"Gengiz?"
"His boys. Breck fell behind on his payments. They warned him once but he still couldn't find the cash. So they worked him over. Smashed his face, cracked some ribs and twisted his arm out of its socket. I'm trying to get it back."
The hard way, working with strength but little skill. Dumarest gestured him aside, took his place, examined the injured limb. The dislocation was severe, the joint badly swollen. The injured man groaned as Dumarest moved his hands.
"How long?"
"Since noon. I had to wait for Jacek to get back."
Angado said, "Couldn't you have sent for trained help?"
"Medics won't come into Lowtown. They'll treat you if you can get to them but first they want paying." Breck was patient despite his pain, talking as if to a child. "I can't pay. If I had money I wouldn't be in this mess."
The woman said, "Can you help him? If you can for God's sake get to work."
"Hold his legs, Jacek. Angado, you hold his other arm. Keep him turned on his side." Dumarest picked up a mess of rag and wadded it into a ball. "This is going to hurt," he warned. "But it'll soon be over. Just try to relax. Take some deep breaths. Got anything to bite on?"
"Here." The woman thrust a stick between Breck's jaws. "Don't hurt him too much, mister."
Dumarest placed the wadded ball between the upper arm of the injured man and the torso, setting it high beneath the armpit to act as a fulcrum. Checking its position he adjusted the limb then, without warning, thrust down hard on the elbow.
Breck strained, biting into the wood, a low, animal-like groan coming from his throat. Sound Dumarest ignored as he fought the pull of muscles, maintaining the leverage as he felt the swollen joint. A moment as he rammed the heel of his hand against the spot, then he felt the joint slip back into place.
"Good." He rested a hand on Breck's sweating forehead. "It's all over," he said. "Just relax now."
"It hurts."
"The pain will go but it'll be sore for a while." Dumarest ripped rags into strips and bound the arm and shoulder in a constricting web, tying the arm hard against the chest. "That'll help the ribs, too." He looked at Jacek. "The next time anyone gets into trouble take them to the monks."
"I did my best."
"I know, but you lack training. They've had it." Dumarest added, "I guess you know how to take care of his nose."
"I should." Jacek's own was twisted across his face. "I've had to fix mine often enough. The rest of the cuts too. It was just that shoulder which beat me. A neat trick that; you using the arm itself as a lever." He paused then said. "Not that it'll do much good."
"Gengiz?" Dumarest shrugged. "A few of you could get together and take care of his boys."
"There'll be others." Jacek's tone reflected his loss of spirit. "There are always others."
Angado said, "What happens if he still can't pay? Will they kill him?"
"Not unless they have to. There are mines to the north and a ready market for workers. Deliver a volunteer and collect a bonus. Gengiz has a habit of delivering volunteers."
Dumarest looked at the interior of the hovel. "Maybe a man could do worse."
"I'm not signing a contract!" Breck struggled to sit upright on the rags. "Once they get you they never let go."
"You'd eat," said Dumarest. "You and your woman. What better have you got here?"
"I'm free!"
"Sure," said Dumarest. "I'd forgotten. Maybe Gengiz has too."
He moved to the opening and stepped out into the thickening purple haze of the dying day. After a moment Angado joined him, falling into step alongside as Dumarest moved along the littered path. In the shadows rodents scuttled and, from a shack, came a snatch of discordant song.
As it died Dumarest said, "You gave Breck money, right? It was a mistake."
"It was my money."
"It was still a mistake. Now he's not as desperate as he was. He'll pay and buy his way out of trouble. But it'll return and he'll be back where he started."
"I've given him time, at least. His shoulder will heal and maybe he can find a job." Angado looked at his companion. "Would you pay, Earl? If Gengiz makes his demand will you meet it?"
"I might."
"Then how can you blame Breck and those like him for doing the same?"
"I'm not blaming them," said Dumarest. "They can do as they like. It's none of my business. But if I was starving and had a woman depending on me and she was starving too and some thug came and tried to rob me-well, who knows?"
They reached the end of the path, turned left, moved into a cleared space formed by the junction of crossings, headed up a slope to where the church rose against the sky.
Before it, silhouetted against the brightly colored plastic, two men were beating a robed figure to the ground.
It was a scene from nightmare, the men tall, broad, their clubs the yard-long weapons carried by Gengiz's guard. The monk was crouched, hands lifted to protect his face, body bowed as if he were a suppliant accepting a merited penance.
A stagelike vista broken as Angado yelled and ran forward.
"Stop that! Stop it! Leave him alone!"
A command obeyed only momentarily as the men turned at the shout, clubs lifted, contemptuous of the new arrivals.
Dumarest said, sharply, "Angado! Leave it!"
An order ignored if heard and he ran in turn, passing the other, heading to where he had left the broom leaning against the fabric of the church. Set far to one side of where the men stood over the monk he was ignored. As he snatched it up Angado came to a halt.
"Back off!" His breath was ragged, his voice hard but shaking a little. "You filth! Beating up a monk! Is that the best you can do?"
He was talking instead of acting, a mistake repeated by the thugs.
"Listen to the insect." The man on the right hefted his club. "Doesn't all that big talk frighten you, Rayne? Maybe we should get down on our knees and beg his forgiveness."
"Maybe we should, Kay." The other thug played along. "For all we know this thing could be his father." His foot kicked at the monk. "I've heard they have some strange ideas of how things should be done."
"We could make them show us, eh? If-"
Rayne broke off as Dumarest came running toward him, broom in hand, the wide fan of bristles aimed at his eyes. Spines which circled to avoid the sweep of his club and dug into cheeks and forehead. Lifting as Dumarest reversed the pole to send it rising sharply between the thighs to smash against the groin. As the thug doubled, retching, the end of the pole slammed into his throat, rupturing the larynx and filling the windpipe with blood and congested tissue.
As he fell Angado lunged at the other man.
He had his knife in his hand, the point slanted upward, thumb to the blade as he had seen trained fighters do in a dozen arenas. A hold, stance and motion designed to deliver a killing thrust. But he was slow. Slow!
Dumarest saw the lifted club, the practiced response of a man who had made violence his trade. Held like a sword the weapon gave him the advantage. Before he could drive the knife home Angado would be dead.
Dumarest yelled, throwing the broom as he yelled, the sound shocking in its harsh timbre. As the thug slowed his advance the pole, hurtling like a spear, glided between his legs causing him to stumble, to fall helplessly on the lifted blade of Angado's knife.
As the thug twitched, spilling his life in a carmine flood, Dumarest said, bitterly, "Well, I hope you're satisfied."
"It was him or me, Earl."
"It needn't have been either. You shouldn't have interfered."
"They were beating up a helpless man. A monk!"
"That makes them special?" Dumarest shrugged as Angado made no answer. "Well, it happened, let's get him inside."
Pollard had taken the beating but he wasn't the only one in the infirmary. Dexter lay on another cot, supine, his eyes closed, hands lying limp at his side. A bandage made a white swath across his forehead.