Schloss or fortress, Virtue decided as she and Father William stood at the massive front door, it was one hell of a structure. In a less technical age its bulk alone could have withstood an army; now its incredibly sophisticated defense systems could repel attacks from above, below, or straight ahead.

Finally the huge portal swung open with a slight humming noise, revealing the Swagman, who stood in the entry foyer, hands on hips, staring at Virtue with an amused curiosity.

Whatever it was she had expected in a bandit chief, he wasn’t it. His uncallused white fingers had been meticulously manicured; his blond hair had been painstakingly styled in the latest Deluros fashion; his face was unmarked and clean-shaven; and his clothing, from the elegant velvet tunic to the sleek lizardskin half boots, seemed to anticipate the coming fashion among the Democracy’s trendsetters, rather than echoing the current one.

“Ah!” he said with a smile of greeting. “The enigmatic Virtue MacKenzie, I presume?”

“And you’re the Swagman?” replied Virtue.

“The one and only,” he answered. “Good evening, Father William. How’s the salvation business?”

“The same as always,” replied the preacher. “Satan is a full-time opponent.”

“I understand that you had him down for the count this afternoon,” said the Swagman in his unmistakable accent. “But where are my manners? Do come in.”

They followed him down a short corridor as the door swung shut behind them, and from there into a massive great hall, complete with a floor-to-ceiling fireplace wall, a number of rugs that had been hand-made on Boriga II and Kalamakii, a set of four exquisitely crafted chairs from far Antares, and numerous hardwood shelving units that housed art treasures from literally hundreds of worlds across the galaxy.

“What do you think of my trinkets?” asked the Swagman as Virtue stopped to admire a crystal globe of Bokar from the incredibly ancient days when the Bokarites were a seafaring race rather than a planet of starfaring merchants.

“They’re breathtaking!” she said, turning her attention to a praque, the fabled torture-stick of Sabelius III.

“That’s a more accurate statement than you might imagine,” said Father William sternly. “A lot of good men gave their last breaths accumulating this ill-gotten wealth for the Swagman.”

“Come, come, now,” said the bandit with a chuckle. “You know there’s no paper on me, Father William.”

“There’s a pile of it as high as the ceiling,” replied the preacher.

“But not for murder,” the Swagman pointed out. “And you leave the punishment of lesser crimes to lesser servants of the Lord.”

“True,” admitted Father William. “But it’s immoral to flaunt your bloodstained treasures like this.”