“Harimanan saw you earlier today. He said you sat down as if you had never left. But you have not yet come into the Corner.”
“Everything that happens in the city is seen and heard in the Corner. I have only to wait and the Corner will come to me. What word do the Seven send?”
“Six of the Seven, at least. Denzel is in the wind. The Proctors wish to speak to him, but he does not wish to speak to them.”
“He is a man of few words.”
“One of those words concerns a shipment arriving in three days from Valency. Hizzoner, who governs wisely the Terran Corner of Valency, has noted several containers of drifting jewels, the sort from which moistened fingers may pull sweet music, are to be loaded and transshipped through Jehovah to Die Bold.”
“Die Bold,” says the scarred man.
“Yes, and Hizzoner says that among so many cartons, one or two may hardly be missed. Perhaps drizzle jewels, which precipitate in our own Arrat Mountains, cheap as glass here in the Tarako Sarai, but dearer on Die Bold and Friesing’s World, may insinuate themselves in their place.”
“Hardly to the loss of the Die Bolders,” says the scarred man, “but much to the gain of the Corner. What is required?”
“Not so much of a such. The jewels must walk with the gods, a few trifling documents must alter their appearance. A few records, hard and soft, must quiet the uneasiness that would otherwise disturb the peace of mind of others.”
“It is something to think on,” the scarred man tells him.
He thinks on it after Bikhram has gone. He is a man of some wealth now. The gratitude of the Kennel has been considerable, and once the parking stone jewelry becomes a regular item, the consortium on Dancing Vrouw will make him wealthier still.
He had stopped on High Tara on his way back, where he had tried to see Bridget ban, but had succeeded only in seeing Zorba de la Susa.
The Old Hound told him that Bridget ban and Méarana had already left for Dangchao Waypoint. But he had gifted him with a considerable fee, plus a bounty for the death of the one called Billy Chins. Donovan had accepted the fee, but for reasons he himself did not entirely understand, had declined the bounty. Zorba had told him that, the mission being accomplished, he no longer held his life as collateral against its failure. By then, it no longer seemed to matter to Donovan.
“You have but one more task in front of you,” the aged man had said; but he would not say what it was. “If you need instruction on it, it is not the task for you.” He had added only that failure this time would be its own punishment.
In three days, the Terrans of the Corner would highjack several containers of fabulous drifting jewels from Valency and substitute drizzle jewels from Jehovah, altering the invoices to suit. It was the sort of scramble that had once occupied his time. But he now sees very little point in it. It is not his newfound wealth that has changed him, although he does foresee a future highjacking in which he might divert the income from his parking stone imports from his own pocket into…his own pocket. There is an irony to that prospect that pleases him. If one is to steal, it is best to steal from those who deserve it.
On his left, seated at his table, sits a young girl in a chiton. She says nothing, but looks at him with head cocked and manages to shrug without moving a muscle.
In the end, the scarred man sighs and rises from his seat. Praisegod watches him go with sad bassett eyes.
Outside, the scarred man turns his footsteps to the Jehovah Spaceport and enters the Terminal building, where he finds the kiosk for the Hadley Lines. There, he notes that Jezebel Hadley will depart High Jehovah Orbit in two days, inbound to the Old Planets with stops at Die Bold, Old ‘Saken, and Abyalon, but with a flyby drop-off at Dangchao Waypoint and other byworlds. The ship’s name brings a smile to his face. An omen! He books a third-class ticket—he still has his pride—and arranges with the concierge to pick up his luggage from the Bar.
“Dangchao,” the concierge says. “Looking to simplify your life, eh?”
“Complicate it, I think. Maybe, I’ll herd Nolan’s Beasts.”
The concierge laughs at the mental image of the old, hook-chinned man astride a pony in the Out-in-back whirling a bola above his head while he chases after a maverick. But the scarred man does not laugh, and there is something in the not-laughing of the scarred man that smothers the laughter of others.
When he leaves the Terminal and turns onto Greaseline Street a shadow detaches itself from other shadows and falls into step beind him. How quickly wealth whispers its presence! But before he can act he feels against his spine the now familiar shape of a dazer muzzle.
“Watch out for the backflash on the umbra,” he says aloud.
“Soo, Doonoovan, my friend,” whispers a voice twenty years from his past. “It has been loong years between oos.”
He turns, and it is Ravn Olafsdottr: still slim, ebony-black, blond-haired. Her dazer’s aperture seems much wider than when seen from more benign angles.
“There is a struggle in the Lion’s Mouth,” she says in unaccented Confederal Manjrin. “The names that were never forgotten have been remembered. Your duty is to come with me.”
She plucks the Dangchao ticket from his hand and flicks it to the ground. “Coome along Doonoovan. Dooty is a bitch, is she noot?”