seen him for years.
'Trust my father to hook up with one of the biggest all-time losers,' said Owen. 'Even I have more sense than to tie myself to Jack Random. By all accounts a legendary fighter and hero, but a piss-poor general. Hazel, I place myself in your hands.'
'In your dreams, aristo,' said Hazel. 'But please, Owen, watch your step and leave all the talking to me. If the people we're going to see get even a hint of who you really are, we are both dead.'
'Relax,' said Owen. 'I am not without experience. I know how to comport myself in public.'
'That's what I mean! You can't go around using words like comport; it's a dead giveaway. Look, don't say a word, and I'll pass you off as my deaf-mute cousin.'
Owen looked at her. 'Don't do me any favors.'
'Trust me,' said Hazel. 'I won't.'
Owen kept his mouth shut and his eyes open as Hazel led him through the narrow streets of Mistport. The city was in a hell of a state. Rebuilding was going on everywhere he looked, and the people seemed uniformly sour and tight-lipped. From the look of the place, Owen didn't blame them one bit. The stone and timber buildings leaned out over the street like drunken old men apologizing to each other. There was mud and filth in the street, and the smell was appalling. A thick fog pearled the air in sheets of gray, so that lamps burned brightly at irregular intervals, even though it was getting on toward midday. People filled the streets, huddled under heavy furs and cloaks, looking straight ahead and using their elbows with practiced skill.
Owen and Hazel kept the hoods of their cloaks pulled well forward, so that their faces were hidden in shadow. No one stared at them or showed any curiosity; apparently, anonymity was a common state in Mistport. Owen trudged on through the mud and slush and beat his gloved hands together to force out the cold. He'd taken the heaviest clothes from
Hazel dragged him from one low dive to another in search of old acquaintances, but no one wanted to talk. After the recent troubles, everyone was busy looking after their own affairs. Hazel kept plugging away, while Owen's spirits drooped. He couldn't even talk to Oz for company; they'd agreed to keep communication to a minimum for security's sake. You could never be sure who was listening in on Mistworld. He scowled unhappily and pulled his cloak tightly around him. It was all taking too long. Finally Hazel came up with a name, if not a location: Ruby Journey.
'Never heard of her,' said Owen.
'No reason why you should have, aristo. You don't move in the same circles. Ruby's a bounty hunter, and a damned good one. She's an old friend of mine from way back. We mugged our first tourist together. She'll put us in touch with the right people, provided we make her a good enough offer.'
'Not another ten percent,' said Owen firmly.
Hazel shrugged. 'Up to you. But if you want the best, you have to be prepared to pay for it. Don't worry too much about it; she'll give you a discount because you're with me. All we have to do now is find her.'
'Oh, great,' said Owen. 'More tramping back and forth.'
'What are you moaning about now?'
'You want it in order? I'm spoilt for choice. Apart from the insanity of trusting our safety to a bounty hunter, it's bitter cold, I haven't a clue where we are, I can't feel my hands anymore, and my feet aren't talking to me. We've been tramping around this pitiful excuse for a city for ages without getting anywhere useful, and my stomach thinks my throat's been cut. Also, the smell is disgusting. Something really drastic must have happened in the sewers.'
'Sewers?' said Hazel. 'Don't show your ignorance. Around here a cess pit is a sign of luxury. Be grateful the nightsoil collectors have already been round. Still, where we're going next should cheer you up. Another old friend of mine is running a tavern not far from here. The Blackthorn. She'll know where Ruby is. Cyder knows everything. Let's go-'
She set off down the street at a good pace, brimming with confidence and good cheer. Owen trudged after her, grumbling under his breath. He paused for a moment to pull his cloak more tightly about him, and someone pressed a coin in his hand before hurrying on. Owen looked at it for a long moment before realizing he'd been taken for a beggar. He was tempted to throw the money after the giver, but he didn't. Money was money.
He put the coin in his pocket and hurried after Hazel, seething inwardly. Some way, someone was going to pay for all this. He focused his glare on Hazel's unresponsive back. She didn't seem to feel the cold at all. Owen thought, not for the first time, that he might have been better off fighting for his life back on Virimonde. At least he'd understood the situation there. And it had been warm. He didn't understand much about Mistworld, and what he did repulsed him. No law, no custom or honor, no social structure. Everyone out for themselves, and to hell with everyone else. A world of criminals and social misfits, living in poverty and squalor unknown anywhere else in the Empire. They were free, and much good their freedom had done them. Owen felt a sudden rush of tiredness wash over him, and for a moment he was weighed down by the uselessness of it all. He couldn't live here. Not like this. Without civilization and the comfort of social position, his life had no meaning. He would simply wither and die, like a flower from its bed.
The thought shook him out of the daze he'd fallen into. He couldn't die. Not while his enemies still lived. They had destroyed his life, taken away everything he believed in and spit on his name. He had to live, so that someday he could take vengeance on the Iron Bitch and all who had aided her in his downfall. Owen smiled tightly. When all else fails, there is always revenge. He wasn't going to stay stuck on this miserable planet. Somehow he'd find a way off, and then… he'd think of something. He had to. In the meantime, he had to survive. He would endure whatever the planet sent, do whatever was necessary to raise enough money to buy him an army, and a way offplanet. Because if he just lay down and died, then Lionstone would have won after all.
He lurched on through the deepening mud and slush, glaring at everyone and everything around him with renewed disgust. Surely it couldn't all be like this. There had to be some bright spots in the gloom. A window opened above him, and people scattered out of the way. Someone cried a brief warning, and Owen jumped back just in time to avoid the falling contents of an emptied chamberpot. The window slammed shut again, and people moved on, unperturbed, as though this was an everyday experience. Owen sniffed. Probably was. No sewers. Right.
How could people live like this? Didn't they know what they were coming to when they ran from the Empire? It came to him slowly that they must have, and came anyway, because for them life in the Empire was worse. The thought nagged at him and wouldn't let him go. The Empire was full of luxuries and comforts for the upper classes, and security and stability for the lower classes. Unless you were a clone or an esper or some other kind of unperson. Unless you upset someone with connections, or couldn't meet your quotas, or fell ill once too often. There was no place in the lower orders for the weak, or the troublesome, or the unlucky.
It seemed to Owen that he had always known this, but never really thought about it before. As long as his cushioned world went on uninterrupted, he hadn't had to. He couldn't say he hadn't known. He was a historian, and he knew more about the realities the Empire was based on than most. How corrupt had the Empire become that the living hell of Mistworld could be such an improvement? Owen sighed. His head was starting to ache again, probably from too much frowning. He'd think more about this later. He had a feeling he'd have lots of time to think about things in the future.
The Blackthorn tavern turned out to be a pleasant surprise. It was cosy and comfortable without being cramped, and had obviously had a lot of money spent on it. The fixtures and fittings were of the highest quality, and there was a pleasant sense of sanctuary in the smoky room from the harshness and pain of the world. Owen leaned against the long, highly polished bar, sipping an adequate wine, and tried to ignore the vicious pins and needles of returning circulation. The Blackthorn was crowded but full of good cheer, and the noise was almost but not quite overpowering. Everyone had to shout to be heard, and those who weren't shouting were singing, with more verve than accuracy. Owen found it all rather charming, in a rustic sort of way, and was quite prepared to stay there as long as was necessary, if not longer. Particularly if the wine held out.
Hazel was talking earnestly with the Blackthorn's owner, a tall willowy platinum blond called Cyder. They were head to head at the other end of the bar, apparently lip reading as much as listening. Owen studied Cyder curiously. She seemed a strangely delicate flower to be running a tavern in a cutthroat area like the one he and
