Conflict Of Honors Read Online Free PDF Page B

hers. Nor was he old—the frostcolored hair had misled her. His face was that of a man near her own age.

    But, Goddess, what a face! Big-nosed, jut-cheeked, wide-mouthed, with a broad forehead, triangular chin, and thin white brows set at a slant over the large eyes. Anything farther from the usual delicacy of Liaden features would be hard to find this side of the Yxtrang.

    Recovering herself with a start, Priscilla bowed stiffly in the Terran mode. "Captain yos'Galan," she said with precision, "I'm glad to see you."

    "Well, you'll be among the first," he commented, and his accent was of Terra's educated class, not of Liad at all. "Though my family professes something of the sort. Of course, they've had time to get used to me. Gordy, Ms. Mendoza wants something to drink. Also, my glass is missing—and wherever it is, it's probably empty. What do I pay you for?"

    The boy grinned and moved toward the bar. Pausing, he looked back at Priscilla. "The red wine's best," he said seriously, "but I think the white's probably pretty good. And there's brandy—I'm not sure about that . . . ."

    "What do you know about it at all?" the man demanded. "Nipping my spirits while I'm not watching, Gordy? And who said the red's best? Your own trained palate?"

    "You drink the red, Cap'n."

    "Unprincipled brat. You don't offer brandy to a person who's come for a job interview. Strive for some polish."

    "Yessir," Gordy said, not noticeably abashed by this rebuke. "Ms. Mendoza? There's red wine, white, canary, green, blue—I mean, misravot—and tea and coffee . . . ."

    Another alarming bubble of laughter was rising. Hysteria, thought Priscilla, and suppressed it firmly.

    "White wine, please," she told the boy, and he nodded, turning to the bar.

    "Come sit down," the captain invited, waving a big brown hand toward the chairs and the desk. Light glittered off the stone in his single ring—the large carved amethyst of a Master Trader.

    Obediently, she followed him to the desk and sank gratefully into one of the chairs. Master Trader? This ugly, too-tall Liaden was a Master Trader? And captain, too? With an absent smile Priscilla took her drink from the cabin boy.

    On Daxflan, Sav Rid Olanek—a mere Trader—and Captain yo'Vaade split administration of ship and crew between them. That had been the one thing about Daxflan that had followed the routine she knew from other ships. Captain was a full-time job, after all; Trader, somewhat more than that. Yet here was a man supposedly doing both. And more. There were perhaps a double-dexon—twice a dozen dozen—of Master Traders in all the galaxy.

    "Gordy." His clear, rather beautiful voice held a mild note of exasperation. Priscilla brought her attention back to the present.

    "Cap'n?" The boy froze in the act of handing the man his glass.

    Shan yos'Galan sighed and laid a blunt forefinger on the grease-smeared sleeve. Gordy flushed and bit his lip.

    "There's a matching one on your chin. Are we out of water? Or soap? Is there some atavistic or religious significance attached to going about with grease on your face? Maybe you put it there purposefully, after long thought, feeling that a little facial decoration would call Ms. Mendoza's attention to you more favorably? You hoped she would be so overcome by the artistry of the smear that she would fail to chide you for being late to meet her?"

    "How did—" Gordy interrupted himself and raised his eyes to the man's face. "I'm not Liaden, Cap'n."

    "I have independently noted the fact. No doubt you feel it has some bearing on the matter at hand." He took his glass and leaned back in the chair.

    "Yessir."

    "I'm intrigued. An explanation, please?"

    "Yessir." Gordy took a breath and squared his round shoulders. "Liadens consider the face the—the seat of character. Because of that, Liadens don't use cosmetics on their faces, like Terrans might, to—to dress up or to make themselves more attractive." He paused. The captain raised