Chapter 1
DHOMHES
Maskra poured the tea, sat down opposite him, and said, “My nephew has been offered a job.”
Dhomhes moved his cup before she could fill it to the rim.
“Congratulations.”
“Don't congratulate him yet.”
“Should I congratulate the employer? Your nephew is very strong.”
“And easily led.”
“Not by me. I've tried.”
Her mouth twitched, but she pushed a scrap of paper across the table. He covered it with his hand before a server passed their booth carrying a stack of dishes.
The tea house was busy. Market workers came in before their shifts, bringing damp air and the smell of fried food through the open doorway. From the front tables, someone complained loudly about the extra guards at the shuttle yards.
Dhomhes waited until the server had gone.
“What kind of job?”
“The same kind he already does. Loading freight. Except this one pays double.”
“Generous.”
“For remembering which ships belong to Coalition families. Who comes and goes. Whether the guards check every container.”
He unfolded the scrap. A comm code, written in a cramped hand.
“Did he take the money?”
“He refused, of course.”
Dhomhes looked up.
Maskra looked back at him.
“Of course,” he said.
“But he took the code first.” She reached for the pot. “He has a clever aunt.”
This time, Dhomhes let her fill his cup.
“He does. Did he recognize the male?”
“No. Clean clothes. Bad boots.”
“Bad how?”
“New. No wear on them, and he claimed he'd just come off a freight run.”
Dhomhes smiled. “Your nephew noticed that?”
“Eventually.”
“Where can I find him?”
“You can't. Not at work, with everyone watching. He has to keep loading those ships after you've gone back to your fine rooms.”
“Then he can visit you for a meal. I might happen to be here.”
“You can happen to pay for it.”
“That sounds fair.”
She settled back, some of the tightness leaving her face.
He could remember when she had come to the refineries to collect her husband's final pay. She had worn good shoes then too, stiff new ones for the visit to the Protector. Ruthak had found her a chair before she could ask.
Dhomhes tucked the paper away.
“If the male contacts him again, have him tell me. He isn't to arrange a meeting or go looking for anyone.”
“I've told him.”
“Tell him twice.”
“I've told him six times.”
“Then I stand corrected.”
She finally smiled. He drank the tea before it could get any stronger.
By the time he returned to his rooms, he had two dinner invitations, a message from Ruthak asking when he intended to answer the previous one, and nothing useful on the comm code. He declined the dinners and promised his father a visit once the Galactic Alliance arrival was settled.
The code led to a short-term account, funded through a freight agency that had ceased trading. He sent it to a contact who owed him a favor and asked for the payment source. On a separate display he pulled up the two other reports of strangers buying travel information.
One of the reports asked specifically about the Galactic Alliance vessel. He enlarged it.
Tomorrow Khalzin would invite off-world females to become Kantenan mates. The outraged objections had included a family genealogy marked in red; Khalzin had replied with a correction to the genealogy. Dhomhes wished he had been there for that.
Anonymous buyers asking when the ship would land and how many guards would be nearby were harder to laugh at.
His comm flashed.
The freight broker. Finally.
“Rhysgarrds,” Dhomhes said when the broker's image appeared. “You mentioned the name on the docks.”
The man stopped fidgeting. “I don't work for them.”
“But someone may be buying access to a Kantenan landing site. Tell me what you know.”
It took patience and the reminder of a favor Dhomhes would have preferred to save. In the end he received a story about a warehouse fire on Kerde. A supplier had lost cargo after refusing to renegotiate a debt. The inquiry had blamed a fuel fault.
“Clean job,” the broker said. “Sealed the charges. Flushed what was left. You wouldn't find anything unless you knew what to look for.”
“You saw it?”
“I saw what was left of the building.”
“Who told you how it was done?”
“People talk.”
“Not to me, apparently.”
“I have to go.”
“Wait.”
The image disappeared.
Dhomhes sat back. He could call again. The broker would ignore him, and by morning someone else would know what Dhomhes had been asking.
He saved the conversation instead.
A smuggler had described a similar method: a smaller charge, then a larger one after the first failure. Neither source could name the perpetrator.
Still, he sent the relevant information to the arrival security commander. Check the fuel connections. Recheck access below the platform. Report any disturbance to the repulsor housings.
Then he called Khalzin.
His friend answered with a fastening tool in one hand.
“What?”
“Are you building yourself a mate?”
Khalzin glanced down. “The clasp on my robes.”
“Terrible time to discover you need a female to dress you.”
“Dhomhes.”
He told him about the questions at the freight yards. When he finished, Khalzin had put the tool down.
“Do we delay?”
“I don't have a specific threat against tomorrow. I have people buying information they shouldn't need. I've sent everything relevant to security.”
“That's not an answer.”
“No. It isn't.”
Khalzin rubbed his forehead. “The vessel is already approaching the system. There are guards assigned to every entrance, and the platform has been inspected twice.”
“I've asked for another check.”
“Tell me what they find.”
“I will.”
For once, neither of them had a joke ready. Khalzin ended the call, and Dhomhes was left with the low hum of his displays.
He brought up the arrival roster. Crew, staff, volunteers. Most of the files were depressingly thin. People who had little to leave behind and considerable hope for what might be waiting here.
One restricted notice had been added to the security copy. A volunteer traveling under a constructed identity. Sereya. The reconstruction followed the deaths of a political family; the notice confirmed a protective arrangement without naming the family or the killers.
He could ask for more. His network would find someone willing to provide it.
But a frightened woman looking for distance was hardly unusual on this list. He restricted access to the notice and moved on to the crew.
Hours later, the inspection reports arrived. No evidence of interference. The backup systems had passed their tests.
He read the reports again, sent them to Khalzin, and went to bed.
Stron was already at the platform when Dhomhes arrived, standing under the awning in formal robes that looked uncomfortable enough to satisfy the Coalition.
“You look pleased to be here,” Dhomhes said.
“I've spoken to Patrie.”
“Ah. And she wished you well?”
“She hopes I fall into a shaft.”
“Perhaps avoid the edge.”
Stron gave him a flat look. Dhomhes smiled and went to find the security commander.
The man had the inspection results waiting. Dhomhes checked the names against the previous night's duty roster, then asked to see the maintenance access points. The commander accompanied him, patiently at first and less patiently by the second circuit.
At the north hatch, Dhomhes stopped.
Fresh scrapes marked the lock housing.
“This was opened?”
“During the inspection.”
The commander showed him the access record. Correct time. Correct crew. Dhomhes looked through the open hatch at the service passage beneath, where an engineer was still gathering tools.
“And the supports?”
“All checked, Gol-Vett.”
He would have liked to crawl through and check them himself. It would have taken hours, and he knew enough about these systems to recognize a problem, not enough to certify one safe.
The engineer climbed out, saluted, and secured the hatch.
Dhomhes went back to Stron.
“Satisfied?” his friend asked.
“Rarely.”
“You should try it.”
Fiviel joined them with a quiet grinding from his mechanical knee. He adjusted his robes, scowled at the fabric, and looked toward the ship's expected approach.
“How long?”
“Before the ship, or before you tear those off?” Dhomhes asked.
“I can do both at once.”
They had spent enough mornings beating each other around a training floor that ceremonial clothes felt faintly ridiculous.
Dhomhes knew how Fiviel favored his leg after a hard bout, which shoulder Stron dropped before a feint.
Khalzin hoped to leave with a mate. Dhomhes would be content to get through the ceremony without a diplomatic incident.
Fiviel's mouth twitched. “Are you going to talk like this all day?”
“Only if I'm encouraged.”
“No one encourages you.”
“And yet I thrive.”
Stron made a sound of disgust that was spoiled by his smile.
He had agreed to stand beside Khalzin, greet the visitors, and help make the program respectable enough for others to try. He expected a ceremony, introductions, perhaps an enjoyable evening. Nothing that would decide the rest of his life.
Stron checked the sky again when he thought no one was looking. Dhomhes hoped his friend found whatever he was looking for.
Khalzin approached, tugging once at his repaired clasp.
“Don't,” he said to Dhomhes.
“I haven't spoken.”
“You're about to.”
“We're here,” Stron said.
Khalzin looked at them, and some of the tension eased out of his shoulders. “Thank you.”
Dhomhes let the moment pass without a remark.
The arrival beacon sounded.
They turned together. Beyond the upper branches, the Galactic Alliance ship emerged between the peaks, larger than it had looked in the approach images. Its hull caught the light as it descended toward them.
Khalzin stepped closer to Dhomhes.
“Watch everyone,” he said quietly.
“Including you?”
“Especially you,” Stron said from his other side.
The ship's engines drowned out Dhomhes's answer. Wind drove the banners sideways and pulled at his robes. He caught the loose cloth before it slapped him in the face.
Fiviel laughed.
“Not a word,” Dhomhes told him, which made it worse.