Which was really beside the point. There had been no good way to duck the assignment. Boarmus had said go, and he was going. No threat, Danivon had said to Fringe. No threat. That had been pretty much a lie. He didn’t even believe that himself!
6
Tourists from categories eight, nine, and ten often came to the Swale. Tour down, trade up was the policy established by the Supervisors, which meant one usually traveled to and imported from places more primitive than one’s own. While some argued that “primitive” wasn’t the right word at all, the fact was that most tourists in the Swale came for the thrill of danger, came hoping to see someone killed, or maybe to kill somebody. In Enarae, tourists were of no more importance than any scruffy Trasher or Outcaste, so inevitably some of them ended up getting killed instead.
Though Fringe had long considered the Swale her natural environment, she could not deny its essential quality. Shrines to the Guntoter were ubiquitous. Every recess could and often did hide a thrill seeker. Aware of this, knowing she was on a stage with no cover, she always took a moment at the corner to adjust her boots, check her weapons belt, and see to the fastenings of her clothes. Behind the peepholes could be a thousand eyes, a thousand stares, each fixing her in place like a bug on a pin, booby-trapping the short flight of steps and the few yards of slimy street between her and Bloom’s place. It might be real. It might be a game. How was she to get from here to there while surviving that lethal barrage of eyes!
Confronted by such obstacles, fancied or real, one didn’t wiffle around! She polished her Enforcer’s badge with the ball of her left thumb, took a deep breath, and went where she chose to go, all in a rush, down the steps and across the dangerous street to take shelter in the entryway of Bloom’s place. Keeping in practice, she told herself, relishing the surge of fear that had accompanied the self-induced panic, knowing it would have been easier but far less exciting to have come in the back way. Safety was for children. So said all Enforcers worth their pay.
Inside, Bloom bustled up to greet her, extending his legs and kissing her on the cheek, which she resignedly permitted. Bloom would do it when he liked, with fine disregard for sex or age or present affectional situations. Though Zasper had never presumed to kiss her at all, much less in public, Bloom had been kissing her since she was twelve; he wasn’t likely to stop now.
“Owldark,” he murmured. “Too long, lady love. What’ve you been up to, Fringy?”
“This and that,” she said in the offhanded Enforcer’s manner that made no admissions of involvement in anything specific. “Here and there.” The hall swarmed with life and noise and was thick with smells: food and drink; sweat and drugs; boxes, bales, and baskets of exotic stuff from a dozen other provinces, brought here as barter. Her nose wrinkled and she sneezed.
The Bloom made a face at her and shortened his legs, yelling at her on the way down. “There’s a man here from Gaunt’s showing the new gimmicks. They’ve modified the Finalizer seven-aught-nine, would you believe? Twice the kill power with half the weight. Want to see him?”
She shook her head, making a face at him.
“No? Looking for work?”
Fringe preferred to get her contracts at the Enforcement Post, where things were more predictable than at Bloom’s. Not that he was unethical, just that he was casual about contract terms—little things like dates of completion, and acceptable solutions, and getting paid. She grinned and shook her head again.
“Not that either? How about a game? Want a table?”
“No weapon, no job, no game, Bloom. I’m looking for Zasper. He been around?”
“Here now,” admitted the Bloom with a shrug. “Doing badly and welcoming interruption, I’d say.”
“Where?”
He jerked his head back, indicating the balcony stairs halfway across the room behind him, then shot high on his legs to watch her snake off through the heaving crowd.
She wove her way among the revelers: Enaraenians, Sandylwaithians, a few Supervisors pretending to be something else, Denialites, pretending to disapprove of what they were doing, scattered parts of some City Fifteen dinka-jins visiting the Swale to experience reality. Dink eyes darted about, peering; dink noses slunk, smelling. The modulator boxes had to be across the room somewhere, along with the arms and legs and other parts. She didn’t bother looking for them. Assembled or disassembled, dinks were not her favorite thing.
Upstairs, she found Zasper in the gambling room nearest the street. Wet river light fell on one side of his face as he glared across the table at a player with his back to her, glared until he saw her, then growlingly excused himself and came out, his face split into a welcoming grin. A strong old hand crushed her shoulder, and she accepted the familiar pain impassively. He led her to a small table near the balcony railing, overlooking the organized chaos below.
Fringe, who disliked crowds, kept her eyes on Zasper. Though he’d retired from provincial Enforcement a few years back, he still wore his gray hair in the long braid, still looked meaner than a scorched chaffer, still wore his badge with the fatal-hands dangles—on his left shoulder to show he wasn’t active. Retired or not, he hadn’t stopped being her friend. He knew her better than anyone.
“Heard your pa died,” he grunted now.
She gave him a look. If he’d heard that, he’d heard the rest of it, as well.
“Too bad.” He knew how she felt, how she’d always felt. There’d been times he’d known that better than
