Chapter Four
Ysanne said, "Earl, they're thieves! On any other world those repairs would have cost only half as much. And the extras! They-"
"The work had to be done." Dumarest looked back at the Erce where Batrun was checking the new installation. "And they did it fast."
He handed over the account which was to be settled within five days or before they left. Lasers mounted in emplacements around the field would blast them from the sky if they tried to run. On Krantz you paid. Always, one way or another, you paid.
"Less than a week," said Ysanne bitterly. "Then they move in. Confiscate the ship, maybe, force a sale. We'll be lucky to be left with the cost of High passages. Earl, what can we do?"
Nothing without an engineer; the journey to Krantz had taught him that. Luck had ridden with them every inch of the way but such luck couldn't last.
Dumarest headed into the town, to the plaza and the building flanking the far side. The Wheel was empty, the open space filled with a drift of pedestrians and idlers. Among them the spacers from the vessels on the field made nodes of alien impact. Strangers, casual in their approach to the locals, careless and a little boisterous as such men always were when newly released from the confines of their ships.
One swore as he tasted a cup of tisane, another laughed as he slapped the burned man on the back, a third picked delicately at a skewer of gilded meat.
His eyes narrowed as he saw Dumarest, widened as he stared at the woman.
"A prize," he said. "A real prize. To ride with you I'd take half pay."
"And wouldn't be worth a quarter." Ysanne smiled at his banter, catching it, throwing it back. "Just landed?"
"At dawn. The Frencat. Loaded with staples from Venn." His wink told of the true nature of the cargo. "And you?"
"The Erce. I'm the navigator."
"And it's a bet you know your way around. How about giving me a guided tour?"
"You an engineer?"
"No, but-"
"Sorry." Her tone held genuine regret. "I'm only interested in engineers."
As she followed Dumarest across the plaza Ysanne said, thoughtfully, "Maybe I should be serious about that. At least if I found someone he'd settle for promises until it was too late for him to change his mind."
"No."
"Jealous?"
"Call it that."
"You're lying," she said flatly. "You'd use me or anyone else as bait if it would get you what you wanted. Damn you, Earl! Damn you!"
He said harshly, "Act the harlot if you want but not when you're with me. And any man fool enough to switch his loyalty for a chance at your body is too big a fool for me to want."
"Bastard! You dirty-" She gasped as he caught the hand she lifted to slap his face. The pressure of his fingers threatened to crush bone, pain squelching her anger, rage dying as quickly as it had flowered. "My hand! You're hurting my hand!"
Releasing her, Dumarest said, "We've trouble enough without you making more. Demean me and you demean the ship. Who will trust us with a commission? And if you try to seduce an engineer from his duty you could wind up with your throat cut. No captain can afford to be gentle in the Chandorah."
Something she had forgotten as he had not, but, womanlike, she took advantage of the moment.
"You, Earl?" Her eyes searched his face. "Would you kill anyone who tried to steal your navigator?"
"I might."
"Because you need someone to guide you or because I'm your woman? Earl, I want to know!"
She was on the verge of making another scene. Dumarest was aware of the stares; the half-amused glances and the more avid eyes of those who hoped for physical violence.
He said, "You'd best go back to the ship. Andre could use some help. I want everything ready for us to leave at short notice."
"What you're really saying is that you don't want me around." Ysanne drew in her breath, beautiful in her mounting irritation. "Why not have the guts to say it? So I made a mistake and I admit it. So-oh, what the hell!"
She turned and was gone with glints shimmering from her dark hair and small flashes of sunlight blazing from the adornments of her tunic. Dumarest watched until she had vanished from sight then turned and headed toward the Mart.
The interior was cool, soft with diffused sunlight, soaring columns supporting a peaked and gilded roof. The floor was of polished stone inset with writhing patterns in red and amber. One end was open, bare save for the black obsidian of the block. Among the columns, gathered in small clusters, some picking at viands offered for sale on stalls, others sniffing at scented handkerchiefs, were the elite of Krantz.
The Quelen. The four families who had made the planet their own.
Among them were a scatter of traders, merchants, bland-faced men without breeding but who managed the stuff without which the Quelen could not survive-the money which kept them in power and luxury.
Dumarest moved toward the block, pausing to buy a fruit from a stall, chewing the pulp as he surveyed the crowd. Most were dilettantes, using the Mart as a common meeting place, intent on exchanging gossip and watching the fun. Some were buyers; hard-eyed overseers looking for labor.
Few were spacers. One, a swarthy man wearing the tarnished insignia of a captain, nodded as Dumarest came close.
"I'm Tolen from the Amytor." he said. "I've seen you around. Dumarest, right? Earl Dumarest from the Erce?"
"That's right."
"An odd name for a ship."
"It means Earth," said Dumarest. "Mother Earth."
"Is that right?" Tolen shrugged. "Well, ships get all sorts of names. I rode in one once named the Polly. Short for Polipolodes, I think, but it was a hell of a name to live with. That was twenty years ago." He looked around, gestured to a man standing close, who was one of the Ypsheim by his scar. "Get us something to drink. Here." He handed the man a coin. "Don't take all day."
Dumarest said, "Here on business?"
"Not exactly. I took care of that the day I landed. This is in the nature of a commission I'm doing for a friend. His son vanished about five years ago; ran off with a girl to a settlement on Xandus. Kalken traced him and sent after him but all his men found was a ruined village and a few corpses. The girl was one of them."
"Slavers?"
"It fit the pattern. So when I'm in a place like this I keep my eye on the block. It's a long chance but, maybe, the boy will come up for sale." Tolen looked around, scowling. "Where the hell are those drinks?"
Eunice was bored. The party last night had been as she'd expected; full of spite and innuendo, with Myrna, the smug, simpering bitch, holding court to her sycophantic admirers. Well, to hell with her, soon now she would show them all. In the meantime the auction was as good a way as any to pass the time.
She pressed closer to the block, feeling Urich's hand on her arm, pulling it free against his restraint. There was no fun if she couldn't see. No triumph if she wasn't seen. If nothing else Urich made a distinguished escort with his height and thin, sensitive features. But he must not, now or ever, imagine that he would be permitted to dictate to her. Even in marriage those born to the Quelen took precedence over those less fortunate.
"My lords! My ladies! The auction commences!"
Travante was old but knew his profession. He stood beside the block, grave in his robes, conscious of the dignity of his office. Attendants stood to hand, guards standing ready, the crowd easing forward as the first man mounted the block. A disappointment; he was an agent selling the harvest from a small seafarm hugging the Purple Sea. Dried fish, scales, oils-she turned away as the bidding commenced.
"Urich, I'm thirsty. Get me a drink."
"Now?"
"Why not." She looked over the crowd and saw two spacers standing with heavy beakers in their hands. "If they can drink then so can I."