A Liaden Universe Constellation: Volume I by Sharon Lee & Steve Miller

Author:Sharon Lee & Steve Miller
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781451639230
Publisher: Baen
Published: 2013-07-02T04:00:00+00:00

Ynsolt’i Port

Textile Hall

“PREMIUM GRADE, honored sir,” Jethri murmured, keeping his eyes modestly lowered, as befit a young person in discourse with a person of lineage and honor.

Honored Sir din’Flora moved his shoulders and flipped an edge of the fabric up, frowning at the underweave. Jethri ground his teeth against an impulse to add more in praise of the hand-loomed Gindoree cellosilk.

Don’t oversell! he could hear Uncle Paitor snap from memory. The trader is in control of the trade.

“Half-a-cantra the six-bolt,” the buyer stated, tossing the sample cloth back across the spindle. Jethri sighed gently and spread his hands.

“The honored buyer is, of course, distrustful of goods offered by one so many years his inferior in wisdom. I assure you that I am instructed by an elder of my ship, who bade me accept not a breath less than two cantra.”

“Two?” The Liaden’s shoulders moved again—not a shrug, but expressive of some emotion. Amusement, Jethri thought. Or anger.

“Your elder misinstructs you, young sir. Perhaps it is a testing.” The buyer tipped his head slightly to one side, as if considering. “I will offer an additional quarter-cantra,” he said at last, accent rounding the edges of the trade-tongue, “in kindness of a student’s diligence.”

Wrong, Jethri thought. Liadens did nothing for kindness, which he knew from the tapes and from crew-talk. Liadens lived for revenge, and the stories Khat told on the subject kept a body awake on sleep-shift, praying against the mistake that would earn him nitrogen in his back-up oxy tank in payment of a Liaden’s “balance.”

Respectful, Jethri bowed, and, respectful, brought his eyes to the buyer’s face. “Sir, I value your kindness. However, the distance between three-quarter cantra and two is so vast that I feel certain my elder would counsel me to forgo the trade. Perhaps you had not noticed—” he caught himself on the edge of insult and smoothly changed course—“the light is poor, just here . . .”

Pulling the bolt forward, he again showed the fineness of the cloth, the precious irregularities of weave, which proved it hand-woven, spoke rapturously of the pure crimson dye.

The buyer moved his hand. “Enough. One cantra. A last offer.”

Gotcha, thought Jethri, making a serious effort to keep his face neutral. One cantra, just like Uncle Paitor had wanted. In retrospect, it had been an easy sell.

Too easy? he wondered then, looking down at the Liaden’s smooth face and disinterested brown eyes. Was there, just maybe, additional profit to be made here?

Trade is study, Uncle Paitor said from memory. Study the goods, and study the market. And after you prepare as much as you can, there’s still nothing says that a ship didn’t land yesterday with three holds full of something you’re carrying as a luxury sell.

Nor was there a law, thought Jethri, against Honored Buyer din’Flora being critically short on crimson cellosilk, this Port-day. He took a cautious breath and made his decision.

“Of course,” he told the buyer, gathering the sample bolt gently into his arms, “I am desolate not to have closed trade in this instance.

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