“I’m sorry, child,” the woman says. “But it’s a bit more complicated than that.”
“It actually is that fucking simple: the Rising took everything; now it owes me.”
“The answer is no.” She sets a hand on her father’s shoulder. “Come, Father. There’s been news from Luna.”
“What news?”
Xana looks back at me. “It isn’t meant for all ears.”
Kavax’s eyes are apologetic as he turns to say farewell. I shake my head. “Lord Kavax, you said if I ever needed anything, you would do your best to give it. Are you a liar too?”
“I am sorry, little one. If it were in my power…There are regulations. We must obey them. Stupid Senate. I have friends here. I will tell them to come help you. Have patience.” He kneels and picks a piece of mud from my trousers. “Farewell.” He leaves me at the bottom of the ramp. “Come, Sophocles.” He pats his leg, but the animal does not join his master. He’s fixated on me. Tail swishing back and forth. “Sophocles?” The animal plods silently down the ramp to my side. He sniffs the air as if it were heady with a delicious scent. And then he lunges. I yelp, thinking he’s going to bite me, but instead he’s stuck his snout into my pants pocket. Sniffing, he rummages around till he’s found what he’s looking for. He trots happily back to his master. “What have you got there, my little prince?”
Kavax takes two pieces of candy from the animal’s mouth, one green, one purple. The large man’s eyes go wild and wide as he tastes the purple. “Grape! It is a sign,” he breathes through his white teeth. “A sign!” Xana turns back to see what’s happened.
She sighs. “Father…”
“Quiet, skeptical child. Sophocles has given Lyria his blessing.” The big man holds up the candy to his daughter and comes back to me, his hands gesticulating wildly. “There is magic yet left in the world.” He tosses the candy to the animal. “And Sophocles has found it.”
“Father.”
“Has Luna changed our house, so?” he asks. “Must Sophocles remind us of our Martian honor?” His daughter does not answer. “Apparently! She comes with because…because…” An idea finds its way from his huge head down into his eyes. He points at the silver pen on my hospital gown. “Because she is now a valet of House Telemanus.”
“A valet?” Xana and I ask in unison.
Xana sighs. “Are you going to make the entire village our employees?”
“Just this one. Sophocles has chosen, and House Telemanus does not leave one of their own behind.” He puts a heavy hand on my shoulder. My knees almost buckle under the weight. He doesn’t notice. “Does that meet your judgment, daughter?”
Xana smiles, surrendering to her father. “I’ll add her to the registry. Customs won’t like it.”
“Well, then they can suck my beard…”
“Now you sound like a Barca.”
“…telling me who I can and cannot hire. Uppity, Pecksniffian Pixies.” Kavax waves his hands at his men. “Underlings, on your feet! Find her nephew. A little blind knight with a mole on his nose that looks like chocolate. You cannot miss him. Bring him here.” He punches his palm with a fist. “We depart with haste.”
I stand in shock, not understanding even though I heard well enough. But the soldiers are moving past me, following orders, and Xana is going back up the shuttle ramp into her ship, leaving me alone with her father. I can’t believe it is actually happening. We are leaving.
After he watches his daughter disappear into the shuttle, Kavax kneels so he can look me in the eye. “Don’t mind Xana. She thinks her duty is to protect everyone from themselves.”
“I didn’t have anything in my pockets. Did you put the candy in there?”
He turns to me with a mischevious smile. “Sometimes, little one, it’s best if the worlds think you a little mad.” He winks. “Inspiring what they’ll let you get away with.”
He extends a hand to me. My fingers wrap only around his index and middle fingers, but he’s gentle as a bird despite the calluses, and he pulls me along with him to walk up the ramp into his ship. At the top, before we enter the craft, I stop and look back at the camp. A strange quiet presides. The fires have died. The bodies are being buried. And amidst the tents at the edge of the landing strip, my nephew’s head bounces in the breeze as he’s carried to us by a fair-haired Obsidian.
I feel Kavax’s hand settle on my shoulder and I think of my sister and father and mother and all my family that has lived and died and been swallowed by the ground of this planet. The sadness in me is a well without a bottom. But it is right that I leave. Without my family, this place is just mud and memories. I look up at the sky, knowing my brothers and Ava’s husband are out there, somewhere. Several stars are visible even at the height of day. I wonder if my sister looks at them too from the Vale. I know she does. And I know I must live life for the both of us.
“Thank you,” I say to Kavax through the tears.
He squeezes my shoulder. “The worlds are very big and you are very small. Do you think you are ready, little one?”
“Yes,” I say with a trembling voice. “Yes, I am.”
I SUFFER THE SPLINTERING HEADACHE and telltale nausea of a concussion as I come to. Wish I could say it is a new sensation. There’s water trickling nearby. The shuffling of feet and murmur of voices. I’m sitting in a hard chair; metal binds my wrists at the small of my back. The stink of ammonia is like fire ants in my nostrils. I blink groggily and open my eyes.
A table sits before me. Lying in the center is a silver bonesaw. My blood runs cold. Screams echo in memory.
Past the table, an insidiously beautiful man with slender legs, alabaster skin, and eighty-thousand-credit designer cheekbones stands amidst a half-completed highrise. He looks interminably bored. His shark leather boots tap impatiently. His long overcoat, tails falling to his mid-calf, is the color of a rainy midnight street. His tailored pants are black, and so too is his high-collared silk shirt, held together with an onyx clasp. To top off the dashing absurdity of him, his feathery hair is blown straight up like a lazy pink candle flame. Rose-quartz eyes twinkle as he looks out the window into the darkness.
Men linger in the shadows of the unfinished highrise. They wear black leather duster jackets with collars to the ears and tails to the boots. Fleshware glows softly in eyes and jaws and around bald heads covered with bright tattoos.
I feel a deep nauseating fear in my belly as an Obsidian nightmare walks from behind me into my field of vision. He’s one of the biggest men I’ve ever seen. With beetle shell eyes and white hair unbound to his waist, he leans against a concrete support beam in a chrome suit. His face is bloodless. His eight-fingerered hands the size of dinner plates and wormed with blue veins, tipped with immaculate, razor-sharp nails. He flicks a package of ammonia inhalants onto the ground.
“The thief is awake,” he says in a low, intelligent voice.
“Thank you, Gorgo,” the Pink says. He turns his attention from the darkness and approaches carrying a thin cane with him, twirling it as he goes. The shaft looks like real ivory, but at the sight of the onyx octopus handle I blanch, swallowing down my fear. He sets the cane on the edge of the table and sighs down into his seat.
I grimace. “Well, this is ominous.”
The Pink is not amused.
“We are not acquainted, Mr. Horn, but we are a genus in common.” Though he is slender, his words are seductive and heavy. It’s not my first tangle with his sort. Just as Obsidians are bred to be killing machines, Pinks are made to be fucking machines. Both can be very persuasive. There’s levels to them too. Obsidian have their Stained. Pinks have their Roses. Just as rare, about as expensive.
I swallow dryly watching the Pink trace his nails over the tabletop. Idly, I wonder what Gold he used to be a sex pet for. I’d ask, but the little flesh monkeys don’t like that very much at all.
“We are both thieves,” he says. “But there are two subspecies of thieves in this world. The first thinks anything that can be
taken should be taken. This thief believes in anarchy. The second subspecies is one who believes that not everything should be stolen. That some things must be sacred. This thief believes in order. My question, then, is which subspecies are you, Mr. Horn?”
“I’m afraid you’ve got your wires crossed,” I say, stretching my neck. “I’m not a thief. I’m an insurance investigator.”
“No. That is what you were. But I wasn’t asking that.”
“Look, I know we all look like—”
“Ephraim ti Horn.” He interrupts softly and without breaking eye contact. “Born 707 PCE at Courneuve Hospital in Evenstar, Hyperion. Current residence at 777 16B Salt Place, Upper West Promenade Level 17. Known associates: Volga Fjorgan, Cyra si Lamenis, and Dano…Sunshine?”
“I told him it was a shitty name. But it was between that and Starfall.” No one laughs. “Tough crowd.”
But this isn’t some street shakedown. They’ve got resources and money. My name’s not much of a secret. But knowing my address? That information costs more than a couple drinks at a dark dive. And knowing my birthplace? Only one damn soul on Luna knows where I was born, and Holiday wouldn’t touch these people through decontamination gloves. Only way they’d know is if they had my old legion records. That’s some deep data.
I look back at the octopus cane.
The Pink watches me for a dreadful moment, and I remember a rumor I once heard in the Rising that during the Battle of Luna some of the platoons used Pinks as human lie detectors in the fields when they couldn’t get their hands on tech. Makes sense. They’re all about the subtle shades.
“Yeah, you got my name right. Golden laurel to you,” I say. “But I’m no thief.”
“Disappointing,” the Pink murmurs. “Very disappointing.” He looks back down at the bonesaw. “It tires the mind, these telarian games. All these street pretenders weaving their webs, forgetting they are the flies, not the spider. Since you evidently cannot answer a complex question, I will ask a simple one. Mr. Horn, where is my sword?”
A knot forms in my throat.
They’re going to melt the flesh off my bones.
“Your sword?” I frown. “Sorry, citizen, I’m more of a gun man. Unless you were talking euphemistically about your cock. In which case, it might be in that one’s mouth.” I jerk my head to the one he called Gorgo. The monster’s black eyes have not left my face. “He looks like he swallowed more than mead and roast beast in his time.”
The Pink bursts out laughing. His men do not. They glance at Gorgo in dead silence. “What do you think of him, Gorgo?”
Gorgo smiles, revealing a mouth full of gold-plated teeth. “Humor seems to be his survival mechanism, my lord. Under the current circumstances it may indicate suicidal tendencies. Shall I punish him?”
“Perhaps later,” the Pink says. “For now, I am enthralled. Mr. Horn, you delight me. It’s been too long since someone took a chance at making me laugh. Good comedy is always such a risk.” He wets his lower lip with his tongue. A slow, intentional motion that might be for my benefit, or simply a learned sexual methodology taught to him in the Garden of his youth. “Do you know who I am?”
“Give me a hint.”
His lips curl back from his teeth. “Ave Regina,” he says hoarsely in Latin. As the syllables vibrate from his lips, a ghostly, Byzantine tattoo crown appears on the skin of his forehead in ink that moves almost like the tentacles of an octopus sprouting spiked thorns. The centerpiece of the crown is a black hand.
“Do you know who I am, now?” he asks as the voice-activated ink begins to fade till his skin is clear and pale porcelain again.
“Yeah,” I say numbly.
“Then say my name, Mr. Horn.” He raises an eyebrow. “Will you make me tell you twice?”
“You’re the Duke of Hands.”
“How clever you are!” He leans back in his chair. “And do you know why they call me that?”
“I’ve heard rumors.” I eye the bonesaw.
“Excellent. Gorgo here is of the conviction that we should hurt you to loosen your tongue. It always comes to savagery these days. More efficient. But now that the Territory Wars are behind our little underworld, I was hopeful that you would be cultured enough for a civil conversation.”
“You’ve an interesting definition of ‘civil.’ ”
“It’s all relative. So, since now you know who I am, and all attendant threats are implied, is it safe enough to assume we will be honest with one another?”
“Suppose there’s a first time for everything.”
“Good,” he says. “Good. That makes it simpler.” He claps his hands together and stands. “You were here during the Battle of Luna, yes?”
“All three years.”
“Fighting for the Rising?”
“For part of it.”
“Change of heart?”
“No. I just saw enough body parts separated from their owners.” I don’t feel like going into the politics of it like I did with Holiday.
“Then you would have witnessed the Rape of Hyperion?”
“Liberation, you mean. Made you fellows rich.” He stares at me till I clear my throat. “All right. ‘Rape of Hyperion’ is much slicker sounding.”
He continues. “After the Sovereign died but before the Ash Lord’s counterattack to relieve the marooned legions and Peerless, Hyperion lay black. During that time, the Hyperion Museum of Antiquities was looted by soldiers who had promised to protect it, by citizens who thought only of their own pockets. As the moon steeled itself against the next wave of war, those cretins absconded with the combined heritage of man. A heritage shared by all Colors.
“As you know, all commerce that flows through the black markets of Luna is my province. My domain, as given to me by my queen. When I discovered a trove of stolen treasures being hawked by ex-legionnaire baboons, I looked at it as my duty as a citizen of Luna that they be returned to their rightful place. Now I find that the crown jewel of my donation, the Sword of Silenius, has been stolen…again. Our ears told us that it was a very particular sort of heist. One that only a few freelancers would be capable of executing.”
“Well, there’s not many of us left,” I say. “You’re dressing them all up in dusters and giving them juicy contracts to steal for you.”
“Out of chaos, us. Thieves of order,” he says, and traces his finger along the table in one elegant movement. It reminds me of the time I took Trigg ice-skating. He didn’t move with the elegance of this man’s finger, and that was what I loved about him. There’s no honesty in elegance, not in the elegance of humans at least. “When you took my sword from the museum, did you know from whom you were stealing?” the Duke asks.
“I did not.”
“Lying,” Gorgo says.
“Convince me,” the Duke says. I don’t know where to begin. “Would you be more eloquent with a grenade in your mouth? I have some on board.” He nods back to the yacht idling on the landing pad beyond the construction floor.
“Do I look like an idiot?” I ask. “If I’d known, I’d have walked away. Shit, I’d have shot the man who asked me to do it. There’s a difference between bold and stupid. I know which side this falls on.”
“Do you?” the Duke asks. “Your reputation says otherwise. It reads as if you have a…death wish.”
“That again…” I roll my eyes and feel a stabbing pain behind them.
“Four of your heists in broad daylight. Nearly always public spectacles.”
“I work for middlemen. Arbiters. Occasionally they leave out details about the job. In this case, important details like whose protection the sword was under.” I lean forward, selling hard because my life depends upon him buying what I’m selling. “I don’t rat. And I don’t play with the Syndicate. Man has to have a code.”
Any moment now I expect to feel a carbon hard wire around my neck. Or the nip of one of those Martian pitvipers Syndicate thorns love to import just for play. The last thing I’ll see is this pretty jumped-u
p ganglord reclining in his chair like he’s king of the universe, when he used to be little more than a sex toy. All this new money expects everyone else to have a short memory. Wish I did.
But the wire doesn’t come. Neither does the bite.
“In the Gardens, they teach us body empathy as well as the art of shadow dancing—a proportional mimicking of body language to make the subject at ease,” the Duke says. “It facilitates emotional bonding. It makes me ghastly good at sniffing out liars.” He seems to disdain his schooling, but he leans back till he’s a shadow version of me. Shoulders slouched, legs out, a perfect replica. “You, my dear, have a dishonest face, so it’s easy to tell when you’re telling the truth.”
“So you believe me?”
“I do.”
I hesitate. “Then I can go?”
“What a pleasant world that would be. Although you were ignorant in your crime against me, it was, as you know, also a crime against the Queen herself. So I’m afraid you don’t just walk away from this.” He smiles sympathetically. “I’m the sort of man who would let you go if it was just between us. I see how frightened I’ve made you. To be honest, that’s often punishment enough. But I fear this isn’t just between us any longer. Others know. The Duke of Hands has been made into a fool. I can’t have that.” He leans across the table, a vein pulsing in his temple. “Can’t have that at all. In words of Old Stoneside, ‘Mercy emboldens evil men.’ You and I have the misfortune of floating amongst a sea of evil men. A debt is owed. A debt must be paid.”
I can’t even think of anything to say. The ramifications of his words cause a spike of fear to go straight into my chest. They’re going to hurt me, badly.
“Please, don’t fret. It won’t be anything inequitable. If you’d crossed the Duke of Legs, you’d be wobbling around on those grafted metal prosthetics the rest of your life. And if you insulted the Duke of Tongues, you’d be gibbering like one of those Lost City blackteeth—he is much crueler than the last one. But I’ll only take your least favorite hand.” He smiles as Gorgo slips forward. “Promise.”