At Empire's Edge (16 page)

“We need protection,” Belok said grimly, as he jumped down into the room. “And the desk clerk wouldn’t let us come up to see you.”

Cato frowned. “Protection? From what?”

“From the yokels who run this town,” the Kelf answered indignantly. “First they stole our money, then they threw us into the garbage pit, and now they refuse to let us leave!”

Cato closed the window, crossed the room, and put the gun on the nightstand. The bed creaked as he sat down. “They won’t let you leave? What’s stopping you?”

“We need transportation,” Belok explained, “or, failing that, enough supplies to reach the next town on foot. But the locals won’t return the money they stole from us or provide us with supplies.”

“That’s because they know you and Phelonious are crooks,” Cato replied mildly, as he stifled a yawn.

“We aren’t crooks, we’re entrepreneurs,” Belok countered defensively. “But even if we were crooks, they shouldn’t be allowed to kill us.”

Cato’s head throbbed painfully. He held it with both hands. “
Kill you?
What makes you think they plan to kill you?”

“ ‘Once the freak leaves, you’re going down.’ That’s what a prospector told Phelonious,” Belok said. “And there have been other threats as well. And that’s why we’re coming with you.”

“Oh no you aren’t,” Cato replied, as he opened his shaving kit and began to rummage through the contents looking for a pain tab.

“Yes, we are,” Belok insisted doggedly. “You took us into custody—and that means you are responsible for us!”

Cato found a pain tab, popped it into his foul-tasting mouth, and chased it with a gulp of water from the glass next to his bed. Then, having put the glass down, he eyed the Kelf. “Phelonious is an android,” Cato observed gravely, “so it doesn’t matter what the locals do to him, unless his owner shows up to file a complaint.”

Belok started to object, but Cato raised a hand. “Save the ‘robots are self-aware’ speech for someone who gives a shit. The point is that you are the only one who qualifies as a person. As such you are entitled to my protection. However, before you request it, consider this. While the townspeople
might
kill you, the people I’m going after
will
kill you if given half a chance, so think about that.

“And one more thing,” Cato added sternly. “If you’re stupid enough to tag along, then I’ll expect you to work for a living, and there will be no turning back. That goes for the robot, too. Now get the hell out of my room. I have things to do.”

The Kelf started to reply, apparently thought better of it, and exited via the door.

Cato stood and went over to examine himself in the cracked mirror that hung over the rust-stained sink. The man who looked back at him had red eyes, two days’ worth of stubble on his face, and didn’t look like someone he should trust. Sivio would have been disappointed—and so was Cato.

In spite of all the progress the Uman race had made over thousands of years, some things never seemed to change, and large kitchens were among them. Because no matter how modern the appliances might be, kitchens were hot, steamy places in which timing was everything, and tempers were eternally short. And the huge facility located one level below the palace was no exception. Especially around mealtimes since Chef Undara and his staff were not only expected to prepare meals for Procurator Nalomy and her guests, but for the facility’s staff as well, which included a total of 356 citizen employees, slaves, and militia. Not just once, but
three
times a day, year-round.

So being sent down into the first basement was a little bit like being sent to hell, especially since Alamy had a lot to learn, and people had a tendency to yell at her. Partly because just about everything constituted an emergency—and partly because the environment was so noisy that the staff was forced to yell in order to make themselves heard.

Like most of the unskilled slaves who were sent to the kitchen, Alamy was immediately put to work loading and unloading dishes from the huge dishwashers. The task required considerable care, especially since the penalty for each broken plate, bowl, or cup was a blow from Undara’s long, flexible cane.

Eventually, having worked a number of twelve-hour shifts without breaking a single item, Alamy was promoted to hand-washing Nalomy’s personal china, which bore the official’s family crest, and was custom-made. The penalty for breaking one of the Procurator’s dishes was
five
lashes. So Alamy was extremely careful as she hand-dried each item before checking it off an inventory list and returning it to a special cabinet.

And that was what the slave was doing when the chef appeared at her side. He had a round, moonlike face, ears that reminded her of handles on a jug, and a very unusual torso. Because instead of two arms, Undara was equipped with
four
, two of which were so-called bod mods. These were surgically installed enhancements that enabled people to perform particular tasks better, or, in the case of body cultists, were intended to make them physically attractive. A relatively common phenomenon on the inner worlds, but rare out on the rim, where very few people could afford extra limbs, eyes set into the back of their skulls, or six-inch-long tongues.

In fact, Undara was the only such individual that Alamy had ever seen. So it had been hard not to stare at first. But having worked in the kitchen for a while, the slave was used to the fact that the chef could gesture with
four
pudgy hands. “Ooly was supposed to assist Santha, but she’s ill,” the chef announced. “You will replace her. Santha will be in charge. Follow her example, and everything will be fine.”

Santha was one of the elite individuals who were assigned to serve Nalomy’s meals, and Alamy didn’t like her much, mainly because of how snotty she was. So the need to work with Santha,
and
run the extra risks attendant upon serving food to the Procurator, filled Alamy with dread. The normally gruff Undara must have sensed her hesitation because a rare smile appeared on his face. “There’s no need to worry, child. You’ll do well. Remember, the key is to be present, but unseen.”

With that somewhat enigmatic advice still ringing in her ears, Alamy was sent off to collect one of the crisp white togas that female housekeepers routinely wore, before returning to the kitchen, where Santha was waiting. The other slave was about five-five. Her carefully maintained brown hair hung down to her shoulders, one of which was bare, and there was no hiding the curves underneath her loose-fitting toga. Curves which, if the rumors were true, Hingo had explored on more than one occasion.

Santha saw all of those who served food to Nalomy as members of a team,
her
team, and was constantly on the lookout for potential competitors. So, since looks were considered to be an important qualification for the job, the fact that Alamy was pretty made her both useful and a threat at the same time. Santha frowned, glanced at the clock on the wall, and said, “You’re late.”

The comment was entirely unfair, since Alamy had been given the assignment at the very last minute and had dressed as fast as she could. And tempting as it was to talk back, especially to another slave, Alamy had learned a lot during the last few days. She knew that if she were to object, Santha could use her words against her by characterizing the newest team member as “combative.”

So Alamy said, “I’m sorry,” even though she wasn’t, and saw what might have been a look of disappointment flit through the other woman’s big brown eyes. Then the moment was over as two stainless-steel warming carts were wheeled into the alcove. “The first two courses have been served,” Santha explained, “and it’s important to keep the main course hot, so we’ll have to hurry. Once we arrive in the pantry adjacent to the Procurator’s private dining room, your job will be to remove trays from the carts, and carry them into the dining room. Place them on the side table that runs along one wall. Trista and I will serve the food. Do not speak unless spoken to, and limit your responses to ‘yes, ma’am,’ or ‘yes, sir.’ Understood?”

Alamy nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

Santha smiled in spite of herself. “Good. Let’s go.”

 

 

The décor within Procurator Nalomy’s private dining room was modeled on the one in her father’s villa on Corin. Everything was smaller, of course, but both rooms were dominated by long, oval tables, each of which was served by chairs so substantial they might have done duty in a living room. The walls were decorated with six of the bright, impressionistic paintings for which Nalomy’s mother had been known prior to her death.

Rather than dine alone, Nalomy liked to invite members of Dantha’s upper class to eat with her. The tradition enabled her to keep an eye out for potential troublemakers, foster useful relationships, and hear the latest gossip.

None of that held any interest for Fiss Verafti, who looked exactly like Centurion Sivio, but had been introduced to his fellow guests as Inhor Rypool. According to Nalomy, Rypool was an up-and-coming businessman on his way to Corin.

So, while some of those present found the interaction to be stimulating, Verafti was bored—not only by the content of the dreary conversation, but by the murky emotions that swirled around him. The most notable of these was the fear that the businessman seated to his left felt every time Nalomy looked his way, the self-centered greed that the Magistrate from the city of Comfort exuded, and the pathetic desire for approval that the woman on his right leaked into the ether.

Perhaps, had the businessman’s fear been a good deal stronger, Verafti could have fed off it. But the only emotions of any consequence emanated from Nalomy, who continued to revel in the knowledge that she, and only she, knew Inhor Rypool’s
true
identity. And, more than that, she took considerable pleasure in the power she had over him, even going so far as to toy with the pendant hanging between her breasts—knowing that doing so would bother him. So when the main course arrived, it was a welcome diversion even if the entrées weren’t to Verafti’s liking.

Strangely, from Verafti’s perspective at least, the slaves responsible for serving the food were a good deal more interesting than their social betters. Perhaps that was because their circumstances, and therefore their emotions, were very similar to his own. Like him, they were prisoners and had very little to hope for.

Would Nalomy grant his freedom once Usurlus was dead? Or break her word and choose to retain a very valuable weapon? The answer was anything but certain.

And, even if he were to break free somehow, what then? The Umans were in control of his home planet, the one person he cared about more than life itself was lost to him, and the chances of finding her were vanishingly small.

So the emotions the slaves felt seemed to echo and amplify Verafti’s own feelings, thereby stimulating something that had been sadly missing of late, which was the deep and abiding hunger natural to all Sagathies. The shape shifter watched the slave named Alamy bring trays into the room, wondered what her fear would taste like, and allowed himself a smile.

The first part of the journey verged on pleasant, as the trail left the town of Donk’s Well, and took the travelers up into gently rising foothills. The hills were barren at first, but grew progressively green as Cato, Belok, and Phelonious continued to gain altitude. The vegetation was sparse, and low to the ground, as if conscious of the fact that the snow level could suddenly fall and cover everything with a thick white shroud. Cato dreaded the possibility but was prepared for it, having purchased cold-weather gear in Donk’s Well.

Phelonious led the way, with Belok perched on his shoulders, which left Cato to follow along behind. The arrangement was anything but accidental, since the variant had no reason to trust the pair, and wanted to keep the devious duo where he could see them. And, if the con artists happened to trigger an ambush, then so much the better. . . . Because that would give Cato more time to react.

The other concern, and the one that worried Cato the most, was the possibility that Lir bandits would spot the party from the air and attack them. Fortunately there was a good deal of cloud cover, and the higher they went, the lower the ceiling was. So even though Cato spent a lot of his time scanning the sky—there were no high-flying warriors to be seen.

The cloud cover meant no sunset as such, just a slow fade to black, as if the light was being absorbed into the planet itself. So, having marched as far as Cato thought they reasonably could, the threesome took shelter under a rocky overhang, which had clearly been used for that purpose many times before. And judging from the angen dung that lay scattered on
top
of the snow, and the live coals deep within the remains of a campfire, a pack train had passed through recently. But who were they? Miners, making their way back to a lonely shaft in the hills, or a party of Lir hauling supplies up to one of the castlelike high holds in the mountains?