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cells,” Lucifer instructed the wolfman, and draped his arm across Crick’s shoulders to lead Crick away.
    Batanya heard him say, “Love, I’ve gotten some new toys since you were here last,” and then the wolfman snarled at her. When he could see he had her attention, he jerked his shaggy head northward. The two Britlingens surrendered their weapons to two quadrupedal net-throwers, then trudged off, following the wolfman’s lead. The crowd of Lucifer’s hirelings surrounded them, but aside from an occasional poke or prod or gobbet of spit didn’t offer them harm. Batanya didn’t like being spit on, but then again, no one had ever died of it, unless you counted the acid-spitting lizards she’d encountered on a previous job. She cast an uneasy look through the crowd and didn’t spot any.
    “Well,” she said to Clovache, “We’ve been in worse spots.”
    “Right,” Clovache said, with some effort. Batanya could tell Clovache’s stomach was still acting up. “This is an evening at the Pooka Palace compared to some of the places we’ve been.”
    Batanya almost smiled, to the astonishment of the crowd.
     
     
     
    Jail in Hell was about what you’d expect. They passed through the guardroom, with weapons hung on the walls that even Batanya had never seen, and many that she had. The weapons ranged from full-tech guns to your basic swords and spears and clubs. The guards were your basic hostile and contemptuous louts. A snakeman flicked his forked tongue out to touch Clovache’s cheek as she passed him, and he laughed in a hissing kind of way at her expression of disgust. The wolfman growled, “Keep your tongue to yourself, Sha,” and Sha snapped to attention, or at least as close to that as a curved spine like his could manage.
    Clovache and Batanya had to strip under all eyes, because they couldn’t remain in their armor; they had expected that, but it wasn’t pleasant, of course. They donned the drawstring pants and shapeless tunics they were given, along with pairs of thick socks with padded soles. Then Marl, who appeared to be the shift captain, unlocked a heavy door with a peephole in the middle, and held it open for the prisoners to pass through.
    The cells were rough-floored, having been hewn out of the rock instead of being created by the tunneling slugs, and the dimensions were roomy since occasionally they had to house creatures much larger than humans. Batanya assessed hers in one quick look. There was a latrine in one corner, which was quite an odd shape since all species don’t poop the same way, and there was a cot, twice as wide as Batanya’s bed in Spauling, to accommodate a variety of creatures. Clovache’s cell was right by hers, and there were bars from floor to ceiling in between, spaced a little less than the breadth of a hand apart. In the same manner, the front of the cells were also barred from floor to ceiling, so the prisoners were always in view of their fellow prisoners and whoever happened to be in the jail block. There were only six cells. The first cell on each side was empty. The last one on the left became Batanya’s, and the one next to it, Clovache’s.
    The two cells directly across from theirs were also occupied by humans. Opposite Batanya, a young man was sitting on his cot. He jumped up eagerly while the guards were locking up Batanya. He was wearing the same prisoners’ outfit, but on him it looked good.
    The youth was slender, ethereally lovely, and very pleased to have some company. “People who can talk to me!” he said in a melodic voice. “Am I not beautiful? Do I not deserve to be admired?”
    Since Batanya was busy pulling down the tunic and tightening the drawstring on the pants, she didn’t answer immediately. When she’d gotten herself arranged and the guards were occupied with Clovache, she turned to give him an examination. “Oh, yes, you’re pretty as a picture,” she said politely. “Why are you here instead of in Lucifer’s bed?” If