by E. C. Tubb
"With bruises on his face and throat. We know who must have put them there. Dumarest-"
She halted and turned to face him, her eyes matching the hardness of her voice.
"Yes, Dumarest. The man you gassed then stripped and chained in the sump. One you tortured and Ruval must have helped. Well, Ruval has paid. It could be your turn soon, Jac."
"You think he could beat me?" His amusement was genuine. "That scum? Have you forgotten what I was before I became ringmaster?" Abruptly he smiled. "We quarrel for no purpose. You have chosen to care for Dumarest as another would care for a sick dog. A weakness I deplore but I am willing to let you indulge yourself. Simply be aware of what he is. A liar. A cheat. A thief. A murderer."
"A man!"
One such as Zucco could never be. His strength was built on the weakness of others, his power the fruit of pandering to decadent tastes.
He said, quietly, "A man who will use you as he used Helga. I suggest you remember that, my dear. And, when you are sane again, I shall be waiting."
Smoothness coupled with the vicious barb of a subtle tongue. Why else mention Helga if not to make her jealous? And why no mention of what must have been foremost in his mind? The details Dumarest could have told her about Melome and which he had wanted so desperately to know? And why had he made no move against Dumarest?
The answer waited in the infirmary where the doctor greeted her with a smile.
"He's fine." He answered her question before she could ask it, jerking his head toward where Dumarest sat in a chair sipping from a beaker. "Basic laced with brandy from Shakira's own store. His orders. All to be of the best."
"He knows?"
"Of course. I sent him a full report. We don't get many patients who've given themselves a tracheotomy. A good one too, I must admit, but he almost left it too late. Of course there was other damage; the larynx, cellular disruption, dehydration, nervous degeneration-used to excess those wands can be nasty things. The gas didn't help either."
"But he's all right now?"
"Fine."
Healed by the drugs and skill of the doctor, the magic of slowtime. Dressed now in a drab robe of dull puce which was a little too short for his height. He smiled as she came toward him.
"My lady, it seems I must thank you for my life."
The formality stunned her then she understood; such a man would be accustomed to moving among those to whom procedure was paramount. To be less than punctilious would be to invite retribution.
She said, "This is the circus, Earl. We're ordinary people. You don't have to crawl on your knees."
"Ordinary?" His eyes studied her, bringing a flush of pleasure to her cheeks. "Whatever you are, Reiza, you're not that. And you did save me."
"I found you," she corrected. "But you'd already saved yourself. Unconscious but breathing steady. We've just patched you up and speeded the healing. Now, I'll bet you're hungry." She saw him glance at the empty beaker which had held a fluid rich in protein, sickly with glucose, laced with vitamins. And Shakira's brandy-that had been an extra. "For real food; meat and richness and things you can get your teeth into. Come on-I'm buying." To the doctor she said, "Can't you find him something more decent to wear?"
Dumarest said, "Where are my own clothes?"
"God knows-we'll find them later. Please, Doc, can't you hurry?"
He produced pants and a blouse in faded blue together with soft shoes tied with thin laces. The legacy of a dead man, perhaps, but they fitted well enough and Reiza was satisfied. Delaying only long enough to change from her costume into a gown of lilac ornamented with jet she led the way to the outer galleries, to a restaurant Dumarest had used before.
"The best," she said. "You'll like it here. Voe!" She saw the waiter's glance of recognition as he approached her companion. "You order, Earl." She added, with a touch of malice, "Let's have the same meal you had before."
"No. This should be special."
"True." She was glad he hadn't tried to dissemble. "The best, Voe. Red meat and all the trimmings. Some wine too-this is a celebration!"
But it was shared with an invisible companion. Had Helga used this very glass? Sat at this very table? Seen his smile as he looked at her? Felt the same acceleration of her heart?
Foolishness and she knew it. Knew too that she was talking too fast and laughing too loud. Eating too little and drinking too much.
As she reached for the decanter Dumarest leaned forward and caught her hand.
"It's none of my business," he said. "You can drink yourself stupid if you want. I've no right to interfere. But do it for the right reasons."
"Such as?"
"That's for you to decide. Most do it for escape. Is there anything you need to run from?"
"No."
"Zucco?"
"No. I-" She shook her head and lifted the decanter as he released her hand. Wine filled her glass in a ruby stream. Looking at it she said, "I guess I'm running away from myself. Have you ever wanted to run?"
"Often."
"I find that hard to believe."
"It's the truth." Dumarest helped himself to some of the wine. Scarlet, the hue of a cyber's robe, the Cyclan which hunted him from world to world. "Were you born in the circus?"
"No. I was sold. Twenty years ago now when I was ten. On Tsopei."
"A harsh world."
"You know it?"
"I've heard of it."
"If you're smart you'll leave it at that." She was bitter. "If there are worse places I've yet to find them. Burn during the day, freeze at night, fighting insects, rot, mildew and, if you don't eat what walks, crawls or flies they'll eat you. Like they did my parents. My kin."
"It happens."
"Too often," she agreed. "But I guess I was lucky. The man who took me in intended me for something else but an agent of the circus landed and offered a good price. I guess he could see more than others. He had me taught, trained, and-well, that's about it." She swallowed some of her wine. "And you, Earl?"
"Much the same as yourself. I ran away."
"From home? Your world? Which was it?" She frowned at his answer. "Earth? That's an odd name. I've never heard of it. And now?"
"I move around."
"Just that? Don't you do anything else?"
Managing to stay alive. Dodging the hunters. Searching for clues which would guide him back home. Things he left unsaid.
"I'm looking."
"For what? Happiness?" She shrugged as she lifted her glass. "Isn't that what we're all doing? Hoping to find that elusive something which will make everything wonderful? Sometimes you think you've found it then, when you feel most secure, everything falls apart." As it had when Hayter had died. As it threatened to do now-why was he so cold? "Earl!"
Dumarest said, "I haven't forgotten what you said before Ruval attacked."
"Then-"
"I'm honored. More than that-overwhelmed." He paused, sensing her inner turmoil, conscious of the danger it created. A proud woman who, rejected, could become a vicious enemy. The only ally he had in the world of the circus and even now he wasn't sure if she worked for Zucco or not. "Reiza, I-"
"Don't say it!" Wine slopped over her hand to stain the cloth with the color of blood. "If it's a rejection I don't want to hear it. Just get up and leave."
Her, the table, the circus, Melome, his chance of finding Earth.
Dumarest said, "When I leave we go together. I was going to suggest we do it now."
"Earl!" Happiness sparkled in her eyes. "Earl, darling, you-" She broke off, frowning as a man halted at the table. He held a parcel and wore a sigil on his blouse. The mark of Chen Wei. "What do you want?"
"The man." He looked at Dumarest. "You are to accompany me at once to the office of Tayu Shakira."
It was a place filled with an indefinable scent which hung like a ghostly emanation in the air. One composed of subtle spices, of flavors, smokes, blooms, the taint of flesh, the hint of seas. The perfume of a thousand worlds which the circus had known
inhaled by the man who sat behind a wide desk. He gestured toward a chair and waited until Dumarest had seated himself and the guide had left them alone.
"You are well, I trust?"
"Well."
"And comfortable?"
"Very."
The truth; the parcel the guide had carried had contained his clothes, refurbished and as good as new. Only the knife had been missing and, as he watched, Shakira lifted it from somewhere behind the desk and set it down before him.
"A fine blade," he said. "One worth studying."
As he was himself and Dumarest, ignoring the knife, searched the man with his eyes.
Tall, slender, a skull topped with raven hair sweeping back from a point between and above the eyes. High brows sheltered deep-set orbs in slanted sockets. The nose was thin, predatory, the mouth a gash. The skin, olive, held a mesh of tiny lines which added to the mask-like appearance of the face.
"You are a fighter," he said. "And have used this knife to kill. Often?"
"Only when necessary."
"Of course." A thin hand reached from the wide sleeve of a blouse marked with an arabesque of gold on a background of lavender. "And yet you drew it here in the circus. An unusual thing to happen on Baatz where violence is rare."
Dumarest said, dryly, "My experiences hardly justify that statement."
"You miss the point. The air within the circus is filtered and those who work here are sheltered from the enervating influence of the outside atmosphere. Visitors carry their apathy with them. You did not. Either you are proof against the external vapors or are able to rise above their influence. I suspect the latter. Tell me, now, and be honest. Have you made no errors since landing?"
Too many and Dumarest admitted it.
"Good." Shakira was pleased. "If you had been immune it would have proved nothing. As it is you have adapted to a potentially dangerous environment. Dangerous for you, that is, and for all who have enemies. Think of a snake," he urged. "A master of movement over sand and rock. But set it on a sheet of oiled glass and it is helpless. It can only writhe and squirm, easy prey for any predator. So, for a while on this world, you were at a disadvantage. Here!" The knife spun glittering through the air. Dumarest caught it an inch from his face. "Fast too," mused Shakira. "The reports did not lie."
"Reports from whom?"
"Those who need to make them." Shakira dismissed the subject with a small gesture. "There are questions you wish to ask?"
Only one of importance but if the owner knew as much as he claimed then he would know of Dumarest's interest in Melome. He hadn't mentioned that and subtlety was a game two could play.
Dumarest said, casually, "I'm surprised the circus is so large. I wouldn't have thought Baatz capable of supporting it. But I guess you rely on the concessions."
"You've worked in circuses?"
"Carnivals."
"It is not the same."
"Maybe not," agreed Dumarest. "But I've never known a circus which doesn't have sideshows. Basically it's all the same. When you come down to it what else is a circus but entertainment? So, logically, everything goes. It all belongs."
"Not in the circus of Chen Wei."
"But-"
"We move," said Shakira. "We travel from world to world and with us, like those small limpets which cling to the leviathans of the deep oceans, come the purveyors of common entertainment. They are mere appendages-if lost the circus would not suffer."
"And the circus itself?"
"A compilation of the unusual. Of the rare and particular. The ordinary has no place among us. Each represents the apex of his art."
Dumarest said, "Like Zucco?"
"He has his skills."
"I think I can guess what they are. And you?"
"I have my talent. I have it as you have it as every living creature has it. That special attribute which sets it above its fellows. The ability to sing sweeter, run faster, see more clearly, swim farther, dive deeper, kill faster-always there is something. Usually it is a small advantage and one negated when set against a greater development but, always, it is there. Here, in the circus, are those who have learned what they are good at and have excelled beyond all others in doing it. Others have yet to train and develop their skills; buds swelling toward full bloom. As for myself?" Shakira made a small gesture. "My skill lies in recognizing the potential of others. Your own, for example."
"You flatter me."
"That would be stupid. It would be even more stupid to refuse to recognize the obvious. It is a mistake I never make." Again Shakira made the small gesture, lifting both hands in an upward movement. "You have more questions?"
"One." It was time to get to the point; the gesture had held connotations of dismissal and he was tired of the fencing. Dumarest said, flatly, "How much for Melome?"
"So we come to it-the girl."
"As you've known all along. I want her."
"So it would seem." Shakira's thin lips formed a smile. "Enough to break into my circus, hurt one of my people, threaten another, kill a third-"
"In self-defense."
"True, and Ruval deserved all that happened to him. But the rest?"
"I came for Melome."
"You say that as if it gives you justification for all you did," mused Shakira. "Had you forgotten she is mine?"
"No."
"But it didn't matter, is that it? You would have willingly stolen the girl."
"I wanted what I had paid for. A deal had been arranged and money paid in advance as a token of good faith."
"Fifty kobolds," agreed Shakira. "It was that which decided my agent to act. Too often things of value are lost because of delay and he knew I would not be gentle had he failed. Kalama cheated you. Be thankful it was not for more."
"To hell with the money!" Dumarest fought to remain calm. He found it hard. The air held the traces of too many distant worlds, Shakira himself too like a serpent in his subtle deviations.
A man enjoying the situation. Yet here he was the master and he had the girl. "How much for Melome?"
"Would you be willing to pay a hundred thousand kobolds?" Shakira lifted his hands as Dumarest made no answer. "A ridiculous sum, I agree, but you don't really want to buy the girl. Think of the problems owning her would create. Let us decide on a price, then, for your original agreement."
"That was done."
"But I own the girl now and my values are not the same as Kalama's. There are only two things you could give me which I don't already own. One is your skill. The other is the knowledge you carry in your brain. The skill can be purchased but the knowledge must be freely given." Shakira's voice hardened a little. "Why do want to use the girl?"
"You know what she does."
"Of course, but few willingly seek the terror she induces. Some men will do it once for an act of bravado but rarely twice. Yet you wanted more and more of her song. The action of a desperate man or a stupid one as was your later pursuit. I do not think you to be stupid and am curious as to why you are so desperate. So willing to risk your life to get the girl."
"There is something I want and she can help me to find it." It was not enough and Dumarest knew it. Bluntly he added more. "She can help me find my way home to Earth."
"Earth?" A veil filmed Shakira's eyes. "You believe in legends?"
"Earth is no legend."
"And you claim it as your home world. I find that interesting. We must discuss it in greater detail." Shakira rose from his chair. He was taller than Dumarest had estimated, the golden arabesque of his blouse continued over the pants of matching color, the garments blending so that he seemed to be a creature of lavender laced with gold. "But later. Now we must settle the question of price."
"I offer to share my knowledge."
"Which will be valuable, true, but it isn't enough. You could learn nothing and how would I profit? I want your skill. You must agree to work for me." Shakira added, "If you want the girl, my friend, you have no choice."
CHAPTER SIX
Melome had changed. The waif of the market with the dirt and thinness and ghastly pallor had gone as had the ragged clothing, the belt holding the reeled spools, the lank straggle of the hair. Instead Dumarest looked at a pubescent girl dressed in a neatly belted gown, the long hair braided and set in shimmering coils, the nails trimmed and polished. When she smiled she held the glow of inner health.
A miracle wrought with expensive and intensive therapy, but some of the earlier traces remained; the almost luminous waxen appearance of the skin, the bruised and haunted eyes. Windows which held secrets, unchanging as she lifted her hands, a strand of woven metal between them, as bright and coldly gleaming as her hair.
"Touch it," said Shakira. "Sit and hold the metal."
The contact which would open the door to the past.
Dumarest sat, cross-legged, the metal pliant and cool in his hands. The strand was long, reaching in a double line halfway across the chamber to where Melome now stood against a wall. At Shakira's touch an instrument came to life filling the air with the wail of pipes and the throb of a drum.
Music recorded, refined, filling the room with a relentless pulsing. Closing around Dumarest, enfolding him in a web of silence broken only by the throbbing beat, the nerve-scratching wail, rising, demanding-
The ship!
He must concentrate on the ship. The cabin. The precious book.
The book!
Melome began to sing.
Sound which dominated, directed, engrossed-and became a scream of rage.
"You bastard! You've been stealing again!"
"No!" Dumarest cringed, backing away, sick with the terror which knotted his stomach. Vomiting the scrap of food he'd taken from the pot, the first in two days. "No! Please, no!"
The lash of a belt and pain to add to his fear. Another and the heavy buckle tore at flesh, breaking the skin, sending blood to mingle with the dirt coating his buttocks and legs. The single garment he wore ripped as a hand snatched at his shoulder, the belt lashing at his nakedness, beating him down to the tamped dirt of the floor, sending him in a fetal huddle.
A child of eight years terrified for his life.
"Bastard!" The man, drunk, gloated in his sadistic pleasure. "You no-good bastard! Eat without asking my permission, eh? Stuffing your guts without getting my say-so. I'll teach you. By, God, I'll teach you!"
