Conflict Of Honors

by Sharon Lee

  He looked up, blinking absently. Since his pattern for the past two hours had been the steady buzz of concentration—as perhaps when one played chess—this ploy failed to deceive her.

  "Still steamed, Priscilla?" The absent look faded into a grin.

  She willed her lips into a straight line. "It was a rotten trick."

  "I remember thinking so when my father pulled it on me," he said sympathetically. "Other things, too. Most of them sadly unfilial. You did quite well, by the way, especially when we hit that bit of turbulence—all the lovely hailstones! Really, the local weather has cooperated beautifully!"

  The laughter caught her unaware, filling her belly and chest, heart and head, and, finally, the cabin. "You are a dreadful person!"

  Shan sighed and began to reassemble the portable desk. "My brother's aunt, my eldest sister—now you. I bow to accumulated wisdom, Priscilla."

  "I should think so!" The webbing snapped back into its roller as she stood. "The pilot awaits the captain's further orders."

  He set the box aside and stood, stretching with evident enjoyment. "The captain does not require the pilot's services at present, thank you. He does, however, desire the second mate to accompany him to a certain place in the town where business is to be conducted."

  She regarded him suspiciously. "What sort of business?"

  "Come, come, Priscilla, I'm a Trader. I have to trade sometime, don't I? To preserve the illusion, if nothing else."

  He bowed slightly, ironically. "And I have need of your—countenance—here. I will be walking a proper distance behind you. The address we go to is in Tralutha Siamn. The name of the firm is Fasholt and Daughters." He waved a big hand, ring glinting. "Lead on!"

  * * *

  She stopped in the shadow of the gate, Shan close behind her, and stared into the street.

  Bathed in the butter-yellow light of the smaller sun, women hurried or strolled, singly or in pairs. Behind each, at a respectful three-pace distance, came a man or boy, sometimes two. One elderly woman strolled by on the arm of a younger one, both expensively jeweled and dressed, followed by a train of six boys, each heartbreakingly lovely in sober tunic and slacks.

  Priscilla frowned after them. The boys radiated a uniform contentment. Playthings, she thought. Well cared for—perhaps even beloved—pets.

  "Well, Priscilla?" His voice was very quiet, with mischief and something more sober spilling from him.

  She turned her head to glare. "Am I suppose to own you?"

  He nodded. "But don't repine." He felt the fabric of his wide sleeve between two judgmental fingers, tapped the master's ring and the intricate silver belt buckle, and stroked light fingers down a soft-clad thigh. "You obviously pamper me."

  She flushed. "I can't think why."

  "Unkind, Priscilla. I'm counted not unskilled. Also, I'm a pilot, a mechanic, a good judge of wines, fabrics, spices—"

  "And an incurable gabster!" she finished with half-amused vehemence. "If you were mine, I'd have you beaten!"

  The slanted brows lifted. "Violence? You might damage the goods, exalted lady. Best to attempt to barter for one less noisy if this one's voice displeases you."

  "Don't," she begged him, "tempt me." Back stiff, she turned and marched off.

  Head down to hide his grin, Shan followed.

  * * *

  Lomar Fasholt was round-faced and rumpled; her tunic was a particularly pleasing shade of pink. She smiled widely and dismissed her daughter with a nod as Priscilla entered her office.

  "A good day to you, Sister Mendoza," Lomar said heartily, coming around the gleaming thurlwood desk and extending a fragrant hand. Priscilla took it and grinned with relief.

  "A good day to you, also, sister."

  Lomar laughed gently, her eyes going over Priscilla's shoulder. "Shannie! What a sight for old eyes you are! Have you decided to marry me, after all? Your room stands ready."

  He laughed and came forward to bow: the bow of honored esteem, Priscilla saw. "It's good to see you, Lomar," he said gently. "How many husbands do you have now?"

  "Eight—can you believe it? But it's no use, Shannie, I can't not make money! And the more I make, the more husbands they insist I take." She shook her head. "The newest is only a cub, the same age as my youngest daughter! What do they—" Her hands fluttered. "Oh, well, I've set him to be schooled, poor lamb. Though it's hard to find tutors who don't feel it below their dignity to teach a boy. But here I'm rambling on, and you both standing! Come, sit down."

  "I don't think I'd do well, do you," Shan pursued, "as the ninth? There are certain freedoms I'm accustomed to." He grinned and slouched into a chair, legs thrust out before him. "Besides, I have a minor skill at making money, too. How many husbands can you support?"

  "Oh, a few more, certainly. Though not as many as they'll insist upon. If I were twenty years younger, I'd leave this silly planet and set up somewhere else. I don't know why my daughters stay—true speech!" She sat, embracing them with her smile. "Well, I thought you'd say no, my dear, but one can hope. You'd certainly keep me laughing. Why are you here, Shannie?"

  Priscilla caught the flicker of his puzzlement before he replied.

  "I'm here because I have items to trade. Korval has traded with Fasholt these last two generations."

  "And will do so no more. I'd hoped my message was clear." The round face turned sad. "It's true, isn't it, Shannie, that your family—your Clan—is headed by a man?"

  He frowned and straightened a little in the chair. "Val Con is Heir Lineal, surely—Delm-to-be. But the yos'Pheliums aren't traders, Lamar; the yos'Galans are. Two different lines."

  She considered that for a moment, then: "Who is the mother of your—Line—then, Shannie? No, that's wrong, isn't it? I don't know the right word."

  "Thodelm," he supplied, his puzzlement increasing. "I am. Lamar, what is this? Have we slighted you in some way? Have you complaint of our policy, our price? Surely it can be mended. We've dealt together so long."

  "Do you think I don't know it? Long, mutually profitable, and always such pleasant visits! Your father, always willing to sit, take a glass or two, and tell me about goings-on in the wide galaxy. You the same as he . . . ." She smiled wistfully. "Things would have been better, Shannie, if you had been a girl."

  Shan was sitting very tall, intent on the woman's face. "Lomar, I'm at a loss. I've been male all my life, and my father before me! The trade has always gone well."

  "Didn't I say so?" She sighed, radiating grief and affection. "It's a new law, Shannie. From the temple. The thrice-blessed have instructed us to have no trade with any families but those who are properly headed by a female. To trade with no ship, except when captain and Trader are women." She fidgeted with an oddment of stone on her desk, then looked up sharply. "It's Law, Shannie."

  "Lomar." Shan was speaking very carefully. "The contract between Clan Korval and the Fasholt family dates back to our grandmothers. It reads—if memory will serve me today—yes: 'Between Petrella yos'Galan, or assignees, and Tuleth Fasholt, or assignees.'" He moved his shoulders—not quite a shrug—and smiled. "Assignees, both."

  "I know," she said, shaking her head. "It seems to hold some hope, doesn't it? I put the case forth, adding that it is the custom among outworlders to consider women and men equal." She grimaced. "The thrice-blessed were quite clear: trade is permitted only with those families or ships which are now headed by women. Because outworlders follow unnatural custom is no reason for us to do the same."

  "After all," Shan said softly, "the Goddess made us all in Her image."

  "Don't blaspheme, Shannie."

  Priscilla stirred. "That is what we are taught—on Sintia."

  The older woman smiled sadly. "This is not Sintia, sister. Here we follow the temple's instructions. Or find ourselves broken into bits and scattered, mother from daughter, and sister from sister, across the world."

  Priscilla raised her hand and traced the Sign to Forefend in the air between them. Lomar nodded.

/>   "So, I hope, as well. But it seems that my wishes are not to be fulfilled in this lifetime. Perhaps the next turn of the Wheel will find me in a happier time."

  "So might it be," Priscilla murmured and Lomar bowed her head.

  Shan cleared his throat. "Is it permitted by the—thrice-blessed?—that I speak to you of an item which belongs to a member of my crew? Lady Faaldom, who is Head of her Line—and female! Priscilla will attest my word. Or shall we go away?"

  She considered him. "Is this item truly the possession of Lady Faaldom, Shannie? Why didn't she come to me herself?"

  He looked, Priscilla thought, a little hurt. "Of course it's Lina's cargo. I said so, didn't I? As to why she didn't come herself, why should she? I'm Master Trader, she's librarian. It's reasonable that I speak for her in the matter."

  Lomar shook her head. "If she's sworn to you, Head of her Family or not—I'm sorry, Shannie. The Law is the Law. I don't dare."

  With a flash of vivid concern, Shan leaned forward abruptly, extending a hand across the desk. "Lomar, come away!"

  She reached out and patted his hand. "There, now, dear . . . What a good boy you are, Shannie! But it will be all right."

  "It will not be all right!" he snapped. "You know and I know that it will become less and less right. Cut off trade with half the galaxy? It's insanity—worse! Suicidal. You'll starve. If the luck rides your shoulder. If not—a society that enslaves half its population? Lomar, what happens when the slaves see the masters are weak?"

  "Revolution," Priscilla said in a low voice, feeling prophecy stir within her. "War. Hatred. Death."

  "I have read history, sister." Lomar sighed and stroked Shan's hand again. "Should I go without a bit to buy a guidebook, Shannie? My assets must be liquidated. That takes time, careful planning. And my daughters. It's not possible. Not now." She sat back. Priscilla thought she looked older all at once.

  Shan sat poised, tension singing through him. Then he, too, sat back, sighing. "Of course. You'll do as you think wise. Do you have my pin-beam code, Lomar?"

  She laughed a little. "Your personal code and the code for the Dutiful Passage. Why?"

  "A favor, for the friendship we hold each other. When you're ready, call me. Transport will be provided. Also, I'll engage to be second partner in any business you care to establish."

  She laughed. "Absurd creature! Why, again?"

  Shan did not even smile. "Your credit is here. To set up elsewhere, you'll need local credit. With me as your second partner, there will be no problem." He did smile then, tiredly. "You do make money, Lomar. I know it. Why shouldn't I lend you aid in return for a profit I don't have to work for?"

  She shook her head. "But you're local on Liad, Shannie. I don't—"

  "Korval's credit," he interrupted gently, "is local everywhere. Except, perhaps, here."

  There was a brief pause before she spread her hands. "A silent partner, then. For; say, five years? Ten, it had better be. Then I'll buy you out."

  He nodded. "Easily arranged. But a mere business matter. The important thing is that you move you and yours as soon as may be—forgive my presumption, old friend. Line yos'Galan will be happy—joyful—to guest you for a time, so you may look about and make informed decisions."

  "You're a good boy, Shannie," she said again. "I'll remember. Now, my dear, I'm afraid I'm going to have to bid you both good-bye."

  "Have we endangered you, sister?" Priscilla asked as they moved toward the door.

  Lomar smiled and patted her hand, too. "Bless you, child, things aren't that bad yet. But it's best not to push what Shannie calls 'the luck.' Walk in Her smile, now, both of you."

  * * *

  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 . . . ."