Angado

Chapter Two

From his seat at the table Helith Lam looked at the prospects in the salon. They weren't encouraging, the usual assortment of deadbeats and cheap riders, but he had a place to fill and Krogstad was getting ugly. The gambler thinned his lips at recent memory, seeing the captain's face in his mind's eye, the cruel, determined set of the mouth. The ultimatum had been brief.

"Up the take or quit the Thorn!"

Dumped on Cadell or Bilton or another of the small worlds forming the Burdinnion. Garbage dumps mostly with little trade, no industry, scant farming and a viciously savage native life. Once kicked off the Thorn on such a world and he would starve. Too old to sell his labor, too inexperienced to wrest a living from the local terrain, he'd last only as long as his money. And the captain, damn him, would leave little of that.

A bleak prospect and one he had to improve. A decent cut from the table would grant him a reprieve and he could pad the captain's fifty percent share of the profit from his own cut. But first he had to fill the vacant seat.

"Come on!" Lissek, seated to his left, was impatient. "You're letting the deck grow cold."

"It'll warm." Cranmer was cynical. "Why be in a hurry to lose your money?"

"That's right." Varinia touched a handkerchief to lips painted a lurid scarlet. "Why be in a hurry over anything? But why the delay?"

"We need seven," said Lam. A lie and one he justified.

"It makes a better game and adds spice. Also it brings in fresh money."

"You should have told that to Deakin before he got skinned." Yalin, a wasp of a man, rapped a finger on the coins piled before him. "Come on, man, deal!"

Lam obeyed; a moving game attracted attention but his eyes weighed those lounging in the salon. The monk was out; no Brother of the Universal Church would waste time and money at the table. The young married couple had other things to interest them; after they'd swallowed their ration of basic they would vanish into their cabin. The gaunt-faced seller of symbiotes was immersed in his books and the old woman with the artificial gems had already used up her luck. Which left only two others.

"Damn!" A raddle-faced miner swore and threw down his hand. "That decides it! I'm out!"

"And me." A pale youngster followed his example. "Varinia?"

"Stays," said Lam, then, softening his tone, added with a smile, "We need her to make up the number and to add a touch of beauty to the company. And I don't think she'll regret it. See?" The cards riffled in his hands, falling to lie face upward. "Four Lords-could you hope for better? Your luck is about to change, my dear."

"It had better." Her eyes met his in mutual understanding. "But who else will join us?"

"Our friends." Lam lifted his voice as he made the appeal. "Please, you two, accommodate us. A small game to while away the time." Then, as the younger of the pair turned toward him, "Angado Nossak, isn't it? I think we have met before."

"On the Provost," agreed Nossak. "You taught me a hard lesson. Maybe now's the time to put it to use."

He took a chair, gesturing for his companion to take another. A hard man, decided the gambler, looking at him. A brief glance but enough to take in the shape and build. Faded garments spoke of hard times and the shiny patches on the fabric showed where straps could have hung or accoutrements rested. A mercenary, he guessed, a professional guard or a hunter-now down on his luck and hoping to improve it.

A forlorn hope, as was Nossak's intention to use what he had learned. Both prime fodder for the gambler's art and he riffled the cards, the rubbed-down skin of index fingers and thumbs reading the tiny marks a nail had impressed into the edges.

"Well, my lords and lady-" he inclined his head toward Varinia-"let us begin."

The game was starburn; a variation of poker with a seven-card deal and a double discard dropping the hand to the normal five cards. Lissek sucked in his breath as he scooped up his hand, a thin stream of purple running from the corner of his mouth. Saliva stained by the weed he chewed to ease his cough and steady his nerves.

"Give me three." He dropped five cards on the table. "Make them friendly."

So he had a pair. Lam glanced at Cranmer. Dealt him two cards, moved to where Nossak studied his hand.

"Three-no! Make it two." He watched Lam deal. "Earl?"

"I'll take one."

Dumarest watched as the deal moved on to the woman, his eyes on the gambler's hands. Smooth, ringless, the skin soft and supple. The result of applied salves, he guessed. He was certain as to why the index fingers and thumbs lacked any trace of the normal whorls and patterns.

A cheat and a desperate one; the risks he took were obvious. Chances he compounded as he returned to Lissek who threw down two cards for another pair. His original hand had been improved to one containing three of a kind, now, with luck, he could have built it into a full house or gained a healthy four. Cranmer shook his head after the final deal and dropped out. Angado pursed his lips and changed a single card. Dumarest shook his head and threw in his hand. The woman stayed. The gambler. Three rounds of betting and the game was over.

Varinia chuckled as she scooped in the pot.

"You know, Lam, I think I'm going to like this game."

One designed to build the pot and to ruthlessly squeeze the players. The extra cards and double discarding enabled good hands to be won and encouraged pressure-betting. If the dealer could manipulate the cards he would find it simple to clean up.

Lam could manipulate them and was clever despite his desperation. He was using the woman as his shill, letting her win so as to cover his own involvement. Later, when she had grown too confident, he would clean her out.

"Raise ten." Angado threw coins into the pot. "This time I win."

Dumarest doubted it but made no comment. The man was his cabin mate, a temporary association born of chance. He owed the man nothing and his main concern was to remain inconspicuous. He'd left Baatz in a crate supplied by the circus, transported by discreet friends of the owner, shipped by a captain who wasn't too curious.

A journey ending with Dumarest in a warehouse. One he'd broken out of to take passage on a vessel heading toward the Burdinnion. Changing to the Thorn on Tysa. A ship like most in the region, catering to all trades, making short journeys, touching small and almost deserted worlds.

Now he had to make a decision. If Angado continued to play he would lose and could become violent, which would bring attention not only to himself but to the man who shared his cabin. But to beat the gambler at his own game would be to arouse a more direct interest.

And the captain was no fool.

Ships, even battered tubs like the Thorn, were valuable possessions and all took elementary precautions. A man who lied could be harmless but no harmless man had reason to lie. Dumarest had maintained his deception by giving only half his name but a deeper check would reveal things he wanted to keep hidden.

"You in?" Angado Nossak was impatient, sweating, hand tugging at the collar of his blouse. "God, it's hot in here. Where's the steward? I want some ice."

"Hot?" The gambler looked puzzled. "I've noticed no change." He looked at Dumarest. "You in or out?"

"In." Dumarest chipped into the pot. "No raise."

Varinia hesitated, glanced at Lam, then doubled Nossak's raise. Pressure which drove out Lissek and Cranmer. Nossak hesitated as he examined his hand, pulling at his collar and finally tearing open his blouse.

"I'm burning. Where's that damned steward?"

"Forget him." Varinia stared at the man. "You sick or something?" Her voice rose in sudden fear. "Hell, man, look at your face!"

It had broken out in lumpy protrusions. An attack shocking in the speed of its progression. The woman jumped up and backed from the table, others following, cards spraying from the gambler's hand as Nossak slumped over the table. Within seconds Dumarest was alone with the sick man in a circle of staring faces.

"Get the steward," said Lissek. "He'll know what to do. He's got drugs."

"Drugs, hell!" Cranmer was harshly aggressive. "Get the captain. That man's got plague!"

Captain Krogstad took five paces over the floor of the salon, turned, paced back to where he had started. Aside from himself, Brother Jofre and his first officer, the place was deserted. All the passengers were safely locked in their cabins and he wished Jofre was among them. But he knew better than to be hostile. It didn't pay to ride roughshod over the Universal Church.

He said, "Brother, you must see the situation from my point of view. As captain I am responsible for the ship and all in it. I cannot permit the possibility of contagion to remain."

"You are assuming the sick man is a carrier of disease. That need not be the case."

Krogstad was blunt. "With respect, Brother, you are not a medical man. I can't afford to take a chance on your diagnosis. If you are wrong-"

"Then the damage has already been done." The monk met the captain's eyes. "The ship has become infected and your duty is clear. All must be placed under total quarantine. You must send word to your world of destination for ships to monitor the isolation of the Thorn while in orbit. It will have to remain in that condition until such time as a clearance is granted."

Which would take its own sweet time, as Krogstad knew. Time during which expenses would mount from feeding the passengers and crew, from medical fees and the charges made by the monitors. Costs which would eat into his reserves and could leave him ruined.

Fedotik, the first officer, cleared his throat.

"There is an alternative," he suggested. "The sick man can be kept isolated, evicted if he dies." Or even if he doesn't-who would be concerned over the fate of a single man? Something which would already have been done if it hadn't been for Jofre's presence. "I'm thinking of the best for everyone," he added. "As you must be. It is our duty to safeguard the welfare of the majority."

"Not at the expense of the minority." Jofre was firm. "I don't think isolation is the answer."

"What else can we do?" Again Krogstad paced the floor. "Quarantine would ruin us and once I send the word there can be no retraction. If-" He halted and snapped his fingers. "I have it. The sick man is not alone. His cabin mate is with him. If Nossak is diseased with a contagious illness then his companion must be affected. As yet he appears untouched. Which must be evidence of a harmless infection."

"The man could be a carrier."

Fedotik said, quickly, "We have considered the possibility and have a solution which we hope will meet with your approval. The ship is bound for Anfisa. We can make a diversion and land on Velor away from any habitable area." He saw Jofre's expression and added, "Not too far away, of course, and we can leave supplies. If the illness is harmless-as we are certain it is-then they will recover and no harm will have been done."

"And the ship will be safe," said Krogstad. "By the time we reach Anfisa we'll know for sure if any plague is on board. If there is more sickness the authorities will be notified." He spread his hands in mute appeal. "Two men against the ruin of us all. Brother, I beg you to accept the compromise."

One made only because of his presence. Jofre had no illusions as to the captain's motives. To evict the pair would be easier and cheaper than landing on Velor.

"When?"

"Two days."

"Can I see them?" Jofre listened to the silence which was his answer. "Talk with them?" A pause, then he said firmly, "At least let me check their supplies."

Things Dumarest stacked after the ship had gone, leaving him and the sick man on a rolling plain already touched by shadows. Low on the horizon a sullen sun threw long rays of gold and amber, orange and yellow light, which illuminated drifting cloud to swathe the sky in dying beauty. As the day died so did its heat and Dumarest worked quickly to build a fire, using dried grasses and lumps of peat which burned slowly and cast a somber glow.

"Earl!" Nossak woke to rear upright where he had lain. "Earl!"

"I'm here, Angado." Dumarest handed the man a canteen. "How do you feel?"

"I'm burning. My insides are like a furnace and I ache all over." He drank and fell back to lie in the shelter of the supplies. "So we got dumped, eh? I thought it was a nightmare. Well, I guess it's better than getting thrown into the void. What was it that hit me?"

Dumarest shrugged. "Maybe a virus of some kind or it could have been an allergy. No one seemed to want to find out. That fool Cranmer shouted 'plague' and that was it."

"So I got dumped and you with me." Nossak turned his head, face ugly with lumps now darkened with blotches. "I guess you had no choice, huh?"

"No."

"If you had? I mean, would you be here now?"

"No."

"At least you're honest. I'll have to remember that. Maybe…"

He fell back, lost in a sudden sleep which was close to a coma; fitful periods of unconsciousness that hit at any time and without warning. A symptom of his illness; the lumps were another. Blotched masses hard beneath the skin that covered his entire body. Some were crusted by the dried scabs of oozing secretions.

By the light of the fire and the stars overhead Dumarest checked the supplies. There was water, concentrated food, a small supply of drugs, a hand axe, a compass, some needles and thread, a length of fine wire, a knife. Dumarest compared it to the one he lifted from his boot then set it to one side. The rest of the bulk was made up of two large but empty plastic sacs and a bundle of clothing.

Dumarest piled most of them around the sick man, covering the whole with one of the plastic bags. Seated before the fire he worked at the length of wire, fashioning lines ending in running loops. Stepping into the starlit darkness he set the snares, holding them with doubled ends of the wire set deep in the dirt. Back at the fire he ate a wafer of concentrate, washed it down with a sip of water and, knife in hand, closed his eyes.

He slept like an animal, hovering on the brink of wakefulness, starting alert as something threshed in the grass to one side. A small rodent, he guessed, which had become caught in a snare and he mentally marked the direction of the noise.

As the stars began to pale with the onset of dawn he heard a series of dull explosions to the north followed by a vivid lavender flash. He marked it with the knives dug into the ground to form a line of sight which he checked with the compass as the day grew brighter. When the plain lay revealed in sharp detail he went to check the snares, finding them all intact except one. It rested in a twisted mass among crushed grass stained with flecks of blood. Around it he saw the marks of spatulate paws.

An hour later it began to rain.

Angado Nossak was singing in a high, cracked voice, a melody that made little sense followed by a babbling string of words that made even less. Dumarest rose from his place beside the fire and crossed to the prostrate man. It was late afternoon, the rain had cleared the air leaving a brisk freshness now sharpened by the chill of approaching evening.

"Earl!" The babbling stopped as the man looked up, crusted lips parting in a smile. "Good old Earl. My friend. My faithful retainer. Did I tell you how you will be rewarded? For you a palace filled with nubile maidens, fountains of wine, tables groaning beneath the weight of assorted viands. Land and workers to tend your crops. On Lychen you will live like a king."

"Lychen?"

"My home world. The residence of the family to which I belong. Allow me to present Hedren Angado Nossak Karroum." His arm waved in a vague gesture. "The spoiled son of a decaying line. Yet there are those who hold me in high regard. Those who… who…"

"Wake up!" The slap of Dumarest's hand against the lolling cheek caused birds to rise with startled croakings from the plain. "Damn you, wake up!" Another slap. As the eyes opened to focus with bleared concentration Dumarest snapped, "Now listen to me! Listen, damn you! I'm giving you two days to get on your feet. Until the dawn after next. Call it thirty-six hours. Do you understand?"

"Earl, I…"

"Keep awake!" Dumarest rose and gripped the plastic sac he had spread over the recumbent man. The rain it had trapped sloshed wetly over his hands to cascade down over Nossak's face and head; the deluge caused him to splutter but cleared his eyes. "Now listen!"

"Earl?"

"You're ill, dying, and I mean that. Unless you're able to travel the day after tomorrow I'm leaving you. That means you work to get well or you stay and be food for what's living out there." Dumarest jerked his head at the plain. "It's up to you. Personally I don't give a damn. I'd be better off alone."

"You mean it." Nossak struggled to focus his eyes. "You really mean it."

"That's right." Dumarest's tone matched his expression, cold, hard, unyielding. "Now hold still."

The drugs were in ampules fitted with hollow needles serving as strings. The first brought sleep, the second was loaded with wide-coverage antibiotics, the third held slow time; chemical magic which speeded the metabolism and stretched seconds into minutes, hours into days. Angado would wake thin, starving, but able to walk if luck was with him. If his survival instinct, bolstered by the grim warning, gave him the needed incentive. If either failed then he would die.

Dumarest covered the sleeping man with clothing, covered that with one of the plastic sacs and turned away. He'd done all he could and now it was time to ensure his own survival.

Far out on the plain birds rose with a sudden thrum of wings, and he studied them, eyes narrowed as he counted their number, the direction of their flight. A period of quiet and then another sudden uprush of winged shapes, closer and heading in his general direction. More came as the sun touched the horizon much closer than the others. Then nothing but silence and the brooding of watching eyes.

Out on the plain death was waiting.

Dumarest knew what it had to be. In such open country game was scarce and hard to bring down. The creature that had stolen the snared rodent had tasted blood and wanted more. It was only a question of time before the predator decided to attack.

For Dumarest it couldn't be too soon.

He had prepared the trap; ropes woven from strips of clothing now set to form a pattern of loops and barriers that would hamper quick movement if the beast loped over the area. The bait was made of food concentrates pounded and soaked in water thickly stained with his own blood. A compound smeared on a bundle of clothing set near enough to the smoldering fire for the heat to disperse the scent but not too close to frighten the beast away.

Now there was nothing to do but wait and he crouched, waiting, watchful, the small axe to hand, a knife resting in each boot. A man matching his patience against that of a beast, his ability to kill against a creature developed for just that attribute.

The fire dwindled, became a sullen, ashed ball, a shrinking, bloodshot eye. High above, the stars shone with an increasing brightness, a brilliant scatter of glowing points, sheets and curtains of luminescence interspersed with the fuzz of distant nebulae. Suns were close in the Burdinnion and always, toward the galactic center, the skies at night showed a blaze of luminescence, touching the plain with a soft, nacreous glow. Turning dried stems into wands of silver, drooping leaves into fronds of shining, filigreed silk until the frosted landscape stirred to the touch of a gentle wind that filled the air with a whispering susurration.

Dumarest thinned his lips as he stared into the empty spaces.

The wind would mask the approach he'd hoped to catch. The slithering rustle of a creature making its attack. One impossible to avoid and the only warning he would get. Now, because of the wind, his ears were useless and his vision limited. The beast could be behind him at this very moment, crouching, claws ripping into the ground as it sprang, those same claws reaching out to tear the flesh from his bones.

Dumarest dropped, an ear pressed to the ground, the other covered as he strained to catch subtle vibrations. He heard nothing but the beat of his own heart. A hand snatched a knife from his boot, drove it into the dirt, metal jarring against his teeth as he clamped them on the blade. A long, dragging moment then he heard it. A soft rumble, a rasp, a sound more movement than noise. Echoes transmitted through the ground and into the knife and by bone conduction into his brain.

A murmur which grew stronger, closer and then, abruptly, ceased.

Turning, snatching at knife and axe, Dumarest saw it limned against the stars.

A beast like a tiger, five feet long from head to the root of the tail, clawed paws extended, jaws gaping to reveal long, pointed fangs. A ruff of fur circled the neck to run in a line along the back. The tail, like a whip, bore a spined end. The back legs held razors.

Natural weapons which kicked at the ground to throw dirt pluming upward as the jaws closed on the clothing bearing the bait. The snarl of frustrated anger was a guttural roar of muted thunder, and shreds of fabric flew to either side as the beast vented its rage. Then it dropped the rags and stood, snuffing the air, head turning to where Nossak lay in drugged unconsciousness.

Dumarest acted before it could spring.

The axe spun from his hand, whirling to bite into the neck, the blade shearing through hide and muscle but missing the arteries. An attack which confused the animal by its sheer unexpectedness and it sprang to one side, head turning, jaws gaping as it scented the new enemy. One which came darting toward the creature, knives in hand, steel which stung and slashed at tendons and ligaments.

Dumarest moved back and felt the wind as a paw raked at his face. Then he was running, jumping high over the ropes he had set out. Behind him the animal snarled as the strands hampered its movement, a noose tightening to trap a rear leg.

Dumarest returned to the attack. The beast had to be killed, not frightened off to lurk hurt and dangerous on the plain. He darted forward as the animal reared, paws extended, jaws gaping. A lunge which placed him within range of the belly and he felt the jar and rasp as claws tore at his shoulders and back, the impact of the knife as it plunged deep to release a gush of blood.

He twisted as the free rear leg kicked out in a hammer blow which sent him staggering to fall beside the fire.

Rising, he snatched at the coals, threw them, ran toward the beast as sparks coated the snarling mask. His speed sent his face to press against the neck, his head rammed up hard beneath the lower jaw, his left hand rising to grip the mane as his right felt along the cage of the ribs.

To find the pulse of the heart…

Stopped as he drove home his knife.