Hansen opened the door of his cubicle to let in more light. The latch was a bar set in heavy staples, an unexpectedly sturdy arrangement given the flimsy construction of the bed chamber itself. Slaves, sweeping the night’s debris into the hearth with straw brooms, dropped their voices when they saw one of the warriors was up—and chattered again when they saw it was Hansen.
Only Hansen. Well, he’d been a newbie before, in the Civic Patrol and later when he transferred to Special Units. If he survived the next few months, he’d have as much respect as he wanted.
Hansen examined his new battlesuit. It was a noticeably solider unit than the one from which he’d ejected Villiers’ corpse. The difference was not so much in the weight of the metal—equating mass with sturdiness was an error out of which he’d trained himself long before—but in the fit of the various sections.
The lining was thick suede. It wouldn’t keep his skin from chafing, but it was probably as good a material as could be found for the purpose here. Hansen found to his surprise that it wasn’t slick with dry, clotted blood down the left side, because the arc that burned off the former owner’s arm had also cauterized the blood vessels.
The severed piece lay on the floor in front of the rest of the suit. Hansen rotated it in his hands, looking at the line of bubbled metal and the core of integrated circuits, shattered and blackened by high-temperature cutting.
Repairing this wasn’t a job for a smith on a feudal backwater. It would require technicians of exceptional competence—
And by watching the work done, Hansen might just find the path to North and the answers the Consensus had sent him to find.
The door of the cubicle next to Hansen’s opened. “You look cheerful,” said Malcolm, though the way he said it indicated that he’d noticed more than humor in Hansen’s grin.
“What are you doing here?” Hansen asked in surprise. “I assumed you’d be . . .”
“Nancy, you mean?” Malcolm said with a smile of his own. His features were as perfect as his voice, and his tawny complexion looked almost golden in the diffused sunlight. “I was on duty last night—we sleep night and night in the hall, here at Peace Rock. Taddeusz is very firm about that.”
Hansen nodded. “Something we can agree on,” he said.
Malcolm smiled more broadly. “It isn’t considered good form to entertain your friends in your chamber here,” he went on. “But it’s been known to happen, particularly the night after a battle.”
“You, ah . . . ,” Hansen said. “I’m not sure . . . do you have formal ranks here? That is, what’s your rank, for instance?”
“Where do I sit at table, do you mean?” said Malcolm with a puzzled expression. “But you saw—”
He grinned again. “Ah, you drank more than I thought. I’ve been on the lower end of the left side, but after yesterday’s battle I’d decided to move to the middle—even before you put yourself in my train.”
So that was why Malcolm had been so friendly. He was himself an ambitious outsider, trying to build status by increasing the number of warriors under his protection.
“Not everybody would say I was a desirable supporter,” Hansen commented aloud.
“Not everyone would,” Malcolm agreed, nodding. “What do you say, my bold laddie?”
Hansen met the veteran’s eyes and said, very deliberately, “I say that in a year, you’ll be sitting in Taddeusz’ seat. If you want to.”
Malcolm looked around sharply to see if any of the slaves were within earshot—a precaution Hansen had taken before he spoke.
“I think you’ve just convinced me that the others are the smart ones,” Malcolm said.
He nodded toward the damaged armor. “Let’s get your suit repaired,” he added. “And let’s you not talk about things that don’t concern either of us.”
“All right,” said Hansen. He got a grip on the suit. “Where do we go with—”
Malcolm swatted his hands aside. “Where do you come from?” he said in amazement.
He turned to the cleaning crew. “Hey!” he called. “You lot! Get over here and carry Lord Hansen’s armor to the smithy.”