Master Of The Hashomi

«Kubin, you-!» the auctioneer began, then bit off his words. He even managed to stop his hands from shaking before the approaching man reached the block.

Blade stared down at the man, and their eyes met. The man called Kubin was nearly as broad as Blade, though a head shorter. He wasn't fat, either. His bare arms and the chest revealed by his silk tunic were layered and ridged with muscle. In his sash Kubin carried a scimitar nearly large enough for one of the Hashomi, and his servant carried another. Blade noticed that the men nearest to Kubin were inching away or trying to look elsewhere.

The auctioneer tore his eyes away from Kubin and shouted, «Is there another bid? Another, honored sirs? Another bid than that of Kubin Ben Sarif? Another? What, no other? I call once.

«I call twice.

«I call three times-and the desert man is sold to Kubin Ben Sarif, for one hundred mahari!»

There was a collective sigh of relief from the crowd, almost loud enough to drown out the sigh of relief from the auctioneer. He bowed deeply to Kubin. «Is it your wish that the man be trimmed? For thirty mahari extra, the surgeons of the house will do it for you, and keep him until he recovers.»

«Or dies,» said Kubin. He looked Blade up and down, seeming to examine each muscle and tendon, each limb, each scar. Blade did his best to remain impassive under the man's inspection. Kubin Ben Sarif was not precisely the master he would have chosen. There was something about the man to make others fear him. Still, he was better than a return to prison, perhaps as an unsaleable slave destined for trimming or the living death of the salt flats.

Kubin's examination of Blade went on so long that the auctioneer began to fidget again. «Honored Kubin, it becomes difficult to spend any more time upon this man. There are other slaves to sell this day. Will you have him trimmed or not?»

Without moving a muscle, Blade got ready for action. If Kubin said yes, there was going to be blood all over this auction block in the next minute, and not all of it would be Blade's. There were enough soldiers in sight to make sure he wouldn't be getting out of here alive, but that wouldn't save the auctioneer, or Kubin.

Kubin's eyes rose again, and this time they met and held Blade's. Slave and free man stared hard at each other, then both looked away in the same moment. Slowly Kubin shook his head.

«No, I'll take him as he is.»

Chapter 13

The auctioneer's desire to get both Blade and his new master on their way helped speed the paperwork. In less than half an hour Blade was chained securely in the back of a hired cart driven by Kubin's servant. They rattled out of the slave market with Kubin riding behind on his donkey.

The cart picked up speed as they reached the main street. Blade noticed that many people seemed to recognize Kubin, and some of those who found themselves in his path made a visible effort to get clear. Few greeted the man, and practically no one smiled at him.

Blade wondered what kind of a man he had to deal with-a secret police officer, or Dahaura's equivalent of a Mafia chief, or what? It was hard to believe that someone engaged in criminal business would ride around as Kubin did, in broad daylight, undisguised, and with only a single servant, unless he was brave to the point of madness.

The cart kept to the main streets until it rumbled out one of the gates and on another mile beyond the wall. Then it turned down a lane between two high stone walls and finally stopped at a gate. Unlike the gates, of the other villas along the road, this one was not ornamental ironwork. It was massive timber, with a heavy iron bolt rammed home. The tower on one side of the gate was plain, without plasterwork or mosaics. All four sides were loopholed, and Blade saw the glint of spears and helmets on top.

The gate opened smoothly, on well-oiled hinges. The cart rolled in, onto a path of hard gravel between rose trees twenty feet high. Among the trees stood marble benches decorated with geometrical figures and statues in bronze and marble. The rose petals, red and yellow and gold, lay scattered on the gravel, and the scent was almost overpowering.

All the rest of Kubin Ben Sarif's villa that Blade saw was like this-an endless alternation of grim military efficiency and opulent beauty that hinted at the wealth the efficiency was defending. However Kubin Ben Sarif had gained his fortune, he certainly had one.

There was nothing luxurious about the basement room where Blade and Kubin first faced each other in private. Walls and ceiling were whitewashed stone, while the floor was plain blue tile. The only furniture was a long table of polished wood, and a stool padded with a green cushion on which Kubin sat. An iron ring nearly a yard in diameter was set into one wall, and Blade's chains were fastened to the ring. He could turn freely, but not move more than a couple of feet in any direction.

Kubin straddled the stool and placed both hands on his knees. «So, desert man. You are now in the service of Kubin Ben Sarif. What do you say to that?»

Blade smiled. «That depends on whether I have permission to speak.»

«You do. In fact, you are ordered to speak when I ask you a question.»

Blade nodded. «I understand. As for what I say to being in your service-I do not know who you are, what you are, or the duties of a slave in your service.»

«You know nothing about me?» Kubin's face was unreadable, but his voice could not entirely conceal his surprise. «How long have you been in Dahaura?» This time his tone held not only surprise, but a slight note of wounded vanity.

Blade did not risk smiling. Instead he shrugged and said evenly, «I crossed the border of Dahaura three days before I was taken by the Desert Riders. Since that time I have had little chance to observe the men of Dahaura and who is important among them. I know that you are a wealthy man-this villa says so. I also know that you are respected and even feared by many in Dahaura-the eyes of the men in the slave market said that. More than this I do not know. That is ignorance, I admit, but it is not my fault.»

Kubin laughed. «You are right about my being respected, feared, and wealthy, and I like it that you have seen all these things. Now I shall end your ignorance.

«I am Kubin Ben Sarif, and I am first among the dealers in women in all Dahaura. In my houses are more than three hundred women, with beauty and skill such that no man who walks the earth ca

«I have heard that this is so,» said Blade. «When one has as many women in one's service as there are soldiers in a company of the Baran's army, one must take much the same care of them.»

Kubin laughed. «Well spoken. Indeed, that is a comparison I have used myself, for I was once a soldier of the Baran. Not he who rules Dahaura now, but his father. I have often asked myself-had I remained in the Baran's service, might I not be a noble and a general now?»

Kubin launched into a long tale, of a promising young soldier who'd hidden certain jewels he'd found on the body of a bandit. With some of the jewels he bought his discharge from the army, with the rest he bought a small house and four lovely women. The house prospered from the work of the women, and so did Kubin Ben Sarif.

He had continued to prosper, with minor interruptions, for twenty-five years.

It took Kubin more than an hour to tell the tale of those years. At first Blade wondered why he was being told so much. Then he realized that Kubin was skipping lightly and discreetly over a good many episodes-such as how so many of his rivals had come to die at times so convenient for him. What Blade was getting was merely the «official» biography.