Trader's Honour

1 THE ENVELOPE LAY in the middle of the table, between the silver tableware and the gold-rimmed plates. A bowl with rolls of fish bread stood on one side, and a steaming terrine of bean soup on the other. Father, dressed in his Lawkeepers tunic, sat at his usual place at the head of the table, Mother on the other end and little Liseyo with her silken hair on Father’s right hand side. Old Rosep stood at Mother’s elbow while ladling soup into her plate and talking to her in a low voice. All of them were looking at that envelope. Mikandra hesitated in the doorway. Her face still glowed from having run from the hospital against the biting wind to be home in time for dinner. Father cast a Meaningful Glance at the envelope, and then met her eyes in that severe way of his that said Young lady, I demand an explanation. Mother stopped talking to Rosep, and Rosep scurried out the room as fast as his sore knees and bow legs allowed, shutting the door behind him with a soft snick. The fire popped. “Good evening, Mother and Father.” Mikandra sat down at her regular spot at the table, facing Liseyo, who looked at her with large eyes. Into the heavy silence, Mother said, importantly, “A Trader Guild courier brought this for you this morning.” Totally unnecessary. The envelope could have been anything if it wasn’t so unforgivingly carmine red, and that colour meant only one thing: Trader Guild. And the Guild only ever used couriers to deliver these types of messages. Mikandra licked her lips and, avoiding her father’s penetrating gaze, picked the offending object off the table. The paper was heavy and smooth in her hands. It exuded a faint smell of ink, which was old-fashioned and classy all at once. A white label affixed to the front held her name, written by hand by the Guild’s calligraphers in Coldi and Mirani script. Mikandra Bisumar. As if there was any doubt. She clutched it on her knees, out of the reach of her parents’ penetrating gazes, and met Liseyo’s eyes, whose expression said, Well, aren’t you going to open it? Mikandra didn’t want to, not here where her parents were watching her, not now, before she’d sorted out this part of her future, because certainly, the Trader Guild wouldn’t use a courier if her application to the academy had been rejected, would they? The thought filled her with panic. She hadn’t expected a reply so quickly; she had expected a rejection, because almost everyone who didn’t come from a Trading family got rejected, right? Because at night in bed, she’d been telling herself that she was full of stupid dreams to even have applied and that she should prepare herself to bandage frostbitten fingers in the hospital for the rest of her life. And if her dreams ever came true . . . well, didn’t the older people say that dreams looked good when you were young, but seemed silly in a yeah-like-that-is-going-to-happen way when you were older? Going to the academy had been such a silly dream, something she’d never seriously thought would happen, but now she had this letter and all of a sudden, the dream that had been her childhood wish became frighteningly real. She didn’t want to open the letter at the table while her family was watching. But Father would never let her leave the room. He’d stop her before she could reach the door, grab her by the arm and lift her up so that her shoulder would be jammed up against her ear and that his fingers would dig into the soft flesh under her arm and demand that she show him the contents. She still had the bruises on her arm from last time he’d done that. That time it had been about her not wanting to audition for the boring classic theatre. This was worse. Much worse. He said, in his hard and unforgiving voice, “Open it, daughter.” In that unemotional tone that masked his worst kind of anger. No choice then. Mikandra turned the envelope over and prised her fingers under the seal. The waxy paper ripped. Her hands trembled and made sweat marks on the red paper. Folded inside the envelope she found a cream-coloured sheet and some printed papers, all in the antiquated dialect of Coldi which was the official language of the Trader Guild. She spotted the words Registration details at the top of one of the sheets. Her heart thudded like crazy. The field of her vision narrowed while black spots danced in the edges. It was as she’d hoped, dreamed and feared. The very large, looming, huge problem of course was that this response came before she’d worked up the nerve to tell her parents that she’d applied. Slowly, her hands trembling, she unfolded the cream-coloured sheet. In the same, neat calligrapher’s hand, it said, We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted in next year’s Academy intake. You are to return your acceptance within three local days of receiving this notice, and then report to our Kedras headquarters at the beginning of the Academy year . . . The rest of the letter detailed accommodation and course material. The words blurred before her eyes. She knew those details; she had seen similar letters sent to some of her friends and their older brothers. Those boys from the established Trading families, not the daughters of mere bureaucratic Lawkeepers. Liseyo and her mother stared at her. Her father’s voice came from far off, as if through a thick sheet of glass. “And?” Mikandra looked up and met his hard expression that seemed to never change whether he presided at the court or berated his daughters. Surely he had to know what this meant, but then again, Father was the type of person who refused to acknowledge that he could read cues and demanded that the obvious be stated to his face in words, because that was the only way you could be honest about yourself. She said, as determined as she could make it, “I’m going to the Trader Guild Academy next year.” There was a moment of intense silence before Father brought his flat palm down on the table in a thud that made Liseyo wince and all the plates rattle. “You what?” “I’m going to the Trader Guild Academy.” His lips were pressed together in a thin line, making his face look even more narrow than normal. His nostrils flared. Mother started to say, “But Mikandra, why didn’t you tell us that you—” Father cut her off. “How is it that my eldest daughter continues to be an embarrassment to me—” “I get into the place where young people most want to go to study, and it’s an embarrassment?” She was bad at fights, but she’d prepared that line over and over, by saying it to the ceiling when she lay in bed at night. Even so, she was sweaty and trembling all over. This had been a dream for her since she was a little girl. She didn’t mind fighting over auditioning for the theatre, because she didn’t care about the theatre. She cared about this. Silence. Father glared at her across the table. By the way his hands gripped the edge of the table, he was not far from exploding. “Why didn’t you tell us that you applied?” Mother asked again, in a more timid voice, glancing at Father. Her eyes had that Do not swear at your children expression. “You would have stopped me,” Mikandra said. Her father snorted. “With good reason. It’s that sister of mine—” “Aunt Amandra had nothing to do with it.” Another silence. He raised his eyebrows. “Didn’t she have to sign the application? Doesn’t it have to be signed by a licenced Trader?” “I’m not going to apprentice with her.” He frowned. “Give me that letter.” He held out his hand. Mikandra hesitated, wondering if when he threw it in the fire it would make any difference to her acceptance. She didn’t think it did. It was just a piece of paper. Despite the antiquated appearance of its official correspondence, the Trader Guild would have everything recorded, saved and backed up many times on the network. They would have this letter flagged as awaiting reply at the Trader Guild office in the city. She held out the letter. Father snatched it from her hand and looked at it in stifling silence. His face did not betray any emotion. Did he read any Coldi at all? Because schools and tutors in Miran would rather die than teach the language of the enemy people from Asto, she had spent many nights curled up in the armchair by the fire in her room, poring over books to teach herself, while listening intently for footsteps on the stairs that might belong to someone unexpectedly entering her room and discovering her secret. Father’s mouth twitched. “So, who signed? Ilendar? Didn’t we tell you that it was not appropriate to associate yourself with that boy anymore?” No, he did not read any Coldi. The name of her sponsor was written clearly on the page facing him. It gave her a small spot of satisfaction. “Lihan Ilendar is not a boy. He got his licence two years ago.” Why did he always ridicule her friends? “And I didn’t sign with him.” The moment she was old enough, she’d wanted to run to his house and tell him that she’d apply as she’d promised him, but she had seen so little of him recently, and wasn’t even sure where they stood in their relationship anymore. He lowered the letter. “Then who did you get to sign your application?” “Iztho Andrahar.” “Under the Andrahar licence?” He made it sound like a clap of thunder. “Yes.” She met his gaze squarely. He spread his hands and rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “If you really wanted to be part of that deplorable profession of greedy money-grabbers, why didn’t you ask my sister?” “I did.” She remembered Aunt Amandra’s serious face as they sat in her office. Trading is no life for a nice young woman, she had said, and her voice exuded a tone of sadness. And Mikandra had wanted to shout, But what about you? But she knew how Aunt Amandra had obtained her licence—through a childless uncle—and how much it had cost her, like never being able to marry either within Miran or bring home her longtime, not-so-secret Coldi lover. Now that she was High Councillor, she did mostly Mirani politics anyway. Likely she had no time for an apprentice. Father had gone red in the face. “So, let me recap. Because my sister wouldn’t let you apply for apprenticeship under her licence—for very sensible reasons—you went to the Andrahar Traders and asked if they would let you apply under theirs?” “Yes.” Simple as that. And to be honest, she’d been astonished that her scheme had been successful. “The Andrahar brothers! What were you thinking? They’ve been trying to hold the council to ransom for more than a year. Ever since Iztho decided to pull out of a deal with them, singlehandedly causing the eviction of the army from Barresh and the resulting two-day war. Singlehandedly causing the boycott of Miran by all the entities of gamra. Singlehandedly causing us so much hardship. As if that wasn’t enough, the Andrahars want to flood Miran with foreign produce. I’ve been talking about it at the dinner table many nights. But no, you don’t listen to any of that, and ignore the fact that the Trader Guild is trying its very best to bring down the council whose laws I uphold. Excuse me if I don’t jump up and down with enthusiasm.” Mikandra wanted to ask him, Is there anyone in Miran you don’t disapprove of? but that was just like Father, and he’d always been that way. By the same token, he would visit the Andrahar Trading office and have long talks with the brothers as if they were his best friends. “Why, Mikandra? We made sure that you had a comfortable path for your future. Why fly in the face of everything your family has done for you?” “Because . . .” Mikandra wanted to say, Because I’m different and Because I want to do more for Miran, but that would require talking about the Healer Eydrina Lasko’s visit and how she had put her hand up Mikandra’s private parts and declared that she carried the family’s curse of infertility. And as consolation had offered her a job as apprentice healer, which, in Father’s words, qualified as a comfortable path for the future, which translated into keep this useless woman off the streets.