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had in Solcintra.
    As in Solcintra, too, the gambling cousin
lived in the city, gambling still; his stakes being no higher than
a planet's survival. That story she had only in pieces, how Boss
Conrad had come from nowhere and, one by one, toppled the most
abusive of the Bosses, turning the patchwork territories into a
more congenial whole, using talk and gun and explosives as
required, and only as much of any as was needed. Thus he'd become
legend before she'd arrived as a 'comer.
    Legends. As a gambler in Solcintra he had
been quiet, even cordial in her cab the time or two he'd traveled
alone in it; and when he traveled with a companion in the late
evenings as he had from time to time, he had been nothing but
exacting in his attentions -- to the companion.
    Her cup hand flat on the table, Vertu
sighed, acknowledging the lack of Ring on her finger. The Boss --
Boss Conrad, who had been Pat Rin yos'Phelium, Clan Korval -- he,
of course, wore the Ring wrong-fingered, while his ''little
brother'' wore another, properly. She no longer wore a Ring, nor
wanted one in this place where having even such a modest Ring as
Wylan possessed might leave one throttled and motionless of a
night-time sidestreet.
    Vertu shook those thoughts away, and
deliberately looked about the room. She recognized some of the
reggers, was rewarded with nods and finger waves by them, and
waited patiently for her soup. The clock chimed a quarter -- and as
if that was a signal, folk around the room began to rustle
themselves about, to rise and start donning coats, or to hurry-sip
the dregs of their cups, or some to wrap what was left of their
lunch into bags or napkins to take with.
    It was, she reckoned, not quite closing
time, but -- oh. Several of the nearby bars opened for day business
soon, and on a day such as this some of the reggers would be
trading one seat for another about now.
    Snow squalled into the room as four patrons
left together, the small outer welcome way doing nothing to dim the
ferocity. Vertu shivered involuntarily. She had been hoping for
moderation, but if anything, the weather had gotten worse in the
short time she'd been sipping her tea.
    Ah, and the door had not only been open to
let some out, but to let The Hooper in. He all but fell into his no
doubt warm just-vacated regular spot, his hat uncharacteristically
flung to the table top as he mopped snow off his brow and face.
    Vertu watched him as other patrons filed
out, until finally it was just the two of them, the sounds of the
wind outside and the clatter of the unseen kitchen work. He was
visibly more comfortable now, though she saw a couple of fleeting
half-suppressed reaches toward his vest, but not the full-fledged
search she'd seen him do at other times, when clearly agitated.
Merely a trifle out of sorts then . . .
    '''toot?''
    Granita's voice was muffled as she peered at
the room from behind the back counter, and she repeated herself,
louder.
    '''toot? I got your cup here if --''
    The Hooper beat his hat against his knee and
pulled it on, only then admitting that he'd heard her.
    ''Guess so, if's time.''
    ''Extra few minutes ain't a problem, you
know. Girl here's got about the last of the food though, less you
want some biscuits. Fact, I'll bring you both some, on me, 'cause
they won't wait so good for tomorrow.''
    The soup came, a bowl for her, delivered
with a nod and three cheese biscuits, while a hot cup of the same
and three more biscuits went to The Hooper, who had leaned his
chair back against the wall while he ate, his foot twitching time
to a tune only he could hear.
    Granita might have seen his nerves, because
she paused, waving her hands toward the door.
    ''A little too long a walk down to the
Stadium today, or they run out of lights already?''
    The Hooper shook his head, took a sudden
interest in one of his biscuits, stuffing it into his mouth all at
once while he moved his hand as if he explained something the whole
time he was chewing.
    ''Got lights, but not