“Ah?”
“So I told him we had been listenin’. I told him the Prince is conspirin’ to overthrow the Lord Paramount. I told him the Lord Paramount knows all about it. I told him the Prince murdered the Lord Paramount’s son, first in line for the throne. I told him the Lord Paramount did the same to his own brother who was conspirin’ to replace him. I told him they treat their women like so many chessmen, move them here, move them there, wed them off to this one or that one. I’ve listened, I told him, and there’s plenty being said, just nothin’ about what we need to know.”
Lokdren nodded slowly and came to lean beside the other man, the railing protesting gently at his added weight. “And we’ve got listeners planted all over Havenor and Mahahm and half the provinces by now, but they don’t yield anything either!”
Ogberd nodded. “I told Father he could always gamble on finding out after instead of beforehand.”
“Last report said the birthrate’s down again.”
“Gorge and vomit, man,” blurted Ogberd. “You think I’ve somehow missed that?”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean you’d missed anything.”
“Nobody means. Damn it. Why in hell is Ares going down the drain-hole and this damn world bobbing along like a cork? Any one of our people would make five of these Havenites! And our women! These women don’t even start to measure up. I ask you! I’ve wracked my brain. You think it’s only this stuff we’re after? Stuff the people don’t even seem toknow about? Somehow, after all this time, that’s getting to seem less and less likely.”
“It’s what everybody at home thinks.” Lokdren spoke in a soothing tone. “It’s what the Chief thinks. When the Chief thinks beefsteak, better we don’t go around talking chicken.”
Ogberd lowered his voice. “Yes, right, but you know, I’ve been wondering lately. Here’s all these women going missing. What if we’ve got the wrong end of the stick. Like, what if the stuff doesn’t come from this world at all? What if the Lord Paramount is trading women off-world for it?”
Silence. A long brooding silence, until Lokdren said, “Well, then hell, we’ll take the women over and find out where they’re bein’ sold, and we’ll do the sellin’ ourselves.”
The two men leaned together, bearing a weight of woe. When they left, a person moved from a cleft in the rock where he had stood throughout their meeting. Veswees. He stood looking after the two men, pondering, going over in his mind all that they had said.
It meant something to him even now. When he could get some time in the library files, he felt it would mean even more.
* * *
Genevieve wakened in the dark, too late to struggle, already gagged, already mostly tied. She struggled against bonds being tightened, and went on struggling against being lifted from her bed, carried and dumped unceremoniously onto a cart. She held her breath in hope as her abductor went away, but he returned to place something beside her. When the platform moved into a better light, she saw that it was her baggage, everything she had brought with her when she arrived. The driver was Zebulon, a strangely elated Zebulon, shifting from foot to foot and humming under his breath. When they had gone some way, he began to sing.
“Take her where she’s going, yes, we’ll take her to and froing, and I’m the only one who’ll know that’s not where she planned to go, oh, no, oh, no . . .” He cackled, a high, manic giggle that went on endlessly, trailing away only to repeat itself once, twice, a dozen times more. When it ended at last, Zebulon wiped his face on his sleeve and muttered,
“He’s not the only rhymer, is he? Not him. Well, we’ll just say she ran off. Fell in a chasm. He’ll never know. He’ll never know. And we’ll get . . . oh, a good price for her. They’ll want her. They’re looking for her. Hide her away for a while. She’s got fat on her. She won’t starve in a week, no, not a week. Even a month, maybe. Water, that’d be the problem. We’ll, I’ll water her now and again, that’s what.”