Nashmar exchanged a cryptic glance with Klyd and said, “You needn’t be overly courteous, Naztehr. Klyd?”
Flowing to his feet, Klyd paced around the desk. “Hugh, of course the final say is up to you...but I’ve agreed to trade four days of your time for a young channel of Imil named Zinter. Starting today, if you concur.”
Valleroy searched that dark face for some cue, but found none. “You expect to leave me here for four days?”
“Oh, no!” sputtered Nashmar hastily. “Imil would never think of separating a channel from his Companion. Don’t worry, Naztehr, we are an honorable Householding!”
“Oh,” said Valleroy, trying to look relieved. “Sectuib Farris, this is in the best interests of Zeor?”
“Sectuib Nashmar knows”—Klyd emphasized that word delicately—“that Zeor must have someone just like Zinter...young but with great potential...and Imil must have that catalog. This seems like the most natural solution to both problems.”
“If it is in the best interests of Zeor,” said Valleroy, copying a phrase he’d heard many times, “then it follows it must be in my own best interests.” He turned to Nashmar. “I am at your service, Sectuib.”
Nashmar laughed, that short tense laugh Valleroy had come to associate with the high-pressure administrators of Householdings. “You needn’t go to work until you’ve had breakfast...or lunch, whichever your prefer. I’ll notify Brennar to prepare your offices.”
“While you are about it,” said Klyd to the Head of Householding Imil, “don’t forget to dispatch that messenger to Zeor for me.”
“I’ll send him around to pick up your letter. He’ll be at Zeor by tomorrow night at the latest.”
“Fine. Hugh, I could use some lunch.”
“Sounds like a good idea.”
They left together and headed for the cafeteria. “Four days!” said Valleroy when they’d rounded a corner out of earshot. “Stacy will have my hide if....”
“Not here! Remember Hrel?”
Looking suspiciously at the massive stone walls, Valleroy said, “How could I forget? Do you think...?”
“If they can do that at Zeor, they can do it anywhere.” He added for the benefit of passers-by, “I know what you’re worried about. How can Zeor get along without me for another week? Well, that’s just exactly the reason we need Zinter. Yenava is due to give birth in a few weeks, but it will be twelve years and more before the child will be able to assume any of my responsibilities. Zinter is already mature. He can be trained quickly.”
As they rounded the corner leading to the cafeteria, Valleroy muttered in English, “You know damn well that’s not what’s worrying me. Four days!”
Stopping in his tracks, Klyd turned and backed Valleroy against the wall, gripping the Gen hands in a peculiar hold. Then, under cover of the din from the kitchens, he said, “Hugh, I couldn’t help it. It was give in or blow our cover. Nashmar knows us, and he knows I’ve had my eye on Zinter for a very long time.”
Valleroy tried to squirm loose. “Let go of me! I’ve half a mind to saddle up alone and scour the countryside for her!”
“Be still damn it! You’re my Companion. Act like it!”
Suddenly shaking with a cold fury, Valleroy spat, “Let go of me, Sectuib. You don’t frighten me!”
“Calm down! Like this, we have a minute to talk privately. Nobody would dare interrupt!”
Subsiding, Valleroy tried to wrench a hand free. “What are you doing?”
“Faking it. Now listen to me....”
“Faking what?”
Exasperated, Klyd snapped, “Entran. If I hadn’t been faking, that blast of hatred you just threw at me would have put me in the hospital for a week.” He switched to English. “You’ve got a role to play, mister, and you better measure up or neither of us will live long enough to report to Stacy. Is that clear!”
“Perfectly. But I can’t help what I feel.”
“You’d better learn to help it. Now get this. Nobody here knows where you came from or when. Zeor’s reputation rides on your shoulders. I intend to write Yenava that you are providing for me as well or better than Denrau ever has. You’d better make sure she never hears otherwise, or I’ll have your hide. Do you understand me?”
The tirade beat aside Valleroy’s anger. For a moment, he had a flash of insight into the risks that the channel was taking on Aisha’s behalf. One slip on his part could blast the whole Tecton to pieces, and maybe end the human race for good. He wondered if Stacy understood the stakes in this game quite that way. But then he remembered why Aisha was important to Stacy. If she was forced to help break down the Gen monetary system, organized Gen resistance would collapse...and that would increase the number of Simes by however many a month didn’t get killed by the Gen Guard. Either way, it was a race to oblivion.
Sobered, Valleroy said, “I’m sorry, Sectuib.”
“Let’s have lunch.”
That afternoon, Valleroy found that his “offices” were really an immense salon surrounded by eight extravagantly appointed studios where a contingent of models and secretaries swarmed about as if organizing a state visit. His job consisted of sketching pretty girls and ruggedly handsome men (all Simes) dressed in colorful, but unconfining, garments.
The only difficulty he experienced was with the positions of the tentacles. For a while, he was afraid someone would notice that he was very experienced at drawing Gens but not Simes, so he tore up all the false starts.
But nobody stopped to peer over his shoulder without invitation. They were all too busy rushing from room to room, dressing and undressing, or marshaling racks of exotic clothing from place to place. When he did turn out a reasonably satisfactory sketch, the breathless gasps of genuine appreciation made him feel more confident.
After a few hours, he began to enjoy himself. He had dinner brought in so he could continue to work on his sketches after everyone else had gone. He couldn’t imagine how four days could possibly be enough. But when he asked, he was told that part of the catalog had been done by lesser talents while another part would be done by the photographer. Somehow he got the impression that that lofty personage ranked considerably below the artist. But he was too busy even to think about investigating photography.
As one of the leading fashion designers and tailoring houses, Imil put out a line of elite ready-to-wear for all occasions. In the short time he was there, Valleroy saw more different costumes than he’d seen before in his whole life. Many of them were cleverly tailored to use Zeor’s Arensti winners of previous years. Much of the cloth used, Valleroy discovered, actually came from Zeor’s mills.
On the next day, all Valleroy saw of Klyd was an occasional glimpse in the corridors or through open doorways; for a few minutes he listened to the channel lecturing an enthralled audience of adults assembled in the big auditorium of the school. All Valleroy could make out was that Klyd wanted the Tecton to set up a new Householding that would be nothing but a school for channels. It would be supported by contributions from all the Householdings so they wouldn’t have to farm. The major objection seemed to be that such a concentration of channels would be too vulnerable, especially if they had to depend on supplies that were shipped in.
Another time Valleroy saw Klyd seated on a classroom floor, surrounded by a group of very young Simes. He was teaching them to play the shiltpron—an arrangement of rods held by intricately twined tentacles and then shaken against each other to produce harmonic hums that were damped by a touch of a tentacle. It was a complex exercise.
Valleroy watched for a few minutes, but the class was so engrossed, he tiptoed away without disturbing them. He went back to work, glad that Klyd was enjoying himself.
By late afternoon of the third day, Valleroy was exhausted, physically and emotionally. Never had he worked so hard on so many diverse projects. When the models quit for the day, he decided he needed a break himself. He tossed his charcoal aside and wandered out into the corridors.
In the distance, he coul
d hear Imil’s school band practicing. He passed the school auditorium where the dance classes were limbering up while a choral group was trying to sort out different-sized robes from a backstage locker. Three students went by carrying a spattered ladder and a bucket of poster paint. There was an undercurrent of impending festivities in the air.
It was later the next day that he discovered the celebration was in honor of Householding Frihill’s establishing a daughter Householding. One of the top Companions in Frihill who would become the Companion of the new Head of Householding would be visiting Imil on a recruitment tour.
Valleroy overheard whispers among his models about Frihill’s internal politics. “There just isn’t room for two really great Companions in one Householding.” And he learned a lot about the close relationship between parent and daughter Householding. For the moment, he just wanted to get away from people.
He took a turn and then another turn. There was a stair leading down. He was too lazy to decipher the signs, so he just opened the stairwell door and went down.
Imil was built on the side of a hill so that the ground floor at the front was the fourth at the back. As he went down, he realized he was on this lower side of Imil, in an area that seemed completed deserted.
It suited his mood, so he stopped to look out a window, enjoying his solitude. It seemed that his breathing echoed down the silent well, which was cut off from the rest of the building by heavily fortified doors...two sets of them...guaranteed to stop any invaders.
From the window, he could see harvested fields, as barren as he felt. The sun was just dipping behind a distant rise. He watched it wondering whether Aisha could see it, whether she was able to appreciate it.
The thought spoiled his mood. He turned restlessly to explore the lower floors. Between landings, he came to a heavy door with a double-glassed round window set into the wall over a widened step. The sign said INSULATED LABORATORY. He had no idea what that meant, but it sounded formidable enough to keep him out. It seemed to occupy space set into the side of the hill Imil was built on. All he glimpsed through the window was a long empty corridor with a strip of light bulbs down the center of the ceiling.
He went down to the next landing and tried the exit doors. They led him into a corridor filled with the angry shouting of deep male voices. The sound of English in this strange place drew him onward.
The floor was made of some hard material that seemed to absorb the sound of his steps. The walls were freshly painted, but Valleroy could see vague outlines of murals under the new paint. Widely spaced doors indicated large rooms behind the walls. He stopped for a drink at a fountain, peered through a window into an unused, bare room, and then continued toward the muted sounds of anger.
He passed a door marked lavatories, and then turned a bend to find his way barred by two massive, swinging doors. The top half of the doors consisted of a heavy screen sandwiched between panes of glass. The handles were secured with an intricate lock mechanism that refused to move when he tried it.
He wasn’t sure he should even be here, but he stepped up to the doors and peered beyond. This was definitely the source of the noise. The corridor continued after the doors, but what had been an infirmary or school became a prison.
The door to each of the rooms had been cut in half. The top portion had been replaced with bars locked into place with devices similar to that on the swinging doors blocking Valleroy’s path.
The first three rooms were occupied, two on one side and one facing. Valleroy could see Gen hands gripping and shaking those bars as their owners raged inarticulately. In the corridor between the prisoners, Nashmar, his Companion, and Klyd stood conferring earnestly.
Valleroy told himself sternly not to jump to unwarranted conclusions. He waited to see what would happen.
He didn’t have long to wait. Klyd suddenly turned to look at the doors, saw Valleroy, and came toward him, smiling broadly.
Straight-arming the door as if it weren’t locked, the channel came out into the relative quiet of the hallway. “I’m glad to see you here. Maybe you could help us out if you have a little time?”
“Help you out?”
“The three Nashmar picked up at Iburan have proved more spirited than he expected.”
“Why don’t you just let them go?”
“Hugh,” Klyd reproached, “you know better than that!”
“No I don’t! What right have you to keep people prisoner?”
Klyd paused, looking hard at the Gen, totally bewildered. “We do not keep anyone prisoner. What would happen to them if we took them to the gate and shoved them out—even gave them horses?”
Valleroy looked sullenly at the channel.
“Hugh, could you live with a thing like that on your conscience?”
Gracelessly, Valleroy conceded. “I don’t think I’d want to try. But we got them here, we could get them to the border.”
“Do you know how long Imil would survive after we did that?”
Valleroy, remembering the scarred buildings of Zeor, looked at Klyd’s grim expression. “About twenty-four hours?”
“Less.”
“So why do the Householdings buy captives if they won’t co-operate?”
“They are usually more reasonable when they find they’ve been given a chance to live, if only within the Householding. After they first donate, they have several weeks to become accustomed to us, as you did.”
Valleroy wasn’t so sure he was accustomed yet. “So turn them loose in the Householding and let them see for themselves.”
“We can’t do that until they donate. These three are brothers, the last survivors of their family. They’re firmly convinced all Simes are killers and ought to be killed.”
“I see. But surely they must have seen enough by now to know that Imil isn’t....”
Klyd gestured through the door’s window. “There you see Nashmar and Loyce, living testimony to what Imil is...but the brothers will have none of it. You’ve absorbed your share of punishment from them already. I’m not asking you to go back in there with me....”
“But it would be proper behavior for a Companion?”
“Uh...yes, it would.”
“Let’s go.” Valleroy watched closely as Klyd gripped the door’s handle and pulled it open. He knew that door was locked, but he’d seen it open without any resistance. From the inside, he watched it shut and then tried pushing it open. It wouldn’t move.
“Turnie! We thought they’d killed you for sure! Where’ve you been?” called Vrian.
“Working,” said Valleroy, facing him. “Paying my own way with honest labor, which is more than you can say for yourself! And I’m no turnie!”
“It was a turnie just like you that got us into this mess. Guess I know one when I see one,” said Grenel.
“Shut up, Grenel,” said Vrian from Valleroy’s right. “What are you doing here, Turnie? Want another throat massage?”
Valleroy essayed a wry smile.
“Just step in here where your friends can’t interfere and we’ll see how long you’ll smile.”
“And what will that prove?” asked Valleroy. “That one Gen is stronger than another? I admit you’re stronger than I am. Now are you happy?”
“I’ll be plenty happy when I get my hands on one of them slimy snakes you call friends.”
“Is that how you pay for your room and board, with insults?”
“Or die trying. We wasn’t asked if we wanted to stay here.”
Valleroy turned to Nashmar and said in English, “Sectuib, I guess that’s it. There’s no hope. These three are freeloaders who won’t do an honest day’s work for their keep. You may as well turn them loose and let the juncts kill them.”
Nashmar’s blue eyes widened for a moment. Then he caught on to Valleroy’s tactic. “I can’t do that. We’ve already made much too large a capital investment in buying them.”
“No use throwing good money after bad,” said Valleroy. “They are costing you...how much per day?�
�
Nashmar considered, examining each in turn, and named a figure.
“Over a month’s time that adds up to quite a lot. Maybe you could harness them to a plow or something?”
“Horses are more efficient.”
“Hmm,” said Valleroy, looking at Grenel thoughtfully. “How much did you say your head-tax on them was?”
“The three together come to about five hundred a month.”
“That’s in addition to room, board, clothing, and incidentals, isn’t it?”
Nashmar nodded.
Valleroy looked at Klyd. “I doubt if Zeor could absorb that kind of a loss. There are plenty of other Gens willing to work for their keep. I’d advise getting rid of the freeloaders as soon as possible.”
Grenel could stand it no longer. “Freeloaders! Freeloaders are we?”
As Grenel strangled on his own anger, Valleroy seized the bars of Grenel’s door and faced him nose to nose. “Yes, freeloaders! Where would you be now if Sectuib Farris hadn’t helped Sectuib Nashmar outbid Narvoon for you?” Valleroy went on to tell them in graphic detail just what their fate would have been. He moved from barred door to barred door, embroidering in the strongest language he knew.
The three brothers, hulking specimens of raw manhood toughened by a lifetime of frontier living, stood transfixed in utter amazement. The captives’ silence only led Valleroy to new passion as he went on to describe the marginal economy of the Householdings as they strove to save one more and then one more Gen despite the Sime laws.
“And after they’ve done so much for you,” finished Valleroy, “you repay them only with insults! Well, I work for my keep, and I won’t work to support a freeloader!”
Grenel spat. “And I won’t support no turnie!”
“Shut up, Grenel,” said Vrian. “No turnie calls me a freeloader and gets away with it!”
Valleroy whirled on him. “A freeloader takes but never gives. You’ve taken a helluva lot from Imil, but what have you given?”
“I have nothing, so I ask nothing. I’m no freeloader!”
“You have plenty. You have so much to give that Sectuib Nashmar has to protect you with bars and locks so nobody will steal from you. You’re not only a freeloader, you’re a selfish miser hoarding treasure worthless to you just so nobody who can use it can get it.”
House of Zeor Page 11