Hellspark by Janet Kagan Page A

adventures.
    One gorgeously drunken woman in the green leather baldric of a trading captain leaned down, her slim hand on Geremy’s shoulder. “You look too solemn,” she told him, “Veschke made a merry blaze even when she burned!” She pointed to the flagon in his lap; “Drink to Veschke!”
    she commanded over the singing.
    Geremy raised the flagon, clinked it against the captain’s. She said, grinning hugely, “Veschke was a
    Hellspark!”
    Geremy shouted his laughter. “To Veschke, then!” he said, and took a long drink. Then the
    Sheveschkemen passed on, still singing as they went.
    Tocohl turned back.
    Alfvaen had drawn up her knee and wrapped herself disconsolately about it. Her green eyes were dark and sad.
    “Alfvaen,” said Tocohl, “is something wrong?”
    The Siveyn answered slowly. “I didn’t know how strongly he felt about the situation. I should have. I
    should have! Tocohl, you’ve never even met him and you know more about him than I do!”
    “No,” said Tocohl, “you believed him. Fancy words and fine phrasing are necessary only to convince strangers.”
    “Yes, but—” Alfvaen raised her small hands and grasped air. “I have to learn the words as well.”
    She fell silent, but her hands remained clenched.
    After a moment, Darragh said, “There’s another matter of language, Tocohl. Before you accept this job, you should know what happened on Jannisett.”
    Keeping a watchful eye on Alfvaen, Tocohl said, “She told me. She was arrested and held, until you straightened the matter out.”
    “She was expertly framed,” Nevelen Darragh said, “—and the man who framed her was a crayden
    .”
    Tocohl stiffened in surprise. She said nothing, but Nevelen Darragh’s expression was all she needed to confirm that she’d heard correctly.
    “I see,” said Tocohl, and she laid her hand on Alfvaen’s shoulder, partly to comfort, partly to draw
    Alfvaen from her preoccupation. “What are your plans, now that your message is delivered?”
    Alfvaen stared at her, uncomprehending. Then she blinked as if come into sudden sunlight.
    “A moment ago, I had none,” she said. “MGE dropped my contract after Inumaru.—I don’t blame them much. Even I find it hard to believe that catching Cana’s disease could be serendipitous.”
    She reached across and caught Tocohl’s wrist. “Take me with you,” she said. “Teach me the words I
    need.”
    “I was hoping you’d say that,” said Tocohl. “MGE may have doubts about your serendipity, but Page 24

    I
    don’t. You know how to deal with members of a survey team,” she paused, then added, “and you might be safer on Lassti than anywhere else.”
    “Safer?” Alfvaen asked. “I don’t have the words to understand that, either.”
    “You need just one: the Jannisetti word crayden
    . It is an exact translation of the Sheveschkem dastagh
    —waster. As the Jannisetti say themselves, ‘Once a thing happens twice, you must think about it three times.’” Tocohl stood. “Geremy, I’m sorry to break up your evening, but could we get that cargo transferred now? Under the circumstances, I’d prefer to leave immediately.”
    Despite its value, the cargo was small and compact. Even Nevelen Darragh pitched in to help, and the transfer of tapes and winterspice went quickly. As a courtesy, Tocohl registered her new destination with Sheveschkem traffic control, giving the coordinates Alfvaen had received from swift-Kalat.
    “I’ll bet traffic control loved that!” said Geremy. “I take it the captain of the survey team is
    Sheveschkem?” he asked Alfvaen. The naming of a new world was often the captain’s privilege.
    “Yes,” said Alfvaen. “What’s so funny?”
    “
    Lassti means ‘Flashfever,’” Geremy explained. “It’s a local disease—as common on Sheveschke as a cold—characterized by bizarre visual effects.”
    “It’s like being slugged in the side of the head and seeing sparks,” Tocohl put in. “I know. I had