"There are coincidences, captain."
"They become increasingly less when the mahendo'sat show up with deals. That's what I don't like. 'Let us look at it!' That bastard's on someone's payroll."
"Not ker Py's."
It was a thought that had occurred to her. "If he was hers, why not say so?"
"Good question," Tiar said. "But I don't think the boy's involved. It's perfectly understandable."
"What? Leaving him in the brig?"
"Understandable that he doesn't like Sahern clan."
"That's what he says. Sahern is not our friend. Other interests aren't our friends, for my aunt's sake,for reasons that have to do with decisions she's made that affect things we have no way to know about. We don't know who could have hired her, we don't know who could have hired him, we don't know what side this Haisi person is on, we don't even know that No'shto-shti-stlen's on the up and up or what gtst is up to. The news got to Urtur and this Haisi person had a chance to get here and offer us a bribe for a look at the object. So why hadn't the news the time to get to Sahern clan, and maybe Sahern lay out some game that would inconvenience us? Ha?"
"Why would No'shto-shti-stlen give you the boy?"
"Because hani aren't as frequent here as they used to be. Because if gtst has had a political object dumped in gtst lap, No'shto-shti-stlen is going to want rid of it in the way most guaranteed to absolve gtst of responsibility. Gtst couldn't dump him on aunt Py, gtst couldn't return him to Sahern, and here we come, Pyanfar's close relatives, just so convenient to hand him to… I don't know that's the case, but thinking about it is going to cost me sleep, this trip, it's going to make me uncomfortable until he's off our deck and out of our lives, and I don't want him loose gathering data at our boards, hear me?"
"Let me understand — you think Sahern planted him here?"
"I think it's a possibility. Maybe to create an embarrassment, maybe it's something else. I think it's a possibility there's something more to him than he's showing us…"
"Captain, he's a kid!"
"I don't like where he was, I don't like anybody dropped into a kif-run jail and I don't like Sahern dragging hani clear to this pit on the backside of the universe to drop him, where, if they wanted rid of him, they could at least have dropped him at Urtur. It smells to me like a captain with a god-complex, but I don't swear that's the case; there are all the other possibilities, some of which aren't pretty and aren't conducive to good sleep, but that's the way I see it, that's the way I know how to call it, and that's the only way I know to keep this ship out of trouble. We've got enough problems going, let's not take any additional chances, shall we?"
"Trouble?" Fala asked from the doorway to the little galley.
"No trouble. I trust you locked that door."
"I locked it. I don't see, begging the captain's pardon, why he's—"
Hilfy leaned her forehead on her hand.
"Tell you later," Tarras said.
"We're in count," Hilfy said, leaning back and looking at the clock. "Load's got to be finished by 2300.
Gods, I want out of this port."
"Have we got a problem?" Fala asked.
Something ticked over, like a piece in a game falling. A roll of the dice. "I want an instrument scan."
"What?" Tiar asked.
"I want a thorough read-out, I want a camera scan on the hull, I want to know if any skimmers have approached us during our stay here."
A solemn stare from several pairs of eyes.
"Is something going on?" Fala asked.
The camera scan turned up negative. Nothing had approached their hull. Station skimmers always came and went, on such business as external inspections, catching the occasional chunk of something that escaped a ship's maintenance systems, things nobody wanted slamming into their hull or catching on some projection, to be accelerated with the ship and boosted to lethal v. Trouble was, such skimmers had legitimate business back by one's vanes and engines and up near one's hatches; and if a ship with legitimate reason to worry didn't have cameras to prove where such little tenders had access, that ship had far more reason to worry.
But being the Personage's niece had convinced her before the Legacy was outfitted that the camera-mounts were a good idea and that motion-sensors and tamper-alerts were mandatory. So they didn't have that to worry about — at least so far as they opted prudently to use them.
There wasn't, of course, a way to monitor everything. But they were sure it was water that had gone into their water-lines and that that water was Meet-point ice-melt, the sensors above the valve had proved it or that valve would have shut. Being Pyanfar's niece and having shipped aboard The Pride, she had been in ports where one had good reason to wonder about the lines; absolutely right, being sure was worth the cost. Unfortunately having solved all the high-tech means of sabotage, one still had to worry about the low-tech means at an enemy's disposal. Certain things one could solve by carrying all supplies aboard, and by not refueling and not taking on water at certain ports: but carrying extra mass cost a ship, if one wasn't paying somebody else's freight plus station-cost getting it to the station. If it was local, you were financially ahead to buy it. If it wasn't, and it massed much, you were ahead to freight it, and that was the sum-up and payout of it: if you operated otherwise you weren't competitive, in a tightly competitive market.
But even if you did all of that, and even if you absorbed the cost of being as self-contained as possible, you were still vulnerable to your own cargo and to the legal claim of your ship to use a port and the station's legal right to charge you for being there, and, after that was said, to a bank's obligation to honor the claim of other banks on the funds you had in that all-important record you carried that the bank alone allegedly could access.
But banks themselves were not without their compromised accesses, where stsho were concerned, since stsho had set up the banking system, all through Compact space: stsho technology, stsho procedures, stsho rules of accounting and the stsho system of transfers and debits.
Hilfy Chanur preferred an old hani tradition: cash… and cargo; and as little as possible of the former, since it was not going to be drawing interest for the month you were in transit, but your goods were acquiring value during that transit, simply by moving closer to where they were in shortest supply.
Which left you vulnerable to piracy, but you always were; and at least that answer was in your own hands, and in the quality of the armament you carried and your skill to use it.
The hose connections clanked free, and that was one less problem on Hilfy's mind. The Legacy was on its own power, cargo in its hold, and the cash from the station bank was on its way… hand-carried, the bank insisted, since the bank did not trust any outsider either, and wanted a signature at the Legacy's lock by the Legacy captain that said the money had transferred, all outstanding debts were paid, and the bank was legally absolved of claims against Chanur clan.
And at the same time, they were conveying the Cargo, the oji, No'shto-shti-stlen's precious object, along with the funds. Logical enough.
So… about time to get one's self down to the lock, looking presentable.
She dusted oft her breeches, clawed her mane to be sure no hair was standing on end, and took a wet-fingered swipe at the mustaches and the (cursedly) juvenile beard. Impressions counted, especially with the banks, which one could need some dark day. Knees were clean, belt was straight. She picked up Tarras and Tiar for escort, and was still fussing with the beard when they cycled the lock and a blast of chill air from the temperature differential came rushing up the ramp-way and blew her fur and fluttered the fabric of her silk breeches-Just as a kifish guard was about to punch the call button outside, within the tube, a scant pace from the Legacy's own deck. She did not snarl, did not acknowledge the presence, which she vaguely registered as bowing respectfully in realization of her arrival, she simply focused on the stsho approaching in the frost-coated tube and ignored the dark-robed guards… fancy, the stsho were, the group from the bank, with the tablet the nature of which she recognized at a glance, and the group with boxes and cases, in one of which might be — surely was — the precious Object. One could hardly pick out any outline, so extreme were the garments in that lot, a drift of pearlized gossamer, of white fronds and feathers. She bowed, they bowed, her crewwomen bowed, everybody bowed again, even the kif. It was supremely ridiculous.