After a moment, Corbinye heard the door open, and then shut.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Gem stood in the wreckage of his workroom, straddling the voltmeter, one hip braced against the tool bench, fingers tapping the tiny buttons on the wrist telltale.

  There had been fourteen. He had two alive in his pocket, and the mangled corpse Corbinye had brought him. Eleven were yet unaccounted for.

  At his feet—a rustle, a shift of small debris—and two spiders struggled into the open; gained his boots, and then his trouser-leg; began the long climb to safety.

  There was a stir from the far ceiling-corner. Then, slowly riding the payline down to the floor, came a spider, slightly larger than the first two; chip eyes glowing dark purple. Gem grinned. Number Eleven, genius among his kind, was working his way home.

  From behind him, a sudden scrabbling, and he glanced at the table top to see Numbers Six and Twelve marching purposefully forward as Number Four—Eleven's twin brother—emerged from the protection of a smashed lamp and scurried to join them.

  Gem waited while his companions gained his person by their various routes; touched the telltale again, and waited.

  No more tiny robots came to answer that summons. Gem sighed deeply, and shook his head. Eight remaining. And only by the grace of sheerest luck were Numbers Four and Eleven among them.

  He devoted three minutes to cursing the Vornet and Saxony Belaconto in terms Edreth would have deplored and Corbinye applauded. Then, spiders sitting on his shoulder and clutching his hair, he rolled up his sleeves and began to put order back into his place.

  Well into the night, order restored, with Number Fifteen half-assembled on the worktable, there came the chime of the outside annunciator.

  Gem looked up from his work, blinking.

  The chime sounded again, and he sighed, pushed away from the table and made his way to the door, surefooted in the dark.

  The street was empty when he opened the door. On the threshold was a package wrapped in thick buff paper and tied with a silver cord.

  Gem bent to pick the thing up—and checked as a spider launched itself, trailing a silken parachute, and landed on the silver cord, eyes glittering amethyst.

  Quickly, Number Eleven circumnavigated the package and returned to the cord, as the telltale on the man's wrist beeped three times.

  "All safe," murmured Gem and extended his hand to the robot, which climbed aboard and scurried up his arm, shoulderward. "Thank you," Gem added, picking up the package and shutting the door.

  * * *

  Jarge Menlin had been a courier, carrying messages, currency and other necessities for various Vornet chieftains and even a few "respectable" businesses. Sometimes, his contracts took him off-planet—there was a list of the pilots and ships he most often employed on these trips—and sometimes an off-planet customer would specify Jarge for a certain job. He was known for being discreet, competent and—unusual for one in his line of work—painstakingly honest with his customer.

  The picture, Gem thought, scanning quickly through the dossier provided by the Vornet, was of a man successful at his trade, and perhaps even rising toward a sort of chieftainhood of his own. Forty was old for a courier, yet Jarge Menlin had achieved that age and showed no sign of faltering in the disfavor of the powerful.

  Eighteen months ago, Jarge Menlin vanished.

  It was thought at first, of course, that he was merely traveling on behalf of some client or another. But time passed, and people began remarking that Jarge had never been gone so long before. The Vornet used other couriers, some of whom fell by the wayside, to be replaced by still others.

  A year gone, Jarge Menlin returned, bought a house in the fashionable part of UpTown, bought a warehouse at the port and leased a hotpad in the portion of the Yards reserved for deep-space vessels. He refused all commissions for courier work (And how, wondered Gem, had he made that stick?), renewed his acquaintances among Henron's freelance drug-lords and several months later astonished them all by offering hesernym in bulk from a seemingly unending supply.

  There followed here a detailed layout of Menlin's house, with alarm-schemes and several time-studies, and a brief notation about a bodyguard. Gem put those aside for later study and picked up the next page.

  The Bindalche, he quickly learned, were a loose affiliation of barbarians occupying three worlds in the Spangiln System. The queen-world was Bindal, and it was here—and only here—that the tremillan flowers from which hesernym is extracted grew.

  Previous attempts to deal with the Bindalche had resulted in ambassadorial massacre; attempts to duplicate the hesernym affect artificially simply failed. For the fifty years since its discovery, hesernym had remained the emperor of drugs—virtually unobtainable; staggeringly expensive when available at all.

  Until Jarge Menlin, thought Gem, flipping through several sheets for a description of the Bindalche Trident.

  There was better—clipped to the last page was a flat-photo. Gem frowned. The Bindalche Trident was roughly six feet long; seemingly hewn from wood, set all around with pebbles and shells and, and—he groped along the table top, found the loupe and screwed it into place.

  Circuitry. Bits and blasted fragments of circuit-wires were set into the irregular surface, whorling artistically around the shells, nuts, transistors, capacitors and jewels. Gem took the glass out of his eye and flipped the pages back.

  The Bindalche Trident, according to the Vornet's information, was an artifact of power. It had not been observed functioning in any manner; it did not seem to generate or gather energy. However, all Bindalche revered Trident and Trident-Bearer, for reasons the Vornet had either been unable to discover or was disinclined to share. Most important, from the point of view of the reporter, was the fact that, as an act of reverence, the Bearer was tithed in hesernym.

  In as much hesernym, it appeared, as he wanted.

  Gem laid the last sheet down, tamped the edges and tied the pages together with the silver cord. Absently, he picked up the whisker-tool and bent over the emerging Number Fifteen, face blank in concentration.

  Two hours later, with Second Dawn lighting every corner of the kitchen, Gem fixed himself a cup of tea and watched the new spider cavort and spin and finally climb dizzily up a sleeve and into a shirt pocket.

  Gem sipped his tea, considering the information he had—and the information he did not have. Saxony Belaconto wanted the Bindalche Trident, thus it followed that she had provided the most complete information at her disposal. And, where it dealt with Jarge Menlin and his effects, this was substantial.

  Where he sensed a lack was within the body of information regarding the Trident itself. It had the feel of an object powerful in its own right. Many of the so-called "magical" items cataloged in Shilban's library had the same feeling of presence; of the most powerful, the aura most often described was that almost of sentience.

  Gem shivered and drank his tea slowly, while intuition spun its web of what-if, and thief's necessity uneasily sorted the data, over and over. And, in the end, found it insufficient.

  Grimly, knowing it had to be done, for the debt he owed Corbinye, if not for his own life and body; Gem left his house to travel cross town and Up; and up one level more, to OldTown and Shilban's Library.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The intercom buzzed and Saxony Belaconto looked up with a frown.

  "Well?" she demanded.

  "I'm sorry to disturb you, Ms. Belaconto," her secretary said hurriedly, "but I have Dr. Walney on the line. He says it's urgent."

  The director of the Blue House. Her frown deepened. "Put him through."

  "Yes, ma'am," her secretary murmured; and Fel Walney's deep voice rumbled nervously through the speaker.

  "Ms. Belaconto?"

  "Dr. Walney," she returned calmly. "What can I do for you today?"

  "Morning, ma'am! Morning! Terribly sorry to bother you and all that—know how busy you must be. Thing is, my records indicate that you are the person responsible for Corbinye Faztherot." His voice trailed off on an unmistakable query-note.

  "That's right." She hesitated. "Has something happened to her?"

  "Oh, nonono—nothing like that, ma'am! It's just that she seems to be doing—aah—much better than anticipated, and—aah—is putting a little strain on the staff. Regulations, you understand, ma'am, and, after all, we do have a planned procedure—and, well, it just seems best to us that you come and—aah—perhaps bring her home. We'll be happy to detach a nurse, of course—"

  "Dr. Walney."

  Silence, then a creak, which may have been him shifting in his chair. "Ma'am?"

  "I have a contract with your Center, sir. It specifically includes domiciliary care and physical therapy for my—ward—until she is fit to re-enter the world. Am I to understand that Ms. Faztherot is, at this early day, fit to re-enter the world?"

  "No, ma'am." He cleared his throat. "That is, not exactly."

  "I would be delighted," she said dangerously, "to learn what it is I am to understand."

  "Certainly." More throat clearing. "Ms. Faztherot is an astonishing young woman. She—not only is she several days ahead of the average progress expected of a newly-translated person, but she appears to be making significant progress in areas we have no expertise to measure."

  "Indeed." She sighed, fingers tapping on the highly unsatisfactory profit report she had been reviewing. "Could you be more specific?"

  "Yes, yes, certainly. I—she . . ." A sigh and another chair-creak. "Normally, a new-translation would drink a little water on the third day; work on eye-hand coordination, sitting up in bed—perhaps even sitting with the legs dangling—between the third and fifth days. Somewhere during those few days, the client will complain of hunger and be given small amounts of gelatin and soup, working toward solid foods. A few cases have been reported where, on the fifth day, the client was able to walk across the room and into the antechamber, sit in the chair and then walk back to bed. That is, I submit, remarkably quick progress and very, very rare."

  "And I am to understand that Ms. Faztherot is progressing more rapidly than this?"

  "She is eating cheese, bread and also vegetables." Dr. Walney's voice suddenly did not sound nervous at all. "She not only walks, but she exercises. We had thought at first that she was doing dance exercises, and there was some speculation among the staff. The body's previous resident had been something of an artist of the dance. . .. At any rate, Dr. Mowker tells me that these exercises are not dance moves at all, but something he recognizes from his service in the Marines." He faltered and Saxony Belaconto found she was sitting very still, staring at the intercom.

  "Well?" she snapped.

  "Dr. Mowker," the man said diffidently, "seems to feel that Ms. Faztherot is practicing—well, assassin's moves. She seems—quite dedicated, and there is a clear progress being made. She pursues shifts of two hours—exercise and rest. During her rest periods, she works on eye-hand coordination and fine precision." He cleared his throat yet again.

  "She's threatened several of my staff members, Ms. Belaconto, and refuses both drugs and the assistance of the physical therapists. The Resurrection Therapist won't go near her at all."

  "I will come and speak with her," she heard her own voice say.

  "Ma'am?"

  "I said," she snapped, "that I will come and give Ms. Faztherot a lesson in manners, since she seems to require one. In the meantime, you and your center will fulfill your contract with me, Dr. Walney. Do I make myself clear?"

  There was clear reluctance in his voice. "Yes, Ms. Belaconto. I—thank you. When can we expect to see you?"

  She tapped her fingers once upon the report, recalled the shine of murder in Gem ser Edreth's eyes, and pushed her chair away from the desk.

  "I'll come at once," she said, and cut the connection.

  * * *

  The antechamber was lit with the light of many lamps, set all around the wall, so there were no shadows anywhere. Strewn about were pieces of clothing, some buttoned and zipped and sealed, others gaping open, as well as bits of knotted and braided string, twists of wire, and several different keyboards.

  In the midst of all the clutter and glare, sitting facing the vanity's large oval mirror, was a girl of exquisite loveliness, dressed in loose tunic and pants, bare feet crossed neatly under the upholstered bench. As Saxony stepped into the room, the girl's ebony eyes found and tracked her in the mirror.

  Three days translated, by the gods! Saxony stared at her, unwillingly recalling the painfully slow relearning that had characterized her own translation, eight years ago.

  "I am Saxony Belaconto," she said, all the hauteur and assurance of a Vornet leader ringing in her voice.

  The delicate brows rose as a slim hand fumbled for a moment among the oddments atop the vanity and closed upon a comb. She raised the comb and brought it deliberately down the length of hair shimmering over her shoulder.

  "Are you," she said, and used the comb again.

  "I am." Saxony moved forward a bit, just to the edge of the mirror's range. "Has your cousin told you about me?"

  Corbinye carefully divided her hair into three portions, laid the comb down and began to weave a braid.

  "You are a Grounder captain," she said, off-handedly. "You deal destruction and demand service of freemen." She raised her eyes to the mirror and Saxony found her gaze caught and held. "They say that you are my patron here."

  "They say correctly," she said, breaking that oddly compelling gaze and moving out of the mirror's influence.

  "Then," said Corbinye, minding her braid, "it is you I must thank for this body I find myself within, for it was your henchmen beat my own so badly it could not be healed."

  "You are," Saxony suggested, "grateful."

  Corbinye turned her head; stared at her out of depthless black eyes for the space of three heartbeats.

  "Beatings inspire no gratitude, Saxony Belaconto."

  "And yet you should be grateful," Saxony persisted. "For life is sweet, and the body you seem to scorn is seemly."

  Corbinye snorted. "Am I a courtesan? And while life may be sweet, you hold mine hostage, which I find bitter indeed." She finished the braid and found a bit of ribbon on the vanity top. It took her two tries to pick it up. "You use me to compel Anjemalti to do what you wish. Better I had died than I ever shame Ship and Crew by placing the Captain in danger."

  "Touching," Saxony said, coming forward; "and enlightening, as well. Who would have thought a barbarian had such a high notion of honor?"

  Corbinye tied the ribbon around the braid-tail and looked up, black eyes fearless, no expression at all on the smooth, lovely face.

  "Listen to me, barbarian," Saxony said, low and vicious. "You will stop threatening the staff of this place. You will do as you are told. When the time has come, you will be brought to my house, where you will continue to do precisely what you are told. If you do not do these things," she finished, "I will kill your cousin."

  The big eyes widened. "Has he already done what you demanded of him?"

  Saxony straightened. "Did I say when I would kill him?"

  "I see," said Corbinye, and tossed her braid behind her back. "Enlightening. Who would have thought that even a Grounder captain would hold no notion of honor at all?"

  Saxony's hand rose even as Corbinye turned her face away and began to tidy the objects on the vanity. Saxony clenched her hand and put it into her pocket.

  "I will cease to terrify the Grounders charged with my care," Corbinye said softly. "And when I come to you I shall behave as befits a guest." She raised her head. "I will continue to exercise and work and refine this body. It is I who must live here, and I have certain requirements. Also, it is necessary that I have the proper measure of my limitations and strengths."

  "Very well." Saxony stepped back; turned to go.

  "Saxony Belaconto!"

  She turned back. "What is it?"

  "The man you call Gem ser Edreth is not without resources, Saxony Belaconto—do not think that you feud with some crewless rogue captain." She stood, easily, gracefully. "A word in your ear." She smiled. "From gratitude."

  "See that you mind your manners," Saxony snapped, and Corbinye inclined her head.

  "You have my word."

  "Keep it." She whirled on her heel, went out the door and with a snarl collected the bodyguard she had left just outside. Three days translated—and gods knew how dangerous! And it was imperative she be kept alive, or Gem ser Edreth would have no leash at all.

  It was becoming increasingly more important that Gem ser Edreth be tightly leashed, indeed.

  Chapter Twenty

  He woke with sun glaring in his face; cheek resting on a mildewed page, arms flung haphazardly across a vast drift of books. He inhaled sharply—choked and began to sneeze on the ambient dust—and jerked upright, wincing at his back's protest.