Melome

CHAPTER EIGHT

Valaban said, "Settle down, Earl. The way you pace about is making me nervous. Quit it before you disturb the beasts."

Good advice and Dumarest took it, taking his place beside the old man on a bench. Around him stretched the cavernous area beneath the stands, one split and sectioned to avoid waste, the part reserved for the animals thick with smells.

He drew them into his nostrils, recognizing the tang of sweat, dung, oils, embrocation, urine. An odor too similar to another he knew but this, at least, was free of the reek of blood.

"You're restless," said Valaban. "I can sense it and so can the animals. Here." He held out a bottle. "Take a drink of this-it will calm you."

"Thanks." Dumarest took the bottle, held it to his lips, threw back his head and pretended to drink. Handing it back he said, "So you never met Chen Wei. Who owned the circus before Shakira?"

"Damned if I know." Valaban frowned at the single lamp which illuminated the area. A pool of light in a darkness edged with cages and gleaming, watchful eyes. "It was a long time ago now. Maybe Chen Wei did, I only said I'd never met him. Burski hired me. He got himself killed on Daleth-a fight over a woman as I remember, then Shakira took over. That must be, oh, close to thirty years ago."

A long time in a transient society and if Valaban lacked the answers they weren't to be found.

He stiffened as noise came from a cage, relaxing as it died.

"The klachen," he grunted. "The damned thing's more trouble than it's worth. Zucco must have been crazy to take it on."

"Maybe he likes its rider?" A lithe young girl with a rounded face and slanted, enigmatic eyes, she danced on the platform of the creature's back with stunning agility. "Is he like that?"

"What man isn't if he gets the chance?" Valaban shrugged. "But Kiki's too tame for him, too docile. He likes strength in a woman, something he can beat down, use, conquer. I guess you know what he is."

"I know."

"Then you know enough to be careful. Stay away from him. Maybe he'll forget you're around."

A warning? Dumarest looked at Valaban, studying the seamed face, the sunken eyes. An old man with an inner wisdom who would see more than he admitted and know more than he was willing to tell. But some information had been gained; small details which added to build a picture. Zucco, for example, a man who had joined the circus some five years earlier and who seemed to possess no special skills. One who had climbed fast and high. Dumarest wondered why.

"You're good, Earl," said Valaban. "I appreciate you helping me out. You've a way with animals. Some have it and some don't and no one knows just what it is. Trust, maybe, or just an absence of fear. You don't scare them." He frowned as, again, the klachen kicked at the bars of its cage.

Dumarest said, "When the circus moves do the beasts go with it?"

"Not all. We sell them off for breeding stock mostly, that's why none of the males has been neutered. Most can easily be trained but some can't. The cats, for instance, they come from Flyte. Special mutated stock bred for guardians. You know Flyte?"

"No."

"It's a prison world. Jungle and cleared areas ringed with wire. Outside the cats are allowed to roam free. Sometimes a prisoner tries to escape and when he does the authorities write him off. The cats get him," Valaban explained. "Use him for sport. If he's lucky he dies fast."

"Has Reiza had them long?"

"Since they were kittens. Shakira bought them for her. I cut their claws and blunted their fangs and she used to sleep with them. To build an affinity, you understand. Before they will obey they must accept her as one of themselves." Valaban paused then added, "Maybe she became more like them than she realized. A creature of whims and fancies and sudden impulses. Hayter said that once." He glanced at Dumarest. "You know about Hayter?"

"Her dead lover? Yes, I know. The cats killed him, didn't they?"

Valaban took a sip from his bottle and lowered it to stare at the lamp.

"Hayter was a good man and I liked him. The cats ripped out his life but I figure he was dead before he entered the ring. His mind wasn't on the job which was bad enough but I think there was something more. An animal," he said. "But walking on two legs like a man."

Zucco? A possibility, he had become Reiza's lover and Hayter's death had been a convenient accident. If it had been an accident.

Dumarest said, casually, "I've heard of such things. Used them at times when hunting for a living. A special mix which attracts the prey. A scent they can't resist and I suppose you could make one which would induce an attack. Was it something like that?"

"Maybe."

"You didn't spot it?"

"Hayter was covered in blood and his stomach was a mess. The stink was enough to cover all others but I remember, just before he went into the ring, he dabbed at his face with a cloth. To dry the sweat, I guess, but he could have been putting something on as well as taking it off."

"Did you tell any of this to Shakira?"

"I tried but he didn't seem to want to listen. And who am I to go up against his man? Not that I give a damn for any of them. With my skills I can go anywhere. Every farmer will want a man who can handle his beasts and this isn't the only circus in the galaxy." Valaban used his bottle again. "Maybe it's time to quit the way it's being run."

"Zucco?"

"It's not just him. Every circus needs a strong ringmaster but there are other things."

"Like too many empty seats?"

"You've noticed," said Valaban. "The take's too low. We've been here too long and lost our novelty. We should be up and moving to greener fields. In the old days this place would be on its way by now. The animals sold, acts thinned, half the tents deflated and packed. We even started-" He broke off, rearing to his feet as the klachen screamed its rage. "What the hell's going on?"

Metal clanged and, suddenly, the creature was before them.

It was the size of a horse, scaled, the head like that of a lizard. A vestigial tail ended in a knotted mass of bone and spine, the feet tipped with round and blunted claws. Beneath the hide and across the broad platform of its back muscle rippled in smoothly coordinated motion.

"Freeze!" Valaban's voice, while gentle, held the snap of command. "Something's scared it. Move and you'll make it worse. Leave this to me." He faced the animal, talking as he moved slowly toward the creature. "Easy, now. Easy. Just rest easy, now. Easy."

Words which became a soothing drone directed at the lifted head, the orifices of the ears. A demonstration of his skill, the talent which gave him mastery over the majority of animals. Dumarest remembered a man he'd once known who could calm the most frenzied horse by whispering in its ear. Valaban had the same attribute but the klachen wasn't a horse and, if it charged, the old man would be dead.

And Dumarest knew it would charge.

Knew it with the instinct which had served him so often before. Even as Valaban stepped closer Dumarest was on the move. A lunge which closed the space between them, sent his shoulder slamming into the other man, hurling him down and to one side.

Falling beside him as the beast tore past where he had stood.

"Earl! I-"

"Your bottle!" Dumarest climbed to his feet. He didn't look at the other man. "Give me your bottle!"

His knife was in his hand ready to slash and stab but used it would fill the air with the scent of fresh blood. An odor which would madden the other beasts within the area into a destructive outburst. Already they deafened him with their snarls and growls, the metallic clash as they fought the confines of their cages.

"Leave this to me, Earl." Valaban, shaken, was on his feet beside Dumarest. "I know how to handle it."

"Get close and it will kill you." Dumarest pointed to where the klachen stood, head weaving, nostrils dilated as it snuffed the air. "You can't move fast enough to dodge. Now give me that bottle and your blouse. Or something to hold the liquid. Move!"

Time was against them. The creature, disturbed, could run amok. But to wait was to allow its fear to build, to explode in a killing fury.

"Here!" Valaban handed over the bottle and a blanket. He watched as Dumarest tore loose the cork and spilled the fluid over the material. "You going to blind it?"

"I'm going to try." Dumarest sheathed his knife. "Stand ready. Once I get this over its head it'll start to rear. When it calms run forward and do your stuff."

He edged forward before Valaban could answer, the blanket in his hands, booted feet silent on the floor. As the scaled head turned toward him he froze, standing motionless until the ruby eyes had moved away. Closer, he froze again, the blanket held high before him, the smell of the fluid masking his scent. As the head turned away he was running, jumping high to land on the broad back, the blanket falling to wrap around the head, blinding the eyes.

As it settled the klachen exploded into violent action.

Dumarest felt the surge and lift of muscle, the jarring impact as the creature landed. He slipped, almost fell as the beast reared, clamped his legs tight as it darted forward and came to a sudden halt. A moment in which he tasted blood and felt the strain on nerve and sinew then the animal was rearing again, the tail lashing to free itself of the rider on its back.

"Earl! Watch it!"

Dumarest heard Valaban's yell of warning and felt the blow which scraped over his spine. One which would have knocked him to the ground with a shattered back if he hadn't heaved himself forward to lock his thighs around the base of the klachen's neck. A hold he maintained as the creature threshed beneath him, stooping forward to wrap the blanket over the jaws, twisting to clamp them shut. Locking the fabric with his left hand he pressed his right over the nostrils, blocking the passage of air and filling the beast's lungs with the fumes of Valaban's bottle.

Choked, near to asphyxiation, the creature slowed its wild lungings, came at last to a quivering rest.

"You've got it," said Valaban. "You can leave the rest to me." He came close, moving the blanket as Dumarest released his grip, his voice low as he stroked the scaled head.

Dumarest watched, waiting, then as the old man looked up and nodded he slid from his position to land softly at the side of the klachen. As Valaban continued to soothe the beast he stepped over to its cage.

The lock was simple but far too sophisticated to ever be released by an animal. Dumarest checked the cage and the area around it. The rear was masked in shadows which blurred detail and he stood among them looking toward the bench and the single lamp. Someone with a stick could easily have opened the cage without being seen. He moved farther back to where a wall rested close to the bars. The smooth surface gaped in a long, vertical cut. Dumarest fingered the material; thin plastic meant only for a flimsy screen. At the base of the cut a silken scarf rested like a smear of yellow.

One bearing a perfume he recognized.

"Reiza's." Valaban snuffed at the fabric. "That's her perfume."

"You certain?"

"She wears it like a brand. It's hers all right." Valaban glowered at the scarf. "Expensive stuff. Zucco bought her a bottle once and she's worn nothing else since. But why would she want to open the cage?"

Dumarest said, dryly, "One reason might be to kill you."

"Not Reiza. Why should she want that?"

"Someone opened the cage," said Dumarest. "That same person must have tormented the klachen. Whoever it was knew that you'd come running when it screamed."

"And if it hadn't been for you I'd be dead by now." Valaban drew in his breath, the scarf ripping between his hands. "Cats," he said bitterly. "You can make a fuss of them, spoil them, talk to them and make them purr. They'll let you stroke them and scratch their ears and roll over all as friendly and nice as you could want. Then, as you turn, they'll rip out your spine." The shredded scarf fell to lie at his feet. "Cats and women-you can't trust either."

In the crowd a girl was crying; big tears running over rounded cheeks, a fuzzy-haired doll clutched to the faded dress she wore. She seemed lost and afraid and looking at the adult world with brimming blue eyes.

"Hello, there!" Dumarest knelt before her. "Can't find your way?"

"I turned," she sobbed. "And when I looked back they were gone."

"Your mother and father?"

"And Ingred and Uncle Mac. I've looked and looked but they've vanished. They've left me!" The tears ran faster over her cheeks. "I'm all alone!"

A small tragedy and one easily resolved but, to the child, a frightening experience.

"We'll find them," promised Dumarest. "Would you like to ride on my shoulder? Could you hang on?" He straightened as she nodded. "Right then. Ready? Up we go!"

A lift and she was perched high, the doll firm beneath one arm, the other locked around his neck. A clown called to her and waved, another whistled; novelties which dried her tears as Dumarest walked down the gallery toward the information desk. The woman on duty smiled.

"Another lost one? Well, set her down." She waved to where a cushioned area held a few stuffed animals, a ball, some scattered toys. "What's your name, dear? Celi? That's a nice name." She looked at Dumarest. "I can take care of this now. Thanks for bringing her."

He nodded and walked on. The crowd was thin for the time of day; late afternoon was prime for those on vacation or with a day off from work. Later would be better but if it was like the pattern of others, it would be far from what was desired. Poor attendances led to bad performances from those operating the sideshows. Already most would be grumbling.

Krystyna would be one of them.

Only a couple of clients waited outside her booth instead of the normal dozen and they were a pair wanting a joint reading. They dived through the flap as a woman emerged to stand, looking vaguely about, blinking as she saw Dumarest.

"Tall," she murmured. "All in gray-how did she know?"

A glimpse caught from a mirror reflecting the external scene and Dumarest could guess what the woman had been told. A stranger, waiting, who could guide her on her way. One who would steer her decision.

She said, "Pardon me, but could you-I mean, would you help me? She," a hand lifted to gesture toward the booth, "She said you would."

"How can I help?"

"Give me a color. Black or blond. Quickly now."

"Black." She was a brunette, young, and it was easy to guess torn with indecision over an emotional affair. Two suitors-which should she choose? The old woman had craftily avoided any chance of being placed in the wrong.

"Black-that's Marek. I'm glad. So glad!" Her smile was radiant. "Thank you. Thank you so much!"

For telling her what she had wanted to hear. Dumarest watched her move away then thrust himself into the booth as the couple left. It was as he remembered; a shadowed dimness lit by a single, guttering flame. In her chair the cowled figure waited, silent as he slipped into the chair.

"Give me your hand."

He extended it, frowning, the voice though dry was not as he remembered. He caught the hand which moved toward his palm, gripped it, held it as he threw back the shielding cowl.

"Where's Krystyna?"

"Please!" The girl was young, her face marred by furrows which had torn her cheek and ruined her nose and upper lip. "The cowl."

Dumarest watched as the face disappeared into kindly darkness. An apprentice or someone filling in. The former, he guessed, for someone so scarred and lacking the funds to have the damage repaired opportunities of earning a living would be few.

She said, "If you want a reading give me your hand."

"No, give me yours." He heard the sudden intake of her breath as he ran a coin over her palm. "You've been badly taught, girl. Always have your hand crossed with silver before doing anything else. Here." He dropped the coin into her palm. "Where's Krystyna?"

"Resting."

"At this time of day?" He guessed the reason. "Is she just tired-or sick?"

He knew the answer as soon as he stepped into the cubicle she called home.

"The doctor," he snapped at the girl who had guided him. "Run to the infirmary and get medical aid."

Alone he stooped over the narrow cot and the supine figure it contained. Devoid of her shielding cowl the old woman looked like a mummified corpse. The skull was bald but for a few wisps of straggling white hair, the skin creped and looking like leather. The eyes opened as Dumarest touched the scrawny throat.

"Water! I thirst! Give me water!"

A plea couched in a whisper which he barely heard. A small table stood beside the bed containing a decanter of water, a glass, a small bottle of some volatile liquid. A few crumbs lay scattered on a scrap of brightly colored paper; the remains of a snack bought at one of the stalls.

Dumarest poured the glass half-full, sniffed at it, held it to the parched lips. She drank as he supported her, lifting her almost upright, laying her back as she finished the water.

"You shouldn't be alone," he said. "I've sent for help."

"Which I don't need-and my own company's good enough."

"I'll pay for it." Dumarest guessed the reason for her objections. Quietly he added, "Who put you up to it, Mother?"

"What?" Her eyes were suddenly bright, wary. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes you do."

"No, I-" She licked her lips. "My head hurts and I've a burning in my stomach. Leave me. I must sleep."

"The reading," he said. "Reiza brought me to you, remember? Who told you what to say?"

"A reading? You want a reading?" Her hand fumbled beneath her pillow and returned bearing the familiar deck. "Shuffle. You have to shuffle."

Dumarest said, harshly, "Quit trying to con me. I've handled an arcana deck too often not to know when one has been stripped. The pack I shuffled was too thin. You'd selected the right cards and made the switch after I'd finished with them." He leaned closer to the withered face. "Who told you to do it? Who told you what to say?"

The skull-like head rolled a little as, again, Krystyna licked her lips.

"Water! God! I burn!"

Dumarest could feel the heat of her as he lifted the thin body with his left hand. Water dribbled from the glass over her chin, spattering as it fell to her chest.

"Help's coming," he said as he put her down. "The girl is getting the doctor." And taking too long about it or the man was hard to find. "Now tell me who gave you the orders."

"Orders?"

"About the cards." Dumarest forced himself to be patient. The woman, old, afflicted by what ailed her, could be finding it hard to concentrate. "The reading. Reiza brought me to you. Who arranged with you to make the switch?" A thing easily done in the guttering candlelight; cards placed on the pack he'd shuffled from where they'd been kept hidden in a wide sleeve of the robe. "Who told you what to say?"

"Eh?"

"Who told you what to say?" The important question, one he repeated. "Who told you what to say? Tell me, damn you! Tell me!"

She responded to the raw anger in his tone, trying to rise in the bed, gasping as he supported her. Cards riffled from the gnarled hands to lie in a scatter on the bed, the floor. One lay face-up on her chest. The depiction of an hourglass.

Time-for him it was running out.

"Krystyna!" Dumarest leaned over her, fingers searching, finding no movement beneath the dry texture of her skin. "Krystyna!"

She was dying, already dead, showing no sign of a pulse in neck or wrist. Dumarest lowered his hands, thrust his clenched fists hard beneath the breastbone in a series of impacts against the heart. As again he made to check her pulse the doctor burst into the cubicle.

"Here, let me!"

He was skilled, fast and efficient, working with drugs, a hissing hypogun, trained massage. For long minutes Dumarest could do nothing but stand and watch.

Then, as the doctor straightened, shaking his head, the girl who had followed him into the cubicle said, "Will she be all right now?"

"No, I'm afraid not. She's dead."

"Dead?" Her voice rose a little. "But she was just tired and wanted to rest for a while. How can she be dead?"

The doctor glanced at Dumarest then at the girl. Gently he said, "It happens, my dear. Krystyna was very old. She could have gone at any time."

"But-"

"There's no more I can do." At the door the doctor paused, turning to look back at the dead woman. "I'll send men to take care of things. The best thing you can do, my dear, is to get back to work."

To the booth and the anodyne of effort. Dumarest caught her by the arm as the girl headed toward the door.

"Do you know if she was close to anyone in the circus? Or if anyone had a hold over her?"

"Krystyna? No." Her eyes were moist, soon the tears would flow. "Everyone loved her."

"That food." Dumarest nodded at the crumbs and paper. "Did you bring it to her?"

"No." Her lower lip began to tremble. Her head turned from him, hands rising to mask the ruin of her face. "Let me go now. Please let me go!"

He heard the fading noise of her running feet and turned for a last look at the cubicle, the body it contained. One surrounded by the cards she had used, one still held in her stiffening fingers.

Dumarest pulled it free and looked at the coils, the raised head, the iridescent scales. The Snake-the symbol of lies.