“Yeah, I’m fine,” said Will.
“Are you sure? Do you want me to—”
“I said I was fine! I tripped over a chair, don’t make it into a case for the Inquisition.”
“Sorry.” The sound of footsteps retreated.
“How will you explain that?” murmured Hart rhetorically. He came over to Will and placed the silver gun against his temple. “I killed her,” he said, “because she was unreliable. I knew that she was going to tell Fischer about me, no matter what she said; the truth was in her voice when she was angry. I would’ve been expelled permanently from the Diamond. I need access to the Diamond, Willie—that story’s a little too long to go into right now. Take my word for it.”
“Are you going to tell the Ecclesiastical Council what you did?”
“They would give me a medal for preserving our cover. Do you think they care about someone they’d call a Diamond whore? I’ll mention it to Arno if the mood strikes.”
“What about your other informants?”
Hart pressed the barrel a trifle more firmly against Will’s skin. “Willie, you have it bad. A cold little metal circle is making indentations in your forehead, and you’re still asking me questions.”
Will’s face felt damp. He said, “So? What do you want from me, an apology?”
Hart said, “Sangaree honor again. You might have had a slight chance earlier, if you’d called in your friends. Was it worth it, for a few answers?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
Will swallowed. “I haven’t been dead yet.”
He felt Hart chuckle. Hart put the elbow of his other arm around Will’s neck and pulled an inch or so, like a twelve-year-old in friendly horseplay. “Willie. I’m sorry I even thought about killing you.” And even as he said it he’d flicked something on the gun, turned it around, and applied the other end to Will’s neck.
Will felt a sting. Then he seemed to be kneeling on the floor, looking dazed, and then the overturned chair was in front of him—sideways. His head was pressed against the cool of the floor tiles. He had the feeling someone had helped him down. He closed his eyes.
“Don’t ever change,” said Hart, putting away his gun. He went into the outer room and saw that TJ was still there, waiting patiently, though the other Sangaree had left. Hart said, “Don’t bother him. He said he wanted to think.”
TJ accepted this order, though he managed to look resentful and suspicious as he did so.
Ten minutes later Hart was on a train bound for Transport. When he disembarked, he showed the deck supervisor his diplomatic pass and settled back in a seat on the next Opal shuttle. He noted that there were very few ranking Diamond or Opal people aboard, and none who knew him. In any case, there was a strong chance Willie would keep his problems to himself.
He thought ahead to Amo, and how he would have to present these events, should it become necessary; but his mind kept drifting back to Will. He contemplated Will with the patient pleasure of a gourmet planning a future meal. What a straight arrow he was! And he tried so hard. He hadn’t changed at all since school, thank God.
Hart sighed happily as the shuttle closed. It was good to have a hobby.
Spider stopped off at Tal’s office on the way to his mother’s. He kept a bottle there, which would be useful to bring along in case his mother’s supply ran dry.
He found the ex-slave Gabriel sitting on the sofa, and quickly controlled a reflex to reach for his pistol. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been reading. From the history books off the link. The Lord Demon said it would be all ri—”
“Don’t call him the-Lord Demon. People are antsy enough about him as it is. Anyway, he didn’t tell me you could come here.”
Gabriel blinked. “He brought me here himself, and gave me the books and told me not to bother him.”
That sounded probable. He hadn’t given Gabriel the code to get in, then, and the link was secure enough. They’d gotten the boy a job as a messenger, but he’d been following Tal around whenever he had free time. Being shadowed, even by a fifteen-year-old boy, seemed to get on Tal’s nerves amazingly.
“Spider’s a funny name,” said the boy.
Apparently he was trying to be friendly, though Spider found his topic ill-chosen. “Gabriel’s not a regular name either. We don’t give angels’ names for christening on the Diamond; the priests say it’s disrespectful.”
“They gave all us boys in the slaveyards angelic names,” said Gabriel, with a touch of hard sarcasm that surprised Spider. “To teach us to be good. The girls got saint’s names. Working saints, like Therese. The type who scrubbed floors and got off on it.”
“Whoa! You’re a cynical little bastard, aren’t you?” Spider found himself wanning to the kid.
“Your demon doesn’t seem to mind. He’s great, isn’t he? He got those papers from the Mercati, and—”
“Don’t call him my demon. If he’s anybody’s demon, he’s Adrian’s, and sometimes I wonder. Call him Special Officer Diamond.”
“I’m sorry. Special Officer Diamond.”
Spider got his bottle out of a drawer and checked the level of the contents. Not that he distrusted this kid, exactly, but it was good to check. “While we’re doing names, try to remember you’re a good Diamond subject now. Adrian is Adrian, not ‘the Mercati.’ Okay?”
“Okay.”
Well, he wasn’t a bad sort, really. And Spider disapproved of slavery on moral grounds. He said, “Reading anything good?”
A look of animation came over Gabriel for the first time. “The History of the Three Cities, by Corfu, and The Battle for the Venn, by Tyler. There’s a Baret System section from the Encyclopedia, but I haven’t gotten to it yet. The demon—Special Officer Diamond says not
