E. Tubb: Eye of the Zodiac

Dumarest said, dryly. "What had you in mind?"

"There's a new joint opened on Condor Avenue. Young girls, sensatapes, analogues, all the drinks you can handle, and all the games you can use. Fights too, if you're interested. Real stuff, no messing about, naked blades and no stopping. Interested?"

They were from the workings. Men from a long bout of hard, relentless labor would be interested.

"Condor Avenue," said Dumarest. "What's it called?"

"The Effulvium. Crelk Sugari runs it. If you want, mister, I'll take you straight there. Why waste time?" His chuckle was suggestive. "Get in while the fruit is unspoiled, eh?"

"We'll drop in later."

"You do that." The operator handed back a card. "Hand this in when you arrive. It'll get you a free drink. A big one, and you won't have to pay entry. Don't forget now."

Dumarest took the slip of pasteboard. Handed in, it would ensure the man his commission.

"You know a good hotel? Something not too high and with available service?"

"Service?" The man twisted his head, grinning. "I get it. Sure, Madam Brandt runs a nice, clean, interesting place. Just don't make too much noise and everything will be fine. You want me to take you there?"

"Just drop us close by. You got a card for me to give her? Thanks."

Leon staggered a little as he left the pedcar, leaning on Dumarest for support as the vehicle moved away, the operator waving and pointing to the front of a house with shuttered windows and gaudy streaks of paint on the walls.

Dumarest watched him go, then turned and headed in the other direction.

"Aren't we going in there, Earl?"

"No."

"But I thought-" Leon frowned. "That man thinks we'll stay there."

"Which is why we won't." Dumarest stared at the pale face. "Can you hold up until we find somewhere else?"

"I guess so." Leon made an effort to stand upright. "I guess I'll have to."

"That's right," said Dumarest. "You do."

He settled for a small place in a quiet street, run by a woman long past her prime. The room had twin beds, a washbasin and faucet, a faded carpet on the floor, frayed curtains at the window. The panes were barred and faced a narrow alley. The walls were cracked and the ceiling stained. From a room lower down the passage came the sound of empty coughing:

"Chell Arlept," she explained. "He worked with my husband up at the site. They got caught in an explosion. Chell ruined his lungs. My husband-" She broke off, swallowing.

"It happens," said Dumarest. "I'm sorry."

"They just left him there," she said bleakly. "Piled dirt over the place where he fell. I didn't even get compensation."

Dumarest said nothing.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to tell you, but you did ask about Chell. If there's anything you need?"

"I'll let you know," said Dumarest. "There's a bath at the end of the passage? Good." He looked pointedly at the door. As the woman left he said to the boy. "Get stripped. I want to look at those ribs."

Nygas had been savage, or perhaps he had misjudged his victim. Leon winced as Dumarest's fingers probed his side, the strappings that had been hastily applied lying to one side on the bed. One rib was broken, others cracked, the flesh ugly with bruises.

"How bad is it, Earl?"

"Bad enough." Dumarest picked up the bandages, soaked them in water from the faucet, bound them tightly around the slender torso. "Just lie there and get some sleep. Don't move unless you have to and, when you do, don't bend. Hungry?"

"I could eat."

"I'll get the woman to bring you a meal. If she wants to feed you, don't argue."

"You leaving, Earl?"

Dumarest smiled at the look of concern. "Don't worry, Leon. I'll be back."

* * * * *

Finding the hotel had taken time, taking care of the boy still more. It was dusk as Dumarest neared the heart of the city, the square where the market was located. Beyond it lay the wharves from which boats were already putting out to fish the turbulent seas. Around it, running along the avenues to either side, were the palaces of pleasure, the casinos, dream parlors, brothels, the places in which men could pander to their inclinations. Establishments for the rich, or those with money to burn. The market was for the poor.

Beggars were prominent, men with crippled limbs and scarred faces, discarded veterans of mercenary wars. They jostled women selling dubious pleasures, others offering lucky charms, vials of aphrodisiacs, pods of narcotic seeds. In the market proper, traders displayed their wares on stalls illuminated by brightly colored lanterns which fought the encroaching darkness with pools of red and green, yellow and amber, pale blue and nacreous white.

In the kaleidoscope of brilliance heaps of tawdry jewelry, gaudy fabrics, and cheap adornments looked like rare treasure stolen from fabled temples.

A crone called out as Dumarest passed where she sat before a table brilliant with cabalistic symbols.

"Your fortune, my lord? Told with skills won from an ancient race and passed down through seventeen generations. Learn of the dangers which may lie in your path, perils which can be avoided."

Another swung a small bag suspended from a gilded chain which, she assured him, would give full protection against the diseases of love, poisoned waters, and wild radiation.

A man sat like a brooding idol over an assembly of finger rings holding vibrant darts, needles tipped with venom, artificial fingernails of razor-sharp steel, brooches which could blast a stunning gas; subtle mechanisms for dealing death and pain, things much used by the harlots who needed such protection.

Dumarest paused at a stall from which rose tantalizing odors, buying a skewer of meat and vegetables seared over a flame. The food was hot, pungent with spice, crisp to the tongue. The woman who served him was tall, darkly attractive, the cleft in her blouse doing little to hide the swell of her breasts.

She watched as he ate with the fastidious neatness of a cat, her eyes roving over his face, his body, noting the tall hardness of him, the instinctive wariness. A man who had learned to survive the hard way, she decided. One without the protection and benefit of Guild, House or Organization. His face was somber, the planes and contours revealing an inner determination, the mouth hovering on the edge of becoming cruel. He met her eyes as he dropped the empty skewer on a tray.

"You like it?"

"It was good," he admitted. "How's trade?"

"It's early yet." She turned to stare at the Hyead who worked at the back of the stall. "Better start another batch, Kiasong. Set them up and leave them to soak." To Dumarest she said, "He's willing but he has to be watched."

"And comes cheap?"

She shrugged, quivers manifest beneath the thin material of her blouse, the breasts, unbound, moving like oiled balloons.

"I give him food and a place to sleep. I had a man once, but he wanted more than I was willing to give. Now I operate alone." Pausing she added, deliberately, "Maybe, if he had looked like you things would have been different."

Dumarest smiled at the compliment.

"Well, that's the way it goes," she said. "You looking for something?"

"A healer."

"You sick?" She shrugged again as he made no answer. "Try Bic Wan, he's two rows over, three stalls down. Not the cheapest, but you can trust his goods. Tell him Ayantel sent you, he'll treat you fair."

He was a small man, wizened, his eyes like jewels in the meshed contours of his face. A round hat hugged his skull and his hands were thin, the fingers long, the nails sharpened to points. He sat behind a display of vials and containers of tablets and pills. Bunches of dried herbs hung beside clusters of seeds, withered fruits, strands of sun-dried kelp. A skull bore a tracery of lines, hollow sockets staring at the crowd. Metal chimes made small tinklings in the rising breeze.