At Empire's Edge (14 page)

It was good advice, and Alamy knew that, so she pictured the island her father had taken her to three years earlier. It was a beautiful locale, with soaring bristle trees, and rocky cliffs where birds made their nests. But the sight of so many leering faces was impossible to ignore, as were the lecherous comments directed to individual women, including herself. So Alamy’s head fell, as liquid lead trickled into her stomach, and Mortha began his time-tested spiel. “Here are six young women, any of whom could clean your house, help out in the kitchen, or warm your bed! Assuming your wife will move over, that is!”

The risqué joke got a big laugh from the crowd, and Mortha waited for the noise to die down, before giving the order that at least half the crowd had been waiting for. “Remove your clothes, slaves—and show the citizens what a few Imperials can buy.”

Alamy had been both expecting the command and dreading it. Her face turned bright red as she fumbled with the cheap pin that held her soiled toga in place and let the fabric fall. That left her wearing nothing more than a pair of panties—which one of the handlers ordered her to remove. There was an enthusiastic burst of applause as she did so, quickly followed by the sharp
crack
of a whip, and a cry of pain as Gertha staggered under the force of the blow. Because rather than remove her clothing as she’d been ordered to, the young woman had been talking to herself, while swaying from side to side. “Cut her clothes off,” Mortha said coldly, and there were
more
cheers as one of his employees hurried to comply.

Alamy wanted to cover her breasts
and
her pubic area, but knew any attempt to do so would earn her a whipping, so she forced both hands down to her sides. And, because Alamy was very shapely, hundreds of eyes bored into her.

Alamy directed a sidelong glance at Persus, and saw that while naked, the other woman was clearly disengaged. In fact, judging from the beatific expression she wore, Persus was looking at something beautiful rather than a crowd of brutish plebeians.

“So,” Mortha continued smoothly, “let the bidding begin! The first slave up for sale is on the far-left-hand side of the block. Her name is Tara. She’s twenty-two years old and can read and write. Bidding will start at eight hundred Imperials. Do I have eight? Yes, I do. How ’bout eight fifty?” And so it went as a bidding war quickly developed between the man in the hooded robe and a wealthy landowner who was seated on a sedan chair. It had fold-down legs and was designed to resemble a throne. In spite of the fact that the seat was extra wide—the matron’s synsilk-swathed body filled it from side to side. Rings glittered on each pudgy finger, and a bodyguard comprised of six well-armed men formed a semicircle behind her. A well-groomed slave stood upwind of the woman, so that the scented smoke produced by the brazier he was holding would waft past his mistress, and thereby protect her sensitive nostrils from offensive odors. Of which there were many.

Though a lot less flamboyant, the hooded man won the bidding for Tara, but lost the next round to the woman in the sedan chair. A shopkeeper bought the third woman, which made it Gertha’s turn, and she sold quickly thanks to her beauty. Though for a relatively low price since everyone could see that her potential usefulness was limited.

Neither the hooded man nor the woman in the sedan chair put in a bid for Gertha, but when Persus came up for auction, both became active again. If Alamy’s friend was aware of what was taking place she gave no sign of it as the man bid sixteen hundred Imperials, and the matron signaled her surrender with a disapproving frown.

Then it was Alamy’s turn, and as all eyes turned to her, the young woman felt a profound sense of humiliation. A sense of stubborn pride brought her head up, but the teenager felt dizzy, and feared that she might faint. “The last slave is not only a fine-looking specimen,” Mortha said approvingly, “but a skilled sandal maker as well! Not to mention her ability to clean the house, cook simple meals, and do sums. Though not born into slavery, there’s little doubt that obedience can be learned, although it may require a strong hand! Bidding will begin at a thousand Imperials.”

There were six potential buyers at first, but four dropped out, as the hooded man and the society matron battled for dominance. Finally, having made a dismissive gesture with one bejeweled hand, the woman surrendered when the bidding topped eighteen hundred Imperials. If the man was jubilant, the expression was hidden in the shadow cast by his hood, and Mortha finalized the sale.

Then, much to Alamy’s relief, she was allowed to pick up her toga and wrap it around her body as she followed Persus off the platform and down a short flight of stairs to a holding pen, where a group of male slaves stood waiting. The older ones eyed the young women hungrily, but the youngest were little more than boys, and were clearly frightened. Persus took the situation in stride. “I don’t know who our new owner is,” she commented, “but he’s well-heeled! That’s a good sign since there should be plenty of food and a warm place to sleep.”

Although Alamy’s father hadn’t been wealthy, far from it, she had never gone without food or a warm place to sleep and was shocked to hear that such things were possible. Once a substantial amount of money changed hands, the newly purchased slaves were ordered out of the holding pen and onto the plaza, where half a dozen militiamen were waiting to receive them. A Section Leader ordered them to form a column of twos, swore voluminously when they failed to do so quickly enough, and made use of some well-placed kicks to put things right.

Then, once the formation was to his liking, the noncom fell in at the head of the column three paces back from the man in the long, flowing robe. The crowd parted to let the formation pass, and as it did so, Alamy recognized her stepmother.

Domna was in the process of consuming a meat pie as Alamy walked past, and when the big gob of spit hit her cheek, those around Domna laughed. Including the militiamen, who had no reason to favor the heavily made-up woman, or anyone else in the crowd for that matter. It wasn’t much of a victory, but one that gave Alamy a small measure of satisfaction, as she followed the men in front of her up the busy street. The question foremost on her mind, and others’ as well, was where were they being taken?

But there was no way to know as they were led up Market Street, and from there onto Imperial Boulevard, which was a double-wide thoroughfare designed to inspire a sense of awe as people approached the palace. Of course it was also intended to facilitate a quick and expeditious movement of troops should that become necessary.

Persus, who was walking beside Alamy, was the first to voice what all of them were thinking. And, as was her habit, the comment was hopeful. “Well, I’ll be damned!” the slave exclaimed cheerfully. “We belong to Procurator Nalomy! Life is looking up.”

But as Hingo threw his hood back, and the group passed a gibbet from which three half-rotted bodies hung, Alamy wasn’t so sure. Because Nalomy’s reputation was anything but positive, there were worse things than going without a meal, and the blocky palace looked a lot like a prison. A gate swung open, the column marched through, and there was a loud
clang
as the barrier closed behind them. Alamy was home.

The foothills were closer now, or that was the way it looked as the Lir named Issit put one weary foot in front of the other, and Cato followed behind. Of course distances could be, and often were, deceiving on the Plain of Pain, as Cato had already learned. Based on how close the foothills appeared Cato had assumed that he and his prisoner would reach them by nightfall of the day before. But they hadn’t. So there they were, trudging across a large expanse of white saltpan, with the dark shadowy hills shimmering in the distance.

It had been a long, torturous three days since Cato had taken Issit by surprise, and the two of them had been forced into hiding while a dozen members of the Lir’s extended family patrolled the skies above, searching for both the warrior and the Uman he had been assigned to monitor.

But while Cato was hot, thirsty, and uncomfortable, the time spent with Issit had been productive since Cato had been able to learn more about the massacre at Station 3. Not the bloody details because Issit hadn’t taken part in the attack, but the identities of the clan leaders who were in charge, the name of the High Hold where they lived, and the fact that they had been acting on behalf of unnamed individuals in Solace. People who, for reasons unknown, wanted to seize control of Fiss Verafti. All of that was quite consistent with what Cato had discovered during his investigation.

Was Issit telling the truth? There was no way to be absolutely sure; but, like all members of the Xeno Corps, Cato had something “normal” policemen didn’t, and that was a built-in lie detector. When a suspect lied to Cato, the empath could “feel” the increased anxiety associated with telling a falsehood—regardless of what species the person might belong to.

That, at least, was good, but as an entire day and a half passed, and Issit’s relatives continued to search for the missing warrior, Cato’s water supply was quickly exhausted. So by the time the searchers finally gave up, and the unlikely twosome finally set off, both of them were extremely thirsty.

But once Cato explained it was going to be necessary to shoot Issit before heat prostration overwhelmed him, the formerly taciturn Lir became suddenly voluble. Like the other members of his flock, Issit knew the Plain of Pain extremely well, including the location of half a dozen widely dispersed water holes.

The claim “felt” truthful, so Cato allowed the footsore Lir to lead him to a large jumble of weather-sculpted rocks, where deep inside a hidden recess a pool of crystal-clear water was waiting. A small population of nearly transparent fish lived in the pool, and had for more than a million years, ever since the lake that once covered the Plain of Pain disappeared. They flitted this way and that as both sentients drank their fill.

Once all of Cato’s canteens were full, it was time for the twosome to crawl back out of the recess, and resume their journey. Issit’s wings had been freed by then, but having been forced to carry more than half of Cato’s gear, the warrior was too heavy to take off. Not to mention the fact that Cato was armed and would shoot Issit if he tried.

Having been fooled before, Cato was understandably cynical about how close the hills really were when something new appeared up ahead. Light reflected off one of them, and it had a hard, angular quality. And when Cato paused to examine them through his binos, he saw rows of computer-controlled solar panels that were set up to track the sun throughout the day and produce electricity for the city of Solace.

That meant that Cato was very close to the freewheeling community of Donk’s Well, which had grown up around a good source of water, and the solar array, which employed more than a hundred technicians.

When Cato stopped, Issit had been forced to do likewise, due to the eight-foot-long leash that was connected to his throat. So he was only a few feet away when Cato turned to address him. “I’ve got some good news for you,” Cato said cheerfully, as he restored the glasses to their pouch. “We’ll be in Donk’s Well by dinnertime. . . . So I’ll carry the pack for a while. You deserve a rest.”

Issit was both surprised and pleased, because if the desert journey had been difficult for Cato, it had been doubly so for him given that his species wasn’t equipped to travel long distances on the ground. Not to mention the fact that Issit was alert to any chance of escape, and once freed from the weight of the pack, could easily take to the air. Assuming the Lir could sever the leash that is—which had
always
been within his power.

So, having rid himself of the pack, Issit was ready when the Uman turned his back as if to take a pee, and immediately bit through the cord, something Issit’s razor-sharp beak could accomplish with ease. Then, having sprung up into the air, Issit began to beat his wings. Cato was going to shoot him, he knew that, but Issit preferred death to being led into Donk’s Well on a leash for all of the drifters, prospectors, and townspeople to stare at.

Cato heard the steady
whuf
,
whuf
,
whuf
of the Lir’s wings and had a smile on his face when he turned back. There was a soft whisper as the handgun cleared leather, followed by a loud
bang
as the lawman fired.

Issit was amazed to discover that he was still alive, and redoubled his efforts to gain more altitude, knowing full well that he was still within range. But Cato had returned the pistol to his holster by then—and shaded his eyes as he watched the Lir spiral ever upward. The warrior’s emotions were starting to fade but there was no mistaking the sense of jubilation and the fierce sense of pride that Issit felt.

Would Issit tell his clan leaders how much information had been divulged to the Uman? No, Cato didn’t think so, and since he had no way to secure and house a prisoner, it served him to let the Lir go. Especially given the nature of the task ahead.

So when Issit was little more than a high-flying speck, Cato took up the pack and pushed his arms through the straps. There was still a lot of ground to cover, but knowing that a cold beer was waiting for him in Donk’s Well, he was eager to get started. Cato began to walk, and as he did, his long, dark shadow pointed the way.

For those who lived in the community of Donk’s Well there were only two places to go after the sun set, Ril’s Bar, or the Universalist Church. And, given the fact that the local pastor spent most of
his
evenings in the saloon, it was clearly the more popular of the two.

The long, rectangular room included a much-abused bar that ran the length of the left side of the room, a scattering of mismatched tables, and a small stage where a local band played every six days. But on that particular night there was other entertainment to be had in the form of a work-worn android who went by the name of Phelonious. The A-7276 utility droid was seated at a table around which half a dozen of the bar’s patrons were gathered, all of whom watched intently as the robot’s skeletal hands manipulated a set of matched measuring cups. They knew that a pea-sized rubber ball was concealed under one of the containers, but which one?