"About what?"
"You've got a wonderfully devious mind."
"Thank you," said Dante. "I think."
Nine days later, word filtered back to Valhalla that Delvania had posted a 500,000-credit reward for Santiago. Gingergreen II upped it to 750,000 credits the next day, and a week after that September Morn showed up, having eluded her bodyguards, with word that the Hadrian system was offering a million credits for Santiago, the killer who had murdered Dimitrios of the Three Burners in the streets of Trajan.
Before the month was out, the Democracy itself announced a reward of two million credits for the notorious Santiago, dead or alive.
"Well, everything seems to be working out," announced Dante to the rest of them at dinner that evening. Now all that remains is to actually find our Santiago."
Moby Dick laughed.
"What's so funny?" asked Dante.
"He's right here," said the albino.
"What are you talking about?"
"Santiago," added Matilda. "He's been here all along. We've just been too blind to see it."
Dante looked around the table curiously. "Tyrannosaur?"
"How can you be so foolish when you're so smart?" said September Morn.
"You think better, risk more, and work harder than anyone," added Matilda.
"Me?" said Dante with an expression of disbelief.
"They're right, you know," said Virgil. "It's always been you."
"Always," echoed Matilda.
43.
His name is only whispered,
His face is never seen,
He's king of all the outlaws,
He's hungry and he's lean.
Nothing ever hinders him,
And nothing ever will—
For he is Santiago,
And he lusts for money still.
Dinner had been over for almost ten minutes, yet no one had left the table. They were all waiting for Dante, who had not moved or uttered a word, to speak.
Finally he looked up.
"You're all wrong," he said, looking at all of them. "I wish you weren't, but you are. I'm a poet, and not even a very good one at that."
"I'm a poet," said September Morn, "and you're right—I'm a damned sight better that you'll ever be. Starting today, I'm going to be writing the poem."
Dante was about to object, but he found that he agreed with her. She was a much better poet. Which meant he was out of a job.
"We've discussed this among ourselves before you arrived," said Matilda, "and the conclusion is obvious. We just didn't see it until now."
"I appreciate your confidence," he said, "but I'm just a thief. I've never done anything worthwhile in my life."
"You saved me," said September Morn.
"And me," said Virgil.
"And you found a way to kill the Tweedle," added Matilda.
"Anyone could have done that," he said with a self- deprecating shrug. "You're not paying attention. Santiago is a leader of men. No one will follow me."
"I will," said Moby Dick.
"Me, too," chimed in Barnes.
"And me," added Bailey.
And suddenly he was overwhelmed by a dozen more pledges of allegiance.
"I've only been on the Frontier for a year," he protested. "I don't know anyone. I wouldn't begin to know who to contact."
"You've done pretty well so far," said the Plymouth Rocker.
"I'll be your liaison," offered Matilda.
"And I'll act as your go-between with the aliens," said Moby Dick.
He stared at them for a long minute. "You're sure?"
"We're sure," said Matilda. "You've changed every one of our lives, and always for the better. Who but Santiago could have done that?"
"All right," he said, feeling an almost tangible warmth flowing from them to him. "I'll give it my best shot."
"That's all anyone's asking," said September Morn.
Late that night he was sitting in the office, going over the figures Wilbur had transmitted to him, trying to decide the best way to put the money to use, when Matilda appeared.
"It's late," she said. "You don't have to do it all your first night on the job."
He sighed deeply. "There's so much work to do. I've got to get started."
"If I can help, let me know."
"You can tell me this isn't all some cosmic joke," he said.
"I don't understand."
"An unimportant little thief is leading an army made up of a foul-mouthed preacher, an Indian whose goal is to copulate with every race in the galaxy, an albino who's so huge he needs help just to get on his feet, a prize-winning poet, a killer who uses a crossbow of all things . . ." He shook his head as if to clear it. "What the hell kind of army is that?"
"Exactly the kind Santiago would have," she said.
"You think so?"
"Of course I do," said Matilda. "You're Santiago, aren't you?"
"Everyone seems to think so." He paused. "If I am, then when did I become him?"
"Like I told you: you always were."
Just before he went to bed, he looked into the bathroom mirror and studied the face that confronted him. For the first time, he noticed the tiny lines of character, the firm set of his jaw, the openness with which the image stared back at him.
"Well, I'll be damned," he said to the face that no longer bore any trace of Danny Briggs, and was fast losing the look of Dante Alighieri. "Maybe she was right."
EPILOGUE
He's back from the dead,
He's back from the grave;
He's clever, he's cunning,
He's ruthless, he's brave.
Fear is unknown to him,
Mercy is too.
His name's Santiago—
And he's coming for you!
There was a lot of work to do, a lifetime or more, and they soon got busy, each in his own way—for as Santiago explained, everything that had been done up to this point merely put the pieces in place. It would be years before the Democracy truly realized that the King of the Outlaws was back, defying them at every turn.
September Morn never returned to Hadrian II, but remained on Valhalla, where she added another two thousand stanzas to the poem, while still writing her own works.
Moby Dick opened a chain of Fat Chance casinos all across the Inner Frontier, each catering exclusively to aliens, and spent most of his time covertly helping Santiago.
Deuteronomy Priest spent the rest of his life warning anyone who would listen that Santiago was the devil in disguise, and that as long as he remained in human form, he was fair game for any God-fearing Christian with a weapon and a strong sense of moral outrage.