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th' Laird's waitin'. An' th' wee gran lady, she's pissed!
    "She gets right i' Th' Good Laird's face, an shouts, 'How c'd y', Laird! Th' one time Ah aski't frae help—an ye're nae there.' "
    The com buzzed. The guvnor answered.
    "Alex. F'r you. From your hotel."
    "B'dam'," Alex swore. But he rose. "Hold m'point. 'Tis nae a good one, nae a long one, but be holdin't it anyway."
    He went behind the bar. He recognized the face onscreen—one of the com operators at the hotel he stayed at when he came to the city.
    "This is wee Alex," he said.
    The operator was puzzled. "Laird Kilgour, this message wa' bounced frae y'r castle. A text transmission. But it seems a bit garbled."
    "Gie it me, man. P'raps the twa ae us can decipher it."
    The operator tapped keys. Across the centerscreen scrolled: XRME TRACD BYDG RRDG , and on for a full page.
    Alex's face blanked.
    "I'm sorry, Laird. But thae's all thae were."
    "A garble, Ah ken. Ah'll be direct back ae th' hotel. Hae a call frae there." He forced a smile and cut the link. "Damned storm! Lost m'connection."
    "They'll try again."
    "Aye. That they shall," Alex agreed. "Tell 'em't' hold. Ah'm ta the recycler. Leith needs th' water. An' we'll be needin't another all round."
    The smile fixed on his lips, Alex meandered toward the lavatory. His eyes skipped around the few people in the tavern. No. All known—unless this was a long-range setup. He thought to add an artistic, drunken stagger as he went into the bathroom.
    Then he was moving. Foot braced on the washstand—it would hold his weight. Good. He pushed at the high, seemingly barred window. What looked to be rusted hinges swung smoothly open and the bars fell away. Kilgour wriggled headfirst onto the narrow ledge above the alley outside. He chose his pubs—or modified them—for more than cheery companionship, complaisant barmaids, and high-alk service.
    He lay motionless for a moment. The ice-needled wind, the driven snow, and the below-zero cold did not exist in his mind. He was looking for movement. Nothing. Most of the message had, indeed, been a garble. Intentionally so, intended to bury the real message. The operative code groups were the second and third. They were old Mantis signals, and decoded as:
    MISSIONBLOWN . EXTRACTTORVIMMEDIATELY .
    Which posed some very interesting questions. Such as—Kilgour was out of the military. He certainly had no links with the Empire or with the supersecret Mantis Section since his hasty retirement after the assassination.
    So: Who was trying to contact him?
    Second: Why were they using a common, general code? One that was part of a standard SOI, had been around for many years, and almost certainly had been compromised?
    Was Mantis looking for him? Did he want to be found?
    Kilgour swore at himself. He was getting sloppy and careless in his declining years. For the past several days he had been feeling that skin-crawl between his shoulder blades that he should have listened to: You are being watched. You are being followed. There are beings about with bad intentions.
    But nae, lad. Y'were bein't th' city cock ae th' walk. Doon frae thae aird mors an' coirs, thinkin't th' eyes on ye were naught but thae lassies admirin't ae man ae means.
    Enough, Kilgour.
    Y'r mither said years gone y'r nae better'n ae purblind ox. Noo, try't' find y'r way out off th' killin't floor.
    He had a second for a final mourn. Nae m'friends'll nae hear the last line:
    "An' th' Laird looki't ae her, an' he's sore puzzled. 'Gran, how can y' say Ah dinnae provide? Ah giv't ae car, ae boat, an ae gravlighter!' "
    With a silent chuckle he slid down the alley to the High Street. He held close to the high gray wall next to him for a few meters, then stepped out suddenly, as if coming from a doorway—a man intent on late business, with nothing else on his mind but his destination and how clottin' miserable the weather was.
    Movement. From the shadows across the street.
    The first question was: Who was after him?
    Kilgour