Binary Part 12

Atavists! In the center of the vast meeting chamber stood an odd group--two Atavists and several Kallathik. They were cl.u.s.tered on a raised rock platform, typically used for the formal speaking of one or more of the Kallathik leaders. Lamps lit the edges of the chamber, probably as a concession to the Atavists themselves, though Tarlain had never quite worked out how the Kallathik managed to light lamps, or why they would use them in the first place. He moved as close as he could to the opening into the chamber, still pressed tightly against the wall. He strained to make out what they were saying, leaning as far forward as he felt was safe without risking discovery. The darkness of the tunnel itself, and the dim lighting should protect him from direct observation, at least from the Atavists, but of the Kallathik, he was not so sure. And yet, what if that particular Kallathik that had spoken to him were to return? He glanced nervously back up the tunnel, but there was no sign of any movement.

The burr and buzz of a Kallathik voice drifted to him from the chamber, working at his attention. It was completely impossible to make out what it was saying, despite straining forward to hear. Another Kallathik spoke, and it was the same. Then one of the Atavists spoke. He was an older man, bearded, but that was all Tarlain could tell at this distance. The Atavist's robes effectively hid any further detail. This one's voice, he could hear, though not all of the words. The man's speech was slow and deliberate.

"We are close, my Kallathik friend. Signs of the instability are ... sweeps down on us in the same way Storm Season grows with every day."

One of the Kallathik said something and the other Atavist nodded slowly in response. The other Atavist looked younger. The robes he wore were paler, his beard dark. He wasn't quite as tall as the one who had spoken. Tarlain got the impression that the older man was in control of the situation, the second Atavist subordinate. The sounds of a Kallathik voice again, and then the older man spoke.

"If the Prophet wills..."

Tarlain strained forward, trying in vain to decipher the Kallathik voice that followed. Nothing. This was next to useless. He ground his jaw in frustration. What were the Atavists doing here anyway? That was the big question. His caution had been worth it.

The older man was speaking now. "We have positioned our family in places that we can take advantage...as soon as the Prophet guides us." The buzz of a Kallathik voice, and he nodded, then continued. "No. You are right. We will be close enough to tell the signs. We have been close enough to tell the signs ... Seasons now." The older Atavist spread his hands. "They leave us to get on with our life. We are of no concern to them."

Another interruption, this time from another quarter, and the second Atavist answered. His voice was less deliberate, less controlled. He was clearly nervous in the Kallathik presence.

"Of course the trade is important. We understand your needs."

Tarlain frowned. The words made sense, but what they were talking about eluded him. Trade? What trade? He knew that the Atavists and the Kallathik had dealings from time to time, but like anything to do with the Atavist community, the details had more or less slipped right past his awareness, as it had slid quietly past the attention of most of the Guild community.

The older Atavist was speaking again. "When we are ready, we will pa.s.s word ... Yes, of course. They have no idea of ... numbers. And when they are struggling because everything they rely upon is no longer there, then, with the Prophet's guidance, we can step in ... finally cleanse the world of their evils for good."

A Kallathik who had been standing toward the rear of the group loomed forward suddenly, and the Atavists stepped back reflexively. Tarlain would have done the same. The movement had been so quick. It buzzed something, and the older Atavist, seeming to have regained his composure stepped forward again, moving close to the creature to say something lost to Tarlain, because now he was facing in the opposite direction. The creature's size dwarfed him.

After a few more moments of incomprehensible conversation, they seemed to have reached some agreement, because both Atavists stepped back, clasped their hands in front of themselves and together, inclined their heads. They turned, and with another Kallathik accompanying them, headed for a darkened entrance on the other side of the chamber. The remaining Kallathik cl.u.s.tered around each other on the central platform in a huddle, apparently discussing whatever it was that had just pa.s.sed between them and their Atavist visitors.

Tarlain had seen enough for the moment. He started to withdraw back into the tunnel, sticking close to the wall and keeping one eye on the group a.s.sembled in the central chamber. He took one step back, two, and then...a large hand gripped his shoulder from behind. No, it wasn't a hand; it was harder, larger, more like a huge pincer. Tarlain felt his stomach drop. He turned slowly, swallowing, to look up into a broad Kallathik face, emotionless sets of eyes peering down at him from above. The Kallathik tilted its head to one side, its grip upon Tarlain's shoulder constant.

"This place," it said.

"But I -- "

The Kallathik looked up and peered into the chamber, before looking back down at Tarlain. It held the gaze for several moments, maintaining its restraining grip, as if processing something. It looked back into the chamber, and then froze. The grip on Tarlain's shoulder was starting to become uncomfortable. The Kallathik had ceased all movement. It might have been a statue standing there, and just as immovable. Tarlain swallowed again, then tried to slip out from beneath the creature's grasp. He was held tight. He could be stuck here like this for hours, and the pain in his shoulder was becoming unbearable.

"Please," he said. "Can you let me go? I am Tarlain Men Darnak, attached to the Guild of Welfare. I think you have made a mistake."

This, at least, invoked some reaction, for the Kallathik swiveled its head to peer back down at him.

"Welfare," it said.

"Yes, Tarlain Men Darnak. You know who I am. Guild of Welfare."

"Welfare," said the Kallathik again.

Tarlain sighed. Sometimes dealing with the Kallathik was close to impossible. "Yes," he repeated. "Tarlain Men Darnak."

There was another pause, an extended scrutiny, and then, without uttering another sound, the Kallathik released its grip on his shoulder, shuffled past him, and headed into the chamber, leaving him standing where he was as if he simply didn't exist.

Perhaps it had been a mistake telling the Kallathik who he was. It had obviously thought him a member of the Atavist party. He grimaced. All the same, it had produced the desired effect. Not wanting to push the matter any further, Tarlain slipped back up the corridor and away. Suddenly, he had a great deal to think about. A great deal indeed.

Fifteen.

In the end, Sandon decided to give Bortruz a wide berth. There was nothing to be gained from attracting the attention a strange Atavist wandering around the town looking for Princ.i.p.al Men Darnak might warrant. That was the sort of thing people were bound to talk about despite the start of Storm Season. News of the changes in the Princ.i.p.ate should have filtered down through the populace by now. The Princ.i.p.al's effective abdication would be on everybody's lips. He could hear the sorts of questions now. What were the implications? The older Men Darnak boy -- did he really have the makings of a Princ.i.p.al? And what of the Guilds? What did it all mean? For a mining town such as Bortruz, all these things would have significance. Any place with its major activities centered on the concerns of any of the greater Guilds would feel the impact of any such significant change within the Princ.i.p.ate -- far more than any of the larger towns or cities that diversified their industrial base. No, Sandon wanted to find Men Darnak, but he wanted to do it without attracting notice.

The padder suddenly lifted its tail and gave a loud flatulent burst, followed by a satisfied grumble. Sandon screwed up his face and waved his hand in front of his nose. The animals really were unpleasant creatures, but at least it was better than having to walk, marginally better. He felt like he'd lost all of the feeling in his rear end over the past couple of days, and he wondered whether he'd ever walk properly again. As if to emphasize the thought, the padder stumbled, slamming its bony back into Sandon's rear for what seemed like the hundredth time. He gritted his teeth and growled deep in his throat. Cursed animals. Cursed Storm Season. That they were always reduced to this just wasn't right. He was reminded of the skeleton hulk they'd seen on the way here. The Prophet had played a cruel joke, stripping them of so much of their knowledge and technology on the way down to what had promised to be a potential paradise. Vast tracts of knowledge had been lost with the transport s.h.i.+ps that hadn't made it. One of these days, the Guild of Technologists might finally come up with a real solution to the transport problems they faced in the midst of Storm Season, and for Sandon, that time just couldn't come soon enough.

Avoiding Bortruz had brought with it a new set of problems. He should have made the connection as soon as Manais had mentioned it. Ahead of him lay the Bodrum River, its vast flow growing as it made its way across the plains down from the Yarik escarpment, fed by various tributaries and streams along its length. Bortruz itself used the river to good advantage, for in the depths of Storm Season, when travel of all forms proved more hazardous, the waterway provided another means of carrying produce across the face of the land. Long, flat ore boats plied its way, heading downstream to Darthan and other industrial centers, to return later bearing goods and supplies from the manufacturing complexes further downriver.

A network of man-made ca.n.a.ls crossed Bortruz, allowing easy access for the transportation wagons. Across these ca.n.a.ls, and across the Bodrum River itself were flexible bridges, built to withstand the land's instability, but easily reconstructed should they be damaged. Ahead of him, the river provided no such crossing, and with its body swollen by storm water, there was no way Sandon would be able to cross. If there were any ford ahead of him, it would be unusable now. He sighed and turned the padder around, heading it back in the direction of Bortruz.

Another couple of hours and the ramshackle collection of buildings that was the town of Bortruz grew ahead of him. He set his lips in a thin line. There was nothing else for it. He'd have to brazen his way through. He flexed his shoulders, feeling the stiffness of his arms and back, the reward for having spent most of the day astride the cursed animal beneath him. At least he'd have an excuse to get on his own feet again.

As he drew closer to the towns.h.i.+p, the path grew worse, not better. Deep ruts marred the surface, and with the consistent downpours, these had turned to mud. At least it wasn't raining. Sandon cast a glance upward, but the cloud cover looked unthreatening, and he looked back to concentrate on the path ahead. He tried as well as he could to steer the padder around the deeper pools and muddiest looking ground. He'd hate to come off the beast and land in that mess. Garbed as he was, he was enough of a sight, without being covered in mud as well. He didn't need to be taken for one of those wandering madmen that the Atavist community sometimes produced. Despite his best efforts, the cantankerous animal insisted on choosing its own path, and it sloshed through puddles, or squelched through muddy tracks regardless. Eventually he just gave up and let the beast have its head.

The first few buildings he pa.s.sed were rudely cobbled wooden affairs, put together from planks of the prized ajura wood. Sandon shook his head at the evident waste. Still, he supposed they kept out the weather. Bortruz obviously benefited from its place within the trading chain. This close to a major Kallathik hive, plenty of the wood would pa.s.s through here. Besides, they probably used it for struts and beams within the mines as well. Here, at the outskirts, the town was quiet. Further in, he'd be sure to encounter local residents or miners returning from their daily work. It was getting late in the day, and the current s.h.i.+ft would have to be nearing its end. He hadn't even thought about what he was going to do for the night, and that presented a whole new set of problems. He'd been through Bortruz a couple of times in the past, but paid it scant attention. He thought he remembered a bar and a store somewhere near the center of the town, but there were only vague impressions to drag up from his memory. He did recall, however, that Bortruz was not the most peaceful place in the world.

He crossed one intersection, then another. The buildings grew more solid, but it was hardly ordered. A few more cross streets, and he should be nearing the town's center. At last, he pa.s.sed a group of miners, trudging wearily back from their day's work. Their grime-streaked faces were written with fatigue. Sandon held his breath, waiting for a reaction, but their gazes slid tiredly past or simply through him. They barely glanced up as he pa.s.sed. Good. He let out the breath, and headed on by. The Atavist was nearly invisible in the world. Lower than the lowest, they were truly virtually beneath notice. It was just as he had hoped.

The smell of baking food wafted to him from one of the pa.s.sing houses, and his mouth started watering. He was hungry, but for the moment, he preferred to hang on to the supplies that Manais had so kindly given him. He didn't know how long he'd have to travel before reaching his goal and the food might be precious. He could always scavenge from surrounding farmlands, but it was hardly proper food. The seasonal crops tended to be mainly root vegetables, reasonably tasteless and unpalatable when raw. Not his preferred method of keeping his belly full at all. Thoughts of food put him in mind of the communal meals in the Atavist camp -- vast spreads of wholesome home-cooked produce--and the thought set his mouth watering again.

He pa.s.sed two more groups of miners, and one or two townsfolk going about their business. They all ignored or simply failed to register his presence. Eventually, he drew into the center of Bortruz proper. He reined in the padder, which grumbled in response, and looked around the central square. More official-looking buildings ringed the open, muddy expanse. On the opposite side lay the official Guild and Princ.i.p.ate office with its wide balcony and steps. Over to the left sat the bar that he remembered, and directly opposite, the main store where he could have picked up more provisions had he anything to pay for them. He fingered his beard looking from side to opposite side of the square and tried to decide his next step. One thing was sure -- here for the first time, he would have to start using his new name. Just as well to get into the habit now.

He pulled on the reins and steered the padder into a small side street that led back behind the row of buildings containing the bar, his most likely prospect for the moment. He certainly wouldn't be using the front entrance dressed as he was. The bar would likely give him his best source of information. If he could find a way to be inside, unnoticed, keeping his ears open, he might have a chance of picking up something useful. Sandon was good at listening without being seen; he'd had years of practice.

He eased his animal up the rear alleyway, wrinkling his nose at the waft of rotting garbage stirred up by the padder's feet. He found the back of the bar without any trouble. Large bins sat outside the rear door, uncovered, with piles of damp refuse trailing out of their tops. He drew the padder to a stop and looked around in vain for a patch of clear ground. Even mud would be better than the unidentifiable mounds of stuff strewn along the alleyway. Barely containing his distaste, he slid down and landed ankle deep in the putrescent mess. He found a place to cinch the padder's reins, and then stepped gingerly toward the bar's rear door, lifting his feet as high as he could with each step. Trying not to breathe through his nose, he crossed the intervening s.p.a.ce. Bortruz. What a town.

Sandon hesitated a few moments outside the door. He had no idea how they would react. Still, there was nothing else for it. He had practiced the speech in his head several times. Lifting a hand, he gave a solid knock and waited. The sounds of shuffling came from inside, and then faded again. His hand still poised, Sandon knocked on the hard wooden door again. This time, there were steps, the sound of a bolt being drawn, and the door creaked slowly open. A big, square, stubbled face peered out.

"What is it?" said a gruff voice. Then a pause as the owner of the voice registered surprise, disbelief and then suspicion. The door opened wider, revealing a beefy man dressed in an ap.r.o.n, his hand reaching up to scratch the back of his head.

There was a long pause, then the man spoke again. "What do you want?"

"I am Tchardo," said Sandon. "I am seeking any honest work you might have. I can clean. I can carry. I can help with whatever you need. All I ask is some food, a place to sleep, perhaps enough to purchase some feed for my animal. I would be grateful of anything you can provide, if the Prophet wills it."

Confusion flitted across the man's face, and then he called back over his shoulder. "Hey, Milana. Come and look at what we've got here."

A moment later, and a short stocky woman with ruddy cheeks, also wearing an ap.r.o.n, poked her head around the man's broad frame.

"Would you believe it?" said the man. "It's an Atavist. Says he's looking for work."

"I can see what he is, Benjo. What's he asking for?"

The woman, Milana, seemed less fl.u.s.tered by his appearance than her companion, so Sandon addressed the next to her. "I can clean. I can carry. Any help you need. I am Tchardo."

"Says he wants a place to sleep, some food, maybe a little credit."

"Let him speak," she said.

"As he has said, Sister. That is all I want."

"I thought you people wanted nothing to do with honest folk like us," said Benjo. "What do you think, Milana?"

"Well..." she said. "I never knew any harm to come from their type, and from what I've seen, they work hard enough. It's not as if we couldn't use the help. How's it different from the other workers who come through here?"

The man called Benjo grunted. There was a pause.

"It's up to you," said Milana.

Benjo pursed his lips and scratched at one cheek. "I guess... yeah, why not. It's not as if it's going to cost us much. Here, but we'll have to find you something to wear. We can't have you getting around the bar in that outfit. You'll put the customers off. You never know, in that stuff, one of them might just take a disliking to you. We've had more than enough of your sort pa.s.sing through here in the last couple of weeks. S'pose I really shouldn't be surprised to see you."

It was like a stopper had been pulled from Benjo's mouth. The words flowed out one after the other.

"Tchardo, you said your name was, right? All right, come with me." He beckoned Sandon inside. "I think I might have some old trousers and a s.h.i.+rt around here somewhere. They might be a little loose on you, but once you've got the ap.r.o.n tied on, n.o.body'll know the difference right? So, what brings you to Bortruz, Tchardo? You just pa.s.sing through? Good idea trying to find somewhere to hole up. The storms are getting pretty bad this Season aren't they?"

Sandon nodded mutely and stood looking about the spa.r.s.ely equipped kitchen. Benjo rummaged around in a storeroom and tossed some old clothes out to him, followed by an ap.r.o.n. He appeared moments later bearing a bucket, some old greasy rags and a broom.

"We're not busy yet. Won't be for another couple of hours, but until then, you can busy yourself with these. When the customers come in, you can help by collecting empty mugs and jugs. Bring them back here and wash them, then bring them out to the bar. After s.h.i.+ft, things get pretty busy in here, so you'll want to be quick about it. And no matter what Milana says, I don't know you from the Prophet. So, don't go thinking of helping yourself to anything along the way. I'll know."

Sandon suddenly realized he had a problem. Alise's paste had worked on his face, hands and his arms. He'd also applied it to his neck, feet and lower legs, but beneath the robe he was as pale as the day he'd been born.

Benjo stood in the middle of the kitchen, his fists on his hips, watching. "Well, what are you waiting for?"

Sandon cleared his throat, then seeing Benjo was not going to give him any privacy, he stepped into the small storeroom and behind the wall. Benjo gave a loud guffaw from where he stood. "All right then," he said. "You be like that."

Sure that he couldn't be seen, Sandon quickly slipped off the robe and clambered into the old clothes and then stepped out from concealment, wrapping the ap.r.o.n around himself. He held the robe, looking for somewhere he could hang it.

"No, no," said Benjo. "Give that here." He took the proffered robe, and holding it at arm's length in one hand, deposited it unceremoniously in the storeroom. Sandon still had been given barely a chance to get a word out.

"But what about my padder?" he asked.

"You've got it out the back there?"

Sandon nodded.

"Oh, it'll be fine. You can go out and check on it every once and a while if you want, but I don't think it'll go anywhere. Plenty for it to eat out there." Benjo gave a great belly laugh, then immediately sobered. "Take these and sweep the bar. Wipe down the tables, and when you're done there, we'll see about getting you something to eat before the crowd starts. Not much else to do in Bortruz, see? Everybody ends up at my place some time or other."

Sandon could easily imagine that was the case. And if so, Benjo had every reason to be jovial and full of his own importance. Sandon reached for the rag and broom and headed out into the bar proper, with Benjo still standing there, his fists on his hips watching him. Sandon caught him shaking his head as he left, muttering something to himself. "Strange times we're living in. Strange times indeed," Sandon thought it sounded like.

As he entered the bar, Milana looked up at him from behind the counter, pursed her lips, favored him with an a.s.sessing look, then nodded and gave him a smile. He returned it easily. If it wasn't for her, he might not be standing here at all.

The bar proper was a broad unpart.i.tioned room. The bar itself, polished wood, stretched along one side and Milan stood propped at one end behind it. The only other thing that broke up the broad expanse of floor was a haphazard cl.u.s.ter of tables, both high and low. Stools sat around the high ones, and rough wooden chairs around the lower ones. Windows ran along the front of the room, currently shuttered, and the little light that remained struggled through the cracks. Broad double doors sat closed at the center. Sandon grunted to himself, tossed the cloth on one of the higher tables, then set to with the broom. Who would have thought it? Sandon Yl Aris reduced to wearing someone else's old clothes and wielding an old broom in a miner's bar. He smiled to himself. It was a far cry from life in the Princ.i.p.ate and the Guild rooms, but then a lot had happened to change the way he viewed things over the past few weeks.

Milana stood watching him for a while, then pushed herself from the bar and started lighting lamps and setting them on shelves in the room's corners. She had obviously caught his smile, because she stopped in the middle of what she was doing and turned to face him.

"Tchardo," she said. "I have the name right?" When he nodded, not interrupting his progress across the dirty wood-stripped floor, she continued. "I don't know anything about you, and dressed like that, you could almost be a normal person, except for the beard of course, and your hair." She peered closer. "And that scar across your nose, but I just want you to know, we're simple people here and we don't want any trouble."

He stopped what he was doing and leant on the broom, meeting her gaze. "I don't mean any trouble, Milana," he said quietly, genuinely.

She nodded at that, then turned back to busy herself with lighting the rest of the lamps. Sandon went back to sweeping, once again struck by how much he had been removed from so much that went on in the world. Milana finished with the last of the lamps and returned to her position behind the bar. She was joined a few moments later by Benjo, who giving an appraising look at the room and at Sandon's progress, nodded to himself. Within moments, he was in yet another conversation with Milana, who did little more than nod or make little sounds of agreement in response to the constant torrent of words.

As soon as he had finished sweeping, Sandon grabbed the old rag and started polis.h.i.+ng the tabletops, moving from one to the other unhurriedly, all the time thinking about what he was doing here. Why had he come with the Atavist family in the first place? All right, in a way it made sense. The logical thing would have been to go straight to Men Darnak's private estates, but he couldn't have gone there by himself, and nothing would have been stranger than a lone Atavist turning up there. Here, reasonably close to an Atavist community, near to the mines, as Tchardo, he was at least in context. It was all about context, after all. An Atavist in the right setting was less likely to be recognized as something else. It still left the problem of the Princ.i.p.al's movements. He might just be relying on sheer luck that Men Darnak would be anywhere near the mines, but knowing him, knowing his need to insert himself into every problem personally, Sandon believed he had a fair chance that sooner or later, the Princ.i.p.al and his retinue would be paying a visit to the area. The other thing was Tarlain. Despite the banishment, despite the hot burst of anger that had sent the youngest son scurrying away, Sandon knew that Leannis Men Darnak cared for his children. He would have a double reason for visiting the area. The Kallathik disturbances, their impact on local mining activities and Tarlain's own apparent involvement with their cause would lead Men Darnak to have reasonable suspicion that his son might be somewhere nearby. The Kallathik hive not too far from Bortruz would be a logical choice for the boy to seek refuge, especially if he was committed to going ahead with his mysterious plans.

No, Sandon was comfortable with his reasoning; now all he had to do was find the opportunity. It might mean hanging around for a few days, but any news of a visit by the Princ.i.p.al would quickly pa.s.s through a town this small. He could keep an eye on the official building across the way quite easily from here. It would be the most likely place for Men Darnak to show up, if he made it as far as Bortruz. And if not, then Sandon would just find some other way to track him down.

"Tchardo, bring me some mugs from the back."

Benjo's call snapped him out of his thoughts. He'd been absent-mindedly concentrating on the stained cloth in his hand and the table surfaces beneath it and had totally missed the arrival of several locals. Already they sat around tables or cl.u.s.tered at one end of the bar, deep earthenware mugs or jugs propped in front of them. He quickly shoved the rag into his back pocket and headed out to the kitchen. The new arrivals had been so quiet. They were huddled in conversation, subdued. Not what he'd expect from a bar at all, but Storm Season did that to you. It dragged on the consciousness, taking you down and within yourself, away from the darkness and gloom -- away from the constant threat of what the weather or land might throw at you next. Perhaps the mood would pick up later.

He brought back a tray of mugs and started stacking them behind the bar, casually attempting to pick up as much of the conversation as he could. For the most part, these men would be supervisors or gang chiefs, overseeing work crews of the Kallathik miners. They'd have work to do themselves, but they should provide a good measure of the Kallathik mood as well. There was talk of water level in the mines, of trying to keep the pumps working to capacity. There was more than one pa.s.sing reference to an Atavist presence in the area, and Benjo glanced at him meaningfully. Sandon pretended not to notice. All of it seemed the usual stuff a group of mine workers might talk about. Nowhere was there any mention of Men Darnak or his men. Then someone said something that caught his attention.

"Too much of that d.a.m.n sleep-stand thing they do. Doesn't seem to matter when. Right in the middle of something, and you've got another b.l.o.o.d.y statue. You know what I'm saying?"

Sandon wiped diligently at the bar top.

Another spoke this time. "Sure, most of the time you expect one or two of them. But whole groups over the past couple of days."

"You've been getting it too?"

"Yeah. d.a.m.ned right I have. Doesn't matter what you do. You yell at them, you ask them, try and prod them into action. Doesn't matter. They just stand there like a group of trees. I've had whole crews go at the same time. Why, just this morning..."

Sandon edged away. That was interesting. So, it seemed like there really was something going on with the Kallathik.

Noise levels were starting to pick up now as the bar filled and the patrons consumed more ale and wine. He made the rounds more frequently, collecting the empties and ferrying them back to the kitchen to wash and stack on new trays. As he pa.s.sed, he managed to pick up snippets of conversation, but nothing further that gave him any hope.

By the time the last customer had wandered unsteadily from the bar, Sandon was tired. He'd spent the entire night on his feet running back and forth, and had found out little more than he'd started with. He wiped his hands on the cloth from his back pocket and stood staring at the now-empty bar. Benjo came up beside him and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Not a bad night's work, Tchardo," he said. "Help me clear away the last of these and put them away, and then you can bed down in the kitchen."

Sandon nodded without saying anything. He would be grateful for the stove back there, radiating heat throughout the small back room. During the busiest part of the evening, it had left him sweating, but during the still of the early morning, it would get cold. Any remaining warmth would help stave off the chill, safe and secure and out of the weather. No, he'd done well. For now, at least, fortune was in his favor.

It took nearly a week for Sandon to find what he wanted. During all that time, he worked for Benjo and Milana, growing to like the couple more and more, for couple they were. They were simple, good-natured folk with a direct, open att.i.tude to life, no intrigues, no complicated schemes. Sandon had almost forgotten during his years in the Princ.i.p.ate that such people existed, but the past couple of weeks, first the Atavists, and then this pair, had reminded him that not everyone had a hidden agenda. It was a refres.h.i.+ng change to not be constantly on his guard about what was said. He'd finally been forced to stable his padder on the outskirts of town, and Benjo had readily supplied him the credits to do so. He had offered more, but Sandon had refused. Benjo likely did fairly well out of his bar, but he'd been good to Sandon, and whether the bar owner could afford it or not, Sandon had no desire to take advantage. Besides, Benjo was serving him in other ways that he could hardly be aware of.

The first indication of what he was seeking came as a burst of activity over at the official offices. A solitary man arrived on a padder, bounded up the stairs and disappeared inside. Moments later, he had reappeared and ridden quickly out of town. The mere existence of the office building here in this sleepy outpost was probably more lip-service to the Guild hierarchy than anything else, and having any sort of visitor, messenger or otherwise, had to be an event in itself. Sandon had just caught the arrival out of the corner of his eye, but as soon as he saw the man, he knew his patience had been worthwhile. The messenger had been wearing the Men Darnak colors. He strained at the window, watching to see what happened. Moments after the messenger had left, two functionaries burst from the front doors and headed rapidly down the front steps. Sandon was out the bar door in a moment, moving to intercept one of them. As he approached, he recognized the man as one of the bar's regular evening visitors.

As casually as he could, he called out. "h.e.l.lo there. What's going on?"

The man looked over and clearly recognized Sandon. "Can't stop," he said. "Men Darnak's in the area. Asking all sorts of questions."