Carefully he waved the goblet beneath his nostrils, exaggerating the gesture a little but not enough to make it an obvious farce. The wine had a sharp, clean scent, reminiscent of ice and snow and a polar wind, with an undercurrent of something else which eluded him. He tasted it, holding the tart astringency against his tongue before allowing it to trickle gently down his throat.
It was unnecessary to flatter.
"My father worked for ten years to perfect the formula," said Jocelyn as he poured the trader more wine. "He based it on an old recipe he found in an ancient book and I think he made something in the region of a thousand experiments before he was satisfied. We call it Temporal Fire."
Jellag raised his eyebrows. "For what reason, my lord?"
"You will find out," promised Jocelyn. He smiled at the trader's startled expression. "You see? The full effects are not immediately apparent. Young lovers find the vintage particularly suited to their needs. Would you care for more?"
Jellag firmly set down his goblet. "I crave your indulgence, my lord, and your understanding. At my age such wine is to be avoided."
"Then try this," Jocelyn put aside the bottle and lifted the decanter filled with a warm redness. "You will find this acceptable, trader. That I promise."
Jellag sipped at the wine, wishing that he were elsewhere. These high-born families and their inbreeding! But they had power, power aside from the money power he himself possessed. He blinked. The wine was the local product colored into visual strangeness. He sipped again and wondered what else had been added aside from the dye. There was nothing that he could determine, but that meant little. He relaxed as his host drank, refilled his goblet and drank again.
"You prefer this vintage, trader?"
"It is more familiar, my lord." Jellag gulped the wine, a little ashamed of his suspicions and eager to show he had no mistrust. "But the other is amusing; it would make an ideal jest."
Jocelyn smiled. "You appreciate a jest?"
"I have a sense of humor, my lord." Jellag felt it safe to claim that. He drank a little more, conscious of a faint carelessness, a disturbing light-headedness. Had something been added to the wine, some subtle drug to which his host had the antidote? He watched as ruby liquid ran from the decanter into his goblet. "With respect, my lord, may I ask what brings you to Scar?"
"Destiny."
Jellag blinked. "My lord?"
"The workings of fate." Jocelyn leaned forward in his chair, his eyes hard as they searched the trader's face. "Do you believe in destiny? Do you believe that, at times, some force of which we are not wholly aware directs our actions, or, rather, presents us with a choice of action? At such times what do you do?" He did not wait for an answer. "You guess," he said, "or you ponder the improbables and do what you think best. The wise man spins a coin." He lifted the decanter. "More wine?"
Jellag sucked in his cheeks. Had he been invited aboard simply to act as drinking companion to a madman? No, he thought, not mad. Odd, perhaps, strange even, but not mad. The rich were never that.
"I spoke with the factor," said Jocelyn smoothly. "I wanted the advice of a man who knew his business. He told me that you were such a one. How long have you been coming to Scar?"
"Many years, my lord."
"And you make a profit?"
Jellag nodded.
"How?"
Jellag sighed. "I buy and I sell, my lord," he said patiently, "rare spores if they are available, useful ones if they are not. Scar is a world ripe with fungoid growth," he explained. "Each season there are mutations and crossbreedings without number. Many of the products of such random blending are unique. There is a sewage farm on Inlan which is now a rich source of food and valuable soil. Spores from Scar were adapted to that environment, fungoids feeding on the organic matter and turning waste into rich loam. On Aye other spores are cultivated to produce a hampering growth on voracious insect life." Jellag spread his hands. "I could quote endless examples."
"I am sure you could." Tocelyn frowned thoughtfully. "I owe you an apology," he said. "I thought you were an ordinary trader, but clearly I was wrong. You are an expert in a specialized field, a mycologist. I take it that you have to grow and check, breed and test the various spores you obtain?"
Jellag was reluctant to be honest. "Not exactly, my lord. The season on Scar is too short for me to test in depth; I rely on my laboratory to do that. But when I arrive, I have a shrewd idea of what to look for: spores which will develop growths of minute size so as to penetrate invisible cracks in stone, to grow there, to expand, to crush the rock into powder; others to rear as high as a tree to provide shade for tender crops; still more to adjust a planet's ecology; edible fungi of a hundred different varieties; parasitical growths with caps containing unusual drugs or stems from which products can be made; molds which act as living laboratories; slimes which can be grown to need. The economy of a world could be based on the intelligent use of Fungi." Jellag blinked, wondering at his feeling of pride. And yet, why should I not be proud? A specialist! A builder of worlds!
Jocelyn leaned forward and poured his guest more wine. "You are a clever man, my friend. You would be most welcome on Jest."
"Thank you, my lord."
"Most welcome," repeated Jocelyn meaningfully. "I am a believer in destiny. It seems as if fate itself directed me to this world." He sipped his wine, eyes enigmatic as he stared over the rim of his goblet. "You have a family?"
"A wife and two daughters, my lord. The eldest girl is married, with children of her own."
"You are fortunate to have grandchildren. They, too, are fortunate to have so skillful a grandfather, a man who could do much for his house." He lifted his goblet. "I drink to your family."
They'll never believe it, thought Jellag. The ruler of a world drinking to their health! His hand shook a little as he followed Jocelyn's example; courtesy dictated that he empty the goblet. Politeness ensured that, in turn, he found the boldness to return the toast.
"Now, my friend," said Jocelyn lifting the decanter. "Tell me more about your fascinating profession."
* * *
Adrienne stormed into her cabin, her nostrils white with anger and her eyes glinting in the hard pallor of her face. "The fool!" she said. "The stupid, besotted fool!"
"My lady?" Her maid, a slender, dark-haired girl cowered as she approached. She had unpleasant memories of earlier days when her mistress had vented her rage in personal violence.
"Get out!" Adrienne hardly looked at the girl. "Wait! Tell the cyber I wish to see him. Immediately!"
She was brushing her hair when Yeon entered the cabin. He stood watching her, his hands as usual hidden within the sleeves of his robe and his cowl thrown back from his shaven skull. The brush made a soft rasping sound as it pulled through her hair; it was almost the sound of an animal breathing, a reflection of her inner self. Abruptly, she threw aside the brush and turned, facing the silent figure in scarlet.
"You were advisor to my father," she said. "Is it you I have to thank for being married to a fool?"
"My lady?"
"He's down there now in the lower cabin drinking with a common trader; he's praising him, toasting his family, promising him ridiculous things. My husband!" She rose, tall, hard and arrogant. "Has he no dignity, no pride? Does he regard the rule of a world so lightly?"
Detached in his appraisal, Yeon made no comment, watching her as she paced the floor. No one could have called her beautiful and spoken with truth. Her face was too thin, her eyes set too close, her jaw too prominent. Her figure was angular, though clearly feminine, as if she deliberately cultivated a masculine stance. The long strands of her hair hung about her shoulders, loose now, but normally dragged back and caught at the base of her skull. Her mouth alone was out of place; the lower lip was full, betraying her sensuousness.