C.J. Cherryh. Chanur’s Venture

it. There had been a time he had staved off kif for months, led his

interrogators in circles despite torture, despite the murder of companions.

Tully had held out. More, he had escaped, off a kifish ship. That was no fool.

And no one to be pushed.

“Vane,” she said with ulterior motives. “Go.”

“Aye.” Haral moved, shoved Chur’s shoulder. Hilfy and Geran shifted to clear the

seats and Tully got up.

“Get the galley cleared,” Pyanfar said- “Tully. You just became juniormost. Help

Hilfy with the galley. Khym — you fetch and carry on the bridge. Whoever needs

it.”

“I want to talk to you,” Khym said, unbudged.

“No time to talk.” She turned her head and met his scowl with her own as he

stayed put on the bench, still blocking her way out. “Look, Khym, we’ve got a

vane in partial failure. One of us may have to take a walk after it yet. You got

a question that tops it?”

His ears went down in dismay.

“Out,” she said.

“We could go to Kura, couldn’t we?”

“No. We can’t. Can’t shift course again this side of Urtur — we’re in the dust;

we’ve got a vane down . . . .The last course change gods-rotted near killed us,

you understand that? I haven’t got time to discuss it.” She shoved and he moved.

She got up and looked back at him, at Hilfy and Tully who were gathering dishes

at furious speed. But Khym lingered, a towering hurt. She gathered up her

patience, took him by the arm, walked him to the privacy of the bridgeward

corridor. “Look, Khym — we’ve got troubles.”

“Somehow,” he said, “I figured that.”

“Kshshti’s mahen-held,” she said. “Barely. If the kif have Kita watched they’ve

likely got something in at Kshshti. But there’s help there or the mahendo’sat

wouldn’t send us that direction.”

“You trust what they say?”

She looked behind him, where one stark-pale human hastened to hand dishes off

the table and close doors.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Go.”

“You don’t put me off, Py.”

She gave him one long burning look.

“Chanur property,” he said. “I do forget.”

“What do you want, Khym? I’ll tell you what I want. I want that gods-rotted vane

fixed. I want us out of here. Are you helping?”

He drew a long, long breath and cast a look over his shoulder in Tully’s

direction. “Pet?”

“Shut it up. Right there.”

The ears that had half-lifted sank again. “All right. That was low. But for the

gods’ sake, Py, what have you got yourself into? You can’t make deals outside

the han. They’ll have your hide. That Ehrran ship-=”

“Noticed that, did you?”

“Gods, Py!”

“Hush.”

He coughed. Caught his breath. “Chanur property. Right.”

“Did you expect different?” She jabbed him hard. It took a lot to get through a

male’s skin when he had that look in his eyes. “Are they right?”

“Who’s right?”

“The stsho in that bar.”

His nostrils dilated, closed, dilated, and his nose went pale round the edges.

“I don’t see what that has to do with it.”

“Hilfy back there. You hear a question out of her?”

He looked over his shoulder, where Hilfy was closing cabinet latches, click,

slam, click, one after the other; and Tully was folding the table up. He looked

round again and his ears were flat.

“Go help Tirun,” she said.

“I asked a question.”

“No. You questioned, and by the gods that’s different. You want Haral’s rights,

you by the gods earn them.”

He brushed past her and stalked off bridge-ward. And stopped, about half a dozen

paces on — faced her, to her relief and her dismay. At least he had not

retreated to his cabin. And gods, not more argument.

He stood there. Cold, deliberate protocol.

“Help Tirun and Haral,” she said. “The rest of us haven’t got a deathwish. That

vane’s got to be fixed.”

That was the way, mention the word. Dead, dead. Death. Hit him between the ears

with it. Her stomach churned.

“Fine,” he said, bowed, turned and talked off, a massive shadow against the

lights of the bridge beyond.

She spun on her own heel and walked back into the galley proper, to Tully and

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