Liaden - Conflict Of Honors Part 3

The door slid open.

Priscilla crossed the threshold on the boy's heels, then stopped and frankly stared.

Once again she was overwhelmed by s.p.a.ciousness. Shelf after shelf of booktapes, bound books, and music-tapes lined one wall. On another hung a tapestry worked in dark crimson, dull gold, jade, and azure, a twining geometric design at once restful and surprising. Below that was a unit bar; to one side of it was another shelf of tapes interspersed with bric-a-brac. Straight ahead, in the center of the room, two chairs faced a wooden desk supporting a computer screen and two untidy piles of hard copy. To the left of the desk was a closed door bearing a diagonal red stripe. A deep, hedonistic chair was placed at an angle to the corner; several books and a sketch pad were piled helter-skelter on the carpet nearby, while more books littered the nearer low table. The second of the set supported a chessboard. Seated on the edge of the sofa and bent over the board was a white-haired man in a dark blue s.h.i.+rt.

The captain was old. Priscilla found it somewhat easier to breathe.

Gordy Arbuthnot stepped to the table and cleared his throat. "Cap'n?" he said in Terran. "Here's Ms.

Mendoza, come to see you."

"So soon? Pilot Dyson has outdone herself." The man sighed and shook his head at the chessmen. "I don't think this stupid position has a solution."

He rose and came forward a few graceful paces be fore inclining his head. "I'm Shan yos'Galan, Ms.

Mendoza."

He was tall-a giant among Liadens. Silver eyes thickly fringed with black lashes looked directly into hers. Nor was he old-the frostcolored hair had misled her. His face was that of a man near her own age.

But, G.o.ddess, what a face! Big-nosed, jut-cheeked, wide-mouthed, with a broad forehead, triangular chin, and thin white brows set at a slant over the large eyes. Anything farther from the usual delicacy of Liaden features would be hard to find this side of the Yxtrang.

Recovering herself with a start, Priscilla bowed stiffly in the Terran mode. "Captain yos'Galan," she said with precision, "I'm glad to see you."

"Well, you'll be among the first," he commented, and his accent was of Terra's educated cla.s.s, not of Liad at all. "Though my family professes something of the sort. Of course, they've had time to get used to me. Gordy, Ms. Mendoza wants something to drink. Also, my gla.s.s is missing-and wherever it is, it's probably empty. What do I pay you for?"

The boy grinned and moved toward the bar. Pausing, he looked back at Priscilla. "The red wine's best,"

he said seriously, "but I think the white's probably pretty good. And there's brandy-I'm not sure about that..."

"What do you know about it at all?" the man demanded. "Nipping my spirits while I'm not watching, Gordy? And who said the red's best? Your own trained palate?"

"You drink the red, Cap'n."

"Unprincipled brat. You don't offer brandy to a person who's come for a job interview. Strive for some polish.""Yessir," Gordy said, not noticeably abashed by this rebuke. "Ms. Mendoza? There's red wine, white, canary, green, blue-I mean, misravot-and tea and coffee..."

Another alarming bubble of laughter was rising. Hysteria, thought Priscilla, and suppressed it firmly.

"White wine, please," she told the boy, and he nodded, turning to the bar.

"Come sit down," the captain invited, waving a big brown hand toward the chairs and the desk. Light glittered off the stone in his single ring-the large curved amethyst of a Master Trader.

Obediently, she followed him to the desk and sank gratefully into one of the chairs. Master Trader? This ugly, too-tall Liaden was a Master Trader? And captain, too? With an absent smile Priscilla took her drink from the cabin boy.

On Daxflan, Sav Rid Olanek-a mere Trader-and Captain yo'Vaade split administration of s.h.i.+p and crew between them. That had been the one thing about Daxflan that had followed the routine she knew from other s.h.i.+ps. Captain was a full-time job, after all; Trader, somewhat more than that. Yet here was a man supposedly doing both. And more. There were perhaps a double-dexon-twice a dozen dozen-of Master Traders in all the galaxy.

"Gordy." His clear, rather beautiful voice held a mild note of exasperation. Priscilla brought her attention back to the present.

"Cap'n?" The boy froze in the act of handing the man his gla.s.s.

Shan yos'Galan sighed and laid a blunt forefinger on the grease-smeared sleeve. Gordy flushed and bit his lip.

"There's a matching one on your chin. Are we out of water? Or soap? Is there some atavistic or religious significance attached to going about with grease on your face? Maybe you put it there purposefully, after long thought, feeling that a little facial decoration would call Ms. Mendoza's attention to you more favorably? You hoped she would be so overcome by the artistry of the smear that she would fail to chide you for being late to meet her?"

"How did-" Gordy interrupted himself and raised his eyes to the man's face. "I'm not Liaden, Cap'n."

"I have independently noted the fact. No doubt you feel it has some bearing on the matter at hand." He took his gla.s.s and leaned back in the chair.

"Yessir."

"I'm intrigued. An explanation, please?"

"Yessir." Gordy took a breath and squared his round shoulders. "Liadens consider the face the-the seat of character. Because of that, Liadens don't use cosmetics on their faces, like Terrans might, to-to dress up or to make themselves more attractive." He paused. The captain raised his gla.s.s and waved at him to continue.

Gordy nodded. "Also, the face has an-erotic-significance to Liadens. There are certain social situations where it's okay to touch between Liadens where Terran code of behavior would forbid. But only extreme intimates-like family members-touch hand to face or face to face." He took another breath. "So it follows that Liadens would be particularly careful about keeping their faces clean.

Terrans, whose cultures don't include a strong facial taboo, are less strict."There was a small pause while Shan yos'Galan raised the gla.s.s to his lips! " 'Taboo' is rather strong," he commented. "I think perhaps 'tradition' does nicely. Liadens love tradition, while you're dealing in generalizations, Gordy." He raised his gla.s.s again, and this time, Priscilla saw, he drank.

"As far as it goes, your grasp of the information seems sound," he continued thoughtfully. "However, I'm not sure your inferences are correct. That tends to happen when you extrapolate from general, rather than specific. In any case, I have found-again, through independent observation, not to say experience-that it feels nicer to be clean than it feels to be dirty. Also, I have found that I prefer looking at clean faces as opposed to dirty faces. This is, I believe, a personal preference. I may be wrong. Since I am captain of this s.h.i.+p, though, I think I have the rank to indulge in a few harmless eccentricities. So, for the fourth time: Gordon, I would very much prefer that you endeavor to keep your person as smear-free as possible." He raised the gla.s.s again. "The next time, I'll have to dock you. What do you think might be a reasonable sum?"

The boy looked down. He rubbed at his soiled sleeve, then looked up. "Tenbit?"

"Fair enough." The captain grinned. "I detect the makings of a gambler in you. Or a Trader. We'll want lunch in half an hour or so."

Gordy blinked. "Lunch?"

"Yes, lunch. Did I use the wrong word? Cheese, fruit, rolls-that sort of thing. Speak to BillyJo; I repose all faith in her ability to resolve the matter for you. Now jet."

"Yessir." And he was gone, the door sighing shut behind him.

Shan ybs'Galan shook his head. "It's my fate to raise small boys." He lifted his gla.s.s. "Are you ready to be interviewed, Ms. Mendoza? Or have you changed your mind?"

Priscilla sipped her wine, then met his gaze straightly. "I'm ready to be interviewed, Captain."

"Brave heart." He extended a long arm and flipped two switches set along the desk top. "Your name, please, and planet of origin."

"My name is Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza. I was born on Sintia. I am a Terran citizen."

"Do you honor the G.o.ddess, then?" His face was sharp with interest. "Hold to her teaching exclusively?"

"I did," she said carefully. "After all, She's part of everyday life... But I've been on trading s.h.i.+ps since I was sixteen. And the G.o.ddess isn't as powerful in the galaxy as She is on Sintia."

"Since you were sixteen," he repeated, abandoning the G.o.ddess abruptly. "What do you know?"

She raised her brows. "I know how to cook for a crew of twenty, how to wash up for a crew of thirty-three, how to decode messages, how to code messages. I can drive a jitney, calculate weight distributions, figure loading capacities. Whenever possible, I've pursued pilot training. My marksmans.h.i.+p rating is ninety percent accuracy at two hundred paces with a standard pellet gun. I speak Trade, Terran, Crenish, and Sintian. I understand Liaden better than I speak it. If I have to, I can shoot astrogation."

He nodded. "Your last position?"

"Cargo master on Daxflan, out of Chonselta City."

"And you held that post how long?""Four months," she said with determined serenity. "I signed on at Tulon."

"Did you?" He raised his gla.s.s to his lips. "And what brings you to apply for work on the Pa.s.sage!"

"I don't have any choice."

The slanted brows pulled together. "Has Mr. Saunderson still got that impressment operation going? I did ask him to stop, Ms. Mendoza, I give you my word."

For the third time in an hour Priscilla felt laughter rising. She drowned it in a swallow of wine. "I'm sorry-that was rude. What I meant to say was that I've been-dismissed-from my post on Daxflan.

Yours is the only s.h.i.+p in at Jankalim now, so I'm applying here."

"I see." He sipped wine. "Your dismissal sounds abrupt."

"Extremely."

He nodded again, s.h.i.+fted in his chair, and rested his arms on the desk top. "Ms. Mendoza, I have a copy of your record here..." He spun the computer screen around.

Priscilla frowned, her eyes traveling automatically down the lines of information. Ladybird... As You Like It... Tyrunner... Selda...Dante...Daxflan.

"Motherless, lying, sp.a.w.n of a-" She gasped, and the rest was lost as the enormity of the thing hit her.

Ruin... She met Shan yos'Galan's eyes. "It's a lie."

"Do you want to say so officially?" He spun the screen back. "It looks pretty bad, doesn't it? 'Suspected larceny. Jumped s.h.i.+p, Jankalim, Standard 1385.'" He leaned back in the chair and sipped wine, his eyes on her face. "I don't know of any reputable captain who would take on a person with a record containing that entry-even granting the overall excellence of the rest. What happened to your earrings?"

"The second mate hit me over the head," she said tonelessly, trying to conquer the shock. "They were gone when I came to."

"Odd sort of thing for a second mate to do," he commented. "But maybe there were extenuating circ.u.mstances. You disliked each other?"

"I disliked her. She liked me all too well." He was toying with her, drawing out the talking when there was no use in talking anymore. Priscilla tightened her grip on the winegla.s.s, fighting to keep her face calm. On his s.h.i.+p, in his power... and who would miss a suspected thief who had jumped her last s.h.i.+p?

Who would believe a suspected thief if she chose to tell outrageous lies about a Master Trader? He must have called up her record while speaking with Mr. Saunderson and seen that d.a.m.ning entry.

The man across from her s.h.i.+fted sharply. "And yet," he persisted, demanding her attention, "liking you so well, she hits you over the head and steals your earrings." He drank. "Forgive me, Ms. Mendoza, but that sounds even odder."

"The Trader ordered it," Priscilla said, clinging to serenity as if it were her last hope of salvation. Let him hear, G.o.ddess, she begged silently. Let him believe the truth.

"Ah, dear Sav Rid." The expression on his face was one of mild puzzlement. "He will have his little joke, you know, Ms. Mendoza. But surely there were other avenues open to him, had he conceived a desire for your earrings. Why order the second mate to hit you over the head for them? Couldn't he merely have purchased them from you?" He snapped his fingers lightly. "He had offered a fair sum, and you refused tosell. Rendered desperate-"

"Stop it!" She snapped forward, eyes riveted on his. "Captain yos'Galan, please. It's imperative that I get to Arsdred. It's a large port-I'd hoped your s.h.i.+p would dock there. Any ere wing duties you have-I'll work my pa.s.sage to Arsdred as a.s.sistant mess cook, and you can lock me in a closet off-s.h.i.+ft! You don't have to trust me-believe what you will. I don't think it's very funny to abandon someone and ruin their record, make it impossible to find-to find honorable work..." Her voice had developed a quaver.

Horrified, she bit her lip and clenched her hands tightly to squeeze out the shaking. "I must get to Arsdred."

He broke her gaze and drank wine, then swirled the remainder in the gla.s.s. "Revenge," he told the gla.s.s softly, "is a highly appropriate desire. Among Liadens, revenge is something of an art form. There are strict rules. There are certain punishments which are not considered proper revenge." He glanced at her.

"Death, for instance. At least, not directly from the hand of the vengeful party. Should the dishonor attending a balancing of accounts prove so vast that one has no other choice-" He shrugged. "Well." He set the gla.s.s aside and looked closely at her. "I will not have a murderer on this s.h.i.+p."

Priscilla stared at him. "But you will have a thief?"

"You said it was a lie. Or did I misunderstand? Perhaps something else was a lie?"

The shaking was worse, extending up her arms and down her legs. Did he believe her? Or the record? It was impossible to read the expression on his face.

"Daxflan's record-that I was stealing and then jumped s.h.i.+p-that's the lie."

"Do you want to say so officially?" he asked again.

Priscilla shook her head. "I can't prove it-how can I? 'Suspected larceny'? His word against mine-and he's the Trader. 'Jumped s.h.i.+p'?" She produced a wan grin. "I'm not there now, am I? Though why anyone with three consecutive thoughts in her head would jump s.h.i.+p on a place like Jankalim, with twobits in her pocket..."

"And no earrings in her ears," he agreed. "But maybe you saw they were on to you and were frightened.

Jankalim might have been your last chance for free flight-leg irons are so c.u.mbersome. There are excuses for a bit of poor planning..." He tipped his head. "But why did Sav Rid order the second mate to hit you over the head, Ms. Mendoza? At your direction, I dismiss avaricious thoughts regarding your earrings."

"I can't prove it," she said again. "I think they were running contraband."

"Do you? What a peculiar thing to think. You told Sav Rid, and he was-quite understandably-annoyed. Thus the second mate, the warehouse..."

"I'm not that stupid," Priscilla muttered, and wondered why he grinned. "There was sealed cargo," she continued. "I had the manifests-I knew what was supposed to be there. But-something seemed wrong. I didn't know exactly what. So I got the idea of checking the piloting equations, just to prove to myself that I was imagining things."

"And you found what to be the case?"

"I found the equations were so far off that the captain had to be a reckless fool. Or she had to know exactly what she was doing." She took a breath. "So I checked the densities of the cargo.""Did you?" He leaned forward. "Now why-no, you've had some pilot training. And I'm interrupting.

Forgive me, Ms. Mendoza-you checked the densities, matched them to the captain's equations, and?"

"The captain knew what she was doing. The densities didn't match the substances that were supposed to be in the cargo. Daxflan s.h.i.+ps mostly Pharmaceuticals. I started going through the list, checking the numbers..." She shook her head. "I think there's Balla-quesa onboard. It's listed as Aserzerine on the manifest. Everything's all wrong for Aserzerine, though. Bella-quesa matches-but so does sugar. But why would you call sugar Aserzerine?..."

She shrugged. "It all looked interesting-but I can't prove any of it. I never saw the stuff. And I'll lay my last bit the data's not locked under my personal file any He nodded and leaned back in the chair again, staring blankly at the ceiling. Priscilla finished her wine and carefully put the gla.s.s aside. Now what? she wondered. She forced herself to sit loosely in the chair, hands relaxed on her knees.

Abruptly, he spun to face her. "We leave Jankalim in fourteen hours," he said slowly. "Before the two of us can discuss specifics, there are several tests required. They are rather lengthy, and, unfortunately, my presence is demanded worldside this evening. If you feel able, you may take the tests directly after lunch.

The s.h.i.+p will extend a cabin for you to guest in, and we can speak again at Seventh Hour. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

He nodded and seemed about to speak further when the door opened to admit a clean-faced Gordy behind a wheeled cart piled high with eatables.

"In the nick of time!" Shan yos'Galan cried, flipping off the toggles. "Now you offer brandy, Gordy..."

s.h.i.+PYEAR 65.

TRIPDAY 131.

FIRST s.h.i.+FT.

1.30 HOURS.

Former Cargo Master Priscilla Mendoza leaned back in her chair, sipping at a mug of real coffee, the remains of an extremely edible meal on the table before her.