push him up against a wall-the push was their idea, the wall was his, to get
something besides the knife at his vulnerable back; but they followed up close
and personal and Vis and the knife followed up against his gut, where it was
utterly disconcerting.
“This is a talk,” Vis said.
“Fine,” Straton said, back to the bricks. “Talk.”
“No, this is you to us.”
“Uhhn. Who’s us?”
Strat had his stomach tight. He waited for the blow to the gut; it failed to
come. That puzzled him; and unnerved him more than violence. They wanted more
than he had thought.
“Us is the same source you’re used to,” Vis said. “Us is a man you know. This is
all business. Word is something’s on the move.”
“You and I’ve talked,” Strat said. “You want to get me a little breathing room
and we can trade-” He stopped. The knife indicated stop. He was in no
disposition to argue. He was careful about breathing for a moment. The dark look
of the men about him might have been Ilsigi. It wasn’t-quite. He suddenly knew
what he had fallen in among. Nisi death squad. In Jubal’s pay-maybe.
“You and I have talked,” Vis said. “Now I want you to tell me a few things. Like
who’s giving you your orders. I hear you’re in her bed. True?”
He sucked in his breath; mistake: the knife gave him no room to take another.
“Soght-ohon,” he said, Nisi obscenity. And waited for the knife. Vis grinned. It
was a wolf-grin. Mountain-lunatic grin. Men smiled like that who hurled
themselves off walls, disdaining surrender.
“She’s got you,” Vis said. “You’re sweating, man. You know that?”