He didn't talk much, socialized even less, rarely drank, never drugged. If he ever felt like hanging it up and going back to his former life, he just forced himself to remember how it felt when he learned his wife and child had been killed, and he re-dedicated himself to preventing others from sharing that terrible, aching emptiness, that undirected hatred at the universe.
He wasn't interested in bringing anyone back alive. If the rewards didn't specify Dead or Alive, he ignored them. He was even particular about the types of killers he went after. He much preferred to go after those who had killed unarmed women and defenseless children, and he frequently passed up closer, easier, and far more lucrative prey to go after the ones who fit his criteria.
He lived very simply. His clothes were commonplace, even his weapons were not of the best manufacture. His ship was old and unimpressive. Most people felt he was hoarding his rewards. They would have been surprised to know that he kept only enough to live and travel on, and sent the rest to hand-picked charities that gave help and comfort to women who had survived violent attacks and children whose parents had been murdered.
He was on Prateep because he'd been given a tip that Hootowl Jacobs was there, but he hadn't seen any sign on him. He'd heard about this new character called the Rhymer, but when he looked into it, he found it far more likely that the Democracy had killed the Duchess than that the young poet had.
He knew all about Matilda, too, but he had no interest in bringing her down. In fact, he admired her. He liked the way she drove the Democracy and the Frontier's authorities crazy. He knew that she plundered every world she visited; what impressed him the most was that everyone else knew it too, and no one had been able to prove a thing. He'd stopped by the Diamond Emporium to watch her dance—he'd seen her before, and was intrigued by her combination of grace and athleticism—and to see if there was anyone in the crowd who might point him in the direction of Hootowl Jacobs. As usual, he didn't socialize; there was no one there that he either trusted or respected—there were mighty few of either in the galaxy—and so he simply relaxed and enjoyed his drink.
When the show was over, he got to his feet. He'd seen the Rhymer sneak into Matilda's dressing room, but that was no concern of his. He walked two blocks to his hotel, stopped at the bar for a nightcap, and went up to his room.
A few minutes later he heard a single knock at the door. He was still dressed, but his weapons, all three of them, were on the dresser. He quickly walked over, grabbed one, and trained it on the door.
"Come in," he said, uttering the code words that unlocked it.
"Thank you," said Matilda, entering the room. "I think it's time we met."
He shrugged. "I know who you are—and I know what you're supposed to have done. Makes no difference to me. As far as I'm concerned, you're free to keep on doing it."
She smiled. "That's very comforting."
"Is that what you came to find out?" asked Dimitrios.
"No."
"Then have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?"
"No, thanks."
"I don't do drugs, and I don't let anyone around me do them," he said.
"That's all right. I don't drug."
"You're a cheap date," he said, finally lowering the burner and stuffing it in a boot.
"I believe in making every credit count."
"Really? I've heard that you've got money you haven't even counted yet."
"Oh, no—I always count it. How else would I know that I'm not being ripped off?"
"I like you, Waltzin' Matilda," said Dimitrios. "I like the way you dance. I like the fact that you drive the Democracy crazy. And now I find that I like your wit." He paused. "But I still don't know what the hell you're doing here."
"I want to get to know you."
"That's a line I usually hear from some floozy the hotel manager sends up to make sure I don't shoot up the place," he said.
"I'm sure it is," she replied. "But I really do want to get to know you."
"Why?"
"Because from everything I hear you're an honorable man, and they're pretty rare."
"All right, I'm an honorable man. Now what?"
"Now I want you to tell me about the other honorable men you know: who they are, what they do, what they believe in?"
"You want to talk to a minister, not a bounty hunter."
"I know what I want to talk to," said Matilda. She sighed. "Okay, forget honorable. Who's the most formidable man on the Inner Frontier?"
"I am," he said, and when she made no comment, he continued: "I know it sounds egomaniacal, but if I didn't think so, if I didn't truly believe it, then I'd never be willing to go up against some of the men I have to face."
"Who else?"
"There are a lot of formidable men out here," answered Dimitrios. "Hootowl Jacobs, for one. I've heard about a character called Silvermane, out in the Quinellus Cluster. There's the Plymouth Rocker, there's Mongaso Taylor, there's the Black Death, there's a woman they call the Terminal Bitch who's supposed to be as deadly as any of them." He lit a thin smokeless cigar. "And there are some mighty formidable aliens too. From what I hear, there's a pair named Tweedledee and Tweedledum that might be deadlier than any of them."
"Well, that's a start," said Matilda. "How many of them are honorable?"
"Maybe one, maybe none, who knows? Mind if I ask you a question?"
"Go ahead."
"Why is the most accomplished thief on the Inner Frontier looking for an honorable man? That's kind of like mixing oil and water, isn't it?"
She laughed. "I don't think you'd believe me if I told you."
"Probably not, but why don't you tell me and I'll decide for myself."
"Fair enough. I'm looking for an honorable man to train and finance."
"What will you train him to be?"
"A dishonorable man."
He stared at her for a long minute. "That's an interesting notion. What are you looking for—a bodyguard or a partner?"
"Something much more than that," said Matilda. "I'm looking for a leader."
"Leaders are in short supply these days," replied Dimitrios.
"That's why we need one so badly."
"We?" he repeated. "As in you and me?"
"As in the whole Inner Frontier."
"We've never had one."
"Yes we have," said Matilda.
He stared at her curiously. "You're getting at something. I wish you'd come right out and say it."
"It's time for Santiago to return."
He chuckled. "You wouldn't like it much. He's been a rotting corpse for over a century."
"Maybe not," she said.
"Oh?"
"Maybe I'm looking at him right now."
"You've got me all wrong, Waltzin' Matilda," said Dimitrios. "Santiago was the King of the Outlaws. That's just the kind of person that I'm in business to hunt down and kill."