Conflict Of Honors Read online

  Priscilla blinked at him. "I'm sorry?"

  "Well, it's like—" He pointed a finger at her. "Cabin boy. You met Gordy?"

  She grinned. "He met me when I came on."

  "Nice kid. Point is, we've had a couple different cabin boys. One was backup astrogator. 'Nother spent more time helping Ken Rik figure distributions than she did fetchin' wine. Last guy—seemed like all he did was play chess with the cap'n. Gordy—he's teaching the cap'n—aah, what is it? Restructured Gaelic? Some damn thing—old Terran dialect. Happens to be the everyday parley where Gordy's from."

  "The captain's learning Old Terran from Gordy Arbuthnot?" Priscilla picked up her cup and frowned into it. "Why?"

  Rusty shrugged. "Cap'n likes to talk."

  "I noticed. But—Old Terran? And an obscure dialect, at that?"

  "Better ask him—I don't know. But to get back—if the tests check out okay, you're in. And you'll work." He grinned. "Everybody works."

  "But it seems that cabin boy is filled," Priscilla pointed out.

  "Cap'n'll think of something," Rusty said with decision. "More coffee?"

  She smiled. "Thanks."

  "No problem. How you like it? Black? Back in a sec."

  He was back almost immediately, handing her a mug; he remained standing, eyeing her consideringly. Priscilla took a gingerly sip and hoped he wasn't about to say anything unfortunate.

  "If you got a minute," he began as she clamped her jaw, "let's go 'round to the lounge. There's a screen there. We can call up the spec freight and you can give me lots of ideas for making money. Ought to be interesting, since you've been a cargo master and all."

  Priscilla let out her breath and stood with a smile. "Okay."

  "Right this way."

  Matching his stride, Priscilla asked, "What's the spec freight?"

  "Speculation," Rusty explained, and grinned at her blank look. "See, every crew member who wants to pledges a certain percentage each trip for speculation. Wood, say—that's what I'm interested in. Or perfume—that's pretty chancy, but Lina seems to do okay with it. Musical instruments—I don't know. Little while back we had some Grestwellin caviar—one of Gordy's finds. Sold out next port we put in." He shook his head. "That kid's gonna be one hell of a Trader. Knows what's gonna be hot next port, even if we don't know where next port is—here we are."

  The door slid open at their approach, and Priscilla followed him over the threshold into comfortable dimness and subdued chatter. There was a card game going on in a bright corner—Rusty waved in that direction and got two or three absent responses—and a few other people were scattered about, some in conversational clusters, some alone, with books or handwork.

  "There's Lina," Rusty said, and made a detour toward a single chair where a brown-haired Liaden woman was reading a bound book.

  She glanced up and smiled. "Rah Stee. They let you from your cage so soon?"

  "It's later than you think," he told her, waving Priscilla forward. "This is Priscilla Mendoza. She's a guest onboard this shift. Got an interview with the cap'n next. Priscilla, this is Lina Faaldom, chief librarian."

  Honey-colored eyes considered her gravely. Prompted by an impulse she could not name, Priscilla did what she had never done to Sav Rid Olanek or any of the Daxflan's crew—she performed the bow between equals, exactly as Fin Ton had shown her. "I am happy to meet you, Lina Faaldom," she said, with a careful ear to her accent.

  The woman clapped her hands. "She speaks Liaden! See, now, Rah Stee, are you not ashamed?" She stood and returned the bow gracefully. "No happier than I am to meet you, Priscilla Mendoza." She straightened and added in Terran, "Perhaps you will prevail upon this lazy Rah Stee to learn, as well."

  "Nag," Rusty said without heat. "I was going to call up the spec for Priscilla. Want to kibitz?"

  "I do not know. What is it—kibitz?"

  "It means to look over our shoulders," Priscilla explained. "Rusty wants me to give him ideas to make money."

  "Money, money. Already Rah Stee has more money than he can gamble away. Why does he need more? But yes, I would like to kibitz. Thank you."

  The screen was in the corner opposite the card game. Rusty waved his hand at the lightplate and entered his code. Lina perched on the arm of his chair, and Priscilla sat on the hassock to the left, legs curled under her.

  "Here we are. Contents, Hold Six: twenty kilos mahogany; ten kilos yellow pine; fifty-eight gallons Endless Lust perfume—Endless Lust?" Rusty turned a pained face to the woman beside him.

  "It is the smell," Lina told him with dignity, "not the name."

  "You're the expert. Four hundred bushels raw cotton; and thirty-two dozen bottles Essence of Themngo." He shook his head. "That kid better be right this time . . . . What do you think, Priscilla?"

  "Impressive," she said sincerely. "You seem to have chosen well—mostly luxury items. I'm not an expert on woods, though. Thirty kilos sounds like either too much or too little."

  "It is the artists," Lina explained. "Everywhere we go, there are the artists, always looking for something new. Rah Stee starts with the wood . . . oh, long ago, when the captain's father was captain. Now, we have orders. The wood becomes a—a usual thing. We are expected."

  Priscilla nodded, struck by another thought. "You've got an entire hold tied up in the crew's speculative cargo? What about capacity fees?"

  "Cap'n pledges that. On condition the ship gets her share first out of any profit. The ship shares any loss, too—it's a fair deal."

  "More than fair." She sipped her cooling coffee. "Your captain sounds unusual."

  "He is a good captain," Lina said.

  "And the Passage is a profitable ship," Rusty added, turning back to the screen. "Most of the wood'll go at Arsdred—the Artisan's Guild put in a big order. We might pick up a few odds and ends there—not too likely, though, since almost everybody running this sector stops there. Number Six'll be empty for a while." He glanced at Priscilla. "Can't make money that way."

  "But you just said the wood's an ordered item," she pointed out. "You've got a profit, right?"

  "Yeah, I guess." He brightened. "Tell you what—let's try and get our shore leaves matched for Arsdred. Then we can go scouting together. Who knows? Something might turn for the spec. Or even for the ship."

  Priscilla stared at him. "I might not be onboard at Arsdred, remember?" She drank the rest of her coffee and shook her head. "Do you all look for the ship, too? What's the Master Trader do?"

  Lina laughed.

  "He trades," Rusty said, his round face serious. "We don't trade. But anybody might see something. Cap'n's only one person—he could miss a deal just 'cause he can't be in three places at once. So as many of the crew as can go worldside. If you see something, you hotfoot to the nearest comm and call the cap'n or Kayzin Ne'Zame—first mate. If it turns out to be a go, there's a finder's fee." He blinked at her. "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing. I—the last ship I was on didn't—encourage—the crew to go worldside. And the Trader did all the trading."

  "Sounds like a stupid arrangement to me," the man said flatly.

  "It does not make good sense," Lina agreed slowly. "The ship is everyone's venture. We all take a share of the profit. It is only sensible to work hard for a big profit." She looked carefully at Priscilla. "Perhaps you were not on such a good ship before."

  "Perhaps I wasn't," Priscilla said dryly, and lifted a hand to cover a sudden yawn. "I'm sorry. It's been a long day. Better be finding my room . . . ." She uncoiled her legs and stood.

  With a nod, Rusty signed off and moved out of the alcove. One of the card players looked up and waved him over. "In a sec," he called, and turned back. "Priscilla, I bet you threebits you'll be on the Passage at Arsdred."

  "I don't have threebits to bet," she said ruefully. "But I hope you're right. It was good to meet you."

  "See you later," he responded, and drifted off toward the game.

  "You should excuse Rah Stee," Lina said, waving a hand at his retreating b
ack. "You know where your room is from here?"

  "I have a map," Priscilla began, fishing in her pocket.

  The smaller woman laughed. "The map is good, but it will take you by all the main halls. I know the short ways. If it does not offend, I can show you. It is time I went to sleep as well."

  "I don't want to put you to any trouble . . . ."

  "It is no trouble," Lina assured her. "Only let me get my book."

  They turned left from the door of the lounge rather than right, as the map directed, and pursued several short zigzagging corridors before regaining the main hail. They followed this past several closed doors, one marked GYM and another POOL, before turning into a slimmer, dimmer way.

  Lina left her with a smile and a slight bow at the third door on the right. "Sleep well, Priscilla Mendoza. I will look for you tomorrow."

  "Sleep you well also, Lina Faaldom," Priscilla answered softly in Liaden. "Thank you for your care."

  The room was a blur to her overtired mind. She located the cleanbot and pushed her clothes into the slot, hoping that the black smear on one yellow cuff would come out in the cycle.

  There was a clock on the shelf over the bed; she keyed in a request for Sixth Hour and curled into the luxuriously soft cushions with a sigh as she belatedly waved a hand at the lightplate.

  She was asleep before the room was dark.

  Shipyear 65

  Tripday 131

  Second Shift

  6.55 Hours

  "Priscilla Mendoza?"

  She started, almost spilling what was left of her coffee, and blinked at the small person who had appeared suddenly before her. The woman was a Liaden of middle years, with golden skin showing deep lines about eyes and mouth, and yellow hair going gray.

  Priscilla smiled. "I am sorry. I was daydreaming. How may I serve you?"

  The handsome face did not relax its austere lines. "The captain's compliments, Ms. Mendoza. He requests that you come to him, if you have broken your fast." She hesitated before inclining her head ever so slightly. "I am Kayzin Ne'Zame." The first mate.

  Priscilla smiled again, despite the stiffness of her face, and pushed back her chair. "I've just finished this minute. I'll go to the captain as soon as I've cleaned up my tray." She was fairly confident of the route, having studied her map throughout breakfast.

  "I shall escort you," Kayzin Ne'Zame said uncompromisingly.

  Fear returned. Priscilla would be sent from the ship—or she would be required to remain—it was impossible to know which was the worse possibility. Breakfast was a handful of cold rock in her stomach; she abruptly remembered the woman she had met last night and wished they had had a chance to speak further.

  Priscilla laid her tray gently on the conveyer belt and turned back to the first mate. "Thank you, Kayzin Ne'Zame. I am ready now."

  * * *

  The captain was behind the desk, fingers busy on the keypad. A glass of wine sat to hand, and the previous day's stacks of paper had given birth to two others like themselves.

  "Captain," the first mate said formally. "Here is Priscilla Mendoza, come to speak with you."

  He glanced up absently. "Ms. Mendoza. Good morning. I'll be with you in just a moment. Kayzin, old friend, will you come to me in an hour?"

  "Certainly, Captain." She executed a disapproving bow, but he had already returned his attention to the screen, and Priscilla did not think he saw. Frowning, the mate turned on her heel; the automatic door did its best to bang shut behind her.

  Priscilla stood, fighting cold nausea. Biting her lip, she studied the man behind the desk, combating fear with observation.

  It was a puzzle, she decided. He was so tall, his skin warm brown rather than golden. Like all Liaden men she had seen, his face was as fine-grained as a child's, without a hint of beard. The white hair and brows made a vivid contrast; the lean cheeks and mobile mouth were not displeasing.

  Really, she thought, if you don't expect him to look Liaden, he's not ugly at all.

  Certainly he was not an ill-made person. Beneath the wide-sleeved shirt his shoulders were level and broad, his back straight without being rigid. The big hands moved with graceful economy on the keypad, and Priscilla did not think they would be babysoft like Rusty Morgenstern's.

  Abruptly he nodded, leaned back, and extended a long arm for his glass. The slanting brows pulled sharply together as he looked up. "Does Sav Rid have delusions of grandeur? Sit, sit. Have you eaten? Will you drink? Did you sleep well?"

  Priscilla considered him. "I don't know. Thank you. Yes. No. Very. Did you?"

  "Not too badly," he said, raising his glass. "Though Mr. Saunderson's idea of a party is a bit risqué. We played charades. And sang rounds. The youngest Ms. Saunderson attempted to elicit my promise to wed her when she comes of age." He shook his head. "Alas, it seems clear she is more enamored of adventuring about the galaxy than she is of my elegant person, so there's a brilliant match gone begging. I have your test scores. Are you interested in discussing them now?"

  Priscilla made an effort to settle her stomach firmly in place. "Yes, sir."

  He ran his fingers in a quick series over the keys. "Physics, math, astrogation—yes, yes, yes. Colors red, colors blue, taste in books—yes?" He glanced up. "Prebatout. You recall the question? 'How many toes should a prebatout have?' And here is Priscilla Mendoza saying, 'As many as it feels comfortable with.' I've only known one other person to answer that particular question that way."

  "Have you?' Priscilla asked, hands ice cold. "Was she a suspected thief, too?"

  "Thief? No, a scout. Though, come to think of it, the two trades might have some similarities. I've never considered it in that light. I'll ask, the next time I see him . . . ." He returned to the screen, humming to himself.

  Priscilla curled her fingers carefully around the armrests, refusing to rise to the bait—if it was bait—of his last comment. Let him talk, since he seemed to like it so much.

  He moved his shoulders, gave the keypad a final tap, and leaned back. "You don't have a pilot's license? That won't do, will it? Let me see . . . forty-eight crew members, counting the captain—eight of them pilots. Too few by far. You'll have to study, Ms. Mendoza. I insist on it. Every ninth shift you'll be on the bridge for lessons."

  "Wait a minute." She took a breath. "You're signing me on? As a pilot?"

  "As a pilot?" he repeated blandly. "No, how could I do that? You're not a pilot, are you, Ms. Mendoza? That's why you'll need to take lessons. Certification's no problem. I'm rated master, all conditions—is something wrong?"

  "Forgive me," she said carefully. "I thought you were captain. And Master Trader, of course. You're a pilot, too?"

  "A little of this, a little of that. The Passage is a family enterprise, after all. Owned and operated by Clan Korval. And piloting runs in the blood, so to speak. I got my first class when I was sixteen Standards—been ratable for a few years before that, of course. Did my first solo on this ship when I was fourteen—but rules are rules, and they clearly state that no one may be certified until sixteen Standards. But I was saying—what was I saying? Oh, yes. Since I'm a master pilot, there won't be any delay once you earn your certification. Are you certain you haven't got a license, Ms. Mendoza? Third class, perhaps?"

  "I'm certain, Captain." Things were moving too fast; the torrent of words was threatening to unmoor her fragile hold on serenity. "Just what will my position be?"

  "Hmm? Oh—pet librarian."

  "Pet librarian?"

  "We have a very nice pet library," he told her gravely. "Now, details. We're nearly half done with the route. I can offer you flat rate from Jankalim to Solcintra—approximately a tenth-cantra upon docking. You'd be eligible for the low-man share of any bonus the ship might earn from this point on—finder's fees and special awards are the same for everyone, based on profit of found cargo and merit, as judged by the majority of the crew." He raised his glass. "Questions?"

  She had a myriad of them, but only one was forthcoming. "
Why," she demanded irritably, "do you keep waving that glass around if you never drink from it?"

  He grinned. "But I do drink from it. Sometimes. More questions?"

  She sighed. "How much will the ship charge for pilot training?"

  "If you fail to report for training every ninth shift, the captain will dock you twentybits. Three unexcused or unexplained absences will be grounds for immediate termination of your contract. Understand, please, Ms. Mendoza, that pilot training is an essential part of your duties while you are a member of this crew. I will not allow abandonment of that duty—the penalties are quite in earnest." He paused, his light eyes gauging her face. "You do understand?"