Finders Keepers (28 page)

Then he went through a list of negatives. Bad. Horrible. Disgusting. Worm fodder. She laughed at the last one.

The nav comm pinged twice. They were picking up the Yanir-3 beacon. Trilby secured her mug, keyed in course changes.

He wanted to work on verb tenses after that. I see. I saw. I will see. I have seen. It wasn’t as difficult as Trilby thought, and having a real person to work with, instead of a program, helped.

The nav comm pinged twice again. Yanir-4 and a jumpgate. Tivahr primed the hyperdrive engines. Trilby ran through a prejump checklist, then opened intraship.

“This is Captain Elliot. Jump countdown starts in five minutes. Secure and strap down, kids.”

Shadow’s Quest
took the jump flawlessly, with hardly a shimmer. A thrill ran through Trilby just to have her hands on the controls at the point, to feel the ship respond, to see systems data cascade down her screens with an almost artistic flow.

“Good, better, best. Good, better, best.” She added a little tune to the Zafharish words, sang it under her breath as the ship settled in for its hyperspace transit.

“You. Want. Coffee?” he asked her in Standard, but matching her tune with his deeper voice.

“Thanks. And no more language lessons for a while. I think I’m a bit punch-drunk.” It was more than that, she knew. She felt safe on the
Quest,
safe on the bridge, and in the past four hours she hadn’t argued or fought with anyone. It was almost like an old ’tween time on a run with Dezi.

Tivahr leaned over her shoulder, pointed to a screen on her far left. “Pull up the last download we had on that ion storm. I want to look at it again when I get back.”

“Think it’s a problem?” she asked as he stepped away.

“If our friend were not on board, I might. It would be a good cover for an ambush when we come out of jump. But now I want to show you a way you can use it, make it into a wog-and-weemly you’ll like.”

“Sounds interesting.” She heard the bridge hatch slide closed. The light on her panel showed it locking.

Five minutes later he was back, palm-coding past the lock. The pungent aroma of coffee wafted in.

He slid into the copilot’s seat. “Now, let me show you how to use storm interference to make guidance beacons think you are someplace you are not.”

Trilby stood, stretched, and leaned on the back of his chair while she sipped her coffee and drank in his methodology. It was intriguing, fascinating, and a bit humbling. Again she found herself thinking:
if Shadow had lived . . .

He did, in a way, through this ship. If only for a little while.

Three pings from navigation.

They were through the jumpgate that quickly? She glanced at the time stamp, thinking enough time hadn’t passed. But it had. And that, she knew, was a dangerous sign. She slid back into her seat, rehooked her harness.

She’d lost herself for several hours in Khyrhis Tivahr. In his energy, his intellect.

Dangerous. The man was dangerous.

“Initiating exit sequence.” She ran her fingers over the controls, saw his movements complement hers. She opened intraship. “This is Captain Elliot. Five minutes to mass and velocity dump. Secure and strap down, kids.”

Shadow’s Quest
streamed through the jumpgate at the Yanir–Gensiira border, all systems optimal.

The bridge hatch cycled behind her. Trilby glanced at the time stamp. It was just about swing shift.

“Mitkanos.” Tivahr confirmed her supposition, pointing to the palm-code ID readout on the console.

Trilby loosened her harness, swiveled around. “You’re a little early. Get a cup of—”

“Grantforth’s missing.” Mitkanos stopped in the hatchway, his broad face mottled in anger. He looked quickly from Trilby to Tivahr. “I have a transfer manifest that needs his signature. His ship badge is in his cabin. But the son of a Pillorian bitch is not.”

She heard the snick of Tivhar’s harness but she was quicker, already on her feet. “You checked his sani-fac? The lounge?” He’d been in the lounge with Dallon, earlier, a fact confirmed by his ship badge. She glanced at the comm console. Jagan, or rather his ship badge, hadn’t moved from his cabin. “Dallon—”

“Accompanied our guest to his cabin hours ago.” Mitkanos had already covered that possibility. “Grantforth complained of a headache. Too much
fedka.
And no, Dallon’s not seen him since.”

Tivahr stepped up to him. “Stay here. With her.” He pointed to Trilby.

Damn it! This was her ship. “No! I—”

“We don’t know where he is, what he is doing. I need someone—I need you on the bridge in case there is a threat to the primaries.”

“Jagan’s not capable—” she called after him as he strode off the bridge, but Tivahr was right. Someone had to be on the bridge who could make decisions, take countermeasures. It was SOP.

Mitkanos slid into the comm chair with a grunt. She tracked Tivahr’s ship-badge icon down the ladderway, saw Dallon’s in engineering. Farra was still in her cabin, answering Mitkanos’s call.

She turned, automatically initiating security procedures as she climbed back into her seat, placing the ship on yellow alert. All entry passwords were closed access except to Tivahr and herself. The ship’s primary system files went through double backup. Enviro was secured.

She restrapped her harness, chewed for a moment on her lower lip.

Where in hell was Jagan?
Shadow’s Quest
simply wasn’t that large. Sure, there were nooks and crannies under stairwell storage areas, in maintenance tunnels. Five cavernous cargo holds. Large compared to her old
Venture
. Still, it could be searched, thoroughly, in under an hour.

She turned slightly. “You saw his cabin, right?” she asked Mitkanos in Standard. Translating everything to Zafharish was too much of a strain at the moment. “Anything odd?”

He thought for a moment. “Suitcase open. Some clothes inside. Bed slept in, not made. But nothing bad, like someone had a fight with him, no.”

She didn’t think that. The only person he’d be likely to fight with would be Tivahr. Or herself. They’d both been on the bridge.

Except Tivahr had gone to the lounge for soup. Then coffee.

No. She found herself shaking her head at the thought. Maybe Tivahr didn’t like Jagan, or didn’t like the fact that Jagan had been her lover. But harm him, kill him because of it?

It was ridiculous. Besides, they needed Jagan to get them to Syar, to get them into GGA where someone called Dark Sword was working with the ’Sko. . . .

Who else,
Neadi had asked,
would be sleeping with the ’Sko?

The Zafharin. Or, perhaps, one Zafharin in particular. Who had been left behind on the ’Sko world of Szed. Then miraculously escaped.

The thought made her hands feel icy, her throat tight. Tivahr had insisted on coming along. Even though she and Dallon and Mitkanos and Farra, or any of Mitkanos’s other candidates, could’ve handled the run just fine.

Then Jagan showed up on Saldika. Showed up at her docking gate. Showed up at her docking gate at almost the exact time they arrived.

How did he know they’d be there? Sure, he knew
Shadow’s Quest
had to stop at Saldika. He could have found that out from her flight plan. But ETAs varied widely. And gate assignments often changed at the last minute.

That’s why all ports had public message boards:
I’m here now. At gate such-and-such. Come meet me.

Common as mizzets in a cargo bay.

But she hadn’t posted anything.

Damn, damn, double damn! She pinched the bridge of her nose. Were there two agents, both ’Sko double agents, working with each other? Against each other, for different ’Sko factions?

She’d had a hard time accepting that Jagan could be part of any ’Sko plot. He honestly didn’t have the intelligence. The deviousness.

But Tivahr . . . He fit the profile perfectly. Brilliant. Powerful. With impeccable military training.

And a flair for deceit, for manipulation.

Her stomach churned, rebelling at her thoughts. For all that Khyrhis Tivahr fit the profile, he didn’t. In the short time she’d known him, she knew that much. Knew it intimately. Innately.

Khyrhis Tivahr would never betray the Empire. More importantly, he’d never betray the people who trusted him, depended on him. Like Hana Jankova. Or Zak Demarik.

Or Trilby Elliot.

She forcibly stopped her thoughts at that admission.
Don’t,
she told herself.
Don’t even start thinking like that. Don’t trust him. Don’t depend on him. Don’t fall in love with him. He’s got
the
plastered in front of his name, Gods damn it!

“Captain Trilby.” Mitkanos was leaning over, touching her arm. “You okay?”

She had a death grip on her harness strap, her fingers almost numb from where she’d wrapped it around her hand. She released it, shook out her fingers gingerly.

“Just thinking about things I don’t want to think about.” She gave him a halfhearted smile. “Any news?”

He shook his head. “We can very much tell you where he is not, however. The
Dasjon
is searching Hold Two. Dallon is in Three. Farra is—”

Their ship badges pinged simultaneously. Her hand moved quickly. “Elliot.”

“Captain! This is Farra. I have
Dasjon
Grantforth. I need the team in sick bay at once!”

Tivhar’s response growled through her ship badge. “On my way.”

Dallon’s acknowledgment followed.

She tapped her badge again. “Farra, give me status.”

“He is alive, Captain. Breathing. But not conscious.”

She closed her eyes for a moment. Had she misjudged Tivahr? Again? “He’s injured?”

“I cannot tell. Appears not. But—” The sound of male voices rumbled in the background. The comm link clicked off and on.

“This is Tiv—Rhis.”

Gods, Trilby realized, even he was forgetting who he was. Or wasn’t supposed to be.

“As soon as I have answers, you’ll hear.”

The comm link went dead.

24

She was running down the ladderway again, forgetting her ship had a lift. Tivahr had commed her. “He’s awake.”

She sidestepped into the corridor, headed for sick bay. Tivahr stood outside, arms folded across his chest, brows slanting in a frown. His face relaxed when he saw her, but only slightly.

She stopped in front of him, caught her breath. “What happened?” It had been over two hours since Farra had found Jagan, unconscious, slumped at the base of the ladderway near sick bay.

“Overdose.”

“Overdose? As in suicide?” That didn’t sound like the Jagan Grantforth she knew. “Or did his late night partying finally catch up with him?” That sounded more like Jagan. He’d gone his own way on Saldika. He had the money, the looks and, even in the Empire, the Grantforth name. Maybe he’d dabbled in more than just
fedka
.

Tivahr pulled a small vial from his pants pocket, handed it to her.

For a moment she thought her supposition about mixing drugs and alcohol was true. Then she read the label. “Motion-sickness tabs?” She groaned. Space sickness. Jagan was used to traveling on his family’s large luxury yachts. Not freighters, built more for cargo capacity than comfort. He’d had the same problem on the
Careless Venture
. But she’d forgotten.

“That’s what the label says.” Tivahr nodded. “That is not what the analyzer tells us.”

She blinked. Hard. Looked at the vial again, then at Tivahr. The tension was back in his face. “What was in here?”

“Zalcafrenine rozide. Also known as Renzorca.”

“Ren what?”

He shook his head. “It’s an Ycskrite term.”

At the mention of the ’Sko language, she tensed.

“It means
blood boil death
. Loose translation, of course,” he added.

“Someone tried to poison Jagan? Why?”

“He doesn’t know. At least, he’s not telling me.”

“Who gave him the pills?” Trilby briefly wondered if Jagan’s wife knew he was meeting with her and was jealous.

“He said he has a standing prescription at the company pharmacy. He took it trying to dispel the effects of his hangover, something he said he’s done before.”

She glanced at the vial again, recognized the GGA Med-Lab logo. She’d seen it often enough on Chaser’s transmits. “But you said this was ’Sko—”

“It is. Illegal in the Empire. I have to assume the same for the Conclave.”

“But he’s alive.”

“He only took one. Half a dose.” He took the vial from her fingers, put it back in his pocket. “Full dose and he would not be.”

In the past few months she’d wished Jagan dead any number of times. But that had been a cathartic exercise. Not the real thing. Not like this could have been.

“When the pills made him feel worse,” Tivahr continued, “he knew enough to head for sick bay. It was probably his last rational thought. Renzorca short-circuits the thinking process very quickly. That’s no doubt why he didn’t use the comm, didn’t put on his shirt or badge. I would guess he even had no idea where sick bay was. Most likely he ended up in the corridor by happenstance. Fortunately for him, this ship’s not that large.”

Delusional, half-naked, aimlessly wandering the ship in pain while everyone searched for him. Tivahr was right. A larger ship, and they might not have found him until it was too late. “Can I see him?”

A moment of hard silence from Tivahr and then a noncommittal shrug. But his face wore that same closed expression she remembered from right after the ’Sko attack off Avanar. He was worried about something and wasn’t in the mood to share it.

It wasn’t Jagan, or the poison. It was her. A threat against her. Like the ’Sko attack off Avanar.

He knew more than he was telling. That almost stopped her, made her want to drag it out of him. Except that Jagan Grantforth had nearly died on a ship under her command—and she was still captain, in spite of whatever games Tivahr was playing. She felt a level of responsibility. And an odd pang of sentiment. They’d been lovers, friends. She realized now that if something had happened to him, she’d regret it.

Jagan was an incurable flirt and hadn’t a humble bone in his body. But other than marrying Zalia—marrying the money and position Trilby knew Jagan’s mother always intended he would—he wasn’t a bad person. They’d had fun, lots of good times in the almost two years they were together. The restaurants, the clubs, the theater, the parties. He opened her eyes to a way of life she had only dreamed about when working the docks in Port Rumor.

With an unexpected clarity she knew he’d also opened her eyes to something even more important. That she was a survivor. He’d raised her up to the glittering heights and then dropped her down—and she survived. Was stronger for it. She found something inside herself that was indefatigable and—finders keepers—she’d never lose it.

She stepped in front of Tivahr, then turned, saw that hard, closed, worried but determined look still on his face.

What the hell. Maybe it was time to face another realization. Something else she’d found and wanted to keep. Nothing ventured . . .

She stood on tiptoe and, grabbing a handful of his jacket for balance, brushed his lips lightly with her own before leaning against him in a deeper kiss.

His arms locked around her immediately, his mouth branding her with his heated response. She felt as if thousands of fluttermoths spiraled through her body. She stepped back, reluctantly, and more than a little weak-kneed.

That closed, worried look was gone from his face, replaced by one of surprise and hopefulness. His dark eyes were smoky with desire.

“Trilby-
chenka
. . .” He held on to her arms, tried to pull her back to him, but she held up her index finger, stalling him. Not without a mixture of regret and trepidation.

He was still
the
Tivahr. She was still taking a chance. “Business first.”

His hand slid down her arm and he drew her finger to his lips, kissed it lightly. “I’ll wait for you in the lounge. Dinner?”

Gods, they were supposed to be off shift two hours ago. She nodded, found herself smiling even though she was tired, and her emotions felt as if they’d been dragged out the drive vents and in through the aux thrusters again. “Sounds good.”

She squeezed his hand, then stepped toward sick bay’s door, activating its sensor. It slid open as Tivahr strode away.

Farra looked up from the medistat when Trilby entered. “Captain.”

“Saved my life, that little darling did.” Jagan’s voice was hoarse but he was propped up in the regen bed, sipping a steaming liquid from a spill-capped mug. A med-broche was clasped to his wrist. His face had a pinched expression and he looked like he was fighting a three-bottle hangover. But his smile was genuine.

Hell, if she’d downed a ’Sko poison and survived, she’d be smiling too.

“You did good work, Farra.” Trilby patted the young woman’s shoulder as she stepped past her toward Jagan’s regen bed.

“
Stegzarda
training in emergency medical procedures. Uncle Yavo would never forgive me if I did not.”

Trilby leaned against the edge of the empty regen bed behind her, crossed her arms over her chest. “You look like hell, Grantforth.”

“Feel like I’ve been there and back.”

“I know Rhis asked you, but how do you think a ’Sko poison ended up in your medicine?”

Jagan let out a long breath. “I don’t have any answers. Other than I don’t know if I should be worried that someone’s trying to kill me personally or trying to kill a bunch of us in GGA. What if my prescription wasn’t the only one altered?”

Trilby’s arms fell to her side. She hadn’t considered that. What if the pills had been switched in GGA’s main pharmacy? Hundreds of GGA employees would be facing death. The main pharmacy . . .

. . . was where Chaser worked. What if his meds were poisoned? What if he was the one—

She pushed the thought away. She’d known Chaser her whole life. “You discuss that with Rhis?”

“No. I . . . we . . .” He glanced at Farra. “We were playing with some ideas just now. After Vanur left to find you.”

More good work, Farra.

“You think it’s a plot against GGA?”

He shrugged. “I hope not. But in case it is, I think I should send a message. A warning.”

And hope the warning’s not too late, Trilby knew. “Agreed. Is there someone you know you can trust with this information? Someone who can act on it immediately?”

“Besides Mother, and I really don’t want to upset her right now, it’d have to be Uncle Garold.”

Secretary Garold Grantforth. Trilby frowned slightly, her mind still running over some possibilities that were less than savory. “Sure you want to bother him? The news said he’s involved in trade negotiations.” With the ’Sko. And Jagan’s vial held ’Sko poison.

“I think he’d be insulted if I didn’t contact him. This is a very serious matter.”

She pushed herself away from the empty bed, motioned to Farra. “Can you get him a link here to record a message?”

“
Vad.
Is not a problem.”

“I’m going to be in the lounge, having dinner. Call me when it’s finished.”

“
Vad,
Captain.” Farra flicked off the medistat and reached for her portable datapad.

“Jhevd’,”
she replied automatically. Then saw Jagan’s raised eyebrows. “I’m learning. Hard not to when it’s all I hear these days.” She lay her hand on his arm, squeezed it briefly. “I’m glad you’re all right, Jagan.”

“So you can take another shot at me with that mean right hook of yours?” He was grinning, his tone light. Then his smile faded. “I’m glad I’m alive too, Tril. And . . . I’m sorry. For a lot of things I did wrong by you. I mean that. I know I owe you an explanation. I—”

“You need to compose that message and get some rest right now.” She put on her best “stern captain” tone. “We can talk, if you want, later. But you really don’t owe me any explanations.”

“Well, yeah, I really do, and you’ll probably pop me one in the jaw again. But I deserve it. And . . . I had no right to say what I did about you and Vanur. So I deserved that one too.”

“We’ll call it even, okay? Farra’s got the pad ready for you.” She gave him a smile as she stepped toward the door, caught his answering grin and the small dimple in his cheek.

This was the Jagan she remembered. The charming one she’d fallen in love with. She watched him turn his smile toward Farra. Better watch out, Farra-
chenka
.

But, no, Farra had someone back at Degvar. A very special someone.

And I have a dinner date. With Khyrhis Tivahr. “The” Khyrhis Tivahr. But that’s okay. I can handle that. Now.

The sick-bay door closed behind her with a muted whoosh as Trilby hurried down the corridor.

Rhis heard the footsteps approaching in the corridor. Short. Definitely female. He grinned, then hit the reheat button on the keypad. Dinner for two, coming up.

He would never understand women. At least, he probably would never understand one particular woman, but that was okay. As long as she was there, tantalizing him, intriguing him, making him crazy . . .

Gods, did she make him crazy!

Maybe he’d ask Rafi about it sometime. Maybe not. At the moment, he was more interested to see if the Trilby who came through the wide lounge hatchway was the Trilby who’d grabbed him and kissed him so delightfully outside sick bay.

He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until she spoke.

“Smells good, Rhis. Maybe I should hire you as ship’s cook.”

He let out a slow sigh.
Trilby-chenka. Ahh, Trilby-chenka. Yav chera.
Tousled hair the color of moonlight. Impish smile. All soft curves under that zippered gray flight suit that he could tear off her in less than twenty seconds. Maybe fifteen.

But not yet. Take it slow. Don’t spook her. “Anything smells good when you’re hungry. Even Yaniran rice
bolaf
.” He reached behind the counter, brought out the bottle of white wine he’d chilled, poured her a glass, then one for himself. “This should help.”

The surprised look on her face pleased him. Well, he had other surprises for her. This would do for now.

She took the glass. “Getting fancy, are we?”

“We are off duty.” He stepped closer, touched glasses with her for luck. “And I think we both deserve it.”

He studied her face, her eyes half closed briefly as she tasted the wine. Maybe, he posited, something in jumpspace had miraculously removed her animosity toward him. Hell, the Dakrahl worshiped the Faytari Drifts for something close to that reason. Treasures notwithstanding, there were places in the Drifts, their legends said, that could cleanse a person, heal them, alter them.

She certainly had been all prickly and standoffish until they’d cleared the exit gate, and then she’d mellowed. Or was mellowing, he corrected himself. He could still see a slightly wary look in her eyes.

Just as she no doubt saw in his earlier, and bloody hell if she didn’t know that he was worried about her and Grantforth. After all, she’d pulled him off the jungle floor, nursed him back to health. What if that same compassion now resurrected itself—toward Jagan?