The Dragon Variation

by Sharon Lee

  "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 people 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.

  "The tower manager was polite—and astonished. Daxflan, under Captain yo'Vaade, had been in orbit not many days since and had promised to deliver news of the quarantine to Tulon."

  Priscilla took a breath. "How much did you lose?"

  "Forty cantra. But I did enhance
and improve my reputation as a most wonderful fool, which must be counted a gain." He shook his head.

  "By the time we got back into Tulon, the story was all over the trade bar. The report had been delivered two minutes after the Passage jumped out. Daxflan was gone, having hired a new cargo master."

  "All that for—Balance—for being insulted by your sister?" Priscilla was frowning.

  "Now there," the captain said, "I'm not at all certain. Nova is old enough to mind her own honor. If Sav Rid had a quarrel with her reading of his character, then his satisfaction lies with her. He might have assumed that I forbade the match, as Head of Line, you see. I didn't, and probably wouldn't have, if she'd set her heart on him. It never came to me at all; I learn everything after the fact, and in pieces—which, come to think of it, is the only way you learn anything from him—from Val Con, who was kind enough to show Sav Rid the door on the occasion of his morning call." The movement of his shoulders was not quite a shrug.

  "For whatever reason, a debt is owed—has been owing. Sav Rid's belief that I am too foolish to be considered an able—" He stopped, brows contracting. "Here's a thing that doesn't happen often," he murmured. "Forgive me, Priscilla; my Terran seems to be lacking. Can it be debt-partner?" He sipped wine, considering the carpet with absent intensity.

  "Say debt-partner," he decided after a moment. "It makes less nonsense than the other possibilities."

  Priscilla shifted in her chair. "This happened at Tulon?"

  He glanced up. "Yes. At the beginning of our run."

  "And you still owe him for—dear Goddess—forty cantra?" The amount of the loss was staggering.

  "Forty cantra's the least of it. I owe him a lesson to treat me with courtesy and respect, not to mention honesty." He sipped, eyes on her face. "These things take time and planning, Priscilla."

  "So it was lucky that I came here asking for a job," she said, making the connections rapidly. "I could be a very useful weapon."

  "Now, Priscilla, for space sake, don't get into hyper again!" He was in front of her, hands spread-fingered and soothing. "I'd have given you a job if Sav Rid were my best friend! Only a lunatic would turn down someone of your potential." He grinned at her. "Foolish, yes. Crazed, no. And it's not a question of giving. You're earning your pay."

  "Am I?" she demanded, refusing to give in to her desire to be mollified. "And when will I start training as second mate?"

  "You've started," he told her, lowering his hands slowly. "Ken Rik thinks very well of you. So does Tonee. And Lina. And Seth, Vilobar, Gordy, BillyJo, Vilt, Rusty, and Master Frodo. If you keep on at this rate, you'll have the expertise by Solcintra. You already have the ability. Are you angry, Priscilla? Don't you want to learn the job?"

  "Of course I want to learn it," she said irritably. "I just would have appreciated being told instead of finding out by accident."

  "High-handed," he said mournfully. "I'll try to curb it, but don't expect miracles. I've been this way a long time."

  "You're not much older than I am," she told him severely. "How did you manage that trick with my record—dated last week! And no mention of theft or jumping ship."

  "Oh." He drifted back to the desk, hoisted himself up, and recaptured his glass. "More high-handedness, I'm afraid, Priscilla. Please try to bear with me." He drank. "I contacted the captain of Dante for a more specific recommendation, took every word as truth, and pin-beamed your updated record to VanDyk with a notation that it superseded all previously dated information."

  He grinned at her. "Sav Rid had ruined your record within the sector; but he's tight-fisted, and the courier bounce to VanDyk will take months. Just imagine his unhappiness when he finds his report of your nefarious activities returned to him marked 'Superseded by Data Attached.' Do you think he'll file an official complaint? And risk a hearing into the specifics of your so-called crimes? Will he insist that his very negative report be inserted next to all those glowing ones?" He raised his glass in salute. "I think not."

  "You pin-beamed . . . Captain, do you know how expensive pin-beaming is?"

  "No. Tell me." The silver eyes were laughing at her.

  She frowned, rediscovered her glass, and took a healthy swallow.

  "Don't worry about it, Priscilla We've got a pin-beam on board—Rusty's favorite toy. One of the services the Passage offers the more backward of our ports is the use of the pin-beam. For a fee, of course. I'm well paid, by contemplating the expression on Sav Rid's face when he reads 'Data Attached'—Dinner at long last!" he interrupted himself as the door chimed.

  Gordy grinned from behind the serving table. "I'm on time," he pointed out with considerable pride. He parked the table and came around to Priscilla. "Now you're a hero, too."

  "No," she said with decision. "I'm not a hero, Gordy."

  He tipped his head, clearly puzzled, and turned to the captain. "Shan? Isn't she?"

  "She just said she wasn't, didn't she, Gordy? People have a right to define who they are, don't they? If Priscilla doesn't want to be a hero right now, she doesn't have to be. It's probable that she's hungry. Very difficult to be heroic when you're hungry."

  The boy laughed and went to the table to begin unfolding leaves, and releasing odors. Priscilla suddenly realized that she was very hungry.

  "Ken Rik said to tell you the nerligig works fine," he said over his shoulder.

  The captain stared at him. "It does? He tried it on all settings?"

  Gordy nodded. "The case is pretty dented, he said, but since it's for attention getting, that doesn't matter." He paused to glance at his cousin. "He really did say that."

  "Of course he did. Ken Rik doesn't believe in curbing his tongue for anyone. I'd be seriously concerned for his health if he started now. Besides, he met me when I was younger than you are, and twice as clumsy. No doubt that makes it occasionally hard to proffer the appropriate respect. What about the tent? Has he gotten a new sample case together? And he'll—no, never mind; I'll wander over and speak with him later. Is prime ready yet?"

  "Whist, now, Johnny Galen," Gordy murmured in an exaggerated accent.

  The captain laughed and drank wine. "Intolerable puppy. I bear that from your grandfather. But I'm bigger than you are. Please try to keep it in mind."

  "Bully," Gordy said, settling plates amid an amazing amount of clatter.

  "High-handed," the captain corrected, and grinned at Priscilla, who dropped her eyes.

  Gordy stepped back. "Ready. Should I stay?"

  The captain glanced at him in surprise. "Did I ask you to dinner, Gordon? Forgive me, the invitation slipped my mind. I seem to recall a report that you've fallen behind in your studies, a circumstance your grandfather, my uncle, would not forgive me. We're due for a review, aren't we? At breakfast."

  Gordy swallowed visibly. "Yessir."

  "That bad?" He raised his glass. "Well, better see what you can catch up on beforehand. And mind you're in bed at a reasonable hour. I won't need you anymore."

  "Yessir," Gordy said again, looking so comically crestfallen that Priscilla had to forcefully swallow the rising laughter. "G'night, Cap'n. G'night, Priscilla."

  "Good night, Gordy," she said, smiling at him warmly.

  "Good night, Gordy." The captain reached over to the boy and ruffled his hair lightly. "Do sleep well."

  The boy smiled up at him, made an awkward bow, and departed, the door hissing closed behind him.

  "Now, then, Priscilla, if you'll pull up the chairs, I'll serve us. I hope you're as hungry as I am."

  A little time later, the edge of hunger blunted, she leaned back and considered the top of his head and the thick, well-cut hair gleaming in the room's soft light.

  "Johnny Galen?" she wondered.

  He glanced up, smiling. "It's my Uncle Richard's fancy that Liadens are the 'little people' of Old Terra's legends. Thus, Arthur Galen, Johnny, Nora, and Annie Galen. And their foster brother, the king of Elfland."

  "Oh, no!" A chuckle escaped, but she didn't notice.


  "Oh. yes," he assured her. "Complete with 'my liege' and 'your highness.' Pretty comical, actually. My father finally did manage to put a stop to it, but I think he had to resort to threats."

  "But he let himself be called Arthur, and you Johnny?"

  "Well, no, not exactly," he said, reaching for his glass. "He didn't answer to 'Arthur,' you see, so if Uncle Dick really wanted to speak with him, he had to use 'Er Thom.' I don't mind 'Johnny'—my mother called me 'Shannie' more often than not—and Anthora was always 'Annie.' To the best of my knowledge, Nova never did answer to 'Nora.'" He sipped. "I hope Val Con doesn't feel he owes balance for the king routine. I rather doubt it. Whatever his faults, Uncle Richard is a master storyteller. And Val Con's addicted to stories."

  Priscilla frowned down at the table, then glanced up. "Captain? What is a debt-partner?"

  He set his glass aside and picked up his tongs, readdressing dinner. Priscilla hesitated, then returned to her own plate, wondering if she had offended.

  "A debt-partner," the captain said slowly, "is one with whom you are engaged in a balancing of accounts." He glanced at her quickly from beneath his lashes. "There are, as I mentioned before, many rules governing revenge—Balance—and how it might be achieved. One of them is that Balance is only owing respected persons. Animals, for instance, may not claim debt-right." He paused, watching her face carefully.

  "It," Priscilla whispered, her spoon forgotten halfway to her mouth. "He called us 'it,' Gordy and me."

  "So he did," the captain agreed carefully. "One of the least attractive things about the High Tongue is that it's so easy to deny worth." He looked at her closely. "I didn't call you 'it,' Priscilla. Of all the people in the galaxy, I'd be among the last to do so. But Sav Rid believes that people who aren't Liaden aren't—people." He raised his glass and took a sip. "What he had done to you on Jankalim, he would never have ordered done to another Liaden. Even one he considered a fool of the first order, completely careless of his personal honor, the honor of his Line, and of his ship." He grinned. "He thought he'd gotten away clean, Priscilla. Imagine his depression when I not only turn up to bail you out, after he thought you safely disposed of, but uttering threats about earrings, guilty consciences—little enough. But he knows he's gotten away with nothing. He may still doubt my ability to do it, but he knows I'll attempt balance."