E. C. Tubb - Dumarest 14 - Jack of Swords

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Jack of Swords

#14 in the Dumarest series

E.C. Tubb

Chapter One

At sunset the sky of Teralde was painted with vibrant swaths

of brilliant color; minute crystals of air-borne dust refracting the

light so that the entire bowl of the firmament looked as if some

cosmic artist had spilled his palette in a profusion of inspired

genius. An eye-catching spectacle but one which, for Dumarest,

had long ceased to hold charm.

He walked through the streets gilded with dying light, past

tall houses fashioned of stone, the windows small, the doors thick

and tightly barred. Even the shops were like small fortresses,

their wares jealously guarded, reluctantly displayed. The field, as

usual, was empty, the barren dirt devoid of the weight of a single

vessel. The gate set into the perimeter fence was unmanned, a

sure sign that no ship was expected.

"Nothing." The agent, a Hausi, leaned back in his chair. His

ebony face, scarred with the caste marks of his guild, was bland.

"Ships will arrive eventually, of course, but Teralde is not a

commercial world. Only when the beasts have been processed

and shipments are available will the traders come. Until then all

we can hope for is some tourists."

Luxury vessels carrying jaded dilettantes, the rich and curious

with money to burn and time to waste. But Dumarest had no

time—unless a ship arrived soon he would be stranded.

He said, "I need work."

"Work?" The Hausi shrugged. "My friend, on Teralde the

desire is not enough. You need to own special skills. Your

profession?"

"I can do most things which need to be done."

"Of course. Do I reveal doubt?" Yethan Ctonat selected a

comfit from an ornamented box and crushed the candied morsel

between strong teeth. "But, you understand, I represent my

guild. To place a man who cannot perform the skills he claims to

own would reflect on my reputation. And demand is small. Are

you a master of genetic manipulation? A physician? A

veterinarian? I tell you frankly, we have no need of gamblers."

"Do I look a gambler?"

"A man who travels is always that," said the agent smoothly.

'To drift from world to world, never certain of what he will find,

what else can such a man be? Especially if he travels Low. The

fifteen-percent death rate is a risk none but a gambler would

take. And you have traveled Low, have you not?"

To often, riding doped, frozen, and ninety percent dead in

caskets designed for the transportation of animals. Cheap

travel—all that could be said for it.

"I will not deceive you," said Yethan Ctonat. "As you must

have discovered, there is no hope of normal employment on this

world. You work for the Owners or for those they tolerate or you

do not work at all. And for every vacancy there is a host of

applicants." He added, casually, "For a man like you there is only

one way to survive on Teralde."

Dumarest was curt. "To fight?"

"You have guessed it. Blood has a universal appeal. If you are

interested—" The agent broke off, reaching for another comfit.

"It's all I can offer."

And all Dumarest had expected, but the attempt had had to

be made. The colors in the sky were fading as he walked through

the city and toward the wilderness at the edge of which sprawled

the slums. Lowtowns were always the same and in his time he

had seen too many of them. Sometimes they were huddles of

shacks, tents, and shelters crudely fashioned from whatever

materials were at hand; at others as on Teralde, they were simple

boxes built of stone and set in neat array. But shacks or

buildings the atmosphere was identical.

A miasma compounded of despair and poverty, the reek of a

world which held no pride, no hope, nothing but the bleak

concentration of the moment, the need to survive yet one more

day, one more hour. The refuge of those without work or money.

Had they been slaves they would have been fed and clothed, a

responsibility to their owners. As it was they formed a pool of

cheap labor which cost nothing, the only expense being the

warren in which they lived and bred and died.

"Earl!" A man came running toward Dumarest as he entered

one of the buildings. "Earl, have you decided?"

Cran Elem was small, thin, his cheeks sunken, the bones

prominent. Beneath the rags he wore his wasted flesh and bone

gave him the fragility of a child.

Dumarest made no answer, climbing the stairs to the flat roof

there to stand and look at the sky. Dusk was thickening and

would soon yield to night, the darkness heralded by the glitter of

early stars.

Stars like the eyes he had seen too often in the shadows

surrounding a ring. The avid, hungry eyes of those eager for the

sight of blood and pain. Their coldness was the chill of naked

steel, their gleam that of razored edge and point. To fight, to kill

and maim, to win the price of a meal so as to live to fight again.

He had done it before and would again if all else failed, but there

could be a better way.

To Cran he said, "Assemble and warn the men. We leave in an

hour."

* * *

The storm broke at midnight with a sudden flurry of lightning

followed by thunder and a driving rain. Crouched beneath the

fronds of stunted vegetation Dumarest felt its impact on his

head, the deluge filling his mouth and nostrils so that he had to

bend his face in order to breathe. On all sides the gritty soil

turned into an oozing, alluvial mud.

"Earl!" From the darkness Cran edged close, his voice

strained, echoing his despair. "Earl! It's a bust!"

"Wait!"

"It's useless. We tried but this is hopeless. We'd best get back

to town."

A flash illuminated him, thunder crashing as Dumarest

reached out and caught an arm. Beneath his fingers he could feel

the stringy muscle, the stick of bone. In his grip the man was

helpless.

"Wait," he said again. "This storm could help us."

"Help?" Cran almost sobbed in his disappointment. "With

mud up to our ankles and rain in our eyes? The storm will have

unsettled the beasts and they're bad enough at the best of times."

His voice rose to the edge of hysteria. "I thought we'd have a

chance but the luck is against us. Damn the luck. Damn it all to

hell!"

He cried out as Dumarest's hand slapped his cheek.

"Earl!"

"Control yourself." Dumarest freed the arm. "Get the others."

"You're going back?"

"Just do as I say."

They came like ghosts, revealed in stark detail by the

intermittent flashes, the dirt which had stained faces and hands

gone now, washed away by the rain. Like Cran they wore rags,

torn and discarded garments salvaged from garbage, broken

shoes and naked feet wrapped in layers of rotting cloth. Their

hair, plastered close, accentuated their skull-like appearance.

Starving men who would be dead soon unless they obtained food.

Among them Dumarest looked solid, reassuring, his clothing

scuffed but whole, the gray plastic of tunic, pants and boots

gleaming with a wet slickness.

He said, "Cran, how far to the compound?"

"A mile, maybe less, but—"

"This storm will help us. The guards will remain in shelter and

the lightning will be blamed for anything affecting the electronic

system. The animals will be together and easy to take. Before

dawn you'll all have bellies full of meat."

"Or be dead," said a man bleakly.

"Today, tomorrow, what's the difference?" said another. "I'm

willing to take a chance if Earl will lead us."

"I'll lead you," said Dumarest. "And there'll be no quitting. If

any man tries to leave I'll cut him down. Understand?" He

paused as thunder rolled and, as it faded, said, "We've no choice

and the storm will make it easy. Just keep down and merge with

the ground. Freeze if a light shines your way. Work as a unit and

we can't go wrong."

Words to stiffen their resolve, but a man had a question.

"When we reach the compound who goes in?"

"I will," said Dumarest. "Ready? Let's get on with it."

Cran led the way and Dumarest followed him close as they left

the poor shelter. It was too early to move—later the rain would

ease a little, but waiting would rob the others of enthusiasm.

What had to be done must be done fast and they had to be gone

long before dawn.

A blur of light and the compound came into sight. The rain

lashed against the mesh of the high fence and the lights ringing

it, spraying and misting the installation so as to give it the

insubstantial quality of a dream. A dream shattered by the

sudden, snarling roar of a beast as it slammed itself against the

fence.

From a tower a searchlight threw a cone of brilliance, the

beam tracing a path over milling shapes, settling on the fence,

dying as, satisfied, the guard killed the illumination.

Without hesitation Dumarest led the way to within feet of the

mesh well away from the tower. At his orders men vanished like

ghosts into the rain to take up positions at either side. At

intervals they would jar the mesh to create a distraction.

"Cran!"

From within his clothing the man produced wire and a set of

cutters. Quickly he hooked up a jumper-circuit, and resting the

cutters on the mesh, glanced at Dumarest.

"Now?"

"Wait until the next flash."

It came with a livid coruscation, closer than before, dirt

pluming as electronic energy tore at the ground. As thunder

rolled the mesh parted in a narrow slit through which Dumarest

thrust himself. Speed now was all-important and as the

searchlight stabbed to one side where a man had jarred the fence

he dived toward the nearest animal.

It was as large as a horse, horned, the hooves like razors, the

tail ending in a club of bone. A chelach, its eyes small, set deep in

ringed projections of bone; the mouth, open, showed teeth as

sharp as chisels. A beast disturbed by the storm and bristling

with anger. For a second it watched and then, as Dumarest

moved closer, it charged.

Its size belied its speed. An engine of bone and muscle

weighing half a ton, it jerked from a standstill to the speed of a

running man in a numbing explosion of energy. Fast as it was

Dumarest was faster. He sprang aside, his arm lifting as it drew

level, the knife he had lifted from his boot rising, stabbing, the

edge slicing at the arteries of the throat as he dragged it clear.

Blood fountained to splash on the ground, his body; carmine

smears washed away by the rain but leaving its sickly scent to

hang on the air. As the beast halted close to the fence he struck

again, the point driving deep between the ribs, the hilt jarring

against the hide as the blade dug into the heart.

"Earl!" Cran stared, incredulous. "How—I've never seen a man

move as fast."

"The rope. Quick!"

It came toward him like a snake, a thing of carefully woven

strands of salvaged wire. Looping it over the head Dumarest ran

back toward the fence and, with the aid of others, hauled the

carcass toward the gap. The rain helped as he had known it

would, the mud acting like an oil. He snarled with impatience as

the animal jammed, and setting his feet deep in the slime, threw

the strength of back and shoulders against the wire. It grew taut,

hummed like a plucked string, stretched a little but held. With a

sudden rush the mass passed through the opening and within

seconds was clear.

"Keep pulling," snapped Dumarest. "Hurry!"

They needed no urging, panting as they struggled against the

weight, freezing as the beam of the searchlight swept toward

them. It touched the upper part of the torn fence, hesitated, then

turned away as one of the men, recognizing the danger, jarred

the mesh.

Their luck was holding—but time was running out.

Dumarest strained, edged to the right, and found the hollow

he had noted earlier. A final heave and the dead animal rolled

down the slope to come to rest in a pool of watery mud.

"Get the others, Cran. Be careful."

As the man slipped away Dumarest set to work, his knife

plunging, ripping, blood flying as he flensed and dismembered

the carcass. Those watching snatched fragments of meat,

gulping them like dogs, licking the blood from their hands with a

feral hunger.

"Here!" Dumarest handed out hunks of dripping meat, "Don't

take more than you can easily carry. Leave as soon as you're

loaded. Wait for the next flash and freeze when the next one

follows."

"The liver," said a man. "Don't forget the liver."

"We'll share it on the way and eat as we go. Cran?"

Like an eel he slipped into the hollow with his companions.

"Hurry," he panted. "The guards are suspicious and they

could have spotted the torn fence. If so they'll be coming to

investigate."

Men with guns and portable searchlights who would not

hesitate to shoot.

"Keep watch," ordered Dumarest. "Let me know if they come

this way. The rest of you, get moving. Move, damn you! Move!"

Minutes later he followed, wiping his knife and thrusting it

into his boot before lifting his load. Together they vanished into

the darkness, shielded by the storm, invisible to the guards who

finally came to investigate. They found the cut fence, but rain

had washed away the blood and filled the traces with oozing

mud. It wasn't until the dawn they made count and found the

discarded bones, head, hooves, tail, and intestines of the

slaughtered beast.

Chapter Two

Pacula had set the table, decorating it with fine glass and

delicate flowers set in vases of crystal, little touches he could

have done without but which impressed the Owners who came to

visit. Kel Accaus was openly envious and paid unmistakable

court to the woman, clumsy in his flattery.

"Pacula, my dear, your brother should be proud of you. Had I

someone like yourself to act as my hostess I should not spend as

much time as I do in the field. Tien, your health."

A toast which Tien Harada acknowledged with a bare

inclination of the head. He had no great love for Accaus but had

invited the man from necessity. Only a fool made an enemy of a

man whose lands joined one's own, and yet the way he looked at

Pacula would, in other times, have been grounds for a quarrel.

"You are kind, Kel," she said. "But surely you should reserve

your compliments for someone younger than I?"

"What has youth to do with beauty?" he demanded. "In you I

see the epitome of womanhood. If I were a poet I would compose

a work in your honor. As it is, I can only state a simple truth in

simple words. Your loveliness puts our sunsets to shame. You

agree, Chan?"

"How can I deny it?" Chan Catiua bowed, gracious in his

gesture. "Tien, a most pleasant meal."

A comment echoed by the others present and, Tien

recognized, a neat way to turn the conversation. Politic too,

while beautiful in her way, Pacula was no longer young and the

excessive flattery could hold a tinge of mockery. Not that Accaus

was capable of such subtlety, but a man couldn't be too careful

and shame, once given, could never be erased.

Now, as the servants cleared the table and set out flagons of

wine and bowls of succulent fruits, Tien Harada looked at his

guests. Owners all, aside from one, and he was of no account.

Pacula's whim and one he had tolerated—if the man could bring

her ease, what right had he to complain? Yet sitting as he did,

barely touching the food, a bleak contrast in his brown,

homespun robe, the monk looked more like a skeleton at the

feast than a privileged guest. Some wine would warm him,

perhaps, and Tien gestured for a servant to fill his glass.

"Thank you, no." Brother Vray rested his hand on the

container.

"You refuse my hospitality, Brother?"

"That, never, but a sufficiency is enough. And I have work

awaiting me."

"The consolation of the poor," sneered Accaus. "A pat on the

head for the unfortunate and a scrap of concentrate to ease their

labors. No man should eat unless he works for what he puts into

his mouth."

"And if no work is offered, brother?" The monk's voice was

gentle as were his eyes. An old voice, the eyes in a face seamed

and creased with years and deprivation. "You would be more

commiserate if you were to remember that, but for the grace of

God, you would be one of their number. Charity, brother, is a

virtue."

"Professed by many but practiced by few," said Catiua dryly.

"And your charity has an edge, Monk, is that not so? Before

receiving your Bread of Forgiveness a suppliant kneels beneath

the Benediction Light and is instilled with the command never to

kill. Am I right?"

"You are entitled to your opinion, my lord."

"Am I right?"

"And, if you are, what is the harm?" Pacula was quick to come

to his defense, for which Vray was grateful. Chan Catiua could be

guessing, but he had stumbled on the truth. "Can it be wrong to

prevent a man from taking the life of another?"

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E. C. Tubb - Dumarest 14 - Jack of Swords

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