Chanur's Legacy (28 page)

Disquieting thought.

One she refused to deal with until she had found their recipient.

They traveled at insystem v now, good, peaceful citizens of the Compact. They had the output of the buoy computer that, constantly updated by real events in its vicinity and events transmitted from Kshshti Station, maintained a time-warped reality of its own, shading from the truly real and contemporaneous, or at least minutes-ago truth to the many-minutes-ago truth of Kshshti station.

The station schema was, at the time they got it, some 52 minutes old. That was a benefit of the peace: stations were no longer so paranoid as to think that two enemies might go at each other in full view of a station—or with one linked to its fragile skin. Kshshti Station showed
Ha’domaren
ahead of them ... where else? And a ship named
Nogkokktik,
captained by one Takekkt, at dock since yesterday.

Closing the gap, by the featherless gods.

Hani traders didn’t even
go
to Kshshti. But there were sixty-seven messages for aunt Pyanfar here, one outstanding legal paper suing for information, and a stray package pickup (from a mahen religious foundation?) postage due.

Meanwhile the kifish ship
Nogkokktik
remained at dock—wasn’t
talking
to anyone except station, and claimed, through station communications, not to know anything about any stsho passenger.

Likewise
Ha’domaren
received their salutations, welcomed them to Kshshti, and, no, Ana-kehnandian was not available. Ana-kehnandian was in his sleep cycle and could not be disturbed. Amazing how the watch officer’s command of the pidgin declined as soon as he’d said that.

And was there a stsho ambassador or anything of the sort on Kshshti?

No. The ambassador had taken ill and died last month.

“Gods
rot
it!” Hilfy cried.

“There’s something,” Tarras said, “going on.’‘

Notable understatement. She gave Tarras the stare that deserved.

“I mean,” Tarras amended that, “major.”

A long breath, slowly exhaled; unwelcome reminiscence of ship stalking ship, the chill of hearing a safety go off behind one’s back. Of seeing a ship die in a silent fireball, and hearing the voices over com ...

She didn’t want those days back again. She didn’t want to be in this port playing tag with a kif.

But gods be. She hadn’t the habit of giving in. Not even to her aunt. And never in a mahen hell to outsiders, notably not the kif.

She sat with her chin on her hand, thinking through their options, since no one was talking. Kshshti authorities were no reliable source of help—unless someone had come in here and swept out every official who had ever taken a bribe, and she had never heard that that had happened.

Of resources they had ...

“Deal with customs,” she said. “Offer the cans for sale ... except the rocks. We’re keeping the rocks.”

“Keeping the rocks,” Tarras echoed. “Right.”

“If we get a decent offer, let me know. If we don’t get a decent offer, look us up an honest warehouse ...”

“At Kshshti?”

“Best we can do. I want everybody on Kshshti to know what we’re carrying; and that we’re willing to warehouse it if we don’t get our offer.”

Tarras gave her a curious, thoughtful look.

“Why would a Chanur ship come in carrying strategics and staples, and insist on warehousing ... if we don’t get a top price?”

A line developed between Tarras’ brows. “You’ll panic the market,” Tarras protested. “Captain, ... begging your pardon ...”

“They know they’re dealing with Chanur. The dockside bartenders probably know we’re carrying an important stsho object. We’re in this to make a living, cousin. So are they.”

“You’ll shove the market into a war scare. It’ll proliferate. Captain, people can get hurt.”

“There’s nothing they’ll buy they won’t need. And that’s the market, isn’t it, cousin?”

“Not starting gods-be rumors!” Tarras cried, and immediately lowered her voice. “Captain. This isn’t right.”

She scowled at Tarras, at disloyalty, at a clear challenge to her methods, her character and her ethics. They had had doubts under aunt Py’s command, too, there had been scary, sticky moments, a good many of them here at Kshshti, but, by the gods, the whole crew had stood by her.

Py had a few more gray hairs, be it known. Py and the four senior crew had been in tight spots before they had ever gotten into the mess at Kshshti, and they’d known Pyanfar was smart enough to think her way through it.

But Tarras didn’t know that about her. Tarras knew she’d gotten the captaincy because she was Pyanfar’s niece, that was what Tarras knew about her, the same thing all Chanur’s rivals knew about her.

“If we let this loose,” Tarras began.

“It’s already loose, cousin, it’s already part of the record, what we got at Kita, what we’re doing, who we’re carrying, where we’re going ... People
watch
us, people rake over everything we do ... that message stack is in our files because every gods-be station
assumes
we’re in thick with Pyanfar’s doings, and all right, why don’t we just call up station central and tell them who we’ve got aboard, what we’re carrying, what we think Haisi’s up to, why don’t we just stand out there and see what happens then, cousin? So we lie to them, so we flash a few pieces of information and let whoever’s out there wonder if they’ve got the picture. If we told the gods-be truth they’d go insane trying to figure out which part of it was a lie.”

“I’m not for creating a war scare! I’m not for throwing the whole commodities market on its ear because we’ve got a problem!”

“So what if there
is
a war? What if, at least, the mahendo’sat and the stsho are maneuvering for position and somebody’s going to double-cross aunt Py and the whole glass house is going to come down? How many people are going to get hurt then? How fast will some kifish
hakkikt
appoint himself to grab power? The market’s a small casualty, cousin. A tick or two in the price of grain’s something the smart traders will ride smart and the amateurs are going to get stung with, but I’m not responsible for that. I can’t do anything about small investors’ mistakes, I’m trying to keep Chanur afloat, I’m trying not to let this blow up in aunt Py’s face—which it could—or let Chanur’s troubles with the
han
erode her influence to keep the peace, that’s where my thoughts are running, because if you’re right, Tarras Chanur, a good many more people can get hurt if the peace goes, than if the market bobbles.”

“We don’t know what side the stsho is on!” Tarras protested. “We could be doing harm rather than help for all we know!”

“People who do something can always make a mistake. So can people who do nothing.”

“That’s all fine. Do we know what we’re doing?”

“We rattle a few doors and see what puts its head out, cousin. And if you’ll do what I ask and publish us on the list, I’ll go rattle one in our own basement.”

“The stsho?”

“They’d better find out their ambassador here’s dead. And the other one’s missing. People have already gotten hurt, if you want the morality of it. They’re all stsho ... but they still count. They’re still dead. Somebody was willing to kill them. And we’ve got a piece of the puzzle on our deck.”

“Aye,
captain.”

So maybe Tarras was easier in her mind. She wasn’t. She walked out of the bridge and past
na
Hallan, who was doing a scrub-down and inventory of the galley cabinets, past Fala, who was doing a life-systems check, and got furtive stares from two eavesdroppers who’d probably rather be in the cold-hold.

Amazing the industry that appeared. She punched the lift button and rode down to lowerdecks, heard the clanks that meant Tiar and Chihin were busy in ops ... their refueling and their readiness to move was the number one priority, ahead of cargo, ahead of customs, ahead of any other business.

Gods, she hated politics, she couldn’t believe she’d said what she’d said up there ... no wonder

Tarras was confused.

She walked to the passenger corridor, signaled her intention to open the door, but while she was listening for a response, the door opened, and Dlima, quite nicely painted, gossamer-robed, quite gracious, bowed and let her in.

“Your excellency,” Hilfy began, “how have you fared?”

Tlisi-tlas-tin reclined in the bowl-chair, a cup in hand, and
gtst
beckoned her closer, quite at ease, quite pleased with gtstself and life in general, as seemed. “Will you take tea, captain?”

“Honored.” It was the only appropriate answer. She stepped in and settled herself as Dlima brought her a cup and filled it with graceful attention. “Most elegant.”

Dlima fluttered, and subsided, tea in hand, to snuggle up to
gtst
excellency, no trace of the confused person abandoned at Kita Point.

So, so, and so, Hilfy thought.
Gtst
excellency was not suffering. One wasn’t so certain about Dlima’s mind.

“Tell the captain,” Tlisi-tlas-tin said, with a gentle nudge
of gtst
elbow. “Or shall I?”

Feathery white lashes veiled moonstone eyes, and
gtstisi
squirmed deeper into the nook against
gtst
excellency. “I have the rare pleasure to make your honor’s acquaintance.”

“This is Dlimas-lyi,” Tlisi-tlas-tin said, with
gtst
arm about
gtsto
and a look of thoroughly foolish contentment on
gtst
face.

Good, living gods, Hilfy thought in despair.

“Gtsto
is a person of such inestimable quality, such wonderful refinement... beyond a consolation. I am beyond fortunate.”

So Dlima was something like male ... as Tlisi-tlas-tin gtstself was something no other sapient species on record had.

“I am ineffably honored by the event.” One didn’t refer to gender in polite conversation. What she was seeing was intimacy verging on the indecent, by every book on stsho etiquette she had read.

How did one deal with stsho in this condition?

Don’t refer bluntly to the integration, the books said.

Don’t use the
gtsto
pronoun without clear permission. Use the universal
gtst.

Don’t refer to mating.

Don’t act embarrassed.

“That
gtst
excellency has discovered such happiness as my guest,” she added desperately, “is a delight and an exquisitely unexpected honor to our hospitality.”

Gods rot it. She had business to discuss. Urgent business.’

But
gtst
was pleased.
Gtst
sipped
gtst
tea and
gtsto
was quick to refill the porcelain cups.

“Such excellent kindness,” she said, and
gtsto
fluttered with pleasure. A spidery white hand reached out to stroke her probably frazzled mane, and she valiantly refused to flinch.

“What a curious and unexpected texture.”

If
gtsto
proposed a threesome she was going to run for it.

“Dlimas-lyi,” Tlisi-tlas-tin said gently. “Would you absent yourself? There is such tedious business at hand,”

Dlimas-lyi bowed, and bowed, on the retreat from the bowl-chair. Tlisi-tlas-tin sipped
gtst
tea and Hilfy did the same.

Thank the gods ... the third gender was the one that dealt with outsiders, business, and stress.

But outsiders didn’t
meet
the sexed genders—or most rarely did.

“I am vastly moved by the trust
gtst
excellency has bestowed.”

“Your tastefulness fulfills my extravagant expectations of a foreigner. If I had not come on this voyage I should never have met Dlimas-lyi. As a result of your hospitality I have ... iiii ... no, I shall be daring ... affected a person of such exquisite worth as I could not dream of.
Gtsto
was the offspring of Atli-lyen-tlas,
gtsto,
ruthlessly abandoned,
gtsto,
hitherto
gtste ...
who most valorously hid from
gtst
enemies until Chanur had come to port. Then, seeing my magnificence, and surely to afford me comfort,
gtstisi
became
gtsto
...”

So Atli-lyen-tlas’ daughter had hid from assassins, and, attracted to Tlisi-tlas-tin had become ... call it male. It didn’t bear offspring in this hormonal condition. If she presented what
gtst
had said to the universities at Anuurn or Maing Tol, she could justify a second certificate in Foreign Studies. Scholars would kill, to hear what
gtst
confided to her ... but scholars were not going to hear it. That was the other thing you learned in Foreign Studies—not to sell out your source.

And in Protocols ... never to let your source know you had.

“I am overwhelmed,” she said honestly. “You are a most gracious guest. Admiration of your virtues has compelled me to personal efforts to fulfill our promises. And I must tell you—we are again frustrated in our attempts to reach Atli-lyen-tlas. The kif ship is here. It will not give us any information about passengers. But we have not abandoned effort.”

“They are offensive individuals.”

“I concur. Also the mane about whom I spoke, Ana-kehnandian, aboard
Ha’domaren,
is notable by his presence at this station and his clear intention to meddle in your excellency’s affairs.”

“What does your honor propose to do about this annoying person?”

“This is Kshshti. We have no confidence in the authorities to do anything. We shall attempt creativity. Has your excellency any advisement? We would receive it with all attention. Or had your excellency rather wait on further information—“
Never
press a stsho for decision, “—we should certainly attempt to obtain it.”

“As a hani, are you contemplating ... iiii ... violence of some sort?”

“By no means! But we
are
dealing with kif. Therefore it is a possibility, if instigated by them.”

“The Preciousness must be safe!”

“At all costs.”

“I am then willing to wait on your wisdom.”

Gods
rot
the son.

“I have one other ... em ... distressing piece of information. Your ambassador here is dead.”