Sten next thought of ordering Admiral Mason to his quarters in hopes of provoking an off-the-record punchup but settled instead for a loud feral growl, aimed out the sealed window at the slamming rain from the storm that had settled in over Rurik.
There was a chortle.
And a giggle.
Sten did not turn.
"An' dinnae y' hae pity ae th' lad," Alex's voice crooned. "Discoverin't he's th' wee one whae hae Imperial custody ae an entire cluster ae Campbells?"
"And this," Cind said, her voice equally sincere, "is the brave Sten. The great warrior I grew up worshiping. The man, legend had it, that led all of the beings in the Lupus Cluster to peace and plentitude, never losing the smile on his lips or the song in his heart."
Sten still did not turn.
"Is there one clottin' being in this whole clottin' cluster who isn't out to clottin' murder every other clottin' being?" he demanded. "Is there clottin' anybody, from these pampered apparatchik fools who think they're innalekchuls and students to those clots running around with their clotting private armies to these clotting imbeciles who're trying to play button, button, who's going to wear the clotting throne to this clotting imbecile Iskra that our Eternal Clotting-'' He broke off, found out that his lungs were pumped airless, inhaled, then went on, a bit more carefully, considering Cind's presence: "-that we're supposed to hand the clotting keys to the clotting kingdom to, is there anybody who has one lousy cc of the milk of human kindness hidden somewhere about his/her/whoever's person?''
"Tsk," Alex mourned. "Th' clottin' language. In frae of a clottin' laird an' all."
"Somebody pour me a drink."
"Not yet, skipper. P'raps y' dinnae want alk runnin' aroun' y'r system."
Sten finally turned around. Both Cind and Kilgour were wearing Jochi civilian clothes. Poor-people-type civilian clothes. Dark colored.
They had Jochi cloaks over their arms.
Even more interesting, both of them were wearing combat vests. Each vest held a small com link, a cut-barreled, collapsing-stock willygun in an underarm sling, two spare magazines of the ultra-lethal AM2 rounds, and a sheathed combat knife. The vests would be invisible under the cloaks.
Even better, Kilgour had a bulky parcel under one arm, a parcel that was wrapped in a third cloak.
"Atween th' dark an' th' twilight
Whae th' night's beginnin t't' glower,
Com't a pause in thae day's occupations.
Thae's know't ae th' Thuggee's Hour."
As he recited, Alex unrolled the parcel, revealing it was, as Sten had hoped, a set of indigene civilian clothes, a weapons-equipped combat vest, and a pair of phototropic coveralls.
Kilgour continued:
"Ah ken i' th' close below me Th' clatter ae tippie-toed feet
Th' thunk ae a dagger thae's buried An' deathrattles soft an' sweet."
"You two clowns are going out and play Sally-Down-the-Alley spook games, and leave me here with the paperwork."
"A noble ambassador," Cind said, "can't be out in the cold and wet dealing with common turncoats."
"You are right. I've got to keep track of my new station. Kilgour, did you remember my kukri?'' Feeling slightly more gleeful than he had in some time, Sten doffed his ambassadorial tunic.
"Yll be wantin' th' Mantis cammies underneath, boss. I' th' event we're blown."
"What do you have?"
"Y ken one ae the Emp's complaints, or so y' relayed to me, wae that the Khaqan wae black-marketin' the AM2. Sellin' it out-system t' pay f'r his edifice complex, aye?"
"So?"
"Assumin't thae villainy ne'er changes, the villains mere look f'r new bosses, Ah had th' notion it might be braw an' productive t' find a wee bit aboot how thae black-market conduit work't."
"Very good. Very clottin' good," Sten approved. "At least somebody around here's thinking. Lord knows it isn't me. So who's this lovable citizen who suddenly wants to sell his cluster's leadership down the pike?"
Alex explained. The Mercury Corps station chief for the Altaic Cluster, a relatively junior and inexperienced operative named Hynds, holding the usual cover slot of cultural attachй, had put one of his better Jochi agents in motion.
How good, Sten wanted to know. Kilgour shrugged.
"Our wee spook thinkit A Level. But frae his reports, an' th' one debriefing I sat in on, th' agent's nae better'n B. Howe'er, we're dealin't, boss, wi' whae tools're on hand. Ah dinnae hae time yet t' be doin't m' walshingham.
" 'T any rate, Hynds' agent claim't he's got one ae th' schemin't smugglers who's doin't his nut frae gettin' cut out ae th' pie."
"Do you have any verification or any second source that this canary who wants to come in and sing is anything better than somebody who wants to pick up a few Imperial credits for a creative lie?''
Kilgour looked injured that Sten could suspect him of credulity, but continued his explanation.
The man they were supposed to meet claimed to have been the owner/captain of a small shipping line that had been used by the Khaqan to move AM2. Hynds' agent had obtained fiche of one of the line's ship logs and two lading fiche from the man.
"A course, th' cargo wae listed ae pears, plums, poppies, or some such, but th' destination wae in'trestin'. It went t' th' Honjo, who're ne'er backward t' buy AM2, wi'oot askin't too close whae th' home ae origin was."
"Thin," Sten evaluated.
"No drakh," Kilgour agreed. "Plus meetin' ae night. In ae t'r'ble part ae town. Wi' nae heavy backup allowed. Thae's why Ah hae guns. An Ah hae th' notion Cind might be a braw part ae th' discussion. An' y'self, assumin't y' still hae wind enow t' keep up."
"Let's go." Sten grinned. The prospect of a little action, even though it would almost certainly be meeting some lying sort in a back alley who'd try to sell them wolf tickets, was energizing.
"You realize, Captain Cind," he said, "that a certain Private Otho's going to make us cut our beards off just for general principle for excluding him from a situation that might include a bit of mayhem?"
Then he thought of something else. "Just how do we go? Suddenly remembering that I'm an ambassador and can't just go slithering stage right without someone noticing."
Cind looked smug. "While you've been out playing Diplomacy with the Bumf Brigade, I thought it might be appropriate to see how secure our bedroom is. And I would suspect the former ambassador of a slight taste for the strange."
Cind crossed to the light controls and forced one up-down toggle sideways. A panel hissed open.
"Ah," Sten said. "What's life without a secret passage?"
"Running from here past our bedroom," Cind explained. "Then down back along the wing the clericals and junior staffers are quartered in. It goes underground just next to where the kitchen is, I think, and then surfaces as part of the rear wall."
"Wi' peepyholes an' doors into th' maidservant's bed. Th' lad wae a romantic," Kilgour said.
"A pervert," Cind corrected.
"An' whae's th' difference?" Kilgour wondered. "A'ter you, skip. Cap'n, if y'll go next, Ah'll walk drag. Y dinnae hae t' worry, by th' bye, aboot bugs. Thae's no one knows aboot th' passage 'cept Cind an' myself."
Kilgour was very wrong...
The meet was almost four klicks from the embassy. The streets were nearly deserted except for an occasional gravsled moving very slowly through the blinding storm, and once or twice a being scurrying along on some no-doubt cursed errand.
Their route led them to and through Rurik's enormous public transport terminal. As they approached the terminal, Sten wondered why all transport terminals were situated in slums. Which came first? Or did transiency encourage transients?