Balance of Trade by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee Read Free Book Online Page A

protect her name. She's not after you—she's after whoever gave you that card and told you he was her. All you have to do—"

    Sirge Milton shook his head, sorrowful, or so it seemed to Jethri. "Kid," he said, "you still don't get it, do you?" He brought his hand out of the pocket and leveled the gun, matter-of-factly, at Jethri's stomach. "I know the card's bogus, kid. I know who made it—and so does your precious master trader. She got the scrivener last night. She'd've had me this morning, but I know the back way outta the 'ground."

    The gun was high-gee plastic, snub-nosed and black. Jethri stared at it and then looked back at the man's face.

    Trade , he thought, curiously calm. Trade for your life.

    Sirge Milton grinned. "You traded another Terran to a Liaden. That's stupid, Jethri. Stupid people don't live long."

    "You're right," he said, calmly, watching Sirge's face and not the gun at all. "And it'd be real stupid for you to kill me. Norn ven'Deelin said I'd done her a service. If you kill me, she's not going to have any choice but to serve you the same. You don't want to corner her."

    "Jeth?" Dyk's voice echoed in from the dock. "Hey! Jethri!"

    "I'll be out in a second!" he yelled, never breaking eye contact with the gunman. "Give me the gun." he said, reasonably. "I'll go with you to the master trader and you can make it right."

    "'Make it right'," Sirge sneered and there was a sharp snap as he thumbed the gun's safety off.

    "I urge you most strongly to heed the young trader's excellent advice, Sirge Milton," a calm voice commented in accentless Trade. "The master trader is arrived and balance may go forth immediately."

    Master ven'Deelin's yellow-haired assistant walked into the edge of Jethri's field of vision. He stood lightly on the balls of his feet, as if he expected to have to run. There was a gun, holstered, on his belt.

    Sirge Milton hesitated, staring at this new adversary.

    "Sirge, it's not worth killing for," Jethri said, desperately.

    But Sirge had forgotten about him. He was looking at Master ven'Deelin's assistant. "Think I'm gonna be some Liaden's slave until I worked off what she claims for debt?" He demanded. "Liaden Port? You think I got any chance of a fair hearing?"

    "The portmaster—" the Liaden began, but Sirge cut him off with a wave, looked down at the gun and brought it around.

    "No!" Jethri jumped forward, meaning to grab the gun, but something solid slammed into his right side, knocking him to the barge's deck. There was a crack of sound, very soft, and Jethri rolled to his feet—

    Sirge Milton was crumbled face down on the cold decking, the gun in his hand. The back of his head was gone. Jethri took a step forward, found his arm grabbed and turned around to look down into the grave blue eyes of Master ven'Deelin's assistant.

    "Come," the Liaden said, and his voice was not—quite—steady. "The master trader must be informed."
    * * *

    THE YELLOW-HAIRED assistant came to an end of his spate of Liaden and inclined his head.

    "So it is done." Norn ven'Deelin said in Trade. "Advise the portmaster and hold yourself at her word."

    "Master Trader." The man swept a bow so low his forehead touched his knees, straightened effortlessly and left the Market's common room with nothing like a backward look. Norn ven'Deelin turned to Jethri, sitting shaken between his mother and Uncle Paitor.

    "I am regretful," she said in her bad Terran, "that solving achieved this form. My intention, as I said to you, was not thus. Terrans—" She glanced around, at Paitor and the captain, at Dyk and Khat and Mel. "Forgive me. I mean to say that Terrans are of a mode most surprising. It was my error, to be think this solving would end not in dyings." She showed her palms. "The counterfeit-maker and the, ahh— distributor —are of a mind, both, to achieve more seemly Balance."

    "Counterfeiter?" asked Paitor and Norn ven'Deelin inclined her head.

    "Indeed. Certain cards were copied—not