Chanur's Legacy

  “Don’t be fool. You want clear customs? You want get stuff on ship, same deal you got get customs stamp. Customs don’t let you trade till you cleared, hani, you got figure how things are.”

  One could figure how things were. One could figure somebody was in tight with the officials at some level.

  “You want stop whole deal for redecorate stsho cabin?” Haisi asked. “That funny.”

  “Who said?”

  “Funny thing you got real white shopping list. Stsho emissary not happy with decor? Maybe lot stress on this person?”

  “Go to hell,” she said.

  And walked off, walked and took a lift and a transport bus to the dockside customs office.

  And got the official no. No onloading if there was a hold on offloading.

  “So what if a ship pulls in here and doesn’t want to sell to you? You’re not going to let them buy?” Her fist landed on the counter. “I don’t believe that!”

  “Not same. Not same. You got hold on you cargo. Not same legal situation. You want deal, you let custom inspector see contraband.”

  “It’s not contraband! It’s stsho diplomatic property!”

  “Make you appeal stsho mission.”

  “There is no stsho mission on Urtur! You scared it off!”

  “Not us scare off. Maybe this object you got scare them.”

  “No way! News of it got here with my ship! No way they know about it. You ask Haisi Ana-kehnandian what spooked them, you ask him what in your seventh reprehensible hell he knows about our cargo and who’s pockets he’s got access to. I want to talk to the stationmaster, I want to talk to the personage of this station, I want a legal accounting of every paper you’ve brought against us, and I want my ship cleared!”

  “You not yell in this office!”

  “I by the gods yell in this office, I yell until somebody contacts the personage of Urtur and gets my customs slip cleared, and no more of this talk about invading a stsho emissary’s privacy and searching his baggage!”

  There was a disturbance at the door behind her. A mahen voice registered protest in some mahen tongue, another joined it before she could even look around. She did look, and there was a handful of mahen spacers and Haisi Ana-kehnandian shoving other business out the door.

  He shut the door and held it then, with a wall of large mahendo’sat.

  She missed carrying a gun. Gods, she did. Claws came out. Haisi twitched and she went over the counter, scattering customs personnel left and right. Chairs went over, clerks jammed up in an inner office door and shrieked in panic.

  “Hani!” Haisi shouted. “You stop, stop now! You listen!”

  Nobody had guns. But they had the door. There were clerks under desks. The group behind her squeezed into the room and shut that door.

  “Where’s your authority? Where’s any proof you’re not a pirate, Haisi Ana-kehnandian? Unblock that door!”

  “All right, all right.” Haisi made calming gestures. “You not break furniture, Chanur captain. You got important relative, no reason break place up. Don’t be damn fool!”

  “I got important relative, same time got real distrust of people who get pushy, mahe. You want I charge piracy? You want I say you try damn underhanded trick with customs? I want to talk to the stationmaster, I want to talk right now, and no more tricks!”

  “Stationmaster indispos’.”

  “Indisposed like the stsho ambassador? Indisposed like run for Iji?”

  “You talk wild, hani. No. Indispos’ like not take time talk with every damn’ fool got problem.”

  Damn’ fool was close to the point. Something was seriously wrong at Urtur, and the more they suspected she knew the less likely she was to get out of this room, much less out of the port. Far better to have played outraged trader.

  “I want my ship cleared! I want customs clearance, I want my record cleared, I want to sell my cargo when and if and at what price I choose, and I want an end of interference with my business.”

  “You want tell what sort object you carry?”

  “No, I don’t. It’s none of your gods-rotted business! You get out from in front of that door, you get yourself and your crew out of my way! This is a public office. If I don’t see a badge, an authorization, or a personage, I’m not giving you anything. And if you try to hold me, my ship—a Chanur ship—is going to carry a complaint to the Compact.”

  “You be calm, be calm, hani. This get to very silly point. You listen to me. You walk ’round station talk about dangerous business, name dangerous stuff, you come in this office make demand in front of witness you don’t know by damn who, you try get throat cut?”

  “Open that door!”

  “A’ right, a’ right. —Rahe’ish’ taij meh, jai.”

  The mahendo’sat with him moved aside from the door.

  “Against the wall!” she said.

  “You got damn poor idea who give orders in this room, hani!”

  “I got damn good idea you got no authority to give orders. Or you can clear the papers. You want big blow-up you just keep going.”

  “Clear papers. I clear papers. All right!” Haisi spat out a torrent of mahendi instructions, only half of which she could understand, but which got the clerks cautiously out from under the desks and brought the customs agent back from the office in the rear.

  The door opened, from the other side. Station police stood there, armed with pistols and ready for trouble. Someone had called them. Probably from the back office.

  Fine, Hilfy thought. Great.

  “Small misunderstanding,” Haisi said, with a wave of his hand. And said something to the police, low and fast. Stationmaster, she caught that word: stsho; and ambassador. And trouble. But she could guess that one.

  The Personage of Urtur was ruffled. Highly. The Personage of Urtur found the business too evidently distressful, and abandoned it to her Voice, a towering mahe with a furious scowl.

  “You disrupt whole office, you got clerk scare’ like bunch pirate, what for you damn’ fool action?”

  “Ask him! He blocked the door, wouldn’t let honest citizens in or out!” You didn’t yell at the Personage of Urtur. The Personage of Urtur didn’t debate such matters. The Voice did. And Hilfy found her ears persistently flattening. She made every effort to keep a pleasant look on her face, and to keep to logical points, when at the same time the Voice tried to provoke gut level reactions. She wanted to make mincemeat out of Haisi Ana-kehnandian—who sat smoking like a factory, with a frown on his face.

  The Voice did ask Ana-kehnandian, evidently. The two of them talked back and forth in one of Ijir’s numerous languages, in which the Voice grew quieter and quieter, and even good-humored—which suggested, first, they had no wish for the hani foreigner to understand; and second, they were out of the same district of Ijir, and therefore Haisi Ana-kehnandian must be a good upstanding fellow.

  This went on and on and back and forth, and in the meanwhile the Personage sat surveying the potted plant on her desk and frowning mightily.

  “You make mess in customs office,” the Voice then said in the pidgin. “Personage not happy. You make lot public mess, scare people—”

  “I take it the Personage understands the Trade. Ask the Personage whether she has given any authority to this person to harass my crew, threaten me, create a riot in customs, hold my cargo for ransom, and ask personal questions about a stsho passenger who’s never set foot on this station nor applied for local customs clearance. I feared firearms were present. I went over that desk in protection of my life! This advised innocent persons to take cover, for their personal safety! This fool committed the aggression, by blocking the exit in an aggressive manner, in the clear intent to do violence!”

  That prompted another conference, a lengthy one. And more frowns from Haisi.

  The Personage then took to pinching leaves off the plant on her desk, and paying no attention to either of them.

  “Personage not like speak pidgin. Say ’pologize for distress you.
Say customs cleared. All fine.”

  She had to replay that again to believe she’d heard it. But Haisi looked far from happy with the situation.

  “Then thank the Personage on behalf of my ship and my passenger.”

  “She understand fine. She say, Be careful with stsho. Good luck on you deals on station. You need all luck you got.”

  “Ask her why.”

  “Not need ask. Ask you: why be fool? Why make damn lot racket, attract notice? Ask you: what benefit you this stsho thing?”

  “Money. Money, like making a profit on this trip, like getting hired like any merchant captain—”

  “You not merchant. You Chanur.”

  “Gods-rotted right I’m a merchant! What do you think, I’m rich? I travel from station to station for a hobby?”

  “You got aunt.”

  “The gods-be universe has got Pyanfar Chanur, but I don’t! She can’t be head of Chanur any longer, she can’t sit in the han, she can’t hold property and she can’t vote on Anuurn—Your informers have been lying down asleep if you think I’m on her payroll! My ship hauls freight to pay the bills and keep our clan’s taxes paid. That’s all, no politics, no secrets, and no interest in secrets. I’m paid to transport this thing and transport it I will, until I can get the thing off my deck to its legitimate owner. But don’t expect my aunt knows. We don’t speak!”

  Evidently it was not the answer the Voice or the Personage expected. There was another sharp exchange between the two of them.

  Something—she understood two of the mahen languages—about relatives and assumptions and another Personage of feminine gender.

  And Haisi was not pleased. “All you papers cleared,” Haisi said. “You go. You put stuff on market, quick as you want. Stsho you want go Kita. Wish you luck find same. Suggest you make nice thank you to busy Personage.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and made two successive bows, to Haisi, and to the Personage who had never once looked her in the eyes. There was a small pile of leaves below the miniature tree. The Personage raked them together with a nail, and seemed perfectly absorbed in this activity. The Voice did not exist when the Personage was speaking for herself. And the Voice stood to the side of the room, hands behind his back, with no more to say to her.

  So she left. And hoped the Personage of Urtur had more intense words for Haisi Ana-kehnandian once the door closed.

  There was all this banging and sawing again. And the loaders were taking things off the ship, finally. Hallan was puzzled by the former, found the latter comfortingly ordinary, and had himself another snack while he read the tail end of Love in the Outback.

  They had moved in a minifridge full of food and snacks and drinks, a microwave, a viewer, a tape player, and a stack of somebody’s tapes and books … some of them really embarrassing. But interesting. He really hoped they hadn’t known those were in the stack. Tiar had been in a real hurry when she brought them in, and said something about the captain having been in some dust-up with customs, but everything was all right now, and she was sorry, and she wished she could let him out, but they had a very upset stsho on their hands and if the stsho ran into him gtst would Phase on the spot. So please forgive them.

  With which Tiar ducked out again. And the banging and sawing went on, and the loaders proceeded.

  Clank-clank. Clank. Bang and thump.

  It would have been very tedious, except if anybody was going to come after him he hoped he got to the end of the book first, and he hoped they didn’t catch him actually reading it.

  If he were on the Sun the book in the stack would have meant one thing.

  Here—he was having thoughts he’d never exactly had before … or not thoughts, exactly, but feelings. Not about Tiar, actually. Just about belonging. Dangerous thoughts—like fitting into an ancient pattern that he didn’t want, that he’d rejected for his dreams of traveling and being free, and here he was reading this stupid book, increasingly confused about what was going on with his hormones and his thinking processes. Try to be independent and put up with any crude thing the crew did, and sometimes go along with what they wanted, and he could do that without letting them really get to him; but now here he was, guiltily reading what he really hoped they hadn’t meant to be in the stack, and thinking thoughts that meant maybe Mara Sahern was right and instincts were too strong, and he couldn’t depend on using his brains—that ultimately, when he got all his size and hormones kicked in for good and earnest, he wasn’t going to be worth anything but one thing until he was as old as Khym Mahn and hormones had stopped making him crazy.

  That reputation for violence was why the stsho was afraid of him. That reputation was why everybody on Meetpoint had panicked when he had panicked and swung on the kif. And that reputation scared him, because there wasn’t just the kif to deal with, there was the Chanur, lord Harun Chanur, who would break his neck if he caught him in Chanur territory, the same as there was lord Sahern to object to his presence on the Sun. It was one thing to go to space before he was old enough, quite, to have his adult growth, but after three years he was about there, banging his head on the doorways built for female crews, and finding instincts he’d thought he was immune to—worst of all, to think that, over the next few years, he might progressively lose his self-control and his reason. It just was not true. It would not happen to him, it didn’t need to happen, it was, what had Pyanfar Chanur said, that so outraged the han? —an unscientific belief system; and conforming to it was custom, not hardwiring.

  But here he sat on a Chanur ship having thoughts he didn’t even want, and wanting to finish the cursed book, and not wanting to, and scared and drawn at the same time.

  Was that being crazy? Was that what happened, and was that what had started when he came on board the Legacy, among female people he could really want?

  He kept reading. He got to the end and he sat there staring at the wall and wishing he knew what was ahead of him, and whether he was a fool or not, being out here, in this foreign place with a crew he …

  Really, really wanted to belong to, in a very absolute and traditional and gut-level way that that book was about.

  Which could very definitely get him killed. Which was stupid, intellectually speaking. But not—not when feelings cut in.

  The incoming messages were stacked up.

  From Haisi, Hilfy presumed, since it had Ha’domaren’s header: You better think who you are. Dangerous you not know.

  From Customs: Customs approved. For the third time. They were overcompensating.

  From Padur’s Victory and Narn’s Dawnmaker, a joint communique: We are in receipt of troubling news regarding difficulty with customs and station authorities. We request a briefing at earliest.

  That had to be answered, urgently and in the most courteous way, hence the presence of a Padur and a Narn captain in the downside corridor, plain trader captains in workaday blue trousers, out of the midst of their work. And it certainly behooved the bone-tired hani captain in question to meet them personally at the airlock, and invite them into her downside office, and sit down and explain the situation, in spite of the fact she and her sleepless crew were again facing no sleep and snatched meals. Tarras was down there alone, no one was on the bridge, and the offloading was going to go on until the Legacy’s holds were empty.

  Meaning about 12 more hours.

  “There’s a ship to watch,” she said, “Ha’domaren. If you want my guess what’s going on, there’s a personage with an agent on that ship who’s fairly high up in the hierarchy; that personage assumed I have a direct line to my aunt—which I don’t—and somebody on this station tried to blacklist my ship by bringing up old records about The Pride. I wasn’t interested in a secret game, I raised a racket, this agent didn’t want the publicity, and when the police got involved it bounced the case right where I couldn’t get anyone else to send it—straight to the Personage of Urtur, where I said very definitely I hadn’t any contacts with my aunt and all I wanted was trade. After which they gave me
my customs clearance and the Personage of Urtur gave the agent a reasonably dirty look. That’s the sum of it.”

  “We hear,” Tauhen Padur said, with a discreet cough, “there’s some sort of politically hot stsho cargo.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  A shrug, a lowering of one ear. “From my crew, indirectly from the market. Where, specifically … I think they’d have said if the source was unusual. Probably just the merchants.”

  “Same,” said Kaury Narn. Old spacer, Kaury was, lot of rings, pale edges on the mane, and a right-side tooth capped in silver—ask where and on what kif pirate she’d broken that one. The Narn captain came from far wilder days. “Whatever the chaff is, it’s drifting up and down the market.”

  “We didn’t talk to anybody in the market. There’s only one way that information flew in here ahead of us.”

  “This Ha’domaren.”

  “And one Tahaisimandi Ana-kehnandian, nickname Haisi, who’s operating out of that ship.”

  “Eastern hemisphere Ijir. At least by ancestry.” This from Kaury.

  “You know him.”

  “No,” Kaury Narn said. “But the name is eastern. I’ll remember it.”

  “Haisi,” Tauhen said. “Which personage?”

  “Not the Personage of Urtur. Somebody named Paehisna-ma-to.”

  “Not familiar.”

  “Not to me.”

  “Is there any way,” the Narn asked, “you can get in touch with your aunt?”

  “No. That’s the truth.” Touchy question, under other circumstances; but this was with obvious reason. “What I hear, she’s somewhere …” She censored that. “… inconvenient; and I don’t know where. Possibly Ana-kehnandian’s personage is shaking the tree, so to speak, to see what falls out; certainly somebody wanted to use me to get to her, and I couldn’t if I wanted to. So if your trail and hers should cross, let her know. But meanwhile I hope I’ve settled this mahe and got him off my tail. What I want to know—are there any stsho hiding on this station?”