Incident on Ath

Chapter Three

She was soft and warm and moistly engulfing. A creature of passion and demanding heat with skin like silk and curves which united into a symphony of delight. Her odor was enticing; that of rain-drenched loam, of sun-kissed grain, of an opening bud, the scent rising from the milk-dappled lips of a child. And, even when sprawled in satiated abandon, she held a lithe and lovely grace.

A dancer and now a dealer she had told him-but what else?

Lifting himself on one elbow Dumarest looked down at the woman in the pale light of a breaking dawn. Asleep she was more beautiful than awake, small tensions eased, muscles relaxed, the hand of time lifted from brow and cheek and the corners of the eyes. The mane of her loosened hair lay like a serpent over the pillow, the naked roundness of a shoulder, the proud mound of a breast. In her throat, beneath the rich olive of her skin, a small pulse beat like a tiny drum. Below it lay the carotid artery-a pressure and she would fall from sleep into unconsciousness and if the pressure were maintained, into soft and easy death.

"Earl!" Turning she muttered his name, head moving to present her lips, her eyes, the lashes which lay like nighted moths on her cheeks. "Earl!"

A dream in which, perhaps, she was again lost in passionate abandon.

Gently he rose and moved into the kitchen, heating coffee and taking it into the living room where, again, he searched the furnishings with his eyes. The apartment was what she had claimed it to be, a place rented for a limited stay, the appointments a standard necessity. Only the music cube was hers. That and a delicate vase of striated crystal, a framed portrait of an elderly man-her father perhaps-a scrap of embroidered silk, her clothes, her cosmetics, the painting of a crying child.

The painting which depicted a moon bearing the semblance of a skull.

Again Dumarest studied it, holding it to the window, using a glass to magnify detail. Was it what he hoped or had memory played tricks? A combination of light and shadow, a silver hue, a desperate yearning-a combination loaded with potential danger. As was the woman herself.

Logic told him that she had to be what she claimed but the instinct which had saved him so often before refused to permit him to lower his guard. The attack could, despite his previous conviction, have been the prelude to a trap. One baited with warm and yielding flesh. With the painting of the child. A snare which could snap shut at any moment.

"Earl?" Sardia was awake, calling sleepily from the bed. "Earl, where are you?"

"Here."

"Why are you up?" Her voice grew sharper. "Is anything wrong?"

"No. I wanted some coffee. A moment and I'll bring you some."

"I felt you missing," she said, her voice regaining its first softness. "Even though asleep I sensed you had left me."

Like an animal sensing danger. As if he had woken during the night to lie listening to her movements as she searched his garments, saying nothing, doing nothing, acting the part of a man lost in dreams. Now he checked his clothes, finding all intact, his fingers lingering on the belt and the hilt of the knife.

"Earl?"

"Coming." He returned to the kitchen, poured coffee, entered the bedroom with steaming cups in his hands. Offering her one he looked down at the beauty revealed as she sat upright. "You slept well?"

"Like a child, Earl. Like a woman in love who lies with her lover. And you?"

"The same."

A lie to match her own and one given for the same reason perhaps. Only a fool would take a stranger on trust and in the sanity following the idiocy of passion native caution could have prevailed. An attribute he could respect.

"Earl?"

"It's time to get to work." He set down his cup and stepped into the shower, washing, drying himself, dressing as she finished the last of her coffee. "You're sure as to the address?"

"It was the one given me. You think it false?"

"It's there."

"But the man isn't." She set aside her cup with sudden irritation. "A day now and no progress. Earl, is there nothing I can do?"

"You sit here and you wait," he said flatly. "As you did yesterday. At times I may have to call you."

Again as he had done yesterday, finding her home each time, inventing some reason for the call. At least it pinned her down and, if she tried to call out, she would find the phone useless-a thing Dumarest had arranged.

Now she said, "Earl, how long?"

"Days perhaps. A month, even." He was deliberately pessimistic. "Does it matter?"

"It matters. I-" She broke off and shrugged. "Forget it. Just do your best but, please, Earl, waste no time. Others could be on the hunt and we may arrive late if at all. I'd hate to hear the artist has been spirited away or all his future work placed under contract." She slipped from the bed, a living statue of femininity darkly enticing against the snowy expanse of the sheets. "Good luck, darling." Her arms closed around his neck and pulled his lips to hers. "And don't keep me waiting too long."

At night the Maze held a glamor, a dangerous one, perhaps, but one which gilded with a tinsel sheen the dirt and neglect of moldering buildings, the filth accumulated in the streets which only the rains washed away. By day it held the appearance of an aging harlot, waking, her paint cracked, the raddled features showing through. And, like such a creature, the place had a smell.

To Dumarest it was familiar; the odor of rancid grease, of must, of rot, of damp and sickness, the whole overlaid by the indefinable but unmistakable stench of poverty. A smell prevalent in all Lowtowns where the abandoned and desperate huddled in a common misery and one which had found a place in this man-made jungle.

"Brother! Of your charity!"

The monk was a brave man but all who had dedicated their lives to the Universal Church had courage. Dumarest looked at the empty bowl of chipped plastic the man held before him, his eyes lifting to study the brown homespun robe, the seamed face shadowed by the cowl. Beneath the hem of the rough garment the feet were bare in crude sandals.

"You are out early, Brother."

"Misery does not sleep." The bowl lifted a little. "And starvation does not wait." The voice cracked a little as Dumarest poured coins into the bowl. "Brother, you are generous!"

"You have a church in the Maze?"

"Not in the Maze. At the field."

A small place fashioned of poles and plastic sheeting holding little more than a chair for the monk, a place for the suppliant, the Benediction light which stood between them. The light at which the suppliant would stare as he confessed his sins and asked forgiveness. Absolution would be granted after which the worshiper, after subjective penance, would be hypnotically conditioned against the ability to kill.

A fair exchange for the wafer of concentrates which was given as the bread of forgiveness and which many only came to the church to obtain. But, if with it they could absorb the basic credo of the Universal Brotherhood, the monks were content.

There, but for the grace of God, go I!

Once all men could look at their fellows and remember that the millennium would have arrived.

"Brother, you are cold." Dumarest had seen the shiver which had gripped the old man. "Here." He added more coins to those in the bowl. "This is for you. Get something hot to eat and drink."

"I collect for charity."

"Charity begins at home. If you fall ill who will take your place?" An empty question; another would follow and after him yet more. Humble men trying in their own way to lift the burden of misery afflicting the majority. But, though humble, they possessed an iron resolution. As the monk looked at his bowl Dumarest said, "You could help me, Brother. Have you noticed strangers hanging about this vicinity? Men who do not belong yet who wait?"

The old eyes moved in their sockets as they studied Dumarest's face.

"You intend harm to another?"

"No, but there are those who are not my friends. I would prefer not to meet them."

"And you think they are close?" The monk pursed his lips as Dumarest nodded, his eyes veiled, thoughtful. Abruptly he said, "Here you have nothing to fear. No strangers lurk in the Maze. But there are men at the field who do nothing but watch and others wait at the premises of the Cha'Nang."

Men poised and ready to strike. Dumarest's face hardened as he walked on down the narrow street. His instinct had not lied-the trap he had sensed was real and was closing. A snare he could have eluded had he taken ship when he'd first intended. A passage he would have gained and he would now be far into the void if it hadn't been for Sardia and her painting. Time wasted in pursuit of a dream.

More time wasted as he hammered at a sagging door set with a thickly barred Judas grill.

Yesterday it had remained closed; now,it opened with a grate of rusty hinges to reveal a scowling, bearded face.

"You want something?"

"Eprius Emecheta-that you?"

"And if it is?"

"We have business." Dumarest smiled and winked. "Open up, man. It's worth five durinne to listen."

"Five? Make it ten."

"Five." Dumarest showed the coins. "Just for a little talk and maybe a drink. You've something in the house?"

"This ain't no tavern, mister. You want something to drink then you pay for it. Make it ten and I'll open up."

Money changed hands as Dumarest stepped through the opened portal into a passage reeking of staleness. The room opening from it held a sagging bed, a table littered with stained crockery, scraps of food, odorous cartons. A rat scuttled as they entered to stare warily from beneath the bed. Stains crawled on the walls: vermin seeking shadowed safety.

A nest-its occupant as much vermin as the things crawling on the walls.

"Wine." Emecheta tilted a dusty bottle. "Here."

The glass was cracked, chipped, slimed with grease and the wine matched the container. Dumarest sipped and tasted a sour roughness then, conscious of the other's suspicious stare, swallowed and held out the empty glass.

"More?"

"I've paid for it." His tone was deliberately hostile; a man like Emecheta would take common politeness for weakness. "Give!"

Again he sipped and watched as his host gulped at his own glass. A squat, hairy man, his chest a mat of greasy darkness, the backs of his hands bearing a curly growth. Beneath bristling brows his eyes were the watchful orbs of an animal.

"Well?"

"Word has it that you're a man who likes to make a little easy money," said Dumarest. "That gives us something in common. I move around and at times pick up a few things of value. The trouble is selling them. People ask questions, you know?" His wink was expressive. "Now if I had a partner who had an outlet…?" He fell silent then said harshly, "Do I have to spell it out?"

"I'm no fence."

"Did I say you were?" Dumarest finished his wine and reached for the bottle topping up both glasses. "And did I say I was a thief? I'm talking about stuff sneaked from the field. Hell, man, are you dumb? They told me you were smart."

"Who told you that?"

"People who figured to do me a favor. You, too. There's a hundred durinne in it, maybe. Easy pickings, but it seems I'm wasting my time." Dumarest picked up his wine, sipped, spat in disgust. "Let me out of here!"

"Whats the hurry?" Emecheta didn't move from where he sat, but one hand had vanished from view. "Sit down and I'll open a new bottle. Decent stuff. Now just what did you have in mind?"

"First the hand," said Dumarest coldly. "I want to see it and it had better be empty." He nodded as it came into view. Now stand up and move away from the table." His hand dropped to his knee, the hilt of the knife. "Do it!"

Grunting, Emecheta obeyed, heaving up his bulk and standing against a wall, away from the wine, the table, the weapon Dumarest guessed he had concealed beneath it.

"Well?"

"We talk," said Dumarest. "About you, the people you work for, the outlets you have. And about money-but first we have some decent wine."

She answered on the second attempt. "Earl! I was getting worried. It's been so long."

"Where were you?"

"When?" She answered her own question. "Did you call earlier? I was in the shower."

A reasonable excuse but Dumarest was edgy and some of it showed. "I told you to stand by the phone. How much money can you raise?"

"Why?"

"To use, to spend, to buy things." He smoothed his tone. "You'd better meet me. Bring that music cube of yours and jewelry if you have it. I'll wait for you in the restaurant at the corner of Spacehaven and Drell. Get a cab and hurry."

He took his time joining her, watching for men who had no apparent excuse to linger, taking the chair beside her only when he was sure she hadn't come with companions.

"Earl!" Her hand closed over his, the brown fingers holding a surprising strength. "How was he?"

"Emecheta?"

"Yes. Could I have handled him?"

"You would have been raped," said Dumarest flatly. "Then you'd have been robbed. You could even have been killed."

"He's that bad?"

"He's filth." Dumarest poured himself a glass of water. "Order some food. You brought what I asked?"

"Yes. Why do you want it, Earl?"

"Later. First let us eat."

She ordered wisely, dishes high in protein and low in bulk, foods giving high energy and among the most expensive the place offered. Dumarest refused the offer of wine and finished the meal with fruit.

"Emecheta is scum," he said as they sat over coffee. "But you weren't robbed when you gained his name. The dealer you mentioned, Pude Ahdram?"

"Yes. I could have told you that, Earl, but I-"

"Couldn't trust me and didn't want me cutting in." He was brusque with his interruption. "But let's waste no more time. He deals with anyone who has items of value and does a brisk trade with those from the field. Contraband and anything which shows a profit or so Emecheta claimed. He could be lying but I don't think so. We can use him."

"How?" She blinked as he told her. "Give him my music cube and jewelry? Earl, are you serious?"

"I'll tell him I've stolen them. He'll take them to Ahdram for sale. If what he told me is true, the dealer will buy if the price is right. Then you go into his shop, quest around, ask for something unusual and keep looking until he produces the cube. Then create a fuss, tell him the cube is yours, that it was stolen with other things, talk about summoning the authorities. There's no law in the Maze but there's plenty at the field and elsewhere in town. He'll want to avoid an investigation."

"And I press him," she said slowly. "And keep on pressing until he tells me what I want to know. The name and whereabouts of the artist Earl-"

"Do you know a better way?"

"No," she admitted. "But I'm not sure if I can handle it. I'm not strong enough. I lack aggression. How can I, a woman, force information from a man like that?"

"You're an actress."

"No, Earl, a dancer."

"And when dancing you acted a part, right?" He lifted her hand and flexed her fingers. "And never think of yourself as weak. I've seen you, remember? Felt your strength."

Muscles like coiled springs beneath the silken olive of her skin; tissue teamed and developed to meet the needs of a demanding art. The strength which had gripped him as the lissome thighs had closed, joining the restraint of her arms, her hands. A strength born of physical passion but anger could provide as good a stimulus and determination even a greater.

"We must try," he said gently. "You must try."

"And if I fail? You will help me, Earl?"

To join in the argument, to make himself conspicuous and to advertise his presence to those who watched the field and its environs. A stupidity he intended to avoid.

"If you fail well try something else," he promised. "Just do your best and if he doesn't play along summon the authorities and accuse him of receiving stolen goods. You can prove ownership?"

"Yes. The cube holds a thousand recordings many of which I can name in sequence. And I insured the jewelry on arrival."

"Good. Then there should be no trouble." Dumarest glanced through the windows; already it was close to noon. "We'd best hurry."

"I'll go to the shop," she decided. "Linger as if I'm a tourist killing time. When Emecheta enters I'll follow him." Remembering she added, "How will I know him? We've never met."

"Squat, hairy, repulsive." Dumarest finished his coffee. "You'll know him by his smell if nothing else, but enter before he does if you can. Ahdram will be unwilling to leave you alone for long and so will be quick to settle the deal. And it might help if you primed him."

"With talk of a music cube? Leave it to me, Earl." Then, anticipating his doubt she added, smiling, "I'm a dealer, too, remember. You can't trade in items of value without learning the art of misdirection. Where shall I meet you?"

"Here." He rose to his feet. "Give me an hour to meet Emecheta and pass on the goods."

"You'll be close?"

"Yes," he promised. "I'll be close."

Close enough to see the squat man waddle to the shop of Pude Ahdram eager to make an easy profit and already, no doubt, figuring out ways to cheat his mysterious partner, dose enough to have seen the woman enter shortly before, to have seen her casual approach and to have admired her skill at appearing other than what she was. Close enough to have spotted the men who stood and watched and moved only to take up fresh positions so as to watch again.

Watch and move in when their quarry had been spotted and Dumarest had no doubt as to who that was.

He turned, glancing into windows, hesitating, moving on with a calculated speed. A man who was not in a hurry, who watched no particular point, who was just an aimless traveler killing time. Yet, always, he watched the shop.

Sardia was taking her time. Twice he caught glimpses of her through the barred windows, talking, gesticulating, presenting a show of enthusiasm over some trifle, shaking her head over another. A skilled practitioner of a difficult art, that of deluding another that what was wanted was of no interest and of little worth.

A dancer turned dealer-where had she learned to lie so well?

There was time to think about it as there was time to think of other things. Of the men in scarlet who even now were predicting just where and when he would be, what he would do, what path he would take. Plotting his course with growing accuracy as his movements left traces which could be garnered and included into the common whole. Cybers who, given the data, could pinpoint his presence at a particular place at a particular time.

Unless he could defeat them as he had so often before.

Unless the luck which had saved him should suddenly run out.

But luck, as he never ceased to remember, came in two kinds-the bad and the good.

And now it seemed time for the bad.

It was on Sardia's face as, finally, she stepped from the shop, hands empty of her possessions. Dumarest moved quickly to remain out of sight, following her as she headed toward the rendezvous, catching her up when he was certain she had not been followed.

"Earl!" She looked up as he caught her arm. "I thought we were to meet in the restaurant."

"I changed my mind." A cab halted at his signal. "We'll go to Dekart Heights."

It was a place of scented shrubs and flowering trees, of emerald sward dotted with the fallen stars of golden blooms. A lake stretched beyond a park set with miniature pavilions graced with fretted pennants and hung with chiming bells. A place for lovers wishing to be alone. For conspirators afraid of being overheard.

"Earl!" she said as he guided her to a seat. "Oh, Earl!"

"You failed-it is written on your face."

"No, that is, I-" She calmed beneath the touch of his hand. "Luck, my darling, a coincidence, but they happen and when they do so many problems can be solved."

And so many created, but he didn't mention that.

"What happened?"

He listened as she told him, the chime of bells a delicate accompaniment to her voice. She had entered the shop as planned and, as expected, Ahdram had remembered her from her previous visit. But the man had not been alone. Another was with him with paintings for sale.

"I recognized them, Earl. The technique is unmistakable. The work of the artist I need to find."

Need? A subconscious betrayal which Dumarest noted.

"So everything was simple. You asked the man who the artist was and where to find him."

"No. As I told you things aren't done that way in the field of art. Even to admit to an interest is to arouse suspicion that the work is of higher value than previously thought."

"So?"

"I kept to our original plan. It worked up to a point but I had to wait until the stranger had left Ahdram and me alone. His greed made him show me the cube and I accused him of theft. He was distraught and offered restitution and recompense-the cunning bastard!"

Dumarest said dryly, "He found out what you wanted and offered to help-and demanded a price for his aid."

"You know?"

"I guessed. Dealers are much the same and Ahdram had to be shrewd in order to survive." An expert in a field in which she was an amateur. "The cube?"

"And the jewelry." A bracelet of ornate workmanship set with brilliant gems. "He demanded them both in return for information and I had no choice but to agree." Her hands clenched, the knuckles taut beneath the skin, the nails making small crescents in the flesh of her palms. "The swine!"

"He cheated you? He lied?"

"No," she said bitterly. "He didn't lie. The paintings were genuine and he told me how he got them. But he was playing with me-they don't come from Juba at all!"