"Your partner would know about that."

"The warehouse guarantee?"

"Will be honored. In matters of business it is essential to maintain a good reputation and Arpagus will not shirk responsibility. However, it will take time to settle the details and, in your case, the recompense will be minimal."

"Why? The cargo -"

"Was declared by your partner to have little value." Mbopola shrugged, lifting his hands to forestall any protest. "A fiction, of course, but it is common practice and saves on the premium. Most traders cut corners where they can and your partner is no different to the rest. Didn't he tell you? Perhaps he didn't think it important. But I should ask him about the insurance." The Hausi reached for the bottle to pour fresh drinks, then halted the action, his face registering concern. "I should have asked. The hotel was hit. I hope he wasn't hurt."

Lozano Polletin was dying.

Dumarest looked at him where he lay in the terminal ward of the infirmary. They had washed his face and sealed his wounds with a film of clear plastic dressing, but the blood edging his lips told of lacerated lungs and internal injuries. Weakly he raised a hand in greeting.

"Earl! I'm glad you came." His voice was thin, blurred by the drugs which had killed his pain. "They told me what happened. A raid – damn the luck."

"Was the cargo insured?"

"No. Those cartons were too big to pilfer and money was tight." Polletin coughed, swallowed, fresh carmine staining his lips "Dreaming," he said. "I was dreaming of what I'd do with the profit. A big house, my own company, some comforts…" His voice trailed into silence. Returned with a caustic bitterness. "I had it all wrong. Lease, don't sell. Just hire out and collect for life. Telwig -"

"Where can I find him?

"I told you."

"A lie. Now I want the truth. Where?"

"Chendha." The sick man moved fretfully on the bed.

"You'll find him on Chendha. Sorry about that, Earl, but I had to keep an edge. You understand? You'd do the same yourself." He grimaced as Dumarest nodded, the parody of a smile. "You got the keys?"

Collected from the ruins of the room they had shared.

"They're safe."

"Good." Polletin lifted his hands and pulled free the rings he wore. 'Take these. I won't need them now. Go on, take them!" His fingers closed on Dumarest's own as he obeyed. "The pain, Earl! It's coming back! Help me! Help me!"

Dumarest stepped away from the bed as the summoned attendant stooped over the writhing figure. He heard the sharp hiss as a hypogun blasted oblivion into Polletin's arteries. A lethal dose; there was nothing merciful in extending torment.

"He's at peace now." The attendant pursed his lips. "Known him long?"

"No."

"I see you've got his rings. There could be charges due and -"

Dumarest said flatly, "They'll be met by the town. All of them. If the guards had done their job he wouldn't be lying here. Where are the rest of his things?"

His clothing was ruined, the money belt empty, the shoes devoid of secret compartments. In exchange for his money Dumarest had nothing but useless components and a few tawdry rings.

He hefted them in his palm knowing that, even if genuine, they would buy little more than a single High passage. One trip in relative comfort to another world there to be stranded, crippled by poverty, easy prey for any who might be hunting him down.

"Your pardon, sir."

Men had come to remove the body. He left them to it, leaving the ward, aware of the death-smell pervading the chamber. A corridor led him into an open space from which ran several passages. He chose one at random. It led to a room flanked with cots occupied by women. A nurse stared at him from where she stood beside a patient. Dumarest halted, recognizing his mistake. Turning he retraced his steps, then halted, looking towards his right, the bed in the corner, the gleam of russet hair.

To the nurse who came towards him he said, "That woman in the corner bed. Who is she?"

"A victim of the raid. She was found near the guard towers badly concussed. Do you know her?"

"I'm not sure. Her name?"

"We haven't got it. She carried no identification and appears to be suffering from amnesia. It's common after her type of injury. If you recognize her please let me know. There are questions needing to be answered."

Dumarest waited until she had bustled away then moved towards the bed. She was as he remembered. The metal blades still glued to her nails showed bright against the cover. Sitting beside her he searched her face. It was expressionless. Her eyes appeared unfocused. In them he could see his own reflection.

"Do you know me? Remember me?"

She made no response. Leaning forward he touched her scalp where the hair had been shaved. Plastic dressing covered an ugly wound.

He said quietly, "If you really are suffering from amnesia then I'm wasting my time. I could even feel sorry for you because you're going to pay for something you can't even remember. People were killed and hurt during the raid and feeling is running high. They want revenge and they won't be gentle. Already they're curious as to why you were found so close to the towers. I could tell them."

She remained silent but he saw faint glimmers from the bright metal on her nails.

"You're faking amnesia in order to avoid answering questions. Hoping to leave here before they lose patience. But you won't be allowed to leave. Not after I've had a word with the guards." Dumarest paused then said, flatly, "I'm the only chance you have of staying alive. I can provide an alibi and swear to your innocence. They'll believe me. But I don't come cheap.'

He leaned over the bed to whisper in her ear. The picture of a man kissing a tender farewell to the object of his affection.

"Make your decision. Help me or I'll turn you in. There'll be a reward and I can use the money." His tone deepened, echoed his anger, his determination. "Get this straight! You and yours robbed me. Killed my partner. Made a wreck of my plans. You'll pay for that or I'll see you dead. Touch my hand if we have a deal."

He waited, watching her face, her eyes. He smelt the faint ghost of perfume but nothing of fear. A woman with too much courage or one genuinely ill. In either case he would carry out his threat. Then, as he rose, he felt the stinging impact of her nails.

At night the window glowed with cerulean brightness, but now the lantern was dark, the opening framing a sunlit vista of the town, the men busy repairing the warehouse, the empty field. Minton had come and gone, scowling when he heard of Polletin's death, accepting the Hausi's offer of an alternative cargo. But there would be plenty of other ships. Arpagus was a busy world.

"Earl!" Water splashed in the bathroom. "Come and scrub my back."

Ignoring the invitation he roamed the apartment. The furnishings were sparse, cheap, as drab as the carpet and curtains. The print of a clown made a splash of color and betrayed an ironic humor. There were no cushions, no ornaments, nothing personal to the occupant herself.

He turned at the pad of feet as, naked but for the towel wrapped around her waist, she came towards him.

Zehava Postel was a beautiful woman.

One almost as tall as himself with wide, sloping shoulders, breasts set high and proud. Beneath the strong brows the eyes were vividly blue. The lips were full, revealing in their sensuality. Her skin was a pale copper dewed with pearls.

He touched one, saw the droplet break beneath his finger, felt the warm velvet of her skin.

"Do you like what you see?" Her voice was rich with an inviting softness, the slight huskiness bearing musical overtones. One different to that she had used before. "Do I please you?"

"You're an actress."

"All women are that."

"But few as expert." He added, dryly, "Few have as great a need."