The Domino Pattern

FOURTEEN

Kennrick’s reaction was pretty much what I’d expected.

“Ridiculous,” he snapped. “Which one of them made a boneheaded suggestion like that?”

“I don’t think we need to name names,” I said, giving his compartment a quick glance. It was about what I’d expected given the occupant: neat and tidy, no messes, no surprises. A few hangers’ worth of clothing hung together in the clothes rack/sonic cleaner, a reader sat on the computer desk, and the luggage rack held the three bags I’d seen him board with at Homshil Station. “Incidentally, if bonehead is your typical characterization of non-Humans, I can see why you don’t get along very well with them.”

“Don’t start, Compton,” he warned, glaring at me. “I’m not in the mood. You have no idea what I’ve been through with these people.”

“I’m sure it’s been difficult,” I said, again cranking up my diplomacy level. “Still, at least one of the team is solidly on your side.”

“Asantra Muzzfor,” Kennrick said, nodding. “Yes, he’s been the one bright spot in all this.”

“He’d certainly make a good sidekick, if you’re ever in the market for one,” I said. “So how exactly did you get hired?”

He shrugged. “The usual way. A matcher put my rêsumê with an opening at Pellorian, and next thing I knew I was on the payroll.”

“Any idea why you were chosen for this particular job?”

“Obviously, my legal background,” he said. “I was at Shotoko Associates, remember, and we were heavily into Filiaelian and Shorshic contract law.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” I said. “Strange that Pellorian didn’t also send along an expert on Filly and Shorshic cultures.”

“Not when you consider the price of Quadrail tickets,” Kennrick said. “But you see now what I was talking about earlier. These people are bound and determined to dump this whole mess squarely on Pellorian’s shoulders. That’s why I want—that’s why I need—the Spiders to take a little of the heat.”

“No.”

The word was so flat, so cold, and so unexpected that it took me a second to realize it had come from Bayta. Apparently, it hit Kennrick that way, too. “What did you say?” he asked.

“I said no,” she repeated. “The Spiders aren’t to blame for any of this, and they’re not going to take any of the responsibility. Any of it.”

I looked at Bayta, then at Kennrick, then back at Bayta. Suddenly, my quiet, emotionless, self-effacing assistant had caught fire. A slow fire, maybe, volcano rather than cooking-surface deep. But it was fire nonetheless.

And it wasn’t hard to figure out why. There was a murderer running loose on the Quadrail—her Quadrail—defying not only us but the Spiders who had made these trains the safest mode of transportation in the history of the galaxy. Kennrick was pushing for Spider admission of responsibility, and if he was thinking such things it was a safe bet other passengers were thinking them, too.

And anything that reflected badly on the Spiders also reflected badly on their Chahwyn masters, including the Chahwyn bonded to Bayta within her own body.

For Bayta, this had become personal.

“Fine,” Kennrick said. “Whatever. I just thought—never mind. Fine.”

“Then let’s hear no more about it,” Bayta said darkly, the fire in her eyes slowly fading into watchful embers. “Have you anything else to add about your appointment to this job?”

“No, I think that’s been covered,” Kennrick said. He was still trying to be contrary, but his heart didn’t seem to be in it anymore.

“Then I believe we’re finished here,” Bayta said, her tone stiffly formal. She looked at me, and I could tell she was belatedly remembering that I was supposed to be the one in charge.

But I wasn’t about to undercut her. Not after that performance. “Thanks for your time,” I said to Kennrick as I took a step backward toward the door.

And as I did so, my eyes drifted again to the clothing hung neatly on the sonic rack. The clothing, and the considerably larger capacity of the three bags sitting on the luggage rack. “We may have more questions later, though,” I added.

“Feel free,” he said sarcastically. “My door’s always open.”

We left, Kennrick closing and undoubtedly locking his door behind us. “Where to now?” Bayta asked.

“Dining car,” I told her. “I’m hungry. Did you happen to notice the clothing hanging on Kennrick’s rack?”

“Not really,” she said, her voice suddenly hesitant. “Frank—”

“Interesting thing is that there wasn’t much of it,” I said.

“Not nearly enough to fill all three of those carrybags.”

“Maybe the rest of his clothing is in the drawers,” Bayta suggested.

“I doubt it,” I said. “I’ve seen what sort of outfits he typically wears, and I’m guessing the drawers are no more than half full. But even if they were loaded to the gills, he should still be able to cram everything into the two larger bags.” I cocked an eyebrow. “Which leads to the intriguing question of what he’s got in the third one.”

“You have a theory?”

“Of course,” I said. I might be rotten at solving actual murders, but theories I had by the truckload. “Remember when we asked Kennrick why the contract-team Fillies had come aboard our compartment car even though they had regular coach seats?”

“He said they had documents they wanted to store in his compartment.”

“And since at least some of those documents might have concerned the Pellorian contract, I’m guessing they wouldn’t want Kennrick snooping through them any more than they would want random citizens doing so,” I said. “Which suggests that one of Kennrick’s bags may in fact be a portable lockbox.”

“How does that explain why they came aboard in our car?” Bayta asked. “Shouldn’t the documents have already been inside the lockbox?”

“They should indeed,” I agreed. “The only logical explanation is that the Fillies came aboard with Kennrick because he couldn’t heft the thing up onto the luggage rack by himself. Which immediately implies that it’s not just a simple lockable file case, but a genuine monster of a metal or layered-ceramic safe.”

“Kennrick could have asked a conductor to help.”

“And yet he didn’t,” I said. “He didn’t put the papers into a standard Spider lockbox, either. That tells me Kennrick and the papers’ owners didn’t want the Spiders knowing what they’ve got, or having access to them.”

“Considering Mr. Kennrick’s attitude toward the Spiders, I’m not really surprised,” Bayta said stiffly. “Where does that leave us?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “But if there’s something in Kennrick’s safe that somebody wants, and if Usantra Givvrac was the one carrying the key—” I shrugged. “We might have yet another possible motive for our murders. Like we needed one.”

“Yes.” Bayta wrinkled her nose. “Are all murder cases this messy?”

“Hardly ever, actually,” I said. “We’re just lucky.”

“I suppose.” She hesitated. “Frank …about the way I talked to Mr. Kennrick back there. I’m sorry if I was out of place.”

“You weren’t out of place, and I’m not sorry at all that you slapped him down,” I assured her. “The whole idea of trying to pin any part of this on the Spiders is ridiculous. It was about time he heard that in a format he could understand.”

We reached the dining car and went in. “I suggest you eat well,” I advised Bayta as we seated ourselves at one of the tables. “I have a feeling we’re in for another long night.”

“You think someone else is going to be murdered?”

“Our killer didn’t clobber Witherspoon and me and take that hypo just for the exercise,” I reminded her grimly. “One way or another, he’s going to use it.”

We had our dinner, discussed the case without making any discernible headway, and retired to our compartments for the night. I hit the sack immediately, hoping to get at least a couple of hours of sleep before the inevitable alarm sounded.

Only the inevitable alarm never came.

I hardly believed it when I woke up eight hours later and realized that my rest hadn’t been interrupted by emergency calls from doctors, Spiders, or dying passengers. I checked with Bayta, confirmed that the Spiders hadn’t spotted any problems during the night, and grabbed a quick shower before taking her back to the dining car for breakfast.

The car’s acoustics prevented me from eavesdropping on my fellow passengers as we ate, but there was nothing to interfere with my eyesight. If there was any fresh tension out there, I couldn’t read it in anyone’s face. On the contrary, it was as if the rest of the travelers had also noted the passage of a quiet night, and were equally relieved by it.

After breakfast Bayta and I set off on a leisurely tour of the train. The three remaining contract team Fillies were back at their card game, giving the impression they’d never left it. Possibly they hadn’t. Asantra Muzzfor, the sole team member still on Pellorian Medical’s side, nodded gravely as we passed. Esantra Worrbin and Asantra Dallilo, in contrast, ignored us completely. Three cars beyond them, Osantra Qiddicoj also nodded in greeting as we passed. He was still a little pale after his brush with gastrointestinal death, but was definitely on the mend. A small victory, I noted cynically, floating bravely along amid a sea of defeats.

We passed through second class, where we didn’t know anyone, and reached third, Logra Emikai, the white-knight Filly who’d come to Terese German’s aid a couple of days ago, was ensconced in the bar, where I’d noticed he seemed to spend a lot of his time. He spotted us about the same time as I spotted him, and I could see his eyes following us as we passed by. Possibly he was thinking about his offer of a bribe for inside information on my air filter analysis and wondering if he should follow through on that. But I made a point of not slowing as we passed the bar, and he apparently thought better of it and returned to his half-finished drink.

Three cars farther back we passed Emikai’s damsel in distress herself, who ignored us as usual. Terese’s Jurian seatmate Tas Krodo, had his hawk beak buried in his reader, while two rows back Master Tririn was again staring moodily at the display window beside him. Still in private mourning for his late contract-team companions, I guessed, or else quietly plotting his next victim’s death. I didn’t spot either Dr. Witherspoon or Dr. Aronobal during our journey, but with the dining and entertainment cars up and running, there were a lot of passengers away from their seats.

And with our casual tour of suspect and acquaintance completed, we slipped back into the baggage cars for another look at the victims.

“Why exactly are we here?” Bayta asked as I started undoing Master Colix’s mummy wrappings.

“Trying to find something we might have missed,” I told her.

“Like what?”

“I have no idea.” I finished unwrapping Colix, this time going all the way down to his waist, and set off on a careful, square-centimeter-by-square-centimeter search of the body.

And in the end, after half an hour, I found nothing.

“Two hypo marks, exactly,” I reported, wincing as I straightened my back out of the crouch it had been in for most of the examination. “The killer’s, and the one Dr. Aronobal made while he and Witherspoon were trying to save his life.”

“Are you sure?” Bayta asked.

I looked down at the body. “Did you see something I missed?”

“No, I meant are you sure they were trying to save his life,” Bayta corrected. She was gazing at the hypo mark in Colix’s arm, an intense look on her face.

“Meaning?”

“I was just thinking,” she said slowly. “After Master Colix died, Mr. Kennrick suggested that neither Dr. Aronobal nor Dr. Witherspoon actually knew what was in the vials they were using.”

“I assumed the Spider read the labels for them.”

“Actually, the way it works is that the doctor asks for the drug he or she wants and the server pulls those ampoules from the cabinet,” Bayta said. “But what if Dr. Witherspoon had another drug with him that he added to the hypo when no one was looking?”

I scratched my cheek and tried to pull up the memory of the scene as Bayta and I had come charging in. It would have been tricky, but not impossible, particularly if Witherspoon picked his moment carefully.

Witherspoon or Aronobal. Now that I thought about it, I realized I hadn’t actually seen that injection take place, mainly because Kennrick had popped his face into and out of the dispensary and I’d gone charging off after him. “Did you see Aronobal give Colix the injection?” I asked Bayta.

“I saw her remove the needle from Master Colix’s arm,” she said. “But not the actual injection.”

“Because you were watching me take off after Kennrick,” I said thoughtfully. “Interesting timing.”

“It could just be coincidence.”

“True,” I agreed. “Especially since we know that Colix was showing symptoms long before the doctors started working on him.” I frowned at Colix’s body. “But there is something else here, Bayta. Something significant. I just can’t put my finger on it.”

“Maybe when we reach Venidra Carvo and can have a proper autopsy done,” Bayta suggested.

“If it’s even still there,” I growled. “I’m sure the Spiders did their best, but after three-plus weeks of less-than-perfect preservation some of the more subtle evidence will almost certainly be gone.”

Bayta sighed. “And even if it hasn’t, the killer himself will be long gone by then.”

“With probably a new identity and maybe even a new face to go with it,” I agreed. “Possibly new DNA, too. We are headed for Filly space, after all, land of the lunatic gene-manipulators.”

“We’ll get him,” Bayta said firmly, an edge of fire creeping back into her eyes. “And then we’ll prove—to everyone—that the Spiders had nothing to do with it.”

“Absolutely,” I said, wishing I believed that. The farther we got into the mess, the more elusive proof of any sort seemed to be. “Well, nothing more for us here,” I added, starting to rewrap Colix’s body. “Give me a hand, will you?”

The next few days passed quietly. No one else even got sick, let alone died, and life aboard the train settled back a bit gingerly into its normal low-key routine.

We reached the three-week midway point without incident and passed on to the back half of our journey. Bayta told me the next morning that Kennrick and Tririn had gone ahead and held their halfway-celebration meal, the one Kennrick had been discussing with Colix the night of the first two deaths. Under the circumstances, I suspected the event was somewhat more subdued than originally planned.

I spent most of those days in my compartment, coming out only for meals, exercise, and occasional flybys of my primary suspects. Most of the compartment time was devoted to reexamination of the spectroscopic data I’d taken from the air filters and the bodies. But it was all just wheels spinning in mud. If there was anything in there aside from the bald fact of the cadmium poisoning, I reluctantly concluded, it would take someone better trained than me to spot it. All I could do now was wait for the other shoe to drop.

Two nights after the journey’s midpoint, it finally did.

I had just taken off my shoes in preparation for bedtime when the divider opened and Bayta hurried into my compartment. “The Spiders say Dr. Aronobal is calling for you,” she said tautly.

“What’s the problem?” I asked, grabbing my shoes and starting to put them on again.

“They don’t know,” she said. “They just say she needs to see you right away. She’s in the second/third dispensary, staring at the medications in the drug cabinet.”

“Maybe she’s thought of something relating to the murders,” I suggested, finishing with my shoes and standing up. “I’ll be back soon. Feel free to eavesdrop via the dispensary’s server.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked, frowning as she started for the door. “I’m coming with you.”

“No, you’re staying here,” I corrected, getting to the door first. “Aronobal asked for me, remember?”

Her face had gone very still. “You think it’s a trap, don’t you?”

That was, in fact, exactly what I was thinking. “I just think she might feel more comfortable talking to me alone,” I lied.

I reached for the door control, paused, and instead dug into my pocket. “Here,” I said, handing Bayta the kwi. “This won’t do me any good out there.”

She took it, her eyes going even darker. “Frank—”

“Besides, if there’s a problem and I have to fight, I’d rather you be here and not right in the middle of things where I have to worry about you,” I cut her off. “I’ll be back soon.”

I escaped into the corridor before she could come up with a suitable retort.

The corridors of the compartment cars were deserted, most of the other passengers probably having turned in for the night. The first-class coach car just beyond had the same settled feel about it, though there were still a few reading lights showing.

I went past the dining car and its usual contingent of late-night diners and drinkers, then trekked through the storage, shower, and exercise/dispensary cars into the next coach car. I walked through it and into the first-class entertainment car, where reflected flickers of light showed that a few viewers were still finishing up their dit rec dramas and comedies, and entered the next coach car. One more, and I would finally be finished with first class.

After which would come the long walk through second class and then finally to third. After all this, I told myself darkly, Aronobal had better have either one hell of a significant breakthrough to offer, or else have one hell of an innovative ambush to spring.

I was nearly to the end of the last first-class coach when I heard a quiet voice call my name.

I looked around. The only passenger anywhere nearby who should even know my name was Osantra Qiddicoj. He was slumped in his seat, his eyes closed, apparently sound asleep.

And then, as I watched, his eyes opened. “Go back,” he said, his voice soft and raspy.

I felt a sudden tightness in my chest. Qiddicoj’s open eyes were slightly unfocused, his long jaw slackened, and even in the dim light of the compartment I could see his rose-colored nose blaze had gone a little darker.

Which meant that it wasn’t Qiddicoj who was speaking to me.

I took a deep breath. For the past three weeks I’d been wondering whether the Modhri had a presence aboard our train. Occasionally, way back in the back of my mind, I’d also wondered if he might have something to do with our rash of mysterious murders.

Now, at least the first of those two questions had been answered. “Hello, Modhri,” I said. “I’ve been wondering when you would pop up.”

“Go back, Compton,” the Modhri said again. “He’s in your compartment car.”

“Who is?” I asked. “What are you talking about?”

“He was hiding in one of the shower stalls,” Qiddicoj’s voice rasped, a sense of urgency creeping into his voice. “He waited until you’d passed, then moved forward. He has a device with which he hopes to gain access to your compartment.”

The tightness in my chest went a little tighter. The double compartment, where I’d left Bayta waiting all alone. “Who is he?” I demanded. “What does he look like?”

“I don’t know,” the Modhri said. “He’s wearing a hooded robe that obscures his features and his build.”

So our baggage car intruder hadn’t flushed his disguise down the toilet after all. The thrifty type. “What does he want?” I asked.

“How should I know?” the Modhri retorted. “Perhaps the deaths of us all. Do you wish to stop him, or not?”

I cursed under my breath. If this was a trick to get me to miss my appointment with Aronobal, the doctor could likely be facing some death of her own.

But Aronobal wasn’t my responsibility, and on a personal level I didn’t really care what happened to her. Bayta was, and I did. “You have any walkers up there?” I asked.

“I have an Eye in the bar and one in the first coach car,” the Modhri said. “That’s how I saw the intruder making his way forward.”

There were a dozen other questions I needed to ask, starting with how this intruder thought he could get though a Spider-designed lock and ending with why the Modhri was giving me this warning in the first place. But those questions could wait. “Let me know if he starts back or goes to ground somewhere,” I said.

I was ten cars back from our compartment car. I retraced the first nine cars’ worth of steps at a dead run, slowing to a quieter and more energy-conserving jog for the last one. A well-dressed Juri in that first coach car watched me as I came through, his eyes bright and preternaturally aware. Almost certainly he was the walker the Modhri had mentioned, and I raised my eyebrows in silent question as I passed him. He gestured toward the car ahead in silent response. I nodded, and slipped through the door into the vestibule.

I crossed the vestibule, taking in huge lungfuls of air as I did so to try to restore my blood oxygen level after my mini-marathon run. I got to the front and reached for the door control.

And paused, my memory flicking back to the trip wire the intruder had left for me in the baggage car. This guy was a professional, and professionals didn’t set themselves up for key jobs in the middle of exposed corridors without taking precautions against unexpected company.

Which meant there was probably a booby trap waiting on the other side of the door.

It wouldn’t be a trip wire. That was fairly certain. I was the unexpected company he would be most worried about, and he would assume I wouldn’t fall for the same trick twice.

On the other hand, given the lengths he’d already gone to in order to keep anyone from seeing who he was …

It was a gamble, but I had no time to think it through any further. Squeezing my eyes tightly shut and holding my breath, I hit the door release.

And as I charged through, a burst of cold air threw a choking cloud of dust squarely into my face.

I bellowed with feigned surprise, the sharp exhalation serving to blow the powder away from my nose and mouth. A simple talcum powder, I gathered from the taste. Simultaneously, I threw up my left forearm over my face, hopefully hiding the fact that my closed eyelids had protected me from the blinding effects of the powder. I staggered a couple of steps forward, feeling wildly around with my right hand as I watched the floor in front of me beneath the concealment of my left arm.

He fell for it like an egg from a tall chicken. Three seconds later a pair of feet entered my truncated field of view as he hurried toward me, clearly intent on putting me down for the count.

Instantly, I shifted my hands and body into fighting stance. I caught a glimpse of a billowing cloak and a dark-filled hood, then caught one of his outstretched arms at the wrist, levered it at the elbow, and turned his forward motion into a backward arc to slam his back hard onto the corridor floor.

With the average opponent, that would have ended the fight right there. But this one was tougher than average. Even as his shoulders hit the floor he was twisting his torso around, swinging one leg in a horizontal sweep straight at my ankles.

I managed to get one leg out of his way, but I didn’t have the time or the balance to get the other one clear, too. His leg caught me just above the ankle, and I toppled over, the move forcing me to let go of his wrist so that I could use both hands to break my fall. Luckily, he was similarly unable to get his sweeping leg completely out of my way, and I landed partially on top of it, hampering his effort to regain his feet.

We made it back to vertical at about the same time, with me making sure I ended up standing between him and the door to the rear of the train. “Had enough?” I asked, still panting a little.

The intruder didn’t reply. His hood, which I could see now had been wired to stay firmly in place around his head, had nevertheless slipped enough during the tussle to reveal the tip of a Filly nose. “I didn’t think so,” I went on. “You know, you’re taking this contract thing way too seriousl—”

Without warning, he leaped forward, his hands grabbing my left shoulder and shoving sideways in an attempt to push me far enough out of the way for him to get past. I was ready for something like that, and responded by grabbing one of the arms and trying a repeat of my earlier aikido move.

Unfortunately, this time he was waiting for it. He spun around on one foot as I made my grab, the movement twisting my arm instead of his and breaking my grip. With his escape path now open, he made a break for the door.

He got exactly one and a half steps before I slammed a kick hard into the back of his leg, once again sending him sprawling.

I leaped for him, hoping to pin him down long enough to get a wrist lock on him. But he was too quick. He bounced up off the floor and spun around, and as I grabbed his left wrist he gave me a shove with his free hand that threatened to break my hold and send me to the floor in my turn.

But I wasn’t giving up, either. I hung on grimly, overbalancing him and bringing him tumbling after me. With the alternative being to let him land on me full-weight, I brought my left leg up and planted it into his lower torso. As I hit the floor I straightened my leg, executing a stomach toss of the sort so beloved of early dit rec thrillers and so nearly impossible to pull off in the real world.

Apparently, my opponent had never heard of this one. The toss actually worked, and he went sailing over my head to once again slam onto his back on the floor. Rather surprised myself at the move’s success, I nevertheless had the presence of mind to execute the proper follow-through, using the momentum of my backward roll to somersault over him into a position where I would be sitting on his chest with my knees pinning down his upper arms.

Then again, maybe he had heard of this one. I was still in mid-somersault when he rolled over onto his side, giving a hard sideways yank to the hand I still had on his wrist. Pulled off my planned trajectory, I landed off balance. He twisted my wrist as I hit the floor, breaking what was left of my grip. I grabbed for the arm again, missed, and he bounded to his feet, heading for the rear of the car. Still off-balance, I threw myself at his feet, and by sheer luck got one hand on his ankle. He stumbled, nearly fell, and half turned. As I tried to get a grip with my other hand, out of the corner of my eye I saw his arm windmill as if he was throwing something at me.

An instant later, a patch of something black slapped across my face.

I inhaled sharply from the sheer surprise of it. That was a mistake. The stuff was some kind of clingcloth, of the kind sported by teenaged show-offs, and inhaling against the thing merely sucked the last bit of remaining air from beneath it and plastered it that much tighter against my skin. I tried exhaling, but I didn’t have enough air to do more than temporarily puff out the middle of the cloth.

And with that move I was now completely out of air. I let go of the intruder’s ankle, scrabbling with both hands to try to get a grip on the edges of my new blindfold. Clingcloth was legally required to be porous enough to breathe through, but my current oxygen needs were far greater than any level the regulators had anticipated. If I didn’t get the damn stuff off, and fast, I was probably going to pass out.

Someone grabbed my arm. I shrugged violently against the hand, my fingernails still trying to locate the edges of the clingcloth. “Hold still,” Kennrick’s voice came in my ear. The grip on my arm vanished, and I felt another set of fingers pulling at the edges of my face. “Mm!” I grunted, jabbing a finger down the corridor. I could get the clingcloth off by myself—what I needed Kennrick to do was get to my assailant before he could escape from the car and melt back into the Quadrail’s general populace.

Only with my mouth covered, I couldn’t say that. “Mm!” I tried again.

“Relax, it’s covered,” he said. His fingernails worked their way under the cloth and pulled it away from my face.

I blinked, gasping for breath as I looked around. On both sides, compartment doors were beginning to open as other passengers looked to see what all the noise and commotion was about. Between me and the far end of the car I could see that Bayta had also emerged from her compartment. She was facing away from me, but as I refilled my lungs I saw she was backing toward where Kennrick and I still huddled on the floor. She glanced behind her to double-check my position, then veered a little to her left and dropped down on one knee beside me.

And as she moved out of my line of sight, I saw that my assailant had not, in fact, escaped. He was lying in the middle of the corridor, his hooded cloak flapping like a wounded bird as he writhed in agony.

“You all right?” Bayta asked anxiously, her eyes flicking to me and then back to the thrashing Filly. Gripped in her hand, I saw, was the kwi I’d left with her.

“I’m fine,” I assured her, still breathing hard. “Nice work.”

“And then some,” Kennrick put in, his voice sounding stunned. “Special relationship with the Spiders, huh?”

I focused on him, to discover that he was gazing at the kwi.

Terrific. “Nothing special about it,” I said, putting an edge on my tone, acutely aware of all the other eyes and ears gathered around us. “She got in a good gut punch, that’s all.”

Kennrick tore his gaze from the kwi and locked eyes with me. A flicker of something went across his face— “Ah,” he said. “Right.”

I held his eyes a moment longer, just to make sure he’d gotten the entire message, then looked back at the Filly. “Want to make any bets as to which of your three Filly friends is inside that hood?” I asked as I levered myself back to my feet. “My guess is that it’s Esantra Worrbin.”

“No bet,” Kennrick said grimly. “Let’s find out.”

We headed down the corridor, and I noticed in passing that there was a small gray box lying on the floor beside my compartment door. I reached the Filly and leaned over him. “You going to cooperate?” I asked politely. “Or do we need to make sure you’ll hold still?”

The Filly didn’t answer. But he was clearly in no position to give any serious resistance. Straddling his torso, I slipped my hands inside his hood, found and disengaged the stiffening wires that had held it in place, and threw it back.

It was a Filly, all right. But it wasn’t any of the contract-team members, as I’d assumed. It was, instead, Logra Emikai: barstool warmer, protector of Human maidens in distress, and attempted briber of Spider agents.

“Huh,” Kennrick grunted from my side. “I guess I should have taken that bet.”

“Hilarious,” I growled, grabbing one of Emikai’s arms. “Come on—help me get him into my compartment. He has some explaining to do.”