As he'd suspected it was fitted as a dormitory, the floor of tamped dirt, the cots flimsy metal frames bearing thin mattresses and a single cover. There were no windows. Each end was pierced by a door. Lamps stood with a clutter of small items of a personal nature on narrow shelves. A table stood in the center of the floor ringed with benches. It carried a heap of plates, a container of water and a dozen earthenware cups. The air held the unmistakable odor of too many men living too close.

Nowhere could he see any sign of weapons.

The rear door opened on a narrow space faced with the hut set crosswise to the others. He had been wrong, about its purpose. Half was a cooking area with fires burning beneath metal plates on which stood containers of stew. The other half was locked. The latrine he found by its odor; poles set over a trench dusted with a chemical compound, the whole shaded by a camouflaged curtain. It lay well to one side and, at a thought, Dumarest checked the hut he had first entered. At the side of the rear door was a couple of lidded buckets-for use in case of need during the night.

Two men looked at him as he left the hut and moved to the next. He met their eyes.

"You! Who is in charge of these huts?"

"Sir?" One of them blinked.

"Are you deaf? Didn't you near me? Who is in charge of these huts? You?"

"No, sir." The man looked at his companion. "Jarl. I'm his helper."

"Helping him to do what-loaf?" Dumarest made his tone acid. "The huts are a disgrace. Dirt everywhere. Cots untidy. The tables unwiped-" He turned, scowling. "Let me see this one. Take the lead. Move!"

Shaken they obeyed. Dumarest examined the hut; finding it much like the other, his eyes counting beds as he pretended to find patches of dirt, fluff, drifted sand where no sand should be. Again there was no sign of weapons.

Leaving the two men inside the hut Dumarest stepped outside towards the rear, signaled at a small group which had just left the cookhouse, glared at them as they came to a halt.

"Slovenly. Haven't you been taught elementary drill? Well, haven't you?"

"Sir!" One of the men drew himself to attention.

"Good." Dumarest nodded at the man. "The rest of you fall out. Wait in that hut until I call for you. You-your name? Hoji? Tell me, Hoji, where are the weapons kept?"

A gamble. If the man knew he might unthinkingly give the direction. If he didn't then the question could be covered and no harm would be done.

"The weapons, sir?"

"The guns." Dumarest grunted as the man's eyes flickered to the rear of the cookhouse. "Not moved yet? Why not? Well, never mind. Call those men and have them report to the weapons-store. Move!"

Time gained for him to move to the door and send his knife probing into the lock. It was heavy, but basically simple. A click and it was open. As the men returned Dumarest threw wide the door.

Inside rested a heap of crates, some open. On the top of one rested a half-dozen guns together with boxes of ammunition.

"Those!" Dumarest pointed at the crates. "Load them into the raft standing before the huts. Hurry!"

Men accustomed to obey rarely hesitated if orders were given in a tone of authority. A fact Dumarest knew and had relied on. They didn't know who or what he was, but his voice held the snap of command and, to them, it was unthinkable that he should order without having the right.

Dumarest stepped back as the first crate was shifted. A gun fell from the loose pile and he picked it up, looking at the piece. It was cheap, crude, now cleaned of grease and fitted with a full magazine. He cocked it, watched the cartridges spill from the ejector, removed the magazine and, after clearing the breech, pulled the trigger.

As the harsh click faded a voice said, "Well, friend, what do you think of it?"

He was tall, slouched, his mouth scarred so that the upper lip was set in a permanent smile. He wore stained clothing frayed at wrists and collar, the leather bearing shiny patches and marks where badges could have been. His hair was dark, his eyes wells of coldness. In his right hand he held a compact laser.

It hung loose in his fingers, not aimed but the muzzle swinging casually in Dumarest's direction.

Dumarest shrugged. "It's cheap. It'll jam. It isn't accurate and it'll pull to the right. But it will do if nothing else is around."

"Such as?"

"That laser you're carrying." Dumarest threw down the weapon he held. "Didn't the boss tell you we were coming?"

"Should he have done?"

"Why ask me? I only work here." Dumarest stepped aside as the men returned for another load, a step which took him closer to the mercenary. "How are things here? Good pay? Lots of fun?"

"Out here? You must be joking."

"Well, at least you can't spend anything. When did you land? Ship before last? The one before that?"

"When did you?" The man scowled as Dumarest gave no answer. "What the hell are you doing here, anyway?"

"Shifting the guns."

"Why? To where?"

Dumarest shrugged, deliberately casual. To browbeat the mercenary would be a mistake. To explain too fully another.

"Don't ask me. I came here with his woman and she gave the orders. I guess she got them from him. Have you ever seen her?"

"No."

"She's outside looking around. It might pay you to remember her. Look between the huts and you could spot her." Dumarest took a step forward, hand lifting as he pointed, another and now he was close to the mercenary, the weapon he held. "There she is! See!"

The jerk of his hand demanded attention. As the man lifted his head, eyes narrowing against the glare it turned, the palm stiffening, slashing down like a blunted axe in a savage chop which would have snapped the wrist like a twig. Instead, at the last moment, Dumarest altered the direction so it glanced over the fingers and sent the laser hurtling to the ground.

"What the hell!" The mercenary swore, rubbing his fingers. "You damned near broke my hand!"

Dumarest said nothing, stepping forward to pick up the weapon, looking down the space between the huts at the woman who strode towards him, the man at her side, the armed guards at his rear.

"Earl," said Lavinia steadily. "This is Lord Gydapen Prabang. Gydapen, meet Earl Dumarest."

She had the sense not to say more.

Chapter Fourteen

"Earl Dumarest." Gydapen lifted his goblet and tilted it so the wine it contained left a thin, ruby film coating the engraved crystal. "I must congratulate you, my dear. A most unusual acquisition."

"He is hardly that, Gydapen."

"No?" The eyebrows lifted over the small, shrewd eyes. "Then what? Perhaps you will tell me, my friend."

"I merely escorted the lady, my lord," said Dumarest. "She needed someone to handle her raft. I understood the matter was Council business."

"Of course. Council business. Naturally." Gydapen gestured and a servant handed Dumarest a goblet of wine. Another and he departed leaving the three alone in the large hut. The interior was soft with delicate furnishings, rugs covering the floor, lanterns of colored glass hanging from the roof. At night it would be a warm, snug, comfortable place. One end would house the place where the mercenary slept. The other would contain stores, luxuries, wines and dainties to soften the rigors of the desert. "Your health, Earl!"

"Your health, my lord!"

Ceremoniously they drank, neither doing more than wet his lips and, watching them, Lavinia thought of two beasts of prey, circling, wary, neither willing to yield the advantage. Gydapen who owned land and commanded the loyalty of retainers, who had the protection of a great Family, who held the destiny of Zakym in the palm of his hand. And the other, alone, owning nothing, a traveler who searched for a dream.