Haven of Darkness dot-16

by E. C. Tubb

  He almost made it-or so the tall man made it seem. As the attack developed he jumped back, appeared to stumble, moved clumsily to one side as the keen steel whined through the air where he had stood. A slash delivered too late and with too much effort. Unopposed the force put into it turned the younger man too far to his left. His recovery was too slow and a yell rose from the crowd as a third wound marked his gleaming flesh. A long cut running over the pectoral muscles of his chest.

  A cut which had severed muscle, released blood, created pain.

  The first of those which would leave him a maimed and crippled thing.

  "Galbrio!" screamed the matron, "You did it! You did it!" Tearing a ring from her finger she threw it into the ring. "My hero! My love!"

  The offer was in her voice, her eyes. Should he care to take her, she was his for as long as the stimulated passion which now controlled her should last. Then, after it had died, she would go home, satiated, a little disturbed, swearing, perhaps, never to witness another fight, but the vow would be broken and the ritual again experienced.

  Like an addictive drug the spectacle of blood and pain was hard to relinquish.

  Dumarest rose as the shouting died. Dropping to the sunken level surrounding the ring he made his way to the dressing rooms. There were small, cubicles holding the personal effects of those who fought, a few private chambers for the prime contenders, an open area fitted with a bloodstained table on which the hurt were given crude first aid. To one side rested the boxes for the dead.

  Benny sat on the pile of coffins. He held a pomander in one hand and sniffed it as he looked at the screaming wretch now on the table. As Dumarest touched his arm he turned with a cat-like swiftness.

  "What-oh, it's you! What do you want?"

  "A chance at Galbrio."

  "You want to fight him?" Benny began to shake his head, halting the gesture as he ran his eyes over Dumarest's face. "Hell, you made it. But why? The man's good. The best. He'd butcher you inside three minutes."

  "Maybe."

  "He would. I know him. Do you?"

  His type only, but it was enough. Cold, ruthless, devoid of mercy, the way a good fighter should be. But he had a streak of cruelty, a sadistic pleasure in inflicting pain. The young man had been maimed with savage deliberation. The wounds had cut too deep and had been wrongly placed simply to please the crowd. There had been a spiteful intent behind the act and, as Dumarest knew, the man's days were numbered.

  "I'll make it simple," he said. "First blood or third; to the death or a timed end; a split purse or winner take all." He let his voice falter a little. "I don't care. I just don't care."

  "You in trouble?" Benny guessed the answer. "Need cash bad, uh? Is that why you come here?" He beamed at Dumarest's silence. "I can fit you in but the purse will be small. Hell, what else do you expect? An unknown."

  "Set a purse," said Dumarest. "Winner take all. And I'll back myself against Galbrio."

  "Galbrio? Maybe he won't want to know."

  But he did as Dumarest had known he would. An apparent novice willing to put himself at the mercy of his blade. Another victim to throw to the crowd, more cash and jewelry thrown into the ring, an easy victory and a cheap enhancing of his reputation. No man with his inclinations could miss the opportunity.

  Only when they stripped did he sense that, perhaps, he had made a mistake.

  "You've fought before," he said, looking at the thin lines of old scars on Dumarest's chest and forearms. "Often?"

  "Only when I had to."

  "To the death?"

  "Only when I had to."

  "Well, this isn't one of those times. Third blood and there's no need for either of us to get hurt. Keep the blade light, just scratches, you understand, and we'll both have something to show for it. One fifth to the loser, right?"

  A change but Dumarest wasn't deluded into thinking the man was genuine. He would kill or cripple so badly that death would be a mercy. The talk was to gain an added advantage, to pander to his warped nature. He would gain extra pleasure in the deception should it work.

  "Knives!" An attendant came towards them, a pair of blades in his hands. Ten-inches of naked steel, hilts of heavy brass, points like needles. But they were badly balanced, awkward to the hand.

  "I'll use my own," said Dumarest.

  "It's an inch shorter."

  "So I'll give an advantage." He held out his hand towards Galbrio. "Let me see your knife."

  "Why not?" The man handed it over. "Now let me check yours."

  Both were looking for the same thing, the minute hole which would reveal a secret mechanism; a dart projector which could spit a missile coated with a numbing poison or a gas projector which would spray a noxious vapor into an opponent's eyes. Such devices gave one chance only but, correctly used, they would ensure victory.

  Both knives were clean, and taking his, Dumarest led the way into the ring. A scatter of applause greeted him. It rose to a thunder as Galbrio appeared, bowing, smirking at the crowd.

  "Kill him, Galbrio!" yelled a man. "Kill him!"

  The fighter answered with a smile.

  Dumarest did not smile. He stood, waiting, poised in the little circle, knife in hand and every muscle tense.

  Now, as always, he was conscious of the fact that this could be his last fight. That here, in this ring, he could end both his search and his life.

  Chapter Four

  The announcements were brief; the sound of a bell and it began. Above the massed lights threw down a savage brilliance, their heat bringing sweat to dew the skin, thinning the film of oil which most fighters used to numb the pain of cuts and to prevent an opponent gaining a grip with his free hand. Beneath his naked feet Dumarest could feel the rough surface of the taut plastic covering the platform. Around him he could sense the impact of watching eyes.

  The air stank of blood-lust and the feral anticipation of pain.

  Dumarest ignored it as he did the watching eyes. Here, in this little circular universe, only one thing was of importance: the man who faced him and who intended to take his life-who would take it unless he was beaten first.

  Dumarest thought of the young man he had seen carried from the ring after falling to Galbrio's blade. He had been lying on the table, screaming, one eye gone, his left arm useless, intestines oozing from a slashed stomach, his body traced with deep gashes showing the white points of severed tendons.

  A moment, then even that memory was dissolved and all became concentrated in the man facing him, his eyes, his feet and hands, the glimmer of his knife.

  A glimmer which flashed into sparkles as he twisted the blade, using it as a mirror to send dazzling brilliance into Dumarest's eyes.

  An old trick and one he had expected but he backed a little, blinking, obviously thrown off balance. Galbrio swallowed the bait and came in, dancing, crouched, his knife slashing to halt, to sweep back in a vicious reverse cut, to lance upwards in a cutting stab towards the stomach.

  A blow which would have slit the abdomen had it landed, spilling guts and blood in a mess of pipes and vital fluids. One which, instead, clashed against Dumarest's protecting blade which then moved as he attacked in turn, the edge dipping, biting, dragging free with a shower of carmine rain.

  "He's hit!" The crowd yelled as Galbrio backed, scowling, the gaping ruby mouth on his left bicep dripping blood.

  A blow which had almost reached the bone and could have been sent against the corded throat had Dumarest wished. But it was not his intention to kill the man.

  He moved as Galbrio turned, careful of the blood now dappling the floor, knowing that a careless step could turn victory into defeat. Always, in any fight, there was the danger of the unknown. Blood, oil, grease, a trifling misjudgment and balance could be lost and the fight with it.

  Again the blades met, ringing, parting to meet again in a flurry of steel. A second wound joined the first, across the torso this time, as deep as those Galbrio had given earlier. A third, and he backed, eyes wide, fear distor
ting his scarred face.

  "Fast," he said. "God, you're fast! I quit. I don't stand a chance. Here."

  He lifted his knife as if to throw it down, to send the point into the platform in the signal of surrender. A move never completed for, as his arm moved downwards, it changed direction, developed power, sent the naked steel spinning through the air towards Dumarest A gambler's trick, should it fail the man would be left unarmed and defenseless, but at such close quarters, against a man who had lowered his guard, such a move would work more often than not.

  Dumarest moved, his own knife lifting, steel ringing as he slammed his own blade against the hurtling weapon. It thrummed through the air and landed to quiver in the floor at Galbrio's feet.

  "Pick it up," said Dumarest.

  "I've quit!"

  "You've tried one trick too many. Pick it up or take what's coming with empty hands."

  He wasn't making an empty threat and the man knew it. For a moment he stared into Dumarest's eyes then, snarling, stooped, snatched free the knife and with the frenzied courage of a man who has nothing to lose, hurled himself forward.

  And died as Dumarest slammed his knife upwards into the heart.

  In the dressing room Benny said, "Why? What made you do it?"

  "Money."

  "Just that?" He frowned, thought for a moment, then shrugged. "I can't understand fighters. Who knows what goes on inside the head of a man who risks his life for a living? But I'll tell you this. You want money I'll arrange a bout any time you choose. I've never seen anyone move so fast. Galbrio should have got you. It was a dirty trick and he deserved all you gave him but he should have got you. So, friend, any time you want a bout let me know."

  "I will."

  "Just remember that. Anything I can do for you?"

  "Yes," said Dumarest. "Just make sure I'm not followed."

  He was three times richer than when he had entered the place, still not enough to pay what Hilda Benson had asked but maybe enough to meet the new requirements as set by her friend. And, on this world as on any other, a man with money was a target for trouble. Twice he halted, listening, moving on only when satisfied no one was following. Three times he changed direction, doubling back on himself and ending, finally, far to one side of the field.

  It was busy, a file of men working like ants as they unloaded a freighter, piling bales and crates on wheeled trolleys which were dragged away. All looked alike, thin, stooped, gaunt, dressed in a collection of rags. It was close to dawn and they shivered in the chill air despite the heat induced by their efforts. An overseer stood to one side, checking something on a board.

  "Right, Emmanuel. Take a score of workers and haul this stuff to warehouse eighteen. Andre, you take as many and shift all the Qualan stock to warehouse nine. Don't forget to check at the gate."

  "Right." Two men dressed in warm clothing stepped away, halting as the overseer called after them.

  "You'd better hire a couple of guards each from the gate."

  "What for?" Andre, short, stocky, spat his disgust. "I can handle these creeps."

  "Sure you can, did I say different? Think of it as insurance. If one falls down and breaks his neck they can take care of it. Right?"

  "As you say, boss. Just as you say."

  Dumarest watched as the little columns moved towards the gate. Cheap labor from the pool and regarded as little better than dirt. To the guards they would be faceless creatures, to the overseers the same. They would live and die and the only difference between one and another was how long they would take to finally give up.

  It began to rain again as he moved around the field and a thin wind rose to drive the stinging drops into his eyes as he reentered the town. The place seemed deserted, not even a guard to be seen, and he looked in vain for a cab. The day broke as he reached the plaza and he halted at a small restaurant in a back street which, for some reason, had opened early. The coffee was poor but hot and welcome and, from the conversation of others, he gathered that the place was open early to serve the porters in the nearby market.

  When he left the streets were coming to life-Harald was an early-rising world.

  Armand Ramhed, it seemed, wasn't.

  Dumarest paused in the tiny hall and closed the door behind him. The house was dark and held an eerie stillness. There should have been sound of some kind, a snore, a movement, the echo of heavy breathing at least. Instead there was nothing.

  Cautiously he moved towards the kitchen, half-expecting to find Armand lying across the table, too drunk to stand. The place was deserted. The rear rooms the same. Gently Dumarest pushed open the door of the study.

  "Armand?" He stepped into the room when there was no answer. "Armand. Wake up, damn you. Wake up!"

  He couldn't.

  Armand Ramhed was dead.

  He lay on the table at which he worked, his head on the scanner, fitful gleams of colored brilliance painting his face as they had before. But now there was nothing of the clown about the thin temples and sunken cheeks. There was only the pathetic shell of what had once been a man who had died while engrossed in his hobby. A good way to go, perhaps, but Dumarest wished that he had waited. Or perhaps the man had finished what he'd set out to do?

  Gently Dumarest lifted the frail shape and placed it in a chair. Switching on the main lights he looked around the room. The table held a litter of papers, notes, figures, equations. Sheets held spectrographic schematics each traced with a heavy pattern of lines. Thick tomes were opened at pages listing the Fraunhofer identity of spectral elements. The scanner, obviously, held his strip of film.

  Dumarest opened it and removed the spectrogram. Holding it he again examined the table. Armand had been working until the last, he would have made notes or, at least, finalized some of his data. If he had, where would they be?

  Dumarest frowned, conscious that something was wrong. An item missing, one present which shouldn't be, something set different to what he remembered. The glass? Had the glass rested on the wad of papers when he'd left? Armand had waved farewell, too engrossed to turn, grunting as Dumarest had warned him he might be late. What had he said?

  Something about wine?

  Memory stirred and came to life. Bring back some wine, Earl? Or had it been, Help yourself to wine? Wine? The glass, perhaps?

  Lifting it Dumarest sniffed. It was empty but he could smell the sickly residue clinging to the glass. It told him nothing. But would Armand have been content with a single glass of wine?

  In the kitchen Dumarest dropped to his knees and examined the floor, not even sure of what he was looking for but, conscious only of a nagging unease. The instinct which warned his that something was wrong. He found it in the vat of fermenting liquid.

  The level, as he remembered, had been high. A fresh brew, Armand had told him, one which he'd hoped to nurture but which he had been driven to use. Now the level was much lower than it had been. Two bottles at least had been removed, perhaps three.

  If Armand had drunk them he must have done it out here. The bottles were as he remembered, dusty, empty, grimed. The man must have sat and dipped and drank and dipped again and drank until he had fallen into a stupor where he sat.

  And, drunk, how could he have returned to the study and sat and concentrated on his work?

  He rested where Dumarest had placed him, his eyes open, glazed, his features waxen in the cold light. One hand hung limply, the fingers touching the dusty floor, the other was clenched and pressed tightly against his side. Dumarest eased open the fingers and stared at what lay in the palm. A button traced with a design in amber on black. A stylized dragon, he thought, or some mathematical symbol used for ornamentation. Armand's button? The man's clothes were thin and of poor quality, the buttons made of some plastic material, plain and functional. And none were missing.

  Reaching out Dumarest closed the staring eyes then froze, his hand touching the waxen cheeks, his eyes narrowing as they spotted the trace of bruises, a thin smear of blood.

  It rested benea
th the lobe of the ear, a touch previously hidden by the kaleidoscope of color thrown by the scanner. The light was white, now, a cold glare from the unshaded bulb and in it the smear showed plain. Turning the head Dumarest lifted the ear and found the answer lying beneath.

  A small wound, almost lost, sealed by the natural contraction of the skin and muscle behind the ear. One made by something long and thin, a heavy bodkin or a knitting needle, either would have done. A pointed sliver of metal which had been thrust into the softness behind the ear until the point had lacerated the brain. Death would have been instantaneous.

  As assassin's trick-the wound, self-sealing, prevented a tell-tale show of blood. At a casual glance the victim would appear to be lost in thought and, had the eyes been closed, asleep. But why had they been left open? Why the betraying smear?

  Carelessness induced by haste. The work of an amateur. The eyes could have been overlooked, the smear left when the killing instrument had been withdrawn.

  Murder-but why?

  What reason to kill an old man? His poverty was obvious and even if a thief had been at work there was no sign of any search. Someone had gained admittance to the house, found Armand lying drunk, had killed him and carefully placed him in his chair in the study. Obviously the drunken stupor had not been total. The bruises showed signs of a struggle, the button proof that the assassin's intent had been recognized even if too late.

  But, again, why?

  Why kill a harmless old man?

  Dumarest lifted a hand to his throat already feeling the weight of a collar. Instinct had saved him. Finding Armand dead he should have called the guards. They would have held him for questioning, an examination would show the manner of death, automatically he would have been suspect.

  And, on Harald, once a man wore a collar there could be no escape.

  Trapped, helpless to run, he would have no choice but to wait.

  Dumarest looked at the button in his hand. The symbol was meaningless but, to him, it bore a familiar stamp. Not the design itself but the stealth and guile it represented. Amber on black but it might well have been a more familiar design traced on scarlet. The seal of the Cyclan.