breaking and entering jobs set up by Cyder, who also acted as his fence. Cat was a deaf-mute, but he didn't let it slow him down. On the roofs, it made no difference at all. He watched Cyder's lips carefully as she spoke and waited patiently for his instructions.
'Big things are happening in Mistport once again,' said Cyder. 'I can feel it in my bones. There has to be a way I can make money on this, if I just keep my wits about me. And if I can keep Hazel and her young Lord alive long enough. I don't think they realize just how desperate their situation is. Half the city's probably out looking for them by now. I'd turn them in myself if I didn't owe Hazel so much.
'I want you to go after them, Cat. Stay out of sight, but help them where you can. Be discreet. We don't want any involvement being traced back to us. Not till we can see who's likely to come out on top. While you're playing guardian angel, I'll send a discreet little note to Tobias Moon. Put him together with Hazel and the Deathstalker, and all kinds of interesting things might happen. Well, don't just sit there, darling; there's work to be done and plots to be spun!'
Cat nodded quickly, kissed her goodbye, did it again because he enjoyed it, and bounded to his feet. He pushed open the window beside him, and dived out into the cold air and swirling mists. He slammed the window shut and then clambered up the outer wall of the tavern with practiced ease. It only took a few minutes to haul himself up over the heavy iron guttering and onto the gabled roof of the Blackthorn, and he crouched there for a long moment like a ghostly gargoyle, looking out over an undulating sea of roofs, stretching away into the gray haze of the mists. Cat was back in his element again. He set off across the roofs of Thieves' Quarter in search of Hazel and Owen, secure in the knowledge that they'd never even know they were being followed.
The Abraxus Information Center turned out to be a single floor above a bakery in a quiet but seedy part of Merchants' Quarter. The smell of baking bread was heavy on the air, and Owen's stomach rumbled loudly. He tried to think how long it had been since he'd sat down to a decent meal of at least four courses, and the answer depressed him. He was always hungry after boosting anyway, and he headed for the bakery door with a determined step. Hazel took him by the arm with an equally firm grip, and steered him past the bakery door and up the exterior stairs to the next floor.
'You can eat later,' she said mercilessly. 'Business first.' Owen sniffed and allowed himself a quiet sulk as Hazel led the way up the creaking wooden stairs. Whatever confidence he might have had in the Abraxus Information Center was shrinking by the moment as he took in the drab nature of the building. It looked in definite need of repair, some of it urgent, and it clearly hadn't seen a coat of paint in years. Who or whatever Abraxus was, Owen was increasingly certain he wouldn't find any help here. Back on Virimonde, he'd kept his stables in better condition than this. He sighed quietly. Virimonde seemed like a long time ago, and it came as something of a shock to him to remember it was only a few days ago that he'd been its lord and his world made sense.
He pushed the thought firmly to one side. It didn't do to dwell too much on who he used to be, or how much he'd lost That way lay madness. He made himself concentrate on Abraxus. Presumably some sort of information- gathering service, with runners and clerks and communications people running everything through a primitive computer of some kind. He hated to think what kind of outdated junk they'd be using in a dump like this. Still, someone with a reputation like Jack Random's should be easy enough to locate. It wasn't as if Mistport was a particularly big city. Besides, Ozymandius had found the address in his hidden files, which suggested some kind of connection between Abraxus and his father's convoluted intrigues. Owen sighed again deeply. He'd spend most of his adult life trying to fashion a life of his own, untouched by his father's plans and ambitions, and here he was sinking deeper and deeper into his father's legacy with every step he took.
He realized Hazel had come to a stop at the top of the stairs just in time to avoid bumping into her, and he let his hand rest on his sword hilt as she knocked more or less politely on the closed door before her. A brass plate fixed to the door read simply 'Abraxus.' There was no bell or knocker. Hazel was about to hammer with her fist when the door swung suddenly open before her. A large muscular man almost as broad as he was tall filled the doorway. He wore black leather with metal studs, and half his face was hidden behind a complex and very ugly tattoo. He looked at Hazel and Owen and sniffed loudly, unimpressed.
'Hazel d'Ark and Owen Deathstalker? About time you got here. I've been expecting you.'
Hazel and Owen were still deciding how to react to that when the huge figure stepped back from the doorway and gestured impatiently for them to enter. They did so, giving him plenty of room, and he sniffed again as he slammed the door shut behind them and locked it Owen started to draw his disrupter, but stopped when Hazel put a firm hand on his arm. The huge figure stomped back in front of them and produced something that might have been intended as a smile.
'I'm Chance. I run Abraxus. Take a look around, and I'll be with you in a minute.'
He moved off without waiting for an answer. Owen had a few in mind anyway, only to forget them as he got his first good look at the people who made up the Abraxus Information Center. There were no computers or comm units, no runners or technicians. Instead, two lines of ramshackle cots filled the long narrow room, pressed close together, with a central aisle between them. On the cots, children lay sleeping. They all had intravenous drips plugged into their arms, though their bony forms and skeletal faces suggested they weren't getting much nourishment from them. They also had catheters leading out from under the thick blankets that covered them, dripping into filthy bottles by the beds.
The children ranged from toddlers of four or five to some who appeared to have just entered their teens. They twitched and turned in their sleep or comas, but their faces seemed somehow intent, focused, and their eyes rolled under their closed eyelids. Some seemed to be muttering to themselves. Two middle-aged women who looked more like charladies than nurses moved unhurriedly along the rows of cots, checking the catheters and IVs, emptying and filling where necessary, but otherwise paying the children no attention. Some of them were secured to their cots with thick leather restraining straps.
Owen felt sick, and a growing rage burned within him. He didn't understand what was going on here, but he didn't need to understand to hate it. No one had the right to treat children in such an inhuman manner. The sword leapt from his scabbard with a harsh, rasping sound, and he started down the central aisle with murder in his eyes. Chance was checking through papers on a desk at the far end of the room. He didn't look up as Owen advanced on him. And then Hazel grabbed his sword arm and pulled him to a halt.
'Hold it, Owen. You don't understand.'
'I understand these children are in hell!'
'Yes, maybe they are. But there's a purpose to this. I've seen this kind of thing before.'
Owen hefted his sword and then lowered it reluctantly. 'All right. Explain it to me.'
'Chance could do it better. Stay here and I'll go get him. Promise you won't do anything till you know the whole story.'
'No promises,' said Owen. 'Get Chance. And tell him if I don't like what he has to tell me, I'm going to kill him right here and now.'
Hazel patted his arm reassuringly as one would an angry, dangerous dog and hurried down the central aisle toward Chance. Owen's hand clenched tightly round his sword hilt in rage and frustration. He'd never seen anything like this, even in the worst hellspots of the Empire, and he was damned if he'd let it continue. He walked slowly down the aisle, looking from face to face, seeing only a kind of desperation in their gaunt features. One young teenager was stirring restlessly under his restraining straps, muttering fiercely to himself. Owen leaned over the bed to listen to the quiet, breathy voice.
'Brave notes in screaming shocks… The pale harlequins are swarming again… Dear lost shoes and delicate monks are dancing round the summerstone…'
Owen straightened up, obscurely disturbed. It was clearly gibberish, but it bordered on the edge of meaning, as though he might understand it if he just listened long enough. He looked up to see Hazel coming back with Chance and raised his sword just a little. The two of them stopped a respectful distance away, though Hazel seemed more impressed by the drawn sword than Chance. Owen smiled coldly at the big man. It didn't matter how big he was, or what he had to say. Someone was going to pay for what had been done to the children.
'The restraining straps are there to protect them,' said Chance, his voice flat and unimpressed. 'The children are espers, but they can't always handle what their minds show them. One boy clawed out his eyes rather than see. I don't take chances with them anymore. All these children are retarded to some extent or other. Idiot savants with limitless memories and wide-ranging telepathy. Their minds roam freely out over the city while their bodies rest here, trawling the thoughts of the population and picking out what nuggets of information I require.
