“She,” Hawthorn replied, “a Mistress Goodbar, who is an experienced guide to hunting parties.”
“That sounds promising,” said Allenson, perking up.
Mistress Goodbar was a tough-looking woman in no-nonsense clothes, with short cropped red hair. She sat down, folded her arms, and glared at Allenson.
“Um, you have some experience of the Hinterland, I believe?” Allenson asked.
“No,” the woman replied. “I have extensive experience of the Hinterland. I have led more groups into the Hinterland than you have had girlies, laddy.”
Which, Allenson reflected, was probably true but he did not quite see how it was germane to the matter in hand.
“So you have successfully guided a number of expeditions,” Allenson said.
“No, I said led, as in commanded, not guided,” Goodbar interrupted him.
“Have you any experience of the Nengue region?” Allenson asked.
“Why Nengue?” asked the woman, answering his question with a question. “No one goes to Nengue. The hunting is piss poor and the place is crawling with savages.”
“Nengue it has to be,” Allenson said, remorselessly. “So tell me about Nengue.”
The woman shrugged. “Not much to tell. There’s a Rider settlement there and a rundown trading fort. Not sure what they trade. The place has been hunted out.”
“But you know the Continuum around Nengue?” Allenson asked.
“Sure.” She shrugged again.
Interviewing the woman was like drawing teeth with your bare hands. Allenson struggled on but elicited nothing more of interest.
“Is there anything you would like to ask me?” Allenson finally said.
“No,” Mistress Goodbar replied, “but I will tell you something. I am prepared to lead you to Nengue but I run a tight ship. I expect you to follow my instructions without argument and I decide when we go on and when we call it a day. Those are my terms.”
She got up.
“Let me know if you agree.”
Mistress Goodbar headed for the door without further ceremony and let herself out. There was a long pause then Allenson said, tentatively. “She has got the necessary background knowledge and skills.”
“Quite,” Hawthorn said.
There was another pause.
“You were very quiet during her interview.” Allenson said.
“Allenson?”
“Yes?”
“If you hire that bloody woman I may be forced to shoot her—or you,” Hawthorn said, looking him straight in the face.
“She was somewhat overbearing,” Allenson said.
“Overbearing? She’s a cast iron ball-breaker. I will not be ordered around like some chinless Brasilian wonder by an oik with attitude.”
“Well, we have one more to go before we make any decisions,” Allenson said, diplomatically.
The third candidate was a bald, stooping fellow, with poor muscle tone. There were broken blood vessels on his nose and his teeth were in poor condition. His clothes had once been of a decent quality but showed signs of wear and staining. They fitted, so had probably been bought new and never cleaned or replaced. This, Allenson, thought was a man who had fallen on hard times.
Payne nodded deferentially to Allenson.
“Master Payne?” Allenson asked.
“Yes sar,” Payne replied.
His voice had a timid quality, as if he expected to be kicked if he spoke out of turn. Allenson had the impression that Payne would agree if he insisted that the man’s name was actually Smith.
“Please sit down.”
Payne hurried to the chair. There was a distinct clink from his jacket pocket
Allenson asked a few routing questions to put the man at ease, without much success. Hawthorn took over the questioning.
“I see that you have experience as a trader in the Hinterland, Master Payne. Ever been to Nengue?”
“Many times,” Payne replied.
“What were you trading?” Hawthorn asked.
“Oh the usual,” Payne replied. “Tonk, cheap plastic and ceramic decorations, some basic tools, mostly knives. Whatever the Riders wanted that didn’t cost too much.”
He became more animated as he talked.
“Weapons?” Allenson asked.
“That would be illegal.”
Payne shrank back into himself, as if he was being interrogated by Lictors. Allenson noticed that Payne’s hands were shaking. He clasped them together in his lap.
“Don’t look so frightened man. I was not accusing you of anything. I was just curious.”
“Yes, sar,” Payne said. “It would also be very stupid to sell Riders anything too dangerous. They would probably test it out on you first—you being conveniently to hand, like.”
“What did you get in return?” Hawthorn asked. “We have been told that the hunting is poor there.”
“Natural gems, sar.” Payne looked surprised as if everyone knew that!
Synthetic gems of any composition could be manufactured but they lacked the random imperfections that made each natural gem unique—and difficult to cut. Uniqueness dictated value in a society that could make almost anything. No Brasilian lady would be seen dead wearing synthetic jewellery.
“Gems, well, well,” Allenson said. “That explains everything.”
“The Riders aren’t stupid enough to tell us where they get them. They can be cunning devils, for savages. I bribed one with a crate of Took once to show me the gemfields,” Payne said.
“What happened,” Allenson asked, curious.
“Not sure, but we found his head on a pole outside the trading post.” Payne shrugged. “I never got the Tonk back either.”
Payne still seemed to hold a grudge about that.
“You negotiated with the Riders in Kant?” Hawthorn asked.
“Yes, and I also speak the local lingo a bit,” Payne replied.
“What do you know of the Rider political structure at Nengue,” Allenson asked.
“Not really my concern. Human politics are bad enough without getting mixed up with the affairs of Riders. Their political disagreements lead to spilled guts.”
“But you must have picked up some idea,” Allenson said, persisting.
“’Spose, so,” Payne replied, rubbing his head. “Nengue is a sort of neutral place where the usual clan warfare is taboo. That’s why the Trading Post is there. It doesn’t stop fights between individual Riders, you follow. It just means that only personal grudges are fought out.”
“So, do they have an enforcement body?” Allenson asked.
Payne stared blankly at him.
Allenson rephrased the question. “Are there Rider proctors, enforcing discipline?”
“Good heavens, no sar,” said Payne, showing surprise at the naiveté of the question.
“It’s not like that. The taboos are more like religious custom, you see. If a clan broke the custom they might be massacred by all the other clans—or they might not. You never can tell with Riders. They’re contrary beasts,” Payne said. “You keep your gun in hand at all times, sars.” He looked concerned, as if his potential employers were about to do something stupid.
“Just so,” Hawthorn said, drily.
“But there must some sort of authority at Nengue, man,” Allenson said. “Brasilia has a treaty with the overclan leader.”
“Has it?” Payne asked.
“Yes,” Allenson replied.
“You must mean the Viceroy, sar,” Payne said. “He’s the chief of all the clans in the region,” said Payne.
“Viceroy?” asked Allenson.
“That’s what the traders call him. It’s as good a word as any. He’s appointed you see, by some sort of Rider council.”
“Really?” Hawthorn asked. “I have never heard of such a thing. Where is this council based? What is it?”
Payne shrugged. “No one knows. It is deep into the Hinterland. I was trading, you see, so I had to deal with the Viceroy but the council wa
s too far away to matter.”
Allenson pondered what the ‘council’ might mean for his negotiations and wondered what else officialdom had not grasped about Rider social structures.
“But you are not trading now?” Hawthorn asked.
“I had some bad luck,” Payne replied, not meeting Hawthorn’s gaze. “I need this job to get a stake, so I can start again.”
“Is there anything you wish to ask us?” Allenson asked, concluding the interview.
“Well yes, sars.” Payne hesitated.
“Spit it out, man,” Hawthorn said.
“Well, sar, as I said, I have had some bad luck and need a sub. Could you advance me some pay to equip myself.”
“Don’t worry about that. Something could be arranged,” Allenson said.
Hawthorn showed Payne out.
“What a pity,” Hawthorn said. “He would be a perfect choice . . .”
“If he wasn’t a drunk.” Allenson finished the sentence for Hawthorn.
“Yah, you should have smelt him up close. I reckon he had at least half a bottle to fortify himself before the interview,” Hawthorn said.
“I heard the bottle clink when he sat down,” Allenson replied, drily.
“I suppose it has to be the ballbreaker, then,” Hawthorn said, gloomily.
“Or maybe not,” Allenson said. “Look, we know what Payne’s problem is. If we stop him drinking then we should have a useful employee.”
“Have you ever tried to keep a lush of the sauce?” Hawthorn asked, rhetorically.
“Normally I would agree with you, but he is out of cash. I keep him starved of cash until we leave, then we run a dry expedition,” Hawthorn said.
“A trip through the Hinterland without booze.” Hawthorn shuddered theatrically. “The things I do for you, Allenson.”
* * *
The door to the cheap apartment was locked. Allenson hammered on it again and called Payne’s name. Silence!
“Are you sure he’s in there?” Hawthorn asked.
“I am sure his datapad is in there and he does not appear to be anywhere else?” Allenson replied, anger coloring his voice. “I have had enough of waiting for him to surface.”
Allenson kicked the wooden door under the lock. The lock held but the door-frame splintered. Allenson put his shoulder to the wood and pushed the entire structure in with a crash.
“Payne,” he yelled into the unlit interior.
There was no answer so he went in. The apartment was one room with curtain-partitioned alcoves for the bathroom and kitchen. The atmosphere was rancid with the stink of stale vomit and urine.
Payne lay on his back on a bed, fully dressed, snoring like a buffalo. Allenson crossed the room in two steps and shook him. Payne moaned but remained unconscious. A thin line of vomit rolled from the corner of his mouth. Empty bottles of Tonk littered the floor.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Hawthorn said.
Allenson kicked a bottle so hard that it shattered against the wall.
“I don’t understand where he got the money!” Allenson raged.
Hawthorn picked a strip of paper off the floor and examined it.
“I have an idea,” Hawthorn said, handing Allenson the paper. “Don’t some of these prices seem a little steep?”
Allenson read the paper. It was a receipt for a series of goods from the supplier where he had opened a line of credit for Payne. The idea was that Payne could order supplies without touching actual cash. Some of the prices were high. Allenson looked at it uncomprehendingly until the penny dropped. He finally saw what Hawthorn had grasped immediately.
He stormed out of the apartment, receipt in hand. The supplier’s shop was some little distance away but Allenson covered the ground quickly in long strides, his anger building with each step. Hawthorn had to jog trot every few steps to keep up.
“Maybe you should have a drink and calm down before deciding what to do?” Hawthorn asked.
He did not get a reply. Allenson strode on as if he had not spoken. He barged into the shop, pushing aside the solitary customer. The supplier stood behind a counter wearing the apron that served as a uniform for his trade. He was a big man with beefy forearms.
Allenson threw the receipt on the counter.
“You cheated me,” Allenson said quietly.
“I don’t know what you mean,” the supplier said, blustering.
“You padded the bill with Payne’s connivance and paid him off in booze. You exploited his weakness to cheat me,” Allenson said.
The other customer sidled towards the door but bumped into Hawthorn who shook his head. The customer sensibly discovered an urgent need to examine the tools on sale at the far end of the shop.
“You can’t talk to me like that!” the supplier said.
“Oh you had to say it,” Hawthorn said quietly to the ceiling. “You couldn’t just apologize and offer restitution.”
“Can I not? Can I not?” Allenson asked, rhetorically. “And who will stop me?”
He reached behind the counter and grasped the supplier by the lapels. Allenson slammed him face down on the counter, holding him down with one hand on the back of his neck. The man struggled and attempted to push himself up. For all the good it did him, he may as well have pushed against an interworld ship. He could not have been held more securely if a granite pillar had phased out of the Continuum clamped to his head.
In desperation, the supplier tried to punch Allenson but his position was hardly conducive to fisticuffs. Allenson caught the fist easily with his free hand and slammed it down on the counter. There was a crack of something breaking and the supplier cried out.
Hawthorn winced.
“I estimate that you have cheated me by twenty percent,” Allenson said.
“It was only ten percent,” the supplier said, whimpering.
“I estimate that you have cheated me by twenty percent,” Allenson said, as if the man had not spoken. “You will advance that amount immediately to my account. I will continue to deal with you but you will not pad the bill and you will not give Payne booze. Do we understand each other?”
The supplier did not reply.
Allenson still held the man’s fist. He closed his fingers on the damaged hand and squeezed. The supplier squealed.
“Do we understand each other?” Allenson asked again, his voice quiet and cold as if he was addressing a recalcitrant child.
“Yes, yes, sar, let me go. It shall be as you say,” said the supplier.
“Good,” Allenson said. “Payne will be round to order the next batch of goods, when he has recovered. I will take it as a personal insult to my honor as a gentleman if anyone gives Payne access to alcohol. Pass the word.”
“Yes, sar,” the supplier said.
Allenson turned to the customer in the corner, bowing slightly.
“Please accept my apology, master, for interrupting your business and manhandling you. I regret I let my temper get the better of my manners.”
The man just stared at him, goggle eyed.
“Ah, no problem, sar,” the customer finally said.
Allenson considered himself a gentleman, and a gentleman is obliged to maintain certain standards even when dealing with the lower orders. The man had offered no offense so deserved an apology for such cavalier treatment.
* * *
“Everything alright, sar?” asked the waitress, topping up their mugs of cafe.
“Fine, most tasty,” Allenson replied.
“Good,” she said, before retreating behind her counter.
Allenson speared a chunk of ham with his fork and rubbed it in his egg yolk before putting it in his mouth. Actually the meal was rather good. He had a taste for simple nutritious food. Sarai always called it “nursery food”. He smiled at the thought of her, but then frowned at his presumption in thinking fondly of another man’s wife. Smiles and frowns, excitement and guilt—there was always an emotional rollercoaster ride with Sari.
He had chosen this
place to eat because it specialized in simple home cooking but was upmarket enough to deter crowds. It was patronized by prosperous trade’s people and their dependents. The Manzanita wealthy ate in more fashionable restaurants, where they paid handsomely to eat Cutter Stream copies of Home World dishes.
Hawthorn had announced his attention of lunching at a bar where a bare-knuckle bout was scheduled between the local champion and a contender from Clearwater Port. This was not an entertainment that appealed to Allenson so he left his friend to it.
Allenson finished his meal and caught the waitresses’ eye. She filled his mug with fresh cafe and removed his empty plate.
“Is the manager available?” Allenson asked.
“Mistress Cantona is the proprietor, sar,” the waitress replied. “She also is the chef.”
“Pleased give her my respects, and ask her if I might have a word,” Allenson said.
“Of course, sar.”
He sipped the cafe, which was satisfactorily strong and hot, while watching local news on a screen in the corner. A sensibly dressed matron appeared from the swing doors to the kitchen, carrying a steaming dish of fruit pie and englaze. He half rose when she approached his table, but she waved for him to sit down.
“I am . . .”
“Sar Allenson, I know,” the lady said. “You have been on the news. I believe you wish to speak to me?”
Allenson indicated she should sit down. “Indeed, mistress, can I get you any refreshment?”
She raised a hand in polite refusal.
“I have engaged an employee, but he has been ill and needs good food. Could I open an account here for him?”
“Of course,” the lady replied.
“Please serve him anything on the menu for which he has a fancy except . . .”
“Except strong liquor,” the lady interrupted him, again. It was a habit that he might find irritating with longer acquaintance.
“I see you are familiar with Master Payne’s illness,” Allenson said, drily.
The woman frowned.
“It is such a shame. Clement, that is Master Payne, was not always like he is now. Once, he was a fine man.”
Mistress Cantona sounded almost wistful.
“People took advantage of his—weakness,” she said, choosing the word carefully.
Into the Hinterlands-ARC Page 17