The Terridae

Chapter Six

Carina had been wrong; the ships began to arrive in days, not weeks, but the passengers they carried were not interested in the Sporing. They were the forefront of the flood to come, getting in early so as to complete their business. Shrewd-eyed men interested in local crafts hired rafts to carry them to outlying communes where they would live as guests, checking the times available, buying, trading, striking mutually satisfying bargains-dealers and entrepreneurs of all kinds. To control them and the crowds yet to come the Fathers of Caval had hired professional guards who now patrolled the streets, keeping the peace with words when possible, force when not.

"Serpents in a fair garden, Earl." Nubar Kusche, plump, bland, with graying hair roached and set with painstaking care over eyes which moved like liquid metal in time-stained sockets, shook his head as he stared down into the street from the balcony. "Vipers which betray the illusion of a Utopia. A pity that gentle consideration is too delicate a bloom to survive without protection."

Dumarest made no comment, staring as had Kusche at the street below, the environs beyond. The field was now busy and to one side the striped awnings of booths sprouted like a thrusting mass of exotic fungi. A carnival was to be expected on any world at such a time: a home for the gamblers and touts, the entertainers and artists who would harvest the fruits of the occasion. A lure for the local youth and a temptation the elders could have done without.

"Life," mused Kusche. "It goes on and who would stop it? But you are not drinking, my friend. Come, now, let me fill your glass!"

The act was done even as he spoke, the glint of his eyes matching the gleam of his teeth as he smiled. Kusche radiated an easy bonhomie and had shared a table with Dumarest the previous evening. He seemed to know all about Caval.

"Look at them!" He gestured toward a raft which lifted from the edge of the field and headed south. "Agents of the Romesh Syndicate, without a doubt. Heading into the Muuain and the Elton Hamlets. They hope to buy beads carved with delectable miniatures and nose-stones fashioned in the likeness of tiny birds. A forlorn quest."

"Because someone has got in first?"

"No. The craftsmen of the area have suffered this past season from an affliction of the eyes. Nothing serious, a form of ophthalmia, but it precluded fine and delicate work."

"Introduced by a previous visitor who will now return with the appropriate cure?"

"And so earn gratitude and a foothold in a lucrative market." Nubar Kusche beamed his appreciation of Dumarest's quick grasp of the situation. "You betray a shrewd knowledge of human nature, my friend. An asset on any world. But let me answer your unspoken query-it was not I who introduced the ophthalmia."

"But you know, who did?" Dumarest watched the bland, unchanging smile. "You have to know-or why be so certain those men are on a forlorn quest? Not that it matters. I'm not after miniatures."

"Single pieces, then? If so I could guide you to certain favorable locations. The Weldach Village, for example. A long journey but, armed with the right goods and information, you could make a handsome profit."

"And you a fat commission?"

Kusche shrugged. "Why not? Surely you would not begrudge it? What have you to lose?"

The expenses of the trip, the trade goods purchased, time, lost opportunities-Dumarest was no stranger to what Kusche proposed.

He said, bluntly, "You're wasting your time."

"Allow me to be the judge of that. You have great potential, my friend. I recognize it. What would you say if I offered to stake you? A partnership, Earl. You would be interested in that?"

"It depends on the terms," said Dumarest. "I'd be interested in nothing less than for you to meet all costs. You provide the finance, I'll provide the labor and we split any profit made." He added, "One more thing-you hand over the money and I'll do all the shopping."

Inflating the bills and retaining the discounts-a sure way to make a profit no matter what the outcome of the trip. Something Kusche recognized.

"You are a hard man, my friend. The wine?"

"A debt I shall remember."

"Very hard." Nubar Kusche sighed and dabbed at his face with a square of embroidered silk. "Something I sensed on our first meeting, but a man must try. And no harm has been done." He smiled as he replaced the silk in a pocket. "A matter of practice and it is early days as yet. There will be others more interested in what I have to offer. And you?"

Dumarest returned the smile, shaking his head.

"A pity. We would make a good team, I think. If anything should come up and I should bump into you again-well, time enough for that when it happens. In the meantime there is work to be done." Kusche rose from the table and stood for a moment looking down into the street at the gaudy booths of the fair. "To deal," he said. "To trade. To lie a little in anticipation of the truth. The oldest profession, some say, though others would have it otherwise." He looked at a pavilion garish with phallic symbols which left no doubt as to the entertainment to be obtained inside. "Good luck, Earl."

"And to you, Nubar."

A genuine wish; Dumarest had no reason not to like the man. He was honest in his fashion and could not be blamed for what he was. An entrepreneur who was not too successful at the moment. His clothing showed telltale traces of wear, the rings he wore carried imitation gems, and he displayed a lack of judgment when selecting Dumarest as a potential victim. A mistake he had quickly realized but he had played the game to the end. A man with a stubborn streak and a sense of humor.

As he left the table Carina Davaranch took his place.

"A new friend, Earl?"

She had left him the previous afternoon to go about her business and wore the same crimson dress she had then. He remembered it from Shard. Now, looking at her, he noted the lines of strain at the corners of her eyes, the tension of the muscles at lips and jaw. A tension which matched the tone of her voice.

"A chance acquaintance," he said. "Some wine?" Kusche had left the bottle and a clean glass stood on a nearby table. Dumarest filled it and handed it to the woman.

As she took it she said bitterly, "Why are men such bastards?"

"Trouble?"

"The usual. They will buy my work-if. If I am complaisant. If I agree to doubling their commission. If I'm willing to wait." She drank half the wine. "This place is a jungle."

As were all worlds. Dumarest leaned back in his chair as he looked at her. Against the windows facing the balcony her reflection shone brightly gold and scarlet, the subtle touch of masculinity in her face and figure giving her an added depth of enigmatic attraction. Such a woman would be a challenge to every dealer she met-should they treat her as a normal female or regard her with the wary suspicion of a male?

She said, "I've had enough of this place, Earl. When you ship out I want to come with you. I guess you'll be moving soon. Right?"

There was no point in staying. Nisbet had known nothing more about the box than what Dumarest had learned and he'd gained more than the man was willing to tell. The folder had yielded only specifications, the printed sheet listing dates and the name of the agency handling the transaction. The Huag-Chi-Tsacowa-they had an office in town. From it Dumarest had learned that all cost-data were held in the computer of the depot on Brundel. Only they would know the name and whereabouts of the owner of the casket.

Details he didn't mention. Instead, he said, "Why don't you stay here, Carina?"

"I told you. I've had enough of this place. And we've been through that before. I'm a free agent and when I want to move then I damned well move." She drank the rest of her wine. "I can book passage on any vessel I choose."

"If they're willing to take you."

"I've money enough to make sure of that." She smiled, confident, then lost the smile as she saw his expression. "Earl?"

"I've made my plans, Carina."

"And they don't include me, is that it?" She blinked and swallowed to master her hurt. "Am I asking so much? All I want is to ride with you. To have some decent company on the journey. I guess you could say I need a friend. Is that so hard to understand?"

One journey leading to another, to more, the friend becoming a responsibility, a burden that he had no intention of bearing.

He said, bluntly, "It ends here. Our association, I mean. I go my way and you go yours." He rose and stood looking down at her. "That's the way travelers are."

"Yes." She took a deep breath then, smiling, rose to stand at his side. Chairs hampered movement and she stepped from the table to the open space before the line of windows. "You're right, Earl. I'm sorry-it's just that I've had too many hassles these past few hours. Well, let's forget it. But there's one thing I'd like to do before we part."

"What?"

She smiled again in answer and took his hand and led him to a space before a window. People moved around, some men, a bunch of women, youngsters staring at the displayed goods with sparkling eyes. Staring too at the dim shapes moving behind the darkened pane which held mirror-like reflections.

Carina ignored them as she moved to stand between the window and Dumarest. In the pane he could see the sheen of her golden hair, the naked expanse of flesh between it and the top of her gown, the small bones of her spine, the hollow at the nape of her neck. Muscles shifted beneath her skin as she raised her hands to rest on his shoulders.

"Kiss me, Earl. Before we part-kiss me!"

For the first and last time. The golden helmet of her hair tilted as she turned her face upwards toward him. Her lips, pursed, were inches from his own.

In the window something moved.

The reflection of a man who stepped forward with sudden determination, his right hand lifted, metallic gleams coming from what he held.

Dumarest saw him, recognized the danger and acted with instinctive speed, his reaction free of the hampering need of thought. As the glittering object neared the back of his neck he spun, the woman in his arms, the charge of the hypogun driving through her skin and fat into her blood as the man pressed the trigger. A shield Dumarest threw to one side as she slumped in his arms.

Before the man could fire again he was within reach. Dumarest slammed up his left hand, catching the wrist, sending the hypogun to rise in a spinning arc as his right hand rose, fingers and palm bent backwards to form a right angle, the heel smashing with stunning, bone-breaking force against the exposed jaw.

As the man fell a woman screamed.

She stood to one side, a plump matron neatly dressed, hands and throat bright with precious metals and sparkling gems. A woman with a high regard for beauty, now ugly as she stood and shrieked and pointed at Dumarest with a shaking hand.

"Murderer! He killed them both! Guards! Where are the guards?"

A false accusation that Dumarest had no time to correct. A man joined the woman in sounding the alarm and another, more courageous than wise, ran forward with one hand lifted, the other snatching at a weapon carried beneath his tunic.

A laser he had no time to use-it fell to one side as Dumarest struck, hitting to stun and not to kill. Two other men changed their minds as the man fell and joined in the general summons for guards. From below came the sharp blast of a whistle, another from the far end of the balcony.

Dumarest ran forward and saw the uniformed shape, spotted another in the street below. Soon there would be more; men accustomed to violence, ready to stun and maim to keep the peace. To kill if the need arose. He turned as more whistles echoed from the distance, running to the rail edging the balcony, judging time and distance and springing over the barrier to land with a bone-jarring impact on the street below. Rising, he staggered two steps and then was running, dodging between startled pedestrians, thrusting his way into an alley, emerging to find an open-fronted emporium, to slow and halt as he inspected a hanging mass of loose garments.

"You are interested, sir?" The owner, scenting a sale, bustled forward. "For your wife, perhaps? Your daughter?"

"My wife." Dumarest shook his head. "She's a large woman and these seem to be too small."

"I have larger in the rear." The man frowned at the sound of whistles, the thud of running boots. "Such noise! Such confusion! Well, it will soon be over. After you, sir?"

Dumarest reached the rear of the shop as a guard halted in the street outside. The man knew his job and did more than just stare. The owner shrilled his anger as the man prodded the hanging garments with his club. It was a loaded length of wood, inches thick and a yard long, a weapon which could shatter bone and smash a skull.

"Be careful! Those are garments of price! What are you looking for?" He gestured in response to the answer. "He's not here. Be off now! Off!"

Dumarest said, as the man came toward him, "I'll take this one. And this." He pointed at the selected garments. "The price?"

It was too high but he didn't argue, knowing he paid for more than cloth. "And this." He took a loose robe which covered him from neck to toe with a hood to shield his head. A garment to disguise his betraying gray. "I'll take this with me and send for the other things later. How much in all?"

The emporium had a back door and the owner guided Dumarest through it. A bonus to compensate for the fact the two female robes would never be collected. The street beyond was narrow and winding, flanked with enigmatic doors and opaque windows. A bad place in which to be trapped, and Dumarest was relieved when he reached a junction and saw the silhouettes of ships against the sky. Beyond them lay the gaudy awnings of the carnival booths and, among them, he would find a degree of safety.

"This way, handsome." The voice of the crone was a mechanical drone over the rising blasts of whistles. "Come and let old Mother Kekrop read your fortune. Life and luck, and pleasant surprises. Learn of the dangers at hand. Share in-"

Dumarest said, "I know of the dangers at hand. I can hear them. What chance of a snug crib?"

She stared, blinking, at Dumarest's face wreathed in the hood. It was not what she'd expected. "Those whistles for you?"

"I worked a con and the mark got peeved. I need to hide out for a while." Dumarest added, "I can pay."

"You carny?"

"I've run a booth and drawn an edge. Grafted with the best and handled my share of punters." His talk and slang won her confidence. "I need a hand, Mother."

As the whistles drew near she said, "In the back. You'll find a slit, go through it, ask for Zather in the next booth. Move!"

Her drone rose again as Dumarest followed instructions. "This way, young man. Let old Mother Kekrop read your fortune. The secret of the future lies in the palm of your hand." The drone turned shrill. "Bastard! Mind where you put that club!"

Zather was old and shrewd with a drooping eyelid and gemmed rings in his ears. He looked once at Dumarest then said. "Fifty will buy you safety until the heat's off. Got it?" He grunted as Dumarest handed over the money. "No argument?"

"Not unless you cheat me."

"Then what?"

"I'll resent it." A chair stood to one side and Dumarest lifted his right boot and set it on the seat. The hilt of his knife was plainly visible.

"A knife-man." Zather looked at the weapon. "A fighter, maybe?"

"I've worked a ring."

"Good." Zather lifted his voice. "Lucita! Bring in the board and some knives!" To Dumarest he said, "I'd like to see what you can do."

The girl came from an adjoining booth carrying a board of soft wood half as high again as a man and proportionately wide. She was young, well-shaped, with dark, smoldering eyes and long glistening hair which hung in an ebon cascade over rounded shoulders. With the board she had carried a half-dozen knives which she handed to Dumarest.

Taking them he said, "Mark the board. Six points you want me to hit."

While she was busy he examined the knives. They were well-made finely balanced tools designed for a specific purpose. As the girl straightened and moved aside Dumarest threw each one directly into its target.

"Neat." Zather was impressed. "How are you in combat? Can you stretch a bout, take a wound, fake a decision? If you're good I could use you. A place in the booth on equal terms with the rest. No questions and good eating. Think about it." He jerked his head at the girl as drums pounded from somewhere near at hand. "Get ready, girl! You're about due to go on." To Dumarest he said, "Wait here. I'll send someone to move you to a safer place."

"Not to the bordello."

"You object?"

"Not on moral grounds but it'll be the first place the guards will search."

"Smart." Zather nodded his approval. "You've got brains. A fool wouldn't have thought of that. Well, don't worry, you'll be taken good care of."

A boy came later to guide Dumarest to another booth, weaving through a succession of tents and narrow passages and once across open ground after making certain it was clear. Huddled in his robe Dumarest followed, sensing the growing activity of the carnival. The familiar atmosphere spelled security. In another place fitted with a bed and tables, chairs and portable washing facilities, the boy left to return with a bowl of stew and a hunk of crusty bread together with a bottle of good red wine.

Lucita joined him as he finished the stew. She wore bright and flimsy clothing which she removed to stand naked in casual abandon.

"Do you mind?"

"No." Dumarest looked at the furnishings which betrayed a feminine touch. "Your place?"

"And yours until it's time for you to move." Water gushed into the bowl as she manipulated the taps. "I hate to sweat; it makes me feel all sticky. Can you take care of my back?" She arched it as he ran the sponge over the smooth skin. "That's nice. I wish I had you around all the time. You going to stay?"

"I might."

"I'd like it if you did. We could work together. Do really well at it. You in the ring acting up and fixing the bouts and me on the outside with the punters. I'd grab a prime mark and distract him and get him to plunge on the wrong man. You think I could?"

Dumarest looked at the face she turned toward him, the deep cleavage of her breasts, the swell of her hips. Of more moment was the expression in her eyes, the warmly promising and excitingly wanton look of a world-wise and experienced woman.

"Yes," he said, smiling. "You most certainly could."

"I like you," she said. "If you like me we can make music. Later, when you've decided to stay. Zather couldn't object then."

"He your father?"

"My owner. He bought me when I was just a kid." Her breasts lifted as she raised her hands to tidy her hair. "You could buy me off him once we make our pile. I'd be good to you. What I need is a man hard enough to be respected but gentle at the right times. One jealous enough to be flattering but not so jealous as to be stupid. You know what I mean? You've got to milk the edge at times. Take the pitch for all you can get. Jealousy at the wrong time would spoil that." She frowned as a trumpet blared from outside. "Damn! I'm on again. Be good, handsome-and be here when I get back?"

She flounced out dressed in spangles and glitter and garish paint. Alone, Dumarest opened the wine and sipped, waiting until it had reached his stomach before taking a swallow. The bed was soft but he chose to use the floor, sitting with his back against a pole, legs extended, the bottle standing to one side within reach of his hand. There was nothing he could do. To rise and move around would be to negate the security he had paid for.

He slept, resting like an animal, hovering on the brink of wakefulness until the sounds from outside became a part of his universe. Disrupted, they screamed a warning which sent Dumarest to his feet.

"The bastards!" A woman was crying beyond the wall of fabric. "The dirty bastards! They didn't have to do that!"

Another sound, the deep, menacing rumble of a carnival alerted to danger. From somewhere a man cursed and glass made a brittle music as it crashed to ruin. A booth ruined in some kind of struggle. Guards on the rampage, perhaps, but why?

Dumarest tensed as a figure came into the room, relaxed a little as he recognized Zather.

"Trouble?"

"Nothing we can't handle. Some drunks acting up and a party from one of the ships trying out their muscle." Zather sucked in his breath as shouting flared, to die and rise again farther away. "The boys will take care of it and collect what's due. That isn't why I'm here." He paused, then said, "You'll have to move. I can't hide you."

The girl? Was Zather concerned?

Dumarest said, "What's gone wrong?"

"You lied. I don't know who you killed out there but it was no peeved mark. I figured the guards would give up after a while and things would die down. They haven't. There's a reward out for you and it's too big to be ignored. A cool thousand. I couldn't even trust myself with that kind of money at stake. Someone will get greedy and if they pass the word you've had it. And so have we if you should be found. Sorry, but there it is."

"You want me to go?"

"That's what I'm saying. It's dark now and I can guide you to the edge of the field. After that you're on your own." Zather hesitated, then added. "Just one thing. Those guards are Scafellians. Mean bastards every last one of them. Hurt one and the rest will beat you to a jelly. Leave you crippled for life, blind, deaf-they like to maintain their reputation. I just thought I'd warn you."

"Thanks," said Dumarest. "Now give me back my money."