The Jester at Scar

Chapter One

In the lamplight, the woman's face was drawn, anxious. "Earl," she said. "Earl, please wake up."

Dumarest opened his eyes, immediately alert. "What is it?"

"Men," she said, "moving outside. I thought I heard noises from the street, screams and the sound of laughter." The guttering flame of the lamp threw patches of moving shadow across her face as she straightened from the side of the bed. "Cruel laughter, it had an ugly sound."

He frowned, listening and hearing nothing but the normal violence of the night. "A dream," he suggested. "A trick of the wind."

"No." She was emphatic. "I've lived on this world too long to be mistaken. I heard something unnatural, the noise of men searching, perhaps. But it was there; I didn't imagine it."

Dumarest threw back the covers and rose, the soft lamp light shining on his hard, white skin and accentuating the thin scars of old wounds. The interior of the hut was reeking with damp, the ground soggy beneath his bare feet. He took his clothes from the couch and quickly dressed in pants, knee-high boots and a sleeved tunic which fell to mid-thigh. Carefully he fastened the high collar around his throat. From beneath the pillow he took a knife and sheathed it in his right boot.

"Listen." said the woman urgently. The lamp was a bowl of translucent plastic containing oil and a floating wick. It shook a little in her hand. "Listen!"

He tensed, ears straining against the ceaseless drum of rain, the gusting sough of wind. The wind slackened a little then blew with redoubled force, sending a fine spray of rain through the poorly constructed walls of the shack. More rain came through the sloping, unguttered roof and thin streams puddled the floor. Among such a medley of sounds it would be easy to imagine voices.

Relaxing, Dumarest glanced at the woman. She stood tall, the lamp now steady in her hand. Her eyes were set wide apart, deep beneath their brows; thick, brown hair had been cropped close to her rounded skull. Her hands were slim and delicate, but her figure was concealed by the motley collection of clothing she wore for warmth and protection. Beyond her a few embers glowed in an open fireplace built of stone. Dumarest crossed to it, dropped to his knees beside a box and fed scraps of fuel from the box to the embers. Flames rose, flickered and illuminated the woman's home.

It wasn't much. The bed where he'd slept was in one corner of the single room which was about ten feet by twelve. A curtain, now drawn back, split the single room in half during times of rest. The woman's couch rested in the far corner beyond the curtain. A table, benches and chests, all of rough construction, completed the furnishings. The walls were of stones bedded in dirt; uprights supported the sagging roof. Against the dirt and stone, fragments of brightly colored plastic-sheeting merged with salvaged wrappings from discarded containers.

Smoke wafted from the burning fuel and made him cough.

"Quiet!" warned the woman. She turned to Dumarest. "They're coming back," she said. "I can hear them."

He rose, listened and heard the squelch of approaching footsteps.

They halted, and something hard slammed against the barred door.

"Open!" The voice was flat and harsh. "We are travelers in need of shelter; open before we drown."

Lamplight glittered from her eyes. "Earl?"

"A moment." Dumarest stepped quietly forward and stood beside the door. It would open inward and away from where he stood, giving him a clear field if action should it be necessary. His hand dipped to his boot and rose bearing nine inches of razor-sharp steel. "Don't argue with them," he said softly. "Just open the door and step back a little. Don't look towards me. Hold the lamp above your head."

She glanced at the knife held sword-fashion in his hand. "And you?"

"That depends." His face was expressionless. "If they are genuine travelers seeking accommodation, send them on their way; or take them in if you prefer their company to mine. If they are besotted fools looking for something to entertain them, they will leave when they discover there is nothing for them here. If not…" He shrugged. "Open the door."

Wind gusted as she swung open the panel, driving in a spray of rain and the ubiquitous smell of the planet. From outside grated a voice, harsh against the wind.

"Hold, Brephor. No need to knock again. You there, woman, your name is Selene?"

"Yes."

"And you sell food and shelter. That, at least, was what we were told." The voice became impatient. "Step forward and show yourself; I have no wish to talk to shadows."

Silently she obeyed, moving the lamp so as to let the guttering light shine on her face; she remained impassive at the sound of sharply indrawn breath.

"Acid," she said evenly. "I was contaminated with parasitical spores on the face and neck; there was no time to consider my beauty. It was a matter of burning them away or watching me die. Sometimes I think they made the wrong decision." The lamp trembled a little as she fought old memories. "But I forget myself, gentlemen. You are in need. What is your pleasure?"

"With you? Nothing." Boots squelched in mud as the speaker turned from the doorway. "Come, Brephor. We waste our time."

"A moment, Hendris You decide too fast." The second voice was indolent, purring with the sadistic anticipation of a hunting feline. "The woman has a scarred face, true, but is it essential that a man look at her face? Such a disfigurement, to some, could even be attractive. I am sure that you follow my thought, Hendris. If the face is bad. the rest of her could be most interesting."

Hendris was sharp. "You scent something, Brephor?"

"Perhaps." His indolence sharpened into something ugly. The purr became a snarl as Brephor loomed in tho doorway. "Tell me woman how do you live?"

"I sell food and shelter," she said flatly. "And the monks are kind."

"The monks? Those beggars of the Church of Universal Brotherhood?" His laugh was a sneer. "They feed you?"

"They give what they can."

"And that is enough? No," he mused answering himself. "It cannot be enough; the monks do not give all to one and nothing to another. You need food and oil, fuel and clothing, medicines too, perhaps. In order to survive you need more than the monks can provide." He extended his hand; the back was covered with a fine down. Steel had been wedded to the fingernails; the metal was razor-edged and needle-pointed. The tips pricked her skin. "Speak truthfully, woman, or I will close my hand and tear out your throat. You need lodgers in order to survive; is that not so?"

She swallowed, not answering. Spots of blood shone like tiny rubies at the points of steel.

"We will assume that it is so," purred Brephor from where he stood in darkness. "And yet when we, two travelers, come seeking food and shelter, we are repulsed. You did not invite us in out of the rain; you did not suggest terms; you were not even curious as to how we knew both your name and business. But that is acceptable. You are dependent on publicity and offer a commission to those who send you clients." The spots of blood grew, swelling to break and fall in widening streams from the lacerating claws. "I scent a mystery, woman. You are in business, but have no time for customers. Perhaps you no longer need to sell food and shelter. It could be that you have someone now to provide, someone lurking in the darkness." The purr hardened and became vicious. "Tell me, woman!"

"Tell him," said Dumarest as he stepped from where he stood against the wall. The reaction was immediate. Brephor straightened his arm with a jerk, sending the woman staggering backwards, the lamp flickering as, she fought to retain her balance. As she stumbled he sprang through the doorway, landed and turned to face Dumarest.

"So," he purred. "Our friend who lurks in shadows. The brave man who stands and watches as his woman is molested. Tell me, coward, what is your name?"

Silently Dumarest studied the intruder. His eyes were huge beneath lowering brows, ears slightly pointed, mouth pursed over prominent canines. His face and neck were covered with the same fine down as the backs of his hands. Brephor was a cat-man, a mutated sport from some lonely world, the genes of his forebears jumbled by radiation. He would be fast and vicious, a stranger to the concept of mercy, a stranger also to the concept of obedience.

"I asked you a question, coward," he said. "What is your name?"

"Dumarest," said Earl, "a traveler like yourself." He lifted his left hand so as to draw attention away from his right and the knife held tight against his leg. The ring he wore caught the light, the flat, red stone glowing like a pool of freshly spilled blood. Brephor looked at it and flared his nostrils.

Abruptly he attacked.

Metal flashed as he raked his claws at Dumarest's eyes. At the same time his free hand reached out to trap the knife and his knee jerked up and forward in a vicious blow at the groin. Dumarest swayed backwards, twisting and lifting his knife beyond reach. He felt something touch his cheek, falling to tear at his tunic and becoming a furred and sinewy wrist as he caught it with his left hand. The stabbing knee thudded against his thigh and, for a moment, Brephor was off balance.

Immediately Dumarest swung up the knife and thrust along the line of the arm. driving the blade clean into the cat-man's neck just below the ear; he twisted it so as to free the steel. The force of the impact sent them both towards the door. Dumarest regained his balance, jerked free the knife and sent the dead man toppling from the hut.

A face showed as a pale blob against the darkness, lit by the small flame of the lamp within the hut. Something bright rose as the woman screamed a warning.

"Earl! He's got a gun!"

Fire spat from the muzzle of the weapon as Dumarest threw the knife. He saw the face fall away, the hilt sprouting from one eye and a ribbon of blood running down to the ruff of beard. The blood was immediately washed away by the rain.

"Be careful!" Selene lifted the lamp, sheltering the flame. "There could be others."

He ignored her, springing from the doorway to recover the knife. Rain hammered at his unprotected head, slammed against the shoulders of his tunic and sent little spurts of mud leaping up from the semi-liquid ooze. In seconds it had washed the blade clean. Dumarest sheathed it and looked to either side; he saw nothing but darkness relieved only by the weak glimmers of light coming from behind scraps of transparent plastic or through cracks in disintegrating walls.

"Earl-"

"Give me the lamp," he snapped, "quickly!"

The flame danced as he held it close to the faces of the dead men. Hendris had none of the characteristics of his companion, but that meant little. They could have come from different worlds. If they had grown up together it still meant nothing. If Brephor was the norm, then Hendris could have been an atavist; if Hendris was the norm, Brephor would have been a freak. Both, to Dumarest, were strangers.

He found the gun and examined it. It was a simple slug-thrower of cheap manufacture and used an explosive to drive the solid projectile. Dumarest threw it into the darkness. It was useless without matching ammunition and a laser was far more efficient. Handing the lamp back to Selene: he dragged both men into the shelter of the hut. Straightening, he looked at the woman.

"If you want anything, take it," he said. "But don't waste time doing it."

She hesitated.

"Strip them," he said curtly. "Are you so rich you can afford to throw away things of value?"

"You know I'm not. Earl," she protested. "But if I take things which may later be recognized by a friend, I shall be blamed for having caused their deaths."

"Men like these have no friends," he said flatly. "Let's see what they were carrying."

The clothes were ordinary, but of a better quality than they seemed. There was money, a phial of drugs from Brephor, spare clips of ammunition for the discarded gun of the bearded man, and five rings of varying quality and size, all with red stones. Also there were a couple of sleeve knives and an igniter and flashlight with a self-charging cell, but nothing more of interest or value.

Dumarest frowned as he examined the rings. "Odd," he mused. "Why should they want to collect rings?"

"They were robbers," said the woman, "raiders. They saw your ring and thought to take it."

Slowly Dumarest shook his head.

"They were spoiling for trouble," she insisted. "The cat-man must have sensed your presence. He was a killer desiring sport." Her finger touched the phial of drugs. "Doped," she said. "Riding high, and fast! When he went for your eyes his hand was a blur. If you hadn't been even faster he would have torn out your eyes."

That was true enough. Dumarest opened the phial and cautiously tasted the contents. A euphoric, he guessed, probably wedded to slow-time so that the effect of the drug would be enhanced by the actual speeding up of the metabolism. If so, Brephor's speed was understandable; time, to him, had slowed so that he could do more in a second than could a normal man.

Dumarest sealed the phial and threw it on the table. "Why?" he demanded. "Why should they have come here as they did? They weren't looking for shelter: they had enough money to buy that at the station. And they know you had someone staying at your home."

"Coincidence," she said. "They were looking for sport and changed their minds when they saw my face."

"They were looking for something," he agreed. "The cat-man attacked as soon as he saw my ring." He looked at it, a warm patch against his finger, and idly ran his thumb over the stone. "They had five rings," he mused, "all with red stones. Did five men die to supply them?"

"They were raiders." she insisted stubbornly, "men who hoped to rob and kill in the cover of the night."

"Yes," said Dumarest. "You are probably correct." He looked at the pile of clothing and the small heap of the dead men's possessions. "Take it." he said, "all of it."

Her eyes fell to where the two bodies lay sprawled on the floor. "And those?"

"Leave them to me."

The huts were built on the slope of a valley, the only feasible place on a planet where the rain fell with the relentless force it did on Scar. All through the thirty-day winter the skies emptied their burden of water, the rain washing away the soil, garbage and refuse, carrying it down to the valley which was now a small sea of ooze.

Dumarest picked up the cat-man; his muscles bulged beneath his tunic as he supported the weight. Cautiously, he walked through the cluster of shacks to where the ground fell abruptly away from beneath his feet. He heaved, waited, and turned when he heard the splash of the body. The bearded man followed, sinking into the morass, food for the parasitical fungi, the bacteria and the anaerobic spores.

Slowly Dumarest walked back to the hut. The door was open, the guttering flame of the lamp illuminating the interior and casting a patch of brightness on the mud outside. He paused at the opening; the dead men's effects had vanished from sight. Selene looked at him from where she stood beside the table.

"You're leaving," she said, "going to the station, back to the field."

Dumarest nodded. "You don't need me," he said, "not now, and it's almost spring. I would have been leaving in any case."

Her hand rose and touched the scar on the side of her face, the seared and puckered blotch which ran over cheek and neck. "You don't have to go, Earl. You know that."

"I know it."

"Then-"

"Goodbye, Selene."

He was three steps away from the hut when she slammed the door.

* * *

The rain eased a little as he climbed the slope towards the landing field where the only really permanent buildings on the planet were clustered. Here were the warehouses, the stores, the factor's post, processing plant, commissary and the raised and sheltered dwellings of Hightown. They were empty now. Tourists came only at the beginning of summer, but others resided all the year round.

One of the buildings, built solidly of fused stone and with a transparent roof which could be darkened during the time of sun and heat, shone like a lambent pearl in the darkness. Underfoot the yielding mud gave way to a solid surface and Dumarest lengthened his stride. Light shone on a trough of running water and he stepped into it, washing the slime from his boots before reaching for the door. Hot air blasted as he stepped into the vestibule; the air was replaced by a spray of sterilizing compounds as he shut the door. Three seconds later the spray ceased and the inner door swung open.

"Earl!" A man lifted his hand in greeting as Dumarest stepped from the vestibule. He sat at a table littered with cards, dice, chips and a marked cloth. Three hemispheres of plastic about an inch wide stood ranked before him on the table. "Care to play?"

"Later," said Dumarest.

"Well, come and test my skill." The gambler was a jovial man with a round paunch and thick, deceptively agile fingers. Busily he moved the three hemispheres. Under one he slipped a small ball, moved them all and looked questioningly at Dumarest. "Well? Where is it?"

Dumarest reached out and touched one of the shells.

"Wrong! Try again."

"Later, Ewan."

"You'll come back?"

Dumarest nodded and moved across the room. Tables and chairs littered the floor. An open bar stood against one wall, a closed canteen against another. The remaining space was filled with counters fashioned for display. Men sat or sprawled and talked in low whispers or moved languidly about. Del Meoud, the local factor, sat at a table and brooded over his glass. He wore the bright colors of his guild, which gave him a spurious appearance of youth; but his face was etched with deep lines beneath the stylized pattern of his beard.

His eyes flickered as Dumarest approached him.

"Join me," he invited. Then, as Dumarest took the proffered chair he said, "I warned you: do a woman a favor and she will reward you with anger. Your face," he explained. "You were lucky that she did not get an eye."

Dumarest touched his cheek and looked at the blood on his fingers. He remembered the razor-edged steel Brephor had flung at his eyes. Looking down he saw scratches in the gray plastic of his tunic. They were deep enough to reveal the gleam of protective mesh buried in the material. He dabbed again at his cheek.

"Let it bleed," advised the factor. "Who knows what hell-spore may have settled on the wound?"

"In winter?"

"Winter, spring, summer-Scar lives up to its name." Meoud reached for his bottle. "Join me," he invited. "A man should never drink alone, not when he is haunted by specters of the past." He filled a second glass and pushed it towards his guest. "I was the second highest in my class," he mourned. "Everyone predicted a brilliant future for me in the guild. It seemed that I could do no wrong. So tell me, friend, what am I doing on this isolated world?"

"Growing old." said Dumarest dryly. "You had too much luck, all of it bad."

Meoud drank, refilled his glass and drank again. "No," he said bitterly, "not bad luck, a bad woman-a girl with hair of shimmering gold and skin of sun-kissed velvet, slim, lithe, a thing of sun and summer-she danced on my heart and brought nothing but sorrow."

Dumarest sipped his wine. It had the harsh, arid taste of the local production and still contained the drifting motes of unfiltered spores.

"She gave me a modicum of pleasure," continued the factor, "but I paid for it with a mountain of pain. A high price, my friend, but I was young and proud, and ambition rode me like a man rides an animal." The bottle made small crystalline noises as he helped himself to more wine. "Was it so wrong to be ambitious? Without it, what is life? We are not beasts to be born and breed and wait for death. Always we must reach a little higher, strive to obtain a little more, travel a little faster. The philosophy of living, ambition!"

He drank and set down the empty glass. Reaching for the bottle he found it empty and irritably ordered another. He poured the glasses full as the barman walked away.

"Her father was the Manager of Marque," he said.

"True, she was but his seventeenth daughter, yet she was still of the ruling house. I thought my fortune assured when I contracted for her hand-the influence, the high associations! The guild is kind to those who have influence in high places, kinder still to those with connections with rulers. I tell you, my friend, for a time I walked on golden clouds." Meoud drank. "It was a dream," he said bitterly. "All I had accomplished was to engineer my own ruin."

Dumarest thought he understood. "She left you?"

"She made me bankrupt," corrected the factor. "On Marque a husband is responsible for the debts of his wife. The guild saved me from bondage, but I ended with nothing: no wife, no position, nothing but a limited charity. And so I wait on Scar."

"Brooding," said Dumarest, "dreaming of what might have been, obsessed with past opportunities and past mistakes, looking back instead of forward. You surprise me-a man of business to be so sentimental! How many of your guild suffer from such weakness?"

"How many travelers chase a legend?" Meoud was sharp. He had drunk too deeply and confessed too much, but the winter dragged and the future was bleak. "I have heard the stories, my friend. I know why you chose to live in Lowtown instead of taking a cubicle here at the station, of your searching and questioning. Earth," he said. "How can a world have such a name? It has no meaning. All planets are made of earth. Why not then call Scar dirt, or soil, or loam, or even ground? It would make as much sense."

Dumarest looked down at his hand where it was clenched around the glass. "Earth is no legend," he said flatly. "The planet is real and, one day, I shall find it."

"A legend." Meoud poured them both more wine. "Is that what brought you to Scar?"

"I was on Crane," said Dumarest. "Before that on Zagazin, on Toom, on Hope,"-he looked at his ring- "on Solis and before that…" He shrugged. "Does it matter? The ship which carried me here was the first to leave when I sought passage on Crane."

Meoud frowned. "And you took it? Just like that?"

"Why not? It was heading in the right direction, out, away from the center. The stars are thin as seen from Earth."

"As they are from many lonely worlds," pointed out the factor.

"True," admitted Dumarest. "But it was a world with a blue sky by day and a silver moon by night; the stars made patterns which wheeled across the sky. I shall recognize them when I see them again. In the meantime, if you should hear anyone speak of Earth, you will let me know?"

Meoud nodded, staring into his glass. I should tell him, he thought, convince him that he is chasing an illusion, a dream world fabricated when he was a child as a region in which to escape harsh reality. But who am I to rob a man of his dream, his dream and his reason for existence?

He lifted his glass and drank, knowing that some things are best left unsaid.

Dumarest left the factor to the consolation of his wine. The buildings of the station were dreary with winter inactivity, the residents those who had to stay from reasons of investment or duty. Others, whom the vagaries of space travel had brought early to the planet, rested in deep sleep until the summer. Still more huddled miserably in their damp quarters in Lowtown: the travelers whom chance had stranded on a non-productive world, the desperate who lacked the cost of a low passage to some other planet.

Ewan looked up as Dumarest passed his table.

"Earl," he said, "please watch. I need the practice."

"You're skillful enough," said Dumarest. "You don't need my opinion."

"I do," insisted the gambler. "I want to try something new. These shells," he explained. "As I move them about I slip this little ball beneath one. I can manipulate it as I wish." His pudgy hands moved the shells with deft skill. "Right. Now pick out the shell with the ball. Guess correctly and I will give you five. Guess wrongly and you pay me the same. Deal?"

"The odds are in your favor," pointed out Dumarest. "Two to one."

Ewan shrugged. "The house has to have some edge. Now pick."

Dumarest smiled and rested the tip of a finger on one of the shells. It was the finger on which he wore his ring. With his free hand he tipped the remaining two shells over. Neither hid the little ball.

"This one," he said, tapping the remaining hemisphere. "Pay me."

Ewan scowled. "You cheated. That isn't the right way to play."

"It's my way," said Dumarest, "and others will do the same. You've had a cheap lesson; take my advice and stick to cards and dice. It will be safer."

Ewan handed over the money. "Not if you're with me, Earl," he said. "How about it? A fifth of the profit if you will act as bodyguard and shill."

Dumarest shook his head.

"A quarter then? I can't make it more. I've got to pay for the concession, hold capital for the next season and hold more for emergencies. A quarter, Earl, just for standing by in case of trouble and leading, the betting. You could do it in your sleep. Certain cash, Earl, a high passage at least; you can't lose."

The gambler frowned as Dumarest showed no interest.

"What's the alternative?" he demanded. "Acting as guide to some fat tourist, risking your life hunting rare spores, collecting fungi for the processing sheds?" Ewan blew out his cheeks and shook his head. "You should know better; there are easier ways to make money. You're fast, quick as any man I've seen. You've got a look about you which would make any trouble-maker think twice. A third. Earl. That's as high as I can go. A clear third of the profit. What do you say?"

"Thank you," said Dumarest, "but no."

"A gambling layout is a good place to pick up gossip," said Ewan shrewdly. "Most of the new arrivals want to test their luck and they talk while doing it." He picked up a deck of cards and riffled them, his pudgy fingers almost covering the slips of plastic. "Sure you won't change your mind?"

"If I do I'll let you know," said Dumarest. He hesitated, looking down at the gambler. Had Ewan been trying to tell him something? He resisted the impulse to find out. Two men were dead and the less said about either of them the better.

He crossed to where a layout of colored holograms showed a variety of fungi in all stages of growth in perfect, three-dimensional representation. Each was labeled. The display was the property of a company operating the processing sheds and the fungi were the strains they wanted.

"Simple, safe and secure," said an ironic voice at his side. "All you have to do, Earl, is to turn yourself into a mobile hopper. Go out and drag back a few tons of fungi and, with luck, you'll get enough profit to keep you in food for a week."

"You don't have to do it," said Dumarest evenly. "No one is holding a knife to your throat."

Heldar coughed, holding his hand before his mouth as he fought for air. "Damn spores," he muttered at last. "One in the lungs is one too many." He scowled at the display. "You don't know," he said bitterly. "When hunger has you by the guts you don't stop to think of what the small print says. You just want a square meal."

"And you got it," said Dumarest. "So why are you complaining?"

Heldar scowled. "It's all right for you," he said. "You've got money. You can-"

He broke off, looking upwards. Dumarest followed his example. Every man in the place stopped what he was doing and stared at the roof.

The silence was almost tangible.

For weeks they had been deafened by the unremitting thunder of winter rain.