Finders Keepers (26 page)

“That’s just what I wanted to hear.” Jagan beamed and raised his mug. “This signals the start of a beautiful and profitable relationship.”

The second pitcher of beer was poured, and numbers flew back and forth across the table. Percentages based on turnaround times. The cost of insurance recognized by both the Empire and the Conclave. Dock fees. Tivahr and Mitkanos lapsed into Zafharish for much of it, with Dallon translating. Trilby followed it all but let Jagan think she understood very little, save for
dharjas taf, viek
—cold beer, please.

Jagan drained the last of the ale from his mug. “I’ve got ten containers here in port, if you’re interested.”

Tivahr glanced at Mitkanos. The older man nodded.

“I am,” Tivahr said. “To Port Rumor?”

“No. Syar Colonies. But for certain reasons, I want to avoid the beacons at Marbo.”

Trilby saw Dallon tilt his head in interest. Her conversations with him over the past deuce told her he knew that many Marbo personnel had strong ties to Norvind. And that GGA wouldn’t want their competitor to know what they were doing, just yet. Plus, if they had to deal with poke-nosies, better the ones at a GGA-friendly depot, like Syar.

At least, she hoped that was Jagan’s reasoning.

“We can do that,” Trilby said.

But Tivahr was frowning. “Syar is a seven-day run—”

“A full septi,” Trilby corrected him.

“—in my ship. A long-hauler could do it in five. Why do you need us for that?”

Trilby wanted to kick him. Jagan was letting them in to GGA, which was their sole purpose here. Trust Tivahr to want to be a stickler for regulations and details. She shot him a narrowed glance. “Because a long-hauler can’t bypass Marbo like we can.”

Jagan chuckled. “My little darling knows what she’s talking about, Vanur.”

Tivahr’s face was expressionless. “You are willing to pay for the extra fuel, then?”

“I’m willing to pay whatever it takes to get from here to the Colonies.”

Tivahr made a lazy gesture with his hand toward Dallon, posed a question in Zafharish. His voice was light. But his words, as Trilby translated them, were not. “The bastard is setting us up for something, and it’s not just to avoid Marbo. Am I wrong, or is a run to Syar a bit unusual for a small ship?”

Dallon’s smile was easy and, Trilby knew, false. “For a smuggler, no. But I can’t see GGA working contraband. He has an agenda. I just don’t know what it is.”

“Problems?” Jagan directed the question to Dallon.

“We haven’t worked that deep into the Conclave yet,” Dallon replied smoothly in Standard. “Captain Elliot’s clearance codes will get us past Marbo. But we’ll need an authorization packet for Syar transmitted to us before we get there, or someone might realize we didn’t go through Marbo.”

Jagan answered Dallon with a wave of his hand. “Not required. You’ll be flying GGA’s flag. Plus, you’ll have a GGA officer on board.”

“A GGA officer?” Tivahr asked tightly.

Oh, no,
Trilby thought.
No, no, no. Don’t tell me. Don’t say it.

Jagan beamed. “Me.”

Trilby leaned back in the captain’s chair, listened to Farra at communications as she went over schedules with the portmaster’s office looking for a preferable departure slot. While Trilby’s command of Zafharish had improved, it wasn’t sufficient for the kind of negotiations going on now on the bridge of
Shadow’s Quest
. Vanur Transport not only had to amend their ETD but arrange for cargo transfer as well.

Tivahr, in the copilot’s seat, turned a lightpen over and over in his fingers in undisguised irritation.

At least he wasn’t drumming it on the console.

Trilby’s ship badge pinged. She tapped at the square emblem on her collar. “Elliot.”

“Patruzius here, Captain. We’ve got Grantforth’s baggage. He’s checking out of the overnight now. We should be back on board in thirty minutes, if the pods are on time.”

“No rush,” Tivahr growled out under his breath.

For once, Trilby was in complete agreement with him. “Acknowledged. Farra’s finalizing a departure for early tomorrow right now. Looks like 0700’s a go.”

“I’ll tell Grantforth. But there’s something else you should know.”

Trilby saw Tivahr straighten in his seat, the lightpen stilling in his hand. “Problems?” she asked.

“Not exactly. But while Yavo and I were waiting in the overnight’s lobby, the local ’cast showed a newsvid. The Conclave announced that they’re setting up meetings to finalize trade agreement with the Beffa cartel.”

“Acknowledged. Thanks for the info, Dallon. Elliot out.” She tapped off the badge, angled herself toward Tivahr. “You think Jagan knew about this?”

Tivahr thought a moment. “It would explain why he showed up here. We knew from his last transmit he wanted your nav banks. Now it looks like he wants to be the one who delivers the data. Perhaps Garold’s deal with the ’Sko hinges on that. And if he is Dark Sword, that data will lead us right back to him.”

It was hard for Trilby to believe that something she had could be so important to the likes of the ’Sko. Or be involved in destroying the career of Garold Grantforth. But then, Shadow had often hinted that he had ways of making big money someday. He just died before he could explain what he had intended to do.

On their deuce run to Port Saldika, Trilby had examined the old star routes Shadow pulled from Herkoid. A few she’d known about. Many she didn’t. She could definitely see their utility—especially, as Tivahr pointed out, their utility to an invading faction that wanted to move undetected. She didn’t have to read between the lines as he, Dallon, and Mitkanos pored over the data. If the Zafharin had those charts, the war might’ve ended differently three years ago.

Or, at least, things would’ve favored the Zafharin for a while. But not forever. Even she could see that. Sooner or later, the Conclave would figure out that the old routes had been resurrected. Trilby wasn’t the only one alive who still knew they existed. Thousands of people had worked for Herkoid.

But the only data the ’Sko wanted was that snatched by Shadow, the data she and Carina had. And aside from the obvious, neither she nor her shipmates could yet figure out why.

“But this does,” Tivahr said, turning the lightpen between his fingers again, “make me feel somewhat better about having our friend Jagan on board.”

Trilby frowned. “Why?”

“Because at least I know they’re not planning to have the ’Sko ambush us between here and Syar.” He rapped the pen twice against the console. “He’s our babysitter, our guarantee of safety, if you will. It’s only after he gets us to the Colonies that I am now worried about.”

Trilby was too, though she said nothing for now. Tivahr’s mission—the one that had dropped him in her lap on Avanar—had taken him from the Syar Colonies to Szedcafar. Now they were headed back to Syar again. She hoped Szed wasn’t the next stop on their travel plans. The ’Sko were even more serious about finders keepers than she was.

22

Loading ’droids and antigrav pallets buzzed under and around
Shadow’s Quest
. Trilby leaned against a set of servo-stairs and thought wistfully of Dezi. But it was Jagan’s voice she heard, soft in her ear.

“You don’t need to supervise the loading, Tril. How about you and I hop the next pod to the terminal, do some dinner, catch up on old times?”

Trilby turned. With all the clank and clatter, she hadn’t heard Jagan come up behind her. Last she’d seen him, he was arranging his luggage in the crews’ quarters, a deck below the bridge. Then Dallon was going to show him how to use the comm terminal in the
Quest
’s small mess so he could send out his contracts to GGA legal on Bagrond. She’d left the ship purposely to get away from him. But now here he was, still in his expensive dark blue suit and pale blue band-collared shirt. All very trendy. All completely out of place in a starfreighter cargo hangar.

She crossed her arms over her chest, her fingers resting against the new ship’s patches on her sleeves. “All of us will go over in a bit. But if you’re hungry, go on ahead. Dallon will give you a ship badge. We’ll call you when we’re on our way.”

The eyes that studied her face spoke of a different kind of hunger. He patted his left breast pocket. “Already got one. How about the others catch up with us later?”

“Thanks, but no, Jagan.” There was the loud clang of a cargo-bay door shutting. She turned away, grateful for the distraction. She had no intention of going anywhere with Jagan Grantforth, alone. It was bad enough he’d be on the ship for a septi, tolerable only because, as Tivahr said, he was their guarantee of safety. At least until they got to the Colonies.

Tivahr and Mitkanos were talking to a loading ’droid across the hangar. They had their backs to her, but as if he felt her watching him, or as if, even more, he knew who stood beside her, Tivahr looked over his shoulder in her direction. He reached for Mitkanos’s arm, leaned over, and spoke to the burly man.

Then he pivoted on his heels, heading toward her. He wore the same dark gray service jacket she did, the same type of dark gray flight suit. Basic, functional freighter clothing. Definitely not trendy.

Yet on him it looked somehow . . . different. As if the fabric knew it should also bear a set of bright captain’s stars. Five of them. Senior captain.

“You don’t want to go, or he won’t let you?” There was a distinct peevishness in Jagan’s tone. The last time Trilby had heard that, he was saying,
Mother always said . . .

She glanced back at Jagan. “How’s your mother? And while we’re on the subject, how’s Zalia?”

“You don’t understand—”

“You’re right, I don’t,” she snapped.

He dropped his gaze, chewed for a moment on his lower lip, looking decidedly uncomfortable. She softened her tone, even though she knew he deserved her anger. “You have your life. I have mine. Let’s keep it that way, okay?”

“And is he, this Vanur, part of your life now?” He jerked his chin in the direction of the man striding closer.

“He owns the ship. And he’s . . . a friend.” She found herself struggling with the word. But she didn’t know what term to use in place of it. “He understands my goals.” That much was true. Khyrhis Tivahr understood her love of her ship, the lure of star travel, the freedom of life in the lanes. And her need to find out what happened to Carina, whatever the cost.

“He’s probably just using you, Tril. I mean, look at the facts. He’s got one ship, maybe a little spare money or some investor he’s bamboozled. And where’d you meet him—doing runs to Degvar, you said, right? You’re out of your element. Hell, you don’t even speak the language. Then, after your ship’s attacked, he’s there with this offer. Am I right?”

As off base as Jagan’s suppositions were, they still rankled her. Possibly because, while the facts were wrong, she remembered Tivahr pretending to be Rhis Vanur. She had felt used. Bamboozled. She pushed the hurt away. “It really doesn’t matter—”

“You let him fuck you before or after he offered you the job?”

Her closed fist cracked hard against his jaw before she was even aware she’d swung her arm.

Jagan staggered backward, his flailing arms tangling in the servo-stair railing. Heavy footsteps thudded quickly behind her, coming closer.

“You bitch!” Jagan tried to jerk his arm free of the metal stanchion. There was a slight ripping sound. “You Gods damned bitch!”

“Grantforth!” Tivahr shoved Trilby aside, grabbed a handful of Jagan’s suit jacket. Jagan struggled to stand and push Tivahr away at the same time.

Trilby was breathing hard. She sucked on her raw knuckles and watched Jagan try ineffectively to wriggle out of Tivahr’s grasp. Shit, but her hand hurt!

Still, hitting Jagan had felt so good.

“What’s going on?” Tivahr bellowed at Jagan. He had a two-handed grasp on the man’s suit. The front of the jacket pulled away from the long tear in the sleeve, revealing the lighter shirt underneath.

Jagan glared up at Tivahr. “Bitch hit me.”

Tivahr looked back at Trilby, his dark eyes glittering dangerously. “Explain.”

She took her hand out of her mouth. “It’s personal.”

“Personal.” He clearly didn’t like her response.

“Leave it go, Tiv—Vanur.” In the heat of the moment, she almost said Tivahr. Damnation! She had to watch herself. She drew in a long, slow breath.

Tivahr let go of Jagan, releasing his hold on the fabric as if he’d touched something slimy. Jagan took a step to his right, but Tivahr’s arm shot out, blocking him. “Wait. I am not through yet.”

“Hey, friend.” Jagan twisted his mouth into a frown. “I’m the victim here, remember? I’m also,” and he raised his fingers to gingerly touch the darkening bruise on his chin, “your employer.”

“A contract to haul freight doesn’t give you the right to abuse someone,” Tivahr said through clenched teeth. He lowered his arm.

“She hit me!”

“But I guarantee you provoked her.”

Jagan stared past Tivahr, directly at Trilby. She made sure she met his gaze, head held high. If he knew what was good for him, he’d shut up now. Questioning Tivahr over his employment methods, and his relationship with her, just might get his other sleeve torn.

Jagan seemed to finally realize that as well. He dropped his gaze and studied the tips of his boots, or the streaks and stains on the hangar floor, for all Trilby knew. “Yeah, well, there was something between us at one time,” he said when he looked up. “I’m sure she told you.”

Tivahr said nothing, but Trilby felt, for the first time, something very frightening in his silence. It was a condemning, accusatory silence. She could imagine whole squadrons of ensigns quaking in their boots.

“Maybe I had it coming,” Jagan said finally. He massaged his jaw. “We were a pretty hot item for a while. Guess she hasn’t forgotten that.” He voice held a note of bravado.

Trilby wanted to throw up. Or clock him again. She spun on her heels and stomped back toward the rampway.

Rhis watched Trilby head for the ship, then turned back to Jagan. “Stay away from her.” It was clearly a command, not a request.

The blond-haired man shrugged. “It was just a little lover’s spat. She’ll get over it.”

Rhis read Jagan’s message loud and clear:
I had her first. I can take her back again.
If he didn’t need Jagan to find out what GGA and the ’Sko were planning, he would’ve gladly thrown him across the hangar. In pieces.

But Jagan also, he knew, needed Trilby and the information from Trilby’s ship. He’d have to make sure Jagan wasn’t planning any late-night rendezvous to gain her cooperation.

“I will not repeat myself. You will stay away from her. Or I will have you confined to your cabin.”

“You’re not the captain. She is.” Jagan dismissed him with a slanted glance, strode back toward the ship. Back toward Trilby.

In three steps Rhis was behind him, his hand clamped on Jagan’s shoulder. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Jagan jerked back. “To change my jacket. Friend. And then to get myself a drink.” His fists clenched, then relaxed. He shrugged. “Since Tril’s not interested, I’m sure I can find some sweet little thing who is.”

Rhis saw the shift in mood, the way Jagan’s gaze darted impatiently over his shoulder. The man’s anger simmered just below the surface. Hell, Rhis was clearly provoking him. Stupidly. He could blow this whole mission if he weren’t careful. Because provoking Grantforth he was. But Grantforth wasn’t rising to the bait.

He wanted to. The tense set of his shoulders, the clenching of his fists, the way he bit off the ends of his words. The way “friend” sounded anything but friendly.

Jagan Grantforth wanted to fight almost as badly as Rhis wanted to fight with him. But something held him back. He had, as Patruzius noted, an agenda. Rhis felt that strongly now. Almost as strongly as something else: that agenda was based on fear.

Rhis deliberately took a step back, gave Jagan some space. “Chevienko has many long, cold nights. You should have no trouble to find some Saldikan lady looking to stay warm, no?”

Jagan seemed to accept that as the closest thing he was going to get to an apology. “That’s my plan. We have a seven o’clock departure?”

“Correct. But you will not be needed on the bridge, so if you choose to sleep late—”

“Just as long as I’m not in the captain’s cabin, right?” He laughed, but it had a brittle note.

In spite of all his training, all his mental chastisings, Rhis tensed visibly.

“Just kidding.” Jagan raised his hands in mock self-defense. “It took me awhile, but I caught on, okay? You and Tril. Who am I to say anything about that? I mean, she’s a decent piece of ass. Just be careful when you finally get bored with her.” He rubbed his jaw. “She’s got a mean right hook.”

In pieces. Torn, shredded, dismembered, and strewn about the cargo hangar. Flattened into the grit-covered floor by the wheels of uncaring cargo ’droids. Rhis held on to that image of Jagan for a moment while he froze a smile onto his face.

No, better yet, he’d drag Grantforth back to the
Razalka
somehow. His ship had a specially designed training chamber with holosims that exactly duplicated the harsh, jagged outcroppings in the mountains on Stegor. He wouldn’t even bring a weapon. Just his fists. The mountain sands were red. He’d work on Jagan Grantforth until the man’s body and the ground were virtually indistinguishable.

His forced smile became almost genuine. “I am glad we understand each other. And your advice is noted.”

He let Jagan trudge back to the ship, unaccompanied. Let him think he trusted him, believed him, or, at least, understood him, man to man.

But he’d watch him, very carefully. Jagan had an agenda. And Trilby was but a small part of it.

Rhis waited five minutes before climbing the ramp to
Shadow’s Quest
. By that time Jagan should be down on the crew deck. He touched the CLS panel to the right of the main air lock on the cargo level and keyed in a request for Trilby’s location. She was in her quarters.

He tapped his ship badge. “Vanur to Captain Elliot.”

“Elliot.” She sounded tired. No doubt dealing with Jagan was a strain for her.

“It’s Rhis. I’ll be there in five minutes. I want to stop by the bridge first.” And his quarters as well, but he didn’t mention that. He tabbed off, without giving her a chance to say no.

He took the lift up, found Farra in her seat at communications, with a clear view through the forward viewports of everything that had transpired between Trilby, Jagan, and himself.

“Dasjon,”
she greeted him. They all knew not to use any other title while Jagan was on board. Just as they all knew to pretend to speak less Standard than they did, with Patruzius being the exception.

They also spoke to each other only in Zafharish.

“Everything’s a go for 0700?” he asked.

“Affirmative, sir.”

“And the loading?”

“Uncle Yavo’s code-sealing the last of the containers in Hold Three now.”

He nodded. “Dinner in an hour, my treat. I leave where to you and your uncle. Tell Patruzius too. We’ll seal the ship and meet at the ramp at”—he glanced at the time stamp on her screen—“1845.”

“And
Dasjon
Grantforth?”

“I believe he has alternate plans.”

“Probably for the best.” Farra grinned, then motioned out the forward viewport. “Our captain has good reflexes.”

In Rhis’s estimation, Trilby Elliot had many fine qualities, reflexes notwithstanding. He stood in front of her quarters, one hand hidden behind his back. He touched the palm pad on the side of the door with the other. It chimed softly.

The door slid open.

“Don’t start with me.” Her eyes were shadowed underneath. She’d doffed her gray service jacket. It hung haphazardly over the arm of the small couch in her sitting area.

He fought the desire to pull her into his arms, surround her pain with his hardness, his certainty that nothing would ever hurt her again. But he had something to give her first. “May I come in?”

She stepped aside, nodding, motioned him in.