Dimitrios walked to the window. "I don't see anyone. The street's empty."
"He's in the hotel right across the street. Probably looking for her."
"Or you."
"Or me. If he sees me here, that lets her off the hook. He'll know I wrote those verses."
"You're not seriously considering walking out there?" demanded Dimitrios.
"I can't let him kill her."
"Are you going to challenge him to a thinking match?" said Dimitrios angrily. "Or maybe a poetry contest? They're the only two things you can beat him at."
"What do you suggest?" snapped Dante. "I don't want to die, but I can't let him find and kill September Morn!"
"What do I suggest?" repeated Dimitrios. "I suggest you step aside and let someone face him who's at least got a chance!"
And before Dante could stop him, Dimitrios had stepped out into the street. He stood there patiently for a few seconds, and then the Bandit came out of the hotel.
"Dimitrios?" said the Bandit, surprised. "It's been a long time. What are you doing here?"
"I'm here on business," replied Dimitrios.
"Who is he? Maybe I know him."
"I'm sure you do. He wiped out a schoolhouse on Madras."
"Forget your business," said the Bandit. "You're a good man, and you're no friend of the Democracy. Go in peace."
"You're a good man, too," said Dimitrios. "But you've gone a little overboard. We should talk, Bandit."
"My name is Santiago," the Bandit corrected him.
"Not any more. That's what we have to talk about. You can work for him, you can help him, but you can't be him."
"Stand aside, Dimitrios. I'm only giving you one more chance to walk away."
"I can't," said Dimitrios.
"I know," said the Bandit sadly. He pointed a finger at Dimitrios. The bounty hunter went for his burners, but never got them out of their holsters. An instant later he was dead, a black, bubbling, smoking hole in the middle of his forehead.
"Shit!" muttered Dante. "He'll kill the whole fucking city if he doesn't find what he's after."
He walked to the hotel's doorway and stepped outside.
"I knew I'd find you here," said the Bandit.
"You killed my friend."
"I'll kill more than your friend if I don't find the woman who writes poems about Santiago."
"She only writes about the real Santiago," said Dante. "I wrote the ones you read."
The Bandit stared at him. "Why?"
"To lure you out here."
"Still why?" asked the Bandit, frowning and scanning the area for hidden gunmen.
"To get you away from Valhalla. You'll find some changes when you get back." Dante smiled grimly. "Dimitrios was telling the truth. You're not Santiago any more."
"We'll see about that when I return to Valhalla," said the Bandit, pointing his finger at Dante. "In the meantime, I told you that the next time we met I'd—"
Suddenly he stopped speaking. A puzzled expression crossed his face. He opened his mouth, but only blood came out. Then he pitched forward on the street, stone cold dead.
As he fell, the figure of a woman was revealed. She was standing behind him, a burner in her hand.
Dante stood motionless, finding it difficult to believe he was still alive.
The woman approached him. "I believe you were looking for me," she said. "I'm September Morn."
34.
She sings, she dances, she writes novels too.
There's nothing that she isn't able to do.
Just set her a task that all have foresworn:
Of course she can do it—she's September Morn.
They were sitting in the restaurant, which management had closed to all other customers. A lone waiter stood in the most distant corner, awaiting their pleasure.
September Morn poured Dante a stiff drink. "Take this," she said. "You look like you need it."
"Thank you," said Dante, swallowing it in a single gulp, then watching as she poured him another. "I owe you my life. If there's ever anything I can do for you . . ."
"You can tell me why he came here to kill me," said September Morn.
"I will," said Dante, looking out the window where medical crews were removing the two corpses from the blood-stained street. Finally the last vehicle raced away, bearing the Bandit's body, and he turned back to her. "But shouldn't we be expecting a visit from the authorities any minute now? I mean, you did kill him out there in broad daylight. I'll testify that you were saving my life, but surely they're going to want to ask us both some questions."
She shook her head. "Don't worry," she said. "They won't bother us."
Dante downed a second drink, and felt the tension finally ease.
"Why not? There are two dead men out there."
"It's very complicated," replied September Morn. "Let simply say that I'm not without a certain amount of cachet here on Hadrian."
"Oh?" He stared at her, waiting for her to continue, and finally she did.
"I'm the only native who ever won a major award for anything, and they're very proud of that. When I considered moving to the Binder system, they passed a law declaring me a Living Monument. My mortgage was cancelled, all my outstanding debts were paid, and by definition I cannot break the law—within reason, of course." She grimaced. "All that's on the one side. On the other is that I can't leave the system without a military escort whose sole purpose is to see that I return."
"So no one's going to hassle you for shooting the Bandit?" he said.
"Was he a bandit?"
"No. That was just his name—the One-Armed Bandit. He lost his left arm years ago. You saw just a minor demonstration of what his prosthetic replacement could do."
"He called himself Santiago," she said.
"I know."
"There has to be a connection. I wrote about Santiago, and he thought he was Santiago." She paused. The waiter mistook it for a signal and instantly walked over to their table. She glanced at him and gestured him away. "But even if he was delusional, what did that have to do with me?"
"It's a long story." Dante leaned back, and his chair changed shape to accommodate him. He realized that he could no longer reach the table and eat his food comfortably, and he moved forward again.
"I've got all the time we need," said September Morn. "And it's about my two favorite subjects—Santiago and me."
"All right," he said, sampling a mouthful of mutated shellfish in a cream sauce, and deciding she had good taste in restaurants. "But let me begin with a question. When did Santiago die?"
"No one knows." She learned forward confidentially. "But do you know what I think? I didn't even put it in my poem, but I think there were two Santiagos!"
"Do you really?"
"And I'm almost certain the second was a bounty hunter named Sylvester Cain."