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“Well, that’s something,” Erik says.
It’s more than I usually have. “But what now?”
“That’s the easy part. We go to the Icebox.”
Most of the house has retired for the evening. There’s no way to procure a security detail to leave the premises at this hour and Kincaid has left strict instructions that I can’t leave anyway. But thirty minutes later we’re sitting in a crawler. I’ve traded my skirt and blouse for one of the few practical outfits Kincaid has supplied me with: a mink coat layered over a flowing silk tunic and close-fitting black trousers with supple black leather boots that reach my knees. There are a few credits crammed in my pocket—the leftovers from the items we pawned upon our arrival here. The Icebox is down through the mountains, and it sprawls around the estate like a metro built on a tributary.
“So you stole a crawler?” I ask.
“I borrowed it,” Erik says.
“Without permission,” I add.
“Flexible morals,” we both say at the same time.
“Jinx,” Erik says.
“Uh-oh, bad luck for me,” I say.
“Nah,” he says. “In Saxun, it means you owe me something.”
“That sounds like trouble,” I say, unsure I want to be further in Erik’s debt. “What do I owe you?”
Erik shoots me a wink from the driver’s seat. “I’ll think of something. So what now?”
“We figure out…” I pause. I have no idea what we need to figure out next.
“Good plan,” he says.
“I’m known for my high-quality planning skills.”
* * *
The grey market is as delightful as I remember. But Erik says nothing when I toss a few credits to a refugee begging on the sidewalk.
“I don’t care how he uses it,” I say, suddenly self-conscious of my move. “He needs it more than I do.”
“I’m not judging you,” he says. “He probably does need it more than you do.”
He smiles so genuinely then that my insecurity melts, replaced by something much warmer that tugs at me.
Something that forces me to turn away.
“Wait,” I say, twisting back toward the opposite direction, returning to the refugee.
“Ma’am.” The refugee tips an imaginary hat at me.
“You’re a refugee.” I point to the scrawl of information on his makeshift sign. “How did you get here from Arras?”
The beggar’s eyes dart from me to Erik and back again. “Don’t remember.”
“I promise,” I start, squatting down to him, “we’re only looking for one to use ourselves. We need to go back.”
His eyebrows tilt in surprise and he mumbles a few unintelligible words that sound like oaths.
“Please,” I press, reaching out to touch his hand.
“There’s a depot in the grey market. Find the speakeasy on First,” he says, but he grabs my hand with sudden passion. “You can’t go back. It’s suicide.”
