Dream Dancer by Janet Morris Page B

high-sinewed talons had her, the huge hands, larger than Marada’s, almost met as the father put them round her waist.
    Curiosity that was unfeigned softened the forbidding visage. “You’ll be all that is needed,” he said under his breath, and smiled a grin meant to be encouraging. Then he let her go, and might have forgotten that she was present.
    “Sit down. Oh storied traveler, and tell me a tale that will turn this lead over my heart to gold. You are an arbiter, so the records say. Tell me an arbiter’s tale, even, so that I can keep your fine butt out of Labaya’s stewpot.”
    “So? Is there use in that, when you have already acted on your decision by inviting Iltani’s people here? Why not just talk of pleasanter things for the required amount of time, and we will presently emerge, drawn and subdued of aspect. Then you can call your tribunal and take your puppet vote and do whatever it is you have in mind. I am not going to obstruct you.”
    “So, you think you have me all figured out? Ready to drop your pants and give up your manhood and your place, are you? Surely you don’t feel you are responsible for their deaths and want to be punished?”
    Marada shrugged, and the boy in the man was brought home to her so painfully that a gulped sob snuck past her lips, past the hand over them, and caused both men to eye her.
    Then, again, father and son faced each other from opposite ends of the wildly figured couch as if all the cosmos hung in between.
    “You doubtless know what I did as regards the girl.”
    “I know it. You know that you cannot make such a wardship hold.”
    “What will you do?” Marada said tiredly. Shebat sank down on the floor in her corner, arms circling her knees, drawing them close up to her chest to prevent their knocking together.
    “Make a bargain with you,” Parma replied in an oddly tinged voice.
    “What have I to bargain with?” he asked warily, touching a finger to one of the supple chain circlets in his ear, then covering the ear with his palm, casually, as if merely seeking to prop his head with his arm which rested on the divan’s back. But the position was awkward, and Shebat knew it to be something else—a warning: he would not give up his pilot’s circles.
    “I made your mother a promise, once. In order to keep it, I have need to keep you a Consortium citizen in good standing.”
    “I, as well as you, know that is impossible.” The pressure of the supporting palm canted upward the left side of his face.
    “Improbable, but not impossible. Give the girl over to my wardship.”
    “No!” leapt from Shebat’s throat.
    The look Marada sent in answer made her turn her head away.
    “You must, to insure her safety. No plan is certain of success.”
    “If I have your word that such a move will be to her benefit, then I will do it.”
    “There is no honor bond to be taken here: if she remains your ward, then you and she will be Consortium citizens for perhaps . . . oh, another four hours and a half. After that, law will take its course. Do as I say! ”
    To that imperative, Marada acceded. “Let it be so recorded.”
    “Done!” said Parma from behind closed lids, whereby Shebat suspected that some mind similar to that of the ship’s was overhearing and recording what was being said.
    “Done,” echoed the arbiter faintly.
    Shebat, in the corner, lay head on crossed arms and bit her lip fretfully, forgetful of the mil-hood which gave her skin an odd resiliency.
    “Now will you tell me what alternative you are presenting as viable in the face of Labaya’s obvious petition for my balls?”
    “You have not told me how sorry you are about the death of your brother, nor your betrothed. I suggest you meditate on expressions of mourning. And perhaps find time in your busy schedule of self-concern to wonder how and in what place I have entered your ward into our family. For now, I have given you all the time I can. In three hours, we shall begin the services for the