The starport rattled as the interplanetary cog descended from high orbit. The battered intrasystem hauler rocked unsteadily in the stream of dust and grit which passed for atmosphere, scouring of rust and any pretense of paint to leave the cog bare and oddly pristine looking, save where leaking lubricant caused the sand to stick and beard in long ugly cancers. The grit-men, bedecked in heavy canvas suits, lumbered out at once to begin the process of attaching fuel lines, data hoses, and air scrubbing lines to such ports as the flying death trap still possessed. Camilla regretted not sending one of the Navarre's Aquilla class shuttles. It would be embarrassing if their off world expert died because a cog built when Horus was a boy finally burned out and smashed into the sand with all hands.

"You really think this burned out old Arbite is going to solve the Old Man's murder?" Yvrine asked sourly. The Seneshal had made no secret of the fact that she thought Camilla's plan was a foolish extravagance and they should get back to the ship and install her officially as the holder of the Warrant of Trade. Camilla knew that the Seneshal only wanted to do what she considered proper, but the moment she set foot upon the deck of the Navarre there would be too many demands on her attention and she would eventually be forced to let the murder go. It would be proper, necessary, what the Old Man would have wanted, but it would still be a surrender.

"I think you might be surprised, he made the holonews a few times and that isn't easy to do," Camilla counted.

"There is no news in a backwater like this," Yvrine replied morosely. 

"Oh I don't know: Rogue Trader murdered?" Camilla suggested. The First Officer and the Seneshal were standing behind a thick wall of armorcrys in what was part arrivals longue part shipping hangar. Ragged locals mixed with mercantile factors in coats with impractically starched collars. A few tech adepts in threadbare robes walked along bundled conduits chanting in their language and pasting fresh blessing strips on junction boxes. None of them came anywhere near a pair of well dressed and obviously armed strangers. Even the few security men, little more than another flavor of ganger, eyed the off-worlders, but none dared to make trouble against such well armed quality. Camilla rested her hand on the elaborately jeweled hilt of a slender rapier, drumming her fingers on a hilt wrapped with the interwoven hides of two different animals, one smooth and supple, one rough like a sharks for better grip.

A line of passengers began disembarking from the cog before its ramps even touched down, spilling people, live stock and servitors out into the blistering dust. There were only a few feet to the dubious safety of woven canvas cargo shoots but the offworlders still flinched and cursed as they stumbled into the cover the chutes provided. 

"Hey," Yvrine said, a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"You want me to introduce you?"