At those times, ready shade close at hand was a necessity. The design of Sarghad had originally called for it to be roofed over by a massive ferrocrete dome that would protect its inhabitants from flare radiation, and seal out the incessant sand and climatic extremes. But those plans had been drawn in a century without war, when technology promised miracles. There were places along Sarghad's rim where eggshell fragments of a partially-begun dome still rose above the sands, other places where sections of the dome had collapsed across acres of buildings now deserted or crumbling away into slums. For the most part, the people relied for shade on the protective sunscreens stretched across the city's narrow avenues and walkways.
Sarghad's usual crowds were out among the marketplace stalls that lined the Street of Merchants from the crumbling ferrocrete ruin of the Ajiani highway all the way to the fence that hedged in the palace grounds at the hub of the city. To Grayson, it seemed that the crowds were quieter than usual, less boisterious. An atmosphere of fear had crept through the streets, reflected in the voices and faces of the people there. Merchants and pedestrians clustered together in the blue-ink pools of shadow under the street shades, or hurried through the red glare of daylight.
Two more IS-hour periods had passed since he'd awakened and learned of the exodus of the remnants of Carlyle's Commandos. Though his head was still bandaged, the throbbing pain and dizziness were gone, and Grayson's strength had returned enough that he'd decided to leave the house of Berenir the Merchant.
"Where will you go?" Claydon had asked when Grayson announced his intention.
"I'm not entirely sure. I have one friend in the city... the daughter of the Chief Minister. She may be able to help me, or take me to someone who can."
Berenir had frowned, stroking his stubby white beard. "It's the political ministers who've been stirring up this hate-the-offworlders sentiment lately. I wonder if it's wise for you to visit the household of one of the planet's leading politicians."
Grayson shrugged. "It's not as though I have much choice. I can't stay here."
Berenir nodded. "I won't say I'm sorry to see you go. It is dangerous for you to stay."
"You didn't have to bring me in." Perhaps it would have better had they not. Growing desperation and loss knotted Grayson's stomach.
"Don't misunderstand me, young Lord." He still used the honorific most Trells reserved for representatives of far-off Tharkad, and the near-legendary inner worlds of the Commonwealth. "I don't blame you, personally, but..."
"But there are the neighbors to consider."
"Eh, yes. As you say."
"I'm grateful for your help."
"And I'm grateful for what your people brought to Trellwan." He smiled at Grayson's startled expression. "No, I don't mean Hendrik. But technology... science to combat superstition... education. My son, Claydon, learned much in his years working at the Castle."
"A lot of good it does me now, Father. The Commonwealth will never return."
"It did you good in the way it taught you to think, son. There are always multiple ways of looking at a problem, some good, some bad. You have learned to apply scientific method to your thought, to think critically, rationally. That is the treasure that these... these starmen brought with them. They will not take it away with them again."
He turned again to Grayson. "It is we who are grateful to you, young Lord."
Grayson had remained silent Scientific method held out little hope to a people faced with raids by bandit BattleMechs. Technology and rational thought had a nasty way of vanishing in the funeral pyres of cities.
Berenir had long been an enigma to those of Carlyle's Commandos who had followed events in Sarghad. He was one of the rich city merchants who dealt with the infrequent traders who called at the spaceport, handling their cargoes and dickering with them for shipments of Trellwan's mineral woods and spices. In the wave of anti-Commonwealth rioting and propagandizing, he had kept a low profile, but continued to deal with the men from the stars, selling Carlyle's Commandos food, oil for their machines, and commodities as varied as soap and salt. None could tell whether his attitude was one of greed, practicality, or simply a cosmopolitan acceptance of the starmen as people like everyone else.
If the population learned the whereabouts of the son of the man who had engineered the Trellwan Pact with Hendrik, Grayson might well find himself facing the brunt of their simmering resentment. The Trells were not particularly vindictive or bloody-minded, but they were human. Grayson shuddered, remembering the story he'd heard of a rapist set free in the desert just as Trell began to flare.
His first thought had been to use Berenir to contact the next offworld freighter that called at Trellwan. The merchant explained that offworld traders called but rarely this far out along the Periphery, and that he was fearful of what would happen when the next one arrived. As he rubbed his hands together the overhead lights caught at the jeweled rings on his fingers. "Business has taken a turn for the worst, I suspect."
"But a ship will come?"
"Oh, yes, eventually. But it will be a while. The trader ships do not fill the skies as they once did...”
“But they'll come?”
“Oh, certainly they'll come!"
"Will your government let them come? With this policy of hate the offworlder..."
Berenir made an impatient gesture. "If there's one thing I've learned in three hundred threedays on the Streets of Merchants, it's that business will turn again. How long do you think Trellwan will get along without the traders from the stars, eh?"
"I don't know. You have water here... you grow your own food... you could do without them." What Grayson didn't say was that, by his standards, Trellwan's level of civilization was scarcely removed from barbarism. They had no electronics technology to speak off. Power was drawn from tidal generators powered by burning petroleum distillates. Why, transportation in the streets was as likely to be by harnessed desert laniks as it was to be self-powered.
Berenir made an impatient gesture. "The government doesn't care about food and water. It's tariffs, import duties, and taxes they're concerned about. Give the politicians oh... ten... maybe 20 threedays, and the ships will come again."
Berenir rubbed his chin ruefully. "But in the meantime, we're going to have a bit of trouble figuring out what to do with you."
Listening to all this, Grayson had suppressed a groan. Ten Trell threedays was something like two and a half standard years. In the past six months, the only commercial DropShips to set down on Trellwan had been from the Mailai trader that had been handling the runs between Oberon and Trellwan. How much longer would it be before another called? And how could he reach it, with Hendrik's bandits at the port, and the people of Sarghad ready to kill him on sight?
Berenir looked thoughtful. "I have contacts in the government," he said. "A merchant in my position has to, nowadays. The Chief Minister is a friend of mine..."
"Stannic? Chief Minister Stannic?"
"Yes. Do you know him?"
"I... know his daughter. Quite well. I've met the Minister a time or two..."
"Stannic is one of King Jeverid's most trusted aides. He's also the man to know for trade licensing, that sort of thing."
"Will he help?"