by Sharon Lee
CONTRACT SIGNED BETWEEN PRISCILLA DELACROIX Y MENDOZA, FIRST PARTY, AND SHAN YOS'GALAN AS CAPTAIN, DUTIFUL PASSAGE, SECOND PARTY. FIRST PARTY SHALL AGREE TO PERFORM DUTIES INHERENT IN THE POST OF PET LIBRARIAN AND ALSO TO UNDERTAKE PILOT TRAINING ONE SHIP WATCH OF EVERY NINE, WITHOUT FAIL, AND ALSO TO UNDERTAKE ANY ADDITIONAL TRAINING OR DUTY DEEMED REASONABLE AND JUST BY SECOND PARTY.
Priscilla leaned back. There it was. She briefly and belatedly recalled advice given a much younger Priscilla: "I tell you what, youngster. Don't you ever sign a Liaden's contract. I don't care how careful you read it. If he won't sign yours, let the deal go. Safer that way."
Still, there was nothing wrong with undergoing second mate's training. She would have appreciated being told, but she was sure that he had meant it for the best.
It was not until she had cleared the screen and left the library that it occurred to her to wonder why she should be sure of it.
Shipyear 65
Tripday 143
Third Shift
16.00 Hours
Priscilla exited the lift and walked resolutely toward the captain's office. She was dressed in the yellow shirt and khaki trousers she had worn when she first walked down this hall. In her pocket was the provisional second class. The rest of her belongings were in the cabin that had been hers, the clothes neatly folded and stacked beside the scrounged plastic box. She must remember to tell the captain to offer the bracelets to a collector. The price they would bring as curios would go far toward paying her debt to the ship.
She rounded the corner by Hold 6 and nearly walked into Kayzin Ne'Zame.
The first mate recovered first and swept a surprising bow, as deep as one would accord the captain, augmented by an odd little flourish that mystified Priscilla entirely.
"We are well met, Priscilla Mendoza," she said in a light, quick voice much unlike her usual manner of speech. "I have been remiss in offering you an apology for my behavior several shifts gone by, when we spoke near the central computer." She took a breath and looked up. "Pray forgive it. I was discourteous and in error."
Priscilla blinked, collected herself immediately, and bowed in turn, though not as deeply, nor did she attempt to copy the flourish.
"Do me the honor of putting the incident from your mind, Kayzin Ne'Zame. I shall do the same."
The Liaden woman inclined her head. "You are kind. It shall be as you have said. I leave you now."
"Be well, Kayzin Ne'Zame," Priscilla murmured, laying her hand against the captain's door.
"Come!"
He was standing, hands hooked in his belt, his bright head bent over a chess problem. It was a new one, Priscilla saw, and she wondered if the other had had a solution, after all. He glanced up as the door closed and smiled. "Hello, Priscilla. Did you rest well this past shift?"
"I visited Master Frodo for a while," she said, hesitating between desk chairs and couch.
"A very restful companion. I've always found him so, at any rate. Ken Rik labels him terminally cute. But Ken Rik likes snakes. What may I give you to drink?"
"Nothing, thank you, Captain." She decided on one of the chairs before his desk, drifted over, and perched on the arm.
"Nothing?" The slanted brows drew together as he crossed the rug. "Are you angry, Priscilla? Or am I angry? If it's me, I assure you that I'm not. And if it's you—but surely you knew I had to send you away? It would have been unforgivable to keep you by, especially when I'd put you in so much danger already."
"You put me in danger?" She stared at him. "It's the other way around, Captain. I put you in danger. Which is why I would rather not accept a drink. I'm not stopping long." She forced herself to meet his eyes calmly. "I think it would be wisest for me to leave the Passage immediately."
"Do you?" He paused. "What a very odd notion of wisdom. If you were staying long enough to have a drink, Priscilla, what would you prefer? Purely hypothetical, of course." The light eyes were mocking her.
"Idle speculation, since I'm not staying that long," she said crisply. "I came only to say that—"
"It would be wisest for you to leave the Passage immediately," the captain interrupted, holding up his hands placatingly. "You did say it. I heard you. Now, Priscilla, please pay attention—this is very important. You might at least have some consideration for my feelings in the matter. I'm thirsty, and you're telling nonsense stories, which you could as easily tell while having a glass of wine with me like a civilized person." He tipped his head. "Do strive for some courtesy, Priscilla."
She felt laughter rising and clamped down, with limited success. A small sound woefully reminiscent of a hiccup emerged. "Red, please," she said, glaring.
"Red," he repeated, moving toward the bar. "An excellent choice, as even Gordy will tell you. Though, of course, there's nothing wrong with the white or the jade or the blue." He was back and handing her a cut-crystal glass. Her fingers curved around the stem automatically. "And the red won't ruin your taste for prime—you will have time to dine with me, won't you, Priscilla? I agree that I should have first found if your schedule was clear, but it did seem rude to ask you to come to speak with me at dinnertime and then rob you of dinner."
She sipped her wine and tried again. "Captain, surely you must see that the longer I stay with you—with the Passage— the more danger you're in? If I'm gone, then you—"
"Priscilla, you have a woeful tendency toward single-mindedness," he interrupted, sitting on the edge of the desk and swinging a leg.
She clamped her jaw and stood. "Thank you for all you've done, Captain, but I really must be going."
"You can't do that, Priscilla; you have a contract. You're bound to this ship until Solcintra. That's four months, as the route runs. You don't have the buy-off fee, do you? I didn't think so." He raised his glass. "It looks like you're stuck, child. Might as well sit down and finish your wine."
"I'm not a child!"
"Well, I can't be expected to know that, can I, if you persist in acting like one? You really must try to curb these tastes for melodrama and resignation."
"Melodrama!" She glared at him, her fingers ominously tight about the glass. "At least I'm not high-handed and—"
"High-handed!"
"High-handed," she asserted with relish. "And dictatorial. And obstinate. As if you couldn't see why—"
"High-handed! Of all the— Priscilla, when we reach Solcintra, I engage to introduce you to my brother's Aunt Kareen. Call me high-handed! Before that, you'd best improve your grasp of the High Tongue—your accent's execrable. And another thing! How dare you profess yourself all joy to see me? Have you no sense of propriety? I hardly know you."
"Nor will you know me any better," she stated, suddenly calm. She set her glass on the edge of his desk. "Because I'm leaving. Contract or not. Sue me."
"I won't. But I will arrest you, if you force me to it." He was in front of her, his face quite serious. "Priscilla, have some sense. Don't you realize you saved my life this afternoon?"
She gaped, aware of a strong desire to take him by the shoulders and shake. "Do you realize it? You act like—Captain yos'Galan, if you know it, then let me go! Surely you see that the sooner I'm gone, the sooner you're safe! People will stop trying to kill you—"
"No, wait." A big, warm hand closed around one of hers. "Priscilla, please—a favor. Come sit down . . . here's your wine. Now, if you please, tell me what happened at the port today."
She sat carefully, accepted her glass, and took a sip, steadying heart rate and breathing, embracing serenity. "You know what happened, Captain. You were there."
"I was there," he agreed, back at his station on the edge of the desk. "But I'm Liaden. You're Terran. From what you've said, it seems clear we think that two different things occurred." He leaned forward, eyes intent on her face. "Tell me, Priscilla. Please?"
She took another sip and looked at him straightly. "Today someone deliberately tried to kill you by aiming a jitney at you, jamming the rod, and jumping out. By the grace of the Godde
ss, I was close enough to knock you out of the way." She took a breath. "I believe—though I have no proof—that Dagmar Collier made the attempt. I also believe that it was ordered by Sav Rid Olanek, striking at you because you gave me sanctuary. So, if I leave the Passage, show myself to be a free agent, no more attempts should be made on your life."
"There it is," he said softly, brows pulled slightly together. "Why sacrifice yourself to keep me safe, Priscilla? Assuming all of what you say is accurate, of course."
"I brought danger to you," she said patiently. "It's only just that I take it away again. It's what is honorable."
"Is it?" He raised his glass, reconsidered, and lowered it. "Then I'm afraid we have a conflict of honors. The code I was raised to says that, having been so careless as to have necessitated your saving my life, I am very much in your debt. Setting aside the fact that allowing you to go would be murder, if my assessment of Ms. Collier's character is correct, I owe you the protection of this ship—of my resources, say rather. To send you away—unprotected and unprepared—to decoy danger from me is lunacy. And also highly dishonorable. It makes far more sense, is within the limits of honor—and duty!—to stay where it is relatively safe and work to balance what is owed them!" He did drink this time, slowly, then lowered his glass and shook his head.
"The fact is, Priscilla, you don't know the rules. I grant that the admission of Ms. Collier and yourself into the game alters things somewhat, but not enough to matter. Certainly the larger points remain constant. Am I being sinister enough, or should I wrap myself in a cloak and snigger?"
"Can you snigger?" she asked with interest.
"Probably not." He grinned. "But I'll do my best if it takes that to convince you to let me have my high-handed, dictatorial, and—what was the other one?"
"Obstinate," Priscilla supplied, though she had the grace to blush.
"A fairly accurate reading of my faults. Though you omitted inquisitive and meddling. Your suspicion of Sav Rid does him less than justice, by the way. I don't think he ordered me eliminated. It's my belief Ms. Collier was acting on her own initiative. Sav Rid has his limitations, even in stupidity. And it would be extremely stupid to murder me." He drank. "Besides, I don't think I scared him that much."
She blinked. "Were you trying to—oh, the earrings?"
"The earrings. But that seems only to have frightened Ms. Collier into an indiscretion. Lamentable. Sav Rid really ought to screen his people more carefully. I saw Ms. Collier's record—idle curiosity, you understand. She had been a marine. Dishonorable discharge. Personnel complications." He tipped his head. "I said that she used to be a marine, Priscilla; please pay attention. How close did you come to killing her?"
"I didn't—" The lie choked her, and she looked down, then looked back at him. "She's so slow. But I misjudged the knife, so she almost killed me, not the other way around."
"An error of inexperience, I believe. I doubt it would happen again. Forgive me, Priscilla, it had seemed a good idea."
This was more than usually convoluted. She put it away for later thought. "What are the rules, Captain?"
"The rules are—" He paused and looked at her consideringly. "Whose life did you save, Priscilla?"
"Shan yos'Galan's," she said, wondering.
"Did you? Good. It makes things somewhat simpler. Now, what—oh, the rules. Wouldn't you rather have the story first? I always need something to hang the rules on, don't you? My dreadful memory. But maybe yours is better."
"It's awful," she told him seriously. "I'd better have the story."
He grinned. "Not too bad, Priscilla. With a bit of practice you should be quite convincing. More wine? No? Oh, well." He finished his glass and set it aside, lacing his fingers around a knee.
"For the sake of argument," he said pensively, "we'll say that the story begins with Clan Plemia, Sav Rid's family. A very old, most respected House. And also one that's fallen on hard times these last hundred Standards or so, which makes money . . . oh, not as plentiful as it once was. Fortunes rise, fortunes fall, and Plemia's case, while no doubt uncomfortable, isn't dire. There's every reason to expect that a bit of careful husbandry will bring them about. In time." He paused, then shrugged.
"Unfortunately, Sav Rid doesn't seem a patient man. He wishes to restore Plemia to its pinnacle now. I assume that he cudgeled his brain and finally hit upon the happy plan of taking a lifemate. He possesses lineage, address, a comely face, an elegant person—an extremely eligible individual in all ways. It need not be said that one of Plemia might look where he chose."
Priscilla smiled. "Which is how he happened to propose to your sister."
The captain grinned. "Well, it does make a certain amount of sense, you know. Nova's of age; she might choose whatever husband or lifemate suits her. She has lineage, address, a comely face, an elegant person—and is, incidentally, of course, quite wealthy. There was no reason why they shouldn't have been very happy with each other."
A sound escaped Priscilla, neither a hiccup nor a sneeze—a chuckle, low and obviously delighted. "But she sent him off with a flea in his ear."
"So she did. But she was sadly provoked, you know. The silly creature wouldn't take no for an answer—kept asking and asking. The final time, he paid a morning call for the sole purpose of pleading his case once more. He sighed. "We none of us have gentle tempers—very hotheaded family, the yos'Galans; and the yos'Pheliums are worse. At any rate, the morning call was the nether end of too much, and she threw him out." He looked at her earnestly. "I wouldn't have you think less of her, Priscilla. She really did try very hard to be civil."
"I'm sure she did. It's irritating when people won't believe what you tell them." Her grin faded. "But if there's a—vendetta—it would be on Trader Olanek's side, wouldn't it, Captain? If he wanted to believe your sister had insulted him?"
"I should have warned you," the captain said, picking up his empty glass and sighing, "that it's a rather long story. Will you have some more wine? Thirsty work, talking."
"I'd have thought you'd be used to it."
"You wrong me, Priscilla; I'm often quiet. Reports are that I hardly ever talk in my sleep, for instance." He was at the bar. She turned in her chair, considering the fit of his shirt and the worked leather of his belt, the gentle bell of cloth from knee to instep. He always dressed with immaculate simplicity. She saw now that the fabrics were costly, the tailoring precise—not readymades from valet or general stores.
He turned around, brows twitching. "Yes?"
"You had said your Clan—Korval—is an upstart?" She stopped short of all she wished to ask, unsure of the polite way to do so.
He grinned and handed her a glass. "Oh, we're respected enough. After all, we trace our lines to Torvin and Alkia, and thence to the Old World. It is, of course, to be regretted that my father should have seen fit to allow Terran blood into the Clan, but there's nothing wrong with Terran blood that I know of. Does its job just as well as anyone else's blood. Purists may frown, but not many Clans can recite a lineage that doesn't include the odd Terran or two. My brother tells me that the Clutch-turtles simply call everyone 'The Clans of Men' and let it go at that. In a little while—according to their view of things—we'll all be one race. No Terrans. No Liadens. No half-breeds." He raised his glass. "Ready for Chapter Two?"
"Please."
"Again we start with Sav Rid, I think. Why not? He and Chelsa yo'Vaade, both of Clan Plemia. Chelsa isn't too bad a pilot but doesn't have any brains to speak of. She does what Sav Rid tells her to do. A pity.
"Also important to this story is Shan yos'Galan, who is, please remember, a fool." He paused, brows twitching. "You said, Priscilla?"
"I wanted to know how a fool became Master Trader," she repeated.
He grinned. "It's easier than you might think. And my father would settle for nothing less from me." His face became more serious. "Several people hold the opinion that Shan yos'Galan is a fool, Priscilla. There's a certain advantage to that. Several other peo
ple believe that Shan yos'Galan is not a fool, if it comforts you, but Sav Rid isn't one of them.
"To continue. In the course of his trading, Sav Rid took on a quantity of mezzik-root—highly perishable, but also highly profitable, if one happens to be going to Brinix. Sav Rid was, hence the root. He, in fact, jumped out of Tulon System, pegged for Brinix. And returned just an hour or so after the Passage docked at Tulon Prime. I met Sav Rid at the trade bar a little time after that and heard his tale. Daxflan was urgently required elsewhere on business of Clan Plemia. The mezzik-root would pass its time before he had any hope of delivery. Would I be going near Brinix? Would I consider buying the shipment at a flat figure, thus helping a fellow Liaden and enriching myself?"
He shrugged. "It was an opportunity, and I took it. It does occur that one is suddenly called away on Clan business and must dispose of cargo as it's possible. I knew nothing of the honored Trader except that he had annoyed my sister—easy enough to do. She's seldom completely in charity with me, for instance. The price was paid, the load transferred. Other business completed, the Passage jumped out-system, pegged for Brinix—which was found to be under medical quarantine and expected to remain so for the next local year, far past the time when the mezzik-root would have started to deteriorate." He paused to drink.
