E. Tubb - Child of Earth

His voice fell a little as Shandaha emulated someone selling a rare and exotic device. A thing Dumarest had experienced often before from touts clustered at the edges of fields catering to the desires of those who had spent too long locked in the coffins of their vessels. Men too vulnerable to temptation. As the mercenaries he had fought with had been easy prey for similar harpies. As the unwitting at the card tables had followed the temptation to be too much too quickly and had lost each time.

As he would lose unless he was ultra careful. If he aroused suspicion. If he failed to grasp the other’s intention and method of gaining his objective. He could only do that while they remained in close contact. He knew a way of how it could be done but, before he could test his theory, Shandaha solved the problem for them both.

“You are a hard man, Earl, and a cautious one. I blame you for neither. A wise man dare be nothing else, but a man, to be truly wise, also needs to learn how to trust. I will make you an offer. I am intrigued by your early life. I freely admit it. Your youth was so different to mine that, to experience it, is much like having lived twice. And we have unfinished business-the end of your affair with the lovely Sardia. Nada resembles her a little, you have noticed that?”

“Now that you mention it, I have.”

“You approve?”

“There can never be too much beauty in the universe.”

“So you approve. Good. Let us drink to it.”

They drank, blue wine this time served in bloated goblets adorned with silver. A long toast to a woman long dead but neither mentioned that. Instead Dumarest said, “You mentioned an offer. Shall we discuss it?”

“I thought we had.”

“No. You told me what you want. I didn’t hear what I would get for agreeing with you.”

“You will agree with me?”

“I’ll think about it. After I hear your offer.”

He waited, silent, wanting to urge the man as he would a laggard punter at the card table. Telling him to put up or shut up. To bet or fold. To play or walk. He held his tongue. Shandaha was going against all his training, inclinations and indoctrination. He had yielded his pride, detachment and a measure of respect. He had acted the deviant. The tout. The conspirator. Pushed he could react in a way Dumarest would find far from pleasant.

He said, “I too would like to see Sardia again. To be young and the envy of others. I feel you would gain by it also. We could take the opportunity or throw it away. I would like to take it. It could well be my last chance.”

Shandaha poured himself more wine.

Watching him Dumarest said, “I cannot insist you make me an offer. Men in your position do not make it a habit to haggle or beg. They give orders and what they want is done. But others can be just as determined in following their own path. If two such people face each other it would seem a folly for neither to be willing to yield a little to gain their objective.”

“Food!” Shandaha was abrupt. “Provisions, as much as you can carry. Warm clothing.”

“A map,” said Dumarest. “Instruments of navigation. Transportation to a more amiable climate.”

“A map and compass,” agreed the other. “If our journey is a success then the matter of travel can be settled.”

“The rest remains? The food and clothing?”

“Yes.”

“Then we have an agreement,” said Dumarest. “When do we leave?”

The atmosphere was unique. A blend of sweat, blood, scented salves, sprays, sex, hysteria and frenzy. The exhalations of near-madness, of strained emotions, of released desires, the perfume of the arena which to Dumarest had become a familiar part of life.

As had the screams of adulation, the acid comments of the connoisseurs, the wanton displays of passion, the invitations to join in combat in the arena of the bedroom. To match other foes in the shape of jaded women, dissolute men, using the weapons of the body instead of ones of edged and pointed steel.

Things he dismissed as he did the piercing stare of the gamblers, the distracting shrieks and calculated movements of those wanting him to lose. To fall with blood streaming across his torso. Another wound to add to the rest. A scar to further enhance his status and to advertise his profession.

Dangers he avoided as he dodged the blade which, in this bout, had yet to touch him. Scarlet shone on the flesh of his opponent, a pair of ruby slashes marring his chest. The permitted area in this particular form of combat. The upper part of the body from the shoulders to the waist, the chest, back and sides. A hit on the arms would bring instant disqualification. The neck, face and legs the same. Those areas were reserved for the more lethal bouts ending in crippling injuries or death.

But though he had hit and scored twice the third cut, if his opponent could deliver it, would cost Dumarest the prize and maybe his life. Certainly it would not please Sardia who had bet heavily on his victory.

He moved, weaving, metal glinting in his right hand. Ten inches of steel, razor-edged and with a vicious point, a handle and a simple guard to protect the fingers. His opponent moved also, his knife blurred in a sudden slam, a feint Dumarest had anticipated and he backed, fast, metal ringing as the blades met. Music the crowd greeted with cheers and ribald comments.

Things both men ignored. Dumarest’s opponent was older, heavier, sweat mingling with the oil and blood coating his torso. His breathing was too fast, his eyes too wild. A single hit would win him the prize and the money a satisfied crowd would throw into the arena. His choice of the offers of sexual dalliance sure to follow.

Too much to lose and the reason for the scoring system used to determine the winner of a third-blood combat. Mounting desperation would lead to a greater show of blood and an equal determination would lengthen the contest.

Sardia had driven home the dangers and Dumarest had taken them to heart. Now, as they circled each other, each hungry for the final blow, he restrained his impulse to attack in turn. To repeat a manoeuvre he had used twice with success but which any fighter worthy of his salt would recognise and be prepared for. Instead he feinted, swung to one side, then spun with all the speed he could summon to dart within the other’s guard, his blade an extension of his arm, the tip drawing blood.

A shallow cut but it was enough. Enough to make him the winner, to receive the plaudits of the crowd, the items of worth they had thrown on the floor of the arena. He smiled as he refused other proffered gifts but was careful to cause no hurt or resentment. Such gifts were a double-edged sword and tantamount to self-destruction. Any fighter, especially the young, if accepting them could fall victim to the jealously of the rejected. He certainly would fall prey to the inevitable dissipation, the sycophancy of false friends, the leeching of his stamina and strength.

When a fighter began to believe himself invulnerable he was as good as dead.

“Earl!” A woman stepped towards him as he headed toward the showers. “My congratulations. You fought well. Your promoter should be proud of you.”

“I hope she is.” Dumarest recognised Yanya Delletare. Plump, soft, rounded, her age masked by the heavy cosmetics she wore. Rich scents enveloped her in a curtain of perfume. Politely he added, “I trust you enjoyed the entertainment, my Lady.”

“Need you ask?” Her expression changed a little as her eyes roved over the nudity of his body. “Youth, strength, beauty-what woman could hope for more? But I find it a little odd that the lady Sardia Del Marthe was not present to witness your success. Her success too,” she pointed out. “As you fought on her behalf.”