Chapter II

Aleytys watched the sail bloom as the small boat began moving upstream. She waved one last time, then stepped away from the railing, ducking her head to slip off the tump strap, a nuisance now she was walking on a level.

A brisk breeze stirred the thin layer of grit on the stone and sent the pulleys hanging out over the precipice on the ends of massive towers creaking with irritating irregularity. As she walked past the empty tables and deserted booths of the silent market, Aleytys frowned and looked to her right where the sculpted hill rose brilliant green and white against the pale blue of the sky. Hedges. Trees. Patches of lawn. Rings of houses, sterile and silent. Silent. Empty.

She trudged up the road, sand creaking loudly under her boots, the whine of the wind shrill and petulant in her ears.

Behind a row of trees with clusters of dusty green leaves thin as needles planted in a shallow curve, she saw a double row of small sandstone houses, their orderly gardens drying up for lack of tending hands, doors kicked in, gaping windows. A desolation where a neat pleasant village had been. As she stared at the houses, a pale cerdd face appeared briefly in one of the broken windows but the old male jerked out of sight when he saw her watching. She got the impression of hate and madness and threw up her shields.

Growing more troubled as she walked on, Aleytys moved back to the main road and trudged around the edge of the steeply sloping hill. The grassy slant beside her climbed several meters, then leveled out at the first terrace. White plasticrete boxes crowded one against the other, with meager walks and an occasional window box with greenery or native flowers adding a timid patch of color against the white. On the next terrace small, individual houses sat in thin green strips of lawn. Painfully neat, painfully regimented, each one almost like every other one with only minor differences, like those slight variations the friction of living imposes on identical twins. Regimented people living regimented lives in regimented houses. So Arel had said. She shivered, thinking about it. For a moment she wondered how the smuggler captain was doing. For a moment she wished with a gentle nostalgia that she was back with the three of them, hopping from world to world, using ingenuity, guess, and luck to pick up cargoes worth enough to pay ship costs and give the crew some pleasant nights ashore.

The third terrace was where the technicians lived, the engineers and doctors and minor administrators who kept the city alive and moving smoothly through its endless repetition of days. And accountants and chemists and courtesans and entertainers who dreamed they were freer than the servants, looking down on the white boxes of the lower levels with delicate scorn. Their houses were, on the surface, more individual, but they shared a subtle sameness that indicated their owners’ acceptance of an insidiously imposed servitude. That level made Aleytys feel uneasy. She shifted her eyes further up.

On the fourth terrace, the landscaping was extensive and pushed to a heteromorphism so extravagant that it merged, at times, with the grotesque—an extravagance that, by its deliberate protest, affirmed the attitude of mind existing on the lower levels. She caught glimpses of ivory towers with convoluted complications visible even at this distance; the dream palaces where those with sufficient pedigree and sufficient credit could enjoy the unique dream sensations of maranhedd.

And at the very top of the edge of the eastern cliffs, looking out over the sea, the Director’s citadel, with a glass-walled turret rising high and massive over the veil of greenery. And to one side, the twin towers of the monorail.

The monorail. It slashed up the hill twenty meters above the soil and rock. As she walked the road she could see the towers and the silver, gleaming streak of the rail. A three-car train flashed overhead, stopping briefly at the tech level before finally ending its journey at the palazzos. As she watched, three figures, diminished by distance stepped from the forward car and moved quickly out of sight.

Aleytys turned her back on them and looked thoughtfully along the rail. Eyes searching for the far end, she moved into shadow then came out the other side. In the distance, lower and to her left, she could see distance-blued buildings and the sun-shimmered noses of several starships.

Excitement rising in her, she closed her eyes and murmured, “Hey, everyone. There’s where we have to get. Think we can make it?”

Three sets of eyes blinked open. Three faces came out of darkness at the back of her head.

“Just how much do you want us to massage your ego, young Aleytys?” Harskari sniffed, her amber eyes narrowed. “Don’t talk. Do. Then we can admire.”

“Hey, isn’t that a little rough?” Shadith frowned in her turn. “So she needs a little reassurance. Don’t we all?”

Swardheld chuckled. “Ignore them, freyka. They’re sour because Harskari’s been reaming our singer about talking too much to the cerdd.”

“Still?” Aleytys rubbed her nose. “At least they were quiet about it. Madar! If the three of you started brangling aloud, my poor head would shatter.” She sighed. “Anyway, Star Street, here we come. I wonder if that poor innocent enclave is ready for the likes of us.”

As she came around the continuous curve she saw a red sandstone wall joined solidly to the suddenly sheer cliff as if a part of the mountain had been sliced away to make room for the enclave. Ahead, the road vanished through a pointed arch semiobscured by the flickering film of a force field. When she reached the arch, Aleytys poked a finger at the screen, the rubbery invisibility resisting the intrusion, then letting the finger through. “One-way iris. Once in, I’m stuck.” She glanced over her shoulder at the carefully landscaped mountain and the slope on the other side bluing into the distant plain. Gwynnor’s loved Maes. She could see the thin line of the river winding in long curves toward the rising sun. Gwynnor. He’d be on that river somewhere … and out there … on the plain … a simple life tied to the earth and the seasons … a good life … for a moment she was tempted to turn around, to let the complicated threads of her life fall loose. The sea breeze sneaked around the mountain, blowing wisps of hair across her face, carrying the sea’s pungent salt smells and the crisp green odor from the trees and the fresh-mowed lawns. The sand under her boots crackled as she shifted her feet. The russet sun just clearing the dim eastern horizon shone with increasing warmth on her skin. A good life …

Then the monorail car squealed past, sliding down the rail toward the distant starport, kicking up a swirl of sand that stung her out of her dream. And it was only a dream. There was no place for her here. She squared her shoulders and stepped through the membrane.

The red sandstone walls rose high and solid around the enclave. On her left, the cliff hung precariously over the mountain side of the street, its shadow lying deep and frigid on the pavement. There was a fringe of green at the top, the only living green visible on Star Street. On her right, an equally massive wall rose high and daunting over squalid buildings.

She looked around as she moved with hesitant, slow steps down the street toward the center of the enclave. On the cliff-side ugly, blocky buildings backed onto the rock, plasticrete-blown on a prefab form, painted garish colors. Heavy steel shutters rolled down over the lower floor windows. Doors closed, locked up in this place that began coming alive only about sundown. The sea breeze swooping down over the walls blew fragments of paper down the narrow plasticrete street. Sludgy water in the gutters. Thick. Black. With greenish scum around the edges and a faintly sour smell. On the wallside, narrow alleys crept back into stinking shadow, little more than shoulder-wide cracks between the structures fronting the street, leading to the other crazy buildings growing like starlings’ nests glued to the outer wall.

She stepped over the outflung hand of a drunk snoring on the sidewalk. Further down the street a man came from a building, yawned, rubbed his stomach, then ambled across the street, disappearing down one of the alleys. She felt a faint relief and the eeriness of the empty morning clicked suddenly into solid mundanity.

Garish flashing signs were cold gray on buildings that had managed to accumulate a thick patina of grime, especially at the shoulder level where thousands of groping hands had pawed in search of a precarious equilibrium before tacking off down street to one of the dingy hostels.

She shivered, depressed by the tawdry, dingy street too visibly revealed by the clear morning light. She walked on, sand grains from the road outside still clinging to her soles, crunching loudly against the roughened surface of the plasticrete sidewalk.

A man slammed folding bars aside and came yawning into the street, pulling a hose behind him. Still yawning, he thumbed the catch on the nozzle and sprayed a stream of water on the sidewalk in front of his shop, hosing the gutter there clear of its accumulated filth. Aleytys grimaced and stepped back as drops of turgid water splashed on her boots. They were dusty and caked with mud but that was clean dirt. She shuddered to think that liquids and muck mingled in the gutter puddles.

“Watch where you’re pointing that thing.” She glared at the pudgy man.

He turned to stare at her. He had furry, gray eyebrows and a bald head. The brows wiggled up, pushing the smooth freckled skin on his head into corrugated wrinkles. Aleytys realized, abruptly, that she’d forgotten to switch languages and had been talking in cathl maes.

She shrugged. “Forget it,” she said in interlingue.

He shut off the flow of water until she was past him, then went back to spraying the front of his shop.

Along this stretch of Star Street, shopkeepers were coming out one by one to look up and down the street and yell insults to each other. Though the bars remained tightly shuttered and dark, the other shopkeepers were slowly getting their places ready for business, though obviously in no hurry about it. The silence of the street began filling up with voices. Small groups accumulating and breaking up, some sleepy grousing, and a few appreciative noises as Aleytys moved past them.

She glanced casually in windows as she went by. Junk of all kinds, bright and cheap to catch the transient visitor’s eyes. Carved wood and embroidery from the villages in the plains. Bits of lace. Bright ribbons. Drugs. Depilatories. Packaged food. Thread and needles. Repair kits. Knives. Tools. Guns. Pornography. Books. Jewelry. A herbalist’s shop, its sign, a case of acupuncture needles in self-glo plastic hanging above the dusty door, with ginseng roots preserved in an anonymous amber fluid sitting on shelves in the window along with snakeskins and other less identifiable leaves and powders. She hovered in front of the barred window, peering into the dim, dusty interior, fascinated by the strange images on fly-specked charts.

Then the breeze brought the smell of cooking food. She was suddenly ravenous. Following the drifting scent, feet moving faster and faster, she hurried along the street, passing other shops, other beings—human and otherwise—ignoring both in the growing urgency of her hunger.

A sign glowed feebly, its bright colors turned sickly in competition with sunlight. Bran’s. A name? The steel shutter was rolled into a compact rod above an entranceway masked with dripping lines of polished seeds. The bead curtain clattered loudly as she pushed the strings aside and stepped into the warm, odorous interior.

“A minute, dearie. Let old Bran get her pies sizzling.”

Aleytys moved to the wide counter and slid onto a high, backless stool. The counter was a solid piece of wood, a hand’s breadth thick, with a hinged section to let Bran into the small, square room where several tables sat upon a new-waxed floor, their wooden tops shining with the same care and effort expended on the counter.

Bran was a massive female, big rather than fat, her skin stretched smoothly taut over the heavy muscle beneath. She stood with her back to the shop, dropping folds of pastry into bubbling hot oil, pies that looked small in her large, shapely hands. Her hair was silvery white, thick and straight, woven into two braids that were pinned into neat coils over each long-lobed ear. Long, elaborate earrings dangled beside her heavy neck, swaying with a delicacy that contrasted absurdly with the aura of formidable strength that clung to the old woman.

As the last pie dropped neatly into place, the water can on the stove began to whistle wetly. Bran snatched up a rag in one hand and a cha pot in the other. She tilted the boiling water over the crips curled leaves, adding the brisk astringent scent of brewing cha to the other tantalizing odors filling the shop.

For two weeks, Aleytys had swallowed journey bread that had grown staler and staler. Had washed smoked meat down with stale, lukewarm water. She laughed. “If I don’t eat soon, despina, I’ll be jumping you.”

The old woman chuckled. “I’m too tough for tender teeth like yours, dearie. What will you be having?”

Aleytys pulled a handful of coins from her tunic pocket. “Depends on your prices,” she murmured, poking at her meager supply of money with a forefinger. “A cup of cha to start.”

Bran fished a mug from under the counter and filled it with the steaming amber-brown fluid. “Half drach.”

“Ah, and those rolls?” She pointed to a pyramid of nut rolls heaped high on a platter that stood on a shelf beside the stove. Rolls glistening with brown-gold glaze, crusted with nuts, exuding the tantalizing yeasty smell of fresh-baked bread.

“Half drach the three.”

“I’ll have three.” She sniffed appreciatively at the meat pies crisping in the oil. “And those?”

“A drach apiece.”

“I’ll have two of those when they’re done.” She counted out the coins and put the remainder back in her pocket.

Bran set the rolls in front of her and turned back to her bumping pies, flipping them over deftly with a quick flip of her spatula. Then she poured a mug of cha for herself and leaned against the counter, sipping at it and watching complacently as Aleytys tore into the hot, light bread. “Good?”

Aleytys swallowed and cleared her mouth with a gulp of cha. “Very. You made them?”

“Always had a good hand with pastry and bread,” she sniffed. “Pies ready in a minute.” Leaving her mug on the counter, she took up a woven wire scoop and skimmed the pies from the oil, sliding them neatly onto a draining rack. “You’re new here. Crewin’ a ship or workin’ the street?”

“Neither at the moment.”

Bran left the pies to drain and picked up her mug. With the sharper demands of her hunger appeased, Aleytys took time to examine her hostess. The huge old woman’s eyes slanted obliquely, almond-shaped, black as coal, and brilliant with the lively spirit encased in her flesh. Her face was broad, the features large but still attractive. The only real sign of her age were the tiny wrinkles, less than a millimeter deep, tracking across her dark ocher skin into olive shadows at temples and jaw, sinking slightly deeper at the corner of her eyes and around her smile.

The black eyes measured Aleytys. “You’ll never make a street girl, hon. Not flashy enough and too intelligent looking. Though you’d polish well, make a helluva asset to a high-class house. Not that you’d find one of those on Star Street. Going uphill?” She jerked her head backwards toward the cliff looming over her shop.

“No!”

“All right, glad to hear it. Ain’t many starships come here with women crew.”

Aleytys shrugged.

“Jumped ship, huh? Well, you picked a bad world for that, hon. The Company don’t hire women except as laybacks. I suppose you did what you had to, though.” She sighed. “Let me give you a bit of advice, dearie. You stay on Star Street. I don’t care what any of those bastards on the hill promise you, don’t believe ’em. I know. Here, you might be poor, but you’re free. Livin’ inside these walls might look like we was in prison—well, these walls don’t shut free air out, they shut it in. Go up hill ’f you don’t believe me.”

“Oh, I believe you, despina.”

“Bran, hon. Too old for that fancy stuff.” Her eyes went dreamy. “Was a time I had men bidding for me. Huh!” She glowered at the cha. “I had to go and listen to a smooth-talking snake. You watch out for them snakes when they come crawling down from their fancy houses for a bit of unregulated fun, you hear me, girl?”

Aleytys chuckled. “Thanks.” She hesitated. The old woman radiated a curiously intense good will for her and she decided to trust it. “It’s not a thing I want broadcasted, but if you hear of a way offworld …”

Bran sipped at the cha, then grinned at her. “Any place special?”

“In toward center. That’s all.”

“I’ll keep an ear open. How many pies you said?”

“Two.”

The pies went quickly. Feeling replete and deeply contented, Aleytys let Bran refill the mug and sat leaning on the counter, sipping at the strong, revivifying liquid.

“I need a place to stay while I’m here.” She sighed and set down the mug. “Someplace reasonably clean and not too expensive.”

“And a good lock on the door.” Bran sniffed at the startled look on Aleytys’ face. “You should know that. Some of those crumbs over there’d sell you for the chance to lick a Company man’s arse.”

Aleytys chuckled. “I can protect myself, though I’d rather not have to.”

“A little thing like you?” Bran snorted, measuring Aleytys’ wrist between thumb and forefinger. “I could break you in two without half tryin’.”

“You might be surprised.”

“Mmph. A room. Let me see. Blue’s full up just now and she don’t like women much anyway. Daywel? Laziest bastard I ever saw. Take you a year to shovel the filth out of his place. Kathet? He’s got rooms and they’re cheap. Except he got a lot of drunks and scrot smokers. They go funny, sometimes. Me, I wouldn’t go in his place after dark if you paid me. Now Firetop runs a tight house. He’d give you a room if I asked. Lose yourself in the crowd, keep the Company spies from wonderin’ about you.” She pursed her lips and opened her hands, scanning the palms. “And there’s Tintin.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing much. Prices are a sin and a shame, but he don’t hold with folks messin’ around in his place. Mostly he gets the top techs on the starships. Lot of Captains stay there when they’re not on their ships or up the hill. Some travelers, too. Trouble is, Company spies check it out all the time. You don’t want them nosin’ at you.”

“That’s twice you’ve said something about Company spies.”

“Yeah, and twice too much. They sneak around listenin’ to folks talk and keepin’ an eye on money goin’ in and out. We pay taxes for the privilege of squattin’ here and those bastards are lookin’ to squeeze the last drach out of us.”

“How can you be sure I’m not one of them?”

Bran burst out laughing, holding her thick body and rocking back and forth on her heels. When she sputtered back to sobriety she said, “No females in that bunch. You think they’d trust a woman?”

“Their loss.” She tapped fingers on the countertop. “Tintin’s place. The ship captains really go there?”

Bran nodded. “You be careful, hon. Pick the wrong one to talk to and you’ll end uphill, after all.”

Aleytys nodded. She turned so she could look out the windows at the front of the shop. “I might need some kind of work if I have to stay a while.”

A man walked past the shop, stumbling, swaying, his face drawn into a mindless scowl. Bran slapped the counter open and strode across the room, indignation snapping through her forceful movements. She thrust the bead strings aside and looked down the street after the shambling man. Then she strode back muttering, wiggled through the counter, slammed the leaf shut, and leaned on the slab, red-faced with anger.

Aleytys rubbed her thumb beside her nose. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Never seen a scrot smoker before? Huh! K’Ruffin should have his butt kicked letting Henner on the street in that condition. What you saw was a murder on its way to happenin’. Or a suicide, if Henner runs into someone tougher.” She slammed her fist down on the counter, making the wood boom with the force of the blow. “That’s the third time he’s slipped up.” More composedly, she explained. “He runs a smokeshop back by the wall. Supposed to lock the creeps in when they’re on the stuff. Dammit, he must of got hooked on his own crud.” She sighed and calmed down. “If he did, he won’t last long. Lovax has been itchin’ for a spot. Too bad. That young fruff’s a slimy slug, the kind makes you want to pop it with your foot and then sorry you had to touch the thing. Reminds me. Keep away from him; he likes to play with knives.”

Aleytys shuddered and turned so she was sitting with her side to the counter. There was a little lukewarm cha left in the mug. She sipped at it, then set the mug down, retreating into a calm contentment, absurd in the situation, but warm and comfortable. The hard, driving rush was over. She had plenty of time, the whole day ahead of her and a space of time after that for resting while she schemed her way offworld. She dropped a half drach on the counter and accepted another cup of cha. “What’s your fruff look like?”

“Dark hair, dark eyes. Tall. Thin. Makes a good first impression. For about five minutes, maybe.”

Aleytys chuckled, sniffed at the cha and swallowed a mouthful. “Happens. I met a woman once. Small, pretty, a porcelain doll. She had the personality of a pit viper. How do I find Tintin’s place?”

Bran tapped the counter with her long, beautiful fingers. “Go that way,” she nodded her head to the right, “till you reach the center square where the road to the starport takes off. On the east side is Dryknolte’s Tavern. Tintin’s place sits on the other corner. Minik, the jeweler, is next to him. It’s got a name, um … Starman’s Rest … no one ever calls it that. Just Tintin’s place.”

“What about a job?”

“What can you …”

The bead curtain exploded inward. Henner leaped through, landing in a crouch in the middle of the room, mouth working over incoherent obscenities, clutching a bloody knife in each hand. He turned glaring red eyes from Bran to Aleytys and back again. His mumbling grew louder.

Cautiously, Bran began inching a hand back toward the edge of counter, her broad face impassive.

With a sudden wild shriek, Henner straightened, threw the knife in his right hand, crouched again, muttering and rocking from side to side on his toes, eyes flicking around the room, stopping on invisible menaces. He snarled and threatened these with the remaining knife.

Bran clutched at her upper right arm, hand splayed out around the bobbing knife hilt, blood oozing from between her fingers. Inside, she was seething with fury, but cool caution kept a lid on it. Aleytys shivered as the soup of emotion in the small room threatened to overload her senses. Hastily, she pulled up her shields and sucked in a quavering breath.

Henner heard the sound, wheeled to face her, lunged at her, knife thrust point out, shrieking hate.

The diadem chimed. She felt the air stiffen while Swardheld snatched control of her body. He slid off the stool, catching Henner’s arm, turning the knife. The diadem chimed again and Henner’s interrupted leap drove his body forward onto the knife, thrusting the blade into his throat.

“Hai, you’re quick.” Bran stared at the girl, astonishment sagging her heavy jowls.

Swardheld turned, nodded, then climbed back on the stool and loosed his hold on Aleytys’ body. “I wish you hadn’t done that,” she whispered, and heard an unconvinced grunt rumbling against her skull. She sighed, recognizing futility when she saw it.

Bran was leaning heavily against the counter. Aleytys touched her tentatively. “Is there a doctor I can …”

“Doctor? Phah! He’s stretched out in k’Ruffin’s den worse off than Henner here. Want to help … get that … that rag … there …” She waggled her head at a line of hooks where snowy white rags hung ready to wipe the counter or polish glasses and mugs. Her words were coming out in spurts. “Get … get the knife … out.”

“No.” Aleytys sighed. “I didn’t want to … I’m a healer, Bran. Relax. You’ll be whole in …” Voice trailing off in a whisper, she slid off the stool and braced her arms on the counter. She jerked out the knife and let it fall unheeded as she clamped her hands over the spurting wound. She reached out and the waters of the power river splashed down over them, pouring into the gaping wound, driving the cells to furious growth, dropping to a melodic humming as it played with blood cells, making them double and redouble until the blood loss was replaced. Then, flicking a last time through Aleytys, cleansing the fatigue from her body, the image faded and she stood, blinking slowly, blood-stained hands holding tight to the old woman’s arm.

Sighing again, Aleytys unclamped her fingers and settled back on the stool poking distastefully at the sticky blood on her hands and wrists.

Bran inspected her arm. The pierce wound was a faint line of pink that, even as she watched, seemed paling to her usual matte ocher. “That’s a useful trick, dearie.” She dipped the end of a clean rag in a water can and mopped the blood off her arm, shaking her head and clucking like an old hen. Then she turned to Aleytys. “Hold out your hands.” With gentle, meticulous care she washed the blood away and dried the hands that looked baby small next to hers.

Aleytys flexed her fingers. “I’d rather you didn’t tell anyone what happened.”

“Why not? You’d make a fortune.”

“As a psi-freak?”

Bran dropped the cloth in the laundry bin, frowning. “I see. Lots of fools around even on Star Street.”

“What about him?” Aleytys jerked a thumb at Henner’s body. “I don’t want trouble.”

“Ha. Wait here, hon.” Bran grinned. “I figure you could take care of any bastard starting trouble in here.” She slapped the counter open and edged through. “K’Ruffin made this mess and he can damn well clean it up.” She charged out of the shop.

Aleytys poured another cup of cha and waited.

Ten minutes later, Bran swept back through the swaying beads, a small, greenish, insectoid being trailing after her, cluttering querulously, hunched over under the barrage of Bran’s verbal attack. Behind him a tall blue humanoid ducked his bullet head under the lintel and stepped inside to stand blank-faced beside k’Ruffin, flexing immense muscles until they rippled like ocean waves under his thick blue hide. He was totally hairless, not even eyebrows. His pointed ears twitched and moved about restlessly, his eyes were round and yellow, narrowed in the morning light since he was more nocturnal in habit than the others in the room. His mouth was very tiny for his size and, lacking lips, it pursed together like a sphincter. Aleytys shivered as she scanned him. He exuded a total indifference to the other life forms around him, was merely impatient at the fuss, wanting to get back to something he had been doing; Aleytys refused to imagine what that might be.

“You keep better watch on your creeps, k’Ruff’n. That berserker could have killed me! And Lovax is on your tail. He’s hungry, you idiot. You ain’t much but you’re a wide place better than him. Now, clear this mess out of my place. I don’t want no Company spies walking in on a corpse.”

K’Ruffin shuddered. His stubby antennas drooped dejectedly. With short, simple words, he directed the other being to pick Henner’s body up and follow him. Then the oddly assorted pair stumped out of the cookshop.

Bran nudged at the bloodstain with her toe. “That sets and it’ll be a pain in the ass getting out of the wood.” She shrugged and went back behind the counter.

“What was that?”

“K’Ruffin? I told you about him.”

“No. The other.”

“The big one. A Hasheen. He’s other, all right.”

“He made my skin crawl.”

“You got taste. A junker ship kicked him off here and anything too bad for a junker …” She shook her head. “K’Ruffin took him on because the little bug’s greedy as hell but scared of his own shadow. No one who had sense enough to put two thoughts together would mess with him when the Hasheen was around. They’re treacherous, though.” She tilted the cha pot. “Low. You want a refill on me? It’s strong enough to float a starship.”

Aleytys shoved her mug across the counter. For several minutes there was a comfortable silence in the shop as they sipped companionably at the warm, bitter liquid.

The beads clacked behind her. Aleytys turned slowly.

A small, gray man walked cat-footed to the other end of the shop and hoisted himself neatly onto a stool. He looked at the two women and tapped impatiently on the counter with the coin he held between his first and middle fingers.

Bran’s face went blank. Aleytys could sense anger building in her, focused on the innocuous-seeming little man. Seeming … she touched him with the fingers of her mind … she could feel a cynical amusement expanding outward from him, a cruel cat nature under his colorless exterior. And … she struggled to conceal her astonishment … a lively interest in her.

“Kavass.” His voice was high-pitched like an adolescent’s and rather comical coming from the withered little face, but neither woman felt any desire to laugh. Silently, Bran levered open the bottle of kavass and set it in front of him. From under the bar she took a glass and several chunks of ice and set them beside the bottle. He slid the coin across the counter, smiling meanly as the old woman seemed reluctant to touch it. “Keep the change, despina.”

She swept the coin into a money box and began fussing with the stove. She set a fresh can of water on the burner, emptied the leaves from the cha pot into the garbage hole, scrubbed the pot clean and dried it with care. By the time she had finished all her busy work, the little man had drained his glass and fixed his eyes on Aleytys for a minute. He slid neatly off the stool and prowled out.

Bran picked up his glass, touching it with fingertips only, and dropped it in the garbage hole.

Aleytys stared at her. “That’s a good glass.”

“Go see if he’s really gone.”

Aleytys walked to the curtain and stepped outside. She saw the small, gray figure walking through the growing crowd of sleepy, noisy people. No matter how crowded the street was, he had a constant emptiness around him. No one got closer than half a meter without sheering off. She shook her head and went back inside. “He’s going off down street. Walking slow but not stopping.”

“Good.” She was scrubbing vigorously at the counter where the little man had put his hands.

Aleytys picked up her pack and rested it on the stool. “Who’s he?”

“Company louse. Spy.” She dropped the rag and turned the fire down under the bubbling water. As she shoveled new leaves into the pot she said slowly, “You better get on over to Tintin’s; tell him I sent you. Drop back around sundown. Should have some idea by then what work’s available.”

“Thanks. See you later.” Aleytys slung the pack over her shoulder and went out.