Cherryh, CJ – Merchanters Luck

“Got that arranged,” Curran said. “No problem with that.”

“From what I know,” Allison said, “we’re going to have a double jump to Venture

and a double to Bryant’s.”

“Lonely out that direction.”

“Pell’s got some sort of security out that way.”

“Patrol?”

“They don’t say. They just put out they’ve got it watched.”

“Comforting.” He doubted it all. It was likely bluff. Or Pell was that

determined to keep the Sol link open.

He looked up again, at the strangers who looked to share with him, to come onto

Lucy’s deck—permanent company. So they were not all what he would have chosen.

But with a Curran came a Deirdre, whose broad, cheerful self he liked on sight;

and Neill Reilly, who had said little of anything and who seemed set in the

background by all the others—They were Family, like any other, the rough and the

smooth together. He had not known that kind of closeness… not since Ross. He

wanted it, and Allison, with a yearning that welled up in his throat and behind

his eyes and throughout. And it was his. It came with the wealth, the luck he

still could not imagine. But it was real. It was all about him. He made himself

relax, limb by limb, up to the shoulders, looked across the table at his

acquired crew and felt something knotted up inside unsnarl itself.

And when dinner was done, down to a fancy fruit dessert, when they had drunk as

much as merchanters were apt to drink on liberty—they found things to laugh at,

Dubliner anecdotes, tales on each other. He laughed and wiped his eyes, as he

had not done in longer than he had forgotten.

The bill was his: he took it without flinching, gave a tip to the waiter—left a

happy man in their wake and strolled out into the chill air of the dockside with

his flock of Dubliners.

“Go to the offices,” he suggested, “see if we can’t get the lock off my ship.”

“Let’s,” Allison agreed. “Is it past alterdawn? We can get something done.”

“Get a ped-carrier,” Deirdre said.

“Walk,” said Neill. “We might be sober when we get there.”

They walked, along the busy docks, past Lucy’s barriered berth, weaving a good

deal less when they had covered all of green dock, sweating a bit when they had

come into blue, and near the customs offices.

But he came differently this time, in company, with the knowledge of Dublin’s

lawyer behind them, and papers on file that put him in the right. He walked up

to the desk and faced the official with a plain request, brought out the papers.

“I need the lock off,” he said. “We seem to have everything else straightened

away but that.”

“Ah,” the official said. “Captain Stevens.”

“Can we get it taken care of?”

The official produced a sealed envelope, passed it over.

“What’s this?”

“I’ve no idea, sir. I’m told it relates to the hold order.”

He was conscious of the others at his back—refused to look at them, tore open

the seal on the message slip and read it once before it sank in. “Report blue

dock number three,” he read it, looking back at Allison then. “AS Norway, Signy

Mallory commanding.”

Curran swore. “Mallory,” Allison said, and it might as well have been an oath.

“On Pell?”

“Arrived two hours ago,” the official said, a roll of the eyes toward the clock.

“The message is half an hour old.”

“What’s the military doing in this?” Curran asked. “Those papers are clear.”

“I don’t know, sir,” the official said. “Answering ought to clear it up.”

The fear was back, familiar as an old suit of clothes. “I’d better get out there

and take care of this,” Sandor said. “I don’t see there’s any reason for you to

go.”

They walked out with him, that much at least, back out onto the dock facing the

military ships… the schedule boards showed it plainly: NORWAY, the third berth

down occupied now, conspicuously alight. He looked at the Dubliners, at worried

faces and Curran’s scowl.

“Don’t know how long this may take,” he said. “Allison, maybe I’d better call

you after I get back to the sleepover. Maybe you’d better go on back to Dublin”

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