"Wait!" The thin hands lifted in a gesture of defense or warning. "You are disturbed. Affected by your recent experience. I should have remembered that. Remembered, too, that you are no ordinary man. You have heard of the Band of Obedience?"
"A slave-collar, you mean?"
"The name is unimportant; they are the same. A circlet which is locked around the neck. It contains a device which can be activated from a distance to cause excruciating pain leading to death. It also contains explosives which can be detonated. That same charge will blow if the collar is cut or the lock tampered with. A barbaric device but one which has its uses. Refined it can be most useful."
"To persuade others to keep agreements?"
"Exactly." Shakira lowered his hands. "While you were being treated in the infirmary I thought it best to take certain precautions. Leave now and they will be negated. Stay and you will obey me-or die!"
Reiza stirred, mumbling in sleepy contentment, pressing herself against Dumarest like a kitten seeking warmth. A woman who moved her arm to hold him close while whispering in half-wakeful awareness.
"Earl, my darling. You've made me so happy. I love you. I shall love you forever."
This he doubted; passion swift to bloom could fade as quickly.
"Earl?"
She sighed as he stroked her hair, lapsing again into sleep as he stared at the ceiling of her chamber. One adorned with lacelike traceries, black against the nacreous glow shining through the plastic membrane. Artificial moonlight which dimly revealed the furnishings of the room, the mane of her hair, the stark whiteness of her naked arms and shoulders. Against it the traceries took on shape and form.
Bars illustrating the trap he was in.
One baited by Melome.
Shakira's property now and his price had been high. Dumarest's hand rose to his neck as he remembered the weight of the slave-collar he had worn on a world far distant. One he had managed to shed but that had been obvious and Shakira's threat was not.
A bluff?
A possibility and Dumarest considered it as his fingers probed at his neck. They found no lumps or foreign masses but that meant little; a capsule could have been implanted within an inner organ or a time-poison administered. There were a score of ways it could have been done by those skilled in the ways of death.
And, to be sure Shakira was bluffing, he had first to know the man.
He grew on the traceries as Dumarest painted a mental picture of the head, the body, the face, the hands. These details held a subtle oddness as did his clothing, his very walk. A glide rather than punctuated steps which together with the arabesque markings over the matching pants and blouse gave the man an ophidian appearance. A snakelike resemblance accentuated by the slant of the eyes, the thin mask of the face. Yet the hands did not match and he remembered the lifting gesture. One of dismissal, then of defense and warning. Again as a shrug but, always, the same double lift of both appendages. An idiosyncrasy which could mean nothing like the rest of the details; to know the man he must learn more.
"Earl?" Reiza stirred under his hand. "Darling, you want-"
"To talk," he said. "Wake up."
"Talk?" She laughed and pressed herself closer to him.
"Darling, you must be joking." Then, as she saw his face with clearer eyes, she said, "You mean it. You really mean it!"
"Tell me about Shakira. What do you know about him?"
"Not much." She reared upright, white in the dim glow, the mounds of her breasts tipped with areolas of darkness. "He owns the circus and gives the orders. If you're wondering about the name forget it. The circus of Chen Wei has existed for over a hundred years. It has a good reputation and I guess Shakira thought it worth keeping."
Profit before pride. Dumarest said, "Did you ever meet the previous owner? No?" Which meant Shakira had run the circus for at least twenty years. "Has anyone?"
"Valaban, maybe. He handles the beasts. You've met him." On the tour of inspection Shakira had insisted he take with Reiza as his guide. "He might know. I'll ask him."
"Anyone else?" Then, as she hesitated, Dumarest said, "Never mind. I'll find out for myself. But about Shakira. Have you ever crossed him or know of anyone who has?"
"What are you getting at, Earl?"
"I need to know."
"And don't intend saying for why." Reiza fell silent then, with an abrupt movement, rose from the bed, standing naked as if a statue carved from alabaster before slipping on a robe. "I thought we'd grown close enough for me to be trusted."
"I trust you."
"Then-"
"I want facts," he said. "Small things, maybe, but enough to build the picture of a man. If you don't want to cooperate then. I'll find out some other way but I'd rather not attract his attention." He paused for a moment then added, "When we first met he hinted that he wasn't gentle with those who failed him. True?"
"Are you in trouble, Earl?"
"I could be."
"And you want my help, is that it?" She smiled at his nod. "Well, it isn't much. Shakira's a hard man. A cold one and, yes, he isn't gentle with those who fail him. Do your best and he'll be fair even though he may want your best to be always better. Slack and he comes down hard. Keep slacking and you're out."
She was talking from the viewpoint of an artiste; her opinion conditioned by her work. Dumarest wanted finer data.
"Do you know of anyone who defied him and got away with it?"
"No. Zucco likes to give the impression he had but he's lying. He might act the boss but Shakira is the one who cracks the whip. When they are together there is no doubt who is the real master."
"What does he eat?"
"What?"
Dumarest was patient. "What kind of food does Shakira eat? How often? Does he have any unusual habits? Any personal dislikes? Things like colors," he explained. "Loud noises. Certain kinds of music. Smells. Does he play cards? Gamble? Encourage others to take risks? Has he ever struck anyone? Lost his temper in public? Is he easily amused? Does he-"
"No," said Reiza. "He isn't amused, I mean. I've never seen him appear happy. Even when he smiles it's more like a grimace and I've never heard him laugh. As for the rest-" She shrugged. "I don't know," she admitted. "When young I was too busy working to take any notice and, later, well minding your own business gets to be a habit. I've no time for gossip and rumor."
Two things which would have helped the most.
Dumarest said, "When you guided me around there was a part of the circus we didn't enter."
"Shakira's private quarters," she explained. "They're strictly out of bounds."
"To everyone? Cleaners? Servants?"
"Everyone." She frowned. "At least that's what I thought. Come to think of it someone has to do the cleaning."
And someone had to take care of the other sensitives. There had to be others; why else had Shakira bought Melome if not to add to his collection? But why did he want such a collection at all? Circuses were for the display of trained animals and skilled people before a large audience. Sensitives were unable to entertain more than a few at a time and, like physical freaks, their attraction was limited. An expensive luxury-and a man who retained the old name of the circus because of profit would not waste money.
"Earl?"
"A moment, Reiza."
He wanted to look at the pattern from a different viewpoint and, suddenly, the pieces fell into place. If Melome was alone then she must have been set as a lure; one he could never resist.
Following her he had walked into the trap and now it had snapped tight around him.
Did Shakira know the value of what he held?