"You've fought in a ring before?"
"Often."
"Where?"
"Back home we had a-" Dumarest shook his head. "On Tonge," he said. "And on Embirha. I've fought often and I'm good." His laugh was strained. "I'm alive to prove it."
Dowton said, "Strip and let's take a look."
He sucked in his breath as he saw the naked torso, the thin lines of old scars which laced the flesh. At least this one would look good and it would do no harm to face the champ with someone who, at least, must have learned how to dodge.
"Here!" Knives lay on a table, murderous ten-inch blades. Picking up one he threw it, frowned as Dumarest missed the catch. "Slow, eh?"
"I speed up when warm." Dumarest hefted the blade with deliberate awkwardness, accentuating the picture he had drawn, that of a hopeful, not totally inexperienced but of no real danger to any fighter who knew his trade. He said earnestly, "I can put on a show and I need the money."
"It's to the death-you realize that?"
"Mister, if I don't get some money soon I'll be dead anyway. What's the fee?" He blinked. "A hundred? That all?"
"Back it on yourself and you could collect five." A safe bet, this fool would never live to collect. Dowton added, "If you're smart you'll take my advice. Yhma is getting past it. Once he's down you'll be the new champ. Well?"
"I'll take it," said Dumarest. "Five hundred when I win. Right? When do I fight?"
"Later. You'll be called. Just sit around and wait."
Wait as the roar from the seats surrounding the ring grew louder as contenders met and fought to leave blood and life in the arena. Savage, vicious combats which played to the blood lust of those watching; the decadents and degenerates who emerged like nocturnal vermin to enter the Maze at night.
A sound as familiar to Dumarest as was the smell, the compound of oil and sweat, of blood and antiseptics, the whole dominated by the acrid taint of fear.
He sat on a bench he'd found in a dressing room, leaning back against the wall, eyes half-closed as he reviewed recent events. The field was sealed as he'd suspected, men at the gates and on patrol, all entering checked and interrogated. On a more primitive world there would have been ways to dodge the guards but here on Juba the fence was ninety feet high, set with tiers of lights, fitted with alarms and surrounded by a fifty-foot ditch edged with metal spikes.
Even so, with enough money something could have been arranged given time, but he had no money and time was running out.
The trap he was in was set to close.
And, when it did, he would be a prisoner of the Cyclan.
Dumarest had no illusions as to what would happen then. He would be probed, interrogated, questioned with a penetrating skill, the very cells of his brain torn apart so as to win his secret. And then, when that was done, he would be disposed of as so much rubbish.
"You all right?" A man stared through the open door. He was old, grinning, the scar on his cheek a livid weal. "Scared? Want a nip to warm you up?"
Dumarest took the proffered bottle, lifted it to his lips, his throat working as he pretended to drink. If the man was attached to Yhma the stuff would be spiked with some insidious drug-an elementary precaution.
"Good, eh?" The grin widened. "Take some more if you want. It'll give you an edge. Say, if you've got some money I could lay it for you. Odds are four to one."
Dumarest shook his head. Sardia held his money and should now be in the stands. When the time was ripe she would place her bets, using everything they had between them, risking poverty on his skill.
Risking poverty as he was risking his life.
He wondered what she would do if he were to die.
It would come one day and that day could be now. A slip, a momentary inattention, an accident and he could fall with his guts slashed open, the intestines spilling like a coil of greasy rope, blood falling to drench his thighs and feet as eternal darkness closed around him. A small thing could do it. A trifle-and yet it would cost him the universe of his awareness.
"You ready?" A youngster this time, a boy with wide eyes bright with hero worship. "Greg told me to warn you. He's waiting at the entry-say, you ever fought before?"
"I've got by."
"Yhma's put down two already. The first was for third blood and he drew it out; a cut to the left arm, another on the flank then finish!" The boy made an expressive gesture. "He slid the blade right into the guts, a twist and it was done. Blood everywhere. The crowd loved it."
And a man had died without need.
"The other?"
"He lasted longer," admitted the boy. "But only because he was scared. He just kept backing and dodging until the champ had enough. Then he moved in, dropped to one knee, a slash and he'd hamstrung the challenger. That was first blood."
"Then what? He take out the eyes?"
"No." The boy missed the irony. "Nothing like that. He was gentle. A couple of cuts, one across the inside of each elbow and that was all."
Gentle! A man crippled in one leg, both arms rendered useless from severed tendons, and all without need. A touch would have been enough. The merest sight of blood would have determined the victor.
"A nice man," said Dumarest. "I bet you've learned a lot watching him. What's his favorite trick?"
For a moment he thought the boy would answer then a veil dropped over the shining eyes. "You're fighting to the death, right?"
"That's right."
"Watch Yhma's left hand. Sometimes he crosses the blade and when he does he moves in with a feint from the right."
Lies, the boy would not sell out his hero, but even so the trick could work if the situation were right.
"His left hand, eh?" Dumarest looked thoughtful. "Thanks. I'll give you ten when I collect."
"Make it a score." The boy turned as someone yelled. "That's Greg. Hurry now, you're on."
The ring was a square a dozen feet on a side; too small for easy maneuver and not large enough for any fighter to use speed to gain distance and so extend the action. A bad ring and an ugly crowd, one which yelled as Dumarest climbed on the platform, their voices joining in an incoherent yammer. But if he couldn't make out the words he knew their meaning. Blood! Blood! Blood and death! Wounds and pain!
The roar of the beast which showed itself in avid eyes and faces more animal than human.
Yhma took his time and, waiting, Dumarest looked around. Suspended over the ring, lights threw down a searing cone of brilliance which left the tiers of seats in relative gloom. Only those close to the ringside were clearly visible, their occupants all expensively dressed, both men and women heavily jeweled. A matron with raddled cheeks stared at him and made a lewd comment to a man who tittered and passed on the snippet to a languid girl who yawned and slowly drew her nails over his cheek.
Degenerates and typical of those who had paid high prices for their seats. Higher in the tiers would be others, less wealthy but just as depraved, and Sardia should be among them.
Dumarest turned, staring, narrowing his eyes against the glare of the overhead lights. He couldn't spot her but the failure meant little. All aside from those in the first few rows were little more than formless blurs in the shrouding gloom. But if the plan was to work she must be watching and, if it was to work well, she had to have been there from the beginning.
The clash of a gong and the champion appeared.
Yhma was tall, lithe, built with a feline grace, arms long, knotted with cords of writhing muscle, traced with the ropes of veins. He had legs to match and his torso, above the narrow waist, was a sculptor's dream. A barrel, rigid with clearly delineated muscle, swelling to the massive shoulders which in turn supported the surprisingly slender neck.. A man as dark as seasoned teak, glistening with oil, his hair a cropped fuzz, the blade in his hand an icicle of destruction. His face was that of a brooding idol, the nostrils flared, the bridge hooked, the mouth soft with a deceptive pout.