E. Tubb - Child of Earth

“Yes, my Lady.”

“Sardia. Call me Sardia.”

“Yes, Sardia.” He drank and handed her back the empty bottle. “Thank you.”

He had drifted into a near-sleep while waiting, an odd state of mind which had spawned strange images and peculiar fancies, turning the others in the infirmary into demons and monsters and moving travesties of humanity. He had been worried and afraid but now that had gone. The spray and medicine had worked their magic.

He said so and she smiled.

“Good. Now we can get down to business. Want to tell him, Jarl?”

“We have cameras covering the arena and I’ve done some checking. You are right. You cut Maroc and drew third blood and so won the bout. Your promoter was attending but made no protest at the verdict given by the referee. It could have been a genuine mistake, the verdict I mean but I doubt it.” The guard fell silent, then said, “Sardia?”

“Jarl works here, Earl, and needs to be cautious,” she explained. “You know how it is — one hand washes the other. It sometimes pays to turn a blind eye. The fact is you have been ripped off. Cheated. Betrayed. Robbed — call it what you like. Your promoter, Bellagon sold you short. You should never have been put against Maroc. You just don’t have the experience. The bout was a set-up.”

“Then I will get the prize.”

Sardia shook her head. “No, Earl, it doesn’t work like that. The verdict has been given and it stands. Only officials have access to the cameras and there are others involved. If you complained you would be ignored. If you kept it up you would be taken care of. Tell him Jarl.”

“You would be beaten up,” he said, curtly. “Killed, even, there are nasty people attached to the arena. Those who have a special interest in what goes on. Gamblers, fixers, promoters like Bellagon. He had a lot of money riding on Maroc and was desperate for him to win. What probably happened is that at the end of the bout you both were trying to score a hit. You won but Maroc will deny it claiming he cut you before you cut him. It’s possible. Or Bellagon could have had one of the handlers slash you to throw doubt on your claim. Anyway, it’s over now.”

Leaving him with nothing.

Dumarest drew in his breath, conscious of his situation. Hurt, probably in the grip of a fever, without a home, money for medicine, food or clothing. Abandoned and stranded on a hostile world.

Sardia guessed what he was thinking. “Things aren’t that bad, Earl. Jarl told me what he saw in the ring and I have a proposition. I have connections with people connected with the arena. If you are willing to accept me as your new promoter then I will take care of you.” Then, smiling, she added: “I warn you it won’t be easy. I’m a hard taskmaster. Do you want time to consider it?”

“No, my Lady.”

“Sardia. I told you to call me Sardia. Do we have an understanding?”

Dumarest nodded, lifting his hand to repeat her earlier gesture, feeling the firm texture of her flesh as she returned his touch.

It was a pleasure to sleep. To wander in the realm of dreams and memories of times past and events nearly forgotten. But some things and some people were impossible to forget. Sardia for one. A woman who became alive again as he focused on the past, feeling the pain he had known, the anger, the hatred which had consumed him when his world had shattered and chaos replaced the ordered safety she had given him so long ago.

A bad time and one in which he chose not to linger, the advantage of memory of the return-reality imposed by Shandaha. For that eliminated the future leaving only relived events of the past. Memory had the advantage in that it gave a broader view, allowing knowledge of what was to happen and how and when. To give a choice, a selection of what was to be enjoyed. To yield pleasure.

Sardia!

The epitome of the word.

He would never forget her. A woman more than twice his age, tall, beautiful, her body an artist’s depiction of true femininity. She had lived hard and learned much yet retained a cheerful attitude and a young disposition. She owned a comfortable apartment in a tall building close to the arena and had installed him in one of the many rooms it contained. Providing the medicine, the food, the care he needed to maintain his existence.

The fever died, his wounds healed, a good diet restored his condition. Exercise and practice enhanced his muscular strength, skill and physical ability. Under Sardia’s direction he learned and the learning was not confined to the arena and the bloody combats within it. It helped him to grow, to appreciate an alternate point of view, taught him the subtle delicacies of passion, the endearing qualities of love.

And he did love her in a way he had never before experienced, in a manner he had never known and with a depth which began to dominate his life.

He turned, twisting on the bed, mind alive with the memory of the eve of his first combat under her direction. The details were startling in their clarity, almost as if, again, he was reliving the past for Shandaha’s benefit. But he was only asleep; there could be no actual pain, no real injury. He could enjoy the ritual, the adornment, the food she had provided. A small festival for them alone. A special moment to be treasured.

“Earl!” She smiled and leaned towards him, the soft glow of the illumination robbing her of years, enhancing the delicate texture of her skin, the silken beauty of her hair. Raising the glass she said, “A toast to your success!”

Her glass held champagne-his some sparkling mineral water. A demonstration of her teaching. A fighter who intended to win could take no risks. Accept no help from anyone they couldn’t trust. No tablets, liquids, pills, guns, salves. Ignore all offered advice. All hints of habits and reactions. To trust only one person. The one offering his flesh and blood for the amusement of the crowd. Himself.

He had done it before and had paid the price of ignorance. Luck had given him another chance and he intended to make the most of it.

He drank and said. “I won’t let you down, Sardia. I promise you that.”

“You can only do your best. That’s all I ask.” She paused then said, her tone changing a little, “Earl, just how lucky are you?”

Luck? Why had she mentioned it when he had just remembered how fortunate he had been? He chose to answer in a casual manner.

“Not very and I’ve got scars to prove it.” He gestured towards his torso, then sobered as he recognised she was far from joking. “I’ve never really thought about it. Is it important?”

“It would be.” She refilled her glass and sipped and said, “I don’t want to preach but luck is something you have or haven’t. It’s a positive asset to any fighter or to anyone forced to live in a perilous state. If you have it you should know it. Not that you dare rely on it. Luck is too transient for that.”

“Do you think I am lucky?”

“I think you are fortunate in that respect. Think about it,” she urged. “Why are we here together if it were not for luck? From all the guards on duty at the desk you chose to ask Jarl for help. The one man who was willing to give it to you. The only guard on duty who knew me and my interests. It was good fortune for you that you chose him. Don’t you agree?”

He nodded and thought of other times when a seemingly impossible situation had been resolved by totally improbable events. Events which had occurred long after this remembered moment. Things he could review. But that would come later after he would win the coming combat as he knew he had.

For now, he would enjoy the pleasure of a dream. The company of a woman he adored. The food and conversation, the rich furnishing and the splendid adornment.