Jethri turned. "You know what is in this pod," he said, not asking.
Tan Sim blinked, and then bowed slightly from his lean. "I know what was on the manifest," he said, "and the devil's own time I had finding it, too."
"So?" Jethri walked toward him. "What were they shipping? Flegetets, dead and rotted, these sixty years? Cheeses, moldy and poisonous? Wine, now vinegar?"
Tan Sim moved a shoulder, grimacing. The bruises had risen with a will overnight, leaving his face a patchwork of yellow and purple.
"Mind you," he said, raising a hand. "I could only trace the registry number, which is in series with those ceded Clan Dartom, some sixty Standards gone. Indeed, Clan Dartom is itself fifty Standards gone, and nothing to say but that this pod was sold and sold again on the unregistered market."
"Clan Dartom is—gone?" Jethri asked, thinking epic scales of revenge, like in one of Khat's stories—or Gaenor's novels.
"Peace," Tan Sim said, as if he had read Jethri's thoughts—or was perhaps himself a reader of novels. "Dartom was based upon a young outworld; a plague destroyed them and the rest of the population, very speedily. Not even a kitten left alive. Medical analysis failed to produce anyone who might even be named a cousin." He waved a languid hand in the direction of the pod.
"So, Dartom's remaining uncontaminated assets fell to the Council of Clans, which took what it wanted, and distributed the remainder by lot. They then wrote Dartom out of the Book of Clans, and put paid to the matter."
"Anyone could have bought this pod at auction, then," Jethri said. "Or, as you say, on the unregistered market. And those who buy such things sometimes have unregistered business."
"In pursuit of which they would be foolish in the extreme to file a manifest," Tan Sim agreed.
Jethri turned back to the pod, and once again subjected the seals to the most minute scrutiny possible. Unbreached. Impossible to tell how long they had been sealed.
"You found a manifest," he said, turning back to Tan Sim. "How long ago?"
"Fifty-three years, which does put it in a . . . problematic time frame."
"The pod spent some time in the sea," Jethri pointed out.
"True, but we have no date there, either." Tan Sim turned his palms up, showing them empty. "Indeed, we have but one firm date: The salvage rig's log shows that it was brought into port two Standards back, when it was purchased by this yard, in lot with another dozen newer. This—" Tan Sim wiggled his fingers in the pod's general direction. "This was on the list for break-up, but the scrap market is over-subscribed and there is for the scrappers the considerable risk involved in taking possession of unknown goods."
"So they would just as soon sell it and shift the risk to other shoulders." Jethri sighed. "The manifest is public record?" he asked.
"My friend, public record?" Tan Sim bent upon him a look of gentle reproof. "The manifest had been sealed, then deep archived after the seal expired. Your average salvager, with his mind properly on scrap, is hardly busy mucking about in municipal archives, much less completing the rather daunting forms required by the Guild before one who is not a trader may request permission to pull and cross-reference ancient databases."
Jethri bowed acknowledgment, offering honor for a difficult task well-performed.
Tan Sim's bow of acceptance was nearly lost against the wall of Jethri's thought.
Jethri looked back to the pod. He
liked
it. He couldn't have put it otherwise, except that he had a good feeling about whatever might prove to be inside.
"What was on the manifest?"
"Ore, raw gem, artisan's metals."
Nonperishables. High profit nonperishables, at that. If it was the right manifest. If it was the right pod, for that matter, it not being unknown for someone to borrow the legitimate registration number of a legitimate pod for illegitimate business.
"Buy the pod, sell the contents and realize more than enough profit to have the clamps refitted," he said. Again Tan Sim lifted a shoulder.
"A manifest, which may or may not be legitimate, for a pod which may or may not be this one? If I were plumper in the purse—perhaps. My present purse instructs me to assume that what is in that pod are dead flegetets, moldy cheese, and spoiled wine."
Jethri had done the math last night, worrying over his liquid. It were the Stinks money that made the difference—not quite enough to fund a ship, like Khat had joked, but close enough to fund this deal, after reserving an amount against the future. 'Course, there was more than enough money in his certification drawing account to cover the pod—and the clamps, too—but he didn't think the hall exactly wanted him to be using those funds for private deals.
"I will put four kais against the pod," he said to Tan Sim, "if we agree that the contents, whatever they are found to be, are mine, while the pod itself is yours."
Tan Sim raised his eyebrows, face thoughtful. Doing his own math, Jethri thought, and settled himself to wait.
"Four-six," Tan Sim said, eventually, which was about half the jump Jethri had been prepared to meet.
He inclined his head. "Done. Now, we shall need the pod moved to a less precarious position. What do you suggest?"
"As to that—nothing easier. The refit shop will send a hauler. They assured me that they have the means to unseal the pod without damaging the mechanisms, so the day after tomorrow should see an answer to your gamble. After which," he said, coming creakily out of his lean, "you may have free with whatever it is, and the shop will get on with the business of the clamps."
Jethri looked at him, and Tan Sim had the grace to look, just a little, discomfited.
"I thought you might do something like you have done," he said, softly. "So I made inquiries yesterday after we had parted." He sighed.
"I hope you will realize great profit, Jeth Ree."
"As to that," Jethri retorted. "I hope for a decent return."
Tan Sim grinned and offered his arm. "Spoken like a trader! Come, let us give the yardman his deposit and return to the hall to write the partnership papers."
THE PARTNERSHIP CONTRACT having been duly written, accepted and recorded by the hall scrivener, Jethri bounded up the stairs to his quarters, Tan Sim on his heels.
"Come and call the refit shop, so they may schedule an early pickup," he said as they moved down the hall. "For the salvage price—- my part is in coin, which I will give to you, and you may transfer the balance to the yard."
Tan Sim smiled. "Such trusting ways. How if we both put our coin into the revolving account and authorize the hall to make the transfer in our names?"
Jethri paused in the act of unlocking the door to stare at him. "I had no idea such a thing was possible."
"Innocent. When we have sent the transfer, I will quiz you on the services a trader might expect a third tier hall to provide."
The lock twittered and Jethri pushed the door open. "Is Irikwae in the third—" he began—and stopped, staring into his room.
All was neat and orderly, precisely as he had left it, with one addition.
Miandra sat cross-legged on his work table, reading a book.
Behind him, Tan Sim made a small noise, very much like a sneeze.
Miandra raised her head, showing them a face that was eerily serene.
"Cousin Jethri," she said clearly. "We need to talk."
Uh-oh.
"Certainly," Tan Sim said briskly, "the necessities of kin carry all before it. Jeth Ree, I will make that call from the Trade Bar and meet you there, when you have done here. Lady."
Jethri turned, but the door was already closing, with Tan Sim on the other side. He engaged the lock, then walked over to where Miandra sat, and stood looking down into her face.
She met his gaze without flinching, chin well up, an I-dare-you look in her eyes.
He sighed.
"How much trouble are you in?"
The chin might've quivered; the eyes never faltered.
"None, until they find me."
Well, that was the way it usually was, wasn't it? Jethri frowned.
"I thought you wanted my help."
She bit her lip. "I—indeed, Jethri, I am not certain what is that you might do. But I
will not
remain with the Healers, and I—fear—that I
cannot
go home. . . "
Jethri sighed again and made a long arm, hooking the desk chair to him. He sat down and looked up at her, showing her his hands, palm up, fingers spread, empty.
"I think you had better lay it out for me, one step at a time."
"Yes, I suppose I had better." She closed the book and put it on the table beside her, then leaned forward, elbow propped against a knee, chin nestled on her palm.
"As you know, I was to be evaluated by the Healers. Indeed, by the master healer himself. The evaluation—" she shot him a sharp glance. "You understand, Jethri, that when I say in this context that I was pushed, or prodded or that thus-and-so hurt me, I am not speaking of physical things, but rather use those words as an approximation of the exact . . . sensation. . . because there are no words precisely for those sensations."
He inclined his head. "But I may still understand that you found those things so described to be distressing and not at all what you could like, is that so?"
She smiled. "That is so, yes."
"Very well, then," Jethri said, starting to feel grim. "The master healer himself was assigned to your evaluation. What came next?"
"I was asked to—to take my shields down and to submit my will to the will of the master," she began, after a moment—and sent him another sharp glance. "This is not at all unusual and I did as I was bid. The master then began his examination, pushing here, prodding there—nothing terribly painful, but nothing pleasant either."
It sounded, Jethri owned, tiresome enough, something like a clinic check-up, with the medic pushing hard fingers here and there, trying to determine what was in line and what was out.
"Unpleasant, but hardly worth running away," he commented.
Miandra inclined her head. "I agree. After a time, the master began to concentrate on—say, a section of my will—and to—assault it. The first strike was so painful that I threw my shields up before I had even thought to do so. The master, of course, was very angry and had me lower them, whereupon he once again brought all of his scrutiny to bear on—on this anomaly in my—in my pattern." She sighed sharply. "By which I mean to convey that there are certain . . . constructions of intertwining ego, will, and intellect, which are intelligible to those who have Healer talent. While each pattern is unique, there are those which tend to be formed in a certain way—and which, more often than not, are indicative of Healer ability."
"So, the master healer was saying he thought your pattern was—shaped oddly," Jethri said, to show he was following this.
Miandra inclined her head. "Indeed, he went so far as to state that he felt it was this anomaly which was responsible for limiting my growth as a Healer, and he proposed to—restructure that portion, in order to allow my talent to flow more freely."
Jethri frowned. "He can do that?"
"That, easily," she assured him. "It is what Healers do."
Right. Jethri closed his eyes. Opened them.
"All right. So the master decided he would reshape you so you would look more like he thinks a Healer ought to. Then?"
She bit her lip.
"It—I told him that the process was . . . causing me pain. He assured me that it was not, and—pushed—harder." She glanced aside, took a hard breath and looked back to him, blue eyes swimming with tears.
"The pain was—immense. Truly, Jethri, I felt that I was afire, my flesh crisping off my bones as I stood there. I
pushed
, and threw my shields up."
"I see." He considered that, staring down at his hands where they rested on his knee, the one sporting a slightly grubby bandage. He looked up to find her watching him worriedly.
"Which moon did he fall onto?" he asked, mildly.
Miandra smiled, shakily. "You overestimate my poor abilities, cousin. I merely put him onto the top shelf of the bookcase." She took a breath. "Then I walked out, through the main reception hall. I willed that no one would see me, and no one did. And then I came here, and—overrode the lock and sat down to wait for you."
"Are they looking for you?"
"I suppose they must be, eventually." Another shaky smile appeared. "But as long as I keep my shields in place, they will not find me."
For however long that might be. He forbore from asking what happened to her shields when she slept. First order of business was to tell her what she'd done right. So—
"The rule on the ship I was born to was that one is allowed to defend oneself. Defense should be delivered as quickly and as decisively as possible, in order to prevent a second attack." He inclined his head, solemnly. "You have fulfilled ship rule admirably and I have no complaint to make regarding your actions to this point."
Relief washed her face.
"Our challenge now," Jethri continued, "is to be certain that our actions from this point on continue to be honorable and in the best interest of the ship." He tipped his head.
"That means you can't just hide on the port for the rest of your life."
Miandra outright laughed. "My shields aren't that good."
Jethri grinned, and let it fade into as serious a look as he could muster.
"You will need to let the house know where you are. Sooner or later the Healers will have to call and admit that you've gone missing. That information is certain to distress your sister, your cousins and your delm, unless they know you are safe."
Miandra's look had turned stubborn.
"If I go home, Ren Lar will send me back. If I call, Aunt Stafeli will order me to return to Healer Hall."
Both probably true. But—
"If you explained to them what you have explained to me, that the examination was painful in the extreme and that you fear for your health if it continues?"
She considered it, chewing her lip. "That might bear weight with Aunt Stafeli, but Ren Lar—I do not believe that Ren Lar would be swayed, if I told him that the evaluation would, without doubt, murder me." She sighed. "Ren Lar is a badly frightened man. Old Technology and wizard's get,
both
in his household! It is too much to bear."