"The tower manager was polite—and astonished. Daxflan, under Captain yo'Vaade, had been in orbit not many days since and had promised to deliver news of the quarantine to Tulon."
Priscilla took a breath. "How much did you lose?"
"Forty cantra. But I did enhance and improve my reputation as a most wonderful fool, which must be counted a gain." He shook his head.
"By the time we got back into Tulon, the story was all over the trade bar. The report had been delivered two minutes after the Passage jumped out. Daxflan was gone, having hired a new cargo master."
"All that for—balance—for being insulted by your sister?" Priscilla was frowning.
"Now there," the captain said, "I'm not at all certain. Nova is old enough to mind her own honor. If Sav Rid had a quarrel with her reading of his character, then his satisfaction lies with her. He might have assumed that I forbade the match, as Head of Line, you see. I didn't, and probably wouldn't have, if she'd set her heart on him. It never came to me at all; I learn everything after the fact, and in pieces—which, come to think of it, is the only way you learn anything from him—from Val Con, who was kind enough to show Sav Rid the door on the occasion of his morning call." The movement of his shoulders was not quite a shrug.
"For whatever reason, a debt is owed—has been owing. Sav Rid's belief that I am too foolish to be considered an able—" He stopped, brows contracting. "Here's a thing that doesn't happen often," he murmured. "Forgive me, Priscilla; my Terran seems to be lacking. Can it be debt-partner?" He sipped wine, considering the carpet with absent intensity.
"Say debt-partner," he decided after a moment. "It makes less nonsense than the other possibilities."
Priscilla shifted in her chair. "This happened at Tulon?”
He glanced up. "Yes. At the beginning of our run."
"And you still owe him for—dear Goddess—forty cantra?" The amount of the loss was staggering.
"Forty cantra's the least of it. I owe him a lesson to treat me with courtesy and respect, not to mention honesty." He sipped, eyes on her face. "These things take time and planning, Priscilla."
"So it was lucky that I came here asking for a job," she said, making the connections rapidly. "I could be a very useful weapon."
"Now, Priscilla, for Spacesake, don't get into hyper again!" He was in front of her, hands spread-fingered and soothing. "I'd have given you a job if Sav Rid were my best friend! Only a lunatic would turn down someone of your potential." He grinned at her. "Foolish, yes. Crazed, no. And it's not a question of giving. You're earning your pay."
"Am I?" she demanded, refusing to give in to her desire to be mollified. "And when will I start training as second mate?"
"You've started," he told her, lowering his hands slowly. "Ken Rik thinks very well of you. So does Tonee. And Lina. And Seth, Vilobar, Gordy, BillyJo, Vilt, Rusty, and Master Frodo. If you keep on at this rate, you'll have the expertise by Solcintra. You already have the ability. Are you angry, Priscilla? Don't you want to learn the job?"
"Of course I want to learn it," she said irritably. "I just would have appreciated being told instead of finding out by accident."
"High-handed," he said mournfully. "I'll try to curb it, but don't expect miracles. I've been this way a long time."
"You're not much older than I am," she told him severely. "How did you manage that trick with my record—dated last week! And no mention of theft or jumping ship."
"Oh." He drifted back to the desk, hoisted himself up, and recaptured his glass. "More high-handedness, I'm afraid, Priscilla. Please try to bear with me." He drank. "I contacted the captain of Dante for a more specific recommendation, took every word as truth, and pin-beamed your updated record to VanDyk with a notation that it superseded all previously dated information."
He grinned at her. "Sav Rid had ruined your record within the sector; but he's tight-fisted, and the courier bounce to VanDyk will take months. Just imagine his unhappiness when he finds his report of your nefarious activities returned to him marked Superseded by Data Attached/ Do you think he'll file an official complaint? And risk a hearing into the specifics of your so-called crimes? Will he insist that his very negative report be inserted next to all those glowing ones?" He raised his glass in salute. "I think not."
"You pin-beamed… Captain, do you know how expensive pin-beaming is?"
"No. Tell me." The silver eyes were laughing at her.
She frowned, rediscovered her glass, and took a healthy swallow.
"Don't worry about it, Priscilla. We've got a pin-beam on board—Rusty's favorite toy. One of the services the Passage offers the more backward of our ports is the use of the pin-beam. For a fee, of course. I'm well paid, contemplating the expression on Sav Rid's face when he reads 'Data Attached'—Dinner at long last!" he interrupted himself as the door chimed.
Gordy grinned from behind the serving table. "I'm on time," he pointed out with considerable pride. He parked the table and came around to Priscilla. "Now you're a hero, too."
"No," she said with decision. "I'm not a hero, Gordy."
He tipped his head, clearly puzzled, and turned to the captain. "Shan? Isn't she?"
"She just said she wasn't, didn't she, Gordy? People have a right to define who they are, don't they? If Priscilla doesn't want to be a hero right now, she doesn't have to be. It's probable that she's hungry. Very difficult to be heroic when you're hungry."
The boy laughed and went to the table to begin unfolding leaves, and releasing odors. Priscilla suddenly realized that she was very hungry.
"Ken Rik said to tell you the nerligig works fine," he said over his shoulder.
The captain stared at him. "It does? He tried it on all settings?"
Gordy nodded. "The case is pretty dented, he said, but since it's for attention getting, that doesn't matter." He paused to glance at his cousin. "He really did say that."
"Of course he did. Ken Rik doesn't believe in curbing his tongue for anyone. I'd be seriously concerned for his health if he started now. Besides, he met me when I was younger than you are, and twice as clumsy. No doubt that makes it occasionally hard to proffer the appropriate respect. What about the tent? Has he gotten a new sample case together? And he'll—no, never mind; I'll wander over and speak with him later. Is prime ready yet?"
"Whist, now, Johnny Galen," Gordy murmured in an exaggerated accent.
The captain laughed and drank wine. "Intolerable puppy. I bear that from your grandfather. But I'm bigger than you are. Please try to keep it in mind."
"Bully," Gordy said, settling plates amid an amazing amount of clatter.
"High-handed," the captain corrected, and grinned at Priscilla, who dropped her eyes.
Gordy stepped back. "Ready. Should I stay?"
The captain glanced at him in surprise. "Did I ask you to dinner, Gordon? Forgive me, the invitation slipped my mind. I seem to recall a report that you've fallen behind in your studies, a circumstance your grandfather, my uncle, would not forgive me. We're due for a review, aren't we? At breakfast."
Gordy swallowed visibly. "Yessir."
"That bad?" He raised his glass. "Well, better see what you can catch up on beforehand. And mind you're in bed at a reasonable hour. I won't need you anymore."
"Yessir," Gordy said again, looking so comically crestfallen that Priscilla had to forcefully swallow the rising laughter. "G'night, Cap'n. G'night, Priscilla."
"Good night, Gordy," she said, smiling at him warmly.
"Good night, Gordy." The captain reached over to the boy and ruffled his hair lightly. "Do sleep well."
The boy smiled up at him, made an awkward bow, and departed, the door hissing closed behind him.
"Now, then, Priscilla, if you'll pull up the chairs, I'll serve us. I hope you're as hungry as I am."
A little time later, the edge of hunger blunted, she leaned back and considered the top of his head and the thick, well-cut hair gleaming in the room's soft light.
"Johnny Galen?" she wondered.
He glanced up, smiling. "It's my Uncle Richard's fancy that Liadens are the 'little people' of Old Terra's legends. Thus, Arthur Galen, Johnny, Nora, and Annie Galen. And their foster brother, the king of Elfland."
"Oh, no!" A chuckle escaped, but she didn't notice.
"Oh, yes," he assured her. "Complete with 'my Liege' and 'your Highness/ Pretty comical, actually. My father finally did manage to put a stop to it, but I think he had to resort to threats."
"But he let himself be called Arthur, and you Johnny?"
"Well, no, not exactly," he said, reaching for his glass. "He didn't answer to 'Arthur,' you see, so if Uncle Dick really wanted to speak with him, he had to use 'Er Thorn.' I don't mind 'Johnny'—my mother called me 'Shannie' more often than not—and Anthora was always 'Annie.' To the best of my knowledge, Nova never did answer to 'Nora.'" He sipped. "I hope Val Con doesn't feel he owes balance for the king routine. I rather doubt it. Whatever his faults, Uncle Richard is a master storyteller. And Val Con's addicted to stories."
Priscilla frowned down at the table, then glanced up. "Captain? What is a debt-partner?"
He set his glass aside and picked up his tongs, readdressing dinner. Priscilla hesitated, then returned to her own plate, wondering if she had offended.
"A debt-partner," the captain said slowly, "is one with whom you are engaged in a balancing of accounts." He glanced at her quickly from beneath his lashes. "There are, as I mentioned before, many rules governing revenge—balance—and how it might be achieved. One of them is that balance is only owing respected persons. Animals, for instance, may not claim debt-right." He paused, watching her face carefully.
"It," Priscilla whispered, her spoon forgotten halfway to her mouth. "He called us 'it,' Gordy and me."
"So he did," the captain agreed carefully. "One of the least attractive things about the High Tongue is that it's so easy to deny worth." He looked at her closely. "I didn't call you 'it,' Priscilla. Of all the people in the galaxy, I'd be among the last to do so. But Sav Rid believes that people who aren't Liaden aren't—people." He raised his glass and took a sip. "What he had done to you on Jankalim, he would never have ordered done to another Liaden. Even one he considered a fool of the first order, completely careless of his personal honor, the honor of his Line, and of his ship." He grinned. "He thought he'd gotten away clean, Priscilla. Imagine his depression when I not only turn up to bail you out, after he thought you safely disposed of, but uttering threats about earrings, guilty consciences—little enough. But he knows he's gotten away with nothing. He may still doubt my ability to do it, but he knows I'll attempt balance."
She laid her spoon down carefully. "But an—animal—has no recourse."
He sipped, eyes on her. "But you're not an animal, are you, Priscilla? Aren't you a person? Isn't respect due you? You can be an animal, if you choose to say you are. Or you can show him quite clearly that you are a resourceful, intelligent person, worthy of the dignity accorded all persons." He set the glass down, his big mouth tight.
"He has stolen from you—possessions, money, personhood. And you speak of taking on the role of an animal, sacrificing your life for mine. Priscilla, don't you see that you are owed? How dare he order violence against your person. How dare he steal the money you earned, the things you own, your reputation? And by what right did he place your personal honor in jeopardy in the first place, hiring you as master over a cargo of contraband?" He held out a hand. "Wouldn't you rather stay, Priscilla? We'll bring him payment together."
With no hesitation at all, she slid her hand into his.
"Yes," she said clearly. "We'll do that."
SH1PYEAR 65
TR1PDAY 143
FOURTH SHIFT
18.00 HOURS
Priscilla laid her hand against the door. It slid away to a soft "Enter" from within.
Smiling, Lina bounced up from her seat at the desk. "Priscilla! How are you, my friend?"
"Fine." Priscilla smiled back, sliding her hands into the small ones stretched out to her. "You're busy? I'm not on urgent business."
"No, come and talk with me! If I look at that terrible report another minute, I shall develop a severe headache." She laughed, tugging on Priscilla's hands. "Save me!"
They sat on the bed, Lina cross-legged in the center and Priscilla on the edge.
"So, now, what is this not-urgent business?"
"I'm afraid it isn't going to make any sense," Priscilla apologized, toying with the quilt. "At least, I can't think of a sensible way to ask it. Lina, isn't Shan yos'Galan the captain?"
The smaller woman blinked. "Of course he is. Are you having a joke, my friend?"
"I said it didn't make sense," Priscilla pointed out. "I just had dinner with the captain—" She stopped. Lina folded her hands together, waiting.
"I had dinner with the captain," Priscilla repeated slowly. "As I was leaving, I asked him about having returned my things. He said the ship bore the expense of buying them back, that I was to consider it my bonus for having been put in danger." She paused, frowning a little. 'Then I asked about the earrings, because they weren't mine."
"And?" Lina prompted softly.
"He said the earrings were a gift from Shan yos'Galan, and the captain had nothing to do with it."
"He said so?" Lina moved her shoulders. "Then it is true."
Priscilla sighed. "Yes, I'm sure it is. But Lina, if Shan yos'Galan is the captain…"
"Surely you know that the captain speaks—acts—for the ship," her friend said carefully. "Yes? So, Shan speaks for himself. It is—I do not know the Terran word. Shan yos'Galan has many…roles! He is captain, Master Trader, pilot—three voices with which to speak on the Passage. On Liad he is also Lord yos'Galan. He only made certain that you understood which face he used—from which role he acted—when he gifted you."
Priscilla stared at her. "It makes a difference? But he's the same man, no matter what title he's using!"
"Of course he is. But the captain has specific duties, responsibilities, different duties than the Master Trader. A pilot has yet another set." Lina chewed her lip uncertainly. "It is only melant'i, Priscilla." She sighed at the blank look on her friend's face and tried once more. "It is true that Shan yos'Galan is the captain. But the captain is not Shan yos'Galan."
"I'll work on it," Priscilla said, smiling apologetically. "There might not be a Terran word, Lina." She tipped her head. "Is my Liaden accent horrible?"
"No. Who said it was? You are very careful and listen hard, but it is true you are just learning."
"The captain—at least I think it was the captain, but it might have been Shan yos'Galan—told me my accent was execrable and that he was going to introduce me to his aunt—his brother's aunt."
"To Lady Kareen? Illanga kilachi—no. Priscilla, did he promise that he would do so?"
"He said he would engage to," she said, somewhat amused. "How awful can she be?"
"You cannot imagine. She is very proper—ah, he is bad! We will practice, the two of us, very hard. And tomorrow I will choose enhancement tapes. You can sleep-learn? Good. Also protocol lessons." She looked up at her friend, hands fluttering. "What made him say such a thing? To Lady Kareen—"
"I told him he was high-handed," Priscilla confessed.
"So he now wishes to show you what that is." Lina grinned. "You are well served, then. However did you come to say something so rude?"
"It slipped out right after he told me I had a tendency toward melodrama."
Lina laughed. "It sounds as if you had a fine dinner! Compliments all around."
"Protocol lessons are a necessity," Priscilla agreed, smiling. She sobered. "Lina? Why is it wrong for me to tell the captain—the Master Trader—that I am all joy to see him?"
Lina looked at her in horror. "You said that? To Shan? In public?"
"And in the High Tongue," her friend admitted sheepishly. "Am I beyond redemption?"
"No wonder he gives you earrings!" Lina cried, taking her hand. "Priscill
a, you must never do so again! It is a phrase reserved for… a brother, perhaps, or an individual one has grown up with… a lifemate."
"Really? I'm glad I said it, then. It was exactly right."
"Priscilla," Lina pleaded. "It is most improper! You must not do so again."
"All right," she agreed sunnily. "I don't think I'll ever need to again." She laughed then, very softly, and Lina held her breath. "Poor Sav Rid!"
Lina found Shan in the gym. Just inside, she stopped to watch him swing the paddle, strike the ball, spin, connect, dive, connect—faster and even faster, the ball a white blur trapped between wall and paddle, the man moving with lithe intensity, never missing, never pausing.
After a moment, she walked forward, angling toward the wall, then heard the ball strike just beyond her shoulder.
"Lina! Are you courting suicide? You could have been hit!"
"No," she told him calmly, changing her course. "You are far too quick for that, my friend."
"Accidents happen." Shan walked to meet her, paddle in one hand, ball in the other. His hair stuck in wet points to his forehead, lending him a slightly satanic air; he was breathing hard, and the wine-colored shirt showed darker patches. Lina set aside a spurt of fond sympathy; she stopped at precisely the proper distance and looked sternly up at him.
"You are meddling!" She spoke in the High Tongue, as senior to junior.
"I always meddle," he returned in mild Terran. "You know that."
"You will cease to do so in this instance. Immediately." Her words were still in the High Tongue, commanding, as was proper.
"Dear me," Shan murmured, looking down with a fine show of bewildered stupidity. "Do you mind if we sit down?"
She laughed and turned with him toward the side benches. "You are impossible!" she told him in Terran. "You deserve to be scolded!"
Lee, Sharon & Miller, Steve - Liaden Books 1-9 Page 12