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surface of the door centered around the end of the gun. The gleam formed a circle a foot in diameter, which then became a gaping, black hole in the eighteen-inch-thick door. The sound of a body hitting the floor reached them through the hole.
    “Nobody give them any trouble!” the sheriff cried out.
    “The jailer? That was unfortunate,” Donnelly said, waving the barrel of his microneedle gun from side to side in a menacing fashion. “That’s Sasha, isn’t it? How is he?” he asked one of his men. He must’ve been talking about their colleague who’d been shot.
    “He’s dead,” someone replied.
    “I’ll have to file a report with the Pension Bureau. You’ll all be witnesses.”
    There was a low grumble of assent.
    “The Administrative Bureau will notify you eventually about what actions will be taken. Now, turn that Noble over to us.”
    The sheriff made a toss of his chin, and a deputy who’d been beside the mayor went over to the iron door with a fresh hole in it, and grabbed the key ring that hung on the wall. Using one of the keys to open the iron door, he went inside. There was presently the sound of another door being unlocked, followed by the creak of hinges, and then the pudgy Baron Macula appeared.
    “Who the hell are you guys?” he asked, furrowing his furry brow.
    Donnelly explained the situation.
    “Hmph! If humans are running the world, it doesn’t matter to me much where I go. Well, I suppose it’s better than staying in this hick village so tourists can gawk at me. Lead on!”
    He peered about the room, his eyes halting on a battered leather satchel resting beside a desk. The same bag he’d brought out of the sleep capsule with him, it was a favorite of his. It hardly seemed to suit a Nobleman, though.
    “Fetch me that,” he commanded haughtily, and one of Donnelly’s men grabbed the satchel. He then turned to the mayor and asked, “Did you take a look inside it?”
    The mayor shook his head. “Despite how worn it is, we simply couldn’t get it open.”
    A daunting smile formed on his round face. “You’re a lucky bastard. Maybe you’ve got a guardian angel,” he spat, his words chilling the mayor before the grinning Nobleman left the sheriff’s office.
    A number of Donnelly’s men hastened out after him, while one who seemed to be his second in command looked up at the sky and whispered to Donnelly, “We were a little late getting here. By the time we hit the Valley of the Salamander, the sun’ll be going down.”
    “Then we’ll just have to camp out. He’s an odd little Noble, but he’s definitely a real treasure. We’ve gotta get him to the Capital as fast as we can.”
    It was nearly noon then, and the air was losing its determined clarity.
    —
    III
    —
    The party of fourteen riders arrived at the Valley of the Salamander with only an hour to spare before evening paid its call. The westward faces of the rocks were stained rosy pink by the light. The patrolmen halted their steeds at the entrance to the valley, for the figure of a lone horse and rider had appeared in the languid light.
    The men exchanged glances. The figure also wore a gray uniform.
    He was a middle-aged man astride a cyborg horse. As befit the Frontier, he had an expression as hard and foreboding as stone. The middle-aged man halted his steed just ten feet from the patrol. The silence that hung between the two sides was short.
    “Who are you?” Donnelly finally asked.
    “A colleague of yours—of all of you, in fact,” the man in the uniform said with a smile. There was a deep scar on his left cheek. A bullet wound. Against his tanned face, the white glare of his teeth burned into Donnelly’s eyes.
    “Posing as an official is a serious offense, but you probably knew that, didn’t you?”
    Behind Donnelly, the air stirred with slight signs of movement. His men had drawn their guns in unison. Some were single-shot pistols. Others were rivet guns or stake guns. Not counting Donnelly, that made