"There is something I want and she can help me to find it." It was not enough and Dumarest knew it. Bluntly he added more. "She can help me find my way home to Earth."
"Earth?" A veil filmed Shakira's eyes. "You believe in legends?"
"Earth is no legend."
"And you claim it as your home world. I find that interesting. We must discuss it in greater detail." Shakira rose from his chair. He was taller than Dumarest had estimated, the golden arabesque of his blouse continued over the pants of matching color, the garments blending so that he seemed to be a creature of lavender laced with gold. "But later. Now we must settle the question of price."
"I offer to share my knowledge."
"Which will be valuable, true, but it isn't enough. You could learn nothing and how would I profit? I want your skill. You must agree to work for me." Shakira added, "If you want the girl, my friend, you have no choice."
CHAPTER SIX
Melome had changed. The waif of the market with the dirt and thinness and ghastly pallor had gone as had the ragged clothing, the belt holding the reeled spools, the lank straggle of the hair. Instead Dumarest looked at a pubescent girl dressed in a neatly belted gown, the long hair braided and set in shimmering coils, the nails trimmed and polished. When she smiled she held the glow of inner health.
A miracle wrought with expensive and intensive therapy, but some of the earlier traces remained; the almost luminous waxen appearance of the skin, the bruised and haunted eyes. Windows which held secrets, unchanging as she lifted her hands, a strand of woven metal between them, as bright and coldly gleaming as her hair.
"Touch it," said Shakira. "Sit and hold the metal."
The contact which would open the door to the past.
Dumarest sat, cross-legged, the metal pliant and cool in his hands. The strand was long, reaching in a double line halfway across the chamber to where Melome now stood against a wall. At Shakira's touch an instrument came to life filling the air with the wail of pipes and the throb of a drum.
Music recorded, refined, filling the room with a relentless pulsing. Closing around Dumarest, enfolding him in a web of silence broken only by the throbbing beat, the nerve-scratching wail, rising, demanding-
The ship!
He must concentrate on the ship. The cabin. The precious book.
The book!
Melome began to sing.
Sound which dominated, directed, engrossed-and became a scream of rage.
"You bastard! You've been stealing again!"
"No!" Dumarest cringed, backing away, sick with the terror which knotted his stomach. Vomiting the scrap of food he'd taken from the pot, the first in two days. "No! Please, no!"
The lash of a belt and pain to add to his fear. Another and the heavy buckle tore at flesh, breaking the skin, sending blood to mingle with the dirt coating his buttocks and legs. The single garment he wore ripped as a hand snatched at his shoulder, the belt lashing at his nakedness, beating him down to the tamped dirt of the floor, sending him in a fetal huddle.
A child of eight years terrified for his life.
"Bastard!" The man, drunk, gloated in his sadistic pleasure. "You no-good bastard! Eat without asking my permission, eh? Stuffing your guts without getting my say-so. I'll teach you. By, God, I'll teach you!"
With the belt, his hands, boots, charred sticks from the fire. Augmenting the hell of normal existence into a dimension of screaming terror. Standing now, beating, beating, beating until his arm grew tired. Staggering away at last to gulp raw liquor from a bottle, spitting a mouthful into the fire. In the sudden flame his shadow loomed against a wall like a grotesque creature from nightmare.
One which blurred to become a girl with braided, silver hair.
"Earl?" Shakira was at his side. "Here."
The wine was rich, pungent, held in a goblet of hammered brass. A warmth which eased his throat and comforted his stomach. Dumarest swallowed it all; if Shakira intended harm he'd had time enough to have done it by now.
Sitting, he looked at the metallic strand, now lying in a loop before him. The goblet held decorations of men and beasts chasing each other in an eternal circle. The carpet was woven from fine materials in a blend of barred and chevron designs. The light came from an overhead dome as if from a luminous pearl.
Things noted with a strange detachment while, deep inside of him, terror remained.
Keil, the man had been Keil, one of a succession who had governed his formative years. Beasts shaped like men lacking any generosity, charity or understanding. Using him for the labor he could provide. Working him like an animal as they worked their women. Lusting in violence and the dealing of pain.
"Earl?" Shakira again, his face close, eyes bright and questing. "Tell me, quickly before the impression fades. Was it stronger than before?"
Too strong-such terror should remain buried.
"Her talent is unimpaired." Shakira beamed at Dumarest's nod. "I had fears it might have diminished. Too often sensitives seem only to work their best when subjected to physical hardship but this does not seem to be the case with Melome. And the intensity? The detail? How was that?"
"Clear." Dumarest held out the goblet for more wine. "Too damned clear."
The beating could have been a second ago-his body burned from recollected blows. He could smell the dirt, the vomit, his own excreta and sweat. Taste the blood from his bitten lips, the acid bile of cringing terror.
Terror!
Her song was well-named.
"It could be a matter of sharpened ability or one of concentration," mused Shakira. "In the market she was dull, spiritless, the effort must have drained her vital energies. Now, rested, she is reenergized. Couple this with the fact you are alone-but, no. I doubt it. Does a fire care how many warm themselves at its blaze? The song induces a reaction in those in contact. One or more it could be the same. And yet?" He broke off, thinking.
Dumarest said, "I failed. I missed my target."
"By much?"
Minutes would have been too much but he had missed by years. Her strengthened ability? His own lack of concentration? What must he do to ensure success?
He said, "I want to try again. Now."
"It would not be wise."
"I'll be the judge of that." Dumarest reached for the metal strand, looked up as Shakira kicked it beyond his reach. "We have an agreement."
"That you work for me until such time as you have gained what you want from Melome. An unfair bargain; you could have achieved success at your very first try. But I accepted the gamble and you must do the same."
"Must?"
"You have no choice." Shakira lifted his hands as if demanding attention. "I mean that quite literally. To think that you could use violence against me would be madness. To try it would be to commit suicide. You could leave now and I will stand the loss. A broken agreement-these things happen and the fault would be mine for having misjudged you. But stay and you will have no further option. You will do what I command when I command it. To work for me is to obey."
To be beaten, burned, starved, made to grovel, to beg-the memory of the past was too recent. As was the lesson it had taught. To yield was to die and to do it slowly. And Dumarest was no longer an eight-year-old tormented child.
"Earl!" Shakira stepped back as Dumarest rose to his feet, reading the emotions he saw, recognizing the determination. "Think, man! Attack me and you die!"
"Perhaps." Dumarest took one step closer. "But you will go first."