“For openers, much as I respect Rose’s business sense and his ability to handle complex transactions across parsecs with a maximum of secrecy, I personally hate his guts. That would put a crimp in any relationship of needs founded on complete trust. Second, I’m doing quite well, thank you, trading in legitimate goods. Too well to risk jeopardizing everything for a single line. However profitable. And don’t think I don’t envy him the margin of that trade. I do. Not that I’m averse to handling something a little off-grain, understand. I’m no saint. A respectable stimulant like Kepong, now. The authorities frown on it, but it is not, strictly speaking, under edict.”

“According to whose lawyers,” said Kitten.

“Yes, a point of contention. But while the powers that be debate, I see no harm in making hay while the sun shines, as the saying goes. Wonder what ‘hay’ is? But bloodhype? That’s a little too filthy. A decent gun will kill a man honestly. That stuff eats as it kills. The thing that finally dies isn’t a man anymore. Or whatever race. No, no. Absolutely not.”

“What about your son?” broke in Philip. He’d finally turned away from a close inspection of the window view.

Kingsley swiveled in surprise. “Russell? My son, I fear, is not interested in anything remotely indicative of work. He is averse to business in all its manifestations, excepting his allowance.” The merchant sighed. “A deficiency which I fear I encourage overmuch.”

“Among other things,” Kitten said flatly.

“You’ve met him then, Kitten?”

“Briefly. Twice.”

“I’m not surprised.” The trader helped himself to a flagon of imported honey-pollen brandy from Calm Nursery. A second human servant had arrived with a rolling cart of drinkables. Clearly, people were still regarded as a status symbol on Repler. Porsupah opted for a tall bottle of Bitterind, a common mixer, and poured himself a straight glass.

“Yes, Russell would hardly miss a new arrival arranged like yourself, Kitten.” The trader chuckled. “The lad’s a terror with the ladies, I’m told.”

“Chatham,” began Kitten, “you don’t know the half of it. Matter of fact—”

Mal interrupted hastily. “It’s not that I don’t believe you, Chatham . . .”

Porsupah put a restraining paw on Kitten’s arm, felt the tensed muscles relax. “Softly treading now, smooth-skin. The other is clearly not present. It is bad manners to think of killing the son of one’s host. Especially while drinking with him.”

“Relax, Pors. Obviously if he was around the old boy would have presented him. As for manners, I’m not going to consult a book of etiquette the next time I meet that chap. I’ll be very polite at his funeral.”

“Sssss! Listen, for a change.”

“I’ve as much as given my word on this drug thing,” said Kingsley amiably. “However, if you like, I’ll provide the strongest proof. I will post a bond with an intermediary to the effect that, should I ever be implicated of trafficing bloodhype or any of the commonly fatal drugs, you will receive thrice your payment for this last shipment—from my estate, if need be.”