Conflict Of Honors (26 page)

The Tree, the Gyre, the Room Serenity, the Place of watching—each had she used within the past day. She, who was nothing and no one, save that once a saint had lived within her.

Heedless of time, she closed her eyes and quested in the Inner Places, where the Old One's soul had sung in time gone past.

Moonhawk?

Silence surrounded the echo of the thought. There was no one there but Priscilla.

Priscilla knew no magic.

Magic had worked. She held to that thought and opened her eyes. Three times—four!—magic had worked. And the promise she had given Lina had held no taint of unsurety. She would not close the captain out. She would hold the Hood ready to muffle any strong outburst and spare him as much pain as she could.

The hour bell sounded, and she gasped.

Tarlin Skepelter, on her way to Service Hall 28 to replace a faulty sensor, was treated to the interesting sight of the new second mate running at top speed away from her, toward the inner bridge.

"No! Completely useless!"

She knew it before he said so and barely caught the blaze of self-fury in time to muffle it. Beside her, the captain snapped forward and swept his big hand across the board. He was out of his chair in a blur and towering over her.

"Are you
angry,
Priscilla?"

She winced at the volume and kept a firm hold on the Hood. "Yes."

"Then be angry! You're a better pilot than that!
Gordy's
better than that! Of all the inexcusable, sloppy,
ground-grubber
piloting I have ever seen—"

"And I suppose you could do better—keeping the board in half your mind and watching for echoes, too!"

"Did I tell you to watch for echoes? I told you to mind that board, Pilot! If you can't keep your whole mind right there and nowhere else, we'll suspend all lessons, now! I'll not have this ship endangered because the pilot at the board was thinking about something besides the business at hand!" He was a glittering buzz of anger. Priscilla fielded it unconsciously, even as the hold on her own rage slipped.

"I didn't ask to be on the board with a full-open empath! What am I supposed to do? Forget about the spill? What about—"

"Yes! That's precisely what you're supposed to do! Damn it—" He slammed into the copilot's chair and flung his hands out. "Priscilla, am I made of glass? Will I break, do you think, at the touch of a little well-earned self-rage?"

She was silent, seething without attempting to contain it.

The captain sighed, his pattern now containing less anger than frustration overlaying interest-admiration-warmth-friendship. "I'm not wide open, Priscilla. I don't need to be. You're coming through quite clearly without it. Also, I am not a cretin. I can adjust the level of reception, if things are so intense I find my mind wandering. Further, I am a pilot! I've worked with
dozens
of people since I began training. One of the finest pilots I ever knew was terrified every moment of duty. Another I worked with fairly often was as nearly asleep as she could be, no matter what the emergency—and her reactions were perfect. Ask her why she had done a certain thing, though, and she'd panic . . . ." He shifted, offering a smile. "I'm not fragile, friend. My word on it."

It was a temptation to extend herself, to grasp his warmth and cuddle it about her. She shook her head. "I—Lina said that—Healers are open, except for emergency. On—I was taught to remain closed unless Soul-weaving was required, and to return to Serenity once the duty was done."

His response was outraged puzzlement. "Then how do you make love?"

"It's not for that!"

The captain moved his shoulders. "Forgive me, Priscilla. It seems our training has been very different. For
this
training, however, please be assured that I can take care of myself—except against slamming doors! You are here for lessons in piloting. The next time we meet, I expect your mind to be only on piloting! If you choose to remain outside of Serenity, then don't try to damp every little twitch of irritation or jubilation. If you wish to be closed, then please make sure you are behind your Wall before you arrive."

He stood. "Today's lesson is done. I'll see you tomorrow, Priscilla."

Taam Olanek was finding the way to truth uneasy. Even the testimony of so irreproachable a witness as Mr. dea'Gauss was insufficient to rescue him from his quandary.

In charity, Nova sat silent, though they had covered the salient points again and again. She found patience for the task by recalling the countless times Shan had befuddled her. When the charm of these palled, she could begin to list the occasions on which he had sent their father into fury with his ways.

All the world knew of the unpredictability of Thodelm yos'Galan. Recrimination was useless, of course. To remind Shan of his position as Head of Line yos'Galan was to invite a blizzard of outrageous behavior, all calculated, one would swear, to bring her to the blush.

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."

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.