Web of Sand dot-20

by E. C. Tubb

  "Failing?" He frowned then, catching the meaning, hesitated between rage and laughter. To mock his family was unforgivable and yet Keith did make himself ridiculous at times. And it would do no harm to take Ellain's side-Khan, at least, would be pleased. "A recent development," he said seriously. "He cannot see anything which does not belong to him. Nor anything he envies and cannot obtain. But there is nothing wrong with his ears."

  "Ears? What are you thinking about? What-" He stuttered to a brief silence then, with a shrug, continued, "Have your joke, my boy. Laugh at an old man while you can. But at least let me hear something worth listening to while I am your guest." His eyes swiveled toward Ellain. "If you would accommodate me, my dear, I would be grateful."

  "Yunus?"

  He delayed his permission, selecting a sweetmeat from a selection on a salver of precious metal, biting into it with a flash of strong, white teeth. A childish display of arrogance but one which had to be tolerated. Only when he had finished the morsel did he nod.

  "Go ahead, my dear. It is time we had some entertainment worthy of our station."

  The musicians were assembled at the end of the chamber; a small group but equipped with electronic devices which extended their range. She conferred with them for a moment, emphasized certain points and then took her position. A moment then, as the lights began to dim and the soft sounds of controlled vibrations welled from the musicians behind her, she began to sing.

  She had chosen to begin with Remsley's Banachata, a relatively simple piece but one holding unsuspected difficulties for the novice with its abrupt changes of key and tempo. Teen Veroka had used it as a test piece and had been scathing in his comments to those who failed to perform to his satisfaction. She had not failed and it was a good choice to set the mood for the songs to follow: Hezekiah's Passion of the Heart and Ecuilton's Interlude. But now she needed to concentrate on the Banachata.

  It began softly, slowly, suddenly rising to a shrill and almost raucous scream, to fall undulatingly over octaves to throb like a drum then to blur into a formless stream of incoherent words which stimulated the imagination of those who listened, guiding them to fit their own patterns, their own concepts. Tonal magic enhanced by the sounding board of chest and throat, projected, modulated by larynx and tongue, lips and teeth, rising from the stomach as muscles, and training turned her entire body into a living facsimile of the pipe of an organ, a flute, the wail of a fife, the sonorous echo of a drum.

  She held them, after the first few moments she knew it. The gown, the display of flesh, all were unnecessary, her vocal magic was enough. Khan Barrocca sat, a goblet half-raised to his lips, his desire for wine forgotten in his appreciation of her art. Jashir Yagnik brooded, his face betraying his envy, his eyes his need. Chole Khalil, young, impressionable, stared at her body but saw only the imagery of his dreams. Yunus, Keith, the others assembled with their toys-all were in the hollow of her hand. An audience to manipulate, to control. And, suddenly, she was a child again sitting in the great auditorium of the Opera House, looking, listening, knowing with every cell of her body what her destiny must be. To sing. To create rapture. To deliver joy.

  The Banachata drew toward its end, shrill, clear notes wafting like birds, caught, amplified, engaged in a mesh of grace-notes, the main theme rising to fall to rise again in a calculated sonic wave which matched the aural emotional triggers inherent in all who were human. Science wedded to art and served as entertainment.

  The piece ended with a sharp abruptness, the silence shocking, stunning, then, before the spell could be broken, she began the second selection.

  Hezekiah had worked on it for half his life and had died still unsatisfied but few would admit that he had achieved less than perfection. This time there were words all could follow, each syllable chosen for semantic and emotive impact, the music accentuating the message as her own skill modulated it, tone and key changing, pure melody providing contrast, long ululations stretching and distorting time. A tapestry of sound and music, words and tone, cadences weaving as threads, glissades, apparent cacophonies, the final, triumphant cadenza.

  This time she waited for applause, bowing, smiling as Barrocca hurled down his goblet in order to beat his hands, Yagnik rising to cry out, a sound born of emotion, torn from his soul. Chole Khalil joined him, adding to the storm rising from the table. Even Yunus clapped and his uncle dented a salver with the impact of a spoon.

  Slowly the room regained its calm. Silence came to replace the din but only when it was complete did she give the signal to the watchful musicians. With a chord as solemn as a prayer the Interlude began.

  Ecuilton had been a child during the war which had ruined his planet. He had seen his mother die in a burning house, his father torn by explosives, his brother crisped by searing pastes. He had witnessed all the horror and vileness of internecine combat and, later, the indifference of the victors to what had happened to the vanquished. To them, as to the others, the thing had been a mere interlude. To him it was a thing he could never forget and, old, crippled and dying, he had created a masterpiece.

  Ellain hated it.

  She hated what it did to her, the emotions it aroused; the pain and fury and frustration. The injustice. The horror. The imagery of burning, screaming children, of shrieking, distraught women. Of men crawling like half-crushed insects, blind, groping, entrails trailing like greasy ribbons. Of boots stamping on pleading, extended hands. Of the bewildered cries of helpless babies starving as they sucked at the breasts of raped and murdered mothers. The violation of the soil. The stink, the filth, the obscenity of war.

  Hated it and yet loved it too. Enjoyed it in part and echoed that enjoyment to match the bleak despair. Feeling the tension mount in her loins, the hardening of her nipples as she sang of blood and pain; a sexual stimulus matched by the disgust of those who warred against the helpless. A contradiction of civilized mind and primitive nature which created, for her, a vibrant excitement. Often she ended the Interlude shuddering in orgasm.

  But not this time. Now she controlled her emotions, resisting the impulse to yield to the spell of the tonal and musical magic, projecting, aiming the notes like bullets at her audience. As the last rose to hang quivering like a scream, to end with the impact of a fist, she bowed, hair cascading to mound on the floor, one long thigh exposed to gleam in the subdued light, the lines of her back illuminated by the spotlight which had shone throughout her performance.

  And again the room quivered to the thunder of applause.

  "My dear!" Yunus rose to greet her as she neared the table. "You were wonderful! Superb!"

  He was gratified, basking in the adulation given by the others to his toy. A matter of pride, equal to that felt by the owner of a winning horse, the possessor of an intelligent dog. And yet, as he touched her, she felt that there could be something more. A tenderness. A regard. Surely she must mean more to him than a voice to beguile his guests?

  Then Khan Barrocca said, "Yunus, I offer ten thousand kren for her contract."

  "Only ten?" Yunus shrugged. "You aim too low, my friend."

  "A hundred!" Young Chole gulped, recognizing his temerity. "A hundred thousand, Yunus!"

  She waited for him to reject the offer, to make it plain to all that he regarded her as beyond price. Instead he said, musingly, "You tempt me, Chole. A hundred, you say?"

  "Yes."

  "And you have it?" He smiled at the other's hesitation, "No? Well, approach me again when you do."

  The smile had betrayed his nature, it had held more cruelty than amusement and it had not been kind to have made sport of the boy. Yet the offer, if nothing else, had restored some of her lost confidence. Why need she be so dependent on Yunus Ambalo? She was unique while he was but one of many-a fact she had tended to forget.

  "No, my dear," he said quietly, and it was as if he'd read her mind. "I am not to be discarded so easily. You must remember that it is I who own your contract. It is to me you are indebted."

  She said, bitterly,
"Could I ever forget it?"

  "It would be wise if you did not."

  "And you will see to it that I am reminded I am your property. Your slave!" Anger turned her eyes into emerald pools. "One day, Yunus! One day-"

  "One day the winds will cease and the surface of Harge be as pleasant to walk on as-Nyadoma? That is the name of your world, isn't it? Nyadoma where all are equal and none are denied." His tone was dry with mocking. "I wonder why you ever left such a paradise." Then, with sudden acidity, he added, "Never threaten me, Ellain. Not when we are alone or in company. Forget and you will regret it. That I promise."

  "As you promised to take me to the arena?"

  "Of course, my dear. I hadn't forgotten." His smile was bland. "But first let us finish the meal."

  Harge was a box holding a world and though small it held all the elements of a planet. The upper towers held expensive suites and apartments, windowed, the panes protected from the dust, the air itself balanced to a scented delight. There it was possible to wander in exotic gardens, swim in limpid pools, lounge beneath transparent roofs in the light of sun or stars. Lower were more modest apartments, offices, walks and shops, schools. Lower still, below ground level, began a different world, one of noise and smells and harsh bleakness. And lower still, as deep as it was possible to get, the Burrows, the area of the damned.

  Between the upper and lower worlds, like a thin film of oil, of insulation, was the place Dumarest knew had to exist.

  "Come here, my pretty!" An old crone yelled a raucous invitation as he neared her stall. "Sit and let me study your palm. The future lies in the lines, your past, dangers which could threaten. Advantages too which could be lost unless anticipated." A leer disfigured her seamed features. "A girl lusting for just such a man as you and willing to pay for her pleasure. I can tell you where such are to be found. Rich women from the upper levels and generous if satisfied. Come, sit, cross my palm with silver and let's begin."

  Kemmer grunted. "Why waste money? The woman is a fraud."

  Her eyes were sharp. "A fraud, am I? Trader, who has cheated the most? Dare you let me tell your friends how you came to leave home?"

  "Guesswork." Santis shrugged. "I could do as well."

  "Which is why you are so rich, mercenary. So well supplied with food and wine and willing women. So respected. So much in demand." Her laughter rose, thin, brittle. The odors of rancid grease and pungent spices strengthened as she lifted an arm and pointed at Dumarest. "You, my pretty, come and sit with me. Last night I had a dream and you fit the vision. A man dressed in gray with a look on his face which woke me screaming. A dire omen and you would be a fool to ignore it."

  And perhaps a bigger fool to yield to her blandishments, but Dumarest, wise in the ways of carnival, sensed more than the others. The crone was trying too hard and how had she known Kemmer was a trader? The mercenary was obvious but the other could only have been a shrewd guess. And, if nothing else, she could tell him things useful to know.

  The booth was small, decorated with gaudy symbols, the devices painted on the ubiquitous fused sand. A table bore a crystal ball, the surface scratched and dull. The cloth beneath was stained, frayed and torn in a few places. The chairs were of thin metal designed to be folded for portability. Incense fumed from a metal pot and hung in an odorous cloud beneath the ceiling.

  As he sat the old woman held her hand before him, palm uppermost. Silently she watched as he dropped coins into the grimed cup.

  Quietly he said, "I'm no gull, mother. Don't waste your time feeding me a line of rich wantons or hidden treasure. I've grafted in my time and know the angles. Just answer a few questions and be honest. A deal?"

  Her hand closed over the coins. "Don't be too clever, my friend. And don't be too mistrustful. I have the power. Give me your hand." She took it, spreading the fingers and crouched brooding over the palm. A stained nail traced lines, halted at juxtapositions, hesitated at certain points. "A traveler," she murmured. "One who has seen many worlds. One too who has had many loves. One who has known much danger. A fighter trained in the use of a blade. A gambler. A searcher after truth who-" She broke off, inhaling sharply. "Red," she whispered. "Scarlet-beware the color of blood!"

  Dumarest watched, restraining his impatience. His clothing alone would have told her he was a traveler; garb designed for wear and protection. The knife in his boot coupled with the callouses on his palm would have told he used a blade and all men who fought were, in essence, gamblers.

  "Scarlet," she said again. "It is behind you, around you, all is scarlet."

  Another guess? Dumarest said, "Are there any here who wear scarlet robes?" The shake of her head meant little; cybers could reside in the upper levels and she need never know it. "Has anyone asked after me? By description, naturally."

  "No."

  "Would you know?"

  "If they asked in the Stril I would know. I get to hear most things." Again she studied his palm. "There's something odd here. A danger but more than that. You've killed," she accused. "There are men who have cause to hate you. Vengeful men."

  "So?"

  "They will give you no rest And they are close, close. I see-no, some things are best not told."

  "We had a deal," said Dumarest, flatly. "If that's the best you can do then I'm going to feel cheated. You wouldn't want me to feel that, would you? No, I thought not. Now why not just answer a few questions?"

  The others joined him as he left the booth. Kemmer made no secret of hiding his irritation at what he considered rank stupidity; Santis was more sympathetic.

  "Sometimes it helps, Earl, I know that. Once on Pico I visited a palmist. We were set to attack at dawn and I was troubled. Something sent me to her and her warnings caused me to change the plans. I attacked from a different direction three hours early and found they were set and ready for me. If I'd followed the original plan we'd have been blasted to atoms. As it was we won."

  "So what did you learn, Earl?" Kemmer scowled at a painted harlot who caught at his arm. As she fell back with a screamed insult he added, "A way out of this mess?"

  There was only one way out and they knew it and in the Stril it could be found. Dumarest led the way through passages lined with booths, past vendors of assorted and exotic delights, ignoring the touts, pimps and harlots. Once he halted to drive the heel of his palm against the chin of a man who lingered too close too long, sending the pickpocket staggering back with empty hands and vacant eyes. At a junction he heard a familiar drone.

  "Back the winner and pick up twice what you put down. The red fights the yellow. Roll up! Roll up! The next bout is about to commence!"

  The spieler was tall, gaunt, his clothing shabby, his eyes restless. Behind him a chamber held a circular barrier centered with a table on which stood a dome of clear plastic. Now it was empty but for a thin, blue vapor but, once activated, clouds of red and yellow spores would be released to fight, to fall, the victors feeding on the vanquished to display the winning hue.

  "Red and yellow, back your choice. Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! The next bout is about to commence!"

  His words faded, were replaced by others yelled from a stunted, leather-lunged man who strutted on bowed legs.

  "Three temple dancers from Fecundis-need I say more? Witness the immaculate purity of their movements. See with your own eyes the hidden mysteries of a secret cult. Watch as they perform exotic movements of tantalizing delight and, for a small fee, participate. You, sir!" His finger stabbed at Santis. "Age rests on your shoulders-before the doors of life close why not indulge in an experience you will never forget? Fifty kren to watch-another hundred to mount the platform. A bargain!" His voice rose as they moved on. "You refuse the offer? What has happened to the men of Harge?"

  A simpering woman could have told him as she displayed the charms of veiled and lissom girls. An apothecary, eyes blank, droned the offer of charms and love philtres, medicines and salves for annoying ailments. A magician ate fire and produced eggs from unlikely places. A boxer, knotted wit
h rope-like muscle, offered to take on all comers.

  "You there!" His manager, eager for trade, thrust his hand toward Dumarest. "A hundred kren if you last a minute. Five hundred if you leave the ring the winner. Your friends can see fair play."

  "Five hundred," said Kemmer. "For a smashed face and broken bones."

  For bruises and internal injuries; a ruptured liver or spleen, broken ribs thrusting jagged ends into lungs and membranes.

  The boxer had fists like hammers and would use them as such. Dumarest studied the face and eyes, seeing and recognizing the dullness, the lack of interest. A man who had fought too hard and too often. A living machine lacking sense and feeling. One day the ruined cells in his brain would send him toppling in paralysis or death; until then he was fit for nothing but to kill.

  Santis said, "Why isn't he fighting in the arena?"

  "He is too gentle," said the manager quickly. "Too reluctant to hurt. A kindly creature who wants only to demonstrate his skill. Win and you will be paid. Lose and you can tell all your friends that you have faced and fought with a champion."

  "For a hundred kren, you say?" A burly youth with a painted girl hanging on his arm, eager to display his masculinity and win her favors, thrust himself toward the booth. "A hundred?"

  "Last for a single minute and it's yours. Five times as much if you win. Step forward now! Hurry! Hurry!"

  Dumarest moved on as the youth, pressed by a crowd eager to see blood and pain, entered the booth followed by those willing to pay to watch the combat. He could win if the boxer retained the ability to soften his blows and the manager had the sense to prime the crowd. An easy victory to encourage others to fight and their companions to bet. If so the youth would be lucky-but Dumarest wouldn't bet on it.

  Santis said, "Ten years ago I might have taken him on. I was always good at unarmed combat."

  "For five hundred? It isn't enough." Kemmer stepped to one side to allow a tall man with a strained and painted face a direct passage. The man had eyes like blank windows, the pupils enormous, a rim of white showing around the contracted iris. Froth edged his writhing lips and his hands, like claws, snapped at the air before him. Drugged, in delusion such a man could be dangerous. Uneasily he said, "Earl, are we close?"