"Good day to you all," Gazen said, waving Jack to a halt and stepping alone to the edge of the circle. "As you know, the reason for this auction..."

He launched into a glowing report of Jack's skills and history, every bit of the latter completely made up. He was going for a high price, all right.

"Jack!" Draycos murmured at Jack's ear.

"Shh," Jack hissed back, glancing at Gazen. The man might be busy spinning a castle out of cobwebs, but that didn't mean he'd gone deaf. And he was only five feet away.

"To your left," Draycos whispered, a note of urgency in his voice. "Four tables back, wearing green clothing."

Casually, Jack shifted his feet and turned leisurely to look that direction.

There were four tables' worth of soldiers in green combat fatigues back there.

"Which one?" he murmured.

"Behind the three in ordinary clothing," the dragon said.

Jack had already noticed that particular group of civilians. Two of the three men were young and alert and dangerous looking. Obvious bodyguard types. The third man, the one in the middle, was something quite different. He was late-middle-aged, with black-streaked silver hair, a nose like a hawk's beak, and a mouth set in tight and bitter lines. "Where?" Jack asked again, shifting his attention to the group of mercenaries behind the civilians, trying to figure out which one Draycos had found so interesting.

"Fourth from the left," Draycos murmured.

Jack focused on him. The man was reasonably big, strongly built, with dark hair and craggy features. There didn't seem to be anything special about him.

And then, suddenly, the face clicked.

It was Dumbarton. The man who'd grabbed Jack as he and Draycos had escaped from the wreckage of Draycos's ship on Iota Klestis. The man Draycos had zapped unconscious with his own slapstick, then insisted on propping up against a tree so that he wouldn't burn to death.

Jack turned away, faking a quiet cough into his right fist. His lungs were suddenly aching, his heart feeling like it was trying to batter its way out of his chest. It was over, then. Any minute now Dumbarton would recognize him, and blow the whistle—

"He attacked you from behind," Draycos murmured in his ear. "I do not believe he ever saw your face."

Jack frowned, running the memory through his mind. The dragon was right.

Dumbarton had hidden behind a tree, grabbing Jack as he ran past. Before he'd had a chance to turn his prisoner around, Draycos had knocked him out.

Of course, he must have seen Jack coming toward him before the grab. But that whole ridge had been thick with smoke from the crash and its aftermath, and the man had been careful to duck out of sight before his prey got too close.

Jack coughed again, just for show, then straightened up again and looked casually back at Dumbarton. There was indeed no sign of recognition in the man's face.

He turned back to Gazen, his heartbeat beginning to calm down again. So if Dumbarton wasn't a threat, why had Draycos bothered to point him out? Merely to show that, despite Jack's earlier prediction, they had indeed bumped into him again? And then it hit him. Dumbarton hadn't been wearing any insignia during the looting of the K'da ship. Neither had the Brummga they'd also tangled with.

Neither, for that matter, had the Djinn-90 fighters they'd had to fight their way past. Whoever had set up that attack had taken pains to make sure any potential witnesses couldn't identify them.

But here, there was no need for such caution.

And there was indeed a small red-and-yellow insignia attached to the top left of Dumbarton's green shirt. Squinting slightly, Jack could just make out the two words circling around it.

Malison Ring.

He took a deep breath. Finally. After two months of trying to dig through spacecraft records, mercenary records, and now even slave records, they had finally done it. They had found the mercenary group who had joined with the Valahgua.

And after all that work and sweat, the answer had practically dropped into their laps. All because Dumbarton had come to Gazen's slave auction.

Because he hadn't burned to death on Iota Klestis. Because Draycos had taken the time to perform a very minor act of mercy.

Mentally, Jack shook his head. Uncle Virge, he knew, wasn't going to believe this.

Gazen finished his presentation and gestured Jack toward the tool table. "All right, Jack," he said, smiling as always. But Jack could see a hint of the earlier warning in his eyes. "There are the locks. Open them."

Jack smiled back. The first smile he'd really felt since arriving on Brum-a-dum.

And it felt good. It felt really good. "Certainly," he said. Four hours later, Gazen called a break for lunch. By that time, Jack had managed to open three of the door lock systems and four of the safes. He had also, just for good measure, disarmed three hidden floor alarms without a peep out of any of them.

He had hoped he might be able to con Gazen into allowing him to eat with the rest of the group. Mingling with them would increase the risk that Dumbarton would suddenly recognize him, but it would also give him a chance for a decent and unpoisoned meal.

But no such luck. The minute the Wistawki waiters appeared, Jack was whisked off under Brummgan guard back to the kitchen.

There, Heetoorieef had another meal ready for him. It contained the same poison as the breakfast stew.

Jack spent part of the lunch break moving the food around on his plate and pretending to eat. Occasionally, when no one was looking, he forked a few bites down behind one of the cabinets. If he could convince them that he'd swallowed enough of the poison, they might quit spiking his food.

On the other hand, at that point they would presumably also start feeding him the antidote. That could be just as dangerous; and there was no guarantee that his resident K'da could sniff it out the way he could a straight poison. All the more reason to wrap this up and get off this planet. An hour later, with the buyers well fed and Jack's own stomach still growling unhappily, he was taken back into the banquet hall.

The afternoon session went as well as the morning one had. Jack finished opening the safes, popped the rest of the door locks, and disarmed the security alarms.

He also avoided two more booby-traps that Gazen had added to areas of the rug Jack had already cleared. A rather cheap trick, in his opinion, but one he'd sort of expected the slavemaster to pull.

As near as he could read his audience, that success alone made as much of an impression as all the rest of it put together.

The sky was beginning to darken outside the windows by the time Gazen called a

halt. "Thank you all for coming," he said as Jack returned his tools to the table. "You have until nine o'clock tomorrow morning to submit your bids. In the meantime, the hospitality of the Chookoock family is at your disposal."

There was a general murmuring and creaking of chairs as the buyers started to gather their notes and other items. "You—come with me," Gazen said to Jack.

"You—" he added to one of the Brummgan guards, pointing to the equipment table

"—put those away. And make sure he didn't steal anything."

He set off across the banquet room floor. Jack followed, the inevitable Brummgan guards thudding stolidly along behind him.

Midway to the door, he managed to quietly lose the lockpick he'd palmed.

He'd expected Gazen to take him back to the kitchen for a third try at stuffing squatter poison down his throat. Instead, the slavemaster led the way toward his office.

Toward it, but not to it. Circling past the door, he went into the small conference room around the corner from it.

The same conference room where Jack and Draycos had hidden their stolen recorder.