Nalomy was twenty-six years old, pretty in a hard sort of way, and quite shapely, a fact that she liked to emphasize by wearing skimpy outfits, and when the mood struck her, nothing at all. As was the case in the pool. And rather than conceal her body, as some women would have, the Procurator chose to leave her charms on display, a strategy intended to torment Hingo, who could look but wasn’t allowed to touch.

  For his part Hingo knew what his mistress was up to, but he was powerless to stop her, or keep his eyes off Nalomy’s partially submerged breasts. “The meeting will be held fifteen minutes from now, Your Highness. The guards have been warned, the East Room is ready, and the refreshments are on the way.” Hingo knew that a Procurator wasn’t entitled to be called “Highness,” but Nalomy insisted on the honorific, and, with no one of higher rank around to object, Nalomy’s staff was forced to obey.

  Nalomy stood. Water cascaded off her slender body as she turned to climb a couple of steps before entering the warm embrace of the towel that one of her nearly identical maids was holding. That gave Hingo an opportunity to enjoy Nalomy’s narrow waist, flared hips, and nicely tapered legs. But the interlude was all too brief, as Nalomy’s pet Fulu dog yapped for attention, and she turned to confront him. “Thank you, Hingo. . . . That will be all.”

  The Majordomo bowed, took three steps back, and turned to go. He couldn’t have Nalomy, but there were plenty of slave girls in the palace, and one of them was going to have a very active evening.

  The East Room was a large space intended for private parties and receptions. Windows, plus big double doors, looked out onto a sprawling terrace, and the dark waters of the lake beyond. All of them had been left open to let the warm evening air in—and for the convenience of Nalomy’s guests.

  It was nighttime, so the guards stationed on the terrace couldn’t see the Lir bandits as they came in for a landing, but they could hear the gentle whuf, whuf, whuf of leathery wings and a few words of a language that no Uman would ever be able to speak. Then the first birdlike sentient was down, his head jerking from side to side as he looked for potential threats. Centurion Rax Pasayo was there to greet the Lir by name and escort him in through the double doors. He was a small but fastidious man whose skin was tanned and wrinkled from years spent patrolling the desert wastes. “This is Hybor Iddyn, Highness,” Pasayo announced, as Nalomy waited to receive her visitor.

  Iddyn was about five feet tall and extremely slender, a trait that was emphasized by the long, narrow wings folded along his back. Strong muscles were required to lift a seventy-pound body off the ground, and the source of that power was evident in a wedge-shaped torso and strong legs. A white crest began just above the Lir’s hooklike beak and ran back along the top surface of his rounded skull to the point where it merged with the feathery collar that surrounded his neck.

  Iddyn’s yellow eyes were huge, being at least twice the size of a Uman’s, and were packed with three times as many cones. That meant his vision was greatly superior to Nalomy’s as their eyes made contact. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Nalomy said sincerely, as she stepped forward to greet her visitor. The young woman was dressed by that time, and rather conservatively, too, both because the Lir were prudes and Nalomy knew her body held no interest for Iddyn. No, Iddyn was after better weapons, or the money required to buy them. Never mind the fact that he would happily use the guns on Nalomy’s citizens if given the chance. That was the price the people of Dantha would have to pay.

  “Good meet you,” Iddyn said solemnly, as he unfurled both wings and brought them forward to touch the floor.

  The gesture was the equivalent of an extravagant bow, which pleased Nalomy, who smiled engagingly. “Welcome to my home.”

  Two additional Lir had entered the East Room by that time—and Pasayo hurried to introduce both. “This is Pak Nassali, Highness, and Etir Lood. Both of them are accomplished warriors.”

  Nalomy could well believe that, given the way they looked. Both Lir wore leather harnesses, to which a variety of weapons were attached. Energy pistols for the most part, because of how light they were, and razor-sharp ceramic knives. But could they take on and defeat a detachment of Xeno Corps variants? That remained to be seen. “Welcome,” Nalomy said politely, as more yellow eyes darted around the room. “I know you flew a long way to get here. You must be hungry. Please help yourselves to some refreshments.”

  A buffet table had been set up along one wall, and it was loaded with delicacies, including big half-pound rock bugs, which continued to squirm in spite of the skewers that held their segmented bodies in place, mounds of lightly toasted Nenor seeds, and a Vevor carcass that had been left to bake in the sun for three days before being stuffed with sweet Susu berries and served at room temperature.

  The banquet was disgusting by most people’s standards, but Nalomy wasn’t most people, and she watched in fascination as the ravenous Lir ripped chunks of half-rotted meat off the dead Vevor, swallowing the gobbets whole. And, much to Centurion Pasayo’s amazement, the Procurator even went so far as to sample the Susu-berry stuffing, which she pronounced to be quite delicious.

  Eventually, having eaten their fill, the bandits were invited to sit on tall stools that allowed their wings to extend down behind them. Rather than use a Uman chair, Nalomy chose to perch on a Lir-style stool, thereby further ingratiating herself with Iddyn who, having a generally low opinion of Umans, found this one to his liking. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “Food good.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” the Procurator said graciously, as she popped a final Susu berry into her mouth. “Now, if you have no objections, let’s get down to business. An Imperial prison ship was forced to land on Dantha earlier this week, and because repairs are going to take a while, I gave permission for the Xeno Corps officers to move their prisoner to Station 3 in the Plain of Pain. Where, if what Centurion Pasayo tells me is correct, you have them under observation.”

  “That right,” Iddyn said feelingly. “Hate Xeno freaks.”

  That was true, and Nalomy knew why. Unlike the specimens seated in front of her, most Lir were not only loyal Citizens of the Empire, but highly respected residents of a variety of planets. But Iddyn and his “flock” were descendants of Nest Cult fanatics, who had been tried by Imperial courts more than two hundred years previously and sent to Dantha as punishment for a long list of violent crimes. That bit of history explained both their hatred of the Empire, and of the Xeno Corps, which they saw as the modern-day equivalent of the sadistic prison guards who had been in charge of their ancestors. The Procurator planned to use that fact to her advantage. “Of course you do,” Nalomy said sympathetically. “So, how would you like to attack them without fear of a reprisal from Centurion Pasayo’s troops? And get paid five thousand Imperials for doing so?”

  “Ten thousand,” Iddyn said thickly. “We kill them good!”

  Nalomy would have been willing to pay twice that amount but did her best to hide that fact. “Okay,” she said reluctantly, “ten thousand it is, but only if you do exactly what you’re told. . . . Centurion Pasayo will give you half the money up front—and half when the mission is completed.”

  That was a problem for Iddyn, since he wasn’t sure he could fly five thousand Imperials back to High Hold Meor, even if they were divided three ways. He wasn’t about to say that, however, so it was a good time to change the subject. “Why?” Iddyn demanded. “Why you want Xenos dead?”

  “It isn’t about the Xenos,” Nalomy responded noncommittally. “I want their prisoner. And I want him alive. That’s all you need to know.”

  Iddyn already knew more than that because, under the cover of darkness, his number two son had landed on top of Station 3’s roof and peered down through a hole. This was when he saw the cage, the not-Uman inside of it, and what the creature could do. Clearly such a being could be useful if properly harnessed. Especially if the person who controlled the not-Uman wanted to kill someone. So whom did the Procurator want to eliminate? And why? There was no way to find out without revealing how much he already knew. Iddyn nodded. “You pay. We go.”

  Pasayo produced three identical money belts, laid them out on a table, and ritualistically loaded each one of them with coins. Though considered archaic, not to mention annoying, on the core worlds, the metal disks remained popular on rim worlds like Dantha, where electronic commerce wasn’t fully implemented.

  Then, once the Lir were ready, they left the same way they had come. Nalomy and Pasayo watched as they took off. “They won’t get far,” Nalomy predicted, as the steady beat of powerful wings was heard. “Not with all that extra weight strapped to them.”

  “No,” Pasayo agreed. “I suspect they will land outside the city, bury half of it, and come back later.”

  “So, can they do it?” Nalomy wanted to know. “Can they kill the variants and free the shape shifter?”

  “It won’t be easy,” Pasayo replied gravely. “But I believe they can.”

  Having arrived at the spaceport the day before, Cato was surprised to find that there wasn’t any regularly scheduled transportation into Solace. That meant he was forced to make the ten-mile trip riding in the back of a smelly farm wagon. The four-wheeled conveyance had no suspension to speak of, and the old tractor pulling it rattled noisily as it belched sooty smoke out of a four-foot-tall exhaust pipe. There wasn’t anything to sit on other than the cages occupied by raucous stee-stee birds, so Cato’s butt was sore, and he was glad to pay the boy, getting off the wagon as soon as the tractor arrived at the south end of Market Street.

  It was evening by then, and all of the businesses that Cato was supposed to visit were closed, which meant the variant couldn’t accomplish much of anything until the next morning. So, being eager to find a place to stay and get something to eat, he set off to explore Solace. And with the surety of a man who had been forced to plumb the depths of many an exotic city, it wasn’t long before Cato entered The Warrens. This section of Solace was not only the oldest part of the settlement, but home to the public market, the slave pens, and the sorts of dives Cato had promised to steer clear of.

  With Sivio’s admonitions still ringing in his ears, and a money belt buckled around his waist, Cato forced himself to ignore the bars that lined Market Street and zeroed in on the Spaceman’s Hotel. It was a respectable-looking establishment that was three stories tall, boasted a stone façade, and appeared to be supporting the less prosperous structures located to either side of it.

  Being well aware of the hostility that was often shown to police officers, especially on rim worlds, Cato was dressed in the sort of plain everyday tunic and kilt that any male citizen might wear. Of course that meant he couldn’t command the hotel’s owner to provide him with a room, as was a policeman’s right, but would have to hope for a vacancy.

  Cato followed a couple into what turned out to be a reasonably well furnished lobby and made his way to the front desk. The woman who stood behind the counter had short blond hair worn in a stiff flattop. Half her face was covered with tattoos so well executed that they had to be the work of a Noma II needle artisan. A spacer perhaps? Who had jumped ship in Dantha? And made a life for herself in Solace? Yes, quite possibly, not that it made any difference as the clerk produced a smile. “Good evening, Citizen. How can I help you?”

  After paying for two nights in advance, Cato was shown to a room so small there was barely space for a bed. But it was clean, and located at the back of the building, where it was well insulated from the street noise out front. And that suited Cato just fine.

  Having secured a place to stay, Cato went looking for something to eat. There were plenty of pubs along the city’s winding streets, and while most of them served food, Cato was careful to avoid such establishments knowing that once inside it would be tempting to have a drink. Or two . . . Or three.

  That was why Cato chose to eat dinner in a small hole-in-the-wall restaurant called The Five Tables. Cato had one of the tables, and the other four were occupied by regulars, judging from their interactions with the eatery’s only waitress.

  It was an excellent if somewhat lonely meal, which Cato polished off rather quickly, being hungry and having no one to talk to. Having left a generous tip, he made his way out onto the street. There weren’t very many streetlights, the number of pedestrians had decreased by at least 50 percent over the previous hour, and pockets of deep shadow occupied both sides of the street. A made-to-order environment for muggers, thieves, and rapists.

  So Cato placed one hand on the pistol hidden beneath his cloak and made his way up the very center of the street. There, assailants, if any, would be forced to charge out of the shadows, providing him with an opportunity to draw his weapon and fire.

  That strategy entailed a degree of risk, however, because on two different occasions it was necessary to sprint for the side of the road or risk being hit. Once by a private limo so quiet he wouldn’t have known the vehicle was coming had it not been for the car’s bright headlights, and once by a team of clattering angens pulling a wagonload of garbage. They were large animals, bred for strength, and made snorting noises as they passed.

  Ten minutes later, Cato was back at the hotel, in his room, preparing for bed. It was comfortable, especially when compared to a bivouac bag on Station 3’s cold floor, and sleep came quickly.

  Cato awoke early, took a shower in the shared bathroom down the hall, and was soon out on the street. Breakfast consisted of a pastry stuffed with scrambled egg, cheese, and spicy meat. It was everyday food, for everyday people, and immensely satisfying. He drank two mugs of hot caf to wash it down.

  Then, having solicited directions from the street vendor, Cato was ready to begin what promised to be a long, hard day traipsing from one merchant to the next in an attempt to buy the supplies without being cheated.

  A rainstorm had passed through the area during the early hours of the morning, so the streets were still damp and the air relatively clean. But it wasn’t going to remain that way for long because, as Cato made his way deeper into The Warrens, the smoke produced by thousands of charcoal braziers was already trickling up into the atmosphere to form a gray haze.

  Meanwhile, down on the ground, the open drainage channels that paralleled each street were filled to overflowing with polluted water, which would start to smell when the sun rose higher in the sky.

  Most of the dwellings to either side of Market Street were only one or two stories high. The more prosperous homes were made of stone, quarried in the mountains to the west, and brought down by train. Citizens with more modest incomes lived in houses made of blown concrete, some of which had been treated with pigments to produce blocky structures of various colors. Tile roofs were popular, as were sheets of scrap metal and ratty tarps. Many homes had miniature temples in front of them, where daily offerings could be made to dozens of highly specialized gods.

  But most of the structures that people lived in were little more than hovels made from shipping containers, junked vehicles, and scraps of this and that salvaged from who knew where. All of which were inhabited by an army of filthy children, many of whom ran up to Cato and demanded money, until he left their territory and entered the next block, where another mob of street urchins waited to attack him.

  Meanwhile, as the sun inched higher in the eastern sky, and the city’s rancid smell reasserted itself, all manner of traffic began to appear. It wasn’t long before the confusing maze of mostly unmarked streets was packed. There were angen-drawn wagons, two-wheeled carts pulled by half-naked slaves, and unicycles that whined as gyros battled to keep them upright. Caravans of work-worn androids lumbered along, each burdened by an enormous backpack. Specially trained dogs, serving as mounts for diminutive Kelfs, competed for space with the occasional palanquin, each with a screened enclosure and a mystery therein.

  And, as if to celebrate the chaos in the streets, it wasn’t long before the clotheslines that crisscrossed the open areas above were thick with laundry. The clothes flapped like multicolored flags each time a breeze found its way down out of the mountains to caress Solace and ruffle the surface of the lake beyond.

  The whole thing made for a scene so filled with sensory input it was a relief to spot the provisioner Cato was looking for and open the hammered-metal door, entering the relative silence beyond. That was the first stop in a long and often frustrating day spent trudging from place to place, dodging aggressive street vendors, and haggling with avaricious merchants.

  Finally, as the sun fell behind the mountains, Cato came to agreement with a furniture maker named Hason Ovidius. A burly character with black, slicked-back hair, intelligent eyes, and a ready smile. “So, my friend,” Ovidius said genially. “Twelve Imperials per bed. . . . Including haulage. Are we agreed?”

  The original price had been fifteen Imperials, plus transportation, and having spoken with the owners of two other shops earlier in the afternoon Cato knew the quote was fair. Especially given that the bed frames would be custom-made according to military specs. “Yes,” the police officer replied. “It’s a deal.”

  “Good!” Ovidius said enthusiastically. “Come . . . The day is nearly over. Let’s have a drink.”