Rykor studied him. Thinking, He's my friend. A trusted friend. But some secrets are worms that probe and spoil all goodness.
"If something happens to me," Sten said, "you've got all the information. Do with it as you please."
"Very well," Rykor said. "I'll wait."
"Thanks," Sten said, weak. Then his head slumped. Rykor's flipper came out and lifted the mug away before it spilled.
He slept for many hours. It was a dreamless sleep.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Horsco LET HER number two run her ship and the surreptitious movements toward Prime World. She had smuggled things on and off Prime so many times it wasn't a challenge anymore. And her exec had already been making noises about getting her own ship, once this absurd commitment Jon Wild had made to social justice and drakh like that was over.
The third reason was, Hotsco had better things to do. As did Marl. As did Alex. He was most glad, by the time they closed on the Empire's capital, that he stayed in something near shapef and that he was a heavy-worlder.
Hotsco had been right—Marl's culture had some very, sometimes even excessively, interesting customs. She was a beaut, he thought fondly. As was Hotsco. He wondered what his wee mum would think if he brought them home and introduced them to her. Hmm. That might require some preparation.
Besides, he was going to die on Prime, he reminded himself.
When Hotsco's ship, the Rum Row, closed on the first of Prime's elaborate screens, Hotsco took the bridge.
Sten may have needed an elaborate diversion to slither the Victory onto Prime to rescue Haines and the others. Hotsco did not. She ghosted down, past mechanicals that seemed rusted solid, past patrol patterns that seemed loose-weave, even once past a patrolling Imperial destroyer within visual range.
She brought the ship down in atmosphere, and slipped toward a midnight landing, in one of the deepest spots of the River Wye that ran through the center of the green, protected Valley Wye. If the landing had been witnessed by one of the fanatic fishermen who considered the River Wye as their Mecca, Sten and his minions would have been considered fiends incarnate, and the worst punishment the Eternal Emperor could wreak on them considered corporal. Kilgour—who'd been known to cast a bit of feather and fur to assuage the savage salmon gods without ever landing one of the three-meter monsters—felt a little ashamed. But only a little.
He slid out of the ship's airlock in a spacesuit and swam to the bank. The Rum Row was under about seven meters of water, resting on the bottom. Not very much, but the dark anodizing would hopefully camouflage the ship against the river's bottom. Of course, if the Wye was overflown by a patrolcraft with sensors, the quality of the camouflage or the depth of the water wouldn't matter.
But why think about trouble?
He buried the suit under a layer of turf for quick retrieval, and headed directly for Ashley-on-Wye, the small town in the valley's center, where he hoped to set up his RV/safehouse. The town appeared abandoned. Quiet, deserted cobbled streets. There was a sign of life in one bar, where, long past closing, songs were being sung, barmaids being pinched and pints poured. Kilgour ignored his thirst and moved on.
The Blue Bhor was dark.
Kilgour settled down to wait for dawn, unobtrusively, under a bush. Either his friend was gone, bankrupt, or conceivably arrested for past sins by IS or the gamekeepers; was out poaching; or else would be out...
Just at dawn Chris Frye, ex-Mantis, proprietor of the Blue Bhor Inn, fanatic fisherman and skilled cook and drinker, came out the side door of his inn carrying a rod and creel.
He strolled past a bush, and stiffened. He stopped. Puzzled a bit, then dug into his creel as if to make sure he had not forgotten something.
"V c'n drop th‘ charade," Alex advised. "Ah wonder'd i' y‘ still hae y'r moves, an w'd spot m' marker."
Frye took the tiny colored metal clip that could've been a flower from a twig and pocketed it as Alex stepped out.
"Sod off, Kilgour. I had those reflexes as a poacher long before I took the clottin‘ Emp's shilling. What're you doing on Prime? You and your traitorous friend're supposed to be dead, according to the lies I've heard from the drakh-for-brains propaganda mill."
"Rumors ae m‘ passin' bein't overrated an‘ thae. Din't figure you'd put up wi' the drakh comin't doon ae late. How bad is it?"
"Clottin‘ clotted," Frye said quietly. "Anybody who had any-thing to do with Mercury or Mantis, even way back then, isn't exactly thought of as the best citizen. Nobody's gotten boxed yet, but you're watched pretty close.
"Or so I've heard from friends who drop by. Most folks here in the valley don't remember what kind of sojering I did, and wouldn't cough if they did. Gotta tell you, Alex, I don't know what the hell happened to the Emperor, when he wasn't around—but something sure as hell did.
‘Tell you the truth, when they shot Mahoney, and then Sten ran up the black flag, I clotting near nailed the door shut and took off to join you clowns. Only thing that stopped me was a strong feeling of cowardice and old age."
The two eyed each other. It had been a lot of years, indeed, since Mantis, and almost as many since Frye's Blue Bhor had been used as a safehouse when Sten was investigating the attempted murder of the Eternal Emperor.
"You look a bit older, a bit fatter, and a bit grayer," Frye observed.
"Dinnae we all, mate," Alex said. "An‘ how's th' life ae a publican?"
"The doors stay open," Frye's business, offering meals, teds, packed lunches, ghillie-ing, and alk to the dedicated rod-wranglers who came to the Blue Bhor, brought credits in—and Frye's love of good food, drink, and not letting friends pay for anything poured them out just as rapidly.
"I assume you want something?"
"Not much. Just a place for some friends of mine to stay."
"How many?"
‘Twelve."
"About the crew si/e of a small spaceship," Frye said. "I thought I heard something around midnight. Well, welcome to the king's enemies and all that. Clottin‘ Emperor. Just one question, so I can shriek quietly and wake up the whole clotting town. Is Sten one of them?"
"No. Ah'm th‘ hottest ae th' lot, an‘ Ah'll noo be stayin't."
"Well, bring ‘em in, then. I knew there was something lacking in my life lately. Listenin' for the tread of the hangman, the knock on the door, and the clap on the shoulder. Damn, but I love getting back into harness, particularly if it's something that sounds a lot like high treason. I can't say how nice it is to see you, Sergeant Kilgour."
Since the citizens of Ashley-on-Wye slept late as a habit, there was no problem moving Marl, Hotsco, and the rest of the smugglers into the inn without notice.
Then they waited until nightfall. Frye fed them sumptuously and kept asking if there wasn't something he could help with. Transport? Credits? Frye had some interesting things that went bang buried around somewhere. Phony ID? Hell, did Alex need backup?
No to all of them. What Alex didn't have, he could steal.
He kissed Hotsco and Marl good-bye.
"V hae th‘ orders, noo? I' y‘ dinnae hear frae me wi'in th' week, or i‘ y' hae reason to suss thae Ah'm blown or y're under's‘picion, y' promise't‘ haul oot like y' hae a Campbell a'ter y'r skirts?"
The two women promised.
They watched Alex disappear into the darkness, just another casual laborer headed for towncenter and transport to somewhere on Prime.
They looked at each other.
"How long?" Marl asked.