Crystal Soldier (28 page)

Someone, thought Cantra, had neglected her education badly, judging from the way the scarves were arranged. She hoped the young lady didn't take it into her head to attempt to perform anything she might fondly believe to be the Dance of a Dozen Scarves. She doubted the arts fair was ready. Though it looked like the 'prentice merchant was.

"Good day to you," she said, approaching the rug booth.

The boy started badly, and came out of his slouch with a gasp, bowing hurriedly.

"Trader," he murmured, the Common Tongue pleasantly burry in his mouth. She didn't immediately place the accent—and then did: The lad was from The Bubble. "How may I be of service?"

"I am interested in rugs, sir," she said, bringing the Rim accent up a notch. "Good rugs, not necessarily in the first line of art, but durable and pleasing to both the eye and the foot."

"I believe we may have precisely what you are searching for," the boy said, moving down the booth. "If the trader will attend me here, I will undertake to acquaint her with our mid-line rugs. It is on these rugs that we base our reputation as manufacturers of the first rank. Durable, attractive, stain and dirt resistant. Here—" He put his hand on a sample. "Feel the nap, Trader. Not so deep as to trap dirt, yet deep enough to comfort feet tired from a day on-port in boots."

Cantra felt the nap, as directed, and found the boy to be correct with regard to the rug's tactile virtues. Unfortunately, he was dead wrong regarding attractiveness, it being warning-light orange. She flipped an edge up and considered the backing. Machine-loomed, sturdy, nothing special to commend it; color to discommend it. She sighed and flipped the edge back down.

"I wonder," she said, "if there might be a less—robust color available."

"Trader, I am desolate. The color is the hallmark of this particular rug. Now, if the trader would be willing to aim a step higher, we have these to offer—"

He moved up-counter, displaying a slightly larger specimen woven from variegated rose thread. The 'prentice flipped the edge up before she could get her palm against the nap, displaying the back for her.

Machine-loomed again. Cantra reached out and flipped the corner down, sliding her hand against the nap.

Stiff and unpleasant, cut far too close. She sighed and moved back from the counter, letting her eyes rest meditatively on the boy's face.

"Young sir, it would appear that you have no rugs that you wish to sell me."

He had the grace to blush, round cheeks darkening.

"Trader, it was you who asked to see cheap rugs."

She moved a hand in negation. "You misheard me, sir. I asked to see durable, comfortable and useful rugs at a good price. I have no interest in art pieces, nor in rugs so flimsy they lose their knots at the first suggestion of a boot. However, I see that you cannot accommodate me. I will search elsewhere. Fair profit to you."

She strolled away, leaving the 'prentice staring, hot-faced after her. Cantra sighed. It was an old game—guide the customer to the goods carrying the highest mark-up by being unable produce anything suitable at the lower price levels. The boy hadn't played it particularly well, and had likely earned a tongue-lashing from his master for ineptitude, more the pity. Light traders, being law-abiding by fiat, ought not to display such tricks, even given that the Light version of the game was hardly more than a parlor trick, with only money at the risk. The same game played at a Dark port could well involve lives and ships.

The next rug booth on the list sported customers—no surprise, if they'd all encountered the boy with the Bubble accent first. The senior merchant behind the counter gave her a quick flutter of fingers—hand-sign for
be there soon
—which Cantra acknowledged with a dip of the head. Mooching through the displays not involved in the merchant's presentation, she located two possibles, both machine-loomed, durable, and soft against the skin. One was deep blue, the other a blend of quiet greens, and by the time the senior merchant came down-counter, Cantra had decided on the green, should price and availability favor her.

"Trader, how may I help you?" The merchant had a good, solid Insider accent, and a pleasant cast to her face. Her body language conveyed that she considered this to be the most important transaction of her day, and she met Cantra's eyes openly, her own a lucent brown.

"I am interested in good, serviceable rugs," Cantra said, with an easy smile. "They need not necessarily be in the first line of art, but they must be durable and pleasing to both the eye and the foot."

The other woman smiled back, and reached to stroke the nap of the blue rug.

"The trader has a good eye. These and these—" the palm moved to the green rug—"are our most durable offerings. As you see, they are soft, both—" a practiced move of the hand and the corner of the green came up—"machine made, of course. They have been treated with SATA standard stain and dirt guard—to clean the rug, merely shake it out. Also, as you will see, all of our rugs have anti-skid strips at each corner, for added comfort and safety."

"The rugs please," Cantra said, flipping up the corner of the blue and running her finger over the skid stopper. "As well-made as they are, I wonder if they might be above my touch."

The senior merchant smiled. "Surely not. For a half-pallet of either, I ask only six hundred carolis."

"Entirely above my means, alas." Cantra sighed, and smoothed the blue rug with her palm. "I had been hoping that we might meet at three hundred carolis."

"Three hundred?" The senior merchant's brown eyes gleamed. "The trader jests, of course. Why—"

And so it went, until each was certain that they had the advantage of the other, and Cantra eventually handed over her trade coin, from which the brown-eyed merchant deducted four hundred carolis. A time was set for the delivery of the half-pallet of green and they parted amicably.

As pleased with her purchases as if she were legit and ultimately about lawful business, Cantra ambled back toward the entrance-way. She did the calcs in her head as she walked, and took time to hope that Jela's carvings were compact, and not needful of specialized packing. Some stone was fragile, despite it all, which she should've thought to say to him, and if he came in with a deal on a crate full of breakables—

He'd be a bigger fool than you know him to be
, she snapped at herself.
The man's a pilot; he knows about acceleration.

Acceleration, in fact, was only one of the fascinating things that Pilot Jela seemed to know. Nothing like the encyclopedic training she'd survived, in which the aim of the directors was to cram all known history, cultures, languages, and arts into the skull of the student.

No, Jela seemed to specialize in the odd bit of knowledge, the random snip of lore. He had a truly awe-inspiring library of songs available to him—many of them obscene on one world or another—which he sang softly while he worked at whatever small task he had set himself to.

She had so far, and by constant reminder to herself, managed to avoid discounting him as a mere pack-dragon, hoarding his pieces and oddments without understanding—or caring about—their wider connections. Jela had surprised her more than once during their short acquaintance, and she was allergic to surprises.

At the intersection with the main avenue, she turned left, taking it easy, there being some while left 'til the meet-time. It was therefore with some startlement that she bespied a short, wide-shouldered figure in respectable trade leathers walking purposefully in her direction.

She paused by an avenue sign and waited for him to join her, which he did in good time.

It was on the edge of her tongue to ask him how the carvings deal had gone, but something in his face dissolved the words, and another set fell out in their place.

"What's wrong?"

"I heard something—unsettling, I'd guess you'd say. I'll need to check it when we get back to the ship." A ripple of those wide shoulders. "It's probably just rumor."

A distinctly upsetting rumor, if it had Jela forgetting that she wasn't supposed to know about his indiscretions with
Dancer's
long-comm. Or, maybe, she thought, and the thought made her stomach hurt, the news carried on the rumor was dire enough to have Jela
thinking
again—and figuring that the time for let's pretend was past.

"Carvings?" she asked then, and he jerked his chin over his shoulder.

"I've got a reserve on a case lot of hand-carved telomite. Each piece unique. Good, hearty rock—won't splinter or crack under acceleration. I told them I had to clear it with my partner."

Partner
. She shook the word away; and smiled agreeably.

"Sure," she said, easy and calm. "I've got us a lot of compressed textile, and a half-pallet of personal rugs. All paid for and delivery set up. Let's get yours settled and go on back to the ship. You can check out your rumor while Dulsey and me balance the can."

He looked at her out of unreadable black eyes, and gave her a smile of his own. It was about as sincere as hers had been, and nothing like the genuine article.

So, whatever the rumor was had Jela out of sorts, Cantra thought, walking with him toward the Avenue of Sculptures. That was interesting.

THE CAN WAS balanced, sealed and checked quick-time, which was a definite benefit of having an engineer on the job. Cantra sighed and leaned against the wall of the cargo corridor, giving Dulsey a nod.

"That was almost painless," she said. "'preciate the help."

"You are welcome, Pilot." Dulsey said primly, and made to move on.

Cantra held out a hand, palm up, and Dulsey stopped, gray eyes going wary.

"Pilot?"

"I'd like to know," Cantra said, keeping her voice easy and calm, "on what facts you base the theory that I'm an
aelantaza
who survived a line edit. If it can be told."

A moment of silence. "And if it cannot be told?" Dulsey asked, sounding breathless and defiant at once.

Cantra flipped her hand, palm now toward the deck. "Then there's an end to it."

Dulsey sighed. "I believe you," she said. "And that should be proof enough that you are
aelantaza
."

"Why not believe me?" Cantra asked. "I'm telling the truth."

Dulsey laughed.

"Yes, certainly!" The laugh faded into serious. "It's scarcely a secret any more. The pilot will be familiar with the fact that many corporations contract persons to discover the secrets and weaknesses of the competition."

Industrial espionage was among the most common jobs contracted for graduates of the Institute. Cantra inclined her head.

"I've heard of such things," she acknowledged.

"Then the pilot will not be surprised to learn that Enclosed Habitats contracted for an
aelantaza
to spy upon their competition. In the way of things, we came to know this
aelantaza
, for it was the habit of Master Keon to interview her in those sections under construction or repair, as they could reasonably be assumed to be lacking surveillance of any kind."

"He debriefed her in front of you and your Pod?" Cantra demanded. "What kind of security is that?"

Dulsey bowed. "This humble person has no existence in the common law, save as an object to be bought or sold. This humble person may not testify against one's masters, nor will she be heard should she speak against the masters. This humble person may be killed out of hand by her rightful owner for no reason whatsoever."

Cantra sighed. "I take the point," she said. "So you got to know the
aelantaza
."

"We did. And she came to know us: She knew our names and took note of the differences between us, so that she never greeted me as Ocho, nor mistook Uno for Seatay. From the rear, in repair 'skins, she knew us, each from the other. It was from her—from watching her observe and learn, from listening to her report to and . . . 
manipulate
Master Keon, that I came to understand that I needed to think beyond protocol, to take chances, and to—to seize opportunity, if and when it should ever come to me."

"Sounds like a learning experience," Cantra said drily. "What's it got to do with me?"

"Two things," Dulsey said briskly. "First, she looked a great deal like you—not as much as Ocho and I, but there was definitely what natural humans style a 'family resemblance' between you and she."

She paused. Cantra flicked the hand-sign for
go on
at her.

"Secondly, there came a time when another
aelantaza
arrived instead, and Master Keon interviewed him as he had always interviewed the other. And so we learned that the first
aelantaza
—whose name was possibly Timoli, though that may have been an alias—that Timoli was of a line which had lately been found inferior, and was thus edited from the
aelantaza
breeding tables. This was, the new
aelantaza
told Master Keon with great sincerity, in order to insure that flaws would not be passed on, and was to the customers' benefit, assuring them of the very best service."

Timoli
. Cantra kept her face smooth. She hadn't known her well, there having been something on the order of thirty years between them, but Timoli had been a full sister. Damn right there was a 'family resemblance.'

She inclined her head.

"I thank you for the information," she said formally. "I have one more question—again, if it can be told. How did you deduce that I had knowledge of the Uncle?"

Dulsey took a deep breath.

"That, Pilot, was a leap into the Deep. I surmised that editing a line which must have included dozens of very able and canny adults would have a potent delivery mechanism, and that the mechanism could be disarmed by one with access to the appropriate technology. It seemed to me that the Uncle might find the plight of a lone
aelantaza
marked for destruction . . . compelling."

"So you guessed." Cantra grinned. "Not bad, Dulsey."

"I am pleased that the pilot approves of my methods."

"I wouldn't fly that far. Still, it's good thinking—and good bluffing. You'll need both where you're bound."