"None. Brother Wen and I were alone."
"I see." Dumarest turned as the girl entered the room. She carried a signed paper and had stripped the serpents from both arms.
"Take these to the shop of Kren Sulimer," she said. "You'll find it close to the field-a small place with the symbol of a sword. Don't sell them. Borrow ten thousand and leave the pledge at the gate. Don't fail to do this."
Brother Eland said quietly, "My lady, you have my word."
"I've arranged for an escort to accompany you, and our doctor will attend to your injuries."
"Thank you, my lady."
"For what? I've done nothing." Zenya shrugged, divorcing herself from the incident. To Dumarest she said, "The debt is yours, Earl. You realize that?"
"Yes."
"Good. Then we can leave now." She shivered, looking at the bleak walls. "I've done as you asked. Now amuse me."
* * *
Amusement was the sharing of wine, the playing of a game, dice rattling, falling, counters moved to an intricate pattern. A game he could play but had never enjoyed. And there had been conversation, innuendos, hints of knowledge he should have, motivations he should have understood. It had been a relief to get away.
Back in his room he killed the lights and sat before the window. The air held the scent of Lisa's perfume, the memory of her body, as if she were still present, waiting, demanding. Beyond the window the wall opposite was mostly dark, the pane he remembered a glimmer of starlight. Above, the stars wheeled in their courses as he sat silent, watchful.
Something pressed against the door.
It was a small sound, barely heard, metal moving as the knob was turned. Lisa Conenda returning for more intrigue, to seal the bargain in the only way she knew? Zenya, perhaps, restless and bored and eager for novelty?
Dumarest rose and stood against the wall to the side of the window, away from the betraying rectangle of light. The door swung open, light from the passage haloing the shape in the opening. It was not that of a woman. As it moved into the room, glimmers shone from a naked blade held in the right hand.
Dumarest moved, stepping silently along the wall, memory serving to dodge obstacles as he eased toward the door. He saw the man step toward the bed, the grunt of surprise at finding it empty, then he had lunged forward, slamming the panel and snapping on the lights.
Zavor glared at him from purpled eyes, the slick sheen of a transparent bandage covering his nose and forehead.
"You!" He sucked in his breath. "You should have been asleep, satiated with the passion of my dear aunt, but perhaps it's better this way." He lifted the knife. "You were lucky once. It won't happen again."
"We fought," said Dumarest coldly. "I won. What are you complaining about?"
"You marred me. Made me a mock before the others."
"I let you live."
"And I should be grateful for that?" Zavor lifted his left hand and touched his bruised face, letting it fall again quickly to his side. "Do you know what I intended? Had you been asleep, I would have smashed in your face with this." He gestured with the knife, the heavy pommel. "Then I would have cut it to the bone and left you a thing of horror. I saw them smile when you defeated me with that cunning trick. Chan Parect was most amused. I wonder if he will smile when next he sees you?"
Dumarest said flatly, "He's insane. Are you?"
"Me? Insane?" Zavor's laugh was a titter. "Now, why should you say that? Because I have pride and want revenge? Because I have reason to hate a stranger who made me look a fool? A common fighter who belongs in the arena like the animal he is?"
"You're hurt," said Dumarest. "You should be resting under slowtime. Do it now, and by morning you will be as before."
"A brave man should not run from the pain of wounds."
"A brave man doesn't come creeping into a room to wreak vengeance."
"Are you calling me a coward?"
Dumarest sighed. The man had been drinking, or worse. The eyes were too bright in their purpled sockets, his tones too high. Drugs to kill pain and to speed his metabolism, others to give him courage or to numb his fears. And yet he was not wholly a fool. He had waited until it was late; had his victim been asleep, it would have taken only one quick blow. And he was a scion of the house, an accident of birth which had served to save him once and was doing so again.
He said again, "Answer me, you scum! Are you calling me a coward?"
"I'm calling you a fool. Get out of here before you get hurt."
"A challenge? Will you use that knife in your boot?" Zavor edged forward. "Then reach for it. Drop your hand. Do it, damn you! Do it now!"
He was too confident, which meant that he was better armed than it appeared. A laser, perhaps, or a missile weapon held in or carried close to the left hand, which he kept at his side.
Dumarest said, "You want to kill me, but you don't want to suffer because of it. If you can claim self-defense, you might be believed. Do you consider your grandfather to be such a fool?"
Zavor smiled, a distortion of his mouth devoid of humor. "My insane grandfather will believe that you are an assassin that I confronted and killed to save his precious hide. And you don't have to reach for that knife. I can place it in your hand when you are dead."
"Get out of here!"
Dumarest stepped forward, watching the knife, the left arm, alert for the tiny movements that would herald explosive action. The knife would be used, thrown perhaps as the left hand rose, a diversion to gain a clear field for whatever weapon Zavor carried at his side. And it would be done soon. He was giving the man no chance. He would have to act or retreat.
"Back!" Zavor sprang to the bed, stood wide-legged on the mattress. He sprang again, right hand lifting, the knife a spinning blur as it left his hand.
Dumarest ducked, saw it pass harmlessly overhead, watched as the left hand rose with the expected weapon. A laser adjusted for continuous fire, venting its full charge in a ruby-guided beam of searing destruction, which swept like a scythe toward him.
Flame burst from the carpet, the wall, touching his shoulder, burning the plastic from the protective metal mesh beneath, passing, to hit the door, another wall. Zavor was too eager, using the laser like a cane to slash as a boy would cut air with a stick, moving too fast for careful aim. As he swept the beam backward, Dumarest acted.
There was no time to think; his hand dropped to his boot, rose with his knife, hand and arm sweeping back as the beam moved toward his face, muscles like springs sending the steel forward, to arc through the air, to end at one of the eyes, the hilt jarring against the bone of cheek and forehead.
Zavor fell, twisting, the laser falling, still active, to hit and roll off the edge of the bed and explode in a gush of blasting energy which filled the room with smoke and flame.
Dumarest turned as it fell, catching the blast on his back, feeling the burn of heat, the stench of charred hair as he lunged toward the door. It opened before he reached it, and he saw the startled face of a guard, a staff lifted, aimed, a gout of flame.
Something smashed against the side of his head, and he fell into an endless darkness.
Chapter Four
It was cold, with a thin wind blowing from the north over scrub and barren rock, biting savagely at his near-naked body, the bite reflected by the hunger gnawing at his stomach. High above, against a swollen moon, a shape wheeled, circling, wide wings soundless in the air. The sling was of plaited leather, the pouch made supple by endless chewing, the stone it contained carefully selected as to weight, shape, and size. He rose, the sling circling, whining a little as it cut the air, thong flying as he released the stone at precisely the right moment. Above, the bird jerked and fell, wings fluttering, a mournful cry marking its passage. He caught it as it fell, wringing its neck, sending sharp teeth to bite into skin and sinew to the flesh beneath.
The blood warmed him, the meat filled his stomach, and he stared upward, triumphant. Food was life, and now he would live until it was time to kill again. And kill… and kill… and kill.
The moon splintered into fragments, which became a face.
"I am Dr. Leon Glosarah. Head physician to the house of Aihult. How do you feel?"