All four Tra'ho'seej were staring at Fayr now. They were still staring when their prisoner abruptly twisted his arms out of his captors' grips and dropped flat on his stomach onto the ground.
I tensed, as I'm sure the toughs did, waiting for Fayr to take advantage of the newly cleared field of fire to mow them down. But Fayr was cooler than that. More to the point, he also knew we needed to keep a low profile. "The knives go away now, right?" I repeated.
The leader muttered something under his breath, and the knives disappeared back into their sheaths. I gestured, and the two toughs in back moved up to join their friends. "Have a seat," I invited, waving at the low fire pit wall, and headed in to get their newly freed prisoner.
He had gotten back to his feet by the time I reached him. "Good evening," I greeted him. "Mr. Da—?"
"What the hell was that?" he cut me off tartly, his voice muffled by his face shield. "I gave you a perfect opening against those killers, and you just stood there."
"It's called restraint," I said, frowning. People rescued from kidnapping and robbery were usually a little more civil toward their rescuers. "You have something personal against those kids?"
"You mean aside from the fact one of them could have stuck his knife in me while I was lying on the ground?" he retorted.
"But they didn't, did they?" I reminded him patiently. "It's also called not drawing extra attention to yourself. I assumed you were as interested in that as we are."
"Well, yes," he said, less truculently. "Sorry. I guess I should be more grateful for the rescue, shouldn't I? Thank you."
"You're welcome," I said. "And I think you may be overreacting a little. All they were after were your cash sticks."
I couldn't see his expression with the face shield still in place, but I could nevertheless sense his surprise. "My cash sticks?" he echoed. "Why in the world would they think I even had any?"
"Because I told them," I said.
"You what?"
"We needed to find you quickly," I explained. "That seemed the easiest way to do it."
"I see," he said. The growing annoyance in his voice had vanished, replaced by a cautious anticipation. "Is this about the item?"
"Yes, but not in the way you're thinking," I said, looking over his shoulder. With the rain still falling the bonfire was starting to die down, but it was still quite warm where I was standing. "Is there a private place where we can go to talk?"
"That depends on what you have to say," he said, some of the wariness coming back. "Do you have the item I'm looking for?"
"I'm afraid the item you're looking for no longer exists," I said. "But the item you already have is still greatly in demand, Mr. Stafford." I raised my eyebrows. "Or should I say, Mr. Künstler?"
His shoulders went rigid. "Who are you?" he demanded.
"My name's Frank Compton." I hesitated, but there was no good way to say this. "I was with your father when he died."
For a long moment he stood rigid. Then, carefully, he pulled off his gauntlets and removed his mask.
It was Daniel Stafford, all right. But the face before me was a far cry from the neat, clean-cut professional college student in Morse's dossier photo. This version had wild and ragged hair, several weeks' worth of beard, and was sheened with sweat and grime. "My name is Stafford," he said quietly but firmly. "Rafael Künstler was my uncle."
"Ah," I said. So even now his true parentage was to be kept secret. That was fine with me. "My mistake."
His eyes searched my face. "So you're Frank Compton," he went on. "Uncle Rafael sent me a couple of messages about you."
"Anything interesting?"
"Only that you came with a high recommendation as a man who could be trusted." His lip twitched. "I also heard the news report of his death. What happened?"
"We can go into that later, if you don't mind," I said, looking over my shoulder. The four toughs were still sitting on the fire pit wall, with Fayr facing them from a couple of meters away with his gun still mostly hidden. So far the milling populace didn't seem to have noticed or gotten curious about any of it, but that wouldn't last forever. "Right now, we've got more pressing matters to deal with. Specifically, we need to grab the Lynx and get out of here."
"And I'm just supposed to hand it over to you?" Stafford asked. "Just like that?"
"Unless you want to join the rest of the bodies littering the trail of these damn sculptures, yes," I said tartly. "The people who've been creating that trail are already on Ghonsilya looking for you."
His throat tightened. "How do I know you're not one of them? You said you were with Uncle Rafael when he died. Maybe you're his killer."
"You said he gave me a vote of confidence."
"He gave someone named Frank Compton a vote of confidence," he countered. "I only have your word that you're the same person. And don't bother showing me any ID," he added as I reached for my wallet. "I've got lots of ID, too."
"So I gather," I growled. We didn't have time for this. "Let me lay it out for you. You have three choices. Only three. Option one: you give the Lynx to the people who killed your uncle."
His eyes flashed. "No," he bit out.
"Good for you," I said. "Option two is you trust me and let me get you and the Lynx out of here."
"And option three?"
I looked him squarely in the eye. "You reject my help, they track you down and kill you, and they get the Lynx anyway."
His gaze unfocused over my shoulder at the crowd of impoverished artists. He was scared all right, right down to his socks. But unlike a lot of people I'd met over the years, he wasn't going to let fear or panic make his decisions for him. "You still haven't given me any reason to trust you," he said.
I chewed at the inside of my cheek. There weren't a lot of ways for one stranger to prove to another that he could be trusted.
But there was one that might work. "Fine. Come with me."
I headed back down the indentation toward Fayr and Bayta. Stafford, with only a moment's hesitation, followed. "How are they doing?" I asked Fayr as I stepped to his side.
"They're quiet, and very unhappy," he told me.
I looked at the toughs. "Taking the opportunity to make their peace with the Creator, I hope?"
The leader twitched at that. "If they're wise," Fayr said.
"I don't think wisdom has ever been much of a burden for any of them," I said. "But there's still a chance they'll get to live out the rest of the night. Maybe even longer than that." I pointed to the leader. "You know of a nice, quiet place where you won't be tempted to make trouble?"
[There are rooms behind the entryway.] he said, his eyes seemingly glued to the bulge in Fayr's poncho that concealed the Rontra's muzzle. [We live there.]
"Who else uses those rooms? Or any of that area?"
[No one,] he said. [The foundation and walls are damaged. No one else is willing to take the risk.]
Apparently, plain simple common sense wasn't any more of a burden for them than wisdom was. "Good enough," I said. "Fayr, take them back and get them settled in for the night. Keep them quiet, of course."
"No fears," he assured me, gesturing with his gun.
Silently, the four Tra'ho'seej got up, two of them assisting their still wobbly companion, and filed off through the crowd. Fayr was right behind them. "Why not just use snoozers and put them to sleep?" Bayta asked.
"Because we may still have some questions for them," I told her. "Don't worry, they're way beyond the point of making trouble. The sight of submachine guns will do that to a person."
"What now?" Stafford asked.
"First, we pretend this is a civilized universe," I said. "Bayta, this is Daniel Stafford. Stafford, my partner and assistant Bayta."
"Pleased," Stafford said shortly. "What now?"
"Now we prove ourselves to you," I told him. "Question: if we're involved with your uncle's murder, why haven't we already killed you?"
He snorted. "Obviously, you want the Lynx, and you know killing me won't get it for you."
"Right," I said. "Now, what if we did have the Lynx, and still didn't kill you? Would that prove we could be trusted?"