Things Zehava had explained and which Dumarest repeated with elaborations. The story they had concocted which made no mention of Arpagus and hinted at mutual attraction as well as mutual convenience.
'How romantic.' Rhia sighed her envy. 'You are fortunate, Earl. She could give you the chance to become a very rich man. Of course, to make the most of the opportunity, you will need the right kind of friends.'
'Which I hope I have found.' Dumarest reached for another nut. 'I am glad we have things in common and can be of mutual assistance. We must discuss details during our passage.'
He sensed the release of tension at the hoped-for response. The implied response of further discussion and the arranging of details. One close to an important member of the Kaldari would have powerful influence and could increase already bloated profits.
Montiel said, 'I would say that you are a much traveled man, Earl. Certainly I would take you to be an authority on the diversity of Man. It happens to be a hobby of mine and I wonder if-'
'Zinny! Please!' The blonde lifted her hands in protest. 'Not again. Not now. You'll bore Earl to death.' To Dumarest she explained, 'He's got this crazy idea that all men could have originated on one planet. It's obviously impossible. The very divergence of types is evidence against it; black, brown, yellow, white – all from one world? Impossible!'
'The ability to interbreed proves all belong to a common species,' snapped Montiel. 'But you object too quickly, Marcia. I was going to ask Earl if he has heard of the Lugange theory dealing with the composition of cultural structures. It is based on the assumption that there are five basic types of human; rulers, creators, warriors, builders, followers. Rulers must lead,' he explained. 'Always they must be at the top; the ones who make the decisions, give the orders, command obedience. Creators are innovators, artists, thinkers, those who plan. Warriors fight against the forces which always threaten us; death, disease, famine, drought, the environment itself. Builders construct. They are the craftsmen, the artisans, the engineers who turn dreams and plans into concrete reality. Followers serve. They lack imagination and are reluctant to change. They cling to old ways, old traditions, and resist those who threaten their established way of life.'
'The majority,' said Brasch. 'But essential, surely?'
'Yes,' agreed Montiel. 'They ensure a degree of stability but the ratio has to be within certain limits. Too high and you get a static society. Too low and there is no buffer against chaos. Too many changes made too quickly can destroy the social fabric.'
'Warriors would take care of that,' said Marcia. 'Soldiers.'
'Soldiers are followers. They take orders and obey without question. A warrior will think for himself and choose his enemy. A doctor is a warrior. A nurse. A farmer. A destroyer of predators. Naturally there is overlap – a composer is a creator but not all musicians can compose. Those who simply play to order take on the attributes of a follower. The difference in the various categories is the inherent ability and drive which dictates the use of individual thought and action.'
'What are we, Zinny?' Rhia smiled at Dumarest. 'I know what Earl is, a warrior if there ever was one, but the rest of us? We like to give orders. We like to build fortunes and create new markets. We fight to keep what we have. What does that make us?'
'On the edge of becoming boring.' Hollman Brasch smiled at the company. 'Let us leave this mess and enjoy wine in another room. Earl, when you wish, a servant will guide you to your chamber.'
Like the rest of the house it was a place of luxury with scented water in the shower and hot air serving as towels. As he moved towards the bed, a robe covering his nakedness, Zehava entered the room.
She too wore a robe, a thin, clinging swathe of fabric which held subdued glitters and subtle tones. The satchel she carried pulled at her shoulder and made a heavy sound as she put it down.
'Here. I thought you'd be worried about it.'
An excuse to visit his room – the food and wine had induced more than fatigue.
'It was safe where it was.' He added, 'I though you'd be asleep by now.'
'I was restless. Thinking. What did you all talk about after I left?'
'Montiel did most of the talking. He wanted to expound a theory he has -'
'I've heard it. He thinks all men originated on one world. Some mythical planet. He gets boring. He should find something new.'
'He has. The Lugange theory.' He told her about it as she moved restlessly about the room. 'If there's anything in it Kaldar must have a high ratio of warriors.'
'So?'
'Who does all the work?'
A question she ignored. 'What else was said?'
'Nothing of importance. That's the reason I stayed behind,' he explained. 'I wanted to let them know I was a free agent and could be trusted. You must have known that.' A sop to her pride, her offended dignity. 'But they were wary. Just putting out hints and feelers. They're saving the real business until we're on our way.'
'I can guess what it will be.' Her lips thinned in anger. 'I've no illusions as to what these people are. Don't think of conspiring with them against me, Earl. It wouldn't be wise.'
The warning of a jealous woman and a reminder of unfinished business. He glanced at the satchel. Once on Kaldar she would be among her own kind and it was better for her to learn the truth before appearing a fool. But not yet. Not until they were safely on their way.
Chapter Five
Some fool had torched Gannitown and thick plumes of black smoke rose to mar the lavender clarity of the morning sky. Watching them Brak scowled; the town had no real value and its inhabitants little more, but without the ganni the irrigation canals would choke, the crops fall, dirt mount in the streets of the city. The old problems of labor-shortage now aggravated by some hothead out on a spree.
'Mel Jumay,' said a voice behind him. 'Yesterday he reached his majority and decided to celebrate.'
Nadine who seemed at times to have the ability to read minds, but Brak knew there was nothing mysterious about her comment. Only a fool would have failed to recognize his irritation and the Jumays were notorious for undisciplined behavior.
'Three sections destroyed,' she continued. 'A dozen ganni burned and twice as many with superficial injuries. Cuts,' she explained. 'Singes. Most were asleep when it happened. The cost -'
'Will be met.'
'By Mel Jumay?'
A boy, barely a man, with nothing behind him but his family's reputation. Brak smarted at the cynicism in her voice, the tone which hinted at his own weakness. One he rejected with brusque anger.
'The damage will be repaired and the expense borne by the boy and his family. Have no doubt as to that.'
She made no comment and he was grateful. If nothing else the girl had a sharp wit and an acid tongue. Turning he looked at her, seeing the ghost which rested beneath the contours of her face. A harder, older visage, but one with the same dark enigma of the eyes, the generous curve of the lips, the strong jaw. The ebon mane of her hair was longer, the skin paler, but never could there be any doubt that she was his brother's child.
'Uncle?'
'Nothing.' He turned from her stare, the question in her eyes. The memories were too strong and he brushed them aside as he limped to the far edge of the tower. 'Why don't you go down?'
'Later.'
He could have insisted and she would have obeyed, but what would have been gained by the exercise of his authority? Instead he leaned against the parapet, looking over the city, seeing other towers, the buildings which set them apart, the narrow streets which wound like serpents between high and featureless walls.
A complex of defensive structures enclosing stores, bunkers, arsenals buried deep. In the center lay the great square ringed with shops and sheds. Warehouse sprawled to the north now mostly empty. To the south lay the factories, too small and too idle. Instead of the flood of raw materials to be processed there was only a trickle of scrap, broken and obsolete parts, discarded rubbish. It had been too easy to acquire the new to replace the old. Too simple to take instead of making. Now the artisans capable of operating the machines were too few and far too expensive.
'A mistake,' said Nadine. 'One of timing.'
