by E. C. Tubb
She was nude, skin still damp from a scented bath, the thick mane of her hair framing her face and edging her shoulders. A good body, one still firm, muscles clothed by softening fat which enhanced her unabashed femininity. One untouched by claw or fang-luck and skill had seen to that; the costume she wore was for show and not concealment. But now she had been marked and her hand lifted to touch the gash on her breastbone. One about an inch long, shallow; healed it would leave no trace. But, always, within her mind she would bear the scar.
The scar and the man who had injured her.
Closing her eyes she could see him again. The face hard, cold, the mask of an animal. A creature determined to survive. One ready to kill to avoid being killed. Like Chang and Ahrda and Torin. Like all the great cats she had trained-his eyes had matched theirs. His reflexes had been as fast. Faster-never had she known a man move so quickly. Death had been very close.
And, again, she felt the thrill of it.
A moment Hayter had mentioned when, satiated, he had lain beside her in a place redolent of the cats they both loved.
"It's the power," he'd said. "The dominance. To rule over creatures which could kill you without hesitation if the mood took them. But over that is the thrill of danger. Each time you train or perform you risk your life. Take a gamble-your skill against their instincts. It's like a drug which, for a moment, makes you more than human. Makes you come really alive. And, always, there is the temptation to push your luck a little harder.. To tempt fate a little more. Don't do it, Reiza. When it comes to that, quit the game."
Advice he hadn't taken-had he welcomed the claws which had ripped out his life? The attack which had saved him from decrepit old age?
She hoped it had been like that. He had been too full of life to waste and fade. Too proud to be other than the best in his field. And, when her time came, would she feel the same as when death had come so close?
The knife slashing at her throat-time had seemed to slow to extend the moment and, against her lids, she could see the glitter of steel, the edge and point. Feel again the constriction of her stomach, the anticipation. Then the burn, her breasts falling free, the sting of the knife at her throat.
And the face so close to her own.
A chime and she opened her eyes, swaying a little. The effects of the gas had been neutralized but traces lingered and she caught the edge of the mirror to steady herself.
"Reiza?" Zucco's voice and, again, the chime. As always he was impatient. "Reiza? Are you all right?"
"A moment." A robe lay close and she donned it, yellow silk, rich in the diffused illumination. Material which held a sensuous appeal and it clung to her body as she tied it around her waist. "Enter!"
He walked like a cat, light on the balls of his feet, his body slender, lithe, bright with scarlet and gold. Garments modeled on those worn in the ring lacking only the cheap glitter of sequins and artificial gems. His face, thinned, held the sharp awareness of a predator. His eyes held the darting flicker of a serpent's tongue.
"My dear!" He halted before her, tall, showing an outward concern. "Are you sure you're all right? The gas-"
"Did you have to use it?"
"There was no other way. Shot he could have killed you as he fell. Threatened-" His shrug was expressive. "Your life was too valuable to risk."
And so the gas kept by for use in emergencies against animals running wild, men, crowds.
"A madman," he said. "Deranged. He could have killed you."
Would have done had he really wanted. Zucco, watching from the shadows, had not seen the initial lethal aim of the blade, the sudden withdrawal.
She said, "Did you find out who he is?"
"Dumarest. Earl Dumarest. He was at the circus earlier and Ruval had to throw him out. Some trouble over a girl. One of Tusenbach's. It could have been settled but he drew a knife and left Ruval no choice."
"Melome?" She saw his frown. "He spoke of a sister he'd come to see. Melome. Was that the girl?"
"He lied."
"About the girl?"
"She isn't his sister. He asked after her before and then she was the daughter of a friend. Forget her." He stepped closer, hands reaching, his intention plain. As she stepped back he said, impatiently, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Then why avoid me? Or do you want to play a game?" His eyes glowed with a new fire, his face taking on a feral expression, a gloating anticipation. "You want to be mastered, forced, made to yield to the whip? Dominated? Treated like you treat your cats? Given a taste of pain."
Things he enjoyed but her needs were not governed by a sadistic nature. One he possessed, now rising to be mirrored on his face as he stared at her, stimulated by her femininity, her reluctance.
She said, quickly, "What about the girl? Melome. Is she with the circus?"
"I told you to forget her."
"Something special?"
"That isn't your business. Just worry about your cats and leave the rest to me. Ask questions and Shakira won't like it. Now let's stop wasting time." He frowned as she shook her head. "No? Why not?"
"Be sensible, man. I'm tired. I've been gassed and am still groggy. And I've had a hell of an experience. All I want now is to be left alone to sleep."
A lie and he sensed it as he sensed her heightened sensuality: emotions inflamed and sharpened by recent events. As he moved purposefully toward her she stepped to one side, reaching her spare costume, the flat pistol normally worn in a holster beneath the shorts. A gun she hadn't bothered to carry when dealing with a single animal. One she lifted to point at Zucco's face.
"I said no, Jac."
He halted, staring at the twin muzzles of the over and under; wide orifices which could spout a leaden hail.
"You'd use that? Against me?" Her eyes gave him the answer. "Bitch! I thought we were friends."
"We are," she agreed. "That and more. But you don't own me. I don't dance to your tune. We'll get on better if you remember that." Lowering the gun she added, casually, "What happened to Dumarest?"
"He's safe enough."
"Dead?"
"Would you care if he was?" His eyes searched her face, his own hardening as they moved to the gap in her robe, the wound lying between her breasts. "He cut you, remember. Marked you."
Branded her-there was a difference.
She said, "I'm curious. He acted strange. He's safe, you say?"
"Safe." Zucco's smile held malice. "He's down in the sump."
CHAPTER FOUR
Dumarest woke to the stench of it, the dirt, the noise. The circus was a closed world of inflated tents, domes, galleries, compartments. One holding animals, workers, a continual flow of visitors. A close-packed consuming society-the sump took care of the waste.
A place of dimness in which sewage and garbage was dumped to be fed to machines which churned it and fed the slurry to pipes leading outside. There was leakage, accumulations, pools of slime. Maintenance workers wore enclosing suits and breathed tanked air.
Dumarest, naked, was chained to a wall.
His head ached from the effects of the gas and thirst burned throat and mouth. In the gloom things looked blurred, out of focus, and he closed his eyes, palming them, feeling the tug and clank of restraining links. Manacles circled each wrist, the chains from them running through a circlet on the metal belt locked around his waist. Another chain at the rear led to a ring on the wall.
He could stand, take a step forward, lie on the crusted floor and that was all.
A prisoner sentenced without trial to a period of isolated confinement. One which could be the prelude to execution. It was possible, the circus was a law unto itself. A hostile world in which he was a stranger. For now he could do nothing but wait.
Squatting, he examined the links. They were too strong to break, welded, made of high-grade steel. The manacles were too close fitting to slip and prevented him reaching the chain holding him to the wall. A futile exercise; it too would be strong.
Something ran o
ver his foot and he saw a blur of chiton as a multilegged insect scuttled toward a patch of crusted slime. Food and water for the thing but only vileness for himself. Yet the creature was food and could be eaten if starvation threatened. But, before that, he would be dead of thirst.
The wall behind him was of metal and he touched it, feeling the dew of condensation. Moisture he collected on the flat of his hand, licking it, wiping the metal to gain more. It held a flat, unpleasant taste but it moistened his lips and eased his thirst a little. Relaxing he leaned his back against the wall.
Waiting, dozing, conserving his strength. Jerking to full awareness as metal clanged and a light shone into his eyes.
"So you're awake." Zucco, his finery protected by a plastic film, lifted the wand he carried. One tipped with metal. Dumarest jerked at the sting of it against his flesh. "Hurts, doesn't it." The voice held a feral purr as it came through the diaphragm of the helmet. "A thing we use on beasts to teach them to obey." It stabbed again. "Like this. And this. And this."
A series of nerve-jarring shocks as the current tore at his body. Through a red haze of pain Dumarest twisted, fought the restraint of the chains, the instinct which urged him to snatch at the wand. Even if he gained it he would have won nothing. Not until the man himself was within reach dare he act.
"Why did you come here?" The wand hit again before Dumarest could answer, touching his knee, his stomach, dropping to his loins. "Answer, you scum. Answer!"
Crude interrogation; questions followed by pain and then more questions with no time given for answers. A technique designed to break the spirit and induce unthinking responses.
Cowering, Dumarest said, "Melome! I came for the girl!"
The cowering was an act, the answer genuine. One he had given before.
"Why?" Again the wand. "Why? Why? Why?"
"A job." Dumarest gagged, pointing at his mouth. "Water! Give me water!"
"After you talk." The wand seared nerves and filled the universe with pain. "The truth, now! Damn it, I want the truth!"
"You've had it. I wanted a job. I figured Melome could give me an introduction to the boss. Someone who could hire me."
"So you came here, sneaked into the circus, crept about like a thief, attacked Reiza and would have killed her-just to get hired?" Zucco sneered his contempt. "Do you take me for a fool?"
"No-a sadistic bastard!"
Zucco tensed with anger, face taut, as he raised the wand, holding it like a rapier, the metal tip circling inches from Dumarest's eyes.
"Now we're getting somewhere," he whispered. "I knew you couldn't be broken so easily. But you will be broken. Made to beg. To crawl." The wand jabbed forward, touched, touched again. Bruising impacts which lacked the previous searing energy; Zucco had deactivated the instrument. "Odd," he said. "Reiza said you were fast. Fast enough to have dodged but-" This time Dumarest jerked as Zucco fed power to the wand, sent the tip to jab a shoulder. "Talk!"
"Water!"
"Talk, damn you! Talk! Talk! Talk!"
A man beside himself with rage, converting it to pleasure, enjoying the pain he caused, the anguish. One who would kill unless satisfied; his need justification enough for any action he chose to take.
Dumarest jerked, slumped to the floor, feeling the bite of nails in his palms as he clenched his fists. Screaming to vent his rage at the pain which consumed him, a sound Zucco mistook for terror, the signal of his victory.
Panting he stepped back, lowering the wand, looking at the slumped figure before him. A man sprawled in a faint and beyond any further pain he could inflict.
"I'll be back," he said. "And, when I do, you won't escape so easily. Ruval!"
Dumarest heard the pad of boots as Zucco moved away. More footsteps came close, heavier, accompanied by a metallic clinking. He gasped as a flood of water drenched head and shoulders. Another and he rose upright to stare at a massive body, a close-cropped head. One he had seen before.
"Here!" Ruval handed him a beaker of water. "I warned you not to come back but you had to be smart. Crazy to do what you did. Now you're paying for it."
Dumarest handed back the empty container. "Your doing?"
"Zucco's. The one who questioned you. Reiza's his woman. You made a mistake going up against her."
"And you?"
"I just work here." Ruval refilled the beaker and handed it to Dumarest. "Gas makes you thirsty and you've enough trouble as it is."
"Thanks." Dumarest sipped, looking at the big man. Less kind than he seemed; Zucco must have given him orders to take care of his charge. To get him in condition for another session with the wand. "Is Zucco the boss?"
"The ringmaster."
"But not the owner?" As Ruval shook his head Dumarest added, "You said something about paying. I can pay. A thousand kobolds if you help me get out of here."
"Forget it."
"Why? All you need is the key. A file if you can't get it. I've money on deposit in town. It's yours if you'll help. A thousand in cash." Money which would buy luxury. Dumarest watched as the man's interest grew. "What can you lose?" he urged. "Think of what you could buy."
Ruval said, "How would you pay?"
"I'll give you a note. The money will be put aside. You can see it, check that it's there. When I sign the transfer it'll be yours."
"Sign?"
"Countersign. Of course, I'll have to be with you at the time. A thousand kobolds." Dumarest emphasized the figure. "How long would it take you to earn that much?"
Too long, but there were problems.
"I don't know," said Ruval. "I'm just not sure."
"Afraid of Zucco? You could break him in half with one hand. Doubt my word? Talk to Helga, she'll tell you I've money. I didn't hurt her, you know. I wasn't lying."
"I didn't figure you were. A push, a slap, touch them in the wrong way, even, and they scream murder." Ruval sucked at his cheeks. "A thousand?"
"That's right."
"Just for bringing you a file?"
"For getting me out of here," corrected Dumarest. "I want to be free and clear."
He sipped at the water as the man thought about it. Ruval was dressed in good clothing; pants of good weave and boots of fine leather. His blouse was ornamented by a cluster of brilliant stones held to the fabric by a long pin. His belt was carved in elaborate designs. A chain around his neck held a massive lucky charm. A dandy despite his bulk. One who would always need money.
"Well?"
Ruval shook his head. "I daren't risk it. Zucco would have my hide."
"Two thousand then. Double."
"No."
"Coward!" Dumarest blazed with anger. "You stinking freak! You've no guts!"
He flung the beaker into Ruval's face.
It hit above an eye, shattering, breaking the skin to mask the face with blood. Ruval snarled and lunged forward, fists clenched, slamming like hammers at Dumarest's face and body. Blows he tried to divert, dissipating their force as he grappled with the big man, but enough landed to make him grunt with shock and pain. To fall and lie slumped in a limp heap.
"Scum!" Ruval drove his boot into the naked body. "I treat you decent and what do I get? To hell with you!"
He stormed away leaving Dumarest lying bleeding, semiconscious, the gemmed pin he had stolen clutched tightly in his hand.
It was going all wrong.
Reiza, standing in the brilliant circle of light, alone with her animals, sensed it with the instinct which made her what she was. Chang was too slow to obey, Ahrda too edgy, Torin flexed his claws too often, Kiki bared his lips too wide. Small details which warned of danger and she met it, mastering the beasts as a matter of survival more than art. Quashing all trace of fear, feeding her anger so as to radiate an aura of seething rage and determination.
Even so she had to cut short the performance, giving the signal which brought the clowns running, tumbling, distracting attention while the handlers wafted tranquilizing vapors at the cats before guiding them from the ring. As they vanished f
rom the area her cheeks burned to the yelled annoyance of the audience.
A hard crowd; mostly new arrivals and as yet uncalmed by the soothing atmosphere of Baatz. Rock-miners, mercenaries, hunters from nearby planets hungry for entertainment and free with lewd advice, suggestions, open invitations.
They quieted as the gymnasts began to spin in complex patterns of incredible dexterity; lithe bodies like living flames adorning the struts and poles with practiced grace.
"You were terrible." Old Valaban faced her in the tunnel beneath the stands. In the light from the ring his face was creased, worn, the livid scars which ran from scalp to chin on his left side a barred chiaroscuro. "An amateur couldn't have done worse and you know it. Hayter-"
"He's dead!"
"Sure-as you could have been a couple of times out there. But he died because of pride. You would have gone down because of stupidity."
She saw the change in his eyes and looked at her raised hand, loaded with the stock of her whip, heavy with its concealed blade.
"Sorry." He was a genius with animals and the claws which had ripped his face had paid the dues for a free tongue. "Val-I'm sorry."
"Something's wrong, girl. You should know what it is."
Tiredness. Turmoil-her brief sleep had been haunted by dreams. A face which dominated her universe. The glitter of a knife-the thought of what it would have felt like as it sheared home. At first nothing, the blade like a cat's claw too sharp to register. Then the sting, the burn, the horror of impending death.
The face-why couldn't she wash it from her mind?
Valaban said, "Women don't make good tamers as a rule. Nature's against them; at times their scent is too strong and makes the cats restless. You're lucky in that way but other things can be as bad as blood."
She said, curtly, "I'm not a fool. I bathe before each performance. I don't smell."
"But you sweat." He was blunt. "And I'm talking about scents, not smells. You're in rut," he accused. "A bitch in heat. I can't smell it but the animals can. They're males-do I have to spell it out?"