Downwind. I think we can conclude the answer is no. We have to extend our
measures. Someone knows. We take the hawkmasks alive and eventually we find the
slaver.”
“We should pull the slave in,” another said. “No,” said the first. “Too
disruptive. If convenient… we take him.”
“This woman is inconvenient.”
“We hardly need more inconvenience than we’ve had. No. We keep it quiet. We
destroy no leads. We want this matter taken out-down to the roots. And that
means Jubal himself.”
“I don’t think,” said the man from the street, “that our informer can be relied
on that far. That’s the one who ought to be pulled in, kept a little closer …
encouraged to talk.”
“And if he won’t? No. We still need him.”
“A post. Security. Get him into our steady employ and we’ll learn where
all his soft spots are. He’ll soften up fast. Just twist the screws now and then
and he’ll do everything he has to.”
“If you make a mistake with him-“
“No mistake. I know this little snake.” A chair grated. One of the Stepsons had
put his foot on the rung, folded his arms with elaborate disdain for
the proceedings. “There are quicker ways,” the Stepson said. No one said
anything to that. No one debated, but slid the discussion aside from it,
arguing only the particulars and a slave who had finally run.
* * *
The bridge was always the worst part, coming or going. It narrowed
possibilities. There was one way and only one way, afoot, to come into the
Downwind, and Mor-am took it, sweating, feeling his heart pounding, with a
little edge of black around his vision that might be terror or something in the