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  ‘Well, Mr. Mealie?’ Soames’ voice compelled Sabriel to turn around. He took the small, silver box which Soames offered him and opened it. A delicious scent invaded the room as he did so, casting back the curtains of Cambium Delta stink. It smelled of breathing flowers, erotic dreams and half-glimpsed visions of unimaginable, heart-breaking beauty. Sabriel quickly closed the box. The temptation was great.

  Caspar Soames raised an eyebrow, his lips curled into a smirk. ‘Take it, Mr. Mealie. Lie down upon your bed and drop a single pinch upon each open eye. You haven’t tried it before, I can tell. Anyone who has would never hesitate.’

  ‘Rather early in the day for such delights, isn’t it?’

  Soames laughed. ‘As you wish. It doesn’t matter. All I’m doing is selling the stuff. What you do with it after that is your business.’ He stood up. ‘Now, the thirty thousand standard credits, if you please, then we may discuss how to conclude our business.’

  ‘We shall have to meet later,’ Sabriel said quickly. ‘There are certain details that have to be finalised.’

  Soames made an irritated sound. ‘I object to having my time wasted. How much later? I had hoped to be off this charmless chunk of rock by tonight.’

  ‘I will meet you for lunch in the Dry Dog. It’s a quaint establishment not far from here. Allow me to apologise for this inconvenience, but I’m afraid it’s unavoidable.’

  ‘Very well, but I shan’t wait long.’

  ‘Thank you. May I keep the sample?’

  Soames was already at the door. ‘Of course.’ He nodded abruptly and left.

  Sabriel sat down on the bed, holding the psychedrine box in his hands and stared at it unblinkingly. What now? Several courses of action presented themselves. By now, Gustav Mealie must be wondering where Caspar Soames had got to and very shortly would no doubt begin investigations of his own as to his whereabouts. It was a tricky situation.

  Sabriel called reception and asked them to put a call through to Gustav Mealie at his hostel. ‘Tell him that a Mr. Soames will be meeting him for lunch at the Dry Dog after being unavoidably detained elsewhere,’ he said, and then lay back on the bed to think. After a while, he got up and left the hostel. Within half an hour he was knocking on Gustav Mealie’s door.

  Mealie did not look overjoyed to see him. ‘Yes, what is it?’ he said irritably, his face foamy with depilatory cream. ‘I thought we’d concluded our business last night.’

  ‘Last night, you filled me with drink, delivered the news you hoped would destroy me and cheated me of my half of our earnings.’

  ‘My dear Sabriel,’ Gustav blustered. ‘I most certainly did not cheat you. As I recall, you have never been a particularly adept fayning player.’ He grinned in a manner intended to placate. ‘Come now, we all need to diversify occasionally. I enjoyed our partnership, Sabriel, but feel that I’ve gained all I can from it.’ He batted Sabriel’s arm with a comradely fist. ‘How about I reimburse you what you lost at fayning last night?’

  Sabriel took a step back. ‘Forgive me for saying this, Gustav, but I can’t help suspecting that I’m owed rather more than what you took from me last night.’

  ‘What can you possibly mean by that?’

  ‘Don’t bother to look aghast, Gustav. I expect I’ve been used and deserve to have been simply because of my own ingenuous stupidity. However, I think it’s only fair that you allow me to examine the ledgers back on Croon Cree so that I may be assured of your honesty.’

  Gustav Mealie gave a flippant shrug. ‘If it will mean anything to you, Sabriel, go ahead. I assure you I spoke the truth last night. Nearly all we had was wrapped up in that root carving delivery from Pazhin. I was as shocked as you were.’

  Sabriel’s heart sank. Gustav’s relaxed pose obviously meant the ledgers were works of fiction and all funds were distributed into different areas. So much for that plan. He sighed. ‘Very well, I accept your offer of returning what I lost last night. It grieves me to sink so low but I have little desire to stay here for much longer.’

  Mealie laughed heartily. ‘That’s my lad, Sabriel. Take things in good grace. Here!’ He tossed a couple of credit tokens at Sabriel which were taken from a heap of such tokens on the bedside table. Sabriel pocketed them and then hesitated. ‘Was there something else?’ Mealie asked, impatience beginning to tinge his voice again.

  ‘I can’t think of anything.’

  ‘Good. Please excuse me, Sabriel. I have a luncheon appointment.’

  Sabriel left the room, feeling he’d missed some opportunity, but couldn’t work out what or why. His fingers ran over the smooth edges of the silver box in his jacket pocket.

  Disconsolately, he roamed the streets of Euterpiax. Perhaps something would come to him. He believed in the power of coincidence, that same power which had brought Caspar Soames to his hostel room. He was continually conscious of the box in his pocket, aware of a faint but insistent aroma that escaped the confines of the silver seal. Far from hinting at luscious visions, it only reminded Sabriel of news reports he’d heard about atrocities glimpsed on Tellagoona; the coppery clouds above the psychedrine plants, the corrals of listless, hopeless essence donors for whom salvation could only ever be the kiss of the draining spikes, the inevitable dark. Sabriel could not decide how to utilise the knowledge he now possessed. Gustav Mealie deserved a slap from the hand of Justice, but Sabriel was unsure of the manner in which it should be delivered. Above him, a grim, metallic sky boiled above the saurian outline of the town. He felt dwarfed by the looming buildings pressing down on either side of the black street. People hurried past, all busy, all engaged upon pressing tasks of their own. Not many folk were penniless in Euterpiax; it was a waterhole for the affluent, on their way to more picturesque worlds at the rim of the galaxy. Sabriel sighed. Now he wandered down a bleak, cornerless lane named, incongruously, Shadow’s Curl. On either side identical doorways, flanked by single, scratched plastic windows, offered access to the booths within. An alley of alchemists, lank-witches and scryers. Sabriel gazed half-heartedly into the bescarved, betasselled and beribboned windows. Perhaps he should seek the advice of one of the diviners to be found within. An advertisement in one of the windows wiped the sardonic smile from his lips.

  ‘Learn the Secrets of the Universe’s Poisons’ it declaimed boldly, and underneath, ‘For a mere dinkin, step within and Clytie Tredway will teach a Secret’.

  Sabriel smiled again. How quaint. What had really caught his eye, however, was the legend beneath this information: ‘Psychedrine - learn how the dreams become nightmares with no waking; Loquatim - nervousness banished to the point of complete insensitivity,’ and so on. Apparently Clytie Tredway knew how to mutate benign or harmless substances into lethal or debilitating toxins; interesting.

  Sabriel Leaves lifted aside the door curtain and stepped within. He found a gaunt, dishevelled creature sitting at a velvet-draped table on which stood a box of coins, a murky glass half-filled with tea-coloured liquid, and a much-thumbed pamphlet. The woman looked up and said, ‘What’s your business, mister? A faithless lover, a brutish parent, careless friends...’

  Sabriel sat down opposite her. ‘None of those. A fiendish business partner.’ He removed the silver box from his pocket, opened it, and put it on the table between them. ‘This is psychedrine,’ he said.

  Clytie Tredway shut her mouth with a snap. Her eyes narrowed as the unmistakable, seductive scent of psychedrine investigated the sordid corners of her booth. ‘Well sir...’

  ‘Tell me what you can do with that.’

  ‘It is a rare thing, mister, a rare thing. I’ve never handled it.’ She could not keep her eyes off the box.

  Sabriel winced at the hungry gleam she could not conceal. ‘Oddly enough,’ he said, ‘you claim to have knowledge of its transmutations, or perhaps you didn’t write your own sign out there?’

  Clytie Tredway pulled herself together. ‘My predecessor had worked with the stuff a couple of times,’ she said, with a sniff, and began to thumb
through the pamphlet. ‘Ah, yes... well, this is interesting.’

  ‘How interesting?’

  ‘Well, according to the words of Dame Merdice, president of our guild, psychedrine has only to be immersed in the simple beverage, ermola, to become an intoxicant of the most alarming nature.’

  ‘Please explain.’

  ‘I hardly can. Cavortions, madness, euphoria, manic glee, occasional violence, delusions, speaking in tongues - these are only a few of the possible symptoms. All the more sinister because whatever peculiarities manifest in the victim take at least twelve hours to develop, so that a poisoner can be off and away before he.. or she... is suspected of crime. The effects are irreversible.’

  ‘I see. Are these widely-known facts?’

  ‘Psychedrine itself is hardly a widely-known fact, sir. I admit that the sole reason for it being mentioned on my placard is to whet people’s interests. Psychedrine is a legend, a dream drug. I had never expected to come across it.’ She eyed the box once more with a furtive, half-guilty, glance.

  ‘How much of the stuff is needed to...’

  Clytie Tredway obviously did not care to hear whatever indelicacies Sabriel might come out with. She essayed to maintain a certain dignity about her work. ‘Two good-sized pinches, according to Dame Merdice’s pamphlet. You have enough pyschedrine there to send a good portion of Euterpiax insane.’

  ‘That is not my intention,’ Sabriel said drily. ‘Madam Tredway, I have no dinkins - only credit tokens of disproportionately high amounts. Will you accept half of this psychedrine in payment for what you’ve told me?’

  She shrugged. ‘You must be mad, but I am definitely sane. Of course, I accept it.’

  Sabriel hovered cautiously around the entrance to the Dry Dog for at least half an hour. He investigated several shops in the area, emerging each time to eye the unimposing facade of the place where Gustav Mealie and Caspar Soames were destined to meet. He wondered if they would actually make contact successfully, still unsure of whatever action he would take himself. Eventually, he saw Mealie striding purposefully down the street, his air that of a man about to be offered vast wealth. Sabriel ground his teeth. He experienced irritation, anger and then calmed himself to a steely resolve. Sabriel waited five minutes before following Mealie into the inn. Mealie went directly to the bar, swaggering and preening at the bored woman serving behind it. Sabriel waited until he’d bought himself a drink and settled himself comfortably in a window-seat, before sauntering casually to the bar himself. Mealie must have noticed him instantly. A quick glance over his shoulder assured Sabriel of the poisonous, dark, rodent expression he had expected to find.

  ‘What do you want of me now?’ Mealie asked Sabriel as he sat down.

  ‘Do I understand I am not welcome?’ Sabriel shook his head and smiled ruefully.

  ‘I’m expecting someone. I have business to conduct; important business.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be gone before your new partner arrives. Can’t we share a last drink together?’

  Mealie rolled his eyes. ‘Sabriel, you sound like a spurned female. Have I misunderstood the nature of our partnership all these years?’

  ‘I don’t mean to sound bitter. You are right. I went to have my fortune read today and was told it was time my circumstances underwent a drastic change. Perhaps you have done me a good turn, Gustav.’

  Mealie made an irritated sound. He looked uncomfortable. Sabriel took some moments to savour the situation, sipping from his glass and gazing carelessly round the bar.

  Small bursts of fidgeting began to escape Mealie’s suave restraints. Eventually he said, ‘Sabriel, did you follow me here?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Mealie rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, for God’s sake! What do you want? Can’t you leave me alone? I don’t need haunting. Your behaviour is most unhealthy!’

  ‘I had a visitor earlier today.’

  ‘Really!’ Mealie turned to look out of the window, craning his neck to peer up and down the street.

  ‘Yes. It was somebody who expected to find you. A Mr. Soames.’ Sabriel put his glass down on the table carefully.

  Mealie gently eased himself back against the seat and narrowed his eyes. For once, he appeared quite at a loss for what to say.

  ‘I didn’t enlighten him as to my identity and the poor man spent several minutes trying to extract a rather large sum of money out of me.’

  ‘Sabriel, enough of this clever word-play. If you have a point to make, make it.’

  ‘I suppose you think I will try to blackmail you.’

  ‘By that, I expect you are intimating you know something of the nature of my business with Soames.’

  ‘I know that it is a risky, immoral but highly lucrative venture. How much do you know about what you’re becoming involved in?’

  Mealie sighed. ‘Sabriel, it is not your affair. Our partnership is dissolved. If you have some wild plan concerning betraying me to certain authorities...’

  Sabriel interrupted. ‘I am offended. Do you really think I would do that?’

  Mealie took a nervous sip of his drink. ‘Many people might, even those you were not feeling hard done by, bearing in mind the nature of the commodity. I am not a fool, Sabriel.’

  ‘If all goes well, you will be a very rich man, Gustav.’

  Mealie waved this aside. ‘What did you say to Soames?’

  ‘He is under the impression that he will be meeting me here so that I may give him the money for the deposit on the merchandise.’

  ‘And I presume you want to stay here to keep your appointment, only using my income and my goodwill to conclude your business? Am I to understand that you are forcing me to continue our partnership, Sabriel?’

  ‘You give in easily, Gustav.’

  Mealie smiled and made a careless gesture with his hand. ‘You have outwitted me, Sabriel.’ His eyes did not smile. Sabriel could see his own death waiting in that blank gaze. He was not deceived. Mealie laughed loudly. ‘Young scamp!’ he said.

  Sabriel visualised briefly a damp, dark alley, a hired assassin, a tidy extinction. ‘We are still partners, then?’ he asked.

  ‘How could I ever think of losing such a resourceful fellow?’

  ‘How indeed? Allow me to purchase us some refreshment. I owe you that at least.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Some minutes later, Sabriel returned from the bar. Mealie still grinned at him in a manner designed to be comradely but which appeared almost insane; a veritable rictus of a grin.

  ‘Isn’t that Mr. Soames coming in at the door?’ Sabriel said. ‘We shall have to tell him of my little deception. Let’s just call it a wise precaution, shall we?’

  ‘As you wish, Sabriel. You’d better beckon him over; it’s your face he’ll recognise.’

  Sabriel nodded. He raised the china cup he held in his hand. ‘To our success, Gustav! Finish your ermola. Perhaps Mr. Soames can be persuaded to furnish us with something stronger.’

  Mealie smiled and drained the cup. Sabriel observed him with a kind of bashful incredulity. He watched Mealie’s throat work as the liquid slipped down. It was gone. Within twelve hours, Gustav Mealie would be a twitching, gibbering, possibly dangerous, heap of human remains. Sabriel wondered what he, himself, would be doing within twelve hours.

  Caspar Soames, far from being offended by Sabriel’s deception, seemed to regard it as normal business practice. Sabriel was sure he detected a hint of respect behind Soames’ high-pitched titter of amusement. Conversation kept away from the subject of psychedrine. There was an atmosphere of impendence and a glitter of relish in Caspar Soames’ pale eyes. After maybe an hour, Soames cleared his throat to introduce a more business-like mien. ‘Well gentlemen,’ he said, ‘we have only to conclude our affairs. You have the funds, Mr. Mealie?’

  Mealie nodded. ‘Naturally. And the product?’

  ‘Ah, well, you’ll understand when I tell you that it is in a safe place.’

  ‘Here in Euterpiax?’ Sabriel asked.


  Caspar Soames shook his head, smiling. ‘Of course not. However, it’s only a short journey away.’

  ‘You make it sound as if we are going to have to make this journey ourselves,’ Gustav Mealie said drily.

  ‘Come, come, gentlemen,’ responded Mr. Soames, grinning waggishly. ‘You must agree you are getting a bargain here! A swift jaunt, nothing more. Don’t you trust me? As I recall, at present I am merely in possession of a small deposit and am prepared to wait for the retention until your good selves are satisfied. One of my company cruisers is waiting.’ He stood up. ‘You’ll only be away a couple of days.’

  ‘A couple of days,’ said Sabriel in a wooden voice.

  ‘A couple of days?!’ spluttered Gustav Mealie in annoyance. ‘I have other business to attend to! I am a busy man!’

  ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ Mr. Soames said placatingly, rolling his eyes. ‘You have stepped into the ante-chamber of the biggest, most lucrative narcotics temple in the universe. Is it unreasonable that you should sacrifice a little of your time upon its altar? After all, once your destination has been reached, you will both be very, very rich men.’

  ‘Will you be coming with us?’ Sabriel asked nervously.

  ‘No - the boat is quite capable of transporting you and seeing to your needs. She has the character of an odalisque and the common-sense of a school-mistress.’

  ‘A robotic ship... no crew... no-one else on board at all...’

  ‘Mr. Leaves, you’ve gone quite white!’ Soames exclaimed. ‘Surely you don’t suffer from space-sickness.’

  ‘No... I...’ He flicked an agonised glance at Mealie who was looking quite puzzled by Sabriel’s reaction. ‘Is it really necessary for us both to go?’

  Mealie made a noise of annoyance. ‘For God’s sake, Sabriel! We might not be the best of friends, but a journey of over twenty-four hours is too short to be passed under induced sleep and too long to be spent alone. Don’t be such a ninny! Of course, you’re coming. What’s the matter? Are you afraid I’ll bite you?’ He laughed. ‘You wanted in, Sabriel,’ he added menacingly.