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The Lonjair instructed them to wait, and disappeared into a hallway. He wasn’t gone long; when he returned, he ushered them in with a gesture.

As they entered, Den whispered to Jax, “Don’t you find it peculiar that Spa Fon didn’t have his servant ask us our business, or have you disarm?”

“Everyone has a different modus. Sometimes it’s defined by tradition and not logic. If nothing else, it indicates that Fon isn’t afraid of us.”

Den nodded in the direction of their diminutive guide. “Why should he be, with a bodyguard like that?”

Spa Fon was waiting for them in a chamber that was, thankfully, high enough to allow Jax to stand erect. Whether the Nuknog had arranged it out of courtesy to customers and contacts bigger than himself or whether it simply reflected the existing architecture was open to question.

Spa Fon sat on a thick yellow cushion, his small blue servant taking up a stance beside him. Fon’s hospitality might include a ceiling of reasonable height, but it evidently did not extend to furniture. His visitors were obliged to either stand or make use of similar cushions.

Den dropped gratefully onto one of the pillows. It took Jax a moment to fold his longer legs beneath him. The position brought back a quick flash of memory: he felt as if he were back in beginning levitation class, trying to absorb the teachings of Master Yerem. The sharp jab of longing for such simpler times surprised him with its intensity.

Impatient, as were most of his kind, Spa Fon scowled at them. “Erppah tells me you’re here on business. I don’t recognize either of you. Give me a reference or I’ll have you thrown out.” At this, the Lonjair tilted back his head and assumed an air of unmistakable haughtiness.

“Relax.” Den made a soothing gesture. “We’re here on the recommendation of Shulf’aa the Vernol.”

“Ah! That sly slink.” The Nuknog let out a sniff of approval. “What’s old wart-face up to?”

“Oh, the usual,” Jax responded casually. “Business is good. In fact, we were told that when we met up with you, we were to solicit additional stock on his behalf.”

The high-ridged head bobbed appreciatively. “Such stash as Shulf’aa requires is not easy to come by. Exclusive goods are as well guarded as they are regarded by his customers. But tell him I will see what I can do. Now then”—he shifted his lumpy backside on the luxurious cushion—“what brings you to me, specifically?”

Den looked at Jax, who nodded encouragingly. The Sullustan turned back to their host. “You provided Shulf’aa with two Ves Volette originals. He’d like more.”

The Nuknog rolled his eyes in opposite directions. “I bet he would, the old bug eater. Does he think Volettes are like shafts of wandering sunlight, to be gathered freely with a photon net? Since the artist was killed …”

It was the opening Jax had been waiting for. Casually, offhandedly, he said, “Yes, that was a gifted bit of work on your part. I’m curious as to how you managed it.”

“Managed it?” The Nuknog’s tone took an abrupt turn toward the unpleasant. Beside him, the Lonjair stiffened. “I managed no such thing. Why would you accuse me of such an act?”

“Well, it’s intuitively obvious,” Den said. “You stole from the artist two of his works, which you then flogged to Shulf’aa at considerable profit. So you tried it again. But this time Volette had prepared for a similar break-in. Or perhaps your timing was bad and you encountered him by accident. In the ensuing struggle, you killed him. Not that we care.”

Spa Fon glanced at the Lonjair, who blinked in response. When the Nuknog turned back to his guests, it was clear from the narrowing of his eyes that he now saw them in a new and not nearly as favorable light. “I think that you do care, very much. I think maybe in fact that you’re police, here to try to get me to confess to a crime I didn’t commit because you can’t solve it any other way.”

“We’re not police,” Jax began honestly. “We’re—”

“And,” the Nuknog interrupted, “I think it’s time for you to leave.” Raising a reddish, bony arm, their host gestured.

The