The last overlay fell as he ripped it clear. Ahead now he could see a solid wall, sand drifted high, the shape of domes. The edge of the city and they reached it as, again, the storm closed around them.
'Earl! I can't see!' Santis clawed at his helmet. 'The overlays are gone!'
'Feel! Maurice, look for a vent. A shaft of some kind.' Dumarest lowered his hands from his helmet, the shielding gloves now worn paperthin. 'There has to be some-the city has to breathe.'
To breathe and to discharge foul vapors. The underground layers needed air pumped down from the surface and that air needed to be drawn through shafts. Sealed now, perhaps, but seals could be broken.
But where? Where?
The blast of wind eased a little as they crept into the leeward side of the city, swirls and erratic gusts trying to pull them from the shelter, eddies which hammered at them with fists of dust. It was impossible to see, hard to concentrate, but unless they found a shaft they were dead.
'Here!' Kemmer shouted from where he stood against a cylindrical protrusion. 'Is this it?'
His words were thin, lost in the storm, carried only by the taut rope linking them together. Dumarest joined him, Santis following, hands extended as he groped. His helmet was totally opaque. Together they searched for signs of an opening; a port or grill, a cap which could be lifted, a scoop to be forced. They found the outline of a flap facing away from the wind, a hinged plate now firm, too tightly fitted to permit fingers to be thrust beneath the overlapped edge.
Stooping, Dumarest ripped at the material covering his right leg. Eroded by the dust, the suit tore like paper to reveal his boot, the knife carried in it. Snatching out the blade, he drove it under the rim and moved it until it hit the catch. A jerk and the flap was open: Inside was a circular space fifteen feet across meshed with thin struts.
'In!' He guided the mercenary, his own helmet now frosted with scratches. 'Keep hold of the struts and move from the opening. Now you!' Kemmer followed, Dumarest coming after, turning to close the flap. The catch was bent and he hammered it tight with the pommel of his knife. 'Now down! Move down!'
Down and away from the noise and fury of the storm. Down to where the space narrowed sixty feet down to half its diameter and where a wide ledge gave support on which to rest, to remove the suits, to relax in the knowledge that, incredibly, they were safe.
The jeweler took his time; examining the items with exaggerated care, probing, using a lens to study detail. Watching him Ellain snapped, 'For God's sake, man, why take so long? If you know your trade you know their value. What do you offer?' She frowned at the answer. 'So little?'
'If you wish to sell I could offer more. As a pledge-' He shrugged, a small, wizened man with old, cynical eyes. More than one attractive woman had come to him on similar errands and some had even returned to redeem their goods. 'You will take it? Good. The name?' He paused, frowning. 'Yunus Ambalo? Are you sure?'
'I am pledging these things in his name.'
'And your own?' He smiled as she told him. 'Ellain Kiran the singer? Madam, let me thank you for the pleasure you have given. I heard you at the assembly given by the Guild. That must have been shortly after you arrived. An event to remember.'
And praise which warmed her as she left the shop. A small thing, but artists lived on such, and somehow, it had taken some of the sordidness from the transaction. To pawn Yunus's things was a despicable act-but what else when she was so desperate? And it wasn't theft. She could argue that in court if it ever came to it. It was no more than a loan; his goods were safe and could be redeemed. All it would take was money and, if luck was with her, he need never know.
A hope which died as, rounding a corner, she saw him standing, smiling before her.
'I hope you bargained well, my dear.' He took the tickets from her pouch, the money. 'Why didn't you sell your own possessions?'
She had and he knew it, knew too that the money gained had been lost. And now this. But why had he allowed her to stay in the apartment?
The answer lay in his eyes, the curve of his mouth. A cat teasing a mouse, allowing it the pretense of freedom then to strike, to wound, and finally to kill. God, how he must hate her!
She said, 'Either call the Guard, Yunus, or let me go. I have things to arrange.'
'The Guard?' He shrugged. 'What could I tell them? You pledged some trifles on my behalf. A clever move, my dear, to use my name so openly. Did I give you the idea when I mentioned certain items which could have been stolen? If so you are quick to learn.' His voice deepened a little, became a feral purr. 'And there is so much for you still to learn. To accept the fact that I am your master, for one. That what I wish you will do. That my command will be your desire. Think of it, Ellain. Our life could become so-interesting.'
One in which he would no longer trouble to hide the real side of his nature. He would become the pervert, the degenerate and she would be forced to cater to his every whim. To crawl and kiss his feet, the lash which he would use to beat her, the blood dappling her flesh. She had seen such creatures-despicable toys of the Cinque. Yunus wanted her to emulate them.
He said, 'Enough for the present. Let us make a short journey. I have some business to attend to and I'm sure you will find it interesting.' He turned to signal a cab. As she entered he said, to the driver, 'The Exchange.'
'No, Yunus!'
'No?' The lift of his eyebrows was sardonic. 'Would you prefer me to summon the Guard? On second thoughts I distinctly remember not having given you permission to pledge those items. In which case, once having removed them from the apartment, you became guilty of theft. Now, my dear, shall we go to the Exchange?'
It was a place of whispering voices as dealers worked at their trades, relating lies, promises, bright speculations in figures which held blood, despair, broken lives. A large, vaulted chamber, the floor smooth and set with a pattern of interwoven lines of black against the dull ochre. The walls were painted with abstract murals, points of brilliance flashing with reflected light to give the illusion of moving, watching eyes. Benches set in long array and one end was occupied by a dais furnished with chairs and a long table. A busy place with cabs thronging the broad passages outside and with a constant stream of people coming and going.
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!'
