Sonef was playing by his own rules, ignoring relative odds and ensuring that, with all sections covered, he had a high advantage. An advantage increased by his own skillful dealing.
Dumarest watched, a little amused, wondering how the players could have been so gullible. At his side Leon said, wistfully, 'Earl, we could double our stake in a few minutes with luck.'
'Luck?'
'You think he's cheating?'
Dumarest was certain of it, but it was not his concern. He turned from the cluster of players and moved towards his bunk, thumbing open the small box at the head. The towel was still damp, but if he left it exposed it would be stolen. He threw it into the container and slammed it shut. It would stay that way until the lock recognized the imprint of his thumb.
'It's getting late, Leon. Let's eat.'
The canteen was a crude hut filled with tables and benches, staffed with old men and cripples, a scatter of Hyead. Dumarest stepped aside as one came towards him busy with a broom. A thin, stooped figure, dressed in filthy robes tied with knotted string. A ravaged face, peaked, the eyes slotted like those of a goat. Blunt horns rose above a tangle of hair, gray shot with russet. The hands which held the broom were four-fingered claws.
Despised, degenerate, the product of wild mutations, found running like animals in the mountains by the early settlers and now used as servitors.
Cheap labor, working for discarded clothing and scraps of food, kicked, cursed, or ignored by men who were themselves little better than beasts.
Dumarest led the way to the counter, picking carefully at the food, selecting items high in protein and low in bulk. An expensive choice, but one which gave better nutritional value than the steaming chaff bought by the majority.
As they ate Leon said, 'Earl, how did you know Sonef was cheating?'
'Did I say he was?'
'No, but was he?'
'You saw the way he dealt, cards face up and using no regular rotation. He was manipulating the bets, letting the low stakes win, taking the high. Once you know how to bottom-deal it's easy.'
'Could you do it?'
Dumarest ignored the question. 'Tell me about Nerth.'
'It's a dump.'
'And?'
'It's just a world, Earl. A backwater. Mostly farms, no industries, hardly any cities. Ships are rare. They only call to pick up furs and gems, and deliver tools and instruments. No one with any sense would want to go there.'
'And you ran,' said Dumarest quietly. 'Why?'
'Why did you?' snapped Leon. 'What started you on the move?' Immediately he was contrite. 'I'm sorry, I guess that's none of my business. Let's just say that I was bored.'
'A young man,' said Dumarest. 'You had a family, a home?'
'If you can call it that, yes.' Leon stared down at his plate, then seemed to come to a decision. 'I belonged to a commune, Earl. It lay well back in the hills and was as isolated as you could get. Maybe I'm a freak of some kind, but I couldn't accept what they had planned for me. The tests, the ritual, the arranged marriage, the duties.' His laugh was bitter. 'The duties. Can you guess what they would have been? Just guarding a lot of old records. A Keeper of the Shrine. In twenty years, maybe, I'd have made assistant Guardian. In fifty, I might have even become the Head. Fifty years of dusting, brooding, worshiping-I couldn't face it, I had to run.'
'How?'
'I-does it matter?'
A boy, twisted, unsettled according to his fellows, a rebel, a failure. Someone who would have planned, waited and stolen when the time came. Something of value which would have been sold to gain the initial passage money-an old story and a familiar one. Only the name held an unusual connotation. Nerth.
'You spoke of records. What were they?'
'Books, papers, I don't know.' Leon shrugged at Dumarest's expression. 'I never saw them. They are held sacred. A load of superstitious rubbish, of course, but there it is. Once a year we had a ceremony and everyone congregated, and chanted and acted like a bunch of fools. I'm well out of it.'
Coincidence or design? If the latter, then the boy was a good actor, if he were the boy he appeared to be. A question which would have to be resolved and soon. A decision made-and if he guessed wrong then his life would be at stake.
Dumarest leaned back, studying the young face, the eyes. Would the Cyclan have been so obvious? The name, the talk of ancient records, a secret to be found, an answer to be gained perhaps. The answer for which he had searched for so long.
Nerth… New Earth… Earth-there had to be a connection.
'Earl?' Leon had become aware of the scrutiny. 'Is anything wrong?'
'No.' Dumarest rose to his feet. 'We'd better get moving. I'll join you at the hut.'
'Why not go together?'
Dumarest made no answer, crossing to a vending machine, waiting until the other had gone before filling his pocket with bars of candy.
* * * * *
As usual, Nyther was in a foul mood. He stood behind his desk in the guard hut, a big man with a craggy face and hard, unrelenting eyes. His shoulders strained at the fabric of his uniform, a bolstered laser heavy at his waist. He nodded as Dumarest entered and crossed to a table to collect his equipment.
To Leon he said, 'You looked peaked, boy. I'm not sure you can handle the job.'
'I can handle it.'
'Maybe, but I'm putting you under Nygas. If you want to quit, now's the time.'
A threat and a warning. Nygas was noted for his ferocity. Men who slept on duty under his command woke up screaming with shattered bones.
'I'm not quitting.'
'Then get out of here.' As the boy left Nyther said to Dumarest, 'I'm putting you on free-patrol, Earl. Work the southeastern sector. It means an increase and a double bonus if you catch anyone stealing. I've had a gutful of losses and it has to stop.'
'More lights would help.'
'More lights, more men and more equipment,' agreed Nyther bleakly. 'Given the money, there's always an answer. But we haven't got the money so it's no use dreaming about it. Just stay alert, keep moving, summon help if you think you need it, and remember the bonus.'
Outside night had fallen, the area illuminated by floodlights set on pylons, swaths of brilliance cut by paths of shadow, the face of the workings a blaze of eye-bright glare. Men moved about it like ants, machines throbbing, diggers, loaders, trucks, making an endless snarl.
Dumarest turned, heading towards his position, moving in shadow and noting everything he saw.
A group of men arguing, on the edge of a fight, ready to kick and pummel.
A crane, the load swinging dangerously, carelessly held.
An overseer, yelling, his arms flailing to accentuate his orders.
And, everywhere, the signs of haste and urgency, the traces of poverty and neglect.
Of men, never of machines. The Zur-Sekulich Combine took care of their own.
The roar from the workings died a little, fading to a grating susurration as Dumarest neared the edge of the construction site. Stores and supplies stood in neat array, crates piled high, lashed and sealed, standing until needed. The ground was rough, bristling with rocks, laced with small cracks which could trap a foot and break an ankle. The pylons were fewer, the shadows wider.
Passing the last of the crates Dumarest halted, his body silhouetted against the light. For a long moment he stood clearly visible to anyone who might be watching from the surrounding darkness, then he moved to one side and rested his back against a crate.
