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Day 168
Standard Year 1118
Irikwae Port

"I DON'T KNOW WHY he needs you here so early," Anecha muttered as she opened the big car's cargo compartment.

Jethri reached in, got hold of the strap and pulled his duffle out, slinging the strap over one shoulder.

"The port never closes," he said, softly. "Master yos'Arimyst has likely done me the courtesy of being sure that I arrive during his on-shift."

Anecha sent him one of her sharp, unreadable glances. "So, you interpret it as courtesy, do you? You've a more giving melant'i than some of us, then, Jethri Gobelyn." She swung the second bag out of the boot and got it up on a shoulder.

"I can carry that," he said mildly. She snorted and used her chin to point at the bag he already wore.

"Can isn't should," she said. "I'll have that one, too. Or do you think I will allow Norn ven'Deelin's son to walk into the guildhall dragging his own luggage, like a Low House roustabout?"

He blinked at her. "It can't be improper for an apprentice to carry his own bags—- and his master's, too."

"Nothing more proper, if the master is present. However, when the apprentice is the representative of the master—"

Right. Then the honors that would properly go to the master were bestowed upon her 'prentice. Jethri sighed, quietly. Eventually—say, a couple years after he saw his eightieth birthday, he'd have melant'i thoroughly understood.

"So," said Anecha, with a great deal of restraint, really, "if the good apprentice will deign to give me his bag?"

The other option being a long stop in the street while they argued the point—which would earn neither his melant'i nor Master ven'Deelin's any profit. Jethri stifled a second sigh and handed over the duffle, settled his jacket over his shoulders and crossed the walk to the door of the Irikwae Port traders guild hall.

The door was locked, which didn't surprise him. He swiped his crew card from Elthoria through the lock-scanner, and then set his palm against the plate.

The status light blared red, accompanied by a particularly raucous buzzer—and the door remained locked.

"I see you are expected," Anecha commented drily from behind him, "and that every courtesy has been observed."

Thinking something closely along those lines himself, Jethri slipped his crew card into a pocket and put his hand against the plate, as might any general visitor to the hall.

The status light this time flared yellow, and there was an absence of rude noise, circumstances that Jethri tentatively considered hopeful. He dropped back two steps, head cocked attentively, waiting for the doorkeeper to open the door.

"Every courtesy observed," Anecha repeated some minutes later, voice edged.

Jethri moved forward to ring the bell again. His hand had scarcely touched the plate when it and the rest of the door was snatched away, and he found himself looking, bemusedly, down into the stern face of a man in full trade dress.

"What is the meaning of this?" The man snapped. "This is the traders' hall. The zoo is in the city."

Behind him, Jethri heard Anecha draw a sharp, outraged breath, which pretty much summarized his own feelings. Still, as Master tel'Ondor had taught him, it was best to answer rudeness with courtesy—and to remember the name of the offender.

Jethri bowed, gently, and not nearly so low as apprentice ought to a full trader. He straightened, taking his time about it, and met the man's hard gray eyes.

"I arrive at the hall at this day and hour in obedience to the word of Hall Master yos'Arimyst." He slipped the letter out of his pocket and offered it, gracefully, all the while meeting that hull-steel stare, daring him to compound his rudeness.

The man's fingers flicked—and stilled. He inclined his head, which was proper enough from trader to 'prentice, and stepped back from the door, motioning Jethri within.

The vestibule was small and stark, putting Jethri forcibly in mind of an airlock. Two halls branched out of it—one left, one right.

"'prentice!" the trader shouted. "'prentice, to the door!"

Jethri winced and heard Anecha mutter behind him, though not what she said. Which was probably just as well.

From the deeps of the hall came the sound of boots hitting the floor with a will, and shortly came from the left-most corridor a girl about, Jethri thought, the same age as the twins, her hair pale yellow and her pale blue eyes heavy with sleep.

"Yes, Trader?"

He flicked nearly dismissive fingers in Jethri's direction.

"A candidate arrives. See him to quarters."

She bowed, much too low, Jethri thought, catching the frown before it got to his face. "Yes, Trader. It shall be done."

"Good," he said, and turned toward the right hall, his hard glance scraping across Jethri's face with indifference.

Behind him, Anecha stated, dispassionately, "Every courtesy."

Jethri turned his head to give her a Look. She returned it with an expression of wide innocence Khat would have paid hard credit to possess.

"Your pardon, gentles," the girl who had been summoned to deal with them stammered. "It is—understand, it is very early in the day for candidates to arrive. Though of course!—the hall stands ready to receive. . .  at any hour. . . "

Jethri raised a hand, stopping her before she tied her sentence into an irredeemable knot.

"I regret the inconvenience to the hall," he said, as gently as he could, and showed her the folded paper. "Master yos'Arimyst's own word was that I arrive at the hall no later than sixth hour today."

* * *

THE 'PRENTICE BLINKED. "But Master yos'Arimyst is scarcely ever at the hall so early in the day. Though, of course," she amended rapidly, her cheeks turning a darker gold with her blush, "I am only an apprentice, and cannot hope to understand the necessities of the hall master."

"Certainly not," Jethri said smoothly. "I wonder if Master yos'Arimyst is in the hall this morning?"

Her eyes widened. "Why, no, sir. Master yos'Arimyst left planet yesterday on guild business. He will return at the end of the relumma."

He heard Anecha draw a breath, and moved one shoulder, sharply. The crude signal got through; Anecha held her tongue.

"Certainly, guild business has precedent," he said to the waiting girl. "My name is Jethri Gobelyn. I may be in your lists as Jeth Ree ven'Deelin."

"Oh!" The girl bowed, not as deeply as she had for the irritable trader who had opened the door, but too deep, nonetheless. Briefly, Jethri wondered about the hall's protocol master.

"Parin tel'Ossa, at your word, sir." She said, eyes wide. "Please, if you will follow me, I will show you to your quarters."

"Certainly," Jethri said, and followed her down the left hall, pausing a moment to send a glance to Anecha, who managed not to meet his eyes.

* * *

THE QUARTERS WERE unexpectedly spacious, on the top level, with windows overlooking an enclosed garden. Having thanked and rid himself of both Parin and Anecha, Jethri worked the latch and pushed one of the windows wide, admitting the early breeze and the muffled sounds of the morning port.

It certainly seemed that Master yos'Arimyst intended deliberate insult to Norn ven'Deelin, through her apprentice and foster son. Or, thought Jethri, leaning his hands on the window still and sticking his nose out into the chilly air, did he?

After all, he, Jethri, was here for a certification—a test. What if this deliberate rudeness had a point other than insult? Suppose, for instance, that the masters and traders of the hall wanted a reading on just how well a beastly Terran understood civilized behavior?

He closed his eyes. Tough call. If the measuring stick for civilized was Liaden, then he ought to be making plans for a vendetta right about now—or ought he? A true Liaden would have the sense to know if he was being offered an insult or a test.

Jethri exhaled, with vigor, and turned from the window to inspect the rest of his quarters.

A work table sat against the wall to the right of the window. A screen and keyboard sat ready before a too-short chair. Jethri leaned over to touch a key, and was gratified to see the screen come up, displaying an options menu.

He chose map, and was in moments engaged in a close study of the interior layout of the hall. Not nearly as complex as Tarnia's house, with its back stairs, back rooms and half-floors, but a nice mix of public, private and service rooms.

The quarters were in what appeared to be an older wing—perhaps the original hall—the public and meeting rooms were off the right-hand hall from the vestibule—and could also be accessed from the Trade Bar, which opened into the main port street.

Map committed to memory, Jethri recalled the menu—yes. There was an option called check-in. He chose it.

A box appeared on the screen, with instructions to enter his name. Fingers extended over the keypad, he paused, staring down at the Liaden characters. Slowly, he typed in the name under which he had been summoned for certification; the name that Parin had recognized.

Jeth Ree ven'Deelin.

The computer accepted his entry; another screen promised that his mentor would be informed of his arrival. Great.

He returned to the options menu, lifting a hand to cover a sudden yawn. Despite the fact that he'd been able to nap in the car coming down from Tarnia's house, he was feeling short on sleep, which was not a good way to start a test. He glanced at his watch. If he was still at Tarnia's house, he'd have just under six seconds to get to breakfast.

He blinked, eyes suddenly teary and throat tight. He wanted to be in Tarnia's house, running as hard as he could down the "secret" back stairs and sweating lest he be late for breakfast. He missed Miandra and Meicha, Mrs. tel'Bonti, Lady Maarilex, Mr. pel'Saba, Flinx and Ren Lar. And while he was listing those he missed, there was Norn ven'Deelin and Gaenor and Vil Tor, Pen Rel, Master tel'Ondor; Khat and Cris and Grig and Seeli. . . 

He sniffed, and reached into his pocket for a handkerchief.

Put it in a can, he told himself, which is what Seeli'd tell him when he'd been a kid and got to blubbering over nothing. He unfolded the handkerchief and wiped his face with the square of silk, swallowing a couple times to loosen his throat.

Might as well unpack, he thought, putting the handkerchief away. Get everything all shipshape and comfortable, and you'll feel more like the place belongs to you.

Anecha had left his bags on the bare wooden floor against the opposite wall, under the control panel for the bed. That item of furniture at the moment formed part of the wall. When he wanted it down, according to Parin, all he had to do was slide the blue knob from left to right. To raise the bed, slide the knob from right to left, and up she went, freeing a considerable area of floor space.

Jethri opened the first bag—bright blue, with the Tarnia crest embroidered on it—and commenced unpacking, carrying his clothes over to the built-in dresser. He took his time, making sure everything went away neat; that his shirts were hung straight and his socks were matched up, but at last he was shaking out his second-best trading coat—the one Master ven'Deelin'd had made for him—out of the bottom of the bag, and hanging it with his shirts on the rod.

That done, he sealed the bag up, folded it and stowed it on the shelf over the rod.

The second duffle was dull green, Gobelyn's Market spelled out in stark white stenciling down one side. He unsealed it and pulled out the books he had borrowed from Tarnia's library. He'd taken mostly novels—some titles that he remembered from Gaenor's talks, and others at random—as well as a history of Irikwae, and another, of the Scouts, and a battered volume that appeared to be an account of the Old War.

He lined the books up on the worktable, and stood for a long moment, admiring them, before diving back into his duffle and emerging with the photocube showing his father, and Arin's metal box, with its etched stars, moons and comets.

He supposed he could've left his stuff in his room at Tarnia's house, but he'd got to thinking that maybe that wasn't a good idea, considering the fractins and the prevailing feeling against old tech—and he surely hadn't wanted to leave the weather gadget anywhere but secure in the inside pocket of his jacket, which was where it was right now. So, in the end, he'd tossed everything into his old duffle and left the empty B crate behind.

The photocube he placed with great care in the center of a low black wooden table in the corner by the windows. Arin's box, he put on top of the dresser. He stepped back to consider the room and found it . . . better, though still too much trader's hall and too little Jethri Gobelyn.

He returned to the duffle and pulled out the other photocube, with its record of strangers, and carried it over to the black table. The family cube, he placed near the keyboard on the table, where he could see it while he worked.

The remainder of the duffle's contents were best not displayed, he thought, those contents being fractins, true and false, the wire frame, and his pretend trade journal—though on second thought, there wasn't any reason that the old notebook couldn't be in with the rest of the books. Nobody who might visit him here was going to be interested in old kid stuff—even assuming that they could read Terran.

He resealed the duffle and put it on the shelf in the wardrobe next to the blue bag, closed the door and went back to the work table. He settled as well as he was able into the short chair and reached for the keyboard, meaning to explore the remainder of the options available to him.

A single line of tall red letters marched across the center of the computer screen. It seemed that his mentor, Trader Ena Tyl sig'Lorta would see him at the top of the hour, at meeting booth three, in the Irikwae Trade Bar.

Jethri looked at his watch. Not much time, but no need for a full-tilt run, either, if his understanding of the scale of the house was correct.

He tapped the 'received' key, slid out of the chair, brushed his hands down the front of his coat and went off to meet his mentor.

* * *

"GOT SOME NEWS," Seeli said, serious-like.

Grig looked up from his calcs. The yard had filed an amended, which they were required by contract to do, whenever section costs overran estimate by more than five percent. It was lookin' to be damn near five percent on the new galley module and Myra wanted to talk downgrade on some of the back up systems so as to make up the difference. He was doing the first pass over the numbers because Seeli'd been feeling not at the top of her form, and he'd finally this morning gotten her talked into going to the port clinic.

So, he looked up and got on a smile that the calcs made a little lopsided.

"Good news, I hope," he said, and even as he did felt his gut clench with the possibility of the news being bad.

"You might say." She sat down next to him, her arm companionably touching his. "Fact is, I hope you will say." She touched his hand. "I'm on the increase."

For a second he just sat there, heart in acceleration, mind blank—then all at once his brain caught up with his heart. He gave a shout of laughter and got his arms around her, and she was laughing, too, hugging him hard around the ribs, and for a while it was a mixup of kisses and hugs and more laughing, but finally they made it back to adult and sat there quiet, her head on his shoulder, their arms 'round each other still.

"How far along?" he asked, that being the first sensible sentence he'd made in the last half-hour.

"Couple Standard Months, the nurse said."

He felt his mouth pulling into another idiot grin. "The yard gets its promises in order, she'll be born in space, first newcrew on the refit."

Seeli snuggled a little closer against him. "We don't know what Mel might have cookin'. Come to it, Iza ain't beyond."

That took a little of the glow.

"Iza's done, beyond or not," he said, too seriously. "But I take your point about Mel. Girl's got the morals of a mink."

"What's a mink?" Seeli wanted to know, and it might've taken him the rest of the day to explain it to her, but the door come open and it was Paitor and Khat, each one looking as grim as Grig felt happy.

Seeli stirred, pushing against his chest to get upright. He let her go, and sighed gustily at the printout showing in the trader's hand.

"Paitor, I've been meaning to talk to you about this growing habit with the Priorities."

He shook his head. "Believe that I'd pay good cash never to get another." He tossed it on the table atop the printouts from the yard and headed into the galley.

"Who else wants a brew?" he called over his shoulder.

"I do," Khat said sitting in the chair across from Seeli, and rubbing a sleeve across her face. "Hot on the port."

"Brew'd be fine," Grig said, and looked over to Seeli, eyebrows up, asking.

"Juice for me," she called. "Thanks, Uncle."

Paitor could be heard clanking about in the cold box. Grig picked up the Priority, flicking a glance to Khat.

She shrugged. "I read it."

"All right, then," he said, unfolding the paper, with Seeli leaning close to read over his shoulder:

Honored Gobelyns:

Felicitations and fair profit to you and to your ship.

The priority message sent to the attention of Jethri from the esteemed Pilot Khatelane arrives at Elthoria. Your forbearance is requested, that I read this message, intended for the eyes of true kin only.

I commend Pilot Khatelane for the information she sends regarding certain Liaden vessels at dock on Port Banth. Several of these vessels are known to us adversely. A Guild inquiry has been called and you may repose faith that intentions of mischief or mayhem will quickly be learned.

Of the matter concerning the chel'Gaibin, I give you assurance that there lies no debt between himself and Jethri. The brother deprived was hale when we beheld him last, though deeply in the anger of his mother.

In the event, Jethri has been set down at Irikwae, at the house of Tarnia in the mountains of the moons. There, he is tutored in the ways of custom and of wine. Be assured that Tarnia values him high, as I do, and will stand as his shield and his dagger, should a false debt be called.

I am hopeful that these tidings will find you in good health, and I remain

Norn ven'Deelin Clan Ixin

Master at Trade

"Set down?" Seeli said, sounding every bit as horrified as Grig felt. "She left Jethri alone, on a Liaden world?"

"With a Liaden headcase after him for evenin' up a debt," Khat added, wearily, accepting a brew from Paitor. "Thanks."

"Welcome." He handed Seeli her drink, thumped Grig's down and folded into the chair next to Khat.

"Thing is," Grig said, glancing up from his second read. "She don't say the brother is alive now. She says he was OK the last time she saw him."

"Right." Khat nodded. "And the headcase, if you parse it right, never did say the boy was dead—though that's what I thought he must've meant. Thinking cold, though, it comes to me that there's more ways to 'deprive' somebody of a brother than by killing him. If Jeth had—what? Called the proctors and got the boy put in the clink for a couple years—that'd deprive his family of him, wouldn't it? Or if Jeth had somehow gotten the brother's license pulled—"

"The point is," Seeli interrupted, sharp, but, there—she'd been Jethri's mother more'n Iza'd ever tried to be. "The point is that this master trader has gone off and left Jethri on a mudball, with no ship to call on, and there's a headcase lookin' for him, and she hasn't even told him!"

They blinked at her, in unison. Seeli snatched the Priority out of Grig's hand and snapped it at Paitor's face. He pulled back, impassive.

"Where does it say on this piece of paper that she's sending Khat's letter on to Jethri? Where does it say she's going back for him? Or that she's called—anybody at all!—to have the headcase taken under advisement, or, or whatever it is you do when somebody tries to collect on a 'false debt?'"

"We could send again," Khat said, making a long arm and tweaking the paper away.

"No beam code for Tarnia," Grig said quietly. "And no guarantees that this chel'Gaibin won't pursue his debt 'gainst the rest of us, like he tried with Khat." He looked at Seeli and his breath came short.

"One of us could go for him," Paitor said. "Not knowing the headcase's trajectory, that's tricky. For all we know, he's based outta Irikwae, wherever it is, and is on the route for home."

Grig took a breath, forcing it all the way down past tight chest muscles, to the very bottom of his lungs.

"I'll go," he said. "I owe."

Paitor frowned. "Owe? What can you possibly owe the boy?"

Grig looked him in the eye. "I'm still settlin' with Arin," he said evenly.

The other man studied him a long moment, then nodded, slow. "Can't argue with that."

"Grig." Seeli wasn't liking this. He turned to face her. "How're you goin'? Got a fastship in your back pocket?"

"Know a pilot-owner," he said, which was true enough. "Might be they're still settlin' with Arin, too."

"Back-up," Khat said, nodding. "Seeli, you know we all got back-up. Grig's got it here, then he's the one to go. 'Less you can think of any other way to get Jethri the news, and an offer of his ship?"

Seeli hesitated; shook her head. "I can't. But we offer him ship, and if he wants it, we give him a ship—and Iza can deal with me! You hear it?" She rounded on Grig.

"I hear it, Seeli." He reached out and touched her cheek with his fingertip. "Khat."

"Sir?"

"My Seeli here's on the increase. I'd take it favorable, if you went off roster and devoted yourself to not letting any headcases inside her phase space."

"You got it," Khat said, sending a grin to Seeli, and pushing back from the table. "I'll file that change right now."

"Good." Khat had the right of it, Grig thought. No use putting it off.

Seeli reached out and grabbed his hand, pulling him with her as she stood up. She looked down at Paitor, ignoring his grin, and nodded her head, formal as a Liaden.

"Excuse us, Uncle. Grig and me got some business before he flies out."

* * *

IRIKWAE TRADE BAR was modest, and modestly busy—three of the six working public terminals were engaged, and four of the twelve meeting booths. A seventh terminal had been pushed into a corner—probably awaiting a repairman.

At the bar, a mixed cluster of traders, cargo masters and general crew sipped tea, or wine, or ate a quick-meal, while the status board over their heads showed a good dozen ships at port.

Goods on offer, portside, were heavily weighted toward agristuff—soybeans, rice, yams—with a smattering of handicrafts, textiles, and wine. The ships were offering metals—refined and unrefined—patterns, textiles, furniture, gemstones, books—a weird mix, Jethri thought, and then thought again. Irikwae was what Norn ven'Deelin was pleased to call an "outworld," far away from Liad's orbit. Ships bearing luxuries, small necessities, and information from the homeworld itself ought to do pretty well here.

"Are you lost, sir?" a voice asked at his elbow. He turned and looked down into the amused, wrinkled face of a woman. Her hair was gray, though still showing some faded strands of its original yellow color, and she had the trade guild's sign embroidered on the sleeve of her bright orange shirt.

"Only distractable, I fear," he answered, turning his palms up mock despair. "I am here for a meeting with a trader, but of course, the board caught my eye, and my interest. . . "

"Information is advantage," she said sagely. "Of course the board caught you—how not? At which booth were you to meet your trader?"

"Three."

"Ah. Just over here, then, sir, if you will follow me."

No choices there, Jethri thought wryly, and followed her to the back wall, where meeting booth three showed a bold blue numeral. The door was closed and the privacy light was lit.

His guide looked up at him. "Your name, sir?"

"Jethri—" he began, and caught himself. "Jeth Ree ven'Deelin."

Her eyebrows lifted, but she said nothing, only turned to put her hand on the door, which slid open, despite the privacy light, to reveal two traders, obviously interrupted in earnest conversation, and of two different minds of how to take it.

The woman seemed inclined toward amused resignation, the man—and wouldn't it just be the same stern-faced trader who'd been on door-duty?—was tending toward anger.

The staffer, unperturbed by either, bowed gently to the table, and murmured. "Jeth Ree ven'Deelin has a meeting with a trader in booth three."

The female trader sent a sharp glance to his face, and inclined her head slightly. Jethri received the impression that she was more amused and less resigned. The male trader frowned ferociously.

"Yes, Jeth Ree ven'Deelin is expected shortly, however—" he stopped, and favored Jethri with a hard stare.

In this moment of frozen disbelief, the staffer bowed once more to the table and went, soft-footed, away.

"You are Jeth Ree ven'Deelin?" the man demanded.

Not exactly encouraging, Jethri thought, and bowed—not low.

"In fact, I am Jethri Gobelyn, apprentice and foster son of Master Trader Norn ven'Deelin. The communication from the hall named me Jeth Ree ven'Deelin, and I felt it wise to continue under that construction until I was able to ask that the database be amended."

"ven'Deelin's Terran," the female trader murmured, and inclined her head when he looked at her. "Forgive me, sir. I am Alisa kor'Entec. Your fame precedes you, to the wonderment of us all."

"I had heard the ven'Deelin signed a Terran apprentice," the stern-faced trader said, looking to his mate. "I thought then that she had run mad. But—foster son?"

"Even so," she assured him, with relish. "Precisely so. Is it not diverting?"

"Dangerously demented, say rather," the other snapped, and Jethri felt himself warm to the man. Still, no matter his own doubts and feelings on the subject of his adoption, he couldn't—really couldn't—son or 'prentice, just stand by while Master ven'Deelin was made mock of.

He drew himself up stiffly where he stood and stared down his nose at the stern-faced trade, and then at the other.

"The melant'i of Master Trader Norn ven'Deelin is above reproach," he said, with all the dignity he could bring to it and hoping the phrase was on-point.

Alisa kor'Entec smiled at him. "It is, indeed. Which makes the matter infinitely more diverting."

"Perhaps for you," the man said irritably. He looked up at Jethri and moved a hand. "Of your goodness, Apprentice . . . .Gobelyn. Trader kor'Entec and I must finish a small matter of business. Please, have a cup of tea and rest somewhat from your labors. I will be with you in a very short time."

A cup of tea would actually be welcome, Jethri thought, abruptly aware that the gone feeling in his middle wasn't all due to his upcoming testing, whatever it was. And maybe a snack, too. He inclined his head.

"Thank you, sir. I will await you at the bar." He looked to the lady. "Ma'am. Fair trading."

She gave him a slight, conspiratorial nod. "Good profit, Jethri Gobelyn."

* * *

"SORRY TO BE LATE," Raisy said, slipping onto the bench across.

"'preciate you comin' at all," Grig answered, pushing the second brew across to her.

She cocked him an eyebrow. "Thought that's Uncle you was peeved with."

"I'm not peeved with anybody." Grig snapped open the seal on his brew. "It's just—time's done, Raisy. We gotta move to something else. Thing's—aren't stable, and you know that for truth. You want to talk birth defects, for starters?"

Raisy opened her brew, took a long draught, leaned back, and sighed. "You bring me out on an Urgent for this?"

He glanced sideways, out over the rest of the bar—slow night, slim on customers—and back to his sister.

"No," he said, quiet. "Sorry." He had some brew, put the bottle back on the table and frowned at it.

"News, Raisy," he said, raising his eyes. "Seeli's increasing. I'm bound for dad duty."

She grinned, broad and honest, and leaned across the table to smack him upside the shoulder.

"News, he says! That's great news, brother! You give your Seeli my congrats, hear it? Tell her I said she couldn't have no finer man—nor her kid no finer dad."

He smiled, warmed. "I'll tell her that, Raisy. You ought to come by, meet her."

"Maybe I will," she said, but they both knew she wouldn't.

"So, that was the Urgent?" she said, after a small pause.

He shook his head, pulled the two Priorities out his pocket and passed them over.

"These're the Urgent."

She sent him a sharp look, took the papers and unfolded them with a snap.

Grig drank brew and watched her read.

She went through both twice, folded them together and passed them back. Grig slipped them away and sat waiting.

"So, we got a renegade Liaden, do we? Who depends on us not being able to check up on the rules?"

"Like that," Grig said.

"Right. And then we got this side issue of what's to have on Banth, which I'll second Khat on and say—nothing."

"How side an issue is that? If we got a buncha pirates lookin' to set up a base there?"

She stared at him. "Dammit—you think like Uncle."

Grig laughed.

"OK, let's look at where Banth is, ease-of-route speakin'." Raisy closed her eyes, accessing her pilot brain. Grig, who had pulled up star maps to study on Banth's location when Khat's letter had first arrived, sat back and waited.

She sighed. "I'd have to check the maps to be sure, but—first look, it's in a nice spot for someone wanting to do a little slip-trading from one Edge to the other." She reached for her brew. "Now, Banth's got tight admin."

"But what if they get used to these Liaden ships comin' in an' there always seems to be a problem, but it always turns out not to be, so the inspectors start thinkin' they got the pattern of it—"

"And then the Liadens change the pattern, and start ops for real, right under the clipboards of the inspectors?" Raisy shrugged. "Way I'd do it."

"OK," she said, briskly, counting off on her fingers. "Renegade Liaden. Smugglin' ring maybe settin' up on Banth. What else? Oh—Arin's boy on the ground in Liaden space with no warning going his way. You think the master trader is in with the renegade?"

No surprise that Raisy's thoughts went there—he'd considered the same thing himself. Still—he shook his head.

"I think she's square. This business about Jethri being safe with Tarnia on Irikwae? Strikes me she might've been giving us the Liaden for 'the kid has a ship to call on.' I'm leaning toward that."

"But you got something that's still bothering you."

"I do." He leaned his elbows on the table, reached out and put his hands loosely around the brew bottle.

"I'm thinking we need to let Jeth know that he's got trouble. Could be, he's got trouble enough for all of us, if you take me."

"You're thinking this chel'Gaibin boy might make a hobby out of hunting Gobelyns?"

"And Tomases," Grig said. "Yeah, I do."

Raisy finished off her brew and put the bottle down with a thump.

"What do you want, Grig?"

"Lend of a fastship," he said. "Last I knew, you owned one."

"If you think I'm gonna let you fly my ship, you're a headcase!" Raisy said and Grig felt his stomach sink as she pushed slid out of the booth and stood there, looking down at him.

"I'm coming with you," she said.

* * *

"I HAVE REVIEWED your file and I confess myself bewildered on several levels," Trader Ena Tyl sig'Lorta said, waving his hand at the screen on the table between them. "First, I find that there is no database error; you are correctly recorded as Jethri Gobelyn. A secondary entry was created for Jeth Ree ven'Deelin by the hall master's override. When it is accessed, however, the record it calls is precisely your own."

Jethri felt his stomach clench.

"Perhaps it was a test?" he offered, with as much delicacy as he could muster while cussing himself for plain and fancy mud-headedness.

Trader sig'Lorta stared at him, hard gray eyes wide with something near to shock. "You mean to suggest that the hall master had an interest in knowing how you would present yourself—as apprentice or as foster son?" His sharp face grew thoughtful. "That is possible. Indeed, now that I consider it—very possible. I see my task is not so simple as I had considered. Here. . . " He reached for the keypad, flicked open a log page and began, quickly, to type.

"I record in my mentor's notes—which will, you understand, be reviewed by a master at the end of your certification period—that your first request upon meeting your mentor was that the database be made to reflect your precise name." Another few lines, then a flick at the 'record' tab.

"So. That is well. We move on to lesser bewilderments." He touched a key, frowning down at the screen.

"I read here that the hall master at Modrid disallowed the trades you had completed at the word of your master trader—for which you utilized monies drawn on her accredited and known apprentice sub-account—and that he required the master trader to re-authorize each transaction recorded under that sub-account. Is this summation correct?"

Just a bit giddy with having escaped the name fiasco with his melant'i intact, Jethri inclined his head.

"Trader, it is."

"Hah." He touched another key, and sat frowning down at the screen.

"I also find that you are the holder of a ten-year Combine key, and have two trades of some small level of complexity attached to your name."

Jethri inclined his head once more. "Trader, that is so."

"Good. We have a Combine terminal here. When we have finished, you will use it to record your location, so that any trades you may make during the course of your certification will be appropriately recorded to your key, as well as entering your guild file."

Despite himself, Jethri blinked, which lapse went unnoticed by Trader sig'Lorta, who was still staring down at the screen.

Silence stretched, then Jethri cleared his throat.

"The hall master at Modrid said that no Terrans would be allowed into the guild."

His mentor shot him a hard, gray glance. "That is a matter for the masters, who—in all truth—could not have met and decided on any such question, as you are the first Terran who has sought entry into the guild. The rule as it is written—the rule which binds both the guild and yourself is: Any candidate who has demonstrated mastery over the requirements put forth in the previous section may enter the guild as a trader. Those who once fail that demonstration may reapply after one Standard Year. Those who twice fail are banned from a third attempt.

He tapped his finger sharply against the table top—click,click,click—and touched the forward key again.

"In your case, we have something of a conundrum. In the first wise, Modrid Hall had no authority to disallow a master trader's apprentice for any reason. That, however, is another matter for the masters, and I make no doubt that Norn ven'Deelin will see it discussed and decided ere long.

"In the second wise, a hopeful trader with two trades comparable to those recorded upon your key in his guild file would certainly rejoice in the melant'i of a junior trader, did he have no trader or master to whom he stood apprenticed." He gave the screen one more frowning glance and flicked the 'off' key.

"You and your master presented two claims to the hall master at Modrid—contracted association with a master trader, and the trades recorded on the key. Either should have assured you a place in the guild—as an apprentice, or as a junior trader. Since Modrid Hall allowed neither claim to be sufficient, you now are come to Irikwae Hall with a request from your master trader that you be independently certified, and given a formal ranking within the guild." He looked up, face serious.

"Understand, this is an unusual step. It has been done rarely in the past, most often when a dispute arose between traders regarding the talents or qualifications of a particular apprentice. In this instance, I would say that your master trader is wise to request independent certification—and doubly wise to ask it of Irikwae, where the hall master is known to be both conservative and stringent."

So, he was going to have to work his butt off, Jethri thought, and was surprised to find himself on his mettle, but not concerned. He was Norn ven'Deelin's apprentice, wasn't he? Hadn't he learned his basics from Arin and Paitor Gobelyn, neither one a slacker, if not precisely a master trader? Come to that, Trader sig'Lorta was shaping up to be the sort of mentor somebody might want for the upcoming tests—hard, and not exactly happy about Jethri personally, but a trader of virtue for all that, and upholding of the regs. He'd have to prove himself, right enough, but he didn't get the sense that his mentor would be changing the rules, if it got to looking like Jethri was about to win the game.

"May I know," he asked, "what the certification entails?"

"Surely, surely." Trader sig'Lorta flicked impatient fingers at the dark screen. "You will, I think, find it not at all unlike your apprenticeship. The hall will make an account available to you and you will be given various assignments of trade on the port. Those transactions will be recorded to your file, and at the end of the testing period, the file will be reviewed by a master trader, who will rule upon your precise level of skill. You will then be issued a card reflecting your standing within the guild. Of course, as you successfully complete more, and more complex, trades, your standing will increase, and your guild card will reflect that, as well."

Jethri took a couple minutes to think about that.

"The purpose of this exercise," he said, slowly, "is to gain a guild card, so that I may not be denied the benefits and assistance of the guild."

"Say, so that it will be less likely that you will be denied those benefits," Trader sig'Lorta said, practically. "Certainly, there will be some who will risk the wrath of the masters over such niceties as whether Terrans may belong to the guild—but less, I think, than might, had you no certified standing."

"I see," Jethri said. He shot a straight look at his mentor's face and decided to risk it: "I wonder, Trader, if you might tell me where you personally stand on the issue of Terrans in the guild."

The hard gray eyes narrowed, with amusement or annoyance, Jethri couldn't have said.

"I believe that traders trade, Jethri Gobelyn. Show me that you are a trader, and I will accord you the respect due a guild brother."

Well enough. Jethri inclined his head. "Thank you, Trader. I will certainly endeavor to show you that I am a trader."

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