At Empire's Edge (9 page)

The saloon owner looked on in horror. What if the policeman was dead? And the militia blamed
him
? Procurator Nalomy would pronounce him guilty, sentence him to be hanged, and order his family to hoist his still-kicking body up into the air. Then, as spectators watched his corpse twist slowly in the wind, they would eat the deep-fried meat pies that the city’s food vendors always hawked at such events, and bet on when the first stink bird would arrive to peck at his eyes.

“It’s him all right,” Pasayo said grimly. “Check his pulse. Let’s see if he’s alive.”

Five of the longest seconds in the saloon owner’s life ticked by as the Section Leader placed two thick fingers on Cato’s neck and frowned. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the soldier delivered his report. “He’s alive, sir.”

Pasayo nodded. “All right then, haul the worthless bastard outside, and drop him into the angen trough. Maybe that will bring him around.”

The pub’s proprietor heaved a silent sigh of relief as Cato’s limp body was carried out toward the street, and Pasayo turned to confront him. “You were lucky, old man. Pay attention to who you serve in the future. And one more thing . . . I hear that in spite of her unceasing work on behalf of the citizens of Dantha, your regulars have unpleasant things to say about Procurator Nalomy. That could be bad for business. Which is to say, bad for
you
. I suggest that you give that some thought before you open for business in the afternoon.”

Having said his piece, Pasayo turned and made his way out through the front door—leaving the portly businessman to wonder which one of his seemingly loyal customers was spying for the government.

 

 

Cato was floating in a sea of darkness. A peaceful place where Centurion Sivio couldn’t find him, where there were no problems and life was good. Then came the sound of distant voices, the feel of steely fingers at his wrists and ankles, and a sudden jab of pain as he was jerked up off the floor.

Cato tried to object, but discovered that the words wouldn’t come, as he was carried out into the cold morning air and felt what might have been raindrops hit his face. Then as Cato’s mind began to clear, he heard a male voice say, “Let him go,” and experienced a brief moment of free fall before hitting the water and sinking below the surface. The cold liquid triggered Cato’s involuntary reflexes; he began to thrash about, and his hands found the trough’s algae-slicked sides.

There was a sudden explosion of brownish water as Cato sat up, spat some of the foul brew out of his mouth, and began to cough. Pasayo placed one boot on the edge of the trough and watched with amusement. “Take a good look,” the Centurion said to the soldiers who were gathered around. “That’s what a member of the much-vaunted Xeno Corps looks like! Don’t you feel safer? I know I do!”

The jest produced a round of hearty guffaws as the militiamen enjoyed their moment of artfully induced superiority. Cato had cleared his airway by then and was taking inventory of his various aches and pains. The alcohol-induced headache was worst, closely followed by an extremely tender black eye and some very sore ribs. As his right hand went down to touch his side, Cato was reminded of the money belt and the man who had stolen it.

The loss stimulated a groan, and Pasayo grinned unsympathetically. “So Section Leader Cato, now that I have your full and undivided attention, here’s some news. At about 0400 this morning we received a com call from Station 3. It was from a group of prospectors who paused to refill their canteens—and walked into the aftermath of a massacre. It seems that all of your freak friends were killed. Lir bandits are the best bet, not that it matters, since dead is dead.

“Anyway,” Pasayo continued heartlessly, “given that you’re the only member of the group who’s still alive, it’s up to you to go out there and take care of the bodies. It gets pretty hot in the desert—so I’d get a move on if I were you.”

It was a lot to take in, and Cato was still trying to do so, when Pasayo turned away. The water made splashing sounds as Cato struggled to his feet. Pasayo turned to look. “
All
of them?” Cato demanded.

“That’s what the prospectors said,” Pasayo answered clinically.

“And the prisoner?”

The Centurion shrugged. “There wasn’t any mention of him. Maybe he was killed—or maybe he escaped.”

Cato felt a chill run down his spine, and knew it had nothing to do with his water-soaked clothing, or the rain that continued to fall from above. Because if Verafti had survived the attack and was on the loose, then no one was safe. “I need help,” Cato said. “To reach Station 3, bury my friends, and find the prisoner if he’s alive.”

“Please feel free to submit a written request to Procurator Nalomy’s Civil Administrator,” Pasayo replied. “Then, assuming that he feels your petition has merit, he will forward a copy to me for comment. Once that part of the process is complete, I will pass the request on to Procurator Nalomy for a final decision.”

Cato gritted his teeth. He was cold,
very
cold, and they started to chatter. “H-h-how long will that process take?”

“We’re pretty busy right now,” Pasayo replied callously,

“what with the Legate’s impending visit and all. So I’d allow seven or eight months.” Cato caught a glimpse of the other man’s smug smile before the officer turned away and gave a series of curt orders. The militiamen fell in, came to attention, and were subsequently marched away.

So no one other than a single mongrel was present to stare as Cato stood knee deep in the dirty water, chest heaving as a series of sobs racked his body and tears ran down his cheeks. Tears for those who were dead—and ultimately for himself.

 

 

Hason Ovidius’s furniture shop consisted of a long, rectangular room in which most of the illumination originated from a large skylight, identical workbenches stood in orderly rows, and his employees were at work by 7:00 AM. So when Cato entered through the back door and began to make his way toward the front office, no one took notice of him at first. Then a slave named Fidius spotted the disreputable-looking intruder and moved to intercept him. “Good morning, sir,” the slave said politely. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Citizen Ovidius,” Cato answered. “He’s building a dozen bed frames for me.”

Like everyone else in the shop, Fidius was well aware of the Xeno Corps order because of its size and the short turnaround involved. So Fidius led Cato through a doorway and into the front office. It was a comfortable room, with windows that looked out onto the rain-slicked street, and a glowing potbellied stove. Ovidius was seated at a large, beautifully crafted desk, and when he turned, Cato saw the look of shock on the businessman’s face. “It’s that bad, is it?” he inquired. “I can’t wait to see myself in the mirror.”

Ovidius stood, offered Cato a chair, and sent for the local midwife. And while she worked to treat Cato’s cuts, and reduce the swelling around his eye, a hot breakfast was summoned from the restaurant located two doors down the street. And much to Cato’s surprise, he was hungry. Ovidius interpreted that as a good sign.

Some dry clothes summoned from a shop owned by one of Ovidius’s cousins completed the rehabilitation effort, so that finally, when the dishes were cleared away, Cato was ready to tell Ovidius about the manner in which the man named Lorkin had not only been able to turn the bar patrons against him but steal his money as well.

“I know of the man,” Ovidius admitted grimly. “He’s a con artist, a gambler, and a thief. I blame myself for leaving you alone.”

“Don’t be silly,” Cato replied wryly. “I not only
could
have left when you did, I
should
have left, but chose to stay. Worse yet, while I was buying beer for a roomfull of strangers, my team was being murdered in the desert! And, insofar as I can tell, the local authorities don’t plan to investigate.”

Ovidius wanted to know more. So Cato gave the businessman all of the information he had, and finished by saying, “I need to bury them—
and
find the bastards who are responsible. But the first step is to find Lorkin. He has my money, and I need it. Can you help?”

Ovidius was silent for a moment. Lorkin was a dangerous man. And it didn’t make sense to offend dangerous men. Not without a very good reason. And, having lost the Xeno Corps order, Ovidius had no reason to help Cato. Other than to do what was right, which nearly always led to trouble! Ovidius sighed fatalistically. “I don’t know where Lorkin is. . . . But I know people who can find out. Will you need anything else?”

“Yes,” Cato replied thoughtfully. “I’m going to need a chair leg. A very
special
chair leg. Can you help me?”

Ovidius nodded soberly. “If you can describe it—we can make it.”

“Good,” Cato said, as he took a sip of caf. “Let’s get to work.”

 

 

The rain had stopped, the clouds had been blown off to the east by a persistent wind from the west, and the afternoon sun was beating down on The Warrens as if to make up for its recent absence. As the additional warmth teased moisture up out of the ground a shoulder-high blanket of mist appeared, so that as Bif Kregor stood guard in front of the boat shed a procession of seemingly disembodied heads floated past him. It was a sight that might have been of interest to an artist, but was completely lost on Kregor, who was mainly interested in money, sex, and power. Though not necessarily in that order.

Kregor was attentive, however, so when the cowled man appeared, the street tough took notice. Not that some old geezer in a ragged robe was of any concern to
him
. The bully frowned as the mist-clad man stopped a few feet away. “Keep moving, old man,” Kregor said gruffly, “or I’ll kick your ass down the street.”

Cato reached up to push the hood back. That was when Kregor realized that the old man wasn’t so old after all. Not that it made any difference because the amateur pugilist had won twenty-seven cage fights and lost only two. So there were very few men young or old who scared him—and that was visible in his eyes. They looked like chips of coal that someone had transplanted into caverns of fist-scarred flesh. A piece of tape was fastened across Kregor’s nose, two days’ worth of stubble covered a sizeable jaw, and if he had a neck, it was nowhere to be seen. The rest of the man was not only
big
, but exuded a male magnetism that scared men, and was generally attractive to women. Until he began to beat them, that is. “Good morning,” Cato said lightly. “I’m a police officer. Would you be so kind as to step away from the door? I want to enter the building.”

Kregor was so stunned by the other man’s effrontery that when he worked his jaw no words came out. So, having been rendered speechless, the bully expressed himself the way he normally did, by launching an attack on the source of his frustration. That was the plan anyway, but Cato was already in motion by then, as was the twenty-four-inch-long “chair leg.” It looked quite similar to a standard police baton, but the steel rod that had been inserted into the wooden shaft made the weapon heavier and, therefore, more dangerous. So as Kregor cocked a fist, preliminary to throwing a punch, Cato brought the nightstick up between Kregor’s legs.

An expression of wonderment appeared on Kregor’s face, quickly followed by a look of agony, as both hands went down to clutch at his genitals. That opened the bully to a head tap that not only took care of the pain he was experiencing but dropped Kregor onto the street. “Some people say I have a tendency to use excessive force,” Cato said lightly, as he stepped over Kregor’s unconscious body. “So don’t forget to file a complaint.
If
you know how to write—which seems unlikely.”

The door that Kregor had been hired to guard opened and swung closed. At that point Cato was inside the building where the man named Lorkin was said to be staying. The lower area consisted of a large room in which boats were repaired, or had been in the past, since there were no signs of recent activity. Cato could hear the gentle slapping sounds that the waves made as they broke against the pilings below, plus distant laughter, as he made his way over to a flight of stairs and began to climb. Would Lorkin be armed? Probably. With Cato’s gun if nothing else. So his nerves were on edge, and he kept a tight grip on the baton as he made his way upward.

 

 

If Trev Lorkin had a virtue, it was his ability to live in the moment, without regard for whatever the future might bring. So having scored a significant hit the night before, the con man, gambler, and thief was busy enjoying his new-found wealth in the company of two rather shapely prostitutes. And the fact they were a mother-daughter team made the experience that much more enjoyable.

The ménage-à-trois was taking place on a mattress, which, lacking a frame, had been placed on the floor. What light there was emanated from the cracks between the closely pulled blinds, more than a dozen candles that had been placed around the room, and three luminescent glow strips that dangled from the water-stained ceiling.

There was a steady slapping sound as flesh met flesh, which was accompanied by various oaths from Lorkin, and grunts of what might have been pleasure from the woman who was kneeling in front of him. The second female, who was naked except for a pair of red shoes, was busy trying to pleasure both of the principals while offering commentary from the sidelines.

So when Cato arrived at the top of the stairs, it soon became apparent that his target was fully engaged, and likely to remain so for the next few minutes. That gave Cato an opportunity to approach the table where two pistols lay, before the younger prostitute brought her head up, and took notice of the intruder. “Who the hell are
you
?” the whore wanted to know, as Lorkin turned to look as well.

“I’m a policeman,” Cato replied honestly, as he traded the baton for the pistol that Lorkin had stolen from him. “And you are a very naughty girl. Fortunately for you, it’s Citizen Lorkin that I’m interested in today. So grab your clothes, take your friend, and get out.
Now
.”