Colemenoport
Offices of the
Tree-and-Dragon Trade Mission
Majel had considered his options closely, and decided that a personal visit was more fitting to the situation than a comm call. A comm call did not give him the opportunity to assess for himself the state of the master trader’s mind, nor did it allow the master trader opportunity to read the depth of Majel’s sincerity.
If he found the office closed, he would not have wasted a trip, after all. It had been far too long since he had spoken with the erVintons, and he had already determined to do so when next he was at the port.
The light was on over the door to the trade mission’s office. Majel touched the annunciator, and folded his hands before him, waiting.
He waited long enough that he began to think about leaving, seeing the erVintons, and stopping past the trade mission’s office again on his way back to the city.
Indeed, he had taken a step away when the door opened to reveal Trader yos’Galan, her face tight and her eyes narrowed. She produced no easy smile upon seeing him, as she had on past occasions, though she did manage a cordial inclination of the head.
“Counselor ziaGorn,” she said, and her voice was also . . . less strong than it had been on previous meetings.
“Trader yos’Galan,” he answered. “Is the master trader within?”
“There is only myself this morning, Councilor,” she said. “Is there something I may do for you in the master trader’s absence?”
She took a careful step back, clearing the door.
“Please do come in, and at least allow me to thank you for your service to our team members last evening.”
Wan expression, narrowed gaze, slowed movements. He knew what this was, Majel realized, and recalled the young trader’s antipathy toward cake.
“I wonder,” he said, instead of entering the office, “if you have time to come with me to the Skywise Provianto. I am just on my way there, and I thought we might talk together over a meal.”
For a moment, he thought she would refuse, and what he might do then, he had no clear notion, but after a moment, she made another attempt at a smile, this one somewhat better, though by no means the expression he had seen adorning her face previously.
“Thank you,” she said. “I am partial to the Skywise, and a meal sounds—useful. Let me get my case.”
Æ
Her head hurt, and she was quite ridiculously tired, as if she had run across the port twice, instead of taking three meetings. Granted, the last had been irritating, not to say actively alarming, but nothing that could account for this sad state.
It was then that she recalled the ping. As if someone had thrown a stone against a wall.
Or a shield?
Padi bit her lip.
She ought to check her shields, she thought, but she did not know how to examine her own shields, and she dared not become beguiled by the ambient, even filtered as it was at the port, with her head aching quite so much.
When the chime sounded, she jumped, and bit her lip, half-inclined not to answer—which really was unworthy of her.
She did look through the door camera first, and opened to Majel ziaGorn, with a sense of relief.
The prospect of a meal at the Skywise had appealed, though she had suddenly been concerned about the walk. Her knees did not feel quite as steady as they should—precisely as if she had run that imaginary race across the port.
By the time she and Counselor ziaGorn had exited onto the street, she was seriously questioning the wisdom of walking any further.
Her companion, however, put his arm energetically into the air, and—sweet relief!—a port jitney came to a stop beside them.
“The Skywise Provianto, please,” Counselor ziaGorn said, supporting her with a hand under her elbow as she climbed into the back seat, before sitting across from her.
“Skywise Provianto!” the jitney driver called out, and they were off.
Her head ached.
Padi closed her eyes and accessed a pilot’s drill for calmness.
Æ
The trader had closed her eyes. Majel hoped that she was merely resting. He had heard that, in extreme cases, the afflicted might lose consciousness. He hoped that they were not running too close to that outcome, but even if so, the Skywise was the best choice of destination. Bell erVinton was a medic and would surely know what to do.
“Skywise Provianto, Luzants!” the driver called, and Trader yos’Galan opened her eyes.
“A moment,” Majel murmured. He descended to the street, offering a steadying arm.
Her eyebrows rose, and he thought for a moment that he had made an error. Then she inclined her head, murmuring, “Thank you for your care,” as she accepted his assistance.
Once she was fairly down, he pulled a coin from his pocket and tossed it to the driver, breathing a sigh of relief as he guided the trader into the Provianto—
Before stopping in consternation just inside the shop.
Chairs and tables were flung all about, the sweets cases had been thrown over, and there were cakes and broken crockery spread in sticky confusion across the floor.
Behind the counter were a gathering of people, among them a representative of Port Security, and Bell erVinton. She glanced over her shoulder.
“We’re closed, gentles—” she began. Then her eye fell on Trader yos’Galan, and she rushed forward.
“Trader, what has happened to you?”
“I’ll ask the same thing of you,” Trader yos’Galan answered, rallying somewhat. “Bell, have you been robbed?”
“Robbed, no. Someone wanted to make a point.” She glanced to Majel.
“Councilor. Just the person I need.”
“I am yours,” he told her. “But first—”
“Yes. First, Trader yos’Galan, we must tend to you. Come back to the kitchen, it’s not so much upside-down there. I have a savory pie in the keeper, cheese, and some cold juice. The sweets were smashed with the case, but never you mind that, good fuel is all you need, as you know and I do.”
Trader yos’Galan began to say something—that she would not intrude during a day of misfortune, Majel thought. Bell paid no heed to that, of course, and soon the trader was sitting at the kitchen counter, a plate before her and tongs in her hand.
“Eat, Trader—don’t stint yourself,” said Bell. “I’ll be just over here, speaking with Councilor ziaGorn.”
* * *
“Done on the overnight,” Bell said. “As you see, the kitchen is intact. Security has it down as mischief.”
Expensive mischief, Majel thought; yet if the kitchen equipment had been harmed, that would have been malicious damage of property, which not only mandated closer scrutiny by security, but also carried an increased fine, when the perpetrators were apprehended.
“The case and fixtures?” Majel murmured.
Bell lifted a shoulder.
“Not enough to level up the investigation. The tables and chairs aren’t damaged, just disarrayed. The goods are counted no higher than their ingredients, and unless there’s proof of Intent—”
Majel sighed. Intent was subtle, and in the case of mere mischief, often discounted by the Evaluators as excitement attending the acts, rather than a premeditated malicious desire to do harm.
“Could you speak with the security officer about sending a Sensitive?” Bell asked. “If I push, I’ll be grilled about who I might have offended, in what way, and offered counseling.”
“I don’t know about . . . intent,” Padi yos’Galan said from behind them, her voice appreciably stronger, “but I tell you, and will be glad to tell the security officer that Luzant nirAmit, across the street, saw it as his duty to inform me that the Skywise was owned by the Deaf, that all the employees were likewise Deaf.”
Majel turned to look at her.
She had eaten a little more than half of the pie, and was holding her glass in both hands, elbows braced against the countertop. Her color was better, he thought, relieved.
“After he had done,” she continued, “he said he trusted I would conduct myself more fittingly.”
Majel glanced at Bell, who met his eyes, her expression bleak, before she moved to the counter.
“Luzant nirAmit is often angry, Trader,” she said soothingly. “He remembers the old days, and isn’t happy with change.”
“Which doesn’t mean that security shouldn’t talk to him,” Padi said. “He’s right across the street, and might have seen something suspicious.”
“Very true,” Majel said, briskly. “It’s standard, for security to ask the neighbors if they saw or heard anything.” He paused, considering, then touched Bell on the shoulder.
“My casino recently suffered an assault against the machines,” he said. “Intent was proved in one of the rooms. It would be prudent to be certain that these two instances are not related.”
Bell frowned. “Your casino is in the city, while we are at the port—” she began.
“True,” Majel said. “But both of these acts were brought against Deaf-owned businesses. As Chair of the Citizens Coalition, I must be vigilant.”
Bell’s face cleared.
“Thank you, Councilor,” she said.
“Not at all. I’ll speak to the officer now. Trader yos’Galan, I’ll be a few minutes, only.”
“Pray don’t rush your business on my account,” Padi told him, eyeing the remaining pie speculatively.
Majel bowed and left.
Æ
“Well, Trader, what did befall you?” Bell asked. She had pulled a stool up next to Padi’s and poured herself some tea.
Padi had decided against more pie, just at present. She looked at Bell and moved her shoulders.
“I took three of the master trader’s meetings this morning. One was . . . fraught, but I was tired out of proportion at the end of it, and coming a headache.”
“You expended energy,” Bell said, sipping her tea. “Did you not have any cake?”
Padi sighed.
“Here you see my folly. I haven’t gotten wholly into the habit of cake. Truth said, I am not half fond. But, in any case, I had done nothing to exert myself—meetings are quite calm.”
“There are other remedies, if you’d rather not cake,” Bell said. “Sweet tea. Cheese. Protein muffins. There’s a particular nut-and-fruit bar—in fact, here.”
She rose and went to a cabinet with a green door, opened it, rummaged briefly and returned with two bars wrapped in crackling paper, which she put next to Padi’s plate.
“Put these in your case. If you find you like them, they’re widely available. In the meanwhile, I’ll send you a list of beneficial foods from the medic’s archive.”
She resumed her stool and picked up her teacup, looking at Padi sternly.
“Now, Trader, listen to me. You have become a favorite customer and I don’t relinquish those easily. You must be vigilant. The ambient acts constantly upon the Civilized, which produces a caloric deficit. Cookies, or a nut bar—those are easy to keep in your case or your pocket, and a cake tin fits neatly into a drawer, which is why it is so often on offer.”
Padi blinked.
“The ambient is always acting on the Gifted?” she said slowly. “Even under the Grid?”
“The Grid mitigates the effects, but it does not negate them,” Bell told her. “You see the need for vigilance.”
“I do, yes. I will make certain that I’m better prepared, going forward.”
She sighed lightly, and put her empty glass on the counter.
“I am wanted at another meeting, soon,” she said. “Tell me what I can do to help you.”
“Truly, Trader, Councilor ziaGorn has it in hand. My family is coming to help with clean-up and repair. We’ll be open in time to serve the evening menu.”
“I thought,” Padi said slowly, “that the Deaf were protected.”
Bell blinked.
“That is the law, Trader, yes.”
“But you and Councilor ziaGorn—as I overheard you just now—you have both seen your businesses assaulted,” Padi continued. “And other people, like Luzant nirAmit are . . . angry that you have a business at all?”
Bell said nothing, and Padi felt a pang. To repay kindness by sowing dismay was rag-mannered in the extreme.
“I am rude, and I regret it,” she murmured, bowing her head. “But, we—the members of the trade mission—have been trying to understand—everything! Not only the markets, but the culture, and the law. It is all of a piece, you see. There is a port at which we cannot trade, because planetary law states that only families that are properly headed by a woman may be qualified as a vendor. Had the law stayed in the city, it would have had nothing to do with us, with trade. But the law spilled into the port, you see, and made us untenable. So, we no longer stop there.”
Bell took a breath.
“I do see, Trader. I think you want Councilor ziaGorn for this. He has history and law at the front of his mind, whereas I have recipes and catering protocols.”
Padi sighed and finished her tea.
“I believe that one of my colleagues is already in conversation with the councilor regarding the issue,” she said. She felt considerably better—and not a moment too soon, either. The timepiece she wore vibrated against her wrist, which was the warning to start back to the Wayfarer and the working nuncheon.
She slid to her feet, and bowed.
“Thank you for your aid, and your forbearance,” she said. “If it comes about that there is something I may do for you, please do not hesitate to call me. In the meanwhile, I am wanted at my next meeting.”
Bell slipped to her feet.
“Don’t forget your nut-and-fruit bars, Trader.”
“Surely not,” Padi said, slipping them into her jacket pocket. “Where may I find a jitney?”
“Right out here,” Bell said, moving past her and opening the kitchen door.
Padi exited into an alley, Bell at her side.
“Just up here at the corner, Trader,” the other woman said, and walked with her, raising her arm when they achieved the corner.
A jitney pulled over before Padi could draw breath to say thank you. Bell helped her aboard, and stepped back.
“Take good care, Trader,” she said.
“And you!” Padi called, but Bell had already turned away.
“Direction, Luzant?” asked the driver.
“The Wayfarer, please,” Padi said. She sat back in the seat and closed her eyes.