by Eric Thomson
Fenrir led them along a gravel road separating the town from the beach, eyed by idle citizens sitting in the shade of warehouse doors and tavern awnings. Of the urchins, no trace remained.
They eventually reached a warehouse larger and better maintained than the rest. The most significant difference between it and the others was the location. This godown sat squarely in front of the piers, at the corner of the shoreline road and a cobbled avenue cutting through the heart of Mazaber like a giant slash. The dark, sharp-ridged hills surrounding the town loomed beyond the avenue’s far end and above the many buildings lining it on both sides.
“This is it, David Crimple’s house of trade.”
Horam looked for a sign, something naming the company or proprietor, but saw nothing above or beside any of the wooden doors, both small and large. Fenrir, who noticed his inspection, chuckled.
“Everyone who counts knows where Crimple holds court. His is one of the few mostly stone buildings, with a nice tile roof and real glass windows. You could say he’s the commercial king of the town. Successive Mazaber bosses keep old Dave sweet because he can make or break even the biggest politically motivated criminal organization in these parts.” Fenrir jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “This is where the richest man in town makes his profits.”
The merchant captain pivoted on his heels and headed for a wooden door giving onto the street. He pushed it open and vanished, swallowed by the shadows, his sailors hard on his heels. After one quick glance at each other, Horam and Rianne followed suit, the two junior Brethren behind them.
The dry, earthy scent of old leather tickled Horam’s nostrils as he entered the twilight of a space that was part office, part showroom, part museum. A broad counter cut off the back third of the high-ceilinged room. Filled with dusty desks, cabinets, and shelving, it felt more like an abandoned counting house than the customer-facing facet of Mazaber’s biggest merchant lord.
Display cases lining the public two-thirds held books, artifacts that could only date back to imperial days, including relics none of the Brethren could identify at first glance. And they saw items that came from Lyonesse, almost assuredly via Theban ship masters looking for a bit of extra profit.
But what struck Horam and Rianne almost at once were other pieces of equally advanced manufacture which they knew had not passed through the Thebes Priory. Among them were gleaming metal hand tools, bladed weapons, cooking implements, and more. They saw no railguns, but neither was surprised. On a world where ordnance was primitive, anyone with power weapons could overthrow entire governments and advertising that fact didn’t end well.
A wizened man, short, slight, and wrinkled, with wispy hair fringing his bald dome, appeared as if by magic behind the counter. His deep-set eyes took in the new arrivals, then he bowed.
“Captain Fenrir and party. Welcome. You’re back in Mazaber much earlier than expected. I trust you bring interesting trade goods once more.”
Fenrir returned the formal gesture.
“Mister Crimple. You honor us by your personal welcome. With me are four Brethren serving the Order of the Void, Sisters Rianne and Lilith as well as Friars Horam and Alcide.”
Crimple turned his intense gaze on the Brethren as if looking for souls behind their stoic facades.
“I’ve heard legends about the Order of the Void. They say its votaries fled Hatshepsut during the catastrophe that made us the fallen race we are today, abandoning the faithful to Empress Dendera’s genocidal retribution. I’m not sure I should welcome you. No offense, but around here, memories are long, even if lives aren’t.”
Rianne reached out with her mind to taste Crimple’s emotions and see whether he was serious or merely looking for a reaction, perhaps as a form of opening move, the sort a shrewd trader would make out of instinct. But she couldn’t sense much, if anything. Either Crimple exercised almost perfect control over his feelings, or he possessed none and was among that small percentage of humans who stood apart from the rest of the species, such as some of the worst criminals exiled to Lyonesse’s Windy Isles prison complex. Like every Sister with a sensitive talent, Rianne spent a season in the Windies, working as a counselor and ministering to the republic’s irredeemable so that she might experience humanity’s most depraved minds and souls firsthand and develop ways of dealing with them.
“Members of the Order were being hunted and murdered in those days, Mister Crimple,” she replied in an even tone. “Both sides in the rebellion scapegoated our predecessors and sought their deaths. Millions of Void Brethren perished through no fault of their own, while only a few found sanctuary far from imperial worlds. But we are back and once more working for the betterment of humanity.”
Crimple squinted at her. “Perhaps. I suppose since Lars Fenrir is bringing me visitors instead of Theban goods that might fetch a good price, I should assume you come for answers rather than items for sale or barter. I’m a busy man, Sister, so speak your mind and leave.”
She inclined her head.
“I shall. The advanced technology items Lars and his fellow captains are selling you these days were either manufactured by my people or by Thebans under our supervision.”
Crimple let out a bark of laughter so dry it sounded like sandpaper on wood.
“You’re star people, aren’t you? Just like the one who came here with a load of items no one alive ever saw before and exchanged them for Theban goods and ancient imperial artifacts. He clearly didn’t appreciate his merchandise's value, but that’s not my problem, now is it? Let the buyer beware lest the seller plunders his pockets.”
“What can you tell us about him?”
More laughter, but soft, almost mocking this time.
“What can you give me in exchange? Information has value.”
“It certainly does.” Rianne gave him a mysterious smile. Did she sense a glimmer of curiosity? Or even cupidity. Perhaps Crimple was merely one of the rare humans who could instinctively mask his feelings, a useful talent for a merchant or a gambler. She reached into her satchel and retrieved a fist-sized plastic cylinder.
“I offer you antibiotic pills, a true rarity on Hatshepsut beyond the Republic of Thebes.”
“Antibiotics?” Crimple rolled the word around his mouth as if savoring it. “And what are those good for?”
“They cure routine bacterial infections often in one or two doses, and by the looks of Mazaber, such infections are probably quite common.”
Horam grinned at the merchant.
“Bacterial infections cause gangrene in septic wounds, are at the origin of most sexually transmitted diseases, stomach problems, and all sorts of other nasty things. Considering folks probably fight and fornicate a lot around here, not to mention eat stuff that’s well past its best before date, that little bottle in Sister Rianne’s hand is worth more than the railguns you bought from the other star man.”
Crimple cocked a skeptical eyebrow at the Friar.
“And how do I know that stuff really works?”
“Ask Captain Fenrir.”
Without further prompting, the latter said, “This medicine has saved many a life and limb in Thebes, Mister Crimple. A lot of sailors injured at sea survived nasty infections thanks to its properties. And that included a few of mine who were wounded by pirates on the way back from Mazaber the last time.”
The merchant let out a dismissive snort.
“You could be telling me a tall tale as well.”
“We’ve been trading for how many years now? And in that time, did I ever try to cheat you?”
“If you’ve tried, I neither noticed, nor did you succeed,” Crimple replied in a grudging tone, eyes narrowed as if he was evaluating Fenrir’s past truthfulness.
“Besides, this is information we’re talking about, not valuable goods. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain.”
While Fenrir and Crimple debated the merits of her offer, Rianne gently nud
ged the latter’s mind with thoughts of trust and friendship until he let out a long, exasperated sigh.
“Very well. How many doses are in that container?”
“Two hundred. Only the most advanced and most stubborn cases need more than one. But be warned, the medication does not confer immunity; it merely heals existing infections.”
Rianne placed the container on the counter in front of Crimple, who snatched it up with surprising speed. She watched him figure out how it opened it with equal swiftness, then he peered inside.
“Please count them if you wish. You will find 200 capsules. We of the Void cheat no one and nothing, not even death.”
Crimple glanced up at her through narrowed eyes as he replaced the lid.
“If you can’t trust a Sister of the Void to deal honestly, then I suppose humanity is truly screwed. Very well.” Crimple tucked the medication into one of his vest’s capacious pockets and licked his lips. “My star man, then.”
— 26 —
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“He calls himself Jan Keter and is the captain of a faster-than-light merchant starship from something called the Hegemony. I tried to get him talking about it, but he was cagey. Wouldn’t give me any place names, but from his answers, it sounded like something run by folks not much different from our rulers here in Mazaber, despots who control every damn thing and shoot those who dare disagree. Speaks understandable Anglic, by the way, not like the Saqqarans do nowadays. Said he was traveling through the old imperial wormhole network, whatever that is, looking for trade opportunities. I got the feeling he wasn’t exactly on a trip approved by his government.”
“Why?”
“Search me. He was nervous, sure. Alone on a fallen world, far from home, but there was something else bothering him.”
Rianne mentally nodded at herself. Crimple must have a bit of the talent that allowed Friars, and especially Sisters, to keep their feelings hidden behind impenetrable walls, which was why she sensed little. Perhaps his abilities were strong enough that he might be a sort of minor truth-sayer, someone with an innate instinct for people. He wouldn’t be the first wild talent she’d encountered. It would certainly explain how he became the most successful and feared merchant in Mazaber.
“One fine day,” Crimple continued, “this Keter shows up in town riding a large, powered ground car, something no one ever saw before. Though I didn’t manage a close enough inspection, I’d wager it was both armored and armed. Otherwise, a lone visitor wouldn’t dare show up unannounced in what could be hostile territory.”
“What did this car look like?”
He shrugged.
“A big black box on eight wheels, say four meters long, over two meters wide, and about the same in height. Made little noise. He stopped right outside my door, climbed through a side hatch that slammed shut behind him, and came in wearing a weapon somewhat like the town sentries’ pistols on his hip.”
“How did he figure you were the one to see instead of your competitors?”
An amused snort.
“He may come from off-planet, but he’s a trader and knows the same tricks as Captain Fenrir and me. A port’s most powerful merchant will always own the largest, best maintained, and most strongly built godown right by the main pier. There’s a hierarchy, you see, and I’m the number one Mazaber merchant.”
His tone was sufficiently matter-of-fact that Rianne knew he was making a simple statement, not boasting.
“Fair enough. What happened then?”
“He introduced himself, said he carried samples of advanced technology wares he was selling in his ground car, and would I like to examine them. So I followed him out, and he opened one side of his vehicle. It had a very fancy protection system, a sort of transparent, shimmering curtain. He could reach in and take stuff out. I couldn’t. A lot of it wouldn’t do much good around here without a power source. But what came with solar chargers interested me, especially the railguns.
“We dickered around for a long time. He’d ask so much for a dozen of that or that, and I’d counteroffer until we agreed. I’m sure you can imagine how it is. He was really interested in the items I bought from Theban merchants like my friend Lars Fenrir, medical instruments and tools that presumably come from your homeworld, so I sold him my entire stock. That, and a lot of ancient imperial artifacts. Keter left town in his wheeled monster and returned the next day with the trade goods. We exchanged, and that was it.”
Rianne studied Crimple with an air that was half amused, half skeptical.
“Surely you sent someone to follow Keter out of town.”
Another snort, this time resigned.
“Both times. The first day and when we concluded the deal. Keter landed a spacecraft in a valley about ten klicks south of town, where there are ancient ruins. Plenty of those around, most big enough for something like Captain Fenrir’s ship and more. The craft was approximately six or seven times the size of his vehicle, and on both occasions, he drove it up a rear ramp. Both times as well, the thing jumped straight up into the sky with an eerie whine and vanished from sight within moments.”
“You didn’t try to seize it?”
A bark of laughter echoed across the room.
“Are you crazy, Sister? A visitor from the stars with advanced tech who goes around armed won’t neglect his security. It would have been more than my men’s life was worth. Besides, I figure I snagged the better part of the bargain, and if he’s of a mind to return, I’ll gladly deal with him again. Made a mint off his wares, I did, not least from Captain Fenrir.”
“Can your men show us where he landed his shuttle?”
Crimple’s wispy right eyebrow crept up.
“Is that what you call it? A shuttle? Yes, my men can do so, but they don’t enjoy walking, and that means you’re on the hook for renting transport.”
“Which would be?”
“Argvags,” Crimple replied, naming native, equine-equivalents with often nasty tempers and even more offensive odors. Thebans used them as plow animals on farms and not much else. “I figure taking an argvag cart is uncomfortable, and the round trip will take the rest of the day. Riding argvags is a lot faster, but even more uncomfortable. Your choice.”
Rianne turned to Fenrir with a questioning glance.
“We ride,” he replied without hesitation. “The beasts aren’t as bad as that. I’m sure Mister Crimple will gladly rent us a herd for a price.”
The latter nodded.
“One hundred gold Theban marks.”
Fenrir winced theatrically but reached into his pocket and pulled out a purse from which he withdrew five coins.
“This goes on your tab, Sister.”
“Naturally.”
He placed the twenty mark pieces on the counter.
“There, you old pirate.”
The coins vanished in the blink of an eye, swept up by Crimple.
“Can you show us the items you bought from Keter you’ve not sold yet?”
Crimple squinted at Rianne as if evaluating her request. Then he nodded and flipped up a section of the countertop.
“Follow me.” He led them to a heavily barred door at the back of the room, where he fiddled with several locks before pushing it open. “My secure storeroom. I don’t let just anyone in, but as I said if you can’t trust Void Brethren...”
Sunlight streaming through several barred windows high up on two walls lit a grimy room lined with rickety wooden shelves. As they entered on Crimple’s heels, the musty odor of partially decayed organic material assaulted their nostrils.
“There’s not much left, you understand. Sitting on inventory won’t make me rich.”
“Any more railguns?” Fenrir asked. “Because if you’re selling, I’m buying.”
“Are you kidding me?” Crimple grimaced at him over one shoulder. “I couldn’t get rid of the things fast enough once I realized my mist
ake. For one thing, the town’s boss would have confiscated them if he’d found out. Ordinary citizens better armed than the government always ends in revolution. And for another, no one in his right mind wants the local enforcers equipped with off-world advanced weapons. Balance of power, right? So I sold them to you and your fellow Theban captains. Let your lovely republic deal with the problem.”
Crimple walked over to a tarpaulin-covered pile of what looked like small crates, and Rianne realized the rotting canvas was responsible for the storeroom’s unpleasant miasma. He flipped the tarp up, exposing slick, plasticized oblong boxes with Anglic letters and numbers printed on the sides.
“What are those?” Rianne asked.
“You tell me.” Crimple lifted one of the boxes up onto a nearby shelf and stepped back. “Since I can’t find a buyer, I’ll make you a good price.”
Rianne gestured at Horam, and the Friar stepped forward to examine it.
“May I open the container?”
“Sure.”
Horam studied the box for a few seconds.
“Packaging doesn’t seem much different from what we use back home. Simple but solid, proof against even the nastiest environments.” He unlatched the cover, opened it, and peered inside. “No wonder you can’t find a buyer, Mister Crimple. That looks like a portable fabricator.”
“Which is what Keter called the damned device. Except it doesn’t fabricate a thing.”
“Of course not. You need a power source and input materials.” Horam extracted a rectangular metal object from the packing materials and turned it in his hands, examining the various sides. He peered into the box once more. “Neither of which are included.”
“And for that, Jan Keter owes me a good discount on his next offerings. If he ever darkens my door again, I’ll be having a few words with him.”
“How many of these did you buy?” Rianne asked.
“Three. Make me an offer for them, and maybe I won’t rip your fellow off-worlder another orifice.”
She and Horam exchanged a brief glance. Then Rianne reached into her bag and withdrew two plastic cylinders, each a different color but of the same shape as the antibiotic container now sitting in Crimple’s vest pocket.
