Trader's World (19 page)

Wonderful food and drink, great service, a magnificent setting—and a full eight weeks to enjoy it, with no Mentors, no negotiations, and no recording disks. What more could anyone ask?

Mike sat at the table for a long time after he had finished eating, watching the cloud patterns. They were piling up over the mountains, dark thunderheads towering above the western slopes. The clouds were rolling masses of black and purple-red, shot through with shafts of afternoon sun and changing minute by minute.

Mike had intended to idle away the rest of the day there, but when it was still a couple of hours away from sunset he stood up and left the dining room. The lodge was a two-story wooden building set into the steep hillside, with two bedrooms on the second floor and a living room, kitchen, and dining room beneath them. He went up to his bedroom for a couple of minutes and pawed restlessly through a pile of clean clothes, then wandered downstairs again and continued through into the kitchen. Helga was still there, quietly cleaning the old-fashioned cooking pans. She looked at him inquiringly.

"You need more food?"

He shook his head. "I'm bored. Helga, when will the inn be open, down in the village?"

"Is open now, if you want beer. Is open always, in this season. But it is a very bad time." She gestured at the thickening clouds. "Rain later."

"I'll take the chance."

Mike slipped into his pocket the big, wrought-iron key to the lodge that Lucia Asparian had sent to him. He would need it later. Helga lived down in the village, and she would be heading home in another hour. Although it was the Asparian lodge, and according to Helga the place was usually fully occupied for most of the year, Mike was currently the only guest. He puzzled over that as he walked along the steep, curving path down to the cluster of fifty houses, a thousand feet below, that comprised the village.

By the time he reached the first building the sun was invisible behind dark clouds, and there was a distant grumble of thunder from the west. He increased his pace, hurrying over the uneven white flagstones that passed for a road.

The inn was in the middle of the village. Like the lodge and most of the houses it was built of old, dark wood, but it was four stories tall and much bigger. A noisy row of birds with yellow bills and black plumage sat high along the spine of the roof. As Mike approached the front door, the whole cawing line took sudden flight and headed off toward a small grove behind the inn. Before Mike could read that as some sort of omen, there was a closer grumble of thunder and the first spatter of raindrops.

He pushed open the solid door and hurried inside. Most of the first floor was a long dining room with battered wooden tables. He looked around. Like the lodge, everything here was incredibly clean. Even the hardwood floor showed no trace of dirt, though guests must trek in muck all the time. He self-consciously wiped his shoes on the rough mat at the threshold.

The woman who came to greet him could have been Helga's daughter. She was about twenty years old, with the same high cheekbones touched with pink, the same blooming complexion and braided flaxen hair, and a younger, slimmer version of the buxom body. She was wearing a printed apron with a faded floral pattern, and the long sleeves of her mauve dress were rolled up to reveal pale, muscular forearms. She walked with more sway to her hips than Mike had ever seen before.

"Just in time," she said. She gave him a beautiful, full-lipped smile and gestured at the door. Outside there was a sudden hiss of heavy rain. "It's starting. Something to drink?"

"Beer." But then, when she was already turning to go through to the kitchen, he changed his mind. "Better still, do you have hot chocolate?"

"Of course." She gave him another dazzling smile over her shoulder and left him to seat himself.

The room was a combination of beer garden and dining room, with small tables flanking a wall of wine barrels. About a dozen people were there, drinking beer, wine, and brandy. They had stared at Mike when he came in, but now they were returning to their own conversations. He went to sit at an inconspicuous place in a corner near the window, where he would have a good view of the other patrons.

Most of them seemed like local residents, but at the far end of the room two men and a woman were dressed in a style that was subtly out of place. Mike pegged them as visitors from the Great Republic. If so, they had wandered far off the usual travel routes through the Economic Community. On the other hand, so had he. Mike turned his attention to a table closer to his.

The two men sitting there wore tweedy jackets and trousers with leather gaiters. They were speaking to each other in low tones. One of them still wore his hat, a squat brown cylinder with a long green feather on the side, and as he spoke the feather bobbed and jerked as though to emphasize his points. A flagon of peppermint schnapps sat on the table between them, and they were drinking shot after shot from little glass cups. As they drank they became gradually more animated and intense, but did not speak quite loudly enough for Mike to hear them.

It was a negotiation. It had to be. Even without hearing a word, Mike could follow the body language. He watched in fascination as the bareheaded man pulled out a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and passed it across the table. The other ran his eyes over it for only a moment, then at once snapped his fingers, took a pen from his pocket, and scribbled an addition to the sheet.

Bad timing! A Trader could read the transaction without thinking about it. Even with no idea what had been written, Mike knew that there should have been a longer pause before a reply. He felt like standing up and offering his services to the man with the hat. In Mike's opinion he was the underdog in the negotiation, and there was always more challenge to taking that side.

It was an urealistic response. Mike knew that a Trader did not indulge in impromptu negotiations, no matter how tempting. And anyway it was too late. The bareheaded man was smiling now and reaching out his hand. The other shook it. They each tossed down one more glass of schnapps to seal the bargain, stood up, and walked to the door. They stood for a minute or so waiting for a lull in the downpour, apparently decided that one was not about to arrive, and hurried out.

Mike felt sure that the feather-hatted man had just been taken. He had agreed too soon to a deal that his companion had thought through before their meeting. And the other had clinched it at once, allowing no time for reconsideration. Was that the way most affairs were conducted around the world when Traders were not involved? With one party completely at the mercy of the other? If so, no wonder a Trader's contribution was valued so highly. Mike stared out of the little window at the rain and felt oddly smug.

The girl in the apron and mauve dress returned with a tray loaded with a steaming silver jug of chocolate, a bottle of
kirsch
liqueur, a bowl of sugar cubes, and two dainty porcelain cups. She placed the tray on the table and sat down opposite him. "Hello. I am Jeanette Morveau. No more visitors tonight, I think, if this keeps up." She poured hot chocolate and shook her head. "It is the annual
Wasserfall.
At this time of year, we will see such rain last until dawn."

Helga had neglected to mention that little detail. The rain was pelting down harder than ever. Mike thought of the thousand-foot climb up the slippery path, and sipped the sweet and delicious chocolate.

"You own this inn?" he said at last.

"In a way." Her eyes, bright and blue, were staring at him with undisguised interest. "My father owns it, but he and my brother are away on business. My brother and I will one day be equal partners. My father is Jakob Morveau, my brother is Dieter Morveau. And you are Mikal Asparian. I have been waiting for you."

She laughed at his expression. "This is a small village, we know who our visitors are. I have been curious to meet you for three days, ever since Helga told me that you had arrived at the lodge. I knew you would soon want company, and Traders are always interesting. And now you can be my guest for dinner."

"Thank you, but I ought to be heading back. Climbing the hill after dark doesn't sound like fun." Mike hoped she would try to talk him out of it.

Without a word, Jeanette pointed out of the window. In the past few minutes, the sun had disappeared. It was almost dark, and the rain was whipping down harder and harder. "Do you want to commit suicide? That is what it would be, to climb the hill in this weather and in darkness. Far better to sit here, warm, dry, and cosy, and have a pleasant evening." She looked at him innocently. "Unless you do not like my company?"

It was clear from her expression that she considered that an unlikely possibility. Mike realized again how attractive she was. The road uphill became less and less appealing. "Don't you have the whole inn to look after?" he asked weakly.

For reply, Jeanette Morveau waved her arm to point at the rest of the room. Unnoticed by Mike, the other patrons had been quietly departing into the dusk. Now the three visitors from the Great Republic, the last to go, were muffling themselves in rain gear and grumbling about the torrent outside.

"Now we
are
the whole inn," she said, as the other three ducked out into the storm. "We will see no more guests tonight. It could not be better, because I want to hear all about your mission to the Strine interior." She laughed at his expression. "Of course. That was Helga again."

Mike felt guilty. Had he really been so full of himself, babbling about his mission to anyone who would listen? Almost certainly, he had.

"It was nothing special." He wasn't quite ready for that worshipping gaze. "It was just an ordinary mission, you know."

"From what I heard, it was more than that. So exciting! Exploring the hidden biolabs and escaping with their secrets. And chased by haploid abos!" She gave a little shiver of her upper body and popped a cube of sugar into her mouth. She crunched it, then took the bottle of kirsch, swigged, and wiped her full lips with the back of her hand. Her blue eyes locked on Mike's as she handed him the bottle. "I want to hear absolutely
everything.
And in return I'll give you the best dinner you ever had.

"And after that—" Her glance flicked to the window, where rivulets of teeming rain ran down the panes, then turned demurely down to the table. "—after that, Mikal, I hope that the weather does not improve too soon."

* * *

At six o'clock Mike was already awake, watching dawn creep in through the windows of the inn's topmost bedroom. He was lying on his back on a broad, comfortable bed, covered by a thick and luxurious
duvet
that stretched from his chin to his toes. Jeanette, sound asleep, was snuggled at his side under the same eiderdown.

He could already see from the cloud patterns that the day would break damp and gloomy. The bedroom air was chilly, and Jeanette's body was warm and soft beside him. By all reasonable standards he ought to be pleasantly and thoroughly exhausted, ready to drowse away the whole morning and then the whole week. But by 6:15 he knew that he would not be able to sleep again unless he could find some answers. He eased his way to the side of the bed, pulled on shirt and trousers in the half-light, and stole out of the room. At the door he paused, thinking he heard a sound behind him. Jeanette still seemed to be peacefully asleep. He went on down the curving stairs, his bare feet making no sound on the thick rug.

The first test was the presence of a communications module. If the inn did not contain one, that would be an important data point.

But it did. The set was on the ground floor of the inn, an old-fashioned audio unit in a little room off the kitchen. Mike felt an immediate disappointment. He had rather hoped that it would not exist. He went to it and spent a few moments studying its antiquated call sequences. It looked fifty years old. But when he turned it on and placed the headphones over his ears, it accepted his personal charge code readily enough and established his connection in just a few seconds. "Lucia?" he said eagerly.

"She is currently unavailable."
The voice on the circuit was calm.
"I intercepted your signal. Unless you are seeking a personal conversation with Lucia Asparian, I saw a possibility that perhaps I might be able to help."

"Daddy-O?" The circuit offered poor fidelity, but that inflection and style of speech were hard to mistake.

"On line."

"I have a question, this is Mikal Asparian."

"I know. Continue."

"Who pays for the upkeep of the Asparian lodge in the Economic Community?"

"If you are referring to the lodge above the village where you are now located, the lodge costs themselves are paid entirely by the Asparian family."

Mike was all ready to sigh with relief when he noticed the oddly restricted nature of Daddy-O's answer.

"I'm down in the village itself. Do the Asparians pay for services here, too?"

"No."
And then, before Mike could offer a response to that answer, Daddy-O continued.
"Those costs are paid for by the Traders' general fund."

"
All
kinds of services?"

"That is not a defined question. Be more specific."

That was just what Mike was reluctant to do. He was afraid that he knew the answer. "I want to know if the Traders pay for Community consort services here."

"That is correct. For companionship and for cohabitation, and at several levels."

"Is a woman, Jeanette Morveau, involved in providing such services to Traders?"

"Yes, she is. To Traders, and also to others visiting the Community."

"Hell and damnation." Mike gripped the headphones, ready to rip them off and throw them across the room.

"You act surprised. You should not be. As a trained Trader, you know exactly how the Economic Community operates. Nostalgia is their stock-in-trade, illusion their prime commodity. It is an expensive service to provide the world that they offer, the world as it was long before the Lostlands War. That service must be paid for by someone. By everyone—including a Trader—who seeks to find peace in the past. You know all this, do you not?"