Spectrum of a Forgotten Sun

She smiled and shook her head, a tress of hair falling to veil one eye, a strand which she lifted and replaced among the rest.

"My lady!"

"Why be so impatient, Earl? What waits for you if you leave this room? Do you prefer a cell? And afterwards the auction block and a life of contract-slavery? Or to be taken and hidden away and used by those who are not known to be gentle?"

The Cyclan? But if she knew of their interest in him then why not mention the name? A guess, he decided. Neither she nor the major was sure. The display of their seal had been a goad or a calculated stimulus to gauge his reaction. An old trick of any interrogator. Let slip a hint and then follow up; probing, using the information the victim lets fall to gain more. But what was the real connection between them? Why had he been sent to the woman?

"To help me," she said, when bluntly he asked the question. "And to help yourself at the same time."

"How?"

She stepped towards him, arms lifting to embrace him, her lips settling close to his ear. Her voice was low, a bare murmur, impossible to hear from outside or to be caught by any electronic device.

"To steal, Earl. To snatch the loot of a world."

* * * * *

From high to one side a man yelled. His shout drowned in the rasp and rumble of falling rubble, the pound of a pneumatic hammer thudding like a monstrous heart accompanying the snarling whine of a saw. Noise which filled the air with blurring distortions as dust veiled sharp detail.

The day had died and night reigned but still work continued under the glow of floodlights. A uniformed figure snarled a curse, then stiffened to salute as an officer barked his displeasure.

"Sorry sir, but these civilians-"

"Are our employers." The officer, young, a neat dressing on his forehead covering a minor wound, smiled at the woman at Dumarest's side. "Your forgiveness, my lady, but the man is fatigued. Battle tires a man and the war was a hard one." His hand rose to touch the dressing. "Even so he should have remembered his manners."

"You are forgiven, Captain." Her smile was radiant. "Your wound is not too serious, I hope?"

"I was lucky," he said modestly. "And medical aid was at hand."

"I'm glad of that. Well, goodnight, Captain. Perhaps we shall meet again. You are on duty here at night? I shall remember it."

"Captain Pring, my lady." His salute was from the parade ground. "If you need help be free to ask."

"A fool," she said as they moved on. "A typical soldier, Earl. A manikin to be manipulated as if it were a stuffed toy."

Dumarest stepped over a low pile of rubble. "Why don't you like mercenaries?"

"Isn't it obvious? They come and fight their stupid war and then make out they have done their employers a favor."

"And haven't they?" He smiled as he halted and turned to face her; a man taking a walk with an attractive woman, a couple engaged in idle conversation. In the darkness eyes could be anywhere. "Think of the alternative. Without mercenaries you'd need to train and equip your own forces with all the expense that entails. Those who died would be close; sons, fathers, brothers, sisters even. And those engaged in civil war tend to ignore restraints and so increase the destruction. All the employers of mercenary bands really lose is money. It is strangers who do the dying."

"Not strangers to each other, Earl," she said pointedly, "Comrades. Is it easy to kill a friend?"

He said harshly, "We came out here to talk. Two men have been following us but they are well out of earshot. You know them?"

"No, but they are probably watching to make sure you do not escape." Her hand rested lightly on his arm. "You were clever to spot them, Earl. Now, shall we talk?"

They found a tavern, a small place busy with uniformed men, off-duty mercenaries returning to the economy some of the money they had been paid. The sound of their voices and laughter was a susurrating din against which no eavesdropper would stand a chance. A female dancer writhed to the music of drums and pipes, cymbals clashing on fingers, knees, wrists and ankles. An indifferent performer, but she was scantily clad and that alone was enough to please the watchers.

"Flesh," said Dephine. Her voice held disdain. "Why do men hold it in such high regard? A body, a few wisps of fabric, a little movement and they roar their pleasure. Well, that is one harlot who will do well tonight."

"You condemn her?"

"No, but the men who will pay for her dubious pleasures -surely they must know how she regards them?"

"They have fought," said Dumarest. "Some of them have killed and all have risked their lives. Every coin has two faces, my lady. And death must be matched with life."