Conflict Of Honors

by Sharon Lee

  But it never had been said that Thodelm yos'Galan was less than honorable.

  Still, she thought, how much easier, in Taam Olanek's place, might it be to suppose that Shan had crossed finally into dishonor than to believe that Plemia had fired upon Korval?

  "This person Mendoza," Olanek said to Mr. dea'Gauss now. "I do not properly understand, I think. Who is she, sir? What is her claim in the matter?"

  So, they were at last beyond Shan and into deeper questions. Matters were progressing, she assured herself. Well and good.

  Mr. dea'Gauss cleared his throat. "Lady Mendoza is of a high House on the world of Sintia, in the Thardom Sector. Ship's records indicate that she has been offered reasoned harm by Clan Plemia, in the person of Sav Rid Olanek. Or by those to whom he stands as lord. Verification is being sought. I am certain, however, that we will find the records from the Dutiful Passage accurate." He paused.

  Delm Plemia inclined his head with Nova's silent approval. A lesser person would have murmured "Of course" to Mr. dea'Gauss in such a face. Plemia merely awaited further explanation.

  It came. "There appear to be considerations of melant'i involved. Lady Mendoza is of Terran extraction; thus, it may be some while before matters become sensible. Word has been sent to House Mendoza, informing them of the situation as it was before my return to Liad. A response has not yet reached me. In the interim, Lady Mendoza is content to walk Korval's path, so I speak for her, as well."

  "Her position?" Olanek pursued. "Some melant'i must be obvious, sir. For an instance: here it is said that she serves under personal contract. Do I learn from this that Captain yos'Galan extends the protection of Korval entire to a pleasure-love?"

  A reasonable question, Nova admitted, from one unfamiliar with Shan's habit of rescuing every lame puppy and kitten in the galaxy. Certainly nothing so untoward that Mr. dea'Gauss should stiffen and draw sharp breath.

  "At the time of my departure," he informed Plemia in accents of ice, "Lady Mendoza served the Dutiful Passage in the capacities of apprenticed second mate and second class pilot. It was she who was the pilot of duty when the attack came against the Passage, and she who prevented damage and life-loss. That she honors Captain yos'Galan with her friendship is clear. Lady Faaldom enjoys like regard. The person we speak of could bestow no honorless esteem."

  Great gods, what a paean! Nova very nearly stared at Korval's man of business.

  Taam Olanek gestured peace, light sliding off the bright enamel work of his Clan ring. "I meant no disrespect to the lady or to the captain, sir. In the service of clarity, the question demanded asking. You yourself mentioned complications of melant'i."

  Mr. dea'Gauss inclined his head. "Melant'i enters in another guise, sir. Information from House Mendoza will no doubt make matters there obvious. Are there other questions that demand the asking? Is there a way in which I might serve you further?"

  Olanek wiped his screen with a sharp wrist twist and sighed. "I believe the questions remaining are those best asked of my kin. Eldema, I will go to Daxflan and ascertain what has, and what has not, been done. I ask, in the interest of both Korval and Plemia, that Mr. dea'Gauss be allowed to accompany me."

  "I am," the old gentleman murmured, as one giving just warning, "Korval's eyes and ears."

  "For that reason do I crave your company, sir. You are known as a person of long sight and careful counsel. In such a tangle as this, it is wisdom to see that Plemia will require both."

  "Korval," Nova said calmly, "has no objection."

  Mr. dea'Gauss caught her eye for a brief moment; almost it seemed that he smiled. He inclined his head to Olanek, gesturing his willingness to serve. "I am ready to travel at Plemia's word."

  Shipyear 65

  Tripday 171

  Third Shift

  14.00 Hours

  Priscilla came to him with pilot grace, one slim hand extended, a smile of dawning delight upon her face. Scarcely breathing, he waited, dizzy and joy-filled. She had erected no Wall, shut no door—and this her choice, freely made! He turned his face into the caress, eyelashes kissing her palm even as he moved outside his own defenses.

  There was an intake of breath, expelled on soft laughter. "Shan . . . ." Her hand slid along the other cheek, cupping his face for enrapt inspection. The feeling sang between them, soaring unbearably. He felt his heart pounding and knew that hers kept pace.

  She kissed him.

  For a frenzied heartbeat he simply stood there, prisoned in reflected rapture, then he felt her question and turned his mouth more sharply; he stroking her body closer to his as their shared songs twisted each about the other, creating one.

  An alarm began to scream.

  She started—and was gone, even as he tried to hold her. "Priscilla!"

  His own cry woke him, though the alarm's din was louder. Snapping around in the tumbled bed, he slammed a violent palm against the shutoff and collapsed, eyes screwed tight against the rising lights. "Damn, damn, damn, damn!"

  The music came up: Artelma's "Festival Delights," rendered with passion on the omnichora, by his brother Val Con.

  "Damn," Shan said once more, and headed for the 'fresher.

  * * *

  Some time later he passed through the dining hall on his way back from the cargo master's office. Ken Rik had been a bit less testy this morning. Perhaps he was getting over his pet at Mr. dea'Gauss's abrupt summons back to Liad.

  Priscilla and Rusty were sitting with their heads together at a corner table. Belly tight with jealousy, he helped himself to a cup of coffee and a ripe strafle melon.

  Healer! he jeered at himself. You can't even control your own emotions. And what does she project that you dare be jealous? Friendship? Those small bursts of appreciation, of comfort perceived, of desire . . . He drew a hard breath and bit into the fruit with a snap. Those are the sorts of things one might feel about anyone. Do strive for some conduct, Shan.

  "How do, Cap'n!" BillyJo greeted him from the door of the galley. "You'll be havin' a real breakfast, won't you? Can't live 'til luncheon on an apple."

  He grinned at her, talked a few moments about kitchen operations, accepted the sweet roll she pressed upon him, and refilled his cup. He left the dining hall by the side door, resolutely keeping his eyes away from the private corner.

  The message-waiting light was blinking on the captain's screen. He put the sweet roll on the edge of the bar and hit GO as he slid into the chair

  No more pin-beams from his sister, he noted. That was one fear laid to rest. He sipped coffee and scanned the directory. Nothing urgent. Well, tag the letter from Dortha Cayle. Maybe this time they had a deal. What was this?

  A pin-beam from Sintia, directed to Mr. dea'Gauss?

  He queried the item, frowning, found it was in reply to a message sent, and called it up, his memory stirring. Priscilla was from a powerful family, wasn't that it? Mr. dea'Gauss had wished to apprise them of circumstances.

  TO DEA'GAUSS CARE OF TRADE VESSEL DUTIFUL PASSAGE. FROM HOUSE MENDOZA CIRCLE RIVER SINTIA. RE QUERY PRISCILLA DELACROIX Y MENDOZA. DAUGHTER OF HOUSE BEARING THAT NAME BORN (LOCAL) YEAR 986, COMMENDED TO GODDESS (LOCAL) YEAR 1002. MESSAGE ENDS.

  He stared at the screen. "Commended to the Goddess"? Dead? His heart stuttered as he thought of Priscilla dead, then he shook his head sharply.

  "Don't be stupid, Shan."

  He cleared the screen and demanded Priscilla's filed identifications as well as those requested from Terran census as a matter of mindless form.

  The figures appeared side by side on the screen: retinal pattern, fingerprints, blood type, gene map.

  The woman who called herself Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza was Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza, to a factor of .999.

  A Mendoza of Sintia . . . . He remembered the clammy wave of desperation, Priscilla's colorless face, her hand, warding him away: "You mustn't ask . . . ."

  But Mr. dea'Gauss had asked, damn him, and the answer returned was worse than none at all.

  He had
an impulse to destroy the message. But he knew that was childish—and useless. If a reply did not arrive within a reasonable time, Mr. dea'Gauss would merely query again.

  Well, she was rather active for a corpse. He sipped coffee, staring at nothing in particular. Save the captain. Save the ship . . . .

  "What in space can she have done?"

  He sighed and finished his coffee.

  The easiest—simplest—explanation was that she had run away. It was not hard to see how Priscilla might have become disillusioned in a rigid societal structure, with all power belonging to the priestesshood.

  So, then. The young Priscilla departs; her family declares her dead, for honor's sake. What choice, after all, would they have? The local records reflect the "fact."

  But Terran census, above mere local politics, still carries one Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza alive, alive—oh.

  Simple. Comforting. Even logical. Except something was missing.

  "She could be a criminal," he told the room loudly. "I don't believe it. Lina wouldn't believe it. Mr. dea'Gauss, with no hint of empathy about him, wouldn't believe it. Ah, hell . . . ."

  Local crimes were varied and interesting, as any space traveler could attest. A felony on one planet was conduct that on the next would not cause even the mildest of middle-class grandmothers to blanch.

  Ostracism. A crime earning that punishment would have to be extreme.

  From world to world there was some variation in the most heinous crimes. Not much.

  Kin slaying. Rape. Child stealing. Murder. Mind tampering. Enslavement. Blasphemy.

  Murder? She had certainly been ready to wreak mayhem upon Sav Rid Olanek. He retained a vivid memory of that initial interview, with its racket of fury, terror, and exhaustion. Murder was possible.

  Kin slaying?

  Child stealing?

  Mind tampering? Enslavement? She was an empath—and a powerful one. Those crimes, too, were possible.

  Blasphemy?

  He sighed. Wonderful word, blasphemy. It might mean anything.

  An exact definition of her crimes was required—for the ship, and for the Clan. Korval owed her much. It was vital that the person to whom the Clan was in debt be known—in fullness. Priscilla Mendoza had demonstrated aboard the Dutiful Passage a melant'i both graceful and strong. She had not, however, come into existence two months ago, much as he might wish it. The captain of the Passage could order the necessary actions, or Mr. dea'Gauss could order them, for the good of Korval. In either case, Shan yos'Galan's wishes and desires meant nothing. Necessity existed.

  Hating necessity, he tapped in a new sequence and turned to issue instructions to the tower.

  Shipyear 65

  Tripday 171

  Fourth Shift

  16.00 Hours

  "Priscilla?" Gordy interrupted apologetically. "Morning, Rusty. Priscilla, I was thinking. Could you teach me to be a dragon?"

  Rusty glowered; she caught the flicker of his irritation and let it pass.

  "Dragons are possible," she admitted, considering the radiance of the boy's anticipation, "but very difficult. Some people work for years and never achieve the Dragon. It requires study and discipline." And the soul of a saint? Lina had been at pains these last busy weeks to demonstrate how empaths conducted themselves in the wide universe. Melant'i figured prominently in these lessons. Souls did not.

  At her elbow, Gordy sighed. "But you know how, don't you?"

  Did she? The Dragon was a spell of the Inmost Circle—but Moonhawk's soul was an old one. She had known the way . . . .

  Before her mind's eye the pattern rolled forth; the Inner Ear caught the first rasp of leather wings against the air. She took a breath and reversed the pattern.

  "Yes," she said, around her own wonder, "I know how. If you truly want to learn, I can begin to teach you. But there's a lot of study between the Tree and the Dragon, Gordy, and no guarantee that you'll be able to master it."

  "Could Rusty be a dragon?" Gordy asked, trying perhaps to establish a range.

  "I don't want to be a dragon," that person announced with spirit. "I like being a radio tech just fine. Don't you have someplace you need to be, kid?"

  "Not right now. I've gotta help Ken Rik in twenty minutes. Priscilla, how come not everybody can learn this dragon thing? The Tree's easy."

  "So it is." The Tree, the Room Serenity—anyone might learn these. The larger magics? Lina claimed no soul but her own. "The Tree is a very simple spell, Gordy. Only a good thing. The Dragon is both—a weapon and a shield. It's not to be used lightly. You could live a whole life without knowing need great enough to call the Dragon."

  He frowned. "You mean the dragon is a good thing and a bad thing? That's as goofy as Pallin's river."

  "Paradox is powerful magic. The River of Strength is a basic paradox. The Dragon is immensely complex, Gordy. You must learn to balance the good against the evil, the strength that preserves against the fire that consumes. You must be careful that the fire does not consume your will, or sheer strength override your . . . heart. You must not—soar—too close to the sun."

  Rusty's uneasiness pierced the wordnet. She pushed away from the table and smiled at them both. "Or be late for your piloting lesson with the captain. Talk with me more later, Gordy. If you're still interested. Rusty, thank you, my friend. I won't see you at prime, I'm afraid. My schedule's blocked out for the next two shifts."

  He whistled. "That's some piloting lesson."

  "No time with Kayzin Ne'Zame today." She grinned. "A vacation."

  Rusty's laughter escorted her to the door.

  * * *

  She reached the shuttlebay before him. Just.

  "Good morning, Priscilla! On time, as usual."

  "Good morning, Captain."

  He stopped in his tracks, swept a bow that the carryall slung over his shoulder should have made impossible. "Second Mate. Good things find you this day. I perceive that I am in disgrace."

  "As if it would matter to you if you were!" she retorted, receiving the first rays of his pattern with something akin to thirst. Two weeks ago she would have wondered at such temerity. It was incredible how quickly she had come to depend on a sense that could not be hers.

  "It would matter a great deal," he said, waving her into the bay before him. "Nice day for a shuttle trip, don't you think?"

  It was at least reasonable. The Passage was currently in normal space, ponderously approaching Dayan in the Irrobi System.

  "If, in the judgment of the master pilot, one requires more board-time in shuttle," she said.

  "High in the boughs today, aren't you? Practice makes perfect, as Uncle Dick is wont to say. Roll in, Priscilla. Won't do to be late."

  He dropped the carryall by the copilot's chair and slid in, his eyes on the board as he adjusted the webbing. Priscilla strapped herself into the pilot's seat, feeling his excitement as if it were her own: sheer schoolboy glee at finagling a day without tutors or overseers, the thrill of some further anticipation riding above his usual pervasive delight. And a glimmer of something else, which she had first taken for his well-leashed nervous energy but now perceived as an edge, almost like worry.

  "Board to me, please," he murmured, hands busy over the keys.

  Obedient, she shunted control of the ship to the copilot's board and leaned back, watching.

  Lights glowed and darkened; chimes, beeps, and buzzes sounded as he ran the checks with a rapidity that would have dizzied any but another pilot. Air was evacuated from the bay; the hatch in the Passage's outer hull slid down, and they were tumbling away. Shan laughed softly, executed a swift series of maneuvers, cleared screens and instruments with the same flourish, and reassigned the board to her.

  "Screen, please."

  She provided it, wary now that it was too late.

  The Dutiful Passage was ridiculously far away, big as a moon in the bottom left grid. Irrobi's four little worlds hung placidly beneath her.

  Shan pointed at the second planet. "I
want to be there, please. In—" He paused for a swift silver glance at the boardclock. "—eight hours, I wish to be docking at Swunaket Port. See to it." He spun the chair, snapped the webbing back, and reached for the carryall. At his touch it became a portable screen and desk. Radiating unconcern, he began to work.

  Priscilla clamped her jaw on a caustic remark and began the dreary task of determining where exactly they were in relation to where the captain wished them to be.

  Dayan

  First Sunrise

  "Swunaket Port, Captain. The pilot regrets that we have landed five Standard Minutes beforetime."