Child of Earth

CHAPTER NINE

The atmosphere was unique. A blend of sweat, blood, scented salves, sprays, sex, hysteria and frenzy. The exhalations of near-madness, of strained emotions, of released desires, the perfume of the arena which to Dumarest had become a familiar part of life.

As had the screams of adulation, the acid comments of the connoisseurs, the wanton displays of passion, the invitations to join in combat in the arena of the bedroom. To match other foes in the shape of jaded women, dissolute men, using the weapons of the body instead of ones of edged and pointed steel.

Things he dismissed as he did the piercing stare of the gamblers, the distracting shrieks and calculated movements of those wanting him to lose. To fall with blood streaming across his torso. Another wound to add to the rest. A scar to further enhance his status and to advertise his profession.

Dangers he avoided as he dodged the blade which, in this bout, had yet to touch him. Scarlet shone on the flesh of his opponent, a pair of ruby slashes marring his chest. The permitted area in this particular form of combat. The upper part of the body from the shoulders to the waist, the chest, back and sides. A hit on the arms would bring instant disqualification. The neck, face and legs the same. Those areas were reserved for the more lethal bouts ending in crippling injuries or death.

But though he had hit and scored twice the third cut, if his opponent could deliver it, would cost Dumarest the prize and maybe his life. Certainly it would not please Sardia who had bet heavily on his victory.

He moved, weaving, metal glinting in his right hand. Ten inches of steel, razor-edged and with a vicious point, a handle and a simple guard to protect the fingers. His opponent moved also, his knife blurred in a sudden slam, a feint Dumarest had anticipated and he backed, fast, metal ringing as the blades met. Music the crowd greeted with cheers and ribald comments.

Things both men ignored. Dumarest’s opponent was older, heavier, sweat mingling with the oil and blood coating his torso. His breathing was too fast, his eyes too wild. A single hit would win him the prize and the money a satisfied crowd would throw into the arena. His choice of the offers of sexual dalliance sure to follow.

Too much to lose and the reason for the scoring system used to determine the winner of a third-blood combat. Mounting desperation would lead to a greater show of blood and an equal determination would lengthen the contest.

Sardia had driven home the dangers and Dumarest had taken them to heart. Now, as they circled each other, each hungry for the final blow, he restrained his impulse to attack in turn. To repeat a manoeuvre he had used twice with success but which any fighter worthy of his salt would recognise and be prepared for. Instead he feinted, swung to one side, then spun with all the speed he could summon to dart within the other’s guard, his blade an extension of his arm, the tip drawing blood.

A shallow cut but it was enough. Enough to make him the winner, to receive the plaudits of the crowd, the items of worth they had thrown on the floor of the arena. He smiled as he refused other proffered gifts but was careful to cause no hurt or resentment. Such gifts were a double-edged sword and tantamount to self-destruction. Any fighter, especially the young, if accepting them could fall victim to the jealously of the rejected. He certainly would fall prey to the inevitable dissipation, the sycophancy of false friends, the leeching of his stamina and strength.

When a fighter began to believe himself invulnerable he was as good as dead.

“Earl!” A woman stepped towards him as he headed toward the showers. “My congratulations. You fought well. Your promoter should be proud of you.”

“I hope she is.” Dumarest recognised Yanya Delletare. Plump, soft, rounded, her age masked by the heavy cosmetics she wore. Rich scents enveloped her in a curtain of perfume. Politely he added, “I trust you enjoyed the entertainment, my Lady.”

“Need you ask?” Her expression changed a little as her eyes roved over the nudity of his body. “Youth, strength, beauty-what woman could hope for more? But I find it a little odd that the lady Sardia Del Marthe was not present to witness your success. Her success too,” she pointed out. “As you fought on her behalf.”

“She is busy on other matters, my Lady.”

“Which could concern you, my friend.” Her hand reached out to touch his shoulder, the fingers lingering on his flesh. “I hope I may call you that, Earl. Dare I confess that I have a touch of envy when I see you and Sardia together?”

At impromptu dinners Sardia had thrown for a few friends and acquaintances. At other times when, together, they had visited the markets and outdoor entertainments. Casual things, light-hearted gatherings, the talk mostly gossip and mild speculation. A pleasant way to pass the time. Now, he realised, more than it seemed.

He responded to the warning prickle of danger.

“My lady!” His smile was warm, genuine. “You are more than gracious. You grant me too much honour.”

“Earl?” Her fingers tightened before releasing their grip and falling to her side. “I don’t understand. Honor?”

“To have taken me into your confidence.” He closed the space between them and rested his lips against her ear. “You mentioned the Lady Sardia,” he reminded, “and expressed some concern as to my welfare. You also confided in me as to the odd feeling you experience at times. That is an expression of trust. I will not betray it, my Lady. I promise you that.”

A promise easy to keep but one mentioned as bait to gain further information. A game he was learning to play but she was an expert in the field of dalliance and deception.

It was her turn to move, backing so as to restore the space between them, breaking the intimacy it had provided.

“We have lingered long enough, my friend.” Again she touched his naked flesh, the impact turning into a caress, one immediately ended. “I just wanted to give you a hint. The Lady Sardia has many friends and many enterprises. Many investments, also. You are one of them. She could be thinking of making changes. One of them could be to negotiate your sale. If it should come to that-”

“I will remember you, my Lady.”

Her smile widened into an unspoken invitation, one echoed by the subtle message of her eyes.

“Yes, Earl. Be sure you do that.” Again she touched his naked torso. “And please don’t keep me waiting too long.”

An odd encounter and one he tried to unravel as he stood beneath the cleansing shower. Her interest in him was plain but he sensed there was more to it than an invitation to a sexual adventure. The poaching of prodigies was not unknown and he had gained a good reputation beneath Sardia’s tutelage. Yanya could be envious of their relationship both personal and professional and be attempting to take over. Her hint as to the possibility of him being sold to another promoter could have been a warning as well as an incentive. One buttressed by her strong hint of support should he need it.

The spray of water changed to a blast of heated air. Dried, dressed, Dumarest headed to the office to collect his prize and the gifts showered by his supporters. Outside the arena he paused still thinking of the encounter.

It was true that Sardia knew many people. True, also, that in a sense he was her property and would be until he had cleared his debt. She could be thinking of utilising her assets as Yanya had suggested and would be within her rights to do so. He touched the money belt strapped beneath his waist and hidden by his jacket. He had cash, not enough to settle his debt, but as a down payment should Sardia agree. If they were to part he wanted to remain her friend.

Yanya’s hint had illustrated the need to talk to her in order to clear the air.

He stepped towards her building taking a path which wound through a market lined with stalls, raucous with a medley of voices as the vendors lauded their wares. The stalls widened yielding to a row of lockable booths, open now, a variety of goods on display.

Dumarest halted, attracted by swathes of vivid hues from colored fabrics, gowns, veils scarves, bolts of silks, sashes, fabrics of a dozen kinds to make a hundred garments of an attractive nature. He was young and was tempted but Sardia had more experience and better taste and would not take kindly to such garish and flamboyant material.

He moved on, ignoring the stands displaying perfumes, jewellery, confectionery and other assorted items most girls would have found desirable. But nothing suitable as a gift.

He halted again as an elderly man standing on a low platform lifted both hand and voice.

“A moment!” he yelled. “Give me a moment.”

A grafter, collecting a crowd, about to make his pitch.

He waved his hand which held a knife, the blade glittering in the strong light of the sun. He wore garments more suited to a hunter than an inhabitant of a city. He was not alone. To one side reared a barrier of wood higher than a man. Standing before it a young and voluptuous woman held her arms extended, her wrists fastened to restraints driven into the wood. All but her head and face was covered by a wide expanse of thin cloth which moulded itself to her curves.

“Listen, gentlemen,” he said, “and you too, ladies. What I have to sell and teach is of value to you all. Look at this!” he gestured with the knife. “A tool. A useful thing. You can slice with it, skin a dead beast, carve meats, chop vegetables, pierce holes in tough materials-a multitude of things all of value in the kitchen. For those who live in the fields it is a piece of essential equipment.” He swung the blade to point at a man. “You, sir! Do you agree?”

The man nodded, “Sure.”

“And you, sir!”

Another man, the same answer. A third. A fourth. The point levelled at Dumarest.

“And you, young man?”

“Of course.”

“Would you like to learn how to use it? A knife. Any knife. This one for example? Or this.” A twin to the first appeared in the man’s free hand. “Would you like to gain the skill to do this?”

Steel flashed as he threw the knife, the point burying itself in the wooden barrier a fraction above the girl’s left wrist. The restraint parted, freeing her hand, loosening the fabric. Before it could uncover her arm he threw the second knife this time at the restraint above the right wrist. Those watching sucked their breath in anticipation as naked flesh came into view, her arms, shoulders, the rounded beauty of her breasts, then she had grabbed the falling fabric and regained her modesty.

Dumarest stood, watching, amused as others came from within the booth, young women wearing glamorous costumes, all busy as they bustled through the crowd selling slender volumes containing the supposed secrets of a knifethrower’s art which the grafter continued to demonstrate as he pinned cards held by the original target-model into the barrier.

A man who held an undoubted skill but how good it was Dumarest couldn’t be certain. The demonstration he had witnessed could too easily be faked. The restraints had looked thick and strong but could have been treated to yield at a tug. The knife needn’t have touched them. The girl could have controlled that illusion when she heard the impact. The baring of her flesh was a perfect distraction to shift attention away from the reality. But even so, as he was now demonstrating, the old man knew his business.

Dumarest concentrated on studying his actions, the way he moved, crouched, settled. The manner in which he grasped the knife, poised it, threw it.

Many throws and all successful each made to look simple. Another illusion. Dumarest, from his own limited experience, knew they were not.

“Does the entertainment please you, my Lord?” A young woman stood before him, smiling, a collecting tin and a sheaf of books in her hand. “Would you care to buy a book so as to learn the secrets of the art you are watching? Or give a little to indicate your pleasure?” Her smile widened as he did both. “Thank you, my Lord. You are gracious.”

“Interested would be a better comment. Is it possible to have words with your master?”

“With my grandfather? Certainly, but first you must allow him to finish his business.”

Smiling she moved on to gather what she could. As the crowd dispersed the elderly man came to join Dumarest.

“I received your message, young man. I appreciate your interest. What did you think of the introduction?”

“A thing of beauty.”

“I was not talking about the woman.”

“Neither was I.” Dumarest glanced to where, dressed in a seductive costume, she was preparing for the next demonstration. “Your daughter?”

“My granddaughter.” He added, “I have a large family.”

“And a well trained one. You are to be congratulated.”

“All my family are well trained.”

A warning Dumarest recognised. This man had pride and the strength to enforce respect. Things it would be a mistake not to recognise.

He said, “I am not speaking of the woman but of her performance. It can’t be easy to face thrown blades. She must have great courage and trust in you and your skill. Which is why I wanted your attention. Could you teach me to do the same?”

“Act as the target?”

Dumarest smiled at the humour. “No. To throw a knife. To send it where I want it to go. To be able to hit what I aim at.”

“My book will teach you that.”

“A book can’t throw a knife,” said Dumarest. “ I want to be taught by someone who can.”

The grafter hesitated looking at the empty space before the booth, the few people drifting past. The market was drawing to a close and it would be hard to collect a crowd to make a pitch worth the effort.

Dumarest said, “I’m not asking for charity. I can pay you a fair price.”

“Fair enough.” The man made up his mind. “You seem honest and I’ll be the same in return. I can’t teach you what you want to know. Only time and practice can do that. The book will guide you on the basics. The most I can do is to teach you how to accept them. If you agree follow me into the booth. I can spare you an hour.”

The woman who had acted as the target brought them wine, a thin, cheap, ruby fluid which refreshed and eased the tension as it quelled their thirst.

“Thank you, Melinda. That will be all for now.”

As she left the grafter half-drained his goblet and set it down on the desk. Abruptly he said, “My name is Wendon. Drak Wendon. You are?” He grunted as Dumarest told him. “Well, Earl, first things first. Why do you want a knife and why do you want to learn how to throw it?”

An odd question and Dumarest said so.

Wendon shrugged. “Take offence if you want, but I am only trying to help you. Some people have an allergy to knives as others have an allergy to guns, vermin, and insects. Wanting a knife is normal. Getting one is easy. Being able to use one, if you really have to use one, is something some people simply cannot do. There is no shame in it.”

“I am not afraid of a knife.”

“I accept that.” Wendon paused. “And?”

“As a gift to a woman. One I hope to marry. To win her family’s approval I must prove myself. Dexterity with a knife will help me to do that.”

Plausible lies but ones the man could understand and accept. And they were not total lies.

Wendon nodded, “Good enough. Now let’s get back to the knife.”

He produced one, long in the blade, wide at the tip, smooth and slender at the hilt. It had no guard, no distinct pommel.

“This is usually called a throwing knife,” he said. “Get your distance right, use the same force, the same hold and you’ll have no trouble putting on a show. It’s like a hammer,” he explained. “The weight is all at one end. If you can throw it like a spear that’s fine. If you want to add force then throw it as you would a hammer giving it a full turn, using hand, arm and wrist to govern the movement. That’s what I meant by practice. That’s the real secret of gaining the ability to throw a blade.”

Obvious but Dumarest was patient. Teaching was a trade of its own.

“When you come to a real blade things get more difficult.” Wendon turned to a long casket, threw back the lid and revealed a row of knives. “What you’re after is a tool and a missile rolled into one. What I just showed you isn’t that but a simple device for a single purpose. When you’re living in the field you need more. Done any hunting?”

“A little.”

“Ever thrown a knife at a creature?”

“At times.” Dumarest added, “Never with much luck.”

“Lack of practice.” Wendon was curt. “You can’t run before you can walk. Now check these knives. Which one is for you?” He waited, watching as Dumarest examined the selection, then said, “Try it a different way. You don’t choose the knife. The knife chooses you. Pick them up, feel them, the heft, the affinity, the sense of belonging. You’ll know when it’s right. Here. Let me help you.”

He chose a knife and held it for Dumarest’s inspection. A nine inch blade, the sharp edge curved to a point, the curve reversed on the back so as to provide a double edge for a third of the length. The hilt carried a strong guard, the surface knurled to supply a firm grip, the pommel small, barely raised, smoothly rounded.

“Like it? Now try it.” He led the way to the barrier outside. “Melinda!”

She stepped forward, a long stave in her hand. It carried a large disc which she placed against the wood.

“Right, Earl. Now hit it!”

Dumarest poised the knife, grasping it by the point, doing his best to judge pace and distance. To hit correctly it must make a half turn. To lift, aim, guess and throw was something needing to be automatic.

“Good.” Wendon moved to where the knife had hit within the edge of the disc pinning it firm. Jerking free the blade he said, “This seems right for you, but I’ve others. Let’s go and check them out.”

Dumarest settled for a blade with minor differences, listening to Wendon’s advice as to balance and shape. Good advice and he paid for it and the knife together with an extra copy of the lauded volume.

The time had passed faster than he had guessed and the tuition had swelled more that he had anticipated. Sardia would be expecting him and it would be an affront to keep her waiting.

Reaching the front door of her building he thumbed the correct code into the electronic lock, waited until his identity was verified and moved through the opened portal. An elevator lifted him to the floor holding her apartment and he hurried to her door, hand lifted to code in the entry signal. It dropped as he realised the door was open.

The panel was closed but not locked, a thin line of different hue rested between the door and the lintel, a thing which could not have happened had the lock been engaged. Sardia could have arranged it for reasons of her own, but he doubted it. She was too shrewd, too clever to take stupid risks. The door was a warning, one he couldn’t ignore.

The books were in a pocket, the knife wrapped in paper in his hand. The blade gleamed as he slipped it from its sheath, holding it as if he were in the arena ready for combat. The only difference being that his present foe was unknown.

An omission soon rectified.

He was standing behind the door, his body turned away from the panel as he concentrated on the sounds coming from the bedroom. Ugly sounds, nasty, born of fear and pain. Pleasure to a scum of the arena standing with a knife in his hand, a smirk on his face. He lost both as Dumarest burst into the apartment, his new blade lifting to slice the hand from the wrist, slashing to open the throat beneath the grinning mouth.

As he fell Dumarest moved on. Into the next room where a second man, warned, stood in a fighter’s stance. He raised his blade to strike, dying as Dumarest ducked beneath his arm to send his own weapon deep into the exposed armpit. To twist the blade. To sever arteries and tissue as he dragged it free. Before he hit the floor Dumarest was in the bedroom facing their opponent. One who reared upright from the edge of the bed, a smoking iron in his hand, and terror in his eyes as steel flashed towards them.

“No! No! Please! No!”

Dumarest glanced at the bed. Sardia lay there and one look was enough. Her tormentor shrieked as the knife closed the gap between throat and edge. As he fell the woman stirred on the bed.

“Earl? Earl is that you?”

“Sardia.” He touched her, held her, the knife still in his hand. “You are safe now,” he soothed. They are all gone. They can’t hurt you now.

“They have hurt me enough.” Her voice was a whisper, the grip of her hand merely a gesture. But one with meaning. “Listen, Earl, you’ve got to look after yourself. I have money. It’s yours if you can find it. I’ve some gems, in a box, you know where to look. Take them, take everything of value you can find. Get to the field. A ship is due, the Ellermand. It’s got a handler, ask him for passage. Mention my name. Don’t tell him more.” Her voice changed, the whisper becoming a scream. “The pain! Earl, I can’t stand the pain! Help me! Help me!”

She had been burned, blinded, seared into a thing of horror. Money could restore her. Buying regrowths, new organs bred from her stem cells, the use of an amniotic tank in which to grow new and healthy tissue. But it would take time and exposure and would be far from cheap.

But he had no money, no friends or contacts, no drugs to ease her agony. Only a knife, newly bought as a gift, now a bitter reminder of what he had allowed to happen. If he hadn’t wasted time in the market. If he had returned to the apartment straight after the bout. If he had been present when the thugs had arrived to torment and destroy for the sake of what they could steal.

If.

The word had a sour taste.

Yet if he couldn’t save her he could join her. In death, if what some said was true, they would be reunited for eternity.

The blade moved in his hand, the point aiming at his throat, his muscles tensing for the effort to drive it deep.

“No!” The work was a command. “No, Earl, don’t!”

Jarl Raven, stood in the doorway of the bedroom, a gun in his hand.

“Lower the knife, Earl. Do it!”

Dumarest said, “If I don’t you’ll use that gun? Then use it. Do me a favor.”

“You want to die?”

“I want Sardia to live. To get over this mess. Look at her. She’s in agony and there’s nothing I can do to help. I haven’t even the guts to pass her out.” The knife fell from his hands and he stared at his quivering fingers, fighting to be calm. “I didn’t do this to her. You must know that. I killed the scum who did but there has to be more. Someone passed them into the building. Someone told them the door code combination. I want to get that filth no matter who they are and what it costs.”

“I’ll take care of that.”

“Just take care of Sardia.”

“I’ll do that as soon as you’ve left.”

“I’m not going anywhere until I’m sure she is safe.”

“I told you. I’ll take care of that.” Raven was impatient. “Don’t waste time, Earl. I’ll phone for an ambulance and they will take her to where she can get all the help she needs.” He stepped towards the bed. “Now get out of my way and let me do what needs to be done.”

Dumarest looked at his face, the gun in his hand and knew better than to argue. To Raven he was nothing. To him Sardia was the world. The woman he obviously loved and now was apparently going to kill.

“Steady, girl,” he said. “This is Jarl. You know I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Jarl? Her whisper was a prayer of thanksgiving.

“That’s right.” He rested a hand on her throat, fingers hard against the flesh beneath her ears. “Just a little pressure on the carotid arteries to cut the flow of blood to your brain and the pain will be over. You’ll sleep like a log and when you wake all will be better than before. I promise that. Trust me!”

Watching as the woman sighed and relaxed, Dumarest said, “Do you mean that? I need to know.”

“I know what I’m doing. She’ll live. What did she say to you?” Raven nodded as Dumarest told him. “Good advice. You’d best take it.”

“Not until I’ve taken care of those who did this.”

“No!” Raven was curt. “I will take care of that.”

“I can help you!”

“You would do the reverse. I know those concerned. I know how to hurt them.” He thrust the gun into a hidden holster. “Now do as Sardia told you. Take what money you can find and go.” He gestured at the dead man. “Start with him. Search his pockets and take all he’s got. Then take care of the others. Be quick,” he added, “but get cleaned up before you leave.”

Good advice and he followed it. Bathing and changing to remove the blood which had spattered him. Branding him with the mark of a killer. The man who had attacked and almost murdered Sardia. He would stand no chance if arrested. He knew the door codes, he could gain easy access, he was trusted as a supposed friend. The men who had died had walked in on him while committing the crime and had been slaughtered for their bravery. Those behind them would see to that.

He could do nothing but take the money and run. To the field, the handler who, for a price, would arrange his passage. Shipping him to another world, there to begin the quest which would dominate his life.