Credits talked. Blasters talked, too, but credits could whisper menacingly every bit as well.
“He’s hosting a private sabacc game in his suite on the thirtieth floor, sir.” The steward smiled valiantly and snapped his fingers at the hired help. “I’ll let him know you’re on the way up.”
The nattily attired Trandoshan rushed to his summons, looking like he’d picked the wrong outfit for a costume party.
“Take … the … er … President of Mandalore up to Master Fraig’s suite. All drinks on the house.”
So they didn’t quite grasp what being Mandalore meant. That was okay, because Fett didn’t, either. Mirta stifled laughter, but only Fett heard it. He switched to the helmet comlink with a blink.
“So you do have shares here, Ba’buir,” she said.
“Depending on how many guests Fraig’s got, I might need your help. Try not to kill them unless they ask for it.”
“Yessir, Mister President!”
“I liked you better without a sense of humor.”
He didn’t dislike Mirta. She’d tried to kill him, but that was a couple of months ago, and things had moved on. She worked hard and she wasn’t mired in fluffy trivia like fashion and holovids. She was strong in every sense. Beviinand Fett listened to Beviinsaid she was a real Mando’ad, a solid Mandalorian woman, because she could shoot straight, cook passably well, and had the shoulders of an armorsmith. Mando’ade valued the frontier kind of female, not decorative trophies who couldn’t even dig a defensive entrenchment.
She’s just like Sintas. Not as pretty, but she’s so much like her.
He hadn’t known Ailyn long enough to tell if Mirta took after her mother. Sin. I used to call her Sin, and she called me Bo. Did Mirta have a nickname? What had Sintas told Ailyn about him, and what had Ailyn told Mirta, to breed such hatred toward him?
Fett pulled his attention back to the present and followed the Trandoshan, aware of a full 360-degree vista around him, the dulled pain in his guts, and the fact that the closer he got to death, the more he thought about people who hadn’t been on his mind in a long, long time.
The turbolift doors opened onto a floor of the same thick purple carpet as the lobby, with small salons leading off it. Gaming tables rattled, clicked, and flashed with lives ruined and fortunes lost. Even through his helmet’s filter, he could smell the cloying amalgam of a hundred different perfumes distilled from plants facing extinction and parts of animals he didn’t even want to think about.
The Trandoshan led them along a corridor to an imposing set of gilded doors, then beat a lumbering retreat. The doors parted and Fett found himself visor-to-nose with a Hamadryas who didn’t seem to know how to blink. Behind him, a group of six splendidly dressed gamblersthree human males, two females, and a Weequaysat around a gilt-framed sabacc table with Fraig. There were two more heavies standing by the kitchen doors, probably on drinks patrol.
“Master Fett,” said Fraig, not looking up from the table. “How good to meet you.”
Fraig had a great hand. Fett could see it embedded in the table’s display as he loomed over him. It was a pity to interrupt. His guests were trying to concentrate on the sabacc game, but it was hard to give the cards full attention when there were two bounty hunters paying an unexpected visit. They all found reasons to go to the kitchen to top up their drinks while the Hamadryas watched silently, one hand now on his holster.
“Got a few questions for you,” Fett said. “About your predecessor.”
“Depends on what you want to know.” Fraig was as well spoken as his hair was coiffed. His gangster dad must have sent him to a very exclusive school. But he hadn’t been tutored in the subtle art of putting his hand under the table to check his hold-out blaster discreetly. Fett hoped he didn’t have to shoot the man before he got some answers. “I do hope you haven’t been sent by Cherit’s associates to express their displeasure.”
“I’m not going to kill you,” Fett said. “If I did that, then you wouldn’t be able to tell me things. And I want you to tell me things. I’m a curious man.”
The Hamadryas on the door already had his blaster visible on his belt, but Mirta had him covered. Fett could see from their HUD corn-link connection that she was watching him, the helmet sensors responding to her eye movements.
Fraig shrugged. “What exactly do you want me to tell you?”
“The Mandalorian who killed Cherit. I need to find him.”
Fraig had the kind of smile that spread like a crack in ice. “I’ve been asked some subtle questions, but that’s a good one. I assure you I didn’t order Cherit’s death.”