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I swallow dryly watching the Pink trace his nails over the tabletop. Idly, I wonder what Gold he used to be a sex pet for. I’d ask, but the little flesh monkeys don’t like that very much at all.

“We are both thieves,” he says. “But there are two subspecies of thieves in this world. The first thinks anything that can be

taken should be taken. This thief believes in anarchy. The second subspecies is one who believes that not everything should be stolen. That some things must be sacred. This thief believes in order. My question, then, is which subspecies are you, Mr. Horn?”

“I’m afraid you’ve got your wires crossed,” I say, stretching my neck. “I’m not a thief. I’m an insurance investigator.”

“No. That is what you were. But I wasn’t asking that.”

“Look, I know we all look like—”

“Ephraim ti Horn.” He interrupts softly and without breaking eye contact. “Born 707 PCE at Courneuve Hospital in Evenstar, Hyperion. Current residence at 777 16B Salt Place, Upper West Promenade Level 17. Known associates: Volga Fjorgan, Cyra si Lamenis, and Dano…Sunshine?”

“I told him it was a shitty name. But it was between that and Starfall.” No one laughs. “Tough crowd.”

But this isn’t some street shakedown. They’ve got resources and money. My name’s not much of a secret. But knowing my address? That information costs more than a couple drinks at a dark dive. And knowing my birthplace? Only one damn soul on Luna knows where I was born, and Holiday wouldn’t touch these people through decontamination gloves. Only way they’d know is if they had my old legion records. That’s some deep data.

I look back at the octopus cane.

The Pink watches me for a dreadful moment, and I remember a rumor I once heard in the Rising that during the Battle of Luna some of the platoons used Pinks as human lie detectors in the fields when they couldn’t get their hands on tech. Makes sense. They’re all about the subtle shades.

“Yeah, you got my name right. Golden laurel to you,” I say. “But I’m no thief.”

“Disappointing,” the Pink murmurs. “Very disappointing.” He looks back down at the bonesaw. “It tires the mind, these telarian games. All these street pretenders weaving their webs, forgetting they are the flies, not the spider. Since you evidently cannot answer a complex question, I will ask a simple one. Mr. Horn, where is my sword?”

A knot forms in my throat.

They’re going to melt the flesh off my bones.

“Your sword?” I frown. “Sorry, citizen, I’m more of a gun man. Unless you were talking euphemistically about your cock. In which case, it might be in that one’s mouth.” I jerk my head to the one he called Gorgo. The monster’s black eyes have not left my face. “He looks like he swallowed more than mead and roast beast in his time.”

The Pink bursts out laughing. His men do not. They glance at Gorgo in dead silence. “What do you think of him, Gorgo?”

Gorgo smiles, revealing a mouth full of gold-plated teeth. “Humor seems to be his survival mechanism, my lord. Under the current circumstances it may indicate suicidal tendencies. Shall I punish him?”

“Perhaps later,” the Pink says. “For now, I am enthralled. Mr. Horn, you delight me. It’s been too long since someone took a chance at making me laugh. Good comedy is always such a risk.” He wets his lower lip with his tongue. A slow, intentional motion that might be for my benefit, or simply a learned sexual methodology taught to him in the Garden of his youth. “Do you know who I am?”

“Give me a hint.”

His lips curl back from his teeth. “Ave Regina,” he says hoarsely in Latin. As the syllables vibrate from his lips, a ghostly, Byzantine tattoo crown appears on the skin of his forehead in ink that moves almost like the tentacles of an octopus sprouting spiked thorns. The centerpiece of the crown is a black hand.

“Do you know who I am, now?” he asks as the voice-activated ink begins to fade till his skin is clear and pale porcelain again.

“Yeah,” I say numbly.

“Then say my name, Mr. Horn.” He raises an eyebrow. “Will you make me tell you twice?”

“You’re the Duke of Hands.”

“How clever you are!” He leans back in his chair. “And do you know why they call me that?”

“I’ve heard rumors.” I eye the bonesaw.

“Excellent. Gorgo here is of the conviction that we should hurt you to loosen your tongue. It always comes to savagery these days. More efficient. But now that the Territory Wars are behind our little underworld, I was hopeful that you would be cultured enough for a civil conversation.”

“You’ve an interesting definition of ‘civil.’?”

“It’s all relative. So, since now you know who I am, and all attendant threats are implied, is it safe enough to assume we will be honest with one another?”