by Sharon Lee
The captain shook his head. "On Priscilla Mendoza's home world, Sav Rid, you would have just now uttered an insult demanding your death for Balance. It's fortunate, isn't it, that her knowledge of our tongue is a scholar's? But I am forgetting my manners again! You are acquainted!" The light eyes were on her. "Have you no greeting for the honored Trader?"
She stared at him. Did he really expect her—And then she smiled, recalling another of Fin Ton's lessons. Loosing Gordy's hand, she bowed low.
"Forgive me the situation, Master Trader," she said in her careful High Liaden, "and believe me all joy to see you."
"What!" Sav Rid cried, visibly shaken. "How is it possible that—"
"Gentles," the magistrate said. "I must insist that we keep to the matter at hand."
"Of course, sir." The captain was contrite. "Do forgive us. My colleague is an avid student of lineage and sought enlightenment regarding Gordon's place in the family tree. To continue, indeed. The lady with the torn shirt is Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza. She is under personal contract to the captain of the Dutiful Passage, serving as librarian, pilot, and apprentice second mate." He smiled. "I'm quite happy to speak for both of them."
What was this? Pilot? Second mate in training? Priscilla tried to recall the precise phrasing of her contract, but the magistrate's voice defeated the effort.
"As all three have someone in authority to speak for them, the hearing now commences. What we know is this: Yonder knife is the property of Dagmar Collier. We have taken imprint readings and find it to be so. She does not deny it.
"It is important to note that two other sets of prints are found on the hilt, besides those of the arresting officer: those of Gordon Arbuthnot, and a faint, very blurred set which we believe to be those of Priscilla Mendoza." The magistrate paused to clear his throat importantly.
"We will hear from the arresting officer."
The cop's statement was brief and to the point. He had been hailed by Gordon Arbuthnot, who cried that there was a fight in Halvington Street. Arriving on the scene, he had found "those two persons there" in close embrace, the larger apparently engaged in squeezing the smaller breathless. The arresting officer was of the opinion that this project was near completion and so had administered a judicial stunner blast to the larger person, hand-ironed both combatants, and turned to find Gordon Arbuthnot with "that knife, there, sir," in his hand. So, in the interest of fair play, Gordy had been ironed as well, and all three brought in. The officer paused, scratched his head, and added that he had also taken from Gordon Arbuthnot a small rectangular object with a belt clip—very likely a portable comm and no harm to it. But at the time he had seen no reason to take unnecessary chances.
"Quite right," the captain said approvingly, and the cop grinned shyly.
The magistrate motioned him back. "We will now hear from Dagmar Collier."
Dagmar came forward slowly and darted a glance at Trader Olanek. He did not meet her eyes.
She made a woeful attempt to square her shoulders. Her voice when she spoke was hoarse, the words mushy. I hope I broke every tooth in her mouth, Priscilla thought.
"Prissy and me are old friends," Dagmar was telling the magistrate. "Used to serve on Daxflan together. It was just natural for me to go over and say 'hey' when I saw her walkin' down the street." She shrugged. "Must've been drunk, I guess, Your Honor, 'cause she just hauled off and hit me."
There was a short pause before the magistrate asked dryly, "Is that your statement of the affair?"
Dagmar blinked. "Yessir."
"I see. We are willing to hear you again, should something else occur to you after Priscilla Mendoza speaks."
Priscilla stood forward. "Ms. Collier and I were never friends," she began hotly. "She has stolen from me and sold my things to a—a thrift shop on Parkton—"
The magistrate raised his hand. "That is not the issue at trial here. Please limit your remarks to the incident in Halvington Street."
Priscilla bit her lip. "I saw Ms. Collier in Halvington Street," she began again, "as I was on my way back to the port. She spoke to me. I returned the greeting and tried to pass on. Ms. Collier blocked my way and grabbed me—I believe she intended rape, but that may be unjust. At the time it seemed exactly what she meant, and I—" she broke off, her eyes seeking the captain's. "I lost my temper," she said wryly. He nodded, and she turned back to the magistrate.
"I tried to defend myself against what I thought was an attack. Ms. Collier continued to block my way and at some point pulled a knife. I did disarm her, but she grabbed me. Which is how I came to be in the absurd situation from which the officer rescued me." She sighed. "That is my statement, sir."
"Very clear, Ms. Mendoza. Thank you."
"I would like to point out," Sav Rid Olanek said abruptly, "that the animosity between these two individuals seems of long standing—"
"Exactly," the captain interrupted. "in which case, Magistrate, I venture to say that each has had ample opportunity to vent her spleen. A fine, of course, is in order, for breaking the peace. But, since it is highly unlikely that they will meet again soon . . ."
Magistrate Kelbar beamed at him. "I am sure you can be trusted to control the members of your crew during the rest of your time in port, sirs. My trust in your discretion prompts me not to demand that both individuals be rendered ship-bound for that period. They will, of course, be confined to the port proper. And, there is a fine." He coughed gently. "For engaging in fisticuffs in a public thoroughfare: one hundred bits each. Drawing a deadly weapon: two hundred fifty bits. Possession of said weapon without Arsdred certificate of permission: six hundred bits. Resisting arrest—" He looked up and smiled, first at Gordy, then at the captain. "I think we might dispense with that. Transport fee: fifty bits each.
"So then, owed from Dagmar Collier, through her superior, Sav Rid Olanek: one thousand bits. Owed from Priscilla Mendoza, through her superior, Shan yos'Galan: one hundred fifty bits. Owed from Gordon Arbuthnot from his superior, Shan yos'Galan: fifty bits. You may pay cash at the teller's cage as you leave, gentles." He arose and sailed from the room, the arresting officer in his wake.
Shan considered Olanek's set face. "One thousand bits," he murmured in sympathetic Trade. "Will it put you out of pocket, Sav Rid? I can extend a loan, if you like."
"Thank you, I think not!" the other snapped, jerking his head at his crew member.
Shan sighed. "So short-tempered, Sav Rid! Not sleeping well? I do hope you're not ill. At least we know you don't have a guilty conscience, don't we? By the way, Ms. Mendoza seems to have lost a very special pair of earrings. Do you know Calintak, on Medusa? Wonderful fellow, very good-tempered. And the things he can fit in just a little bit of space: built-in sensors, trackers—that sort of thing. If you're ever in the market for something, since you wear so much jewelry . . ."
Dagmar Collier was hovering close, eyes riveted. "Sensors?" she asked with a kind of fascinated dread. "How small a space?"
"Oh, are you interested? He's quite dear, you know—but hardly any space at all. An unexceptional earring, for instance, is all the room he needs to work in. An artist—"
"Oh, have done!" Sav Rid snarled, turning on his heel. "Pay him no mind, he's a fool. Now, come!" He was gone, Dagmar following.
Shan shook his head and held out a hand to Gordy, who came and slid his own into it. "Well now, children—Ms. Mendoza?"
She was at the exhibit table, picking up the shards of crystal, one by careful one, and settling them in her palm.
"Crelm!" Gordy muttered, and went to her side. "Priscilla, what're you doing? It's busted."
She did not look away from her task. "It's all I own, anywhere, and I'm taking it with me." Her tone was perfectly flat, with an absence of emotion that raised the hairs on Shan's neck. He stepped forward quickly, pulled a square of silk from his sleeve, and dropped it in front of her.
"You'll cut yourself, Priscilla. Use this."
"Thank you." Her voice was still flat, though he fancie
d he detected a quiver of something . . . .
Hand in hand, he and Gordy waited until she had finished and tied the silk into a knot. Gordy took her hand, and, so linked, they went out to pay the cashier.
Shipyear 65
Tripday 143
First Shift
2.00 Hours
"You will do me the favor, won't you, Gordy," the captain murmured, "of neglecting to inform your mother that you've been arrested?"
"Was I?" the boy asked hazily. "I mean, I wasn't really. They didn't do anything to me."
The man laughed. "Arrested, I assure you. The details may vary by world, but the larger outlines remain constant: irons, hearings, magistrates, fines—not at all the kind of thing mothers enjoy hearing of, even when it's carefully explained that you were completely without blame. Which reminds me—how did your imprints come to be on that thing?"
"Priscilla was losing," Gordy explained. "And the knife was just lying there. I was trying to figure out how it worked . . . ."
"Yes? To what end, please?"
"Well, I thought if I cut Dagmar's arm, she'd let go."
"It's a theory," the captain admitted. "Report to Pallin Kornad after breakfast, please. I see it's time you learned how to protect yourself."
"Yes, Cap'n." He paused. "Shan?"
"Yes, acushla?"
"Is it—can I tell Grandad I was arrested? I didn't do anything wrong . . . ." This last was spoken, it seemed to Priscilla, with considerable doubt.
A boot heel scraped on the pavement as the man went down on one knee, eyes level with Gordy's.
"You will absolutely tell your grandfather," he said firmly, his big hands on the boy's round shoulders. "He will be proud of you. You acted with forethought and with honor, coming to the aid of a shipmate and a friend." He cupped a soft cheek. "You did very well, Gordy. Thank you."
"Yes." Priscilla heard her own voice from far away. "Thank you, Gordy. You saved my life."
He blinked at her over his cousin's shoulder. "I did?" She nodded, not sure what her face was doing. "She really was winning. I couldn't breathe. You did exactly right."
She should, she thought vaguely, find something more to say, but it was unnecessary; doubt had vanished from the young face. He grinned. "I'm a hero."
"You're an impossible monkey." The captain stood and held out his hand. "And you're well behind your time to return to the ship. Come along."
They walked a little way in silence. The drug was gaining the upper hand again, and Priscilla stumbled; she caught herself and asked over Gordy's head, "What was that about your sister?"
"Sav Rid's little joke," the captain said easily. "It amused him to propose marriage to the eldest of my sisters."
"What!" Gordy was outraged. "That—person? To Cousin Nova?"
"Indeed, yes. Exactly Cousin Nova. Why? Do you think Anthora might suit him better? I admit it's a thought. He so fair and she so dark . . . . But he was more enamored of fair with fair. You can't really blame him, Gordy; it's merely a matter of taste."
"What did you do?" Gordy demanded awfully, ignoring this flow of nonsense.
The man looked down at him. "What could I do? I was from home. Besides, Nova is well able to take care of herself. Simply told the fellow she'd rather mate with a Gehatian slimegrubber and sent him about his business." He sighed. "I'm afraid he didn't take it in very good part. Well, how was she to know he had a horror of the creatures? I'm sure she would have thought of something else just as revolting to compare him with, if she'd had the least idea. Very resourceful person, Cousin Nova. The more I think on it, the more certain I am that you're right, Gordy! Anthora would certainly suit him far better! A pity he didn't see it that way and allowed himself to be enraptured by a mere pretty face. Perhaps we should suggest—"
"Pretty!" the boy choked. "Cousin Nova's beautiful!"
"Well," the lady's brother conceded, "she is. But I wouldn't let it weigh too heavily with you. Gordy. Sort of thing that might happen to anyone. And she's really quite clever."
They came at length to the cradles and crossed to their shuttlepad in silence. A shadow loomed at the door, bringing two fingers up in a casual salute. "Evening, Cap'n."
"Good evening, Seth. Two passengers for you. Take good care of them, please; they both seem a bit yawnsome—is that a word?"
"Bound to be," the lanky pilot returned good-humoredly. "Not going up yourself?"
"Business, Seth. Duty calls."
"He has to get her key," Gordy said helpfully.
"Brat." His cousin sighed. "Don't forget Pallin next shift, Gordy."
"No, Cap'n—at least, yes, Cap'n. I'll remember."
The captain laughed and began to move away, then checked himself and came back, fishing in his belt. "My terrible memory! I knew there was something else. Ms. Mendoza!"
She started. "Captain?"
He was holding out a flat rectangle, a card of some sort. She took it automatically.
"Do take care of it, Ms. Mendoza," he chided gently. "It's really not the sort of thing you want to leave lying around. Good evening." He was gone.
Priscilla frowned at the card, but the uncertain light or her sedative-fogged eyes defeated the attempt to identify it. She put it in her pocket with the knotted kerchief and followed Gordy into the shuttle.
Gordy was asleep when they docked. The snap of the board being locked jerked Priscilla out of her own doze, but even the most stringent effort she was able to make would not rouse her companion from his.
Sighing, she fumbled her webbing loose, then opened his. Her several attempts to pick him up should have roused one dead, she thought foggily, but Gordy only grumbled a few sleep syllables and tried to curl farther down into the chair. Priscilla rubbed her forehead with the back of a hand and tried to apply her mind to the problem.
"Out for the count," Seth commented from beside her. "I gotta get back down. Can you carry him, or should we call Vilt?"
Priscilla gave him what she hoped was a smile. "I can carry him. Getting him up is the problem."
"Naw. Not when somebody's that far out." He bent, grabbed an arm, heaved, turned, and offered Priscilla an armful of boy.
She took Gordy and allowed herself to be escorted to the door of the cargo dock. It slid open for her, and she stepped into the corridor, blinking a little in the directionless yellow light.
Before her she saw, with the vivid disconnection of a dream, a bronze-winged dragon hovering. No. It was a painting on the wall, a smaller reproduction of the design in the reception room. Under Korval's wing, Priscilla recalled. She shifted her burden and began the long walk to the crew's quarters.
She had made it, staggering only now and then, to the top of the corridor where Gordy had his room, when she heard quick steps behind her and an exclamation.
"Priscilla! Is that Gordon? What has—is all well, my friend?"
"Well?" She considered Lina muzzily. It took several seconds to formulate an appropriate response. "Gordy's all right. It's mostly that stupid stuff they injected us with at the police station. Makes you . . . makes you groggy. Half asleep, myself."
"Ah." The other woman fell in beside her. "The police station? Does the captain know?"
Priscilla nodded, then paused to regain her balance. "He came to bail us out—dear Goddess!" She stopped, arms closing convulsively around Gordy, who muttered. "Dear Goddess," she said again, though not, Lina thought, prayerfully. "One hundred fifty bits! Out of a tenth-cantra? And the clothes . . . ." She took a hard breath and began to walk again. "Broke. No money at all."
Lina's worry increased, but she refrained from pursuing questions, merely remarking that they had reached Gordon's room and lifting his hand to lay it against the palmlock.
Priscilla laid him on the bed, pulled off his boots, straightened the blanket, and pulled it up. Lina stood by the door, watching and saying nothing.
The boy disposed comfortably, Priscilla glanced around the room, and nodded slightly, then bent and ruffled the silky hair.
She started, then completed the caress. "It's only Priscilla, Gordy. Sleep well."
Lina followed her out, stretching her short legs to keep up with the pace her friend set, even half-drugged.
At the top of the hall Priscilla made to turn right. Lina caught her arm. "No, Priscilla. Your room is this way."
"Have to go to the library," she protested. "Now."
"Not now," Lina said with decision. "Now, you must rest. The library will be in place next shift."
Priscilla shook her head. "Have to see my contract."
"Your contract? Priscilla, it is—conselem—an absurdity! What good does your contract do when you must sleep? You are signed until Solcintra. You may look at your contract any time these next four months. Come to bed."
"He lied," Priscilla said flatly, a decidedly mulish look about her lovely mouth.
Lina sighed. "Who lied? And why must—The captain lied?" She stared up at her friend. "That is not much like him, denubia. Perhaps you misunderstood."
"I'm very tired," Priscilla said clearly, "of misunderstanding. I must see my contract."
"Of course you must," Lina agreed. "It would be very bad to have misunderstood the captain. Let us go to your room and access the file from there." She slipped her arm around the other's waist.
Priscilla stiffened and moved away—a very little. Lina's eyes widened, but she said nothing, only withdrew her arm. And waited.
"All right," Priscilla said presently, the mulish look much abated. "Let's do that. Thank you, Lina."
"I am happy to help," Lina said carefully as they turned left down the hall. "What happened, my friend?"
There was a long pause before the taller woman shook herself and answered, "I was attacked on the street. Gordy tried to help, and we all three got arrested. They called the captain out of a party to—to speak for us."
"Most proper," Lina said, and stopped, waiting for Priscilla to lay her palm against the lock.
