Before the man could fire again he was within reach. Dumarest slammed up his left hand, catching the wrist, sending the hypogun to rise in a spinning arc as his right hand rose, fingers and palm bent backwards to form a right angle, the heel smashing with stunning, bone-breaking force against the exposed jaw.
As the man fell a woman screamed.
She stood to one side, a plump matron neatly dressed, hands and throat bright with precious metals and sparkling gems. A woman with a high regard for beauty, now ugly as she stood and shrieked and pointed at Dumarest with a shaking hand.
"Murderer! He killed them both! Guards! Where are the guards?"
A false accusation that Dumarest had no time to correct. A man joined the woman in sounding the alarm and another, more courageous than wise, ran forward with one hand lifted, the other snatching at a weapon carried beneath his tunic.
A laser he had no time to use-it fell to one side as Dumarest struck, hitting to stun and not to kill. Two other men changed their minds as the man fell and joined in the general summons for guards. From below came the sharp blast of a whistle, another from the far end of the balcony.
Dumarest ran forward and saw the uniformed shape, spotted another in the street below. Soon there would be more; men accustomed to violence, ready to stun and maim to keep the peace. To kill if the need arose. He turned as more whistles echoed from the distance, running to the rail edging the balcony, judging time and distance and springing over the barrier to land with a bone-jarring impact on the street below. Rising, he staggered two steps and then was running, dodging between startled pedestrians, thrusting his way into an alley, emerging to find an open-fronted emporium, to slow and halt as he inspected a hanging mass of loose garments.
"You are interested, sir?" The owner, scenting a sale, bustled forward. "For your wife, perhaps? Your daughter?"
"My wife." Dumarest shook his head. "She's a large woman and these seem to be too small."
"I have larger in the rear." The man frowned at the sound of whistles, the thud of running boots. "Such noise! Such confusion! Well, it will soon be over. After you, sir?"
Dumarest reached the rear of the shop as a guard halted in the street outside. The man knew his job and did more than just stare. The owner shrilled his anger as the man prodded the hanging garments with his club. It was a loaded length of wood, inches thick and a yard long, a weapon which could shatter bone and smash a skull.
"Be careful! Those are garments of price! What are you looking for?" He gestured in response to the answer. "He's not here. Be off now! Off!"
Dumarest said, as the man came toward him, "I'll take this one. And this." He pointed at the selected garments. "The price?"
It was too high but he didn't argue, knowing he paid for more than cloth. "And this." He took a loose robe which covered him from neck to toe with a hood to shield his head. A garment to disguise his betraying gray. "I'll take this with me and send for the other things later. How much in all?"
The emporium had a back door and the owner guided Dumarest through it. A bonus to compensate for the fact the two female robes would never be collected. The street beyond was narrow and winding, flanked with enigmatic doors and opaque windows. A bad place in which to be trapped, and Dumarest was relieved when he reached a junction and saw the silhouettes of ships against the sky. Beyond them lay the gaudy awnings of the carnival booths and, among them, he would find a degree of safety.
"This way, handsome." The voice of the crone was a mechanical drone over the rising blasts of whistles. "Come and let old Mother Kekrop read your fortune. Life and luck, and pleasant surprises. Learn of the dangers at hand. Share in-"
Dumarest said, "I know of the dangers at hand. I can hear them. What chance of a snug crib?"
She stared, blinking, at Dumarest's face wreathed in the hood. It was not what she'd expected. "Those whistles for you?"
"I worked a con and the mark got peeved. I need to hide out for a while." Dumarest added, "I can pay."
"You carny?"
"I've run a booth and drawn an edge. Grafted with the best and handled my share of punters." His talk and slang won her confidence. "I need a hand, Mother."
As the whistles drew near she said, "In the back. You'll find a slit, go through it, ask for Zather in the next booth. Move!"
Her drone rose again as Dumarest followed instructions. "This way, young man. Let old Mother Kekrop read your fortune. The secret of the future lies in the palm of your hand." The drone turned shrill. "Bastard! Mind where you put that club!"
Zather was old and shrewd with a drooping eyelid and gemmed rings in his ears. He looked once at Dumarest then said. "Fifty will buy you safety until the heat's off. Got it?" He grunted as Dumarest handed over the money. "No argument?"
"Not unless you cheat me."
"Then what?"
"I'll resent it." A chair stood to one side and Dumarest lifted his right boot and set it on the seat. The hilt of his knife was plainly visible.
"A knife-man." Zather looked at the weapon. "A fighter, maybe?"
"I've worked a ring."
"Good." Zather lifted his voice. "Lucita! Bring in the board and some knives!" To Dumarest he said, "I'd like to see what you can do."
The girl came from an adjoining booth carrying a board of soft wood half as high again as a man and proportionately wide. She was young, well-shaped, with dark, smoldering eyes and long glistening hair which hung in an ebon cascade over rounded shoulders. With the board she had carried a half-dozen knives which she handed to Dumarest.
Taking them he said, "Mark the board. Six points you want me to hit."
While she was busy he examined the knives. They were well-made finely balanced tools designed for a specific purpose. As the girl straightened and moved aside Dumarest threw each one directly into its target.
"Neat." Zather was impressed. "How are you in combat? Can you stretch a bout, take a wound, fake a decision? If you're good I could use you. A place in the booth on equal terms with the rest. No questions and good eating. Think about it." He jerked his head at the girl as drums pounded from somewhere near at hand. "Get ready, girl! You're about due to go on." To Dumarest he said, "Wait here. I'll send someone to move you to a safer place."
"Not to the bordello."
"You object?"
"Not on moral grounds but it'll be the first place the guards will search."
"Smart." Zather nodded his approval. "You've got brains. A fool wouldn't have thought of that. Well, don't worry, you'll be taken good care of."
A boy came later to guide Dumarest to another booth, weaving through a succession of tents and narrow passages and once across open ground after making certain it was clear. Huddled in his robe Dumarest followed, sensing the growing activity of the carnival. The familiar atmosphere spelled security. In another place fitted with a bed and tables, chairs and portable washing facilities, the boy left to return with a bowl of stew and a hunk of crusty bread together with a bottle of good red wine.
Lucita joined him as he finished the stew. She wore bright and flimsy clothing which she removed to stand naked in casual abandon.
"Do you mind?"
"No." Dumarest looked at the furnishings which betrayed a feminine touch. "Your place?"
"And yours until it's time for you to move." Water gushed into the bowl as she manipulated the taps. "I hate to sweat; it makes me feel all sticky. Can you take care of my back?" She arched it as he ran the sponge over the smooth skin. "That's nice. I wish I had you around all the time. You going to stay?"