It made a lot more sense from the Swagman’s point of view. What nobody understood about him, not Orpheus, not even Father William or Virtue MacKenzie, was that money was just a tool, a means to an end—and that end was his collection of alien artwork. He kept his own counsel about Santiago not out of any loyalty or friendship for him, but simply because Santiago alive and free was plunderable, if he could just come up with a method, whereas Santiago captured and incarcerated was the property of the Democracy, as were all his possessions.

The third alternative was Santiago dead, and that was what he had come to Safe Harbor to discuss.

He sat in the tavern, sipping an iced mixture of exotic liqueurs from Antares and Ranchero, a small alien puzzle-game in his hand. He manipulated the oddly shaped pieces with a sureness that came from long hours of practice, looking up every now and then to admire Moonripple’s face and figure—what he could distinguish of them beneath her unkempt hair and the ragged clothing.

Finally he tired of the puzzle, put it back in the pocket of his elegantly tailored satin tunic, pulled out a small, transparent cube from another pocket, and spent the next few minutes admiring the tiny blue-and-white beetlelike insect, crusted with jewels, that resided there.

He had just put it away when Cain and Father William entered the tavern and approached him.

“Good afternoon, Sebastian,” said the Swagman with a friendly smile. “I see you got my message.”

Cain sat down opposite him. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“In a moment,” said the Swagman, holding up his hand. “First I have a gift for your chauffeur.”

“I assume you’re referring to me,” said Father William, amused.

“That I am. Moonripple!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Father William’s present, if you please.”

She went into the kitchen and emerged a moment later carrying an enormous tray, which contained a large roasted waterfowl in a cream sauce. It was surrounded by dumplings and potatoes.

“Where shall I put it, sir?” asked Moonripple.

“As far from this table as possible.” He smiled apologetically at Father William, who was eyeing the waterfowl greedily. “I’d like to speak to my partner privately. This will give you something to do with your mouth.”

“I’m not even going to take offense at that remark, given the magnitude of this thoroughly Christian gesture,” said Father William, rubbing his hands together and walking over to the table where Moonripple had placed the tray. He signaled to the girl. “I think I’m going to need a pitcher of beer to wash this down, my child.” She began to protest, but he held up a finger for silence. “I know what we discussed last night, but God understands that the flesh is weak. I’ll begin my diet next Monday.”

“For sure this time?”

“Unless Providence intervenes.”