Page 20

H er head snaps up and I follow her line of sight to an undamaged window on the west wall, overlooking the ocean. A shadow moves behind the polarized glaz, and as we watch, the window-wall snicks open.

A tall, dark-skinned woman, carefully and expensively dressed in red holosilk so tight it limits her movement, steps through the opening and picks her way through the rubble towards us on heels even higher than Kez’s killer boots.

She’s got one of those broad faces, everything rounded like it’s been smoothed by a sculptor’s hand.

It’s a face made for smiles, but she’s not smiling at the moment.

Her expression is closed, neutral, not giving anything away.

She stops ten meters away and bows over her clasped hands. A mass of tight braids slithers over her shoulders.

“Mister Snow, Miz Kerryon, welcome to Halcyon House.”

Kez bows back. “Payton.”

I nod at her. Bowing’s really not my thing.

“May I offer you refreshments?” She gestures at the opening she’s just come through .

I reach out to Kez, put my hand between her shoulderblades.

She doesn’t flinch or protest when I touch her scar, but I know she doesn’t like it.

So I cup her back above the scar, and guide her toward the house, gesturing for Payton to precede us.

Payton may not have any training, according to her file, but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna turn my back on her.

Inside, the window-wall is about the only thing that’s undamaged.

The interior dividing walls, which were fancy patterned glaz, are shattered.

Jagged pieces still cling to their metal frames.

Shock-wave. Someone’s made an effort at cleaning up: there’s no glaz on the floor.

But the clean-up crew didn’t remove the soot from the walls, or the charred carpet from the floor.

It crunches underfoot as Payton leads us through the empty, echoing house to the atrium that houses the infinity pool.

She gestures to a glaz-topped table set with three chairs, sitting in an arbor of greenery.

Grass and flowers underfoot. Native cer-cer grass, only a little singed, screens the blackened walls.

Overhead, a canopy of native flowers offset the lingering smell of smoke and polycrete dust.

“Please.” Payton gestures to the chairs. Her movements are graceful; her manner’s gracious, but there’s no mistaking the taut set of her shoulders, or the tension that cuts faint lines into that broad, brown forehead.

A quick survey shows there’s no good place to sit.

Either I’ll have my back to the cliff, so someone can get the drop on me from outside, or my back to the house, so someone can sneak up on me from inside.

I hand Kez into the chair facing the cliff, and I sit down across from her facing into the house.

Not ideal, but we’ll keep each other covered, and my kitten can enjoy the view.

“The recyclers were damaged,” Payton says. “I’m afraid the selection is limited. But I can offer you kaffe and tea.”

When Kez nods for tea, Payton pours steaming yellow liquid out into a ceramic cup. Smells familiar. Chrysanthemum tea. Guess we’re not the only ones with files .

After she’s served us, Payton takes the third chair, with her back to the pool, and sips her own cup of kaffe.

Kez puts down her cup after a few sips and gestures for her backpack, which I’ve set beside my chair. I pass it to her across the table. She takes out the little figurine and hands it to Payton. “Thank you for the tea. I thought you might like this.”

Payton cups the figurine in her long hands. Bends her head over it. She’s silent for a long moment, and I wonder if we’ve offended her. Then I see her lips move and I realize she’s praying.

Kez and I sit silent while Payton prays. While she places the figurine reverently in the middle of the table. When she looks up, she smiles brilliantly at Kez. “Thank you,” she says. “Father’s collection was in the study. It was destroyed.”

“I’m glad you like it.” Kez takes another sip of her tea. “Is there anything you need to rebuild?”

Payton shakes her head. “There’s no point. None of my brothers and sisters have survived, above or below.”

So Kimpler did keep his test-tube babies in the basement. “You got any interest in continuin’ the science project?” I ask.

“None,” Payton says succinctly.

“Fair enough.” Kimpler’s cloning activities were only tolerated by the Tyngalings, so that’s one less headache. “Let’s start with the easiest thing,” I say. “We’re here for info, pure and simple. Nothin’ else.”

Payton watches me, out of almond eyes so dark I can’t see a distinction between pupil and iris.

I can see why Myhre threw her bitchfit. Payton is beautiful.

And there’s obvious intelligence in those black, black eyes.

But there’s no warmth, not like when Kez looks at me.

I can appreciate Payton’s looks, but they don’t do anything for me.

“Nothing else,” Payton repeats slowly.

“Nope. You’ve been to Eastern Colony. No other Tyng employee’s been there in the last year. I wanna know what you know.”

Payton’s posture loosens fractionally. She crosses one long leg over the other and rests her hand on top of her knee. “Do you want me to prepare a report?”

“Fuck no. I get enough of those from Myhre. Just gimme the quick-n-dirty version.”

Payton’s wide lips twitch up at the corners.

I wonder if she likes Myhre as little as Myhre likes her.

“Well, there is no Eastern Colony for a start. Not officially, and not in the minds of the colonists. For the Colonial Administration, no colonization of the eastern continent of Kuseros has been sanctioned. For the colonists, they call the land ‘Asdel,’ which means ‘God’s Home.’ The land belongs to Helas. They are merely stewards for the god.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Interesting.”

“We give lip-service to Helas in the west, Mister Snow. We hang our lights for Helasfast and give Founders Gifts. In the east, they’re true believers.

The Horse-men reshape their bodies in their god’s image.

The farmers dedicate each drop of sweat to Helas.

Some of them refuse mech in order to turn the holy soil with their bare hands.

Everything about them is related to their faith in some way. ”

I glance at Kez who raises her eyebrows. Something’s not adding up. Why would Hex-peddlers have any interest in a religious fundamentalist colony? Doesn’t sound like a ready market.

“Why send you there, then?” I ask.

“Ah,” Payton says. “There are none so corrupt as those who once believed and fell from grace. Eastern Colony has no shortage of fallen.”

I nod, getting it. “So why ain’t we doin’ our fiat thing?” I ask.

It’s the unofficial Tyng motto, Fiat Hex . In Uni, supply the drug to every man, woman and child on Kuseros.

“That is what Father sent me to Eastern Colony to determine,” Payton says. She uncrosses and recrosses her long legs, wraps her hands around her other knee. “Why have our distribution efforts in the Eastern Colony been unsuccessful?”

“And?”

Payton reaches to the middle of the table, where there’s a covered tray that looks like it holds food. She taps the silver lid, and it opens like a shell. No food, just a frayed piece of rope. She picks it up and hands it to me.

I test it. Braided fiber. Rough. Not much play to it. I wouldn’t want to tie Kez up with it. “Hangin’ rope.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what it is. There is no centralized law enforcement in the Eastern Colony, but it is far from lawless.

That is what happens to anyone caught using ‘fly-strike,’ as they call the product.

They are hung. In a public place, with a vial of the product around their necks along with a plaque that says ‘yaul.’ I haven’t been able to translate that exactly, but I think it means something like transgressor. ”

“Sinner,” Kez says, surprising me.

I glance at her. Lift an inquisitive brow.

“Granna was a Krister,” she reminds me. Which explains why Kez swears by the old god instead of Helas.

“Who’s doin’ the hangin’?” I ask.

“Friends, neighbors, loved ones. Any of the Faithful. They all carry the judgment of Helas in their hands.”

Fuck. “Mob rule. That’s why there’s no govvies.” I tap the rope against my palm. “Ain’t there anyone in charge?”

“Not in the way you and I would think of being in charge. There are figures of power within the religion. They lead prayer. But other than the prayer-leaders, there are very few exceptional individuals within the community.”

I drop the rope back onto the tray. Rub my hand over my chin. “No local strongmen?”

“I heard of a few but was unable to track them down. I formed the impression that they do not want to be found.”

“I can see why.” If their neighbors hang them when they feel they’ve gotten above their station.

Payton smiles. “For all that it sounds chaotic, Eastern Colony is a peaceful place. There is no crime to speak of, even in Kaliddy, which is a city almost as large as Tiv. The streets are clean. No one goes hungry. There is none of the ostentatious wealth of the west, but there is also none of the poverty. The saying you hear most often in the streets is, ‘Helas rewards the faithful.’ Which I suppose is their way of recognizing the prosperity their hard work has wrought.”

“Perfect society,” I say. “If you don’t mind bein’ told what to do, how to think, and gettin’ hung by your best friend if you don’t follow the fuckin’ herd.”

“Eastern Colony is not a place for iconoclasts, Mister Snow. You would not do well there.”

My mouth twitches. “So you’re sayin’ there’s no market for product?”

“On the contrary, I would say that there is a substantial market, particularly in Kaliddy and the trading posts. The problem is distribution. Any supply chain Tyng Enterprises could establish into Eastern Colony would likely be short-lived, due to the aforementioned hangings. Moreover, there is the problem of collecting payment. Even in Kaliddy, most transactions are done by way of barter, so extracting our profits would be difficult. Unless you fancy taking payment by the bushel.” Payton’s smile turns wry.

I nod to show I appreciate her joke. “Speculate for me. Why would someone there want to kill a Tyng Xec?”

Payton slants those dark eyes at Kez. “A Tyng Xec, or Miz Kerryon?”

Kez lifts her brows but doesn’t say anything.

“Both,” I say.

“A Tyng Xec, I would guess that the motive is bellum sacrum . Tyng Enterprises, like any other corporation, symbolizes rashuk to the Eastern Colonists. That’s their version of the divine enemy?—”

“Satan,” Kez says.

“Just so,” Payton confirms. “Although their religion does not, in general, condone holy war. It would also be unusual for them to leave Asdel, even for a chance to eliminate rashuk in all its guises. I would have to think that the Xec had done something specific to antagonize or threaten the colonist. They are not, by in large, fighters. And certainly not assassins.”

That fits with them putting a tag on Kez’s head instead of going after her themselves.

“What would antagonize or threaten them?”

Payton shrugs, the wave of black braids cascading over her shoulder. “Eastern Colonists are motivated by the same drives as every other human being. Comfort. Safety?—”

“Plus their religion.”

Payton nods.

“What about Kez?” I ask.

“I have to think that’s personal. Unless you’ve done something morally offensive, Miz Kerryon,” Payton says with a smile.

“Every day,” Kez responds. “But I can’t remember pissing off anyone in Eastern Colony.”

I blow out a breath, irritated that none of the information Payton’s provided has gotten us any closer to identifying the threat to Kez. “Last question. You ever hear of anyone named Drogan?”

“Drogan Tessanta. You asked about strong men. He was one of the few I was able to identify. He was based in Ystrile, which is the southern-most outpost. It’s a trading settlement, central for the Csolaros farmers, the miners of Begh and the Horse-men.

Like Kaliddy, substantial wealth flows through Ystrile.

Father felt it was the best point of penetration. ”

“You said was .”

Payton nods. “I went to Ystrile three times to try to arrange a meeting between Mister Tessanta and Father. I was wholly unsuccessful. Either Mister Tessanta is no longer there – as all I spoke to strongly implied – or he does not want to be found, and his resources are more substantial than ours.”

“Those would be some pretty fuckin’ substantial resources.”

“Even so.”

“You said there wasn’t the same concentration of creds in the E.C.,” I say and Payton nods. “They got enough pull to put a hundred CeeBees on Kez’s head?”

“I would not have thought so, but if there was, it would be in the hands of someone like Drogan Tessanta. If one of your strong men found a way to pull the wealth out of those farmers and miners and ranchers, there is substantial wealth to be had.”

That don’t make me feel any better. And I’ve still got nothing solid. Probably asking too much to think Payton would have all the answers. “Definitely last question. Ever heard of Jaxon Mereia?”

“Yes, I know Mister Mereia. And I am aware of Miz Kerryon’s unfortunate history with him.”