A grizzled older man fell into step beside him. The newcomer walked using a steel crutch, dragging his left foot. His entire left leg seemed atrophied. A birth defect, if Book didn’t miss his guess. The man was deft with the crutch and evidently accustomed to the disability, since it barely slowed his pace.
“Can I be of help, Shepherd?” he offered. “If you’re looking to find the local abbey, be my pleasure to take you there.”
“No, thank you, friend,” Book said. He decided to chance his arm. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. “Although actually, you may be able to assist me in another regard. You strike me as a knowledgeable sort.”
“Some’d say.”
“I’m looking for somebody, name of Hunter Covington. Would you happen to know how I can contact him?”
The man’s bushy brows shot upward. “Hunter Covington, you say? You, ah, sure that’s who you want? The kinda line of work he’s in…” He smiled uneasily. “It ain’t what you might call holy.”
“What line of work might that be?” Book asked neutrally, without slowing his pace to accommodate the hobbling man. He swept the surroundings with a sharp eye, alert to the possibility that this apparently harmless fellow had a confederate or two and that he was trying to waylay Book so that they could rob him. What was that old Earth-That-Was saying? Trust Allah but tie up your camel.
“Well, not to speak ill of a fellow man, especially in this company, but some of what Covington gets up to is a little on the disreputable side.”
People tended to edit themselves around a man of the cloth. “Care to elaborate?” Book asked.
“Not really.”
“Well, how about the rest of his business? The more reputable side. What can you tell me about that?”
The man nodded, eager to ingratiate himself. “Whatever you need, I’ve heard Covington can get it for you. He’s connected.”
“Connected,” Book said.
“Knows everybody.”
“That’s good. Then he may well be whom I need.”
“May I be so bold as to inquire what you want Hunter Covington for?”
Sometimes you had to give a little to get a little. “As it happens, I’m trying to track down an old friend. I know he’s on Persephone and I have it on good authority that he’s somewhere in Eavesdown.”
“Well, now…” The man with the crutch scratched one of his prodigious eyebrows, causing the clustered gray and white hairs to spring out in all directions. “If your friend’s alive and in Eavesdown, Covington should know his whereabouts. And if he’s dead, Covington may well be able to tell you where he’s buried.”
“Sounds like the ideal man for the job, then. Where might I find him?”
“He’s got a few haunts, when he’s in the city. At the docks, you can find him at the quartermaster’s HQ, or in the Sea Wolf Tavern. Downtown, it’s Taggart’s Bar. I can take you there.”
Book stopped and turned to face his newfound companion, who halted too. “No need,” he said. “I’m not unfamiliar with Eavesdown. I know my way around. But I thank you for your time nonetheless.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a generous amount of platinum, which he held out to the man. “For your trouble.”
“Mighty kind of you, sir,” the man said, plucking the bounty out of Book’s grasp as if he feared the Shepherd would suddenly change his mind. A wave of relief came over his dirty, weather-seamed face and Book gave a quick, silent prayer for him to find an easier path.
“Might I have your name and a way to contact you if I need further assistance?” Book said.
The man bobbed his head. “I’m Charlie Dunwoody, sir. I, uh, you can just ask anyone around here to get a message to me.”
Book translated: Dunwoody had no comm link, nor any way to be waved.
The crippled man leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner, holding his hand to the side of his mouth to keep from being overheard. “I like to move around a lot, the state of my leg notwithstanding. I stay loose.”
“Understood.” Book smiled at him. “I’ll be sure to get a message to you if the occasion should arise. And thanks again for your help.” He adjusted his satchel and moved on. To his surprise, Dunwoody started walking again, too, right on his heels.
“Yes?” Book said pleasantly, but inwardly steeling himself for a second dunning.
The man chewed the inside of his lip for a second, then appeared to come to a decision. “Ah, Shepherd, I feel it’s only fair to tell you that around these here parts Hunter Covington is a bit… well, feared.”
“As in violent?”
“Well, sir, since you put it that way, yes, violent is as good a word as any. Leastways, he employs people who’ll do violence on his behalf. Just make sure what you’re getting into, if you don’t mind my advice.”
The revelation was hardly a surprise, but Book affected apprehension. As far as Dunwoody was aware he was a mere Shepherd, with all the connotations of defenselessness and unworldliness that came with that.
“I appreciate your concern,” he said. “Now I’ll be on my way,” he added pointedly.
“Yes, yes of course.” On his open palm, Dunwoody mimicked running motions with two fingers. “You have things to do.”
“Yes. I’m on a bit of a timetable.”
“Yessir, of course, sir.” Dunwoody took a few steps away from Book and made a formal little bow.
Book began to walk on, leaving Dunwoody in his wake. Then he turned back and said, “You say you know where an abbey is.”
The man nodded. “All of ’em on-planet.”
“If you’re looking for work, you might go to Southdown. It’s not far. Ask for the head abbot. Tell him Shepherd Book recommended you. The brethren are often in need of an extra set of hands.”
“Oh.” Dunwoody’s face lit up. “Thank you. I will do that, Shepherd Book.”
Book realized at once that it might have been a better idea to keep his identity concealed, but what was done was done, and if it benefited this poor man, then the risk was to a good purpose.
With that, Book moved on, increasing his speed in order to guarantee that he left Dunwoody behind this time. He melted into the haze of smoke and dust, into the boisterous crowd that packed the street alongside the landing field. The Alliance Day celebrations were still ongoing, although to Book’s way of thinking they were starting to simmer down. The hour was approaching midnight, after all, and there was only so much roistering a body could handle before it began to flag.
Some folks tipped their hats or pulled their forelocks when they saw his collar; others glared; most simply ignored him. Book was just an ant in a swarm of ants, some dark-complexioned, some light, some practically naked, some decked out in smothering layers of silk brocade.
He made his first stop at the quartermaster’s office, passing two armed guards to gain entry into the single-story aluminum-clad building. The office itself consisted of a large main room without any seating. It was busy at this late hour, even on Alliance Day. Everyone stood in line to reach windows protected by metal bars and transaction drawers. A stocky woman towards the front was bellowing about being charged twice for her docking fees.
All the clerks were occupied and the lines weren’t moving, so Book passed some time scanning the various flyers, advertisements and notices tacked on a large bulletin board along the wall. There were a plethora of recruitment posters urging youth to join the Alliance galactic military force. PATRIOTISM! ADVENTURE! OPPORTUNITY! Words chosen carefully to stir young women and men to enlist, without spelling out the inherent risks, both to their own physical and psychological well-being and to those people whom the Alliance, in its infinite wisdom, turned them loose on. Nothing had changed in all these years.