E. C. Tubb - Dumarest 10 - Jondelle

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2024-12-23 0 0 368.71KB 180 页 5.9玖币
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Jondelle
#10 in the Dumarest series
E.C. Tubb
CHAPTER ONE
Akon Batik was an old man with a seamed face and slanting
eyes flecked with motes of amber. His lobeless ears were set close
to his rounded skull and his thin mouth curved downward as if
he had tasted the universe and found it not to his liking. He wore
an embroidered robe of black and yellow, the wide sleeves falling
low over his hands. A round cap of matching color was adorned
by a single jewel which caught the light and reflected it in
splinters of lambent ruby. Casually he stirred the heap of crystals
lying before him on the solid desk of inlaid woods. His finger was
thin, hooked, the nail long and sharply pointed. At its touch the
crystals made a dry rustling as they shifted over the sheet of
paper on which they lay.
"From Estale?"
"Yes," said Dumarest. "From Estale."
"A hard world," mused the jeweler. "A bleak place with little
to commend it aside from the workings which produce its
wealth. A single vein of lerad in which are to be found the
chorismite crystals." He touched them again, watching as they
turned, his eyes remote. "I understood the company mining
them was jealous of its monopoly."
"It is."
"And yet you have a score of them."
It was more of a question than a statement but one which
Dumarest had no intention of answering. He leaned back in his
chair looking again at the paneled walls, the painted ceiling, the
rugs of price which lay scattered on the floor. Light shone in a
yellow flood from recessed lanterns, soft, gentle, lulling with
implied warmth and comfort. It was hard to remember that this
room lay within a fortress of stone, harder still to bear in mind
that not all the defenses were outside. There would be men,
perhaps, watching, electronic devices certainly, means to protect
and to kill if the need arose. Akon Batik had not grown old in his
trade by neglecting elementary precautions.
He said, "Why did you bring them to me?"
"You have a reputation," said Dumarest. "You will buy what is
offered. Of course, if you are not interested in the crystals I will
waste no more of your time."
"Did I say that?" Again the long nail touched the little heap.
"But it is in my nature to be curious. I wonder how a man could
manage to elude the guards and the inspection at the field on
Estale. A man working the vein could no doubt manage to retain
a few crystals—but to leave with them?"
"They are genuine."
"I believe you, but my eyes are not as young as they were and
it would be well to make certain." The jeweler switched on a
lamp and bathed the surface of his desk with invisible ultraviolet
The crystals blazed with a shimmering kaleidoscope of color,
rainbows painting the seamed cheeks, the slanted eyes, glowing
from the dark wood of the paneled walls. For a long moment he
stared at them, then switched off the lamp. "Chorismite," he
said. "There can be no doubt."
Dumarest said, "You will buy them?"
The crux of the matter, but Akon Batik was not to be hurried.
He leaned back, eyes thoughtful as he studied his visitor. A hard
man, he decided, tall, lean, somber in his clothing. Pants tucked
into high boots, the hilt of a knife riding above the right. A tunic
with long sleeves caught at the wrists and high about the throat.
Clothing of a neutral gray and all of it showing the marks of hard
usage, the plastic scratched and scuffed with minor attritions.
His eyes lifted to the face, studying the deep-set eyes, the
determined set of the jaw, the firm mouth which could easily
become cruel. The face of a man who had early learned to survive
without the protection of House or Guild or Organization.
A traveler. A man who moved from world to world in search of
something, or perhaps because he was unable to rest. A
wanderer who had seen a hundred worlds and found none he
could call his own.
Quietly he said, "Estale is a bad world and not one a traveler
should visit. There would be little opportunity for such a man to
work and collect the price of a passage. You agree?"
There were many such, dead-end planets, end-of-the-line
worlds devoid of industry, poverty-stricken cultures in which a
stranded traveler stood no chance of making an escape.
Dumarest had seen too many of them. Bleakly he nodded.
"On Estale you work in the mine or you do not work,"
continued the jeweler. "And, once you sign the contract, escape
is rare. The pay is low, prices high, a worker remains constantly
in debt. Yet a shrewd man could beat the system. A man who
saved every coin, who indulged in no pleasures, and who wasted
no opportunity in order to build his stake. A man who would
bide his time, work out his contract, and leave without
suspicion." He paused and added, softly, "And who would
suspect that a man riding Low would have a fortune hidden
within his person."
And his visitor had ridden Low; the signs were plain. No body
fat, a drawn appearance about the eyes, the hands thinner than
nature intended. The result of riding doped, frozen, and ninety
percent dead in caskets designed for the transportation of
beasts. Risking the fifteen percent death rate for the sake of
cheap travel.
"Will you buy the crystals?"
"I will give you one thousand stergals for them," said Akon
Batik flatly, and translated the sum into more recognizable
terms. "That is the cost of two High passages."
Dumarest frowned. "They are worth more."
"Far more," agreed the jeweler. "But commissions will have to
be paid and you are selling, not buying. My profit will be little
more than what I pay you—but you need have no fears once you
leave my house. A thousand stergals. You agree?"
He smiled as Dumarest nodded, a quirk of the lips, more a
grimace than an expression of amusement. Yet his voice held
satisfaction as he said, "The money will be given to you as you
leave. And now, a glass of wine to seal the bargain. You have no
objection?"
It was tradition, Dumarest guessed, a ritual which politeness
dictated he should share. And, perhaps, things could be learned
over the wine.
It was dark, thick, and heavy with a cloying sweetness,
pungent with the scent of spice which warmed throat and
stomach. Cautiously he sipped and then said, casually, "You have
lived long and are wise. Tell me: have you ever heard of a planet
called Earth?"
"Earth?" Akon Batik stared thoughtfully at his wine.
"An odd name for a world, but no, I have not. A place you
seek?"
"A world I intend to find."
"May good fortune attend you. Do you intend to remain long
on Ourelle?"
"I don't know," said Dumarest cautiously. "It depends."
"On whether or not you find things to attract you?" The
jeweler sipped at his wine. "I asked because it is barely possible
that I may be able to find you suitable employment. Men who
can acquire chorismite are rare. It could be that I will have a
proposition to make you at some later time. Naturally, it will be
of a profitable kind. You would not be averse?"
"I would be interested," said Dumarest flatly. He sipped again
at his wine, wondering at the other's interest A man like Akon
Batik would not have a need for men to do his bidding; certainly
he would not have to rely on strangers no matter how skillful
they appeared to be. Setting down the goblet, he said, "I thank
you for the wine and your courtesy. And now, the money?"
"It's waiting for you at the door." The jeweler pursed his thin
mouth. "You are a stranger on Ourelle, am I correct?"
"Yes."
"It is a strange world and perhaps I could save you
misfortune. If you are tempted to seek games of chance, do not
play in the Stewpot the Pavilion of Many Delights, or the Purple
Flower. You may win, but you will not live to count your gains.
The House of the Gong is as fair as any and you will be safe from
violence."
Dumarest said, "You own it?"
"Naturally, and if you are eager to lose your money, I may as
well regain what I have paid. Another thing: Ourelle is not as
other worlds. If you remain in the city, that need not concern
you; but if you wish to explore, take nothing for granted. You
have plans?"
"To look around. To see that is to be seen. You have a
museum? A scientific institute?"
The jeweler blinked his surprise. "We have a House of
Knowledge. The Kladour. You will recognize it by the fluted spire.
It is the pride of Sargone. And now, if you would care for more
wine? No? Then our business is completed. If the need arises, I
shall contact you. In the meantime, good fortune attend each
step you take."
"And may your life be full of gladness," responded Dumarest,
and knew by the sudden shift of light in the slanted eyes that he
had enhanced his standing in the jeweler's estimation. A man
who insisted on wine to complete a transaction would be
sensitive to such courtesies.
A moving arrow of dull green guided him through a labyrinth
of passages to the outer door where a squat man handed him a
bag of coins, waiting phlegmatically as Dumarest counted them.
The money safe in his pocket, he stepped into the street, blinking
at the comparative brilliance of the late afternoon. An emerald
sun hung low in the sky, painting the blank facades of the
buildings with a dozen shades of green; dark in shuttered
windows and enigmatic doors, bright and pale on parapets and
trailing vines heavy with blossoms of blue, gold, and scarlet
Above the roofs, seemingly close, he could see a peculiar spire
twisting as it rose to terminate in a delicate shaft topped by a
gilded ball. The Kladour, he guessed, and made his way toward
it.
In Sargone no street could be called straight. Every alley,
avenue, road, and byway was curved, a crescent, the part of
circle, the twist of a spiral, all wending in baffling contradiction
as if designed by the undulations of a gigantic serpent. A guide
had taken him to the jeweler's house, another would have taken
him to the Kladour, but the street had been empty and the spire
deceptively close. Dumarest had trusted to his own ability and
soon found that he was completely lost.
He halted, trying to orient himself. The sun was where it
should be, the spire too, but it was more distant now and the
street in which he stood wended in the wrong direction. Traffic
was light and pedestrians few. An alley gave onto a more
populous street which irritatingly sent him away from his
objective.
A man rubbed his chin, his eyes sharp as Dumarest asked
directions.
"The Kladour? Hell, man, you won't find nothing there. You
want the Narn. Everything to satisfy a man in the Narn. Girls,
wine, gambling, sensitapes, analogues— you name it and it's to
be had: Fights too. You like to watch a good fight? Ten-inch
blades and to the death. Tell you what—you hire me and I'll take
you to where you want to go."
A tout eager to make a commission. Dumarest said, "Forget
it. I want the Kladour."
"First right, second right, first left, third left, straight ahead.
If you change your mind and hit the Narn, ask for Jarge
Venrush. If you want action, I can show you all you can use.
Remember the name. You'll find me in the Disaphar."
Dumarest nodded and moved on. The second on the right was
a narrow alley thick with emerald shadows, a gash cut between
high buildings and prematurely dark. He trod softly, keeping to
the center, ears strained with instinctive caution. Something
rattled ahead and he tensed as a shape darted from behind a
can. A small animal seeking its prey; lambent eyes glowed as he
passed where it crouched, feeding. Beyond it, the the left-hand
turn showed an opening little wider than the alley.
He slowed as he neared it, his skin prickling with primitive
warning. It was too dark, too convenient for any who might
choose to lie in wait, and the tout could have sent him into a
trap. Sargone was a city no better than any other. It had its dark
corners and own species of savage life. Men who lived on helpless
prey. Robbers and those who would find it more convenient to
kill from a distance.
Dumarest halted, then turned to retrace his steps, halting
again as he heard the cry.
It was high, shrill, more of a scream than a shout, and it came
from the opening behind. He spun, one hand dropping to the
knife in his boot, the nine-inch blade glowing emerald as he
lifted it from its sheath, faded sunlight bright on needle point
and razor edge. Two steps and he had reached the opening, was
racing down the alley as the cry came again. A woman, he
thought, a girl, then corrected the impression as he saw the
tableau ahead. Not a girl, a child, a small boy pressed tight
against a wall.
He wasn't alone. Beside him stood a man, thickset, his hair a
tangled darkness, his face drawn and reflecting his fear. His
hands were clenched in baffled helplessness as he faced the three
standing close. They were decked and masked, glittering tunics
bright with a variety of symbols, the masks grotesque with beak
and horn. Camouflage or protection—it was impossible to see
what lay beneath the masks, but Dumarest had no doubt as to
what they intended. Robbers, armed with knives, willing and
perhaps eager to use them against defenseless victims. To cut
and stab and slash in a fury of blood-lust. To kill the man and
perhaps the boy. Degenerates out for a little fun. The scum
inevitable in any civilization.
One turned as he approached. Dumarest saw the mask, the
glitter of eyes, the sweep of the blade held like a sword in a
gloved hand. It lanced forward in an upswinging thrust which
would have disemboweled an unprotected belly. Dumarest
jumped to one side, his own blade whining as it cut through the
air, the edge hitting, biting, breaking free as it slashed through
the hand just behind the fingers. Fingers and knife fell in a
fountain of blood, the blade swinging up again in a return slash
at the lower edge of the mask, the tip finding and severing the
soft tissues of the throat.
Without pause, he sprang at the nearest of the other two, left
arm blocking the defending blade, his own point lifting to aim at
an eye, to thrust, twist, and emerge dripping with fresh blood.
"Hold it!" The third man had retreated, dropping his knife,
his hand now heavy with the weight of a gun. "You fool," he said.
"You interfered. No one asked you to do that. All we wanted was
the kid. You could have walked past and forgotten what you'd
seen. Instead you had to act the hero. Well, now you're going to
pay for it," He poised the weapon. "In the belly," he said. "A hole
burned right through your guts. You'll take a long time to die
and scream every minute of it. Damn you! Here it comes!"
Dumarest moved, leaping to one side, his arm reaching back,
than forward, the knife spinning from his hand. He saw the
mask, the gun, the ruby guide-beam of the laser, and caught the
stench of seared plastic and metal. Pain tore at his side and then
the beam had gone, the gun swinging upward, the mask, the hilt
of the knife protruding like an ugly growth from the flesh
beneath.
Then pain became a consuming nightmare.
CHAPTER TWO
He looked to be six pushing seven, a stocky lad with a mane of
yellow hair and eyes deep-set and vividly blue. His back and
shoulders were straight, his stomach still rotund from early fat,
his hands dimpled, his mouth a soft rose. He stood beside the
bed, very solemn, his words very precise.
"My name is Jondelle. I must thank you for having saved me
when we were attacked in the city."
Big words for a small boy, thought Dumarest, but, equally
solemn, he said, "It was my pleasure to be of service. Can you tell
me what happened?"
"After you were shot?"
"Yes."
"Elray saved you. He helped you to our raft and brought you
back home. I didn't forget to bring your knife. Do you want it
now?"
"Please," said Dumarest.
"I've cleaned it," said the boy. "It was all sticky with blood but
I washed it and polished it. Have you used it to kill many men?"
"No more than I had to."
"I saw how you threw it. Will you teach me how to throw a
knife?"
"Perhaps." Dumarest sat upright on the cot. He was naked
beneath the sheets, a transparent bandage tight against the left
side of his body. Beneath the covering he could see the flesh
almost totally healed. Hormones, he thought, or perhaps even
slow-time, the magic chemical which speeded the metabolism so
that a man lived a day in a few minutes. But he doubted it. The
use of slow-time brought ravenous hunger and he did not feel
that. And there were no marks on his arms to show the use of
intravenous feeding.
"Makgar nursed you," said the boy. "She is very good at that,
but I think Weemek helped."
"Weemek?"
"A friend who visits us sometimes. If you stay here, you will
meet him. I call it a 'him,' but I can't be sure. He isn't human,
you see."
Dumarest didn't, but he didn't correct the boy. He leaned
back, faintly amused and more than a little puzzled. The lad
spoke too precisely for his apparent age as if he'd had intensive
schooling during his formative years. Or perhaps it was normal
for children of this culture to be so forward.
He said, "May I have my knife now?"
It was clean as the boy had said, the edge freshly honed, the
steel polished.
"And my clothes?"
"Makgar has those. She has refurbished them. Is there
anything else you want?"
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ScannedbyHighrollerProofedbythebestELFproofer.MadeprettierbyuseofEBookDesignGroupStylesheet.Jondelle#10intheDumarestseriesE.C.TubbCHAPTERONEAkonBatikwasanoldmanwithaseamedfaceandslantingeyesfleckedwithmotesofamber.Hislobelessearsweresetclosetohisroundedskullandhisthinmouthcurveddownwardasifhehadtast...

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