"Do you have proof of identity, sir?"
Fett touched his blaster. "This used to do nicely."
The steward—human, male, utterly ugly—was doing a very good job of not wetting his pants. Fett had to hand it to him. "Ah . . . haven't seen you here in a long time, sir."
"I've come to visit someone." Fett indicated Mirta with a thumb gesture. "With my associate."
"Will that seeing require repairs afterward?"
Fett flicked a very large-denomination credit chip onto the desk.
"Keep the change in case it does. Where's Fraig?"
Credits talked. Blasters talked, too, but credits could whisper menacingly every bit as well.
"He's hosting a private sabacc game in his suite on the thirtieth floor, sir." The steward smiled valiantly and snapped his fingers at the hired help. "I'll let him know you're on the way up."
The nattily attired Trandoshan rushed to his summons, looking like he'd picked the wrong outfit for a costume party.
"Take . . . the . . . er . . . President of Mandalore up to Master Fraig's suite. All drinks on the house."
So they didn't quite grasp what being Mandalore meant. That was okay, because Fett didn't, either. Mirta stifled laughter, but only Fett heard it. He switched to the helmet comlink with a blink.
"So you do have shares here, Ba'buir," she said.
"Depending on how many guests Fraig's got, I might need your help.
Try not to kill them unless they ask for it."
"Yessir, Mister President!"
"I liked you better without a sense of humor."
He didn't dislike Mirta. She'd tried to kill him, but that was a couple of months ago, and things had moved on. She worked hard and she wasn't mired in fluffy trivia like fashion and holovids. She was strong in every sense. Beviin—and Fett listened to Beviin—said she was a real Mando'ad,
a solid Mandalorian woman, because she could shoot straight, cook passably well, and had the shoulders of an armor-smith. Mando'ade valued the frontier kind of female, not decorative trophies who couldn't even dig a defensive entrenchment.
She's just like Sintas. Not as pretty, but she's so much like her.
He hadn't known Ailyn long enough to tell if Mirta took after her mother. Sin. I used to call her Sin, and she called me Bo. Did Mirta have a nickname? What had Sintas told Ailyn about him, and what had Ailyn told Mirta, to breed such hatred toward him?
Fett pulled his attention back to the present and followed the Trandoshan, aware of a full 360-degree vista around him, the dulled pain in his guts, and the fact that the closer he got to death, the more he thought about people who hadn't been on his mind in a long, long time.
The turbolift doors opened onto a floor of the same thick purple carpet as the lobby, with small salons leading off it. Gaming tables rattled, clicked, and flashed with lives ruined and fortunes lost. Even through his helmet's filter, he could smell the cloying amalgam of a hundred different perfumes distilled from plants facing extinction and parts of animals he didn't even want to think about.
The Trandoshan led them along a corridor to an imposing set of gilded doors, then beat a lumbering retreat. The doors parted and Fett found himself visor-to-nose with a Hamadryas who didn't seem to know how to blink. Behind him, a group of six splendidly dressed gamblers—three human males, two females, and a Weequay—sat around a gilt-framed sabacc table with Fraig. There were two more heavies standing by the kitchen doors, probably on drinks patrol.
"Master Fett," said Fraig, not looking up from the table. "How good to meet you."
Fraig had a great hand. Fett could see it embedded in the table's display as he loomed over him. It was a pity to interrupt. His guests were trying to
concentrate on the sabacc game, but it was hard to give the cards full attention when there were two bounty hunters paying an unexpected visit. They all found reasons to go to the kitchen to top up their drinks while the Hamadryas watched silently, one hand now on his holster.
"Got a few questions for you," Fett said. "About your predecessor."
"Depends on what you want to know." Fraig was as well spoken as his hair was coiffed. His gangster dad must have sent him to a very exclusive school. But he hadn't been tutored in the subtle art of putting his hand under the table to check his hold-out blaster discreetly. Fett hoped he didn't have to shoot the man before he got some answers. "I do hope you haven't been sent by Cherit's associates to express their displeasure."
"I'm not going to kill you," Fett said. "If I did that, then you wouldn't be able to tell me things. And I want you to tell me things. I'm a curious man."
The Hamadryas on the door already had his blaster visible on his belt, but Mirta had him covered. Fett could see from their HUD corn-link connection that she was watching him, the helmet sensors responding to her eye movements.
Fraig shrugged. "What exactly do you want me to tell you?"
"The Mandalorian who killed Cherit. I need to find him."
Fraig had the kind of smile that spread like a crack in ice. "I've been asked some subtle questions, but that's a good one. I assure you I didn't order Cherit's death."
"I don't care if you sent a wreath and took care of his widow. Do you know where I can find the man who killed him?"
"Shall we step outside onto the balcony?" Fraig gestured and picked up his drink. "It's a sensitive matter to discuss in front of my guests."
"Suit yourself," said Fett, and decided instantly where he was prepared to be maneuvered. Step outside. Right. Mirta stood guard at the open doors,
but the Hamadryas bodyguard tried to move her out of the way.
He made the mistake of putting his hand on her back, and a little too low at that. She simply raised her clenched fist to shoulder height and ejected her gauntlet vibroblade.
"Touch me again, chakaar, and I'll ram this into your carotid artery."
"I haven't got one."
"Then I'll have to keep stabbing you until I find somewhere else that bleeds copiously."
Fraig intervened. "Serku, let's not upset the lady, shall we? Let her wait wherever she wishes."
Fraig was making a lot of mistakes tonight for a crime boss. It was just as well Fett always assumed the worst. Fraig might have thought that a balcony reduced Fett's options, but it didn't represent much of a problem for a man with a jet pack. Fraig didn't have one. He also lacked a fiber cord line.
This wouldn't take long.
Amateurs.
Fett had to fight an urge to explain to Fraig how to do it right.
Out on the balcony, Kuat City's lights shimmered through a veil of rushing water in the dusk. An overhang diverted the water a couple of meters from the face of the building.
Fett leaned one hand on the rail, feigning casual disinterest but actually testing the strength of the metal. He cast an eye over Fraig to estimate his weight. "Let me repeat that simple question. Tell me anything you know about the Mandalorian who whacked your predecessor."
"I had nothing to do with it. Cherit upset a lot of folks.
Occupational hazard."
"Question still stands. I'll bet your organization was keen to find out, too."
"We didn't know who he was. All we knew was that he had a grudge about a certain Twi'lek clan. We do business with Twi'leks in the entertainment industry."
"I'll bet." Fraig meant Twi'lek girls. "What land of grudge?"
"He didn't think we were treating them properly. We lost a couple of very popular entertainers thanks to him."
Fraig was lying scum. And the clone in Mandalorian armor was settling a score for some Twi'leks, but he wasn't a bounty hunter.