by Sharon
* * *
Priscilla set a rapid pace through the morning streets, with Shan's uneasiness feeding her own. She felt the chill of worry at her back, eclipsing his warmth.
Mother, grant us safety, she prayed.
The port gate loomed, and she increased her stride, breathing a sigh of relief as she crossed into the outworlder's preserve. At her back, Shan's worry diminished somewhat.
Thank you, Goddess, she breathed silently. Then she sensed startlement—and outrage like a zag of lightning.
She spun in time to see the white-robed woman shake Shan sharply.
"Creature! How dare you pass by without obeisance?" Her staff snapped toward his head, calculated to cow, not to strike. Shan's fury flared, and the woman shook him again. "What are you called, soulless?"
"Frost, exalted lady." The quiet voice was in sharp contrast to the din of his rage.
"Frost, is it? Exalted lady, is it? Have you no manners, creature, or are you too stupid to know one of the temple when you see her?"
Priscilla felt a surge of bruising power. Aspect! She extended herself, deflected the other woman's intention, and felt her own expansion . . . .
"Enough!" she snapped.
Both spun, staring.
"Frost," she snapped. "An apology to the thrice-blessed. And then behind me!"
For a heartbeat she thought he would not play along. Then, stiffly, he bent, forehead brushing knees.
"Forgive this one, thrice-blessed. No insult was intended your holy self."
It was scarcely the most abject of abasements, with the highborn fury crackling from him like electricity. Nor was the thrice-blessed appeased. Her staff whipped out, slashing the air between him and escape.
"Forgiven, indeed. After punishments, as it is written. A public scourging—"
"I had said enough!" Priscilla cried, projecting stern authority, soul-strength, and awe. "Would you mete violence to this person, with the Mother's own mark upon him?" She extended a hand and traced the sign, glowing, before Shan's face for the other to read.
"This man is more than you can know. He has power, as a temple-sister might have it! Depth of learning, skill of use—a mystery. And more!"
The priestess was fairly caught—the wordnet enveloped her, glittering. Priscilla pulled strongly on awe, mystery, belief, and began to weave—then became aware of something else: a single, sustained note, building passion and power, swelling, scintillating, magnificent—a lance of greatness overwhelming in its majesty.
It was Shan, projecting on all levels.
Within the wordnet, the thrice-blessed gasped; she raised a hand to shield her eyes from his radiance.
The note built further as Priscilla made adjustments. He must be caught, held in the echo of the thrice-born's trap. . .
The note paused, then glissaded, power fading with each downward thrum, until the last hung, vibrating rainbows . . . and was gone.
The thrice-blessed hung in her net of glamour, reverberating mystery. The man was merely a man, radiating nothing.
"So have you seen," Priscilla intoned, loosing the net carefully. "So have you heard. So shall it be. We live in blessed times, young sister, when mysteries and miracles abound. Look closely at all you see and trust that the Goddess holds each of us protected."
"Ollee," the priestess murmured. "I am blessed beyond counting, having beheld this wonder. Elder sister, I ask pardon. And your blessing."
Priscilla's hand rose and traced the proper signs at eyes, ears, and heart. "In Her name, forgiveness, as She forgives each of Her children. Walk in Her grace. Live well. Serve long."
The other effaced herself, and Priscilla turned, motioning to Shan. Unhurriedly, and without looking behind, they walked away.
* * *
Shan collapsed into the copilot's chair, his head thumping into the headrest. He opened one silver eye. "I would appreciate warning, please, Priscilla, the next time you feel the need of such support." His voice held a thread of amusement, another of exhaustion. His pattern . . . his pattern—was gone.
No! She sat, graceless, and reached along the inner ways, seeking his warmth as a blind person would seek the sun's touch upon her face. The questing encountered smoothness, cool and slippery, like a mirror, denying without repelling. And he must be beyond it . . . .
"Priscilla?"
She brought her attention to the outer ways, striving for calm. "I didn't think to ask. I thought—I was afraid you'd been caught in the echo."
He snorted. "I haven't been caught in an echo since I was twelve years old, Priscilla. Give me credit for some ability."
"Yes, of course . . . ." But this was a nightmare, with him before her and she unable to hear, unable to know . . . "Shan—"
He leaned forward and extended a hand, the master's ring flashing its facets. "I'm here, my friend."
There was concern in his voice and on his face, while within there was only the horrible, unyielding coolness. She gripped his fingers, feeling that warmth. It was not enough. "Shan . . . ."
"I'm tired, Priscilla," he said gently. "It's been a long time since I've needed to travel outward along all roads. Grant me rest." He considered her face, squeezed her hand. "I'm in your debt again."
"Please," she began, and drew a breath. She found a phrase in High Liaden. "Pray do not regard it."
He sat back, his fingers slipping out of hers. "Kayzin is a thorough teacher, I see." A quick glance at the board took in the white proximity light. "The Passage is in orbit. Wonderful. Let's go home."
Home. Even with him locked behind his private mirror she felt a sense of relief, and heard the sound of need.
"Yes, Shan," she said, and then, in urgent correction, "Yes, Captain."
Shipyear 65
Tripday 177
Second Shift
9.00 Hours
Ken Rik stared in disbelief. "Prepare Hold Thirty-two to receive cargo?" he asked finally.
Shan raised his eyebrows and looked down his nose for good measure. "You're up to the task, aren't you, Ken Rik? Or is Hold Thirty-two already full?"
"No, it's not full," the old man snapped. "As you well know. You're not taking on that—ah, damn this language!—that lanza pel'shek! His cargo!"
"I'm not? Well, I'm pleased to know that, Master Ken Rik, thank you. But, do you know, I had the impression that I was going to take it." He paused, then delivered the punch line gently. "I had the further impression that the cargo master takes orders from the captain."
Ken Rik had tears in his eyes. "Shan—he tried to kill the Passage." He spoke in the High Tongue now: elder to youngling of a different Clan. "Now you take up his cargo, guarantee delivery! Your father—"
"Would have done exactly the same!" Shan finished in ice-coated Terran. "This is outside of balance. The goods are needed—required—on Theopholis. The port master appealed to us because of need. We guarantee delivery—because of need. We're going to Theopholis, aren't we, Ken Rik? Have some sense, for pity's sake! A pretty set of sharks we'd look when it came known that the Passage was petitioned at Raggtown and refused to take the load."
"Yes, of course." The words were nearly whispered, but they were in Terran. He bowed the bow of one instructed to instructor. "Forgive—"
"Oh, bother, you annoying old man! You've been ripping up at me for years! Don't, I beg you, begin to act properly now!"
Ken Rik laughed. "It would be something of a strain, I admit." He made a second bow, as subordinate to superior. "With the captain's permission, I will now go to prepare Hold Thirty-two for cargo."
"Thank you, Ken Rik," Shan said gently. "I'd appreciate it."
Master's Tower, Theopholis
Hour Of Kings
Port Master Rominkoff eyed the elderly gentlemen. That they stood there at all spoke of resourcefulness as well as resources. The amount of cumshaw required to pass two persons up the ladder of subordinates and into her presence was no doubt large. She made a mental note to find out the current rate. One liked to know th
e value of one's services.
The younger of her two visitors bowed, not deeply. "I," he said in careful Trade, "am Taam Olanek, Delm Plemia. My Clan possesses a tradeship, called Daxflan, which was to have been in port at this present. I find it has not arrived."
The port master sat up. Perhaps the old gentlemen had not paid so much, after all. "I am in agreement with you, sir," she said urbanely. "Daxflan has not arrived."
"I had hoped," Taam Olanek, Delm Plemia, pursued, "that you might teach me what you know of circumstances. I have learned from other persons here that berthing space was reserved—that it was not canceled. That there are goods awaiting?"
"And goods awaited," she finished, shedding a little of her urbanity. "Just so. You seem to know all I can teach you of the situation, sir. Daxflan is late by some four local days. Reassure yourselves that nothing ill has overcome it, however. I have had reports of her within the sector, doing business at certain—ahh, free-duty ports. It appears previous commitments have not been recalled." She steepled her fingers in front of her. "This is unfortunate. It is, of course, unfortunate for you, but it is even more so for Theopholis. Among the things Daxflan was to deliver are two shipments from Raggtown, consisting of medical supplies imperative to the conclusion of our vaccination program, and the jewelry the regent will wear at his coronation next week. Our last information from Raggtown is that those shipments are still in the warehouses, awaiting pickup."
There was a moment's silence, during which the port master wondered if her explanation had been too rapid for the old gentleman to follow.
He bowed. "The situation is very serious. Plemia has guaranteed delivery. There will be delivery. If you would allow me use of your facilities, I will make arrangements to employ a subcontractor for the delivery of the goods from Raggtown."
Well, now. Here was something. The port master inclined her head. "I will have you escorted to the beam room, sir. One moment." Her hand approached the keypad, but hesitated as the door to her right clicked open, admitting a breathless adjunct.
"Port Master," he began. The belated sight of the two gentlemen gave him abrupt pause.
Master Rominkoff raised her brows. "Continue."
"Yes, Port Master. We have had a pin-beam from the tradeship Dutiful Passage. It tells us they carry the shipments from Raggtown." The adjunct took a deep breath and finished his message. "Anticipated docking time is within the next local day."
"So, then." She smiled at her visitors. "It seems the problem is solved for us, sirs."
But Taam Olanek did not seem appreciative of his good fortune. He rounded on the adjunct, his face set in anger. "How does Dutiful Passage carry Daxflan's cargo?"
The boy blinked and looked for guidance. She nodded. "The port—the port at Raggtown, gentle," he stammered. "Dutiful Passage was asked to transmit the goods that were urgent, that were perishable. There was room, and the—the captain did the kindness . . . ."
"Quite proper," the second gentleman murmured surprisingly, and the first spun to stare at him. "I suggest that we await the morrow. Captain yos'Galan will certainly be happy to lay every detail before you."
There was a moment of singing tension before the first gentleman bowed to due second. "Even so," he said softly. He turned back to the port master and bowed more deeply this time. "I thank you for your kindness and ask forgiveness on behalf of my Clan. Contracts must, of course, be honored. I pledge that they will be so, in the future."
The port master thought without sympathy of Daxflan's Trader. The wrath in the old gentleman's eyes was well earned.
"I am glad that the present crisis has been resolved in so timely a manner, of course. It will not be forgotten that your first thought was of that, sir, and of the solution." She stood and bowed to both. "It has been a pleasure speaking with you. May we meet again."
"May we meet again," the second gentleman echoed, performing his bow with precision. He offered an arm to his companion and guided him gently to the door.
The port master nodded at her adjunct. "Inform me when Dutiful Passage takes orbit. I think I should greet Captain yos'Galan—personally."
Raggtown
Local Year 537
The sum was enormous. standing at the Trader's shoulder, Captain yo'Vaade was hard put to maintain her countenance. The trade at Drethilit had not earned them half so much, besides having gone to the port master to pay for the unused berthing. And the goods were gone as well, so there would be that loss, and another bill was awaiting them at Theopholis.
"What do you mean," Sav Rid demanded, his voice beginning to rise in that way she dreaded, "that my cargo is not here? You give me a spurious invoice and in the same breath say that the goods are not in your warehouse? Where are they?"
The warehouseman shrugged his wide Terran shoulders. "You didn't show, the client got worried, asked somebody else to take the stuff along. Shipped out yesterday."
"By what right—who? What ship took my cargo? Because I say it is nothing less than theft!"
Again the man shrugged. "That's between you and your client, Mac. Tree and Dragon took the stuff. Now, about the—"
"Tree and Dragon," Sav Rid repeated blankly. Then he shouted, the Trade words nearly unintelligible. "yos'Galan! Thieves, whores, and idiots! My cargo! Mine! And you release it to yos'Galan? Fool!" He shredded the bill, flung the pieces into the man's startled face, and stormed away, looking neither to the right nor to the left. Chelsa yo'Vaade hesitated, tempted—strongly tempted—to let him go. Then she spun back to the warehouseman, tugging the nireline ring from her finger and stripping the heavy chased bracelet from her arm. "They are old," she said quickly, pressing them into his hands. "It will be enough, if you sell to a collector of antiquities." She left him then, running.
Sav Rid was striding across the shuttle field, Second Mate Collier hulking at his shoulder. He had not been unguarded, then. Chelsa was aware of a certain relief as she laid a hand on his sleeve. "Sav Rid? Cousin, I beg you—let it go. It is—you have let it prey upon your mind. End now. Cry balance."
"Balance?" He shook her off, lips tight, eyes glittering. "Balance? In favor of that frog-faced, half-Terran lackwit? yos'Galan is the reason we lose in every endeavor we undertake! yos'Galan steals our cargo, slurs our name, hounds us from port to port—there can be no balance!" He held out his hand, fingers clenched tight. "I will crush them—both of them! The idiot and his whore sister!" He paused. "And the Terran bitch who puts her cheek to his!"
Chelsa's stomach clenched with fear—of him? for him?—as she cupped his shaking fist in her hands. "Sav Rid, it is Korval! Let be. Let it all be," she pleaded suddenly, her eyes tear-filled. "Let us go home, cousin."
"Bah!" He jerked away, his rings tearing her palms. "Korval! A pack of half-grown brats, born to wealth and ease—no more! But you are like the rest—say Korval, and they tremble lest they offend." He spat into the dust and marched off, the second mate keeping pace. "Coward!"
The tears spilled over. She struggled for a moment, then achieved control and started slowly after him.
Crown City, Theopholis
Hour Of Knaves
Dagmar fingered the knife and gave her quarry a little lead time—but not too much. She had almost lost them, right at the beginning, when she had still figured that there was some kind of sense to their explorations, before she had understood that they were simply following the boy's whim.
She eased out of the doorway and sauntered after them, picking up speed as they turned a corner. The boy was tugging on the woman's hand—they were heading toward the port. Slowly, doubling back on their own tracks now and then, they were completing a rough circle. Dagmar lengthened her stride.
Soon. Soon Prissy would pay for setting the white-haired half-breed on Daxflan, eating their profits—eating Dagmar's profit. Dagmar's share. Yes, her share. Without her, the Trader would not have thought of shipping the stuff. She had been the one who had showed him how profitable it would be for the ship, and for his precious Clan. She
had been the one with the contacts at first, the one who had shown him how to play the game. So she got a piece of the action. A sweetheart bargain. What a Liaden would call balance.
They had stopped again. Dagmar slid into an alley mouth, then edged out to watch. Prissy was laughing and pointing to something in the window of a shop six doors distant. The boy had his nose pressed against the glass.
It would be the boy. She had decided that. Satisfying as it would be to hurt Prissy, to purple that white skin, to snap fragile bones . . . Dagmar wiped wet palms down the sides of her trousers, savoring the thrust of desire that the image imparted. Maybe . . . .
No. She would take the boy. That would cause the deepest hurt—both to Prissy and to her half-breed lover.
They were moving again. Dagmar fingered the knife and let them get a little ahead.
* * *
DILLIBEE'S DIGITAL DELIGHTS, the sign read. Gordy checked and drifted closer to the glassed-in display, joy flowing out of him in a purr so strong that it was a marvel the outer ears did not hear it as well. Priscilla smiled and rested her hands lightly on his shoulders. He wriggled comfortably, his attention on the gaudy goings-on beyond the glass.
Five minutes went by without a sign that his rapture would soon pass off. Priscilla squeezed his shoulders. "Let's go, Gordy."
"Um."
She laughed softly and ruffled his hair. "Um, yourself. The shuttle leaves in exactly one ship's hour. Your credit with the captain may be up to missing it, but mine isn't. Let's go."
"Okay," he said, still gazing at the display.
Priscilla sighed and walked away by a step or two. "Gordy?"
"Yeah, okay."
Shaking her head, she went farther down the block, adjusting her awareness so that the matrix of his emotions remained clear.
