see her one more time, in Chanur territory, with their son hunting him to kill
him and Kohan apt to do the same . . . if Kohan were not Kohan, and ignoring him
for days: gods, the gossip that had courted, male protecting male.
“Listen,” she said. “Stsho are xenophobes. They’ve got three genders and they
phase into new pysches when they’re cornered. Gods know what’s in their heads.
You travel enough out here and you don’t wonder what a stsho’ll do or think
tomorrow. It doesn’t matter. Hear?”
“You smell like fish,” he said. “And gods know what else.”
“Sorry.” She drew back the hand.
“Human, is it?”
“Yes.”
He wrinkled his nose. “I won’t kill him either. See, Py? I justify your
confidence. So maybe you can tell me what’s going on. For once.”
“Don’t ask.”
“They think I’m crazy. For the gods’ sakes, Py, you walk in here with news like
that. Don’t kill the human, please. Never mind the kif. Never mind the
gods-be-blasted station’s going to sue–”
“They say that?”
“Somewhere in the process. Py — I don’t put my nose into Chanur business. But I
know accounts. I was good at it. I know what you’ve put into this trip, I know
you’ve borrowed at Kura for that repair–”
“Don’t worry about it.” She patted his arm, turned for the door in self-defense,
and stopped there, her hand on the switch. She faced about again with a courtesy
in her mouth to soften it; and met a sullen, angry look.
“My opinion’s not worth much,” he said. “I know.”
“We’ll talk later. Khym, I’ve got work to do.”
“Sure.”
“Look.” She walked back and jabbed a claw at his chest. “I’ll tell you
something, na Khym. You’re right. We’re in a mess and we’re short-handed, and
you gods-rotted took this trip, on which you’ve gotten precious few
calluses….”
The eyes darkened. “It was your idea.”
“No. It was yours. You gods-rotted well chose new things, husband: this isn’t
Mahn, you’re on a working ship, and you can rotted sure make up your mind you’re
not lying about on cushions with a dozen wives to see to the nastinesses. That’s
not true anymore. It’s a new world. You can’t have it half this and half that —
you don’t want the prejudice, but you gods-rotted well want to lie about and be
waited on. Well, I haven’t got time. No one’s got time. This is a world that
moves, and the sun doesn’t come round every morning to warm your hide. Work
might do it.”
“Have I complained?” The ears sank. The mouth was tight in disaste. “I’m talking
about policy.”
“When you know the outside you talk about policy. You walk onto this ship after
what happened in that bar and you walk into your quarters and shut the door,
huh? Fine. That’s real fine. This crew saved your hide, gods rot it, not just
because you’re male. But you sit in this cabin, you’ve sat in this cabin and
done nothing-”
“I’m comfortable enough.”
“Sure you are. You preen and eat and sleep. And you’re not comfortable. You’re
eating your gut out.”
“What do you want? For me to work docks?”
“Yes. Like any of the rest of this crew. You’re not lord Mahn any more, Khym.”
It was dangerous to have said. So was the rest of it. She saw the
fracture-lines, the pain. She had never been so cruel. And to her distress the
ears simply sank, defeated. No anger. No violence. “Gods and thunders, Khym.
What am I supposed to do with you?”
“Maybe take me home.”
“No. That’s not an option. You wanted this.”
“No. You wanted to take on the han. Myself — I just wanted to see the outside
once. That’s all.”
“In a mahen hell it was.”
“Maybe it is now.”
“Are they right, then?”
“I don’t know. It’s not natural. It’s not–”
“You believe that garbage? You think the gods made you crazy?”
He rubbed the broad flat of his nose, turned his shoulder to her, looked back
with a rueful stare.
“You believe it, Khym?”
“It’s costing you too much. Gods, Py — you’re gambling Chanur, you’re risking