"Whist, now, Johnny Galen," Gordy murmured in an exaggerated accent.
The captain laughed and drank wine. "Intolerable puppy. I bear that from your grandfather. But I'm bigger than you are. Please try to keep it in mind."
"Bully," Gordy said, settling plates amid an amazing amount of clatter.
"High-handed," the captain corrected, and grinned at Priscilla, who dropped her eyes.
Gordy stepped back. "Ready. Should I stay?"
The captain glanced at him in surprise. "Did I ask you to dinner, Gordon? Forgive me, the invitation slipped my mind. I seem to recall a report that you've fallen behind in your studies, a circumstance your grandfather, my uncle, would not forgive me. We're due for a review, aren't we? At breakfast."
Gordy swallowed visibly. "Yessir."
"That bad?" He raised his glass. "Well, better see what you can catch up on beforehand. And mind you're in bed at a reasonable hour. I won't need you anymore."
"Yessir," Gordy said again, looking so comically crestfallen that Priscilla had to forcefully swallow the rising laughter. "G'night, Cap'n. G'night, Priscilla."
"Good night, Gordy," she said, smiling at him warmly.
"Good night, Gordy." The captain reached over to the boy and ruffled his hair lightly.
"Do
sleep well."
The boy smiled up at him, made an awkward bow, and departed, the door hissing closed behind him.
"Now, then, Priscilla, if you'll pull up the chairs, I'll serve us. I hope you're as hungry as I am."
A little time later, the edge of hunger blunted, she leaned back and considered the top of his head and the thick, well-cut hair gleaming in the room's soft light.
"Johnny Galen?" she wondered.
He glanced up, smiling. "It's my Uncle Richard's fancy that Liadens are the 'little people' of Old Terra's legends. Thus, Arthur Galen, Johnny, Nora, and Annie Galen. And their foster brother, the king of Elfland."
"Oh, no!" A chuckle escaped, but she didn't notice.
"Oh. yes," he assured her. "Complete with 'my Liege' and 'your Highness.' Pretty comical, actually. My father finally did manage to put a stop to it, but I think he had to resort to threats."
"But he let himself be called Arthur, and you Johnny?"
"Well, no, not exactly," he said, reaching for his glass. "He didn't
answer
to 'Arthur,' you see, so if Uncle Dick really wanted to speak with him, he had to use 'Er Thom.' I don't mind 'Johnny'—my mother called me 'Shannie' more often than not—and Anthora was
always
'Annie.' To the best of my knowledge, Nova never did answer to 'Nora.'" He sipped. "I hope Val Con doesn't feel he owes balance for the king routine. I rather doubt it. Whatever his faults, Uncle Richard is a master storyteller. And Val Con's addicted to stories."
Priscilla frowned down at the table, then glanced up. "Captain? What is a debt-partner?"
He set his glass aside and picked up his tongs, readdressing dinner. Priscilla hesitated, then returned to her own plate, wondering if she had offended.
"A debt-partner," the captain said slowly, "is one with whom you are engaged in a balancing of accounts." He glanced at her quickly from beneath his lashes. "There are, as I mentioned before, many rules governing revenge—balance—and how it might be achieved. One of them is that balance is only owing
respected persons.
Animals, for instance, may not claim debt-right." He paused, watching her face carefully.
"It," Priscilla whispered, her spoon forgotten halfway to her mouth. "He called us 'it,' Gordy and me."
"So he did," the captain agreed carefully. "One of the least attractive things about the High Tongue is that it's so easy to deny worth." He looked at her closely.
"I
didn't call you 'it,' Priscilla. Of all the people in the galaxy, I'd be among the last to do so. But Sav Rid believes that people who aren't Liaden aren't—people." He raised his glass and took a sip. "What he had done to you on Jankalim, he would never have ordered done to another Liaden. Even one he considered a fool of the first order, completely careless of his personal honor, the honor of his Line, and of his ship." He grinned. "He thought he'd gotten away clean, Priscilla. Imagine his depression when I not only turn up to bail you out, after he thought you safely disposed of, but uttering threats about earrings, guilty consciences—little enough. But he knows he's gotten away with nothing. He may still doubt my ability to do it, but he knows I'll attempt balance."
She laid her spoon down carefully. "But an—animal—has no recourse."
He sipped, eyes on her. "But you're not an animal, are you, Priscilla? Aren't you a person? Isn't respect due you? You can be an animal, if you choose to say you are. Or you can show him quite clearly that you are a resourceful, intelligent
person,
worthy of the dignity accorded all persons." He set the glass down, his big mouth tight.
"He has stolen from you—possessions, money, personhood. And you speak of taking on the role of an animal, sacrificing your life for mine. Priscilla, don't you see that you are owed? How
dare
he order violence against your person? How
dare
he steal the money you earned, the things you own, your reputation? And by what right did he place your personal honor in jeopardy in the first place, hiring you as master over a cargo of contraband?" He held out a hand. "Wouldn't you rather stay, Priscilla? We'll bring him payment together."
With no hesitation at all, she slid her hand into his.
"Yes," she said clearly. "We'll do that."
Priscilla laid her hand against the door. It slid away to a soft "Enter" from within.
Smiling, Lina bounced up from her seat at the desk. "Priscilla! How are you, my friend?"
"Fine." Priscilla smiled back, sliding her hands into the small ones stretched out to her. "You're busy? I'm not on urgent business."
"No, come and talk with me! If I look at that terrible report another minute, I shall develop a
severe
headache." She laughed, tugging on Priscilla's hands. "Save me!"
They sat on the bed, Lina cross-legged in the center and Priscilla on the edge.
"So, now, what is this not-urgent business?"
"I'm afraid it isn't going to make any sense," Priscilla apologized, toying with the quilt. "At least, I can't think of a sensible way to ask it. Lina, isn't Shan yos'Galan the captain?"
The smaller woman blinked. "Of course he is. Are you having a joke, my friend?"
"I said it didn't make sense," Priscilla pointed out. "I just had dinner with the captain—" She stopped. Lina folded her hands together, waiting.
"I had dinner with the captain," Priscilla repeated slowly. "As I was leaving, I asked him about having returned my things. He said the ship bore the expense of buying them back, that I was to consider it my bonus for having been put in danger." She paused, frowning a little. "Then I asked about the earrings, because they
weren't
mine."
"And?" Lina prompted softly.
"He said the earrings were a gift from Shan yos'Galan, and the captain had nothing to do with it."
"He said so?" Lina moved her shoulders. "Then it is true."
Priscilla sighed. "Yes, I'm sure it is. But Lina, if Shan yos'Galan is the captain. . ."
"Surely you know that the captain speaks—acts—for the ship," her friend said carefully. "Yes? So, Shan speaks for himself. It is—I do not know the Terran word. Shan yos'Galan has many . . . roles! He is captain, Master Trader, pilot—three voices with which to speak on the
Passage.
On Liad he is also Lord yos'Galan. He only made certain that you understood which face he used—from which role he acted—when he gifted you."
Priscilla stared at her. "It makes a difference? But he's the same man, no matter what title he's using!"
"Of course he is. But the captain has specific duties, responsibilities, different duties than the Master Trader. A pilot has yet another set." Lina chewed her lip uncertainly. "It is only melant'i, Priscilla." She sighed at the blank look on her friend's face and tried once more. "It is true that Shan yos'Galan is the captain. But the captain is not Shan yos'Galan."
"I'll work on it," Priscilla said, smiling apologetically. "There might not be a Terran word, Lina." She tipped her head. "Is my Liaden accent horrible?"
"No. Who said it was? You are very careful and listen hard, but it is true you are just learning."
"The captain—at least I
think
it was the captain, but it might have been Shan yos'Galan—told me my accent was execrable and that he was going to introduce me to his aunt—his brother's aunt."
"To Lady Kareen? Illanga kilachi—no. Priscilla, did he
promise
that he would do so?"
"He said he would
engage
to," she said, somewhat amused. "How awful can she be?"
"You cannot imagine. She is very proper—ah, he is bad! We will practice, the two of us, very hard. And tomorrow I will choose enhancement tapes. You can sleep-learn? Good. Also protocol lessons." She looked up at her friend, hands fluttering. "What made him say such a thing? To Lady Kareen—"
"I told him he was high-handed," Priscilla confessed.
"So he now wishes to show you what that is." Lina grinned. "You are well served, then. However did you come to say something so rude?"
"It slipped out right after he told me I had a tendency toward melodrama."
Lina laughed. "It sounds as if you had a fine dinner! Compliments all around."
"Protocol lessons are a necessity," Priscilla agreed, smiling. She sobered. "Lina? Why is it wrong for me to tell the captain—the Master Trader—that I am all joy to see him?"
Lina looked at her in horror. "You said that? To Shan? In public?"
"And in the High Tongue," her friend admitted sheepishly. "Am I beyond redemption?"
"No wonder he gives you earrings!" Lina cried, taking her hand. "Priscilla, you must never do so again! It is a phrase reserved for . . . a brother, perhaps, or an individual one has grown up with . . . a lifemate."
"Really? I'm glad I said it, then. It was exactly right."
"Priscilla," Lina pleaded. "It is most improper! You must not do so again."
"All right," she agreed sunnily. "I don't think I'll ever need to again." She laughed then, very softly, and Lina held her breath. "Poor Sav Rid!"
Lina found Shan in the gym. Just inside, she stopped to watch him swing the paddle, strike the ball, spin, connect, dive, connect—faster and even faster, the ball a white blur trapped between wall and paddle, the man moving with lithe intensity, never missing, never pausing.
After a moment, she walked forward, angling toward the wall, then heard the ball strike just beyond her shoulder.
"Lina! Are you courting suicide? You could have been hit!"
"No," she told him calmly, changing her course. "You are far too quick for that, my friend."
"Accidents happen." Shan walked to meet her, paddle in one hand, ball in the other. His hair stuck in wet points to his forehead, lending him a slightly satanic air; he was breathing hard, and the wine-colored shirt showed darker patches. Lina set aside a spurt of fond sympathy; she stopped at precisely the proper distance and looked sternly up at him.
"You are meddling!" She spoke in the High Tongue, as senior to junior.
"I always meddle," he returned in mild Terran. "You know that."
"You will cease to do so in this instance. Immediately." Her words were still in the High Tongue, commanding, as was proper.
"Dear me," Shan murmured, looking down with a fine show of bewildered stupidity. "Do you mind if we sit down?"
She laughed and turned with him toward the side benches. "You are impossible!" she told him in Terran. "You deserve to be scolded!"
"Often," he agreed cordially, flipping paddle and ball into the wall slot and dropping into the first chair he came to. He thrust his long legs out before him. "Scold me."
She frowned. He was in a chancy mood. She began tentatively. "Shan, it is serious. Please. You could do harm." She extended a mental tendril.
She was met with opposition, the familiar Healer's barrier. He rarely took such complete refuge; never in all their years of friendship had he done so with her. Not at the time his mother had died so tragically, nor when Er Thom yos'Galan had turned his face from kin and from duty to follow her.
Lina withdrew the tendril and considered him quietly. "It is a bad thing," she offered, "for Healers to argue over a proper approach. Most especially when Healing has begun."
"I agree," Shan said.
"That is good. Now, I will tell you that I am puzzled. We spoke, did we not? And it was agreed that I should proceed, though Priscilla was drawn as much to you as to me. You insisted, old friend, saying you were captain, not Healer."
"True. I do not act as Healer in the matter."
Lina stifled a sigh. This was Shan at his least tractable, showing the streak of stubborn reticence that characterized Korval at the fore. In a way it was a blessing—if she could not read him through the protective barrier, neither could he read her. The Wall, like so much of healing, was reciprocal.
She considered that last thought. One did tend to become entangled with those one Healed. Priscilla . . . He may have feared reciprocity, having felt the strength of her—even half-crazed with pain. And if he had been drawn enough to fear the Healing process. . .
"What is it that you want, old friend?" she asked.
He stirred. "I want to be her friend."
So. "And her lover!" She put a lash to that. If he did not yet know. . .
"I am not," Shan said carefully, "made of stone. You will have noticed this."
"Better you should have taken her to Heal yourself, then! The bond was there, from the beginning! Healing across sex is more rapid—you know that! Why—"
"And have her think herself hired to be the captain's slut? Thank you, no." There was Korval ice in that.
Lina blinked and gave a flickering thought to her own protections. "Why should she have thought so, old friend?"