WORRIED about ruining his pretty new shirt with sauce stains or soup spots. It soon became clear that, while Master ven'Deelin expected her guests to eat—and eat well—from the buffet spread along three of four walls of the so-called Little Hall, she herself—with him a shadow attached to her left elbow—prowled the room, with the apparent intent of speaking with everyone present.
She did supply herself with a glass of wine, and insisted that he do the same, with instructions to sip when she did, then slipped into the crowd, where her headway went down to a step or two at a time, in between bows and conversation.
Jethri found the conversation singularly frustrating; spoken wholly in modes other than the mercantile, and much more rapidly than his half-trained ear could accommodate.
The exception to this was the beginning of every exchange, in which he was brought a step forward by a soft hand on his arm. "One's foster child, Jethri," Master ven'Deelin would say, and he would make his plain bow of greeting. Then she would make him known to the person she was speaking with, who, almost without exception bowed as to the child of an ally.
He would then repeat their name, with a polite dip of the head, and the talk would jet over his head in a poetry of alien syllables.
A word or two here and there—he did catch those. Sometimes, a whole phrase unrolled inside his ears. Rarely enough to help him piece together the full sense of the conversation. He did find time to be glad that the default mode for facial expression was bland; at least he didn't have to pretend to be interested in what he couldn't understand. And he used his idle time to consider the scale and scope of the 'dinner party,' trying to figure what the point of it might be.
A gathering less like a common spacer's shivary would be hard to find, he thought. Where there'd be music and singing and boozing and smooching at a shivary, here there was the music of many different and low-key conversations. While everyone he could see had a wine glass in one hand, nobody seemed drunk, or even boisterous. And if there was any smooching going on. . . Well, frankly, he'd come to wonder how it was that any new Liadens got made.
"Good evening," a soft voice purred in his ear. Trade had never sounded so pretty, and Jethri jerked around and looked down, meeting a melting pair of gray eyes set at a slight angle in a heart-shaped golden face, framed by wispy gilt hair.
"Good . . . evening," he managed and bowed the bow of introduction. "Jethri Gobelyn. In what way may I serve you, ma'am?"
Her lips curved in a tightly controlled smile. "Parvet sig'Flava. I had in mind a way in which we might each serve the other, if you are of like mind. The evening grows tedious and I would welcome a . . . diversion. . . such as yourself." She swayed half a step forward, her melting gray gaze never leaving his face.