"You may readily be added to it, madam."
She shrugged. "A strike into this region at this time would unite the enemies of Ch'in in the north, at a time when his main force is occupied to the south. Is one bride worth it?"
The officer pondered, taken aback by the political acumen of the matron. "The Emperor does not wish bloodshed to mar his wedding day. We shall pay this man a fair price for his prior claim, and deport him unharmed from the vicinity. Should he return before the nuptial, he will be held until that day is passed-then suffer the death of a thousand cuts." He fetched a bag of coins. "This will cover it."
The matron looked at Var soberly. "His compromise is reasonable. Accept it, nomad. And take this too." She handed him a packet
Var was reminded of the manner of Minos, god of New Crete, as he gave Soli the keys to the power boat. He realized that in some subtle manner she was helping him. He could either start fighting now-sure death, however many he took with him-or trust her guidance and acquiesce to the officer's terms.
He accepted the money and the package and accompanied the guards to their truck. He had not given up, but this did seem to be the best present course.
Six hours later he was set down, alone, a hundred miles to the north. Dawn was breaking over the badlands.
The packet contained a map and a human thumb.
The map was routine, covering all this region. Except for a single location marked in red. The thumb- Var was familiar with digits, since his own were misshapen. He could recognize certain men as readily by their hands as by their faces. This was not a Chinese digit; was American. Massive, with fine mesh under the skin, scarred.
This was the Master's thumb.
Obviously the matron knew where the Master was alive or dead, and had known for some time. She must then also know the connection between Var and Soli and the Nameless One. Now she had chosen to reveal her information to Var. Why?
He shook his head, not comprehending that part of it. She was an honest woman, but, like so many of these people, mysterious in her ways.
He had less than a fortnight to recover Soli-if he intended to do so before Ch'in took her to his couch. If he wanted to present her with a fair choice between the ugly nomad and the rich powerful emperor.
He could return to the school in time, for they had underestimated his capacity for walking. But he knew the officer had not been bluffing about the fate that awaited him there. And suddenly he was unsure what Soli's reaction would be. She had been angry with him, and she could have a luxurious life.
He could get to the indicated spot on the map in a week's strenuous marching. Surely the Master's thumb had come from there. It was time for him to settle his difference with his longtime friend and mentor-or to know for certain that it could never be settled. If the great man were dead.
It was an arena. Gladiators met each other and wild animals in mortal combat, for the delight of paying spectators. The star attraction was a pair of foreign savages- prisoners captured half a year before by troops of a lesser kingdom in a border skirmish. Sol and the Master, of course.
Brief inquiry enabled Var to come at some semblance of the truth. The two had followed Var into the Aleutian tunnel but, more canny than he, had avoided the menace of the automatic sweeper. They had fought off the amazons, but had been balked by the radiation at the bridge. So they had taken the long way round, knowing that Var would not stop until he reached the mainland across the ocean. Back through the tunnel, overland north to the true transpacific tunnel, and down the Asiatic coast. They had traversed a lot of territory, fighting off enemies of animate and inanimate types, and had taken years in the process. Then they had run afoul of one border patrol too many-actually a quasi-official bandit band-and had been taken under the threat of massed rifles.
After their wounds had healed, the two had been sold to the arena. Their left thumbs had been cut off, to mark their status. Now they were earning out their contracts-at fees that would necessitate a decade to meet the price.
"I will pay off the contract," Var said. He put the bag of coins into the hand of the agent at the gate.
The man counted the money and nodded. "Ch'in currency. Very strong. For which one?"
Var described the Master.
"Very well." Var had expected haggling, for his little bag could hardly be worth a ten-year contract. The man gave him a receipt, written in the Chinese symbols. Var took it eagerly and entered the grounds, finding his way toward the gladiators' accommodations. It had been surprisingly easy.
But he had a second thought, and paused to puzzle out the symbols. The note was phony it granted admission to the grounds and nothing else. He bad been cheated.
Angry, he started back-but soon realized that the man would have hidden the money and perhaps disappeared himself, after this illicit haul. No one else would choose to believe Var's complaint. Arenas were known to be dens of vice and corruption; he should have been alert.
Still, they had set the pattern, meeting his honest if naive approach with dishonesty. Var's ethics of civilization were not fundamentally ingrained, for he had come by them only through his contact with the Master, and had not had them reinforced by his adventures beyond America. He treated other men as they treated him-and he knew how to look out for himself, thus warned.
He threw away the paper and continued to the gladiatonal pen. This was a high wire stockade at whose corners wooden towers rose. A man with a rifle stood watch within each edifice, facing toward the center.
Nearby were the animal cages. Tigers, bison, snakes, vicious dogs-and some mutants from the badlands. These were set up as a sideshow when not in use. From the healing wounds some had, Var inferred that they were used repeatedly. Probably the gladiators were given a bonus for defeating an animal impressively without killing it.
He scouted the rest of the compound. This was an off day. The shows only took place every three of four afternoons. Relatively few sightseers like himself were about. In one side lot there Were several trucks, used for transporting animals and equipment from time to time. The show traveled every few months, seeking new pasture and new audience-and perhaps as a hedge against too great an accumulation of vengeance-minded suckers.
Satisfied, Var retreated to a comfortable wilderness patch and slept. He would be busy tonight.
At night, refreshed, Var re-entered the compound, using his well-versed stealth. He prised down a window in a locked truck, got the door open, used pliers on the wiring in the manner he had learned as a handyman dealing with balky equipment, and unblocked the wheels. Then he moved to the nearest guard tower, climbed it noiselessly and tapped the rifleman on the head with a makeshift singlestick. He did the same for the second tower, having learned from his brief experience with Ch'in's men not to give a man with a gun any chance to react. The section of fence between these two points was partially out of sight of the far towers, so a passage was clear. Var took metal clippers and made a hole. He entered, carrying a handgun and flashlight taken from the second guard.
The gladiators were in a locked shed that reeked of excrement. Var used screwdriver and crowbar to unlock it with minimum noise, working on the side away from the manned towers. He knew the occupants would overhear, but would not give him away. They might, however, attempt to overpower him and make their own escape. He had to be ready.
He kicked open the door, shone the light inside, and stood back. "I have a gun," he said softly in the local dialect. Then, in American: "Come out singly and make no sound-if you want your freedom."
"Var the Stick!" the Master said at once, but low, for he was well aware that they had to stay below the hearing level of the tower guards. His bulk showed in the doorway. "Do you bring a gun to meet me?"