A crone called out as Dumarest passed where she sat before a table brilliant with cabalistic symbols.
'Your fortune, my lord? Told with skills won from an ancient race and passed down through seventeen generations. Learn of the dangers which may lie in your path, perils which can be avoided.'
Another swung a small bag suspended from a gilded chain which, she assured him, would give full protection against the diseases of love, poisoned waters, and wild radiation.
A man sat like a brooding idol over an assembly of finger rings holding vibrant darts, needles tipped with venom, artificial fingernails of razor-sharp steel, brooches which could blast a stunning gas; subtle mechanisms for dealing death and pain, things much used by the harlots who needed such protection.
Dumarest paused at a stall from which rose tantalizing odors, buying a skewer of meat and vegetables seared over a flame. The food was hot, pungent with spice, crisp to the tongue. The woman who served him was tall, darkly attractive, the cleft in her blouse doing little to hide the swell of her breasts.
She watched as he ate with the fastidious neatness of a cat, her eyes roving over his face, his body, noting the tall hardness of him, the instinctive wariness. A man who had learned to survive the hard way, she decided. One without the protection and benefit of Guild, House or Organization. His face was somber, the planes and contours revealing an inner determination, the mouth hovering on the edge of becoming cruel. He met her eyes as he dropped the empty skewer on a tray.
'You like it?'
'It was good,' he admitted. 'How's trade?'
'It's early yet.' She turned to stare at the Hyead who worked at the back of the stall. 'Better start another batch, Kiasong. Set them up and leave them to soak.' To Dumarest she said, 'He's willing but he has to be watched.'
'And comes cheap?'
She shrugged, quivers manifest beneath the thin material of her blouse, the breasts, unbound, moving like oiled balloons.
'I give him food and a place to sleep. I had a man once, but he wanted more than I was willing to give. Now I operate alone.' Pausing she added, deliberately, 'Maybe, if he had looked like you things would have been different.'
Dumarest smiled at the compliment.
'Well, that's the way it goes,' she said. 'You looking for something?'
'A healer.'
'You sick?' She shrugged again as he made no answer. 'Try Bic Wan, he's two rows over, three stalls down. Not the cheapest, but you can trust his goods. Tell him Ayantel sent you, he'll treat you fair.'
He was a small man, wizened, his eyes like jewels in the meshed contours of his face. A round hat hugged his skull and his hands were thin, the fingers long, the nails sharpened to points. He sat behind a display of vials and containers of tablets and pills. Bunches of dried herbs hung beside clusters of seeds, withered fruits, strands of sun-dried kelp. A skull bore a tracery of lines, hollow sockets staring at the crowd. Metal chimes made small tinklings in the rising breeze.
'Ayantel,' he said. 'A fine woman with a shrewd mind and a discerning eye. She guided you well. What are your needs?' He blinked as Dumarest told him. 'The salve I can supply, the bone mender also, together with a syringe. But the other? My friend, what you ask is not easy.'
Dumarest produced coins, let them fall from one hand to the other.
'A compound to erase the barrier between truth and falsehood-how often have husbands asked for the same? Deluded men and suspicious women, eager to quell their fears or discover their rivals. If I had such a thing my fortune would be made.'
'Then you can't help me?'
'My friend, I am honest with you. I could give you what seems to do as you wish, but the resultant babble would be meaningless, the product of hallucination. You wish advice?'
'I am always willing to learn.'
'A wise man, and a humble one. That is well. Many would throw it back in my face and therefore compound their stupidity. There are means to induce sleep and, when used, there is a period during which questions may be asked and will be answered. It will not last long and the drug can only be used once. There are better methods, but they are the prerogative of the authorities. I am only a poor man, a seller of salves and healing compounds, what would I know of such things?' His shrug, his gesture, were timeless.
'Give me what you can,' said Dumarest.
He turned as the old man busied himself with items taken from beneath his counter. The market was growing busy, the scattered wanderers reenforced by workers from the field, others on leave from the site. Locals too, gaily dressed men and girls seeking recreation. From one side came the steady beating of a drum, the wail of a flute, a troupe of dancers spinning, flesh glowing in the multicolored illumination. Cunningly they stooped to pick up thrown coins, each gesture a titivation.
Life, brash, gay, abandoned, ruled the market square. It would grow to a crescendo, peaking at midnight when the stalls closed, the revelers wending their way home, others moving on to more decadent pursuits.
Against them, the monk stood like a faded statue in somber brown.
* * * * *
He stood before the exchange, an ornate building facing the square in which fortunes were made and lost, merchants gambling on cargoes which had yet to arrive. He was tall, thin. The face shielded by the cowl was emaciated with deprivation. A beggar without pride and having little success. The chipped bowl of plastic in his hand was empty. The sandals on his bare feet were scuffed, a strap broken and held together with twine. His voice was a droning murmur.
'Of your charity, brother, remember the poor.'
Few looked, less lingered, none threw money into the bowl. A plump trader, his hands heavy with gems, his face oiled with good living, laughed as he flung a harlot a coin.
'That for your smile, Mayelle. Today I cleared a big profit. Tomorrow-who can tell?'
'Thank you, my lord.' Deftly the coin was slipped beneath a gown slit to reveal glimpses of what lay beneath. 'If a smile brought so much, then surely a kiss would bring more?'
'Don't tempt me, girl. I cannot afford the delay. Even while talking a fortune could be made.'
'Brother,' said the monk, 'remember the poor.'
'You remember them.' The plump man was indifferent. 'I'm too busy.'
Brother Sayre made no comment, felt no anger at the cynicism. To have done so would have been to verge on the sin of pride, and that would have been a refutation of what he was and what he stood for. Pride and self- indulgence had no place in the Church of the Universal Brotherhood. Each monk shed all thought of personal comfort when he donned the plain, homespun robe, took the bowl of plastic, accepted the privation which would be his normal lot.
A hard life, but none who joined the Brotherhood expected otherwise. To stand, to beg, to give aid when aid could be given, to comfort always. To follow the creed of the Church, to extend the teaching which alone would end all hurt, all pain, all despair. No man is an island. All belong to the corpus humanitatis. The anguish of one is the torment of all. If all men could be brought to recognize one basic truth, to remember as they looked at another-there, but for the grace of God, go I-the millennium would have arrived.
'Of your charity, brother, remember the poor.'
Halting before the monk Dumarest said, 'Brother, I need your help.'
'You are in distress?'
'No.' Dumarest dropped coins in the bowl. He was generous, but both knew it was not a bribe. 'I need information.'
'There are places where answers may be found.'
Taverns, shops, agencies, the field itself, the records, the complex which sold computer-time, the men who traded in nothing else. But each question would leave a trail, arouse curiosity, focus unwanted attention on him.
'There is a young man,' said Dumarest. 'A boy. Leon Harvey. I wondered if you know of him.'
'Does he belong to the Church?'
