E. Tubb: Web of Sand

"Ellain?"

"I was thinking, trying to decide what to wear at your party. It is a party?"

"More of an assembly. A few friends to discuss certain matters of mutual interest. You will provide a diversion."

The black then, the bodice arranged so as to display her bosom, the skirt adjusted to show her thigh through the slit-old tricks which twisted her lips in a reminiscent smile. How old Teen Veroka, her music teacher and singing master, would have raved at such a blatant display. But he was on another world, probably dead by now, and she had long since learned the value of such exhibitionism. But to dress well she needed a maid.

Yunus shrugged when she mentioned it. "You have a maid. A new girl."

"A clumsy fool. What does she know of how to dress hair? To arrange a gown? What happened to Julie?" She saw his face turn blank in the fading mirror of the window. "Never mind. You will find someone capable? I want to look my best for your friends."

"I shall attend to it."

"And after the assembly? You mentioned entertainment."

He smiled, knowing her needs, his voice a purr to match the amber of his eyes as, leaning close, he whispered in her ear.

"Anything you wish, my darling. Men stripped and sweating as they wrestle for a prize. Others pounding at each other with metal gloves? Women wagering their skill against a score of rodents." Pausing, he let the images build. "Blood and pain," he whispered. "The arena?"

"Yes," she gasped. "Yes!"

Her goblet fell to join his on the floor as his hands rose, cupped, rising to her breasts. And this time she did not turn from the embrace.

The place was a windowless chamber, the walls, roof and floor of fused sand, minute flecks of silica glinting in the glare of overhead lighting. The tables were the same, the benches, even the plates and pots-fused sand, the cheapest building material on Harge. Leaning with his back against a wall Dumarest looked over the tavern. Aside from the material with which it was built it was the same as countless others he had seen. A room with tables at which to sit, a bar from which food and drinks were served, a low dais which could hold a small band of entertainers if any were available and willing to work for the thrown coins which would be their sole reward. Some serving girls, vapid faces, careless as to dress, willing to titivate for the sake of tips and even to do more if the gain was high enough.

The clientele was also in the pattern; men killing time, others whispering as they made plans, many who just sat and watched, some who tried to drown their desperation in wine, a few who came for reasons of curiosity, others who found entertainment in mixing with those of different station. But this held something most others lacked and which pervaded the atmosphere like a subtle but disquieting perfume.

"Fear," said Carl Santis. "The place stinks of it." He sat on a bench next to Kemmer and held his pot in one, scarred hand. His face above the stained and worn clothing was beaked, the nose like the thrusting bill of a bird of prey. Scar tissue gleamed in the light, small patches of glisten against the swarthy complexion. Patches matched by those on his tunic where the weight of protective armor had polished the nap. Sure signs of the mercenary's trade. "Fear," he said again. "It smells like a camp of raw recruits waiting to engage."

Waiting to fight, to gamble with life and death, but for those in the room there was no waiting. The battle to survive never ceased and death could come as a blessing.

"Harge," said Kemmer. "They should have named it Hell." He lifted his pot and sipped then lowered it to scowl at the wine. "Frome, the bastard! Dumping us the way he did. One day, with luck, we'll meet again."

"Armed," mused Santis. "Did he wear a gun when you booked passage, Earl?"

If he had, Dumarest would have waited for another ship. He said, "No. Did any of you ask if he'd be willing to carry you on?"

"Marta did." Kemmer sipped again at his wine, his mouth looking as if he'd tasted acid. "She asked if he'd take her once he'd effected repairs. He wasn't interested."

"Odd." Santis frowned. "Easy money from an old woman who couldn't cause trouble. Why turn down a profit?"

"He dumped us," said the trader. "All of us. He'd been paid. That lie about repairs was obvious." He looked baffled. "But why? What was behind it? What do the people here hope to gain?"

The money they carried and the labor they could provide-the normal reason for isolated communities bribing captains to dump their passengers. Once landed and in debt they would be helpless to leave, forced to work as contract-labor to clear a steadily accumulating mountain of debt. Slaves in all but name and far more economical to keep.

"It doesn't make sense," said the trader. He had been brooding on the matter. "Mettalus has already fixed up an apartment for himself and the girl and can live in comfort until they can take a ship. Marta has a room-I offered to share but she would have none of it."

"A mistake," said Santis. "If she hopes to set up in business she's due for a shock. There's too much competition for anyone of her age to stand a chance."

"As I told her," agreed Kemmer. "She didn't take it too well. That leaves us. I'm too soft to do a hard day's work and Santis is too old to take willingly to a pick. And what use would they have for a mercenary? Which leaves you, Earl." He chuckled at the humor of what he next suggested. "Maybe we've all been dumped on your account. It could be someone wants you held somewhere until they can collect you. If so they've chosen a damned good place."

And it was a damned good guess if guess it was. From where he sat Dumarest studied the trader, looking at the eyes; the hands, the movements of the small muscles around the mouth. An agent? It was possible; the Cyclan employed all types, but he doubted it. The man was too much in character to be playing a part. And there would be no reason for the dumping if he had not been what he seemed. Santis the same, Marta Caine also and the other two could be eliminated; the girl was too young to have learned effective deception and Grish Metallus had been aboard the Urusha long before Dumarest had asked for passage. No proof, but even the Cyclan had limitations governed by time and distance, and not everyone could be an agent. Yet Dumarest had no doubt as to why they had been dumped.

Kemmer was right-someone wanted him held.

And Harge was a prison.

He rose and walked over to the bar, ignoring the glares of women who felt robbed of a tip, ordering another pot of wine and looking around as it was poured. Had Frome been contacted direct? In the Rift radio communication was unreliable at the best of times what with the electronic furnaces of suns set close filling the ether with static and electro-magnetic distortion. Had he been paid to dump any passengers he might have been carrying? Had other captains?

"Here!" The bartender slammed down the pot. "That's sixteen kren." He scooped up the coins. "Just landed?"

"Yes."

"Welcome to Harge. On business?"

"Call it an unavoidable visit. Any other ships arrived recently?"

"One since the storm. That must be yours. Two just before-fifteen and seventeen days ago. None before that for three weeks. Then we had a ten-day storm-or was it twelve?"

"You get many storms?"

"It's the season." He met Dumarest's eyes. "Quite a few. I guess you're interested in ships, eh? They land when they can and leave without delay. Yours has gone. The Urusha , right? Took off as soon as the cargo was loaded."

"We had to wait to land. Is that normal?"

"If a storm is blowing itself out. Sometimes they move on and forget us unless it's a charter or special delivery. It depends. From space they can get a clear view of the situation and act accordingly. Travel much?"