A small Drathian came over and took orders. He asked Eureka three times what he’d have; he couldn’t seem to get the idea that the old cat didn’t speak the language. The drinks he brought were a thick, blue syrup with a taste of sulfur and honey. Srat sniffed his cup and said, “Master must not drink this,” and proceeded to swallow his share in one gulp. I stared into the shadows under the arcade where my guide had disappeared, and pretended to nibble the drink. Rain drummed on the glass overhead. It was steamy hot, like a greenhouse. After half an hour, the Drathian came back, with a friend.
The newcomer was six feet tall, five feet wide, draped in dark blue velvet and hung with ribbons and tassels and fringes like a Victorian bonnet. He was introduced as Hruba. He was the Triarch’s majordomo, and he spoke very bad, but understandable lingua.
“You may crave one boon of His Greatness,” he stated. “In return, he will accept a gift.”
“I understand the Triarch owns a human slave,” I said. “I’d like to see him, if His Greatness has no objection.”
The majordomo agreed, and gave orders to a servant; in ten minutes the servant was back, prodding a man along ahead of him.
He was a stocky, strong-looking fellow with close-cropped black hair, well-cut features, dressed in a plain dark blue kilt. There was an ugly, two-inch scar on his left side, just below the ribs. He saw me and stopped dead and his face worked.
“You’re a human being!” he gasped—in Zeridajhi.
3
His name was Huvile, and he had been a prisoner for ten years. He’d been captured, he said, when his personal boat had developed drive control troubles and had carried him off course into Fringe Space.
“In the name of humanity, Milord,” he begged, “buy my freedom.” He looked as if he wanted to kneel, but the big Drathian servant was holding his arm in a two-handed grip.
“I’ll do what I can,” I said.
“Save me, Milord—and you’ll never regret it! My family is wealthy—” That was as far as he got before Hruba waved an arm and the servant hustled him away.
I looked at the majordomo.
“How much?”
“He is yours.”
I expressed gratification, and offered money in return. Hruba indicated that Bar money was hard to spend on Drath. I ran through a list of items from Jongo II’s well-stocked larders and storage hold; we finally agreed on a mixed consignment of drugs, wines, clothing and sense-tapes.
“His Greatness will be gratified,” Hruba said expansively, “at this opportunity to display his graciousness.” He aimed a sense-organ at me. “Ah . . . you wouldn’t by chance wish to accept a second slave?”
“Another Man?”
“As it happens.”
“How many more humans have you got?”
“His Greatness owns many properties; but only the two humans.” His voice got almost confidential: “Useful, of course, but a trifle, ah, intractable. But you’ll have no trouble on that score, I’m sure.”
We dickered for ten minutes and settled on a deal that would leave Jongo II’s larder practically stripped. It was lucky the Triarch didn’t own three men; I couldn’t have afforded any more.
“I will send porters and a car to fetch these trifles from your vessel,” Hruba said, “which His Greatness accepts out of sentiment. You wish the slaves delivered there?”
“Never mind; I’ll take them myself.” I started to get up.
Hruba made a shocked noise. “You would omit the ceremonies of Agreement, of Honorable Dealing, of Mutual Satisfaction?”
I calmed him down and he sent his staff scurrying for the necessary celebratory paraphernalia.
“Srat, you go to the ship, hand over the goods we agreed on, and see that the men get aboard all right. Take Eureka with you.”
“Master, Poor Srat is afraid to go alone—and he fears for Master—”
“Better get going or they’ll be there ahead of you.”
He made a sad sound and hurried away.
“Your other slave,” the majordomo pointed. Across the court, a Drathian servant came out from a side entry leading a slim figure in a gray kilt like Huvile had worn.
“You said another man,” I said stupidly.
“Eh? You doubt it is a Man?” he asked in a stiff voice. “It is not often that the probity of His Least Greatness is impugned in his own Place of Harmonious Accord!”
“My apologies,” I tried to recover. “It was just a matter of terminology. I didn’t expect to see a female.”
“Very well, a female Man—but still a Man and a sturdy worker,” the majordomo came back. “Not so large as the other, perhaps, but diligent, diligent. Still, His Greatness would not have you feel cheated. . . .” His voice faded off. He was watching me as I watched the servant leading the girl past, some twenty feet away. She had a scar on her side, exactly like Huvile’s. Beside the horny, gray-green thorax of the Drathian beside her, her human breast looked incredibly vulnerable. Then she turned her head my way and I saw that it was the Lady Raire.
4
For a long, echoing instant, time stood still. Then she was past. She hadn’t seen me, sitting in the deep shade of the canopy. I heard myself make some kind of sound and realized I had half risen from my chair.
“This slave is of some particular interest for you?” the majordomo inquired, and I could tell from the edge on his voice that his commercial instinct was telling him he had missed a bet somewhere.
I sat down. “No,” I managed to croak. “I was wondering . . . about the scars. . . .”
“Have no fear; the cicatrice merely marks the point where the control drive is embedded. However, perhaps I should withdraw His Greatness’s offer of this gift, since it is less than you expected, lest the generosity of the Triarch suffer reflection. . . .”
“My mistake,” I said. “I’m perfectly satisfied.” I could feel my heart slamming inside my chest. I felt as though the universe was balanced on a knife-edge. One wrong word from me and the whole fragile deal would collapse.
The liquor pots arrived then, and conversation was suspended while my host made a big thing of tasting half a dozen varieties of syrupy booze and organizing the arrangement of outsize drinking pots on the table. I sat tight and sweated bullets and wondered how it was going back at the ship.
The Drathian offered the local equivalent of a toast. While my host sucked his cup dry, I pretended to take a sip, but he noticed and writhed his face at me.
“You do not sup! Is your zeal for Honorable Dealing less than complete?”
This time I had to drink. The stuff had a sweet overflavor, but left an aftertaste of iron filings. I forced it down. After that, there was another toast. He watched to be sure I drank it. I tried not to think about what the stuff was doing to my stomach. I fixed my thoughts on a face I had just seen, looking no older than the day I had seen it last, nearly four years before; and the smooth, suntanned skin, and the hideous scar that marred it.
There was a lot of chanting and exchanging of cups, and I chewed another drink. Srat would be showing Milady Raire to a cabin now, and she’d be feeling the softness of a human-style bed, a rug under her bare feet, the tingle of the ion-bath for the first time in four years. . . .
“Another toast!” Hruba called; His command of lingua was slipping; the booze was having a powerful effect on him. It was working on me, too. My head was buzzing and there was a frying-egg feeling in my stomach. My arms felt almost too heavy to lift. The taste of the liquor was cloying in my mouth. When the next cup was passed my way I pushed it aside.
“I’ve had all I can take,” I said, and felt my tongue slur the words. It was hard to push the chair back and stand. Hruba rose, too. He was swaying slightly—or maybe it was just my vision.
“I confess surprise, Man,” he said. “Your zeal in the pledging of honor exceeded even my own. My brain swims in a sea of consecrated wine!” He turned to a servant standing by and accepted a small box from him.
“The control device governing your new acquisition,” he said and handed the box over to me. I took it and my finger touched a hidden latch and the lid valved open. There was a small plastic ovoid inside, bedded in floss.
“Wha’s . . . what’s this?”
“Ah, you are unfamiliar with our Drathian devices!” He plucked the egg from its niche and waved it under my nose.
“This gnurled wheel; on the first setting, it administers sharp reminder; at the second position . . .” he pushed the control until it clicked, ” . . . an attack of angina which doubles the object in torment. And at the third . . . but I must not demonstrate the third setting, eh? Or you will find yourself with a dead slave on your hands, his heart burned to charcoal by a magnesium element buried in the organ itself!” He tossed the control back into the box and sat down heavily. “That pertaining to the female is in the possession of her tender; he will leave it in the hands of your servant. You’ll have no trouble with ’em. . . .” He made a sound that resembled a hiccup. “Best return to zero setting the one I handled; if its subject lacks stamina, he may be dead by now.”