For a moment she hesitated, then: "Three tables were closed last night: the cage, the spectrum and the high-low-man-in-between. Lenny runs that one and I know for a fact he was sick. The poker table had a substitute. That's the lot, mister." She smiled as he dropped more coins into her tray. "Thanks-and good luck!"
Lenny was thin, frail, coughing as he called to the crowd. "Place your bets and pick up your winnings. Back high, low or man-in-between. One gets you two. Place your bets, you lucky people. Place your bets."
A simple game with a quick turnover, the odds, as always, with the house. But the thin hands were unscratched and the frail body could never have carried an eighty-pound pack through the brush.
The cage held dice and stood on a layout marked with various combinations and odds. The man running it was gaunt, hollow-chested, gasping for breath as he ran his game. It was poorly attended and Dumarest guessed he would soon be in need of a new pitch.
Spectrum was like poker; seven cards with a double discard, the object being to get one card of each color. Odds were placed on the value of various combinations. The game was favored by those who liked to extend their losses and was not preferred by professional gamblers. It was symptomatic of local conditions that the table was thronged.
The dealer was young and carried plaster on one cheek.
Dumarest looked at him, remembering the couple he had seen back in Jarl's hotel. The same man? If so, where was the woman?
He backed and moved with deliberate casualness among those watching the game. The woman had had dark hair set in tight curls, was as tall as her companion, her skin a soft brown. All he had gained at a fleeting glimpse but he remembered the tone of her voice, its curt harshness. If they had been lovers, why had she objected with such violence? A business association, then, the man her pimp.
Dumarest turned as the dealer looked in his direction. If the man was Kelly he would recognize Dumarest; an advantage Dumarest lacked. Yet if he was, why had he been in the hotel and why the charade to disguise his scratched face?
A trap?
Dumarest considered the possibility as he stood before a mirrored pillar, watching the dealer, the others clustered around the table. Jarl set with the gun loaded with its stunning charge-if he hadn't used the drugs he could have used it to paralyze Dumarest as he came through the door. Had Kelly seen him as he questioned the old woman? Dropped the bloodstained wad of tissue as bait? Hired the woman to talk at the right moment to provide a neat excuse for the wounded cheek?
Had he been scratched by her fingernails or by thorns?
Reflected in the mirror Dumarest saw the sheen of golden hair and the warm shimmer of a scarlet gown. As Carina joined him she said, "Nothing, Earl. Everyone I saw was clean."
Dumarest said, "The dealer on the spectrum table has a scratched face. Could you tell if it was done with thorns or nails?"
"Fingernails? Yes. A thorn would act as a claw and make a deep and narrow wound. Fingernails would yield a broader and more shallow wound." She added, "But how will you get the plaster off for me to see?"
A rip would do it but she would need time to make her examination. To pick a fight would be best. To knock the man down and bare the cheek and wait for Carina to make her decision.
"Trail me," he said. "Keep well back as if we were strangers. When he goes down come in fast-you know what to do."
Turning from the pillar, Dumarest moved back toward the spectrum table. The dealer, engrossed, had his eyes on the cards, the players hoping to win. A moment demanding full concentration as he gauged the strength of their hands, their willingness to bluff. A good time to move in.
"Earl!" Dumarest halted as a hand fell on his arm. "Man, it's good to see you!" It was Emil Zarse, who had traveled to Shard on the same ship. He was an entrepreneur interested in seeing what could be gained from the abandoned workings, a wisp of a man with a seamed and wrinkled face now expressing genuine regret. "Too bad what happened, Earl. I told you you'd be better off coming in with me. How long were you out there? Three weeks-and to lose it all."
Dumarest said, "How did you know I'd been robbed?"
"He told me." Zarse glanced toward the poker table, indicated the man who stood in the dealer's place. "Ca Lee."
Ca Lee was big and bland with slanted eyes and a thick mass of dark hair neatly arranged in a series of curls-a man with a decadent air; someone who would take pleasure in another's pain. His hands were deft as he dealt the cards, his voice a warmly feral purr as he droned the results.
"A lady, no help. A ten to make a pair. A deuce to match two others. A lord, no help. A seven, no help. Deuces to bet."
Seven-card stud and the holder of the three deuces, a woman, trembled in her eagerness to ride her luck. The last card had yet to be played but Dumarest guessed she had another pair hidden. Guessed too that Ca Lee would hold the better hand.
Ca Lee-Kelly, the man's ego had made him reluctant to do more than distort his name.
He looked up as Dumarest edged forward, the slanted eyes widening a little even as the thin lips lifted at the corners in derisive mirth.
"You wish to take a hand, friend?"
"I can't afford it."
"No? Then make room for those who can."
Dumarest said, "I'll go when you answer a question-how did you know I'd been robbed?"
The cards stilled in the deft hands then, as the man smiled, resumed their soft rippling. "You're Dumarest," he said. "The one I've heard about. Too bad about what happened."
"Who told you?"
"I heard it from someone." The shrug was expressive. "You know how talk gets around."
"From Berge? He died. Jarl Capron? He was too badly hurt to gossip. Mel Glover? He didn't know. Who, Ca Lee? Who told you?"
"Someone. I forget. The boy, perhaps."
"A mute?" Dumarest heard the soft rustling as those standing close moved away, sensing the tension, the rising anger. "I told no one-and how did you know the boy was involved?"
A mistake and the man's eyes changed as he realized how he'd betrayed himself. A change followed by immediate action as he threw the deck of cards.
They left his hand in a fan, spinning, a collection of paper-thin knives aimed directly at Dumarest's eyes. Sharp edges which would cut and blind like a handful of steel. Dumarest ducked, felt them glance from his hair, dropped lower to the floor and lunged for the legs he saw on the far side of the table.
Ca Lee was fast and he had friends.
As Dumarest rolled after the retreating legs a foot appeared to send its toe driving into his ribs. Another stamped at his groin, missing, as he rolled. He screamed as, gripping the foot, Dumarest rose, twisting, throwing him back to land with a dislocated hip. As his companion came in, punching, Dumarest spun, stabbed with stiffened fingers, sent the man to fall, vomiting blood from a ruptured larynx.
Halfway across the room Ca Lee raced toward a door. "Earl!" Carina's voice was shrill with warning. "To your right!"
A man armed with a croupier's rake missed as, far too late, he slashed at Dumarest's head, but he lost his determination as he saw his intended victim's face. As he retreated, Dumarest reached the door through which Ca Lee had vanished.
It led to a passage running to either side, flanked with doors, dimly lit, with pools of shadow lying in pillared alcoves. Dumarest halted, hearing the pad of running feet and turned left to follow. A junction, a startled girl looking after a fleeting shape, then a bend and stairs rising in a tight spiral to the upper levels. If Ca Lee was hurrying to his room he would have taken them but Dumarest slowed with the instinctive caution of a hunter. A trail made too obvious could lead to a dead end or a lethal trap. He moved on, found other stairs leading below, knelt to rest his ear against the metal treads. A thrum and quiver of distant vibration and he rose to follow it, emerging in a shadowed, cavernous dimness laced with pipes and conduits, redolent with a variety of smells.
The basement of the Durand, the pipes serving the various facilities: steam and water for the sauna and pool, wires with power for lights and heating plates. In the shadows something moved.
Dumarest tensed, knife lifted to throw, the cast halted as he recognized the source. A rat scuttled across his path to vanish into shadow. But what had made it run?
He backed, blending into darkness, moving with soft caution, careful as to where he set his feet. A few yards and he sensed rather than felt an obstruction to his rear. He sidled around a massive tank, his ears strained, eyes narrowed for sound and movement.
He heard a sighing sound, another repeated from a point yards distant to one side-the escape of steam or the faint exhalation from human lungs? Dumarest reached into a pocket and found a coin. With his left hand he flipped it to one side, hearing it fall, seeing a blur of movement and springing forward, he lifted the knife.
And heard the sudden jangle of bells.
He dropped, rolling, as the narrow ruby guide-beam of a laser slashed the air where he had stood. The burning lance created a patch of flame to the accompaniment of harsh jangling. A shot followed a curse as Ca Lee sprang forward, the laser moving in his hand, the barrel slanting to aim at where Dumarest lay.