Motive, means and opportunity-and the damning evidence of the blood. A coincidence; the blood spraying from the thief he had killed had been of the same group as Claire's.
Dumarest said, "If the murderer was stained he'd have to have washed off the blood. Were traces found in the bathroom?"
"Yes. Smears around the edge of the shower drainpipe." Vellani added, "It doesn't help. You- he-could have washed down but missed the traces later found."
"My alibi?"
"It doesn't stand up. Sagoo Moyna denies he's ever seen you."
"He's lying!" Dumarest looked down at his hand where it rested on his knee. It was doubled into a fist. Deliberately he forced himself to relax. As the hand opened he said, "Others must have seen me. There was a man serving the food, and plenty used the shelter that night. They couldn't all have been asleep."
"They weren't."
"Then-"
"Listen to me, Earl, and follow what I say." Vellani edged a little closer, his voice lowering as if he were afraid of being overheard. "I'm not a fool. Scum like Sagoo Moyna will lie for the sake of it but he had a reason. I sent men to find out what it was. You killed that night. I'm not arguing how or why but it happened. Two men dead and Sagoo was paid by you to dispose of them. Do you honestly believe he's going to stand up in court and admit to that?"
"As long as he admits I was there."
"It's too late for that. The prosecution will want to know why he's changed his story. They'll probe, use devices to check his veracity. Use them on you, too, once they are introduced. The truth will come out-but will it do you any good?"
He had killed an armed thief who had tried to rob him. Self-defense and so justified on the majority of worlds. Even on Erkalt where to kill was to commit the most heinous of crimes. But the other one? The old man?
Dumarest had struck out in unthinking reflex, killing before he had seen the face, recognized a deadly threat. To have delayed could have cost him his life-an assumption he was not permitted to make.
"You're in a bind," said Vellani. "If I get you off one hook you'll be stuck on another and the end will be the same. Twenty years' slave-bondage-need I tell you what that means?"
Locked in a collar which could tear at his nerves or blow off his head at the whim of the controller. One which would detonate if he tried to break it free. A life of helpless obedience.
"You'd be sold to a low-temperature laboratory," said the advocate. "If you manage to serve your time you'll be the first. The record is five years." Pausing Vellani added, "I've spoken to the prosecutor. He's willing to give you an out."
"Such as?"
"You can volunteer for quarry."
* * *
The games had started as fun, developed into a sport and were now a bloody slaughter. An attraction which brought tourists flocking to Erkalt during the season. Their money stimulated the economy and fed the parasites that fattened on the ritual; people like Meister and Travante who supplied gear for the hunters; Yegorovich and Mickhailovich who dealt in miniatures, souvenirs, mementos of the ritual; Pincho and Barrass and Valence with their tapes and stills and tips as to where the quarry could be found.
Entrepreneurs like Hagen.
Murderers like herself.
Karlene moved through the crowd like a silver ghost, tall, impassive, acknowledging greeting with a twitch of her lips, a gesture of a hand. Always it was like this before a hunt; the crowd gathered to discuss the prospects, assess chances, probable routes, odds, the time the quarry would be able to remain free, the moment when he would be run down and his blood sent to stain the snow.
But, more than the rest, they had come to see the man himself.
"Hard." She heard the comment as she passed a man talking to a companion. "I know the type. A killer, too, from what I hear. He'll make a run for it. It'll be good sport. You in for a place?"
"Who isn't?"
The initial raffle. A score would win and be charged extra for the privilege of taking part. Half their fees would be placed within the trophy; the prize for the hunter who won. Given to the quarry together with his freedom should he be lucky enough to make it. Some had gone free-a few spread over the years; enough to maintain the conviction that the quarry had a chance, though that was almost eradicated now by her talent.
"Karlene!"
Hagen waved to her from where he stood with a bunch of others. Hunters from their clothing and interest. She waved back, expecting him to join her, but he was too engrossed in conversation. Business, she guessed, he rarely wasted a moment in his determination to be the best. Alone she moved on to where a wide pane of clear glass almost filled one wall.
Behind it was the quarry.
She had seen them before, Hagen insisting, thinking it helped to refine her talent. Men who stood and looked defiantly at those who had come to gape. Others who paced like restless beasts; nerves too tense to rest. Some had huddled in corners defeated before they had even begun.
Dumarest sat, apparently asleep.
The chair was large, ornate, bolted to the floor so as to face the window. Its arms and high back were covered with scarlet fabric, emphasizing the plain neutrality of his garb. A book, closed, lay on his lap, held by the weight of one hand. His head was supported by the high back of the chair, his face like a mask carved from stone.
Hard, the man had said, and she could see why. The face, the shape of the body, the hand on the book-all gave the impression of strength. Then she realized that he wasn't asleep at all but merely resting. A man conserving his energy, waiting, wrapping himself in a web of isolation. A disappointment to those who had come to stare.
"A killer!" The woman at her side hissed to her companion, voice low as if afraid the quarry would hear. "He was charged with murder-I had it from a friend in the prosecutor's office. A woman. His mistress. He cut her throat."
"There was doubt."
"But-"
"The evidence was against him, true, but still there was doubt." The man was emphatic. "That's why he was given the chance to volunteer for quarry."
"He could escape!"
"I doubt it. A score of the best will be after him. Nitscke, Sparkissian, Ivanova-Indart has offered ten thousand for a place should he lose out on the draw. You're looking at a dead man, my dear. He hasn't a chance."
That prophecy she would help make come true.
Karlene stepped closer to the glass, curious as to the book, the reason why he should have chosen to read. A religious work of some kind, she guessed, one filled with messages of comfort. As her hand touched the pane Dumarest opened his eyes. Looking at her, he smiled.
"Karlene?" It was Hagen finally coming to join her. "Are you ready?"
She ignored him, looking at Dumarest. He was no longer smiling but the expression had been unmistakable. Almost as if he had recognized an old friend and had smiled a greeting and then, too late, had recognized his error. But his eyes remained fastened on her and, as he straightened in the chair, the book fell from his lap. Small, old, mottled-if it had a title she couldn't see it.
To Hagen she said, "The woman who was killed-describe her."
"What?" He blinked at the question then obeyed. "Why?"
"Nothing." Their appearances were totally dissimilar so he could not have imagined he was seeing a ghost. Someone else, perhaps? "Tell me how she died."
She frowned as she listened, looking at Dumarest, understanding why there should have been doubt. A brutal act of savage, uncontrollable rage-but the man who was supposed to have done it simply wasn't the type. No one governed by such emotions could have sat calmly reading while death was so close.
Did he realize there was no escape?
That the chance was a gamble? An adventurer certainly; one who had long learned to rely on no one but himself. A man who now had no choice but to play the murderous game others had devised.