Gillen gripped Han’s hair and yanked his head up so they were eye to eye. The sergeant had put on weight since Han had last seen him, and now his soiled uniform gaped between the buttons.

At least somebody’s eating well in Southbridge, Han thought. “Who’s been beating on you, Ragger?” Gillen demanded. “Wasn’t the Southies, was it?”

“Nah,” Han said, falling into his old habit of making a bad situation worse. “It was the Guard. I wouldn’t pay up.”

Everybody knew the bluejackets would leave you alone if you paid protection to the right person. And Mac Gillen was the right person.

Wham! Gillen brought his club down on Han’s head, and he fell to his knees, biting his tongue and seeing stars. He covered his head with his arms.

“Stop it!” someone shouted, Han didn’t see who. It must’ve been one of the other bluejackets. Or Matieu, come to his aid?

But Gillen was in a blood rage, totally focused on Han. “You did for those Southies, didn’t you, Alister? You and your friends.” Wham! This blow fell on Han’s forearm with bone-shattering force, and he screamed.

“Now you’re going to confess, and then you’re going to swing for it, and I’m going to be there to watch.”

“I said stop it!” The same voice, but right on top of them now. Startled, Han wiped blood from his eyes and looked up to see the club descending again, but it never connected. It flew sideways and Gillen yelped in pain. Han slumped back against the wall, eyes closed, head lolling sideways, at the same time gathering his feet under him.

“You hit him again and I’ll crack your skull,” his benefactor said. “Back off.”

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” Gillen bellowed. “I’m in command here. I’m the sergeant. You’re just a corporal.”

“Back off, Sergeant Gillen, sir,” the corporal said sardonically. “In the Queen’s Guard, sir, we don’t beat confessions out of prisoners on the street.”

“Naw,” one of the other bluejackets said, snorting with laughter. “We usually take ’em back to the guardhouse first.”

“Are you all right?” A soldier squatted next to Han, looking anxiously into his face. Peering through his lashes, Han realized to his surprise that his benefactor was young, no older than he was. The baby bluejacket’s face was pale with anger, and a lock of straight black hair fell down over his forehead.

Han blinked away a double image, and said nothing.

“You could’ve killed him,” the corporal said, looking up at Gillen, his face twisted in disgust. Huh, Han thought. This one must’ve missed his Guard orientation. He had starch, at least, to cross Gillen.