Anastasia Volkova wanted a court of her own people, and she did not know where a single one of them lived. She had crossed the stars to Pandora to gather the scattered Russian exiles under her rule. But the exiles had scattered too well. She stood in the doorway of a shadowy cantina, her purple dress out of place among the smoke and spilled ale. At her heel walked a cheetah with a fluffy orange coat, red stars on its flanks, a heart shaped tail. The animal was the only creature on this world that answered to her. Men at the tables went quiet when she entered. She had heard traders sold information here for the right price. So she came to buy the one thing she needed most: where her people had gone. She crossed to the bar and set down a small painted nesting doll. Inside it she kept gold. "I need to find the Russians who came here," she said. "All of them." The bartender looked at the doll and said nothing. From a corner booth, a voice cut through the room. "You're asking the wrong man, princess." The speaker rose. She was broad, tall, wrapped in a worn leather vest, her long hair shining like spun silk. A dark spider sat on her shoulder and did not move. This was Sylvia Threadripper, and the whole room leaned away from her as she walked. "Names cost more than pretty toys," Sylvia said. She flicked the nesting doll with one finger. "But I've hauled cargo to every mining camp on this rock. I know where your lost countrymen ended up." Anastasia kept her voice steady. "Then tell me." "I'll do better." Sylvia dropped a folded scrap of hide on the bar. It was a map, marked with rough dots. "Twelve settlements. Your exiles are spread across all of them. I drew it myself." She smiled. "It's yours, if you carry a package to the far camp for me. No questions." The cheetah growled low. Anastasia touched its head to quiet it. She understood the trade was a snare of some kind. A smuggler did not give maps to strangers for nothing. But she had no other thread to follow. She picked up the map. The dots blurred together, then sharpened. Twelve places. Her people, alive, waiting without knowing they were called. "I'll carry your package," Anastasia said. Sylvia's grin widened. She pushed a heavy sealed crate across the floor with her boot. "Smart girl. Camp's a hard ride out. Watch the crate. Don't open it." Anastasia gripped the map in one hand and the crate rope in the other. She had her answer at last. She knew where the exiles lived. But now she owed a smuggler a debt, and she carried a locked box she was forbidden to see inside.