Balance of Trade (41 page)

"I—" Grig began.

The door to the hallway snapped open, spinning both of them around to stare as Paitor flung in, face flushed, and jacket rumpled.

Seeli started forward, hands out. "Uncle? What's gone wrong?"

He stopped and just stared down at her. Grig light-footed around him and pushed the door closed, resetting the lock.

"Got a beam from Khat," Paitor said as Grig made it back to Seeli's side. He put a hand inside his jacket and pulled out a piece of hardcopy—blue, with an orange stripe down the side. Grig felt his stomach clench. Priority beam—expensive, reserved for life and death or deals that paid out in fortunes. . . 

"We got trouble," Paitor said, pushing the paper at Seeli. "Take a look."

HE SHOWERED, standing a long time under the pulsing rays of hot water, oblivious, for once, to the waste. By the time the water turned cool and he stepped out into the mirrored drying room, his fingertips were as wrinkled up as dried grapes, and he was feeling a little breathless from the steam.

Absently, he pulled the towel off its heated bar and applied it vigorously, first to his head and working methodically downward, where he noted that his toes were as wrinkled as his fingers.

Probably your face is wrinkled up, too
, he thought, trying to josh himself out of a growing mood.
Bet your whole head's nothing but one big wrinkle
.

Nothing more than I traded for
, he thought back at himself, in no state to be joshed, though he did, by habit, look into the mirror to see how bad his hair looked this time.

The hair was about as bad as he expected, but what made him frown was the smudge over his lip.

"Mud," he muttered. "All that time under water and your face isn't even clean?"

He used a corner of the towel to rub the smudge and looked again.

The smudge was still there, looking even darker against the pink rub mark.

"What the—" He leaned toward the mirror, frowning—and then lifted his hand, fingertips stroking the first hopeful hairs of a mustache.

"Well." He smiled at his reflection, and stroked the soft smudge again, then turned to the supply cabinet, in search of depilatory cream.

Several minutes later, he was frowning again. The supply cabinet was more comprehensive than most ship's medical lockers, and included several ointments that were meant to be rubbed into the skin—but nothing like a depilatory.

SIGHING, JETHRI CLOSED the cabinet, and went to the bench where he had piled his fresh clothes. Tomorrow, he'd ask Mr. pel'Saba to provide the needed item. In the meantime, he had other rations to chew on.

Barefoot, shirt untucked, he walked into his sleeping room, and knelt next to the bench. Deliberately, he unsealed the B crate and pulled open the bit bottom hatch.

Deliberately, he removed the boxes of fractins, good and bad, the wire frame, and his old pretend trade journal and put them, one by one, on the rug by his knee.

Closing the crate, he settled down cross-legged and reached for the tattered little book, flipping through the laborious pages of lists—income, outgo, exchange rates and Combine discounts—

The door-chime sounded. Biting down on a curse, Jethri grabbed the box of true fractins—and then shook his head. No doubt fractins were old tech—and if Lady Maarilex or Ren Lar or the Scouts entire had decided that they was within their rights to search his room and belongings for old tech, then they'd find the fractins, whether they were on the rug or in the B crate.

The door-chime sounded again.

On the other hand, it was probably one of the kitchen crew, come to collect his untouched dinner tray.

Sighing, Jethri came to his feet and went to answer the door.

The twins tumbled over the threshold and skittered 'round to the far side of the door.

"Close it!"

"Quickly, close it!"

So much for wilful disobedience. Still, he did close the door, and locked it for good measure.

The twins stood in a tangle beside the wall, their reddish hair damp and curling wildly. As usual, they were dressed identically, this time in plain black jerseys and slacks, soft black boots on their feet. One wore a silver chain 'round her neck, supporting a big ruby.

"I thought the pair of you were confined to quarters," he said, hands on hips, trying for the stern-but-friendly look Cris had employed on similar past occasions, with Jethri on the wrong side of the captain's word.

"And so we are in quarters," snapped the twin with the ruby 'round her neck. "Your quarters."

"Come, Jethri," said the other, stepping away from her sister's side and looking gravely up into his face. "We are in need of companionship—and counsel."

Good line
, Jethri thought. He'd never been smart enough to come up with something half so clever for Cris.

And, besides, he was glad to see them.

He let his hands fall from his hips and waved them into the parlor. "Come in, then, and welcome."

"Thank you," they murmured in unison and drifted deeper into the room, silent on their soft boots. Meicha wandered over to the table, where his untasted dinner sat under covers. Miandra went further, to the window, and stood gazing out at the sunset clouds crowding the shoulders of the mountains. High up, where the sky was already darkening, stars could be seen, shimmering in the atmosphere.

"The wide spaces do not frighten you now?" She asked, and Jethri moved across the room to join her, bare feet soundless on the carpet.

"I am—becoming accustomed," he said, pausing just behind her shoulder, and looking out. There were purple shadows down deep in the folds of the rockface. 'Way out, he could just see the Tower at the port, gleaming bright in the last of the sunlight.

"Mrs. tor'Beli sent delicacies," Meicha said from behind them. "Are you not hungry, Jethri?"

"Not much," he said, turning around to offer her a half-smile. "If you are hungry, have what you like."

She frowned, and put the lid back over the plate. "Perhaps later," she said, and sent an openly worried glance at Miandra's back.

"Sister?"

There was a pause, and a sigh. Miandra turned around and faced her twin.

"They are still arguing," she said.

"They are," Meicha replied. "And will be, I think, for some time. Aunt Stafeli will not yield the point. Nor yet will Ren Lar."

"Though surely it is his portion to yield to the word of the delm," said Miandra, "nadelm or no."

Meicha laughed. "Allow Ren Lar to tend the vines and he is complacent and calm. Invoke his melant'i as nadelm and remind him of his larger duty to the clan, and he is implacable." She paused, shrugged. "Aunt Stafeli trained him, after all."

Miandra actually smiled, though faintly. "True enough."

"What," asked Jethri, "are they arguing about? The old technology?"

Meicha and Miandra exchanged a glance.

"The old technology—that was the beginning," Meicha said, moving over to perch on the edge of one of his chairs, her ruby winking in the light. Miandra went forward and dropped to the rug at her twin's feet, legs crossed, face serious.

After a second, Jethri took the chair across, and leaned back, pretending he was comfortable.

"So," he said, "the argument started with the old technology."

"Just so," said Miandra. "Ren Lar, of course, wished the weather device to be away,
now
—the potential of harm to the vines distresses him, and rightly so. He
is
master of the vine, and it is his duty to protect and nourish them.

"Aunt Stafeli, however, felt that you had reckoned your
melant'i
correctly, that the Scout Lieutenant was well answered, and your oath rightly given. Ren Lar could scarcely argue with
that
."

Silence fell, stretched. Meicha was uncharacteristically quiet, sitting tense on the edge of the chair. Miandra—Miandra sat easily, her wrists resting on her knees, her fingers hanging loose, blue eyes considering a point just over his left shoulder.

Jethri cleared his throat; her eyes focused on his face.

"Yet, they are still arguing—your aunt and your cousin. About the two of you?"

"About
me
," Miandra said, with a depth of bitterness that startled him. Meicha reached down and put her hand on her sister's shoulder, but said nothing.

"It is well enough, to be a Healer," Miandra continued after a moment, her voice less bitter, though her eyes sparked anger. "But to be of the dramliz, here on Irikwae—that. . . " Her voice faded.

"Is untenable," Meicha finished quietly. "Irikwae was colonized by those clans who felt that the dramliz should be. . . should be. . . "

"Eradicated," Miandra said, and the bitterness was back in her voice. "It was believed that a mutation which allowed one such . . . abilities—that such a mutation endangered the entire gene pool. A purge was called for. The matter went to the Council of Clans, in very Solcintra, and debate raged for days, for who is truly easy in the presence of one who might hear your thoughts, or travel from port to center city in the blink of an eye? Korval Herself led the opposition, so the history texts tell us, and at last prevailed. The existing dramliz were allowed to live, unsterilized. The clans of the dramliz retained their rights of contract marriage, mixing their genes with the larger pool as they saw fit. And a guild was formed, much like the pilots guild, or traders guild, which gave the dramliz protection as a valuable commercial enterprise."

"The dissenting clans," Meicha said after a moment, "left the homeworld, and colonized Irikwae. At first, there was a ban on Healers, too. That was eventually lifted, as it became apparent that Healers worked for . . .  social stability. . . "

Mentally breathless, Jethri held up a hand.

"Give me a little time," he said, and his voice sounded breathless, too. "Terrans do not commonly run to these mutations. You are the first Healer—and dramliza—I have encountered, and I am still not certain that I understand why one person who does things which are impossible is favored, while another, who does things which are just as impossible, is—feared."

Miandra actually grinned. "Prejudice is not necessarily responsive to cold reason—as you surely know."

He gaped at her, and Meicha laughed.

"Are all grounders stupid? Why else would they live among the mud and the smells and the weather?"

"Ouch," he said, but mildly, because they were right—or had been right. "I am—growing accustomed—on that front, as well. Learning takes time."

"So it—" Meicha began—and froze, head turning toward the door.

It came again, a scratching noise, as if a file were being applied, lightly, to the hall side face of the door.

Jethri rose and crossed the room. Hand on the latch, he sent a glance to the twins, sitting alert in their places. Miandra moved her hand, motioning him to open the door.

All right, then. He snapped the lock off and turned the latch, opening the door wide enough to look out into—

An empty hall.

Frowning, he looked down. Eyes the color of peridot gleamed up at him; and something else as well.

Jethri stepped back. Flinx pranced across the threshold, head high, silver chain held in his mouth, ruby dragging on the floor beneath his belly. As soon as he was inside, Jethri closed and locked the door. By the time he turned back to the room, Flinx had reached Miandra.

She sat perfectly still as the big cat put his front feet on her knee. Slowly, she extended a hand and Flinx bent his head, dropping the chain on her palm.

"My thanks," she said, softly, and held it high. The melted ruby spun slowly in the light, glittering.

"Flinx is proud of himself," Meicha said. "Aunt Stafeli had thrown it in the bin for the incinerator."

Jethri came forward and knelt on the carpet next to Miandra and the cat. Flinx left the girl's knee and danced over to butt him in the thigh. Miandra looked up at him, blue eyes curious.

"May I see it?" he asked, and she put the chain in his hand without hesitation.

He sat back on his haunches and gave the thing some study. The fine silver links were neither deformed nor blackened. The ruby was—distorted, asymmetrical, the bottom bloated, as if it were an overfull water bulb, the force of the liquid within it distending the bulb nearly to the bursting point.

"So," he said, handing it back. "How did you do that?"

She moved her shoulders. "I—am not precisely certain. It—it may be that the gem, the facets, served as a focus for the power I expended but—I do not know!" she cried, sudden and shocking. "I need to be trained, before I—before. . .  And all Aunt Stafeli will say is that I must be a Healer and a Healer only." She bent her head. "She does not know what it is like," she whispered. "I am—I am a danger."

He considered her. "Even if you cannot be trained on Irikwae, there are other places, isn't that so? Places where the guild of dramliz is recognized?"

"There are those a-plenty," Meicha said after Miandra had said nothing for half-a-dozen heartbeats. "The challenge lies in persuading Aunt Stafeli—and there we have been unsuccessful."

"What about Ren Lar?"

Meicha grimaced. "Worse and worse."

"Ren Lar," whispered Miandra, "sees the dramliz as no more nor less dangerous than the old technology." She laughed suddenly, and looked Jethri in the eye.

"Well, he is not so far in the wrong as that."

Despite himself, he grinned, then let it fade as he rocked off his knees and sat down on the carpet, crossing his legs in an awkward imitation of her pose.

"What about Master ven'Deelin?" he asked.

Two pair of sapphire blue eyes stared at him, blankly.

"What about her, I wonder?" asked Meicha.

"Well, she hails from Solcintra, on Liad, where the dramliz are allowed to go about their business unimpeded. She's your aunt's fosterling—who better to escort you?"

"Hear the lad," Miandra murmured, on a note of awe. "Sister—"

"We are still impeded," said Meicha. "Well to say that the ven'Deelin will escort you, yet it is empty hope unless Aunt Stafeli may be persuaded to let you go."