Chapter Fifteen
Terakian Fortune’s Rockhouse Major docking space wasn’t quite roomy enough for the entire pavilion, so Basil had put up only the sign and half the office segment. With the extra “crew” now helping Fleet with their inquiries, and all the Rockhouse cargo unloaded, he tried to estimate what their cubage and mass allowances were. Would any of the troupe come back? He hoped so; Goonar was grumpier than he’d been for years, muttering about lost time and wasted space—
“Hey there!” Basil looked up to see a tall, lean, square-shouldered man at the door of the office. Basil didn’t like his tone. That man had been in authority somewhere, though he didn’t look like the businessman his suit made him out to be. Military. Ex-Fleet? Not very ex by that settled air of command.
“Yes?” he said.
“How many passenger spaces have you?”
Basil’s neck hairs stood up; he could feel the roughness on the back of his shirt collar. “Five, usually,” he said. “But I’ll have to check with the captain; we have a tentative reservation.” He wanted Bethya back on this ship, if he had to drag her by the leg and shove her into Goonar’s cabin.
“I’ll take them,” the man said. “Cash on the deck—isn’t that what you free traders say?”
“Have a seat and I’ll get the captain,” Basil said.
“I’ll just wait here,” the man said. Basil noticed how he stood, half-concealed from the busy concourse beyond, but in position to jump either way. Basil had taken that same position himself more than once when dockside trouble threatened. He retreated to the inner door, stepped through, thumbed the call button for Goonar and came back out at once. The man had not moved, but gave him a sardonic look.
“The captain’s on his way,” Basil said.
Goonar, when he arrived, looked tired and depressed, but greeted the man politely, as he always did.
“Passenger space? Five cabins, but they’re simple. This isn’t a passenger liner.”
The man gave Basil a sour look and turned back to Goonar. “Your . . . man . . . said you had a tentative reservation tying up one of those cabins. I’d like to pay cash for all of them, now.”
“There was a deposit,” Goonar said. Basil relaxed slightly; Goonar was going to stand behind him. “We don’t renege on deposits.”
“You said five,” the man said.
“Total, yes. There may be five, if the person who reserved that place doesn’t show up, but otherwise, there are four available. Where are you bound?”
“That’s no concern of yours,” the man said. “I want passage with you as far as Millicent.”
“Umm. I presume your papers are in order, yours and the other passengers?”
“Of course; what do you take me for?” the man said, and Basil was suddenly sure he was lying.
“Because we don’t transport fugitives,” Goonar said stolidly, “or involve ourselves in politics of any kind. We list passengers on the manifest, which we provide to the Stationmaster prior to departure, just like the regular passenger lines. This is the policy of Terakian & Sons, and it is my duty as captain of a Terakian & Sons vessel to so inform anyone seeking passage with us.”
The man sneered. “I’ll wager you don’t bother with that if it’s a pretty girl.”
“On the contrary, ser. The company is most particular, no matter the passenger’s age or sex, to avoid any entanglements.” Basil, knowing Goonar’s every mood and tone, caught the tinge of study now forcing that flat, bland, almost boring voice. So Goonar had caught on to something as well.
“Well, it’s no problem to me,” the man said. He stretched, as if quite at his ease, but Basil knew that stretch was as studied and intentional as Goonar’s bland tone. And as the man’s arms went over his head to stretch, Basil caught a shadow that bespoke something under his jacket which ought not to be in the armpit of an ordinary businessman.
“Good,” Goonar said. “Now our run from here to Millicent is sixteen days . . .”
“Sixteen days—! Isn’t that rather leisurely?”
“We’re not a fast passenger packet, ser; we’re a cargo ship primarily.”
“Hmmph. I’ve spent some time in ships myself, Captain; I . . . er . . . lost my ship when the company lost a court action—that’s why I’m on Rockhouse. Sold her, they did, to pay the fines.”
Basil grunted. That was a stupid lie, if it was a lie, which he was sure of: court actions were public information, and he could check it. And would.
“I know that route, Captain,” the man said. “There’s a way to knock several days off it . . . it’d increase your profit.”
“There’s a flux-bight in there,” Goonar said, “if you’re talking about that yellow route.”
“Oh, that—that’s what they tell you,” the man said. “You’d never even notice it; Fleet just yellow-tagged it because they want the fast routes for themselves.” Then, as if he felt it needed explanation, he spread his hands. “My wife’s cousin’s in Fleet,” he said. “He told me.”
“Well, I’m not taking old Fortune on a yellow route, just to save a couple of days,” Goonar said. “My company’d have my ears.”
Basil saw the man’s hand twitch, an involuntary movement quickly controlled.
“Not even if I offered a bonus? We really need to get to Millicent faster than sixteen days.”
“What can a couple of days matter?” Goonar asked. “Millicent’s a bore anyway.”
The man’s face hardened. “It matters to me,” he said. “Why isn’t your concern. I’ll pay extra for you to take the fast route, and I assure you the flux-bight is of no concern—I’ve gone that way many times myself. Not the slightest bobble.”
A reddish tinge crept up Goonar’s neck. “I’m not taking my ship through on the say-so of some stranger.”
“Not for half again the fares? Man, that’d make your profit on the voyage by itself—”
“It wouldn’t pay me for the ship if something did go wrong. You’re maybe hazarding your own life; I’m hazarding my ship and my kin. No.”
“Your ship.” The man’s lip curled, and Basil noticed that his knuckles had whitened as his fists clenched. Basil shifted his own weight, ready just in case. “Your ship is nothing but a fat-bellied old tramp—”
White patches stood out around Goonar’s mouth. “Then I gather you won’t want passage with us,” he said. “Kindly clear the space.”
“You—you fool!” The man turned on his heel and strode away; Basil leaned out the door to watch, as he headed on down Traders’ Row.
“I reckon we should’ve gotten his name before we cut him loose,” Goonar said. His normal color was returning. “Did he really think I’d let him send us into a trap?”
“What kind of trap?”
“You saw as well as I did that he was military. Could have been a mutineer, or just a bad ’un turned out years ago and turned pirate.”
“I wonder what he wanted at Millicent.”
“I wonder what he wanted on that yellow route.” Goonar scowled. “If I remember correctly, there’s an extra jump point in there, with about a two-hour transit. You have to make a low-vee downjump, reorient the ship . . . in other words, it’s the perfect place for an attack. But that would require another ship.”
“Huh. If we knew about it, maybe we could trap the other ship and get a reward.”
“What we could get is dead, Basil.” Goonar shook his head. “I don’t like this a bit. He’ll find someone to take him on that route, him and whoever he’s got with him. Did you notice anything else?”
Basil poured it all out, every detail he’d noticed, from the way the man stood in the door and wouldn’t sit down to the twitch at Goonar’s mention of the Fathers taking his ears—
“Ears?” Goonar said. “Now I wonder . . .”
“What?”
“Basil . . . remember what Esmay said? Rumors that the mutineers were followers of Lepescu and took ears as battle prizes?”