Web of Sand dot-20 Page 2

  "You own the room," she admitted. "The whole, damned apartment and everything in it. But never make the mistake of thinking you own me."

  A matter he could have argued but knew better than to press the point. Later, perhaps, when his interest had waned and she annoyed him too much with her stubborn independence, but not now. Now it pleased him to be gracious, acting the sophisticate, crossing the room with casual indifference to pour wine from a crystal decanter into goblets engraved with interwound figures of classical proportions.

  "The storm," he said gently. "Always you are like this during a storm. And yet your very anger accentuates your loveliness. And I? I cannot help but to respond."

  "You flatter me, Yunus."

  "When has truth ever been flattery?" Smiling, he handed her one of the goblets. "Come, let us drink to a cessation of hostilities between us. To your beauty, my dear! May it never wane!"

  A toast in which she could join-God help her should she ever grow ugly. The thought of it made her swallow the wine, feeling its warm comfort as it ran down her throat to blossom in her stomach. His smile grew wider as she handed him the empty container.

  "More?"

  "No." She touched her throat, long fingers caressing the larynx, the silken sheen of the skin. "If I am to perform I must stay in condition. I assume you want me to perform?"

  "Of course. But-"

  "Don't be tiresome, Yunus. Your generosity has bought my voice not the use of my body." She saw the sudden tension of muscle at the edge of his jaw, the tautening of the skin over the knuckles of the hand which held his goblet. Quickly she added, "I'm sorry. The wine, the storm-please forgive me!"

  For a moment she thought that, this time, she had gone too far, and cursed herself for her stupidity. To have called such a man tiresome! The insult was enough for him to take a vicious revenge. To have her taken and stripped and staked out on the sand. To let the wind-driven dust flay her alive. To turn the beauty he professed to admire into a shrieking nightmare of bloody horror.

  Why had she been such a fool?

  "You will forgive me, Yunus?" Then, as he made no answer, she continued, "Where do you wish me to sing? Here? At a private assembly? In public?"

  "Not in public." Slowly he set down the goblet. Straightening, he turned to face her and she noticed the hard cruelty of his mouth, the implacable anger in his eyes. "I had intended for you to entertain a few selected guests; those who have the sensitivity and understanding to appreciate your talent. Now I am not sure if it would be wise."

  "Because of what I said?" She guessed the answer and knew, with sudden insight, that to crawl now would be a mistake. "I did not say you were tiresome, Yunus, I asked you not to be. A foolish remark, perhaps, but hardly the cause for such annoyance. From a child I would have expected such a tantrum but not from a grown man. And even less from a man of your sophistication." Her laughter was the chiming of bells. "Come, my dear, let us drink again."

  "And risk your purity of tone?"

  "For you, yes. Please?"

  She relaxed as he poured the wine, enjoying her triumph, enjoying too, now that it was over, the battle and danger she had tasted, the risk she had run. A small risk, perhaps, even Yunus would hardly dare face the displeasure of the Cinque by taking such a personal revenge as she had imagined, but, if driven too far, he would defy the universe and do or have it done.

  And, always, she had enjoyed playing with fire.

  She smiled as she took the proffered goblet and turned as she sipped to face the window. The dust was thin now, gusting, forming plumes as the dying wind released its hold. Already the maintenance crews would be busy with scoops and blowers to clear the vents and ports. More would be using heavy-duty lasers to fuse the sides of dunes and form paths, to support threatening masses and hold the dust in the configurations it had adopted. Temporary measures-the next storm would negate all they could do.

  "You will sing," he said as he joined her. "Three songs and I leave it to you to determine which they shall be." A command-his tone softened as she nodded. "And afterward we can enjoy other entertainment. Sabinnus has a new dancer."

  "A rival?"

  "No, my dear, you are beyond compare. In any case she lacks grace. He found her in the Burrows, so I understand, or at least that is what he says. It adds to her attraction." He added, casually, "She dances between blades of naked steel."

  And those watching would be eager for her to cut feet and legs, more interested in the spectacle of blood rather than a display of art. Ellain lifted the goblet and drank the last of the wine. The sting of alcohol would lull her precision a little but only an expert would notice the loss of purity. Those she had been ordered to entertain would be more interested in her body than her voice. The scarlet gown, then? The color would accentuate that of her hair or, no, it would be better to complement it rather than provide a match. Green, then? Or the tunic of gold which gave full revealment to her legs? Or something simple yet enticing in dusty black?

  "Ellain?"

  "I was thinking, trying to decide what to wear at your party. It is a party?"

  "More of an assembly. A few friends to discuss certain matters of mutual interest. You will provide a diversion."

  The black then, the bodice arranged so as to display her bosom, the skirt adjusted to show her thigh through the slit-old tricks which twisted her lips in a reminiscent smile. How old Teen Veroka, her music teacher and singing master, would have raved at such a blatant display. But he was on another world, probably dead by now, and she had long since learned the value of such exhibitionism. But to dress well she needed a maid.

  Yunus shrugged when she mentioned it. "You have a maid. A new girl."

  "A clumsy fool. What does she know of how to dress hair? To arrange a gown? What happened to Julie?" She saw his face turn blank in the fading mirror of the window. "Never mind. You will find someone capable? I want to look my best for your friends."

  "I shall attend to it."

  "And after the assembly? You mentioned entertainment."

  He smiled, knowing her needs, his voice a purr to match the amber of his eyes as, leaning close, he whispered in her ear.

  "Anything you wish, my darling. Men stripped and sweating as they wrestle for a prize. Others pounding at each other with metal gloves? Women wagering their skill against a score of rodents." Pausing, he let the images build. "Blood and pain," he whispered. "The arena?"

  "Yes," she gasped. "Yes!"

  Her goblet fell to join his on the floor as his hands rose, cupped, rising to her breasts. And this time she did not turn from the embrace.

  Chapter Two

  The place was a windowless chamber, the walls, roof and floor of fused sand, minute flecks of silica glinting in the glare of overhead lighting. The tables were the same, the benches, even the plates and pots-fused sand, the cheapest building material on Harge. Leaning with his back against a wall Dumarest looked over the tavern. Aside from the material with which it was built it was the same as countless others he had seen. A room with tables at which to sit, a bar from which food and drinks were served, a low dais which could hold a small band of entertainers if any were available and willing to work for the thrown coins which would be their sole reward. Some serving girls, vapid faces, careless as to dress, willing to titivate for the sake of tips and even to do more if the gain was high enough.

  The clientele was also in the pattern; men killing time, others whispering as they made plans, many who just sat and watched, some who tried to drown their desperation in wine, a few who came for reasons of curiosity, others who found entertainment in mixing with those of different station. But this held something most others lacked and which pervaded the atmosphere like a subtle but disquieting perfume.

  "Fear," said Carl Santis. "The place stinks of it." He sat on a bench next to Kemmer and held his pot in one, scarred hand. His face above the stained and worn clothing was beaked, the nose like the thrusting bill of a bird of prey. Scar tissue gleamed in the light, small patche
s of glisten against the swarthy complexion. Patches matched by those on his tunic where the weight of protective armor had polished the nap. Sure signs of the mercenary's trade. "Fear," he said again. "It smells like a camp of raw recruits waiting to engage."

  Waiting to fight, to gamble with life and death, but for those in the room there was no waiting. The battle to survive never ceased and death could come as a blessing.

  "Harge," said Kemmer. "They should have named it Hell." He lifted his pot and sipped then lowered it to scowl at the wine. "Frome, the bastard! Dumping us the way he did. One day, with luck, we'll meet again."

  "Armed," mused Santis. "Did he wear a gun when you booked passage, Earl?"

  If he had, Dumarest would have waited for another ship. He said, "No. Did any of you ask if he'd be willing to carry you on?"

  "Marta did." Kemmer sipped again at his wine, his mouth looking as if he'd tasted acid. "She asked if he'd take her once he'd effected repairs. He wasn't interested."

  "Odd." Santis frowned. "Easy money from an old woman who couldn't cause trouble. Why turn down a profit?"

  "He dumped us," said the trader. "All of us. He'd been paid. That lie about repairs was obvious." He looked baffled. "But why? What was behind it? What do the people here hope to gain?"

  The money they carried and the labor they could provide-the normal reason for isolated communities bribing captains to dump their passengers. Once landed and in debt they would be helpless to leave, forced to work as contract-labor to clear a steadily accumulating mountain of debt. Slaves in all but name and far more economical to keep.

  "It doesn't make sense," said the trader. He had been brooding on the matter. "Mettalus has already fixed up an apartment for himself and the girl and can live in comfort until they can take a ship. Marta has a room-I offered to share but she would have none of it."

  "A mistake," said Santis. "If she hopes to set up in business she's due for a shock. There's too much competition for anyone of her age to stand a chance."

  "As I told her," agreed Kemmer. "She didn't take it too well. That leaves us. I'm too soft to do a hard day's work and Santis is too old to take willingly to a pick. And what use would they have for a mercenary? Which leaves you, Earl." He chuckled at the humor of what he next suggested. "Maybe we've all been dumped on your account. It could be someone wants you held somewhere until they can collect you. If so they've chosen a damned good place."

  And it was a damned good guess if guess it was. From where he sat Dumarest studied the trader, looking at the eyes; the hands, the movements of the small muscles around the mouth. An agent? It was possible; the Cyclan employed all types, but he doubted it. The man was too much in character to be playing a part. And there would be no reason for the dumping if he had not been what he seemed. Santis the same, Marta Caine also and the other two could be eliminated; the girl was too young to have learned effective deception and Grish Metallus had been aboard the Urusha long before Dumarest had asked for passage. No proof, but even the Cyclan had limitations governed by time and distance, and not everyone could be an agent. Yet Dumarest had no doubt as to why they had been dumped.

  Kemmer was right-someone wanted him held.

  And Harge was a prison.

  He rose and walked over to the bar, ignoring the glares of women who felt robbed of a tip, ordering another pot of wine and looking around as it was poured. Had Frome been contacted direct? In the Rift radio communication was unreliable at the best of times what with the electronic furnaces of suns set close filling the ether with static and electro-magnetic distortion. Had he been paid to dump any passengers he might have been carrying? Had other captains?

  "Here!" The bartender slammed down the pot. "That's sixteen kren." He scooped up the coins. "Just landed?"

  "Yes."

  "Welcome to Harge. On business?"

  "Call it an unavoidable visit. Any other ships arrived recently?"

  "One since the storm. That must be yours. Two just before-fifteen and seventeen days ago. None before that for three weeks. Then we had a ten-day storm-or was it twelve?"

  "You get many storms?"

  "It's the season." He met Dumarest's eyes. "Quite a few. I guess you're interested in ships, eh? They land when they can and leave without delay. Yours has gone. The Urusha, right? Took off as soon as the cargo was loaded."

  "We had to wait to land. Is that normal?"

  "If a storm is blowing itself out. Sometimes they move on and forget us unless it's a charter or special delivery. It depends. From space they can get a clear view of the situation and act accordingly. Travel much?"

  "No."

  "I thought not." The man accepted the lie. "You talk pretty green. Got any money?"

  "Some."

  "Watch it. That advice I'll give you for free. I'll mind it for you if you want."

  "Thanks, but I'll manage."

  "Yes," said the man. "Yes, I guess you can."

  He turned to serve a girl with a torn skirt and cheap bracelets adorning pimpled arms who was waiting on a group at one of the tables. Dumarest halted beside them, chatted, moved on to stand beside a pair studying a chart, left them to talk to a waitress to whom he gave money.

  As he rejoined the others Santis said, "Learn anything?"

  "Nothing of use."

  "What is there to learn?" Kemmer brooded over his wine. "The need to survive? We know that. The need to cooperate? We know that too but how seldom it is done. And can one man be expected to aid another when that aid robs him of life?" He added, "Thieves here receive drastic punishment."

  Santis was curt, "So?"

  "I mention it, nothing more."

  "Do I look like a man who would steal? Fight, yes, kill too if the pay is right, but steal?"

  "If it meant your life, yes," said Dumarest. "I think you would. I could be wrong but, if so, we are both fools." He waited a moment then, as the mercenary made no comment, said, "One small item which may be of interest. At times men are employed to work on outside installations."

  "Debtors," said Kemmer. "They have a list. I could have saved you the bribe you gave to the waitress."

  "A few coins," protested Santis. "Less than the price of a drink."

  "But money!" Kemmer lowered his voice. "You mercenaries are all the same-easy come easy go. Your pay is something to get rid of before you get killed. The only ones who really gain from a war are the merchants and vendors of delights. But a trader knows the value of a coin. It can spell the difference between profit and loss. Tell me, honestly now, how wealthy are you?"

  "I had enough for passage to Fendris. There I could have found employment but the chance is lost now."

  "And?"

  Santis said, bleakly, "I lack the cost of a high passage."

  "I am better than you," said Kemmer. "Not much but enough for me to insist I buy the next round. Even so unless a vessel comes soon I shall be in dire trouble. The fee to gain entry-" He drew out his cheeks. "Earl?"

  "We're all in the same situation. Marta?"

  "Has money but I don't know how much. But it will do us no good. She will neither lend nor give and, frankly, I don't blame her." Kemmer shook his head. "Life, at times, can be hard."

  And on Harge more than hard. Dumarest leaned back, his shoulders hard against the wall, an instinctive position which gave maximum protection. A caution which was now too late. His questions had gained more than he'd divulged. The passengers on earlier ships had not been dumped-Frome had been the first captain to have done so. Which meant he must have had a special reason and Dumarest was certain now what it was.

  The Cyclan, plotting, predicting where and when he would be, calculating his movements on the basis of assembled data, extrapolating the most logical sequence of events. The Rift had originally spelled safety but the very plethora of worlds, short journeys and plentiful small ships had finally told against him. Now, it seemed, his luck had run out. Harge was a prison. One bounded by wind and dust, lacerating storms and economic factors no less cruel.

/>   The entry fee had been high and gave nothing but the right to shelter. Each sip of water and scrap of food would have to be paid for. Each moment of rest. Even his present comfort was limited by the amount of drinks purchased and already a woman was approaching to take their order or demand they leave. There were no heavy industries, no open fields, no chance of finding work and building a stake. Soon, like Santis, he would be without the cost of a passage. Every traveler's nightmare-to be stranded on a world from which he couldn't escape. To die there-but Dumarest had no fear of that. The Cyclan would come to claim him first.

  The assembly was as she'd expected; the rich and powerful exhibiting their possessions. Jashir Yagnik had a juggler, a clown who filled the air with spinning orbs and turned and danced and grimaced with pretended terror which grew real when, fumbling a ball, he saw the expression on his patron's face. Khan Barrocca had a clairvoyant, an albino who tittered and clutched her breasts and foamed from bloodless lips as she spouted frenzied gibberish. Even fat old Keith Ambalo, Yunus's uncle, was disgusted and made no attempt to disguise it.

  "For God's sake, Khan, get rid of that thing. She's enough to turn my stomach."

  "I thought you'd be amused."

  "I'm not." Old and powerful Keith Ambalo could afford to indulge in the luxury of discourtesy. "Standards should be maintained. Yunus, my boy, Where's that singer of yours?"

  She was seated beside him, tall resplendent in an ebon gown, her hair shimmering with an inner effulgence, the blaze of scarlet giving a translucent luster to her skin. It was a measure of his contempt for all beings not of the Cinque that he chose to ignore her. It was a measure of her pride that she risked being discourteous in turn.

  "Yunus, you didn't tell me! How sad that your uncles eyes are failing!"