"We have now the odd-spots to fill in three pods," Master ven'Deelin said. "You will finish Pod Seventeen—note your cubes and balance limits. Your credit draw is unlocked and our complete manifest is open to you. Do not purchase anything we already own without asking. Please click one forward now—yes. You are the buyer of record. If desirable items which will not fit into your space come to note, please highlight."
In moments, he was sweating, leaning over the screen, shoulders stiff with tension. The credit account showed a ridiculous number of
cantra
for him to draw on. He flicked down the lists, trying for density; found hand tools at a good price, reached to place his bid—and the lot was gone, snatched away by a quick-fingered trader on another incoming ship.
Frustrated, he went back to the list, found a case of Genuine Blusharie on offer, touched the tab for more information—and the item vanished from his screen, claimed by another.
He put his hand on the buy switch and hunched forward, breath maybe a little short—and suddenly there was Uncle Paitor, frowning at him from memory and delivering a lecture on "auction fever"—the urge to buy quickly in order to buy first, or to buy first in order to beat the market—and how a trader above all needed a cool head in a hot situation.
Carefully, Jethri sat back and eased his hand off the switch. He flipped back through the items that had been on offer for awhile—and smiled. Reasonable cost, good density, real wooden products that would likely sell in both Terran and Liaden markets. Yes. He reached out and pushed the buy button.
The screen blinked at him; the offer accepted, the trade made. Jethri nodded and returned to the list, calmer for having committed some of his capital to solid stock.
The diagram at the bottom left showed Pod Seventeen ninety-two percent full. He could use something like that twelfth of textiles, or maybe some stasis wheat. . .
Concentrating, he barely noticed when
Elthoria
achieved orbit, though he did register Gaenor's voice, speaking over the intercom.
It seemed that the offerings were coming in slower now; he had time to access the deep infoscreens. He highlighted several, and heard the master trader murmur once, "Excellent," and, again, "I think this is too large a quantity to carry in, Apprentice."
Pod Seventeen glowed green in the diagram—full. He blinked, and sat back, felt a light touch on his sleeve and looked over to Norn ven'Deelin. She smiled.
"If you buy anything more, my son, you will be buying for yourself. We have done well, you and I. Now, I suggest a meal, if you will honor me."
Now that he thought about it, he was hungry, Jethri realized. Carefully, he shut down his console, slid the chair back on its track and looked around.
About a third of the bridge crew was gone, relieved while he sat over his console, their work done while his continued. Gaenor's station was empty; at the far end of the bridge, the captain sat his board.
Jethri rose, cleared the chair's settings in case someone followed him in it, and walked with Norn ven'Deelin toward the door. She reached out and put her palm against the plate—
"Master Trader." Captain yo'Lanna had spun his chair and was looking at them, his face empty of any emotion that Jethri could read. "A moment of your time, if you will."
Master ven'Deelin sighed, largely. "Bah. Details, always details." She patted his arm. "Go—eat. When you are through, present yourself to Pen Rel and learn about those things he considers it prudent for you to carry portside here."
"Yes, ma'am." He inclined his head and she hurried away.
He touched his ear, remembering the comm, and looked to the officer on deck.
"Keep it, of your kindness, Trader," he said. "Doubtless, you will have need of it again."
That warmed him, and he slipped the comm off and stowed it in a pocket.
From across the bridge came the master trader's voice, sounding outright irritated. Jethri paused, frowning. He was beginning to be able to follow her quicker conversations, and this one was fraught with words sounding like, "Vouch for every transaction?" "Recertification is absurd!" and "I will speak to the Guild, and I am a master!"
None of that sounded like business for a 'prentice, and, besides, he'd been given his orders and his course—lunch; then Pen Rel.
He strode out and away from the bridge, feeling something just this side of a headache and just that side of an earache trying to form. Despite which, he did note that he was in possession of a good deal more information about his ship and its business than he had before this shift.
It was off-schedule for lunch, but the second cook filled him a plate of goodies, which he ate by himself in the empty cafeteria, mulling over the cargo buys that had gotten away.
THE TRADING TOUR of Modrid went at lightspeed, with Jethri doing nothing more useful than stand at the master trader's elbow while she negotiated for luxury pieces and high-sell items—gemstones, wines, porcelains, and three packs of what were billed as "playing cards" that cost twice what the rest had, total.
"So, now, that is done," Master ven'Deelin said, turning away from the last table, and motioning him to walk with her. "What did you learn, young Jethri?"
"Well," he said, thinking over her approach, the deft assurance with which she had negotiated—it had been like watching a play-act, or a port bully shaking down a mark. "I learned that I have a fair distance to go before anyone mistakes me for a master trader."
"What's this?" She threw a bright black glance into his face. "Do you aspire to silver tongue after all?"
He blinked at her. "No, ma'am—at least, not unless it's something you think I should learn. I was merely trying to convey that I am all admiration of your style and skill."
"Worse and worse!" She put her hand on his sleeve. "As to whether it is something you should learn. . . You should know how to flatter, and you should cultivate a reputation as one who does not flatter. Do you understand me?"
He thought he did, as it seemed to echo something of Master tel'Ondor's philosophy of bows.
"A reputation as someone who does not flatter is a weapon. If I . . . am required to flatter someone in order to gain advantage, then they will know me to be sincere, and be disarmed."
Her eyebrows lifted, and her fingers tightened, exerting brief pressure before she withdrew her hand.
"You learn quickly, my child. Perhaps it will not be so long until you wear the amethyst." She waved her hand, perhaps by way of illustration, the big purple ring flashing its facets.
"We will now adjourn to Modrid trade hall to set you properly on the path to glory."
Which could, Jethri thought, mean just about anything.
"I would be interested," she said as they walked on, "in hearing your opinion of our last items of trade, if you would honor me, young Jethri."
He thought back to the decks—sealed with a pale blue ribbon and a blot of wax. The vendor had set the price at two kais per and Master ven'Deelin had barely dickered at all, taking him down to one kais six per more as a matter of keeping her hand in, as it seemed to Jethri, than because she had thought the original price over-high.
"I could not see the seal properly from where I stood, ma'am," he said slowly, "but I deduce that the decks may have been bought for certain collectors of your acquaintance, who set a high value on sealed decks from gaming." He paused, considering the price again, and added. "It may be that these particular decks are a rarity—perhaps from a gaming house which no longer operates."
"Hah." She inclined her head slightly. "Well reasoned, and on point. We have today purchased three decks of cards made for the Casino Deregar, which had been built in the depleted mining tunnels of an asteroid, and enjoyed much renown until it disintegrated some twenty-three Standards ago. We are very fortunate to have found three in their original condition, and at a price most commonly paid for broken decks."
Her praise warmed him, and he nearly smiled, which would never do, out here in public. He took a second to order his face before he asked, "How are the broken decks pedigreed?"
"An excellent question!" Master ven'Deelin said as they passed a food stall. The spicy smell woke Jethri's stomach, as they moved on, walking briskly. "Deregar cards are most distinctive. I have a broken deck aboard
Elthoria
. When we return, you must examine it. Ah, here we are! I ask your indulgence for a short time more, my son, and then we will provide us both with a well-deserved meal."
Jethri felt his ears warm. He hadn't thought his stomach's complaint had been that loud!
Master ven'Deelin paused before a large metal door, and swiped a card through the scan. The light clicked from yellow to orange, and the door opened. She strolled through, Jethri at her heels.
Inside, he paused, somewhat taken aback by the scope of the thing. The hall stretched out, the ceiling just this side of uncomfortably high, with long vents cut into it, allowing the outside light to fall through and down to brighten up the red stone floor. The walls were white and nubbly. A long wooden ledge has been built into the right-hand wall, a light red cushion laid along its length. The left wall was covered in a large tapestry of surpassing ugliness, which was undoubtedly, Jethri thought, catching the tell-tale signs, handmade—and probably historic, too.
Along the back wall was a wooden counter, and that was what Master ven'Deelin was on course for, her boots making little gritty skritches against the stone floor.
Jethri stretched his legs to catch up with her, passing through pockets of sunlight, and caught up just as she put her hand over a plate built into the counter.
Somewhere far back, a chime sounded. A heartbeat later, a young man in an orange jacket embroidered with the sign of the Liaden Trade Guild stepped to the other side of the counter and inclined his head respectfully.
"Master Trader. How may I serve you?"
"I wish to speak with the hall master. You may say that it is ven'Deelin who asks it."
The head-tip this time was a little deeper, Jethri saw, as if 'ven'Deelin' was worth an extra measure of respect even above 'master trader.'
"I will inform the hall master of your presence. A moment only, of your goodness."
He vanished back the way he'd come. Master ven'Deelin moved her shoulders and looked up at Jethri, though he hadn't said anything.
"Soon, my child. This should encompass but moments."
He was going to tell her that he wasn't
that
hungry when the door at the end of the counter opened and the man in the orange jacket bowed.
"Master Trader. Sir. The hall master is honored to speak with you. Please, attend me now."
"MASTER TRADER VEN'DEELIN, well-met." The man who stood up from behind the glossy black desk was white-haired; his face showing lines across his forehead, by his eyes, around his mouth. He stood tall and straight-backed as a younger, though, and his eyes were blue and clear.
"I am Del Orn dea'Lystra, master of Modrid Trade Hall. How may I be of service to you?"
"In a small matter of amending the record, Hall Master. I am embarrassed that I must need bring it to your attention. But, before we continue, allow me to introduce to you my apprentice, Jethri Gobelyn." She moved a hand, calling the hall master's attention to Jethri, who tried to stand tall without looking like a threat. He might have saved himself the trouble.
Hall Master dea'Lystra's clear blue eyes turned chilly, and he didn't bother to incline his head or take any other notice of Jethri other than, "I see," directed at Master ven'Deelin.
"Do you?" she asked. "I wonder. But! A hall master is not one who has many moments at leisure. Allow me, please, to proceed directly to my business."
The hall master inclined his head, granting her permission with, Jethri thought, a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.
"So," said Master ven'Deelin. "As it happens,
Elthoria
achieved orbit yesterday. We, of course, took advantage of the time incoming to place goods and make purchases." She moved her hand, once again showing Jethri to the hall master, who once again didn't bother to look.
"At my direction, and using his assigned sub-account, this my apprentice did make numerous purchases. And yet, when the trading was done and recorded, what do I have but a message from Modrid Trade Hall, demanding that I recertify all the purchases made by my apprentice, at my direction, using the proper codes." She inclined her head, slightly.
"Clearly, something has gone awry with the records. I would ask that you rectify this problem immediately."
The hall master moved his shoulders and showed his hands, palm up, in a gesture meaning, vaguely, 'alas'.
"Master Trader, I am desolate, but we may not allow a Terran guild status."
"May we not?" Master ven'Deelin asked, soft enough to send a chill running down Jethri's neck, if the hall master didn't have so much sense. "I wonder when that regulation was accepted by the masters."
Hall Master dea'Lystra bowed, lightly and with irony. "Some things are self-evident, I fear. No one disputes a master trader's right to take what apprentice she will. Guild status is another consideration all together." He spared Jethri a brief, scathing stare. "This person has no qualifications to recommend him."
Like being Norn ven'Deelin's 'prentice wasn't a qualification? Jethri thought, feeling his temper edge up—which was no good thing, the Gobelyns being known for their tempers. He took a breath, trying to swallow it, but then what did the fool do but incline his head and say, like Master ven'Deelin was no more account than a dock monkey, "I trust that concludes our business. Good-day."
"No," Jethri heard his own voice say, in the mode between traders, "it does not conclude our business. Your assertion that I have no qualifications pertinent to the guild is, alas, in error. I hold a ten-year key from the Terran Combine."
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Master ven'Deelin throw him a stare. The hall master moved his shoulders, indifferent.