Trade Secret (eARC) by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee Read Free Book Online Page A

things he ought to have seen earlier, too, and the first Festival message from Gaenor, plus a lilting and seductive voice reminder for him to check his mail from Gaenor, that hint from Vil Tor! He shook his head, grim-faced against the missed offer to see the pair of them in their suggested Festival rags . . .
    But that had to wait, after all, because if business was on deck, there was a complicated missive and even more complex set of files from Tan Sim, being the record of a dozen or more trades, side financing, short leases, storage and shipping contracts, all executed on the fly between the opening of the jointly bought pod that had begun their partnership and the departure of the Scouts, much of it real catch-as-can of hurry. The worrying part was that a few pieces of this and that had gone missing in the hurry . . .
    Literally on the fly this had all happened, as Delm Rinork had created and sold Tan Sim's trader contract and exiled him to a long-route tradeship with little hope of success. Tan Sim parted out the pieces using a contractor and there'd been some assumptions that needed to be tested and worked out, seeing that it might be the partner contract between them wasn't as straight as it ought to be if they were both going to be able to hold their partnership responsible--not that Tan Sim hadn't done them proud, considering the whole of the problems they'd faced.
    Then another note, this from Scout ter'Astin, very formal and very curious, and very short, especially compared to whatever it was Tan Sim was on about, admitting that ter'Astin would be happy to make an appointment to see Jethri Gobelyn soonest when Elthoria made next port, and that in fact he was applying to the Master Trader as well as Pen Rel for assistance in such a meeting and looking forward to an open discussion . . .
    That bothered mightily, for ter'Astin of all people knew the change in Jethri's circumstance from acrobatic Terran apprentice to acknowledged son of the clan. Even the digital wrapper showed the Scout had purposefully aimed it to him as a Gobelyn, which meant . . .
    It meant something, and he was darned if he could figure out what. He supposed a careful question to tel'Ondor might give him a clue--a reason to visit Vil Tor!--or perhaps a deep-search of the Liaden Code of Proper Conduct might show an answer.
    Was he in trouble? Was Tan Sim? Or had Miandra's training gone wrong--a concern of his since he'd been the intermediary in defending her from the overzealous "healing" of a Healer more concerned with order than with people gone awry, with her now loose in space. With her apparent power and known affinity for trouble . . .
    That thought had more interest for him than he'd expected, but surely he wouldn't be the first refuge Miandra might seek if --but there, she'd sought him on Irikwae, after all, when friends and family were all about her.
    "Clear the board of reds before you move to the first yellow," he said, recounting out loud an ancient dictum Paitor swore was handed down from the days the Gobelyns had first risen into space from a rumored seafaring past.
    So, he had to consider Gaenor and Vil Tor's offer and confusion, as recent as it was, to be down in the yellow side of the problems. Without knowing exactly what it was about, he'd have to figure that ter'Astin's necessity was a flashing yellow, and so not quite red. That was a problem he hadn't thought about too hard before--he was double or triple or worse tangled in the Scout by now, between the weather machine and Miandra, and the save against the ugly Scout and the loan of his childhood "logbook" with cryptic notations from his father and, truth told, who knew what else might have been snuck under those covers? It was clear that he'd missed some kind of training his father was to give, and he wondered if the book held keys to more of that birthright that he'd considered before. A heavier tangle: ter'Astin had seen his father's shattered body--which was more than