More sets of orc boots approached the alley mouth, but this time it was Kamal who strode past, accompanied by his psi-aid and one other. A quick thought flicked, and when Kamal was a dozen meters farther on, Draco and his companion fell in behind them. Two hundred meters farther and Kamal turned, strode up a low flight of entry stairs, and entered a building. Draco followed.
Kamal was waiting just inside. Otherwise the hallway was deserted, but Draco sensed frightened awareness behind thin wooden doors, a listening to the sound of iron heel plates. Slaves were slaves, whether like these they had status and an apartment or were common drudges crouching in a slave barracks. He spit. They lived powerless and in fear—bloodless, breath-in-throat, honorless fear.
Kamal paused at a door, shoved it open and strode in. Those inside had interpreted the sounds and pauses, and stood waiting. The man was middle-aged, the woman young. They exuded propitiation and submission toward their user-protector. The man hesitated, then bobbed his head and disappeared through an inner door while the woman remained.
Draco grinned. Old Kamal! She was a beauty, and certainly never showed herself in the streets. A dancer, by her looks, who probably performed for her neighbors. One of them had no doubt reported her beauty and grace to Kamal in hope of some reward.
She was undoubtedly an exceptional lay, with something of a hold on the hard-bitten legionary, if he let her live here with her husband instead of taking her into his harem. Or perhaps he found pleasure in humiliating the man by using her here in his presence.
Yes, she was a good one. It showed less in her aura than in Kamal’s irritation now in having business to transact instead of pleasure. But it was a good place for it.
“Get out,” Kamal said drily to her. “We want to talk.”
She stood confused.
“Take her out of here,” he snapped at his orderly. “And I don’t want them listening at the door.”
The man nodded, gripped her arm and led her to the door through which her husband had passed.
“And Dmitri! Do not molest her! Remember who she belongs to.”
The soldier turned, saluted, and closed the door behind him.
Kamal looked at Draco and spoke in an undertone. “This had better be important. Meeting you secretly like this could mean my bones.”
The consul smirked, and kept his voice low too. “It’s important, all right. But first, before I forget, Nephthys instructed me to give you her warmest greeting. I can’t, of course. She hopes you’ll be our guest soon.” He turned and clapped the shoulder of the soldier who’d accompanied him. “And now, Artos, I want you to tell my friend what you’ve learned.”
Artos was small for an orc, but sinewy and shrewd-looking. “As a centurion in the Second Legion,” he began, “I was known as one of the most sensitive telepaths in the army. So when this happened—” he held out a wrist with no hand—“my Lord Draco made me the monitor of his psi tuner.
“I came to have a feeling for the tuner, a feeling I can’t describe. So with my Lord’s permission I removed the crystal from it. I’m not free to say what experiments were made or what I did, but the crystal has been recut and reground so that my mind is now in resonance with it.”
Draco interrupted. “It no longer looks like an esper crystal.” He grinned widely. “It’s just another stone in a jewelled goblet now, in Ahmed’s wine pantry. It’s been there for weeks, and in his room several times, but until last night it told us nothing worth knowing.” He nudged the maimed telepath with his mind. “Tell us what you read last night, and keep your voice down.”
The man nodded. “It was about midnight,” he murmured. “Ahmed had wine and a girl brought to him. He was preoccupied, and finished with her rather quickly, but the goblet stayed while he sat and thought.
“He’d been away in his sky chariot. He’d used his, um, radio, you see, to talk to the Northmen. They have a star woman hostage, the Northmen, and her radio; the star people are total cretins. And Ahmed knew about the radio.