The journey down from the clan caves to Port Eyeja took the better part of the morning, and he welcomed every biting mile of it. The wind came screaming off the high ridges, flinging ice crystals that stung even through his fur, and the trail wound down through black rock and drifted snow that swallowed his legs to the knee in places. He’d made the trip a hundred times. He could have walked it with his eyes closed.
He let the cold hollow him out, and let the effort of breaking a trail burn off some of the frustration that had been sitting under his ribs like a coal since dawn. By the time the stone buildings of the port, hunched under snow-heavy roofs, and the great scarred flat of the landing field beyond came into view, he’d worked himself into something closer to calm.
Then he walked into the port, and the calm frayed at the edges.
The main market was busier than he’d ever seen it. Braziers roared at every corner, ringed by figures warming their hands, and the crowd around them was nothing like the crowd he remembered from even a few months ago. For years Port Eyeja had been a wretched little hive of villainy, nominally under Imperial rule, but essentially lawless. He’d convinced the Empire to place Hothians in charge of law enforcement—despite opposition from both the more villainous inhabitants and hisown council—and Baralt had taken charge of cleaning up the town.
He had succeeded to a large extent and his warriors were clearly visible in the throng, but so were a dozen other species. A tall, blue-skinned female in impractical silks argued prices with a fur trader. A cluster of soft-bodied Pargans in matched thermal suits gawked at everything and photographed the snow. A group of Aalzz traders sat outside a tavern at the edge of the square, drinking ale and wailing what might have been a drinking song. Bundled slaves hurried behind their masters, eyes down.
But in addition to people going about their normal business, he saw a pair of hard-faced males in mismatched armor leaning against a wall and watching the resort shuttles unload with an interest he didn’t like at all. He noted their faces, then made his way towards the squat stone building that had been, in the town’s lawless decades, a place you did not walk into if you valued your organs, and was now the law enforcement headquarters.
The door swung open before he reached it.
“I felt the ground shaking,” Baralt said, grinning. “Thought either a storm was coming down out of the mountains, or you were.”
The enormous white-furred male filled the doorway almost as thoroughly as Njkall did. Baralt was one of the few Hothians to have ever left Hothrest, which made him uniquely suited to his role. He was aware of the political climate in the Empire and had encountered many other species. He was also fast and dangerous. Njkall had seen him use his claws to open a male’s belly in one lazy strike, when a slaver made the mistake ofassaulting a female in the market. Former gladiators tended to be efficient about such things.
“Baralt.” He clasped the other male’s forearm. “You look comfortable. Playing at law suits you.”
“It’s less playing than I’d like.” Baralt stood aside to let him in. “Come. Isabel sent hot spiced wine down this morning and I’ve been guarding it against my own better judgment. Then you can tell me why the clan leader trudged through half a day of ice when he could have sent another messenger. Or even use one of those communicators you pretend to despise.”
The inside of the building was blessedly warm with a fire crackling in the wide hearth. He lowered himself onto a bench, eyeing the strange assortment of confiscated weaponry hung on the walls, and accepted the cup Baralt pressed into his hands. The wine scalded going down, all spice and heat, and he grunted his approval.
“I came,” he said, “because I don’t like reports. Reports flatten things. I wanted to see the port for myself.”
“And?”
“And the town is full of strangers.”
“The port was always full of strangers,” Baralt said dryly, dropping onto the opposite bench. “Before they were traders and mercenaries and crew. They’re all still here, but so are the tourists and so are the credits. You wanted the resort to bring in visitors. The resort worked.” He spread his enormous hands. “This is part of what working looks like.”
He couldn’t argue. He’d fought his own council to open Hothrest, cautiously, to the wider Empire. For years his peoplehad lived behind their ice and their contract, trading sothiti for the privilege of being left alone, and the isolation had kept them safe but kept them small. He still believed that a world that never opened its doors eventually rotted behind them. He believed contact was the best hope for their future.
He also believed part of that future had just walked past the window in mismatched armor, watching the shuttles unload.
“The two by the northern brazier,” he said. “The ones in the patched armor.”
Baralt didn’t turn to look. “The Sethari brothers. Mercenaries. Or so they’d like you to think. Mostly they’re looking for rich, drunk offworlders to lift a purse from. I’ve spoken to them once already. They understand me.”
“Do they?”
“Everyone understands me eventually.” Baralt gave him a fierce grin, and he relaxed, just a little. “You’re not wrong to worry, Njkall. The legitimate traffic brings the other kind. The wealthy travel with soft throats and full purses, and that draws every carrion-eater in this arm of the galaxy. And it’s not as if Port Eyeja was ever some sanitized inner Empire port.”
“But?” he asked, hearing something else behind Baralt’s words.
“But there has been an increase in the less reputable ships recently. The ones that come in dark with falsified papers and no manifest, and no reason a decent captain would have to hide his cargo.” Baralt’s voice roughened on that last word.
They both knew what type of cargo hid in the dark. They both knew who slept in Njkall’s caves because of it. Baralt’s mate Isabel had also been trapped on one of those ships.
“How many ships?” he asked, and Baralt shrugged.
“Two this week that I turned around before they finished unloading. One I couldn’t prove anything on, so I let it dock and put a warrior on it around the clock until it left of its own accord.” Baralt showed his fangs again, but there was no humor in it now. “I’m watching. I’ve got eyes on the field, eyes in the market, and eyes in three of the worst taverns. Nothing crosses this port that I don’t hear about within the hour.”
It was as good as any male could do, and better than most. He nodded slowly and let the tension ease out of his shoulders a fraction.
“Is the resort worth it?” he asked, although it was not quite a question.
“You already decided it was, or you wouldn’t have built it.” Baralt refilled both their cups. “Yes. It’s worth it. The wealth benefits the clans. The visitors tell positive tales about us. The Empire remembers we exist and mostly leaves us alone. It’s worth it.” He fixed Njkall with a level blue stare. “It’s worth it as long as males like you and me pay attention.”
