The Complete Dumarest, page 298
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 Mettalus 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!”
“Failing?” He frowned then, catching the meaning, hesitated between rage and laughter. To mock his family was unforgivable and yet Keith did make himself ridiculous at times. And it would do no harm to take Ellain’s side—Khan, at least, would be pleased. “A recent development,” he said seriously. “He cannot see anything which does not belong to him. Nor anything he envies and cannot obtain. But there is nothing wrong with his ears.”
“Ears? What are you thinking about? What—” He stuttered to a brief silence then, with a shrug, continued, “Have your joke, my boy. Laugh at an old man while you can. But at least let me hear something worth listening to while I am your guest.” His eyes swiveled toward Ellain. “If you would accommodate me, my dear, I would be grateful.”
“Yunus?”
He delayed his permission, selecting a sweetmeat from a selection on a salver of precious metal, biting into it with a flash of strong, white teeth. A childish display of arrogance but one which had to be tolerated. Only when he had finished the morsel did he nod.
“Go ahead, my dear. It is time we had some entertainment worthy of our station.”
The musicians were assembled at the end of the chamber; a small group but equipped with electronic devices which extended their range. She conferred with them for a moment, emphasized certain points and then took her position. A moment then, as the lights began to dim and the soft sounds of controlled vibrations welled from the musicians behind her, she began to sing.
She had chosen to begin with Remsley’s Banachata, a relatively simple piece but one holding unsuspected difficulties for the novice with its abrupt changes of key and tempo. Teen Veroka had used it as a test piece and had been scathing in his comments to those who failed to perform to his satisfaction. She had not failed and it was a good choice to set the mood for the songs to follow: Hezekiah’s Passion of the Heart and Ecuilton’s Interlude. But now she needed to concentrate on the Banachata.
It began softly, slowly, suddenly rising to a shrill and almost raucous scream, to fall undulatingly over octaves to throb like a drum then to blur into a formless stream of incoherent words which stimulated the imagination of those who listened, guiding them to fit their own patterns, their own concepts. Tonal magic enhanced by the sounding board of chest and throat, projected, modulated by larynx and tongue, lips and teeth, rising from the stomach as muscles, and training turned her entire body into a living facsimile of the pipe of an organ, a flute, the wail of a fife, the sonorous echo of a drum.
She held them, after the first few moments she knew it. The gown, the display of flesh, all were unnecessary, her vocal magic was enough. Khan Barrocca sat, a goblet half-raised to his lips, his desire for wine forgotten in his appreciation of her art. Jashir Yagnik brooded, his face betraying his envy, his eyes his need. Chole Khalil, young, impressionable, stared at her body but saw only the imagery of his dreams. Yunus, Keith, the others assembled with their toys—all were in the hollow of her hand. An audience to manipulate, to control. And, suddenly, she was a child again sitting in the great auditorium of the Opera House, looking, listening, knowing with every cell of her body what her destiny must be. To sing. To create rapture. To deliver joy.
The Banachata drew toward its end, shrill, clear notes wafting like birds, caught, amplified, engaged in a mesh of grace-notes, the main theme rising to fall to rise again in a calculated sonic wave which matched the aural emotional triggers inherent in all who were human. Science wedded to art and served as entertainment.
The piece ended with a sharp abruptness, the silence shocking, stunning, then, before the spell could be broken, she began the second selection.
Hezekiah had worked on it for half his life and had died still unsatisfied but few would admit that he had achieved less than perfection. This time there were words all could follow, each syllable chosen for semantic and emotive impact, the music accentuating the message as her own skill modulated it, tone and key changing, pure melody providing contrast, long ululations stretching and distorting time. A tapestry of sound and music, words and tone, cadences weaving as threads, glissades, apparent cacophonies, the final, triumphant cadenza.
This time she waited for applause, bowing, smiling as Barrocca hurled down his goblet in order to beat his hands, Yagnik rising to cry out, a sound born of emotion, torn from his soul. Chole Khalil joined him, adding to the storm rising from the table. Even Yunus clapped and his uncle dented a salver with the impact of a spoon.
Slowly the room regained its calm. Silence came to replace the din but only when it was complete did she give the signal to the watchful musicians. With a chord as solemn as a prayer the Interlude began.
Ecuilton had been a child during the war which had ruined his planet. He had seen his mother die in a burning house, his father torn by explosives, his brother crisped by searing pastes. He had witnessed all the horror and vileness of internecine combat and, later, the indifference of the victors to what had happened to the vanquished. To them, as to the others, the thing had been a mere interlude. To him it was a thing he could never forget and, old, crippled and dying, he had created a masterpiece.
Ellain hated it.
She hated what it did to her, the emotions it aroused; the pain and fury and frustration. The injustice. The horror. The imagery of burning, screaming children, of shrieking, distraught women. Of men crawling like half-crushed insects, blind, groping, entrails trailing like greasy ribbons. Of boots stamping on pleading, extended hands. Of the bewildered cries of helpless babies starving as they sucked at the breasts of raped and murdered mothers. The violation of the soil. The stink, the filth, the obscenity of war.
Hated it and yet loved it too. Enjoyed it in part and echoed that enjoyment to match the bleak despair. Feeling the tension mount in her loins, the hardening of her nipples as she sang of blood and pain; a sexual stimulus matched by the disgust of those who warred against the helpless. A contradiction of civilized mind and primitive nature which created, for her, a vibrant excitement. Often she ended the Interlude shuddering in orgasm.
But not this time. Now she controlled her emotions, resisting the impulse to yield to the spell of the tonal and musical magic, projecting, aiming the notes like bullets at her audience. As the last rose to hang quivering like a scream, to end with the impact of a fist, she bowed, hair cascading to mound on the floor, one long thigh exposed to gleam in the subdued light, the lines of her back illuminated by the spotlight which had shone throughout her performance.
And again the room quivered to the thunder of applause.
“My dear!” Yunus rose to greet her as she neared the table. “You were wonderful! Superb!”
He was gratified, basking in the adulation given by the others to his toy. A matter of pride, equal to that felt by the owner of a winning horse, the possessor of an intelligent dog. And yet, as he touched her, she felt that there could be something more. A tenderness. A regard. Surely she must mean more to him than a voice to beguile his guests?
Then Khan Barrocca said, “Yunus, I offer ten thousand kren for her contract.”
“Only ten?” Yunus shrugged. “You aim too low, my friend.”
“A hundred!” Young Chole gulped, recognizing his temerity. “A hundred thousand, Yunus!”
She waited for him to reject the offer, to make it plain to all that he regarded her as beyond price. Instead he said, musingly, “You tempt me, Chole. A hundred, you say?”
“Yes.”
“And you have it?” He smiled at the other’s hesitation, “No? Well, approach me again when you do.”
The smile had betrayed his nature, it had held more cruelty than amusement and it had not been kind to have made sport of the boy. Yet the offer, if nothing else, had restored some of her lost confidence. Why need she be so dependent on Yunus Ambalo? She was unique while he was but one of many—a fact she had tended to forget.
“No, my dear,” he said quietly, and it was as if he’d read her mind. “I am not to be discarded so easily. You must remember that it is I who own your contract. It is to me you are indebted.”
She said, bitterly, “Could I ever forget it?”
