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slumped against a wall.
 Not much of a drinker, is he? a man asked.
Sarkkhan grunted and pulled Jakkin to his feet.  Where to now, boy?
 The Hideout, Jakkin mumbled.  There should be rebels enough there.
Sarkkhan grabbed a passerby by the arm.  Do you know a place called Hideout?
The man was dark-skinned, an offworlder, with hands stained a peculiar blue,
marking him as a rocket jockey, a maintenance worker on one of the starships.
 Just off ship, mate. Can t help you, he said pleasantly, slipping the noose
of Sarkkhan s grip.
Sarkkhan shrugged his thanks and grabbed another man.  The Hideout. Do you
know where it is?
The man nodded. He pointed vaguely toward a square two blocks away.  See that
four corners? It s on one of the sides, I forget which. But be careful. It s a
rough go, the Hideout.
 Thanks, but we can take care of ourselves, said Sarkkhan.
Jakkin added,  We re a match for anyone. He smiled.
The man shrugged and left.
Sarkkhan walked on, and Jakkin shook his head, cleared it of the
chikkar-induced fog, and caught up quickly. They matched stride for stride,
silently, until they came to the square. On the west side was a dim storefront
with a grimy sign above the door announcing the Hideout.
 There it is, Sarkkhan said.
They crossed the square and peered through the mirrored glass window. Jakkin
could just make out a knot of men standing near the door and a darker clutch
of bodies around what must have been the bar.
 Popular, he said to Sarkkhan.
Sarkkhan found a spot on the glass where the silvered surface was eroded and
looked in.  Pickings here! he said.  If we don t find one or two rebels in
that crowd, you can slap me with a prod. Let s see what we can stir up.
He turned quickly into the doorway and shoved his way through to the bar. It
was obvious he was looking for a fight. Afraid to lose him, Jakkin followed in
his wake.
This bar was also of bone, deeply carved. The letters and numbers were grained
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with dirt. What caught
Jakkin s eye, though, was the strange light-colored hide hung to one side of a
mirror. It was as pale as a young dragon s skin, and pecked with colored
circles-red, blue, green, and brown. At first Jakkin thought it was some kind
of map or a counting device for unlettered Austarians. In the nursery they
used knotted strings for totting up supplies.
Jakkin was still staring when a voice said,  What ll you have, son?
Jakkin started. The steward was a tan-skinned man with greying hair and a
mustache that trailed along the sides of his mouth like two parentheses.
 Have?
 To drink. This is a bar, you know.
 Chikkar, I guess, Jakkin said, running his hand through his hair. Beside him
Sarkkhan was talking to a rough-looking man.
Next to Jakkin a man not much older than he laughed.  Chikkar-that s a boy s
drink.
 We don t make that distinction here, said the steward.  See that? He
pointed to the skinmap that
Jakkin had puzzled about.  That s a man s hide, the back of one of the first
KKERS here. The blue dots, those meant he killed someone. The red, he was a
thief as well. The green was for crimes against the state-politics or treason
or maybe just writing down something the home world didn t like.
 And the brown? Jakkin asked.
 No reprieve. Not that any was ever given. They say the branding was done
under hospital conditions so it didn t hurt. Didn t hurtwhat did they know?
Once a man was branded, it was for life. The only way those brands came off
was that way. He gestured over his shoulder at the hide.  Skinned. After
death.
Jakkin found he couldn t keep his eyes off the skin.
 That one, the steward said, jerking his head toward the hide, was a man. Not
because he could meet a bond price but because of what he had to endure here.
Sarkkhan shifted in his seat and spoke loudly.  You sound like one of those
beslimed rebels.
 No, sir. I m an Austarian and proud of it. But a man is a man. I make no
distinctions here. The steward looked at Jakkin.  I ll get you that chikkar
now.
When it artived, in a glass with a slight nick on the rim, Jakkin found he no
longer wanted it. Sipping it as slowly as he dared, he stared up at the hide.
He felt as if the brands had been burned into his retinas. His hand went first
to the dimple in his cheek, then down to the bag lumping beneath his shirt. He
took another sip of the chikkar and sighed. Looking around, he wondered: How
do you tell a rebel? Was that man, the yellow-haired, sallow-skinned,
pockmarked one downing glass after glass in frenzied animation, a rebel? Or
the man sitting morosely in the corner, red tears leaking from his
weedcoarsened eyes? Or the man, eyelids blackened with some sort of paint,
talking to Sarkkhan? Was he? The man pulled at a ring in his ear and laughed,
but did that make him a rebel? Or a Federationist?
They were just men, after all, like the ones home at the nursery, arguing
about dragons and starships and politics.
Jakkin got up. They wouldn t find Akki this way. He tapped Sarkkhan on the
shoulder.  Can we go?
 Go if you want, Jakkin, the nursery owner said, not even bothering to look
around.  But this lizard brain needs straightening out.
He gestured to the man next to him.  He seems to think that Bankkar s Mousekin
could have beaten my
Blood Bath in his heyday.
He continued haranguing the man about the virtues of his first and mightiest
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fighting dragon while the man responded by laughing and pulling again on the
ring in his earlobe. They argued, more or less good-naturedly, without really
listening to each other.
Jakkin guessed it would be another hour at least before Sarkkhan would be
done, all thoughts of the rebels gone. No rebel sent by Golden could possibly
find him in this crowded place, Jakkin thought.
He d have a better chance outside. Since Sarkkhan would not follow, it might
be just the time to go.
Slipping through the tangle of men at the door, Jakkin went out into the
gathering dark.
chapter 35
HE MEANT TO keep an eye on the turnings so that he could make his way back to
the Hideout, but his attention was caught instead by the grimness of the [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]