“That is . . . unfortunate,” he said finally. “I was . . . not myself.”

  “Really. And may I ask who you yourself are?”

  “Calhoun. Mackenzie Calhoun. And you?”

  “Majister Fairax.”

  “ ‘Majister’ being some sort of title, I imagine, from the way you said it. In charge of law enforcement, I surmise.”

  “You surmise correctly.”

  “Majister Fairax . . . I’m . . . not supposed to be here.”

  “Just passing through, are you?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  “Well, Mackenzie Calhoun,” said the Majister, leaning back in his chair and tilting slightly on the legs. “It would seem that you’re not going to be passing through as quickly as you previously supposed.”

  “You do not need to keep me in here,” Calhoun told him. “I’m not a threat to anyone.”

  “And I know that . . . how? It’s not as if you’ve exactly had the chance to refrain from hurting anyone while you’ve been in there, right? For all I know, I let you out of that cell, and you’ll go on a rampage.”

  “I won’t go on a rampage. I assure you. Let me talk to the woman. Explain things to her. I’m certain I can get her to drop charges.”

  “Perhaps you can, perhaps you can’t. Thing is, Mackenzie Calhoun, that’s not up to either you or her or even me.”

  “And who,” he asked patiently, “is it up to?”

  “The Circuit Judiciary.You see, Calhoun, you’re guilty of trespass and assault. Only the Circuit Judiciary can set those changes aside.”

  “I’m guilty of nothing,” Calhoun told him firmly. “I was injured, feverish . . . possibly even concussed.”

  “And might I ask how you came to be in such a state?”

  “It’s . . .” Calhoun sighed. “It’s a long story.” He glanced around at his surroundings, as if trying to make some judgments about the world itself based upon what he could discern right here. “One that I don’t think it really appropriate to tell.”

  “Have something to do with your crashing shuttle?”

  That obviously caught him off guard. Calhoun looked at the Majister with surprise, and even a bit of respect.

  “We may seem a bit backward to you,” Fairax said, allowing himself to be a bit smug about it, “but we have our moments every now and then.”

  “The point is,” Calhoun went on, apparently not wanting to let himself be pulled into a discussion of his arrival at his current happenstance, “I’m being held for no reason. But I can see that your mind is made up regarding this Circuit Judiciary business.”

  “It’s not a matter of ‘made up.’ It’s simply my job.”

  “All right,” Calhoun sighed, resigned. “When can we talk to this Circuit Judiciary?”

  “When he comes through this way on his circuit.”

  “And that will be . . . ?”

  “About five months.”

  If the Majister was expecting an extreme reaction from Calhoun, he was greatly disappointed. Calhoun simply processed the information and then announced, “That is unacceptable.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not for you to accept or reject. The CJ came through just last month. Small scuffles, disputes and such, these are things that I can attend to. But assault is a serious matter; assault on a woman even more so.”

  “I told you, I wasn’t in my right mind.”

  The Majister considered that for a moment. Finally he said, “I have this funny feeling, Mackenzie Calhoun, that you’re not unfamiliar with being in the position of having to worry about peoples’ welfare. So put yourself in my place. Imagine some stranger blows into town, nearly strangles a woman to death, and then later says that he feels kinda bad about it and he’s just passing through and won’t cause no more trouble. Would your immediate instinct be to trust him? Or to be suspicious?”

  “Suspicious to start out. But my inclination would be to hear him out.”

  “Except hearing you out isn’t my job, it’s the—”

  “Circuit Judiciary’s, yes, so you’ve said,” sighed Calhoun. After a moment, he turned and sat on the bench, which doubled as a bed. “So you’re saying that I’ve no choice but to wait.”

  “Yes. Said it several times, as a matter of fact.”

  “That is . . . unfortunate.”

  “I’m sorry that you’re inconvenienced.”

  “I meant, unfortunate for you.”

  The Majister found this a most intriguing statement. “Are you threatening me, Mackenzie Calhoun?”

  “Not at all, Majister Fairax. However, others have attempted to imprison me.”

  “Really? So you’ve broken the law elsewhere, have you?”

  “Actually, it usually happened while I was busy enforcing . . . other laws. The point is, Majister . . . all such attempts have ended badly for those who were making the endeavor. You seem a decent enough man. I would not like things to end badly for you.”

  “Your consideration for my welfare is truly heartening, Calhoun. But if it is all the same to you . . . I’ll take my chances and keep you locked up until the CJ can process your case in the approved manner.”

  “As you wish,” Calhoun said with a small shrug. “I can tell you one thing with certainty, though—I’m not going to be sitting here for five months.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because, Majister, not even in infancy did I ever spend five consecutive months in relative peace. Believe it or not, I almost wouldn’t mind the time off. But I’ve never been that fortunate. Fate always has something else in store.”

  “I am not a great believer in fate, Mackenzie Calhoun.”

  “I’ve known quite a few people who agreed with you, Majister.”

  “Perhaps,” smiled the Majister, “they will come and visit you.”

  “I doubt it,” Calhoun replied evenly. “They’re all dead.”

  The Majister’s smile began to fade under the unyielding gaze of Mackenzie Calhoun. “Who,” he said, looking for a more comprehensive answer than he’d gotten before, “are you?”

  “Mackenzie Calhoun. And I’m just passing through.”

  “Well, Mackenzie Calhoun who’s just passing through . . . you’ll have five months to change your mind.”

  “Perhaps I will,” Calhoun said, sounding a bit sad, “but I’ve got this very depressing feeling . . . that you won’t.”

  The Majister’s smile evaporated completely, and he didn’t look directly at Calhoun for the rest of the day.

  MAESTRESS CAWFIEL

  THE MAJISTER HAD A FEELING that the day wasn’t going to be going well when he emerged from his simple bunk in the back room to discover the frosty visage of Maestress Cawfiel waiting for him. Even worse, the rest of her was attached to the visage.

  “Good morning, Maestress,” said the Majister with a slight bow as he walked over to his desk. He cast a glance in Calhoun’s direction. Calhoun was awake; unsurprising, since the Majister didn’t have the faintest idea when the man slept. When the Majister went to bed, no matter how late it was, Calhoun watched him go. When the Majister arose to start the day, no matter how early, there again was Calhoun. This had been going on for the last week, and although the Majister found it extremely disconcerting, he was certainly not going to let Calhoun know that it bothered him. He could not help but think, though, that the next five months promised to be very, very long.

  He had even started toying with the idea of riding out and tracking down the Circuit Judiciary. Plead with him to make a special swing back to Narrin, so that he could attend to Calhoun. Furthermore, he could always approach Praestor Milo and ask him to make a ruling about Calhoun. But he didn’t want to give the impression to anyone that something as simple as a jailed prisoner could give him pause. So he had kept his peace, and hoped that matters would get better . . . or perhaps Calhoun would simply keel over and die, or something equally convenient.

  “Good morning, Majister,” replied the Maestress, returning the bow. There was nothing in her eyes, though, that gave the slightest indication she was at all happy to be there, or pleased to see the Majister. Her gaze traveled over to Calhoun, and she took him in with one silent, contemptuous stare. “So, this is it,” she said after a lengthy quiet.

  “This is what, Maestress?” inquired Fairax.

  “This . . . individual,” and she pointed one claw-like finger at Calhoun, “is the creature that assaulted Rheela.”

  “That would seem to be the case,” agreed the Majister.

  She approached the cell thoughtfully. The Majister’s immediate impulse was to tell her to keep her distance, but then he reasoned to himself that the worst-case scenario would involve her lifeless body sinking to the floor, thanks to a neck snapped by the muscular-looking Calhoun. So he kept his peace.

  The Maestress drew just within range of Calhoun, but the Majister was slightly saddened to see that Calhoun made no move against her. Only slightly saddened, because the truth was that—no matter what his personal feelings about her—he would have felt compelled to come to her aid. Which he would have drawn no satisfaction from, but one had to do the job one had agreed to undertake.

  “He’s very odd-looking,” Cawfiel announced after a time.

  Calhoun tilted his head slightly in acknowledgment, as if he was appreciating a compliment given him. He did not make the obvious observation that the Maestress was not exactly a raving beauty.

  “Even somewhat ugly,” she added after further consideration. She turned back to the Majister, her face darkening. “But, then again, what would one expect from someone who would consort with Rheela?”

  “I wouldn’t know, Maestress,” said Fairax neutrally. He sat behind his desk. “Is there something that I can help you with?”

  “Yes.” She moved over to a chair but, curiously, did not sit in it. Instead, she stood next to it and rested a hand lightly on the back. “You can tell me why you would give priority to a woman like that . . . and display so little respect for a woman such as myself.”

  “So little respect, Maestress?” He looked at her blankly. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.”

  She didn’t respond at first, but merely glared at him. Finally, apparently deciding that she had made him “suffer” long enough, she said, “Last week . . . when I was lecturing in the streets, and I spoke of the darkness within that woman . . . a voice called from the crowd, asking how I could know that there was a stain on her soul. I did not recognize the voice at first. But, having had time to dwell on it—thinking upon the voice that spoke up, the tone and attitude—I have little doubt now that it was you.”

  “Me?” His eyebrows almost puckered in a curious question mark.

  She frowned even more. “Do not,” she warned him, “embarrass yourself, or me, by claiming anything otherwise. I pay attention to such things, Majister. As a matter of fact . . . I pay attention to everything. There is nothing that occurs in this town that escapes my notice.”

  “That’s very comforting to know, Maestress. Perhaps you’d like to sign on as my assistant, to aid me in keeping the peace.”

  “I do not consider that funny, Majister.”

  “That’s all right, Maestress. I didn’t consider it much of a joke.”

  She glowered at him, but he returned none of the enmity. He seemed quite bland, almost bored by her.

  “I hope you are not intending to cross me, Majister,” she said at last. “I hope you have not forgotten who truly cares about this town . . . who truly . . .”

  “Who truly holds the power? Is that what you were going to say? Going to impress me with how one withered woman can keep so many people in her sway?” He laughed when his words were rewarded with a slight, indignant purpling of her face. “Maestress . . . believe it or not . . . I’m not your enemy. Because, in a few months, I’m going to be leaving here, voluntarily. So, you see, struggling with you for the hearts and minds of the residents of this city is the last thing on my mind. My intention is to do my job to the best of my ability, keep people from hurting each other as much as I can, and—when my contract is up—move on. Now . . . is any of that in contradiction to your own hopes or desires for Narrin?”

  “No,” she said tersely, her normal color beginning to return.

  “Good. Then I certainly think we’ll be able to coexist with a minimum of effort, if that’s all the same to—”

  The door to the gaol house abruptly banged inward. The Majister looked up, his face carefully neutral.

  One at a time, three men entered. Each of them was half a head taller than the Majister, and although they had three different faces, they shared one expression: surly. Their very manner exuded confidence, as if they knew everything that was going to happen and were simply fulfilling their roles in the proceedings. Large plasers—crude and heavy, but no less deadly—hung from their hips. The Majister felt the weight of his own plaser on his hip, and drew some comfort from it.

  Two of them held back as the third stepped forward. He was apparently the oldest of the three, with a drooping mustache and shaggy hair. He looked the Majister up and down, and was clearly unimpressed by what he saw.

  “Morning,” said the Majister carefully. “Can I help you folks?”

  “You the Majister?” His voice was gravelly and distant, as if uninterested in the answer to the question.

  “Yes. And you would be?”

  “Hey, Temo.” It was Kusack who had spoken up from his cell. He seemed rather chipper. “How you doing?”

  “Better than you,” said the one who’d been addressed as Temo. “What the hell kind of fix you gotten yourself into, Kus’?”

  “Kusack is in gaol for murder,” Majister Fairax said neutrally.

  “Really.”

  “Yes, really.”

  “Well . . . I’m his brother. And these two gentlemen here,” and he indicated the men standing on either side of him, “are also his brothers. And I think you should know . . . that we frown on murder. Kus’ . . . I thought you knew better than that. Hang your head in shame, Kus’.”

  Kusack promptly hung his head in shame.

  Temo swung his baleful glare back to the Majister. “There. You see? Clearly, he’s ashamed. Our family has certain standards, and it upsets us deeply— deeply—to see that our brother has violated them. Do you know what we’re going to do, Majister?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “We are going to bring him home and discipline him severely. That’s how our family operates, you see. We’re big believers in personal responsibility.”

  The Maestress stepped forward and said firmly, “And we are big believers in the law.”

  “Maestress, I can handle this. Perhaps you should leave,” the Majister said slowly. He did not like the way this seemed to be shaping up.

  “Perhaps she should,” agreed Temo. But then one of the brothers took a couple of steps to the right, squarely blocking the door. “Then again, perhaps she shouldn’t.”

  Something changed in the air; something electrical seemed to shift polarity. Calhoun was now up behind his cell door, his face absolutely inscrutable. “Majister,” he said softly, “perhaps you’d better—”

  “I’m not looking for advice from a beater of women, Calhoun,” the Majister told him curtly. He shifted his focus back to Temo and the other two. “Your dedication to family and your high ethics are duly noted,” he deadpanned. “However, my first duty is to the law and to the citizens of this city. The law says that your brother is going to have to wait for the Circuit Judiciary. And that’s what he’s going to do. Now, I suggest that you gentlemen accept that reality, turn around, and depart. If you want to discuss it further . . . then let the Maestress go on her way, and we can continue—”

  Temo gave no warning whatsoever. One moment his hand was hanging relaxed at his side, and the next, the plaser was in his hand.

  Even as he moved for his own weapon, the Majister knew that he was too slow and too late. Temo fired once, and once was all it took. The plaser bolt slammed Fairax squarely in the chest, knocking him off his feet and sending him smashing against the cell in which Calhoun was imprisoned. He hit it hard and then slid to the ground, a massive scorch mark across his chest. His head lolled to the right, and his hand slumped away from the butt of his plaser. He had never even managed to get it clear of the holster.

  The Maestress did not let out a shriek, as another might have done. Instead, regardless of her own safety, she pointed straight at Temo and snarled, “You . . . murderer!”

  Ignoring her, Temo said to one of his brothers, “Get him out,” and nodded toward Kusack. The brother strode forward, pulling his plaser as he went. The third continued to block the door.

  With one quick screech of a plaser bolt, the door lock was blasted away. Kusack let out a whoop of triumph and shoved the door open. “Qinos!” he said joyfully, clapping the brother who’d just freed him on the shoulder. “Shadrak! And Temo . . .” His arms were open as he approached the brother who’d led them. “How can I thank you for—”

  Temo slapped him, hard. Kusack staggered, putting a hand to his face. “Wha—what did you—?”

  “Idiot. Letting yourself get dragged into gaol by this piece of . . .” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence. Instead, somewhat annoyed, he kicked the unmoving body of the Majister. “What in hell were you thinking?”

  “I was drunk . . . he . . . he tricked me, snuck up on me . . . I was—”

  Temo slapped Kusack again, and then steadied himself. “You know what, Kus’? I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear anything about this entire misbegotten incident anymore.”

  “Well, you’re going to!” It was the Maestress who had spoken. “This will not end here! I swear, you’re going to pay for what you’ve done! You’re going to pay!”

  “Why haven’t we killed her?” growled Qinos.

  And that was when Calhoun spoke up. “Let me,” he said.

  Their attention swiveled to him. “Who is this?” Temo asked of Kusack. “For that matter . . . what is this?”