The mezzanine above the Graushorn’s central promenade emanated faint amber light. Spice vapor curled in zy spirals. Choral music hummed from unseen speakers, smooth but not exactly comforting. John stood near the edge and surveyed the lounge below. He saw dealers, nobles, and spice-traders. He felt the heat of the pce. It made his skin itch.

  That was when the masked man arrived.

  He stepped out from the shadows like a py’s final act, tall and unnervingly thin. His body was wrapped in a perfectly tailored gray coat with bck shoulder braids. He wore a white porcein with a long pointed jaw and sculpted frown. Two bck eyes stared out from within the slits.

  “Arbiter Drayton,” he said smoothly, voice filtered. “A pleasure to finally meet the famous envoy from Earth.”

  “Something I can help you with?”

  “You can help yourself. That would be best.” The man stepped closer, uncomfortably so. “There’s talk, you know. About friction. Between yourself…and Thariel.”

  John’s jaw flexed.

  The man went on, casual as fine wine. “Thariel is a treasured client on Graushorn. A longtime patron and business associate. He’s respected. He’s also protected.”

  John returned a humorless smile. “Funny. I heard he was a war criminal.”

  The man tapped the railing with a single gloved finger. “He’s a valued guest. And besides, find me someone in Graushorn who isn’t a war criminal and I’ll call you a liar.”

  The silence hung between them. The man tilted his head slightly, his mask caught the light just so. “You might be surprised,” he whispered, “how many of my officers would love the opportunity to make their mark by putting down a votile Arbiter. Imagine the fame. The newsfeeds would fuel the shadow endorsements. It would earn a tidy bonus from certain clients. It would make some powerful people very happy.”

  John’s lips curled. “I’d advise them to aim for the head. I don’t go down easy.”

  The man’s mask didn’t move, but the air around him darkened with an unspoken delight. “You understand the situation. That’s good.”

  He stepped away like a man exiting a stage, then tapped a small receiver on his sleeve. “Unit six. Table B-9. Suspect in motion.”

  John tensed.

  Across the chamber, shouts erupted near a card table rimmed with dancers and draped nobles. A man—young, shaking, half-drunk—bolted from the table, a handful of golden coins spilled from his coat. Within seconds, three armored guards closed in.

  They struck hard and fast with one blow to the back and another one to the ribs. The third fired a shot point-bnk into the thief’s chest. He colpsed in a tangle of limbs and smoke.

  John took two steps forward, burning. “You executed him?”

  The masked man turned his gaze back on John, calm as ever. “He stole from the house.”

  “That was a civilian. There should have been a trial.”

  “Dependency w means nothing here.” The man gestured with a loose flick of his hand. “Graushorn is neutral. Independent. We have our own code. Break it and there is the cost.”

  John looked again at the body. A trail of smoke curled from the floor.

  The mask faced him again. “I’d hate to see you misstep, Arbiter. If you do, Lockleed is everywhere. Always remember that.”

  The man vanished back into the mist and lights as if he’d never been there at all. John stood alone. A pulse ticked behind his eye. Sasha whispered in his ear. “Urgent message from Gactic Councilor Lord-ka Varnoc Tal. He wishes to speak with you.”