World of Promise dot-23 Page 2

  An honest man selling an honest product but a student wanted more than that. The vendor pursed his lips at the question.

  "A crib? Something to take into the examination room and feed information as desired? My friend, if I had such an item I would be a criminal to sell it to you. The rooms are electronically guarded against such devices and, if you should be discovered owning one, you would be immediately expelled. I have no desire to contribute to another's ruin. I-" He broke off as a siren cut the air with its wail, a series of short and long blasts which ended in an echoing silence. "The Cossos." He looked at his audience. "That was her signal."

  Dumarest's ship-it was time for him to board.

  There was still a crowd clustered around the cage in its circle of brilliance, and as Dumarest passed he heard the raw, primitive snarl of the beast as it faced its tormentors. The guards, bribed, no longer made any effort to prevent the hail of missiles which the dilettantes threw at the cage, some hitting the bars, others the matted coat of the creature. They would tire of the sport or the beast would cease roaring its anger or its owner would come to complete the transshipment and the incident would be over and forgotten. But, perhaps, the taste would linger to remind humans that they were, at times, more viciously savage than any animal.

  "Hurry!" A man called to his companion. "Let's get aboard before it's too late!"

  There was no need to hurry; the warning signal had been a preliminary. It would be repeated later, again to warn of immediate departure. Even as Dumarest turned from the cage a siren blasted in the standard pattern and he halted, looking at the stubby shape which lifted from the dirt, the stained hull and patches vague beneath the blue shimmer of the Erhaft field which carried it up and out toward the stars.

  The sight caught at the imagination, driving the beast insane.

  Dumarest heard the sudden, maniacal scream of naked fury, the accompanying shrieks as the bars yielded and a guard died beneath the rake of sickle claws. Another joined him as the crowd raced from the spot, streaming like ants from the point of danger, jostling, thrusting, yammering their fear, their terror of the monster.

  The beast stood roaring its hate and defiance, fists drumming on the barrel of its torso, saliva dripping from bared fangs, blood smeared on the claws, the matted hair.

  "Lavinia! My God, Lavinia!"

  The scream cut across the roaring, the drumming, the noise of the crowd. A sound torn from the throat of a woman in the extremity of anguish, shocking, desperate.

  The thing heard it and dropped its hands, head turning to scan the area, seeing as Dumarest saw the small figure sprawled on the dirt, the mane of ebon hair, the glitter of the doll still clutched firmly in one hand.

  "Lavinia!"

  She didn't move, probably knocked unconscious from a blow delivered in unthinking panic, knocked down and half-stunned, dazed at least. Then the hand twitched, light catching the doll, flashing from the sequins, the tinsel, a sudden blaze of radiance which caught and held the attention of the beast, sent it padding toward the intriguing point of brightness, the nostrils flaring as it scented prey.

  Things Dumarest noted as he moved, driving booted feet against the ground, the rush of wind filling his ears, catching at his hair. Wind which caught his robe and sent it to balloon behind him, a drag he fought to conquer.

  Speed, to reach the small figure first, to distract the beast, to get her to safety. His eyes checked as he ran, assessing time and distance, seeing the tormented face of the girl's mother, Roy standing helplessly at her side, the small group of uniformed men behind them, faces pale blobs against the darkness of the running crowd.

  Then he was stooping, scooping up the slight shape, lifting the girl to throw her high and far toward the reaching arms. He fell, shoulder and side numbed, to roll desperately from the foot which kicked at his face to miss and rip deeply into the dirt.

  Lying, the taste of blood warm in his mouth, Dumarest looked at the death towering above him.

  The beast was man-like but was not wholly a man. A true human would have killed without hesitation but the creature chose to roar, to snarl its hate and challenge-seconds which gave Dumarest his only chance.

  He rolled again, climbing to his feet, backing to gain distance, the time to prepare. The blow which had knocked him down had ripped the robe into rags and he doffed the remnants to stand unhampered in neutral gray. A move and the knife lifted from his boot to fill his hand with edged and pointed steel. This was his only weapon, as the metal-mesh buried in the plastic of his clothing was his only defense. They and his body and brain were all he had. Together they had to be enough.

  The beast snarled and darted forward, claws slashing the air as Dumarest jerked aside, feeling the grate of broken ribs, tasting again the saltiness of his own blood. A warning; to be too active was to rip a lung to shreds. Yet how to avoid the danger?

  There was no safe way-the beast was too fast, too big and vicious. Backing, Dumarest studied it, searching for vulnerable points as he had before but now with more than casual interest. The throat, ridged and corded with muscle, would resist cuts and penetration. The genitals were buried deep between the massive thighs. The eyes were deep-set beneath prominent ridges of bone. The jaw was solid bone; the heart protected by the matted hair, the hide, the muscle and sinew beneath.

  And the thing could kick forward as well as back, a thing Dumarest remembered as a foot ripped where he had been standing, talons naked, strong enough to disembowel. There was a moment in which the beast was off true balance and the knife rose, edge upwards, to catch the rear of the ankle, to bite, to cut as Dumarest dragged it free.

  The beast roared, flailing the air, blood a ruby stream from the slashed joint. A small wound but one which hampered and made the thing a little less efficient.

  It came forward again, snarling, relying on naked strength and size to crush and kill. Dumarest moved aside, dodged, moved again, conscious of the pain in his side, the blood in his mouth. Blood he spat in a carmine stream as, ducking, the beast lunged.

  For a moment the great head was lowered, the horns like two spears thrusting, to impale, to gore and rip and lift the screaming prey, to toss it high to be gored again as it fell. A demonstration of its weakness-the mistake its creators had made.

  Dumarest spun, dodging the horns, conscious of the feet, feeling the slam as one hit the side of his thigh. His left hand fell to grip the beast's left horn, the lift of the head carrying him up as he threw his right leg over the back. As the thing reared he sent the point of his knife deep into an eye, twisting, thrusting, cursing as the width of the blade jammed against the orbital bone.

  A moment wasted as he fought to free the steel then he was in the air, turning, twisting from the rake of the clawed hands which had swept him from his perch to hurl him far and hard against the dirt.

  Roaring, the creature tore the knife from its eye and flung it after its attacker.

  Dumarest watched it, saw the gleam of reflected light as it turned, the plume of dirt as it hit to skid to rest a score of yards from where he lay. To reach it would take time and yet without it he was helpless. To finish the job; to blind the creature so as to lock it in a cage of darkness while he left the range of its natural weapons-in that was his only safety.

  He coughed and spat and ignored the blood, the pain which rasped his lungs with jagged glass. Beneath him the dirt quivered to the pound of feet as the beast rushed toward him, to kick and stamp until nothing was left, but a bloody smear. Dumarest rolled, scooped up a handful of dirt, threw it as he rose to fill the remaining eye with grit. He gained a moment as an inner lid cleansed the orb, and when next he rose the knife was again in his hand.

  "Hold!"

  He ignored the shout and the command, concentrating on the beast, the death rearing on clawed feet, turning now to spot him, the blood-smeared face a grotesque mask of bestial ferocity.

  It would see him and attack, lowering the head to bring the horns into play as it had before. The trick was t
o stay on the blind side, to avoid the lash of the foot, to send the point of the knife up and hard to ruin the remaining eye.

  "Back, you fool! Back!"

  Another shout, again ignored--the snarling creature demanded his entire attention. Dumarest sidled, facing the beast, tasting blood, feeling sweat dew his face, his palm, loosening his grip on the shaft of the knife; small things each of which could bring his end but there was no time to correct them now. He slowed, tempting the animal, showing himself, waiting, every nerve tense for the one, exact moment when he must move with smoothly oiled perfection.

  Dirt rose beneath a scraping foot, furrows showing the rake of claws and, on the plated bone of the skull, a patch of reflected lavender moved, to glow again, to vanish as with a blur of movement the head lowered, horns lunging like twin spears as the massive thighs drove the thing at Dumarest.

  He darted aside, felt agony tear at his lungs, saw the monstrous head turn vague as his sight became edged with darkness, felt the rasping impact of claws against hip and thigh as, almost too late, he spun to avoid the kick. Even as new pain joined the old, he was reaching, gripping, lifting the blade in a vicious, upward thrust at the far eye-knowing he had missed even as an arm swept around him to tighten, to crush him against the thick torso as, rising, the beast lifted him from his feet.

  He dangled helpless, vomiting blood, staring at the blood-smeared mask above him, the jaws which gaped to show the dagger-like fangs, the pointed teeth. Jaws which lowered to his face, fangs which would rip the skin and flesh from the bone and leave nothing but a naked, grinning skull: the badge of the loser-the hallmark of death.

  A moment, then he heard the dull and distant thuds, saw the sudden sprouting of feathered tubes in the thing's head and throat, felt the bruising sting as something drove into his neck-and fell into immediate and utter oblivion.

  Chapter Two

  He rose through layers of ebon chill counting seconds as he waited for the eddy currents to warm his body, for the pulmotor to cease aiding his respiration, for light and the euphoria of resurrection. A dream which dissolved into shattered fragments and the realization that he was not riding low, lying in a casket designed for the transportation of beasts, doped, frozen, ninety percent dead, risking the fifteen percent death rate for the sake of cheap travel.

  A dream born of memory and followed by others; a surging tide of faces and places and strangely distorted images which threw him back into time in a series of speeded montages. Silver hair replaced by flaming scarlet, brown, gold ebon streaked with alabaster. A world on which the dead walked to converse with the living-a woman, a doll, a child-Lavinia!

  He writhed as a tide of pain washed the images away and left him trembling but awake.

  He looked up at a face. It was blurred, the planes and contours oddly vague as if seen through water or through eyes affected by chemical compounds. The face was haloed by the light beyond, rimmed with effulgence, touched with mystery.

  Then, even as he looked, the features seemed to firm; the eyes widening to form limpid pools deep-set beneath arching brows, the nose firmly bridged, the cheeks concave, the rounded jaw strongly determined, the mouth wide, sensuous, the lips moist and full. The face was surmounted by a crested mane of hair which shone like oiled jet. An ebon cloud in which shone the sparkle of scintillate gems.

  She said, "Earl Dumarest you are a fool."

  "If so I am a grateful one, my lady. May I know my benefactor?"

  "I am Charisse Chetame."

  "Then, my lady, I thank you."

  "For having saved your life?" Her laughter, like her voice, was deep and warm with resonance. "Please, Earl, don't compound your folly."

  She could be playing a game with rules known only to herself if any such existed. Someone rich, jaded, choosing to amuse herself. One who could decide to terminate her charity-if charity it had been.

  Dumarest struggled to sit upright, fighting a sudden nausea, taking deep breaths as he waited for it to pass. The bed was a hospital cot, the room fitted with medical equipment, his body naked beneath a thin sheet which fell as he rose to expose his torso, the scars which traced thin lines over his chest. In the hollows of his elbows small wounds rested puckered mouths in tiny gardens of bruise.

  "Intravenous feeding," she explained, unnecessarily. "You've been under slowtime. Six weeks subjective."

  Over a normal day he had lain, his metabolism speeded by the drug, healing with accelerated tempo. Even though he'd been fed, his body showed signs of wastage.

  "You were cut up pretty badly inside," she explained casually. "I had to section the bone and replace quite a large amount of lung tissue. I didn't think you'd object to a couple more scars." Her hand lifted, a slender finger touching his skin, tracing a path over the pattern of cicatrices. A touch which held more than a professional interest, lingering as if a caress. "A fighter," she mused. "You've worked in the ring and learned the hard way. How often have you killed Earl?"

  Too often, but he said nothing, watching her eyes, the set of her lips. She was past her first youth, in her third decade at least, and the name was familiar. Chetame? He remembered the guard.

  He said. "The beast was yours?"

  "Is, Earl. It's still alive and the sight has been fully restored. You know what happened, of course?" She didn't wait for him to reply. "My men had to shoot it with anesthetic darts. One of them hit you. They brought you in together."

  And who had claimed her first attention?

  "It was deliberate," he said, understanding. "You placed the creature outside to be tormented. Only a fool would have done such a thing without reason and, my lady, I do not take you for a fool."

  "Charisse, Earl, you may call me Charisse. And you are correct. It was necessary for me to discover its tolerance level and also its potential strength. Clients do not take kindly to being supplied with beasts they cannot control. The cage seemed strong enough but, obviously, it was not. And I had underestimated the maniacal fury level by a factor of at least five percent. It could even be ten."

  A mistake-and two guards had died and the child could have joined them. The men standing by had been slow to act or had been ordered to hold their fire. More tests?

  "That's why I called you a fool, Earl." Charisse seemed oblivious to Dumarest's anger. "To have risked your life for so little. A child. Something so easily replaced. But perhaps you had a personal reason?"

  She guessed too much and Dumarest remembered the montage of dreams; the images, names, faces which had spun before him. Had he raved in delirium? Talked in answer to direct questions? She knew his name which was a clue in itself. How deeply had she probed?

  She stepped back as he threw his legs over the edge of the cot to stand upright, the sheet wrapped around his waist. A tall woman, deep-breasted, her hips and buttocks a harmony of curves. The outline of her thighs showed taut against the embroidered fabric of her gown. She emitted a delicate perfume: a blend of rose and carnation coupled with a scent he did not recognize, but which made him acutely aware of her femininity.

  She said, "You need to take things easy for a while. Good food and rest and no undue exertion. Your system has been shocked in more ways than one."

  "I have to go somewhere."

  "I know. To Ascelius." She shrugged at his expression. "It's obvious. You wore a student's robe and where else do ships head for at this time? Which was yours? The Evidial The Qualt!

  "The Cossos."

  "You blame me for having missed it?"

  He said flatly, "The beast was yours. You failed to contain it. If it hadn't broken free I'd be on my way by now."

  "Are you forgetting I saved your life?"

  "No. And, once again, I thank you."

  "Thank me?" She shook her head. "What value are words? You know better than to think payment can be made by a babble of gratitude. Tell me, Earl, of what value is life? If you were dying now, at this moment, and I had the drug which could save you-how much would you be willing to pay?"

  Wi
thout hesitation he said, "All I possess. Of what value are goods without life to enjoy them?"

  "A true philosopher." Her smile was radiant. "Earl, you are a man after my own heart. But enough of this silly bickering. There need be no debts between us and certainly no animosity. Shall we drink to it?"

  "Like this?"

  "What?"

  She hadn't grasped his meaning. Patiently he explained. "My lady-Charisse-I have no clothes."

  They had been refurbished; the gray plastic smooth, bearing a rich sheen, the protective mesh hidden from sight. The knife too had been polished and honed and Dumarest lifted it from where it lay on the plate and noted the thin line of unbroken weld beneath the pommel before slipping it into his boot.

  From where she stood pouring wine Charisse said, "A vicious blade, Earl. But you know how to use it." As she handed him a goblet filled with sparkling amber liquid she added, "No other man would have survived ten seconds after the mannek had reached him."

  "I was lucky."

  "And fast." Her lips touched the goblet, wine adding to their moistness. "So very fast. I've never seen a man with such reflexes. We must talk about it but, first, we drink and then we dine. To you, Earl, and a fortunate meeting."

  "To you, Charisse," he responded. "And to your loveliness."

  He hadn't intended the words but they came easily to his lips, as did others when they had sat to share dishes of pounded meats and vegetables, compotes of fruit and honey, an assortment of oddly shaped biscuits, morsels of varying tastes and textures. The meal was served by a soft-footed girl with a blank, unformed face, a slight creature who served and bowed and left at a signal.