"Just arranging what you might call the port charges," Doss explained to Valentine. The Wolves now wore white canvas shirts and trousers, as well. While more tattered than the mates' uniforms, they still found it a pleasant change from sweat-stained buckskins. During the run south, Valentine had questioned the captain about the Lakes Flotilla and its habits, and had learned a little about how the sails were balanced. Valentine sponged information off anyone he met, his mind always ready to learn something new.

They pulled up to the main civic pier, a cracked concrete affair that sloped toward Lake Michigan at a twenty-degree angle. Valentine noticed that the captain pivoted as she brought the ship in so that its bow pointed out to the lake.

"The Kurians aren't too big on infrastructure repairs," Sil-vertongue commented as she tied the White Lightning to the dock. A few boats, none of which matched Captain Doss's in lines or upkeep, bobbed along the pier.

"Stepanicz, you've got the first anchor watch. Don't give me that look; after the deal, I'll take over for you. If we're not back in two hours, or if anything goes down, you raise sail.

There's a good wind for it tonight."

"Aye, aye, sir," she answered, drawing a sawed-off shotgun from the chart locker. She broke it open and inserted two loads of buckshot.

"And if our broad-shouldered young men would each grab one of the barrels lashed to the mast in the cabin-Silver, help Mr. Valentine with the knots, would you-we can be about the rest of this night's business."

Adolph's Bunker looked like a transplant from the Maginot Line. Whatever its original purpose, its builders had wanted it to last. They constructed it from heavy concrete, with narrow windows imitative of a castle's arrow slits. The bleached white of the concrete and the irregular rectangular slits gave it the countenance of a toothy skull. It lay on the lakesh.o.r.e, set well away from the dead and empty buildings frowning behind.

"Why is it called Adolph's Bunker?" Valentine asked as they approached the squat, brick- shaped building. The ten-gallon cask grew heavier with each step.

"The guy who runs it is a dictator, for starts," Captain Doss said.

Silvertongue turned and looked at the men, each laboring with a cask on his shoulder.

"There's a feeling about the place. It's a piece of sanity in an insane country. Or maybe a slightly different insanity within the insanity, take your pick. It's popular with the Quislings.

When we found out we had to meet you this week, we contacted a Chicago big shot, so we could kill two birds with one stone this trip."

"As long as our bags get delivered," Valentine said, trying not to breathe too hard under his awkward burden.

"This trade will make getting your bags through a lot easier," Doss said.

The building seemed hollow and dead as a shucked oyster. Valentine surmised that the clientele liked to do their drinking in dark and quiet, when he realized that music, too loud to be the product of any instrument, was filtering up from somewhere beneath the building.

He switched to hard ears and listened to the beat of ancient rock and roll and the gabble of voices echo up from a stairwell. Captain Doss turned to a set of narrow concrete steps that disappeared along the side of the building down into the earth. A k.n.o.bless metal door opened out onto a small landing. Doss squatted down and said something into the hole. It swung open.

As he descended the stairs, Valentine plastered a drunken smile across his face, trying to live up to his role of eager sailor. The captain entered, nodding to someone. Valentine looked at Harper, and the two Wolves exchanged shrugs. Sil-vertongue turned to the men. "Don't worry, they're going to frisk you for weapons and smokes. Just put your hands on the wall and read the sign."

A Grog roughly the size of a Volkswagen Beetle barred their way. Over its yard-wide shoulder Valentine watched the captain and then her mate being frisked and sniffed by a dog-man right out of an H. G. Wells nightmare. When it finished with Silvertongue, the smelly roadblock at the door stepped aside and Valentine pa.s.sed into the noise of the Bunker.

He mimicked Silvertongue's stance, placing his feet twice his shoulder width apart and putting his hands to either side of a sign, stenciled in paint onto another concrete wall just inside the door. To Valentine's left, a sumo-size man sat inside a wire cage, idly scratching his stubble with a Sat.u.r.day night submachine gun.

As the dog-man gave him the once over, Valentine read the stenciled letters: the rules adolph's word is law no smoking anything we didn't sell you no drinking, unless it's ours you're only as good as your barter you're only as bad as we let you be VISIT OUR GIFT SHOP CONFUSED? SEE RULE 1 Valentine retrieved his keg and joined the women. He looked around the bar, trying to avoid staring like a corn-fed hick fresh off the back forty. Electric light and noise overwhelmed him. Prerecorded music played by machine was a rare treat to Valentine, and he gaped at the source. A box of neon and chrome against one cinderblock wall blared CD Selection & Sound, as the reflective lettering on the gla.s.s proclaimed. A bar almost filled the wall opposite the jukebox, and a mismatched a.s.sortment of tables, booths, and benches stood about the sawdust-covered floor. The base of a flush toilet peeped from beneath a curtain in the corner farthest from the bar. A sour-smelling urinal next to it trickled water down the wall and into the soggy shavings beneath. An alcove, separated from the rest of the room by a layer of wire netting similar to the guard-cage at the door, advertised itself as CURRENCY EXCHANGE-GIFT SHOP-MANAGEMENT.

He was relieved to see the rest of the occupants of the Bunker were human, albeit a poor genetic cross section. Two bartenders stood only a hair shorter and slimmer than the Grog at the door, stuffed like a pair of pointy-headed sausages into red T-shirts with black lettering reading the bunker. A desiccated weed of a man in a green visor sat behind a desk in the alcove-cage, smoking a cigarette from a long black holder. Gliding between the tables, laden tray miraculously balanced as she dodged and weaved, a nimble barhop waited on the customers. Clad only in a Bunker logoed baseball cap, bikini top, and a thong, she looked the happiest of anyone in the room. Valentine ran a quick estimate in his head and decided her hat contained more material, and covered a higher percentage of her body, than everything else she wore com-bined-high heels included. The patrons, dressed in ill-fitting black-and- tan fatigues or blue merchant marine overalls, drank, talked, and smoked in huddled groups.

The captain led her little party in single file to the Currency Exchange-Gift Shop- Management cage.

"Why, if it isn't the White Lightning herself come to pay me a visit," the gnome croaked, cigarette clenched between yellowed teeth. "And Teri Silvertongue! Ahhh, missy, what I wouldn't give to be young again! Any time you get sick of high seas and low wages, you just come see me."

"Thanks for the offer, Ade," Silvertongue said, exposing her rack of teeth in a forced smile.

"But I catch cold kind of easy."

Captain Doss stepped up to the slot midway up the cage and placed a small leather pouch on the owner's desk. "Brought you some makings for your coffin nails, Ade. Do me a favor and die quick, would you?"

Til outlive you, Dossie. You got a couple new hands?" The owner ran his eyes quickly up and down Harper and Valentine, perhaps a.s.sessing their creditworthiness or potential as troublemakers.

"Just a little extra muscle for this run. Speaking of which, has the Duke arrived yet?"

"Take my advice, Cap. Slow down and enjoy life a little. But yeah, his party is in the card room. You buyin' for your crew, or are you gonna pull another Captain Bligh like last time?"

Doss shook her head. "After the deal, Ade, after the deal." She gestured to the other three, and they filed toward a door next to the long wooden bar. Valentine counted three casks and some thirty-odd bottles of a.s.sorted poison, all unlabeled. He watched one Quisling, crossed rifles of a captain on his epaulets, purchase a shot and a beer chaser by placing a pair of bullets on the bar. The Quisling tossed off the shot, face contorted as though he had poured an ounce of nitric acid down his throat.

Valentine tried not to think about the fact that he stood in a room with thirty people, each of whom could win a bra.s.s ring by turning him over alive to the Reapers.

Doss knocked on the door marked private. It opened a crack, and half of an ebony face looked at her through a narrowed eye. The door shut again, but just for a moment.

The guard opened the door, and the crew entered a s.p.a.cious, well-ventilated room. Three men and a woman sat around a felt-covered table. Cards and chips lay before three of the players; the fourth, a man, only watched. Valentine's eyes were drawn to him by his outlandish clothing if for no other reason.

The Duke of Rush wore a red uniform heavily trimmed with gold braid. Half high school marching band outfit and half toreador costume, it gaudily set off his pale skin and black hair. A bra.s.s ring, the first Valentine had ever seen, hung from a golden chain around his neck. Bored blue eyes stared up at the crew of the White Lightning.

The Duke's male henchmen wore the simple navy-blue battle dress of Chicago Quislings, and the card-playing woman an elegant blue c.o.c.ktail dress glittering with real gemstones.

No guns were evident, but the black man who opened the door toyed with a b.u.t.terfly knife, opening and shutting it with quick flicks of the wrist.

"Captain, we expected you hours ago," the Duke said in an educated accent. "You know how I hate it when my own parties start late. What were you up to, running guns to insurgents?"

Doss let a simper mask her face. "No, trying to find some-thing to wear. You always make such an entrance. I decided it would be better to let you enter first."

"You don't need to dress for this dive, Captain. The only reason I'm wearing my best is that the purported reason for this trip is social. I spent the day calling on the Kur here and arranging beer trucks for Chicago. But our business is going to be much more lucrative. May we see the merchandise?"

The black man put aside his b.u.t.terfly knife long enough to push a chair forward for Doss.

She sat. "Put the bills on the table, and you'll see it," she said.

The Duke gestured to a lieutenant, who opened a leather satchel and drew out a sheaf of papers. Captain Doss pulled out a magnifying gla.s.s and went through the pages one at a time, examining the wax seals covering printed red-and-blue tape.

"Eight firearm permits, good," she counted to herself. "Five labor vouchers... twelve supply vouchers, sixteen... eighteen... twenty pa.s.sports. Three dockyard releases... Hey, wait a second. The dockyard releases aren't signed and sealed, my friend!"

The Duke smiled. "Sorry, Captain. An oversight on my part. I'll make it up to you next time, okay?"

"Afraid not. We're keeping a bag. You want it, get these filled out properly, and you can have it," she said firmly.

"Oh, very well. Have it your way, Captain. We'll take one bag less now, and I'll see if I can get the sign-offs for your next run. Though it breaks my heart that you don't trust me. Now bring out the snuff, and we'll see if your color is worth all this." Valentine and Harper, on cue, placed their barrels in front of Silvertongue, who popped the lids with a knife of her own. It was full of clumps of brown sugar. She upended the barrels one at a time and dumped the sugar on the floor. Gla.s.s test tubes filled with white powder soon emerged from the sugar. She gathered up two dozen tubes and placed them among the cards and chips on the table.

Captain Doss took two of the tubes and pocketed them.

The Duke wiped his mouth eagerly. "Test it, my dear." -The woman in the c.o.c.ktail dress pulled a vial of clear liquid from her small handbag. She uncorked one of the tubes, licked a toothpick and coated it with the powder, then stirred it in the vial, which turned an azure blue.

"They don't call me the Duke of Rush for nothing," the Duke quipped. Valentine forced a laugh, but the captain and her mate ignored him.

"Can I take the bills now?" the captain asked.

"Of course, Captain. But I think this calls for a celebration. The drinks are on the Duke tonight, and your crew is invited, of course."

Doss rose from her chair. "Sorry, Duke. You know how I get when I'm away from my ship."

"I should be going, too. Maybe next time," Silvertongue said, bringing crestfallen expressions to the Quislings.

Harper patted Valentine on the shoulder. "Duty calls."

"It's not calling that loudly," Valentine demurred. "Captain, may I stay for a while?"

Captain Doss shot him a questioning glance. "Just be back by dawn. And I mean dawn, Tiny, because we sail with first light with or without you."

"Thank you, Captain. I'll be there."

"Finally one of your little flock shows some sense, Doss." The Duke laughed as the other sailors exited. "Ask anyone in Chicago, no one parties like the Duke. What's your name, son?"

"Dave, Mr. Duke. Dave Tiny."

The Duke clapped him on the back. "Glad to meet you, Tiny. I'm always making friends with traveling people, never know when they'll show up with something worth trading."

A knock sounded at the door.

"Duke, it's your other appointment," b.u.t.terfly Knife said.

"Oh, yeah. Tiny, you keep quiet; you might find this interesting. You'll see something you won't see sailing with Doss, that's for sure. I need to get a little dispute resolved."

The man with the b.u.t.terfly knife opened the door, and two neatly dressed men and a woman entered.

"Thanks for the invite to the party, Duke," the tallest of the three said. Valentine noted he wore a wide bra.s.s ring similar to the Duke's, on his finger rather than on a chain. "Good you could make it, Hoppy," the Duke said with a smile-snarl. "You seemed kind of preoccupied during my business call. Thought you might be tired of my company."

Valentine felt a shiver, but it had nothing to do with the nasty glint in the Duke's eye. There were Reapers outside. He thought of making up an excuse to leave, but decided to obey the Duke's order to remain silent.

"Glad you brought your a.s.sistant, but you didn't have to bring the muscle, Hoppy. This is just a friendly social gathering.

"Gail Allenby takes care of my professional life," Hoppy said. "Andersen here is responsible for the physical one. He uses a knife just as well in the kitchen as in an alley, by the way. I'll have you over for dinner tomorrow and prove it."

"I trust the cutlery will be well washed," the Duke responded. "Thanks for the offer, but I have to get back to Chicago. We need to get something straightened out, Hoppy. When it's done, you might not want to honor that invite anyway."

Someone screamed in the main part of the bar, and Valentine heard chairs tip over.

b.u.t.terfly Knife opened the door again, and a Reaper entered the room, glancing around with wary yellow eyes. A muscular man in a sleeveless shirt followed. Then a female figure-at least, it appeared female to Valentine-slowly came in. She wore a black-and-gold woven robe and a heavy hood, her face hidden behind a shining mask. The mask was decorated only by a narrow eye slit; the rest was silvery, polished mirror-bright. She did not so much walk as float across the floor on legs unseen under the robe; Valentine heard no footsteps as she moved. A second Reaper remained at the open door, its back to the room, facing the rapidly emptying bar.

"Thank you for coming, Lord Yuse-Uth," the Duke said, his face calm and serious.

Valentine looked at Hoppy, who seemed to have lost three inches and twenty pounds since the Reaper and its Master Vampire had entered. He focused all his attention on the blanching man, hoping the Kurian would not probe his thoughts.

"Lord, what need brings You here?" Hoppy stammered.

"I asked Her to be present," the Duke said. "You've been cheating me, Hopps."

"Never!"

"Past couple months I've been noticing our beer running dry a lot. We opened up some kegs, found plastic b.a.l.l.s inside. Not many, but enough to skim off ten percent or so. I had my men spill a keg after we made our purchase today: b.a.l.l.s again."

Hoppy, who was apparently the factory manager, thought for a moment. "Maybe someone at the brewery is up to something. I had no knowledge of this, Duke. I'll make it up to you."

"I'm withholding payment. You've got ten percent less bodies coming north this shipment, and another ten percent less for the previous two." The Duke turned to Kurian. "With winter coming on, that's going to be fifty, sixty less auras for the Milwaukee Families, my Lord."

The man in the sleeveless shirt spoke. "Lord Yuse-Uth says that the brewery will make it up next year. Her need is for the full allotment of auras."

"I don't like to say no to a Lord," the Duke said, "but my own Lords may have some say in the matter. Does She want a faction-war? That'd cost Her more. I'll split the difference, twenty-five fewer auras and you can make it up to me next year." The mirrored face turned to look at the Duke. "Agreed. The ring is revoked." Valentine was not sure if the grating voice came from the mask or between his ears.

The Reaper grabbed Hoppy's arm and reached for the ring on the third finger of his right hand. It took the ring, pulling off the finger as well with a sickening snap of tearing cartilage.

Hoppy screamed. His bodyguard stood frozen, staring in awe at the Reaper.

"He is no longer under Lord Yuse-Uth's protection," the Kurian's speaker said, watching Hoppy try to squeeze off the blood flowing from the pulpy ma.s.s where the digit had been.

"Allenby, you are now the brewery manager. Lord Yuse-Uth trusts your deliveries will be complete. Perhaps in time you will wear this very ring."

The woman gulped, stepping away from her former supervisor. "Thank You, my Lord," she quavered. "Andersen, your contract with Mr. Hoppy is terminated. We will talk tomorrow about your future with the brewery. Think about it."

"Y-yes ma'am," Andersen said, his hands trembling.

"Dammit, I had nothing to do with shorting the shipments," Hoppy swore.

"Lord Yuse-Uth thanks you for bringing this matter to Her attention," the speaker said, turning to the Duke. "She looks forward to continued good relations and trade with Her Brethren in Chicago."

"I appreciate Her Lordship's time," the Duke said.

The Kurian, her speaker, and the Reapers departed, and Valentine found himself able to breathe again.

"Responsibility demands performance, Hoppy," the Duke said. "Personally, I think you were cheating me." The Duke looked at the man with the b.u.t.terfly knife. "Make him shorter. Permanently."

Valentine watched, his face as pa.s.sive as the Kurian's mask, as the man with the knife knocked Hoppy to the floor. He savagely hamstrung the screaming man, cutting the tendons at the back of his victim's knees.

"Guess they'll call you Crawly now," the Duke said. "Ms. Allenby, take that trash out with you as you leave. Dump him with the other garbage on the dock. I'll talk to you in the morning and see what kind of understanding we can come to."

None of the Duke's companions looked particularly upset as the brewery people dragged the bleeding, weeping wretch outside. The Duke's craggy face split into a smile.

"Party time. Go get a bottle of something decent, Palmers. And a couple cases of Miller, in sealed bottles. I'm going to get rolling on some of this white gold. Join me, Denise?"

She smiled and reached again into her purse for a mirror. "Tested high blue. Dukey? You bet your ring I am."

Twenty-odd beers, three bottles, and multiple toots later, the Quislings and Valentine were closing down the Bunker. Still behind the wire, Adolph counted out most of the contents of the Duke's purse. One bartender remained. A pa.s.sed-out merchant marine was being dragged outside, and the waitress sat in the bodyguard's lap. Her bikini top rested on the closed eyes of b.u.t.terfly Knife, who had downed almost a whole bottle of the unlabeled house busthead. Behind the toilet curtain, Denise's shapely ankles with the blue dress around them twitched in time to the music. Valentine, who had drunk only a little booze while appearing to drink a lot, sat on the sawdust floor with his back to the jukebox, leaning up against the Duke.

Valentine had discovered a pa.s.sion in the Duke for bad jokes and dirty songs. The ringholder had announced earlier in the evening, "This bar reminds me of what happens when you cross a German with an Irishman: you get someone too drunk to follow orders."