The station schema was, at the time they got it, some 52 minutes old. That was a benefit of the peace: stations were no longer so paranoid as to think that two enemies might go at each other in full view of a station—or with one linked to its fragile skin. Kshshti Station showed Ha’domaren ahead of them … where else? And a ship named Nogkokktik, captained by one Takekkt, at dock since yesterday.
Closing the gap, by the featherless gods.
Hani traders didn’t even go to Kshshti. But there were sixty-seven messages for aunt Pyanfar here, one outstanding legal paper suing for information, and a stray package pickup (from a mahen religious foundation?) postage due.
Meanwhile the kifish ship Nogkokktik remained at dock—wasn’t talking to anyone except station, and claimed, through station communications, not to know anything about any stsho passenger.
Likewise Ha’domaren received their salutations, welcomed them to Kshshti, and, no, Ana-kehnandian was not available. Ana-kehnandian was in his sleep cycle and could not be disturbed. Amazing how the watch officer’s command of the pidgin declined as soon as he’d said that.
And was there a stsho ambassador or anything of the sort on Kshshti?
No. The ambassador had taken ill and died last month.
“Gods rot it!” Hilfy cried.
“There’s something,” Tarras said, “going on.’‘
Notable understatement. She gave Tarras the stare that deserved.
“I mean,” Tarras amended that, “major.”
A long breath, slowly exhaled; unwelcome reminiscence of ship stalking ship, the chill of hearing a safety go off behind one’s back. Of seeing a ship die in a silent fireball, and hearing the voices over com …
She didn’t want those days back again. She didn’t want to be in this port playing tag with a kif.
But gods be. She hadn’t the habit of giving in. Not even to her aunt. And never in a mahen hell to outsiders, notably not the kif.
She sat with her chin on her hand, thinking through their options, since no one was talking. Kshshti authorities were no reliable source of help—unless someone had come in here and swept out every official who had ever taken a bribe, and she had never heard that that had happened.
Of resources they had …
“Deal with customs,” she said. “Offer the cans for sale … except the rocks. We’re keeping the rocks.”
“Keeping the rocks,” Tarras echoed. “Right.”
“If we get a decent offer, let me know. If we don’t get a decent offer, look us up an honest warehouse …”
“At Kshshti?”
“Best we can do. I want everybody on Kshshti to know what we’re carrying; and that we’re willing to warehouse it if we don’t get our offer.”
Tarras gave her a curious, thoughtful look.
“Why would a Chanur ship come in carrying strategics and staples, and insist on warehousing … if we don’t get a top price?”
A line developed between Tarras’ brows. “You’ll panic the market,” Tarras protested. “Captain, … begging your pardon …”
“They know they’re dealing with Chanur. The dockside bartenders probably know we’re carrying an important stsho object. We’re in this to make a living, cousin. So are they.”
“You’ll shove the market into a war scare. It’ll proliferate. Captain, people can get hurt.”
“There’s nothing they’ll buy they won’t need. And that’s the market, isn’t it, cousin?”
“Not starting gods-be rumors!” Tarras cried, and immediately lowered her voice. “Captain. This isn’t right.”
She scowled at Tarras, at disloyalty, at a clear challenge to her methods, her character and her ethics. They had had doubts under aunt Py’s command, too, there had been scary, sticky moments, a good many of them here at Kshshti, but, by the gods, the whole crew had stood by her.
Py had a few more gray hairs, be it known. Py and the four senior crew had been in tight spots before they had ever gotten into the mess at Kshshti, and they’d known Pyanfar was smart enough to think her way through it.
But Tarras didn’t know that about her. Tarras knew she’d gotten the captaincy because she was Pyanfar’s niece, that was what Tarras knew about her, the same thing all Chanur’s rivals knew about her.
“If we let this loose,” Tarras began.