Something he should have known and the fact that he had appealed to her for help showed him to have more ambition than capability. Kaldar had too many of his type.

Her office was cool, shadowed, a haven to which she clung. Later, when darkness came, the air would lose its heat and winds blow from the hills carrying the scent of chard, kren, emulish, the subtle magic of peedham. Stars would blaze in the fading lavender of the sky and all would be at peace.

Odd thoughts and disturbing. She was far from senile and only the old dreamed of endless tranquillity. Irritably she shook her head, reaching for papers, halting the motion as the communicator glowed to life.

"Nadine?" It was Jessie from communication. She continued as Nadine acknowledged. "Messages from Chapman and Lochner. Chapman wants to know if a final assessment has been made of the peedham he sent in. Lochner said to call him. He's having trouble of some kind."

"Serious?"

"Isn't it always?"

"Always," admitted Nadine. To the man even a broken sprocket was tantamount to the end of creation. She forced herself to be patient. Jessie loved to play her little games. "Can you give me a clue?"

"I heard a rumor from someone who knows his engineer. My guess is that he wants Council backing in order to buy a new generator.

Nadine reached for the computer as the screen died. Lochner's ship had a record of unreliability. Too many minor breakdowns leading to aborted raids and dissatisfied crews. He had coasted on past success, but now his credit was exhausted which meant he would have to make do with what he had and rely on the young and inexperienced to crew his vessel. Any loot he might gain was already spoken for and generators didn't come cheap.

A bad risk. He would appeal to the Council against her summation, but they were men of business. In the end Lochner would lose his ship, his standing and, if he chose to quarrel with the wrong man, his life.

New data replaced the old. Chapman was in a different category. He had taken up farming after taking a bad wound and grew peedham in hydroponic vats. His crops were uniformly good and his credit was high. The latest assessment would provide a rich bonus. One he might be interested in investing. It would do no harm to let him know of the opportunity presented by Lochner's situation. If interested they could make a deal. Lochner would have his new generator, Chapman a share in his vessel and the Council would not be involved.

She might even avoid making a new enemy.

Leaning back she looked at the charts decorating the walls, the portrait facing her. That of a man, hair shaped to form a dark helmet over the contours of his skull, the eyes deep-set, meshed with lines, the mouth, smiling now, holding a hard resolution. Her father. A man she had never known.

What would he have made of her?

Something she would never know. How to tell how she would have developed under his parental influence? How she would have grown had her mother not chosen to follow him into oblivion? Why had she done that? For love, they had told her, but how could she have been so selfish? Tradition, honor, custom, loyalty – what value did such things have when set against the needs of a helpless child?

She felt pain and looked to where her nails dug into her palms. They drove deeper as she watched, blood welling from the small punctures, the sight feeding her impulse to destructive violence. To hurt! To destroy! To kill!

To smash the bars of her prison and to be free!

Chapter Six

There should have been castles, strongholds, towers flaunting banners filled with armed and armored men jealous of their pride. Products of a world devoted to the pursuit of adventure, battle, violence and sudden death. One governed by the worship of personal bravery, courage and respect. The stuff of romance Zehava had learned as a child. A dream which Kaldar had never fulfilled.

Pausing on the ramp Dumarest recognized a dead-end world. One of a type on which travelers feared to be stranded. A planet with few opportunities to earn money for food, shelter, a passage to freedom. One which held odd inconsistencies. The field was uneven, the buildings edging it dilapidated, the ships standing to one side rested in a litter of debris. Yet the guard pylons were thick and widely scattered. The lack of a fence was unusual but no surprise; raiders would have no patience with irksome restrictions.

A scatter of men stood on the road leading to town, mostly young, all wearing leather bright with protective metal, the plates shaped and gemmed to individual taste. Martial garb accentuated by the weapons belted to their waists. Loungers killing time, curious as to what the ship had carried. One stepped forward to bar his path.

"You a trader?"

"Of a kind." Dumarest was patient. The man was young, bored, certainly a fool, but the gun he wore made him dangerous. "Could you direct me to the hotel?"

"What are you carrying?"

"Personal baggage." Dumarest eased the strap of the satchel and slipped it from his shoulder. "It's heavy and I'd appreciate a hand. Is it far to the hotel?"

'The Kaldari aren't servants," snapped the youngster. "What are you hiding?" He glanced at his companions as if to make certain he had an audience then, as Dumarest ignored the question, said, "There's something wrong here. That satchel looks too heavy. A genuine trader would have got a ganni to carry it. Or it could have been delivered to the warehouse. Open it up. I want to check what's inside."

Dumarest said, "You want to check it? Go ahead."

He stepped forward, the satchel swinging in his hand, flying free to thud on the dirt where the other had been standing. As he sprang aside, cursing, snatching at his gun, Dumarest closed the distance between them, the fingers of his left hand clamping on flesh, the weapon it held, pressing it deep into its ornate holster. His right hand rose between them to lock fingers on the other's throat, the tips of fingers and thumb digging into the tender places beneath the ears to rest on the carotid arteries. An action masked by their bodies from those watching.

One of them called, "Hey, Nigel, you getting set to dance?"

Another, more shrewd, said, "I think he's bitten off more than he can chew."

And was stuck with it. To struggle was to be rendered senseless, disarmed, left sprawled on the dirt. To back down would brand him a coward. The only real choice was to fight and, if he lost, at least it would be with honor.

Dumarest said, "We can end this. Just back away and leave me your gun."

"I can't. The shame -"

"You'd rather be dead?" His fingers tightened, applying pressure which, if increased, would cause unconsciousness and, if maintained, death. "Just give me your word. We break, then laugh and talk a little. You pickup the satchel and carry it to the hotel."

A way out for the young man but he hesitated too long. Those watching, sensing something more serious than they had thought, moved closer, eager to settle the dispute. They would form a ring, insist on physical combat, watch the bloody outcome. Dumarest would have no choice but to kill.

"Earl!" Zehava broke the impasse. "What are you doing?" Her tone changed. "Nigel? What's going on?"

"Zehava!" Relief gusted from his throat as Dumarest lowered his hand. "We heard you were dead. How -"

"Never mind that now. I see you've met my friend. Earl, meet Nigel Myer. I knew his sister. Nigel, this is Earl Dumarest." Dryly, she added, "I'm sure you'll get along. Why don't you guide him to the hotel?"

It was large, clean, luxurious. The bath, made of striated marble, was ringed with ornate decoration and held him like a cupped hand. Relaxing in steaming water Dumarest closed his eyes and let the warm comfort ease him into a state of drifting introspection as he assessed what he had learned. Nigel had been eager to volunteer information in order to make amends. A young man who had tried to gain a cheap reputation and had almost lost his life. The hand at his throat, the face close to his own, had left him in no doubt as to that.