‘I know you prefer money to sleep,’ the Old Man shrugged. ‘Your men know it
too.’
‘True enough,’ Jubal laughed. ‘So, what brings you this far from the docks so
early in the day?’
‘For some the day’s over,’ Panit commented dryly. ‘I need money: six silver
pieces. I’m offering my stall on the wharf.’ –
Hort couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He opened his mouth to speak, then
caught himself. He had been raised to know better than to interrupt his father’s
business. His movement was not lost on Jubal, however.
‘You intrigue me. Old Man,’ the slaver mused. ‘Why should I want to buy a fish
stall at any price?’
‘Because the wharf’s the only place your ears don’t hear,’ Panit smiled tightly.
‘You send your spies in – but we don’t talk to outsiders. To hear the wharf you
must be on the wharf- I offer you a place on the wharf.’
‘True enough,’ Jubal agreed. ‘I hardly expected the opportunity to fall my way
like ripe fruit…’.,..•.
‘Two conditions,’ the Old Man interrupted; ‘First; four weeks before you own my
stall. If I repay the money – you don’t own my stall…’
‘All right,’ the slaver nodded, ‘but…’
‘Second: anything happens to me these next four weeks you take care of my wife.
It’s not charity; she knows the wharf and the Nya – she’s worth a fair wage.’
Jubal studied the Old Man a moment through hooded eyes. ‘Very well,’ he said
finally, ‘but I sense there is much you are not telling me.’ He left the room
and returned with the silver coins which rattled lightly in his immense palm.
‘Tell me this. Old Man,’ he asked suspiciously, ‘all these terms – why don’t you