The Jester at Scar

Chapter Eight

The crimson shadows made it difficult to see and the sweat running into his eyes made it almost impossible. Dumarest blinked, wishing that he could remove his helmet, wipe his face and feel the soft wind from the sea. He blinked again, squinting at the stake held in his left hand. The cradled rock in his right hand seemed to weigh a ton. Slowly he lifted it and swung it against the head of the stake.

He did it slowly, because he ached with fatigue, because it was important he hit the target, and because he clung precariously to the slope and any sudden shift would send him from his hold.

If the upper stake didn't hold, both he and Clemdish would fall down to the cliff and the waiting sea.

Again he swung the crude mallet, feeling the jolt through both wrists as the dulled point bit deeper into the sun-baked dirt. When the stake was fifteen inches deep, he looped the rope around in a clove hitch.

"All right, start moving," he called to Clemdish.

Like a spider, the little man eased himself from where he sprawled against the almost sheer surface. The sound of his rock as he knocked free his stake was swallowed by the surrounding fungi, which made the descent even more perilous. Dumarest caught Clemdish by the foot as he scrabbled closer and guided it to the safety of the stake. He could hear the sound of the small man's breathing, harsh and ragged as it came through the diaphragm of his suit.

"Are you all right?"

"I'll manage," said Clemdish. He had no choice, but the pretense gave him comfort. "We're too close to go back now."

"Rest a minute," advised Dumarest. "Catch your breath and study what you're going to do next."

Move over and down to the right, he thought. Find a spot where you can halt and slam in a stake. Loop the rope around it while I follow and pass and repeat what we've done before. How often? He'd lost count. But the clump of golden spore couldn't be far now, not if the detector was correct, and there was no reason to think it was not. It was just a matter of moving like flies over the cluttered slope until they reached the haven of their destination.

Elementary mountaineering.

They had lost too many stakes; the four they had left were dull. They were both tired, too tired for safety, almost too tired to continue. But there was nothing else they could do.

Dirt and broken scraps of fungi showered as Clemdish scrabbled across the slope and downward, to where the golden spore should be. He halted and Dumarest heard the slow hammering of his rock, the silence and the call.

"All right, Earl."

The stake was stubborn and hard to shift. Dumarest left it knotted to the rope as he moved towards the little man; that way there was no danger of it slipping from his belt. He reached his partner, rested for a moment, and checked his position. The next leg would have to be almost straight down. Once he slipped and fell five feet before managing to roll into a clump of fungus. It yielded, but not before he had found new holds. He felt a tug at his waist and called for more slack. As he began to hammer in a stake, Clemdish fell.

He dropped the length of his rope and swung, hands and feet busy as they sought new holds. Before he could find them, the stake tore free.

Dumarest heard a yell and saw a shower of dirt and the plummeting figure of the little man. Fifty feet of rope separated them. When Clemdish reached the end of the slack, he would be torn from his holds. The stake was barely an inch deep, it would never support their combined weight.

Dumarest tore it free and flung himself to one side.

It was a gamble. Lower down and a little to his right, he'd seen a mound of slime which could have covered a boulder. If it did and he could get the other side of it so that the rope would hit the barrier, it could save both their lives.

He hit, rolling through yielding fungi and clawing as he rolled to gain more distance. He felt a savage jerk at his waist and then something slammed with great force against his back, almost stunning him with the impact. He managed to turn his head and saw naked rock where the rope had scraped it free of slime. The rope itself was pressed hard against the lower edge, taut as it pulled at his waist.

At the other end of it Clemdish would be suspended.

Dumarest laid his hand on the rope and felt vibration as if Clemdish were swinging or spinning. He waited until it had died and then, lining his feet, managed to get his boots against the boulder. Gently he pressed, throwing himself back so as to gain purchase on the rope, sweating for fear the boulder would suddenly rip free from its bed.

The rock held. Legs straightened, Dumarest began to haul up the rope. It was a direct pull with all the disadvantages of an awkward position. Sweat ran into his eyes as he hauled hand over hand, the muscles in back and shoulders cracking with the strain. Twice he had to pause and rest. Once he shifted positions he imagined he felt the boulder move a little beneath his feet. Finally, a suited figure appeared on the other side of the stone.

"Help me!" snapped Dumarest. "Take your weight. Quickly! If this boulder goes, we're both dead."

Clemdish lifted his hands and clawed at the dirt and the stone. Dumarest snagged the slack of the rope around his shoulders and, reaching back, managed to hammer in a stake. Looping the rope around it, he relaxed a little. Now, even if the boulder should fall, they still had a chance.

"All right," he said. "Up you come."

Lowering himself, he caught Clemdish by the shoulders and heaved.

"Earl!"

"Come on!" snapped Dumarest. "Use your feet, man. Get over this edge."

"I can't, Earl." Clemdish scrabbled with both hands, found a purchase and tugged as Dumarest heaved. Together they fell back against the support of the boulder. Clemdish sagged, his breathing loud and broken, and Dumarest took up more of the slack.

For the first time he looked behind him.

A clump of twisted candysticks, striped in an elaborate pattern of red and black and topped with pointed minarets reared towards the crimson sky. Golden spore!

"Look," said Dumarest. "We've found it. We're at the jackpot!"

Clemdish stirred sluggishly, his hands moving as if trying to raise his chest. Dumarest frowned and stared at the face beyond the transparency. It was flushed, streaming with perspiration, the mouth ringed with blood.

"Earl!" Clemdish opened his eyes. "I'm hurt," he said. "When I fell, I swung against a rock or something. My lungs hurt and I can't move my legs. Earl! I can't move my legs!"

* * *

Brother Glee closed the door of the church and slowly turned away. Hightown was comfortable despite the external heat and the church well appointed despite its small size. He regretted having to leave it. Sternly he repressed the emotion. Summer was almost over and already most of the tourists had gone. All that now remained were the hunters and traders, the professional entertainers, the harpies and entrepreneurs and, of course, the stranded and desperate, the poor that were always a part of the scheme of things.

Sighing, he made his way to the exit, acknowledging the salute of the guards and pausing as he emerged into the heat. The landing field looked emptier than it had, the station more wild than it was. Dust drifted from beneath his sandals as he resumed his progress. From all about came the thin, monotonous whine of the blowers as they created their barrier against drifting spores.

"Locking up, Brother?" Del Meoud fell into step at his side. "I wish it were possible to allow you to use the church in Hightown during the winter, but it cannot be. The maintenance, you understand-to open a part I would have to open all."

The monk smiled in the shadow of his cowl. The factor seemed eager to please. "Do not disturb yourself, brother; I fully understand. The portable church will suffice."

"You could take advantage of my offer: a shelter for use as your church and food from the canteen."

"The church will return to where it is needed," said the monk evenly. "But I thank you, brother, for your concern."

Thoughtfully, he watched as the factor nodded and strode away. Del Meoud seemed tense and more on edge than normal, almost as if he had something on his mind or on his conscience and, by offering his help, hoping to make friends or amends.

Interestedly he looked ahead to where Adrienne sauntered with the tall grim figure of Ilgash, Jocelyn's bodyguard, a step behind. The woman seemed to be waiting for someone. With wry surprise, he realized that the person was himself.

"Brother," she said as he drew near, "may I talk to you?"

He looked at her for a moment before answering, his eyes studying her face. "Is something troubling you, sister?"

Irritably she shook her head. "No-yes-I don't know. Are you busy? Could we talk?"

"If you wish to unburden yourself, sister," said the monk evenly, "the church is at your disposal." He caught her hesitation. "I am on my way to Lowtown. If you would care to accompany me, we could talk as we go."

Adrienne nodded, her long legs easily matching the other's stride. "The summer is almost over," she said abruptly. "Shouldn't all those who hunt spores be back by now?"

"No, sister. Some of them make long journeys and many spores are unavailable until the very end of summer." It was his turn to hesitate. "Did you have someone special in mind?"

"Dumarest," she said curtly. "My husband invited him to share a meal with us. I have not seen him since. Do you know the man?"

"Yes, sister, but he could be one of those of whom I spoke." He sensed her desire to hear more and her bafflement at not knowing how to phrase her questions without betraying her interest. Skillfully, he changed the subject. "Your husband has done much to alleviate the distress of those living in Lowtown. The services of his physician alone are most welcome. And he has agreed to give passage to several wishing to travel to Jest."

"As workers, as indentured servants," she snapped.

"Until they repay the cost of passage," the monk corrected gently. "Even so, the offer is a generous one."

"The act of a fool," she said, suddenly angry. "I assume that he wants each one to spin a coin so as to decide his fate?"

"Not quite, sister. I have been given the task of arranging a lottery. Available space is limited," he explained. "Only a few can be accommodated. Your vessel does not have facilities for low passage, and quick-time does not come cheap." He was surprised at the venom of her reaction.

"Is that why I was denied?"

"Denied?"

"Yes, I-" She broke off; her lips thinned as she fought her anger. Was this why she had been refused use of the drug which would have eliminated her boredom? Under its influence an hour passed in a second, a day in a few minutes. She assumed she had been refused it in order to save the drug for the use of stranded travelers.

"Be careful here, sister," said Brother Glee as they approached Lowtown. "The path is somewhat rough."

The houses were also rough, were hovels in which men, women, even children lived. There were numbers of wide-eyed tots in rags chewing on scraps of fungus. Their bellies were swollen and their skins showed the inevitable results of their diet.

People were working on the huts, slowly making up the walls and strengthening the roofs. Many were past repair and the materials which had gone into their construction were used to repair others. Those not engaged in building collected masses of fungi for drying and storage.

Everywhere was the smell she had once noticed in the slums of Eldfane, the stink of poverty.

"My lady," said Ilgash softly in her ear. "I do not think it wise for you to be here. These people are unused to one of your stature."

He doesn't mean exactly that, she thought with sudden insight. He thinks that I lower my dignity by being here and, by association, his own. She looked at the children. Dignity? Among the starving, what was that?

She said to Brother Glee. "The children would require less quick-time and take up less room. We could take more of them."

"And what of the parents? They would willingly relinquish their children, but have we the right to present them with such a choice? Your husband recognized that we could not, and so the lottery. Some will be lucky; some of the lucky ones will yield their places to others."

He caught her inhalation of disbelief and felt her anger.

"You doubt that? You think the poor and desperate have no higher motivation than the beast impulse to eat and stay alive? Sister, you know little of the realities of life. You think your husband a fool because he does what he must; I tell you he is far from that. How often does the ruler of a world concern himself with the welfare of those less fortunate? You are indeed to be envied, having married such a man. There are so few who, having power, use it as it should be used, to aid and not to destroy."

She caught a reflection of his anger, the helpless rage born of frustration and the indifference of many, of watching children starve while men squandered money on things of transient pleasure, of seeing the arrogance of the wealthy and the unfeeling cruelty of rulers. Startled, she looked at the monk. The church, she knew, had power and many friends in high places. Where poverty lurked they were to be found but, also, their plain robes merged with the colorful garments of many a court. She compared him with Yeon. Cybers, also, graced the places of wealth and influence, but they never mingled with the poor.

She shook her head, baffled by novel concepts and a little annoyed because of them. Had she misjudged Jocelyn so badly? If the church regarded him with such favor could he be such a fool? More important, would they turn against her in times to come?

"My lady, it is time you returned to the ship." Ilgash was insistent.

"A moment." Adrienne looked at Brother Glee. "I am a stranger to Jest," she said. "But if you have no church there, you would be most welcome."

He acknowledged her offer with a slight inclination of his head. "You are gracious, sister, but the matter has already been arranged. A Brother will be accompanying you when you leave."

She was sharp. "Not yourself?"

Was his reply a rebuke? Adrienne examined the words, the tone, and shook her head. It was a simple statement of fact from an old and dedicated man who did what he could with what he had, a man who neither judged nor condemned.

Ilgash said deferentially, "My lady, with respect, it is time to return."

Thoughtfully she walked up the path, pausing as she crested the slope to look back, seeing the monk now surrounded by children and thin-faced women eager for news. The memory lingered all the way to the ship.

A fungus exploded dully to one side, releasing a cloud of yellow spores. They drifted in the soft wind from the sea, the yellow tinged with red so that, for a moment, they seemed a spray of orange blood.

* * *

"A parasite," said Clemdish. "A bad one. Get a spore on your bare skin and you're in real trouble."

Dumarest wiped the other's sweating face.

"Trouble," said Clemdish. "That's a joke. Who needs trouble when they've got me?"

"You had bad luck," said Dumarest. "It could have happened to anyone."

"I didn't listen," said the small man. "You warned me, but I wouldn't listen. I was greedy. I wanted it all. Now what have I got? A busted spine and ribs tearing my lungs to shreds." He coughed and dabbed at the fringe of blood around his mouth. "A cripple," he said bitterly, "a helpless cripple."

He lay against one side of the tent, resting on a bed of soft fungi, his almost naked body glistening with sweat. Rough bandages swathed his chest where Dumarest had set his broken ribs, but there had been nothing he could do about the broken spine.

Dumarest leaned back, his eyes closed, reliving the muscle-tearing effort of dragging the little man to a place of safety, of setting up the tent, of sterilizing them both and tending his partner's injuries. Since then it had been a matter of supplying food and water.

The water was running low.

"We've got to think of something," said Clemdish. "I'm no help like this. Hell, Earl, what can we do?"

Dumarest opened his eyes. "You know the answer to that."

"Split," said Clemdish.

It had been obvious all along. Only a raft could move the injured man and a raft could only be obtained at the station. Dumarest would have to climb the slope alone, descend the far side and make his way back in safety. Even a twisted ankle could mean death for them both.

"There's no hurry," said Dumarest. "Try and get some sleep while I gather supplies."

Outside the tent he straightened and crossed to where the clump of golden spore stood in fantastic splendor. Transparent plastic bags covered the pointed caps, the thin material hanging loose from the binding almost filled with the precious spores. Dumarest slapped each cap smartly with the palm of his hand, watching for the yield. No further spores dropped from the gills of the open caps; the harvest was complete.

Carefully he loosened the bindings, removed the bags from the caps and lashed tight the open necks. Trapped air ballooned the sacks into globes several feet across. Later he would expel the air, transfer the spores to storage containers and seal them against infection. He went to where a clump of liver-colored fronds shaded the tent, and tucked the sacks out of sight. Draping the straps of the canteens over his shoulder he began a cautious descent to the sea.

While waiting for the harvest there had been time to cut steps, drape ropes and set stakes so as to make the descent possible. He swung and dropped into shallow water. A tiny inlet showed a patch of cleared dirt where he had dug a well. Clear water covered the bottom. Dumarest hoped that it would be drinkable.

Dropping onto his stomach, he let the empty canteens fall into the liquid, bubbles of air rising from their mouths as water forced its way into the containers. Leaning farther over the edge of the pit, he sealed them while still immersed. Rising, he stood looking over the sea.

Fifty yards from where he stood something traced a thin line across the leaden waves.

In contrast to the land, there was animal life in the sea, strange aquatic beasts rarely seen and rarely caught. Out in the deep water they browsed on submarine growths and smaller species, able to survive in a medium which was proof against the ubiquitous parasitical spores dominating the land.

Protein, thought Dumarest. Good, solid food to build strength, chemicals and drugs, minerals too, even. Endless riches waiting to be exploited but which never would be. The initial investment would be too great, the immediate return too small, and there were so many other worlds offering just as much for far less effort, a billion worlds, perhaps. Slinging the canteens over his shoulder, Dumarest turned to the cliff and commenced the climb to the upper slope.

There he would find edible fungi and medicinal caps whose hallucinogens could offer Clemdish a means of easing his pain. He would lie in a drugged fantasy, waking to eat and drink and chew more of the caps and to sink again into a restful oblivion.

Dumarest reached the top of the cliff and eased himself over the edge. Rising, he made his way towards the tent.

He froze as he saw the raft.