Trade Secret (eARC) (38 page)

"We shall not demur nor offer tribute," said the Liaden's second, taking his lead on slight motions from chel'Gaibin. It was properly done, though Jethri still vaguely hoped his man would cave.

*

The Scout turned to Jethri, whose mind kept repeating the mantra he'd heard Paitor and his father say back and forth to each other when entering into a trade port, or talking of negotiations: "All I ask is an honest advantage."

Clearly, chel'Gaibin was not so fussy.

And what honest advantage did he have?

Oh, ay, he had the crowd advantage--he could see them pressing forward to watch, some with smiles and nods for him, though to many of them he was simply another fancy trader off a big ship, far away from their experience, just one who'd been wronged. Others knew he was Terran, some few knew he might be called a looper himself.

"Your kind offer has been refused. The opposition suggests dueling pistols--which they have to hand, I note--at twenty-five paces! I suggest personal arms rather than duelers, but otherwise I have little to offer if you will not consider a demur at this point."

Jethri glanced back toward the crowd, along the line of ships were comfortable
Balrog
set second to
Dulcimer
's hardworking crew.

Personal arms.

He said it loudly, in Trade.

"Tell them their offer to use Rinork's weapons continues distasteful to me. Nor shall we use our personal weapons, which might give either of us an unfair or unlooked for advantage. We shall solicit neutral weapons, as may be found on any dockside. The good people here will offer what we need, I'm sure!"

The crowd buzzed, and some began unholstering guns, knives, and daggers, moving forward to display them . . .

"Again, give Rinork the opportunity to admit their error. They must have this, as their man is not capable of defeating me on this dock."

The Scout bowed without hesitation, and repeated the information as intended, in Liaden.

Scorn on the faces of
Wynhael'
s crew, and chel'Gaibin laughed--

"It does not matter whose random pistol I use, the man falls to me," he proclaimed in bad Trade, "Yes, borrowed weapons will do, neutral weapons will do, greasy weapons, I do not care! Please call for them so we might end this farce!"

Jethri looked about him and could hear the stories stirring, if he won or if he lost. This would travel even faster and further than his infamous leap.

He turned half to the crowd while looking at the trickster, and then more to the crowd, some small hope growing.

"My opponent, be not afraid of random weapons! We shall ask for matched sets, and you may choose left hand or right hand as you need, for I'm proficient with either."

To the crowd, and particularly to the dusty, tired crew of
Dulcimer
, he said, "Please, quickly!"

Turning to chel'Gaibin he said, "We shall duel to incapacity or death. Is that your understanding? You shall not withdraw?"

"I shall not withdraw, upstart. As I am of Rinork, incapacity or death shall be sufficient." There was no bow, not a courtesy.

"As you will, Rinork!"

Jethri was vibrating and near breathless with tension but he looked out toward the crowd, motioning them closer before turning and defiantly bowing a bow of sorrow before unleashing his plan.

"Stink hammers and starbars, seven paces and closing! We shall have a smash to remember!"

The crowd roared with approval, replacing guns and knives to their safe places, and eyes turning to
Dulcimer'
s rental rack of tools.

Wynhael
's crew, from the least to Rinork, stood motionless.

The Scout managed a very credible bow of approval, and turned to explain.

*

Having it to hand, Jethri swung the starbar, feeling the balance of it and the grip. It was a number seven, extending his arm by half, and by the looks of it was nearly new, the pry edges lustrous, the tip sharp enough to peel hull steel, the closer end a counterweight larger than his fist.

It was the stinks hammer that was key, of course, for in a dock fight, one struck with the hammer and guarded and defended with the bar. A good stinks hammer had lots of mass in the head, and could--properly thrown--crush a skull or cave in a chest. Wielded in hand it might have the same results, but the tear edge could slice a face or a throat, the poll could be used as a grab to bring someone closer so that the starbar could be used to batter . . .

All this Jethri knew by repute and from the careful jousting he'd seen Grig and his father play at in the back hold several trips--so long ago that whatever close-in technique delivered was long gone, the examples in his head only in awed memory. Once Arin was dead and gone, the only fighting Jethri'd heard about was Iza's on-port fist-and-bottle work, and that only at a distance, since she'd been careful not to include him in any of her carousing, or for that matter, to let him carouse himself, though he'd hardly been of age for it.

"Brawling is not a duel!" This was chel'Gaiban's second, holding the items he'd chosen from the offerings, "how can you think so? The Code requires the first strike to be at a distance! Can you demonstrate this?"

The Scout turned to Jethri, eyebrows a query.

"He may have some point . . ."

"He has none!"

Jethri, hammer in hand, strode to the wine vendor in the corner, pointing to his wheeled bulk tank.

"I'll buy that--how much?"

The startled man stood back from him, eying the tools warily . . .

"Sir, I'd need to inventory . . ."

Jethri reached into his pocket, finding only the "luck" cantra Norn ven'Deelin had given him when first he'd joined the clan--

He threw it to the man, who recoiled and let it fall to the floor until he recognized it and then scooped it away.

"Will that do?"

Chel'Gaibin was yelling something but Jethri ignored him as the man nodded and retreated from Jethri, who strode to the tank with its neat Decade label the size of his head and at eye height--and put his back against it.

Then Jethri called out--"I demonstrate!"

"One, two, three . . . " He enumerated each footfall and stepped out seven quick paces, whirling with confidence, the hammer flashing over his head and leaving his hand cleanly, centered on the logo, the tank's explosion into a shrapnel of plastic and metal and a cloud of red wine booming across the otherwise silent deck. The hammer's clang against the outer metal wall echoed close behind, all joined by cheers from the boisterous audience.

"Action at a distance!" Jethri's voice carried over the din, and raising the starbar he still carried, he cried, "defensible, and with follow-up until the issue is decided!"

Chel'Gaibin was hidden from Jethri's view behind his tool-carrying second and the knot of
Wynhael
crew, and from that side there were voices, raised to each other in varying modes--including a mode of command so high Jethri doubted he'd heard it outside the training room--saying, "You will support me! We shall follow through, at any cost!"

Chel'Gaibin's second fell back from his master, bowing almost to the floor.

"Sir, your hammer, sir. And your cantra, sir, it was beautiful! I'll deliver an invoice for true cost. . . ."

The vendor smelled a bit of his wares and was not entirely steady on his feet, wiping the hammer, handing it to him with the toweling, still rubbing it as if shining a precious object and the last moment, stepping between Jethri and the action across the way.

Jethri absently took and pocketed the cantra, checking the hammer and finding nothing amiss. He restrained the vendor, who was Bah lo, according to his nametag, gently removing the still-admiring hand from the hammer, stepping toward the seconds, who were deep in an urgent conversation marked by the hand-signs they flung between themselves.

The crowd parted before Jethri-- who called out to the Scout, "The proctors will be here momentarily!"

"There's doubts," said the Scout, "on the progress; were there an arbiter of Code nearby we'd need refer to them. There is not, and now . . ."

Rinork's heir appeared before them then, brushing the crew aside, glaring at all three of them, starbar and stink hammer clutched one to a hand.

"I am acclimating myself to the weapons. We will not, in fact, be needing an arbiter of Code as the case is that I have agreed with the fine points as presented. If one may suggest crowd control, I shall be ready in a moment. Second, I leave him to you."

That bow was a command--and the hands of the pilots flashed.

"I'll take the crowd, Jeth. You get ready!"

That was Freza, and she suited action to words, by raising her voice to an out-and-out shout.

"This is a private affair of honor, so you'll all have to stand away, get out of the way. Move back--you can watch, but you're in the way."

Someone started yelling--"And who are you, stranger . . ." but Freza'd already pulled a ring from her pocket and put it on, waving it over her head.

"I'm assistant sector commissioner for the Seventeen Worlds--anyone not involved will clear the space so we can continue, please."

Jethri saw a quick rush of hands and bodies then, while Freza named several names while pointing. "Right side, center, left, make a path! Clear the lane!"

Freza looked into his face from five paces away, giving him a look as inscrutable as a Liaden trader's before giving him a wry smile, saying more to him than anyone else "Brabham is the commissioner--took the job a ten-day ago. Now get this over!"

She turned her back then, ter'Astin saying in an underbreath as he hurried Jethri toward the area still flooded by the pooling wine. "Things happen. The second would retire were he able, but he feels he cannot. The boy--"

A clang and yell rang out--and there, Rinork's heir had thrown the starbar to the decking where it slid into a line of startled spectators, the hammer following with dangerous bounces and caroms, scattering all.

"Ixin! Ixin, you shall fight properly or die where you are! Pull your weapon!"

In one glance Jethri took in the charging chel'Gaibin, gun in hand, rushing away from his own pursuing second, saw that gun arm coming to point . . .

Jethri saw the Scout was turning, gun coming to hand, but he, sensing motion behind him, ducked . . .

Jethri's throw was desperate and full strength, his carry-through bending and turning him, knocking him off balance so that all he heard were shots and a thud and saw a flash of light and a strange whine while he rolled, grabbing for his pocket gun to--

A huddled pile of of clothes and blood lay on the deck, writhing, as someone dared to kick the fallen gun away. The yelling gave way to silence other than the crying, and then another kind of roar as the crowd rushed toward the fallen Jethri and he couldn't see--

"You're hit," said Freza as he pulled himself to his feet, while the Scout was snatching at pockets and pouch, pulling something out . . .

"Let me see," demanded Jethri. "Please, out of my way . . ."

The man lay, shivering, face blooded, arm at an impossible angle, huddled against himself as best he might, watching Jethri approach, a semicircle of observers standing away.

A Liaden it was who bowed, quite carefully, to Jethri, to the wronged, to the victor, presenting the hammer as if it were a precious gift, while the eyes of the downed man were wide and unblinking.

Jethri wiped the sweat away from his left eye, took the hammer, saw the man on the floor shiver, a spasm going through him as he tried to move his arm, blood and flesh tangled in the sleeve, bone splinter--

Jethri flinched, realized he was breathing hard, free of anger but full of tension . . .

"Jeth, you're bleeding!"

Freza, beside him, the Scout, too, tearing something, the while saying to Freza, "He must choose, he must choose!"

Jethri shook his head, Terran-style, hand to the side of his face again, feeling the sweat but unsurprised, now that throbbing had set in, to see that it was blood.

The still-shocked second stood away from chel'Gaiban and when Jethri's gaze fell on him he bowed submission, he bowed error, he bowed--

"It was not the plan, I swear--sir."

"Acceptance," Jethri said as he recalled that bow,
accepting the word of one of another clan
.

"I hear you, Pilot, and believe you. Call for medics, call for proctors. This man has had an
accident
, do you understand? He is incapacitated. Take him away!"

"An accident?"

"Yes, an accident!"

The second bowed fervently, ordered cleanup, ordered others around the fallen man--

Jethri's view was blocked now, and Freza was by his side, her work vest showing sudden pockets. For his part he stared as
Wynhael
's crew did what first aid they might for Rinork's git. An alarm went off, signifying medical emergency.

From the crowd then, a woman called out, "I'm a medic, and have another coming, let me through!"

A ship medic that was and . . .

"Hold still!" A hand was on his cheek then, Freza's voice in his ear. He stood as rooted already, no need to order him . . .

"Sting coming. Close your eyes."

It did sting, and by the time the bleeding at his hairline had been wiped and spray-sealed, the first-aid efforts of
Wynhael
's crew were taken over by uniformed professionals.

*

"And what happened--can you give me that again?"

Jethri sighed. "I knew the man--we've met before. He's traded on some of the same ports I have. He was showing me his gun and there was an accident."

The proctor got a distant look in his face--brushed the plate that said Detective but Jethri didn't know if that meant he'd turned the recorder on or off.

"Wonderful strong accident, wasn't it? Got you blooded? Got him smashed near to finders?"

"But that was it, you know, he was showing me that fancy pistol of his and he had that armor on, and when the gun discharged--why, I bet it was heard all over the port--that armor had to dump energy from a couple of shots. Fellow panicked . . ."

The proctor held the stinks hammer out to him. "And this?"