Conflict Of Honors (33 page)

"Since you ask so nicely. Not likely to do you much good though, my precious." He wobbled to his feet but would not lean his weight upon her. Unsteadily, he laid his hand against the inner door.

She coaxed him to lie flat, unsealed the tight dress shirt, then sat stroking his hair and murmuring, weaving a net of warm comfort and loading it with the desire to sleep deeply and long.

After a time his eyes closed, his breathing lengthened.

Lina continued her weaving and stroking until she sensed that he had reached the first depths, where prime healing begins. She slid from the bed and spread the coverlet gently over him, dimmed the lights, and disarmed the alarm. Kayzin had agreed that the captain's rest should not be interrupted untimely.

Affairs ordered to her satisfaction, Lina bent and stroked his cheek. "Sleep well, old friend." And then she was gone.

The cab pulled to the edge of the pedstrip and stopped. The driver looked over his shoulder and said something in a barbaric garble. Sav Rid stared at him coldly.

"The vehicle can go no farther," the driver announced in abrupt Trade. "Pedestrian traffic only inside the port. The fare's fivebit."

Sav Rid extended the proper coin silently and exited the cab. Behind him the driver spat between his teeth and muttered, "Louse!" But the action was beneath Sav Rid's notice, the single word in Terran.

He walked cautiously through the crowded port, intensely aware of his lack of guard. Dagmar Collier had not been at the rendezvous point this morning. He wondered what might have happened to the creature, then put the thought away with an impatient shrug. Who, after all, really cared? If Dagmar Collier chose to jump ship before the run was through, that was certainly its own affair.
Daxflan
would make good use of the unclaimed wages.

A man was coming purposefully toward him down the pedstrip: older with more gray than black in his thinning hair. Sav Rid froze.

His Delm continued briskly forward, then stopped at the proper distance and inclined his head. "Kinsman. I give you good day."

He managed a bow. "As I give you good day, kinsman and Delm. It surprises me to find you here, so far from home and House."

"No more," the elder said dryly, "than it surprises me to find you here, when the port master reports
Daxflan
absent."

"We hold orbit about the fourth planet out, my Delm. It has been found more—convenient—to use another vessel to bring goods from
Daxflan
to prime orbit."

"Indeed." Taam Olanek extended an arm, smiling coolly. "Walk with me, I beg you. I am curious about this so convenient method. Have you subcontracted your cargoes to others, Sav Rid?"

They walked a few paces in silence.

"It became necessary," Sav Rid murmured, "for
Daxflan
to purchase a subsidiary vessel to act as shuttle from
Daxflan
to berth. The method is quite simple, sir, and serves us well."

"Am I to understand," Plemia demanded, "that you have made
Daxflan,
in essence, a
warehouse?"

"Exactly so," Sav Rid said, pleased.

His Delm drew breath. "I see. Forgive my question, kinsman, but such a purchase as a trading vessel . . . It seems that I surely would have noted the passage of a so large a voucher across my desk. Yet I recall nothing."

Sav Rid smiled, triumphantly oblivious to the worry in the other's face. "It was a small matter, sir; there was no need to resort to credit vouchers. We paid cash."

"Cash," Plemia repeated tonelessly. He was silent a moment or two as they walked. Then he straightened abruptly, renewing his grip on Sav Rid's arm. "It only now returns to me, kinsman—the matter of which I wished to speak. I have heard from the port master that a member of your crew—one Dagmar Collier—has been found dead in the city outside the port."

"So, that is what became of it," Sav Rid said calmly. "I had wondered. Well, it always had a quarrelsome nature."

"Had she?" Taam asked softly around the sudden ice in his throat. "And how long had Dagmar Collier served you, kinsman?"

Sav Rid moved his shoulders. "Two or three trips, I believe."

"Ah." Taam stopped, whirling on the other. "Sav Rid, a woman who has been in your service these four years has died! Do you not at least go to the precinct house and claim the body, that it might be sent properly to her kin?"

There was honest puzzlement in the young face. "No, why should I? I doubt it had kin. It was Terran, you see," he explained more fully in the face of his Delm's further silence.

"Terrans are not all kinless folk, Sav Rid," Taam murmured, his eyes filling as pity unexpectedly overtook dread. "They are people, even as we are." Still there was only puzzled confusion in the eyes watching his. He touched the smooth cheek gently. "And if they were not, my child,
we
are people. It is our burden and our pride to behave with honor, always."

"Yes, surely. But a Terran, sir . . . ."

"Never mind, child. It will be attended to." He took Sav Rid's arm again and resumed the walk. "I hear from Korval that you and young Shan attempt to balance some puppy accounts. Are you not too old for such mischief, Sav Rid?"

The arm in his had stiffened, as had the young face. "It is not mischief, sir; it is earnest. I will have yos'Galan on its knees—hideous brother and first sister! Aye, and young Val Con, as well! How dare he treat a guest so? It was sheer insult, sir! They gave no consideration to that due one of Plemia! They will learn—and not soon forget! 'Korval,' Chelsa bleats, with fear in her face! A rabble of ill-raised brats! There is balance owing, sir, and it will be obtained. That I promise!"

"I see," Taam said again sadly. He took a breath. "Then you will not be averse, I think, to this other news I bring. Korval demands a meeting, in sight of port master and witnesses, to establish balance and put paid to all accounts. The time is set for this local evening, if you find yourself able to attend."

"Korval demands a meeting!" Sav Rid laughed. "But they must, after all! How could they allow the idiot eldest to ruin himself?" He disengaged and bowed gravely. "I will accompany you with the greatest pleasure, sir."

Sleep receded, and she opened her eyes. The room had an uncertain familiarity—not her own quarters, nor yet the prison cell . . . .
Sick bay,
memory provided. Lina had sent her into sleep, riding the wave of one resounding note, to wake when the healing reverberation was at last still.

How many hours? she wondered without urgency. She stretched, catlike, where she lay, noticing the cramp in her right hand, her thumb tucked tightly into her fingers.

Slowly, she eased the tension, the great amethyst of the master's ring sparkling in the room's dim light. Priscilla smiled. Goddess bless you, my dear, for bringing me home.

She stretched again, relishing the sensation, then sat up, pushing the thin cover away. Time to be about, whatever time it was. And she was
starving.

The door to her left opened with a soft sigh. "Morning, gorgeous!"

She started, then grinned at the gangling medic. "Vilt. Do you always terrify your patients when they wake up?"

"Makes sense," he pointed out, taking her arm and beginning to unwrap the gauzy dressing. "If they're gonna have a heart attack, might as well have it here, where there's somebody to take care of 'em."

"Who?" she wondered, and he laughed, laying the dressing aside.

"Go ahead, do your worst. Just remember who runs the inoculation program around here. Arm looks great. Damnedest burn I've ever seen, though: inside, between wrist and elbow." He shook his head. "How'd you do it?"

She looked him in the eye. "Throwing a fireball."

"That a fact? Lucky you didn't lose some fingers. Better use a glove next time."

"Goddess willing, there won't be a next time."

"If you say so. How's the throat?"

"Okay."

Vilt shook his head in mock severity. "Think I'm taking your word for it? Open up, gorgeous—and don't even think about biting."

She submitted resentfully. Vilt made a thorough and, she suspected, leisurely exam, then grunted and stepped back.

"Looks good. Be careful of the voice for a couple days, just in case."

"Let the captain do the talking," she suggested.

He laughed again. "He will, anyway. I've known Shan since I was apprentice medic on this ship and he wasn't any older than Gordy. Been talking nonstop all that time. Likely born talking. His mother was a linguist, which probably accounts for it. Genes, you know," he explained sagely as Priscilla chuckled. He stepped back, abruptly sober. "All right, gorgeous, pay attention. Sometime between leave-time yesterday and arrival time, you lost one-tenth of your mass. The kitchen has been provided with special menus, just for you. You will eat everything on your tray until you've regained that weight. And just to keep you honest, you'll weigh in before you begin each duty-shift." He glanced at his watch. "A tasty, high-caloric breakfast will be here in three minutes. After you've eaten everything on the tray, you can use the 'fresher across the hall. Lina put fresh clothes in there for you. Any questions?"

"No."

"Great." He slapped her shoulder lightly and grinned. "See ya later."

"Vilt!"

"Yah?"

"Is Gordy okay?"

He snorted. "That kid? Been up for hours. Demanded to see you. Lina took him off to help in the pet library. Said you'd call him there when you woke up."

"I'll do that, then."

"You'll eat that breakfast before you do anything. Aha!" He stepped triumphantly to one side, allowing the orderly to push the meal cart up to the bed. "Enjoy!"

Priscilla stepped out of the dry cycle, running her fingers through unruly curls and frowning at her reflection. Her teachers had ever been anxious about her slenderness, saying that her body—Moonhawk's vessel—was not robust enough to endure the working of larger magics.

True enough, by the mirror's testimony. Fourteen pounds lost meant countable ribs and jutting hipbones, the knobs at wrist and collar painfully apparent. She cupped a breast, sighing. She looked like a disaster victim. She turned sharply away to rummage in the closet.

The fresh clothes were unexpectedly fine. Priscilla wondered where Lina had gotten them, for they had the air of things handmade to personal specification rather than bought from general stores. Wonderingly, she unfolded the silky shirt, noting the flaring collar and the wide, pleated sleeves gathered tightly into ruffled cuffs. Its color was a pure and shimmering rose. The trousers were river-blue and soft. Velvet? she wondered, running light fingers down the nap. They belled slightly at the knee and fell precisely to the instep of the new black boots. She ran the tooled leather belt around her waist, fastened the rosy agate buckle, and turned again to her reflection.

"Thodelm," she breathed, touching the collar that framed her face and lent blush to her cheeks. Lina had provided clothing that the Head of a Liaden Line might wear when about the business of the Line.

Hesitantly she approached the mirror, and put out a finger to trace the features of her own face: the slender brows, the straight nose and startling cheekbones, the stubborn chin, the full mouth, and all around them the tumbling mass of midnight curls, relieved at each ear by the pure curve of a platinum hoop.

"Priscilla Mendoza," she said aloud.

On her hand the borrowed amethyst glittered—and that was wrong. She was not Master Trader.

Nor was she outcast.

She stared into the purple depths, considering that thought. "Moonhawk is returned to the Mother."

Truth.

And what did that truth mean, after ten years, a double-dozen worlds—a death? What did it mean here, in the place her heart called home, surrounded by friends, buoyed by a power she thought had fled?

Lady Mendoza, the old gentleman invariably addressed her with profound respect. Lina had not found it unusual that her friend possessed power, only that she had not been taught courtesy in its use. Shan . . . .

But it was not possible to think clearly of Shan. Certainly he regarded her abilities, like his own, as natural and acceptable. "How do you make love?" she recalled him asking, and she put a hand to a cheek suddenly flaming. Don't do that, Priscilla . . . .

Last night . . . How much had been drug-dream, how much true actions? He had come—she wore the proof on her hand even now! He had brought her home. What else besides these was fact?

Disturbed, she turned slowly and left the 'fresher.

In the hall she hesitated. It was time she reported for duty. Yet Vilt had not released her, and the finery she wore was not meant to withstand a second mate's rounds.

"Hello, Priscilla. Can you spare me a few moments?" Shan's voice interrupted her thoughts.

"All the moments you like," she told him gladly even as she groped for his pattern.

It was subdued, though she caught an indefinable jolt of something as he paused and looked at her closely.

"Are you well, Priscilla? Tell me the truth, please—no heroics."

"Well," she caught doubt and drifted an unconscious step forward, smiling reassuringly. "I lost some weight—strong magics have that effect. Vilt has me eating the most incredible amount of food! But I am well. In fact, I was getting ready to sign out of here and go back on duty."

"Duty? Priscilla . . . ." He paused, glancing about. "Is that the room you were in? Do you mind if we speak there? I. . ."

Something was wrong. She expanded her scope, trying to read it from his pattern, but received only a discord of pain, bitterness, anger, despair—a medley so unlike Shan that she would hardly have known him had her outer eyes been closed.

"Of course."

He stood aside to let her enter first, then closed the door behind them and dropped into the single chair. Uncertainly, she sat on the bed.

The silence was uneasy; scanning was worse than useless. She pulled the Master Trader's ring from her thumb and held it out.