The Ajin could get Grey and Ticutt out.

  No one else.

  I don’t know what the trap is. He won’t talk about that. (She’d tried getting him to show it to her, playing the pretty child for him, but he’d only laughed at her and told her not to bother her little head about such things; that day he was very close to dying, but she bit her tongue and let him walk away.) It’s instinct. It has to be. He’s not that smart. And I’m not that stupid. I’m not. And I’d feel it if he was suspicious. He’s not. But he just slides away.

  How can I make him bring them back? I can’t. No lever. Torture? Doubt if I could do it enough to make him talk. And he wouldn’t give in to a child no matter how much he hurt. To a girl child. Taggert. Worms eat your pea brain, where are you? Drugs? Maybe Old Po’ could help with that. What do I want? Something that would make him babble, get past his defenses. Damn, I’m no biotech, even if I got enough blood and cells to run tests on. High up in the shadow government on Pajungg, hunh, he’s probably protected every way possible from folks trying to make him talk. Still, it’s a thought. And the only one that has any chance of working.

  By the time the fourth day neared its end she was ready to explode from frustration. He wouldn’t let her out of his sight, even made her sleep in his quarters. “Tomorrow’s an important day,” he said and passed a caressing hand over her wild tangle of brown-gold curls, then touched her nose and pulled an ear. “I want my luck close to me.”

  She paced the room he put her in (“I’m locking you in,” he said, “it’s for your protection, child of fortune, there are traps and alarms all about this place, I don’t want you hurting yourself”); for one hour then another she charged about that room trying to work off the jags of anger and fear and frustration that wouldn’t let her relax enough to sleep. The more she tried the angrier she got; the Po’ Annutj couldn’t talk to her when her mind was tense, she had to be tired, and it was best when she was half asleep. But she couldn’t sleep. When her body was exhausted, she lay down on the bed and spent more hours staring at the ceiling she couldn’t see in the thick darkness that came when she turned the lights out. Finally she crawled under the covers and tried blanking out her mind. She concentrated fiercely on it, so fiercely that before she knew it, she was fathoms deep in sleep.

  A hand touched her shoulder, shook her gently. She came swimming back to awareness, lay blinking up at the beautiful empty face of the woman bending over her. One of the Ajin’s concubines; her brain was too stuffed at the moment to remember the woman’s name. Didn’t matter. What mattered was getting in touch with Old Po’. When she saw Shadith was awake, the woman bowed slightly, then left.

  Shadith pushed up, feeling as tired as she had when she lay down last night. She scrubbed a hand across her face, rubbed at her eyes. A breakfast tray on the bedtable. The smell of eggs and toast nauseated her. She got up and stumbled to the fresher, splashed cold water on her face, then spent some minutes staring numbly at her reflection in the mirror. Dark blotches under her eyes, teeth like moldy tombstones. She inspected her tongue. Finest thing in fur coats. At least with a hangover she’d have had some fun to remember, but this … With a groan filled with weariness and more than a little self-pity, she pushed away from the basin and stumbled into the shower. With hot water beating on her back and steam cleaning out her head she began to feel like just maybe she wanted to live.

  She rubbed herself dry and wandered back into the bedroom. Her tunic and trousers were gone, in their place one of the soft white robes the Ajin kept trying to make her wear. Which she kept tossing out, wearing her own clothes instead. Wanted to make sure of me today, she thought. Prickheaded idiot, I bet that’s why he kept me here. Making sure I’d have nothing else to wear this once. She pulled on the robe, went and looked at herself in the door mirror. Isn’t that too too sweet. She hesitated, thought about making a fuss and insisting once again on her own clothes, but she simply didn’t have the energy. She went back to the bedtable, took the covers off the food and stood staring at it, then she sighed again, pulled up a low stool and began eating her breakfast.

  “Three men are coming to try selling me their goods. I want you to tell me which of them I should trust. And which might be spies hired by the Pajunggs or junk dealers who sell rotten wares.”

  “What makes you think I’d know?” She asked that with a cold knot tightening in her stomach.

  “You’ve got a good ear for sham and fakery—you saw through mine soon enough.”

  “Well, why do you think I’d tell you if I spotted something wrong? I’m not exactly fond of you, you know that.”

  “Ah, but you’re my luck, you can’t help yourself. Besides”—he smiled that lazy complacent smile that always made her want to bite him—“you have a strong interest in keeping me alive.”

  “So I do.”

  “Well then, keep your eyes and ears busy, Fortune’s Child.” he wrapped one of her curls about a finger, then slid it off again, a gesture that could have been intimate and affectionate but wasn’t; she was the thumbstone again, the talisman whose touch brought luck. She pulled away and settled herself on the hassock by his desk.

  He laughed and tapped a sensor. “Send Harmon in.” Harmon was a little wizened man, a few strands of no-colored hair combed across a freckled dome. He fingered his sleeve cuffs after he settled himself in the client chair. Plastic slivers in his cuffs with compressed-air bulbs to spit them out. Some fairly potent poison on them, no doubt. That went with the cold malice pouring out of him. He wouldn’t go anywhere completely unarmed; he had to have his poison sting. He slipped a flake from a slit in his cuff, tossed it onto the desk. “A summary of what I can offer that is immediately available. Numbers and quality of all items are indicated, along with the possibilities of resupply in case of need. More exotic weapons are available on special order. They will, of course, take longer to procure.”

  Gunrunners, Shadith thought. My god, he’s ready to go. She watched as the Ajin slipped the flake into a player and projected it against the wall. A catalogue of hand weapons, energy and projectile. Tactical nuclear weapons and delivery systems. Conventional explosives. More delivery systems. An assortment of poisons, disease vectors, gases, mechanical traps, mines, implants for personnel control, illustration of the use of a human bomb, tangler fields, plasticuffs, a wearying list of similar items with an exhaustive description of uses and capabilities. A final section with costs and delivery times.

  The Ajin withdrew the flake and set it on the desk in front of him. “Most impressive. I’ll let you have my decision by tomorrow noon. If that’s agreeable?”

  Harmon got to his feet. “No later, if you please. You’ll understand I do not like to linger away from my ship.” With a short jerky bow he left.

  The Ajin picked up the flake, ran his forefinger around the outside, a dreamy look on his face. He set it down again, turned to Shadith. “Well?”

  “What can I tell you that you didn’t see for yourself?” She moved her shoulders impatiently. “A weasel. Running just a bit scared. Probably won’t last much longer in this game. I’d say his goods would be as advertised, though not prime quality of their kind, and you might have trouble with resupply. Against that, you can probably get more from him for a lower price than you could from a more secure dealer. Depends on what you want.”

  He laughed and ruffled her hair. “Ajin’s luck,” he said, touched the sensor again. “Send in Sapato.”

  Sapato was a genial golden man, a deep smooth tan, laugh lines radiating from the corners of soft chocolate-brown eyes. Easy laughter, the motions of gregarious fellowship, but everything he said or did was just a little off. After he’d chatted with the Ajin for a short while, she decided she didn’t need to be an empath to be careful of this one. With a smile just a trifle too confident he tossed his flake onto the desk and sat back as the Ajin inserted it in the player.

  Shadith watched it for a few beats, then went back to studying the man; there was something about him, she couldn’t quite put her finger on it … until she glanced from him to the Ajin and back. She nodded to herself. Didn’t matter what she said, this one had lost his sale. The two men were too much alike to tolerate each other. A lot of repressed hostility behind those easy smiles. Sapato was a less successful version of the Ajin, something he picked up as a subliminal message that left him angry and nervous, though he worked hard to keep it from showing. And the Ajin saw the man he might have been if circumstances had been only slightly different; like the runner he wasn’t conscious of that. She watched them both, nodded to herself. In a way Sapato was also a forecast of what the future held for the Ajin if his revolution failed and he survived it. She glanced at the screen, listened as a taped voice described the use of the weapon pictured, a multishot rifle with exploding pellets, then presented demonstrations of the rifle’s speed and accuracy and stopping power on everything from a charging man to an angry changrain hombeast. Sapato’s was a far more thorough and effective presentation than Harmon’s, showing the weapons in action as well as describing their specs. Gunrunners had the most dangerous profession in known space; instant death if any government caught them. No trial, not even a farcical one. Worse if they were caught inside Company territory. Profits were enormous, of course, but the field was a small one, its members constantly changing as luck ran out for old ones and newcomers took their places. It was a tribute to the rarity and worth of sweetamber that the Ajin had attracted three of them and managed to get them bidding against each other. She glanced at the screen, shuddered. A reenactment of an actual battle, the fighters and eventual corpses provided by con tract-labor bosses, according to the narration. I’d like to turn Lee loose on those, she thought, then suppressed a sigh. Just like the runners, take one boss out and a dozen more would pop up fighting to replace him.

  The Ajin slipped the flake out and set it on the desk. “Most impressive,” he said. “I’ll let you have my decision by tomorrow noon. If that’s agreeable?”

  Sapato got to his feet, waved a hand in an airy dismissing gesture. “Take what time you need. You won’t find better than that.” He sauntered out.

  The Ajin scowled at the flake, pushed it away from him with the tip of his finger. “Well?”

  “Full of himself, isn’t he?”

  “Very.”

  “I’d say he runs a tight business, you’d get prime goods for your coin, resupply’s probably fast and accurate. It’ll cost you top price and maybe more. And he’ll have enemies. That could complicate everything, might even have repercussions back here. A dangerous man, a little unstable, a very bad enemy. Definitely what he says he is—that’s no Pajungg spy or tricky swindler.”

  “Right.” He touched the sensor. “Send in Colgar.”

  Taggert! She caught back a gasp, concentrated on breathing steadily, her eyes on the floor. So that’s where he’s been. Setting up background. It’ll be deep and solid. She chanced another look that made her wonder how she’d recognized him so swiftly. The thick head of white hair was gone, his skull polished to a high gleam. He looked hard and gray and mean, a statue cast from metacrete. Nothing left of the smiling man who liked children and could sit for hours with his own, making up fantastic tales to amuse them. This man was dangerous as an ancient blade quenched in the blood of thousands. Dangerous to her too, though he didn’t know it. He’d have to act fast, taking the Ajin out at the first opportunity. His time here was strictly limited. Damn! If only I knew where and what that trap was, I could warn him about it. Maybe he’ll be lucky. Hunh. His good luck is my bad. If he killed the Ajin or hauled him off to Dusta, that meant a very messy and altogether premature end to her tenure in this body, an appalling waste of healthy flesh. While she was resigned to dying eventually as this body wore out, she wanted to put that eventuality off as long as possible, meaning to celebrate a lively old age. What a bind. She glanced at the projection. First cousin to Sapato’s, same slick presentation, same blood and gore. Gah, Taggert, how could you. Don’t be silly. Shadow, he’s doing his job. Time you did yours.

  The flake finished its run; the Ajin slipped it from the player and set it beside the other two. “Most impressive. I’ll let you have my decision by noon tomorrow. If that’s agreeable?”

  Colgar/Taggert got to his feet, gave the Ajin a grudging nod and walked out with the lithe, noiseless stalk of a hunting cat.

  The Ajin leaned back in his chair, smiling. “Well, Fortune’s Child, what do you think of that one?”

  “If you cut at him, he’d dull the knife. Got the charisma of a rock, probably as efficient as they come, good merchandise, top price, no bargaining, take his offer or leave it and goodbye to you. Not a man to like or dislike, use him like a machine, won’t trick you, won’t give you a speck of dust you don’t pay for. What else he is, god knows, I don’t.” She waited to see how he’d react, feeling reasonably secure; he’d shown no signs before that he was particularly adept at reading behind her smiles.

  He played with the flakes, pushing them about. “Which one, Child of Fortune, which one shall I buy from?”

  She was suddenly confronted by temptation almost too powerful to resist. Tell him to stay away from Taggert, send him away immediately, save my life. No, I can’t. Might be a death sentence for him. God! She gazed up at Ajin. Worms eat your miserable soul. Aloud, she said, “I can’t tell you that.” She sucked in a long breath, let it explode out. “I won’t.”

  He bent over and stroked her head. “Little luck …” She jerked away, got to her feet with some difficulty, cursing under her breath at the narrow robe that hobbled her movements. “Look,” she said when she was steady again, beyond the reach of his hand, “I’m a singer, that’s what I know. I don’t know shit about that stuff.” She waved her hand at the desk and the flakes.

  He stiffened. “You will not use that kind of language, child.” It was an order, his heavy teasing banished as he moved around the desk and came to loom over him. “Do you hear me?”

  She shivered, forced herself to lower her eyes. “I hear you.”

  He cupped his hand under her chin, lifted her head. He was smiling again, the stern father banished. “Little luck, you have to be perfect, don’t you see?” He drew the back of his hand along the side of her face, then stroked the tip of his forefinger along her mouth. “You have a great destiny, dreamsinger.” He took hold of her shoulders, turned her around, guided her to the door. “Go back to your quarters, Fortune’s Child, and think about what I said.”

  She palmed her door open and went inside. Linfyar was curled up on the divan, sleeping again. She sighed, ripped off the white robe and threw it on the floor, strode through the bedroom into the fresher. With barely controlled violence, she twisted on the water, yelped as she scalded her arm and hastily adjusted the temperature. She stepped in, folded her arms on the tiles, rested her forehead on them and let the water beat on her back. My god. She banged her head against her arms. My god. What a mess. That creep. That curreep. You have to be perfect. My god. Little luck. I’m going to throw up if he doesn’t stop that. You have a destiny. Yeeuch. She shivered all over, shut the water off and started soaping her body, scrubbing at herself vigorously until she began to feel clean again. She rinsed the soap off, stood letting the water beat down on her some more until the heat melted the tension in her muscles and left her feeling limp. She rubbed herself dry, wrapped the toweling robe about her, went into the bedroom and threw herself on the bed; the hard night finally catching up with her, she drifted into a doze.

  Well, Shadow, interesting developments.

  *Hello, Old Po’. Tried to get through to you last night.*

  *Beat yourself, didn’t you?*

  *I know. Too well, I know. Listen, what I need from you, it’s even more urgent now, I need something that’ll knock out the Ajin’s defenses, make him babble, or maybe make him suggestible enough that he’ll do what I tell him even though he knows it’s dangerous for him. Can you do that? I mean, do you have some sort of juice that will do that?

  *No, Shadow. I’m sorry, but … no.*

  *Shit. All that funny dust and there’s nothing like what I want?*

  *Shadow, remember, the Avosingers have been here only a few hundred years. There’s been no systematic study of the plants here; the foresters have stumbled on a few things, the grasslanders, but it’s been trial and error and mostly error.* .

  But you …

  *Me? I have capacity but almost no experience. Shadow, I didn’t even know what writing was before you soft sides came. Have you any idea how strange and marvelous and exciting I find that controlled and directed curiosity of your kind? I’m sorry (sad and rueful self-mockery), come back in a few hundred years and I’ll supply you with whatever you need. Now … (sense of massive shoulders shrugging)*

  *Hunh. That about sinks my only plan. Taggert’s here.*

  Your friend.

  One of them.

  *He’ll act against the Ajin.*

  Right.

  *Then you’d better get that thing out of your back.*