The Dragon Variation (91 page)

She turned, smiling down into Gordy Arbuthnot's round—and exquisitely clean—face. "I'm afraid I'd hold you down," she said carefully. Then she added more briskly, "You aren't here
by yourself,
are you, Gordy?"

He grimaced. "Well, sort of. Cap'n says he knows I got enough sense not to get in trouble, but that accidents happen an' my grandad'd break his nose for him if I came by one. So, we compromised." He tugged something off his belt and held it out for inspection: a portable comm.

"I've got the cap'n's direct beam-code. If I get in a scrape—even a
little
one—I'm supposed to get on the beam and
yell."
Gordy sighed, then looked up again, trying to put a good face on it. "I guess that's not too bad, is it, Ms. Mendoza?"

"It sounds," Priscilla said truthfully, "very generous. And reasonable. A great many people, you know, would think you were only a little boy."

"Well, that's true," he agreed. "Even Ma said something like that when Grandad told her he'd got everything fixed with the cap'n, and she's usually—reasonable too. But Morgan'd been talking her ears off about how Shan wasn't
really
related to us—and Liaden, besides. I guess," Gordy concluded rather breathlessly, "that kind of thing'd be enough to make
any
body unreasonable."

"It certainly sounds like it would be," she agreed with amusement. "Is the captain related to you?"

Gordy nodded as he clipped the comm back to his belt. "Shan's ma was Grandad's sister. So we're cousins—Shan and Val Con and Nova and Anthora. Well, at least," he said scrupulously, "not Val Con. He's a fosterling. But I call him cousin, too. And he's
Shan's
cousin, so I guess we're related, some way." He grinned at her. "Want to partner?" he asked again.

Priscilla shook her head. "I think I'd rather just roam around and get my thoughts in order, rest a little. I'm scheduled to help Ken Rik tomorrow."

Gordy laughed. "You better rest, then. Ken Rik's okay, but he likes to make people squirm. Good at it, too. Tell you what: I'm due at the shuttle Last Hour, shiptime. Let's go up together, okay, Ms. Mendoza?"

"Okay." She smiled at him. "You might as well call me Priscilla. Everybody else does."

"Cap'n doesn't," Gordy pointed out, moving off. "I will, though. See you later—Priscilla."

"See you later—Mr. Arbuthnot."

That drew another burst of laughter. Priscilla shook her head, still smiling, and turned left down the cross street, away from the voice of the bazaar.

It was a little past Nineteenth Hour,
shiptime. Priscilla, feeling very well in a lazy sort of way, had quit the municipal park some moments before and was sauntering down a thin avenue that curved in the general direction of the port.

Most of the shops along this way were closed, though she passed a brightly lit window displaying an extremely ornate chess set carved of red and white woods and set with faceted stones. She paused, considering the set and comparing it to the chessmen she had seen upon the captain's board. Those pieces had been carved of ebonwood and bonebar, but very plainly—a set for a person who played the game, not for a collector of the exotic.

She continued on her way. The next window, under a sign that read TEELA'S TREASURES, was crowded with an eye-dazzling collection of objects. A carved ivory fan lay next to a tawdry firegem tiara; a gold necklace with a greenish tinge lay as if flung across a bound book of possible worth and definite age; while a cut-plastic vase hobnobbed with an eggshell porcelain bowl down on its luck.

Fascinated, Priscilla bent closer to the window, trying to puzzle out more of its contents. A carved wooden box with a broken hinge; an antique pair of eyeglasses, untinted; a—her breath caught in her throat as she spied it, balanced precariously atop a stack of mismatched flowered saucers: a blown-crystal triglant, caught by the artist in a mood of pensiveness, wings half-furled, tail wrapped neatly around its front paws. A charming piece—and hers!

Hers.
And of the few things she had been able to bring with her from Sintia, it had been the most treasured.
She
had commissioned the work, paid for it with the labor of her own hands.
She
had built the velvet-lined box in which it had been lovingly displayed.

Perhaps the thief had thought the box worthless.

Priscilla stalked stiff-legged into the shop, twobits clenched in her fist. Fifteen minutes later, she came out, carefully tucking the paper-wrapped figurine in her pocket. Broke, she reminded herself, trying to call up fear.

But all she felt was warm contentment. She had the triglant. She had a berth on the
Passage.
She had a tenth-cantra waiting for her when they docked at Solcintra. It would suffice. She had a friend—perhaps even three. That was so much more than sufficient that she barely had room for the grief of leaving her other things in the hands of the proprietor of Teela's Treasures.

She took the first cross street, hurrying now toward the port. To her right, a shadow moved. She spun.

"Hello, Prissy," Dagmar said, grinning widely. She took two steps closer.

Goddess, aid me now . . . "Good-bye, Dagmar," she gritted through, her teeth. She made to pass on.

The bigger woman blocked her way, grin widening. "Aw, now, honey, you ain't gonna let a little thing like a headache come between us, are you? I was just following orders, Prissy. And I sure am glad to see you again."

"I'm not glad to see you. Good-bye." She turned away.

Dagmar grabbed an arm and yanked Priscilla forward, while her other hand found a breast and squeezed.

Priscilla swung with all the force in her, slamming five knuckles backhanded across the other woman's leer as she twisted, just managing to get free.

Dagmar lunged, grabbing a handful of shirt. Priscilla continued her twist. The fabric tore, and Dagmar pitched backward, scrabbling for support.

It was time to run. Priscilla dived forward.

It was easy.

Dagmar was bigger—and no doubt stronger. Certainly she was more accustomed to this kind of business than was her prey.

But she was
slow.

Priscilla had the measure of the game now. Moving with pilot swiftness, seeing with pilot eyes, she landed an astonishing number of blows, though the ones she received were telling.

She ducked back, slammed a ringing blow toward the ears that was only partially successful, and suffered a numbing crack to her right shoulder.

Several more passes and she saw how it might be ended—quickly and to her advantage. She began the spin to get into position—

The hum warned her, and she snapped backward, rolling heavily on her right side, wishing she had had the sense to run before.

Dagmar had pulled a vibroknife.

Gordy was late.

He streaked across the municipal park, causing consternation among the local duck-analogs, and careered into Parkton Way. He passed the window containing the chessmen without a glance, though he did slow as he came abreast Teela's Treasures, out of respect for the policeman half a block ahead.

A side street presented itself, wending portward. Gordy took it—and froze in disbelief.

Before him was Priscilla Mendoza, shirt torn nearly to the shoulder, bent forward like some two-legged, beautiful, and quite deadly predator, carefully circling a larger, broader woman, who circled in her turn.

The position of the two changed sufficiently for Gordy to see the rest: The larger woman held a knife.

Gulping, he turned and ran back the way he had come.

Priscilla considered the knife
dispassionately. It could be done. She was fast. Dagmar was slow. Her objective was only to dispose of the blade—
she
was no knife fighter.

Priscilla moved.

Dagmar twisted—so slooow—and Priscilla's fingers swept through hers, dislodging the evil, humming thing and sending it spinning into the shadows. The larger woman finished her twist and slammed heavily into her opponent, trying to grab and hold two slender wrists in a big hand, hugging her tight, and Priscilla could not breathe . . . .

"Here now, here now! That'll be enough of
that
kind of carrying on!" Strong hands grabbed and pulled—and breath returned.

Priscilla sagged backward, too grateful for the boon of air to resent the hand irons so competently slapped into place. Dagmar, she saw presently, was in worse shape. She had apparently taken a stunner charge and was retching against the wall, her face already beginning to purple.

The cop finished affixing irons and turned away—and his eyebrows went up with his stunner. "All right, my boy, fun's over. Give it to me, please."

Gordy blinked, reversed the vibroknife, and held it out. The cop took it gingerly, then jerked the comm from the boy's belt and clipped it to his own.

"That's mine!"

"Then you'll get it back after the trial. Hold out your hands."

"I won't wear irons." The round chin was rigid.

"Then you'll go unconscious, over my shoulder." The cop considered him. "Might drop you, though."

Gordy looked over the man's shoulder at Priscilla. She managed a ragged smile and a nod. He held out his hands.

The exhibits were on a table
against the far left wall: a vibroknife, a portable comm, a pile of glittering shards that had once represented a triglant at rest.

The prisoners were to the right. The slender woman and the boy sat next to each other, as far away as possible from the bulky woman with the battered face. Sedatives had been administered to all, in keeping with the magistrate's order. Though there had been no renewal of hostilities, the arresting officer was keeping a sharp eye out. One never knew with outworlders.

Priscilla fought the tranquilizing haze, struggling for clear thought. They were waiting, the cop had said, for the arrival of a ranking officer from
Daxflan
and from
Dutiful Passage
so that the trial could commence.

Kayzin Ne'Zame, Priscilla thought laboriously. She dislikes me—here's a Goddess-sent opportunity for her to be rid of me altogether.

Lina. What would Lina think? Would Priscilla be allowed to speak with her, explain what had happened, before the
Passage
left orbit? She caught her breath, her mind suddenly clear of fog, aware of a nearly overmastering desire to fling herself down and sob.

Fool, she told herself harshly. You should have run.

There was a rustle of robes in the outer hallway, and Gordy shifted next to her. "Maybe that's the judge," he said drowsily, "I sure hope so. Crelm, Priscilla! Do you know how late we are? Shan's gonna
skin
me!"

Her reply was cut off by the arresting officer.

"All rise for Magistrate Kelbar!"

She stood; she started when Gordy slipped his hand into hers, and then squeezed his fingers.

"That's you, too!" the cop was telling Dagmar, who mumbled something and climbed to her feet.

Magistrate Kelbar swept into the room, an imposing figure in his sun-yellow robes of office. Out of stern brown eyes he considered the three of them before seating himself with a flourish upon his throne. He waved a hand in a languid gesture that the cop translated sharply.

"Prisoners sit!"

Dagmar grunted and slouched back onto her bench. Priscilla sat quietly, though Gordy heaved a sigh.

Let it be done quickly, Goddess, Priscilla prayed.

As if in answer to that thought, the door was opened from without, admitting a small, fair man.

Sav Rid Olanek had been called from a party, Priscilla thought: His shirt was shimmering rose silk; the pale trousers surely were velvet. Jewels glittered in his ears, on his hands, and from the buckle of his belt, and around his throat was a titanium collar worth double the pay she would never collect at Solcintra.

Recognizing a person of consequence, the magistrate snapped his fingers at the prisoners to rise and swept forward. "Good evening, gentle sir!" he said in affable Trade, extending a wide hand. "I am sorry to have had to summon you here. A small matter, I am sure, and easily settled, once your honored colleague arrives. I am Magistrate Kelbar."

He was accorded a flickering glance from bright blue eyes, and the barest possible bow. "I am Sav Rid Olanek, Trader on
Daxflan,
out of Liad," he said coldly. "I am afraid you may be too optimistic, however." He pointed at Priscilla, who returned his gaze with determined serenity.
"That
person is a desperate criminal. She is without doubt a thief. What else she may be—"

"Good evening!" a voice called in cheerful Terran, preceding its owner into the room by a heartbeat. Sav Rid Olanek bit off the rest of his sentence, and Priscilla felt Gordy shift next to her.

It was not Kayzin Ne'Zame, after all.

He wore a shirt barely less bright than his hair, and soft black trousers. His belt buckle was merely silver, its design changing from a fanciful bird to an impossible flower as Priscilla watched. An amethyst drop exactly matching the color of the gem in his master's ring hung from his right ear.

He was the most welcome sight Priscilla had ever beheld. It'll be all right now, she told herself, and didn't even wonder why she thought so.

He smiled at the magistrate and bowed easily, then came forward with hand outstretched. "I'm Shan yos'Galan, sir. Am I very late? Forgive me, please. I was at Herr Sasoni's—but perhaps I should say no more. Except that I was on the verge of concluding a very—interesting—piece of business, so it was fortunate your message reached me when it did."

The magistrate actually laughed, taking the more slender hand in his. "But this is dreadful!" he cried. "Surely you were able to procure her key for later use? I should never forgive myself, sir—"

"No matter," the captain interrupted easily. "I'm sure we'll be able to clear this matter up in a moment or two, and I'll return—what
is
the matter, by the way, sir? I—" He turned his head, eyes alighting, apparently for the first time, on his glaring colleague.