"I doubt it, my lady."
As she did. This man was no farmer spending his life in devotion to the soil. No herder of beasts. No scrap of living matter adjusting his life to the turn of the seasons. There was a proud arrogance to the lift of his head, a savage independence in his eyes. Things she could appreciate even while deploring them in a slave.
"Have him walk," she commanded. "I want to see him move."
As a slaver turned, she rose to step down toward the catwalk. As the order was given, she halted and looked up to study the taut pallor of the face, the inflamed ugliness of the wound.
"A near miss, my lady," said Shamarre at her side. "The bullet must have cracked his skull. There could be inflammation of the inner membranes. Mention it-it will help to lower the price."
The woman was incorrigible, surely she knew that the Matriarch did not haggle like a merchant, yet she had a point. Such an injury could have turned the man into a shambling idiot.
"Have him move," she ordered. "Twist and bend and flex his arms. I want to be certain as to his coordination."
"You heard!" Hylda dropped her hand to the box at her waist. "Obey, you scum!"
Dumarest felt the first sear of pain as her hand tightened on the control and turned, moving as he'd been directed, but deliberataely slow and awkward. He saw the look of distaste in the woman's eyes. Saw the older woman standing just behind her shake her head and knew he had gone a little too far. Pausing, he sucked in his breath and lifted a hand to press at his wound.
"I apologize, my lady," he said. "I am clumsy, but it will pass. With your permission I will attempt to do better."
An intelligent man and one with at least a touch of culture. His tone had been respectful and his form of address calculated to cause no offense. A pity about the wound.
"Does it hurt?" Kathryn stepped a little closer to the edge of the catwalk. "The wound-does it cause pain?"
"Yes, my lady."
"And your vision? Can you see well?"
"At times it blurs and I see double." Dumarest extended his arms and swept his fingers together. The tips met only after the second attempt. "You see? But I am getting better."
"Liar!" Hylda twisted the control and looked in fury at the strained, sweating figure crouched on the catwalk. A long moment during which she enjoyed the spectacle then, remembering risked profit, cut the stimulus and allowed peace to come to tormented sinews. "You are fit and know it. Now stop this stupid pretense and act normal."
Dumarest said nothing, looking at his hands, seeing the skin stretched taut over the knuckles, feeling the sweat dewing his face and neck and running in little rivulets over his body. Waiting to master his weakness, to shield the hate in his eyes, to rise at last, to stagger a little and stand like a dumb, helpless beast.
Shamarre said flatly, "What was that supposed to prove, Hylda? That he is made of flesh and bone? Or do you believe that if you beat a dog hard enough it will learn to talk?"
"The man is a slave and is still my property. I do with him as I please."
Hylda had stepped closer the better to watch his pain and now stood barely nine feet from Dumarest. The Matriarch was a little farther and to one side, her guard a pace more distant. Others, lounging in the seats, watched with casual interest. The auctioneer, waiting to commence the bidding, made a point of appearing to be unconcerned. No other slaves were close.
With sudden decision Kathryn said, "I will buy him. Have him healed and gelded and delivered to the palace."
As she turned to walk away Dumarest moved.
A leap and he was before the slaver, one hand lifted to send the stiffened fingers stabbing into the soft flesh of her throat, his other snatching the knife from where she carried it in her belt. Even as she screamed he drove it forward, sending it to penetrate the control box at her waist, electronic energy sparking as the steel plunged, twisted, destroying the inner components as it passed through to reach the flesh of her stomach, to slice into skin and fat and muscle, to release the intestines in a shower of blood and inner fluids.
Even as she died he was moving again, this time to reach the Matriarch, to send his left arm looping over her shoulder, to hold her close as his right hand weighted with the bloodstained blade lifted the knife to press against her throat.
"Hold!" His voice blasted an inch from her ear. "Freeze or she dies!"
Stunned, unbelieving, Shamarre stepped forward still unable to grasp the situation. It had all happened so fast! A matter of seconds during which the slaver had been killed and her mistress taken hostage.
"You swine! Harm her and-"
"Back!" Dumarest met her eyes, his naked fury halting her instinctive advance. "Back or she dies!" The knife moved in his hand, turning so as to rest the smeared point against the white column of the trapped throat. A pressure and the jugular would be severed.
And he would do it. Staring at him Shamarre had no doubt as to that. A savage, desperate man with nothing to lose. One who knew how to handle weapons and who was not a stranger to death. One who at this moment was ready to end his life.
"A warning," he said. "If anyone tries to activate my collar I'll plunge this knife home. At the first touch of pain she dies. And if you detonate it she goes with me. Now get me the key. You!" He glared at Shamarre. "Get me the key!"
It was inside Hylda's pouch and even as she found it the woman knew why Dumarest had wasted no time searching for it. The hostage had to come first-with the Matriarch in his power he was safe for the moment and the thought gave her relief. A desperate man, yes, but one still able to plan consciously. To struggle for the life she thought he was ready to yield. Which meant that he would be reluctant to commit the final act which would lead to his inevitable extinction.
"Here!" She stepped toward him, the key in her hand. "Shall I-"
"Throw it!"
A move and the knife was in his left hand as his right snatched the key from the air. Blindly he fumbled with the glittering band, his fingers searching for the tiny keyhole. Finding it, he slipped the key inside, took a breath and twisted. The key fit, the collar did not explode, and he flung it from him to lie like a gleaming serpent in the puddle of the slaver's blood.
"And now?" Kathryn shared his relief. "You've got rid of the collar but how does that help you?'"
"One thing at a time." Dumarest looked about the room. By this time, unless the place was totally staffed by hysterical fools, there would be guards waiting and ready to pounce. "If you gave me your word could I trust it?"
"Of course. I am the Matriarch of Esslin."
And a proud woman who would not easily forgive this insult. And one who could not be kept a prisoner indefinately. Even now she must be planning on how best to make a break. To risk the knife in the certain knowledge that, once beyond his reach, she would be safe. And she needn't even do that. Marksmen, correctly stationed, could burn him down without harming the woman.
"It seems that you are in a rather difficult position," she said dryly. "I can understand your desire to get rid of the collar, and the slaver was no loss, but what now?"
"We go on a journey."
"To the field?" She was shrewd. "Hylda's vessel? How can you be sure the crew will accommodate you?"
A gamble he had to take. The only chance he had. And he could afford to waste no time.
"We're leaving, my lady," he said quietly. "It would be wise for you to give me full cooperation. That way neither of us will get hurt."
"And if I struggle or appeal for help or anything like that which threatens you then you will kill me. Is that it?"
"Not kill you. Not if I can avoid it." He left the threat unspoken but the sting of the knife was enough, "Now lead the way out. Keep close and… and…" He blinked, looking at her face which seemed to waver. And then, suddenly, there was nothing.