27

Hayat and his men returned to the base late that day. Even from a distance, Gareth could see they had ridden their horses into a lather. They bypassed their own camp, galloping straight for the center of the base. Hayat’s furious shouting rose above the sound of the excited horses.

By the time Gareth reached the headquarters building, Poulos had come out and was waiting calmly. Deeseter stood, arms crossed over his massive chest, just behind his commander.

“Fork-tongued one who copulates with dead oudrakhi!” Hayat wheeled his wild-eyed, panting horse. “He who uses deceit to trick an enemy has earned his victory with cunning. But he who forswears a bargain is without honor!” He hauled on the reins, drawing the sweating, prancing animal to a standstill, and aimed the blaster at the off-worlder’s torso.

Nothing happened. No beam emerged from the barrel of the weapons. Poulos stood there, as outwardly unperturbed as before. One by one, the other Dry Towners fired their blasters, with no more effect.

Poulos had taken a crazy chance. Either that, or these blasters, like Cuinn’s, had already been nearly exhausted.

Hayat hurled the useless blaster to the ground. It skidded, coming to rest beside the smuggler captain’s booted toes. Poulos stooped to pick it up. He brushed the dust off and turned the weapon this way and that, as if he were examining it. He raised it, sighting along the barrel, but with the muzzle pointed directly at Hayat.

Sweet Cassilda! Gareth thought with a rush of horror. What if the blasters had not been drained? What if Hayat and his men had only operated them improperly?

What if Poulos now intended to give the Shainsa lordling a lesson?

Hayat must have realized this, too. He no longer forced his horse into display but sat frozen in the saddle. Merach suffered no such paralysis; he urged his own horse forward, although such a gesture would have been of little use against a fully charged blaster.

With a smile that did not reach his eyes, Poulos tilted the blaster to the sky. “My friend, you have every reason to be displeased. My abject apologies for the malfunction. Please accept my assurances that to the best of my knowledge, the blasters were in perfect working order when I delivered them to you. Such devices were not intended for use under primitive conditions. Rough handling and exposure to dust can misalign their settings. I will personally supervise the testing of the replacements to which you are, of course, entitled.” Poulos handed the blaster to Deeseter and sketched a bow in Hayat’s direction.

“Ah, Garrin, there you are. Collect the other blasters. I assume you know how to handle them, in case they still have a little power.”

“Captain, this is a dangerous game!”

Poulos waved the objection aside. “And convey what I said, leaving out the reference to primitive conditions. It would not do to antagonize the locals needlessly.”

Before Deeseter could stop him, Gareth placed himself directly in front of Poulos. “Yes, Hayat might be willing to listen this time. He won’t be happy, and he won’t trust your assurances. He’ll test the new ones. We both know that the same thing will happen. What then?”

Poulos returned Gareth’s stare without the slightest waver.

“Captain, please!” Gareth begged. “Call the deal off!”

“There is nothing whatsoever to worry about,” Poulos said in a voice laced with the chill between the stars, a voice that reminded Gareth this was the man who had ordered the burning of Nuriya. “I believe Lord Hayat and I understand each other better than that. We have just established who has the power in this relationship, that is all. Your opinion is of no interest to either of us. Now follow your orders . . . without commentary.”

It was no use, Gareth thought. It was never going to be of any use to reason with Poulos. The smugglers saw Darkover as an insignificant but convenient way station. If every man, woman, and child from Temora to the Wall Around the World were to disappear, they would regard the tragedy as the removal of a source of annoyance. What a fool he had been to waste his breath trying to make Poulos see sense!

Fighting a rush of disgust for his own naïveté, Gareth turned back to Hayat and translated, summarizing the words of the off-worlder captain. Hayat demanded to know how long the testing would take and when he would receive functioning weapons. Poulos promised him, through Gareth, that the blasters would be ready the following morning. It took no laran to recognize Hayat’s lingering suspicion. His flushed face and scowling brows were proof enough.

What was the old saying, said to date back to the years of Darkover’s founding? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me? Hayat clearly had no intention of suffering a second humiliation.

By the time the sun had set, leaving a veil of purple light across the western sky, Gareth had resolved upon a plan. He’d stayed in the off-worlder base far longer than was prudent, trapped by the hope that he could prevent the Dry Towners from acquiring blasters. The events of this past day had convinced him that Poulos had no intention of giving away fully functional weapons, so the situation had altered. Gareth had allowed himself to be caught up in that, too, when the smart thing would have been to leave the two parties to their own folly. If Poulos was so certain of his own invulnerability that he failed to recognize the threat, then he deserved whatever happened next. As for Hayat, Gareth had had his fill of Dry Towner arrogance.

The only thing holding him here was Rahelle. If she tried to run away and was caught, Hayat would have no qualms about whipping her to within an inch of her horse boy’s life. And if Hayat discovered she was a woman . . . that fate was too horrific to contemplate. They must escape together.

Through the gathering dusk, Gareth kept watch on the Dry Towner camp, hoping to catch Rahelle as she took the horses to water. He was counting on the Dry Towners keeping to the rhythms of a desert camp, the tradition of sleeping by day and waiting for the coolness of twilight for more active tasks. Although he watched, he caught no sight of her.

“Hey, kid!” Taz called out from the direction of the barracks. “You gonna eat?”

“On my way.”

He’d have to find another way to reach Rahelle. Not only would he not leave without her, he needed her help with the horses. If they could make off with two and scatter the rest, they might stand a chance. They could make it over the ridge on foot, but not across the Sands of the Sun.

Time was running out. They must make their escape tonight, before Poulos handed over the next set of blasters. If he couldn’t talk to Rahelle soon, he’d have to wait until dark and then sneak into the Dry Towner camp. Meanwhile, he had to act normally.

Taz and Viss hunkered down outside the barracks, finishing their supper. Idriel, brightest of the four moons, shone like a solitary jewel in the lingering twilight. At Gareth’s approach, Taz grinned and held out a meal package.

“Fresh from the kitchens of—where did we pick this lot up, Viss? Vainwal?”

The other smuggler snorted. “You dreamer! More like some dump beyond the Outer Hyades.”

“Well, wherever it’s from, eat up, kid.”

Gareth stood to eat, leaning against the wall and glancing surreptitiously in the direction of the horse lines. The food, once strange and tasteless, had become familiar. Although not particularly appetizing, it was filling. With a shiver of homesickness, he remembered dinners at Castle Elhalyn when he was a child. He had taken for granted the fresh seasonal vegetables, ale so dark it looked black, nut-studded breads still hot from the oven . . . Even the meals he’d eaten on the Carthon trail seemed more appetizing than this synthetic pap. He set down the meal package, still half-eaten.

“Not want the rest?” Viss inquired hopefully, just as a muffled sound brought Gareth alert.

Gareth’s hand shot out, unconsciously commanding silence. Holding his breath, he slipped out his one weapon, the boot knife. The sound came again, so faint that if he had not already been keyed-up from watching for Rahelle, he would surely have missed it.

His laran senses came fully alert, even though the amulet insulated his starstone. As if a veil had been ripped from his eyes, he saw through walls and around corners—

Hayat’s men crouched in battle readiness. Idriel’s light glinted on their drawn swords. They carried shorter blades thrust beneath their sashes as well. Merach gestured silently toward the headquarters building—

Dry Towners rushed into the center of the camp, Hayat in the lead. Their war cries sounded like the howling of demented wolves. Even sprinting as fast as he could, Gareth was too far to intercept them. Behind him, Taz shouted curses.

Hayat and the man at his heels reached the door. One of the others, in rear guard position, spun around to face Gareth. Gareth dodged and swerved out of reach of the Dry Towner’s sword. By luck, he caught the oncoming blade on the edge of his knife. Steel whined as it slid over steel. The impact rattled his teeth.

Gareth disengaged with a sideways lunge. Out of the corner of his vision, he saw the door swing open. Hayat rushed inside.

The Dry Towner redoubled his attack on Gareth. Training and instinct fired Gareth’s response. He swerved without thinking. His opponent lunged forward, sweeping his curved sword in a diagonal arc.

This time, Gareth misjudged the angle. The slashing edge came within a hair’s breadth of his unguarded side. He twisted sideways and almost lost his footing.

From inside the building came more shouting and the sounds of fighting. Someone shrieked, an inarticulate scream. Agony resonated through Gareth’s laran. His mind reeled with it.

The momentary lapse was enough for the swordsman to close with him. Gareth tried to deflect the attack with his knife, but his defense was too slow, too late. He felt the prick of the sword tip at his throat.

Glowering, the Dry Towner raised his arm so that the slightest pressure would drive the point into the soft tissue between Gareth’s collarbones.

Gareth forced himself to stand still. He held his arms well away from his body, although he did not drop his knife.

The base fell suddenly, sickeningly quiet, except for Merach’s voice, shouting out orders, and someone moaning in pain.

Gareth kept his gaze fixed on his captor’s eyes. He caught the momentary flicker as the man’s attention was distracted.

In one movement, Gareth stepped sideways, brought up his knife to the level of his throat, and pivoted. He threw all the strength of his legs into the movement. The sword tip left a trail of fire across the front of his neck, but the sharp pressure vanished.

Gareth’s knife clanged against the flat of the sword. Momentum carried the two blades around in a circular sweep. Gareth managed to keep control for a critical instant before tenuous contact gave way and the two weapons flew apart. He clenched the knife hilt through the jarring impact and release. The sword, propelled by Gareth’s blow, swung wildly to the side.

Darting inside the arc of the sword, Gareth took a long step and brought his knee up. His roundhouse kick caught the Dry Towner on the side of the thigh. It wasn’t a disabling blow, but the pain caused the man to bend over. His knee buckled. His grip momentarily relaxed. Gareth came down on the foot he’d used for the kick, stepping even deeper through his opponent’s defenses. A hard punch to the solar plexus sent the man to the ground, gasping and coughing.

Gareth snatched the hilt of the sword from the man’s inert fingers. It was different in both length and balance from the ones he’d trained with, but it settled into his hand as if it belonged to him.

The Dry Towner was fighting for air and holding his thigh. He wouldn’t be getting up any time soon. Gareth rushed past him toward the headquarters building.

Before he reached the door, an ear-splitting crackle lanced through the air. A blotch the color of charred ashes appeared on the outer wall. More shouting followed, the words indistinguishable.

Reaching the door, Gareth spotted Merach standing just out of sword’s reach. Jory was on his knees by a pile of crates. Bright blood drenched the front of one pants leg. He held a blaster in both hands, aimed at the struggling pair a little farther inside.

Offenbach was on his knees as well, with Hayat standing behind him. With a grip on the off-worlder’s hair, the Shainsa lord bent Offenbach’s head to expose his neck. Hayat held his sword precisely across the big blood vessels.

Poulos? Where was the captain? And Deeseter?

“Let him go!” Jory bellowed, his voice hoarse. “Or I’ll fry you all! I swear it!”

Jory might well have just sealed the mate’s death, Gareth thought. He’d spoken in Terran Standard, which none of the Dry Towners understood. Aldones knew what Hayat thought he’d said. By the amount of blood and the speed at which he was losing more, Jory had only a short time before he passed out. The Dry Towners were only waiting for a signal from Hayat to rush him.

Gareth still had a moment’s grace before anyone noticed him. He could rush in and probably get himself killed, along with Offenbach and Jory, who wasn’t going to survive without care. It would be a glorious ending, but he didn’t want glory. He wanted a way out of this impasse, and he couldn’t see one.

Where in the seven frozen hells was Poulos?

Gareth closed the distance to fighting reach with Merach. Merach reacted, blade at ready, but as Gareth had anticipated, he did not make the first offensive move.

“Hear the off-worlder!” Gareth held his own position and called out in Dry Towns dialect. “He vows on his honor to kill you all unless you release his comrade!”

Merach’s response was to settle deeper into his fighting stance. Gareth felt the Dry Towner gathering his energy into a still center, a center from which he would explode into a lightning-quick attack. Hayat had but to give the word.

Hayat smiled, a smile that sent a chill up Gareth’s spine. “Say this in the tongue of the barbarians! Say that he will watch his man die before him. Say that the kyorebni of the sands will scatter their bones, and it will be as if neither of them had ever walked the earth.”

Jory wavered on his knees. Although laced together for support, his hands shook visibly. His face had gone the color of chalk. He blinked hard, fighting to keep his eyes in focus.

“It’s no good,” Offenbach said in a choked voice, forcing the words through the twisted angle of his neck. “I’ve sent the message. The shuttle’s been warned off. They’ll blast the whole camp from space. Garrin—tell them—”

No, Gareth thought, that’s a lie. Even if the ship has such weapons, Poulos will try to rescue his crew first. He values his men. That’s why he burned the village in retaliation.

Gareth wanted to tell both parties exactly which of Zandru’s hells awaited them. Instead he said, using Terran Standard, “It’s no use bluffing. Hayat doesn’t care about the shuttle. And if we don’t end this stalemate, Jory’s going to bleed to death.”

“Jory . . . stand down . . .” Offenbach said, just as the blaster tumbled from Jory’s limp fingers and Jory himself slumped to the floor.

“There is your answer,” Gareth said to Hayat. He knelt to place his sword on the floor in the respectful manner of surrendering a weapon of honor. “You have won, great lord. Surely this man’s death adds nothing to your glory,” meaning Jory. “Will you allow one of his comrades to tend him?”

Hayat propelled Offenbach forward with a thrust of one knee. The off-worlder sprawled face down on the floor. “Go, then. He fought bravely. As for you . . .”

The air between Hayat and Merach shimmered like a heat mirage. Without warning, Merach crumpled to his knees, his muscles lax.

Two translucent figures took shape. Each lifted an arm to aim at the Dry Towner lords. A hissing sound accompanied a flare of pale light as the visual distortion faded, revealing Poulos and Deeseter.

Hayat turned toward Poulos, sword raised. Deeseter pivoted, training his weapon on Hayat. Hayat froze.

Offenbach scrambled to his feet and to the desk. Wrenching open a drawer, he removed a flat box with the snake and staff emblem of Terranan medicine. He knelt beside Jory and wrapped the oozing wound in a wide elastic belt. Gareth would have liked to see more of the healing technology, but the confrontation before him was not yet ended.

“This is a neural disrupter on its lowest setting,” Poulos said to Hayat. “It’s not lethal. Your man will come around in a few minutes . . . as long as you cooperate.”

“I am the son of the Lord of Shainsa!” Hayat snarled. “I do not bend to the whims of thieves!”

“I would not say that to a man who holds such a weapon aimed at me,” Gareth replied mildly.

“I challenge this leavings of a diseased scorpion-ant to a duel by kifurgh!”

Even as Hayat issued his challenge, Poulos disappeared in another near-invisible rippling of the air. An instant later, he solidified behind Hayat, one forearm slipping into the angle beneath the Dry Towner’s chin. With the other, Poulos dug the muzzle of the neural disrupter into Hayat’s temple skin.

“Drop. The. Sword.” With each word, Poulos administered a little jab, so that Hayat flinched visibly. The sword clattered to the floor. “Offen? Tell me Jory’s alive.”

“Got to him in time, Captain. He’s lost a fair amount of blood, but nothing we can’t replace. The Castor ship’s got a supply of synthetic serum.”

“Garrin, tell this dust beetle it’s his lucky day.” Poulos did not relax his grip as Gareth did so. “Now you listen to me, little man. Nobody threatens me or my people, least of all some trumped-up backwater bully like you. You wanted a deal, you got a deal. Here it is. You’ll get your weapons when and how I say you do.”

He paused while Gareth interpreted. “Understand?”

Hayat gave the slightest nod. Gareth thought he looked about as terrified as a man could be without soiling himself. On the floor, Merach groaned and began moving weakly.

“What did I tell you?” Poulos said. “Now you and my friend here,” meaning Deeseter, “are going to take a little stroll around the base. You’re going to collect your men and take them back to your camp. And you’re going to stay there until I say you can leave.”

Gareth repeated the smuggler captain’s words, thinking that as soon as Hayat recovered from his fright, he would not remain as cowed as he was now. He might not try another assault on the base, and he might well depart under the cover of night. That might be the best solution, and Poulos would not object. But Rahelle would have to go with them, unless she managed to slip away.

Gareth wrestled his thoughts back to the present moment. He had thought the smugglers unrealistically confident. Now, barring a massed attack by an army from Shainsa—unlikely, given the difficulties of so many men and beasts crossing the Sands of the Sun—the advantage rested with the off-worlders and their technology.

Poulos released Hayat to help Merach to his feet, although he still watched them closely. Offenbach went to the radio equipment, slipped on a listening device, and established communications with the ship in orbit. Gareth caught only a few phrases that indicated Offenbach was making arrangements for the Castor Sector ship to furnish medical treatment to Jory. There was a long pause while Deeseter escorted the Dry Towners out of the headquarters building.

“Should I go with them—” Gareth began, but Offenbach was signaling frantically as Poulos hurried over to the radio.

Poulos slid into the place Offenbach vacated and grabbed the listening device. His face tightened into a scowl.

“Offen?” Gareth said in a low voice. “What’s going on?”

“Shhh. Captain’s call.”

“I see,” Poulos said. “No, you’re right. Start countdown to leave orbit. We’ll dock soonest.” He touched a series of panels on the controls, then set down the listening device.

“Damn those Castor Sector idiots! They must have stirred up one big wasp hole to get themselves tracked this far.”

“Or they’ve got a spy onboard,” Offenbach murmured.

“No honor among thieves and rebels, eh?” Poulos said, sardonic. “Guess we’re the last honest men left.”

“Evacuate, Captain?”

“Evacuate and sterilize. If we get lucky, we’ll be gone before the sharks arrive, so they won’t come looking for us.”