Some nodded to Yunus while others, too engrossed in business, failed to see him pass. Words hovered about them like a miasma.
"… for twenty. Initial debt was for five but it climbed. No fault of the debtor-he had an accident and crushed a hand. He's healed now, a good worker and reliable for his wages. Young too. I'll accept nineteen."
And would settle for less. Another voice, this time strained, desperate.
"For God's sake, mister, I only borrowed a couple of thousand! I've repaid ten times that already and now you say I owe as much again. I'm doing my best but how the hell…"
A question repeated from where others stood; couples, small groups, some arguing, others bland, confident of their power. Men who played a game with human lives as counters with no danger to themselves.
"… old but going cheap. On paper he owes twenty-two thousand but we must be realistic. I'll take seven hundred and fifty. A good investment. You could farm him out and get your money back in a few months. From then on it's all profit."
Unless the man died within a few weeks as was more than likely.
Ellain turned away, disgusted, conscious of the fear which prickled her skin. Here was the place where debts were bought and sold and the final product of the system could be seen. A debtor was a free man. He could not be beaten, flogged, tortured but there were other ways of pursuading him to pay. And one sure way of making those who had neglected their obligations try their best.
She watched as they were led on the dais; the weak, the stubborn, the lazy. Those who had tried to beat the system by borrowing to gamble and who had lost. Others made victims through no fault of their own.
The tribunal sat and the formalities began.
"Number 49," droned an attendant. "Has refused to meet his obligations for the past four months. Refuses to work as directed. Has been warned several times. No certified physical disability."
The head of the tribunal, an old man, said, "What have you to say in your defense?"
"I had a sickness in the stomach." Number 49 had a surly, disgruntled voice. "It costs to get treatment so I did without. And they wanted me to work down in the Burrows by a reactor. I've heard what it's like down there. So I refused. But I'll pay-I swear it!"
"Unless you meet your next month's obligation you will be liable for eviction if your creditor so desires. The next time you appear before us you will be evicted without further argument or delay. Next!"
A woman with an ailing child who stammered her excuses and promised to do anything to earn the money if only the court would show mercy. The court obliged. A moronic youth who grinned vacuously and was given another chance. A crippled oldster, obviously incapable of heavy labor, who was given none at all. Others.
Too many others.
Watching, Ellain wondered why they were so meek. Why so humble. They were facing personal extinction so what had they to lose?
What had she?
"Look at them, my dear." Yunus whispered at her side, his voice holding a chilling mirth. "Just remember that, if I wish, you could be there among them. Owned interest, the proof of theft, no prospect of an income-need I say more?"
A statement of his position as it was a revealing of her own. She was as trapped as any standing on the dais; caught under a mountain of debt, prevented from working, unable to pay.
And no one would be willing to pay for her. Yunus was of the Cinque and who would risk his displeasure? And who, of his own kind, would work against him?
"The storm," he murmured again. "So old now. Who could possibly live in it? Poor Dumarest." His voice grew hard, ugly. "He certainly has paid dearly for his pleasure-you slut!"
Chapter Twelve
Before them something cluttered to run and crouch with watchful, wary eyes. A rodent, adapted to its environment, ready to defend itself if attacked. Dumarest ignored it as did the others. Vermin were to be expected among the sludge and garbage which was the unavoidable by-product of any city. In Harge it was collected in the Burrows; a multi-layered complex of thick walls, galleries, artificial caverns containing lakes of decaying sewage. Of necessity the city had to recycle its waste.
But there was more in the place than the workers busy in the utilities, the rodents watching to snatch what they could find. Among the ramps and corridors, the junctions lit with cold, blue light were patches of darkness and shadowed enigma; narrow passages leading to empty spaces once used now long neglected. Areas made obsolete by the use of new, compact equipment, by-passed in lateral expansion, discovered bubbles which could not be fitted into the general plan. A world where floors and walls were slimed, thick with encrustations, mottled with pale fungi emitting a ghostly luminescence. Water seeped from spongy rock or lay in dew-like condensation on naked stone.
A maze reflecting echoes. One which held the soft pad of cautious feet.
Santis had caught the sound. He said, softly, "I get the impression we're being followed. An ambush?"
Dumarest had also caught the warning signals. He halted, listening, eyes searching the gloom. To one side a patch of fungi glowed a leprous green. Others shone farther down the gallery, dotted up in irregular patches on the walls, some clustered to the roof high above. A narrow, wedge-shaped crack which twisted as it rose but rose only to descend again.
"The guards?" Kemmer whispered the suggestion. "Could it be a patrol?"
"No."
"But-"
"One pair of feet," said Santis impatiently. "That's all I've heard. No guard would be patrolling alone and whoever made that noise wasn't wearing boots. Quiet, now, and listen!"
As yet they had avoided the guards and workers, not wanting to be checked or having to answer questions. Gaining time so as to move well away from the foot of the shaft down which they had descended. Time in which to rest and sleep and move on and up through the lower regions of the area. Time in which to realize they were completely lost.
Dumarest looked at a patch of distant fungi. It had flickered as if something had passed before it. The occlusion could have been an optical image, the result of tired eyes, but he didn't think so. Someone or something was out there watching their progress.
To Santis he whispered, "Stay here with Maurice. Pretend you are talking to me. I'm going to see what's up ahead."
He moved forward, boots silent on the stone, stepping like a shadow from one patch of gloom to the next, halting often to merge with the stillness. The murmurs behind him faded as he pressed on, a susuration which lost form and meaning and became merely the sign of living presences. As, before him, he sensed another.
Dumarest froze as, again, he saw the patch of fungi blacken to shine again. A guard? It was barely possible and if so the man could guide them but, if they were searched, the tranneks they carried would be confiscated as undeclared imports and they themselves would be fined or imprisoned. And, if a cyber were waiting, it would be to walk straight into his grasp.
Again he saw the flicker of darkness, closer this time as if, whoever it was had grown impatient and was heading to where the men stood talking. Dumarest waited then followed, dodging the giveaway patches of brightness by stooping beneath them, running on his toes, hands extended, touching, folding to clamp around the figure which suddenly loomed before him.
"Steady!" His knife was against the throat, the edge pressing in silent warning. "Don't move. We won't hurt you. Just stand still and let's get a look at you."