Free At Empire's Edge by William C. Dietz Page B

firing position, when Iddyn reached over to push it back down. “So they right,” the bandit leader observed thoughtfully. “Creature can change shape.”
    “Yes,” a Uman voice said grimly, as Centurion Pasayo entered the great room. “He certainly can. And leave him right where he is for the moment. The next task is to move the cage outside. My transport is waiting.”
    It took the better part of a half hour to move the cage into the transport and strap it down. Once that task was accomplished, it was time for Pasayo to pay Iddyn and give the bandit chieftain some advice. They were standing under one of the transport’s stubby wings where they were lit from above. “Go ahead and take whatever you want, but leave the bodies where they are, so that the scene will look like what it was: a bandit attack. Understood?”
    “Yes,” the Lir replied expressionlessly. “Understood.”
    “I’m glad to hear it,” the Imperial replied. “And remember this: If you use the money to buy weapons, and use the weapons to fire on my troops, I will pay a visit to High Hold Meor and reduce it to a pile of slag.”
    It was a potent threat, and one that Iddyn took seriously, which was why he made a mental note to have Pasayo killed as soon as possible. “You no worry,” Iddyn said reassuringly. “We friends.”
    Pasayo wasn’t so sure about that, but ordered a soldier to hand over the money belts containing the second half of Iddyn’s fee and made his way up the cargo ramp and onto the ship.
    There was a loud roar as repellers flared, and the ship rose out of a cloud of dust before swiveling toward the east. Iddyn saw a momentary glow as the pilot fired both engines, and the ship was gone, leaving the stars to glitter above. They had been witness to horrific crimes before—and they were as silent as the grains of sand under the Lir’s three-toed feet. There were secrets in the desert, lots of them, and they were buried deep.

FOUR

The city of Solace, on the planet Dantha
    IT WAS EARLY MORNING WHEN THE MILITIAMEN CAME, their boots pounding out a rhythm as old as the history of warfare as they marched down the center of the nearly empty street, weapons at port arms. It was raining, and had been for hours, which was why the troops wore water-slicked ponchos that hung down skirtlike around their knobby knees.
    There wasn’t much foot traffic at that time of day, and what little bit there was seemed to fade away as the Procurator’s soldiers entered The Warrens and went straight to the pub called The Black Stocking. It wasn’t open yet. But when a burly Section Leader hammered on the door and ordered those within to, “Open up, or be shut down,” the saloon’s proprietor hurried to comply. He had shaggy gray hair, a bulbous nose, and a potbelly that strained the fabric of his long nightshirt. “Yes?” he said suspiciously, as he eyed the militiamen arrayed in front of him. “What can I do for you?”
    “You can get the hell out of the way,” Centurion Pasayo answered arrogantly, as he pushed past and entered the great room beyond. It was about 6:00 AM, which meant the pub had been closed for three hours, and wasn’t scheduled to reopen until midafternoon. So, The Black Stocking’s interior was exactly as customers had left it, which was to say filthy. An army of empty beer steins occupied the tables, plates of half-eaten food sat here and there, and the combined odors of beer and vomit filled Pasayo’s nostrils as he made his way toward the back.
    “What are you looking for?” the saloon’s owner inquired as he hurried to catch up. “Perhaps I can help.”
    “Not ‘what,’ ” Pasayo replied, as he paused to look around.
    “But who. We have information that a man named Cato was drinking here last night.”
    “Yes!” the saloon keeper responded eagerly. “There was such a man! He started a fight, got the beating he deserved, and passed out.”
    “That’s interesting,” Pasayo replied ominously. “ Very