by Sharon Lee
"Yes, Captain." She bit her lip. "It's that I've been charged for training on every other ship I served on—and pursued it during my free time. Daxflan denied me permission to continue training while I shipped on her."
"Sav Rid, Sav Rid." He shook his head. "However, this is not Daxflan, and her rules do not apply here. Now. Your supervisor—no. The ship will extend you credit for a Standard week's worth of clothing, to be reckoned against your share at the end of the route. Please draw what you need from general stores. Your supervisor will be Lina Faaldom, who is chief librarian."
"I met her last night—"
"Yes? She will introduce you to the residents of the pet library and acquaint you with your duties there. I don't believe the work to be arduous, so you'll be expected to take on other duties as necessary. Janice Weatherbee will be your piloting instructor. If she is called elsewhere upon occasion, I will take her place. I believe that's everything. Are the terms agreeable to you?"
"Since I was almost certain I'd be back on Jankalim this morning, yes, Captain, the terms are agreeable to me." She paused, studying his face. Sometime during the interview the fear had dissipated, leaving her limp and slowly warming. "Do you really need a pet librarian?"
"Well, we didn't have one," he said, spinning the screen toward her. "So I guess we do. Palmprint here, please."
* * *
Shan yos'Galan was tipped back in his chair, arms folded behind his head, eyes apparently resting on the crystalline mobile hanging in the far corner of the ceiling. The expression on his face was one of dreamy stupidity. He did not glance around at the hissing of the door; he did not even seem aware that he was no longer alone in the room.
Kayzin Ne'Zame knew better than to be deceived by appearances. She sat in the seat that Priscilla Mendoza had recently vacated, her spine two inches from the chair back, and frowned at his profile.
"You've signed her on?" she demanded in the High Tongue, each syllable icy with disapproval.
"I did say that it was my intention to sign her on," the man reminded the mobile gently and in Terran. He spun the chair lazily around, unfolded his arms, and sat up. "What is it, Kayzin?"
"She is too beautiful." The Terran words were no less cold.
"But that's not her fault, is it? People can't choose their faces, can they? If they can, I want to know why I wasn't told about it."
The older woman regarded him with something perilously close to amusement. "I am, in fact, to pity her."
"What harm can it do?"
"What harm! You ask it? Or is it the game again? Do not trouble yourself, I beg you . . . ." She paused, visibly taking herself in hand. "And what harm is it—to the ship, to the crew, to your Clan, and to Shan yos'Galan—should Sav Rid Olanek prove clever as well as dishonorable? What harm, should this so-pitiful, so-beautiful woman prove to be a tool in his hands—a blade at your throat? What harm—"
"Kayzin . . . ." The big hands made a soothing motion; concern for her showed in his face.
She slumped back in her chair. "Shan, it is my last trip. I prefer it to be an uneventful one."
"There's no reason for it to be otherwise, old friend. Why should Sav Rid want to plant a—what? spy? assassin?—on the Passage? He's had his coup—and a very fine laugh. There's no reason for him to go to such trouble. No reason to think of the affair at all, except to chuckle and extend the story in port taverns as proof of Shan yos'Galan's rabid foolishness." He grinned wryly. "And he's not too far off the mark, is he?"
She gestured, speechless.
"You worry too much, Kayzin—and without cause. Circumstance, synchronicity—I don't believe Sav Rid would wish Priscilla Mendoza here, assuming he wished her any place at all, except, perhaps, dead. I think it more likely that he acted twice as opportunity dictated. It's interesting—but not impossible—that the victims of both actions should come together."
"It is also not impossible that Olanek has grown wary—or even that he has grown greedy. What a coup for him, should he bring Korval entire to its knees . . . ."
Shan's brows pulled together. "Do you really think he could? Not that he doesn't have the potential for being that greedy—or that reckless. Kayzin, the Passage proceeds as ever. For our years together and the time you spent raising me, I will attempt to keep the rest of the route as uneventful as possible. In the meantime, please try to be kind to Priscilla Mendoza." He picked up his glass and drank slowly. "And wouldn't you say it was better, Kayzin, to keep the knife—if there is a knife, of course—in our view rather than have it poised at our back?"
She smiled. "You will reward him properly?"
"Steps are being taken to bring accounts into balance," he promised, and finished his wine.
Shipyear 65
Tripday 135
Second Shift
9.30 Hours
Glass in hand, Shan yos'Galan rounded the corner into the leisure section. Ahead was a slender figure, gay in raspberry tunic and celadon sash. He stretched his long legs and caught her by the intersection to the athletic hall.
"Well met, Lina."
She looked up, her smile radiant. "Shan. I'm glad to see you."
"And I'm glad to see you. As always. You're looking exceptionally lovely. Off to a party? Will you bring me with you? I promise not to brag of my exalted position. How do you find your assistant?"
She laughed. "But it is exactly of Priscilla that I wished to speak! Have you truly a moment? I know how busy it is to be captain. I hardly see you. . ."
"Languishing? He raised his glass, his light eyes mocking. "By all means speak to me of Priscilla. Do the residents approve? Is she impossible for you? Shall I send her to Ken Rik?"
"Oh, no, not to Ken Rik. The small ones are each delighted—Master Frodo to the point of purrs. You knew he would be." She stopped, frowning up into his face. "Shan? What is wrong with her—do you know? There is joy—one can feel it—but she denies . . . suppresses . . . I like her very well. Don't you?"
"It would be enough to lower anyone's feelings, wouldn't it, to be hit over the head and deserted with no money, a ruined record, and no friends?"
"It is more than that," Lina insisted. "She wants Healing."
"Does she?" He sipped. "Is she impossible for you?"
"Not at all. Though perhaps you. . ."
"Me?" He laughed. "I'm not a Healer, Lina; I'm the captain."
"Bah!" She banished this quibble with a tiny contemptuous hand. "As if you haven't the skill and the training!" She tipped her head, considering information of which the expression on his face was only a small portion. "Shan?"
A lifted shoulder denied her. He frowned slightly. "What—perfume—are you wearing, Lina?"
"The one we bought—Endless Lust." She chuckled. "Rah Stee objects to the name."
"As well he might." He moved back a step or two. "Very potent, isn't it? I don't recall that you reported aphrodisiac qualities."
"It has none!" She grinned. "Are you certain it is the perfume?"
"Forgive me," he murmured. "I have admired you forever, Lina, but amorous thoughts were far from me this evening. If it isn't aphrodisiac, it's the next best thing. Did anybody explain how it works?"
"It is the smell . . . ." She sighed sharply, asked permission with a flicker of her hands, and slid into the Low Tongue, on the mode spoken between friends. "It is an enhancer of one's own odor. Thus, if you are attracted primarily, you will be more so when the perfume is used. Harmless, old friend, I assure you."
"I," the Captain said in Terran, "am not convinced. There are laws on certain worlds about perfumes and substances that—what is the official phrasing?—'take away volition and make pliable the will'? Something more or less pompous." He took a drink and drifted away yet another step. "Do me the favor of submitting what is left of your vial to Chemistry, Lina. I would so hate to break the law."
"It is harmless." She frowned. "It does not take away volition—no more than a Healer might, encouraging one to embrace joy . . . ."
Sha
n grinned. "I believe you may be splitting hairs. Are you going to a party? I would like to accompany you—purely scientific, you understand. It might be very interesting to observe the effect of this perfume of yours on a roomful of unsuspecting persons."
"I," Lina said dampingly, "am going to watch a Ping-Pong match between Priscilla and Rah Stee. You may come, if you like. Though if you persist in backing away from me in that insulting manner. . ."
He laughed and offered an arm. "I have myself in hand now. Let us by all means inflict ourselves upon the Ping-Pong match."
* * *
Rusty was sweating and puffing with exertion, the expression on his round face one of harried doggedness.
In contrast, Priscilla was coolly serene, parrying his shots with absent smoothness, barely regarding the ball at all. Yet time after time she fractured his frenzied guard and piled up the points in her favor.
"Twenty-one," he said, his voice cracking slightly. "I don't believe it."
"No, Rah Stee, it is twenty-one for Priscilla," Lina said helpfully. "I counted also."
"That's what I don't believe." Rusty leaned heavily on the table, directing a sodden head shake at his opponent. "You're blowing me away! I don't get it. Half the time I don't even see the ball coming."
"That's because you have the reactions of a dead cow," Shan explained, not to be outdone in helpfulness.
The other man turned to glare at him. "Thanks a lot."
"Always of service . . . ."
"Maybe," Priscilla offered, cutting off a scorching reply, "it's because you look for the ball. I almost never do that."
"Then how do you know where it is?" He ran a sleeve across his forehead and sighed hugely. "Dammit, 'Cilla, I'm good at Ping-Pong. Been playing for years!"
"But not against pilots," the captain said, sipping wine.
"What's that got to do with it?"
"A great deal, don't you think, Rusty? Your reaction time's slow; you move in a series of jerks rather than a smooth flow; you fail to apprehend where an object will be." He raised his glass. "Don't feel too bad, my friend. We all have our niche to fill. After all, I could hardly fill your place in the tower, or operate the—"
"Like hell you can't," the other muttered, spinning his paddle clumsily on the table.
"I beg your pardon, Rusty?"
"Never mind." He turned suddenly and flipped the paddle to Shan, who caught it left-handed, lazily. "You play her."
The captain blinked. "Why?"
"You're a pilot. She's a pilot. Maybe I'll pick up some pointers." Grinning, Rusty retired from the field and flung himself into a sideline seat. "Besides, I need a break. You don't want me to keel over dead from exertion, do you?"
"Now, that would be a tragedy. So young, so handsome, so wealthy—he had all to live for . . . Ms. Mendoza? Are you interested in a game? Observe that you have the advantage of youth over dissipated old age."
Priscilla swallowed a laugh. Lina frowned.
"Certainly, Captain. I'll be happy to play with you. Will you offer me a handicap?"
"You should offer one to me," he said, setting his glass aside and wandering toward the table. "Remember that I'm frail, please, and easily bruised. You'll serve?"
She nodded, and the ball was even then skimming smoothly over the net . . . to be returned with casual force, heading toward the edge of the table, barely brushing; it was caught as it struck and sent backspinning over the net, to be returned again, barely inside her play zone, then flipped by a cunning paddle edge back into his court.
"Twenty-seven, twenty-five," Priscilla said nearly forty minutes later. She actually grinned at the man opposite. "Good game, Captain."
"Fighting for every point," he agreed, laying his paddle down and moving in the direction of his wine. "Notice, please, Rusty, that I barely won. Have you picked up any pointers?"
"Huh? I'm gonna retire to a home for the physically degenerate." The radio tech shook his head. "You're so fast! If I hadn't heard it hit, I'd've thought you were runnin' a scam: pretending to have a game with an invisible ball."
Priscilla drifted over to Lina's chair and sat carefully on an upholstered arm. The Liaden woman smiled up at her. "You played very well, my friend."
Friend. The word was unexceptional from Lina, yet Priscilla never heard it without a small thrill of warmth. She smiled gently. "Thank you." She moved her shoulders in response to a slight twinge. "No excuse for not sleeping tonight."
Lina shifted. "You have not been sleeping? On our ship?"
Priscilla allowed herself the luxury of another grin. "I sleep better on this ship than—than I sometimes do." She moved her shoulders again, half a shrug. "It's nothing. I get by."
"In two days we are at Scandalous," the smaller woman offered, apropos of nothing. "A drop only. Then, in three days more, we are at Arsdred. Do you like us, now that you have been here a whole week?"
"Has it been a week?" The question woke echoes of Shan yos'Galan's voice in her mind's ear, and she smiled again, almost lazily. "I like you very much. Everyone's been kind . . . ." Except Kayzin Ne'Zame, of course. What ailed the woman? She glanced down and saw Lina's small golden hand resting on the chair arm at her knee. It looked strong and capable and curiously pleasing. With hardly a thought except that it would be comforting to do so, Priscilla laid her own hand over it—and flicked her eyes, startled, to the other woman's face.
Lina smiled at her.
Priscilla sighed; the sound seemed to come from very far away. Friend, she thought, and her fingers tightened around Lina's. She received warm pressure in return and smiled for the fourth time in five minutes. From across the room she heard the soothing murmur of voices: Rusty and the captain, speaking between themselves. She shook her head. "I must be more tired than I thought . . . ."
"Yes? Would you like to go to bed? I will walk with you, if you like."
Priscilla looked into the face of her friend. Goddess, it would be hard to tell Lina good-bye . . . "I'd like you to come with me," she said softly. "That would be good."
"I think so, too," Lina said, and stood, keeping their hands linked.
Across the room, Rusty suddenly sighed. "Here I thought she liked me," he complained, "and then she goes off with Lina!"
Shan glanced around absently. "I'm afraid you were outgunned. Lina was wearing that new perfume of hers."
"Was she?" He looked up, all interest. "Damn. That stuff's gonna make us rich."
* * *
THEY REACHED PRISCILLA'S quarters and entered together when the door slid away. Just inside, Lina stopped and smiled up at her tall companion a little quizzically. Cautiously, she touched the bruise on the pale cheek. "I am sorry that they hurt you, my friend."
"It wasn't so bad . . . ." Priscilla murmured, gazing down into her face. Slowly, with a sense of inevitable tenderness, she bent and kissed Lina on the mouth.
Shipyear 65
Tripday 136
Third Shift
11.30 Hours
Around Scandalous
Master Frodo the Norbear burbled happily and ran to the port opening as fast as his bowed legs would carry him. His three companions came more slowly from their cozyplaces and followed, Tiny uttering a small, dignified bwrrr of welcome.
Priscilla carefully measured out three portions and placed each in its appointed place. Tiny, Delm Briat, and Lady Selph fell to with a will, while Master Frodo stood by, fairly quivering with anticipation. As the last measure was placed, he extended a small clawed hand and snagged a fold of sleeve.
"Did you think I'd forgotten you?" Priscilla asked as he clambered into her hand. Master Frodo rubbed his head against her fingers.
Smiling, Priscilla brought him to her shoulder. He rolled off and sat up on hind legs, one hand clutching the curls over her ear while with the other he solemnly accepted pieces of corn and stuffed them into his cheek pouches.
"It's the tower for me today," Priscilla confided as Master Frodo broke his fast. "I'm to report to Tonee sig'Ella by Twe
lfth Hour."
Her companion vouchsafed no direct reply, though he let her know by the quality of his eating that Tonee sig'Ella was not a bad sort, received everywhere by norbears of consequence.
Since Priscilla was able to verify by the sign-out that Tonee was no infrequent visitor to the norbears' hearth, this information was not startling. She thanked Master Frodo for his recommendation, however, and scratched him lightly between the ears before replacing him in the tank.
He settled to the sandy soil with a little sigh and twisted his head sideways, peering upward, one paw raised in supplication.
Priscilla grinned again. "No more for you," she said sternly, rubbing his belly with a gentle finger. "You're getting positively fat."
