“You’re just soft from easy living. Now, let’s try it again—”
“Hey, Kit!” Sven Bailey poked his head out of his office. “Phone! Ronisha Azzan. And she doesn’t sound happy.”
Kit and Skeeter exchanged startled glances.
“Now what?” Skeeter muttered.
“We’ll find out. Take five.” Kit jogged over to Sven’s office, where the bladed-weapons instructor had gone back to sharpening a gladius. Kit grabbed the phone left lying on the desk. “Kit Carson.”
“We’ve got trouble.”
Echoing Skeeter, Kit said, “Now what?”
“You’d better get up here. Skeeter, too. We’re adding somebody to the search team. And you’re not going to like it.”
“With Denver cycling in three days, I already don’t like it. Who?”
Ronisha said very dryly, “A detective. Senator Caddrick’s. He just arrived through Primary. He and the senator are in the aerie, demanding to see you.”
Hoo, boy . . .
“We’ll be there in five.” Kit didn’t plan on showering first, either; honest sweat never hurt anybody and the senator deserved it, thrusting some up-time detective down their throats, without adequate time to prepare him for down-time work.
“What’s Caddrick done now?” Sven asked, glancing up from a whetstone, where he was putting a keen edge on the thrusting tip of his favorite Roman short sword.
“Saddled us with some up-time detective.”
“Oh, great. That’s all you need.”
“You’re telling me. I’ll see you later. If Caddrick doesn’t toss us in jail for telling him what I think of his idea.”
Sven snorted. “Yeah, right. Bull Morgan’s one thing. Kit Carson, not even Caddrick’s stupid enough to tangle with.”