Donovan was less well pleased. He had conducted his abductor to her destination; but her ends were not his own, and he had been dissuaded from turning right about to heigh for the League only by the impossibility of that prospect. The entry into Henrietta Roads had been facilitated by Olafsdottr’s particular identity signal, her “fu.” Leaving would invite fleet action.
“Don’t suppose I’ve joined you,” he muttered as the two of them stood waiting on an open platform for a rail pod at the Port Terminus. Sullen, gray clouds were piling up like dirty laundry in the western sky, and Donovan clapped his arms around himself. “Buy me a snow cloak, would you? I didn’t get a chance to pack before I left.”
“The pods will be heated and the trip into Riettiecenter will not take long.”
Donovan shivered dramatically. “What I did for you, you owe me least a cloak.”
Olafsdottr checked their queue number and the ready-board, and sighed concession. “This way.” They left the pod platform, losing their place in line, and retraced their steps to the concourse of shops immediately inside the terminal. “There’s a shuvan high-guy right over here,” she told him.
“An autovendor? Isn’t there a custom tailor? If I’m going to be kidnapped, I’ll be kidnapped in style.”
“No,” said Olafsdottr, “you won’t. The tong will give you later whatever you truly need.”
Donovan snorted. “Oh, good. I didn’t know what I truly needed; so I’m glad of some strangers to tell me. But at least you offered to give me some tongue.”
Olafsdottr scowled. “I do not understand your humors, Donovan.”
“Tongue. There’s an ancient Terran language that…”
Olafsdottr stopped dead and pulled Donovan aside from the flow of pedestrian traffic. “Listen to me, Donovan,” she whispered. “Do not present yourself as a Terran here, ever. Terrans are jidawn, ‘regulated people.’ Do you understand? It is not here like in your Periphery. Terrans have not the respect and honor they have out there.” Olafsdottr overrode Donovan’s bitter laugh. “Do you understand?”
The scarred man pulled his arm from her grip. “Sure. The good news is: I’m out of the frying pan. I take it the ‘tong’ is your little group.”
“It means ‘a Togethering.’”
“So the earwig tells me.” Donovan tapped the device nestled in his right ear. “But I imagine there are lots of Togethers for all sorts of purposes. If I had to guess—and my Confederal is rusty—I’d guess ‘Gaagjawn tong bũpun.’ Revolution-together-partner.”
Olafsdottr hissed and pressed him against the wall of the confectioner’s shop. “Fool! Some things must never speak aloud.”
“Must make for lively craic. If you think I jabber too much, maybe you should just send me back home.”
The Shadow released him. “Are swifter means to silence thoughtless lips. You are wanted here, but not wanted so much that we risk all.”
Donovan decided that he had pushed her as far as he might safely do, and followed silently while she sought out the kiosk for temporary weather clothing. He made a great show of selecting the size, color, and cut of the snowcloak.
Two boots stood in front of a nearby Approved Books kiosk. They were dressed for downside leave: loose, burgundy silks and black trousers, with their ship’s medallions pinned above their right breasts. They went uncovered, and made no effort to hide the fact that they were staring at Donovan and Olafsdottr.
The dispenser delivered the cloak and Donovan pulled it out and shook it straight. “Ravn?”
“Yes, I see them. I was told during the crawl-down that they like to shake down dyowaqs—what you call ‘touristas’—for detachables.”
“Do we call the cops?”
Olafsdottr laughed. “Those are the cops. Not those two, I mean. But Henrietta is under martial law. So … Listen, Donovan, I am not supposed to be on Henrietta; and you are not even supposed to be in the Confederation. So this must not come to the attentions of the swoswai, the military governor.”
“No cops,” the Fudir agreed. “Suits me. But I thought your boss had an understanding with the governor.”
“He does. Those two don’t. They’re probably only just down-planet.”
The scarred man scratched his hair, replaced his skull cap. “Then this is what we call a learning moment.”
Olafsdottr fastened her collar and waited while Donovan swirled his cloak about him. “We could simply pay them,” she said.
Donovan held up his right palm. “My implant is loaded up with Gladiola Bills of Exchange. You think they’ll take those?”
“Ah. I see the problem. That’s why you had me pay for your cloak. Funny the things we sometimes overlook.”
“I didn’t overlook it. Chain up. Here they come.”
The two boots strolled over with exaggerated casualness and planted themselves directly in their path. Other travelers in the concourse swerved around the little group like a stream around a rock. A few shot worried glances as they passed; most simply tucked their heads down and pretended not to see.
“Ha, dyowaq,” said the one on the left, a young, beefy man with a tonsure of blond hair. “Welcome a Henrietta. We collecting donations a the Distressed Spaceman’s Benevolent Fund, help out shipmates down a they luck.” He addressed Donovan because those who bought temporary weather clothing at the autovendors were typically off-planet touristas unprepared for the season.
“Fund balance real low,” added the second boot, an older, wiry man who reminded Donovan of a rat terrier. His medallion had chief’s bars on it.
The scarred man waited patiently, and there was something about the patience of the scarred man that induced hesitation in others. The two boots shifted foot to foot and looked to Donovan’s companion.
And if there were anything in the Spiral Arm more daunting than the patience of Donovan buigh, it was the smile of Ravn Olafsdottr.
The beefy one took a step back. “Law shí! Deadly Ones. Chief, remember what Tsali and Chim-bo told us when they coming back a leave?”
“Tsali say they go-gone.”
“Ooh, not all at once,” said Ravn. “Some may remain. Tie up loose ends. You pardon, we not introduce selves.”
The two boots grunted and made awkward attempts to hide their name tags behind folded arms. “Jin, sure, wakay.”
“Wait,” said Donovan. “You not want donation?”
“Not needful. So sorry a bother you.” They began to back away.
“We insist. My fund transfer from off-planet not yet arrive, but my companion happy pay for both.”
Olafsdottr shot him an annoyed glance, but extended her hand. The boots flinched and stared at it, as if it had transformed into a flame lance. “The Mouth much grateful for protection boots give against League,” she said. “Your pay, never enough. Allow me show gratitude.”
A moment more they hesitated, then the chief reached out slowly and shook her hand. In theory the two palm implants could have interfaced by wireless, but direct contact was both more secure and regarded by custom as more sincere. The chief’s eyes glazed for a moment as his balance updated, then he gasped. “Ladyship being most generous!”
Further expressions of politeness followed before the two boots withdrew and retreated down the concourse.
“To seek other prey, no doubt,” Donovan said.
“The strong take what they can,” Olafsdottr reminded him, “and the weak suffer what they must. First you didn’t want to pay; then you did,” she said. “Why bother? We had them sheeped.”