by Sharon
"So then, owed from Dagmar Collier, through her superior, Sav Rid Olanek: one thousand bits. Owed from Priscilla Mendoza, through her superior, Shan yos'Galan: one hundred fifty bits. Owed from Gordon Arbuthnot from his superior, Shan yos'Galan: fifty bits. You may pay cash at the teller's cage as you leave, gentles." He arose and sailed from the room, the arresting officer in his wake.
Shan considered Olanek's set face. "One thousand bits," he murmured in sympathetic Trade. "Will it put you out of pocket, Sav Rid? I can extend a loan, if you like."
"Thank you, I think not!" the other snapped, jerking his head at his crew member.
Shan sighed. "So short-tempered, Sav Rid! Not sleeping well? I do hope you're not ill. At least we know you don't have a guilty conscience, don't we? By the way, Ms. Mendoza seems to have lost a very special pair of earrings. Do you know Calintak, on Medusa? Wonderful fellow, very good-tempered. And the things he can fit in just a little bit of space: built-in sensors, trackers—that sort of thing. If you're ever in the market for something, since you wear so much jewelry. . ."
Dagmar Collier was hovering close, eyes riveted. "Sensors?" she asked with a kind of fascinated dread. "How small a space?"
"Oh, are you interested? He's quite dear, you know—but hardly any space at all. An unexceptional earring, for instance, is all the room he needs to work in. An artist—"
"Oh, have done!" Sav Rid snarled, turning on his heel. "Pay him no mind, he's a fool. Now, come!" He was gone, Dagmar following.
Shan shook his head and held out a hand to Gordy, who came and slid his own into it. "Well now, children—Ms. Mendoza?"
She was at the exhibit table, picking up the shards of crystal, one by careful one, and settling them in her palm.
"Crelm!" Gordy muttered, and went to her side. "Priscilla, what're you doing? It's busted."
She did not look away from her task. "It's all I own, anywhere, and I'm taking it with me." Her tone was perfectly flat, with an absence of emotion that raised the hairs on Shan's neck. He stepped forward quickly, pulled a square of silk from his sleeve, and dropped it in front of her.
"You'll cut yourself, Priscilla. Use this."
"Thank you." Her voice was still flat, though he fancied he detected a quiver of something . . . .
Hand in hand, he and Gordy waited until she had finished and tied the silk into a knot. Gordy took her hand, and, so linked, they went out to pay the cashier.
Shipyear 65
Tripday 143
First Shift
2.00 Hours
"You will do me the favor, won't you, Gordy," the captain murmured, "of neglecting to inform your mother that you've been arrested?"
"Was I?" the boy asked hazily. "I mean, I wasn't really. They didn't do anything to me."
The man laughed. "Arrested, I assure you. The details may vary by world, but the larger outlines remain constant: irons, hearings, magistrates, fines—not at all the kind of thing mothers enjoy hearing of, even when it's carefully explained that you were completely without blame. Which reminds me—how did your imprints come to be on that thing?"
"Priscilla was losing," Gordy explained. "And the knife was just lying there. I was trying to figure out how it worked . . . ."
"Yes? To what end, please?"
"Well, I thought if I cut Dagmar's arm, she'd let go."
"It's a theory," the captain admitted. "Report to Pallin Kornad after breakfast, please. I see it's time you learned how to protect yourself."
"Yes, Cap'n." He paused. "Shan?"
"Yes, acushla?"
"Is it—can I tell Grandad I was arrested? I didn't do anything wrong . . . ." This last was spoken, it seemed to Priscilla, with considerable doubt.
A boot heel scraped on the pavement as the man went down on one knee, eyes level with Gordy's.
"You will absolutely tell your grandfather," he said firmly, his big hands on the boy's round shoulders. "He will be proud of you. You acted with forethought and with honor, coming to the aid of a shipmate and a friend." He cupped a soft cheek. "You did very well, Gordy. Thank you."
"Yes." Priscilla heard her own voice from far away. "Thank you, Gordy. You saved my life."
He blinked at her over his cousin's shoulder. "I did?" She nodded, not sure what her face was doing. "She really was winning. I couldn't breathe. You did exactly right."
She should, she thought vaguely, find something more to say, but it was unnecessary; doubt had vanished from the young face. He grinned. "I'm a hero."
"You're an impossible monkey." The captain stood and held out his hand. "And you're well behind your time to return to the ship. Come along."
They walked a little way in silence. The drug was gaining the upper hand again, and Priscilla stumbled; she caught herself and asked over Gordy's head, "What was that about your sister?"
"Sav Rid's little joke," the captain said easily. "It amused him to propose marriage to the eldest of my sisters."
"What!" Gordy was outraged. "That—person? To Cousin Nova?"
"Indeed, yes. Exactly Cousin Nova. Why? Do you think Anthora might suit him better? I admit it's a thought. He so fair and she so dark . . . . But he was more enamored of fair with fair. You can't really blame him, Gordy; it's merely a matter of taste."
"What did you do?" Gordy demanded awfully, ignoring this flow of nonsense.
The man looked down at him. "What could I do? I was from home. Besides, Nova is well able to take care of herself. Simply told the fellow she'd rather mate with a Gehatian slimegrubber and sent him about his business." He sighed. "I'm afraid he didn't take it in very good part. Well, how was she to know he had a horror of the creatures? I'm sure she would have thought of something else just as revolting to compare him with, if she'd had the least idea. Very resourceful person, Cousin Nova. The more I think on it, the more certain I am that you're right, Gordy! Anthora would certainly suit him far better! A pity he didn't see it that way and allowed himself to be enraptured by a mere pretty face. Perhaps we should suggest—"
"Pretty!" the boy choked. "Cousin Nova's beautiful!"
"Well," the lady's brother conceded, "she is. But I wouldn't let it weigh too heavily with you. Gordy. Sort of thing that might happen to anyone. And she's really quite clever."
They came at length to the cradles and crossed to their shuttlepad in silence. A shadow loomed at the door, bringing two fingers up in a casual salute. "Evening, Cap'n."
"Good evening, Seth. Two passengers for you. Take good care of them, please; they both seem a bit yawnsome—is that a word?"
"Bound to be," the lanky pilot returned good-humoredly. "Not going up yourself?"
"Business, Seth. Duty calls."
"He has to get her key," Gordy said helpfully.
"Brat." His cousin sighed. "Don't forget Pallin next shift, Gordy."
"No, Cap'n—at least, yes, Cap'n. I'll remember."
The captain laughed and began to move away, then checked himself and came back, fishing in his belt. "My terrible memory! I knew there was something else. Ms. Mendoza!"
She started. "Captain?"
He was holding out a flat rectangle, a card of some sort. She took it automatically.
"Do take care of it, Ms. Mendoza," he chided gently. "It's really not the sort of thing you want to leave lying around. Good evening." He was gone.
Priscilla frowned at the card, but the uncertain light or her sedative-fogged eyes defeated the attempt to identify it. She put it in her pocket with the knotted kerchief and followed Gordy into the shuttle.
* * *
Gordy was asleep when they docked. The snap of the board being locked jerked Priscilla out of her own doze, but even the most stringent effort she was able to make would not rouse her companion from his.
Sighing, she fumbled her webbing loose, then opened his. Her several attempts to pick him up should have roused one dead, she thought foggily, but Gordy only grumbled a few sleep syllables and tried to curl farther down into the chair. Priscilla rubbed her forehead with
the back of a hand and tried to apply her mind to the problem.
"Out for the count," Seth commented from beside her. "I gotta get back down. Can you carry him, or should we call Vilt?"
Priscilla gave him what she hoped was a smile. "I can carry him. Getting him up is the problem."
"Naw. Not when somebody's that far out." He bent, grabbed an arm, heaved, turned, and offered Priscilla an armful of boy.
She took Gordy and allowed herself to be escorted to the door of the cargo dock. It slid open for her, and she stepped into the corridor, blinking a little in the directionless yellow light.
Before her she saw, with the vivid disconnection of a dream, a bronze-winged dragon hovering. No. It was a painting on the wall, a smaller reproduction of the design in the reception room. Under Korval's wing, Priscilla recalled. She shifted her burden and began the long walk to the crew's quarters.
She had made it, staggering only now and then, to the top of the corridor where Gordy had his room, when she heard quick steps behind her and an exclamation.
"Priscilla! Is that Gordon? What has—is all well, my friend?"
"Well?" She considered Lina muzzily. It took several seconds to formulate an appropriate response. "Gordy's all right. It's mostly that stupid stuff they injected us with at the police station. Makes you . . . makes you groggy. Half asleep, myself."
"Ah." The other woman fell in beside her. "The police station? Does the captain know?"
Priscilla nodded, then paused to regain her balance. "He came to bail us out—dear Goddess!" She stopped, arms closing convulsively around Gordy, who muttered. "Dear Goddess," she said again, though not, Lina thought, prayerfully. "One hundred fifty bits! Out of a tenth-cantra? And the clothes . . . ." She took a hard breath and began to walk again. "Broke. No money at all."
Lina's worry increased, but she refrained from pursuing questions, merely remarking that they had reached Gordon's room and lifting his hand to lay it against the palmlock.
Priscilla laid him on the bed, pulled off his boots, straightened the blanket, and pulled it up. Lina stood by the door, watching and saying nothing.
The boy disposed comfortably, Priscilla glanced around the room, and nodded slightly, then bent and ruffled the silky hair.
"Ma?" Gordy inquired from the depths of sleep.
She started, then completed the caress. "It's only Priscilla, Gordy. Sleep well."
Lina followed her out, stretching her short legs to keep up with the pace her friend set, even half-drugged.
At the top of the hall Priscilla made to turn right. Lina caught her arm. "No, Priscilla. Your room is this way."
"Have to go to the library," she protested. "Now."
"Not now," Lina said with decision. "Now, you must rest. The library will be in place next shift."
Priscilla shook her head. "Have to see my contract."
"Your contract? Priscilla, it is—conselem—an absurdity! What good does your contract do when you must sleep? You are signed until Solcintra. You may look at your contract any time these next four months. Come to bed."
"He lied," Priscilla said flatly, a decidedly mulish look about her lovely mouth.
Lina sighed. "Who lied? And why must— The captain lied?" She stared up at her friend. "That is not much like him, denubia. Perhaps you misunderstood."
"I'm very tired," Priscilla said clearly, "of misunderstanding. I must see my contract."
"Of course you must," Lina agreed. "It would be very bad to have misunderstood the captain. Let us go to your room and access the file from there." She slipped her arm around the other's waist.
Priscilla stiffened and moved away—a very little. Lina's eyes widened, but she said nothing, only withdrew her arm. And waited.
"All right," Priscilla said presently, the mulish look much abated. "Let's do that. Thank you, Lina."
"I am happy to help," Lina said carefully as they turned left down the hall. "What happened, my friend?"
There was a long pause before the taller woman shook herself and answered, "I was attacked on the street. Gordy tried to help, and we all three got arrested. They called the captain out of a party to—to speak for us."
"Most proper," Lina said, and stopped, waiting for Priscilla to lay her palm against the lock.
It seemed for a moment that she did not recognize her own door. Then she shifted and placed her hand in the center; when the panel slid away, she entered, with Lina trailing after.
"Most proper," Priscilla repeated, standing in the middle of her cabin and staring around as if she had never seen the place before. She spun.
"It cost one hundred fifty bits to speak for me!" she cried with an unexpected but wholly gratifying flare of passion. "One hundred fifty! And I'll have earned a tenth-cantra by the time we reach Solcintra, and I already owe the ship for my clothes—and all my things—my things are gone . . . ." Abruptly she sat on the bed, running violent fingers through the curly cloud of her hair.
Lina came forward, daring to lay her hand on a rigid shoulder. She frowned at the startled jerk. "I did not attack you on the street," she said severely.
Priscilla looked up, apology in her eyes. Lina smiled, lifting the tips of her fingers to a pale cheek.
"Of course I did not. I have been very well brought up." She tugged gently on an errant curl. "Of this other thing: The ship has a—legal fund. Since you were attacked, I think the fund will pay the expense of your bail. It is a thing you should speak of with the captain. Was he angry with you?"
Priscilla blinked. "I don't think so. Does he get angry?"
Lina laughed. "If he had been so, you would not be in doubt. So, then, I would not worry about my wages. It is very likely that they remain intact. Now, allow me to call your contract up." She went to the screen.
Behind her, Priscilla stood, moved unsteadily to the mirror shelf, and began to pull things from her pocket. The knotted silk she placed carefully to one side of the usual oddments. Patting her pocket to be sure it was empty, she felt a flat thickness—the card the captain had given her at the shuttlepad. She pulled it out and examined it, her breath catching.
"Lina!"
The Liaden woman was at her elbow instantly. "Yes?"
Priscilla held out the card in a hand that was not at all steady. "What is this, please?"
Lana subjected it to a brief, two-sided scrutiny and handed it back, smiling. "It is a provisional second class pilot's license in the name of Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza. Ge'shada, my friend, you have done very well."
"I've done very well. Done well . . . ." Priscilla stared and suddenly threw back her head, uttering a sound so shattered that no one could have called it laughter. Then she bent double, torn with sobs.
Lina put her arms about her and probed with a Healer's sure instinct, evading weakened defenses and slashing at the protected reservoir of pain.
Priscilla cried out and went to her knees. Lina held her closer, withdrawing somewhat, content for the present to have the storm rage.
After a time, the sobbing eased and she coaxed her friend to the bed. When they were lying face to face, she probed again, projecting on all possible lines.
Priscilla stirred, sodden lashes lifting, then extended a tentative finger to trace the lines of her friend's face, exhausted wonderment on her own.
"I see you, sister," she murmured. Then her hand fell away, and she slept, bathed in warm affection and comfort.
Shipyear 65
Tripday 143
Second Shift
6.00 Hours
"But why can't we sell the perfume here?" Rusty demanded, staring at Lina over a suspended forkful of ice-toast.
The Liaden woman sighed. "It is—bah! I have forgotten the word. It is to force one to love another, a. . ."
"Aphrodisiac," Priscilla supplied, looking up from her own breakfast. "Aphrodisiacs are illegal on some planets. I guess Arsdred's one of them."
Rusty scowled at his plate.
"Rah Stee, do not!" Lina was laughing. "You will
spoil your food! It is not so bad. We will sell at another port." She shook a slender finger in mock severity. "You believe I have given us a loss! But I claim the dice for more than one throw. You will see, my friend: the perfume will sell—and at high profit!"
Rusty looked dubious, and Lina laughed again.
"Priscilla?" a breathless young voice asked at her elbow. She turned her head to discover the cabin boy, clutching a box.
"Good morning, Gordy," she said, offering him a storm-beaten smile. "I thought you were supposed to be learning self-defense first thing this shift."
"Crelm!" he said scornfully. "I did that an hour ago!" He held out the box, plainly expecting her to take it. She did, full of wonder.
"Cap'n's compliments," he said formally. "And his apologies for sending you planetside alone." Gordy tipped his head. "He said he was a fool, Priscilla, but he can't have meant me to tell you that, do you think?"
"Very likely not," she agreed. "So we'll pretend you didn't."
"Right. Gotta jet. Morning, Lina! Rusty!"
She sat holding the box in her lap until Rusty inquired, a little impatiently, if she wasn't going to open it.
"Yes, of course," she murmured, making no move to do so. Allowing me planetside alone? A test, Goddess? she wondered. To see if I would choose revenge, after all? It occurred to her to wonder if the captain's watch over her had been rather closer than she had supposed. She shook her head and reached for a blunt-edged jelly knife.
The sealing tape broke easily. She laid the knife aside and unfolded the flaps. The box contained several objects, each wrapped in bright gossamer paper.
Very slowly, she pulled out the first object. She unwrapped it as slowly, refusing to acknowledge what weight and shape told her until her eyes added irrefutable evidence.
The object was a rosewood comb, intricately carved with a pattern of stars and flowers, the tines satin-smooth from years of being pulled through a waist-length cascade and, more recently, a brief, unruly mop of hair.
