The Jester at Scar

Chapter Nine

It was Zopolis's scout raft and must have arrived while he was busy at the foot of the cliff getting the water. For a moment Dumarest thought that someone had missed them and had sent out a rescue party, Wandara or the agent himself, perhaps. Then he heard a cold voice and the hope died.

"You there, come forward! Slowly!"

A man stood before a clump of fungus in which he had hidden. The gun in his hand was a primitive slug-thrower and he held it aimed directly at Dumarest's stomach.

"That's right," he said as Dumarest obeyed. "You're a man of sense, just stay that way. Now the machete, get rid of it." The gun jerked a little in his hand. "Careful now. Try anything stupid and you'll get a bullet right smack in the gut."

He was one of the three men Ewan had pointed out back at the station. Another sat at the controls of the raft, his face impassive behind the transparency of his suit. Dumarest did not see the third.

"Hurry!" snapped the man with the gun. "The machete. Move."

Dumarest dropped his left hand to the hilt, unsheathed it and threw it to one side. It landed point first and stood quivering in the dirt. Deliberately he let the canteens fall from his shoulder. "You're late," he said. "What kept you?"

"You're smart," said the man with the gun. "Maybe too smart. You expected us?"

"You were looking for us days ago. We saw you from the other side of the range." Dumarest looked around. Where was the third man? "We could make a deal," he suggested. "We need transport back to the station and we're willing to pay for it."

"Forget it!"

"Three high passages, honest money and no trouble. A quick profit and no complaints." Casually Dumarest added, "Where's your friend?"

"Looking for me?" The third man came from the direction of the tent. He held a knife in his hand, its point stained with blood. "No good," he said to the man with the gun. "He couldn't take it. Maybe this character can sing as well as argue?"

"Maybe." The gun jerked again. "All right, friend. Where is it? The golden spore," he snapped as Dumarest didn't answer. "You've harvested it and put it somewhere. We want it. If you don't hand it over, we'll get rough."

"Kill me and you'll never find it," said Dumarest evenly. His eyes darted from side to side, weighing his chances. The man in the raft could be temporarily ignored, as could the man with the knife. If he could find some way to down the man with the gun and get it perhaps, he might stand a chance.

The one with the knife tittered. "Who said anything about killing you?" he demanded. "We wouldn't do that. Cut you up a little, maybe, but not kill you, not right away." He gestured with the blade towards the tent. "Why don't you take a look at your friend? He might help you to make up your mind."

Dumarest felt his stomach tighten as he looked at the tent. The thin plastic was ripped to shreds. Under the ruined cover Clemdish lay, eyes open, blood ringing his mouth. His body was cut in a score of places, deep, vicious gouges above sensitive nerves, the blood making a pattern of ruby on the white skin. He was dead. "He tried to scream," said the man with the knife casually. "But I stopped that. Cut out his tongue," he explained. "We didn't want conversation, only a straight answer to a straight question. I felt sure he'd come across when I tickled a nerve or two. That kind of pain will make a dead man get up and dance. But not him. Odd."

"He was crippled," said Dumarest, "paralyzed from the waist down. He couldn't feel what you did."

He had not felt it, but he had known of it, realizing the damage done to nerve and sinew, and not all of the cuts had been made low down. Dumarest drew air deep into his lungs, fighting for calm. This was no time to yield to blind, consuming rage; Clemdish was dead and beyond help or harm.

Slowly he walked back to where the machete stood upright in the dirt.

"So you see your position," said the man with the knife. He was enjoying himself. "You've got the spore and we need it. We've gone to a lot of expense to get it. So, if you don't want to wind up like your friend, you'll hand it over."

"Hurry it up," said the man on the raft. He had a harsh voice, heavy with impatience. "I've been out too long as it is. By the time I drop you off and report in, they could be asking questions."

"Relax," said the man with the gun. "Phelan knows what he's doing."

"That's right," said Phelan. He looked thoughtfully at his knife. "Give it to him, Greek. One slug in each knee. Fire at the count of three unless he comes across."

"You want the spore, you can have it," said Dumarest quickly. "You can have anything you want. Just leave me alone."

"Sure," said Greek. "We'll leave you alone. Just deliver the spore and we'll all be happy. Now go and get it before I get impatient."

"Please," said Dumarest. "Just give me a minute. Please."

He cringed a little, putting fear into his voice, almost running as he went to collect the sacks of spore. He opened the necks of the containers as he returned.

"I'll make them easier to carry," he said. "I'll tip one into the other." He stood, manipulating the swollen bags, making two from the seven. "There! Is that all right?"

Greek smiled and raised his gun. "That's fine," he said, and frowned as he realized that Dumarest was holding the sacks in such a way that they shielded his body. A bullet would pass through them without hindrance, but the valuable spores would escape through tho holes. Greed overcame caution. "Throw the bags to one side," he snapped. "Quickly!"

The man on the raft cleared his throat. "Hold it, Greek. Get the ring first."

"To hell with the ring!"

"It was part of our deal. Get it, or we could be in trouble. Unless you want to run up against the big time; I don't."

Greek snarled his impatience. "Quick!" he ordered Dumarest. "Hand me that ring on your finger."

Dumarest frowned. "I'll have to take off my suit to get it."

"Then take it off. Hurry!"

Slowly Dumarest obeyed. It was awkward removing the suit while holding the sacks of spore and he was deliberately clumsy, moving as if by accident closer to where the machete stood in the dirt. Death, now, was very close. To the threat of the gun and knife was added that of the parasitical spores. At any moment a ripe fungus could fling its lethal cargo into the air. Even now a minute spore could have settled on his skin and be thrusting hungry rootlets to the moisture beneath, to explode into frantic life.

Dumarest threw aside the sacks of precious spore. Automatically Greek followed them with his eyes, then, too late, realized his mistake. The thrown suit came hurtling through the air to settle over his gun. A shimmer of steel followed it as Dumarest snatched up the machete and flung himself after the suit. The pistol roared as he lifted the blade and roared again as he swept it down. Greek stared in horror at the stump of his arm, at the blood jetting like a fountain from the severed arteries and at his hand, still holding the gun, lying on the ground. "Phelan!"

Dumarest cut once more; then sprang aside as Greek fell, his life gushing from his slashed throat. He threw the machete. The blade spun, glittering with crimson droplets, and buried its point in the knife-man's stomach. He staggered, tried to throw his knife, then fell face down in the dirt.

Dumarest snatched up the blade as fire burned across his shoulders.

Leaning from his seat at the controls of the raft, the third man aimed his laser again. The beam again narrowly missed, cutting across Dumarest's side, searing the plastic of his tunic, fusing the protective mesh and burning the flesh beneath. Dumarest threw the knife.

The knife plunged hilt-deep into the soft flesh of the man's throat. He reared, the laser falling from lax fingers as he reached upwards, then he toppled, falling from the seat to the ground. Relieved of his weight, the raft lifted to be caught by the wind and carried away.

A bursting cloud of spores rose from the spot where the pilot had fallen.

They were yellow, tinged with the ruby light so they looked like a spray of orange blood. The wind caught them, scattered them on a vagrant breath and them drifting like smoke over the slope and towards the encampment.

Dumarest looked at them, then at his suit. It would be impossible to don it in time. To stay meant certain death from the parasitical spores. The raft was hopelessly out of reach; the tent was useless. He had perhaps three seconds in which to save himself.

Snatching up the sacks of golden spore, he raced down the slope and flung himself from the cliff into the sea.

He hit with a bone-bruising impact, feeling the sacks torn from his grasp; falling deep, until he managed to convert his downward motion into first horizontal and then vertical movement. He broke the surface retching for air and weakly treading water until his starved lungs allowed him to think of other things. To one side he spotted the sacks and swam towards them. There were two of them, their necks tied so as to trap the air. He turned on his back and rested his neck on the juncture so that a sack rose to each side of his head. Their buoyancy ensured that he would not drown.

But, if drowning was now no problem, there were others. Spores could drift from the coast despite the wind and he concentrated on putting distance between himself and the land. The exertion made him conscious of his burns. Fortunately the skin was unbroken as far as he could discover and there was no choice but to suffer the pain.

He thought of stripping; then changed his mind at memory of what could lurk beneath the waves. The clothes were hampering but would protect his body against fin or scale. Thoughtfully he stared up at the sky.

It was past the end of summer. During the next few days the fungi would finish sporing and the spores would settle. To be safe he would have to remain well out to sea until the autumn and the first rains, about twelve days, he guessed. Then would come the effort of reaching land, climbing the hills and reaching the station. It would be hard, but not impossible. The sea would contain food of a kind and some of it should contain drinkable fluid. The sacks would allow him to sleep and the wind would prevent him losing sight of the coast. Even if he drifted lower he could still make his way back. The sun if nothing else would guide him. It was a question of timing.

Something traced a line across the waves to his left He heard a muffled sound through the water lapping his ears as if an oared vessel had passed close by. He turned, resting his weight on the sacks, his eyes narrowed as he searched the waves. He caught a glimpse of a line crossing ahead. It circled, came closer, and aimed itself directly at him.

Dumarest released the sacks, ducked and snatched the knife from his boot. He stared into the crimson murk. A shadow lunged towards him and he kicked himself to one side, catching a glimpse of large eyes, a fringe of tentacles and a whipping tail. The thing swept past, turned with a flash of yellow underbelly and a lash of the tail. It hit Dumarest on the chest, its barbs gouging the plastic, the impact enough to send him backwards through the water. Rising, he gulped air and looked around.

Nothing but a thin line moving towards him.

He ducked again, fighting the weight of his clothing, knife extended as he faced the direction from which he thought the creature would strike. A shadow loomed, grew huge, and became a gaping, tentacle-fringed mouth. They were splayed and lined with suckers which grasped his left arm and dragged him towards the teeth. He kicked, slashed down with the knife and kicked again as the tentacles parted. As an eye passed him he stabbed at it with his blade.

He felt the tail smash against his back and other tentacles grab his right arm. Pressure mounted as the beast dived, the wide, flat body undulating as it went towards the bottom. Desperately he changed the knife from hand to hand, slashing, stabbing, kicking as he fought to break free. Blood gushed from the creature and stung his eyes. Lungs bursting, he felt something give and swam frantically upwards. The water lightened, cleared, became air. Dumarest coughed and fought for breath. The sacks bobbed to one side and he headed towards them, throwing his left arm over the junction, letting them support his weight. If the beast grabbed him again and took him as low, he knew that he would never survive.

Around him the water suddenly boiled as something streaked from the depths. It surfaced, rising from the waves to hang momentarily against the sky, the body lacerated, the fringe of tentacles showing ragged members, one eye a gaping ruin. Then it crashed back into the water as a score of smaller fish followed it.

They were scavengers, intent on food and attracted by the scent of blood, worrying the huge beast as dogs worried a bear, darting in, attacking and weakening the creature even more.

Dumarest clung to his sacks and watched as the surface fury vanished towards the horizon. He could have been unlucky, the great beast could have been a rare oddity, but somehow he didn't think so. To be safe at all he had to hug the coast where the water was shallow, and the chance of falling victim to a parasitic spore was great.

Weakly, he began to swim to where the coast rested against the crimson sky. With care, he thought, by keeping himself wet and by staying as far away from land as he dared, he might still have a chance. He could even head back towards the encampment. At least he knew there were suits there, and equipment he could use or adapt to be useful. He still had a chance.

* * *

There were no birds on Scar, so the black dot in the sky could only be a raft. Dumarest looked at it as it came closer. It hovered over the coast, then veered to drift to a halt directly above where he floated. Jocelyn looked down. Behind him Ilgash loomed, a protective shadow. Both were suited.

"An interesting situation, Earl," said the ruler of Jest conversationally. "How long do you think you can survive as you are?"

Dumarest studied the sky. A broad band of cloud lifted from the seaward horizon and the hills were limned with ruby light. Autumn was coming to a close, but winter was still several days away.

"Not long enough, my lord," he said frankly. His throat hurt and it pained him to talk. "Will you give me aid?"

"That depends."

"On what, my lord?"

"Many things. On your luck, for example, or on the value you place on your life." Jocelyn reached behind him and lifted a canteen. "You thirst," he said. "How much will you give me for this water?"

Dumarest licked his cracked lips.

"You hesitate, but there is no need, I am not a seller of water." Jocelyn lowered the canteen by its strap. "Take it as a gift."

His hands were bloated with immersion and the seal was tight so that it seemed an age before Dumarest could open the canteen and taste the water it contained. It was sweet and cool, better than the most expensive wine. He sipped, cautiously, fighting his inclination to gulp. Around him the water made little sucking noises as he shifted his position, the sacks bobbing as he lifted his head. He lifted the canteen again, the sleeve of his tunic falling back from his left wrist. Blood glistened from a seeping raw patch.

"A spore, my lord." Dumarest caught the question on Jocelyn's face. "I was careless. It took root and spread as I watched. Fortunately I have a knife."

"You cut away the contamination?"

"How else to stop the infection? I have no acid, no fire."

And no feeling in my body, he thought, as he sipped again at the canteen. There was no food in his stomach, but that was a minor thing. The real strain had been lack of water and lack of sleep. He had dozed, jerking awake at every fancied danger, sometimes finding they were far from imaginary. Hugging the coast there had been no more large creatures, but the smaller ones were ferocious enough, and were too agile for easy killing. He looked up at the hovering raft.

"How did you find me my lord?"

"I have my ways," said Jocelyn. "You may thank my wife for her concern. She missed you and mentioned the matter. But enough of details. Tell me, Earl, have you been in this situation before?"

"In risk of my life?"

"Yes."

"There have been occasions when I have been close to death," said Dumarest flatly. He felt a little light-headed as if he were conversing in a dream. If Jocelyn intended to rescue him, why didn't he get on with it? If not why did he remain?

"This is novel to me," said the ruler of Jest. "A perfect example of the workings of fate. You are here through no act of mine. I owe you nothing. You admit that?"

Dumarest remained silent.

"You can hardly deny it. So I have been given a rare opportunity to learn." Jocelyn leaned a little farther over the edge of the raft. Ilgash moved as if to grab his master should he venture too far. "To learn the value a man sets on his continued existence," said Jocelyn slowly. "Wealth is relative, as I think you will agree. What will you give me if I save your life?"

"All I possess, my lord."

"Is life then so valuable?"

Dumarest coughed and looked at his hand. He washed it in the sea before answering. "Without life what is wealth? Can a dead man own possessions? I float on a fortune, my lord. It is yours if you will lift me from the sea and restore my health."

A fire burned deep in Jocelyn's eyes. "A fortune? Golden spore?"

"Yes."

"So Yeon was right," murmured Jocelyn and then he said, "What is to stop me taking it and leaving you here?"

"Try it and you get nothing." Dumarest was curt, tired of playing. "I have a knife. It is pointed at the bottom of the sacks. One puncture and the spore is lost in the sea." He coughed again. "Hurry, my lord. Make your decision."

The raft descended. Strong arms reached out and hauled Dumarest from the water. Jocelyn himself took charge of the plastic containers. He smiled as he saw the hilt of Dumarest's knife still in his boot.

"So, Earl, you were bluffing all the time."

Dumarest coughed again, looked at the redness on his hand. "No, my lord," he said. "Desperate. A spore has settled in my lung. I would not have lived to see the winter."