Must Love Hellhounds

you just got back from a job. Why would Trovis send you out again?”
    “After the last one, I’d hoped we’d rest longer,” Batanya said. “Getting out of that hotel was no fun, especially carrying a client who would burn up in sunlight. Well, we must go, Geit. Have a drink on us.” After hastily finishing their baskets of food (a Britlingen never passes up a chance to eat), she paid the bar tab and looked away as Clovache gave Geit a quick kiss on the cheek. The two women followed the child back up the winding streets to the gate of the Collective. The guards on duty recognized them and nodded to indicate they could reenter without the usual search.
    The Hall of Contracts was conveniently close to the witches’ and mechs’ wing, since witchcraft (enhanced by science) provided the transportation to at least fifty percent of the missions. In fact, Batanya couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone overland to a job.
    The hall itself didn’t look important. It was a just a large room, one wall of which was decorated with some indifferent paintings. This was called the Wall of Shame; the art hung there depicted employees of the Collective who had screwed up in some notable way. (The Britlingen instruction model was heavily weighted toward learning by the mistakes of one’s predecessors.) Aside from the paintings and some benches, there was only a table with a few chairs, a large lightsource, and some writing instruments.
    Trovis was leaning back in one of the wooden chairs, his feet propped on the table. This was inappropriate behavior for the Hall of Contracts, for these contracts were the lifeblood of the Collective. Signing each contract was an important moment. Not only was this the main source of income for the Collective, but each contract might bring about the death of the Britlingens charged with fulfilling it.
    “His promotion’s gone to his head,” Clovache muttered. “He wouldn’t have dared behave so a halfyear ago.”
    The child scampered off once he’d gotten his tip, and Batanya and Clovache advanced to the table. One of the senior commanders, Flechette, entered from a side door, and since she had a staff in her hands, she used it to sweep Trovis’s legs to the side, neatly knocking him out of his chair.
    “Respect for the room,” she said harshly, as Trovis scrambled to right himself. The two bodyguards kept their faces absolutely blank, which took a lot of effort. Flechette paid no attention to the lower-ranked Trovis’s shock and anger, but threw herself into one of the chairs. Despite Flechette’s apparent age—she looked at least sixty, which few Britlingens attained—she moved like a much younger woman. “You’ve summoned us,” Flechette said. “What have you, Sergeant?”
    Trovis collected himself. If he’d had a weapon, perhaps he would have drawn on his superior, but he’d come to the hall unarmed—an unusual circumstance for a Britlingen, even as poor a Britlingen as Trovis. “This customer has come in person,” he said, biting off his words. He gestured toward a man standing at the rear of the hall, apparently examining one of the paintings—the one of Johanson the Fool, Batanya noted. She was trying to avoid meeting Trovis’s eyes.
    “What happened to this fellow?” asked a light voice, and the stranger turned to look at them inquiringly. He was a couple of inches taller than Batanya, who was of medium height for a woman. The stranger was lightly built, and fair, and wearing clothes that signaled he was from the city-state of Pardua, which lay about two hours’ drive from Spauling. Batanya had visited there on business several times. In Pardua, poor vision was corrected by brilliantly colored and decorated goggles, and the stranger wore a striking pair: a shrieking blue, spotted with artificial purple stones. They made him look remarkably silly.
    Since no one else spoke, Batanya said, “Johanson the Fool walked his client into an ambush. When it was over, he and his client were as full of darts as a pincushion has pins.”
    “I don’t know what a pincushion is, but I take your meaning,” the stranger said. He cast another look at the grisly picture. “I am here to hire two Britlingens as bodyguards. I don’t want to end up like Johanson’s client.” He shuddered elaborately.
    “Very well,” said Flechette. “You understand, clients don’t actually show up at the Collective very often. Usually the contract is negotiated on the