Conflict Of Honors (30 page)

Healer, he instructed himself wryly, heal yourself.

The wine was excellent.

"Confess then, Captain," the port master drawled lazily. "You're intrigued by the proposition."

That was a masterly move. They had been discussing a possible investment of her own, the talk shared evenly between himself and Mr. dea'Gauss. Shan smiled, slanting his eyes toward her face in a sweep of black lashes.

"I am always intrigued," he answered audaciously, "by a lady's proposition."

She laughed, well pleased with him. "Perhaps you and I might meet to discuss the matter more fully." She inclined her head, including the old gentleman in her smile. "Mr. dea'Gauss must accompany you, of course. I'm sure we will both require his counsel."

He raised his glass. "The trading will keep me—tomorrow, the next day. You understand, ma'am, that there are persons I must see, in the normal course of business."

"Of course," she said appreciatively. "Perhaps I should stop by your booth in the Grand Square in a day or so. By then you may know your commitments more fully."

"Why, that would be lovely!" he exclaimed, smiling widely. "I'd be delighted to see you there, ma'am." And so he would, though he would be more delighted to see her this night—as she yet intended.

"Then naturally I will come." She began to add something more, then checked herself as the door to her right opened, no doubt admitting the third course.

But the individual who stepped into the room bore no tray, pushed no cart, and looked not a little worried.

The port master frowned. "Yes?"

"I beg your pardon, madam," her aide said formally. "Precinct Officer Velnik calls on your private line. He assures me the matter is one of urgency."

After a moment's frowning hesitation, a hand flick directed the aide toward the wallscreen. She turned back to the table. "Do excuse the interruption, sirs. This post has many privileges. Privacy is not one of them. It will be but a moment. Please do not regard it."

"That's quite all right," Shan assured her, smiling sympathetically. Mr. dea'Gauss inclined his head.

The precinct officer looked nervous. As well he might, Shan thought. The port master's displeasure was plain on her face.

"Well?"

The officer swallowed. "I'm sorry to disturb you, Thra Rominkoff," he said breathlessly. "It seems routine on the surface. But the boy insisted we call. Says he's the ward of a—Captain yos'Galan?"

Shan stiffened, all attention on the screen.

The port master nodded sharply. "He is here. Is the boy injured?"

Relief flooded Velnik's face. "No, Thra Rominkoff, he's just fine. But we've got a dead Terran female—"

No!
And then he was expanding in all directions, an explosion of seek-strands, streaking past the port master's pattern, and Mr. dea'Gauss, and the liveried servant here, and those in the kitchen beyond, stretching, stretching as no Healer could, trying to read the city beyond the walls, searching for one signature, one life—
Priscilla!

In his far-off body something snapped, followed by pain and more pain as the search slammed hard against its limits, rebounded. . .

He dropped the shattered stem next to the sharded crystal bowl in its puddle of bright wine and blood, and wrapped a napkin around his hand as the port master spun back to the screen, snapping her fingers.

"Quickly! Who has died?"

"Dagmar Collier, Port Master." The man was stumbling over his own words, his eyes flicking from Shan to the woman and back. "Native of Troit. Second Mate on
Daxflan,
out of Chonselta."

Which should not be here! Shan swallowed his curse and saw the thought reflected in the port master's face.

"Bring the boy here," she instructed the precinct officer.

He shook his head. "We have the woman who killed Collier, Thra Rominkoff. She confesses. But murder requires a formal trial, since rehabilitation is the fee—"

"No!" That was out before he could stop it.

The port master slanted a quick glance at Shan's face and returned her attention to the screen. "The woman who confesses is a friend of the boy's? He refuses to come away without her?"

"Yes, Thra Rominkoff."

"Port Master." Somehow he had control of his voice against the tearing pains in hand and head and the terror in his heart. "The person in question is a member of my crew. Am I not allowed to speak for her?" Rehabilitation. Gods, rehabilitation
here.
"It is possible that she does not understand. She is not native here. And perhaps not all of the—circumstances—have been made clear to the precinct officer."

She nodded. "It is, of course, your right to speak for your crew member, Captain." Her eyes were back on the officer. "We shall arrive within the hour. So inform the captain's ward. And arrange for the guard to pass us without delay."

"Port Master." He gave a formal salute, and the screen went dark. The port master rose.

"A medkit," she snapped at the frozen aide. The woman scurried off, returning in a bare moment. Mr. dea'Gauss took it from her and himself applied the lotion, sealed the sharp edge of the cut, and wrapped it in soft cloth, radiating concern.

The old gentleman's pattern set Shan's teeth on edge with anguish: the complex spill of rage, puzzlement, and—admiration?—from the port master nearly had him in tears. Painfully, he began the sequence to seal himself away, to leach the worst of the pain from the rebound shock so that he might unseal himself in an hour, perhaps even to some purpose.

"My car awaits, sirs," the port master said, concern her face.

"You are all kindness, ma'am." He managed the formula, stood, and made his bow.

"Nonsense!" she snapped. "It is my duty to monitor what goes on in this port, Captain. That includes seeing justice done." She indicated the patient aide. "Melecca will see you to the car. I will join you very shortly. There is an urgent matter I must attend to." She was gone in a swirl of bright fabric.

"Daxflan's
in port," Shan murmured to Mr. dea'Gauss as they followed Melecca to the car. "That's interesting, isn't it?"

"Very," the old gentleman agreed. He sighed.

There were far too many people in the room. Port Master Rominkoff paused to sort out the crowd. The young captain never broke his stride.

"Shan!"

The boy was smallish and pudgy, running pell-mell toward them. The young captain went down on one knee, caught the child as he skidded to a halt, and returned a hug just this side of savage.

"Gordy." He set the boy back, ran his hands rapidly over the plump frame, and touched a smooth cheek. "You're all right, acushla?"

"Crelm!" the boy snorted.
"I'm
okay." The round face clouded. "Shan—they wouldn't listen! I told them—I did! They wouldn't fix her arm and—"

"Hush." He stroked the boy's cheek again, then laid a gentle finger over his lips. "Gordy. Just relax for a moment, okay?" The small body lost some of its tension, as if those words were all it took. "Good. Where's Priscilla now?"

Tears filled the brown eyes. "I tried to make them not—" He took a ragged breath. "They put her in a cage."

"Here now, young man!" the precinct officer said, approaching warily, his eyes flicking from the port master's face to the man and boy, then back to her face. "Not a
cage!
Just a holding cell, I promise!"

The captain rose smoothly and inclined his head. "A holding cell," he repeated softly. The precinct officer ran his tongue over his lips. The port master forbade herself the smile.

"I am captain of the
Dutiful Passage,"
Shan continued clearly. "Ms. Mendoza is a member of my crew. I am here to speak on her behalf, as set in the trade compacts. You will liberate her from the—holding cell—and guide her here so that all may be done . . . lawfully."

The port master denied the smile more sternly. Really, the young captain pleased her more and more.

The precinct officer was shaking his head. "I'm afraid I can't do that, Captain. She's a confessed murderer. We asked her twice, according to law. She understood the questions and answered them. Twice. She talked crazy about other stuff, but not about that. The law says in those circumstances, we hold the prisoner for a next-day trial. It's most likely the judge will rule rehabilitation in light of the confession, and lacking witnesses—"

"What do you mean, lacking witnesses?" the captain demanded. "The child says he told you what happened—and that you refused to listen!"

Officer Velnik held up a hand. "Not admissible, Captain. He's underage."

"On his home-world," came a dry voice from the port master's side, "Master Arbuthnot is of an age where his testimony is considered admissible."

"I'm sure it is, Mr.—ah?"

"dea'Gauss," the old man supplied, going forward. "I am the man of business for Clan Korval, of which Captain yos'Galan and, by wardship, Master Arbuthnot are members. Pray elucidate the reason for your refusal to admit testimony from a witness of sound mind and honorable character. You have yourself cast doubt by stating that Lady Mendoza spoke irrationally of subjects other than the specific mischance. It behooves you to place before a judge all interpretations of the event that are available. Justice could hardly be served in any other way."

"See here—"

It was time for the port master to take a hand. "Mr. dea'Gauss raises a valid point and asks a pertinent question," she drawled from the doorway. "Why is the boy forbidden to testify, Velnik? I have monitored trials where children much younger than he appears to be have spoken and been heard."

"Thra Rominkoff, it is law that all witnesses in cases of violent crime must testify under the same drug administered to the accused. Persons under majority—nineteen Standard Years—may not be compelled to submit to the drug."

"What drug?" the young captain asked very quietly.

"Pimmadrene," she replied. "It's been used for many years. The ego is temporarily dissolved, which nets quite truthful answers." She considered the precinct officer. "And yet it does still seem to me that I have seen very young children testify. The law speaks of 'impel.' What if free choice is offered?"

He moved his shoulders. "The parents gave permission for the drug in the cases you mention, Thra Rominkoff."

"Or guardian of record?"

He bowed.

"But it is dangerous?" the captain asked quietly.

"Dangerous? No. The doctor adjusts the dose to body weight and stays by to monitor. But it's unpleasant. Not the sort of thing to force on a person who can't—a child. The side effects are dizziness, stomach cramps, fever, disorientation. Some people go blind for a few days, but that's not common. Doc over there could tell you specifically."

"I'll do it," the boy said suddenly, and tugged on the captain's sleeve. "Shan? Tell them I'll do it. I'm your ward. Grandpa told me!"

"Acushla, think carefully. The side effects sound very bad. And the intended effect isn't good, either. I'll do what you tell me to do. It's your decision. But be sure, Gordy."

"Shan, it's
Priscilla."
He grabbed on to a big hand, looking up worriedly. "They said—do you know what they're going to do to her, if the judge says she's got to be—to be rehabilitated?"

"I know, Gordy. Hush."

But Gordy would not be hushed. He hung on to the captain's hand and looked at Mr. dea'Gauss, making the explanation to him in a voice that washed against every wall in the room.

"They said—since she's a
murderer
—she'll go to the organ bank. They'll float her in a tank and feed her through tubes and stuff until somebody maybe needs an eye. Then they'll take one of Priscilla's eyes. And she'll float some more 'til somebody needs another eye, or a kidney, or a lung, or a leg, and they'll cut her up, piece by piece . . . ."

"Gordy!" The captain was on his knees, pulling the boy tight against his shoulder and rubbing his face in the sandy hair. "Stop it, Gordy. Please."

There was silence.

The boy pulled back, lifted a tentative hand to the man's stark cheek, and snuffled. "Shan, you better tell them I'll be a witness. They can't—Priscilla's
good."

"Yes," the captain murmured, coming slowly to his feet. "I know that, too."

He bowed to the precinct officer very slightly. "It has been determined that my ward will testify at Ms. Mendoza's trial. Please tell us its time and location, as well as the proper manner in which to present ourselves."

"There is no reason," the port master cut in, "why the trial should not be held at once. I am empowered to act as judge in affairs of the port—as soon as my robes arrive and a room is made available." She glanced at the desk officer, who hurriedly placed a call.

The robes were heavy on her shoulders. Perhaps it was their unaccustomed weight: she rarely took part in such affairs, usually letting things run the legal course in their own time. Perhaps it was the boy's involvement, or the young captain's. They sat together by special permission, the giant, white-haired Liaden austere, and the boy with his empty, drug-toned eyes.

She sighed heavily, rang the bell to order, and read the preliminaries without expression. Having established the identities of those present, she glanced at the monitor; she nodded satisfaction and looked back at the boy. His face was slightly damp, eyes wide open, pupils dilated black with a thin ring of brown iris.

"What is your name, boy?"

"Gordy." His voice was blurry, like a sleep-talker's.

The port master consulted the card and frowned. She addressed the boy again. "All right, Gordy. What is your full,
legal
name?"

"Gordon Richard Arbuthnot."

She nodded. "What is your planet of origin?"

"New Dublin."

"In Standard Years, what is your age?"

"Eleven."

"What is your father's name?"

Silence.

She frowned. "Gordy, what is your father's name?"

"His father," Mr. dea'Gauss whispered in her ear, "is dead."

"I see." Damn this drug! It was clumsy—misleading. "Gordy, what
was
your father's name?"