Lee, Sharon & Miller, Steve - Liaden Books 1-9

by Liaden 1-9 (lit)

  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 halt 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.

  ARSDRED PORT MAGISTRATE'S CHAMBER LOCAL YEAR 728 EVENING BAZAAR

  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 tnglant 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 s
lender 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.

  "Good evening, Sav Rid," he said politely in the Liaden High Tongue.

  "You!" the other snarled.

  "Well, of course, me. I couldn't very well be anyone else, could I? Has this little inconvenience put you out of temper? I'm sure we'll be shut of it in a moment. The magistrate seems very amiable, don't you think? As I just said to him—but I've forgotten, you don't speak Terran, do you? A sad pity, since so many other people do, but no doubt you have your reasons."

  "I do, and they are not yours to inquire into." Trader Olanek waved his hand in their direction, though his eyes did not leave the captain. "You might wish to turn your limited understanding to the matter at hand. It may be that you have undervalued the inconvenience."

  "Yes?" The silver eyes swept the three of them vaguely. "Well, I must say, your crew member—I assume she is yours—looks as if she's taken rather a tumble. In her cups, perhaps. But you're too experienced a Trader to allow a little drunken sport among the crew to spoil your whole evening."

  "Gentles?" Magistrate Kelbar said in firm Trade. "If we may get on with the hearing? I am certain we would all rather be elsewhere." He resumed his seat with another flourish and waved the prisoners forward. "Will you two gentlemen please identify these persons?"

  Trader Olanek pointed. "That is Dagmar Collier, second mate on Daxflan."

  "And, as her superior officer, you are willing to speak for her?"

  After a slight hesitation, the Trader said, "Yes."

  "And the two remaining," the captain said cheerily, "are mine, sir. The young gentleman is Gordon Arbuthnot, cabin boy on the Dutiful Passage and my kinsman—"

  "You mean to say you acknowledge that connection?" The Trader's High Liaden carried outrage. "It's full Terran! Have you no sense of the honor due your Clan?"

  "Well, we're half Terran, after all," the captain said mildly. "You knew that, didn't you, when you propositioned my sister? And he's a good lad."

  "You cannot be serious."

  "He is under Korval's wing." The captain's inflection shifted subtly, his voice nearly cold. "Do not mistake me."

  "Pah! Korval's wing unfurls too far for health. Does the same apply to the bitch beside him?"

  She stiffened, outrage erupting—

  "Priscilla!" the captain snapped, and she stilled, cheeks flaming.

  "You keep it on a short leash," the Trader commented. "How much do you pay it? Or does it serve for the pleasure of looking at your beautiful face?"

  The captain shook his head. "On Priscilla Mendoza's home world, Sav Rid, you would have just now uttered an insult demanding your death for balance. It's fortunate, isn't it, that her knowledge of our tongue is a scholar's? But I am forgetting my manners again! You are acquainted!" The light eyes were on her. "Have you no greeting for the honored Trader?"

  She stared at him. Did he really expect her—And then she smiled, recalling another of Fin Ton's lessons. Loosing Gordy's hand, she bowed low.

  "Forgive me the situation, Master Trader," she said in her careful High Liaden, "and believe me all joy to see you."

  "What!" Sav Rid cried, visibly shaken. "How is it possible that—"

  "Gentles," the magistrate said. "I must insist that we keep to the matter at hand."

  "Of course, sir." The captain was contrite. "Do forgive us. My colleague is an avid student of lineage and sought enlightenment regarding Gordon's place in the family tree. To continue, indeed. The lady with the torn shirt is Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza. She is under personal contract to the captain of the Dutiful Passage, serving as librarian, pilot, and apprentice second mate." He smiled. "I'm quite happy to speak for both of them."

  What was this? Pilot? Second mate in training? Priscilla tried to recall the precise phrasing of her contract, but the magistrate's voice defeated the effort.

  "As all three have someone in authority to speak for them, the hearing now commences. What we know is this: Yonder knife is the property of Dagmar Collier. We have taken imprint readings and find it to be so. She does not deny it.

  "It is important to note that two other sets of prints are found on the hilt, besides those of the arresting officer those of Gordon Arbuthnot, and a faint, very blurred set which we believe to be those of Priscilla Mendoza." The magistrate paused to clear his throat importantly.

  "We will hear from the arresting officer."

  The cop's statement was brief and to the point. He had been hailed by Gordon Arbuthnot, who cried that there was a fight in Halvington Street. Arriving on the scene, he had found "those two persons there" in close embrace, the larger apparently engaged in squeezing the smaller breathless. The arresting officer was of the opinion that this project was near completion and so had administered a judicial stunner blast to the larger person, hand-ironed both combatants, and turned to find Gordon Arbuthnot with "that knife, there, sir," in his hand. So, in the interest of fair play, Gordy had been ironed as well, and all three brought in. The officer paused, scratched his head, and added that he had also taken from Gordon Arbuthnot a small rectangular object with a belt clip—very likely a portable comm and no harm to it. But at the time he had seen no reason to take unnecessary chances.

  "Quite right," the captain said approvingly, and the cop grinned shyly.

  The magistrate motioned him back. "We will now hear from Dagmar Collier."

  Dagmar came forward slowly and darted a glance at Trader Olanek. He did not meet her eyes.

  She made a woeful attempt to square her shoulders. Her voice when she spoke was hoarse, the words mushy. I hope I broke every tooth in her mouth, Priscilla thought.

  "Prissy and me are old friends," Dagmar was telling the magistrate. "Used to serve on Daxflan together. It was just natural for me to go over and say 'hey' when I saw her walkin' down the street." She shrugged. "Must've been drunk, I guess, Your Honor, 'cause she just hauled off and hit me."

  There was a short pause before the magistrate asked dryly, "Is that your statement of the affair?"

  Dagmar blinked. "Yessir."

  "I see. We are willing to hear you again, should something else occur to you after Priscilla Mendoza speaks."

  Priscilla stood forward. "Ms. Collier and I were never friends," she began hotly. "She has stolen from me and sold my things to a—a thrift shop on Parkton—"

  The magistrate raised his hand. "That is not the issue at trial here. Please limit your remarks to the incident in Halvington Street."

  Priscilla bit her lip. "I saw Ms. Collier in Halvington Street," she began again, "as I was on my way back to the port. She spoke to me. I returned the greeting and tried to pass on. Ms. Collier blocked my way and grabbed me—I believe she intended rape, but that may be unjust. At the time it seemed exactly what she meant, and I—" she broke off, her eyes seeking the captain's. "I lost my temper," she said wryly. He nodded, and she turned back to the magistrate.

  "I tried to defend myself against what I thought was an attack. Ms. Collier continued to block my way and at some point pulled a knife. I did disarm her, but she grabbed me. Which is how I came to be in the absurd situation from which the officer rescued me." She sighed. "That is my statement, sir."

  "Very clear, Ms. Mendoza. Thank you."

  "I would like to point out," Sav Rid Olanek said abruptly, "that the animosity between these two individuals seems of long standing—"

  "Exactly," the captain interrupted. "In which case, Magistrate, I venture to say that each has had ample opportunity to vent her spleen. A fine, of course, is in order, for breaking the peace. But, since it is highly unlikely that they will meet again soon…"

  Magistrate Kelbar beame
d at him. "I am sure you can be trusted to control the members of your crew during the rest of your time in port, sirs. My trust in your discretion prompts me not to demand that both individuals be rendered ship-bound for that period. They will, of course, be confined to the port proper. And, there is a fine." He coughed gently. "For engaging in fisticuffs in a public thoroughfare: one hundred bits each. Drawing a deadly weapon: two hundred fifty bits. Possession of said weapon without Arsdred certificate of permission: six hundred bits. Resisting arrest—" He looked up and smiled, first at Gordy, then at the captain. "I think we might dispense with that. Transport fee: fifty bits each.

  "So then, owed from Dagmar Collier, through her superior, Sav Rid Olanek: one thousand bits. Owed from Priscilla Mendoza, through her superior, Shan yos'Galan: one hundred fifty bits. Owed from Gordon Arbuthnot from his superior, Shan yos'Galan: fifty bits. You may pay cash at the teller's cage as you leave, gentles." He arose and sailed from the room, the arresting officer in his wake.

  Shan considered Olanek's set face. "One thousand bits," he murmured in sympathetic Trade. "Will it put you out of pocket, Sav Rid? I can extend a loan, if you like."

  "Thank you, I think not!" the other snapped, jerking his head at his crew member.

  Shan sighed. "So short-tempered, Sav Rid! Not sleeping well? I do hope you're not ill. At least we know you don't have a guilty conscience, don't we? By the way, Ms. Mendoza seems to have lost a very special pair of earrings. Do you know Calintak, on Medusa? Wonderful fellow, very good-tempered. And the things he can fit in just a little bit of space: built-in sensors, trackers—that sort of thing. If you're ever in the market for something, since you wear so much jewelry…"

  Dagmar Collier was hovering close, eyes riveted. "Sensors?" she asked with a kind of fascinated dread. "How small a space?"

  "Oh, are you interested? He's quite dear, you know—but hardly any space at all. An unexceptional earring, for instance, is all the room he needs to work in. An artist—"

  "Oh, have done!" Sav Rid snarled, turning on his heel. "Pay him no mind, he's a fool. Now, come!" He was gone, Dagmar following.

  Shan shook his head and held out a hand to Gordy, who came and slid his own into it. "Well now, children—Ms. Mendoza?"