Colemenoport
Wayfarer
The suite of rooms that the Colemeno portmaster had made available to the master trader’s team was spacious, and, by Mar Tyn’s standards, at least, elegant. He and Dyoli had adjoining rooms, each with its own bed, desk, drawers, and freshening facilities. By mutual agreement, they left the connecting door open, and more often than not would work together in what the roster listed as “Dyoli ven’Deelin’s quarters.”
“Mar Tyn pai’Fortana’s quarters” was their sleeping room. Mar Tyn had never lived in such spaciousness, where he might rise and pace four dozen steps before returning to the place where he had begun.
More, they had direct access to the building’s kitchen—a call at any hour would see a meal or beverage arriving in their room via an ingenious lift system built into the wall.
Truly, it was a place of such comfort that he found himself repeating the mantra, “This is temporary,” several times a day, in the hope that he would mourn it less when it was reft from him, as it surely would be.
Most of the circumstances of Mar Tyn’s life had been temporary, the partnership with Dyoli bidding fair to become his longest, and most stable association . . . ever. He did try not to tell himself that it, too, was temporary, though in his secret heart, he feared it.
Dyoli had no doubts that their partnership would endure. Nor did she have any patience with arguments that would set the daughter of a High Liaden House properly well above the touch of a ragged Luck out of Low Port.
Dyoli would have it that they two would be the managers of a joint Tree-and-Dragon and Ixin trade office, located on Colemenoport. Indeed, she was more certain of the establishment of this office than was the master trader himself. There were, so Mar Tyn understood from the master trader’s explanations of the mission’s work, procedures mandated by nothing less than the Trade Guild, and to stint them was to court disaster.
In Mar Tyn’s opinion, having observed him now for some time, the master trader avoided disaster. Unquestionably, he was bold. Was not Dutiful Passage, the master trader’s own ship, the first to arrive at a port only recently released from the depths of a hazard to navigation that had held it aside for two hundred Standards? Bold, but not careless.
The master trader’s ultimate success in opening Colemeno to the wide universe aside, the question that very much occupied Mar Tyn’s interest was his role in the future.
Dyoli might be certain of their partnership, and he himself unwilling to break it, still one wished to be . . .
. . . of use.
It was a strange desire, to be sure—whenever was a Luck of use, save for what his Gift might bring?
Well. He shook himself. At the moment, he thought, he might be of use by reading the information given by the market manager to prepare them for tomorrow morning’s tour. Mar Tyn could have no opinion of whether the facilities were suitable for the master trader’s scheme, or what upgrades might be reasonably made to bring it current. Still, he ought to read the document, and talk it over with Dyoli, so that he might be as informed as possible.
He glanced across the room, where Dyoli sat, reading from her screen—doubtless the information he had yet to access.
Extending a hand, he tapped his screen on, tapped again for his work queue—and sat blinking.
There was a letter to him—only to him, not as part of a group memo—from the master trader.
Such a thing had never happened before, and it unsettled him, until his native humor reasserted itself.
Were you not only a moment ago wishing to be of use, Mar Tyn Luck? He asked himself. Perhaps the master trader has a task for you.
This seemed unlikely in the extreme; still, to sit gaping was scarcely informative.
Mar Tyn tapped the letter open, noting that he was greeted by name, and with gentle words of appreciation, before—
He read the letter again—and again, his breath coming short.
“Mar Tyn?” Dyoli said from across the room, for of course her own Gift would have allowed her to feel his distress. “Is something amiss?”
“I—scarcely know,” he said. “Have you a moment to—look at this with me?”
“Certainly.”
She came to stand beside him, her hand on his shoulder. Her fingers tightened slightly as she leaned forward to tap the screen, and made a small sound of satisfaction when the attachment opened.
“The complete accounting course, with tests, accredited by the masters of the Liaden Guild of Accountants,” she murmured, and looked down to smile into his eyes.
“The master trader makes you a splendid gift, my Mar Tyn.”
He stared at her.
“But, I am not an accountant!”
“Exactly so! He has seen that you have the potential to become an accountant.”
His breath was short, and there was a particular tingling that felt . . . akin to his Gift, which—
“Dyoli,” he gasped. “What do you See?”
“See?”
She stepped ’round the chair, and turned to face him, her hip propped against the desk, and her eyes serious.
“I see that the master trader has made an assessment.” She cocked a whimsical brow. “It is what master traders do, my Mar Tyn; he can scarcely help himself, and you must not be cross. Instead, read what he has sent to you—Your unfailing attention to detail, and aptitude for plain figuring has been noted. These are qualities that a master trader values.”
She paused, and leaned slightly forward to meet his eyes.
“Do you think that the master trader is making sport?”
No, Mar Tyn thought; no, he did not think that, at all. The master trader was sportive, but he did not make sport. He did make assessments, and he was frank when he discussed them. More, he had no possible reason to play a prank on the least important member of his team. Such a thing would be—cruel. And the master trader was not cruel.
“I do not think that this is . . . like the master trader’s humor,” he said to Dyoli, who was still waiting for an answer. “It is only—Dyoli, I have no education, nor any accomplishments!”
“I will dispute that at another time,” she said. “For the moment, however, you are being given the opportunity to add to your accomplishments. And you know, my love, that we will be even more valuable in terms of managing a trade office, if one of us is a Guild-certified accountant.”
“Who will certify me?” he wondered, eyeing the screen, and the page displayed there.
“There are self-tests included in the module,” Dyoli told him. “And as for certification—the ship’s qe’andra is certainly qualified.”
“The ship’s qe’andra?”
“Yes—you recall her. She sat with us and went over the inventory sheets for consistency and competitive pricing.”
Mar Tyn frowned. Yes, he thought suddenly, he did remember her. A woman of middle years, very solemn, with eyes only for her screens, and a clear, well-modulated voice.
“Qe’andra dea’Tolin,” he murmured.
Dyoli smiled. “You do recall. Trained in the dea’Gauss firm, so she told me. She is new to the post on Dutiful Passage, but has been on Korval tradeships for some years. She is a very experienced person, and will be a good resource for you in your studies.”
“My studies.”
He closed his eyes, feeling his breath go short again, but no tingle from his Gift. It would appear that he had a choice to make, based on his own preferences.
Would you like to be an accountant? he asked himself gently.
Truly, he had no idea.
“What if I—fail?” he said, suddenly certain that it would be so. He opened his eyes to look at Dyoli. “All honor to the master trader, but what if his assessment is—inaccurate?”
“What if it is?” Dyoli answered carelessly. “We do not all succeed at everything to which we turn our hand. You may sample, and find that the dish is not to your taste, or that you have no aptitude. There is no dishonor there. Where there is disrespect is to ignore the offer altogether. The master trader thought of you with kindness. For that, you may wish to read the first chapter.” She moved her shoulders. “Or not. That is entirely your judgment to make, my Mar Tyn.”
Entirely his judgment to make. How very strange, to be sure.
“Thank you,” he said to Dyoli.
“You are welcome. I am pleased that you asked for my input.”
She smiled and straightened, holding her hand down to him.
“Since we are interrupted, shall we eat now?”
“I haven’t done the reading,” Mar Tyn confessed.
Dyoli grinned.
“Then we will have to talk of something other than business,” she said. “Come, help me choose the meal.”