The Fudir did not lift his glass. Instead, he gave O’Carroll a venomous glance. “Hadramoo’s not the healthiest place for travel,” he grumbled.
“Perhaps not, but certainly a place from which to recover stolen goods.”
The Fudir indicated O’Carroll. “He told you about January’s Dancer.”
“Some. The ship’s library filled in a bit more. King Stonewall’s Scepter. Do you really think it confers the power of obedience?”
“He does,” said O’Carroll, hooking a thumb at the Terran.
“But if it is true,” Greystroke said, fixing the Fudir with his glance, “it’s too dangerous to remain in the hands of the barbarians. Sooner or later, one of them may read a book.”
“Small risk of that,” said the Fudir, “but even more dangerous for you to have it.”
“Meaning the Confederacy. Have you forgotten your duty?”
The Fudir drew himself up stiff in his chair. “Dao Chetty oppresses my homeworld. I don’t want your reach to cross the Rift. Does that sound foolish and sentimental to you, Olafsson? Well, I’m foolish and sentimental.”
“He is,” agreed O’Carroll, but the Fudir stifled him with a glare.
“It does sound foolish,” Greystroke admitted, “to say such things to my face.”
“I might have led you to Donovan,” the Terran continued. “He dropped his coat years ago, but I might have led you to the man who could have led you to…But no matter. Whatever business you had with him, I will not permit you to go after the Dancer.”
Greystroke had relaxed into his seat at this tirade; now he permitted himself a smile. “You will not permit me? Do you think your permission would mean much to Those of Name?”
“Well,” said O’Carroll mildly, “he’d have my help.”
Greystroke blinked at him, then allowed himself a hearty laugh. “All right,” he said when he had wiped the amusement from his eyes. He was satisfied now about the two men. “Let me ease your mind.” And he reached into his pocket and brought forth his badge. The opal glowed a bright yellow.
The Fudir gave it only a glance. “I know a tinsmith in Bitterroot Alley who can cobble a better badge than that one.”
“May I?” said O’Carroll. Greystroke allowed him to handle the badge and the opal faded to a smoky gray.
“By the Fates,” Greystroke said, “the criminal mind is a slow one! Didn’t you wonder how I could masque myself as a Pup so quickly?”
“My mind was paralyzed,” the Fudir confessed, “at the terror of the Names.” Hugh choked on a swallow of wine and coughed it out. He handed the badge back to Greystroke. “I believe him,” he told the Fudir. “I think he really is a Pup.”
The Fudir pursed his lips. “You were very convincing,” he told Greystroke, “as a Confederate agent…Alright, so you’re a Pup. What should we call you? Not Olafsson, I hope.”
“My office-name is Greystroke.”
“So. And what happened to the real Olafsson?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not really; but what about the Other Olafsson? They travel in pairs, I’ve heard.”
“I’ve been watchful. There’s been…little sign of him.”
“Probably won’t be more than that until it’s too much.”
“I’ll be careful.” Greystroke finished his goblet of black wine and set it down. “I have a proposal to make.”
The Fudir, who had not touched his meal for some minutes, picked up his fork. “And what proposal is that?”
“I go with you to the Hadramoo, and you help me take the Twisting Stone from the Cynthians.”
Hugh choked again on his wine. “Three of us,” he said when he had recovered, “against an entire barbarian horde?”
Greystroke considered the matter. “We could use one or two others,” he admitted.
The Fudir grinned around a mouthful of food. “No, the Pup’s right, Hugh. We’d never take it by main force. We’ll have to go by stealth and trickery. And who better than a thief, a guerilla, and the man that no one sees?”
At Jehovah, Greystroke left his ship in parking orbit and he and his two deputies took the bumboat planetside. There, he sent them to secure lodging at the Hostel while he reported to the Port Captain.
Because they were on the Pup’s ducat, Hugh took a three-room suite at the Hostel, and he and the Fudir spent an hour preparing lists of supplies they would need for the Hadramoo venture. Hugh laid out a work structure breakdown and schedule with budgets and resources. He calculated the demand rate of three people for water, food, air, and other necessities, multiplied by the likely lead times for resupply at various ports of call, and applied a safety factor. He even included reasonable stocks of weaponry and ammunition. They planned to talk their way in and talk their way out, but it was just possible they might have to fight their way one direction or the other. He was in his milieu, and the Fudir was impressed.
“I was being groomed for a planetary manager position,” Hugh reminded him, “long before I took up the guerilla’s trade.”
When they were satisfied with the plan, the Fudir told Hugh to head over to Greengrow Street. “That’s where the wholesalers and outfitters have their entrepots. Do you know how to find it? Get a positioning wristband. No, don’t depend on the ’rickshaw drivers. They’ll take you three ways around the barn. Don’t worry about the cost. The Kennel has deep pockets. But don’t buy anything until I get there. These Jehovan dukāndars will cheat you blind and short you on your change just for the practice. You may be an assassin, but you’re too honest a man to deal with the likes of them.”
Hugh saved the list and slid the stylus into its sheath. “And what will you be doing the while?”
“I’ve business in the Corner to attend to, for the Pup.”
“He trusts you not to run off on him?”
“We’ve an understanding. Apparently, ships have been disappearing in the Rift. Greystroke’s boss thought the ’Feds were impounding them for some reason. Then they learned from a courier that the ’Feds have been losing ships, too, and wanted this Donovan to investigate.”
“That’s all?”
“The courier may have been a ruse. Greystroke wants to find out if they really have been losing ships or they just want the League to think they have. He needs Donovan to decrypt the data bubble and he needs me to find Donovan.”
“It all sounds…complicated.”
“Agents don’t walk around announcing themselves. It’s what Greystroke plans to do with him afterward that might make Donovan uneasy about surfacing. He dropped out of the Game years ago.”
“Now you’re going to pull him back in. A friend of yours?”
The Fudir made a face. “We’ve shared a room. Listen, you have two ears too many, and too much in between them for your own good. Sometimes it’s better not to know things. Wait for me in the lobby. I have to dress proper for this venture.”
Hugh had purchased a wristband from the Hostel’s notions shop and had just shaken hands with the positioning network when the Fudir stepped out of the lift tube. He had changed into a dhoti of pale blue checks and stripes and had smeared across his forehead a broad band of charcoal and, above it, a tripunda of bhasma. The desk clerk called out, “Hey, you! Boy! What you do up in residence? You fella no mess voyagers! Prenday?” The Fudir turned a cold eye on the man, but Hugh intervened, saying, “It’s all right. He’s with me.”