The Wizard of Anharitte (6 page)

Catuul shook his head. ‘No. The significant thing is that he usually takes a loss because he outbid the market in the first place.’

‘I don’t see—’ Ren’s voice carried a note of puzzlement. ‘Then, assuming he’s no philanthropist, the value of the transactions must lie uniquely in the few he doesn’t return for sale.’

Catuul nodded. ‘The only information we could gain about them was obtained by questioning the ones he rejected. It appears that all the slaves he purchases are given a very thorough medical checkup and put through a series of tests.’

‘What sort of tests?’

‘I think you outworlders describe them as intelligence and aptitude tests. The few who pass remain with the
Imaiz
. The failures are returned to the market.’

‘So that Dion-daizan is cultivating a select group of intelligent, capable and healthy slaves?’

‘Presumably. But it’s interesting to guess at the standards he’s working toward. Dr. Hardun examined the best of the latest batch the
Imaiz
had offered for resale. Some of Dion’s rejects were not only above average intelligence and fitness for the slave caste—they were also above average for citizens of any class.’

Ren’s scowl caused his eyebrows to meet. ‘So Dion’s not only building a select group of slaves, he’s culling an elite. Zinder’s no happy accident. Nor is she likely to be unique. Damn—how long has this been going on, Catuul?’

‘Certainly for ten years, probably longer. I suppose at least seventy per cent of marketable slaves in Anharitte have been through his hands at some time or another. And he also buys some in the provinces.’

‘And pure-bred
Ahhn
stock is renowned for its high intelligence. Dion’s probably acquired a concentration of brains in Magda that is unique on Roget—perhaps unique on any of the known worlds. Can you arrange that only low-grade slaves are offered to Dion in future?’

‘I’ll do what I can. With most auctioneers a little pressure will do the trick. The ones we can’t influence are those the Pointed Tails themselves are duty-bound to protect. We can’t hurt one of our own clients for the benefit of another.’

‘Then tell them frankly what we think the
Imaiz
is about. Ask for their cooperation. It’s in their interests to work with us because if the
Imaiz
wins, the slave trade dies.’

‘It might work with some,’ said Catuul dubiously. ‘But others make much money out of the
Imaiz
. There will be many who won’t want to offend him and who will be suspicious of your motives.’

Ren stayed at the window of his office chambers all that afternoon. Zinder was late arriving. Finally, however, her dark hair and proud bearing made her as apparent in the crowd as a lantern in the darkness. Even the excellence of her flowing gown set her as a woman apart and made her impossible to miss. Attuned as he was to the pattern of undercurrents in the populace, Ren could sense a tension in the market, as though some suspicion of what was to take place had already passed as rumor.

Vestevaal fretted in a chair behind him. A man of direct action, he had no use for patient observation from behind half-drawn curtains, nor did he accept the principle that feud and harassment were necessary preliminaries to destroying an enemy. Nevertheless he obeyed Ren’s insistence that he confine himself indoors at least until after Zinder’s arrest. He amused himself by interrogating the spaceport computer complex from Ren’s line-fed office terminal and inspecting the agency accounts in the minutest detail.

When the watchmen arrived Ren saw the tension visibly rise in the market. As they moved in the direction of Zinder the scene became tinged with menace almost to the point of open resistance. But Di Irons knew his trade. As the arresting officers moved to take the slave girl, a second force of watchmen deployed through the crowd ready to nip in the bud any pockets of disobedience. Even so the resentment was building to crisis proportions and some slight catalyst could easily have tipped the balance into violence. Ren understood now Catuul’s insistence that Vestevaal should not be present when the arrest took place.

It was Zinder herself, however, who averted the dangerous phase. She shrugged amusedly at the watchmen’s advance, then turned and addressed herself to the crowd. Ren could not hear what she said, but he was certain from the attention she was receiving that she was completely in control of the situation. She calmed and pacified the group around her and told it something that proved such a huge joke that those nearest to broke away laughing and went to retell it to others.

Prefect Di Irons thrust his way through and spoke to her. Again she laughed, and even he came out of the encounter with reluctant smile curling the corners of his determined mouth. Then Zinder allowed herself to be escorted away. None of the watchmen touched her. They formed a double rank and she, obligingly, walked between them, moving off in the direction of the prefecture. The marketplace relaxed, yet returned not to trade but rather to heated and speculative conversation. Di Irons and the watchmen stood stolidly watchful for any hotheads who might try to rekindle hostility.

When Catuul Gras came up, Ren met him at the door.

‘I think it’s safe now, friend Tito. I have men enough to cover you to the prefecture. The hearing will take place as soon as Dion-daizan can get a spokesman there. Zinder has predicted to the crowd that the
Imaiz
will teach the director a great lesson. I must speak with him at once.’

‘He’s inside,’ said Ren.

‘Good. You go along to the prefecture. I’ll follow as soon as I can.’

Ren buckled on his sword and carefully checked the readiness of the blaster which he wore concealed beneath his shirt. Warily he moved out into the square. Surprisingly, nobody seemed to pay him much attention. This was now the battle of the giants, the
Imaiz
versus Vestevaal. Ren was merely a bit-player and not a main participant at all.

As he passed out of the square a sudden grip on his arm made Ren swing round. He found himself face to face with the prefect.

‘Agent Ren, I’m not deceived. I can read your hand behind this little charade. I don’t know what you hope to gain by antagonizing the
Imaiz
, but let me repeat my warning. Dion is more cunning than you’ll allow. Twist his tail too often and he’ll break into a thousand parts. And if your machinations cause public trouble in Anharitte—I’ll break you myself. I hope I make myself understood?’

‘Perfectly,’ said Ren, ‘But I pay well for the best available advisers and they guarantee we’re engaged in nothing contrary to the law. I take it we’ve a perfect right to request that Zinder be impounded pending a legal inquiry?’

‘You have that right through a society,’ agreed Di Irons. ‘But I would not have thought you well advised to exercise it. The loss of the register entry is in itself suspect. I am now looking for a despoiler of prefecture records—and Dion-daizan will be looking for blood. I suspect that if I delay my inquiries a little my problem will be answered for me. Be very cautious, Ren. You’ve chosen a dangerous adversary.’

The prefect moved away. Now that Zinder had actually been removed to the prefecture, the whole area had assumed an atmosphere of disturbed indignation that seemed unlikely to flare more violently. However, it was obvious that only the presence of so many watchmen had prevented a riot and open .interference with the arrest. Ren understood how perilously close the incident had been to causing a breach of the peace and he saw that in this the
Imaiz
had a powerful weapon he could use against the Pointed Tails. By creating a public outcry at a similar maneuver he could easily throw the blame back on to the society and its employer as the prime sources of public unrest.

Ren’s arrival at the prefecture was just in time for him to witness the lodging of an official notice contesting the
Imaiz
’s ownership of Zinder by Mallow Rade, a junior scribe of the Pointed Tails. When the paper had been recorded Di Irons, whose mood seemed to be one of thunder, called formally for a spokesman from the House of Magda to pose a rebuttal.

For a long time nobody moved. Then, from the back of the crowd, a young slave pushed his way forward and presented his stewardship credentials to Di Irons.

‘Ah, Barii.’ Di Irons seemed slightly relieved. ‘Do you know how Dion-daizan wishes to proceed in this matter?’

Barii, who bore his slave mark, together with the house symbol of Magda, like a proud badge on his naked arms, nodded. Ren was watching the youth intently, noting the same quiet confidence in the boy he had recognized in Zinder. Here was both an intelligence and a competence that had no place in the slave.

‘May I see the register from which Dion’s title is missing?’

Di Irons brought out the volume and opened it to the disputed page, exposing the rows of names scrawled painfully in a large and almost illegible script. One of the entries had clearly been overwritten at a later date. There was no doubt that the alteration had been deliberate.

Barii reached into his pouch and drew out some article the purpose of which was not plain until the unexpected brilliance of an electronic flash glared back from the yellowing pages. A second flash illuminated the startled face of the register clerk. Barii put his camera back into its pouch and bowed to Di Irons. If his face held any expression at all it was one of concealed amusement and anticipation.

Then Barii spoke.

‘Dion-daizan has noted the objections to his ownership of Zinder’s bond. Everyone in Anharitte knows that Zinder’s pre-eminence is largely due to her association with the House of Magda—thus there can be no doubt of the true tenure of her bond. However, the
Imaiz
is immensely concerned about the maintenance of the law on the three hills. In consequence he has directed that, since no clear tide to his ownership seems to be recorded in the prefecture, he will renounce his claim to being Zinder’s legal bondholder. He requests that the slave in question be put to public auction and that the proceeds of the sale be dedicated to the public funds of the city, as is the custom.’

Di Irons had listened to this speech with growing disbelief. He seemed about to throw in some crushing protest, but was stopped by something he saw in Barii’s face. The prefect’s shrug was massive and uncomprehending.

‘So be it,’ he said. ‘It’s the considered opinion of the prefecture that the bondship of Zinder has no clear tenure. The slave woman called Zinder will therefore be returned to the market and submitted to public auction. Let it be known that anyone desirous of obtaining this property may attend tomorrow at the preset hour and bid legal coinage for unrestricted bond rights. The matter is now dismissed from these courts.’

Ren’s attentive eyes fell upon the register clerk, whose hands had undoubtedly been responsible for the alteration of the entry. The clerk seemed relieved that Di Irons. had so easily acceded to the contesting of the records, yet his nervous glances at Barii showed that he knew retribution was still due. The steward’s act of photographing the entry had shaken him badly and his ashen hue was indicative of a deep and mortal fear. Knowing of the clerk’s association with the Pointed Tails, Ren was pleased to note that members of the clan moved protectively nearer to the clerk to guard him against danger.

Di Irons was looking at his treacherous clerk with something akin to murder in his eyes. His sword hand convulsively gripped the hilt of his weapon. For a moment Ren thought that Di Irons was going to attack the fellow, but Barii moved between them and a slight lift of his eyebrows caused the prefect to relax.

Ren relaxed too.

All Anharitte was watching the outcome of this dispute—the supposed omnipotence of the
Imaiz
was now on public trial. Dion-daizan’s easy acquiescence to the challenge might mean only that he had chosen the slave market as the quicker route for regaining Zinder’s bond, but currently the wizard’s public image must have suffered a lowering as a result of Ren’s audacious move. Ren had well prepared the ground ahead. It was going to be an interesting battle.

Ren awoke in the night with a start. A house servant was shaking his arm.

‘Agent Ren—wake up, please! The prefect sends for you urgently.’

Shaking the sleep from his head, Ren roused himself and forced his mind to concentrate.

‘What did you say?’

‘The prefect sends watchmen to guide you. The register clerk is dead.’

‘Damn!’ said Ren, struggling into his clothes. ‘What has it to do with me?’

He went downstairs to remonstrate with the watchmen who waited in the downstairs office. The sergeant listened to his protest without expression.

‘The Lord Di Irons is aware of your position. Nonetheless he directs we conduct you to the place of the accident.’

‘Accident?’

The sergeant refused to be drawn out. ‘Come, Agent Ren. Lord Di Irons himself will explain the matter.’

Ren reached for his cloak, girded on his sword and reluctantly followed the watchmen into the night.

The air outside was chill and damp with the clinging mists from the sea. The whole township was in darkness save for the occasional flare of the watch braziers and torches carried by his escort. The sudden transition from sleep to the cold darkness and the leaping flames of the brands touched the scene with unreality made only more credible by the hardness of the shifting, round cobbles underneath his feet.

The route the watchmen chose was unfamiliar to Ren, involving numerous turns down narrow streets and alleys until his whole sense of direction was destroyed. Finally the party halted in front of a mean drinking place and Ren waited impatiently while the watchmen knocked on a small and unfamiliar door. Shortly, bolts were drawn and the great bulk of Di Irons himself loomed between the door posts.

‘Ah, Ren. Come in. You’re an astute man, so I’m going to give you an opportunity to exercise your cleverness.’

The prefect leaned past Ren and instructed the watchmen to continue searching the area. Then he withdrew into the room and beckoned to Ren, The doorway was so small that even Ren had to duck his head as he entered. The ceiling inside was scarcely higher and the room stank of cheap alcohol and the presence of too many bodies. Ten of the Pointed Tails, Catuul Gras among them, sat in a circle around a flickering lamp, looking uneasily at Di Irons. On the far side of the room another door led out to a small brick courtyard, which two watchmen illuminated with poled lanterns. Across the threshold of this second door lay the register clerk. He had a fatal wound in his throat and blood spread wide across the floor.