Read Online Traitor's Son: The Raven Duet Book #2 by Hilari Bell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Hilari Bell
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the good it did! He won’t even give me a chance to explain, much less give Dad a chance! How can he abandon his own son over a . . . a political difference?”
“Not all political differences are trivial,” his grandmother said. “The fact that it was his own son who broke the Native corporations, and then turned around and represented the resort . . . It made the whole thing much worse than if it had been some stranger. And he didn’t blame you for it. He tried . . .”
The memory of camping in bug-filled woods, being hideously seasick in a fishing boat that tossed like a cork on the Arctic Ocean, and dozens of feasts, dances, and ceremonies in the village house rose up between them. Jase had been uncomfortable and embarrassed in turn, until one day . . . He’d been, what, twelve? Thirteen? One day he’d made some gaffe in the meeting hall, which he still didn’t understand, and his grandfather had explained for what felt like the hundredth time that Jase was “one of the lost ones,” and his grandfather was going to heal his spirit and make him whole. Jase’s temper finally snapped. At least he’d had the sense to drag his grandfather outside before he told him that he wasn’t “lost” at all. That his father had been right. That it was ridiculous to live in the Stone Age when you had other choices.
Later, after his grandfather had called his mother to come pick him up, Jase had tried to point out that the resort had poured money into the area, and provided people with more paths than they’d had before.
“The only paths he can see are the ancient ones,” he told his grandmother bitterly. “And if you can’t allow new paths to be created, then Dad’s right and it’s time to abandon the whole thing for a good career and a—”
“A life in the real world,” his grandmother finished. “You shouldn’t be afraid to say it to me, love. I’ve been listening to your father and grandfather fight since your father was your age. Younger! But the problem wasn’t that your grandfather couldn’t expand the old beliefs to take in modern choices. It’s that he wanted his son to take the shaman’s path too. And your father is a trader.”
“I suppose that’s one way to think of a lawyer,” Jase admitted.
“All the paths have different aspects, different branches.” A weary note crept into his grandmother’s voice. “He was so set on his son’s becoming a shaman, he wouldn’t even teach him the proper way of the trader. If he had . . .”
“Dad would have been an even sharper lawyer than he is,” Jase said, hoping to lighten her mood. “I know what they said about Ananut traders: If you see one coming, hold on to your trade goods with both hands!”
His grandmother laughed. “I was thinking about the other one, that an Ananut trader will clean you out faster than a whole pack of squirrels. But that’s not the truth. Do you know the first rule of the trader path?”
“No.”
“It’s that a good trade must respect the craftsmen’s work, on both sides, so everyone leaves the deal proud and satisfied. It’s balanced. Equal. The best traders could walk around the entire trade circle, coming home without a single item they left with, but the value would be exactly equal. Because if you came back with goods that were more valuable, you insulted the craftsmen whose goods you’d set out with, implying the craftsmen of other tribes did better work. And if you came back with lesser value, that implied the trade goods your own people made were so shoddy you practically had to give them away!”
“So, this way, whatever he brought back, the trader claimed the value was equal? Because no craftsman would ever admit that other people did better work. So no matter what he came back with, no one bitched at the trader.”
“No one ever claimed the Ananut traders were stupid.” Laughter glinted in the old dark eyes. “And who can really say if a sharp halibut hook is more valuable
“Not all political differences are trivial,” his grandmother said. “The fact that it was his own son who broke the Native corporations, and then turned around and represented the resort . . . It made the whole thing much worse than if it had been some stranger. And he didn’t blame you for it. He tried . . .”
The memory of camping in bug-filled woods, being hideously seasick in a fishing boat that tossed like a cork on the Arctic Ocean, and dozens of feasts, dances, and ceremonies in the village house rose up between them. Jase had been uncomfortable and embarrassed in turn, until one day . . . He’d been, what, twelve? Thirteen? One day he’d made some gaffe in the meeting hall, which he still didn’t understand, and his grandfather had explained for what felt like the hundredth time that Jase was “one of the lost ones,” and his grandfather was going to heal his spirit and make him whole. Jase’s temper finally snapped. At least he’d had the sense to drag his grandfather outside before he told him that he wasn’t “lost” at all. That his father had been right. That it was ridiculous to live in the Stone Age when you had other choices.
Later, after his grandfather had called his mother to come pick him up, Jase had tried to point out that the resort had poured money into the area, and provided people with more paths than they’d had before.
“The only paths he can see are the ancient ones,” he told his grandmother bitterly. “And if you can’t allow new paths to be created, then Dad’s right and it’s time to abandon the whole thing for a good career and a—”
“A life in the real world,” his grandmother finished. “You shouldn’t be afraid to say it to me, love. I’ve been listening to your father and grandfather fight since your father was your age. Younger! But the problem wasn’t that your grandfather couldn’t expand the old beliefs to take in modern choices. It’s that he wanted his son to take the shaman’s path too. And your father is a trader.”
“I suppose that’s one way to think of a lawyer,” Jase admitted.
“All the paths have different aspects, different branches.” A weary note crept into his grandmother’s voice. “He was so set on his son’s becoming a shaman, he wouldn’t even teach him the proper way of the trader. If he had . . .”
“Dad would have been an even sharper lawyer than he is,” Jase said, hoping to lighten her mood. “I know what they said about Ananut traders: If you see one coming, hold on to your trade goods with both hands!”
His grandmother laughed. “I was thinking about the other one, that an Ananut trader will clean you out faster than a whole pack of squirrels. But that’s not the truth. Do you know the first rule of the trader path?”
“No.”
“It’s that a good trade must respect the craftsmen’s work, on both sides, so everyone leaves the deal proud and satisfied. It’s balanced. Equal. The best traders could walk around the entire trade circle, coming home without a single item they left with, but the value would be exactly equal. Because if you came back with goods that were more valuable, you insulted the craftsmen whose goods you’d set out with, implying the craftsmen of other tribes did better work. And if you came back with lesser value, that implied the trade goods your own people made were so shoddy you practically had to give them away!”
“So, this way, whatever he brought back, the trader claimed the value was equal? Because no craftsman would ever admit that other people did better work. So no matter what he came back with, no one bitched at the trader.”
“No one ever claimed the Ananut traders were stupid.” Laughter glinted in the old dark eyes. “And who can really say if a sharp halibut hook is more valuable
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