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Day 177
Standard Year 1118
Irikwae Port

DURING HIS FIRST WEEK at the hall, Jethri shadowed Trader sig'Lorta, learning the general lay of the port. In the evening, he set himself to solving the trade problems that had been uploaded to his screen. All of which was better than bowing lessons, but wasn't exactly what he was craving.

Waking on the morning of the day that he had decided he would ask his mentor straight out when he could expect to start his own trading, his first assignment was on his work screen. The timing led Jethri to suspect that maybe the week-long set-up had been a test of his own, and he'd shaken his head a little as he shrugged into his good trading coat.

First day, it had been soybeans. Next, it had been ore. Today, it was something a little odd—toys.

Jethri's assignment was to assess the items on offer from the trader of the good ship Nathlyr, and, if he found the items to have value, to make an offer on no more than a dozen lots and no less than six. If he found the items wanting, he was to write up a report detailing their defects.

It was an interesting assignment on the face of it, and Jethri left the hall with a whistle on his lips, which gained him a frown from passersby, and recalled him to a sense of where he was and what was proper behavior for a trader on the street.

So far, he was liking his certification just fine. Soybeans were deadly dull—nothing more or less than trading the day-price off the board. Not quite enough to put a body right to sleep, but scarce enough to keep him full awake, either. Still, he'd moved his lot with precision, and added the extra tor to his drawing account.

The ore had been a bit more interesting. He'd needed to put some of his capital into trade goods. Soybeans, of course—that was sure—and an odd lot of blended wine from the Maarilex cellars—which wasn't so sure, but not a bad risk, either, especially not after he'd talked the co-op seller into taking another twelve percent off the lot on account it was odd and would have to be hand-sold, most likely one barrel at a time. Since that had been the precise problem the co-op had been having, the twelve percent came off pretty easy.

So, he'd had one barrel sent to the Irikwae trade hall to be placed in his trade space, and betook himself and his soybean ticket down to the tables, where he found a trader willing to talk ore.

The soybeans got some interest, which they had to, but the "short lot" of wine sweetened the deal to the tune of a side measure of rough cut turaline, which Jethri thought he might place with a port jeweler, to his profit.

He received the tickets with a bow and took himself off to the Street of Gems, where he was fortunate enough to locate a jeweler who was willing to take the turaline ticket off him for roughly double what he had paid for the short lot of wine.

He closed the deal, feeling some sharp—and found later that night, as he went over his comparisons, that he had let the gems go too cheap. Still, he consoled himself, he'd had a quick turnover, and doubled his money, too, which wasn't bad, even if not as good as could have been.

So, now, the toys, and he was looking forward to them, as he strode down the street to the exhibit halls.

He was early to the day hall, but not so early that there weren't traders there before him. The toy exhibit, in a choice center hall location, had not drawn a large crowd, which seemed strange—and then didn't as he got a closer look at what was on offer.

Exhibit hall protocol required a trader to show no less than three and no more than twelve pieces representative of that which he wished to sell. If Nathlyr's trader had followed the protocol, he stood in clear and present danger of going away with his hold still full of the things.

The examples set out were seemingly made of porcelain, badly shaped, with unexpected angles and rough-looking finish. Nothing about them invited the hand, or delighted the eye or engaged the mind, in the way that something billed as a toy ought.

Jethri picked up one of the pieces—in outline, it looked something like an old fin ship. It felt as gritty as it looked, and was slightly heavier than he had anticipated. Uncle Paitor had taught him that it sometimes helped to get a sense for a thing by holding it in the palm and getting comfortable with the shape and the weight of—

The thing in his hand was buzzing, slightly reminiscent of Flinx, setting up a nice fuzzy feeling between his ears. The buzzing grew louder and it was almost as if he could hear words inside of it—words in a language not quite Terran and not quite Liaden, but close—so close. He screwed his eyes shut, straining to hear—and gasped awake as pain flared, disrupting the trance.

Quickly, he replaced the toy among its fellows, and glanced down at his hand. There was a brand of red across the palm, already starting to blister. The. . . toy. . .  had malfunctioned.

Or not.

He bit his lip, fingers curled over his burned palm. That the so-called toys were Befores of a type he had personally never seen was obvious. Befores being specifically disallowed on Irikwae at least, it seemed that his duty was to alert the Master of Exhibits to the problem.

And then, he thought, grimacing as he slipped his wounded hand into his pocket, he would go down to one of the philter shops on the main way and get a dressing for his burn.

As it happened, somebody else had been dutiful sooner. He hadn't got half-way to the offices in the back of the big hall when he met a crowd heading in the opposite direction.

Two grim-faced port proctors, a woman in the leather clothing of a Scout, and the Master of Exhibits himself, walking arm in arm with a slightly wide-eyed trader not much older, Jethri thought, than he was. Nathlyr was fancy-stitched across the right breast of the trader's ship jacket.

Respectfully, Jethri stepped aside to let them pass, though he doubted any of the bunch saw him, except the Scout, then changed course for the exit. His hand was hurting bad.

* * *

"CERTAINLY! CERTAINLY!" The philterman took one look at the angry wound across Jethri's palm and ran to the back of the shop. By the time Jethri had arranged himself on the short stool and put his hand on the counter, the man was back, clutching a kit to his chest.

"First, we cleanse," he murmured, breaking the seal on an envelope bearing the symbol for "medical supply," and shaking out an antiseptic wipe.

Jethri braced himself, and it was well he did; the pressure of the wipe across his skin was painful, and the cleaning solution added another level of burn to his discomfort.

"Ow!" He clamped his mouth tight on the rest of it, ears hot with embarrassment. The philterman looked up, briefly.

"It is uncomfortable, I know, but with such a wound we must be certain that the area is clean. Now. . . " He pulled out a second envelope and snapped the seal, shaking out another wipe.

"This, I think, you will find a bit more pleasant."

The pressure still hurt—and then it didn't, as his skin cooled and the pain eased back to something merely annoying.

Jethri sighed, his relief so great that he forgot to be embarrassed.

"Yes, that is better, eh?" The philterman murmured, reaching again into his kit. "Now, we will dress it and you may continue your day, Trader. Remember to have the hall physician re-examine you this evening. Burns have a difficult nature and require close observation."

The dressing was an expandable fingerless glove that had a layer of all-purpose antibiotic against the skin. The largest in stock stretched to fit Jethri's hand.

"Else," the philterman said, "we should have had to wrap it in treated gauze, with an overwrap of sterile tape. So." He gathered up the spent wipes and broken envelopes and fed them into the countertop recycler.

"If I might suggest a portable kit, Trader?" he murmured. "It fits easily into a pocket, and includes three each of cleansing and pain alleviation wipes, and a small roll of antibiotic-treated gauze and wrapping tape. Two dex, only."

And cheap insurance at that, Jethri thought, glancing down at his gloved hand. Who expected toys to bite, anyway?

"An excellent suggestion," he said to the philterman. "I will have one of your kits. Also—" he said, suddenly remembering another item that might be found in such a shop. "I wonder if you have a sort of cream which is commonly sold to Terrans, which dissolves facial hair and keeps the face pleasing."

"Ah!" The man looked up at him interestedly. "Is there such a thing? I had no notion. We do not, you understand, much deal with Terrans at Irikwae. But hold. . . "

He bustled to the back and returned with a flat plastic pack prominently marked with the symbol for medical supplies. Slipping a finger under the seal, he unfolded the pack to display its contents—three each, cleaning wipes and painkiller wipes; one small roll of antibiotic gauze, one small roll of tape. Check.

"I thank you," Jethri murmured, slipping two dex from his public pocket and putting them on the counter.

"It is my pleasure to serve," the man said, folding the kit and resealing it. Jethri picked it up; it fit into one of the smaller of his jacket's numerous inner pockets, with room to spare.

"Of this other product," the philterman murmured. "There is a shop at the bottom of the street which does from time to time have specialty items on offer. It may be that you will find what you are seeking there. The shop is the last on the left side of the street. It has a green-striped awning."

"I thank you," Jethri said again and got himself disentangled from the stool and on his feet, heading for the door.

* * *

"DISSOLVES HAIR?" The woman behind the counter at the philtershop at the bottom of the street stared at him as if he'd taken leave of his senses. "Nothing like that here, young trader—nor likely to be! We offer oddities from time to time, but nothing—well. Perhaps you want the Ruby Club? The director has been known to keep . . . exotic items on hand."

"Perhaps I do," Jethri said, by no means certain. "My thanks to you." He departed the shop of the green awning, feeling the woman's eyes on his back as he paused, looking up and down the street for a public map.

The Ruby Club was somewhat behind and at a angle to the warehouse district, not quite adjacent to the salvage yards. Well. The toys having fallen through, he figured he had an hour or two at liberty and, while Meicha's handiwork had so far stood up, he didn't know how long that would be so, or if his first warning of its failure would be on the morning he woke up to find he'd overnight grown a beard down to his knees.

Prepared is better'n scared, he thought, which was something his father used to say, and Grig, too—and pushed the button on the bottom of the map to summon a taxi to him.

* * *

"YOU ARE CERTAIN that this is the location to which you were directed?" The taxi driver actually sounded worried, and Jethri didn't know as how he particularly blamed her.

The Ruby Club itself was kept up and lighted; with a red carpet extending from its carved red door right across the walkway to the curb. The surrounding buildings, though, were dark, not in repair, and in some cases overgrown with plants that Jethri's time in the vineyards had taught him were weeds.

"Is there another Ruby Club on the port?" he asked, half-hoping to hear that there was, and that it stood next to the Irikwae Trade Bar.

To his surprise, the driver leaned forward and tapped a command into her on-board map. After a moment, he heard her sigh, lightly.

"There is only this one."

"Then this is my location," Jethri said, with more certainty than he felt. He wasn't liking the looks of this street, at all. On the other hand, he thought, given the general feeling that Terrans were pretty good zoo material, maybe it wasn't surprising that a place known for carrying exotic Terran items was situated well away from the main port. He pushed open the door.

"Wait for me," he said to the cabbie. She looked over the seat at him.

"How long?"

Good question. "I shouldn't be above twelve minutes," he said, hoping for less.

She inclined her head. "I will wait twelve minutes."

"My thanks."

He left the cab and walked briskly down the red carpeting. Seen close, the red door was carved; the carving showing a lot of naked people having sex with each other, and maybe some things that weren't exactly sex—or if so, not the kind that had been covered in either his hygiene courses or the bits of the Code the twins' tutor had marked out for him to read.

It did come to him that he was not prepared to deal with the consequences of that door, and he began to turn away, to go back to the cab and uptown and his quarters at the trade hall—

The door opened.

He glanced back, and down, into a pair of jade green eyes, slightly tip-tilted in a soft, oval face. Jade-colored flowers were painted along the ridge of . . . the person's. . .  cheekbones, and their lips were also painted jade. They were dressed in a deep red tunic and matching trousers, beneath which red boots gleamed.

"Service, Trader," the doorkeeper said huskily, and the voice gave no clue to gender.

Jethri bowed, slightly. "I was sent here by a merchant uptown," he said, keeping his voice stringently in the mercantile mode. "It was thought that there might be depilatory for sale here."

"Why, perhaps there is," the doorkeeper said, standing back, and opening the door wide. "Please, honor our house by entering. I will summon the master to your aid."

It was either go in or cut and run. He didn't especially want to go in, but found his pride wouldn't support cut and run. Inclining his head, he stepped into the house.

* * *

THE DOORKEEPER INSTALLED him in a parlor just off the main entryway and left him. Jethri looked about him, eyes slightly narrowed in protest of the decorating. A deep napped crimson carpet covered the floor from crimson wall to crimson wall. A couch in crimson brocade and two crimson brocade chairs were grouped 'round a low table covered with a crimson cloth. A black wooden bookshelf along one short wall held volumes uniformly bound in red leather, titles outline in gilt.

Jethri was starting to feel a little uneasy in the stomach by the time the hall door opened and the master of the house joined him.

This was an older man, entirely bald, dressed in a lounging robe of simple white linen. His face was finely lined and unpainted, though a row of tiny golden hoops pierced the skin and followed the curve of his right cheekbone from the inner corner of his eye out to the ear.

Two paces into the room, he paused to bow, low, and to Jethri's eye, with irony.

"Trader. How may our humble house be of service?"

"House Master." Jethri inclined his head. "Pray forgive this unseemly disturbance of your peace. I had been told at a shop in the main port that perhaps I might find a certain cream here—it is often used by Terrans such as myself to remove hair and to condition the face."

"Ah." The man raised a hand and touched his shining bald head. "Yes, we sometimes have such a commodity in the house."

Jethri blinked. The amount of cream necessary to unhair a whole head would be considerable. Once the head in question was bald, it would take less cream to keep it that way, but the supply would need to be steady. The woman at the second philtershop had not sent him astray.

"I wonder," he said to the house master, "if I might purchase a small quantity of this cream from you. Perhaps, a vial—no more than two."

"Purchase? Let me consider. . . ." The man ran his forefinger, slowly, along the line of tiny hoops, his eyes narrowed, as if it were pleasant to feel the gold slide against his cheek.

"No," he said softly. "I really do not think we can sell you any of our supply, Trader."

Well, there was a disappointment, Jethri thought. He took a breath, preparatory to thanking the man for his time. . . .

"But we will trade for it," the house master said.

"Trade for it?" Jethri repeated, blankly.

"Indeed." Again, the slow slide of the forefinger along the row of piercings and the long look of narrow-eyed pleasure. "You are a trader, are you not?"

When I'm not busy being what Lady Maarilex calls a moonling, well yes, Jethri thought, I am. He inclined his head.

"I am a trader, sir, and willing undertake a trade for the item under discussion. However, it is so small a transaction that I am somewhat at a loss to know what might be fair value."

"There, I can provide guidance," the man said, turning his hand palm up in the gesture that meant, roughly, 'service'. "I understand, as you do, that the item under discussion is a rarity upon this port, as much as it might be commonplace upon other ports. We receive, as I am sure you have surmised, a small but steady supply, from a source that I am really not at liberty to share with you. This source also provides other . . . specialties. . .  to the house. However, we have not been able to procure formal masks. In trade for two tubes of the cream, I will accept four half-face masks made from crimson leather, or two whole-face masks."

Red leather masks?

"Forgive me, sir, but the trade is uneven," Jethri said, which was sheer reflex, rather than any real knowledge of how costly red leather masks were likely to be. "Two half-masks for two tubes achieves symmetry."

The house master blinked—and bowed.

"Of course," he said smoothly, "you are correct, Trader. Two half-masks in red leather for two tubes of Terran depilatory cream. It is done." Straightening, he motioned to the door.

"When you acquire the masks, return, and we will make the exchange."

"Certainly, sir."

Jethri inclined his head, and took the hint. At the outside door, the person with the flower-painted face bowed him out.

"Fair profit, Trader. Come again."

"Joy to the house," he answered and went down the red carpet to the taxicab, waiting at the curb.

He settled into the back seat with an audible sigh.

"I thank you for waiting above the twelve minutes," he said to the cabbie.

She slammed the car into gear and pulled away from the curb more sharply than she should have.

"Are all Terrans fools?" she asked, sounding merely interested in his answer.

"Only the ones that apprentice to master traders and take certification at the Irikwae Trade Hall," he answered, feeling like she'd earned honesty from him—and a good sized tip, too.

"Hah," she said, and nothing more. Jethri leaned back as well as he could in the short seat and looked out the window at the unkempt streets.

The cab glided through an intersection, Jethri glanced down the cross-street—and jerked forward, hand on the door release.

"Stop the cab!" he shouted.

The driver braked and he was out, running back toward the scene he had glimpsed: four people, one on his knees, and all four showing fists.

Jethri had size and surprise, if not speed or sense. He grabbed a handful of jacket and yanked one of the attackers back from the victim, putting him down hard on his ass. The other two shouted, confused by the arrival of reinforcements, while the lone defender seized the opportunity and the room to leap to his feet and land a nice, solid punch on the jaw of the man nearest. In the meantime, Jethri faced off with the third attacker, his body curling into the crouch Pen Rel had drilled him on, knees bent, hands ready.

The man yelled and swung, putting himself off-balance. Jethri ducked, grabbed the man's wrist and elbow, twisted—and shouted with joy as the attacker flew over his shoulder to land hard and flat on his back on the street.

His victory was short-lived. The first man was back on his feet, and moving in fast. This one had a cooler head—and maybe some training in Pen Rel's preferred style of brawl. Jethri dropped back, turning, caught sight of the yellow-haired victim, face cut and jacket torn, having heavy going with his man.

The guy stalking Jethri kicked. He sank back—but not quick enough. The edge of the man's boot caught his knee.

This time, the shout was pain, but he kept his feet, and there was a roaring in the street, growing louder, and then the blare of a klaxon, and it was the taxicab accelerating toward them, the cabbie's face implacable behind the windscreen.

The three attackers yelled and scrambled for the safety of the rotting sidewalk.

The taxi slammed to a halt, back door snapping open.

"In!" Jethri pushed the other man, and the two of them tumbled into the back seat, legs and arms tangled as the cab roared off, back door swinging. It slammed itself into place a few seconds later, when the cabbie took the next corner on two screaming wheels.

Fighting inertia, Jethri and the erstwhile victim slowly sorted out which legs and arms belonged to who and got themselves upright in the seats.

The yellow-haired man sank back on his seat with an audible sigh, and sat for a second, eyes closed. Jethri, blowing hard, leaned his head back, considering his rescue. It came to him that the man looked familiar, and he frowned, trying to bring the memory closer.

Across from him, the other opened his eyes a slit—and then considerably wider as he snapped straight upright.

"You! Jeth Ree Gobelyn, is it not?"

The voice rang the memory right up to the top of the brain. Jethri stared.

"Tan Sim?" he heard himself say, in a mode insultingly close to the one he used when talking with the twins. "What are you doing here?"

Tan Sim grinned, widely, then winced. "I could ask the same of you! Never tell me that the ven'Deelin sends you to the low port unguarded."

"That one," the taxi driver said over her shoulder, "should not be let to roam the high port alone. Where shall I have the extreme pleasure of dropping the two of you off?"

* * *

PATCHED AND WELL-SCOLDED by the hall physician, it occurred to them in a simultaneous way that they were hungry. Accordingly, they adjourned to the Trade Bar, where they were fortunate to find a booth open.

"Bread," Jethri said to the waiter. "And two of whatever the day meal is. Fresh fruit."

"Wine," Tan Sim added, and the waiter bowed.

"At once, traders."

Tan Sim sank into deep upholstery with a gusty sigh. "There's a day's work done and the afternoon still before us!"

Jethri grinned. "Now, tell me why you were walking alone on such streets."

"The short answer is—returning from inspecting a pod offered at salvage," Tan Sim retorted. "The longer answer is—longer."

"I have the time, if you have the tale," Jethri murmured, moving his hand in an expression of interest.

Tan Sim smiled. "Gods look upon the lad. Jeth Ree, you are more Liaden than I!"

"Surely not," he began, but a discreet knock upon the door heralded the arrival of the requested wine—a bottle of the house red, a comfortable blend, as Jethri knew—and two glasses.

"The meals are promised quickly, traders," the waiter said and left them, pulling the door closed behind him.

"Well." Tan Sim took charge of the bottle and poured for both of them. "If you will join me first in a sip to seal our friendship—"

Jethri put his glass down. Tan Sim paused, eyebrows up.

"What's amiss?"

Jethri tipped his head, considering the other. The physician had cleaned and taped the cut on Tan Sim's face, muttering that bruises would rise by nightfall, and suggesting, with a fair load of irony, that perhaps the trader might wish to cancel any engagements for the next few days.

Truth told, bruises were starting to rise already, but it wasn't that which took Jethri's notice. It was the face beneath the cut—thinner than he had remembered, the mouth tighter. The torn jacket hung loose, which bore out Jethri's impression that maybe Tan Sim had been eating short rations lately.

"I believe," he said delicately, wishing neither to offend nor expose a weakness, "that there is a matter of Balance unresolved between us."

"Which would—naturally!—constrain you from drinking with me. Very nice. If such an unresolved Balance sat between us, I would commend you for the precision of your melant'i."

Meaning that Tan Sim didn't think there was a debt, and that didn't jibe.

"I had considered you my most grievous error," Jethri said, making another pass at getting it out in the open where they both could look at it. "It has troubled me that, all unknowing, and wishing only to honor one who had shown me the greatest kindness, I brought to that one only grief, and separation from clan and kin."

"If you believe for one moment that separation from my honored mother or my so-beloved brother is a matter of grief, then I must allow you to be in your cups," Tan Sim retorted and paused, face arrested. "No, that cannot be. We've not yet had to drink." He leaned forward slightly, to look earnestly into Jethri's face.

"My sweet fool—does it occur to you that you have just now preserved my life for me? Even supposing that I held you to book for my mother's temper and my brother's spite—that small matter would put paid to all." He raised his glass.

"Come, do not be churlish! At least drink to the gallantry of a taxi driver."

Well, Jethri thought, 'round a mental grin, he could hardly refuse that. He raised his glass.

"To the gallant driver, who preserved both our lives—"

"And refused any tip, save a scold!" Tan Sim finished with a flourish of his glass.

They sipped, and again, the wine tasting more than usually pleasant.

"So, tell me then," Jethri said, putting his glass aside and relaxing into the cushions.

Tan Sim laughed lightly. "Demanding youth. Very well." He put his glass down and folded his elbows onto the table, leaning forward.

"Now, it happens that my mother was very angry indeed over the incident with the bow. She swore that I was a disgrace to her blood and that she would have no more of me. For some significant time, it did appear that she would simply cancel my contract and send me out to earn my own way. A not entirely unpleasing prospect, as you might imagine."

He extended a hand and picked up his glass, twirling it idly by the stem, his eyes on the wine swirling inside the bowl.

"Alas, it was then that my brother entered the negotiations, with a plea for leniency, which my mother was disposed to hear." He lifted the glass.

"Rather than cancel my contract, she sold it. I am now the trader of record aboard the good ship Genchi, which Captain sea'Kira allows me to know has never carried such a thing. Nor needs one."

A quick knock, and the door was opened by their waiter, bearing a tray well-loaded with eatables. He set it all out with noiseless efficiency, bowed and was gone, the door snicking shut behind him.

There was a pause in the tale, then, while the two of them took the day meal under consideration, Tan Sim eating with an elegant ferocity that confirmed Jethri's fears regarding short rations.

"Well," Tan Sim said at last, selecting a fruit from the basket between them. "Where did I leave the tale?"

"Your mother sold your contract to Genchi, though it had no need of a trader," Jethri said, around his last bit of bread.

"Ah. Genchi. Indeed. It happened that the ship owner had a desire to improve Genchi's fortunes and thought that a trader aboard might produce a rise in profit. Unfortunately, the owner is a person who has . . . limited funding available to him—and, very possibly, limited understanding as well. For I put it to you, friend Jethri: How does a ship on a fixed route raise profit?"

Jethri paused in the act of reaching for a fruit and looked over to him.

"By shipping more."

Tan Sim raised his fruit in an exuberant toast. "Precisely!"

"And Genchi is podded out," Jethri guessed, in case there were bonuses involved.

Tan Sim smiled upon him tenderly. "It's a dear, clever lad. But, no—there you are slightly out. It happens that Genchi can accept two additional pods. Which the trader is to purchase from the elevated profits his very presence upon the ship will produce."

Jethri stared at him. "Your mother signed that contract?" he demanded.

Tan Sim dipped his head modestly. "She was most wonderfully angry."

"How long?"

"Until I am in default? Or until the contract is done?"

"Both."

"Pah! You have a mind like a trader, Jeth Ree Gobelyn!" He bit into his fruit and chewed, meditatively.

"I will default at the end of the relumma. The contract has six years to run."

Jethri blinked. "She's trying to kill you."

Tan Sim moved a shoulder. "Break me only. Or so I believe. And, in truth, I am not without some blame. Were I less like my mother, I might send a beam, begging her grace, and asking for terms to come home."

Jethri snorted.

"Yes," Tan Sim said gently. "Exactly so."

Glumly, Jethri finished his fruit, wiped his fingers and reached for his glass.

"But you aren't going to default," he said. "You went down to the salvage yard this morning to look at a pod."

"Indeed I did. I found it to be a most excellent pod, of an older construction. Older, even, than Genchi. It is in extraordinarily good shape—sealed and unbreached—and the yardman's final price is . . . not beyond reach. However, it's all for naught, for it must have new clamps if it is to marry Genchi, and while I may afford those—I cannot afford those and the pod."

Jethri sipped wine, frowning slightly. "Still sealed, you say. What does it hold?"

"Now, that, I do not know. As old as the pod is, its contents are unlikely to have much value. Were matters otherwise, I might take the gamble, but—I do not scruple to tell you, cash is at present too dear."

Jethri finished his wine and set the glass aside. There was an idea, buzzing around in the back of his brain, slowly gaining clarity and insistence. He let it grow, while across the table Tan Sim wrestled silently with whatever thoughts engaged him.

"How much?" he asked softly, so as not to joggle the idea before it was set.

"The yard wants to see a cantra for the pod, entire. Clamps are four kais."

The idea had set firm, and he was liking it from all the angles he could see. He had a knack for salvage, Uncle Paitor'd always said so. . . 

"I wonder," he said, looking up into Tan Sim's bruised and weary face, "if you might have time tomorrow to introduce me to the salvage yard?"

"Oh," said Tan Sim wisely; "do you think you might manage it? I wish you shall. Certainly. Meet me here at the opening of day port and I will show you where."

"And this time," Jethri said with a smile. "We will take a taxi."

* * *

IT LOOKED LIKE RED leather masks were going to be a problem, Jethri thought, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his eyes. He had written his report on the toys, and seen that his tomorrow's schedule had been amended to reflect the hall physician's orders that he "rest"—by which it was apparently meant that he not go on the port to trade, a concept that struck him as wrongheaded, at best. Still, it did give him a good piece of time to go to the salvage yards with Tan Sim and inspect the pod he had found.

But the masks, now. Never mind red leather—masks at all was a missing item along any of the lists open to the guild computer. He sighed and leaned way back in the chair, stretching—and grimacing, when the stretch woke muscles that had been pulled in the day's fisticuffs.

Nothing for it but to go back to the Trade Bar and use his key to find masks on the Combine net. Come to think of it, he might forget masks altogether and go for a pallet of depilatory, since there seemed to be a market.

He stood and reached for his second best jacket, his first being down at the laundry—and started badly when the door chime sounded.

Probably Trader sig'Lorta, come to read him Ship's General. Shrugging into his jacket, he walked over to the door and keyed it open.

"Why, look how the boy has grown!" Scout Captain ter'Astin said in cheery Terran. Miandra stood at his elbow, her face serious.

"Well met, Jethri," she said. "The captain came to the house and Aunt Stafeli said that I should bring him to you."

Captain ter'Astin bowed, lightly, hand over heart. "Summoned, I rush to obey."

Jethri felt his cheeks warm with the blush. "I have overstepped my melant'i, I fear," he admitted.

"Not a bit of it! The Scouts tend a wide business; it is our nature to answer summonses." He cocked his head. "Some, I do allow, with more alacrity than others."

Jethri smiled and stepped back, sweeping a bow. "Please, both, enter and be welcome."

The Scout entered first, Miandra trailing after, looking like a limp copy of herself.

Frowning, Jethri closed and locked the door, then turned to deal with his guests.

Miandra was already at the window, looking down into the garden. The Scout had paused to give the short row of books his consideration, and looked up as Jethri approached.

"I was asked to bring something besides myself to your side," he said, pulling a well-folded piece of paper from an inner jacket pocket. "Please, satisfy yourself. I have no other engagements to fulfill today."

"Thank you," Jethri said, receiving the paper with a bow. "May I call for tea? Wine?"

The Scout laughed. "You take polish well, Jethri Gobelyn. But, no, I thank you—I am not in need."

Jethri glanced over to the window, where his other guest still stared down into the garden.

"Miandra?" He asked, softly. "Would you like tea? Cookies?"

She flicked a distracted glance over her shoulder, tight lips moving in what she might have meant to be a smile.

"Thank you, but I am not—in need."

Which was as big a clunker as he'd ever heard, including the time Grig told Cap'n Iza that the odd lot of sweets he'd bought was a broker deal, and then shared them all out 'mong crew.

"What's amiss?" He asked, moving closer, the Scout's paper held close in his hand.

She turned her face away, and that—hurt. Weren't they friends, after all? He touched her sleeve.

"Hey," he said. "Miandra. Are you well?"

Her shoulders jerked, and a half-smothered sound escaped, sounding half laugh and half sob.

"You asked that—before," she said, and turned to face him squarely, chin up and looking more like herself, despite her wet cheeks. "Have we not taught you that strangers must keep a proper reserve?"

"Certainly, Lady Maarilex would not be behind in so basic a lesson," he allowed, inclining his head and putting on the gentleman. "However, such rules do not maintain between us, because we are kin."

Her eyes widened and the corner of her mouth twitched slightly upward. "Kin? How so?"

"What else would we be?" He held his hand up, fingers spread, and folded his thumb against the palm, counting. "I am Norn ven'Deelin's foster son." Forefinger down. "Stafeli Maarilex is Norn ven'Deelin's foster mother, my foster grandmother." Second finger joined thumb and forefinger. "You are a niece of Stafeli Maarilex." Third finger. "Therefore, we are foster cousins."

She laughed. "Well done! And the degree of consanguinity appropriate, too, I see!"

He grinned and reached again to touch her sleeve.

"So, cousin, if a cousin may ask it—are you well?"

She moved her shoulders and flicked a glance aside. He looked, as well, but the Scout was perched on the edge of the work table, to all appearances immersed in one of the novels brought from Tarnia's library.

"I am. . .  unwell in spirit," she said, lowering her voice. "Ren Lar—he treats me as if I were a piece of old technology. He forbids me the vines, the cellar, and the yards. I am scarcely allowed to come to the dining table at prime. At his insistence, Meicha and I must undergo—separately—intensive evaluation, by the Healers. Meicha completed hers last night; Anecha drove down to pick her up this morning. In the meanwhile, a car was made ready to take me to Healer Hall—so that we should not be able to speak together before I am evaluated, you know—but your Scout happened by and offered to save the house the trouble, as he was going back down to the port to find you."

He had no idea what an "intensive evaluation" might mean, but allowed as it sounded bad enough.

"Do you need to report in?" he asked.

"Testing does not begin until tomorrow morning," she said. "It was arranged that I should overnight at the hall." Her mouth got tight again. "I . . . .would . . . that other arrangements had been made."

"If they don't need you until tomorrow morning," he said, moving his hand, to show her his quarters, "you're welcome to spend the night here. I am at liberty tomorrow and can escort you to Healer Hall."

"Perhaps it might be—less stressful of the relations of kin and foster kin," the Scout said, so suddenly that both of them spun to stare at him, sitting on the edge of the table, with the book opened over his knee. "If the lady would instead accept my invitation to guest with the Scouts this evening."

"You were listening," Jethri said, sounding like a younger, even to himself.

Captain ter'Astin inclined his head. "Scouts have very sharp ears. It is required."

Miandra took a step forward, frowning slightly. "And in addition to sharp ears, you are a Healer."

He moved a hand, deprecating. "A receiver only, I fear. Though I'm told I build a most impressive wall. Honor me with your opinion, do."

To Jethri's senses, nothing happened, except that the Scout's expression maybe took on an extra degree of bland, while Miandra stared intently at the thin air above his head.

She blinked. Captain ter'Astin tipped his head to one side.

"It is," Miandra said, slowly, "a very impressive wall. But you must not think it proof against attack."

"Ah, must I not? Tell me why."

She moved her hands in a gesture of—untangling, Jethri thought. Untangling her perception into words the two of them could understand.

"You have a—need. A very powerful need to be—acutely aware of surrounding conditions, at all times. Data is survival. So, you have left a—chink, very small—in your wall, that you may continue to be aware. It is through that chink that you are vulnerable. If I can see it, others may, as well."

The Scout slid to his feet, catching the book up neatly, and bowed. Acknowledging a debt, Jethri read, and looked at Miandra in close wonder. She bit her lip and half-raised a hand.

Captain ter'Astin raised the book. "Peace. The gratitude of a Scout is worth holding, and is not given lightly. Your observation may well have saved my life. Who can say? Certainly, I shall not leave Irikwae without consulting a Healer and learning the manner of sealing this—chink."

"And now," he said, lowering the book. "I believe Jethri has a paper to read, after which he and I have business. Shall we proceed?"

Miandra moved to the table and picked up one of the novels, carrying it back to the window with her. The Scout resettled himself on the edge of the table. Jethri went to the black corner table, pushed the photocube of strangers back, unfolded the paper and smoothed it flat with his palm.

Despite that by now he read Liaden as good or better than he'd ever read Terran, it was dense going. Stoically, he kept with it and finally arrived at the last word with the understanding that the Liaden Scouts were, indeed, specifically charged with the confiscation, evaluation and appropriate disposal of "Old War technology," such technology having been designated, by an action of the Council of Clans, meeting at Solcintra City, Liad, "perilous in manufacture and intent."

Sighing, he straightened, and turned.

Miandra was sitting in his desk chair, seriously involved with her novel. The Scout was reading Jethri's old pretend journal.

"I shouldn't think that would hold much interest for you, sir," he said, moving forward, and slipping a hand into his most secret pocket.

Captain ter'Astin glanced up, bounced to his feet, turning to put the book back in its place.

"The workings of mind and custom are always of interest to me," he said. "It is the reason I am a Scout—and a field Scout, at that."

Jethri looked at him sharply. The Scout inclined his head.

"So tell me, Jethri Gobelyn, are you satisfied that the disposal of Old War technology falls within the honor of the Scouts, and that such disposal is mandated by whole law?"

"Unfortunately, I am." He placed the weather machine, lingeringly, on the table, and stood there, feeling kind of dry and gone in the throat of a sudden, staring down into the unreflective black surface.

"Ah." Captain ter'Astin put a hand on Jethri's sleeve. "I regret your loss. I believe you had told Scout yo'Shomin that this device was given you by a kinsman?"

Jethri licked his lips.

"It was a gift from my father," he told the Scout. "After his death, I was without it for many years. It was only recently returned to me, with—" He waved a hand, enclosing the photocubes, Arin's box and the silly old journal—"other things of value."

"Accept my condolences," the Scout said softly. The pressure of his fingers increased briefly, then he withdrew his hand and picked up the weather machine, slipping it away somewhere inside his jacket.

Jethri cleared his throat. "I wonder if you might tell me if you will yourself be involved in the—evaluation—of this device. Whether it will be—will simply be destroyed, or if the work that my father did will be preserved."

The Scout's eyebrows rose. "Yes. I would say that you take polish very well, indeed." He paused, possibly gathering his thoughts, then inclined his head.

"I may possibly be asked for a preliminary evaluation; I do have some small expertise in the area. However, you must understand that there is a corps of Scout Experts, who have studied, built databases and cross-referenced their findings through the many dozens of Standards that this policy has been in force. If it is found that your machine, here, is unique, then it will undergo the most intense scrutiny possible by those who are entirely knowledgeable. Many of the old technology pieces that we have recovered are uniquities—that is, we have recovered only one."

Jethri bowed his gratitude. "I thank you, sir."

"Unnecessary, I assure you. A word in your ear, however, child."

"Yes?"

"It might be wisest not to state in public that such devices were part of your father's work."

Jethri frowned. "Old technology is not illegal, in Terran space," he said, evenly.

"Very true," the Scout said and it seemed to Jethri that he was about to say more.

"Is this your father?" Miandra asked from behind them.

Jethri turned, and saw her holding up the photocube, Arin's picture on the screen.

"Yes—that's him."

She turned it 'round to face her. "You resemble him extremely, Jethri. I had supposed him to be your elder brother."

"May I see?" The Scout extended a hand, and Miandra gave him the cube.

"Ah, yes, that is how I saw him, on the day of his dying. Strong, doubt free and worthy. A remarkable likeness, indeed." Bowing slightly, he handed the cube back.

"Now, children, I suggest that we adjourn to Scout Hall, where Jethri may sign the necessary paperwork and we may place this item—" He touched the breast of his jacket—"into safekeeping. We will also contact the Healers, to advise them of Lady Miandra's guesting arrangements, and to confirm the time of her arrival tomorrow. After which, I ask you both to lend me the pleasure of your companionship over prime. There is a restaurant on Irikwaeport which has long been a favorite of mine. I would be honored to share it with friends."

Jethri glanced to Miandra, saw her eyes shining and her face looking less pinched, and bowed to the Scout.

"We are more than pleased to bear you company, sir. Lead on."

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Framed