"He should." The doctor was middle-aged, hard, coldly proficient. "Thanks for your help. You running a contender?"
"Yes."
"Tell him not to be heroic. It's better to drop and grandstand than to end up cut all to hell. Cheaper too." The doctor raised his voice. "Who's next?"
A man with a slashed face, an eye gone, the nose and lips slit. He was followed by another clutching at the ripped fabric of his shorts, thick streams of blood running between his fingers and staining his thighs. A third had a small hole on his torso and coughed and spat blood from a punctured lung.
A winner-in the clash and flurry of edged and pointed steel the one who stayed longest on his feet gained the prize. But even winners could be hurt.
Angado moved back to Dumarest, his facade cracking, sweat dewing his face. The smells were making him gag and the cold indifference of others to pain made him feel alien and vulnerable. In this madness Dumarest was a consolation. A rock of security.
One who seemed asleep.
He leaned back against the wall, muscles relaxed, eyes closed, his breathing deep and even. A man devoid of tension, sitting easily, resting so as to conserve his energy. To Angado it seemed incredible, then he realized that Dumarest was not asleep at all but had deliberately thrown himself into a trance-like state of detachment. One which suited the pose he had adopted, that of a moronic intelligence unable to imagine the consequences of failure and willing to be guided by a sharper mind.
"It won't be long now." The promoter paused, taking time during the interval to check on the next events. Known contenders were safe enough but ring-fodder sometimes grew apprehensive and needed encouragement. "I've picked an easy one-old, slow, too gentle for his own good. Abo hates to see a man hurt. A fault, but one in your favor." He glanced at Dumarest. "He need anything? A pill, maybe?"
"I can handle it."
"See that you do." The promoter jerked his head as a roar came from the crowd. Naked women, fighting with clubs, had given rise to yelled appreciation. "Better get him ready."
He bustled away and Dumarest rose, stretching. As always he felt the tension, the anticipation which crawled over his skin like multi-legged insects. Warnings of danger which even the shower could not wash away. Cleaned, oiled to prevent a grasping hand gaining a hold, he donned shorts and reached for his knife.
"Not that one!" An attendant called from where he stood before the passage leading to the ring. "We provide the weapons. Hurry up if you're ready!"
Sound exploded from the crowd as they reached the passage, a shrill, yammering roar which caused the partition to quiver.
"That was a killing!" The attendant sucked in his cheeks. "The crowd always like to see a man go down. Right. You're next!"
"The money." Angado was insistent. "I get paid or he doesn't show."
"It's here." The attendant handed over the cash. "Happy now?" He didn't bother to hide his contempt. "Damned leech!" Then, to Dumarest, "Right, friend. Off you go."
To the head of the passage, the open space, the watching crowd, the ring, the man who waited to kill him.
* * *
Dumarest tripped as he entered the auditorium, clumsy as he climbed into the ring to stand beneath the glare of overhead lights, the knife they had given him hanging loosely in his hand. One an inch longer than his own, not as well honed, not as well balanced, but the ten inches of edged and pointed metal could do its job. It glittered as it caught and reflected the light, a flash which caught the eye and attention of a woman in the third row. One aging beneath her paint, her costume designed to accentuate her charms. The jewels she wore were no harder than her eyes.
"That man," she said. "What do you know about him?"
"Nothing." Her companion was indifferent. "Just fodder for the ring. Forget him."
A thing not easy for her to do. Narrowly she watched as Dumarest moved, noting his build, the scars, the lean suppleness of his body. A man who was more than he seemed to be and her own experience doubted his artifice. Too often she had acted the innocent in order to gain an advantage and such maneuvers were not restricted to women.
"A thousand," she said. "I want to back him for a thousand."
"To win?"
"Please don't be tiresome. Just do as I ask."
"No." He was definite. "It would be a waste of money. Abo isn't due to go down yet. Another few bouts and then, when his reputation is at its peak, the odds will be right for a killing."
"You could make one now. That man will win."
"He won't be given the chance." The man ended all argument. "Here's Abo now."
He bounced into the ring, the idol of the crowd, a winner who seemed set to go on winning. He smiled with a flash of white teeth, brown skin oiled, glistening beneath the lights.
The tight mat of his hair was thick against his skull, the arms long, corded with muscle. He moved like a cat, restless, poised and balanced on the balls of his feet. An animal, fast, quick, dangerous, he basked in the shouted adulation of women, their screamed invitations.
Promises of their beds and bodies if he would only kill… kill… kill!
And kill he would despite the rules which stated that a man down should be left alone and given the chance to yield.
"Attention!" The voice over the speakers was flat, emotionless. "A fight to the finish between the defender Abo and the challenger Earl. To your corners." A pause during which tension mounted. "Ready?" Another long, dragging wait then, like a cracking whip, "Go!"
And the third man entered the ring.
He was always there, always waiting, an invisible shape dressed in sere habiliments with bony hands ready to collect his due. Death who could never be avoided, now present by invitation.
A presence Dumarest ignored as he did the crowd, the lights, the ring itself. They blurred into a background framing the object of his concentration. The tall, lithe, man before him. One armed with a knife. One intending to kill.
And the killing would not be merciful.
Dumarest could tell it from the sadistic grin, the stance, the feline movements, the twitch of the eyes. A man playing cat and mouse in order to please the crowd. Eager to give them what they wanted; blood, pain, fear, the long-drawn agony of the final end.
A man who knew he could deliver. Success had augmented his natural skill; easy kills rubbing away the edges of hesitation. Now he moved slowly forward, blade extended before him, point out, edge upward, light glinting from the honed steel. His free hand made inviting gestures.
"Come closer," he said. "A shallow cut and you go down. Scream a little and writhe as if you're in pain and then it's over. Easy money for a scratch. Why make it hard, eh?"
Dumarest said, "I've got to last five minutes. I need the fifty."
"A cut you go down, get up and hit my blade. Plenty of noise and movement. Then another little cut and down you go again, this time to stay. A good deal, eh?" The purring voice hardened a little. "Take it while you've got the chance."
A gamble in more ways than one. A cut would enhance the odds against him and so up the take, but Abo could cut too deep; to trust him would be suicide. A risk Dumarest would never normally have taken but the man wanted to gain popularity, a quick and easy win would work against that and, to cooperate now, would be to gain a later advantage.
"Right," he said. "But be careful."
They closed, blades flashing, ringing, darting like the tongues of serpents, Dumarest saw the lance of Abo's knife, its slashing, backhand sweep, and moved sideways away from its edge as it sliced into his side. A shallow gash barely more than a scratch and far less serious than Abo had intended. Dumarest clapped his free hand over the wound, masking it, enhancing the flow of blood with the pressure of his fingers. Staggering, he retreated to a halt, gasping, at the far side of the ring.
A pretense to gain time, to allow Angado to place his bets, but looking at Abo he knew he had made a mistake.