Текст книги "Days of the Vipers"

Автор книги: James Swallow

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

3

From the outside, the precinct house had the look of blunt, no-nonsense architecture. Compared to the other buildings in this quarter of Korto, the majority of which were built from dark woods and sand-colored stone, the precinct hunched low to the ground and peered out toward the highway like an angry face of rough granite. Prylar Gar Osen walked slowly toward it. It made him think of a pit wrestler, squat and unpleasant, while the rest of the buildings around it were stately and elegant. In fact, the police compound was the newest construction, the original—and in Gar’s opinion, far more graceful one—having been torn down and replaced when Jas Holza succeeded his father as minister of the district.

The priest crossed up the shallow steps and into the entrance hall. There were a few people spread out at the petitioning kiosks, but not enough to form a line. Gar threw a nod at the blond woman at the duty desk, and she beckoned him through the security gate. She bobbed her head as he passed; he felt a twinge of guilt at not remembering her name, and he should have, because she was a regular at the temple. He covered his mild embarrassment by producing the padd he’d been given by Vedek Cotor. “I’m looking for someone,” he began, offering her the device. “He was taken into custody this morning at the port.”

“Hey, Myda,” said a voice from behind him. “Don’t worry. I’ll look after this guy.”

Myda. That was her name.She flashed Gar a smile and walked away. He turned and there was Darrah Mace, that usual crooked half-grin on his face. “Brother Darrah,” he began in a mock-stern tone. “Have you deserted the Prophets? It’s been so long since I saw you at services, I thought you might have been struck down by some ruffian.”

Darrah cocked his head guiltily. “Sorry, Osen. I’ve been busy. If it makes you feel any better, I’ve been visiting the precinct shrine.” He jerked a thumb at an alcove just inside the doorway where a small prayer banner was visible and candles burned slowly. “In this job, I need all the protection I can get, spiritual or otherwise.”

Gar nodded, sensing the air of weariness in his friend’s tone. “Have you thought about taking some time off?”

Darrah shot him an odd look. “Have you been talking to Karys and Syjin?”

The priest’s thin eyebrows shot up. “Syjin’s back on Bajor? I didn’t know. Perhaps I’d better send a comm to the shrine, tell them to put an extra lock on the gate.”

The constable frowned. “That’s hardly very charitable of you, Prylar. I’m sure he’d never steal anything from a holy place. He does have some standards.”

Gar smirked, following Darrah through the open space of the precinct’s squad room. “True. Is he well?”

The other man mimicked a set of scales with his hands. “So-so. He nearly had the paste beaten out of him this morning down at the port. Some jilted husband went off the rails, and—”

“Oh dear,” Gar’s hand went to his ear. “The husband. A stocky fellow, a Mi’tino?”

“That’s him. You know the man?”

The priest nodded. “He’s the reason I’m here. His father is a patron of the monastery, and we’ve been counseling the son about his, uh, relationship issues.”

“Personal counseling?” Darrah repeated. “That’s what hefty donations to the clergy get you, huh? Maybe I’ll stick a little more in the collection box next time I visit.”

“My door’s always open, Mace, you know that.” said Gar, with a rueful smile. “You stopped Tikka Rillio from beating me up when we were at school. The least I can do is watch over your spiritual well-being now that we’re older.”

“Tikka Rillio. Whatever happened to her?” The constable chewed his lip.

“She got herself a colonist husband and went off to Prophet’s Landing, had a whole pack of children, I believe.” He nodded to himself. “Easier to make something of yourself out there, where you don’t have to pick and choose because of your caste.”

Darrah smirked. “You should be glad you took to the church. She’d have carried you off with her given half the chance.”

Gar returned a wan grin. “Yes. She was a big girl.” He shook off the thought. “Anyway. Vedek Cotor asked me to come down and see about providing some spiritual comfort to our mutual friend in the cells.” The priest’s face fell as a thought occurred to him. “He didn’t injure anyone, did he?”

Darrah shrugged. “He roughed up Syjin a little bit. Nobody of consequence.”

“Now who’s being uncharitable?”

“Hey, you know Syjin. He’s never needed anybody’s help attracting trouble.”

Gar nodded. Darrah was right, as usual. Even when the three of them were boys at the temple school, it was Syjin who had demonstrated a knack for getting himself into all kinds of scrapes. Like Darrah, Gar’s parents had both been around when he was a youth, but the pilot had been orphaned at an early age, and that manifested itself in a disorderly streak a mile wide. “You’ll keep an eye on him?” said Gar.

“Don’t I always?” Darrah replied. “Hey, he gave me something. You like methrineggs?” The police officer motioned to a black box on his desk and then paused as a tall and athletic woman emerged through the doors from the precinct’s upper levels.

“Don’t the Militia codes prohibit serving law enforcers from accepting gifts from citizens?” she said, arching an eyebrow at the box’s contents.

Gar felt a grin form on his face. “Hello, Tomo. You’re looking well.”

The minister’s adjutant bobbed her head, her close-cut hair catching the light. “Thank you, Prylar.”

Darrah was frowning as he turned the box to face Lonnic. “Okay then. Take what you want. Just save me some of the agnamloaf.”

She waved him away. “Keep it, Mace. I’m not down here to hassle you.”

Darrah shot the priest an arch look. “Huh. That’s a rarity.”

“Seriously,” she continued, and she said the word in a tone that made both men pause. The easy air of friendship between them fell away. It was immediately clear to Darrah and Gar that Lonnic wasn’t interested in their usual banter. “I’ve just been speaking to Colonel Coldri. He told me I should bring you in on this, seeing as the keep falls inside your patrol pattern.”

“In on what?” Darrah demanded. For his part, Gar was already certain of what the next thing out of Lonnic’s mouth would be.

“What do you know about the Cardassians?” she asked him.

Darrah shrugged. “Same as everyone else, I suppose. Ugly and pasty-looking, no sense of humor, eat a lot of fish.”

“That’s not too far off the beam.” She smiled without mirth. “They’re coming here.”

Gar saw Darrah go tense. “What, all of them?”

“It’s a diplomatic mission,” Gar offered. “A single ship, a formal first contact, that sort of thing.”

Darrah shot him a look. “You knew about this?”

He nodded. “Just before I left the monastery, Vedek Cotor told me. The Kai is going to be part of the group that greets them, and I’ll be serving as one of her pages.”

“Meressa’s going to meet the Cardassians?” The constable blinked. “Is that wise?”

“And not just her. Minister Jas is assembling a whole group of high-caste nobles to be at the keep when they land. Which brings me back to my original point.”

Darrah’s brow furrowed. “Why would aliens come to Korto? The capital’s only just over the mountains, why not go there, or to Dahkur?”

Lonnic explained quickly about the conversation she’d been witness to that morning, and Gar took it in, filling in the gaps in the terse briefing that Cotor had given him.

His old friend’s expression soured with each passing word. “Why am I always the last to hear about this sort of thing?” Darrah frowned. “Tomo, this is going to mean a lot more work for the both of us. I’m going to have to bring in more men to cover the additional security requirements, get Coldri to sign off on reinforcements…”

Lonnic handed him a padd. “Already done. The minister asked me who I’d recommend to handle the arrangements, and I told him you could do it.” She eyed him. “You canhandle it, Mace, can’t you?”

Gar turned to the woman. “I think he was hoping to take some leave, spend some time at home…”

“Oh,” said Lonnic, and she reached for the padd. “If that’s the case, I’ll pass it to someone else. Proka Migdal, or one of the other district watch leaders.”

Darrah shook his head and held the device away from her. “No.No, I’ll deal with it. Nobody else knows Korto as well as I do. I’m the best person for the job.”

Lonnic and Gar exchanged looks, and the priest saw a flicker of understanding on her face. “Mace, if you’re due some downtime, take it. The precinct can run without you, you know.”

He watched the other man study the padd. “I can take a retreat some other time, the kids won’t mind. This is important. As much as I trust Proka, he’s not up to managing something like this.”

Lonnic nodded. “All right, then. The Cardassians will be here in two days, so I need a protocol for the arrival arrangements from you by tonight.”

Gar frowned. “Couldn’t you make it tomorrow? The Gratitude Festival starts tonight, at least let him have the evening off before you put a yoke on him.”

“Very well. Tomorrow morning. You can start thinking about it on the way to the docks.” She glanced at the chronograph display on her thumb-ring.

“Why am I going to the docks?” Darrah said warily.

Lonnic leaned over and tapped a panel on the padd, revealing a page of information. “The aliens have an on-planet liaison they’ve sent along as an advance representative. Minister Jas wants you to escort him up to the keep for a meeting at five-bells.”

The constable’s frown deepened, and he reached down to snap on his duty belt. “And I was kinda hoping today would be a slow day.”

“Seems like the Prophets have other ideas,” Gar offered.

“Isn’t that always the way?” Darrah threw the comment over his shoulder as he made for the stairs leading to the basement parking garage.

Darrah made good time from the precinct to the riverside docks, getting there just a little slower than he would have if he’d been coming in with a flyer instead of one of the Korto City Watch’s courier sedans. The skimmer wasn’t as fast as a flyer, that much was true, but it was a lot more well-appointed. There was a media suite and a wet bar in the back, so he understood, and the magnetodynamic suspension rode very smoothly. Darrah had never actually sat anywhere else but the driver’s seat, though. He had a way to go before he got to a rank that came with this kind of benefit as standard.

Securing the car on the dock apron, he brushed a speck of lint off his tunic and looked up in time to see the sleek hydrofoil settling in to the pier on a stream of white breakers. The boat had come from the city of Janir in the north, racing down the old canals to reach the naturally cut channel of the River Tecyr. Korto sat on a bend in the Tecyr where it turned westward toward the ocean, the wide green waterway flowing fast and strong down from the Perikian Mountains. In Kendra Province and other parts of Bajor, people still used the rivers for travel and shipping cargo, and it was a common sight to see skiffs and packets rolling quietly along under solar-charged fansails; by contrast, the hydrofoil was a brash, noisy conveyance, all speed and angry buzzing aquajets. The boat bumped to a halt and settled into a wallow as crewmen scrambled to the pier to moor it securely.

Darrah saw the pennants flapping from the stern in the light breeze: two colored flags, one flying the city seal of Qui’al and the other the slightly gaudy clan sigil of the Kubus family. He had never dealt with anyone from that lineage before, but he knew the face of the man who stepped from the hydrofoil as well as any Bajoran who watched the newsfeeds. Kubus Oak, Minister for Qui’al and owner of one of the planet’s largest offworld shipping firms, strode down the pier and across the docks as if he owned them. The man seemed little different in the flesh to how he looked on the feeds: a round face with deep-set eyes, short and nondescript hair, clothes that favored offworld styles.

Two of the minister’s aides followed quickly behind. One was a mousy, slight man clutching a briefcase, the other a blunt-looking fellow who seemed to have been forced into a tunic a size too small for him. The second man had the unmistakable air of a soldier about him, and the constable could tell from his gait that he had a concealed holster in the small of his back.

Kubus stepped up, and Darrah opened the sedan’s door for him. The minister scrutinized the vehicle. “This is a skimmer,” he noted with a disdainful sniff.

“Your insight does you credit, Minister,” Darrah replied, without a hint of sarcasm. The man had said four words, and already Darrah was taking a dislike to him.

“I’d expected Holza to lay on a flyer for me, at the very least.” Kubus eyed the car, as if it were beneath him to climb inside.

“All on operational duty, sir,” Darrah said smoothly, “and not a one of them is as comfortable as this vehicle.” He gave a thin smile. “Don’t worry, sir, I’ll have you to the keep on time.”

“See that you do, Constable,” said Kubus, finally getting in, his assistants following suit.

Darrah pressed the accelerator and took the sedan out through the back streets, avoiding the main thoroughfares where traffic would be thick and hard to navigate. On the dashboard monitor, he saw the stocky man, the bodyguard, peering narrow-eyed out of the windows, frowning at the tight lanes as the car threaded through them.

He skirted the industrial districts and the housing projects beyond the City Oval, flashing past the great steps that led to Korto’s bantacaspire and on to the loop roads up the hillside toward the Naghai Keep. Along the sides of the highway there was activity at every storefront, down every side road and boulevard. Banners and gales of flags were fluttering in place or being hoisted up for the start of the festival, and at every intersection there was a wide brazier. The better districts had ones plated in bronze or brass; the less moneyed wards of the city made do with simple iron cauldrons. Stalls selling scroll paper and quills were doing brisk business along with jumjakiosks and cook-wagons. Crossing over an intersection, Darrah caught a whiff of freshly made hasperatand his mouth watered.

He hadn’t really thought that much about the Gratitude Festival this year, not really, only in terms of being a constable in the City Watch, in terms of work and not family. His entire consideration of the event revolved around the dispensation of officers for the duration, of what flyers to have on standby, which known bag-snatchers and pickpockets to keep an eye out for. The phantom taste of the hasperatsoured on his tongue as he thought of Karys, of Bajin and Nell. Would this year’s festival be like last year’s, when he had pressed a handful of litas into his wife’s fingers and went off to work after a few moments of standing with his children? Absently he remembered how Bajin had got sick last festival from eating too many toasted bean curd buns. He’d only found out about that after getting in as B’hava’el was rising, Karys making it clear in no uncertain terms that it was his fault it had happened.

Darrah pushed the thought away with a grimace and drove on. From behind him, he heard Kubus talking with the slight man. “What is that?” He was pointing at something out on the street. “A giant scroll?”

The minister’s aide nodded. “Yes, sir. It’s a quirk, a quaint tradition in some of the less sophisticated townships. Districts where the locals can’t afford to purchase individual renewal scrolls for each person will often pool their money to buy one single scroll of great size; usually a prylar from the local temple will take on the responsibility of writing all the people’s woes on the paper before it is burned in the brazier.”

Kubus grunted. “The whole point of renewal is that the contents of the scrolls are private. What you write on them is between a man and the Prophets. Who would want some inexperienced cleric knowing your troubles?”

“Some of the people may not be able to write themselves,” the aide demurred.

The minister’s face soured. “Surely Korto is not so parochial that its citizens are illiterate? If that’s true, then Holza is doing a poor job of stewarding the community.”

In the driving seat, Darrah’s grip tightened on the steering yoke. Perhaps when he put his troubles down on his renewal scroll tonight, there might be a space at the bottom to add the name Kubus Oak. Darrah deliberately let the skimmer jerk as he turned into the avenue through the ornamental gardens toward the high tower of the keep.

“Pardon me,” he said, with mock sincerity, as Kubus’s aide missed his mouth with a sip of water. Darrah had never been that fond of people from Qui’al, not since he was a teenager and the city’s springball team had stolen the pennant from Korto by using decidedly unsportsmanlike conduct. Kubus Oak was doing little to improve the constable’s opinion.

As he drew the sedan to a halt inside the ring wall, at the base of the portcullis, Darrah found himself wondering if there had been any point at all in dragging him off a vital assignment just to ferry this elitist out-of-towner up to meet Jas. It was a job any supernumerary could have done—perhaps not as swiftly as Darrah did it, thanks to his knowledge of the city streets, admittedly—not one for a senior constable.

He opened the door for Kubus, and the man exited the car without ever looking at him, moving off to be greeted by Lonnic, who threw Darrah a quick nod of the head. It was all about show, all about politics, and Darrah detested the cheap theater of it. Minister Jas wanted Minister Kubus to think he had great respect for him, so he arranged for a senior law officer to ferry him about like a common driver. I’ve got more important things to do.

He turned and found the slight man watching him, dabbing at the water mark on his tunic. “The minister will require transport back to the docks once his meeting is concluded,” he was told.

“Really?” Darrah folded his arms. “How long will that take?”

“As long as it needs to.”

“Is that right?” Darrah dipped into his pocket and took out the sedan’s control key. “I’ll tell you what. You tell Kubus, he wants to drive back, he can be my guest.” Darrah tossed the key at the aide, who caught it badly, fumbling. “Just make sure he doesn’t dent it.”

The constable strode away, out through the gates of the keep. There was a tram stop just outside the ornamental gardens, and the route would take him straight back to his home. If he was lucky, he’d get back there before Karys and the kids left.

With a warmth that was utterly at odds with the misgivings he felt, Jas Holza greeted Kubus Oak with a smile and a nod. “Minister Kubus, it’s a pleasure to have you in Korto. Welcome to the Naghai Keep.”

“Thank you, Minister Jas,” said the other man, “and let me be the first to wish you Peldor Joi,”he concluded, making the ritual greeting for the Gratitude Festival.

Jas showed him to a broad leather armchair. “Ah,” he replied. “A little early, perhaps? The celebrations here will not formally commence until I make the Presider’s address to the city tonight.”

Kubus smiled. “On the contrary, my friend, I think you and I have plenty to be grateful for at this very moment.” He nodded at his own statement. “Yes. The Prophets have favored us. They have handed us a great opportunity, perhaps even the greatest of our lives.” The other man glanced at Lonnic as Jas’s adjutant entered the room with a tray of dekatea and small refreshments. Jas took a cup, but Kubus waved her away, waiting until the woman had left them alone before he spoke again. “You understand my part in this?”

Jas sipped at his cup. “In the broadest of strokes.” What he knew of Kubus seemed to be confirmed by his first impressions of the man; the minister for Qui’al District was direct and self-assured. He had a firm face, with short, spiky brown hair, but Kubus’s eyes were sharp and watchful. Jas had expected no less. Although he had never dealt directly with the minister, he had often seen him in the council chambers and heard second-and thirdhand of the man’s business. That Kubus Oak was a shrewd speculator was well-known. One did not become the head of Bajor’s largest interstellar shipping agency without equal measures of cunning and intelligence. “Why don’t you enlighten me?” he added.

Kubus spread his hands, taking in the room around them. “I’ve always felt that most of my kinsmen on Bajor are inward-looking,” he began. “It’s a failing of our nature, I think. Too much effort spent on matters of the spirit, on habit and tradition. We risk becoming parochial. Do you agree, Holza?” He leaned forward. “I may call you Holza?”

Jas nodded. “Of course. Oak.” He licked his lips before replying. “In answer to your question, I suppose, yes, there is that possibility.”

Kubus continued. “It’s a big galaxy out there. Bajor’s just a small part of it, and we have to come to terms with that if our species is to continue to thrive. In the thousands of years Bajorans have had civilization, we have only made the smallest of moves into the ocean of stars around us. In galactic terms, we’re barely wading in the shallows, while other races we’d consider immature by our standards have great swaths of the quadrant under their aegis. We can’t afford to be insular in the face of that.” He smiled to himself. “I’ve made quite a good life for myself with this philosophy.”

“So I understand.” These sentiments were not anything that Jas hadn’t heard before, either through Kubus’s statements on the newsfeeds or from the mouths of other, less influential ministers who followed his lead.

“I’m not squeamish about dealing with aliens, Holza. Sometimes I think the First Minister and his cronies are afraid of the idea that there are other races out there.”

Jas nodded again. While Verin preferred to keep contact with aliens at arm’s length, maintaining that Bajor had always flourished without them, Kubus frequently agitated for more open relations with other worlds. As someone with interests both on Bajor and off it, Jas’s own feelings fell between the two extremes.

The other man continued. “My people have been trading with the Xepolites, the Lissepians, the Cardassian Union—we’ve been at it for years. They trust my clan. My name is known offplanet. That’s why the Cardassians have come to me with this.”

“You’ve traded with them on some of the colony worlds, is that right?” Jas got a nod in return. “But they’ve never come into our space before.”

“Not formally, not until today. It’s a historic moment, Holza. In the future, you’ll be telling your grandchildren about it.” Kubus flashed a smile. “And I have to say, I admired the astute way you exploited the opportunity presented to you.”

“Exploited?” Jas raised an eyebrow.

The other man’s smile turned sly. “Come now, Holza, don’t play the innocent. You could have stood by and let Verin take control of the situation, but you didn’t. You saw a chance and you took it. That’s the sign of a perceptive leader.”

“I want what is best for Korto, and Bajor.” Jas covered his frown with another sip of tea.

“As do I.” Kubus sighed. “It’s no secret that my views on openness have made me something of an outsider in the council—I freely admit that. Thanks to my previous dealings with the offworlders, the Cardassians are reaching out to me to act as their planetary liaison, and there are some who view me with suspicion. I am here today to ascertain if you are one of them, Minister Jas.”

Jas shook his head slowly. “I may not have the reach of your ships and your organization, Oak, but I will admit I do hear some merit in your words. I don’t see the harm in allowing these aliens to make formal contact with our world. As you say, this is a historic moment. The first time a Cardassian has set foot on Bajor.”

“Yes,” Kubus said, almost to himself.

Jas found himself warming to the subject. “Perhaps this is the time for Bajor to reconsider its place in galactic politics.”

Kubus’s smile widened. “I see that you and I drink from the same well, my friend! Indeed, a formal relationship with the Cardassian Union will be good for Bajor. It could usher in a new age of prosperity for our planet…and for the men who understand how to turn it to their advantage.” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial hush. “After all, we outsiders should stick together, yes?”

“What do you mean?”

Kubus gave a dry chuckle. “I’ve heard of the issues that face Korto District. Your journey to Batal this week? I don’t think it would be impolite of me to say that your standing with the council is not what it should be.” He nodded to himself. “That will soon be a thing of the past.”

Jas kept his expression unchanged, but inside he felt a flare of concern. That he had verbally crossed swords with Verin on the floor of the Chamber of Ministers was a matter of public record, but the business in Batal was supposed to have been a secret…He stopped himself. There was nothing to say that Kubus knew the extent of Jas’s problems, and he had to be careful not to give any more away. Still, the man was correct. Korto District and its leader had done very poorly in the political arena in recent months. Kubus was as perceptive as Jas had expected; he could understand how Jas had seen the arrival of the aliens as a chance to raise his profile once more, to put Korto back on the map. The other minister was right. Perhaps they did have more in common than either of them realized.

And yet…There was something in Kubus’s manner that did not sit well with Jas. As Kubus sat there, smiling thinly, Jas sensed that the politician was holding something back, that he had knowledge Jas simply wasn’t privy to. His hands drew together across his desk and he studied the other man with fresh eyes. For the second time that day, Jas realized that he was on the verge of making a decision that would shift the course of his life. He narrowed his eyes and searched inside himself to find a focus. I’m in a different arena now,he told himself. New rules to learn. New players to play against. New allies…and enemies.

“So,” said Kubus, gesturing with one hand. “We should discuss the arrangements for the reception for our visitors.”

Darrah Mace slid the door closed in time to hear his wife raise her voice from the landing upstairs. “If I have to tell you again,” she was saying, “then everyone will stay home tonight and you’ll have to keep your renewal scrolls until next year.”

He frowned and made his way to the upper floor of the apartment, treading softly.

“You know what happens then?” Karys continued, her words filtering along from the master bedroom. “All the problems and bad things you wrote down on this year’s scrolls won’t go away and you’ll be stuck with them for another year! So put on your good tunic, or we won’t go to the festival!”

“I don’t like that one,” Bajin complained. Mace stifled a smirk. Karys’s mother in Ashalla had bought the boy the tunic for his birthday in some fancy store in the capital, but the ten-year-old hated it. He was like his father that way, preferring the simple cut to anything extravagant.

“I don’t—” Karys began as Mace entered the room.

Nell, sitting quietly on the bed in her sky-blue wrap, exploded into life and threw herself at him. “Daddy!” She was only six, but she moved like lightning, and grabbed on to the constable so hard he was almost winded.

“Hey, Dad.” Bajin’s face lit up as well.

“Peldor Joi,everybody,” Mace returned, nodding to Karys. His wife refused to give him a smile in return.

“Constable Darrah,” she began, “nice of you to join us. Could you help me here by telling your son to get properly dressed?”

Mace shot the boy a look. “Hey, ’Jin. Do what your mother tells you. Go get the tunic.”

“I don’t like it,” he repeated.

“And I don’t care,” Mace said firmly. “Go on. You won’t have to wear it again until next year, I promise. And at the rate you’re growing, you’ll be too big for it by then anyhow.”

Dejected, the boy shuffled out of the room. Mace bent down to give Nell a peck on the cheek and then gave her a gentle shove. “Hey, go make sure your brother does what he’s told, okay?”

The little girl’s head bobbed in a nod and she ran out after her sibling, leaving the parents alone. Mace gave a weak smile and went to the closet, shrugging off his duty tunic along the way.

“You actually made it home before we left,” said Karys, putting up her hair. “I suppose I should be thankful.”

Mace leafed through his clean clothes. “Well, hold your applause. I may have just upset a member of the Chamber of Ministers to do it. Besides, I promised the kids.” He found a clean Militia-brown tunic and pulled it out.

“You’ve promised a lot of things,” she retorted. “A house instead of living in this stacker. Better prospects for us. No more long shifts.”

“I can’t earn enough for a better place by working less, Karys.”

“Then just—” She turned to face him and stopped.

“What are you putting on?”

“A clean uniform tunic.” He ran his thumb up the seal tab and picked up his belt. “The other one’s a little sweaty. I’ve had it on all day.”

Karys’s voice rose. “You said you’d quit early today, Mace. Quit. As in ‘off-duty,’ as in ‘not a constable.’ Why are you wearing your uniform?”

“It’s a formal city function,” he retorted. “I’m a law officer. People will expect it of me. I have to be seen.”

“Oh, right,” she snapped back. “And if there’s some trouble, if someone gets rowdy, will you have to be a law officer then? Will you leave me and the children to go chasing some bag-snatcher? Can’t you let go of that job for one single hour?” Karys fingered the D’jarraornament on her earring, as she always did when she was annoyed with him.

“It’s what I do!” Just like that, he was snarling at her, falling back into old patterns.

“You’re arguing.” The voice from the door made them both stop dead. Bajin was there, the ugly tunic in his hand, frowning.

“We’re not arguing,” said Karys, abashed. “We’re just talking loudly.”

“That’s what arguing is,”replied the boy, with a child’s relentless logic. “I don’t like it when you do that.”