On the other side of the ridge, almost where it bottomed out at a swift little stream, the trees ended. From the edge of the woods, the posse peered out across the landing field into the charcoalers' camp at the center of a cleared circle five hundred yards across. Being slightly above it, they could look down and see most of the operation, arranged in concentric rings around a circle of six kilns at the center. The cooking operation was partly obscured by a thick column of white cloud billowing up, bending sharply as it cleared the treetops and passing almost over their heads as it headed upslope to crest the ridge and abruptly disappear.

Jayne studied the cloud, which looked as solid as an anvil. "Where the hell's it go?"

"It's mostly water vapor, not smoke," Royce said. "The wind pushes it up the hill, and at the top the air must change somehow – humidity, pressure, temperature, something – and it just gets absorbed." He said to Simon, "Hadn't been for that stunt you pulled, we'd a never seen it." He pointed at one of the kilns: a shirtless man stood inside, shoveling the black residue over the metal wall into a hopper; then to another, where men on ladders passed wood up to pack inside. "That's with just one or two cookers lit up at a time. They take all day to burn, then a day or three to cool enough to shovel out the charcoal. So they do em in relays."

The camp was larger than Simon had expected, and busier. He could hear the whock of axes and the high-pitched shriek of cutting bars, and the occasional grunting whine of some straining machine. Several wheeled mules like Serenity's pulled trailers across the cleared ground.

He heard a series of loud crunches and pops, and at the edge of the cleared space a third of the way around the circle, a tree swayed, twisted, and fell into the cleared zone. Men clambered over it, stripping the limbs, cutting them into half-meter lengths, and packing them into a mule's trailer.

While most of the cutting crew went to work on the waist-thick trunk, four men took the mule inward, to one of the walls of stacked logs partly encircling the ring of kilns, and added their load of green lumber at one end. At the other end, fifty meters distant, men removed seasoned logs and fed them to a splitter, restacking the pieces on another wall just a few steps away. Simon saw that the whole process of stacking and restacking would make a slow circle around the kilns, staying close for easy feeding of the fires.

"They all look like they know what they're doing," Royce observed. "See anybody looks like he's givin orders to a new hand?"

"How long you spose it takes to teach a man to stack wood?" Jayne retorted. He gave the scene another look and turned back into the woods a few steps, shrugging out of his pack. "I'm goin in. Sit tight while I nose around."

"Are you sure about this?" Simon said. "Going in alone?"

"A group comin in and hirin on would prick up ears," Jayne said as he set his pack on the ground and opened it, going through its contents. "Specially if they all start askin the same questions." He glanced up at Simon. "Got any money?"

The doctor lifted an eyebrow. "Out of all the people here, you think I'm the one most likely to be carrying a wad of cash on a trip into the woods?" After another moment under the merc's steady gaze, he said, "Credits or platinum?"

"Both. The store prolly takes credits, but I might need platinum for other stuff."

"Bribes, you mean." The doctor reached into a small side pocket.

"Somethin like that. Won't use it unless I have to. I wanna get in and outta there without leavin a trail."

"I could go," said Garrod. "Why you?"

"Cause I'm more the type they'd likely hire." At the young man's look he said, "I know you're good for a day's work. But loggin's a job for a strong back and big arms and not a lot of imagination. And I don't think you could convince em you're just there for a job. I got some practice playin dumb-but-useful." He tossed the comlink to Royce. "Don't wanna get caught with that, even if it don't work. Dell, gimme that skillet to hang off my pack. You need to keep a cold camp, and I need to look like I'm travelin alone."

Jayne unbuttoned his flannel shirt and slipped it off, leaving him bare-chested. Simon watched him pull a heavy short-sleeved shirt out of his pack: it seemed to have an overlapping arrangement of stiff plates sewn into it. "Is that body armor?"

"Callin it 'armor' is a bit of a stretch." The big merc held the garment out in front of him and shook it. "Won't stop a rifle bullet, or even a sharp knife with a grown man's weight behind it. But it works fine against shrapnel or pistol shots at a distance, and it sorta stiffens up when you hit it with an axe handle or a table leg."

Royce said, "So, it keeps you from taking much hurt from somebody who's not actually trying to hurt you much."

"Ayuh." He turned it in his hands, examining it. "Woulda saved me some stitches the day your sister made her fashion statement with that butcher knife."

The Hensons looked at one another. Simon quickly said, "Why haven't I seen it before? Don't you wear it on every job?"

"Nah. Doesn't breathe. You sweat in it even when it's cold. Just don't seem worth the bother, usually." He slipped the heavy garment over his head. "But I don't know what I'm walkin into down there. Mebbe I'll be back by sundown, with three hot meals in me an some good intel. Or I may be gone three days and come back with nothin. Or mebbe an hour from now I'll be runnin back up this hill with a pack of em on my heels, like dogs after a fox. Seems smart not to take chances I don't need to." He shrugged back into his flannel shirt and buttoned it up. While he tucked it in and bloused it out to conceal the garment underneath, he said to them, "You hear shots, keep a sharp eye, but don't come chargin down there. Let me handle it."

"Modesty was never your tall suit," said Simon.

"I just mean that somethin I can't get myself out of is prolly nothin you're gonna shoot your way into and back out again. We all get kilt or taken, that girl's gone for good, and Ames'll take the ship for breakin our contract." He stood and settled the pack. "'Twere best done quickly. The cutting crew gets here before I do, move a quarter around behind em. Royce, if that piece a feioo starts workin again, tell em what's goin on and try to set up a supply drop outta sight of the camp. Dang shin." He started downslope and left the trees, walking across the field.

Simon stared after him. "The man constantly surprises me."

"What?" Royce said, tapping the com against the heel of his hand. "Everything he said made sense. You're not used to that?"

"I'm getting used to it," he said. "But I don't think I can ever get used to hearing him quote Shakespeare."

-0-

Shepherd Book's hearing was scheduled in the Federal office building at the county seat, which was about twenty miles distant from Millersburg, the town nearest the Frye homestead. He insisted on presenting himself alone at the meeting, despite protests from most of the crew and no few of the Fryes. Though they thought he was being gallant, his motives were rather more pragmatic: he thought that there might be certain topics, and certain negotiations, that he wouldn't want them to hear. So the captain and Jim Frye delivered him to the Millersburg bus depot and agreed to wait at a nearby café with Cortex service, so that he might call for pickup on his way back.

When Book arrived for his appointment at the fancy glass-and-concrete structure with the Federal emblem over the wide doorway, he had expected to be directed to an upper-floor office of the sort favored by bureaucrats everywhere. Instead, he was met in the lobby by a rather nervous young female staffer and led through several ground-floor hallways toward the rear of the building. After several minutes of walking down an empty service corridor with piping running along the walls instead of murals of Core World progress, Book began to wonder if his 'interview' was going to be conducted in a storeroom on the loading dock. Then it occurred to him that this was a part of the building where someone could enter or leave unnoticed. His alert level rose a notch.

Book studied the young woman walking beside him. She was clearly uncomfortable as she led him down the narrowing hallways, but the old man in the clerical garb didn't seem to be the source of her unease. Book decided that it was something about their destination, rather than her companion, that was making her feel threatened.

Finally, they arrived at a door, and his guide gestured him through, shutting it behind him.

The space was small and looked more like a break room than a conference chamber. The single occupant who sat waiting at the small table was not one of the officials who had visited the ship. He was Asiatic, something of a rarity on New Home, which made the old preacher suspect the man was an offworlder. He was plainly dressed, but Book could see the quality of his garments, and knew that this man was rather higher up the bureaucratic food chain than the previous interviewers.

The official rose and bowed slightly over the table. "Good morning, Shepherd. Qing jin. Please forgive the venue for this meeting, but as you know, this is a minor business, and the more formal rooms are presently occupied with weightier affairs."

Book dipped his head. "Of course." Then why isn't some clerk conducting the hearing? And, minor it may be, but if it's still official business, why isn't there at least a recorder on the table? He noted that the man had not offered his name.

"Would you like some refreshment?" He gestured to a pitcher and two glasses at one end of the table within easy reach. "All I can offer is water, I'm afraid."

"Water will be fine, thank you," Book said, resolving to let not a drop of it pass his lips. He sat, and his host followed.

The official placed his elbows on the table and put his fingertips together. "To begin, let me tell you that we have already reinstated your pilot's license. Brought it current, rather, with no gap in certification, so that in the eyes of the law you were fully certified during the … unscheduled flight."

"That's very generous of you," the old man said. What are you expecting in return?

The man smiled. "Another formality, really. I've seen the tracking data, and I'm sure you would pass the required test. And we do strive to maintain good relations with the Church." He broke eye contact for an instant, then flicked back.

Book tried a little experiment. He turned his head to the side as he reached for the pitcher and a glass, but watched his companion closely with his peripheral vision. "I'm sure that my bishop will take note of your handling of this matter." The man's eyes flicked to his topknot and away. The old preacher turned back, glass in hand. "I'm equally sure he would like to know the name of such a Good Samaritan." He added, "To add it to the list in his nightly prayers."

The man pursed his lips. "Singh," he said, giving Book the third-commonest non-Western name in the 'Verse. "Bartolemew Singh. But I'm not a member of the Church, I'm afraid."

"No matter," Book said. "God has His eye on us all."

Singh paused, as if assessing that statement, then was all business again. "Well. As I said, your competence at the yoke is not in question. However, any craft's very presence in the sky above New Home presents a risk to others unless properly managed."

"I understand." Book dipped his chin again. "Clearly I've spent too much time on frontier worlds without any traffic to speak of. I hope no one was" He offered Singh the briefest of pauses "threatened by my little jaunt."

"No, no, though a few were … inconvenienced." The man gave Book a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "The case is essentially closed already. But you know how bureaucracies are. There are forms to be completed, and officials must assure their superiors that steps have been taken to prevent such a … misunderstanding from repeating. Your answers to a few questions should facilitate that."

The Shepherd nodded. "I'll help all I can, of course."

"Excellent." The interviewer folded his hands on the table. "First and foremost. What was your purpose in launching Serenity's number-two shuttle and taking it into orbit?"

Book noted that the man had not brought even a pad and pencil to the room. Was there a recording device on his person? If so, he had neglected to fulfill the legal requirement of informing his interviewee. "Nothing but a pleasure excursion, I'm afraid. You know that our ship is having some work done."

"Yes," the man across the table said. "Nothing serious, I hope. You didn't declare an emergency when you entered the system."

"No. Just an overhaul, but an extensive one."

Singh's eyelids lowered. "And of all the places you might have had such work performed, you chose New Home."

Aha. "One of our crew has family here. In fact, her family owns the repair shop. So this is a combination maintenance stop and shore leave. And Frye's repair has offered us generous terms on the work." Strayed a bit from the topic of traffic control, haven't we?

Singh nodded. "So, the shuttle flight. A pleasure trip, you said? Not a flight test?"

"No. One of the lads working on the ship expressed an interest. He'd never been above the atmospheric shield." Book smiled. "Can you imagine? He's been working on spaceships for half his life, and never really seen the stars."

The interviewer smiled thinly. "New Home is rather a provincial world, at present."

At present? New Home had been a quiet agrarian world since it had been terraformed; why would that ever change?

Singh went on, "So. A sightseeing trip." Another smile that didn't reach his eyes. "And what sights did you see?"

Book, careful not to let his suspicions show, said, "As I said, the stars. And Jove, which impressed him a bit." When this stirred no response he went on, "Then I turned the nose around and let him see his home from low orbit."

The man leaned forward, almost imperceptibly; if Book hadn't been looking for it he wouldn't have caught it. "Your flight path didn't cover many sights. A few small towns, a chain of lakes, and the big forest."

Book reflected that an inexperienced interrogator often revealed more with his questions than his subject did with his answers. I'd bet anything that the location he mentioned last is the one he's interested in. "Well, it's hard not to circle New Home without crossing the Wood. And he's lived in its shadow all his life. He was fascinated by the different perspective."

"I see." The man shifted. "Well. Clearly there was no criminal intent, and no harm done, aside from raising a few blood pressures. I would say this concludes the hearing. No fines or penalties will be levied…" He looked closely at the Shepherd. "Provided, of course, there are no further unauthorized excursions."

Book nodded. "Of course. We'll be certain to file a flight plan before taking the shuttle up again."

Singh's face smoothed into a mask, blank and unrevealing. His voice was smooth as well. "I'm sure such a request will be met with approval, provided no safety issues or risks to public commerce are involved."

At that moment, Shepherd Book knew that Serenity's shuttles would never be permitted to overfly the Woods again. He rose and offered his hand. "Thank you for your tolerance of an old man's folly. Please be assured that I won't be presenting any more challenges to law enforcement or the public safety."

On the steps outside the entrance, the old preacher paused, considering what to do next. He had not brought his handheld Cortex link with him; he sought out one of the public terminals scattered throughout the downtown district. He sent two messages: the first, to the café in Millersburg, advising Mal of his arrival time; the second, a coded one, to a brother in Southdown Abbey.

Then he initiated a name search, first in the listing of public servants, then in the general directory. According to official records, there were half a dozen Singhs on New Home, but none working for the Port Authority, and none named Bartolemew. He wondered what would happen if he called the Port Authority's offices, identified himself, and asked for Singh. If he was put through, it would tell Book that the man wasn't working alone, at least. But he decided not to raise his prospective quarry's level of suspicion just yet.

Singh had recognized Book's topknot. Taken alone, that could mean many things; combined with the fishing expedition into Book's affairs the man had conducted, and the clandestine nature of their meeting, it could only mean that there was shady business going on in the Woods, something big enough for involvement by at least one Federal official. Whether Singh was part of an investigation, a conspiracy, or a cover-up was still open to question.

On the bus back to Millersburg, the old man considered what resources he might have for pursuing the mystery. The Order had no permanent presence on New Home, and to his knowledge there were no investigations involving it – in truth, the little world didn't seem capable of hosting crimes large enough to warrant the organization's interest. But the Bishop had connections in some very unlikely places…

But the Bishop had given Book firm instructions about what he should and should not do while on his 'sabbatical,' and opening a probe, while not specifically forbidden, flew in the face of the very purpose of Book's leave from the Abbey.

At the bus stop in Millersburg, Mal and Mr. Frye were waiting in the Fryes' little farm truck. Mal said, "How'd it go? Are we off the hook?"

Another thing Book had pondered during the bus ride was how much to tell the captain. "Technically, yes," he said. "But practically…" He recounted the strange interview, leaving out any reference to the Order.

Mal grunted. "I'm no stranger to official inquiries, or unofficial ones either." His eyes flicked to Jim Frye, who was driving, and back to Book. And neither are you. "This don't smell right. What do you make of it?"

"Someone suspects that we didn't really come to New Home for repairs," Book said. "There's something going on in those woods that someone, possibly someone in the Federal government, doesn't want brought to light. At least, not yet."

Mister Frye grunted. "So, he didn't officially ground the shuttles. But if you never get permission to take off, it's the same thing."

The Shepherd nodded. "I don't expect any flight plan we file will be approved, even if it doesn't overfly the Wood. But we should try anyway, because he'll be looking for it. Letting Singh think he's tying us up in red tape may be a useful diversion, to keep him from guessing what we're really doing."

Mal said, "And what would that be?"

"Oh, I'm sure you'll think of something."

-0-

He's been down there three days now." Prone on belly and forearms, Dell Henson lowered the binoculars and passed them to Simon, lying beside him. "Don't you think he'd a found out something by now?"

"Maybe he has." Simon lifted the glasses to his eyes and, through a gap in the trees, peered down into the charcoalers' camp. "He's got a talent for getting information out of people. But this time he has to do it without giving away what he's looking for – or even that he's looking for anything besides a paycheck."

"Maybe he's just getting too fond of hot meals down there." Dell stretched. "You see him?"

"Not today." The four of them had watched from the woods as Jayne trekked down to the camp and let himself be directed to the general store. Twenty minutes later, he had come out and ambled toward the office. Ten minutes after that, he had come out with another man and headed for the center of the camp. They had watched him climb over the side of one of the kilns and begin shoveling out charcoal, a hot and dirty job that Simon suspected was the first one given to every new hire. Unlike the other men heaving shovelfuls of charcoal into the waiting hoppers, the big merc hadn't removed his shirt; Simon had wondered if he was now regretting wearing his 'body armor.' In the days since, he had gone from one job to the next until he had covered every activity in the camp – and talked to nearly everyone in it, Simon suspected. "Maybe he's up in the woods with a cutting crew."

Yesterday afternoon, one such crew had approached their camp, just as Jayne had predicted, and the posse had withdrawn into the woods to let them pass. But instead of moving down the crew's backtrail, as Jayne had instructed, the Henson brothers had insisted on staying put – to make them easier for their absent member to find, they said - and their father had gone along with them. Simon was sure Jayne had had a good reason for moving, but he hadn't shared it, and Simon saw no point in abandoning their present position alone. So they lay and watched the camp, with the sound of axes and cutting bars less than a hundred yards distant drifting through the trees.

They continued to take turns sharing the binoculars. Certain that Jayne was working somewhere out of view, and having studied the other workers so carefully that he could now recognize their faces, Simon spent most of his time watching the office and general store for strangers. Finding their quarry coming through the door of either building would simply be too easy, but Simon had little else to do.

A finger tapped his shoulder, and Simon passed the glasses over before he realized Garrod had spelled his younger brother. The man raised the glasses to his eyes. "Anything?"

"No." Without the binoculars, Simon had even less to do. He wondered again about River, if she was staying out of trouble. Why hadn't they brought a backup com?

"So," the elder brother said, "how long have you been with Kaylee's crew?"

"Almost a year," he said. "Does that seem like a long time to you?" Thinking of all the changes that had taken place since he first set foot on Serenity's ramp, and the breathtaking progress of his and Kaylee's courtship – at least to a member of the Twelve Families, whose betrothals generally began before puberty and ended in marriage no sooner than their early twenties.

"Seems like a long time for Kaylee to hang on to one fella," the elder Henson brother said. "Much less make plans for forever with." He lowered the glasses and regarded Simon keenly. "You must have a way with the ladies."

"No, actually." He shrugged uncomfortably. "I – don't have a way with anybody, really."

"Welp, she sees something in you." He turned back to the view and brought the glasses back up. With his eyes firmly in the optics, he said, "Matt and me, we're pretty tight. We did a lot of catching up this visit, and a big part of that talk was about Kaylee, and her post home since she headed out into the Black. So I know a few things Pa and Dell don't – maybe some things her ma and pa don't either."

"Oh?" It wasn't much of a reply, but anything more risked telling this man more than he knew.

"This fella Cobb's not really your captain. Is he?"

Simon quickly sorted facts and deductions in his mind, deciding what to say. "He's in the chain of command," he told Garrod. "He was acting captain when Ames made his offer."

"Hm. And when he's not acting like the captain? What's his job aboard ship?"

"He's a sort of expediter," Simon said. "He makes sure that our transactions go smoothly." You can't conduct trade without moving crates. And people are less likely to fall into a cheating mood when he's scowling at them with one hand on his knife.

"'Smoothly,' huh? I bet-"

"What the hell are you doin here?" Jayne growled. They looked up over their shoulders to see him standing behind them, hands on hips. "Why ain't you at the ruttin rendezvous?"

They stood, brushing at their clothes. Garrod said, "We thought we should stay put. Make it easier to find."

"Only for somebody wasn't lookin for ya in the first place. I just wasted half my lunch break, trampin around the spot where I told you to go. Instead I find you camped out so close to the cuttin crew, some shagua might stumble over ya just walkin off to take a piss."

Garrod colored. Simon thought it time to change the topic. "So you're going back? Have you learned anything?"

"Ayuh. Got two possibles. I talk to a fella on the other cutting crew tomorrow, maybe I can choose between em and be back tomorrow night."

"So he's been here?" Garrod asked sharply. "Is he down there now? Or maybe coming back?"

Jayne shook his head. "Later," he said. "I wanted to chew this over with ya before I went back, but now there's no time." He turned back toward the woods. "Meantime, you four move to where I told ya. Clean up the tracks you left here. Don't sweep em with a branch, that's ruttin obvious. Use a jacket or a pair a pants, and keep a light touch. You don't wanna smooth out the ground, just blur the tracks so they're hard to recognize and don't look fresh."

"What about-"

"Tomorrow." He headed off into the trees.

Garrod stared after him. "It's been twenty days now since he took her," he said. "I can't hardly fall asleep in my bedroll any more, thinkin about what he's doing to that little girl." He turned to Simon with eyes that were dark and dangerous. "Somethin needs to happen, and gorram quick."

-0-

After supper, Shepherd Book took a slow walk around the Frye homestead, examining the sheds and outbuildings, breathing in the smells from the barnyard and the machine shop as the evening air cooled, and schooling himself to patience. He headed to the ship and, after a brief but unrewarding check for messages on his Cortex link, began exercising in the hold. Without Jayne and Simon, his usual spotters and workout partners, the activity was quiet and rather lonesome, but it gave him a perfect opportunity to think.

But, lacking much evidence to work with, most of his thinking was of the circular sort, centered around the possible content of the reply to his message – provided, of course, that he even received one. Book and Brother Stern went back a ways, almost as far back as his association with Risa, and the man's present position in the Order had been offered by Bishop Sato on Book's recommendation. But the old preacher was sure that Stern would be rather less inclined than Risa to skirt the Bishop's injunctions, especially since the nature and content of Book's message made it clear he was looking for information regarding 'missionary' work. And there might be at least one other reason not to expect much help from him…

"Shepherd?" Wash called down from the top of the open stairway. "There's a call for you on the bridge."

He let go of the bars attached to the overhead grate from which he had been chinning himself and reached for a towel. "Who is it?"

"A friend from the Abbey, he says. But he looks about as monkish as Jayne, topknot or no topknot."

Stern. Replying in the clear? Not good. "The brethren come from all walks of life, much like our crew." He blotted his face and neck as he ascended the stairs. He could hear voices now, and the occasional tink of a tool. It seemed the Hensons had gone back to work after supper.

"So some of the monks are fugitives from justice?"

"Well, not just like," he said as he joined the pilot. "Though I'm fair certain it's not justice Simon and River are fleeing."

"Watch your step," Wash said as he gestured him up the gooseneck. "One of the floor plates is up."

Book stepped around the hole and glanced down. Rosh and Kaylee were back to back in a tight space full of mysterious machine-shapes, talking in low voices. He moved past and took the short flight of steps up to the bridge.

Jim Frye, hands in an open panel beside the door, said, "Give me just a minute, Shepherd, and I can clear out and give you some privacy."

"No need." Long-distance message traffic of all kinds had to pass through the beacon system, which was owned and controlled – and monitored - by the Alliance. The Order employed verbal codes, but they weren't very versatile – or subtle. If Stern had chosen audiovid for a reply instead of a Cortex message, he didn't intend to impart any confidential information.

The com terminal at Wash's station had been upgraded to a thirty-centimeter flatscreen, providing a color image of almost three-dimensional clarity: the head and shoulders of a burly man with a patch over his left eye that matched his gray clerical shirt. The man gave Book a wide smile that didn't reach his remaining eye. "Derrial. How good to see you, Brother. Not interrupting anything, am I?"

"Nothing of importance, compared to seeing you again," Book said, with a smile equally forced.

"I know we're not supposed to distract you, but you've been on our minds of late, and I couldn't resist calling. How are you enjoying your retirement?"

A rather pointed reminder, Book thought. "Oh, I'm not retired, really. I'll be back in God's time. Meanwhile, I'm out in the world, meeting folk and seeing things the brethren have never heard of back at the Abbey." Being as direct as he dared, he added, "I sometimes wish I weren't quite so alone out here, that I had someone among the brethren to share it all with."

The man nodded. "We're all eager to hear about your adventures, once you're back."

That was a clear enough answer: even if the Office had an interest in something out here, or brethren in the vicinity – a very unlikely possibility - it was presently none of Book's business. "Well, hopefully the stories won't have gone stale from the waiting."

"Oh, I know you, Brother," the man said, his false smile now somewhat faded. "I know your skill at telling stories. I'm sure the delay will only give you more opportunity to polish them."

Heart sinking, Derrial Book said. "Well. Thank you for the call, Brother. I know it can't be cheap. I should let you go now."

"The Bishop authorized the expense," Stern said. "He's glad to hear what you're up to as well. And … I truly felt a need to speak with you face-to-face. Some things, a Cortex message just isn't fit for."

Book nodded. "Agreed."

"Come back to us, Brother," Stern said. "Come back to us whole and sound, with your spirit refreshed and your dedication restored. We'll be waiting for you." The connection blanked.

Book drew a heavy breath and let it out.

Behind him, James said, "That man don't like you much."

"Brother Stern and I have known each other for many years. We used to be very close," the old man said. "I'm sure both of us pray every night that our friendship be restored. But the way back to each other is a closed door."

"How'd he lose the eye? Step on a rake in the garden?" Or is that the reason you can't be friends anymore? His eyes asked.

"No," Book said. "Something else." It's not a missing eye that stands between us. It's a missing report. He knows I once lied to my superiors to shelter an individual from investigation. It's a breach of trust, and a breaking of our vow as soldiers of the Faith, that he can forgive only after confession. But the secret I preserved with my perfidy is one that has to outlive me – outlive all of us - or there's no point to having ever kept it at all.

-0-

After dark, the posse's camp wasn't much to look at without a fire: just a cluster of rough deadfall-built lean-tos just inside the treeline, each large enough for a pack and open bedroll. A man might have walked past it unaware, unless he knew it was there.

"Hallo the camp," Came Jayne's low voice from the darkness of the trees.

Simon, on watch, replied quietly, "Here."

The others stirred and crawled out of their shelters as the big merc ghosted into their midst. He said, "We're outta here at first light."

"To where?" Dell asked. "Did you find him?"

"Well, if it ain't him, there's no leads to him here." He shrugged out of his pack and removed his bedroll. "Started out askin about the best times to come in lookin for work, which led to talk about men who come and go regular. That got me half a dozen possibles, men who was gone at the right times." He looked up at Simon. "Hope you ain't lookin for any a that money back."

"So you used it for bribes."

The big merc scoffed. "Gambled it away. Nothin makes a shagua all happy-chatty like winnin a big pot." He shifted, getting comfortable, and looked up through the trees at the faint line of Jove's inner ring. "Gettin their descriptions took awhile, but it went quicker when I remembered the knife." He toed off his shoes and settled in, arms behind his head. "Nearly everybody out in the woods carries a blade. And I spose any knife looks plenty big to a ten-year-old girl, if it's an inch from her eye or prickin the underside of her chin. But there's two fellas come to camp for a week or a month who carry ten-inch Bowies. I found out tonight that one of em comes out here for quick cash to settle gambling debts. The other…" He closed his eyes. "Nobody knows much about him, but he's been comin to the camps for years. Last time, he started with the advance crew for this camp and left just a month ago. He took a path comes in from the northwest and leads up into high country. We'll be on that trail an hour after sunrise, and then we'll see."