Then, in their midst, Book spied a WANTED poster. It was several months old, to judge by the brittleness of the paper and how deep it was buried among the others. What stood out on it, what had caught his eye, was a name: Hunter Covington.
Book snatched the poster off its pins and studied it. The wanted person in question was not Covington himself, but a woman named Elmira Atadema. She was lovely, with coffee-colored skin, dark hair that curled around her shoulders, and striking gray-green eyes. The poster listed her vital statistics and last-seen location and date. She hadn’t been missing long at the time the poster had been issued, but from the bounty being offered, someone was taking her absence very seriously. And that someone was named on the poster as Hunter Covington.
Book recalled Zoë’s description of the woman who had accompanied Covington on his meeting with Harlow. Zoë had intuited that she might have been a bondswoman, and lo and behold, Elmira Atadema was indeed an escaped bondswoman, according to the poster. She had run away from Covington, her bondholder, six months ago. The reward for her return—“alive and unharmed”—was substantial. For a lot of folk it was equivalent to a year’s wages.
Maybe someone had ratted on Elmira, or Covington had lived up to his given name and hunted her down. Either way, he must have got her back, if she was the one who had been with him for the meet at Taggart’s two days ago.
There was a proud set to Elmira’s posture that spoke of someone who had not been beaten down by her position in life. Being a bondsperson meant someone “owned” you for however long your contract stated, to do with as they pleased. Mal had masqueraded as Inara’s bondsman on Regina, when they had stolen some cargo from a train for Adelai Niska. As soon as they had realized what they’d taken — all that stood between the folk of Regina and a slow, agonizing death — they had returned it, earning the wrath of Niska. That they had dealt with, but word got around that the crew of Serenity had somehow botched a job and they had yet to fully restore trust among some that hired ships for transport.
The line moved, and within a few more minutes Book was stepping up to one of the service windows. A pasty-faced man wearing metal-framed glasses was seated behind the barred opening. The clerk wore a white shirt, garters on the sleeves, and a plasma visor across which the docks’ arrivals and departures scrolled.
“How may I help you, sir?” the man asked.
Book glanced down at his plastic name tag. “Hello, Mr. Smotrich,” he said. “I’m looking for a man named Covington. Hunter Covington. A gentleman I just met at the docks suggested I look for him here.”
Smotrich blinked, then his eyes narrowed. “Mr. Covington has not been in of late,” he replied.
Book noted the sudden redness in his cheeks. Either Smotrich was lying or the subject of Hunter Covington was upsetting in some way. It might well be both. He pressed the clerk further. “Do you happen to know where else I might begin to look for him?”
“No,” Smotrich snapped back. He looked down at some papers and began shuffling them.
“I see.” Book held up the WANTED poster. “Well, perhaps you could help me with another matter. I presume the lady in this poster is no longer at large.”
“You know her?” the clerk said in a tone that bordered on accusatory. “Or are you chasing that reward? Didn’t think Shepherds cared much about earning coin.”
The question had clearly hit a nerve. Book knew he had to proceed carefully.
“As a Shepherd, I’m naturally concerned for her welfare,” Book told him. “I’ll pray for her safe recovery if she has not been found.”
“Well, sir, can’t say she has,” he said. “Or leastwise, I haven’t heard if she has. I don’t know anything more about that.” He nervously examined his paperwork for a second, then croaked out, “Sorry, sir, I have to close this window. It’s past the end of my shift.”
“Oh, of course. Thank you for your—”
Time, Book had planned to say, but Smotrich yanked down a hunter-green shade, effectively ending their conversation.
Book considered engaging another clerk with the same questions, but they were all occupied with customers and he would have had to start over at the back of the line. The stocky woman was demanding to speak to the quartermaster himself. Someone else was complaining that the utilities weren’t functioning at their docking site. Business as usual — the clamor and struggle of everyday life, which Book had eschewed for the peace of the abbey. Sometimes he wondered why the still, small voice inside him had urged him to emerge from that place of serenity and board a ship of that name.
He turned and left the building. “Peace be with you,” he said to the two guards outside. One of them nodded in acknowledgement; the other scowled.
From the quartermaster’s office, Book plunged headlong into the seamier depths of the city, which bordered the space dock. Threading his way through the crowds in the street, he graciously declined the offers from the sidewalk hawkers of food, drink, jewelry, housewares, mood-altering substances, and temporary companionship.
The exterior of the Sea Wolf Tavern was as he had remembered it. A pseudo-antique mermaid masthead overhung the entrance, arms flung wide as if to take to her ample bosom all those seeking a certain kind of shelter. When he entered the crowded bar, he could barely hear himself think over the din of voices and music. The Sea Wolf fancied itself one of Eavesdown’s classier joints, but there was still plenty of Alliance Day rambunctiousness in evidence, from boozy singalongs to raucous toasts where the clinking together of glasses was more like a contact sport.
He took an empty seat at a table near the bar. A Zulian spider monkey squatted on the bartender’s bare shoulder. The furry little creature appeared to be drunk, eyes half closed, mouth hanging slack, nearly falling off its perch again and again, catching itself at the last possible instant by coiling its long tail around its master’s neck, then promptly letting go as the bartender swatted at it.
Book’s religious order forbade the drinking of alcohol so he asked a harried server for some water. Unfortunately, it tasted even rustier than what he made do with on Serenity. He had offered to do Kaylee’s share of the dishwashing for a month if she could upgrade the filtration system, but even that had not helped. He thought wistfully of the fresh artesian spring at Southdown Abbey. He was slipping into nostalgia, probably because the abbey lay close by and civilization, such as it was, demanded different things from him than did a life of contemplation.
He sipped gingerly, getting the lay of the tavern as he sat alone at a dirty, rickety table. Orange lamps glared all around, catching dust motes and revealing long strands of cobwebs among the fishing floats and nets that adorned the low ceiling. He scanned around the room, on the off-chance Covington was here. He hadn’t seen Covington’s wave to Serenity but he had seen the screen-cap picture, so he had a fair idea of who he was looking for. No luck.
“Can I get you another drink, preacher?” a passing waitress asked. She was wearing as much makeup as a singer in the Chinese Opera and a highly abbreviated pirate costume including a low-cut, frill-edged blouse. Her figure was the right amount of voluptuous.