looking for Grist all over the North, well . . .'
'Poor old Crake,' said Frey. 'He never stood a chance. Not above using your feminine charms in service of the cause, eh?'
She gave a derisive rasp. 'Me? There ain't much I'm above, when it comes to it. Anyway, he's a sweet feller. The pleasure was all mine. Where is he, anyway?'
'He's gone.'
'Shame. I kinda liked him.'
'Me, too.'
They went inside the refinery. Grudge led them up stone stairways and along tight corridors with smooth walls painted grey-green. It seemed colder in here than outside, and the electric lights did little more than provide contrast for the shadows. Frey guessed they were taking a back way to their destination.
That destination turned out to be a collection of offices and filing rooms, several storeys up. They passed by lamplit desks and shelves of neatly ordered paperwork, emerging at last into a chamber with a long window that took up the whole of one wall. It was divided into squares, and it looked out over the refinery floor, where enormous vats and brooding machinery lay dormant.
Frey guessed this was a common area for the foremen and their staff. Several doors led off from it. A large table took up much of the room. A few mercs were here, idling about or sitting at the table, guns hanging loose in their hands. With them were two men who Frey recognised, even though he'd never met them before.
The first was gaunt and sour-faced, with straggly, grey-white hair. He sat with his boots up on the table. His duster had fallen back to reveal a waistcoat laden with a variety of knives. There were half a dozen sheaths on either side of his ribs, and more inside the duster.
He was rolling a throwing knife through his fingers, flipping it end over end around his knuckles.
The other was more enigmatic. He leaned against one of the doors with his arms folded loosely across his stomach. He was wearing a black coat and a wide-brimmed hat, and he wore a black necktie around his face. All that could be seen of him was a slice of his eyes and forehead, and a fringe of shaggy black hair.
Frey knew them from the broadsheets. Eldrew Grissom and Mordric Jask. Century Knights. Deadly men, both. Grissom had the fastest hands in the game, with knives or pistols alike. Jask was a stone-cold warrior, famously unflappable, a man without fear.
'Everyone, this is Darian Frey and his crew,' said Samandra, as they entered the room. Grissom looked up and grunted. Jask tipped his hat.
'What are you all doing here?' asked Frey.
'Guarding the company men. What else?' Samandra replied.
'Why not just take them out of here?'
'The miners are getting shot down on account of those folks. Marching them through the town might be a provocation hard to take, don't you reckon? We're trying to avoid more bloodshed.'
'So you're gonna sit tight?'
'We sent word to the Navy. They'll be here sooner or later.'
'And you reckon the miners are going to to wait around for that?'
'No,' she said. 'I don't. But I can't see that we got too much choice.'
Jez spoke in his ear. 'The Ketty Jay's small enough to fly over the refinery. Could airlift them out. Or you. Just say the word.'
Frey didn't reply. To do so would be to give away the secret of the earcuffs, and besides, he had a feeling the Century Knights would have thought of that already, and decided against it. There had to be a reason for that.
'Why do I get the impression there's something you aren't telling me?'
Samandra raised an eyebrow. 'Smart feller,' she said. 'Come on.'
She walked over to Jask, who moved out of the way of the door he was guarding. Frey looked inside. Beyond was a room with a desk and some shelves, and little else. Its occupant was sitting on a seat. He raised his head as the door was opened.
He was tall, slim and elegant. His features were narrow and perfectly proportioned, even beautiful. He wore a coat of exotic silk and tailored clothes of the most exquisite cut.
But none of that was what marked him out. The truly remarkable thing was that his irises were bright yellow, and his skin was black as onyx, a colour so deep that it seemed tinted with dark blue in the dim light.
The truly remarkable thing was that he was a Samarlan.
Jask closed the door. Frey stared at Samandra.
'What in the name of the Allsoul's pendulous bollocks is a Sammie doing here?' he demanded.
'We did wonder the same thing,' she replied. 'Best we can figure—'
'Roke's selling aerium to the Sammies,' finished Grissom. He flipped a knife into the tabletop, where it stuck with a thump. 'Plain as day, not that you can get the bastard to admit it. And we don't have no proof, neither. Yet.'
'We'll hold 'em both till the Navy arrives, then ship 'em off for questioning,' Samandra explained. 'I'm sure our Samarlan friend will have a thing or two worth knowing.'
'There's a Sammie in there?' asked Malvery, who'd drifted over. He'd overheard the conversation, as had everyone else in the room. 'How'd he get here?'
'Just flew in, I imagine.'
'That easy?'
'We're not at war with them any more,' said Samandra. 'It's not illegal for them to be in the country. With all the air traffic, we couldn't stop 'em if we tried. But since they're liable to be lynched the moment they show their faces, they tend to stay at home.'
'Plus,' said Grissom, 'soon as they set foot in Vardia, they're ours.' He smiled a nasty smile.
'Yep,' said Samandra. 'It's sort of policy to pick up any Sammies we find. Just for a friendly chat, y'know? To see what we can glean.'
'You gleaned anything from that feller?' asked Frey, thumbing at the door.
'Not a thing,' said Samandra.
'But then, we haven't really got going on him yet,' added Grissom, spinning a knife in his palm.
'It's got to be something important, though,' said Frey. 'Sammies don't come out into the open much. They've got the Dakkadians to do all their deals and the Murthians for all their dirty work. The whole time I was flying to the front, during the war, I never spotted a Sammie. That's the first one I ever saw outside of a ferrotype.'
'A fact that hasn't escaped our attention,' said Samandra. She looked over his shoulder. 'Is your man alright, by the way?'
Frey followed her gaze to Silo. He was pacing back and forth on the other side of the room, stalking this way and that like a caged animal. His fists clenched and unclenched, eyes focused on something far away. The picture of agitation. Frey had never seen him act that way.
'Hm,' said Frey. 'He doesn't look too alright, does he?'
'Not really.'
Frey watched Silo for a few moments, wondering what was up with him.
'Perhaps you should have a word?' Samandra suggested.
'Oh, right. Yes, I will.'
'I'll see about getting you fellers tooled up again. You're not gonna be much use if those miners pull anything and all you've got between you is a cutlass.'
'New guns?' Frey's eyes lit up.
She indicated the mercs that were lolling about. 'Courtesy of the company, of course. They've got enough kit stashed away to supply an army.'
Frey beamed. 'Wouldn't say no. Silo and Malvery prefer shotguns, if you please.'
'Well, alright then.'
Frey went over to Silo while Samandra ordered the mercs to fetch up the weapons. Silo saw him approach. His eyes flashed angrily.
'Hey, hey, calm down,' said Frey. 'What's got into you?'
Silo glared at him, then at the door. Frey realised all of a sudden what was bothering him. He felt a little stupid for not having seen it before. In that room was one of the people who'd enslaved Silo's race for half a
