Conflict Of Honors

by Sharon Lee

  Priscilla webbed into the pilot's chair. Slowly at first, then with more assurance, she ran her fingers over the board, calling up rotations, distance, wind speeds, upper atmosphere. Then she chose her approach, cleared the site, and signaled ready.

  They left the Passage in a neat tumble, skimming toward the planet in a matching arc, hit atmosphere a little later with the barest possible bump, and slid into the approach approved by Arsdred Port. The wind gave her a little trouble, but she managed to hold the craft steady, her teeth indenting her lower lip, her hand unfaltering over the board.

  In a glass-smooth glide, they settled on the pad. Priscilla rechecked and locked the board, then flipped the toggles that unsealed the hatch and snapped her webbing loose.

  Ken Rik was already standing. "Not too bad," he allowed grumpily, "for a first attempt."

  Priscilla grinned. "Praise, indeed."

  "Hmmph," Ken Rik said, and turned away.

  Arsdred Offworld Bazaar

  Local Year 728

  Dawn Bazaar

  "In addition," said the fat man in the electric purple overrobe, "we have fourteen dozens of the finest quality firegems in a multitude—a double rainbow!—of colors. It is certain that the honored Trader must feel impelled to acquire so worthy an item."

  Shan took a careful puff on the hookah that his host had so graciously provided for him. The smoke was narcotic—mildly to the individual across from him, rather more than that to even a large Liaden well fortified with anti-intoxicants.

  "Firegems," he said, blowing a thoughtful smoke ring. "But surely the honored merchant jests. Why should I wish to purchase firegems of any quality, when all the galaxy carries them? More profitable to ship ice. Or atmosphere."

  The fat man smiled with unimpaired good humor. "I see the honored Trader is a man of discrimination, with an eye for the beautiful and the rare. Now, it happens that we also have in our warehouses Tusodian silks of the first looming, elbam liqueur, essence of joberkerney, praqilly furleng, tobacco such as we now enjoy . . . ."

  The honored trader yawned and blew another ring. "Herr Minata, do, please, forgive me! When Herr Sasoni spoke of you—of your warehouses, the rarities—but I misunderstood! My command of your language falls short. A thousand apologies for having wasted your time, sir! Believe me, your most obedient . . . ." He stood, bowed with more courtesy than abjectness, and turned to go.

  "Master Trader!"

  He turned back, concern apparent in his face. "Yes, Herr Minata? How may I serve you?"

  The fat man dropped his eyes and toyed with a fold of his robe. "Perhaps we might speak again," he suggested delicately.

  "That would be pleasant," Shan said with apparent delight. "We will have our pavilion in Ochre Square within the port, as always. Anyone will tell you the way. Please do come. I will be most happy to see you there."

  He bowed again and turned away. This time the merchant let him go.

  Outside, Shan took a deep breath of double-baked air and allowed himself a moment of self-congratulation. That fish was well netted and no mistake. Praqilly furleng—essence that was mere perfume for some, and a religious necessity for others—Tusodian silks . . . a vivid mind-picture of Priscilla Mendoza draped in diaphanous garnet silk presented itself for his inspection.

  That will do, he told himself sternly, banishing the picture and merging with the flow of pedestrians heading toward the Outworld Bazaar. The sample case would be down by now, and Ken Rik would surely have something choice to say if his captain were not present at the raising of the pavilion in Ochre Square.

  * * *

  The shipment had been taken to Herr Sasoni's warehouse and handed over to a capable-looking young man who inspected the packing and gravely counted the crates before signing the receipt and handing it back.

  Returning to Ochre Square and Ken Rik, Priscilla maintained a sedate pace through the bustling pedestrian and jitney traffic, prolonging her first opportunity for quiet thought since the previous evening's encounter with Dagmar.

  The second class provisional in her pocket had proved to be neither counterfeit nor imaginary. Sworn to by Master Pilot Shan yos'Galan, it had been issued and registered at the Arsdred branch of the Galactic Pilots Commission yesterday.

  A pilot—even a provisional second class pilot—could always find work, she thought, steering her jitney carefully through a crowded corner. The red and yellow plastic card in her pocket represented a solid, respectable future; it represented a breathing space, if she required one when they hit Solcintra, before looking about for another berth.

  She slowed as she reached another knot of traffic, then stopped as it became apparent that the driver of the jitney stuck sideways across the thoroughfare was going to be some time in righting his error. Sighing, she leaned back and ran her eyes absently along the crowded street.

  What a difference from Jankalim! The air was filled with the whine of jitney motors and the deeper throbbing hum of the monotrains running on the maze of catwalks and rails that roofed the whole of the port. And, of course, voices: raised in conversation, song, argument.

  Priscilla yawned and reached for the thread of her thoughts. She had not yet reviewed her contract. That was the first thing to be attended to, next off-shift. Then she would speak with the captain.

  With her eyes on the bustling, bright crowds, it occurred to her that she had several things to speak with the captain about. That he should restore her belongings was a puzzle. Lina had said something about owing, but that made no sense. She was Terran; no Liaden could feel honor-bound to balance accounts with her. And if honor had not prompted him to return her things, what in Her name did a gift of earrings mean?

  Priscilla sat up suddenly, eyes sharpening on the crowd, catching sight of a familiar bulky figure just turning the corner into Tourmaline Way.

  Dagmar.

  Her hands clenched the steering rod convulsively even as her breath hissed out between her teeth. Stop it! she ordered herself sharply. That one who has been in the service of the Goddess should feel hatred for a fellow being. . .

  She swallowed hard and sent her thoughts back to the comfort of her friend—to meet with mockery even there. Done well, Lina?

  "C'mon, honey—move that thing! Coast's clear!" Priscilla shook herself, automatically shifted into gear, and sent the jitney forward again, resolutely declining to think of anything at all.

  * * *

  "Took your time, did you?" Ken Rik asked, though not with the air of one who expected an answer. "Found the warehouseman amusing?"

  "There was a jitney jammed across Coral Square," Priscilla said tonelessly, sliding out of the seat and offering him the clipboard.

  He took the board and glanced at her sharply. Priscilla shrugged. Sharp glances, after all, were not unusual in the old cargo master.

  "All right," he said after a moment. "Help me with the samples. When the captain arrives, the pavilion will be raised."

  "And the captain has arrived, so work may proceed without interruption," concluded that gentleman, walking toward them with a grin. "Thank the gods. I was certain I was late and living in terror of a tongue-lashing, Master Ken Rik!"

  "You're a bad boy, Captain," the old man said repressively.

  "My expectations fulfilled! Thank you, old friend. Now—" He spun slowly on one heel, surveying the immediate neighborhood. "Wonderful, a temporary-permanent next door. We shall ignore it, secure in the knowledge of our superior taste. The southeast corner, I think, Ken Rik, and we'll have the nerligig for catching eyes. Herr Sasoni's order has been safely delivered?"

  "Priscilla Mendoza has just returned from the warehouse. The trip down was unexceptional."

  "Unexceptional?" Priscilla demanded. "You told me it wasn't too bad."

  Ken Rik sniffed and burrowed into the depths of the sample crate.

  "Carried away by exuberance," the captain explained. "It's the sort of thing that happens to Ken Rik rather often. My father had to speak to him frequently."


  The subject of this palpable untruth turned his head to glare. "Are you going to help raise this pavilion or not?"

  "Absolutely! Nothing could induce me to miss such an undertaking! I was only just now having the most delightful chat with Merchant Herr Minata. We could have gone on for hours, so at one did we find ourselves on all matters of importance. But no, I said to him, making my excuse, I must go and help raise the pavilion, for Master Ken Rik rules me with an iron hand."

  A small sound escaped Priscilla, somewhere between a sneeze and a cough. The captain looked at her curiously.

  "Are you well, Ms. Mendoza?"

  "Perfectly, sir. Thank you." She took hold of the slippery pavilion cloth and kept her eyes lowered.

  "Now," Ken Rik said, shoving a portion of fabric into the captain's hands, "we begin."

  It took some time to arrange the corners to Ken Rik's satisfaction. Eventually it was accomplished; the valves were closed, and the pavilion began to inflate.

  Priscilla, standing a little way back and watching the first wriggling upheaval, caught sight of a tip of bronze against the bright yellow fabric and inclined her head, as if welcoming a friend.

  "Is Korval the dragon or the tree?" she wondered to no one in particular.

  "Neither," the captain said. "Or both. The Tree is Jelaza Kazone, originally the cipher for Clan Torvin—Line yos'Phelium. The Dragon is Megelaar, for Clan Alkia—Line yos'Galan. Together they're Clan Korval."

  She frowned a little. "Two Clans merged to make one?"

  "Oh, well," he said, smiling, "they really didn't have a choice. Cantra yos'Phelium was the only member of her Clan on the colony ship—when it landed on Liad, you understand—except for her unborn child. Tor An yos'Galan was in the same fix. At least, he wasn't pregnant, so perhaps his fix was worse. She had been pilot; he'd been co. When they finally raised a world—landed the ship safely—she asked him to raise her heir, should something happen to her. He accepted it, poor child, ready to abandon Alkia to the void and become Clan Torvin. But Cantra seems to have been a fair-minded sort of person, among her other faults, so Torvin and Alkia ceased to be, and Clan Korval emerged." He moved his shoulders. "Family history. But you asked for it."

  "Yes, I did. Your Clan was made when the ship landed on Liad?" Priscilla was still frowning; it seemed a very long time.

  "A young House," he said cheerfully. "An upstart. There are some who trace their ancestry back to the Old World. Sav Rid's family, for instance—"

  "Captain?" Ken Rik said from the seat of the jitney. "I'll go to Thessel's now and see if there's news. Unless you would rather go?"

  "I," the captain said, "would rather get my hands dirty setting up the nerligig. By all means go to Thessel. And do say all those polite things she seems to find so necessary to her comfort."

  Unexpectedly, Ken Rik grinned. The jitney slid easily into the flow of traffic, heading west.

  The captain wandered over to the sample case, rummaged about for a few moments, and emerged with a toolbox in one hand and a dark nerligig in the other.

  Dropping the toolbox, he sat on a crate before the slowly inflating pavilion and put the nerligig on his knees.

  "Might as well put waiting to work," he murmured with the air of quoting someone. "Why don't you take a walk, Ms. Mendoza? There's nothing for you to do here right now."

  Priscilla hesitated, nettled by this casual dismissal. But his head was bent over the mechanism, and he was to all appearances absorbed in making the necessary adjustments, so she eventually stalked away.

  Ochre Square was a crowded, busy block under the shadow of the monotrain station. Over the buzz of the track, the jitney traffic kept up a perpetual whine. Priscilla considered the other Traders' displays and tents from a distance that said she was not a potential customer. Several things tempted her, and she regretted her lost money. Presumably Dagmar had kept the cash she had found in Priscilla's cabin.

  Shan was still concentrating on his work when Priscilla came leisurely back toward the fully inflated pavilion with its striking dragon and tree design. It was comforting, she thought suddenly, to see him there, patiently working, the big, clever hands manipulating the tools with precision.

  Frowning, she shook her head. There was no reason at all for her to be comforted by the captain's presence, yet twice now she had distinctly had that sensation. She was not altogether certain she approved of it. Irritably, she looked away.

  The jitney was driverless. It was speeding, helped along by the double load gripped in its front claw. And it was on a collision course with the Passage's tent.

  Later, Priscilla was never sure if she had run or merely flung herself across the distance that separated them. She struck the captain with brutal force and knocked him rolling from the crate, rolling herself as he twisted away, hearing sounds of destruction from too near at hand until she caught up, gasping, against the wall of the temporary-permanent.

  She came to her knees, horror-filled.

  He lay a little distance from her, his back against the wall, his eyes closed. If he was breathing, he was going about it very quietly.

  "Captain?" she whispered. She laid her hand along his cheek.

  The slanted brows contracted, and the dark lashes snapped up. "Don't do that, Priscilla."

  "All right." She dropped her hand and looked at him uncertainly. "Are you hurt?"

  "No," he said shortly. "I'm not hurt." He sat up and looked past her, his silver eyes enormous. Priscilla turned.

  The pavilion was gone, tangled crazily about something that surged and tottered and whined like a netted wilmaby. A crowd was beginning to gather.

  "Your arm please, Priscilla," said the captain, eyes still on the wreckage.

  She rose and offered a hand. He accepted the aid and linked his arm in hers, his hand curved lightly about her wrist.

  "Captain?" she said softly, hating to say it but certain it should be said. "I saw Dagmar earlier, on Tourmaline Way . . . .

  "She has a right to be here, Priscilla; this is the port. Ah, a policeman. How nice." He started toward that official, and, arm-linked, she went with him.

  Shipyear 65

  Tripday 143

  Second Shift

  10.30 Hours

  Thankfully, the library was empty. Priscilla had no wish to speak to anyone at the moment, not even Lina. She located an isolated screen by the door to the pet library and sat down, fumbling with the keys.

  The interview with the policeman at the port had been interesting. Disentangled, the jitney was identified by an emaciated gentleman in cherry and white robes as belonging to his employer, one Herr Reyes. He had noticed its absence approximately twenty minutes before and had reported the disappearance to the police before undertaking a rather lengthy walk back into the city. By coincidence he had been turning into Ochre Square as the Tree and Dragon suddenly shrieked, shuddered, and folded in on itself.

  A quick examination by the policeman at the site showed that the steering rod bore no imprints at all.

  At that point Priscilla had opened her mouth. The captain's fingers tightened briefly on her wrist. Priscilla closed her mouth.

  This happened three more times during the course of the captain's conversation with the cop and once as he was speaking with a visibly shaken Ken Rik. He then gave Priscilla into the cargo master's care and instructed him to escort her to the shuttle.

  "What!" she cried. "Why?"

  The captain returned her stare calmly. "You've had a hard shift, Priscilla. Take the rest of it off and come to me at prime. Be back as soon as you can, Ken Rik. There's a bit of cleanup to do. I'll be speaking with Merchant Reyes's clerk." He had turned away.

  The screen chimed, bringing her back to the present. She fed in her request, then waited a few anxious moments until the proper file was retrieved and displayed.

  SERVICE RECORD. PRISCILLA DELACROIX Y MENDOZA.

  She began to scroll through it impatiently. Suddenly she hit PAUSE and went back a screen.

 
STANDARD 1385, TULON. TEMPORARY BERTH DAXFLAN, CARGO MASTER TRANSSHIP JANKALIM AS AGREED DUTIFUL PASSAGE, PILOT (PROV SEC), LIBRARIAN. NOTATION: COMMAND POTENTIAL; SECOND MATE TRAINING INSTITUTED.

  She read it twice, each time going back to the beginning and scanning every line to the end. There was no mention of thievery or of jumping ship. TRANSSHIPPED JANKALIM AS AGREED.

  At the end of the file she paused again, staring at the certification from the registry office on VanDyk.

  It was dated one Standard Week ago.

  "Impossible," she told the screen.

  The words persisted. She read them again and keyed in her next request.