“And you must call me Chatham, yes. Are you and your friend—Porsupah is a Tolian calling, I believe—are you really ranked officers in the Church forces? I’ve not seen you around city before.”

“Really and truly we are, Chatham. We’re only temporarily attached to the Rectory in Repler City.”

“A shame. But old Orvenalix’s taste is improving.” The merchant stared at her approvingly.

Kitten turned to Mal. “That settles your question. He’s innocent!” The freighter-captain groaned.

“Innocent?” said Kingsley uncertainly. “Then I am presumed guilty of some wrongdoing?” He shifted to a sitting position on the lounge, looked questioningly at Mal.

“Okay, okay. Let’s eat first, as voted. I confess I’ve been overruled by my innards, also. I’m famished.”

The others were playing with dessert. Mal was cleaning off his fourth leg of Garvual, a large, carnivorous wading bird, when their host cocked an inquiring eye at him. Mal had long since decided that subtlety would be as useful with Kingsley as it had been with Rose. For different reasons. He wiped his hands and mouth with a hot towel, stifled most of a gargantuan belch, and began.

“Chatham, I found a consignment of drugs mixed in with the Umbra’s last cargo. That shipment was 92% yours. We completely deshipped at Largess, so I know it came aboard there. It included a significant milling of refined bloodhype. Yes, bloodhype. Nearly pure, I’m told. Also a number of other nasty types, but nothing in jaster’s class. Don’t try and play coy with me. I know you’d be aware of the stuff’s reintroduction onto the market.”

Kingsley tapped delicately about the corners of his mouth with a towel. “It is true I am not entirely uninformed where information concerning trade in this section of the Arm is concerned.” He sat back and folded his hands contentedly over an emerging pot-belly. “Cordials will be forthcoming. Your implication, then, is that I am somehow involved in this traffic?”

“Are you?”

“No.”

“Why wouldn’t you be? You live conveniently close to Dominic Rose, who we know is responsible for distributing the stuff.”

“We live on the same planet, that’s true.”

“This is too serious for sarcasm, Chatham.”

“Pomposity invites sarcasm.”

“Okay. Look, modern transport reduces a planet to nothing, distancewise. Your contacts are broader than his, better established, legitimate across the lanes, and have strong financial support. With his illegal connections, the two of you are logical partners in an enterprise capable of pulling astronomical profits.”

“I’d heard rumors that it was that old reprobate who’d been transshipping the stuff, but there was no way to confirm any of them. He covers himself too well. Or did, apparently. You’re wrong on several counts.