Chanur's Legacy by C. J. Cherryh Page A

was in your own hands, and in the quality of the armament you carried and your skill to use it.
    The hose connections clanked free, and that was one less problem on Hilfy’s mind. The Legacy was on its own power, cargo in its hold, and the cash from the station bank was on its way ... hand-carried, the bank insisted, since the bank did not trust any outsider either, and wanted a signature at the Legacy’s lock by the Legacy captain that said the money had transferred, all outstanding debts were paid, and the bank was legally absolved of claims against Chanur clan.
    And at the same time, they were conveying the Cargo, the oji, No’shto-shti-stlen’s precious object, along with the funds. Logical enough.
    So ... about time to get one’s self down to the lock, looking presentable.
    She dusted oft her breeches, clawed her mane to be sure no hair was standing on end, and took a wet-fingered swipe at the mustaches and the (cursedly) juvenile beard. Impressions counted, especially with the banks, which one could need some dark day. Knees were clean, belt was straight. She picked up Tarras and Tiar for escort, and was still fussing with the beard when they cycled the lock and a blast of chill air from the temperature differential came rushing up the ramp-way and blew her fur and fluttered the fabric of her silk breeches-Just as a kifish guard was about to punch the call button outside, within the tube, a scant pace from the Legacy’s own deck. She did not snarl, did not acknowledge the presence, which she vaguely registered as bowing respectfully in realization of her arrival, she simply focused on the stsho approaching in the frost-coated tube and ignored the dark-robed guards… fancy, the stsho were, the group from the bank, with the tablet the nature of which she recognized at a glance, and the group with boxes and cases, in one of which might be—surely was—the precious Object. One could hardly pick out any outline, so extreme were the garments in that lot, a drift of pearlized gossamer, of white fronds and feathers. She bowed, they bowed, her crewwomen bowed, everybody bowed again, even the kif. It was supremely ridiculous.
    “Of course the esteemed captain’s word would suffice,” the banker was constrained to say, in pidgin.
    “We can only regret that your honor did not have sufficient time to take tea,” she answered, not in the pidgin, and augmented eyebrows shot up and the stsho in question clutched the signed tablet against gtst heart, or thereabouts, within gtst robes.
    “Your most esteemed honor is inadequately recompensed in the press of time which requires our most distressing haste, At another moment we would achieve distinction by accepting your honor’s offer.” “Your honor has impressed us with outstanding courtesy.”
    “Allow us however to present the honorable Tlisi-tlas-tin, most esteemed adjunct of gtst excellency No’shto-shti-stlen. The excellency has afforded us the most extreme honor of conveying gtst adjunct and the preciousness of gtst entrusted burden to this ship and into your most capable hands. We are abundantly satisfied of your honor’s most excellent character and elegance.”
    The leader of the second band of stsho came fluttering across the threshold into the airlock, with an engraved case clutched to gtst heart—anxious, by the pursing of gtst small mouth, and the three increasingly agitated bows.
    “We are so inexpressibly relieved, most honored captain, that you speak the civilized language. We have far less anxiousness to entrust ourselves and this preciousness into your ship.”
    “What’s this ‘ourselves’?” For an instant all command of stshoshi language deserted her; but Tiar and Tarras hadn’t understood a word thus far. Only that. She said it in stsho: “Would your honor clarify the matter regarding one’s illustrious self and one’s presence on my ship?”
    Another bow. “As gtst excellency’s most honored representative, of course, as guardian of