Herndon had been gone from Borlaam for a year, before this day. A year
before--the seventeenth of the reign of the Seigneur Krellig--a band of
looters had roared through his home village in Zonnigog, destroying
and killing. It had been a high score for the Herndon family--his
father and mother killed in the first sally, his young brother stolen
as a slave, his sister raped and ultimately put to death.
The village had been burned. And only Barr Herndon had escaped, taking
with him twenty thousand stellors of his family's fortune and killing
eight of the Seigneur's best men before departing.
He had left the system, gone to the nineteen-world complex of Meld, and
on Meld XVII he had bought himself a new face that did not bear the
tell-tale features of the Zonnigog aristocracy. Gone were the sharp,
almost razorlike cheekbones, the pale skin, the wide-set black eyes,
the nose jutting from the forehead.
For eight thousand stellors the surgeons of Meld had taken these things
away and given him a new face: broad where the other had been high,
tan-skinned, narrow-eyed, with a majestic hook of a nose quite unlike
any of Zonnigog. He had come back wearing the guise of a spacerogue, a
freebooter, an unemployed mercenary willing to sign on to the highest
bidder.
The Meldian surgeons had changed his face, but they had not changed
his heart. Herndon nurtured the desire for revenge against
Krellig--Krellig the implacable, Krellig the invincible, who cowered
behind the great stone walls of his fortress for fear of the people's
hatred.
Herndon could be patient. But he swore death to Krellig, someday and
somehow.
He stood now in a narrow street in the Avenue of Bronze, high in the
winding complex of streets that formed the Ancient Quarter of the City
of Borlaam, capital of the world of the same name. He had crossed
the city silently, not bothering to speak to his gnomelike companion
Benjin, brooding only on his inner thoughts and hatred.
Benjin indicated a black metal doorway to their left. "We go in here,"
he said. He touched his full hand to the metal of the door and it
jerked upward and out of sight. He stepped through.
Herndon followed and it was as if a great hand had appeared and wrapped
itself about him. He struggled for a moment against the stasis-field.
"Damn you, Benjin, unwrap me!"
The stasis-field held; calmly, the little man bustled about Herndon,
removing his needler and his four-chambered blaster and the ceremonial
sword at his side.
"Are you weaponless?" Benjin asked. "Yes; you must be. The field
subsides."
Herndon scowled. "You might have warned me. When do I get my weapons
back?"
"Later," Benjin said. "Restrain your temper and come within."
He was led to an inner room where three men and a woman sat around
a wooden conference table. He eyed the foursome curiously. The men
comprised an odd mixture: one had the unmistakable stamp of noble birth
on his face, while the other two had the coarseness of clay. As for the
woman, she was hardly worth a second-look: slovenly, big-breasted, and
raw-faced she was undoubtedly the mistress of one or more of the others.
Herndon stepped toward them.
Benjin said, "This is Barr Herndon, free spacerogue. I met him at the
market. He had just bought a proteus at auction for nearly a thousand
stellors. I watched him order the creature toward the sea-wall and put
a needle in its back."
"If he's that free with his money," remarked the noble-seeming one in a
rich bass voice, "What need does he have of our employ?"
"Tell us why you killed your slave," Benjin said.
Herndon smiled grimly. "It pleased me to do so."
One of the leather-jerkined commoners shrugged and said, "These
spacerogues don't act like normal men. Benjin, I'm not in favor of
hiring him."
"We need him," the withered man retorted. To Herndon he said, "Was your
act an advertisement, perhaps? To demonstrate your willingness to kill
and your indifference to the moral codes of humanity?"
"Yes," Herndon lied. It would only hurt his own cause to explain
that he had bought and then killed the proteus only to save it from
a century-long life of endless agony. "It pleased me to kill the
creature. And it served to draw your attention to me."
Benjin smiled and said, "Good. Let me explain who we are, then. First,
names: this is Heitman Oversk, younger brother of the Lord Moaris."
* * * * *
Herndon stared at the noble. A second son--ah, yes. A familiar pattern.
Second sons, propertyless but bearing within themselves the spark of
nobility, frequently deviated into shadowy paths. "I had the pleasure
of outbidding your brother this morning," he said.
"Outbidding Moaris? Impossible!"
Herndon shrugged. "His lady beckoned him in the middle of the auction,
and he left. Otherwise the proteus would have been his, and I'd have
nine hundred stellors more in my pocket right now."
"These two," Benjin said, indicating the commoners, "are named Dorgel
and Razumod. They have full voice in our organization; we know no
social distinctions. And this--" gesturing to the girl--"is Marya. She
belongs to Dorgel, who does not object to making short-term loans."
Herndon said, "_I_ object. But state your business with me, Benjin."
The dried little man said, "Fetch a sample, Razumod."
The burly commoner rose from his seat and moved into a dark corner of
the poorly-lit room; he fumbled at a drawer for a moment, then returned
with a gem that sparkled brightly even through his fisted fingers. He
tossed it down on the table, where it gleamed coldly. Herndon noticed
that neither Heitman Oversk nor Dorgel let their glance linger on the
jewel more than a second, and he likewise turned his head aside.
"Pick it up," Benjin said.
The jewel was icy-cold. Herndon held it lightly and waited.
"Go ahead," Benjin urged. "Study it. Examine its depths. It's a lovely
piece, believe me."
Hesitantly Herndon opened his cupped palm and stared at the gem. It was
broad-faceted, with a luminous inner light, and--he gasped--a face,
within the stone. A woman's face, languorous, beckoning, seeming to
call to him as from the depths of the sea--
Sweat burst out all over him. With an effort he wrenched his gaze from
the stone and cocked his arm; a moment later he had hurled the gem with
all his force into the farthest corner of the room. He whirled, glared
at Benjin, and leaped for him.
"Cheat! Betrayer!"
His hands sought Benjin's throat, but the little man jumped lithely
back, and Dorgel and Razumod interposed themselves hastily between
them. Herndon stared at Razumod's sweaty bulk a moment and gave ground,
quivering with tension.
"You might have warned me," he said.
Benjin smiled apologetically. "It would have ruined the test. We must
have strong men in our organization. Oversk, what do you think?"
"He threw down the stone," Heitman Oversk said heavily. "It's a good
sign. I think I like him."
"Razumod?"
The commoner gave an assenting grunt, as did Dorgel. Herndon tapped
the table and said, "So you're dealing in starstones? And you gave me
one without warning? What if I'd succumbed?"
"We would have sold you the stone and let you leave," Benjin said.
"What sort of work would you have me do?"
Heitman Oversk said, "Our trade is to bring starstones in from the Rim
worlds where they are mined, and sell them to those who can afford
our price. The price, incidentally, is fifty thousand stellors. We
pay eight thousand for them, and are responsible for shipping them
ourselves. We need a supervisor to control the flow of starstones from
our source-world to Borlaam. We can handle the rest at this end."
"It pays well," Benjin added. "Your wage would be five thousand
stellors per month, plus a full voice in the organization."
Herndon considered. The starstone trade was the most vicious in the
galaxy; the hypnotic gems rapidly became compulsive, and within a year
after being exposed to one constantly a man lost his mind and became
a drooling idiot, able only to contemplate the kaleidoscopic wonders
locked within his stone.
The way to addiction was easy. Only a strong man could voluntarily rip
his eyes from a starstone, once he had glimpsed it. Herndon had proven
himself strong. The sort of man who could slay a newly-purchased slave
could look up from a starstone.
He said, "What are the terms?"
"Full bonding," Benjin said. "Including surgical implantation of a
safety device."
"I don't like that."
"We all wear them," Oversk said. "Even myself."
"If all of you wear them," Herndon said, "To whom are you responsible?"
"There is joint control. I handle the outworld contacts; Oversk, here,
locates prospective patrons. Dorgel and Razumod are expediters who deal
in collection problems and protection. We control each other."
"But there must be somebody who has the master-control for the safety
devices," Herndon protested. "Who is that?"
"It rotates from month to month. I hold them this month," Benjin said.
"Next month it is Oversk's turn."
* * * * *
Herndon paced agitatedly up and down in the darkened room. It was a
tempting offer; five thousand a month could allow him to live on high
scales. And Oversk was the brother of Lord Moaris, who was known to be
the Seigneur's confidante.
And Lord Moaris' lady controlled Lord Moaris. Herndon saw a pattern
taking shape, a pattern that ultimately would put the Seigneur Krellig
within his reach.
But he did not care to have his body invaded by safety devices. He
knew how those worked; if he were to cheat against the organization,
betray it, attempt to leave it without due cause, whoever operated
the master-control could reduce him to a grovelling pain-racked slave
instantly. The safety-device could only be removed by the surgeon who
had installed it.
It meant accepting the yoke of this group of starstone smugglers. But
there was a higher purpose in mind for Herndon.
"I conditionally accept," he said. "Tell me specifically what my duties
will be."
Benjin said, "A consignment of starstones has been mined for us on our
source-world, and is soon to be shipped. We want you to travel to that
world and accompany the shipment through space to Borlaam. We lose much
by way of thievery on each shipment--and there is no way of insuring
starstones against loss."
"We know who our thief is," Oversk said. "You would be responsible for
finding him in the act and killing him."
"I'm not a murderer," Herndon said quietly.
"You wear the garb of a spacerogue. That doesn't speak of a very high
moral caliber," Oversk said.
"Besides, no one mentions murder," said Benjin. "Merely execution. Yes:
execution."
Herndon locked his hands together before him and said, "I want two
months' salary in advance. I want to see evidence that all of you are
wearing neuronic mesh under your skins before I let the surgeon touch
me."
"Agreed," Benjin said after a questioning glance around the room.
"Furthermore, I want as an outright gift the sum of nine hundred thirty
golden stellors, which I spent this morning to attract the attention of
a potential employer."
It was a lie, but there was cause for it. It made sense to establish
a dominating relationship with these people as soon as possible. Then
later concessions on their part would come easier.
"Agreed," Benjin said again, more reluctantly.
"In that case," Herndon said. "I consider myself in your employ. I'm
ready to leave tonight. As soon as the conditions I state have been
fulfilled to my complete satisfaction, I will submit my body to the
hands of your surgeon."