E. Tubb - Child of Earth

“And so, again by the use of logic, I am responsible for everything you do. Your thefts, killings, crimes, wastes, depravities,” Shandaha shrugged. “Should I feel proud at having saved you or ashamed at what you may do? Can logic provide a true answer?”

“In order to solve that question we first have to decide the definition of truth,” said Dumarest. “Your truth could be my lie. For example you say that I am not a prisoner and am free to leave here whenever I wish. You would be stating the truth as you see it. To me you would also be telling the truth, but unless given the means to survive I would die. To accept your offer of freedom would be fatal. How, then, could I be free? Which means your apparent truth was a lie.”

Dumarest paused, then as Shandaha made no comment slammed his hand on the table with abrupt force, the flagons, glasses and trays dancing from the impact.

“Take this as another example. Is this table real or is it an illusion? I can touch it, feel it, see it so logic would infer that it is real. But an illusion would yield the same conclusion. So how can we determine the truth?”

Shandaha said, flatly, “The answer to your first question is death is not a factor in the equation. Your liberty to make a choice is paramount. You can be free if you choose-what happens after you leave is immaterial. As for the table your argument is more the rambling of a philosopher than the studied calculation of a logician. But there is one reality we cannot but agree is the truth.”

“The past,” said Dumarest, knowing what was to follow. “My past.”

“Your memories,” corrected Shandaha. “You asked why I had sent Nada to request you to attend me. I am impatient to enjoy more of your experiences. To travel back in time with you. To share the most significant moments of your life.”

“Again?”

“Yes.”

“When? Now?”

“Yes, Earl. Now.”

His world was filled with the agony of the fire, which burned on his torso. Pain born of the deep cuts slashed across his naked flesh. Blood oozed from the wounds to add to the dirt on the floor beneath the plank on which he lay. Above him the cracked plaster of the ceiling held the distorted image of a grimacing face. Light came from lanterns hanging from hooks on the walls. The air quivered with sound from the arena where men and women shrieked their pleasure over the clash of steel, the screams of agony from those fighting for their lives.

A harsh place filled with the scent of pain and fear, of sweat and blood and despair.

Dumarest turned as he heard the pad of feet behind him, tensing as he saw the group of men approaching the plank on which he lay.

“Relax!” Their leader held something in his hand. “Lie back and open your mouth. Do it now!”

“Why?” What do you want with me?”

“Forget the talk. Just do as I say!”

“Take it easy, Gastar,” said one of the others. “He’s young. New to the game.” To Dumarest he said, “No one means you harm, boy. Just cooperate and let’s get on with it. Just open your mouth.”

The object Gastar held slipped into it as Dumarest obeyed. It was wood covered in fabric soaked in strong alcohol. As his teeth closed hard against it hands gripped his shoulders, held fast his head, immobilised his thighs and calves. Strong muscles pressed him hard against the plank. Wetness streamed over his torso from cloths soaked in a stinging liquid as they moved to wash his wounds free of dried and oozing blood. A momentary coolness followed by a sudden torment of searing heat.

Dumarest reared, trying to turn, to escape, fighting the hands which held him, knowing what was to come. He smelt the acrid odour of burning tissue as red-hot irons moved over his body, tracing the paths of his wounds, welding the edges of the cuts together, searing, sterilising, cauterising. Throwing him into a seething hell of agony.

Then it was over, the hands rising to return his freedom of movement, someone thrusting a disposable cup of brackish water into his hand.

“Drink it,” said Gastar. “It’ll help. Then you’ll have to move. We need the space to work in,” he explained, adding, unnecessarily, “We’re busy and can’t waste time. Just get up and take a seat in the infirmary. Through that door and down the passage. You can’t miss it.”

A journey down a path of torment from his wounds which led to a drab chamber fitted with benches and others who had received the same treatment as himself. Older men sitting slumped, some with their heads in their hands, others whimpering with the pain of their injuries, all sharing one thing in common. They had lost-the winners had better accommodation.

But Dumarest had not lost.

He sat, waiting for some strength to return, some anger at the injustice to stiffen his determination. Another door led from the infirmary and he took it, stepping out into a domed chamber, a desk at the far end, uniformed officials at their posts. Security guards to maintain order and he selected one at random.

“Sir!”

“Can I help you?”

“There has been a mistake,” said Dumarest “I won my bout but am being treated as if I’d lost it.”

“Your name?” The guard frowned as Dumarest gave it. “I must have seen the event. I’ve just come off ringside duty. Third blood. Right?”

“Yes.”

“Against Maroc.”

“He cut me twice then I managed to cut him in turn. The third wound and I delivered it so I won. Who do I have to see to correct the error?”

“Have you a promoter?”

His lips thinned as Dumarest nodded. “I figured it had to be something like that. You’re too young to do this without help. What’s his name?”

“Dell Bellagon. Do you know him?”

“The name’s familiar. Some scum don’t give a damn who they hurt.” Looking at Dumarest’s torso he said “One thing bothers me. You said Maroc cut you twice then you cut him back in turn. But you’ve been wounded three times. Two pretty bad slashes and one not so. How do you explain this?”

“I can’t.” Dumarest blinked and grabbed at the desk to steady himself. The desk and those manning it were blurred and the air was full of mist. “But I did win the bout and I earned the prize. I want it. I won it and it’s mine. I need it.”

“To pay off Bellagon? The debt you owe him for food, clothing, housing, travel? I know how it works. Hey!” The guard reached out and caught Dumarest’s arm. Steadying him against the desk. “Be careful,” he warned. “Tear those wounds open and you’ll be in real trouble. Can you stand?” He moved into the open as Dumarest nodded.

“Good. This is what we’ll do. I’m taking you back to the infirmary where I want you to sit and wait, sleep if you can, but not to do anything else. I’ll do what I can to find your promoter. The thing is for you to be patient. I’ll come back but it may take some time.”

It took four hours and when the guard returned he was accompanied by a woman.

“Earl Dumarest,” she said, extending her hand. “You can call me Sardia. You know nothing about me but I’ve been hearing a lot about you. From Jarl,” she glanced at the guard. “Jarl Raven. We are old friends.”

Dumarest stared at her hand, baffled as to why she had made the gesture. Then, taking a chance, he followed her example, lifting his arm so as to stretch it, his fingers touching her own,

“You’re in pain,” she said studying his face. “Jarl said you would be. Well, maybe we can do something about that.” She delved into a bag slung over her left shoulder producing a small bottle and a can of spray. Dumarest was naked aside from a loincloth, the normal apparel of any contender, and she had no trouble sending a fine mist over his torso. It chilled then numbed the flesh bringing a welcome relief from the burning torment of his wounds. “Now drink this.” She handed him the bottle then, as he hesitated, snapped. “Learn to trust me! It’s only a sedative and antibiotic. You know what they are, don’t you?”