Chanur's Venture Page 5

  "Chanur!" Far behind them.

  There was a curious absence of traffic on the chill, echoing docks, and that silence itself was a warning. Trouble was in sight even from here, around a big can-loader grinding its slow way beside the ship accesses four berths distant.

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  An odd crowd accompanied it— a half dozen mahendo'sat in station-guard black strode along beside. Two red-pelted hani in faded blue breeches rode the flatbed with the tall white cans, while a dozen black-robed kif stalked along in a tight knot; and if any stsho customs officer was involved at all gtst was either barriered inside the cab or fled for safety.

  "Come on," Pyanfar said to Chur— no encouragement needed there. Chur kept beside her as they crossed the space at a deliberate jog, not out to provoke trouble, not slow to meet it either. Her hand was in her spacious pocket, clenched about the butt of the gun she tried to keep still and out of sight, and her eyes were constantly on that knot of kif, alert for anything kif-shaped that might show itself from ambushes among the maze of gantries and dockside clutter to the right and the office doors to the left.

  "Hai," she yelled with great joviality, when they were a single berth apart.

  " Hai, you kif bastards, about time you came out to say hello."

  The kif had seen them coming too. Their dozen or so scattered instantly all about the moving can-carrier, some of them screened by it. But from the carrier's broad bed, from beside the four huge cans, several mahen guards dropped down to stand at those kif's backs.

  "Good to see you," Pyanfar gibed, halting at a comfortable distance. Kifish faces were fixed on her in starkest unfriendliness. "I was worried. I thought you'd forgotten me."

  "Fool," one hissed.

  She grinned, her hand still in her pocket, her ears up, her eyes taking in all the kif. Two moved, beyond the moving can-carrier, and she shifted to keep them in sight. The smell of them reached her. Their dry-paper scent offended her nostrils with old memories. The long-snouted faces peering from within the hooded robes, the dark-gray hairless skin with its papery wrinkles, the small, red-rimmed eyes— set the hair bristling on her back.

  "Do something," she wished them. "Foot-lickers. Riffraff. Petty thieves.

  Did Akkukkakk turn you out? Or is he anywhere these days?"

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  Kifish faces were hard to read. If that reference to a vanished leader got to them, nothing showed. Only one hooded face lifted, black snout atwitch, and stared at her with directness quite unlike the usual kifish slink. "He is no longer a factor," that one said, while the carrier groaned past under its load of canisters and took itself from between them and four more kif.

  More soft impacts hit the deck beside her. From the tail of her eye she saw a red-gold blur. Tirun and Geran had dropped off the flatbed rear. They took up a position at her left as Chur held the right.

  "Get back," she said without looking around at her two reinforcements.

  "Go on with the carrier. Hilfy's in lower ops. Get that cargo inside." The mahen station guards had moved warily into better position, several dark shadows at the peripheries of her vision, two of them remaining in front of her and behind the kif.

  "You carry weapons," that foremost kif observed, not in the pidgin even the cleverest of mahe used. This kif had fluency in the hani tongue, spoke with nuances— dishonorable concealed weapons, the word meant. "You have difficulties of all kinds. We know, Pyanfar Chanur. We know what you are transporting. We know from whom it comes. We understand your delicate domestic situation, and we know you now possess something that interests us. We make you an offer. I am very rich. I might buy you—absolution from your past misjudgments. Will you risk your ship? For I tell you that ship will be at risk— for the sake of a mahendo'sat who is lost in any case."

  She heard the carrier growling its way out of the arena, out of immediate danger. Chur had stayed at her side. So had the six mahendo'sat station guards. "What's your name, kif?"

  "Sikkukkut-an'nikktukktin. Sikkukkut to curious hani. You see I've studied you."

  "I'll bet you have."

  "The public dock is no place to conduct delicate business. And there are specific offers I would make you."

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  "Of course."

  " Profitable offers. I would invite you to my ship. Would you accept?"

  "Hardly."

  "Then I should come to yours." The kif Sikkukkut spread his arms within the cloak, a billowing of black-gray that showed a gleam of gold.

  "Unarmed, of course."

  "Sorry. No invitation."

  The kif lowered his arms. Red-rimmed eyes stared at her with liquid thought. "You are discourteous."

  "Selective."

  The long gray snout acquired a v-form of wrinkles above the nostril slits, a chain slowly building, as at some faint, unpleasant scent. "Afraid of witnesses?"

  "No. Just selective."

  "Most unwise, Pyanfar Chanur. You are losing what could save you... here and at home. A hani ship here has already witnessed— compromising things. Do I hazard a guess what will become of Kohan Chanur— of all that Chanur— precariously— is, if anything should befall The Pride?

  Kohan Chanur will perish. The name will have never been; the estates will be partitioned, the ships recalled to those who will then take possession of Chanur goods. Oh, you have been imprudent, ker Pyanfar. Everyone knows that. This latest affair will crush you. And whom have you to thank, but the mahendo'sat, but maneuverings and machinations in which hani are not counted important enough to consult?"

  The transport's whining was in the distance now. She heard another sound, the hollow escaping-steam noise of the cargo hatch opening up, the whine of a conveyer moving to position and meshing; old sounds, familiar sounds: she knew every tick and clank for what they were. "What 46

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  maneuverings among kif?" she asked the gray thief. "What machinations— that would interest me, I wonder."

  "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.

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  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!"

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  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 hani voice, silken, from her side: Ayhar crew's impudence, she thought, and turned on it with her mouth open and the beginnings of an oath.

  Another captain stood there, her red-gold mane and beard in curling wisps of elegance; gold arm-band; gold belt; breeches of black silk unrelieved by any banding.

  Immune Clan color. Official of the han.

  "Rhif Ehrran," that one named herself, "captain, Ehrran's Vigilance.

  What's the trouble, Chanur?"

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  Her heart began slow, painful beats. Blood climbed to her ears and sank toward her heart. "Private," she said in a quiet, controlled tone. "You'll excuse me, captain. I have an internal emergency."

  "I'm in port on other business," the han agent said. "But you've almost topped it, ker Chanur. You mind telling me what's going on?"

  She could hand it all to the Ehrran, shove the whole thing over onto the han's representative in port.

  Give Tully to her. To this. Young, by the gods young, ears un-nicked, bestowed with half a dozen rings. And cold as they came. Gods-rotted walking recorder from one of the public service clans, immune to challenging and theoretically nonpartisan.

  "I'm on my way home," she said. "I'll take care of it."

  Ehrran's nostrils widened and narrowed. "What did the kif give you, Chanur?"

  A cold wind went down her back. Distantly she heard the crane whining away, lifting a can into place. "Dropped a ring," she said, "in the riot. Kif returned it." The lie disgusted her. So did the fear the Ehrran roused, and knew she roused. "This what the han's got to? Inquisitions? Gathering bad eggs?"

  It scored. Ehrran's ears turned back, forward again. "You've about exited private territory, Chanur. You settle this mess. If there are repercussions with the stsho, I'll become involved. Hear me?"

  "Clear." Breath was difficult. "Now you mind if I see to my business, captain?"

  "You know," Ehrran said, "you're in deep. Take my advice. Drop off your passenger when you get back to Anuurn."

  Her heart nearly stopped while Ehrran turned and walked away; but it was Khym Ehrran had meant. She realized that in half a breath more, and 50

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  outrage nearly choked her. She glared at Banny Ayhar, just glared, with the reproach due someone who dragged the like of Ehrran in on a private quarrel.

  "Not my doing," Ayhar said.

  "In a mahen hell."

  "I can't reason with you," Ayhar said, flung up her hands and stalked off.

  Stopped again, to cast a look and a word back. "Time you got out of it, Pyanfar Chanur. Time to pass it on before you ruin that brother of yours for good."

  Pyanfar's mouth dropped. Distracted as she was she simply stared as Ayhar spun on her heel a second time and stalked off along the dock with her two crewwomen; and then it was too late to have said anything without yelling it impotently at a retreating Ayhar back.

  The first can boomed up the cargo ramp into the cradle; Tirun and Geran kicked their own balky Loader around with expert swiftness, raised the slot's holding sling and snagged it into the moving ratchets that vanished into The Pride's actinic-lighted hold. The can ascended the ramp, while Chur, beside the crane operator on the loader, shouted at the aggrieved mahe, urging her to speed.

  "Chur!" Pyanfar yelled, headed for the rampway and the tube beyond.

  Chur left off and scrambled after, leaving the docksiders to their jobs.

  Pyanfar jogged the length of The Pride's ramp and felt a stitch in her side as Chur came up beside her in the accessway.

  A han agent on their case.

  A chance to get rid of Tully into the keeping of that same agent and she had turned it down.

  Gods. O gods.

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  They scrambled through the lock, headed down the short corridor to the lift, inside. The door hissed shut as Pyanfar hit the controls to start the car down, rim-outward of The Pride's passenger-ring.

  "Got it?" Haral's voice came to them by com.

  "Gods know," she said to the featureless com panel, forcing calm. "Keep an eye on those kif back there— hear me?"

  "Looks as if the party's broken up for good out there."

  "Huh." It was a small favor. She did not believe it.

  "Aye," Haral agreed, and clicked out of contact. The lift slammed into the bottom of the rotation ring and took a sudden jolt afterward for the holds.

  "Know which can?" Chur panted beside her, clinging to the rail.

  "Gods, no. You think Goldtooth labeled the gods-rotted thing? Couldn't use the small cans, no. Couldn't consign it direct to us. Had to trust the stsho. Gods-rotted mahen lunatic."

  The lift accelerated full out, lurched to a second stop and opened its door on a floodlit empty cavern of tracks below the operations platform where they stood. Their breaths frosted instantly. Moisture in the hold's lately acquired air formed a thin frost on all the waiting cans and the machinery.

  The cold of the deckplates burned bare feet. The gusting blasts of the ventilation system brought no appreciable relief to unprotected hani skin and nose linings.

  "Hilfy?" Pyanfar shouted, leaning on the safety railing to look down into the dark. Hilfy-Hilfy-Hilfy the echo came back in giant's tones.

  "Aunt!" A figure in a padded cold-suit crouched far below the operations scaffold, a glimmer of white in the shadow of the first can to reach its cradle at hold's end. "Aunt, I can't get this cursed lid off! It's securitied!"

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  "Gods fry that bastard!" Pyanfar ignored the locker with the coldsuits and went thumping down the steps barefoot and barechested. The air burned her lungs, froze her ribs. She heard noise behind her, a locker-door rattle.

  "Get those suits!" she yelled at Chur, and her breath was white in the floodlight glare.


  Another can locked through with a sibilance of pressurized air and a resounding impact with its receiving cradle as she came down beside the can-track rails that shone pewter-colored in the general dark. The incoming can rumbled past like a white plastic juggernaut and boomed into the cradle-lock as she arrived. Hilfy scrambled to the side of it and jerked the lever that secured the lid. Internal-conditions dials glowed bright and constant on the top-plate.

  "Locked too," Hilfy said in despair, rising, her voice muffled by the cold-mask she wore, overwhelmed by the crash of another arriving can headed up the outside ramp. "That Goldtooth give us any key-code?"

  "Gods know. The stsho might have it." Pyanfar shivered convulsively as Chur came pelting up with coldsuits and masks and thrust a set into her numb hands. She stared distractedly as the third can locked through, ignoring the coldsuit, thinking of stsho treachery the while the can rode the hydraulics down and jolted into the third cradle. She shouldered aside Hilfy's move to check its lid and tried it herself. Locked too.

  "Gods-rotted luck," Pyanfar said, rising, fumbling the slot-apertured cold-mask into place with fingers that refused to set their claws. The pads of her feet felt the burn of the decking plates. She stared helplessly at Chur, who had gotten her own mask on and held out the cold suit she had dropped. "It has to be the last one, that's all."

  "What if there is a key?" Hilfy asked. Her teeth chattered fit to crack, despite the coldsuit. "And the stsho have got it."

  "Number four's coming in," Chur yelled over the rising thunder of machinery, and the fourth can locked through and rumbled down the track toward them as they scrambled to meet it. Chur got to it first, crouched down and tugged fruitlessly at the lid. "It's locked too."