Chapter Two
The strike to Clan Korval’s heart had been turned aside, the unlucky blade captured, and given over to the assassin judge, Natesa. Between her arts and those of the clan witches, it would not be long before every careful secret of necessity shared with Otts Clark would be in Korval’s possession.
And Korval would not hesitate; nor would it waste breath shouting warnings to those who wished them ill. Throughout history, Korval had acted quickly and decisively to threats made against even the least of its members. A strike against the delmae—Korval Herself—that would not go unanswered.
So it was that the word went out, from cell leader to cell leader; from first in line to least. A single word, but sufficient.
Run.
Field Agent Rys Lin pen’Chala was not so far down the chain that the word was long in reaching in his ear. Nor was he so ill-informed that the order surprised.
There were not so very many agents of the Department of the Interior on Surebleak; indeed, following Korval’s attack upon the Department’s Liaden headquarters, there were not so very many agents—at all.
That attack, against the very homeworld, had not been without cost. Korval’s allies upon the Council of Clans might have prevented them from being called outlaw, but they had not been able to prevent Korval’s banishment.
A Liaden clan no more, Korval entered into a contract of employment with the Bosses of Surebleak, and relocated to that cold and backward world. And here they sat, free of their net of allies and servants; vulnerable to attack.
Though the Department was likewise vulnerable, the Commander had seen opportunity, and deployed agents whose purpose was to undo all of Korval’s works, to unbalance their plans, and to strike a mortal blow.
The failure of that blow to fall with precision…
Run.
Agent pen’Chala was not a fool. Certainly, Surebleak Spaceport was a free-for-all, overcrowded with those seeking opportunity, and chaotic at every level. How easy for a single man to lose himself in that unrelenting chaos, to find a ship, and slip away.
The exercise became more difficult when there were a dozen such seeking anonymity and quiet passage. Add into that equation Korval on the hunt, and prudence dictated a less literal understanding of the orders received.
Ships were Korval’s chiefest concern; spaceports their second home. Only a fool would try to outpace them on such terrain, while they were alert and searching.
Let others race to the spaceport, to win past Korval, or to be taken up for questioning and worse. Agent pen’Chala preferred to increase his odds of survival.
Run might under certain conditions be understood to mean hide.
Hide until Korval’s face was turned toward some other problem. Until they had caught whomever they did—and they would catch, some. Hide, until it was…less risky to venture onto port and seek out a ship, to buy passage or sign as crew.
Agent pen’Chala knew how to hide. Indeed, he was an adept, proved by circumstance.
Decision taken, he turned his face from the spaceport, and instead moved further into the city, striking for the abandoned warehouse belt.
He would hide. And, as before, he would survive.