"Be silent!"
"Why?" Dumarest glanced at the captain who stood, a thick-set, swarthy man before the glittering tell-tales of the main console. "Captain Remille might be interested. To me it was obvious-why else should you trust a stranger? For what other reason than to act as a catspaw and decoy? But you had me fooled for a while when I learned that Lieutenant Frieze had fallen sick. I took him to be your man. I was wrong."
"Sick?" Remille frowned. "Another one?"
"Shut up, you fool!"
"Yes, Captain, shut up," said Dumarest cynically. "You're on your own vessel and in full command but you must remain silent when the officer speaks. After all he is a member of a mercenary band. A disgraced member, true, and one who will be shot when they get their hands on him, but you must remain silent until he gives you permission to speak."
"Talk again and I'll fire!" snapped Lofoten. "Don't listen to him, Remille."
"Why not, Captain? He talks sense." Dephine edged closer. "What does Lofoten bring you? Nothing. We have a dozen crates filled with valuables. More than enough to buy passage. What further use can the Major be to you?"
"You bitch! I'll-"
Lofoten lifted the gun, raising it high to bring it slashing across her face, a vicious blow which would have opened her cheek, smashed her nose, torn her lips and turned the clean lines of her face into a puffed ugliness.
Dumarest caught his wrist before the gun could fall. His fingers tightened, twisting, his body moving as the laser fell from the nerveless fingers, the trapped arm slamming across his chest, the sound of snapping bone like the breaking of a twig.
"The gun!" He caught it as she threw it towards him. "Get your own." The knife made a soft slithering as he tucked it back into his boot. "Cover them while I get off this uniform." He kicked aside the discarded fabric. "Well, Captain?"
"We had a deal," said Remille glancing towards Lofoten. "Crates slipped aboard and goods to be sold on a secret market. That's all I know but I had to deal through the woman. Then he arrived on board and-well, the rest you know."
"And the sick men?"
Remille avoided his eyes. "Nothing."
He was lying, but Dumarest couldn't guess why and had no time to find out. Already the mercenaries would be assembling heavy equipment to break into the ship and metal, protection against a bullet, was of little defense against a heavy missile.
From where he sat on the deck, Lofoten said, "Captain, if I could talk with you in private?" He heaved himself to his feet, his arm hanging limply at his side. His face was pale, beaded with sweat. "It's important."
Dumarest said, "Captain, are you ready to leave?"
"Yes, but-"
"Wait much longer and you won't get the chance. Those outside will split your hull open like a rotten melon. My guess is they have charges set and ready to go." Dumarest gestured towards the panel where a signal lamp flashed in ruby urgency. "The radio-attention signal. They want to talk to you."
"Let them want. Damned mercenaries, strutting and swaggering. To hell with them."
"Is your crew aboard?"
"All but the steward. He-we can do without a steward." Remille made up his mind. "We leave." Then, looking at Lofoten, he said, "What about him?"
"Kick him out."
"Let me come with you! Captain! Please!"
"Dump him," snapped Dumarest. "Drop him through the lower hatch. It's him they want, not us."
"Earl, they'll kill him." Dephine's voice was high. "You know the kind of death they give to looters."
He said, bitterly, "He would have smashed in your face had I let him. He would have burned me down given the chance. To hell with him." Reaching out he grabbed the man's good arm. "Let's get rid of this filth and be on our way."
Chapter Four
The Varden was small; a roving free-trader picking up a living wherever a cargo was to be found; the crew paid if and when there were profits to be shared. Aside from the looted crates the hold was empty; but there were passengers.
Dumarest studied them a day later as he sat in the salon. At the table a fat man toyed with a deck of cards, ringed hands deft as he manipulated the pasteboards. Charl Tao, a dealer in rare and precious merchandise-or so he claimed. Dumarest had a shrewd suspicion that the salves and lotions which formed his stock in trade contained not the near-magical essences he said but ingredients of a more humble origin.
Glaring at the plump trader a thin-faced, wasp-voiced woman sat in the rigid attitude of one who wore unyielding garments. Allia Mertrony, a widow, a follower of some obscure sect. Her cabin stank of incense and she wore a cap of dark material covering her hair. Next to her sat a middle-aged man with a bandaged leg. Fren Harmond, taciturn, his face creased with pain.
"A game, Earl?" Charl glanced towards Dumarest. "Something to pass the time. Spectrim, starsmash, banko, man-in-between. You name it and we'll play it."
"For money, no doubt," snapped the woman.
"For small stakes and those only to add interest. How about you, Fren, it'll take your mind off the pain."
"No."
"You don't have to suffer it," said Charl smoothly. "I've a few drops which will give you dreams instead of anguish. Come to my cabin and let's see what can be done."
"We should have a steward," said the woman. "It's all very well to say that he was too sick to rejoin us on Hoghan but we should have one just the same. It's a part of the service."
Dumarest said, "Did any of you board at Hoghan?"
"We came from Legand," said the plump man. "I wanted to leave but they wouldn't let me and when I learned why I was pleased to change my mind."
"They wouldn't let you land? Why not?"
"The war. Surely you must have been involved. We arrived at a bad time and it was best to remain within the safety of the ship. So Captain Remille advised and he made sense."
"Did you book to Hoghan?"
"No, to Malach. The ship had a special delivery to make. It adds time to the journey, but what choice had we?"
"We should have a steward," said the old woman fretfully. "Who is to give us quick-time? Or are we supposed to do without? I've paid for a High Passage and I want what I've paid for. Fren, why don't you complain to the captain? Charl-"
"I'll do it," said Dumarest.
In the control room the air was alive with the hums and burrs of smoothly working apparatus, the sensors questing their way into space, plotting a path and guiding the vessel with mechanical efficiency. Remille sat in his chair, the navigator at his post beside him. A thin man with sour lips half-hidden beneath a ruff of beard, Haw Mayna had an abrupt and bristling manner.
"What do you want? Passengers aren't allowed in the control room. Damn it, man, surely you must know that!"
"Captain?"
"He's right." Remille turned to glare from the depths of his chair. "What is it?"