"No, to Malach. The ship had a special delivery to make. It adds time to the journey, but what choice had we?"
"We should have a steward," said the old woman fretfully. "Who is to give us quick-time? Or are we supposed to do without? I've paid for a High Passage and I want what I've paid for. Fren, why don't you complain to the captain? Charl-"
"I'll do it," said Dumarest.
In the control room the air was alive with the hums and burrs of smoothly working apparatus, the sensors questing their way into space, plotting a path and guiding the vessel with mechanical efficiency. Remille sat in his chair, the navigator at his post beside him. A thin man with sour lips half-hidden beneath a ruff of beard, Haw Mayna had an abrupt and bristling manner.
"What do you want? Passengers aren't allowed in the control room. Damn it, man, surely you must know that!"
"Captain?"
"He's right." Remille turned to glare from the depths of his chair. "What is it?"
"You haven't a steward," said Dumarest. "I'm applying for the job." He sensed the hesitation, caught the glance each threw to the other. "I've done it before. Worked as a handler too. I know what has to be done."
"Let him do it," said the navigator after a moment. "Anything for peace. Just keep them quiet and happy."
The previous steward had been allocated a cabin at the end of the passage. It was bare, not even the cabinet containing a scrap of clothing. The bunk was stripped of bedding. The set of drawers normally filled with small items of personal value, like the cabinet, were empty.
Thoughtfully Dumarest moved back to the small room adjoining the salon. From a drawer he took a hypogun and loaded it with quick-time. Charl smiled at him as he moved towards the man.
"Throat or wrist?"
"Throat. It's more efficient."
"If you aim straight, I agree." The man tilted his head, exposing the side of his neck. "Go ahead."
Dumarest aimed the instrument, touched the trigger and it was done. Carried by a blast of air the drug penetrated the skin and fat to mingle directly in the bloodstream. The effect was immediate. As if stricken, Charl Tao slowed, turned into an apparent statue, not even his eyes moving as Dumarest moved to the others and treated each in turn. At the door of the salon he turned to look at them. All three were apparently frozen, their metabolism slowed by the chemical magic of quick-time so that, to them, normal hours passed as swiftly as minutes, weeks shrank into days. A convenience to relieve the tedium of long voyages.
Dephine was in her cabin. She had been sleeping but, as Dumarest entered, she woke to sit upright, stretching her arms above her head. Rest had taken some of the tiny lines of strain from around her eyes, but anticipation made her features even more sharp.
"Now, Earl?"
"Not yet."
"How long must we wait? Those crates are just begging to be examined. Who knows what we may have won? A fortune! Enough to keep us in luxury for the rest of our lives!" She saw the hypogun in his hand. "What's this?" She smiled when he told her. "So you're the new steward. A clever move, Earl. A crew member has advantages the passengers lack. Now hurry! Treat the others and let's see what we have!"
The crates lay in an untidy heap to one side of the hold, held only by a single lashing of rope, the restraint less than useless had the ship been subjected to sudden strain. Dumarest slashed it free and hauled at the topmost box. It thudded to the deck, the lid starting from its seating. With a jerk he tore it free. Beneath lay a mass of fiber which Dephine tore apart with her bare hands.
"Earl? What the hell-"
The crate was stacked with guns. Antiques. Each individually wrapped in plastic, each weapon carefully labeled. Dumarest lifted one, a rifle with a chased stock and an elaborate sight. The barrel was flared and the trigger of a peculiar shape.
"A hunting rifle made for the Mangate of Tyrone after the accident which deformed the muscles of his right hand. He-"
"Never mind that!" Dephine snatched the weapon from his hands as Dumarest read the label. "What about the others?"
They were all much the same, items which belonged to a collection or a museum, and with the thought came the answer.
"We took the wrong boxes." Dumarest turned one, read the small label previously unnoticed. "This comes from the Hargromond Collection. They packed the guns and put them into the warehouse for safe-keeping." He frowned at her expression. "I had no time to choose," he reminded. "These boxes were stacked close to the door and I figured they were the ones due for shipment. Blame Lofoten; not me."
"I don't blame you, Earl," she said quickly. "You did your best. No one could have done better. Let's look at the others."
Two held scraps of pottery and fragments of ceramic, another mouldering reports and carefully bound books which Dumarest checked then put aside. Had they been early navigational tables they would have held interest; as it was they were ancient histories of the first settlers, valuable only to those concerned.
Dephine drew in her breath as she dug into another crate.
"Earl!"
Beneath a layer of faded clothing rested small packets of opaque material. One, opened, rested in her hands, the sparkle of gems reflected in her eyes. A cache of jewels, carefully hidden, placed among items of small value for added concealment.
"Check the others." Dumarest watched as more gems came into view: a tiara, necklaces, pendant earrings, bracelets. All were of delicate workmanship, all old, all of high value. As Dephine slipped rings on her fingers, extending her hands to admire them, he said, "See what else that box contains."
"What do you think they are worth, Earl?"
"Our lives." He was grim. "If the others spot what we have how long do you think they would let us keep it?"
"The captain?"
"He and the others of the crew. They are little better than pirates." Replacing the lids they had removed Dumarest shifted the checked boxes to reach others lower down. "Hide those gems, Dephine. Find a place in your cabin for now and I'll look for a better one later on."
"We'll have to leave something, Earl. Remille would never believe that we had escaped with a load of rubbish."
A good point and one he had thought of, but the other crates might provide the answer. Items of value but too bulky to be easily hidden. Things it would take a specialist to sell, such as the antique guns, the mouldering books, the plaques of intricate workmanship valuable more for their designs than for the basic material.
They could be shown to the captain and shared with him. The portable loot he would keep.
Stooping he moved a crate to one side, cleared the lid of the one below, set his fingers at the edge and heaved. It resisted his tug and he leaned forward to study it. It seemed more sturdy than the others they had checked, thick wood fastened with heavy screws. The end held a red daub the others lacked. Others, similarly marked, rested at the bottom of the heap.
"Earl?"
"These are different," he said. "The soldiers must have mixed the consignment or just took those nearest to hand. I had no time to check."
"We'll need tools to open this." Dephine tugged at the lid. "Something of real value must rest inside and there are more than one. Earl! This could be it!"
The fortune everyone yearned for, hoped to obtain, dreamed of during the long, lonely hours. The magic which would turn a hell into a paradise-or so they thought. Too often sudden wealth ruined what was barely flawed, accentuated traits which would have been innocuous if left unstimulated.
He said, patiently. "Dephine, we have money. The gems."
"There could be more!" She tore at the lid, her nails scratching the wood, making ugly, tearing sounds. "Get some tools, Earl! Hurry!"
He fetched them from the engine room where the engineer sat facing the handler, a chess board between them, the bent fingers of the officer hovering over a pawn. It was a fraction of an inch away when Dumarest entered to select the tools. It had barely touched by the time he left. The move itself could take minutes of normal time.