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.'
He felt skin beneath his hands, the warmth of naked flash, a soft, familiar rotundity. As he backed into the glow of massed fungi Santis released his breath with a whistle.
'Who would have guessed it? A girl!'
She was almost naked, the fabric falling from one shoulder and cinctured at the waist covering little more than breasts and loins. Her hair was long, dark, richly shining. Her feet were bare as were her legs and arms. One hand held a scrap of flaked stone and the other was lifted as if in defense or appeal. Her face had a round, child- like quality. She looked about twelve.
She said, 'Don't touch me, mister!'
'I won't.' Dumarest lowered his knife. 'Who are you?' Then, as she made no answer. 'Have you been following us?'
'Yes.'
'Why?'
'You going to hurt me?' She lowered her own crude weapon as he shook his head. 'I was curious. You're lost, aren't you? I can tell. You've wandered too far and crossed your tracks too often to be anything else. You've licked water from the stone and haven't eaten at all for days. You hungry? Want a nice bowl of stew? Something good to eat and a soft bed to go with it.'
'And?'
'And what?' She looked at Dumarest with childish innocence. 'I'm Ania. That's what the others call me. What do they call you?' She nodded as he told her. 'Earl. I like that. Do you want to come with me, Earl?'
'My friends?'
'They can come too. It isn't far. But we must hurry. It isn't safe to hang around here. We'll be safer farther along and in the lower galleries. They'll never catch us there. Come on now, Earl. Hurry!'
She took his hand and dragged. Santis said, dubiously. 'It could be a trap.'
'A trap?' Kemmer echoed his doubts. 'She's just a child.'
'Big enough to carry a knife and big enough to use it,' said the mercenary. 'I've met her kind before; bait to lead the unwary into trouble. There could be others waiting ahead of us.'
Dumarest said, to the girl, 'Is there anyone ahead?'
'Do you want that food or not?' She sounded impatient. 'If you do then let's get on with it. We can't afford to be found here.' She added, 'Either come on or let me go.'
Dumarest had his fingers wrapped around her wrist. He kept them there as he followed the girl. She led them through a narrow passage and into an arching gallery filled with minor trickles, murmurs, tappings. An acoustic freak which caught distant sounds and magnified them. Listening, Dumarest recognized the pulse of machines, the sighing gust of ventilators, a peculiar scraping and scratching.
'It's from the reactor,' said the girl when he asked. 'They're busy adjusting the ratios. Listen again!' She halted then, as she stepped forward again, asked, 'Did you hear it?'
