Incident on Ath dot-18 Page 6

  To fetch a tide of red oozing from Dumarest's arm.

  "A hit! First blood to Yhma!" The woman's scream echoed from the upper tiers. "Shout for the champion!"

  Sardia? It could have been anyone. The voice had been disguised by echoes and passion. Dumarest backed, feeling the sting of the cut. A shallow wound which looked far worse than it really was. One he had invited and deliberately taken in order to increase the odds against him.

  But Yhma looked puzzled and Dumarest knew why. The man hadn't intended to hit. His blade should have missed by a fraction and would have had not Dumarest moved into its path. A calculated maneuver-a wound chosen was better than one taken by chance.

  Yet an ordinary fighter wouldn't have worried about it, imagining himself to be better than he'd thought. The victory would have been enough. Winning a hit would have made him a little more confident. A little less careful.

  But Yhma?

  Dumarest tensed as the man came in, twisting, blocking, the knives clashing as they touched to part to touch again in a metallic music which held the prelude to a dirge. A flurry of attack, parry, thrust and riposte, engage and counter-engage. Air whined as edges slicked toward flesh, to miss, to sweep back in protective glitters. Between them the naked steel flashed like mirrors and rang like hostile bells.

  Yhma was fast. Faster than any normal man. Faster even than himself.

  Looking at him Dumarest saw death.

  Chapter Five

  First it had been vile, bearable only because of the Job which had to be done, then, oddly and shamefully, interest had grown and with it an appreciation of the skills involved and now something else had been added, an emotion which threatened to overwhelm her with an intoxicating intensity.

  The euphoria of blood! Where had she heard that? The aphrodisiac of pain!

  Someone else's blood, of course, and another's pain, but the euphoria was real and also the sexual stimulation. She felt it, recognized the fever in her blood, the heat suffusing her loins. Touching her breasts she found the nipples hard, prominent against the thin fabric of her gown. If Dumarest had been at her side she would have clutched him with thoughtless abandon as other women clutched at their men.

  Dumarest was not beside her but in the ring below fighting for the money they needed.

  Fighting for his life.

  "A hit!" The yell rose from the lower tiers. "Third blood!"

  Two wounds to add to the first and more blood to dapple the hard whiteness of his skin. And, as yet, Yhma was unmarked. A feral machine of corded muscle which moved like a flickering illusion. Fast. So very fast. Too fast, perhaps, and if Dumarest should die?

  "Seven to one on the champion!" yelled a gambler. "One gets you seven if Dumarest wins!"

  "A fool's bet," snapped a man. "I'll take seven hundred on Yhma."

  And would win a hundred if the champion should win. Easy money and certain from the look of it. And yet…

  Sardia trembled in indecision. To risk everything on what seemed to be a lost hope or to do as Dumarest had ordered despite appearances? To gamble on an apparent certainty or to remain loyal?

  But if Dumarest should fall?

  "Seven to one," yelled the gambler. Then, as the crowd roared as Dumarest stumbled, missing the thrust of Yhma's blade by a seeming miracle, "Eight! Eight to one! Who wants to take it?"

  "I do!"

  The words were out, the decision made, all she had was now riding on the blood-stained figure in the ring. With others she rose to her feet as again Dumarest stumbled, to regain his balance with an effort, to move, knife flashing, to dodge and turn, to throw a quick glance toward where she stood.

  "Earl!" Her voice was a cry which cut through the noise with pulsing clarity. "Win, Earl! Win!"

  He hadn't seen her, of that she was certain, but he; might have heard her. To be sure she shouted again.

  "Win, Earl! Win!"

  A cry taken up by others swaying to the whim of the moment. One which spread as ripples from a stone thrown into water. A roar of encouragement from those who, illogically, hastened to bet on a forlorn cause.

  The madness of the arena and its attraction.

  It gripped her as it gripped others, accentuating her physical reaction so that she felt herself being lifted high into vibrating life. Colors became sharper, the air clearer, senses more acute. As if it had been a potent drug, she responded to the atmosphere, the sight of blood, the spectacle of men fighting to kill.

  "Win, Earl! Win!"

  Cut and stab and send your knife deep into living flesh. Show us his blood. Give us his pain. Let us see you kill and let us watch him die.

  Vileness!

  And yet still she could not look away.

  The ring was a stage and the crowd a muted orchestra, the pulse of drums echoing from the roof above as, centered in the spotlights, the dancers weaved in an elaborate saraband. Outrousky had composed such a ballet and she had danced in it playing the part of the woman for whom men had fought. She remembered the slow commencement, the maintained tempo, the sudden, frightening burst of frenzied activity, the slow, solemn movements of the finale. Now she moved to the rhythm again, body rippling beneath her gown, feeling the rising of tension as, below her, men moved in the most significant dance ever created.

  One which only a single person would survive.

  "Bastard!" Yhma was gripped by the rage of fear. "You bastard!"

  Dumarest smiled.

  An act; he had no cause for amusement, but it helped to increase Yhma's anger and a fighter blinded with temper was that much less a threat. And the main cause for his anger: the one who had seemed an easy victim had lied, had made him appear a fool, had survived too long despite his quickness. And, worse, had a speed of his own.

  A darting, gliding, flashing quickness which had extended the bout and made him, finally, begin to have fears for his own safety.

  Dumarest was wounded, but the second cut on the thigh was minor as was the first. Only the third, a deep gash on the side, would weaken with a steady loss of blood. A fact Dumarest knew as well as the man he faced.

  Yhma was clever, using his blade as a fighter should, cutting to sever tendons, open veins, slashing at muscles. Crippling with an accumulation of wounds before delivering the final blow. A spectacle which pleased the crowd and satisfied his sadistic nature. Dumarest too used the edge but had been forced to extend the combat, to miss when he could have hit, to take chances at first and then, when recognizing his danger, to nurse his strength.

  He had not wanted the wounds received after the first. He had not wanted the continual play of blades and ceaseless movements-for the plan made with Sardia to work, time was needed to instill his inadequacy in the crowd. The original plan abandoned when he realized his opponent's full potential.

  Now the need wasn't for high odds but simply to stay alive.

  "Bastard!" said Yhma again. "You stinking, dirty bastard!"

  An old trick and Dumarest wondered why the man had tried it. Surely he must know by now that taunts would serve no purpose? Better he should wait, conserve his breath, let his superior conditioning win him the greater edge. An edge Dumarest was doing his best to eliminate.

  Yhma was skilled, fast, a conditioned fighter in the peak of training. Younger, fitter and with a speed to match Dumarest's own, he should have won without trouble. But that very speed now told against him. Too often it had gained him victory without the added ingredient of skill; the skill Dumarest had hard-won over the years.

  Yhma was an animal, slowing a little now, baffled by his failure to drive home his blade, angry and letting anger affect his judgment. Steel rang as the knives met, rang again, thin, clear notes which rose above the tense hush which gripped the crowd. No one was shouting now. Standing, eyes focused on the brilliance of the ring, every man and woman was conscious of the extra dimension the struggle had taken.

  Muscle and hate matched against muscle and brain.

  A drama of life and death which filled the place as woul
d the tension generated by an electrical storm.

  "Now!" gasped a woman in the front row. "Now!"

  A flurry of blades, a feint, a parry, a feint followed by a disengage and then another feint, light flashing from honed steel, winking, catching the eye.

  And, suddenly, Dumarest had the edge.

  He knew it, could feel it and was acting even as the knowledge registered. Again his blade flashed, moved, holding Yhma's eyes, distracting his attention as his free hand scraped a palmful of blood from his oozing wound. Blood which he flung into the champion's eyes as he dropped, reaching out, edged steel hitting, biting, dragging deep as he drew it back across the rear of the naked knee.

  He rolled as the crowd roared, rising to his feet to block a downward cut, moving again to one side, moving again as Yhma spun and staggered as his hamstrung leg yielded beneath his weight.

  "You-!"

  Rage and fear left him open and his own inclinations had betrayed him. In such a case after giving such a wound he would have taken time to gloat, to play to the crowd, to anticipate the next hit and to enjoy the other's terror and pain.

  The weakness of a skilled amateur as was the curse he had tried to utter. An obscenity which died as Dumarest closed the space between them, flashing splinters darting from the blade in his hand. The knife which slashed at the tendons on Yhma's wrist. The steel which cut again as the blade fell from the injured hand.

  To touch the side of the throat, to open the skin, the fat, the flesh beneath. To reach the throbbing carotid artery and to release the champion's life in a jetting fountain of smoking blood.

  The officer at the gate was tall, young, darkly handsome and with an appreciative eye for feminine beauty. He watched as the cab drew to a halt, stooping to look inside, smiling at the woman the passenger compartment contained.

  "Madam?"

  Sardia del Naeem said, "I've passage booked on the Sivas. Captain Lon Tuvey. May I pass through?"

  Regretfully the officer shook his head. "Not in that vehicle, I'm afraid. You'll have to› step out and be checked. You have luggage?"

  "Yes." She gestured at the small suitcase beside her. "Do you mean I'll have to walk to the vessel?"

  "We can supply a jitney. Is this all the luggage you have?"

  "Of course not. There is more in the trunk."

  The cab had a large carrying capacity now almost wholly utilized by the long, squared cabin trunk it contained, the two large suitcases. The officer pursed his lips as he looked at them. The woman, obviously, was not the male fugitive whom he had been ordered to watch for and detain if found and he knew females too well to be deluded by a man wearing their garb. Perhaps, just to make certain, he should order her to be searched? Then, as she smiled at him and casually moved so as to throw into prominence the swell of her breasts and the rounded curves of hips and buttocks, he decided against it.

  But the luggage was a different matter.

  "The Sivas, you say?"

  "Yes. Captain Lon Tuvey. You know him? I found him a most charming man but a little on the eccentric side if you know what I mean. He simply refused to tell me just when he was leaving. I had to be on board at sunset, he said, but when is that? After the sun has lowered beneath the horizon or when it grows dark or what?" Alarm edged her voice, making it shrill, unmistakably feminine. "The ship is still here? I'm not too late?"

  "No," he said and smiled to reassure her. "You're in good time."

  "And the jitney will take me and my luggage out to the vessel?"

  A nervous type, he decided, and one not accustomed to traveling alone. No woman with her face and figure need do that; always there would be someone willing to foot the bills and take care of the details. A quarrel with some lover, perhaps? If so the man had been a fool to allow her to escape.

  He signaled to the jitney and looked again at the luggage as it drew to a halt beside the cab. The small suitcase stood beside the woman where she had placed it on leaving the vehicle. The cabin trunk and the two large suitcases remained to be unloaded.

  "Rud!"

  The driver of the jitney joined him as the officer reached for the cabin trunk. He grunted as he grabbed a handle and strained.

  "Heavy!" The driver spat on his hands. "Together now!"

  A heave and it was done, the box set on the loading bed of the jitney. Turning, the officer saw Sardia, one of the large suitcases at her feet. She was straining at the other and looked appealingly at him.

  "Could you? Please!"

  It lifted in his grip and he swung it and set it down beside the box. As he straightened, Sardia set the other beside it, turning away, stooping to reach for the small case which remained.

  The driver said, "What about the box, sir?"

  A reminder, but the officer hadn't forgotten. It was large enough to hold a man and heavy enough to arouse suspicion. The woman, despite her attraction, could be involved and, if the box did hold the wanted man, the reward would be high.

  "The box, madam," he said. "Please open it."

  "Must I?" Her eyes betrayed her reluctance. "I mean, is it normal? I've often traveled before and I've never yet been searched like this. Have you the right to demand such a thing?"

  "I've the right." And the power too if he wanted to exercise it. Without further argument he tested the lid and found it locked. "The key if you please." Her hand shook a little as she gave it to him. "Thank you."

  Lifting the lid he saw a cloth and, throwing it to one side, stared blankly at what the box contained.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't think I was doing anything wrong. I was only trying to help a friend."

  "Figures!" Rud, the driver, snorted his disappointment. "A mess of carvings!"

  "Works of art," explained Sardia. "That's my business. I deal in works of art, buying, selling, trading, when I have to. I've found the most interesting pieces and I'm sure the museum back home will be glad to put them on display with a little card crediting them to me. A way of advertising you understand. The curator and I have an understanding." Hesitating, she added, "There's no law against my having them, is there? I mean, on some worlds you have to get permission to export rare and valuable items. That's why I didn't want to open the box. I mean, that is-well, I'm sorry."

  She made a small gesture with her hands and stood, blushing, a woman confessing her guilt.

  "Junk!" muttered the driver. "A lot of rubbish!"

  "Get to your seat." The man was right but who was he to deflate the woman's ego? Smiling, the officer said, "You've nothing to worry about, madam. Juba has no prohibition on the export of such items." Locking the box he handed her the keys and then, on impulse, said, "But I'd like to take a look into one of your cases."

  "Which?" Her hand rested on the one she had lifted. "This?"

  "The other one." She had made hard work of it though he had lifted it without strain. Then the illogic of it struck him as a siren echoed over the field. The case, though large, was still too small to contain a man and certainly didn't have the weight. "Never mind. That siren was from the Sivas. Take her over to the ship, Rud. Have a pleasant journey, madam."

  Her smile answered his salute. At the vessel the handler grunted at the weight of the box then heaved it on the loading ramp. One of the suitcases followed and he caught Sardia as, after setting down the other, she staggered.

  "You all right, my lady?"

  "Yes. They will stay in the hold?"

  "Until we lift and then I'll get them to your cabin if you want." The handler glanced at the sky. "Ten minutes and we'll be on our way."

  Ten minutes-she had timed it well. And another thirty before the handler came puffing to the door of her cabin, his eyes reproachful as he heaved at the suitcases. Locking the door behind him she busied herself with her keys. The lid of one of the cases lifted.

  Dumarest was huddled inside.

  He was wasted, gaunt, fat and watery tissue burned away during the time he had waited in the woman's apartment after the fight. Hours spent beneath the influ
ence of slow-time, the drug which had increased his metabolism and turned ordinary hours into subjective days. Time for his wounds to heal. Time for his weight and bulk to diminish-but even so it had been close.

  He was naked, the weight of his clothing, boots and knife carried in the other suitcase, the garments mixed with others of a similar nature which were hers. Things bought as the carvings had been to aid the deception.

  "Earl!" Gently she eased him from the cramped confines. "Earl?"

  He gasped with the pain of returning circulation. He had been in the case little more than an hour but it had seemed an eternity and, to fit into it at all, muscles had to be strained and joints distorted so as to take advantage of every scrap of room.

  A trick learned when he'd worked in a carnival from a girl who had been kind. She'd been able to cram her body into a cube little more than a foot on a side and had taken pleasure in teaching him how the body could be bent, turned, the head lowered, the legs folded, the arms wrapped so as to form a compact bundle.

  "Earl?"

  "I'm all right." He straightened, conscious of her anxiety, breath hissing from between his teeth as he massaged various points. "How long?"

  "We left almost an hour ago. You're safe now."

  Safe from what she didn't know and hadn't asked. It had been a matter of mutual need. He had won the money and she'd helped him elude the trap. A gamble on her loyalty and the strength gained in the execution of her art. One almost lost when, at the ramp, that strength had almost failed her.

  Now she closed the distance between them, touching his body, her fingers tracing the points of recent wounds. Scars now faded and blending with the rest.

  But he was thin! So thin!

  Gently he moved away from her touch and, guessing his need, she opened the other case and produced his clothing. Dressed he looked more like his normal self but his face held the taut hardness of a skull.

  "Earl, you need food."

  "Later," said Dumarest. "First we must see the captain."

  He joined them where they waited in the salon, a short man with broad shoulders and a face seamed and lined like a dried fruit. His eyes were splinters of amber glass set beneath bushy brows. His hair was a grizzled cap hugging a peaked skull. His uniform was of fine material, bright with carefully tended insignia. On his left shoulder rode a thing from a nightmare.