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getting off Lachrymae Christi. He badgered the comm center staff for details on the ship and its crew, but all they had was the captain’s name, Joy In The Lord Rottsteiner, and the name of the ship, Moab’s Washpot.
    Owen gave the comm officer a hard look. “Moab’s Washpot? What the hell kind of name is that for a starship?”
    “Is old Church name,” said Vaughn, getting the comm officer off the hook. He or she was still hanging around the comm center, despite increasingly unsubtle suggestions that she or he must be needed somewhere else. “Captain sound like hard-core old Church too. Top-grade fanatic and major pain in ass for all other sen tients, and any other living thing not get out of way fast enough. Thinks hangings are too lenient, and approves of floggings. Twice a week, around at his place.”
    “I know the kind,” said Owen. “I thought Saint Bea had rooted most of his kind out of her reformed Church. And what’s he doing, carrying messages from Parliament, in a Church ship?”
    “Why you asking me?” demanded Vaughn, looking up from inspecting the contents of a trash basket. “I look like mind reader? I not esper! Spit on esper, and other things too! I is Imperial wizard, third dan, seven subpersonalities, no waiting; unpleasant curses of an appalling nature a specialty. Run big-time protection racket, until dripping rot set in, and they send me here, to this dog’s bum of a world. I know secrets of universe, and those before this one. Bend over and I’ll cure your warts.”
    “I don’t have any warts,” said Owen.
    “You want some?”
     
    It was a long two and a half hours until Moab’s Washpot finally fought its way through the weather and touched down on the planet’s sole landing pad, just to one side of the Mission. Owen had tried everything up to and including open threats to get rid of Vaughn, but he or she was still there at Owen’s side as he stood waiting on the pad in the rain for the ship’s captain to make an appearance. During his long wait, Owen had made inquiries about the diminutive figure, and discovered that Vaughn had originally been a major league esper, until he or she had an epiphany in one of the back rooms of the House of Joy, and declared him- or herself a sorcerer. Basically, Vaughn had whatever powers she or he thought he or she had, because no one could convince Vaughn otherwise. Owen suggested the leprosy might have unhinged him, but apparently Vaughn had always been weird.
    Owen decided he didn’t want to think about that, and concentrated on the ship as it stood steaming in the pattering rain. It wasn’t much of a craft; barely the size of his late lamented Sunstrider II. Probably only had a nominal captain, and a few crew to do the scut work. Fast mover, though. Parliament wouldn’t have bothered commandeering a slow ship, not for a direct message. Owen smiled grimly. The message would have to be pretty damned important to divert one of Parliament’s couriers from his war duties, and Owen had a strong feeling he didn’t want to hear it. He couldn’t afford distractions now. All that mattered was getting off this planet, and going after Hazel.
    The ship’s airlock finally cycled open, amid a long hiss of equalizing pressures, and Captain Joy In The Lord Rottsteiner stepped out onto the landing pad. He glared disdainfully about him into the rain, and then glared even more disdainfully at Owen. He was almost seven feet tall, supernaturally thin, and looked like he’d sway on his feet in even the mildest of breezes. His long face was all bones and harsh planes, dominated by a beaked nose you could open cans with. His eyes were deep set and very dark, and his mouth was set in a grim line. He dressed all in drab black, unadorned save for the bright red sash that marked him as an official representative of Parliament. He looked Owen up and down and sniffed superciliously. Owen just knew they weren’t going to get along.
    The Captain strode forward to