Trade Secret (eARC) (39 page)

"Borrowed that from the
Dulcimer
, you know. I saw you talking with them and it isn't any of their fault, other than now you've got that listed as evidence about the time they'll be needing it. It's just a stinks hammer and . . ."

"I know what it
is
--and this?"

Here he pointed to the chipped face edge where the shot had grazed the hammer, sending shrapnel into Jethri and a couple other folks as well.

"Yeah, I'm not so good with those things anymore, I've been trading! When the gun started going off, it was the only thing I had, so I held it in front of me . . . I took the angle wrong and . . ."

"And that's how you got wine and blood on it?"

"No, the wine was because I was testing the hammer. The blood was from the accident . . ."

"
Ga hod
, boy, but you've got a silver tongue. A wrong answer for everything, and all of it possible."

Jethri shrugged.

"So you're ship-bred, are you? Terran ship-bred?"

"My mother's line is old, and my father's. Raised on
Gobelyn'
s
Market
. . ."

"And was you? Now--I've seen that ship name recent, really recent . . ."

He turned to his associate, a stern-faced woman reminding Jethri a lot of Iza, from the hard smug look in her face to the clip of her hair.

"
Gobelyn'
s
Market?
" the detective said again, and she pulled her comm unit from its hanger on her belt and threw fingertips at the screen, but even as she did she was saying, "Right, wasn't that the one was in face-off with a Liaden ship and got throwed off-port somewhere?"

Jethri kept his face Liaden bland at that news--thrown off-port was not something they'd been doing when he was with the
Market
, and must have made Paitor's trading heart bleed!

She looked up, grimly.

"
Therinfel,
it was, not
Wynhael
.
Wynhael
is the ship the hurt boy's from. We didn't have a warning for them, but for the
Gobelyn'
s
Market
, Pilot Captain Iza Gobelyn, and First Mate Khat Gobelyn. Liadens laid charges of smuggling, of interfering with clan business--dunno that's a crime here, money-changing fraud--heck, that'd be hard to prove, too, wouldn't it?"

"I'm not on the
Market
, am I? Haven't been for over a Standard. Look at the old record and you're going to see pure as can be . . ." He was not so pleased to hear the
Market
named this way, but Khat's new spot was good. . . .

The woman with the comm scrunched her nose up. "A warning or two on that first pilot, but ship clean as can be for thirty Standards."

"Humph . . ." was the lead proctor's reaction.

"So you know, the boy with the bad arm, he's still to sickbay. Got his--what's that man called? His helper with him."

"A valet. Gentlemen have valets. That's what he says he is--"

The proctor shook his head, "Not any place for a gentleman here, right?" He looked up, coloring, toward Jethri.

"That Scout tells me you're accounted a Liaden gentleman these days. How you worked it I don't want to hear. He tried to tell me your
melant'i
is appreciable, whatever it means. He sets quite some store by it though, says you're substantial and appreciable . . ."

What to answer? Was his
melant'i
considerable? Yes, then, here it was, with his public victory . . .

"Everyone has
melant'i,
" Jethri explained in as downport Terran as he could. "Part of who you are. Me, I'm adopted to a clan, so once the clan's important, I get some of that, and since I carry myself well, I get some of that. If I screw up, that falls to the clan too . . ."

The proctor looked long and hard at him.

"That means it won't help us if I go check all the cameras and see if any one of them was actually working, because what you did was right?"

Jethri bowed: "I have acted with as much honor as I might today. That anyone was injured was an accident of the day . . ."

The proctor leaned close and said, pulling out a small instrument, "Right. I need you to breathe into here, so we can tell you wasn't drinking that wine that's on the deck and you ought to just let me press this against the flesh of your palm . . ."

Jethri sighed, breathed into the tube, and then held his hand out as directed.

"Be it noted that the subject has complied with testing and that neither breath or blood shows signs of intoxicants or inebriants."

The associate played fingers over the face of the comm, and the proctor nodded.

"So now, since I'm told that the young man in sickbay isn't talking anything but Liaden right now, I'll need you to translate and help identify him, if you will. That guy that's with him has about half a word of Trade and nothing of Terran. I'll also need you to sign in the line for the rescue fees and for the crew we scrambled to stop a fight that never happened, since he's not talking. If someone else is at fault, they'll pay. You being a substantial fellow, we won't need to check the cameras. I think that's what you was trying for, Pilot. Always is better to keep things in the health system instead of the judicial system, don't you think?"

Port Chavvy

The patient was in the portside infirmary, where the waiting room had a proctor flirting with a medic. The proctor that had come with Jethri and the Scout stopped with his uniform mates and wordlessly waved toward the room with the green light on outside it. The voices there were quiet, almost soothing.

"Been in space, not a spacer, is what I think I got so far. His muscle mass is a bit low, I'd say, but that could be . . ."

There were three medics, one checking straps and connections to a wall of lights and readouts, two others examining the stark white and wrong-looking arm of the man on the table.

Jethri knocked on the door as he walked in, took the simple Liaden "You!" from the examination table as an expletive.

"I'm Jethri ven'Deelin," he told the medics in Trade. "I speak Liaden, Terran, and Trade."

"A moment, champ," said one, "you're what we've been needing. We're going to need some permissions real soon, and this fellow's on relaxants."

Standing near Bar Jan's head was a man in Rinork's house livery. It sounded as if he'd been singing a low distracting song to Bar Jan. He looked up, serious eyes and grim face.

"Trader ven'Deelin?" The accent was heavy in Liad's homeworld breathlessness. He didn't wait for an answer, though, straightening to his full spare height and making his livery straight as well.

"Trader ven'Deelin. I am Khana vo'Daran Clan Baling," the man told Jethri over a simple bow to ranking authority. "I have stood as valet to this man Bar Jan chel'Gaibin since the day my uncle retired from that position fifteen Standards gone. I stand at his side still, as he'll have me and needs me."

That little speech gave Jethri time to weigh the nuance and see it as a canny play. Should he bow to acknowledge,
melant'i
would require Jethri to give direction to the valet, at least in this short-term situation. Should he
not
bow to accept, he'd be deferring responsibility to the Scout, who stood frozen and mostly unnoticed just inside the door. The station authorities were not being singled out as having any authority at all.

"Shanna, do you dare?" Bar Jan attempted to sit up, the quick restraining efforts by the medic reinforced by straps already holding him.

The valet ignored the mode of superior to low hire, replying in a soothing subtle mode used by family and servants in dealing with children.

"It is what we have learned to do, my lord, when an illness came upon you, or the migraines. We have both of us learned to permit things done which must be done. I have neither the language nor the
melant'i
this man does, my lord."

Bar Jan cursed quietly, then asked--"But where are the others?"

"Back to
Wynhael
, sir, which is how I was informed of your need. I came immediately."

"And is my delm informed of my situation?"

"Yes, lord, the delm is informed; I made my way as quickly as I might to see if I might aid before she arrives. Rinork was asleep, keeping to her day schedule as she does."

"Does she know I am . . . impounded here?"

"I am informed only that she has been informed, lord, and was determining action. My sources are adept, as you know. I felt it best to be here well ahead."

"And you, Ixin? Do you come to gloat?" A nuanced question that, asked in a severe mode. Perforce Jethri replied in as neutral a mode as he could manage.

"I come to translate. I have informed officials that an accident occurred, causing us both wounds, thus I am here to be sure your recovery goes forward."

"I have seen my hand, fool. Recovery . . ."

"Have you seen my head, then? I must have it checked in some hours to be sure there is not a concussion."

Chel'Gaibin lifted his head as he might and saw the dressings Freza had applied.

"You have the luck of a
dramliz
, have you? But why an accident?"

"If they decide otherwise, we are all at risk--they might hold you and your second as rioters, or my second and associate as such, and all the crews as witnesses. We shall contrive other arrangements among us than jail cells, if we can."

"Champ, your buddy here's going to get a quick scan, he is--we'll need quiet. He may have pain--we need to put a scan board under his arm and then it'll take about fifteen seconds each time I say 'go.' They'll give us some sound images to work with and some heat images, too, and between them we'll know something.

"He can't see it, but if you want, you'll be able to watch that image build up there on that wall plate. We'll decide if we can do the work here or send him down to a bigger med center civilside. His other friend there--might be he should hold that free hand and be ready to have it squeezed right hard."

Jethri translated, telling both the valet and the trader as the med techs shifted a gridded white board nearby. The valet leaned in and without ceremony took hold of the free hand as the gridded board slid under the damaged arm. A swing arm was popped up out of the bed unit and brought within a hand's breadth of the arm and a small sliding device on that hummed gently.

"Right then, go!"

Jethri translated, watching the image of bones and ghostly outline of skin and muscle as it built up. Bar Jan said something very low and got just as low a reply from the valet.

"And go," said the medic, having clicked the device at another angle, and this time Bar Jan's good hand visibly spasmed and it was the valet who made a small sound as his hand was clenched.

"And go!"

Jethri's anatomy lessons were long ago but he saw enough of shattered bone, broken skin, and muscles torn from their moorings to cringe. This damage was no simple wrap and wait . . .

"One more, if you please. On the count of
go
!"

The sounds were louder and more complex this time, overriding the ordinary sounds of the air vents and making the small scuffles of sound from the bigger room fade into the background.

The sliding scan made three trips up and down that arm and it was as if the man being scanned shrank; his face got hard and he shut his eyes while both arms shook.

The medic did something that turned the image from side to side, showed it upside down, from interesting angles. Bone splinters, fractures and fractured fractures.

Sounds from the machine went down and sounds in the hall got louder, but when the doctor touched a button and dozens of points were highlighted as problem areas, Jethri grimaced, concentrating on what to tell Bar Jan.

"Hospital. Tell your buddy there I'll give him a boost on the pain med and we will send him directly to the big hospital. I've already sent the images and we've got a bed on call; even once everything's closed up we'll want to keep it still as we can for several days . . ."

Jethri heard a noise then, turned, saw Infreya chel'Gaibin standing in the door with several retainers, glaring.

"Do not take him away!"

She entered the room, glaring at all, with venomous attention coming to rest on Jethri.

"I will deal with him if you do not have the grace to finish it and he has not the grace to suicide!"

Rinork pushed her way to the side of her son, drawing a gun, the valet suddenly in between mother and son. She pushed against him without recognition, peering around his shoulder to hurl invective at volume.

"Failure! Schemer! You--"

She brought the gun up against the efforts of the valet to stop her.

Bar Jan shifted but restraints held him. His wide eyes shut and--

"Stop!" Jethri swung a forearm, slamming gun hand away from the trapped man. Before she could recover, the Scout had the gun.

"How dare you," she started but Jethri overrode her Liaden outburst in louder Trade.

"If I'd have killed him, or if he died of it now, we'd call it a fair fight and it'd be over. If you shoot him in cold blood, they'll space you for murder!"

The Scout approached, bowing equal to equal. "We all witness. If you were to shoot him now, I'd put you in the airlock myself."

Rinork herself stiffened. The Scout returned the weapon, sans charge.

The valet closed in, putting himself between the mother and the son again. Two of
Wynhael
's crewmen stood in the door, indecisive.

Rinork closed her eyes, shoving the empty gun into her pocket, whirled on the hapless valet--

"Turn out his pockets, take his jewelry. His clothes are not worth stripping."

She stood over the still-shaking man, momentarily blocking the valet from doing this duty.

"Open your eyes to me. You will do this!"

The shaking subsided, and the eyes did open, slowly came to focus.

"Tell me who I am."

A voice, barely a gasp, said, "Rinork. You are Rinork."

"Yes, I am Rinork. And you are dead. Dead to me, dead to the clan."

He sobbed then, tried to pull himself together, closed his eyes, sobbed.

In strong clear tones then, to the medics and to Jethri, she said in Trade, "He is dead!" Then she switched to Liaden, eyes glaring into Jethri's.

"Bar Jan chel'Gaibin is dead, as I, Rinork proper, declare to all who may hear. So shall it appear in the Gazette, that he died of his own folly on a Terran port. There shall be no Balance for stupidity."

"Do as I said," she told the minions at the door. "Leave him his clothes and nothing more. And you," she said, pointing haughtily at the valet, "have made your choice. Be his man and burn him when he dies--he is dead and you have jumped ship, as all proper Liadens shall know!"

Jethri looked to the Scout, who turned a bland face to him, his hands showing the pilot's sign
hold steady, hold steady, hold steady.
The Scout spoke then, gently, to Jethri alone: "I am helpless against tradition, helpless against the Code. It is her right!"

She turned, and her minions did as they were bid, reaching through the man's feeble protests, ignoring the protests of the medics, taking rings and necklaces and secret pocket things, pulling his boots and emptying a hidden cache.

The crew of the
Wynhael
was gone, leaving only the breathing body of a dead former Liaden High House trader, and his valet among strangers and enemies.