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dogs and relayed the data to the galley. Osri
Omilov could be assigned dog-food duty, Montrose decided as he waved Jaim
aside, and ran his gaze down Ivard.
    He and his sister were throwbacks, with their unappealing
pale, freckled skin and watery eyes. But Greywing, at least, had been tough.
She had gone on the run with a bad burn only three weeks healed, without saying
a word. It was difficult to tell if Ivard possessed a similar toughness, or
owed his survival so far to an ebullient nature and his older sister’s
unswerving protection. No more.
    He hoped that the Dol’jharians had learned nothing from her
corpse, regretting (as he suspected he would for a considerable time) that
they’d been forced to leave her behind.
    He checked Ivard’s vitals, administered a painkiller, and
watched in satisfaction as Ivard’s eyes rolled around. The boy lay back, and
still muttering softly, slid into sleep.
    Montrose closed the berth door, and found Jaim waiting.
    “That thing on his wrist,” Jaim said. “Making him sick?
We’ve all taken jac burns, most of us worse than what he got.”
    Montrose sighed. “It’s far too early to say for certain, but
so far, my meds and his body chemistry are interacting in a troubling manner.
Listen, Jaim, I heard the captain say that she’s going to send you and Reth
Silverknife to Rifthaven to liquidate the loot. If you’ll take Ivard to the
Kelly surgeon there, I’ll tender ten percent of my share to you two.”
    “No need.” Jaim shook his head, his chimes tinkling. “Reth
and Greywing were friends. As much as Greywing was friends with anyone. Reth’ll
say first thing that we should watch out for Ivard.”
    “Good,” Montrose said. “Though consider the pay. I’ll want
the medical write-up. Kelly biology still has large mysteries in it.”
    “That, you arrange through them,” Jaim said. His long,
somber face split in a smile. “My guess is, they’ll stick you for that full ten
percent.”
    Montrose laughed. “Well worth it, if I can learn more about
them. Go get some rest.”
    Jaim raised a hand and walked out, his tread silent except
for the sweet tinkle of chimes.
    o0o
    The next few ship days were a boring blur as far as Marim
was concerned, with what seemed like every waking moment spent working on
repairs. She’d seen the Arkad only in passing, when Jaim dragged him off for
other tasks, and assigning the glowering Osri Omilov to assist her. Her verbal
pokes provoked only sour looks: Osri spoke in monosyllables and moved through
his tasks as though sleepwalking. When off shift, he stayed in the cabin he
shared with Brandon.
    (Lay off of him), Jaim finally bozzed her at one
point. (We’ll get better work out of him without you rizzing him all the
time.)
    (Gotta get some fun somewhere), she replied.
    (Get it somewhere else. He’s pretty tightly wound, and
getting tighter the longer Montrose keeps him from his father. I don’t want to
scrape your brains off the deck, or his.)
    So Marim stuck Osri with a particularly unpleasant session
with the recyclers—work he could perform alone—and went off looking for
Brandon. She was delighted to discover him and Jaim in the rec room.
    “How’s your back?” Jaim said to the Arkad.
    Brandon rolled his shoulders, looked from side to side, then
said, “Better. Much better.”
    “You know Ulanshu,” said Jaim. “Saw it. Think a light
workout would help?”
    Brandon winced slightly. “Probably a good idea, although I
doubt I’ll much enjoy it.”
    Jaim dipped his chin down in approval. “We’ll start slow.”
    It would take some time for Jaim to reconfigure the room for
sparring, so Marim dialed up a drink, then drifted past the dispensary, but
Ivard was not alone. He watched Montrose tending to the wounded dog, while the
other dog lay nearby. The door to the third berth, where she knew the old man lay,
was closed. Above all the berths a quarter-gee warning rotated.
    She walked up to the gee stripe on the deck, but no one