The Pride of Chanur

  Offended prosperity, that was the tack to take with them. They knew The Pride. As long as it seemed that Chanur’s fortunes were intact and that Chanur was still a power to reckon with among hani, that long they might hold some hope of mahendo’sat eagerness to serve.

  And there was, she reckoned, smiling coldly at the splendid hani captain in the mirror, there was deadly earnest in this haste.

  There was Akukkakk.

  Gods rot it all.

  Possibly she had embarrassed him enough that his own would turn on him. That would take time to know. A long time out from homeport, keeping her ear alert for rumor.

  Get rid of the Outsider Tully. . . would that the disentanglement were that easy.

  She stared into her own eyes, ears flat, and meditated the villainy that any trader seeing the Outsider would think on naturally as breathing; and after a little thinking her lips pursed in a grimly smug smile.

  So, so, so, Pyanfar Chanur. There was a way to settle more than one problem. Likely Tully would not like it, but an Outsider who came begging passage would take what he could get, and it was not in her mind to beg from Tahar.

  She checked com, found the expected clutter of messages waiting attention. “Nothing really urgent,” Geran said. “Station’s still upset, that’s the sum of them.”

  “Chur’s got Tully, has she, cleaning him up?”

  “A little problem there.”

  “Don’t tell me problem. I’ve got problems. What problem?”

  “He has his own ideas, our Tully does. He wants to be shaved.”

  “Gods and thunders. Washroom?”

  “Here, now.”

  “I’m coming down there.”

  She started for the door, went back and picked up the audio plug for the translator and headed down in haste. Shaved. Her ears flattened, pricked again in a forced reckoning that customs were customs.

  But appearances, by the gods. . . .

  She arrived in op in deliberate haste, found the trio there, Geran, Chur, Tully, all cleanly and haggard and drowning their miseries in a round of gfi. They looked up, Tully most anxious of all, still possessed, thank the gods, of all his mane and beard and decent-looking in a fresh pair of trousers.

  “Pyanfar,” he said, rising.

  “Captain,” she corrected him sternly. “You want what, Tully? What problem?”

  “Wants the clippers,” Chur said. “I trimmed him up a bit.” She had. It was a good job. “He wants the beard off.”

  “Huh. No, Tully. Wrong.”

  Tully sank down again, the cup of gfi in his two hands, looked chagrined. “Wrong.”

  Pyanfar heaved a sigh. “That’s reasonable. You do what I say, Tully. You have to look right for the mahendo’sat. You look good. Fine.”

  “Same # hani.”

  “Like hani, yes.”

  “Mahendo’sat. Here.”

  “You’re safe. It’s all right. Friendly folk.”

  Tully’s mouth tightened thoughtfully. He nodded peaceably enough. Then he reached a hand behind his head and knotted the pale mane back in his fingers. “Right, that?”

  “No,” Pyanfar said. The hand dropped.

  “I do all you say.”

  Pyanfar flicked her ears, thrust her hands into her waistband. “Do all?” She felt pricklish in the area of her honor, and the Outsider’s pale eyes gazed up at her with disturbing confidence. “It might frighten you, what I want. I might ask too much.”

  Some of that got through. The confidence visibly diminished.

  “I make you afraid, Tully?” She gestured wide, toward the bow. “There’s a station out there, Kirdu Station. Mahendo’sat species is the authority in this place. There’s a hani ship docked next to us. Stsho species too, down the dock.”

  “Kif?”

  “Two kif ships, not the same ones. Not Akukkakk’s, not likely. Traders. They’re trouble if we linger here too long, but they won’t make any sudden move. I want you to go outside, Tully. I want you to come with me, out in the open, on station dock, and meet the mahendo’sat.”

  He did understand. A muscle jerked in his jaw. “I’m crew of this ship,” he said. It seemed a question.

  “Yes. I won’t leave you here. You stay with me.”

  “I come,” he said.

  That simply. She stared at him a moment, deliberately held out her hand toward the cup in his. He looked perplexed for a moment, then surrendered it to her. She drank, subduing a certain shudder, handed it back to him.

  He drank as well, glanced at her, measuring her reaction by that look, finished the cup. No prejudices. No squeamishness about other species. She nodded approval.

  “Go with you, captain,” Chur offered.

  “Come on, then,” Pyanfar said. “Geran, you stay; can’t leave the ship with no one watching things, and the others are off. We’re going just to station offices and back, and it shouldn’t be trouble. I don’t expect it, at least.”

  “Right,” Geran said, not without a worried look.

  Pyanfar put a hand on Tully’s shoulder, realized the chill of his skin, the perpetually hunched posture when he was sitting. He stood up, shivered a bit. “Tully. The translator won’t work outside the ship, understand. Once out the rampway, we can’t understand each other. So I tell you here: you stay with me; you don’t leave me; you do all that I say.”

  “Go to the offices.”

  “Offices, right.” She laid one sharpclawed fingertip amid his chest. “I’ll try to get it through to you, my friend. If we go about with you aboard in secret, if we leave mahendo’sat territory with you and go on to Anuurn, to our own world—that could be trouble. Mahendo’sat might think we kept something they should have known about. So we make you public, let them all have a look at you, mahendo’sat, stsho, yes, even the kif. You wear clothes, you talk some hani words, you get yourself registered, proper papers, all the things a good civilized being needs to be a legal entity in the Compact. I’ll get it all arranged for you. There’s no way after you have those papers that anyone can claim you’re not a sapient. I’ll register you as part of my crew. I’ll give you a paper and where I tell you, you put your name on it. And you don’t give me any trouble. Does enough of that get through? It’s the last thing I can tell you.”

  “Don’t understand all. You ask. I do it.”

  She wrinkled her nose, threw an impatient wave of her hand at Chur. “Come on.”

  Chur came. Tully did, blindly trusting, at which she scowled and walked along in front of them both to the lock, hands thrust into the back of her waistband, wondering whether station offices had detectors and whether they could get away with a concealed weapon, going where they were going. She decided against it, whatever the other risks.

  A watcher stood by the rampway outside, a mahe dockworker who scampered off quickly enough when they showed outside, and who probably made a call to his superiors. . . the mahendo’sat were discreetly perturbed, polite in their surveillance. But they were there. Pyanfar saw it, and Chur did; and Tully turned a frightened look toward the sudden movement. He talked at them, but the translator was helpless now, outside the range of the inship pickup, and Pyanfar laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder and kept him moving. “Just a precaution,” she said, a quiet tone, and looked beyond to the rampway access of Moon Rising, where a far more hazardous watcher stood, a hani crewwoman.

  “Better take care of that business,” Pyanfar said to Chur, and diverted her course diagonally among the canister-carriers toward Moon Rising.

  Another hani showed up outside, on the run: second crewwoman, doubled reflection of the other, same wide stance and steady stare. At a certain distance Pyanfar stopped, and waited, and made a subtle sign to Chur, who strode forward to meet the others.

  There was an exchange too quiet for her ears. . . no friendliness in the postures, but no overt unpleasantness. Chur came back, not in haste, not delaying any either, ears flat.

  “Their captain’s asleep,” Chur reported. “She proposes to come abo
ard The Pride when her nap’s done. Answer, captain?”

  “Why should I? I wasn’t advised. But I may let her come. It suits me.” She turned without a glance at the others, put a hand on Tully’s hairless back and steered him away with them.

  And if the Tahar captain was in fact sleeping, she would not be by the time those two rag-ears got back inside, to report the Chanur captain had a companion of unknown species, headed for station offices. The Tahar had gotten caught in their own arrogance, and Chanur failed to rise to the insult, simply walked off. Pyanfar threw a little swagger into the departure, for the Tahar and for the gaping mahe dockworkers, some of whom fled in haste to report to superiors or to gather comrades, a dark-furred and scantly clad crowd.

  “They noticed,” Chur said.

  “That they have.” Pyanfar locked her hands behind her and they strolled along in company, one tall hani captain in scarlet, one smallish hani crewwoman in roughspun blue, and improbably between them, a towering wide-shouldered Outsider with naked skin and a beautiful golden mane, excruciatingly conspicuous. Pyanfar suffered an irrepressible rush of the blood, a tightening of the lips as a crowd began to gather, far more people than those who worked the docks. Mahendo’sat, dockers and merchanters and miners and gods knew what else; and a scatter of stsho, pale and pastel among the crowd, their whitish eyes round as moons, holding each others’ hands and chattering together in shock. Of the kif. . . no sign as yet, but the rumor would draw them, she was well sure of that, and wished in that regard that she had that gun she had thought of taking.

  They reached the lift, pushed the button, mahe giving way about them and crowding back again at every opportunity, a roar of crowd-noise about them. “Captain,” someone asked, one of the mahendo’sat. “What is this being?”

  She turned about with a grin which lacked all patience, and mahendo’sat who knew hani backed up, but there was humor in it too, satisfaction at the turmoil. The lift arrived, and a half dozen startled mahe decided to vacate it, whether or not they had planned on getting out on this level. They edged out the door in haste and Pyanfar seized Tully by the arm and put him inside. Chur delayed while she stepped in, and came last, facing the crowd. The door delayed, time enough for anyone else who thought they wanted to ride up with them, but no one entered.

  The door closed, and the lift shot upward. Pyanfar let go of Tully’s arm and put her hand on his back, ready to indicate to him to move out. He was sweating despite the chill in the air.

  On the other side of him Chur patted his arm. The lift stopped once. Those waiting decided against entering, eyes wide; and the lift went on up.

  “Friend,” Tully said nervously, out of his scant hani repertoire.

  “Mahendo’sat and stsho,” Pyanfar said. “Friend. Yes.”

  The car stopped a second time, a quieter corridor in the office complex. Tully walked with them, out and down the hall, startling other mahe workers.

  And stopped, abruptly. A kif came from the offices ahead, stopped and stared, anonymous in gray robes and doleful kifish face. Pyanfar seized Tully’s arm, pulled the claws in when he winced, but the sting got him moving. They passed the kif and the kif turned; Pyanfar did not react to it, but Chur, crew and unburdened with captaincy, faced about with ears flat and a snarl on her face. Likely the kif kept staring. Pyanfar whisked Tully through the welcome office doors ahead and only then turned to cast a look back; but the kif was on its way, robes aswirl in its haste, and Chur, ears still flat, joined them inside the registry office. Tully smelled of sweat. Veins stood out in his arms. Pyanfar patted his shoulder and looked round the gaudy colored room at a frozen officeful of mahendo’sat, most standing.

  “I’m Pyanfar Chanur. You requested an interview.”

  There was a general flutter, the foremost of the officials dithering about letting them through the general registry area to the more secluded complex behind the doors, with a dozen looks at Tully in the process.

  “Come along,” Pyanfar urged him softly, keeping a hand on his elbow, and now she sweated, reckoning the shocks Tully had endured thus far, a kif in the hall, close spaces. . . one irrational moment and he could bolt; or strike at someone—“Friend,” she said, and he stayed by her.

  The official let them through into a luxurious waiting area, thick carpet and pillowlike couches in bright colors, hastened about providing them refreshment as they settled on a facing group of couches. “Sit, sit,” Pyanfar said, providing Tully the example, legs tucked and ankles crossed, and Chur waited until Tully had settled nervously on the facing couch. Chur sank down in relief.

  The official set the welcoming tray on a portable table in their midst. His dark mahe eyes were alive with curiosity. “Beg understanding, hani captain. . . this is—passenger?”

  “Crew,” Pyanfar said with a prim pursing of the lips. She accepted the glass the squatting mahe filled, two-handed mahe style in her holding of it; and saw to her satisfaction that the mahe had in fact provided three glasses. He filled the second and gave it to Chur, whose manners were impeccable, and with some diffidence, offered to Tully.

  Tully took his after the same fashion, keen mimic. Pyanfar smiled to herself and smothered the smile in a sip of mahendo’sat liquor. The official pattered out with effusive and anxious bows, leaving them alone; and whatever Tully thought of the liquor he had the self-possession not to flinch from it.

  “Friend,” Tully said again, looking worried. Chur, beside him, put a hand on his knee and he seemed to take reassurance from that. Panic, not quite, but his skin glistened with sweat, his muscles were taut. Steps sounded just outside the door at the side of the room and he would have looked around, but Chur patted his knee and he refrained.

  The door opened. A handful of mahendo’sat, important with elaborate bright kilts and collars, came in on them, one of them attended by a small brown and white fluff which scurried about the floor at its feet and bristled at the scent of hani. It hissed and had to be scooped up in the official’s arms; and Pyanfar kept a wary eye on it all the same, rising in respect to the visitors. Chur and Tully followed her lead, and she bowed and suffered the mahendo’sat’s frankly appraising stare at Tully. They chattered among themselves, no little disturbed, and some of that she caught, exclamations of curiosity: the fluff growled, and its owner—an elderly mahe whose dark fur was graying and whose flat face had all the other attributes of age—looked toward her with a lowering of the ears.

  “Chanur captain?”

  “The same. Have I the honor to know you?”

  “Ahe Stasteburana-to, I.”

  The stationmaster in person. She made another bow, and the stationmaster did the same, keeping the equilibrium of the pampered creature in his arms, soothing its growls unsuccessfully as he straightened again. And with apparent distraction Stasteburana strolled off, while another of the company made a stiffer bow and launched into them. “You pay, Chanur captain, fines for reckless approach. Fines for bring debris boosted through, danger to all innocent. Fines for reckless haste near station. For bring hazardous situation.”

  “I spit at your charges. I dumped the debris at Kita and warned you only in the remote chance there was still some with me, dumped it, I might add, and sustained damage protecting your worthless station from injury. As for fines, you’re brigands, bloodsuckers, to prey off a friendly ship with a long-standing account at this station, when for the preservation of our lives and the protection of the Compact we had to come in for shelter against piracy. A hani, a hani, mind, asks shelter, and when have we ever done such a thing? Are you blind and deaf as well as greedy?”

  “We have outrage. We have knnn act crazy out there. We have report—”

  The Personage Stasteburana held up his aged and manicured hand. His Voice silenced herself and broke off with a bow, while Stasteburana strolled back, stroking his ball of fluff, which had never ceased to growl. “You make large commotion, honorable Chanur, great hani captain, yes, we know you—long time absent; maybe trade our rival Ajir, but we
know you. Good friend, we. Maybe make deal on fines. But serious matter. Where come from?”

  “Meetpoint and Urtur via Kita, wise mahe.”

  “With this?” An ears-flat look at Tully.

  “An unfortunate. A being of great sensitivity, wise and gentle mahe. His ship was wrecked, his companions gone. . . he cast himself on my charity and proves of considerable value.”

  “Value, hani, captain?”

  “He needs papers, wise mahe, and my ship needs repairs.”

  Again Stasteburana walked away, aloof from the Voice. “Your ship got no cargo,” the Voice spat. “You come empty hand, make big trouble here. You near ask credit, hani captain; what credit? We make you fines, you send Anuurn get cargo, maybe two, three hani ship pay off damages. You got us knnn. You got us kif. We know this. You go talk hani at next berth, ask she pay your fines.”

  “Trivial. I have cargo, better than Moon Rising. I make you a deal, indeed I shall, in spite of your uncivilized behavior. I make a deal all mahendo’sat will want.”

  The Voice looked at Tully, and the Personage turned about, moved in with a leisurely grace, handed the small noisy animal to the Voice, and frowned. Stasteburana made a further sign to his other three companions, and one of them called to someone in the hall.

  It was not easy to make distinctions of mahendo’sat of the same age and sex and build; but about the large and relatively plain fellow who answered that summons. . . there was an instant and queasy familiarity—particularly when he flashed a broad gilt-edged smile. Pyanfar sucked in her breath and tucked her hands behind her, pulling the claws back in.

  “Captain Ana Ismehanan-min of the freighter Mahijiru,” Stasteburana said softly. “Acquaintance to you, yes.”

  “Indeed,” Pyanfar said, and bowed, which gesture Goldtooth returned with a flourish.

  “This kif business,” said Stasteburana, folding his wrinkled hands at his middle. “Explain, hani captain.”