Iduna

Chapter Two

The day had started badly and promised to get worse. At dawn a man had been impaled before the palace and his screams and moans would last for days as, slowly, he died. A barbaric form of execution and one she would like to abolish; but old customs died hard and none had mercy on those guilty of rape. Three cases of hnaudifida had been reported from the northeastern sector, and unless the restrictions she had imposed were effective the disease could spread with consequent loss of valuable slaves. And now it looked like rain.

From the window of her room she could see the clouds gathering over the distant mountains. Masses of seething gray, harsh and ugly against the pale emerald of the sky, the sun itself now shielded behind strands of waterlogged vapor. If the wind held there could be trouble. With the rain would come thunder and lightning, hail, floods of water which would flatten crops now almost ready for harvesting. She must see if rafts could be sent to seed the clouds and vent their contents safely in the foothills. Or perhaps Tamiras, with his electronic barriers, could be of help. His demonstration had been impressive, but a working installation couldn't be guaranteed to work and the cost was enormous.

And yet possibly worth it. On Esslin storms could bring ruin in more ways than one.

"My lady?" Shamarre, as silent as always, had approached as she stood engrossed at the window. Now she stood, as stolid as granite, thickly muscled arms disguised by her blouse, the trunks of thighs and the corded sinews of stomach and torso taut against the covering fabric. An Amazon dedicated to her service. "Is something bothering you?"

The question was a liberty taken with the confidence of long familiarity. Who else would have dared to speak to the ruler of Esslin in such a manner? For a moment Kathryn mused over the problem then, impatiently, dismissed it. What did it matter?

"My lady, you-"

"I know." Kathryn turned from the window. The guard-attendant would mention her appointments, urge haste, give unwanted advice and in general make herself a nuisance but, when the woman again spoke, she realized she had been mistaken.

"You have time to relax a little," said Shamarre doggedly. "A bath, even. Certainly something to take the stink of execution from your nostrils."

"You disapprove?"

"The man had to die. You didn't have to attend."

A mistake and one she knew all too well. Even though she was Matriarch yet still she was the prisoner of custom and Shamarre must know it. To have absented herself would have been to give tacit disapproval of the execution, and the injured woman would have felt herself affronted. She had friends and they would have taken her side. A schism would have been created, one which could have come to nothing or which could have resulted in a vicious outbreak of destructive hostility.

It had happened before. Too often it had happened before.

There was no time to indulge in the long, lingering luxury of a bath and to take a dip would be to ruin her cosmetics and waste more time than would be saved. But Tamiras had recently installed one of his electro-baths and it was good to relax on the padded cushions and feel the impulse of invisible energies as they massaged skin and muscle with random, stimulating contractions and expansions of balanced fields.

Lying in a cat-like dose, not asleep and yet not fully awake, she thought of the inventor and his claims. A pity he was a man; she could appreciate the difficulties beneath which he labored trying to convince those who had money and influence that he was not a misguided dreamer. This bath was proof that he was far from that and an extension of the idea could replace the need for water in arid areas. Electro-currents could remove dirt and scale and dead epidermis and leave the body clean without a drop of water being needed. Properly handled and promoted, the invention could earn a fortune.

Would he leave Esslin if it did?

She hoped not. There was something likeable about the man despite his wizened appearance and abruptly aggressive mannerisms. True, he was sly in his slanted insults and innuendoes, but much could be forgiven a man of demonstrated talent. She must talk to him, take advice on the matter, ask Gustav for his opinion. That, at least, should please him-not often did she consult with her consort.

Closing her eyes, she looked at the face of her husband painted from memory against the inner surface of the lids.

Young-they had both been young. Strong enough in his fashion and handsome as any with hair piled high in a crested mane and eyes which, in their subtle slant, seemed to hold an inner wisdom. Eyes which contained a secret laughter which had made light of her early worries. The mirth which he had used as armor against the slights and hurts time and the pressure of office had brought. He was a man chosen to impregnate her womb and there had been too many to remind him of that. Too many to drive home his basic insignificance. A stallion selected for his lineage to father the future rulers of Esslin. To sire the daughters which-

No!

No-it was better she did not think of that.

Of the first miscarriage following the news of the rebellion when Clarice Duvhal had turned the entire southern region into flame with the aid of hired mercenaries. Of the second when she had been almost assassinated by a rival-the unborn child giving its life to save her own. Of the successful birth when, finally, she had lifted her daughter in her arms and felt the glow of true happiness.

One that had failed to last.

"My lady?" Shamarre was standing at her side. "You feel rested?"

"Yes." A touch and the humming, easing contact of the fields ceased. "Fetch me wine."

Drinking it, she stared into a mirror and studied the familiar lines and contours of her face. One which had worn too long now to ever hope that it could turn into a thing of beauty. It held strength and determination, she knew-without either of those attributes she would never have been able to survive-but the brows were too thick and straight, the lips too thin, the jaw too prominent, the nose too hooked.

Gustav had made fun of it.

"You are a strong and lovely bird, my dear. One who sits and watches and strikes when the need arises. Other women are cats or mice or foxes. Many are spiders. You, above all, are honest."

How little had he known!

Or had he really known but had played the game in the only way it could be played if either was to find a degree of contentment in their union? And, certainly, when he had come to her after the birth and stooped to kiss her she had seen that within his eyes which had given her food for thought. An expression repeated when he had, later, kissed the child. A tenderness. A yearning. A look which could have been one of love.

"My lady!"

"Yes, I know. Time is passing and duty calls." She finished the wine and threw the woman the empty glass. "Well, what is next on the agenda?"

"Maureen Clairmont of the Elguard Marsh needs more workers if she is to expand her holdings as she intends. If she is allowed to bid unchecked, the price will rise to the detriment of others. And, should she grow too strong, would be a source of potential trouble."

"I'll see to it. And?"

"A meeting with the Hsi-Wok Combine."

Entrepreneurs who, like hungry dogs, were eager for the chance to tear at a bone. Give them their way and within a decade they would have gutted the planet and turned it into a cesspool of vice.

"And?"

A list of trivia which she could have done without and would ignore should the need arise. But such work served to fill the hours and, while thinking of the minutiae of rule, she could lessen the impact of despair. One item caused her to frown.

"Hylda Vroom? On the field?"

"Yes, my lady."

"Didn't she join up with some slavers?"

"Yes, my lady. With Abra Merenda. Apparently she got herself killed during their last raid and Hylda took over the command."

And brought her catch to where she knew there was a market. Kathryn nodded, thinking the incident might be put to good advantage. An open auction with primed bidders who would force up prices against Maureen Clairmont and so make it uneconomical for her to expand. With luck she could be left with ridiculously expensive slaves and the display of bad judgment on her part would turn any backers she might have against her.

The plan amused her. It was better than a naked display of open force which, while demonstrating that it was she who ruled and none other, could arouse dissension. To make the woman look a fool would be sweet revenge.

Then she lost her smile as the communicator hummed. Answering it, Shamarre turned, her face a mask.

"The monk," she said. "He is waiting, my lady. In the Octagonal Room."

He stood in the exact center as if taking up the position to maintain the symmetry of the chamber. Eight walls, each elaborately carved with depictions of men and animals locked in attitudes of combat or mutual caresses; the skill of the artist made it impossible to be certain. Tints and colors interwoven to give the impression of garments, of fur and feather and scale, of gossamer and hair and glitters which could have been the exudations of natural fluids. Lights were carefully positioned to accentuate suggestive shadows and, together, the panels formed a series designed to catch and hold the attention, to intrigue, to shock, to startle.

The roof matched the walls, groined, fluted, carved and colored to give the appearance of the interior of a shell. The floor was a polished mosaic which traced a complex pattern. There were no furnishings. Had he wanted to sit, the monk would have had to squat on the floor, but Brother Remick had no desire to sit. He was accustomed to waiting.

He was tall, old, the thrown-back cowl of his brown, homespun robe framing a near-bald skull, a face lined with privation and relieved only by the burning intelligence and compassion of his deep-set eyes, the lips which curved in gentle humor. Rough sandals hugged his naked feet and the hands which he held folded before him displayed swollen knuckles and wrists.

A dedicated man who had chosen to serve the Universal Church which preached that all men were brothers and the pain of one was the anguish of all. And that if all could but recognize the truth of the credo, there, but for the love of God, go I, the millennium would have arrived.

He would never live to see it. No monk now alive would see it but, one day, it would come and until it did he would do what he could to ease the lives of those who needed help.

Now he could only wait until Kathryn Acchabaron, Matriarch of Esslin, should condescend to hear his report.

She came sooner than he expected and one look at his face was enough.

"You failed!" From the first she had known it and yet hope had survived. Now the old, familiar sickness and despair turned into a sudden and vicious rage. "You failed! I should have you stripped and beaten and impaled! You fool! You useless fool!"

"Sister-"

"Don't call me that! I'm not one of your spineless flock! I am the ruler of this world and you had best not forget it!"

Pride blazed from her as if she had been a fire and with it came the arrogance of wealth, the indifference to the concern of others which he had met so often before. He dealt with it now as he had then, standing, waiting for the emotional storm to pass, ready to submit without argument to any punishment she might choose to inflict. The way of those serving the Church which had gained scars and dealt for many of them, respect for many more. Always the strong can recognize an equal strength even if demonstrated in a manner different from their own.

Now, calming, she said, "What happened? Report!"

"As you say, my lady, I did not succeed. I found it beyond my skill to aid the poor creature you placed in my care. But how could it be otherwise?"

"You are a master of hypnotism and skilled in medical science." As he lifted his head she made an impatient gesture. "Don't bother to deny it. I've had you watched and know of your work among the poor. The medications you give them, the operations you perform, the manner in which you eradicate pain."

"Herbs," he said gently. "The lancing of boils and the setting of broken limbs. A little suggestion-there is nothing harmful in that, my lady."

"Did I say there was? Am I even blaming you? I'd hoped-God, how I'd hoped-but never mind." She drew in her breath, accepting what she could not avoid, another failure to add to the rest. "Your work is done here. You may go."

Brother Remick said, "Before I do, my lady. May I have a word?"

"Well?"

"You asked too much of my poor skill. How could I hope to succeed where others have failed. And there have been others? Men trained in the field of mental sickness?"

Men and women both and all demanding high rewards for accomplishing nothing. As she had expected the monk to make a demand. As he still might make it.

"Yes," she admitted. "So?"

"Let others make the attempt. We have those in the Church more skilled than myself. If you could arrange passage I am confident that some progress could be made."

"Passage? To where?"

To Hope, she assumed, where the Church had their headquarters or to Pace where they had their great medical establishment. She blinked at the answer.

"To Elysium, my lady. A world not too distant from Esslin."

"And the cost?"

Again he surprised her. "The cost of the journey naturally, but once on Elysium there will be no charge. You will merely donate what you wish to give." He added quietly, "If you were sick, dying of a malignancy which could be cured, would you appreciate your life being set in the scales against what you owned? Or if one dear to you were ill would you thank those who refused to cure her because you could not afford to meet their fees?"

"Charity?" Her laugh was strained. "You believe in charity?"

"We believe in doing to others as we would like them to do to us. You may have heard that before, my lady. It is known as the Golden Rule."

Was he rebuking her? For a moment she suspected it then recognized the ridiculousness of the suspicion. On this world no man, not even a monk, could have been such a fool.

"My lady, you summoned me and I came and did what I could, for we of the Church never refuse any in need. Now you have given me leave to go. Before I do may I crave a boon?"

The reward he wanted-what would it be? Cynicism sharpened her tones.

"You disappoint me, monk. For once I had hoped to have found a man who practiced what he preached. One willing to give without demanding a return. Well, what do you want? Money?"

"Permission, my lady." Startled, she heard him press on. "Your permission to set up the Church at the edge of the field. Twice we have tried and each time the guards have thrown it down. Brother Juba was injured the last time and Brother Echo is tending him at this moment. Both are old."

"And?" She waited for him to continue. Some comforts for his companions, surely. If he called them old they must be almost doddering. What brought men like that to share such poverty? "Speak, man," she demanded. "What else?"

"Nothing, my lady."

"Nothing?" She gave a curt laugh. "Just my permission to set up your church? You have it. A hundred square yards- not closer than the same distance from the gate."

The reward of failure. How would Gustav take it? She must go to him at once.

He was within his study, seated at his desk, busy with a litter of papers, old books, mouldering tomes from a host of worlds brought by traders who knew of his interest. For a moment she stood watching him from the open door then, as if sensing her presence, he turned and rose to face her.

"Kathryn!"

He gave his usual, impeccable bow, a gesture which was as much a part of him as the trick he had of touching his left eyebrow when mastering his anger. A thing she had not seen since the fool from Elkan had given his verdict and made his suggestion. She wondered if his back still bore the scars she had ordered to be placed there.

"Gustav!" She lifted her hands as he advanced and smiled as he took them and lifted them to his lips. A smile which vanished as he looked at her. "No, my dear. Again-no!"

She felt him near her, his arms around her, all protocol forgotten in this moment of her need. A weakness, no Matriarch could ever lean on another, but it was good to know that she was not alone, that there was another to share her grief, her empty yearning. And he had the right. Of all men he had the right.

"Don't give up hope," he whispered. "We can try again. There will be someone with courage enough or skill enough. Dear God, there has to be someone!"

He turned as his voice broke, unwilling to let her see the tears in his eyes, the haggard expression he knew must be marring his face. Did she recognize his contempt? Share it? Know him for the coward he was? And yet was sheer willingness enough? Arnold had been young and strong and willing and where was Arnold now? Charles had burned with the strength of greed and it had killed him. Muhi had wanted to prove his friendship. Fhrel had insisted and Nerva had thought it a game.

Gone. Failures all.

Could he have done better?

Even so he should have tried. Should still try-was he to wait and die while thinking of making the attempt?

"No, Gustav! No!" This time it was the woman who had read his thoughts. She reached out and took him by the shoulders and turned him to face her and she did it as if he were a child. "No," she said again. "I've given the orders and you couldn't even if you tried. And I don't want you to try. Haven't I lost enough as it is? Dear God, haven't I lost enough!"

Too much and all that made life a meaningful existence. He must reassure her and give her hope.

"Well find a way," he said. "We can send to other worlds for experts. To Payne and to-" He broke off, looking at the hand she had pressed over his heart. "Kathryn?"

"I've been a fool, Gustav. To have put my hope in a monk and then to be so disappointed when he failed to perform a miracle. Then to come to you and upset you in turn. But there must be no stupid heroics. That is an order. I mustn't lose you, too." She waited until he met her eyes. "I want you to promise. I want you to give me your word."

A moment and then he nodded. "You have it."

"Good." She inhaled and then stepped back away from him again in full emotional control. "Thank you, husband."

"You will stay?"

"I can't." She saw regret in his eyes and hastened to explain. "I've work to be getting on with. A stupid bitch who is too ambitious for her own good needs to be taught a lesson. I want everything arranged."

The pens were washed and clean but for reasons of hygiene not comfort. The same reasoning applied to the floor, the walls, the catwalk on which the slaves were displayed, the block on which they were sold. Only the seats provided for the curious were padded; serious buyers preferred to stand.

Maureen Clairmont had been among them. She was gone now, leaving tight-lipped and with the skin stretched tautly over her cheekbones, realizing just on the edge of ruin the plan which had been devised against her. One only the Matriarch herself could have engineered, as her backers must realize; and, knowing the strength of the displayed opposition, they would be quick to disavow her.

Leaning back in her chair, Kathryn felt the glow of satisfaction of a job well done.

"Twenty males," said the auctioneer. "Assorted planets of origin. Offered for sale by Hylda Vroom. I will allow the usual time for examination."

A man who relished his power over others but one who knew how to be deferential while maintaining his pride. Not an easy thing to do while selling others of his own kind but such work was too demeaning for any woman to contemplate. As the line shuffled from the pens to stand on the catwalk Kathryn leaned forward to study them the better. As the auctioneer had said, they were a motley crew dressed in an assortment of garments. A convenience; why provide fresh clothing when there was no need? And why heat a compartment when clothing would keep the captives warm?

They would have been searched, naturally, and all of value taken. And, equally naturally, some showed the signs of combat.

And yet was that wholly natural?

To Shamarre who attended her Kathryn said, "Isn't gas used during a raid?"

"Yes, my lady."

"Then why are some of those men hurt? Is Hylda so careless as to stacking? Or did she have trouble once in space?"

"Trouble," said Shamarre with relish. "You're looking at the fruit of a couple of raids, my lady. The second proved expensive. Some managed to escape the gas and decided to fight. That one, you see him? The one in gray? I heard that he killed a score on his own."

An exaggeration, it had to be, no man could best a score of women especially if they were armed and alert. Yet there was something about him that attracted her interest. His height for one thing, he was taller than Gustav and far wider across the shoulders, but it wasn't just that. His face held a hard, ruthless determination, his eyes probing the area even as he was urged toward the block. On the side of his head an ugly wound made a patch of red and blue which set off the taut pallor of his face.

She lifted her hand as the auctioneer began his chant.

"One moment. I would like some details as to this man."

"My lady?"

"Details, you fool," snapped Shamarre. "Where was he taken? How did he get hurt?"

"I can answer that." Hilda Vroom, gaudy in her flared and slashed blouse, the bulk of an electronic control box at her waist, thrust herself toward the Matriarch. "He comes from Onorldi-at least that's where we found him. I'll be honest, Abra was a fool. Somehow he and others escaped the gas and she hesitated before taking action. While he provided a distraction the rest managed to get weapons and attacked the rafts. We didn't know the situation and so had to make a run for it." She added bitterly, "We left twenty behind."

"Twenty!" Shamarre blew out her cheeks. "You admit it?"

"Why lie? It wasn't my responsibility. I wasn't in command then. We had him surrounded and then, somehow, everyone was firing at everyone else. But I know for a fact he killed a half a dozen and injured more."

"With a gun?"

"A gun and this." Light glittered from the blade of the knife she pulled from her belt. "I'm keeping it for a souvenir."

Shamarre held out her hand and grunted as she examined the weapon. As she handed it back she said, "I still can't understand how you let him get so many of you."

"He's fast. I was on the raft watching and one second he was standing apparently harmless and the next he'd cut loose." She added defensively, "You don't have to believe me. I don't give a damn if you do or don't. You wanted the facts and I'm giving them to you. That's all."

"Dangerous?"

"Not now." The slaver slapped the box at her waist. "I've got him collared."

Kathryn could see it around his throat, the thick band of flexible links shining with a gilt luster. Too close-fitting to be slipped over the head it would detonate if removed with any other means than the correct key. The device incorporated within would respond to signals sent from the slaver's box and turn nerve and muscle into liquid fire should the man disobey.

For a moment she wondered what it must be like to be rendered so helpless. To be dependent on the slightest whim of another. To live in constant fear of pain and death. To be so much a helpless prisoner. A moment in which to taste a foreign concept and to reject it as being totally inapplicable to her situation. She was a woman and the Matriarch. How could she find any affinity with a man and a slave?

"He's big," murmured Shamarre. "And looks strong enough to earn his keep. Gelded, he'd be safe enough to put over the youngsters."

A hint? Shamarre was rarely subtle but what she said was true enough. Young daughters of the aristocracy needed to be taught and protected, and keeping them in line posed a problem. Older women would intrigue and were not above yielding to passions of their own. Men were men. Slaves, unless of a special kind, could be suborned. Loyalty, she thought bitterly. Always it came to that. How to win it? How to keep it once given?

But, from a slave, at least she could ensure obedience. The box Hylda carried would see to that.

"His name?" She nodded as it was given. "Dumarest. Earl Dumarest. And not a native of Onorldi?"

"I doubt it, my lady."

As she did. This man was no farmer spending his life in devotion to the soil. No herder of beasts. No scrap of living matter adjusting his life to the turn of the seasons. There was a proud arrogance to the lift of his head, a savage independence in his eyes. Things she could appreciate even while deploring them in a slave.

"Have him walk," she commanded. "I want to see him move."

As a slaver turned, she rose to step down toward the catwalk. As the order was given, she halted and looked up to study the taut pallor of the face, the inflamed ugliness of the wound.

"A near miss, my lady," said Shamarre at her side. "The bullet must have cracked his skull. There could be inflammation of the inner membranes. Mention it-it will help to lower the price."

The woman was incorrigible, surely she knew that the Matriarch did not haggle like a merchant, yet she had a point. Such an injury could have turned the man into a shambling idiot.

"Have him move," she ordered. "Twist and bend and flex his arms. I want to be certain as to his coordination."

"You heard!" Hylda dropped her hand to the box at her waist. "Obey, you scum!"

Dumarest felt the first sear of pain as her hand tightened on the control and turned, moving as he'd been directed, but deliberataely slow and awkward. He saw the look of distaste in the woman's eyes. Saw the older woman standing just behind her shake her head and knew he had gone a little too far. Pausing, he sucked in his breath and lifted a hand to press at his wound.

"I apologize, my lady," he said. "I am clumsy, but it will pass. With your permission I will attempt to do better."

An intelligent man and one with at least a touch of culture. His tone had been respectful and his form of address calculated to cause no offense. A pity about the wound.

"Does it hurt?" Kathryn stepped a little closer to the edge of the catwalk. "The wound-does it cause pain?"

"Yes, my lady."

"And your vision? Can you see well?"

"At times it blurs and I see double." Dumarest extended his arms and swept his fingers together. The tips met only after the second attempt. "You see? But I am getting better."

"Liar!" Hylda twisted the control and looked in fury at the strained, sweating figure crouched on the catwalk. A long moment during which she enjoyed the spectacle then, remembering risked profit, cut the stimulus and allowed peace to come to tormented sinews. "You are fit and know it. Now stop this stupid pretense and act normal."

Dumarest said nothing, looking at his hands, seeing the skin stretched taut over the knuckles, feeling the sweat dewing his face and neck and running in little rivulets over his body. Waiting to master his weakness, to shield the hate in his eyes, to rise at last, to stagger a little and stand like a dumb, helpless beast.

Shamarre said flatly, "What was that supposed to prove, Hylda? That he is made of flesh and bone? Or do you believe that if you beat a dog hard enough it will learn to talk?"

"The man is a slave and is still my property. I do with him as I please."

Hylda had stepped closer the better to watch his pain and now stood barely nine feet from Dumarest. The Matriarch was a little farther and to one side, her guard a pace more distant. Others, lounging in the seats, watched with casual interest. The auctioneer, waiting to commence the bidding, made a point of appearing to be unconcerned. No other slaves were close.

With sudden decision Kathryn said, "I will buy him. Have him healed and gelded and delivered to the palace."

As she turned to walk away Dumarest moved.

A leap and he was before the slaver, one hand lifted to send the stiffened fingers stabbing into the soft flesh of her throat, his other snatching the knife from where she carried it in her belt. Even as she screamed he drove it forward, sending it to penetrate the control box at her waist, electronic energy sparking as the steel plunged, twisted, destroying the inner components as it passed through to reach the flesh of her stomach, to slice into skin and fat and muscle, to release the intestines in a shower of blood and inner fluids.

Even as she died he was moving again, this time to reach the Matriarch, to send his left arm looping over her shoulder, to hold her close as his right hand weighted with the bloodstained blade lifted the knife to press against her throat.

"Hold!" His voice blasted an inch from her ear. "Freeze or she dies!"

Stunned, unbelieving, Shamarre stepped forward still unable to grasp the situation. It had all happened so fast! A matter of seconds during which the slaver had been killed and her mistress taken hostage.

"You swine! Harm her and-"

"Back!" Dumarest met her eyes, his naked fury halting her instinctive advance. "Back or she dies!" The knife moved in his hand, turning so as to rest the smeared point against the white column of the trapped throat. A pressure and the jugular would be severed.

And he would do it. Staring at him Shamarre had no doubt as to that. A savage, desperate man with nothing to lose. One who knew how to handle weapons and who was not a stranger to death. One who at this moment was ready to end his life.

"A warning," he said. "If anyone tries to activate my collar I'll plunge this knife home. At the first touch of pain she dies. And if you detonate it she goes with me. Now get me the key. You!" He glared at Shamarre. "Get me the key!"

It was inside Hylda's pouch and even as she found it the woman knew why Dumarest had wasted no time searching for it. The hostage had to come first-with the Matriarch in his power he was safe for the moment and the thought gave her relief. A desperate man, yes, but one still able to plan consciously. To struggle for the life she thought he was ready to yield. Which meant that he would be reluctant to commit the final act which would lead to his inevitable extinction.

"Here!" She stepped toward him, the key in her hand. "Shall I-"

"Throw it!"

A move and the knife was in his left hand as his right snatched the key from the air. Blindly he fumbled with the glittering band, his fingers searching for the tiny keyhole. Finding it, he slipped the key inside, took a breath and twisted. The key fit, the collar did not explode, and he flung it from him to lie like a gleaming serpent in the puddle of the slaver's blood.

"And now?" Kathryn shared his relief. "You've got rid of the collar but how does that help you?'"

"One thing at a time." Dumarest looked about the room. By this time, unless the place was totally staffed by hysterical fools, there would be guards waiting and ready to pounce. "If you gave me your word could I trust it?"

"Of course. I am the Matriarch of Esslin."

And a proud woman who would not easily forgive this insult. And one who could not be kept a prisoner indefinately. Even now she must be planning on how best to make a break. To risk the knife in the certain knowledge that, once beyond his reach, she would be safe. And she needn't even do that. Marksmen, correctly stationed, could burn him down without harming the woman.

"It seems that you are in a rather difficult position," she said dryly. "I can understand your desire to get rid of the collar, and the slaver was no loss, but what now?"

"We go on a journey."

"To the field?" She was shrewd. "Hylda's vessel? How can you be sure the crew will accommodate you?"

A gamble he had to take. The only chance he had. And he could afford to waste no time.

"We're leaving, my lady," he said quietly. "It would be wise for you to give me full cooperation. That way neither of us will get hurt."

"And if I struggle or appeal for help or anything like that which threatens you then you will kill me. Is that it?"

"Not kill you. Not if I can avoid it." He left the threat unspoken but the sting of the knife was enough, "Now lead the way out. Keep close and… and…" He blinked, looking at her face which seemed to waver. And then, suddenly, there was nothing.