“Who?”
“Governor of Millyaurr Province.”
“How could he help me?” Barsac asked.
Her voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. “He is also a ranking official of the Cult, though few know it. Most Cult members wear the silver mask that hides their face, to symbolize the facelessness of the Witch. Lord Carnothute has special privilege, because of his rank. He was the agent offered Culthood to Zigmunn and to me, one night that he spent here. Perhaps he could tell you where your blood-brother is. Maybe Zigmunn hasn’t been sent to Azonda yet; they don’t always leave right away. And in that case there’s still a chance for him.”
The governor’s palace was an airy pencil of a building far to the north of the Street of Tears; it took Barsac and Kassa more than an hour by aircab to get there.
She had shed her party-girl costume and was wearing something more demure, a black silk dress and veil; quite unconcernedly she had stripped to the buff and changed with Barsac in the room, and he had eyed her body with interest but not with desire. He had long ago learned to channel his energies, and now the finding of Zigmunn occupied center stage in his mind; all else was inconsequential to him.
The air was cleaner in the district of Millyaurr they now entered. They approached the palace gate. Barsac noticed figures in the silvery mask of the Cult moving through the streets, always alone.
They entered. Kassa spoke briefly to a guard. They were conducted through an antechamber, down a broad and well-lit corridor, and into a liftshaft.
“He gave me a password I could use any time I wanted to come to him,” Kassa explained. “Ordinarily it’s not easy to get to see him.”
The liftshaft opened; they stepped out. Immediately Kassa threw herself to the ground in a forehead-to-the-floor genuflection; Barsac remained erect, staring at the man who faced them.
He was tall, nearly seven feet in height, and correspondingly broad. He wore a ruffle of chocolate-colored lace, a skin-tight tunic, a bright sash of emerald-studded platinum. His hair was artificially silvered and glinted metallically; his eyes, too, were silvered. He smiled, but there was little warmth in the smile.
Kassa rose and spoke the word she had said to the guard before. Lord Carnothute frowned a moment, then smiled again and said in a rumbling voice, “You are the girl Kassa. Who is your friend?”
“My name is Barsac. I’m a spacer in off the Dywain, that put down here yesterday.”
The governor led them to a smaller, intricately furnished room within, and Barsac suddenly found himself holding a crystal flask of liquor. He touched it to his lips; it was sweet, but promised to be explosively potent.
Kassa said, “He came to me this morning about the Luasparru Zigmunn.”
Immediately shadows crossed Carnothute’s massive calm face. “You refused the offer, Kassa. Zigmunn is no longer concern of his or yours.”
“He was—is—blood-kin of mine,” Barsac said thickly. “I want to find him. There’s a job waiting for him on my ship, the Dywain.”
“And how could I help you find him, my good man?”
Barsac glowered unblinkingly at the ponderous nobleman. “Kassa has told me about what has happened to Zigmunn and of your connection with the organization to which he now belongs.”
Kassa gasped. Carnothute scowled briefly, but merely said, “Go on.”
“I don’t know anything about this Cult,” Barsac said. “I don’t have any moral objections to it, and I don’t give a damn who belongs to it or what sort of foul rites may be involved. I’m only interested in Zigmunn. The blood tie is a strong one. I didn’t do this to my face without thinking about it a couple of times first. I want to know where he is, and if he’s still on Glaurus I want to be allowed to see him and tell him there’s a berth available for him on the Dywain if he claims it this week.”
Carnothute steepled his thick fingers. He showed no sign of displeasure, none of anger, but Barsac had had experience with men of his size before; they held their anger in check for fear of crushing the smaller creatures who lived in the world, but when their rage exploded it was a fearful thing. Slowly the governor said, “Your blood-brother is not on Glaurus.”
Kassa shot a quick meaningful glance at Barsac. I told you so, she seemed to be telling him, but he chose to ignore it.
“Where is he, then?”
“He left for Azonda fifteen days ago with the most recent group of initiates to our—ah—organization.”
“And how can I get to Azonda, then?”
“There is no way.”
Barsac let those words soak in for a moment, while he finished off the drink Carnothute had given him. The governor seemed oppressively big, smug on account of his size. Barsac found himself longing to slip a knife between the ribs of that great frame.
At length he said, “How long will it be before he returns to Glaurus?”
“Perhaps never. Or, again, perhaps tomorrow. The novitiate lasts a year on Azonda; after that he is free to go where he wishes, so long as he maintains his loyalty. There is a mask that is normally worn, too. Cult members rarely bother to conceal the fact of their membership, unless there are reasons that make such concealment necessary.”
“Such as being governor of a big province of Glaurus?” Barsac said sharply.
Carnothute let the thrust slide away. “Exactly. Now, unless there’s anything further either of you wishes to take up with me—”
“I want to reach Zigmunn. Send me to Azonda, Carnothute. If I could speak to him—”
“It is forbidden to interfere with the rite of initiation, Barsac. And even if you were to join the Cult yourself you would have to wait some months before you were judged ready to move on to Azonda. You are obstinate to the point of monomania, Barsac. But I tell you you’ll only bring about your death if you insist on following this present course. You are dismissed.”
In the street, outside the palace, they stood together a moment in the gathering shadows of late afternoon. Fleecy clouds now filled the darkening sky, and the faint tracings of the triple moons appeared behind them; the sun, sinking, was swollen against the horizon, and the gold of its rays had turned to crab-red.
“You fool,” Kassa said quietly. “Blundering in there and accusing him of this and that, and mentioning the Cult and his connection with it like that!”
“What was I supposed to do? Crawl on my face and beg him to give me back Zigmunn?”
“Don’t you know that crawling helps? Carnothute has ruled this province thirty years. He’s accustomed to crawlers. But we need a more subtle approach.”
“What do you suggest, then?”
She drew a paper from her pouch and scribbled a name and an address on it. “This man will take you to the place where you can try to buy passage to Azonda. How much money do you have?”
“Eleven hundred Galactic units.”
She sucked her breath in sharply, “Don’t offer more than five hundred for passage. And see that you save a hundred for me; I’m not doing all this for charity, Barsac.”
He smiled and touched her chin. He understood frankness and appreciated it. Perhaps, he thought, he might give her a chance to earn her hundred in another way, after he found Zigmunn.
The address was in the Street of Kings. Barsac pocketed the slip.
“What will you do while I’m there?”
“I’m going to go back to see Carnothute again. Possibly the governor’s in need of a woman; I’ll offer myself. I could ask him to have your bloodkin disqualified from his novitiate and returned to Glaurus; he can do that, you know, if he feels a candidate’s unfit. Maybe it will work. Many promises can be exacted in bed by one who knows how.”
“And where will I meet you later?”
“In my room. Here’s the key; you’ll probably get back there before I do. Wait for me. And don’t let them cheat you, Barsac. Be careful.”
She turned and dodged back toward the palace entrance. Barsac watched her go; then he grinned and turned away. The Street of
Kings next, he thought.
It turned out to be considerably less impressive than its regal name promised; perhaps in centuries past it had been a showplace of Millyaurr, but now it was hardly preferable to the Street of Tears. Night was gathering close by the time Barsac reached the street.
He sought out his man: Dollin Sporeffien of number five-sixty, Street of Kings. Sporeffien turned out to be a chubby little man in his late sixties, totally bald but for a fuzz of white about his ears. He looked harmless enough, except for his eyes. They were not harmless eyes.
He looked bleakly at Barsac, eyeing him up and down, and said finally, “So you’re Kassa’s latest lover, eh? She always sends them to me for some favor or other. She’s a nimble girl, isn’t she? She could be one of the best, if she put her mind to it. But she won’t. She refuses to live up to her potential, as you’ve probably found out some nights, young one.”
Barsac did not try to deny anything. He said, “I want a man who’ll take me to Azonda tonight.” Instantly the joviality left Sporffien’s face.
“Some favors are harder to do than others. I’ll pay for it. Well.”
“How well?”
“Find me the man,” Barsac said. “I’ll talk price with him, not you.”
Sporeffien smiled dubiously. “It might cost you some hundreds of credits. Are you still interested?”
“Yes.”
“Come with me, then.”
Sporeffien led him out of the house and into the street; by now the stars were visible above the murk and haze of the city. They entered another house in which a man sat clutching a jug of wine and staring blearily at the small child that lay sleeping on a bed of filth in one corner of the room.
Sporeffien said, “Barsac, meet Emmeri. Emmeri. Barsac. Emmeri’s a private convoy man. He owns a small ship—somewhat outdated, but it still operates. Barsac would like you to pilot him to Azonda tonight, Emmeri.”
The man named Emmeri turned and looked coldly at Barsac. He put down the jug.
“To Azonda?”
“You heard him. What’s the price?”
Emmeri’s blood-shot eyes drooped shut an instant; when he opened them, they gleamed craftily. “How much can you pay?”
“Five hundred Galactic units,” Barsac said clearly. “I won’t haggle. I’m starting right off at my top price, and that’s as high as I’ll go.”
“Five hundred,” Emmeri repeated, half to himself. “A very interesting sum. When do I get it?”
“When we’ve made the round trip to Azonda.”
“No,” Emmeri said. “Payment in advance or no trip. I don’t know what you want to do on Azonda, but I want the money before we blast off.”
Barsac thought about it half an instant, and said at length, “Done. Get yourself ready. I want to blast off this evening. I just have to get in touch with Kassa and then I’ll be ready.”
Shrugging, Emmeri got to his feet and weaved unsteadily across the room to the washstand. He didn’t look much like a trained pilot, Barsac thought. His fingers shook and his eyes were bleary and he showed no signs of having the quick reflexes the job demanded.
But that didn’t matter. All that mattered was getting a ship. He could compute his own orbit out to Azonda if he needed to.
Emmeri turned. “You have the money with you?”
Barsac nodded. He added. “You get it when I see your spaceship, not before. I don’t hand five hundred units over to any foul-smelling sot who claims to be a pilot.”
“You think I’d cheat you?” Emmeri said.
“I don’t think anything. I just don’t like to waste money.”
“In that case you came to the wrong place,” Emmeri said smirkingly.
To his dismay Barsac realized he had lost sight of Sporeflien; the older man had ducked behind him, into the shadows. Too late he saw that he had been maneuvered into a trap: he started to turn, but Sporeffien was even quicker, and brought the jug of wine down against his head with a resounding impact.
Barsac reeled and took two wobbly steps forward. He saw the still unbroken jug lift again, and tried to shield his head; Sporeffien crashed it down against the back of his neck, rattling his teeth.
Barsac pitched forward. He heard harsh laughter, and the old man’s dry voice saying, “Anyone but a greenhorn should have known nobody would ferry him to Azonda for a million units cash down in initiation-time. Let’s go through his pockets, Emmeri.”
Chapter Three
He woke to the sound of falling rain, clattering against the caves of the houses and the stones of the street, and wondered for a moment how there could be rain aboard the Dywain. Then he remembered he was not aboard the Dywain. A moment later he made the unpleasant discovery that he was lying face down in the gutter, one hand dangling in a fast-flowing rivulet of rainwater, and that he was soaking wet, encrusted with mud, and suffering from a splitting headache. The gray light of dawn illuminated the scene. He looked around. It was an unfamiliar street.
Slowly he got to his feet, feeling chilled and dazed, and brushed some of the street-mud from his clothes ineffectually. He shook his head, trying to clear it, trying to make the ringing in his ears cease.
His left thigh felt strange. A moment after he knew why: the familiar bulk of his wallet no longer pressed against it. He remembered now the scene of the night before, and reddened. Those two thieves had cleaned him out. Played him for a fool, slugged him, taken his wallet and his eleven hundred units and his papers.
They had left him with a key, though. He stared at it dully until he realized it was the key to the apartment of Kassa Jidrill.
Kassa. She had sent him to Sporeffien. She must have known how laughable was the idea of hiring a ferry to take him to Azonda. And so she must have deliberately sent him to Sporeffien knowing he would be worked over.
Angry as he was, he found it hard to blame her, or Sporeffien and his accomplice. This was a tough, hard world; a greenhorn with a thousand Galactic units or so in his wallet was fair game.
Only—Kassa had said she was going to return to Lord Carnothute and make a second attempt to get Zigmunn released from his Cult vows. Had she meant it? Or had that just been part of the deception?
Barsac did not know. But he decided to return to the girl’s apartment, as long as he still had the key. He wanted to ask her a few questions.
The early-morning rain still poured down. He shivered, soaked through. The streets were deserted. He started to walk. A street-sign said, Boulevard of the Sun. He had no idea where that might be in relation to the Street of Tears.
He rounded a corner and entered a narrow winding street lined with hunchbacked old houses that leaned so close together above the street that little rain penetrated. Halfway down the street he spied the radiant globe of a winehouse, still open. And a man was leaving it. Barsac hoped he was sober enough to give him directions.
He hailed him. The man paused, turned, stared uncertainly at Barsac. He was a short man, thin, with a sallow pock-marked face framing a massive hooked nose. He wore iridescent tights of red and green and a dull violet cloak. His eyes were small and glinted brightly. He looked none the worse for his night’s carouse.
“Pardon me,” Barsac said. “Could you direct me to the Street of Tears?”
“I could. Directly ahead until you reach the Square of the Fathers—you’ll know it by the big ugly clump of statuary in the middle—and then make a sharp right past the Mercury Winehouse. Street of Tears is four blocks along that way. Got it?”
“Thanks,” Barsac said. He started to move on.
“Just a second,” the other called after him. The Earther turned. “Are you all right?”
“Could be better,” Barsac said shortly.
“You’re all wet. And muddy. You’ve been beaten and robbed, haven’t you?”
Barsac nodded.
“And you’re a stranger, too. Need some money?”
“I can manage.”
The small man took three steps and placed himself at Barsac’
s side, looking up at him. “I know what it’s like to be a stranger on Glaurus. I’ve been through it myself. I can help you. I can find you a job.”
Barsac shook his head. “Appreciation. But I’m a spacer; my ship lifts at the end of this week. I’m not looking for a job.”
“Many’s the spacer who’s been left behind. If you get into trouble, come to me. Here’s my card.”
Barsac took it. It said, Erpad Ystilog. Exhibitor of Curiosities. 1123 Street of Liars. Barsac smiled and pocketed it.
“I’ll wish you a good morning,” Ystilog said. “Do you remember the way to the street you seek?”
“Straight ahead to the Square of the Fathers, sharp right at the Mercury Winehouse and four blocks farther.”
Ystilog nodded approvingly. “You remember well, spacer. If you’re ever in need of a job, come to me.”
“I’ll think about it,” Barsac said.
The rain had virtually stopped by the time he reached the Street of Tears; only a trickle of drops came down now, and the sky had turned pearl gray and was on its way toward brightening. A filmy rainbow arched across the rooftops of the city, gauzy, tenuous, already melting away as the heat of morning descended.
But number eighty-one still seemed wrapped in sleep. Barsac mounted the stairs two at a time, pausing on the fourth-floor landing to draw out the key Kassa Jidrill had given him the night before.
But he did not need the key.
The door had been broken in. It was as if a battering-ram had crashed against it an inch or two from the place where the hinges joined the doorframe, and the wood had crumpled inward like a folding screen. The hall and the room both were dark. Frowning, Barsac nudged open the fragments of the door, pushing past the shattered door into the room.
He switched on the light. A moment later he found himself fighting the temptation to switch it off again.
Kassa lay neatly arranged on the bed, and the coverlet was soaked with blood. Barsac had seen horrible deaths before; this one took the prize.
She had been sliced open. A double-barred cross had been slashed into her body, the downstroke beginning between the breasts and continuing to the pelvis, the two crossbars incised about eight inches apart in her stomach. Her throat had been cut. And her face—