C.J. Cherryh. Chanur’s Venture

company of seven now, unlikely tablefellows. But Tully was still wobbly in his

moves, his hands shaking as he gulped cup after cup of carbohydrate-laced gfi

and nibbled at this and that; while Khym — Khym ate, plenty, for one who had

been wobbly-sick half an hour ago. Pyanfar shot glances his way — misgiving (he

bade fair to make himself sick) and halfway pleased (he had lasted the rough

ride, by the gods, and gone white-nosed as he was to galley duty, and was on

incredibly good behavior.) There might not have been another male at table for

all the attention Khym paid between his plate and the rotating center-section

with the serving-trays.

There was silence at table, mostly — a little muttered discourse as Tirun and

Chur and Haral brought their vane-problem to table with them, and worried it

like a bone. A little “have this,” and “try that,” from Hilfy who tried to slip

a little more substance under Tully’s ribs.

No harrying, no pressure — take it slow, she thought. And: Keep him calm, keep

everything low-key . . . the while she watched him relax at last, their old

friend, old comrade. It was as if he had — finally — come back to them the way

he had been, easier and finally letting go — Time then to talk of things, when

he might tell them the truth. Perhaps they had cornered him, pushed him too

much, assured him too little. Perhaps he felt the panic in the air and only now

felt easy. Perhaps now there would be truth.

“Your House send you?” Khym said suddenly, looking straight Tully’s way, and

sent her heart lurching past a beat.

Tully blinked that into slow non-focus. “Send?” the translator queried,

flat-voiced . . . O gods, trust indeed, wide-eyed innocence. “Send me?”

“I don’t know that they have Houses,” Pyanfar said, and found her fingers flexed

and the claws out. Khym tried the situation. She knew him. And she knew Tully.

Of a sudden the silence round the table was absolute. She wanted to stop it, to

shut it off, and there was no way, no way with Khym in bland, smooth

attack-mode. Hunting, gods rot him. Pushing for reaction, the crew’s and hers.

“Don’t use big words. Translator can’t handle them.”

“House isn’t a big word.”

“Stick to ship-things. Technical stuff. You don’t know how it comes out the

other side.”

“Say again,” Tully said.

“I asked who sent you.”

“# # send me.”

“See?” said Pyanfar. “You get a word it won’t make sense.”

“Name home,” Tully said. “Sun. Also call Sol. Planet name Earth. Send me ”

“He does talk.”

“So,” Pyanfar said. Her ears pricked up despite herself. “Sun, is it?”

“Where are we?” Tully asked. “Ur-tur?”

“Urtur. Yes.”

He drew a great breath. “Go Maing Tol.”

“Seems so. By way of Kshshti. You know that name?”

“Know.” He moved his plate aside a handspan and touched his strange, thin

fingers to the table surface. “Meetpoint — Urtur — Kshshti — Maing Tol.”

“Huh.” He had never known much of the Compact stars. Not from them. “Goldtooth

teach?”

“Mahe name Ino. Ship name Ijir.”

“Before Goldtooth got you, huh? How’d you find Goldtooth?”

He looked worried. Or the translator scrambled it. “Go Goldtooth, yes.”

“You with him long?”

“#?”

“Were you long time in Goldtooth’s ship?”

Perhaps it was the tone of her voice. His eyes met hers and dived aside after

one frozen instant, reestablishing contact perforce.

“Where did you meet Goldtooth?”

“Ino find him.”

It did not satisfy her. She sat and stared, forgetting the bite on her fork, not

forgetting Khym at her elbow. No fight; don’t pick a fight, no trouble while

Khym’s in it. The strictures crawled up and down her nerves.

“You come how long ago?” Geran asked.

“Don’t know,” he said, glancing that way. “Long time.”

“Days?”

“Lot days.”

He could be more precise. He knew the translator’s limits. Knew how to

manipulate it better than he did. He picked up the cup and drank, covering the

silence.

Perhaps the rest of the crew picked up the undertones. She thought so. There was

not a move at table. Only Tully.

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