“More than bears discussion here, ker Pyanfar. But things in which a hani in
such danger as you are would be interested. In which you may — greatly — be
interested, when the news of Meetpoint gets to the han. As it surely will.
Remember me. Among kif — I am one who might be disposed toward you, not
against. Sikkukkut of Harukk, at your service.”
“You set us up, you bastard.”
The long snout twitched and acquired new wrinkles in its papery gray hide.
Perhaps kif smiled. This one drew a hand from beneath its robe and she stepped
back a pace, the hand on the gun in her pocket angling the gun up all at once to
fire.
It offered her a bit of gold in its gray, knobbed claws. She stared at it with
her finger tight on the trigger.
“A message,” it said, “For your — cargo. Give it to him.”
“Probably has plague.”
“I assure you not. I handle it. See?”
“Something hani-specific, I’m sure.”
“It would be a mistake not to know what it is. Trust me, ker Pyanfar.”
It was dangerous to thwart a kif in any whim. She saw this one’s pique, the
elegant turn of wrist that held the object — it was a small gold ring — before
her.
She snatched it, the circlet caught between her claws.
“Mistrustful,” said Sikkukkut.
Pyanfar backed a pace. “Chur,” she said, and with a back-canted ear heard the
whisper of Chur’s move back.
Sikkukkut held up his thin, soot-gray palms in token of non-combatancy. His long
snout tucked under. The red-rimmed eyes looked lambent fire at her.
“I will see you again,” Sikkukkut said. “I will be patient with you, hani fool,
in hopes you will not be forever a fool.”
She backed up as far as put all the mahen guards between herself and the kif,
with Chur close by her. “Don’t turn your backs,” she advised the mahendo’sat.
“Got order,” said the mahe in charge. “You go ship, hani. These fine kif, they
go other way.”
“There are illicit arms,” said another kif in coldest tones. “Ask this hani.”
“Ours legal,” said the mahe pointedly, who had heard, perhaps, too much of
mahendo’sat involvement from this kif. The mahendo’sat stood rock firm: Pyanfar
turned her shoulder, taking that chance they offered, collected Chur in haste
and headed across the dock, all the while with a twitch between her
shoulderblades.
“They’re headed off,” said Chur, who ventured a quick look over her shoulder.
“Gods rot them.”
“Come on.” Pyanfar set herself to a jog, not quite a run, coming up to The
Pride’s berth, to the whining noise of the cargo gear. The loader crane had a
can suspended in midair, stalled, while three hani shouted and waved angry
argument at her crew beside the machinery.
“Ayhar!” Pyanfar thundered. “Gods rot you, out.” She charged into the midst and
shoved, hard, and Banny Ayhar backed up with round eyes and a stunned look on
her broad, scarred face.
“You earless bastard!” Ayhar howled. “You don’t lay hands on me!”
She knew what she had done. She stood there with the crane whining away with its
burden in fixed position, with Tirun and Chur and Geran lined up beside her as
the two Ayhar crew flanked their captain. Thoughts hurtled through her mind, the
han, alliances, influences brought to bear.
“Apologies.” It choked her. “Apologies, Ayhar. And get off my dock. Hear?”
“You’re up to something, Pyanfar Chanur. You’ve got your nose in it for sure,
conniving with the mahendo’sat, gods know what — I’m telling you, Chanur, Ayhar
won’t put up with it. You know what it cost us? You know what your last lunatic
foray cost us, while ships of the han were banned at Meetpoint, while our docks
at Gaohn were shot up and gods be feathered if that mahen indemnity covered
it–”
“I’ll meet you at Anuurn. We’ll talk about this, Banny, over a cup or two.”
“A cup or two! Good gods, Chanur!”
“Geran, Tirun, get those cans moving.”
“Don’t you turn your back on me.”
“Ayhar, I haven’t time.”
“What’s the hurry?” A new ham voice, silken, from her side: Ayhar crew’s