Unlike most people who kill for a living, Tarpy believed an old adage—Kill Without Joy. He had taken the adage one step further—don't kill if there's no need.
Dynsman's chances of returning to the Imperial worlds were near zero. All these people, Tarpy thought. Running around scheming after something, and none of them realize that the gods always take care of those who play with fire.
Tarpy stood, pulled the fiche from its reader, and crossed to the hotel-room sink. He rinsed out his cup, opened a cupboard, and took out a bottle of pure quill. He poured a cup for himself, then, as an afterthought, a glassful for Milr. Milr swilled the alk, without bothering to wonder about the unannounced suspension of The Rule.
He drained his glass. "Reassemble the team, Corporal. We'll transship back to Prime World on the next available."
Dynsman was no longer a factor, nor was that Imperial officer. Tarpy next considered exactly how much of the commission he would have to pay the ex-Praetorians to keep them from feeling cheated.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
A wry joke on Heath was that the huge river running through the middle of the capital city was the only river that had ever caught on fire.
It burned for days, seriously scorching the surrounding waterfront. But even after the fire on the polluted channel had died, the Tahn lords had done nothing to clean it up, in spite of their loud and frequent avowals of love for simplicity and nature. After all, the warlords had immaculate gardens to wander through and in which to compose the Tahn's superstylized poetry. The peasants could—sometimes did—eat drakh.
On the other hand, since all waterfronts throughout history have been the same, perhaps the fire could have been considered instant urban renewal. Not that it took long for the same abattoirs to spring back to life.
The Khag was a prime example. Its popularity was twofold: Not only was it close to both the onworld water shipping and the spaceport, but at the port anything or anyone illicit was available.
The two men at the bar fit right in—except for their soiled gray uniforms and pants bloused in knee-high swamp boots. They were armed, but so was almost everyone else in the Khag. Their weapons—stunguns, truncheons, fighting knives, and gas sprays—were hung on leatherette Sam Browne belts. Their voices were as raw as they were loud and semidrunk. One of them—Keet—owled at the ticket packet on the bar in front of them.
"Last day, partner. Last day."
His cohort Ohlsn nodded. "You know, I have been figuring our problem, Mr. Keet."
"We sure have a lot of them."
"Not really," Ohlsn continued. He was in that stage of drunkenness where brilliant ideas occur, still sober enough so that some of them make some degree of sense. "The problem with us is we're betwixt and between."
"I don't track."
"Keep drinking. You will. We sit out there for three planet-years at a stretch, and what do we want more'n anything?"
"To get our butts back to home world."
"Shows why we aren't warrior-class. 'Cause that's dumb."
"You've been sluicing too heavy."
"Not a chance. Look at it. Out there, we got power, right? How many times you taped somebody 'cause you didn't like his looks? How many times you had some konfekta show up at your quarters wanting anything but to go out there with Genpop?"
"That's part of the job, Ohlsn."
"Sure it is. So look at the two of us. We're peasant-class, right? But when we're walkin' our post, for three years we do better 'n any warrior or warlord I know."
"This is a new assignment. Maybe it's gonna be a drakhheap."
"Come on, man. Think about it. The job's the same as we been doin' for years—how in hell could the two of us do any better?"
Keet considered. Part of his consideration was emptying the liter-size carafe of quill in front of them into their glasses.
That was what Sten and Alex had been waiting for. They were at a small table, about three meters behind the two men. Sten waved, and the previously overtipped waitress was beside them.
"Those two," Sten said. "Buy them another round." He slipped her more than enough credits, then looked at Kilgour.
"Och aye," Alex agreed to the unspoken question. "Those are our boys."
By that time, another carafe had been set in front of Keet and Ohlsn, and they'd quizzed the barmaid on who was buying. Keet turned and puzzled at them. Sten hoisted his own mug and smiled. Keet and Ohlsn exchanged glances, considered their diminished drinking fund, and came to the table. They both were highly unimpressed with Sten and Alex, who were glowing gently in their pimpsuits.
"Don't like to drink alk from somebody I don't know," Keet growled.
"We're the Campbell brothers," Alex smoothed.
"Yuh. And I know what you are."
"In our trade, it pays to advertise," Sten said. "You don't get the girls if you don't look like you can afford them."
"Got no use for pimps," Ohlsn said. "You ought to see what happens to 'em out there."
"An experience I plan to avoid," Sten said, refilling their mugs.
"Knock off the drakh," Keet said. "You know what we are. You ain't buying us 'cause you like our looks."
"Nope," Sten agreed. "We've got a problem."
"Bet you have."
"We thought maybe to take care of it before it happens."
"Lemme guess," Keet said. "One of your whores got staked, right? And she's headed out."
"This man's a mind reader," Sten mock-marveled to Alex.
"You know the rules, chien. Once they're gone, they don't come back. Unless they're stiff. So don't bother trying to buy us so that you can rescue your hole. Don't happen. Never has happened."
"We're no stupid," Alex said.
"So why the free?"
"Our friend, see," Sten began haltingly. "She's cuter'n leggings on a k'larf. But she ain't too swift. She went and got hooked up with somebody up there." Sten jerked his thumb upward, in the Heath-universal sign for any class above your own or the people you were dealing with.
"His third wife didn't like it. My friend ended up being took as a receiver."
"Hard hash," Keet said.
"She was a real moneymaker," Sten sighed. "And so I'd like to see she gets taken care of. She's the delicate type."
Keet and Ohlsn eyed each other.
"What are you looking for?"
"Somebody to take care of her. Don't want to see her end up on the wrong side."
"You want one of us to tuck her under a wing?"
"You have it."
"Don't make sense. Why do you care? She ain't never coming back."
"It's an investment. See, Din's got sisters growing up. And they're even cuter'n she is. So if I protect the family..."
Ohlsn grunted happily. From his point of view, he was in the bargaining chair.
"Fine, chien. We take care of her. But what's in it for us? Now? Here?"
Alex lifted a roll of Tahn credits from his pocket.
"Drakh," Keet said. "Should'a hit us at the beginning of the leave. That won't do us any good for the next three plan-years out there, now will it?"
"Drop an offer."
Keet lifted the ticket packet "This says we ship eight hours from now. Means if you're trying to buy us, you got to come up with something we can do 'tween now and then. And something that won't mess us. Which means don't even bother offerin' something in your own... organization?"
"Man drinks quill, he starts thinking about other things," Ohlsn steered them.
Sten widened his eyes. "Sorry, men. I guess I'm a bit slow. That's clottin' easy."
"Bro," Kilgour added. "We could set 'em urn wi' any piece a' fluff. But these gens sound like they're willin' to treat us on the square. What about Din's sisters?"