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going? I did ask him to stop, Ms. Mendoza, I give you my word."

    For the third time in an hour Priscilla felt laughter rising. She drowned it in a swallow of wine. "I'm sorry—that was rude. What I meant to say was that I've been—dismissed—from my post on Daxflan. Yours is the only ship in at Jankalim now, so I'm applying here."

    "I see." He sipped wine. "Your dismissal sounds abrupt."

    "Extremely."

    He nodded again, shifted in his chair, and rested his arms on the desk top. "Ms. Mendoza, I have a copy of your record here . . . ." He spun the computer screen around.

    Priscilla frowned, her eyes traveling automatically down the lines of information. Ladybird . . . As You Like It . . . Tyrunner . . . Selda . . . Dante. . .

    Daxflan.

    "Motherless, lying, spawn of a—" She gasped, and the rest was lost as the enormity of the thing hit her. Ruin . . . . She met Shan yos'Galan's eyes. "It's a lie."

    "Do you want to say so officially?" He spun the screen back. "It looks pretty bad, doesn't it? 'Suspected larceny. Jumped ship, Jankalim, Standard 1385.'" He leaned back in the chair and sipped wine, his eyes on her face. "I don't know of any reputable captain who would take on a person with a record containing that entry—even granting the overall excellence of the rest. What happened to your earrings?"

    "The second mate hit me over the head," she said tonelessly, trying to conquer the shock. "They were gone when I came to."

    "Odd sort of thing for a second mate to do," he commented. "But maybe there were extenuating circumstances. You disliked each other?"

    "I disliked her. She liked me all too well." He was toying with her, drawing out the talking when there was no use in talking anymore. Priscilla tightened her grip on the wineglass, fighting to keep her face calm. On his ship, in his power . . . and who would miss a suspected thief who had jumped her last ship? Who would believe a suspected thief if she chose to tell outrageous lies about a Master Trader? He must have called up her record while speaking with Mr. Saunderson and seen that damning entry.

    The man across from her shifted sharply. "And yet," he persisted, demanding her attention, "liking you so well, she hits you over the head and steals your earrings." He drank. "Forgive me, Ms. Mendoza, but that sounds even odder."

    "The Trader ordered it," Priscilla said, clinging to serenity as if it were her last hope of salvation. Let him hear, Goddess, she begged silently. Let him believe the truth.

    "Ah, dear Sav Rid." The expression on his face was one of mild puzzlement. "He will have his little joke, you know, Ms. Mendoza. But surely there were other avenues open to him, had he conceived a desire for your earrings. Why order the second mate to hit you over the head for them? Couldn't he merely have purchased them from you?" He snapped his fingers lightly. "He had offered a fair sum, and you refused to sell. Rendered desperate—"

    "Stop it!" She snapped forward, eyes riveted on his. "Captain yos'Galan, please. It's imperative that I get to Arsdred. It's a large port—I'd hoped your ship would dock there. Any crewing duties you have—I'll work my passage to Arsdred as assistant mess cook, and you can lock me in a closet off-shift! You don't have to trust me—believe what you will. I don't think it's very funny to abandon someone and ruin their record, make it impossible to find—to find honorable work . . . ." Her voice had developed a quaver. Horrified, she bit her lip and clenched her hands tightly to squeeze out the shaking. "I must get to Arsdred."

    He broke her gaze and drank wine, then swirled the remainder in the glass. "Revenge," he told the glass softly, "is a highly appropriate desire. Among Liadens, revenge is something of an art form. There are strict rules. There are certain punishments which are not considered proper revenge." He glanced at her. "Death, for instance. At least, not directly from the hand