Tubb, E.C. - Dumarest 28 - Melome

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2024-12-20 0 0 370KB 180 页 5.9玖币
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Melome by E.C. Tubb
CHAPTER ONE
Dumarest heard the scream of a tortured child and turned,
eyes searching, relaxing as it came again and he recognized the
source. A hundred yards to his right, raised high above the
decorated surface of the boulevard, a painted crone lolled on a
gilded throne standing on a platform of massive timbers
supported by a dozen stalwarts. They, in turn, stood on another
platform, larger, borne by twice their number. Overseers lashed
them on with whips which left carmine streaks on naked,
sweating flesh.
A show as false as the screams; a mature beauty lay beneath
the masking paint and the massive timbers were thin cladding
over buoyant rafts. Props for the actors demonstrating their
skills; the grimaces, the fatigue, the grunts of pain. The whips
were thin tubes containing dye but the men wielding them were
clever as was the woman with her screams.
She shrieked again as Dumarest watched, the cry now
accompanied by the clash of beaten metal, the harsh
tintinnabulation prolonged by the chime of tiny bells. A score of
girls ran from the shelter of the lower platform, weaving among
the spectators, one coming to a halt before Dumarest.
"My lord—do I please you?" She was young, lithe, radiating
unabashed femininity. Bells circled her ankles and wrists, more
caressing the column of her throat, the narrow cincture of her
waist. The long skirt, slit to the hip, displayed naked, slender
legs, the hint of unclothed loins. Paint accentuated the luster of
her eyes, the soft fullness of her lips. Curled hair the color of gold
held the glint of metal and gems. "My lord?"
A girl demanding his attention as the screams of the crone
had caught it. The girl smiled as he nodded, chiming as she
moved, the bound of unfettered breasts an enticing invitation.
"You are gracious, my lord." Her eyes were frank in their
appraisal. "It would pleasure me to serve you. At the circus of
Chen Wei. A spectacle of marvels culled from a thousand worlds.
Things which will amaze you, amuse you, puzzle you, fill you with
rapture. A feast for the eye and ear and mind and one not to be
missed. The circus of Chen Wei. And, if you should be in a mind
for dalliance—" Her face became lewd with unspoken promise.
"My name is Helga. Ask for Helga."
A smile and she was gone leaving nothing but the scent of
perfume and the fading tinkle of bells. Things which belonged on
Baatz, and Dumarest took a deep breath as he looked at the sky,
the hills, the boulevard on which he stood. It ran arrow-straight
from the landing field to the market, the surface tessellated in
abstract designs, curlicues, broken rainbows. Triple-tiered
buildings edged the wide road, dwellings, shops, businesses, the
verandas gaudy with bright hangings, the roofs with bloated
lanterns. On the flanking hills the mansions of the rich and
influential rested like a scatter of gems.
A good world, one of balm, of warmth and gentle breezes, of
golden sunlight and rounded hills. A place of tranquility; the
exudations of massed vegetation filling the air with subtle vapors
which took the edge off violence and aggression and induced a
tolerant lethargy.
A danger he recognized but could do nothing about and it was
good to relax, to enjoy the sun, to become one with the crowd. To
feel wide expanses around him instead of the cramping confines
of a hull. And Baatz, with its transient population, was as good a
place as any for him to be.
But caution remained and before he moved on, Dumarest
made sure that none had lingered for no apparent reason, that
he wasn't the object of covert interest. All seemed innocuous,
most had followed the spectacle advertising the circus, others
were intent on their own affairs, the rest headed toward the
market, the sights, sounds and smells it contained.
"My lord!" A woman dressed in the barbaric apparel of a
warrior-amazon gestured with an imperious arm. "Fine weaves
from Kirek, strands as tough as steel and as soft as silk—nothing
can beat spider-webs for utility. I have fifteen bales of it—you
offer?"
A scowl marred the mannish face as Dumarest moved on, the
voice yielding to another.
"High quality grain proof against bacterial molds and virus
infestation. Strains from the biolabs of Lengue and Femarre.
Fifteen kobolds a measure. Buy! Buy! Buy!"
A man stepped forward, another catching at his arm.
"Wait, Krasse. It could be cheaper deeper in the market."
"And less trustworthy. I've dealt with Chamile before and I
don't trust you among the stalls. Best to buy here and now and
get back to the farm before you've spent all we have."
Brothers or partners—they fell behind as Dumarest moved on.
Booths and stalls stretched on all sides, some bearing a profusion
of items, some only a few. Many held examples of goods housed
in the holds of the vessels which had carried them. Others
showed goods yet to arrive or dealt in future harvests, the
samples on display examples of earlier yields. Stalls bearing
gems of price were set next to those heaped with the cheap
glitter of rubbish.
Businessmen, traders, thieves, entrepreneurs—the market of
Baatz catered to all.
The jangle of a bell and the echo of a gong announced an
operation in progress and Dumarest halted at the booth of a
transient healer. The man was old, his robe not as spotless as it
could have been, but he was deft and practice had augmented
his skill. The patient was seated, eyes wide, the milky orbs
already anesthetized. A woman in middle age attended by a
young girl who watched with horror as the needle was applied.
Within seconds it had been done, the cataracts removed and the
eyes bandaged. The assistant had been generous with the
prophylactic spray.
"Here, my dear." The healer handed the girl a phial. "All done
and nothing to worry about. Give your mother this draught as
soon as you get her home."
A strong sedative with a touch of slowtime; the woman would
sleep while her accelerated metabolism speeded the healing
process. She would wake rested, hungry—and cured.
Another booth housed a dentist, another a dealer in charms,
yet another a man who promised a cure for all the afflictions of
the heart.
A fortune teller sat staring into a bowl of sand, the fine grains
spurting in a random pattern of plumes.
A man swallowed flame.
A boy lay screaming on the ground, held by four men while,
over his naked chest crawled the insect whose bite would cure
him of the epilepsy which controlled him.
"Earl!" Evan Luftman waved from where he stood chewing at
a mouthful of meat. "Enjoying the sights?"
"Just looking around."
"Baatz holds everything a man could need." Luftman wiped
his mouth and looked at the skewer he held. On it fragments of
meat lay beside succulent vegetables, the whole flavored with
spice. "Good food, amiable women, diversions of all kinds. Going
to the circus?"
"Maybe."
"They say it's good. Something special." Luftman licked at his
skewer. "If those girls are anything to go by they weren't lying."
Dumarest made no comment. Luftman had been a fellow
passenger on the journey to Baatz. They'd killed time over the
card table and the man had talked more than he had wanted to
listen. A roving entrepreneur dealing in what came to hand. A
man past middle age with a face creased and blotched by the
passage of time and dissipation. The meeting was one he could
have done without.
"I've finished my business," said Luftman. "A quick profit,
small but a man can't be too greedy. Now I'm looking for a
couple of healers willing to travel to Jardis. They have a lot of eye
trouble in the mines and it costs money to ship in regular
doctors. Working on a profit-sharing basis I figure three months
should make us all a comfortable pile."
"It could."
"It will if—" Luftman looked at his skewer then threw it aside.
"I could use someone to take care of things, Earl. Muscle in case
it's needed. Those miners can get awkward at times. Refuse to
pay after treatment or gang up and demand a refund. You know
how it can be."
"You can handle it."
"Once, yes, not now. I can't face them down, not like you
could. One-fifth the profit, Earl. Maybe three months work. A
deal?"
"For a fifth?"
"Make it a quarter. An even share, Earl, you, me, the two
healers—after expenses, naturally."
Which would be high. Dumarest said, "When are you
leaving?"
"On the Yegor. It leaves at midnight. Be on the field an hour
before then."
A rendezvous Dumarest hadn't made and wouldn't keep.
Luftman's scheme held little appeal, and the only one to gain
would be the entrepreneur himself. If he could find willing
healers—even on Baatz trusting fools were rare.
On the ground the writhing boy shrieked, twisted, shrieked
again as the mandibles of the insect fed healing venom into his
blood. A convulsive heave and he slumped. Head tilted to one
side, lips parted to bare the teeth, the rod clamped between
them.
In the comparative silence Dumarest heard the rattle of
clashing ceramics, the whine of a female voice broken by the
brittle sound.
"… gather to hear… clash … the ancient… clash… songs of…
clash … clash… Terra."
Terra?
Earth!
She stood in a ragged circle of semi-curious spectators, a girl
little more than a child with long, straggling hair the color of
sun-bleached bone, eyes like bruises, a mouth of bloodless lips
and down-curved corners. Her skin matched the color of her
hair, pale, waxen. The limbs were brittle appendages, nails of
hands and naked feet rimmed with dirt. A frayed skirt hugged
boyish loins and a halter shielded nascent breasts. Her waist,
bare, was circled by a metal belt from which hung strands
ending in spooled grips.
"Melome!" The woman standing beside her rattled her cluster
of ceramic shards. "Who dares to test her powers? What man is
brave enough to yield to her skill and taste the acid burn of
remembered fears? What woman has the strength to shred the
veil hiding her secret dreads?" Again the brittle chiming. "You,
sir? You? You, my lady?"
A grifter and a good one; gaining attention, building a pitch,
selecting the marks even as she spoke. A boy, blushing, looked at
the spooled grip she thrust into his hand. A woman frowned as
she was given another. Two men, grinning, took their places.
"Guaranteed entertainment for a mere five kobolds and your
money back if dissatisfied. You, sir? Here, my lord!"
Dumarest felt the spool thrust into his hand and held it as he
stared at the woman. She was no longer young, raddled beneath
her paint, the body shapeless, the eyes hard.
He said, "You spoke of Terra."
"Terror, my lord? Aye, that and more for those with the
courage to face it. Here you will find the ancient and dire songs
of fear and hate and abject terror. Threnodies to chill the blood
and numb the mind. A unique experience and one not to be
missed. You there, sir! And you!"
A mistake, one born of noise and confusion, and natural
enough to make. The twist of a vowel—yet for a moment there
had been hope. The hope died as Dumarest looked again at the
girl, the older woman, the two men squatting to one side.
Ragged, both old, one with a drum, the other holding a pipe. Its
wail rose as the woman returned to halt before him.
"The last place, my lord. Take it and we can begin."
A market-spectacle, born of illusion and the circumstance of
the moment; it could be little more than that. But curiosity
remained, why the belt, the connecting strands? How did the
woman hope to prevent those who had not paid from enjoying
what she had to offer?
"My lord!" The woman smiled as she took his money and
handed him the spool. "Be seated. All be seated and let the
entertainment commence!"
The spool was spring-loaded, the strand remaining taut as
Dumarest sat on the ground, forming a connection between his
hand and the belt the girl wore against her naked flesh.
Connections repeated by all who had paid to join the circle. Like
a spider in the center of a shimmering web the girl stood,
motionless.
The tap of the drum joined the wail of the pipe, a throbbing,
monotonous beat which seemed too loud for the instrument, as
the wail of the pipe seemed too loud, the sudden hush drowning
normal sounds too strong. A moment in which his eyes followed
the glinting strand, moved to others, returned to his own and
then, without warning, the girl began to sing.
A song without words.
One which filled the universe.
Dumarest had known the Ghenka-art which took vocal sound
and used it to gain a hypnotic compulsion in which the mind
was opened to flower in a profusion of mental images. He had
heard the song of a living jewel and would never forget the
awesome tonal effects of Gath. But this diminished them all.
A song—no, a dirge—no, a paen—no, a threnody, a lilting
cadence, a sobbing, sighing, heart-wrenching murmur which
created sympathetic vibrations from the thin strands so that
they, too, sang in metallic harmony. A quivering which seemed
to cloud the air and mask the slender figure in writhing strands
of light and darkness. A chiaroscuro which blurred and changed
to become a face snarling in anger.
One Dumarest had seen before.
It swelled to fill his vision, small details becoming plain; the
eyes with their yellow tinge, the thinned, cracked lips, the
nostrils rimmed with mucous, the ears tufted with hair. The face
of a man who intended to kill.
One without a name on a world far distant in a time long
forgotten, but Dumarest felt again the shock he had known then;
the sudden realization that he had been duped and what he'd
thought was a practice bout was the stage for his public
butchery.
The shock and the terror. The fear and pain as edged steel cut
a channel across his torso and sent blood to stain the floor of the
ring. The lights, the weight of his own blade, the ring of avid
faces but, above all, the terror of being maimed, crippled,
blinded, turned into a mewling, helpless thing.
The face promised it all, the man, the knife he held, the
profession he was in. A trained and savage killer amusing
himself with an inexperienced boy. One who had no choice but
to learn fast.
To move, to dodge and weave, to cut and slash and rip and
stab and to find speed and use it. To be fast… fast… fast…
But the terror remained and would always remain if only as a
whispering echo in the dim regions of his psyche. A weakness
which strengthened his iron determination to survive.
He blinked, aware of the spool in his hand, the sweat dewing
his face. To one side a man rocked, wailing, tears falling over his
cheeks. Another shuddered, quivering. A woman appealed to
invisible ghosts.
"No! Dear God, please! Please!"
Facing Dumarest the young boy looked sick, one of the two
laughing men stared blankly at his clenched hand, his
companion had a blood-smeared chin from a bitten lip.
Only the girl seemed unchanged. She stood as Dumarest
remembered, head lowered a little, eyes blank, hands limp at her
sides. A sensitive, he guessed. Someone with an unusual
attribute which she barely recognized and had paid for with
physical penalties; weakness, poor development, lethargy,
stunted growth.
"Wine, my lord?" The woman was beside him, a tray of
brimming cups in her hand. "A kobold only."
A high price for weak liquor but of them all he was the only
one to refuse. And none had asked for a return of their money.
Dumarest heard the clash of the ceramics again as he moved
away. Unnecessary advertising; the spectacle of how the song
had affected the initial group would be attraction enough but, he
guessed, the girl would need a little time between performances
to gain strength. Even a normal singer would need that.
He heard the wail of the pipe as he bought wine at a booth,
sipping it slowly, hearing the pulse of the drum merge with the
wail, the peculiar distortion which seemed to muffle the sound.
Of the song he heard nothing.
"Clever." The vendor wiped his hands on his apron as he
nodded toward the place where the girl operated. "She sings but
unless you're in contact you hear nothing. An electronic barrier, I
guess."
"Have you tried her?"
"No. I've no love for terror and the sight of those who've tasted
it is enough to tell me I'm right. Still, I can't complain, it's good
for business if nothing else."
Dumarest looked at his glass. "I guess it is. Has she been here
long?"
"I wouldn't know. I only relieved my partner a week ago. She
was here then."
"Alone or—"
"With the woman. Kamala's hard in her way but I guess she's
fair enough. Someone has to look after the girl and Kamala
knows how to take care of a valuable property. She could do
worse." The vendor wiped his hands again. "More wine?"
A hint, even on Baatz information had to be paid for, but the
wine was good and helped to dispel the chill induced by
remembered terror. Or had it been simply remembered?
Dumarest recalled the face, the details he had noted, the pain
he had experienced. Real pain as the lights had been real, the
knife in his hand, the avid faces. A montage of isolated
incidents? A possibility but he doubted it; somehow the song
had opened a door in his mind. Touching a node and triggering
摘要：

ScannedbyHighroller.Proofedbythebestelfproofer.MadeprettierbyuseofEBookDesignGroupStylesheet.MelomebyE.C.TubbCHAPTERONEDumarestheardthescreamofatorturedchildandturned,eyessearching,relaxingasitcameagainandherecognizedthesource.Ahundredyardstohisright,raisedhighabovethedecoratedsurfaceoftheboulevard,...

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