"I might."
"I'd like it if you did. We could work together. Do really well at it. You in the ring acting up and fixing the bouts and me on the outside with the punters. I'd grab a prime mark and distract him and get him to plunge on the wrong man. You think I could?"
Dumarest looked at the face she turned toward him, the deep cleavage of her breasts, the swell of her hips. Of more moment was the expression in her eyes, the warmly promising and excitingly wanton look of a world-wise and experienced woman.
"Yes," he said, smiling. "You most certainly could."
"I like you," she said. "If you like me we can make music. Later, when you've decided to stay. Zather couldn't object then."
"He your father?"
"My owner. He bought me when I was just a kid." Her breasts lifted as she raised her hands to tidy her hair. "You could buy me off him once we make our pile. I'd be good to you. What I need is a man hard enough to be respected but gentle at the right times. One jealous enough to be flattering but not so jealous as to be stupid. You know what I mean? You've got to milk the edge at times. Take the pitch for all you can get. Jealousy at the wrong time would spoil that." She frowned as a trumpet blared from outside. "Damn! I'm on again. Be good, handsome-and be here when I get back?"
She flounced out dressed in spangles and glitter and garish paint. Alone, Dumarest opened the wine and sipped, waiting until it had reached his stomach before taking a swallow. The bed was soft but he chose to use the floor, sitting with his back against a pole, legs extended, the bottle standing to one side within reach of his hand. There was nothing he could do. To rise and move around would be to negate the security he had paid for.
He slept, resting like an animal, hovering on the brink of wakefulness until the sounds from outside became a part of his universe. Disrupted, they screamed a warning which sent Dumarest to his feet.
"The bastards!" A woman was crying beyond the wall of fabric. "The dirty bastards! They didn't have to do that!"
Another sound, the deep, menacing rumble of a carnival alerted to danger. From somewhere a man cursed and glass made a brittle music as it crashed to ruin. A booth ruined in some kind of struggle. Guards on the rampage, perhaps, but why?
Dumarest tensed as a figure came into the room, relaxed a little as he recognized Zather.
"Trouble?"
"Nothing we can't handle. Some drunks acting up and a party from one of the ships trying out their muscle." Zather sucked in his breath as shouting flared, to die and rise again farther away. "The boys will take care of it and collect what's due. That isn't why I'm here." He paused, then said, "You'll have to move. I can't hide you."
The girl? Was Zather concerned?
Dumarest said, "What's gone wrong?"
"You lied. I don't know who you killed out there but it was no peeved mark. I figured the guards would give up after a while and things would die down. They haven't. There's a reward out for you and it's too big to be ignored. A cool thousand. I couldn't even trust myself with that kind of money at stake. Someone will get greedy and if they pass the word you've had it. And so have we if you should be found. Sorry, but there it is."
"You want me to go?"
"That's what I'm saying. It's dark now and I can guide you to the edge of the field. After that you're on your own." Zather hesitated, then added. "Just one thing. Those guards are Scafellians. Mean bastards every last one of them. Hurt one and the rest will beat you to a jelly. Leave you crippled for life, blind, deaf-they like to maintain their reputation. I just thought I'd warn you."
"Thanks," said Dumarest. "Now give me back my money."
Chapter Seven
Rain had come with the darkness, a drizzle which haloed the lights with miniature rainbows and caused the pennons to hang limp from their poles. The dampness did little to hurt the carnival; the sounds seemed to hang louder because of it. Shouts, laughter, screams caused by excitement as well as by anger and pain. Men and women enjoying a time of fantasy in which each was a winner and all prizes made of diamond and gold.
A normal scene aside from the guards.
They were everywhere, restless, patrolling with quick impatience as if afraid some other of their number would capture the prize. A thousand cren-more than double what they could earn in a year. Who wanted him enough to put up such a reward?
Dumarest waited, crossed an open space, stooped, huddled in his robe, one foot dragging as if lame. Slight deceptions but they would help if a guard was concentrating too hard on finding someone of a certain height, a certain build. Shadows closed around him and he paused to check the area. Before him lay the field, the ships resting on the dirt. Unlike more civilized worlds there was no perimeter fence; but this bonus was offset by the number of guards moving between the vessels and the size of the posted reward.
To his left, closer to the town, warehouses squatted like eyeless beasts and Dumarest stared at them with thoughtful attention. If empty they could be open and maybe patrolled but the interiors would provide nooks and crannies in which to hide. Something the guards would know and so be on the alert. But, if full?
A possibility and later he would consider it but, for now, there were more urgent problems.
Dumarest moved, heading for an avenue leading to town, as the sound of boots together with flashing lights became recognizable to his right. The avenue was wide, set with benches and flowering shrubs, a favorite spot for young lovers to stroll in balmy evenings. Now they were enjoying the carnival but the benches remained as did the shrubs. Dumarest reached a cluster and crouched down among them. It was as good a place as any to spend the night.
Time dragged. At midnight the rain eased and finally ceased, the sky clearing to permit the faint glow of stars. In the soft light he was just a shadow among shadows and three times patrolling guards passed within a few feet of where he crouched. Once, a light shone on his body but the man behind it saw only the shrubs he knew were there.
That moment of tension passed as the guards moved on and Dumarest had time to renew his thoughts.
Had Carina deliberately betrayed him?
The kiss could have been a signal to the man with the hypogun but why had she delayed so long? Was it because he had ended their association? Or had the man only just arrived, following the girl so as to find his quarry, striking when he had?
To have attacked the man could have been a mistake; Dumarest could have dodged and found some other way to avoid the numbing drug he was certain the hypogun had carried. Yet it would have made little difference-once the trap had been sprung he'd had no choice but to react.
Leaning back, he looked at the sky, now dotted with pale and golden points of brilliance. Beyond them, as if in a nightmare, he saw another universe, one covered by a scarlet web, strands reaching from world to world and, at the nexus, a scarlet shape-robed and cowled but without a face. A figure of brooding menace from which extensions multiplied its presence and spawned a scarlet tide. A thing from which he had run to become enmeshed, to break free and run again and again to find himself in a trap.
Had the Cyclan known he was on Shard?
There had been no cybers on the planet, few in the Zaragoza Cluster; poor worlds held little attraction to an organization dedicated to the pursuit of power. But each time he moved he left a trail and from it any cyber could extrapolate the logical sequence of his future actions. Ships followed known routes, agents would report, data could be assimilated and assessed-had they lured him to Caval?
Using a bait he was unable to resist?
Even knowing the world was a trap, he would have been driven to take a chance. To know. To know-nothing else mattered. To find the answer for which he searched. The owner of the box could have it.