Conflict Of Honors Read online

  "I do admit it," Priscilla told him. "I don't know why it was done any more than you do. Perhaps the second felt she had a grudge—but nothing to warrant cracking my skull." Which means the Trader ordered it, she thought suddenly, crystally. Dagmar wouldn't have mugged her and left her—not without orders. It was more in her style to try rape, if she had thought Priscilla had insulted her. And if the Trader had ordered it, that meant. . .

  Master Farley's chair creaked as he changed position. "Well, then, lass, I'm just bound to say that done's done. There doesn't seem to be any harm you've done—is that so, Liam?"

  "Yessir," the warehouseman said regretfully. "Happens that's so."

  The port master nodded. "Then the wisest thing to do is give you back your ID and send you on your way." He pushed her cards across the desk.

  Priscilla stared at him. "Send me on my way," she repeated blankly. "I'm stranded. I don't have any money. I don't know anybody here." The Trader had ordered it. Which meant that her deduction was correct: Daxflan had been carrying illegal drugs in enormous quantity. Never mind how he had gotten at her data, locked under her personal code. He had found it, given her credit for being able to make the deduction—and acted to remove a known danger.

  "Best you go to the embassy," Master Farley was saying with apologetic kindness. "Likely they'll send you home."

  Home? "No," she said, suddenly breathless. "I want to go—I must get to Arsdred." That was Daxflan's next port of call. And then? she asked herself, wondering at her own urgency. She shoved the question away for the present. She would take one thing at a time.

  "Arsdred," she repeated firmly.

  He looked doubtful. "Well, if you must, lass, you must. But I'm not the one to know how you'll go about it. You said you'd no money . . . ."

  "The ship in orbit now—Dutiful Passage? Is she a trader?"

  He nodded, blinking in confusion.

  "Good." She took a deep breath and forced her aching head to work. "Master Farley, you owe me no favors, I know. But I want to apply for work on Dutiful Passage. Will you help me?"

  "It's not me you need to speak to about that, lass. It'll be Mr. Saunderson, who's the agent." He puffed his chest out a little. "Dutiful Passage stops here every three years, regular."

  A ship that listed Jankalim among its regular ports of call? And a Liaden ship, too. Priscilla paused, trying to picture conditions less appealing than Daxflan's. Imagination failed her, and she smiled tightly at the port master.

  "How do I get in touch with Mr. Saunderson?"

  "His office is just in the city," Liam said from behind her. "Anyone can tell you the way."

  "That's so," Master Farley agreed slowly. Then he squared his shoulders and stiffened his mustache. "You can use the comm to call him from here, if you like to."

  Her smile was genuine this time, if no less painful. "Thank you so much."

  "That's all right, lass. Pleased to be of help," he muttered, cheeks going pink. "Liam here will show you to the comm room." He made a show of turning back to the unit beside his desk, and Priscilla stood.

  Liam looked as if he would have liked to grab her arm again, but satisfied himself with walking close behind her down the short hall to the communication room. He showed her the local screen and, after a moment's hesitation, punched up Mr. Saunderson's code. Priscilla smiled at him, and he flushed dull red.

  Mr. Saunderson was old, his face a translucent network of wrinkles from which a pair of obsidian eyes glittered. He listened to her name and the statement that she had been employed until recently on Daxflan and heard her say that she was interested in employment on the orbiting ship.

  "It is my understanding, Ms. Mendoza, that Dutiful Passage is fully staffed. However, if you would care to hold on for a few moments, I will ascertain whether this understanding is correct."

  "Thank you, sir. I appreciate your trouble."

  "Not at all. One moment, please." The elderly face was replaced with an image of an unlikely landscape, portrayed in various shades of tangerine and aqua. The picture had not been calculated to soothe raging headaches, and Priscilla closed her eyes against it.

  "Ms. Mendoza?"

  Priscilla snapped her eyes open, cheeks flaming.

  Mr. Saunderson smiled at her. "The captain professes himself interested in an interview, Ms. Mendoza, and wonders if you would honor him by a visit." He cleared his throat with the utmost gentility. "He does indicate that Dutiful Passage employs a very able cargo master. He does not wish you to visit under a misapprehension, or if you cannot accept any position except that of cargo master."

  Priscilla hesitated, wondering what positions the captain had in mind. But she was determined to get to Arsdred.

  She looked at Mr. Saunderson, who was patiently waiting in the screen, and tried to visualize him whetting the captain's supposed appetite with a glowing description of her, bruised face and all. The vision brought forth a grin.

  "You're very kind," she told the old gentleman carefully. "I am willing to accept any crewing work that might be available on Dutiful Passage. When and where may I visit the captain?"

  "I shall send 'round Ms. Dyson, our pilot. Is twenty minutes convenient? Good. She will convey you to Dutiful Passage. I will inform Captain yos'Galan of your coming."

  "You're very kind," she said again.

  "Not at all." Mr. Saunderson smiled. "Good luck, Ms. Mendoza." He cut the connection.

  Priscilla sighed and leaned back in her chair. She had twenty minutes until Pilot Dyson came to collect her. She looked at Liam. "Is there someplace where I can wash my face and hands?"

  He snorted and jerked his head. "Down the hall, first door on the left. Nothin' fancy, it isn't."

  "As long as it's functional." She levered herself up and went past him into the hall. He followed and leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, watching as she opened the door and entered the 'fresher.

  There was no shower, which was a shame. She had rather hoped for a hot deluge to ease some of the crankiness from her bruises. There was a sink, water, and soap. She would make do.

  Automatically, she reached up to remove her earrings, then froze in disbelief when her fingers encountered only naked earlobes. Slowly, she went over to the tiny square of mirror on the far wall.

  Reflected back at her was a creamy oval face surmounted by a tangled cloud of ebony curls, black eyes very wide under slim brows, and nostrils distended with anger. The fragile ridge of the right cheek was already purpling. There was a small hole in each perfect earlobe; the left one showed a thin line of blood, as if it was torn just a little.

  How dare she? she thought furiously. My earrings, given to me on my Womanday, that were my grandmother's! How dare— Rage, sudden and shocking, drove out pain and fears. Priscilla was abruptly trembling, wishing fiercely to have Dagmar's neck between her hands.

  Arsdred, she told herself, trying to still the fury. I'll have them both. Just let me get to Arsdred.

  Slowly the rage became manageable; she enclosed it, as she had been taught, banked and ready for the proper moment.

  Woodenly she went to the sink, turned on the cold water, bent, and began to splash her face.

  Shipyear 65

  Tripday 130

  Fourth Shift

  18.00 Hours

  "Asleep, Mendoza?" Dyson inquired from the pilot's chair.

  Priscilla opened her eyes and sat up straighter. "Just resting."

  "Okay by me. End of the line in about five minutes. Word is you'll be met and escorted to the captain's office. Got it?"

  "Yes. Thank you."

  Dyson snorted. "Don't thank me, Mendoza; I'm just passing on the facts." She thumbed the comm, reeled off her numbers, and grunted at the acknowledgment before turning her full attention to the board.

  Orbit and velocity were matched with an offhanded exactitude that earned Priscilla's silent praise even as she regretted her own uncompleted certificate.

  There came assorted mechanical clankings an
d ringings before a final authoritative thump. Dyson locked the board with a sweep of her hand. "Okay, Mendoza. Roll on out."

  "Okay." She unstrapped and stood. "Thanks."

  "What they pay me for, Mendoza. Beat it, all right?"

  Priscilla grinned. "See you around."

  She went out the hatch and through the door—then stopped, blinking.

  Carpet was beneath her feet; she was struck by the vaulting, the well-lit spaciousness . . . She was in a state reception room.

  The identification was hard to refute. To her left and some twelve feet downroom was a grouping of chairs and loungers—Terran—and Liaden-sized in equal proportion. Farther on, a podium was shoved against the wall, directly beneath the mural of an enormous tree in full, green leaf. Hovering behind and a little above, nearly dwarfed by the tree it guarded, was a winged dragon, bronze and fierce, emerald eyes looking directly at her. There were words in Liaden characters beneath the roots of the tree.

  Priscilla sighed slightly, recalling little Fin Ton, who had taught her Liaden in an even exchange for games of go. But his lessons had not extended to reading. Priscilla turned her head carefully to the right wall, which held what appeared to be a collage of photographs and drawings.

  Obviously she was in the wrong place. She had better return to the docking pod and see if there was another door that led onto a more reasonable area—one containing her escort to the captain.

  Half a second later she had abandoned that plan. Over the door by which she had entered, the atmosphere lamp glowed clear ruby, indicating vacuum in the pod beyond.

  Priscilla turned. The door directly across from her, then? Or a ship's intercom? Surely, in a room as spacious as this one she could find an intercom.

  That thought brought to mind all kinds of interesting questions about the room itself. Tradeships did not, in her experience, devote space to ballrooms or auditoriums. Three of Daxflan's holds would have fit comfortably into this area.

  Priscilla put speculation from her mind. First, she had to find an intercom.

  The door across from her opened, and a rather breathless small person erupted into the room. He skidded to a stop about two feet away and executed an awkward bow.

  Not Liaden, she noted with relief. But—a child?

  "Are you Ms. Mendoza?" he asked, then swept on without waiting for an answer. "Crelm! I'm awful sorry. I was supposed to be here when you came in. Cap'n's gonna skin me!"

  She grinned at him. He was a stocky Terran boy of perhaps eleven Standards, dressed in plain slacks and shirt. There was a smear of grease on his right sleeve and another on his chin. An embroidered badge on his left shoulder bore the legend "Arbuthnot."

  "I've only been here a minute," she told him. "Surely he won't skin you for that?"

  The boy gave it consideration, tipping his head birdlike to one side. "Well, he still might. He told me to be here, didn't he? And it's rude, you gettin' off the shuttle and there being nobody to meet you." He sighed. "I really am sorry. I meant to be here."

  "I accept your apology," Priscilla said formally. "Are you my escort to the captain, by any chance?"

  "Oh, crelm," the boy said again, and laughed. "I'm making a rare mingle of it! An' he told me to make sure I welcomed you onboard, too!" He looked at her out of hopeful brown eyes. "Did I do that?"

  "Admirably," she assured him, fighting down a rare spurt of her own laughter.

  "Good," he said, relieved. He turned, waving at her to accompany him. "My name's Gordy Arbuthnot. I'm cabin boy."

  "Pleased to meet you," Priscilla said gravely, trying not to stare around the wide, well-lit hallway. This was the ship that visited Jankalim every three years on a regular basis? The little she had seen so far would contain most of Daxflan. She opened her mouth to ask Gordy how many holds Dutiful Passage could carry, then thought better of it and asked another question instead. "What was that room back there? I thought I'd made a wrong turn getting off the shuttle."

  "Reception room," he explained offhandedly. "For when we have visitors. Most of us just use the cargo docks when we come back on-ship."

  "But I'm a guest?" She frowned. "Do you get a lot of visitors?"

  Gordy shrugged. "Cap'n has parties sometimes. And sometimes people take passage with us—'cause we go where the liners don't, or 'cause we go there faster."

  "Oh."

  They entered a lift, and her guide punched a quick series of buttons. Shortly the door opened to a narrower hall, wide enough for four Liadens to walk abreast, Priscilla estimated. She smelled cinnamon, resin, and leather; she took a deep breath and held it a moment before sighing.

  Gordy grinned. "Best place in the whole ship for smells. That's Number Six Hold." He pointed. "There's Cap'n's office."

  Priscilla caught her breath sharply and bit her lip against a flare of pain in her head.

  There's nothing to worry about, she told herself firmly. The captain wants an interview. The worst that can happen is that he has no job to offer. Time enough, when that happens, to think of another way to Arsdred.

  Gordy laid his hand against the palmplate in the captain's bright red door. There was a chime, followed by a subdued "Come."

  The door slid open.

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

  Once again she was overwhelmed by spaciousness. Shelf after shelf of booktapes, bound books, and musictapes 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 shirt.

  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 before 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, Goddess, 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 class, 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 glass 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 carved 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.