The Return

Chapter Seven

In the shadows a woman was chanting a saga composed to laud the prowess of the raiders, their bravery, their courage, their fierce independence. Verses which dealt with blood and conquest, each followed by a roar from the crowd. Sound augmented by fists drumming on tables and the clash of beakers. Barbaric melody laced with wild ululations and animal bellowing.

The Kaldari at play.

The auction was over, the dealers gone, the warehouse now empty. It was a time to relax, to celebrate and make plans for future enterprises. Time, also, for tempers to flare and imagined grievances to be revenged. For romance to flower and assignations to be made. For the true nature of the Kaldari to show itself in strutting, unthinking, barbaric arrogance.

Dumarest sat with Zehava at a corner table. An overhead lantern cast a soft, yellow light and others of varying hues filled the tavern with blotches of ruby and emerald, of sapphire, agate, amethyst. Doors and windows were illuminated with the nacreous sheen of pearl. Colors which accentuated the gleam of polished leather and metal, of bracelets, armbands, chains and heavy rings. Portable wealth advertising the prowess of the wearer.

"Drink!"

A man lurched to a halt before the table. He swayed a little, spilled wine shining wetly on his clothing. His belt was of wide golden links, the sheathed knife bright with jewels and ornate engraving.

"Drink," he said again. "Drink with Odumi."

Dumarest rose without hesitation, his goblet lifted high. "I drink," he said loudly. "To Odumi and to all his friends."

"The toast?"

"To travel far. To live well. To die bravely."

A sentiment which appealed and a roar of approbation echoed from the rafters. Odumi, satisfied, moved away to join a knot of cronies. The woman, her chant ended, stepped forward into brighter light to reveal herself as a crone painted and adorned to resemble a warrior queen. As she scrabbled for the coins flung as a reward other women, far younger, moved purposefully among the men.

Zehava snorted her contempt as someone began another chant.

"Look at the fools. Strutting, drinking, dreaming of past glories when they taste nothing but failure. Do you know how much Toibin made from that raid? Can you guess?"

"Not enough."

"Nowhere near enough." She scowled into her empty goblet, watched as a girl, responding to Dumarest's signal, refilled it. "Tonight will see the back of most of the gain. I had a double share but even that barely paid expenses. Glowering, she added, "I heard he blamed me. Said my selection was poor."

"As you expected."

"As you warned me he would but I still don't like it." The wine lowered as she drank. "What do you think of our administrator?"

"Nadine?"

"That's the one. Nadine Cavallo. Sorenson's niece. Her mother married his brother." Patiently she explained, "Women retain their own names on Kaldar. If I had a daughter she would be named after me. Sons take their father's name."

"Tell me about her."

He leaned back, remembering the face which was a mask for the unhappiness within. A lonely child who had grown into a lonely woman. One alien to her place and time, unable to accept the mores of the society into which she had been born and yearning to escape to a more gentle culture.

"She's weak." Zehava dismissed the woman with a shrug. "Her mother should have taken her into the dark. Brak should have made her go roving to harden her spirit. Instead he let her skulk in an office. I tried to befriend her once. Fetched her a necklace from a raid but she wouldn't touch it. The fool. There wasn't even blood on it." She laughed at the memory. "That raid was something! We hit a vacation resort and stripped it clean. Neat work and good profit. Urstyn was clever."

"Why don't you still ride with him?"

"He's dead. Took a nasty wound in the gut on Asque. The pain was too much so he ended it." She lifted her goblet. "A good man. I drink to his memory."

As others were now drinking to old comrades and departed friends. In a far corner a drum throbbed and a pipe wailed a mournful tune. Money rattled on the tables as serving girls scurried with fresh jugs of wine for the toasting. A custom it would be unwise to ignore. Dumarest bought wine, refilled their goblets, pretended to drink to every shouted name.

To Zehava he said, "Who was the man who died on Arpagus?"

"Did anyone die?"

"A loader. Toibin left him behind. Find out who it was. Quickly!" He watched as she slipped away to mingle with others. Shouting rose as she returned and men milled about the door. The beat of the drum quickened as if the celebrations were reaching a climax. "Well?"

"Dren Ford. He wasn't missed until after they'd left." Slowly she added, "If you know he's dead you must have killed him."

"So?"

"For God's sake don't admit it. He has kin. There are at least five here who would avenge him."

"They'd fight?"

"They'd butcher. You wouldn't stand a chance. They'd cut you down like a beast and none would object. You're an outsider. They don't owe you anything. You aren't of the Kaldari."

But she was. Dumarest said, quietly, "He should be remembered."

"Yes." She looked at the crowd, a sudden anger thinning her lips. "The bastard! Toibin might have some excuse for having abandoned me but not the loader. His people should know what happened." Abruptly she rose to her feet, her voice clear against the wail of the pipe, the pulse of the drum. "A toast! To one who was forgotten. I drink to Dren Ford!"

As the music died a man called, "We drink to the dead,

Zehava."

"I know that."

"Are you saying my nephew is dead?" A woman thrust herself through the crowd, a hand resting on the dagger at her waist. Ruby light shone from polished steel as she twitched at the blade. "Abandoned?"

"Is he here? Have you his body? Did any see him die?"

"But-"

"I was there. On Arpagus after the raid. Abandoned by a man I thought I could trust. I know how they felt about us and what they wanted to do. If Dren died quickly he was lucky." Zehava lifted her goblet. "I drink to a comrade. He was forgotten by his captain — let us not forget him now. To Dren Ford!"

Glass shattered as she flung the empty goblet to the floor. Destruction compounded as others followed her example. As the crystalline tinkling died a man walked from the crowd gathered at the door.

As he halted before the table Zehava said, "So you've shown yourself at last. Earl — meet Captain Leese Toibin."

He was tall, lithe, a man at the end of his fourth decade. The black leather which clothed his body bore plates and jewels of price. His belt was wide, set with gems, hung with a knife in a gleaming scabbard. More jewels glowed from his rings, bracelets, the thick chain about his neck. His face was a contradiction to the barbaric garb, long, smooth, the eyes enigmatic pools of darkness beneath arching brows. The visage of an artist who delighted in creating images of pain. An actor who had timed his entry for maximum impact.

"Earl Dumarest," he said. "I have heard much about you."

The voice, like the face, held an unexpected gentility. The tones of an aristocrat who could afford to be bland, but Dumarest sensed the force within him, the arrogance of a man accustomed to being obeyed.

"Zehava." He turned to the woman. "How nice to see you again. You were talking, my dear. What were you saying?"

"You heard me."

"Some of it, yes, but had another told me of your tirade I would have doubted his sanity. Do you honestly believe that I deliberately abandoned you?"

"I was left." Anger flared in her voice and eyes. "Damn you! Can you guess what would have happened to me had I been taken?"

"A risk you willingly accepted for double a captain's share. You failed to make the rendezvous. Blame yourself, not me."

"You were the captain. I risked my life on that raid and deserved better consideration. And what about Ford?"

The woman who had claimed to be his aunt called out from where she stood. "Tell us about Dren, captain. What happened to him?"

"It was time to leave. I sounded the recall. Later we found he had missed the ship."

"How? Why?"

"I questioned the others of his team. They said he was more interested in delving into bales than getting on with the job. He could have lingered after private loot."

"Dren wouldn't have done that!"

"He missed the ship." The softness held the touch of an impatient snarl. "He knew what he had to do and failed to do it. Was I to sit and wait for him? Risk everything because he was tardy?"

Zehava said, "You could have waited. There was no risk."

"No?" Toibin gave her his attention. "How can you be sure of that?"

"I was there. You know that."

"In the warehouse? At the ship? Near to it?" The softness of his tone was the warning of a serpent about to strike. "Tell us," he urged, a hand lifting to the crowd pressing close. "Tell us what really happened to you. To you and Dren Ford."

A trap and she had fallen into it. Now it was his word against hers and the crowd was on his side. Ford's aunt edged forward, steel glimmering as she lifted the dagger from its sheath. Others, seeing the gesture, rumbled their approval.

"Were you caught?" mused Toibin. "Questioned? Did you buy your life? Have you returned with accusations so as to minimize your guilt? Is there none to challenge your assertions?"

"I challenge them!" The woman with the dagger lifted it high. "If she's lying I'll cut her guts out! Well, bitch? Shall we put it to the test?"

The rough justice of the barbarian in which might equaled right. It was a part of Zehava's culture and she was prepared to face it. Dumarest saw the determined set of her jaw, the tension of arms and shoulders, the hand which fell to her belt, the knife it carried. Guns were too impersonal, too dangerous to use in a crowd even if tradition wasn't against them. She would fight and she would die. She had drunk too deeply and lacked the savage hate of the other woman.

Dumarest said loudly, "Zehava didn't lie. I was there. I know."

"You were with her?!" Toibin reared back a little as afraid of contamination. A theatrical gesture which caused the yellow light to shimmer on his clothing, the dark mass of his hair. "On the field? In the warehouse?"

"I was there but she wasn't with me then. A stone damned near smashed her skull. I ran to tell you she was hurt but couldn't get close. By the time I'd made it into the warehouse you were getting ready to leave. God knows why you had nothing to be afraid of."

Dumarest paused for effect, looking at Toibin, the assembled crowd.

Deliberately he said, "You had destroyed the towers, killed the guards, blown open the warehouse and hit the town. You had the inhabitants at your mercy and they knew it. Even if they had wanted to resist, it would have taken too long to assemble men and find missiles, get them into place, aim and fire them and do it all without being spotted. You had time to do anything you wanted. Instead you ran like a scared rat. You didn't even check what you'd taken. And you left Dren Ford to die."

The woman said, quickly, "Did you see it?"

"No." A necessary lie. Dumarest compounded it with another. "I heard he put up a good fight. Two men died before they shot him down."

"I knew it had to be like that." The blade she'd drawn vanished into its sheath. "Dren had guts and was no petty thief. His captain should have known that."

Toibin snapped, harshly, "Watch your mouth, woman!"

"My nephew — "

"Is dead. Had he done as he should he would be with us now. But he died bravely — if you choose to believe a stranger." Toibin lifted his hand to point at Dumarest as he raised his voice. "Who is he? What is he doing here? A man who claims to have penetrated my guards, to have remained undetected in the warehouse, to be close enough to the authorities to know what happened to Dren Ford? Can you believe him? Can you trust him? Take his word against mine?"

A clever man acting a part and doing it well. No man could have achieved Toibin's status by the use of brawn alone. Within the rounded skull rested a shrewd and calculating intelligence. One cunning enough to have picked the time and place for his confrontation with Zehava and her discontent. Now he was appealing to the loyalty of the crowd. A tried and trusted member of the community setting himself against a stranger. There could be no doubt as to the outcome.

Dumarest said, "Are you calling me a liar?"

"You?" Toibin shrugged. "I call you nothing for that is what you are. A toy hired to satisfy a harlot's lust."

"You bastard!" Zehava rose, quivering with anger. Snatching Dumarest's goblet she lifted it to hurl its contents into Toibin's face. "No one calls me that!"

Dumarest lunged towards her, hands extended, fingers striking her wrist to send a shower of wine spraying to one side. Rage had blinded her to danger. On Kaldar no distinction was made between the sexes.

"Sit." He felt her tremble beneath his hands as he forced her back into her chair. "Don't play into his hands. He's baiting you. Give him an excuse and he'll kill you."

"How touching." Toibin rocked back on his heels. "See how he comforts her. He does it well. A pity he is a liar. A betrayer. A coward. Something less than a man."

Dumarest looked at the tall figure limned in the yellow light, knowing that what was to come, seeing no way to avoid it.

"Meaning?"

"A man would fight."

"On equal terms? As one of the Kaldari?"

Zehava settled the matter. "He is my man. He fights for me. Who denies my right?"

Starlight illuminated the plaza, sheening the flags with silver luminescence, frosting the buildings, the trees, the ornamental shrubs. Light augmented by lanterns carried from the tavern and swung aloft to cast their shifting patches of jeweled hues over the scene. One reminiscent of Arpagus, the casino which was its pride, but here the stakes would be the highest a man could wager.

"Be careful, Earl." Zehava whispered tensely in his ear. 'Toibin is a skilled and dirty fighter. Don't underestimate him. If he wins we lose all we own."

To the victor the spoils and the penalty she would pay for having equaled his status. Dumarest had expected nothing less but if he was defeated Zehava would only lose her wealth. He would lose his life.

He inhaled slowly, deeply, forcing himself to relax as he had done so often before. Then there had been a roped ring, brilliant overhead lights, a sea of faces set in rising tiers. The familiar setting of any arena which men fought with naked steel, cutting, stabbing, slicing, maiming. Killing for the sake of money and a transient glory. The memory of it fogged the starlight, turned the glowing lamplight into the semblance of blood, of gold, the febrile gleam of eyes as women bared their breasts and screamed invitations to their bed and body.

That madness would be absent here as would be those who hung around the preparation rooms; the touts, perverts, gamblers, assessors of odds. The fixers with their drugged wine. The liars with their useless pills and potions. The ghouls who gloated over slashed and maimed bodies. Vampires who thrilled at the sight of blood and necrophiliacs who bribed the attendants to let them have their way with the helpless dead. But the faces would be the same. A ring of them, avid, bestial, hungry for the spectacle to come.

"Dumarest!" Toibin called from where he stood at the far end of the circle. "Your customs need not be ours. If you feel the want of religious consolation I permit you to send for a monk."

Mockery which brought a laugh from the crowd, but not all of them. The aunt of Ford remained silent and so did others with her. Not many but enough to form a small knot in the assembly. Dumarest marked its position as he marked the glow of the lanterns, the shadows of the trees. Among them, like ghosts, he saw the dim shape of ganni as they watched events beyond their comprehension.

"Well?" Toibin flaunted his humor. "Do you wish to take advantage of my offer?"

"Yes," said Dumarest. "I would like to see a monk." Pausing he added, "A week from today."

Again came the laughter. True barbarians they could appreciate the jest. They fell silent as the two men closed for combat.

Both were stripped to the waist and both carried naked steel. The knives were not a match as each favored his own. Dumarest's was nine inches of honed and polished metal, the guard scarred, the hilt worn, the rounded pommel a balance for the edged and pointed blade. A tool designed for survival. The weapon carried by Toibin was one fashioned to kill. A slender triangle, ten inches long, double-edged, viciously pointed. The guard was too big, the pommel too large as if intended for use as a club.

"Even money on the captain." The voice came from the back of the crowd. "Fives on the stranger. Why hesitate? A gamble adds spice to blood."

Dumarest slowed as Toibin came nearer. As their knives were different so was the stance they adopted. Habit guided Dumarest into that used in the arena. He stood with legs slightly parted, toes outward, feet firm on the ground, his body inclined a little towards his opponent. The knife was held like a sword, thumb to the blade, the edge inward and the point raised. A stance which enabled him to move quickly, to cut fore and background, to parry and to stab if desirable.

Toibin was accustomed to less formal combat. His left arm was folded across his chest to protect his heart, hand guarding the throat, elbow pressed above his spleen. His knife was held like a sword but the point was in line with his forearm and aimed low. The stance of a man willing to take a wound as long as he could deliver a blow.

One would be enough. The vicious point driving into the intestines, twisting, ripping, the sharp edges severing tendon, muscle, artery and nerve. Releasing a shower of blood and guts as it was drawn upwards and free.

An obvious danger — were there others?

Toibin had intended the challenge from the first but why had he been so willing to accept the woman's conditions? Was he confident because he was certain he would win?

Dumarest stepped aside as the captain attacked, the slender triangle shimmering like ice as it cut the air. A stab which went wide, steel clashing as he parried, testing for strength and agility. The triangle was like a rock, Toibin like a cat as he spun to thrust again, to snarl his anger as Dumarest moved beyond reach.

"I knew you were a coward. But none can run from death."

Words intended to irritate but Dumarest ignored the taunt. Ford's aunt and her supporters were to his left and he moved so as to place them at his back. A small defense but if men had been set to help Toibin it would make things harder for them. As for the rest he could only trust their concept of honor.

"A dancer." Toibin sneered as, after a flurry in which blades had made metallic ringings, Dumarest regained his chosen position. "If you are afraid of combat then yield and I will treat you gently. Admit you lied. Pay for your mistake and live to enjoy the light of another dawn."

An offer which Dumarest pretended to consider. In any fight the object was to win as fast as possible before luck or accident could bring defeat. Toibin was playing to his audience. His reputation was at stake and he wanted to demean his opponent before butchering his path to victory. A weakness which could be used against him.

"Money," said Dumarest. "You'll accept money?" He slowed, allowed the other to come closer, the vicious blade within reach. "You'll let me live if I pay?"

Toibin smiled, nodding then, with sudden ferocity, attacked. He gave no warning, the slender triangle of his blade darting forward to rip into the stomach. A blow Dumarest had anticipated and he twisted from it, feeling the burn as the point ripped at his side. A minor wound risked for the chance to grip the hand holding the knife, halting movement while his own blade slashed upwards to cut the interior of the forearm, severing tendons, veins, grating on bone to release a shower of blood.

"Bastard!" Toibin bared his teeth in a snarl. "You bastard!"

His left hand darted forward, fingers stabbing in a vicious attack. Dumarest struck before they could reach his eyes, slashing the edge of his knife hard against the right side of the captain's throat. Sending the blade to shear through skin, fat, muscle, the pulsing arteries beneath. Releasing a fountain of blood to stain them both before the captain slumped lifeless to the ground.