Balance of Trade (48 page)

"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?"