"COME, COME, YOUNG Jethri, tarry not!" Pen Rel's voice was brisk, as he waved Jethri ahead of him into the entry tube. "All the wonders of Kailipso Station await your discovery! Surely, your enthusiasm and spirit of adventure are aroused!"
Had it been Dyk behind him in the chute, Jethri would have counted both his legs yanked proper, and been alert for second stage mischief. He thought Pen Rel too dignified for Dyk's sort of rough-'n-tumble; he was less sure of his tendencies on the leg-pulling side of things.
Jethri felt the odd twitter of the grav field where it intersected the station's own grav-well; though flat and level to the eyes the deck felt as if it fell away into the chute. Maybe Pen Rel was watching for a bobble, but such boundaries were learned by shipcrew at the knees of their mates and family.
The airflow, that was a surprise—definitely a positive, cool flow toward the ship—No, Jethri discovered, after a moment's study; the tube itself had a circulation system, and he could see the filters set flush to the walls. He gave a quiet sigh of relief for this homey precaution—all long-spacers did their most to keep station, port, or planet air out in favor of proper controlled and cleaned ship air.
Curiosity satisfied, Jethri stepped forward—and then stepped back, his hand going up, fingers shaping the hand-talk for "hold".
Two Liadens were coming up the slanted ramp at a pace that made Jethri's chest ache in sympathy. One—by far the pudgiest Liaden Jethri had seen so far—was carrying a full duffle; his slimmer companion clutched what looked to be a general business comp to his chest. They were in earnest conversation, heads turned aside and eyes only for each other.
"What is—" Pen Rel began, but by then the duo was on the flat and heading full throttle out, never realizing that they was anything but alone.
"'ware the deck!" Jethri snapped.
It had the desired effect, whether either of them had understood the Terran words. Both slammed to a graceless halt. The man with the comp raised it a fraction, as if to ward Jethri away.
Pen Rel stepped forward, claiming attention with a flicker of a hand, and a slight inclination of the head.
"Ah, Storemaster," he murmured, and Jethri thought he heard a bare thread of . . . disapproval in the bland, dry voice. "You are somewhat before time, I believe."
The man with the comp bowed. "Arms Master. I am instructed to supply crew with specialty baking experience, and I have here such a one. It remains to be found that he can operate Elthoria's ovens and bread vats. So we arrive, for a testing."
Pen Rel looked to the second man.
"Have you shipboard experience?"
The pudgy guy bowed lower than Jethri would have thought possible with the duffle over his shoulder, and straightened to show a wide eyed, slightly damp face. "Three voyages, Honored. The Storemaster has my files. . . "
"Very good." Pen Rel was back with the Storemaster. "Next time, you will come at the mate's appointed hour, eh? This time, you have interfered in ship's business."
The applicant cook's round eyes got rounder; the Storemaster pursed his mouth up. Both bowed themselves out of the way, even sparing brief nods for the unexpected Terran in their midst.
"So," Pen Rel said, catching Jethri's eye. He moved a hand toward the ramp. "After you, young Jethri."
AT THE BOTTOM OF the chute was the inevitable uniformed station ape, card-reader to hand.
Jethri handed over his shiny new shipcard. The inspector took it, glanced at it—and paused, eyes lifting to his face.
"Elthoria signs Terran crew," she stated—or maybe she was asking. Jethri ducked his head, wondering if she expected an answer and what, exactly, would be seen as discourteous behavior in a Terran, here on an all-Liaden station. That he was an anomaly was clear from the pair they'd surprised coming on-ship. But, then, he said to himself, you expected you were going to be an oddity. Best get used to it.
"Must the ship clear its roster with the station?" Pen Rel asked from behind him, in Trade. "Do you find the card questionable?"
The inspector's mouth tightened. She swiped the card sharply through the reader, displaying bit of temper, or so Jethri thought, and stood holding it in her hand until the unit beeped and the tiny screen flashed blue.
"Verified and valid," she said, and held the card out, still something pettish.
Jethri grabbed it and slid it away into his belt. "Thank you, Inspector," he said politely.
She ignored him, holding out a hand to Pen Rel.
Bland-faced, he put his card in her palm, and watched as she swiped it and handed it back. The unit beeped and the screen flashed.
"Verified and valid," she said, and stepped back, obviously expecting them to go on about their business.
Pen Rel stayed where he was, waiting, bland and patient, until she looked up.
"A point of information," he said, still sticking with Trade. "Elthoria does not hold her crew lightly."
It was said mild enough, but the inspector froze, her face losing a little of that rich golden color. Jethri counted to five before she bent in a bow and murmured, "Of course, Arms Master. No disrespect to Elthoria or to her crew was intended."
"That is well, then," Pen Rel said, mildness itself. He moved a hand in a easy forward motion. "Young sir, the delights of the station are before you."
As hints went, it wasn't near subtle, but apparently Pen Rel was still making his point, because the inspector looked up into his face and inclined her head.
"Young trader, may you enjoy a profitable and pleasurable stay on Kailipso Station."
Right. He inclined his head in turn, murmured his very best, all-Liaden, "My thanks," and quick-stepped down the dock toward the bay door.
On the other side of the door, he pulled up. Pen Rel stepped through, and Jethri fell in beside him. The Liaden checked.
"Forgive me, Jethri," he said. "What do you do?"
Jethri blinked. "I thought I was partnered with you."
"Ah." Pen Rel tipped his head to a side. "Understand that I find your companionship all that is delightful. However, I have errands on the day which are. . . of no concern to one of your station. The master trader's word was that you be put at liberty to enjoy those things which Kailipso offers." He moved a hand in the all-too-familiar shooing gesture.
"So, enjoy. You are wanted back on board at seventh hour. I need not remind you to comport yourself so as to bring honor to your ship. And now," he swept a slight, loose-limbed half-bow; "I leave you to your pleasure, while I pursue my duties."
And he turned and walked off, just like that, leaving the juniormost and most idiot of his crew standing staring after, jaw hanging at half-mast.
Pen Rel had gone half the length of the corridor and turned right down a side way before Jethri shook himself into order and started walking, trying to accommodate himself to the fact that he was alone and at liberty on a Liaden owned and operated spacestation, where the official staff had already demonstrated a tendency to consider him a general issue nuisance. He shook his head, not liking the notion near so well as he should have done.
He did get to thinking, as he walked, that Master ven'Deelin surely knew what Kailipso was—just as surely as Pen Rel did. And certainly neither of those canny old hands was likely to turn him loose in halls where he might find active danger.
He hoped.
An overhead sign at the junction of halls where Pen Rel had vanished offered him routes, straight on to Main Concourse, right hall to Station Administration, and left hall to Mercantile Station. Working on the theory that there would be information booths in the Main Concourse, Jethri went straight on.
INFOBOOTHS WERE THE least of the wonders offered by the Main Concourse and its affiliated sections. He explored Market Square first, finding it not a trading center, as he had expected, but a retail shop zone offering goods at exorbitant mark-ups.
Nonetheless, he browsed, comparing prices shop to shop, and against his best guess of trade-side cost. Some of the items offered for sale were, by his admittedly unscientific calculation, marked up as much as six hundred percent over trade. He took a bit of a shock, for he saw in one window a timepiece identical to the one Norn ven'Deelin had casually given him—and found its price at three kais. 'Course, a master trader wasn't going to ever pay shop-price, but—He glanced down and took a second to make sure the slap strap was secure around his wrist.
Kailipso being a station, there were special considerations. Stations were dependent on outside supply; if one needed what was here it was very much a seller's market.
That got him to wondering just how much this particular station was dependent on outside supply, so he hunted up another booth and got directions to Education Square. Of course, it was opposite the Market, which meant a long walk back the way he'd come and through the Concourse, but he didn't grudge it. Station lived a thought lighter than Elthoria, so he fairly skipped along.
Education was almost useless. The tapes offered for rent were every one narrated in Liaden. He was about to give up when his eye snagged on a half-sized shop, sort of crammed in sideways to the hall, in a space between a utility bay and a recycling chamber.
The small opening spilled yellow light out into the hallway, and a table was sitting almost into the common area, holding the fabulous luxury of six bound books. Behind them was a hand-written sign, stating that all sales were final, cash only.
Jethri moved forward, picked up the topmost book with reverence, and carefully thumbed the pages.
Paper rustled, and a subtle smell wafted up. He allowed the book to fall open in his hands and found the Liaden words almost absurdly easy to read as he was at once captivated by an account of one Shan el'Thrassin, who was engaged in a matter of honor with a set of folk who seemed something less than honorable.
"May I assist you, young sir?" The voice was soft, male, slightly hesitant in Trade. Jethri started, ears warming, closing the book with a snap.
"I apologize," he said. "I was looking for information about the history, economics and structure of the station. I am looking to fill some hours while visiting. . . . This. . . " Carefully, he bent and placed the volume he had been reading back in its place on the table. He experienced a genuine pang as the book left his hand.
". . . I cannot possibly afford this. If I have offended by using it without pay. . . "
The man moved a hand, slowly, formally. "Books are meant to be read, young sir. You honor them—and me—with your interest. However, you intrigue me, for is not the entire square full with sight and sound recordings of the awesome past and glorious present of our station?"
Jethri ducked his head. "Sir, it is. However—while I read the written form, my tongue and ear run far behind my eyes."
"Hah." The man's eyes gleamed. "You are, in fact, a scholar. It is nothing less than my duty to assist you. Come. I believe I have just what you are wanting."
As it happened, he did: A thin paper book simply entitled Guide To Kailipso Station.
"It is slight, but well enough to satisfy the first level of questions and engage the mind upon the second level," the shopkeeper said easily. "It will, I think, serve you well. Though used, it is new enough that the information is reasonably dependable. "
"I thank you," Jethri said. "However, again, I fear that my coins may be too few." And of the wrong sort, he thought suddenly, with a sinking feeling in his stomach. He was wearing his trading coat, but what he had in his public pocket was Terran bits and his fractin. He'd clean forgotten to stop at ship's bank to pull money out of his account in proper tor and kais. . .
The man looked up at him. "Do you know, young sir, I believe we are in Balance. It is seldom enough that one sees a Terran. It is rarer to see a Terran unaccompanied and unhurried. To meet and have converse with a Terran who reads Liaden—even the gods must own themselves privileged in such an encounter." He smiled, slight and gentle.
"Have the book, child. Your need is greater than mine."
Jethri bit his lip. "Sir, I thank you, but—I request an elder's advice. How should a young and inexperienced person such as myself Balance so generous a gift from a stranger?"
For a moment, he thought he'd gone well beyond bounds, though by all he knew there ought to be no offense given in asking for a clue to proper behavior. But the man before him was so still—
The shopkeeper bowed, lightly, right hand over belt-buckle. "There is," he said, straightening to his full, diminutive height, "a . . . protocol for such things. The proper Balance for the receipt of a gift freely given is to use it wisely and with honor, so that the giver is neither shamed nor regretful of his generosity."
Oh. Feeling an idiot, Jethri bowed, low enough to convey his thanks. He hoped. "I am grateful for the information, sir. My thanks."
The man waved a dismissive hand. "Surely, it is the duty of elder to instruct the young." Once again, he smiled his slight smile. "Enjoy your holiday, child."
"Thank you, sir," Jethri murmured, and bowed again, figuring that it was better to err on the side of too many than not enough, and moved out of the shop, trying not to let his eyes wander to those shelves full of treasure.
HE FOUND A VACANT bench in the main square and quickly became absorbed in the guidebook. From it, he learned that Kailipso Station had come into being as a way station for cargo and for galactic travelers. Unfortunately, it very shortly became a refugee camp for those who managed to escape the catastrophic climatic upsets of a colony world called Daethiria. While many of the homeless colonists returned to the established Liaden worlds from which they had emigrated, a not inconsiderable number chose to remain on Kailipso Station rather than return to the conditions which had forced them away in the first place.
Kailipso Admin, realizing that it would need to expand quarters to support increased population, got clever—or desperate—or both—and went wooing the big Liaden Guilds, like the Traders and the Pilots, and got them to go in for sector offices on Kailipso.
Where most ports and stations would automate scut-work, Kailipso used people wherever possible, since they had people—and they not only got by, but they thrived.
So, Kailipso expanded, and soon enough became a destination all its own. Like any other station, it was vulnerable to attack, and dependent on imports for luxury items and planet-bred food. If it had to be, though, it was self-sufficient. On-station yeast vats produced enough boring, wholesome nutrition to feed Kailipso's denizens. Off-station, there were farm pods—fish, fruits and vegetables—which made for tastier eating in sufficient quantities to keep those same denizens in luxury if they could so afford.
Kailipso also offered recreation. There was a power-sled track, swimming facilities, climbing walls to challenge a number of skill levels, and more than two dozen arenas for sports Jethri had never heard of.
The guide book also provided a list of unsafe zones, accompanied by a cutaway station map with each danger outlined in bright green. Most were construction sites, and a few out-ring halls that dead-ended into what looked to be emergency chutes, marked out as Danger: Low Gravity Zones.
He likewise learned from the guide book that the Kailipso Trade Bar was in the Mercantile Zone, and that it was open to all with a valid license of trade or a tradeship crew card. There, at least, he could directly debit his account on ship, and get himself some walking-around money. A brew and a looksee at the ship-board wouldn't be amiss, either.
So thinking, he came to his feet and slipped the book away in to a leg-pocket. He took a second to stretch, luxuriating in the lower grav, then headed off at a mild lope, bound for the Mercantile Zone.
HE RAN HIS CARD through the reader; the screen flashed blue, and the door to the Trade Bar swung open before him.
Valid and verified, he thought, grinning, and then remembered to put on his trading face—polite, non-committal, and supposedly unreadable; it wasn't much, set against your usual Liaden's ungiving mask. Still, grinning out loud in a place crammed with folks who just didn't couldn't be polite. And polite was all he had.
What hit him first were the similarities to the Terran Trade Bars he'd been in with Uncle Paitor or Cris or Dyk. The high-info screens were set well up on one wall, showing list after list: ships in dock; traders on duty; goods at offer, stationside; goods at offer, dockside; goods sought. The exchange rates were missing, which made him blink until he realized that everybody on this station was buying in cantra and kais.
The milling of bodies seemingly at random around the various stations—that was familiar too—and even the sound—lots of voices, talking at once, maybe a little louder than needful.
But then the differences—damn near everybody was shorter than him, dressed in bright colors, and soft leather boots. Jewelry gleamed on ears, hands, throats. Not a few wore a weapon, holstered, on their belts. For the most, they walked flat, like born mud-grubbers, and not like honest spacers at all. And the slightly too loud voices were saying things in a quick, liquid language which his ear couldn't begin to sort.
He found himself a corner where two booths abutted, and settled back out of the general press to study the screens. Stationside goods at offer tended toward art stuffs and information—reasonable. The longest list by far, though, was for indenture—folks looking to buy their way off-station, maybe all the way back to Liad, by selling out years of their lives. By Jethri's count, there were forty-eight contracts offered, from sixteen years to thirty-four, from general labor to fine craftsperson.
"Well, what do we find ourselves here?" a woman's voice asked, too close and too loud, her Trade almost unintelligible. "I do believe it's a Terran, Vil Jon."
Jethri moved, but she was blocking his exit, and the man moving up at her hail was going to box him in proper.
"A Terran?" the man—Vil Jon—repeated. "Now what would a Terran be doing in the Trade Bar?" He looked up into Jethri's face, eyes hard and blue. "Well, Terran? Who let you in here?"
Jethri met his eyes, trying with everything in him to keep his face smooth, polite and non-committal.
"The door let me in, sir. My ship card was accepted by the reader."
"It has a card," the woman said, as if the man hadn't heard. "Now, what ship in dock keeps tame Terrans."
The man glanced over his shoulder at the boards. "There's Intovish, from Vanthachal. They keep some odd customs, local." He looked back at Jethri. "What ship, Terran?"
He considered it. After all, his ship was no secret. On Terran ground, asking for someone's ship was a common courtesy. From these two, though, it seemed a threat—or a challenge in a game he had no hope of understanding.
"Elthoria," he said, soft and polite as he knew how. "Sir."
"Elthoria?" The woman exchanged a long glance with her mate, who moved his shoulders, pensive-like.
"Could be it's bound for Solcintra Zoo," he said.
"Could be it's gotten hold of a card it shouldn't have," the woman returned, sharply. She held out her hand. "Come, Terran. Let us see your ship card."
And that, Jethri thought, was that. He was threatened, cornered and outnumbered, but he was damned if he was going to meekly hand his card over to this pair of port hustlers.
"No, ma'am," he said, and jumped forward.
The grav was light—he jumped a fair distance, knocking the woman aside as gentle as he could, out of reach before the man thought to try and grab him.
Having once jumped, Jethri stayed in motion, moving quick through the crowded room. He met a few startled glances, but took care not to jostle anybody, and very soon gained the door. It was, he thought, time to get back to his ship.
THEY KNEW THE station better than him—of course they did. They turned him back, hall by hall, crowding him toward the Concourse, cutting him off from the docks and his ship.
In desperation, he went down three floors, hit the hall beyond the lift doors running and had broken for the outer ring before he heard them behind him, calling "Terran, Terran! You cannot elude us, Terran!"
That might be so, Jethri thought, laboring hard now, light grav or not. He had a plan in his mind, though, and if this was the hall as he remembered it from the guide book's map of danger zones. . .
He flashed past a blue sign, the Liaden letters going by too fast for his eye to catch, but he recognized the symbol from the map, and began to think that this might work.
The hall took a hard left, like he remembered it from the map, and there was the emergency tunnel at end of it, gaping black and cold.
"Terran!" The woman's voice was suddenly shrill. "Wait! We will not hurt you!"
Right, Jethri thought, the tunnel one long stride away. He hit it running, felt the twist inside his ear that meant he had gone from one gravitational state to another—
He jumped.
Somewhere behind him, a woman screamed. Jethri fell, slow-motion, saw a safety pole, slapped it and changed trajectory, shooting under the lip of the floor above, anchoring himself with a foot hooked 'neath a beam.
The woman was talking in Liaden now, still shrill and way too loud. The man answered sharply, and then shouted out, in pidgin, "Terran! Where are you?"
Like he was going to answer. Jethri concentrated on breathing slow and quiet.
They didn't wait all that long; he heard the sound of their footsteps, walking fast, then the sound of the lift doors working.
After that, he didn't hear anything else.
He made himself sit there for a full twenty-eighth by the Liaden timepiece on his wrist, then eased out of hiding. A quick kick against the side of the chute sent him angling upward. He caught the edge of the floor as he shot past and did a back flip into the tunnel. He snatched a ring, righted himself, and skated for the hall.
A Liaden man in a black leather jacket was leaning against the wall opposite the tunnel.
Jethri froze.
The Liaden nodded easily, almost Terran-like.
"Well done," he said, and it was ground-based Terran he was talking, but Terran all the same. "I commend you upon a well-thought-out and competently executed maneuver."
"Thanks." Jethri said, thinking he could scramble, go over the edge again, make for the next level up, or down. . .
The Liaden held up a hand, palm out. "Acquit me of any intent to harm you. Indeed, it is concern for your welfare which finds me here, in a cold hallway at the far edge of nowhere, when I am promised to dinner with friends."
Jethri sighed. "You see I'm fine. Go to dinner."
The Liaden outright laughed, and straightened away from the wall.
"Oh, excellent! To the point, I agree." He waved down the hall vaguely, as if he could see through walls, and so could Jethri "Come, be a little gracious. I hear you are from Elthoria, over on Dock Six, is that so?"
Jethri nodded, warily. "Yes."
"Delightful. As it happens, I treasure an acquaintance with Norn ven'Deelin which has too long languished unrenewed. Allow me to escort you to your ship."
Jethri stood, feeling the glare building and not even trying to stop it. The man in the jacket tsk'd.
"Come now. Even a lad of your obvious resource will find it difficult to outrun a Scout on this station. At least allow me to know that Elthoria is on Dock Six. Also—forgive me for introducing a painful subject—I must point out that your late companions will no doubt have called in an anonymous accident report. If you wish to avoid awkward questions from the Watch, you would be well-advised to put yourself in my hands."
Maybe it was the Terran. Maybe it was the laugh, or the man's easy and factual way. Whatever, Jethri allowed that he trusted this one as much as he hadn't trusted the pair who had been chasing him. Further down the hall, a lift chimed—and that decided it.
"OK," he agreed, and the man smiled.
"Not a moment too soon," He said, and stepped around the edge of the wall he'd been leaning against.
"This way, young sir. Quickly."
HIS GUIDE SET A brisk pace through the service corridors, his footsteps no more than whispers.
Jethri, walking considerably more noisy behind him, had time to appreciate that he was at this man's mercy; and the likelihood that his murdered body could lie in one of the numerous, dark repair bays they passed for days before anyone thought to look. . .
"Do not sell your master trader short, young sir," the man ahead of him said. "I can understand that you might be having second thoughts about myself—a stranger and a Scout, together! Who knows what such a fellow might do? But never doubt Norn ven'Deelin."
Apparently it wasn't just his face that was found too readable, Jethri thought sourly, but his footsteps, too. Still, he forced himself to chew over what the man had said, and produced a question.
"What's a Scout?"
Two steps ahead, the Liaden turned to face him, continuing to walk backward, which he seemed to find just as simple as going face-first, and put his hand, palm flat, against his chest.
"I am a Scout, child. In particular: Scout Captain Jan Rek ter'Astin, presently assigned to the outpost contained in this space station."
Jethri considered him. "You're a soldier, then?"
Scout Captain ter'Astin laughed again, and turned face forward without breaking stride.
"No, innocent, I am not a soldier. The Scouts are . . . are—an exploratory corps. And to hear some, we are more trouble than we are worth, constant meddlers that we are—Ah, here is our lift! After you, young sir."
It looked an ordinary enough lift, Jethri thought, as the door slid away. And what choice did he have, anyway? He was certainly lost, and had no guide but this man who laughed like a Terran and walked as loose and light as a spacer.
He stepped into the lift, the Scout came after, punched a quick series of buttons, and relaxed bonelessly against the wall.
"I don't wish to be forward," he said, slipping his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "But I wonder if you have a name."
"Jethri Gobelyn."
"Ah, is it so? Are you kin to Arin Gobelyn?"
Jethri turned and stared, shock no doubt plain on his face, for the Scout brought his right hand out of his pocket and raised it in his small gesture of peace.
"Forgive me if I have offended. I am not expert in the matter of Terran naming customs, I fear."
Jethri shook his head. "I'm Arin Gobelyn's son," he said, trying to shake away the shock, as he stared into the Scout's easy, unreadable face. "My mother never told me he had any Liaden . . . connections."
"Nor should she have done so. My acquaintance with Arin Gobelyn was unfortunately curtailed by his death."
Jethri blinked. "You were at the explosion?"
"Alas, no. Or at least, not immediately. I was one of the Port rescue team sent to clean up after the explosion. We arrived to find that an impromptu rescue effort was already underway. The Terran ship crews, they reacted well and with purpose. Your father—he was as a giant. He went back into that building twice, and brought out injured persons. Was it three or five that he carried or guided out? The years blur the memory, I fear. The third time, however. . . " He moved his shoulders. "The third time, he handed his rescue off to the medics, and paused, perhaps to recruit his strength. Behind him, the building collapsed as the inner roof beams gave way sequentially—throwing out debris and smoke with enormous energy.
"When the dust cleared, I was down, your father was down—everyone in a two-square radius was down. After I had recovered my wits, I crawled over to your father. The wreckage was afire, of course, and I believe I had some foolish notion of trying to drag him further from the flames. As it happens, there was no need. A blade of wood as long as I am had pierced him. We had nothing to repair such a wound, and in any case it was too late. I doubt he knew that he had been killed." Another ripple of black-clad shoulders.
"So, I only knew him as a man of courage and good heart, who spent his life so that others might live." The Scout inclined his head, suddenly and entirely Liaden.
"You are fortunate in your kin, Jethri Gobelyn."
Jethri swallowed around the hard spot in his throat. He'd only known that his father had died when the warehouse had collapsed. The rest of this. . .
"Thank you," he said, huskily. "I hadn't known the—the story of my father's death."
"Ah. Then I am pleased to be of service."
The lift chimed, and the Scout straightened, hands coming out of his pockets. He waved Jethri forward.
"Come, this will be our stop."
"Our stop" looked like nothing more than a plain metal square with a door at one end. Jethri stepped out of the lift, and to one side.
The Scout strolled past, very much at his leisure, put his palm against the door and walked through.
Jethri followed—and found himself on Dock Six, practically at the foot of Elthoria's ramp. Despite it all, he grinned, then remembered and bowed to the Scout.
"Thank you. I think I can make it from here."
"Doubtless you can," the Scout said agreeably. "But recall my ambition to renew my acquaintance with Norn ven'Deelin." He moved forward with his loose, easy stride that was much quicker than it looked. Jethri stretched his legs and caught up with him just as he turned toward the ramp. . . startling the young replacement doc-checker into a flabbergasted, "Wait, you!"
The Scout barely turned his head. "Official Scout business," he said briskly and went up the ramp at a spanking pace, Jethri panting at his heels.
At the top, a shadow shifted. Jethri looked up and saw Pen Rel coming quickly down toward them—and just as suddenly braking, eyebrows raised high.
"Scout. To what do we owe the honor?"
"Merely a desire to share a glass and a few moments with the master trader," the Scout said, slowing slightly, but still moving steadily up the ramp. "Surely an old friend may ask so much?"
Jethri sent a glance up into Pen Rel's face, which showed watchful, and somewhat, maybe, even—annoyed.
"The master trader has just returned from the trade meeting—" he began.
"Then she will need a glass and a few moments of inconsequential chat even more," the Scout interrupted. "Besides, I wish to speak with her about her apprentice."
Pen Rel's glance found Jethri's face. "Her tardy apprentice."
"Just so," said the Scout. "You anticipate my topic."
He reached Pen Rel and paused at what Jethri knew to be comfortable talking distance for Liadens. It was a space that felt a little too wide to him, but, then, he'd come up on a ship half the size and less of Elthoria.
"Come, arms master, be gracious."
"Gracious," Pen Rel repeated, but he turned and led the way into the ship.
IF MASTER VEN'DEELIN felt any dismay in welcoming Scout Captain Jan Rek ter'Astin onto her ship, she kept it to herself. She saw him comfortably seated, and poured three glasses of wine with her own hands—one for the guest, one for herself, and one for Jethri.
She sat in the chair opposite the Scout; perforce, Jethri sank into the remaining, least comfortable, chair, which sat to the master trader's right.
The Scout sipped his wine. Master ven'Deelin did the same, Jethri following suit. The red was sharp on the tongue, then melted into sweetness.
"I commend you," the Scout said to the master trader, and in Terran, which Jethri thought had to be an insult, "on your choice of apprentice."
Master ven'Deelin inclined her head. "Happy I am that you find him worthy," she replied, in her accented Terran.
The Scout smiled. "Of course you are," he murmured. "I wonder, though, do you value the child?" He raised his hand. "Understand me, I find him a likely fellow, and quick of thought and action. But those are attributes which Scouts are taught to admire. Perhaps for a trader—?"
"I value Jethri high," Master ven'Deelin said composedly.
"Ah. Then I wonder why you put him in harm's way?"
Master ven'Deelin's face didn't change, but Jethri was abruptly in receipt of the clear notion that she was paying attention on all channels.
"Explain," she said, briefly.
"Certainly," the Scout returned, and without even taking a hard breath launched the story of Jethri's foray into the Trade Bar, and all the events which followed from it. Master ven'Deelin sat silent until the end, then looked to Jethri.
"Jethri Gobelyn."
He sat up straighter, prepared to take his licks, for the whole mess had been his own fault, start to finish, and—
"Your lessons expand. Next on-shift, you will embrace menfri'at. Pen Rel will instruct you as to time."
What in cold space was menfri'at, Jethri wondered, even as he inclined his head. "Yes, Master Trader."
"Self-defense," the Scout said, as if Jethri has asked his question out loud, "including how to make calm judgments in . . . difficult situations." Jethri looked at him, and the Scout smiled. "For truly, child, if you had not run—or run only so far as one of the tables—there would have been no need to leap off into a gravity-free zone which is sometimes not quite so gravity free as one might wish."
Jethri looked at him, mouth dry. "The book said—"
"No doubt. However, the facts are that the station does sometimes provide gravity to those portions marked 'free fall'."
Jethri felt sick, the wine sitting uneasily on his stomach.
"Also," the Scout continued, "a book is—of necessity—somewhat behind the times in other matters; and I doubt that yours attempted more than a modest discussion of station culture. Certainly, a book could tell you little of which ships might be in from the outer dependencies, with crews likely to be looking for hijinks."
And that, Jethri admitted, stomach still unsettled, was true. Just like he'd know better than to head down Gamblers Row on any Terran port he could name after a rock-buster crew came in, he ought to know—
But the ship names meant nothing to him, here, and though some—perhaps twenty percent—had showed Combine trade codes along with Liaden, he didn't yet have those Liaden codes memorized. Jethri swallowed. He shouldn't have been let loose on station without a partner, he thought. That was fact. He was a danger to himself and his ship until he learned not to be stupid.
The Scout was talking with Master ven'Deelin. "I see, too, that Ixin, or at least Elthoria, may need to be brought to fuller awareness of the, let us call them . . . climate changes. . . recently wrought here. Indeed, these changes are closely related to my own sudden stationing."
Norn ven'Deelin's face changed subtly, and the Scout made a small, nearly familiar motion with his hand. Jethri leaned forward, the roiling in his gut forgotten—hand-talk! It wouldn't be the same as he knew, o'course, but maybe he could catch—
"So," the master trader murmured, "it is not a mere accident of happiness that you are on-station just as my apprentice becomes beset by—persons of loutishness?"
"It is not," the Scout replied. "The politics of this sector have altered of late. The flow of commerce, and even the flow of science and information has been shifting. You may wish—forgive me for meddling where I have no right!—but perhaps you may wish to issue ship's armbands to those who walk abroad unaccompanied."
The Scout's fingers moved, casually, augmenting his spoken words. Jethri tried to block his voice out and concentrate on the patterns that were almost the patterns he knew. He thought for a second that he'd caught the gist of it—and the Scout turned up the speed.
Defeated for the moment, Jethri sat back, and tried another sip of his wine.
"For I am certain," the Scout was saying out loud, "that there were enough of those present with Ixin's interest at heart that they would not have permitted a bullying. As it is, you may wish to ask your most excellent arms master to—"
Master ven'Deelin's hand flashed a quick series of signs as she murmured, "Ah. I have been so much enjoying your visit that I of my duty am neglectful. This is what you wish to say?"
The Scout laughed. The master trader—perhaps she smiled, a little, before turning her attention to Jethri and using her chin to point at the door.
"Of your goodness, young Jethri. Scout ter'Astin and I have another topic of discourse between us, which absolutely I refuse to undertake in Terran."
"Yes, ma'am." He stood and bowed, made clumsy by reason of the still-full wine glass. "Good shift, ma'am. Scout—I thank you."
"No, child," the Scout said, sipping his wine. "It is I who thank you, for enlivening what has otherwise been a perfectly tedious duty cycle." He moved a hand, echoing Master ven'Deelin. "Go, have your meal, rest. Learn well and bring honor to your ship."
"Yessir," Jethri gasped, and made his escape.