And perhaps a bigger fool to yield to her blandishments, but Dumarest, wise in the ways of carnival, sensed more than the others. The crone was trying too hard and how had she known Kemmer was a trader? The mercenary was obvious but the other could only have been a shrewd guess. And, if nothing else, she could tell him things useful to know.
The booth was small, decorated with gaudy symbols, the devices painted on the ubiquitous fused sand. A table bore a crystal ball, the surface scratched and dull. The cloth beneath was stained, frayed and torn in a few places. The chairs were of thin metal designed to be folded for portability. Incense fumed from a metal pot and hung in an odorous cloud beneath the ceiling.
As he sat the old woman held her hand before him, palm uppermost. Silently she watched as he dropped coins into the grimed cup.
Quietly he said, "I'm no gull, mother. Don't waste your time feeding me a line of rich wantons or hidden treasure. I've grafted in my time and know the angles. Just answer a few questions and be honest. A deal?"
Her hand closed over the coins. "Don't be too clever, my friend. And don't be too mistrustful. I have the power. Give me your hand." She took it, spreading the fingers and crouched brooding over the palm. A stained nail traced lines, halted at juxtapositions, hesitated at certain points. "A traveler," she murmured. "One who has seen many worlds. One too who has had many loves. One who has known much danger. A fighter trained in the use of a blade. A gambler. A searcher after truth who-" She broke off, inhaling sharply. "Red," she whispered. "Scarlet-beware the color of blood!"
Dumarest watched, restraining his impatience. His clothing alone would have told her he was a traveler; garb designed for wear and protection. The knife in his boot coupled with the callouses on his palm would have told he used a blade and all men who fought were, in essence, gamblers.
"Scarlet," she said again. "It is behind you, around you, all is scarlet."
Another guess? Dumarest said, "Are there any here who wear scarlet robes?" The shake of her head meant little; cybers could reside in the upper levels and she need never know it. "Has anyone asked after me? By description, naturally."
"No."
"Would you know?"
"If they asked in the Stril I would know. I get to hear most things." Again she studied his palm. "There's something odd here. A danger but more than that. You've killed," she accused. "There are men who have cause to hate you. Vengeful men."
"So?"
"They will give you no rest And they are close, close. I see-no, some things are best not told."
"We had a deal," said Dumarest, flatly. "If that's the best you can do then I'm going to feel cheated. You wouldn't want me to feel that, would you? No, I thought not. Now why not just answer a few questions?"
The others joined him as he left the booth. Kemmer made no secret of hiding his irritation at what he considered rank stupidity; Santis was more sympathetic.
"Sometimes it helps, Earl, I know that. Once on Pico I visited a palmist. We were set to attack at dawn and I was troubled. Something sent me to her and her warnings caused me to change the plans. I attacked from a different direction three hours early and found they were set and ready for me. If I'd followed the original plan we'd have been blasted to atoms. As it was we won."
"So what did you learn, Earl?" Kemmer scowled at a painted harlot who caught at his arm. As she fell back with a screamed insult he added, "A way out of this mess?"
There was only one way out and they knew it and in the Stril it could be found. Dumarest led the way through passages lined with booths, past vendors of assorted and exotic delights, ignoring the touts, pimps and harlots. Once he halted to drive the heel of his palm against the chin of a man who lingered too close too long, sending the pickpocket staggering back with empty hands and vacant eyes. At a junction he heard a familiar drone.
"Back the winner and pick up twice what you put down. The red fights the yellow. Roll up! Roll up! The next bout is about to commence!"
The spieler was tall, gaunt, his clothing shabby, his eyes restless. Behind him a chamber held a circular barrier centered with a table on which stood a dome of clear plastic. Now it was empty but for a thin, blue vapor but, once activated, clouds of red and yellow spores would be released to fight, to fall, the victors feeding on the vanquished to display the winning hue.
"Red and yellow, back your choice. Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! The next bout is about to commence!"
His words faded, were replaced by others yelled from a stunted, leather-lunged man who strutted on bowed legs.
"Three temple dancers from Fecundis-need I say more? Witness the immaculate purity of their movements. See with your own eyes the hidden mysteries of a secret cult. Watch as they perform exotic movements of tantalizing delight and, for a small fee, participate. You, sir!" His finger stabbed at Santis. "Age rests on your shoulders-before the doors of life close why not indulge in an experience you will never forget? Fifty kren to watch-another hundred to mount the platform. A bargain!" His voice rose as they moved on. "You refuse the offer? What has happened to the men of Harge?"
A simpering woman could have told him as she displayed the charms of veiled and lissom girls. An apothecary, eyes blank, droned the offer of charms and love philtres, medicines and salves for annoying ailments. A magician ate fire and produced eggs from unlikely places. A boxer, knotted with rope-like muscle, offered to take on all comers.
"You there!" His manager, eager for trade, thrust his hand toward Dumarest. "A hundred kren if you last a minute. Five hundred if you leave the ring the winner. Your friends can see fair play."
"Five hundred," said Kemmer. "For a smashed face and broken bones."
For bruises and internal injuries; a ruptured liver or spleen, broken ribs thrusting jagged ends into lungs and membranes.
The boxer had fists like hammers and would use them as such. Dumarest studied the face and eyes, seeing and recognizing the dullness, the lack of interest. A man who had fought too hard and too often. A living machine lacking sense and feeling. One day the ruined cells in his brain would send him toppling in paralysis or death; until then he was fit for nothing but to kill.
Santis said, "Why isn't he fighting in the arena?"
"He is too gentle," said the manager quickly. "Too reluctant to hurt. A kindly creature who wants only to demonstrate his skill. Win and you will be paid. Lose and you can tell all your friends that you have faced and fought with a champion."
"For a hundred kren, you say?" A burly youth with a painted girl hanging on his arm, eager to display his masculinity and win her favors, thrust himself toward the booth. "A hundred?"
"Last for a single minute and it's yours. Five times as much if you win. Step forward now! Hurry! Hurry!"
Dumarest moved on as the youth, pressed by a crowd eager to see blood and pain, entered the booth followed by those willing to pay to watch the combat. He could win if the boxer retained the ability to soften his blows and the manager had the sense to prime the crowd. An easy victory to encourage others to fight and their companions to bet. If so the youth would be lucky-but Dumarest wouldn't bet on it.
Santis said, "Ten years ago I might have taken him on. I was always good at unarmed combat."
"For five hundred? It isn't enough." Kemmer stepped to one side to allow a tall man with a strained and painted face a direct passage. The man had eyes like blank windows, the pupils enormous, a rim of white showing around the contracted iris. Froth edged his writhing lips and his hands, like claws, snapped at the air before him. Drugged, in delusion such a man could be dangerous. Uneasily he said, "Earl, are we close?"