The protectee pauses. 「You think the Transit System will go down?」

Saladin beams pride at his chosen contact’s quickness, or seems to through the digital translation of Apollo’s stolen vizor. 「Or at least flow much less freely, yes. Sabotage is easy. But you’re used to working around the traceable. You have your own transport, slow, clumsy, filthy, but you have it. We want that flowing, moving goods where we can’t, and more.」

「More?」

「When the need arises, we’ll pay you to move food and supplies into a specific place or, more important, to move people out.」

「You want to use us as a rescue service?」

Saladin cocks his head. 「Why not? You’re equipped for human trafficking. In six months we may have land vehicles enough to do it ourselves, but you could do it tomorrow.」

「Our touch isn’t exactly gentle.」

「Needs must. You can rob them some, extort them some, recruit them if you can, but hand them over to us safe and uninjured and we’ll pay you well for every head. Plus, do this well, and we’ll also help take out any black-market rivals that crop up to interfere with your profits. We’ll even give you a list of other groups in other territories that have made the same deal with us, so you can keep out of one another’s way.」

The scent of power and profit cuts through fear. 「A global underground?」

Saladin nods. 「For a global war.」

I stiffen; something was off about that nod. I know my Saladin so well by sound. This is a new sound, not fabric, not skin, but the creaking friction of Griffincloth rubbing against the tooled leather collar that now rounds his neck. I hate that collar. It is a lovely object—I’ll admit that—gilded scrollwork tooled into Madame’s favorite shade of burgundy, an object much too lovely for the wild thing he is, but that isn’t why I hate it. I can’t hate it for being wrong either, since it is in all ways right, the culmination of my Saladin’s renunciation of all things human. Madame brought my feral cynic off the streets and into the salon which is the center of truth and power, and where, after thirteen years, we can at last lie safe in one another’s arms. But I still hate it. I hate the new callus its rubbing has traced across his neck, and how its leather odor mixes with the sweat upon his skin. It’s changed him. And it isn’t mine.

「What assurance can you give that we’ll really be protected?」

Saladin smiles. 「The assurance the gardener gives the insect; we will try not to step on you so long as you destroy more weeds than crops.」

「Not very comforting.」