“That’ll cost you.”
“I’ll pay it.”
“You’re the boss.”
The line clicked off as the salesman returned with yet more hatboxes. Horn tried on the charcoal-gray hat and several others, still watching the mirror.
“I’ll take the dark brown one,” he said, when he had drawn out the process for as long as he could. He was about to add—since a good hat was a worthwhile investment no matter who was paying for it—“And the one in charcoal gray as well,” when three men walked in through the front door of the shop.
“Call the police. Right now,” Horn said to the clerk.
“Your hat?”
“It’ll have to wait,” Horn said.
The leader of the group of men had his hand in his pocket, and there was a suspicious lump in the cloth. That meant he was either an amateur or an incompetent—he couldn’t aim that way, and his hand and arm were tied up and useless.
Horn grabbed the man by his coat sleeve and pulled him forward and down. The man staggered a bit. Horn pushed him into the path of the two men who were trailing after him, then tossed a hat rack through the shop window and followed it out onto the sidewalk just as a cab pulled up in front. Horn opened the cab door and slid in.
“Where to?” asked the cabdriver.
“Honest Igor’s.”
“You’re the guy who called?”
“Yeah. And now I’m in a hurry.”
The cab driver put the vehicle into gear and took off, just as the trio from inside the store plunged out to the sidewalk. “So what’s up?” the driver asked, once they had left the hat shop several blocks behind them.
Horn passed him a sizable roll of money. “Did you pick up a fare at the DropPort a few days ago, around the fourteenth?”
“I pick up guys at the DropPort every day,” the cab driver said. “What was so special about this one?”
“He was from Northwind.”
The cab driver thought for a moment. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I had me one of those. He wanted a ride downtown, but halfway there, he wanted to stop. He handed me a wad of cash, just like you did—big bills, twenties and fifties, a whole lot more than the fare. Like the money didn’t matter to him.”
“That’s good,” said Horn. “Take me to where you dropped him off. And if you can make sure no one is following us on the way, that’s even better.”
The cabdriver looked at him curiously in the rearview mirror. “You’re one of the guy’s friends?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not to me it doesn’t.”
“Then don’t worry about it.” Horn settled back against the upholstery of the car seat and waited, watching the buildings zip past on either side.
“Here you are,” the driver said at last. “This is the spot where he bailed.”
“Did he say where he was going from here?”
“No.”
Horn passed over another large wad of cash. “Thanks. And if you can forget that you saw either him or me, your life will probably be smoother all the way around.”
“You got it, boss.” The driver grinned. “So tell me now—are you on his side?”
“I think maybe I am.”
“Good. He seemed like a decent enough guy. See ya.”
“I don’t think so,” Horn said, but he said it after the cabdriver had departed.
Horn looked up and down the street. The neighborhood was an older one, full of small shops with apartments above them. Well, time to wear out more shoe leather. The call had come from a bar. He’d do an expanding square search around this spot, stopping at every establishment with a liquor license until he found the right one.
The fourth place he stopped was the Pescadore Rus, where Ivan Gorky was waiting tables and tending bar. Gorky remembered the man with the short hair and the Northwind accent, who’d come in on a slow afternoon and left without paying his bill.
“I’ll pay it for him,” Horn said. “He’s a friend.”
Gorky’s face brightened, and he reached for an object that he had tucked away by the cash register. “Then maybe you can give this back to him, as well.”
Sometime after that, Burton Horn sat in a branch of the Belgorod Public Library. He’d just viewed a data disc, and had seen things that no one should have seen:
A Paladin of the Sphere, departing through a checkpoint in a Blade BattleMech.
A log recording of that Paladin’s interaction with the outpost guards, with voice data.
Testimony from the guards themselves, confirming the evidence recorded in the log.
He’d have to be careful, Horn thought, on his way back to Jonah Levin. Because somebody very powerful was about to be made very, very unhappy.
24
Saffel Space Station Three
Saffel System
Prefecture II
March 3134
For a while, Anastasia’s return to consciousness was not so much waking as recalling a time spent floating in a gray and hazy place. She had vague memories of things going on while she was there—people crowding around her, pain in her belly, bright lights in her face, and disconnected bits of conversation that didn’t make sense: “Tried to gut and fillet her like a mountain finny… Why are you asking me, I think you’re all crazy… Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.”
She came back to full lucidity with a jolt.
Her eyes snapped open, and she was aware—with a bright, hard-edged clarity—that she was Galaxy Commander Anastasia Kerensky, that she was lying on a bed in an unfamiliar sick bay, that the heavy soreness across her abdomen was a knife wound courtesy of the late Star Colonel Marks, that she was taking the Steel Wolves home to Terra. And that she had lost a dangerous amount of time.
“Damn.” She struggled up to a sitting position in the bed. “Ahhrrgh. Damn.”
Someone was catching her, helping her to sit upright. She saw the hand first, and the Bondsman’s cord around the wrist. It was the medic, Ian Murchison.
She glared at him. “What are you doing here?”
“Keeping you from killing yourself, it looks like.” At second glance, Murchison did not appear to have slept in some time. His eyes were red-rimmed and shadowed underneath, and he had forgotten to shave. “Since the gentleman with the knife did his best to spill your guts out onto the deck.”
“Oh.” She sounded bad, even to her own ears. She could not afford the weakness, once she was in public. But there was nobody in here except herself and her Bondsman, who did not count. Relentlessly, she quashed a half-formed wish that she could rest for a little longer. “How long has it been since—”
“Twelve days, while you were ill and the ships were recharging and refueling.”
“Twelve days!” The exclamation hurt; she sat breathing hard for a minute, then went on, “Are we still at Saffel Station?”
“Yes.”
“Then I have to get up now.”
“I don’t suppose I can stop you.” He paused, as if weighing his next words. “Just for the record, Galaxy Commander, you’re currently held together with staples and surgical glue. Now is not the time to pick fights.”
“I do not pick fights.”
This time Murchison said nothing, but his expression was eloquent enough without words.
“All right,” she said. “You’ve got me.” It felt good to lapse for a moment into the casual speech patterns of the alternate persona she’d adopted when she was traveling across The Republic of the Sphere as a soldier of fortune. Tassa Kay had met a number of people like Ian Murchison—steady, reliable types who did their duty and didn’t worry too much about the greater scheme of things—and she’d liked most of them. She’d probably have liked Ian Murchison as well. “I do pick fights. But I’ve usually got a reason for it when I do.”