The Lawless Man With A Thousand Chains

002 Classifieds

Periander didn't move from the road. He wasn't finished.

"There's a second task, and it's the reason I came to this gate instead of sending a letter."

Damon waited.

"They buried a man at the South Pole. Deeper than they ever buried you, behind four governments' worth of locks, and they've spent thirty years pretending he was never born."

"He got out."

"Three weeks ago."

The old man's voice dropped into a register Damon had heard twice in eight years.

"His name is Kronos. He's in Dorne City, and he's building something."

Nobody had ever walked out of the South Pole facility. An hour ago, Damon had become the first man to walk out of the North.

"What is he building?"

"I don't know. That's why I'm sending you instead of asking somebody."

Periander looked east, down the frozen road, at nothing.

"Whatever it is, it isn't small and it won't be quick. By the time anybody else can see it, it'll be finished and there'll be nothing left to do about it."

"How bad."

"Four governments held that man underground for thirty years. They didn't do that because he was a nuisance. Find it first, then deal with him."

"Yes, Master."

The old man put a hand on Damon's shoulder for a second, which was as far as he had ever gone with anyone.

"Send word when he's dead. Not before."

The flight south took most of the day.

Damon slept through all of it. After eight years in Tartarus, sleeping on a plane was a luxury.

He landed in Dorne City at dusk with everything he owned in the cargo hold.

Eight years ago this city had watched a sixteen-year-old go down for seven deaths. It stopped talking about him in nine days.

It had put up forty new towers since then. Damon looked at them through the terminal glass for about a second and a half.

Nobody down there knew he was back.

The carousel turned for twenty minutes. Bags came out, people took them, and then there were no more bags.

Damon stood there until the belt went still.

An airline agent came over with a clipboard and an apology already on her face.

"Sir, your bag never made the connection. It's somewhere between here and Anchorage right now, and I have to be honest with you, we don't always get these back."

"Say that again."

"It's lost. I'm very sorry."

"Who do I talk to."

"There's a claim form, and a phone number that gets answered in Manila. I'd give it a month before you expect to hear anything at all."

Damon stood in the terminal and counted what he had just lost.

The deeds to a house in every city worth owning. A black card with no limit on it.

A token worth three hundred thousand soldiers.

And a sealed envelope with the name of the family he had crossed the world to marry into.

He had been saving it for the plane, and he had slept through the flight. He had never opened it.

He was standing in a city he didn't know. His orders were to marry a woman whose name had just flown to Alaska without him.

Damon raised his eyes to the ceiling. Somewhere on a frozen road, he was fairly sure, an old man was enjoying this.

Twenty minutes ago he had owned a house in every city worth owning. He now had the coat he stood in and a flip phone with eleven dollars of credit on it.

First problem. Money.

Somebody had left a newspaper on a bench by the taxi stand. Damon picked it up and turned to the classifieds.

One ad stopped him.

Married woman, mid-20s. Husband unable to have children. Seeking healthy, discreet partner to help start a family. Excellent compensation. Absolute discretion. No questions.

He read it twice, then dialed the number.

"Hello?"

A woman's voice, warm, with something teasing under it.

"You saw the ad?"

"I did, and I can help you."

"Perfect. The Rameses Lounge, downtown, half an hour. I'll be in a red dress by the front windows."

The Rameses sat on a quiet side street. Dark wood, low amber light, three musicians playing something slow in the corner.

Damon read the room once from the doorway.

Red dress. Front window. One leg crossed over the other and a glass of wine she hadn't touched.

She had a face that belonged on money. Two men at the bar had been working up to her for an hour without getting out of their seats.

She was younger than the ad had suggested, and her clothes had been made for her instead of bought.

Damon didn't spend long wondering about it. He needed cash and he had nothing left worth protecting.

A waiter moved to intercept him at the bar, got a look at his face, and decided against it.

He crossed the lounge and stopped at her table.

"Damon Huntley. I'm here about the ad."

The woman looked up from her phone. Her eyes were green, and they were narrowing fast.

"I beg your pardon?"

Damon pulled out the chair and sat down without being asked.

"The classified. You need a healthy, discreet man to get you pregnant."

He folded his hands on the table.

"I'm here. Let's get started."