by Tubb, E. C.
“Continue.”
“Why did you summon me?”
Shandaha made no reply and Dumarest felt a warning prickle of danger. To tease the cat wasn’t a good idea if you were a mouse. He had triggered a flash of anger and had tried to rectify the error, but diplomacy wasn’t always easy and he was in no position to make a powerful enemy.
He said, “Nada told me that you had sent her to tell me you required my presence. She didn’t arrive in time, but when she came she was instrumental in saving my life. She would not have been able to do that had you not sent her. So, logically, you are the one I must thank for my continued existence.”
“And so, again by the use of logic, I am responsible for everything you do. Your thefts, killings, crimes, wastes, depravities,” Shandaha shrugged. “Should I feel proud at having saved you or ashamed at what you may do? Can logic provide a true answer?”
“In order to solve that question we first have to decide the definition of truth,” said Dumarest. “Your truth could be my lie. For example you say that I am not a prisoner and am free to leave here whenever I wish. You would be stating the truth as you see it. To me you would also be telling the truth, but unless given the means to survive I would die. To accept your offer of freedom would be fatal. How, then, could I be free? Which means your apparent truth was a lie.”
Dumarest paused, then as Shandaha made no comment slammed his hand on the table with abrupt force, the flagons, glasses and trays dancing from the impact.
“Take this as another example. Is this table real or is it an illusion? I can touch it, feel it, see it so logic would infer that it is real. But an illusion would yield the same conclusion. So how can we determine the truth?”
Shandaha said, flatly, “The answer to your first question is death is not a factor in the equation. Your liberty to make a choice is paramount. You can be free if you choose—what happens after you leave is immaterial. As for the table your argument is more the rambling of a philosopher than the studied calculation of a logician. But there is one reality we cannot but agree is the truth.”
“The past,” said Dumarest, knowing what was to follow. “My past.”
“Your memories,” corrected Shandaha. “You asked why I had sent Nada to request you to attend me. I am impatient to enjoy more of your experiences. To travel back in time with you. To share the most significant moments of your life.”
“Again?”
“Yes.”
“When? Now?”
“Yes, Earl. Now.”
His world was filled with the agony of the fire, which burned on his torso. Pain born of the deep cuts slashed across his naked flesh. Blood oozed from the wounds to add to the dirt on the floor beneath the plank on which he lay. Above him the cracked plaster of the ceiling held the distorted image of a grimacing face. Light came from lanterns hanging from hooks on the walls. The air quivered with sound from the arena where men and women shrieked their pleasure over the clash of steel, the screams of agony from those fighting for their lives.
A harsh place filled with the scent of pain and fear, of sweat and blood and despair.
Dumarest turned as he heard the pad of feet behind him, tensing as he saw the group of men approaching the plank on which he lay.
“Relax!” Their leader held something in his hand. “Lie back and open your mouth. Do it now!”
“Why?” What do you want with me?”
“Forget the talk. Just do as I say!”
“Take it easy, Gastar,” said one of the others. “He’s young. New to the game.” To Dumarest he said, “No one means you harm, boy. Just cooperate and let’s get on with it. Just open your mouth.”
The object Gastar held slipped into it as Dumarest obeyed. It was wood covered in fabric soaked in strong alcohol. As his teeth closed hard against it hands gripped his shoulders, held fast his head, immobilised his thighs and calves. Strong muscles pressed him hard against the plank. Wetness streamed over his torso from cloths soaked in a stinging liquid as they moved to wash his wounds free of dried and oozing blood. A momentary coolness followed by a sudden torment of searing heat.
Dumarest reared, trying to turn, to escape, fighting the hands which held him, knowing what was to come. He smelt the acrid odour of burning tissue as red-hot irons moved over his body, tracing the paths of his wounds, welding the edges of the cuts together, searing, sterilising, cauterising. Throwing him into a seething hell of agony.
Then it was over, the hands rising to return his freedom of movement, someone thrusting a disposable cup of brackish water into his hand.
“Drink it,” said Gastar. “It’ll help. Then you’ll have to move. We need the space to work in,” he explained, adding, unnecessarily, “We’re busy and can’t waste time. Just get up and take a seat in the infirmary. Through that door and down the passage. You can’t miss it.”
A journey down a path of torment from his wounds which led to a drab chamber fitted with benches and others who had received the same treatment as himself. Older men sitting slumped, some with their heads in their hands, others whimpering with the pain of their injuries, all sharing one thing in common. They had lost—the winners had better accommodation.
But Dumarest had not lost.
He sat, waiting for some strength to return, some anger at the injustice to stiffen his determination. Another door led from the infirmary and he took it, stepping out into a domed chamber, a desk at the far end, uniformed officials at their posts. Security guards to maintain order and he selected one at random.
“Sir!”
“Can I help you?”
“There has been a mistake,” said Dumarest “I won my bout but am being treated as if I’d lost it.”
“Your name?” The guard frowned as Dumarest gave it. “I must have seen the event. I’ve just come off ringside duty. Third blood. Right?”
“Yes.”
“Against Maroc.”
“He cut me twice then I managed to cut him in turn. The third wound and I delivered it so I won. Who do I have to see to correct the error?”
“Have you a promoter?”
His lips thinned as Dumarest nodded. “I figured it had to be something like that. You’re too young to do this without help. What’s his name?”
“Dell Bellagon. Do you know him?”
“The name’s familiar. Some scum don’t give a damn who they hurt.” Looking at Dumarest’s torso he said “One thing bothers me. You said Maroc cut you twice then you cut him back in turn. But you’ve been wounded three times. Two pretty bad slashes and one not so. How do you explain this?”
“I can’t.” Dumarest blinked and grabbed at the desk to steady himself. The desk and those manning it were blurred and the air was full of mist. “But I did win the bout and I earned the prize. I want it. I won it and it’s mine. I need it.”
“To pay off Bellagon? The debt you owe him for food, clothing, housing, travel? I know how it works. Hey!” The guard reached out and caught Dumarest’s arm. Steadying him against the desk. “Be careful,” he warned. “Tear those wounds open and you’ll be in real trouble. Can you stand?” He moved into the open as Dumarest nodded.
“Good. This is what we’ll do. I’m taking you back to the infirmary where I want you to sit and wait, sleep if you can, but not to do anything else. I’ll do what I can to find your promoter. The thing is for you to be patient. I’ll come back but it may take some time.”
It took four hours and when the guard returned he was accompanied by a woman.
“Earl Dumarest,” she said, extending her hand. “You can call me Sardia. You know nothing about me but I’ve been hearing a lot about you. From Jarl,” she glanced at the guard. “Jarl Raven. We are old friends.”
Dumarest stared at her hand, baffled as to why she had made the gesture. Then, taking a chance, he followed her example, lifting his arm so as to stretch it, his fingers touching her own,
“You’re in pain,” she said studying his face. “Jarl said you would be. Well, maybe we can d
o something about that.” She delved into a bag slung over her left shoulder producing a small bottle and a can of spray. Dumarest was naked aside from a loincloth, the normal apparel of any contender, and she had no trouble sending a fine mist over his torso. It chilled then numbed the flesh bringing a welcome relief from the burning torment of his wounds. “Now drink this.” She handed him the bottle then, as he hesitated, snapped. “Learn to trust me! It’s only a sedative and antibiotic. You know what they are, don’t you?”
“Yes, my Lady.”
“Sardia. Call me Sardia.”
“Yes, Sardia.” He drank and handed her back the empty bottle. “Thank you.”
He had drifted into a near-sleep while waiting, an odd state of mind which had spawned strange images and peculiar fancies, turning the others in the infirmary into demons and monsters and moving travesties of humanity. He had been worried and afraid but now that had gone. The spray and medicine had worked their magic.
He said so and she smiled.
“Good. Now we can get down to business. Want to tell him, Jarl?”
“We have cameras covering the arena and I’ve done some checking. You are right. You cut Maroc and drew third blood and so won the bout. Your promoter was attending but made no protest at the verdict given by the referee. It could have been a genuine mistake, the verdict I mean but I doubt it.” The guard fell silent, then said, “Sardia?”
“Jarl works here, Earl, and needs to be cautious,” she explained. “You know how it is – one hand washes the other. It sometimes pays to turn a blind eye. The fact is you have been ripped off. Cheated. Betrayed. Robbed – call it what you like. Your promoter, Bellagon sold you short. You should never have been put against Maroc. You just don’t have the experience. The bout was a set-up.”
“Then I will get the prize.”
Sardia shook her head. “No, Earl, it doesn’t work like that. The verdict has been given and it stands. Only officials have access to the cameras and there are others involved. If you complained you would be ignored. If you kept it up you would be taken care of. Tell him Jarl.”
“You would be beaten up,” he said, curtly. “Killed, even, there are nasty people attached to the arena. Those who have a special interest in what goes on. Gamblers, fixers, promoters like Bellagon. He had a lot of money riding on Maroc and was desperate for him to win. What probably happened is that at the end of the bout you both were trying to score a hit. You won but Maroc will deny it claiming he cut you before you cut him. It’s possible. Or Bellagon could have had one of the handlers slash you to throw doubt on your claim. Anyway, it’s over now.”
Leaving him with nothing.
Dumarest drew in his breath, conscious of his situation. Hurt, probably in the grip of a fever, without a home, money for medicine, food or clothing. Abandoned and stranded on a hostile world.
Sardia guessed what he was thinking. “Things aren’t that bad, Earl. Jarl told me what he saw in the ring and I have a proposition. I have connections with people connected with the arena. If you are willing to accept me as your new promoter then I will take care of you.” Then, smiling, she added: “I warn you it won’t be easy. I’m a hard taskmaster. Do you want time to consider it?”
“No, my Lady.”
“Sardia. I told you to call me Sardia. Do we have an understanding?”
Dumarest nodded, lifting his hand to repeat her earlier gesture, feeling the firm texture of her flesh as she returned his touch.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was a pleasure to sleep. To wander in the realm of dreams and memories of times past and events nearly forgotten. But some things and some people were impossible to forget. Sardia for one. A woman who became alive again as he focused on the past, feeling the pain he had known, the anger, the hatred which had consumed him when his world had shattered and chaos replaced the ordered safety she had given him so long ago.
A bad time and one in which he chose not to linger, the advantage of memory of the return-reality imposed by Shandaha. For that eliminated the future leaving only relived events of the past. Memory had the advantage in that it gave a broader view, allowing knowledge of what was to happen and how and when. To give a choice, a selection of what was to be enjoyed. To yield pleasure.
Sardia!
The epitome of the word.
He would never forget her. A woman more than twice his age, tall, beautiful, her body an artist’s depiction of true femininity. She had lived hard and learned much yet retained a cheerful attitude and a young disposition. She owned a comfortable apartment in a tall building close to the arena and had installed him in one of the many rooms it contained. Providing the medicine, the food, the care he needed to maintain his existence.
The fever died, his wounds healed, a good diet restored his condition. Exercise and practice enhanced his muscular strength, skill and physical ability. Under Sardia’s direction he learned and the learning was not confined to the arena and the bloody combats within it. It helped him to grow, to appreciate an alternate point of view, taught him the subtle delicacies of passion, the endearing qualities of love.
And he did love her in a way he had never before experienced, in a manner he had never known and with a depth which began to dominate his life.
He turned, twisting on the bed, mind alive with the memory of the eve of his first combat under her direction. The details were startling in their clarity, almost as if, again, he was reliving the past for Shandaha’s benefit. But he was only asleep; there could be no actual pain, no real injury. He could enjoy the ritual, the adornment, the food she had provided. A small festival for them alone. A special moment to be treasured.
“Earl!” She smiled and leaned towards him, the soft glow of the illumination robbing her of years, enhancing the delicate texture of her skin, the silken beauty of her hair. Raising the glass she said, “A toast to your success!”
Her glass held champagne—his some sparkling mineral water. A demonstration of her teaching. A fighter who intended to win could take no risks. Accept no help from anyone they couldn’t trust. No tablets, liquids, pills, guns, salves. Ignore all offered advice. All hints of habits and reactions. To trust only one person. The one offering his flesh and blood for the amusement of the crowd. Himself.
He had done it before and had paid the price of ignorance. Luck had given him another chance and he intended to make the most of it.
He drank and said. “I won’t let you down, Sardia. I promise you that.”
“You can only do your best. That’s all I ask.” She paused then said, her tone changing a little, “Earl, just how lucky are you?”
Luck? Why had she mentioned it when he had just remembered how fortunate he had been? He chose to answer in a casual manner.
“Not very and I’ve got scars to prove it.” He gestured towards his torso, then sobered as he recognised she was far from joking. “I’ve never really thought about it. Is it important?”
“It would be.” She refilled her glass and sipped and said, “I don’t want to preach but luck is something you have or haven’t. It’s a positive asset to any fighter or to anyone forced to live in a perilous state. If you have it you should know it. Not that you dare rely on it. Luck is too transient for that.”
“Do you think I am lucky?”
“I think you are fortunate in that respect. Think about it,” she urged. “Why are we here together if it were not for luck? From all the guards on duty at the desk you chose to ask Jarl for help. The one man who was willing to give it to you. The only guard on duty who knew me and my interests. It was good fortune for you that you chose him. Don’t you agree?”
He nodded and thought of other times when a seemingly impossible situation had been resolved by totally improbable events. Events which had occurred long after this remembered moment. Things he could review. But that would come later after he would win the coming combat as he knew he had.
For now, he would enjoy the pleasure of a dream. The company of a woman he adored. The food and
conversation, the rich furnishing and the splendid adornment.
It was good to sit and look at her with adult eyes and not the love-sick yearning of an adolescent. To be confident and to be free of the touch of jealousy he had experienced when she smiled at another. To forget the disparity of age. To be at peace and confident for all future time.
But it was not to be.
Instead he drifted into nightmare and woke screaming as faceless monsters clawed at his naked brain.
“Earl!” Chagal had him by the arm. “What’s the matter with you? Calm down, man! Calm down!”
Dumarest tore himself free of the restraint and slammed both hands against the sides of his head, hammering at the bone, the agony searing his brain.
“Don’t do that!” The doctor fought the hands, the arms, mastering them with the techniques taught with his trade. “You’re in a state of acute shock. Dementia, even. What came over you?”
A question ignored as Dumarest tore free his hands and rose from the bed. Red mist blurred his vision as he stumbled towards the bathroom, the shower it contained. Water as cold as ice sprayed his head and naked body numbing the flesh and adding further shock to that he had already suffered. But shock of a different kind, one physical and not the mental torment which had turned him into a shrieking animal.
“Earl?” Nada had joined the doctor and stepped towards him as he left the bathroom. “Do you feel better now?”
He gestured her away. “I’ll be all right.”
“Let me be the judge of that.” Chagal took charge, seating Dumarest on the bed, touching his torso, his wrist, neck and skull. “Some heat which could be the reaction to the chill,” he murmured. “A fast pulse and heartbeat and I’d say your blood pressure is way too high.” A tap on each knee and the same on his elbows. “Reactions are good. Skin is clammy but that could be due to that shower you took.”
“But there is nothing wrong?” Nada was eager to know. “He’s going to be well?”
