Web of Sand dot-20 Page 4

  The man had come from a narrow passage lit by a somber orange glow. Doors gaped like hungry mouths each adorned by symbols and suggestive illustrations, several filled with swirling mist shot with streaks and shafts of vivid color. The vending place of drugs and bizarre experiences, of mechanically induced stimulation and hypnotic dreams. Soft moans came from some of the doors, screams and frenzied cursing from others. In the dull illumination the figures of touts loomed like distorted ghosts.

  "Full sensatapes," whispered one. "Burn, be hanged, he flayed, be boiled in oil-all genuine experiences recorded from the victims of actual executions. Be crucified, be impaled…"

  "Be the willing victim of a woman's lust," suggested another. "Writhe beneath the impact of demanding flesh your vigor constantly renewed. Be…"

  "A tiger, a spider, a hunting wasp." The offers were a susuration. "Taste blood and feel the crunch of bone and chiton. Learn…"

  "How to expand the senses. To feel the winds of space on your naked flesh. To imagine and see your imaginings take shape. To…"

  "Be a God. With these new applications of science and medicine none need be denied the complete fullfillment of elementary desire. Adventure, enhance your psyche, know the joys of…"

  "Rest." The voice was a purr. "Lie and smoke and dream and forget the strife of survival. Find happiness and joy in pleasant vapors. A hundred kren buys you a couch for an hour."

  A place in a mist of smoke where somnolent shapes lay in temporary oblivion. Figures which twitched at times and stirred and cried out as they rose from the euphoria of dreams or plunged deeper into the horror of nightmare. The last of the doorways. Beyond lay what Dumarest had come to find.

  Chapter Three

  Like the city the Stril was layered; parts catering to innocuous amusements, others dealing with those of stronger meat, a section close to Hell itself. Beyond the passage the roof soared over widened passages, a cleared space in which fountains cast a melodious tinkling, artificial breezes stirring artificial fronds. Statues stood staring with blind eyes, figures of men and women fashioned from the glazed and colored sand, the fused material, depicting scenes of torment and lust, of gaiety and wild abandon. A man, head thrown back, mouth open, hands clutching his ripped abdomen, screamed in an endless, silent agony. Two women locked in a compulsive embrace stared unseeingly at another impaled on a cone of milky crystal who screamed wordlessly at a crucified man who stared bleakly at a couple writhing in frozen ecstasy.

  Statues by the hundred set in groups and lined array in the area which circumnavigated the central bulk of the area.

  Dumarest looked at it, seeing the high, colonnaded wall, the arched gates and porticoes, the paths leading to the entrances. Worn stone and polished benches all showing the passage of use and time.

  "What now, Earl?" Santis scowled as he looked around, The mercenary was no stranger to the forms of diversion always to be found in any civilized area but had never found them to his taste. To fight according to the rules and customs of war was one thing, to demean the brain and courage of a man was another. And no mercenary could have avoided seeing the degradation of which humans were capable. "This place stinks!"

  Of sweat and fear and blood and exudations of pain and lust. Of greed and riches and abject poverty. Of desperation. To Dumarest they were familiar smells.

  He said, "Among other things the crone told me they played Find the Jester here. She didn't lie."

  Kemmer was impatient. "Well?"

  "It gives us a chance to build up a stake. Carl, you handle the bets. Maurice, you back his play. I'll act as a block." Dumarest stared around, noticing small groups clustered between the statues, seeing one newly forming. "There! Let's move in fast!"

  A man stood behind a narrow board, three cards in his hands, his voice a drone. "Find the jester and pick up double what you put down. Three cards, you see? A deuce, another deuce and a jester. I throw them down-so. Make your bets!"

  His moves had been clumsy, the position of the jester obvious to all. A man standing at the end of the board, obviously drunk, slammed down a handful of coins and turned, coughing. Calmly the dealer moved the selected card, the jester, and exchanged it for one of the deuces. No one made a comment-who was to protect a fool from his own folly?

  Dumarest knew better. The drunk was no fool but a man working with the dealer, acting the drunk to set up the crowd. There would be others and he spotted them, a plump man who would later lead the betting and another who stood ready to take care of any trouble. Dumarest edged toward him as the mercenary took his chance.

  "A hundred!"

  "Your money-"

  "On the card!" Santis lifted his hand to reveal the coin resting on the pasteboard. A certain bet which others could have made but had allowed suspicion and natural reluctance to hold them back. The only certain bet they could have made. "I win?"

  "You win." The dealer was phlegmatic. Sometimes a smart bastard moved in but it could help prime the other punters for the kill. He frowned as Santis repeated the maneuver. "Another hundred?"

  "Five." The mercenary met his eyes. "I win again, yes?"

  "He wins!" Kemmer yelled from where he stood in the crowd. "His money was down. I saw it-we all saw it. Pay him."

  "That's right." The plump man made the best of a bad job. "His cash was down, I saw it." He turned his head and Dumarest saw the signal he gave with a flick of the eyes. "Good for you, Pop. You're on a winning streak."

  One he was going to make certain would end. Like the actors they were they swung into a well-rehearsed charade. The dealer, taken with a sudden attack of coughing, dropped the cards and turned, doubled, fighting for breath. Quickly the plump man lifted the jester, displayed it and deliberately creased a corner. When the dealer recovered, the cards were as he had left them. Picking them up, he shuffled them, resuming his spiel.

  "Find the jester and pick up double what you put down. No money no winnings. Have your cash ready. Here we go!"

  The switch had been neatly done. Knowing what to look for, Dumarest failed to see it. The cards fell, the one with the creased corner obviously the jester. Hands heavy with coins thrust forward to take advantage of the plump man's obvious cheating. None felt sorry for the dealer-hadn't he robbed the drunk?

  Calmly he turned the card, revealed a deuce and swept up the money.

  As Santis edged from the board a man bumped into him.

  "Watch it, old timer! That was my foot you trod on!"

  "An accident-"

  "Like hell it was!" The man stayed close, his hands busy. He sucked in his breath as Dumarest caught at one of his wrists. "What-"

  "Bad luck," said Dumarest softly. "And all yours. You were outsmarted. We're going now. Try to stop us and I'll break your arm. You want that?" His voice was low but hard. As hard as his face, the grip of his fingers. "It's the luck of the game."

  "You bastards! Did Syclax-"

  "You'll be hearing from him." Dumarest released the man's wrist. "Get back to your game."

  "Syclax?" Kemmer frowned as they moved away. "Do you know him?"

  "No."

  "But-"

  "He must be a rival operator. A pitch is easy to ruin and punters easily scared. He could be trying to move in or be demanding protection. Forget it. We have other things to worry about."

  Twice more Santis hit the card game and then Dumarest took a hand, betting on the whereabouts of a pea, resting a finger on his selected shell and smiling as he turned over the others to reveal their emptiness. Reluctantly the operator paid. As they left he called a man, whispered, sent him running down a path between the statues.

  "That's it," said Santis. "Right, Earl?"

  "That's what?" Kemmer frowned.

  "The end of easy pickings." Dumarest glanced at the crowds, the little clusters. "We've been marked and will be spotted. Try to pull the same stunt again and we'll be blocked. Someone will accuse us of picking a pocket or cheating in some way. A drunk will pick a fight. Bets will be disallowed." He shrugg
ed at the trader's expression. "You must have done the same thing yourself."

  "At an auction, maybe. A ring-" Kemmer scowled. "There's a difference."

  "No difference. Cheating is normal when a man needs to survive."

  "There are ethics," protested Kemmer. "A trader can't afford to cheat if he hopes to stay in business. He may shade the truth a little but that's expected. It's up to the buyer to-" He broke off, blanching. "What the hell's that?"

  A scream burst from a point at the end of the arena and brought a sudden stillness. It rose, echoing from the roof, a shriek of pure agony, torn, Dumarest guessed, from a dying throat. For a moment the stillness held; then, with a babbling susuration, the crowd resumed its business, only a handful running toward the source of the scream.

  "The pits." A man gasped the information as Dumarest caught his arm and snapped a question. "Someone was unlucky."

  A woman, still recognizable as such. A once-living creature now lying like a limp rag doll in a pool of her own blood. She was naked aside from a twist of fabric around breasts and loins, her legs scarred with bites, more on her stomach, back and arms. Old wounds blended with some healing, others freshly made. Other bodies, smaller, toothed and furred lay scattered around her in the pit.

  Dumarest stood on the edge looking down. The place was circular, eight feet deep, the walls smooth, stained and flecked with ugly smears. From the edge the floor sloped sharply upward so as to allow the ring of those watching a clear view. A low parapet provided a measure of safety.

  A pit-on other worlds they held bears, bulls, dogs, all baited by other creatures smaller but more plentiful. On Harge they baited women.

  A man stood in the pit with the body. He looked up, scowling, snapping orders as a pair of assistants made an appearance.

  "Hurry, damn you! Time's money. Get this mess cleared up. Never mind washing down the walls; that can wait. Get some fresh sand for the floor." As they jumped to obey he sprang, caught the edge of the pit and hauled himself upright. To Dumarest he said, "Did you see it?"

  "No."

  "Heard it, then? What a scream. I didn't think she'd let go like that. The damned fool!" His face glowered and one hand clenched into a fist. "I warned her she was attempting too much but she wouldn't listen. Drugged, I guess, floating, riding high. Greedy to beat the clock. Well, they never learn."

  "The clock?"

  "Sure." The man glanced at Kemmer. "The prize is a thousand and they lose ten for every second. A score of rats is set against them-a skilled fighter can clear them in just over a minute. They use scents and oils to attract the beasts and catch them as they spring. If they put up a good show they get extra from the crowd. Bets are made on how long they take." He waved a hand at the dead woman now bundled in a sling. "She used to be good. Well, there'll always be others."

  Flesh and blood driven by greed and pride to make a target for rodents. A human creature driven by hunger and desperation to fight and kill, to race the clock, to suffer the sting and burn of bites. To listen to the jeers of watching men, the shouts, the fall of coins tossed as largesse to a beggar.

  And yet was he so different?

  Dumarest stood, looking down, seeing another ring, a wider expanse. The arena in which he had fought so often, armed with naked steel, facing another equally armed, both intent on murder.

  To listen to the roar of the crowd, to smell the fear and sweat and oil, to taste the stink of blood, to know the burn of wounds. A man or a rat-what was the difference? A fighter intent on killing or rodents fighting in blind panic to survive? To enter the ring from choice for the sake of reward or to be driven in with flame and goads?

  Was he any better than a beast?

  "Earl?" Kemmer was staring at him, his face creased, anxious. "Earl, is something wrong?"

  The world, the way of civilization, the universe. Would men ever live as brothers? Some hoped they might but on Harge the monks of the Church of Universal Brotherhood were not allowed. The charity they extended was despised by the Cinque, the creed they preached regarded with suspicion and fear. The belief that all men were brothers and the pain of one was the pain of all. That if all could but look and accept the basic truth and recognize that there, but for the grace of God, go I, the millennium would have arrived.

  And there, in the pit, but for the grace of God, he could be lying!

  "The poor bitch," rumbled Santis. "There are better things for a woman to do." He watched as the bundle was carted away, blood still dripping from the ravaged throat. "The clock," he said bitterly. "If she earned a few hundred kren she'd be lucky. And for that she had to risk her life."

  Again and again until, inevitably, the gamble would be lost. And yet what else could she have done?

  What else could he do?

  Dumarest said, "Let's get on with it. Maurice, you handle the money and place the bets. Get the best odds you can. Carl, you'll be my manager. Remember, I'm dull, stupid, slow and a nuisance. You want to be rid of me."

  "Will they be interested?"

  "Why not? Cheap prey and an easy win. Ask for Matpius." A name won from the crone. "He lacks any compunction. Maurice, take the money."

  All of it-but Dumarest was gambling more than cash. If he lost, the others would be ruined but he would be dead.

  And Matpius was willing to see him die.

  He was a smooth, round, scented man with delicate hands heavily adorned with rings. His hair was dressed in elaborate ringlets which fell over his ears and clustered at the nape of his neck. His clothing matched the image, the tunic pleated, the sleeves slashed to reveal inner streaks of vivid hue. A wide belt supported the jewelled hilt of a dagger. He carried a pomander which he lifted to his nostrils before he spoke.

  "A fighter? That?"

  "A creature of misfortune, my lord." Santis, accustomed to dealing with the rich and influential, bowed. "A trained man of my old company who served me well and to whom I am obligated. And yet, you understand, an obligation can prove onerous. His mind is not as it was and he tends to become too great a liability. My honor, of course, will not let me see him starve and yet-" He broke off, shrugging. "We are both men of experience, my lord. I am sure you appreciate the situation."

  Matpius sniffed at his pomander, eyes shrewd as he studied Dumarest who stood, eyes blank, shoulders stooped, hands dangling loosely at his sides. A fine, well-made man, tall and with a face the women would find appealing. A pity he lacked intelligence or, no, just as well he did not. Using him would create no problems.

  "He carries a knife-why?"

  "Habit, my lord. As a soldier he grew used to the weight of arms. I let him keep it." Santis leaned forward and drew the knife from Dumarest's boot, displaying the artfully dulled blade, the stained and apparently blunt edge. "You can accommodate me?"

  "Perhaps." It was in the man's nature to keep others in suspense. Again Matpius sniffed at his pomander, calculating, thinking. Against a man this creature would stand little chance and those who came to the arena expected more than mere butchery. And yet drugs could stimulate him and drive him to a killing frenzy. In such a case the results might be interesting. "You are concerned as to his welfare?"

  "My lord, I am a realist. Use him as you will. The fee-"

  "A thousand kren." Matpius waved the pomander. "Take it or leave it."

  "It is little, my lord."

  "But can be increased with an intelligent wager. Need I say more?" Matpius let the silence grow, one which spoke its own language. "Take him to the pens. Ask for Delman. Here." He scribbled a note. "Give him this and he will hand over the money." And then, as Santis turned toward Dumarest: "Don't bother to return for your friend-it would be a waste of time."

  In the shadows a man was crying, "My arm! Dear, God, my arm!"

  It had been slashed, cut to the bone, muscle and tendon severed from the vicious stroke of a blade. A cut which had won his opponent the bout and sent him circling the arena, smiling at the plaudits of the crowd. The man, now, was crippled and would remain
so unless expensive surgery could be obtained to repair the damage. The skill was available- Dumarest knew the money was not.

  He relaxed in the dimness, letting muscle and sinew unwind as he leaned back against the wall. For hours he had waited, acting the part of a dull, insensitive clod and the strain was beginning to tell. A normal man would have risen, walked about, done some limbering up exercises, at least had been curious as to what waited him, but he had been forced to do nothing but sit where he had been led and wait. Waiting he had listened. Listening he had learned.

  Matpius, as he had guessed, was an animal wearing human shape. A dealer in flesh and blood to whom blood and pain came second to his reputation. A pander to the Cinque and those who could afford the best seats. His helpers were little better; sadists who enjoyed what they did. The bouts, as yet, had been normal enough; several for third-blood, some to the death, a couple for first-blood only. They had been for the benefit of those who prided themselves on admiring skill and not execution, the lovers of the quick parry, the lightning cut and thrust. An appreciation too fine for the majority who wanted to see more bloody action and who acclaimed as victor the man who could score three hits first. And even they paled against the feral demands of those who wanted nothing but a fight to the death.

  Dumarest could hear them from where he sat; a screaming, shrieking ululation as if a horde of animals had scented prey. Men and women, shouting, yelling, eyes wide with blood-lust, nostrils flaring, hands clenched or tearing at their garments. The disgusting, the degenerate, the depraved.

  Closing his eyes he could see them as he had so often before. See too the glitter of steel, the man holding the knife. The faces all looked the same; the visage of a beast lusting to kill, who had to kill in order to prevent being destroyed. The face of a creature intent on survival and revealing the primitive animal buried beneath the veneer of civilization.