E. C. Tubb - Dumarest 05 - The Jester at Scar

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The Jester at Scar

#5 in the Dumarest series

E.C. Tubb

Chapter One

In the lamplight, the woman's face was drawn, anxious.

"Earl," she said. "Earl, please wake up."

Dumarest opened his eyes, immediately alert. "What is it?"

"Men," she said, "moving outside. I thought I heard noises

from the street, screams and the sound of laughter." The

guttering flame of the lamp threw patches of moving shadow

across her face as she straightened from the side of the bed.

"Cruel laughter, it had an ugly sound."

He frowned, listening and hearing nothing but the normal

violence of the night. "A dream," he suggested. "A trick of the

wind."

"No." She was emphatic. "I've lived on this world too long to

be mistaken. I heard something unnatural, the noise of men

searching, perhaps. But it was there; I didn't imagine it."

Dumarest threw back the covers and rose, the soft lamp light

shining on his hard, white skin and accentuating the thin scars

of old wounds. The interior of the hut was reeking with damp,

the ground soggy beneath his bare feet. He took his clothes from

the couch and quickly dressed in pants, knee-high boots and a

sleeved tunic which fell to mid-thigh. Carefully he fastened the

high collar around his throat. From beneath the pillow he took a

knife and sheathed it in his right boot.

"Listen." said the woman urgently. The lamp was a bowl of

translucent plastic containing oil and a floating wick. It shook a

little in her hand. "Listen!"

He tensed, ears straining against the ceaseless drum of rain,

the gusting sough of wind. The wind slackened a little then blew

with redoubled force, sending a fine spray of rain through the

poorly constructed walls of the shack. More rain came through

the sloping, unguttered roof and thin streams puddled the floor.

Among such a medley of sounds it would be easy to imagine

voices.

Relaxing, Dumarest glanced at the woman. She stood tall, the

lamp now steady in her hand. Her eyes were set wide apart, deep

beneath their brows; thick, brown hair had been cropped close

to her rounded skull. Her hands were slim and delicate, but her

figure was concealed by the motley collection of clothing she

wore for warmth and protection. Beyond her a few embers

glowed in an open fireplace built of stone. Dumarest crossed to

it, dropped to his knees beside a box and fed scraps of fuel from

the box to the embers. Flames rose, flickered and illuminated the

woman's home.

It wasn't much. The bed where he'd slept was in one corner of

the single room which was about ten feet by twelve. A curtain,

now drawn back, split the single room in half during times of

rest. The woman's couch rested in the far corner beyond the

curtain. A table, benches and chests, all of rough construction,

completed the furnishings. The walls were of stones bedded in

dirt; uprights supported the sagging roof. Against the dirt and

stone, fragments of brightly colored plastic-sheeting merged

with salvaged wrappings from discarded containers.

Smoke wafted from the burning fuel and made him cough.

"Quiet!" warned the woman. She turned to Dumarest.

"They're coming back," she said. "I can hear them."

He rose, listened and heard the squelch of approaching

footsteps.

They halted, and something hard slammed against the barred

door.

"Open!" The voice was flat and harsh. "We are travelers in

need of shelter; open before we drown."

Lamplight glittered from her eyes. "Earl?"

"A moment." Dumarest stepped quietly forward and stood

beside the door. It would open inward and away from where he

stood, giving him a clear field if action should it be necessary.

His hand dipped to his boot and rose bearing nine inches of

razor-sharp steel. "Don't argue with them," he said softly. "Just

open the door and step back a little. Don't look towards me. Hold

the lamp above your head."

She glanced at the knife held sword-fashion in his hand. "And

you?"

"That depends." His face was expressionless. "If they are

genuine travelers seeking accommodation, send them on their

way; or take them in if you prefer their company to mine. If they

are besotted fools looking for something to entertain them, they

will leave when they discover there is nothing for them here. If

not…" He shrugged. "Open the door."

Wind gusted as she swung open the panel, driving in a spray

of rain and the ubiquitous smell of the planet. From outside

grated a voice, harsh against the wind.

"Hold, Brephor. No need to knock again. You there, woman,

your name is Selene?"

"Yes."

"And you sell food and shelter. That, at least, was what we

were told." The voice became impatient. "Step forward and show

yourself; I have no wish to talk to shadows."

Silently she obeyed, moving the lamp so as to let the guttering

light shine on her face; she remained impassive at the sound of

sharply indrawn breath.

"Acid," she said evenly. "I was contaminated with parasitical

spores on the face and neck; there was no time to consider my

beauty. It was a matter of burning them away or watching me

die. Sometimes I think they made the wrong decision." The lamp

trembled a little as she fought old memories. "But I forget myself,

gentlemen. You are in need. What is your pleasure?"

"With you? Nothing." Boots squelched in mud as the speaker

turned from the doorway. "Come, Brephor. We waste our time."

"A moment, Hendris You decide too fast." The second voice

was indolent, purring with the sadistic anticipation of a hunting

feline. "The woman has a scarred face, true, but is it essential

that a man look at her face? Such a disfigurement, to some,

could even be attractive. I am sure that you follow my thought,

Hendris. If the face is bad. the rest of her could be most

interesting."

Hendris was sharp. "You scent something, Brephor?"

"Perhaps." His indolence sharpened into something ugly. The

purr became a snarl as Brephor loomed in tho doorway. "Tell me

woman how do you live?"

"I sell food and shelter," she said flatly. "And the monks are

kind."

"The monks? Those beggars of the Church of Universal

Brotherhood?" His laugh was a sneer. "They feed you?"

"They give what they can."

"And that is enough? No," he mused answering himself. "It

cannot be enough; the monks do not give all to one and nothing

to another. You need food and oil, fuel and clothing, medicines

too, perhaps. In order to survive you need more than the monks

can provide." He extended his hand; the back was covered with a

fine down. Steel had been wedded to the fingernails; the metal

was razor-edged and needle-pointed. The tips pricked her skin.

"Speak truthfully, woman, or I will close my hand and tear out

your throat. You need lodgers in order to survive; is that not so?"

She swallowed, not answering. Spots of blood shone like tiny

rubies at the points of steel.

"We will assume that it is so," purred Brephor from where he

stood in darkness. "And yet when we, two travelers, come seeking

food and shelter, we are repulsed. You did not invite us in out of

the rain; you did not suggest terms; you were not even curious as

to how we knew both your name and business. But that is

acceptable. You are dependent on publicity and offer a

commission to those who send you clients." The spots of blood

grew, swelling to break and fall in widening streams from the

lacerating claws. "I scent a mystery, woman. You are in business,

but have no time for customers. Perhaps you no longer need to

sell food and shelter. It could be that you have someone now to

provide, someone lurking in the darkness." The purr hardened

and became vicious. "Tell me, woman!"

"Tell him," said Dumarest as he stepped from where he stood

against the wall. The reaction was immediate. Brephor

straightened his arm with a jerk, sending the woman staggering

backwards, the lamp flickering as , she fought to retain her

balance. As she stumbled he sprang through the doorway, landed

and turned to face Dumarest.

"So," he purred. "Our friend who lurks in shadows. The brave

man who stands and watches as his woman is molested. Tell me,

coward, what is your name?"

Silently Dumarest studied the intruder. His eyes were huge

beneath lowering brows, ears slightly pointed, mouth pursed

over prominent canines. His face and neck were covered with the

same fine down as the backs of his hands. Brephor was a

cat-man, a mutated sport from some lonely world, the genes of

his forebears jumbled by radiation. He would be fast and vicious,

a stranger to the concept of mercy, a stranger also to the concept

of obedience.

"I asked you a question, coward," he said. "What is your

name?"

"Dumarest," said Earl, "a traveler like yourself." He lifted his

left hand so as to draw attention away from his right and the

knife held tight against his leg. The ring he wore caught the

light, the flat, red stone glowing like a pool of freshly spilled

blood. Brephor looked at it and flared his nostrils.

Abruptly he attacked.

Metal flashed as he raked his claws at Dumarest's eyes. At the

same time his free hand reached out to trap the knife and his

knee jerked up and forward in a vicious blow at the groin.

Dumarest swayed backwards, twisting and lifting his knife

beyond reach. He felt something touch his cheek, falling to tear

at his tunic and becoming a furred and sinewy wrist as he

caught it with his left hand. The stabbing knee thudded against

his thigh and, for a moment, Brephor was off balance.

Immediately Dumarest swung up the knife and thrust along

the line of the arm. driving the blade clean into the cat-man's

neck just below the ear; he twisted it so as to free the steel. The

force of the impact sent them both towards the door. Dumarest

regained his balance, jerked free the knife and sent the dead man

toppling from the hut.

A face showed as a pale blob against the darkness, lit by the

small flame of the lamp within the hut. Something bright rose as

the woman screamed a warning.

"Earl! He's got a gun!"

Fire spat from the muzzle of the weapon as Dumarest threw

the knife. He saw the face fall away, the hilt sprouting from one

eye and a ribbon of blood running down to the ruff of beard. The

blood was immediately washed away by the rain.

"Be careful!" Selene lifted the lamp, sheltering the flame.

"There could be others."

He ignored her, springing from the doorway to recover the

knife. Rain hammered at his unprotected head, slammed against

the shoulders of his tunic and sent little spurts of mud leaping up

from the semi-liquid ooze. In seconds it had washed the blade

clean. Dumarest sheathed it and looked to either side; he saw

nothing but darkness relieved only by the weak glimmers of light

coming from behind scraps of transparent plastic or through

cracks in disintegrating walls.

"Earl—"

"Give me the lamp," he snapped, "quickly!"

The flame danced as he held it close to the faces of the dead

men. Hendris had none of the characteristics of his companion,

but that meant little. They could have come from different

worlds. If they had grown up together it still meant nothing. If

Brephor was the norm, then Hendris could have been an atavist;

if Hendris was the norm, Brephor would have been a freak. Both,

to Dumarest, were strangers.

He found the gun and examined it. It was a simple

slug-thrower of cheap manufacture and used an explosive to

drive the solid projectile. Dumarest threw it into the darkness. It

was useless without matching ammunition and a laser was far

more efficient. Handing the lamp back to Selene: he dragged

both men into the shelter of the hut. Straightening, he looked at

the woman.

"If you want anything, take it," he said. "But don't waste time

doing it."

She hesitated.

"Strip them," he said curtly. "Are you so rich you can afford to

throw away things of value?"

"You know I'm not. Earl," she protested. "But if I take things

which may later be recognized by a friend, I shall be blamed for

having caused their deaths."

"Men like these have no friends," he said flatly. "Let's see what

they were carrying."

The clothes were ordinary, but of a better quality than they

seemed. There was money, a phial of drugs from Brephor, spare

clips of ammunition for the discarded gun of the bearded man,

and five rings of varying quality and size, all with red stones. Also

there were a couple of sleeve knives and an igniter and flashlight

with a self-charging cell, but nothing more of interest or value.

Dumarest frowned as he examined the rings. "Odd," he

mused. "Why should they want to collect rings?"

"They were robbers," said the woman, "raiders. They saw your

ring and thought to take it."

Slowly Dumarest shook his head.

"They were spoiling for trouble," she insisted. "The cat-man

must have sensed your presence. He was a killer desiring sport."

Her finger touched the phial of drugs. "Doped," she said. "Riding

high, and fast! When he went for your eyes his hand was a blur.

If you hadn't been even faster he would have torn out your eyes."

That was true enough. Dumarest opened the phial and

cautiously tasted the contents. A euphoric, he guessed, probably

wedded to slow-time so that the effect of the drug would be

enhanced by the actual speeding up of the metabolism. If so,

Brephor's speed was understandable; time, to him, had slowed so

that he could do more in a second than could a normal man.

Dumarest sealed the phial and threw it on the table. "Why?"

he demanded. "Why should they have come here as they did?

They weren't looking for shelter: they had enough money to buy

that at the station. And they know you had someone staying at

your home."

"Coincidence," she said. "They were looking for sport and

changed their minds when they saw my face."

"They were looking for something," he agreed. "The cat-man

attacked as soon as he saw my ring." He looked at it, a warm

patch against his finger, and idly ran his thumb over the stone.

"They had five rings," he mused, "all with red stones. Did five

men die to supply them?"

"They were raiders." she insisted stubbornly, "men who hoped

to rob and kill in the cover of the night."

"Yes," said Dumarest. "You are probably correct." He looked

at the pile of clothing and the small heap of the dead men's

possessions. "Take it." he said, "all of it."

Her eyes fell to where the two bodies lay sprawled on the floor.

"And those?"

"Leave them to me."

The huts were built on the slope of a valley, the only feasible

place on a planet where the rain fell with the relentless force it

did on Scar. All through the thirty-day winter the skies emptied

their burden of water, the rain washing away the soil, garbage

and refuse, carrying it down to the valley which was now a small

sea of ooze.

Dumarest picked up the cat-man; his muscles bulged beneath

his tunic as he supported the weight. Cautiously, he walked

through the cluster of shacks to where the ground fell abruptly

away from beneath his feet. He heaved, waited, and turned when

he heard the splash of the body. The bearded man followed,

sinking into the morass, food for the parasitical fungi, the

bacteria and the anaerobic spores.

Slowly Dumarest walked back to the hut. The door was open,

the guttering flame of the lamp illuminating the interior and

casting a patch of brightness on the mud outside. He paused at

the opening; the dead men's effects had vanished from sight.

Selene looked at him from where she stood beside the table.

"You're leaving," she said, "going to the station, back to the

field."

Dumarest nodded. "You don't need me," he said, "not now,

and it's almost spring. I would have been leaving in any case."

Her hand rose and touched the scar on the side of her face,

the seared and puckered blotch which ran over cheek and neck.

"You don't have to go, Earl. You know that."

"I know it."

"Then—"

"Goodbye, Selene."

He was three steps away from the hut when she slammed the

door.

* * *

The rain eased a little as he climbed the slope towards the

landing field where the only really permanent buildings on the

planet were clustered. Here were the warehouses, the stores, the

factor's post, processing plant, commissary and the raised and

sheltered dwellings of Hightown. They were empty now. Tourists

came only at the beginning of summer, but others resided all the

year round.

One of the buildings, built solidly of fused stone and with a

transparent roof which could be darkened during the time of sun

and heat, shone like a lambent pearl in the darkness. Underfoot

the yielding mud gave way to a solid surface and Dumarest

lengthened his stride. Light shone on a trough of running water

and he stepped into it, washing the slime from his boots before

reaching for the door. Hot air blasted as he stepped into the

vestibule; the air was replaced by a spray of sterilizing

compounds as he shut the door. Three seconds later the spray

ceased and the inner door swung open.

"Earl!" A man lifted his hand in greeting as Dumarest stepped

from the vestibule. He sat at a table littered with cards, dice,

chips and a marked cloth. Three hemispheres of plastic about an

inch wide stood ranked before him on the table. "Care to play?"

"Later," said Dumarest.

"Well, come and test my skill." The gambler was a jovial man

with a round paunch and thick, deceptively agile fingers. Busily

he moved the three hemispheres. Under one he slipped a small

ball, moved them all and looked questioningly at Dumarest.

"Well? Where is it?"

Dumarest reached out and touched one of the shells.

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TheJesteratScar#5intheDumarestseriesE.C.TubbChapterOneInthelamplight,thewoman'sfacewasdrawn,anxious."Earl,"shesaid."Earl,pleasewakeup."Dumarestopenedhiseyes,immediatelyalert."Whatisit?""Men,"shesaid,"movingoutside.IthoughtIheardnoisesfromthestreet,screamsandthesoundoflaughter."Thegutteringflameofthe...

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E. C. Tubb - Dumarest 05 - The Jester at Scar

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