Free At Swords' Point by Andre Norton Page B

you might term it — opposite numbers. For that reason, if no other, it will amuse us to move in your service. Also you are right upon another point, Mijnheer. The center of this web lies somewhere in Limburg —”
    “In Maastricht?”
    She flicked the gray ash from her cigar into a Delft bowl on the desk. “There is more to the Province ofLimburg than one city, old and attractive as Maastricht is. However, if one must start somewhere to unroll a coil, it might as well be Maastricht. And you were planning to visit that place in any event, Mijnheer.”
    “How do I get there now? If I go by train —” he began.
    “It shall all be arranged in due course. Quinn Anders, the suspected currency smuggler, must cease to exist. Tonight you will be taken to the Man Who Sells Memories. He will undertake the matter for you. Those who have relied upon his services in the past have never had reason to make complaint of them. Johan will escort you there now.”
    Quinn got to his feet. “I want to —”He started to thank her.
    But she waved her cigar, a witch's rod of power. “Thanks tend to irritate me, young man. All I wish is that when you return to your own country you will report that Roajact met with proper assistance in his travels. Kater approves of you — an excellent sign.”
    Kater yawned, exposing rows of white needles. The Jonkvrouw van Nul puffed out a cloud of acrid tobacco smoke. And that was the last Quinn saw of either of them.

6
    THE MAN WHO SELLS MEMORIES
    This time they went down instead of up, passing through the deserted kitchen of the establishment to make their way down a flight of stone steps into a stone paved cellar which had the damp dreariness of a medieval dungeon. Johan's torch gave such a small circle of light that Quinn could only guess at the extent of the chambers where the hollow sound of their footfalls was echoed from green-slimed walls. Beginning to imagine that this was the way to some robber baron's torture chamber the American followed his guide into a last small room loud with the slapping of water against masonry.
    Here half of the floor was a narrow pit filled with a murky liquid which gave off the stench of defiled sea water and tore with a disagreeable sucking sound at its stone boundaries. Floating on this and tied to a stone ring in the wall was a small rowboat. Johan motioned Quinn to step aboard.
    “Pardon, Mijnheer.” The waiter held the light in asteady beam as the American gingerly embarked. “But now it is necessary that I do this.”
    He stepped into the craft with the ease of long practice and whipped a scarf around Quinn's head in a blindfold. His hands then dropped heavily on the American's shoulders forcing him down to lie upon his face in the oozing bottom of the boat.
    “We go where there is scant headroom, Mijnheer. It is best that you lie quiet until I give the word for you to rise again.”
    Quinn had no wish to be brained by obstructions he could not see, so he tried to keep his nose and mouth out of the bad smelling liquid which was soaking the front of his coat and hoped that their journey would not be a long one.
    There followed a grating sound, then the boat began to move. They were out in the open now. Quinn shivered in the chill of the night air and recognized the taint of canal water. Either his time sense was distorted or they did skulk along at a snail's pace for a long, long period.
    At last Johan's oar strokes awoke faint echoes again, and Quinn deduced that they were back under some kind of a roof. The boat progressed in a series of bumps. His blindfold was jerked off, and he levered himself up on his hands.
    The waiter's flash held on green-slimed stone steps. Quinn made the half jump which landed him on them.
    Without a word Johan began to climb, and Quinn limped after him. The slime and dampness lessened as they were swallowed up in a musty darkness which seemed to devour the faint beam of the flash. Then light flickered ahead, outlining a