E. Tubb - Child of Earth

“She is busy on other matters, my Lady.”

“Which could concern you, my friend.” Her hand reached out to touch his shoulder, the fingers lingering on his flesh. “I hope I may call you that, Earl. Dare I confess that I have a touch of envy when I see you and Sardia together?”

At impromptu dinners Sardia had thrown for a few friends and acquaintances. At other times when, together, they had visited the markets and outdoor entertainments. Casual things, light-hearted gatherings, the talk mostly gossip and mild speculation. A pleasant way to pass the time. Now, he realised, more than it seemed.

He responded to the warning prickle of danger.

“My lady!” His smile was warm, genuine. “You are more than gracious. You grant me too much honour.”

“Earl?” Her fingers tightened before releasing their grip and falling to her side. “I don’t understand. Honor?”

“To have taken me into your confidence.” He closed the space between them and rested his lips against her ear. “You mentioned the Lady Sardia,” he reminded, “and expressed some concern as to my welfare. You also confided in me as to the odd feeling you experience at times. That is an expression of trust. I will not betray it, my Lady. I promise you that.”

A promise easy to keep but one mentioned as bait to gain further information. A game he was learning to play but she was an expert in the field of dalliance and deception.

It was her turn to move, backing so as to restore the space between them, breaking the intimacy it had provided.

“We have lingered long enough, my friend.” Again she touched his naked flesh, the impact turning into a caress, one immediately ended. “I just wanted to give you a hint. The Lady Sardia has many friends and many enterprises. Many investments, also. You are one of them. She could be thinking of making changes. One of them could be to negotiate your sale. If it should come to that-”

“I will remember you, my Lady.”

Her smile widened into an unspoken invitation, one echoed by the subtle message of her eyes.

“Yes, Earl. Be sure you do that.” Again she touched his naked torso. “And please don’t keep me waiting too long.”

An odd encounter and one he tried to unravel as he stood beneath the cleansing shower. Her interest in him was plain but he sensed there was more to it than an invitation to a sexual adventure. The poaching of prodigies was not unknown and he had gained a good reputation beneath Sardia’s tutelage. Yanya could be envious of their relationship both personal and professional and be attempting to take over. Her hint as to the possibility of him being sold to another promoter could have been a warning as well as an incentive. One buttressed by her strong hint of support should he need it.

The spray of water changed to a blast of heated air. Dried, dressed, Dumarest headed to the office to collect his prize and the gifts showered by his supporters. Outside the arena he paused still thinking of the encounter.

It was true that Sardia knew many people. True, also, that in a sense he was her property and would be until he had cleared his debt. She could be thinking of utilising her assets as Yanya had suggested and would be within her rights to do so. He touched the money belt strapped beneath his waist and hidden by his jacket. He had cash, not enough to settle his debt, but as a down payment should Sardia agree. If they were to part he wanted to remain her friend.

Yanya’s hint had illustrated the need to talk to her in order to clear the air.

He stepped towards her building taking a path which wound through a market lined with stalls, raucous with a medley of voices as the vendors lauded their wares. The stalls widened yielding to a row of lockable booths, open now, a variety of goods on display.

Dumarest halted, attracted by swathes of vivid hues from colored fabrics, gowns, veils scarves, bolts of silks, sashes, fabrics of a dozen kinds to make a hundred garments of an attractive nature. He was young and was tempted but Sardia had more experience and better taste and would not take kindly to such garish and flamboyant material.

He moved on, ignoring the stands displaying perfumes, jewellery, confectionery and other assorted items most girls would have found desirable. But nothing suitable as a gift.

He halted again as an elderly man standing on a low platform lifted both hand and voice.

“A moment!” he yelled. “Give me a moment.”

A grafter, collecting a crowd, about to make his pitch.

He waved his hand which held a knife, the blade glittering in the strong light of the sun. He wore garments more suited to a hunter than an inhabitant of a city. He was not alone. To one side reared a barrier of wood higher than a man. Standing before it a young and voluptuous woman held her arms extended, her wrists fastened to restraints driven into the wood. All but her head and face was covered by a wide expanse of thin cloth which moulded itself to her curves.

“Listen, gentlemen,” he said, “and you too, ladies. What I have to sell and teach is of value to you all. Look at this!” he gestured with the knife. “A tool. A useful thing. You can slice with it, skin a dead beast, carve meats, chop vegetables, pierce holes in tough materials-a multitude of things all of value in the kitchen. For those who live in the fields it is a piece of essential equipment.” He swung the blade to point at a man. “You, sir! Do you agree?”

The man nodded, “Sure.”

“And you, sir!”

Another man, the same answer. A third. A fourth. The point levelled at Dumarest.

“And you, young man?”

“Of course.”

“Would you like to learn how to use it? A knife. Any knife. This one for example? Or this.” A twin to the first appeared in the man’s free hand. “Would you like to gain the skill to do this?”

Steel flashed as he threw the knife, the point burying itself in the wooden barrier a fraction above the girl’s left wrist. The restraint parted, freeing her hand, loosening the fabric. Before it could uncover her arm he threw the second knife this time at the restraint above the right wrist. Those watching sucked their breath in anticipation as naked flesh came into view, her arms, shoulders, the rounded beauty of her breasts, then she had grabbed the falling fabric and regained her modesty.

Dumarest stood, watching, amused as others came from within the booth, young women wearing glamorous costumes, all busy as they bustled through the crowd selling slender volumes containing the supposed secrets of a knifethrower’s art which the grafter continued to demonstrate as he pinned cards held by the original target-model into the barrier.

A man who held an undoubted skill but how good it was Dumarest couldn’t be certain. The demonstration he had witnessed could too easily be faked. The restraints had looked thick and strong but could have been treated to yield at a tug. The knife needn’t have touched them. The girl could have controlled that illusion when she heard the impact. The baring of her flesh was a perfect distraction to shift attention away from the reality. But even so, as he was now demonstrating, the old man knew his business.

Dumarest concentrated on studying his actions, the way he moved, crouched, settled. The manner in which he grasped the knife, poised it, threw it.

Many throws and all successful each made to look simple. Another illusion. Dumarest, from his own limited experience, knew they were not.

“Does the entertainment please you, my Lord?” A young woman stood before him, smiling, a collecting tin and a sheaf of books in her hand. “Would you care to buy a book so as to learn the secrets of the art you are watching? Or give a little to indicate your pleasure?” Her smile widened as he did both. “Thank you, my Lord. You are gracious.”