More than anything else, the system had the feel of an old and beautiful tide pool, groomed and tended, shielded from the exciting waves that might upset its bansai plumes. Most likely the tusk-legs were the liveliest species about, perhaps the only one interested in trade with the outside.
Their car slowed and spiraled into a small tower.
“By the Fleet, what I wouldn’t give to be out there with them!” Pham Nuwen waved at the views coming in from the skrode cameras. Ever since the Riders left, he’d been at the windows, alternately gaping wide-eyed at the ringscape and bouncing abstractedly between the command deck’s floor and ceiling. Ravna had never seen him so absorbed, so intense. However fraudulent his memories of trading days, he truly thought he could make a difference. And he may be right.
Pham came down from the ceiling, pulled close to the screen. It looked like serious bargaining was about to begin. The Skroderiders had arrived in a spherical room perhaps fifty meters across. Apparently they were floating near the center of it. A forest grew inward from all directions, and the Riders seemed to float just a few meters from the tree tops. Here and there between the branches, they could see the ground, a mosaic of flowers.
Saint Rihndell’s sales creatures were scattered all about the tallest trees. They sat(?) with their ivory limbs twined about the tree tops. Tusk-leg races were a common thing in the galaxy, but these were the first Ravna had known. The body plan was totally unlike anything from home, and even now she didn’t have a clear idea of their appearance. Sitting in the trees, their legs had more of the aspect of a skeletal fingers grasping around the trunk. Their chief rep—who claimed to be Saint Rihndell itself—had scrimshaw covering two-thirds of its ivory. Two of the windows showed the carving close up; Pham seemed to think that understanding the artwork might be useful.
Progress was slow. Triskweline was the common language, but good interpreting devices didn’t work this deep in the Beyond, and Saint Rihndell’s folk were only marginally familiar with the trade talk. Ravna was used to clean translations. Even the Net messages she dealt with were usually intelligible (though sometimes misleadingly so).
They’d been talking for twenty minutes and had only just established that Saint Rihndell might have the ability to repair OOB. It was the usual Riderly driftiness, and something more. The tedium seemed to please Pham Nuwen, “Rav, this is almost like a Qeng Ho operation, face to face with critters and scarcely a common language.”
“We sent them a description of our repair problem hours ago. Why should it take so long for a simple yes or no?”
“Because they’re haggling,” said Pham, his grin broadening. “‘Honest’ Saint Rihndell here—” he waved at the scrimshawed local, “— wants to convince us just how hard the job is… Lord I wish I was out there.”
Even Blueshell and Greenstalk seemed a little strange now. Their Triskweline was stripped down, barely more complex than Saint Rihndell’s. And much of the discussion seemed very round about. Working for Vrinimi, Ravna had had some experience with sales and trading. But haggling? You had your pricing data bases and strategy support, and directions from Grondr’s people. You either had a deal or you didn’t. What was going on between the Riders and Saint Rihndell was one of the more alien things Ravna had ever seen.
“Actually, things are going pretty well… I think. You saw when we arrived, the bone legs took away Blueshell’s samples. By now they know precisely what we have. There’s something in those samples that they want.
“Yeah?”
“Sure. Saint Rihndell isn’t bad-mouthing our stuff for his health.”
“Damn it, it’s possible we don’t have anything on board they could want. This was never intended to be a trade expedition.” Blueshell and Greenstalk had scavenged “product samples” from the ship’s supplies, things that the OOB could survive without. These included sensoria and some Low Beyond computer gear. Some of that would be a serious loss. But one way or another, we need those repairs.
Pham chuckled. “No. There’s something there Saint Rihndell wants. Otherwise he wouldn’t still be jawing… And see how he keeps needling us about his ‘other customers’ needs’? Saint Rihndell is a human kind of a guy.”
Something like human song came over the link to the Riders. Ravna phased Greenstalk’s cameras toward the sound. From the forest “floor” on the far side of Blueshell, three new creatures had appeared.
“Why… they’re beautiful. Butterflies,” said Ravna.
“Huh?”
“I mean they look like butterflies. You know? Um. Insects with large colored wings.”
Giant butterflies, actually. The newcomers had a generally humanoid body plan. They were about 150 centimeters tall and covered with soft-looking brown fur. Their wings sprouted from behind their shoulder blades. At full spread they were almost two meters across, soft blues and yellows, some more intricately patterned than others. Surely they were artificial, or a gengineered affectation; they would have been useless for flying about in any reasonable gravity. But here in zero-gee… The three floated at the entrance for just a moment, their huge, soft eyes looking up at the Riders. Then they swept their wings in measured sweeps, and drifted gracefully into the air above the forest. The entire effect was like something out of a children’s video. They had pert, button noses, like pet jorakorns, and eyes as wide and bashful as any human animator ever drew. Their voices sounded like youngsters singing.
Saint Rihndell and his buddies sidled around their tree tops. The tallest visitor sang on, its wings gently flexing. After a moment, Ravna realized it was speaking fluent Trisk with a front end adapted to the creature’s natural speech:
“Saint Rihndell, greetings! Our ships are ready for your repairs. We have made fair payment, and we are in a great hurry. Your work must begin at once!” Saint Rihndell’s Trisk specialist translated the speech for his boss.
Ravna leaned across Pham’s back. “So maybe our friendly repairman really is overbooked,” she said.
“… Yeah.”
Saint Rihndell came back around his treetop. His little arms picked at the green needles as he made a reply. “Honored Customers. You made offer of payment, not fully accepted. What you ask is in short supply, difficult to
… do.”
The cuddly butterfly made a squeaking noise that might have passed for joyous laughter in a human child. The sense behind its singing was different: “Times are changing, Rihndell creature! Your people must learn: We will not be stymied. You know my fleet’s sacred mission. We count every passing hour against you. Think on the fleet you will face if your lack of cooperation is ever known—is ever even suspected.” There was a sweep of blue and yellow wings, and the butterfly turned. Its dark, bashful eyes rested on the Riders. “And these potted plants, they are customers? Dismiss them. Till we are gone, you have no other customers.”
Ravna sucked in a breath. The three had no visible weapons, but she was suddenly afraid for Blueshell and Greenstalk.
“Well, what do you know,” Pham said. “Butterflies in jackboots.”
CHAPTER 27
According to the clock, it took less than half an hour for the Skroderiders to make it back. It seemed a lot longer to Pham Nuwen, even though he tried to keep up a casual front with Ravna. Maybe they were both keeping up a front; he knew she still considered him a fragile case.
But the Riders’ cameras showed no more signs of the killer butterflies. Finally the cargo lock cracked open and Blueshell and Greenstalk were back.
“I was sure the wily tusk-legs was just pretending there was strong demand,” said Blueshell. He seemed as eager to rehash the story as Pham was.
“Yeah, I thought so too. In fact, I still think those butterflies might just be part of an act. It’s all too melodramatic.”
Blueshell’s fronds rattled in a way that Pham recognized as a kind of shiver. “I wager not, Sir Pham. Those were Aprahanti. Just the look of them fills you with dread, does it not? They’re rare these days, but a star trader
