Web of Sand

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.