Travers didn’t respond, just stood there in a half-crouch like a cornered animal, breathing heavily, her face a mixture of rage, fear, and abashment. “Commander Bolton, you would do well to take Ms. Travers back to her quarters and see to her welfare,” Prethuvenigis said mildly. “I understand that you have medicines that calm and soothe; their use is certainly indicated.”
Bolton eased toward her, glancing warily at Ander Korwits, who still brandished the weapon. “He’s right, Stephanie,” he said. “Come with us. We’ll get you back to your quarters and get a sedative in you.” He took her arm; she pushed his hand away violently, but when he moved toward the entry she followed, craning her neck to face Peters the whole time. The commander urged her through the door, then turned back to say, “Everett, come on. As for you, Peters—” he gritted his teeth “—be in my quarters in one hour.”
“I think not, Commander,” Prethuvenigis said sharply. “Allow your associate to minister to Ms. Travers, and let me correct your understanding of the situation.” Bolton looked around the room a little wildly, then nodded at Everett, who slipped out, closing the door behind him and leaving Bolton standing in front of it, looking pinned.
“Good,” said the trader with a nod. “I know these are your quarters, John, but would you and the women mind absenting yourselves? You might step along to my apartment. Khonig has prepared tea and snacks, and I was on my way to issue an invitation when I discovered the uproar.”
“That seems a good plan to me,” Peters observed, a little amused. “The sort of interview you have in mind goes best without an audience. Perhaps Deela—” he emphasized the name slightly, to call attention to the modification “—might come along as well.”
“Innovation,” the Trader chief remarked. “Would you prefer the more usual ‘Deelis’?” He bestowed a twinkling smile on the Grallt girl.
“N-no,” she said a little unsteadily. “I rather like ‘Deela’.”
“Good,” said Peters. “It was time, I think. Alper, get dressed. We should go.”
“You come with me,” she insisted. “I don’t want to be out of sight of you.”
“We’ll both go,” Ander suggested.
In the bedroom they exchanged a mutual hug before Alper writhed into her kathir suit. Bolton was seated when they left, looking apprehensive, and Peters acknowledged him with a nod and “Commander” as he passed, receiving a flash of lambent rage in return. Prethuvenigis showed them out, saying, “This shouldn’t take too long. I’ll see you in my quarters; we should be planning for the trip Down tomorrow.”
Peters murmured an affirmative, and they escaped into the corridor, followed by Dee—or rather Deela. “Those people are not your friends,” the Grallt observed.
“That has never been in question,” Peters commented without emphasis.
“Bolton can make trouble for you, can he not?” Deela persisted.
“A great deal, if he so chooses.” Peters shook his head. “Enough. Let us have tea, and discuss window curtains.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Peters sipped coffee and looked around the conference room, still wondering why he was here. The long-delayed trade conference had finally gotten underway; Prethuvenigis had said the ferassi-Grallt were insistent that he should attend. Gooligis, the representative of Trader 1049, had been smirking ever since Peters had showed up, obviously in on the joke. His expectations—that they were going to hit him up about a smallship and a pair of good-looking women having departed the ferassi ship under less than routine circumstances—had not been met so far.
A male Grallt nearly the size of Tollison was holding the door open for a girl. She was small, deliciously pretty to those who knew the Grallt aesthetic; both were in blank tan ferassi-style kathir suits. An elderly Grallt with short white hair and a long flowing mustache followed, his suit decorated in the forest-green of Trader 1049 with enough slanted lines on his arm to signify a person of considerable status.
The old man scanned the room until he found Peters, and his face lit in a broad smile. He began pushing, very politely, through the group, and the two in blank suits followed. “Peteris of Llapaaloapalla, I assume,” he said when he was in earshot.
Peters rose. “I am he.”
The Grallt bowed from the waist. “My depa’olze sends greetings and best wishes,” he said smoothly. “He bids me give you this, and present to you a small gift.” The economical wave that went with the latter phrase seemed to include the other two Grallt; “this” was a buff envelope.
Peters took it and nodded. “I return the greetings and best wishes,” he said slowly. What the Hell is this? “Perhaps you would be so good as to explain your mission in more detail.”
“That is the function of the note, depa’olze,” the old Grallt said, eyes twinkling. He bowed once more and left without further ceremony, oblivious to Peters’s strangled “Wait!”
The envelope was made of paper, rare among the Grallt, and so was the note inside. He recognized the script, the blocky Russian-looking characters of the ferassi language, but no more. “Ssth,” he hissed. “I can’t read this.”
“Would you like me to read it to you, ze Peteris?” the girl asked timidly, then looked down, seemingly abashed.
“Yes, please,” he said, and held it out. She reached to take it, hand trembling, and her expression wasn’t apprehension or abashment; it was full-fledged, jelly-limbed fear, bordering on terror.
Peters took a step, touched her gently on the shoulder, and said softly, “Calm yourself. You are among friends.”
“Enh,” she grunted, in mingled fear, astonishment, and—shame?
Peters looked around. The byplay was attracting attention; Gooligis was grinning like a successful thief. “Come with me,” he said in a tone as gently neutral as he could manage. “We will go to a place where you can recover your composure.” She nodded, still looking distraught, and Peters urged her toward the door with minimal touches on her shoulders. The big male followed unbidden.
At the end of the long veranda was a round table, with four wicker chairs upholstered with pillows of white chintz printed with purple flowers. Peters looked up at the man. “What is your name?”
“I have been called Dzheenis.”
“And her name?”
“She has been called Khurs, ze Peteris.”
“Are you a mated pair?”
“No, ze Peteris.”
“I see, I think… Khurs, Dzheenis, if what I suspect is true you are about to hear from me the last command you will hear in your lives,” Peters said, attempting lightness. “Sit down.” He gestured firmly, and they took seats, trying to maintain an alert posture but failing in the soft broad chairs. Peters nodded and said to the n’saith servitor: “A pot of thvithith tea, if you please, and small foods that can be eaten with the fingers.”
“At your direction.” The waiter nodded and took himself off.
Peters sat. “I now inform you of a fact of greatest importance to you,” he said, looking from one to the other. “Among my people, the possession and trading of persons as chattel is utterly forbidden; the taboo is among the strongest we have.” Dzheenis’s head jerked back; the girl’s mouth formed an “O” of astonishment, and Peters nodded. “Your intuition is correct. From the moment you were presented to me you have been completely without duty or obligation to anyone, least of all myself. You owe no deference, save that which you grant out of respect or in recognition of accomplishment; you may order your lives without reference to the wishes of others, unless you yourself grant those wishes power. Have I been clear enough, or should I explain further?”