E. Tubb - Child of Earth

“Interested would be a better comment. Is it possible to have words with your master?”

“With my grandfather? Certainly, but first you must allow him to finish his business.”

Smiling she moved on to gather what she could. As the crowd dispersed the elderly man came to join Dumarest.

“I received your message, young man. I appreciate your interest. What did you think of the introduction?”

“A thing of beauty.”

“I was not talking about the woman.”

“Neither was I.” Dumarest glanced to where, dressed in a seductive costume, she was preparing for the next demonstration. “Your daughter?”

“My granddaughter.” He added, “I have a large family.”

“And a well trained one. You are to be congratulated.”

“All my family are well trained.”

A warning Dumarest recognised. This man had pride and the strength to enforce respect. Things it would be a mistake not to recognise.

He said, “I am not speaking of the woman but of her performance. It can’t be easy to face thrown blades. She must have great courage and trust in you and your skill. Which is why I wanted your attention. Could you teach me to do the same?”

“Act as the target?”

Dumarest smiled at the humour. “No. To throw a knife. To send it where I want it to go. To be able to hit what I aim at.”

“My book will teach you that.”

“A book can’t throw a knife,” said Dumarest. “ I want to be taught by someone who can.”

The grafter hesitated looking at the empty space before the booth, the few people drifting past. The market was drawing to a close and it would be hard to collect a crowd to make a pitch worth the effort.

Dumarest said, “I’m not asking for charity. I can pay you a fair price.”

“Fair enough.” The man made up his mind. “You seem honest and I’ll be the same in return. I can’t teach you what you want to know. Only time and practice can do that. The book will guide you on the basics. The most I can do is to teach you how to accept them. If you agree follow me into the booth. I can spare you an hour.”

The woman who had acted as the target brought them wine, a thin, cheap, ruby fluid which refreshed and eased the tension as it quelled their thirst.

“Thank you, Melinda. That will be all for now.”

As she left the grafter half-drained his goblet and set it down on the desk. Abruptly he said, “My name is Wendon. Drak Wendon. You are?” He grunted as Dumarest told him. “Well, Earl, first things first. Why do you want a knife and why do you want to learn how to throw it?”

An odd question and Dumarest said so.

Wendon shrugged. “Take offence if you want, but I am only trying to help you. Some people have an allergy to knives as others have an allergy to guns, vermin, and insects. Wanting a knife is normal. Getting one is easy. Being able to use one, if you really have to use one, is something some people simply cannot do. There is no shame in it.”

“I am not afraid of a knife.”

“I accept that.” Wendon paused. “And?”

“As a gift to a woman. One I hope to marry. To win her family’s approval I must prove myself. Dexterity with a knife will help me to do that.”

Plausible lies but ones the man could understand and accept. And they were not total lies.

Wendon nodded, “Good enough. Now let’s get back to the knife.”

He produced one, long in the blade, wide at the tip, smooth and slender at the hilt. It had no guard, no distinct pommel.

“This is usually called a throwing knife,” he said. “Get your distance right, use the same force, the same hold and you’ll have no trouble putting on a show. It’s like a hammer,” he explained. “The weight is all at one end. If you can throw it like a spear that’s fine. If you want to add force then throw it as you would a hammer giving it a full turn, using hand, arm and wrist to govern the movement. That’s what I meant by practice. That’s the real secret of gaining the ability to throw a blade.”

Obvious but Dumarest was patient. Teaching was a trade of its own.

“When you come to a real blade things get more difficult.” Wendon turned to a long casket, threw back the lid and revealed a row of knives. “What you’re after is a tool and a missile rolled into one. What I just showed you isn’t that but a simple device for a single purpose. When you’re living in the field you need more. Done any hunting?”

“A little.”

“Ever thrown a knife at a creature?”

“At times.” Dumarest added, “Never with much luck.”

“Lack of practice.” Wendon was curt. “You can’t run before you can walk. Now check these knives. Which one is for you?” He waited, watching as Dumarest examined the selection, then said, “Try it a different way. You don’t choose the knife. The knife chooses you. Pick them up, feel them, the heft, the affinity, the sense of belonging. You’ll know when it’s right. Here. Let me help you.”

He chose a knife and held it for Dumarest’s inspection. A nine inch blade, the sharp edge curved to a point, the curve reversed on the back so as to provide a double edge for a third of the length. The hilt carried a strong guard, the surface knurled to supply a firm grip, the pommel small, barely raised, smoothly rounded.

“Like it? Now try it.” He led the way to the barrier outside. “Melinda!”

She stepped forward, a long stave in her hand. It carried a large disc which she placed against the wood.

“Right, Earl. Now hit it!”

Dumarest poised the knife, grasping it by the point, doing his best to judge pace and distance. To hit correctly it must make a half turn. To lift, aim, guess and throw was something needing to be automatic.

“Good.” Wendon moved to where the knife had hit within the edge of the disc pinning it firm. Jerking free the blade he said, “This seems right for you, but I’ve others. Let’s go and check them out.”

Dumarest settled for a blade with minor differences, listening to Wendon’s advice as to balance and shape. Good advice and he paid for it and the knife together with an extra copy of the lauded volume.

The time had passed faster than he had guessed and the tuition had swelled more that he had anticipated. Sardia would be expecting him and it would be an affront to keep her waiting.

Reaching the front door of her building he thumbed the correct code into the electronic lock, waited until his identity was verified and moved through the opened portal. An elevator lifted him to the floor holding her apartment and he hurried to her door, hand lifted to code in the entry signal. It dropped as he realised the door was open.

The panel was closed but not locked, a thin line of different hue rested between the door and the lintel, a thing which could not have happened had the lock been engaged. Sardia could have arranged it for reasons of her own, but he doubted it. She was too shrewd, too clever to take stupid risks. The door was a warning, one he couldn’t ignore.

The books were in a pocket, the knife wrapped in paper in his hand. The blade gleamed as he slipped it from its sheath, holding it as if he were in the arena ready for combat. The only difference being that his present foe was unknown.

An omission soon rectified.

He was standing behind the door, his body turned away from the panel as he concentrated on the sounds coming from the bedroom. Ugly sounds, nasty, born of fear and pain. Pleasure to a scum of the arena standing with a knife in his hand, a smirk on his face. He lost both as Dumarest burst into the apartment, his new blade lifting to slice the hand from the wrist, slashing to open the throat beneath the grinning mouth.

As he fell Dumarest moved on. Into the next room where a second man, warned, stood in a fighter’s stance. He raised his blade to strike, dying as Dumarest ducked beneath his arm to send his own weapon deep into the exposed armpit. To twist the blade. To sever arteries and tissue as he dragged it free. Before he hit the floor Dumarest was in the bedroom facing their opponent. One who reared upright from the edge of the bed, a smoking iron in his hand, and terror in his eyes as steel flashed towards them.