with verdigrised copper tiles. Gargoyles yawned at gutter ends or curled around downpipes and drain sluices. Upper storeys had balconies with railings made of tarnished copper; many balconies also had canopies. Arched stone bridges and metal stair-walks linked neighbouring buildings, sometimes across the water-filled streets themselves. Along the canal sides, stone walkways formed a water-level street for pedestrians.
And there were many of those. The place was alive with movement, colour and noise. Once we got into the city proper, our passage down the canals was slowed by other grav-skiffs, water- buses, private yawls and motor-driven boats.
Above us, at high traffic levels, speeders and atmospheric fliers buzzed back and forth. Everywhere we looked were banners celebrating Battlefleet Scarus and the Gudrunite guard regiments, especially the 50th Rifles.
Aemos chattered to himself as usual, noting the elements of Dorsay into his wrist slate, his hunger for accumulating knowledge unstinted. I watched him for a while, his nervous moves, his boyish glee at new details, his obsessive-compulsive tapping at his slate.
The keypads of that battered old slate were worn smooth.
Midas Betancore was alert and sharp as always. He sat in the front of the grav- skiff, soaking up details like Aemos. But the details he noticed would be far more pertinent and immediately useful than my old savant's.
Bequin simply sat back and smiled, the chop of the breeze fluttering her shawl. I doubted she could ever have come here under her own steam. Gudrun was the epicentre of the sub-sector culture, the big bright world she had always dreamed about and of which she yearned to be a part.
I let her have her fun. There would be hard work later.
We took a suite of rooms at the Dorsay Regency. I considered it expedient to have a base of operations on the mainland. Betancore drilled out the door frames with a hand tool and installed locator bolts with built-in flash deterrents. We also wired the internal doorways. The house servitors were given strict instructions not to enter when we were absent.
I stood on the heavy, limewashed balcony, under a faded awning of purple canvas, and listened to the March of the Adeptes as it played out, distorted, from the speaker horns that dressed the street.
The canal below was thick with traffic. I saw a skiff overladen with drunken guardsmen, all wearing their newly issued red and gold kits. Men of the 50th Gudrunite Rifles, raising hell and risking death by drowning as they enjoyed their last hours on their homeworld. In a few days they would be packed into a troopship and bound for who knew what horror a sub-sector away.
One of them fell into the canal as they tried to stagger ashore. His comrades dredged him out, and baptised his head with the contents of a liquor bottle.
Aemos joined me, and showed me a data-slate map.
The Regal Bonded Merchant Guild of Sinesias/ he said. 'Headquarters are five streets away'
Guild Sinesias owned some of the most imposing premises in the commercial district of Dorsay. A spur of the Grand Canal actually fed in under the coloured glass portico of the main buildings, so that visiting traders could ran their skiffs inside and disembark under cover in a tiled and carpeted reception dock.
Our grav-skiff carried us in, and we stepped out amid clusters of tall, thin, gowned traders from Messina, merchants from Sameter in ludicrously heavy hats and veils, and obese bankers from the Thracian hives.
I strode ashore and turned to offer Bequin my hand. She nodded courteously as she left the skiff. I hadn't briefed her much. The aristocratic airs and graces were her own spontaneous invention. Though I still loathed her, I admired her more with each passing moment. She was playing things perfectly.
'Your name and business here, sire, madam?' a Guild Sinesias chamberlain asked as he approached us. He was dripping in finery, gold brocaded gowns attiring every servant in the place. Augmetic implants blistered in place of his ears and he clutched a slate and stylus.
'My name is Farchaval, a merchant from Hesperus. This is Lady Far-chaval. We come to tender grain contracts with the high houses of this
world, and we are told Guild Sinesias will provide us the necessary brokerage.'
'Do you have a guild responser, sire?'
'Of course. My contact was Saemon Crotes.'
'Crotes?' the chamberlain paused.
'Oh, Gregor, I'm so bored/ Bequin suddenly announced. This is so, so very slow and dull. I want to cruise the canals again. Why can't we go back and deal with those spirited fellows at Guild Mensurae?'
'Later, my dearest/ I said, delighted and wrong-footed by her improvisation.
'You have already… visited another guild?' the chamberlain asked quickly.
'They were very nice. They brought me Solian tea/ Bequin purred.
'Let me escort you both/ the chamberlain said at once. 'Saemon Crotes is, of course, one of our most valued envoys. I will arrange an audience for you forthwith. In the meantime, please relax in this suite. I will have Solian tea sent up directly/
'And nafar biscuits?' cooed Bequin.
'But of course, madam/
He swept out and closed the double doors of the luxurious waiting room behind him. Bequin looked at me and giggled. I confess, I laughed out loud.
'What got into you?'
You said we were monied merchants who expected the very best. I was just earning my salary/
'Keep it up/ I said.
We looked around the room. Gauze-draped windows ten metres high looked out over the Grand Canal, but they were insulated to keep the noise out. Rich tapestries dressed the walls between Sameter School oils that Maxilla would have loved to own.
A burnished servitor brought in a tray of refreshments soon after that. It lowered it onto a marble-topped occasional table and trundled out.
'Solian tea!' Bequin squeaked, lifting the lid of a porcelain pot. 'And nafar biscuits!' she added with a smile, through the crumbs of the first one.
She poured me a cup and I stood by the fireplace, sipping it, striking an appropriately haughty pose.
The guild representative flew in through the doors a moment later. He was a small, spiky-haired man with flowing gowns and far too much jewellery. The Guild Sinesias brand mark was proudly displayed on his forehead.
He was, the brand indicated, property.
His name was Macheles.
'Sire Farchaval! Madam! Had I known you were visiting, I would have cancelled meets to be here. Forgive my tardiness!'
'I forgive it/ I said. 'But I'm afraid Lady Farchaval may be fast losing her patience/
Bequin yawned on cue.
'Oh, that is not good! Not good at all!' Macheles clapped his hands and servitors trundled in.
'Provide the lady with whatever she requests!' Macheles told them.
'Ummm… vorder leaves?' she said.
'At once!' Macheles instructed.
'And a plate of birri truffles? Sauteed in wine?'
