"A fighter? That?"
"A creature of misfortune, my lord." Santis, accustomed to dealing with the rich and influential, bowed. "A trained man of my old company who served me well and to whom I am obligated. And yet, you understand, an obligation can prove onerous. His mind is not as it was and he tends to become too great a liability. My honor, of course, will not let me see him starve and yet-" He broke off, shrugging. "We are both men of experience, my lord. I am sure you appreciate the situation."
Matpius sniffed at his pomander, eyes shrewd as he studied Dumarest who stood, eyes blank, shoulders stooped, hands dangling loosely at his sides. A fine, well-made man, tall and with a face the women would find appealing. A pity he lacked intelligence or, no, just as well he did not. Using him would create no problems.
"He carries a knife-why?"
"Habit, my lord. As a soldier he grew used to the weight of arms. I let him keep it." Santis leaned forward and drew the knife from Dumarest's boot, displaying the artfully dulled blade, the stained and apparently blunt edge. "You can accommodate me?"
"Perhaps." It was in the man's nature to keep others in suspense. Again Matpius sniffed at his pomander, calculating, thinking. Against a man this creature would stand little chance and those who came to the arena expected more than mere butchery. And yet drugs could stimulate him and drive him to a killing frenzy. In such a case the results might be interesting. "You are concerned as to his welfare?"
"My lord, I am a realist. Use him as you will. The fee-"
"A thousand kren." Matpius waved the pomander. "Take it or leave it."
"It is little, my lord."
"But can be increased with an intelligent wager. Need I say more?" Matpius let the silence grow, one which spoke its own language. "Take him to the pens. Ask for Delman. Here." He scribbled a note. "Give him this and he will hand over the money." And then, as Santis turned toward Dumarest: "Don't bother to return for your friend-it would be a waste of time."
In the shadows a man was crying, "My arm! Dear, God, my arm!"
It had been slashed, cut to the bone, muscle and tendon severed from the vicious stroke of a blade. A cut which had won his opponent the bout and sent him circling the arena, smiling at the plaudits of the crowd. The man, now, was crippled and would remain so unless expensive surgery could be obtained to repair the damage. The skill was available- Dumarest knew the money was not.
He relaxed in the dimness, letting muscle and sinew unwind as he leaned back against the wall. For hours he had waited, acting the part of a dull, insensitive clod and the strain was beginning to tell. A normal man would have risen, walked about, done some limbering up exercises, at least had been curious as to what waited him, but he had been forced to do nothing but sit where he had been led and wait. Waiting he had listened. Listening he had learned.
Matpius, as he had guessed, was an animal wearing human shape. A dealer in flesh and blood to whom blood and pain came second to his reputation. A pander to the Cinque and those who could afford the best seats. His helpers were little better; sadists who enjoyed what they did. The bouts, as yet, had been normal enough; several for third-blood, some to the death, a couple for first-blood only. They had been for the benefit of those who prided themselves on admiring skill and not execution, the lovers of the quick parry, the lightning cut and thrust. An appreciation too fine for the majority who wanted to see more bloody action and who acclaimed as victor the man who could score three hits first. And even they paled against the feral demands of those who wanted nothing but a fight to the death.
Dumarest could hear them from where he sat; a screaming, shrieking ululation as if a horde of animals had scented prey. Men and women, shouting, yelling, eyes wide with blood-lust, nostrils flaring, hands clenched or tearing at their garments. The disgusting, the degenerate, the depraved.
Closing his eyes he could see them as he had so often before. See too the glitter of steel, the man holding the knife. The faces all looked the same; the visage of a beast lusting to kill, who had to kill in order to prevent being destroyed. The face of a creature intent on survival and revealing the primitive animal buried beneath the veneer of civilization.
A face matched by his own.
A gamble. Each time he fought in the arena it was a gamble. Not the calculated weighing of matched advantage but a blind, helpless dependency on the workings of chance. A pool of blood could cause him to slip and lose his balance and, in that moment, his life. A buried lump of excreta, a smear of oil, sweat falling to slick a surface. A badly adjusted spotlight the weakness inherent in the metal of his blade, his own nervous reaction to unexpected stimuli, all could cause his defeat. Things against which speed and skill were not enough. One day his luck would desert him. Today? Would it be today?
"Look alive there!" Delman came storming through the pens. "Get that mess cleaned up. Have the next contenders ready. You!" He glared at Dumarest. "Stand up, dummy!" He nodded as, woodenly, Dumarest obeyed. "Meat," he sneered. "But you'll serve. Ever used a spear? A net?"
Dumarest stood, staring, making no answer.
"You hold them one in each hand. With the net you trap and with the spear you thrust. You won't need that." He stooped to snatch the knife from where it rested in the boot, snarled as Dumarest dropped his hand to clamp fingers around the thick, hairy wrist. "All right, if that's the way you feel about it Chonllen! Get this creep into position! Move!"
A gate led from the pens to the arena and Dumarest halted at the opening looking at the circling wall, the tiers of faces peering down from the stands. Rows of faces all blurred in the light streaming from the dome above, a clear brilliance stemming from artificial suns. The floor of the arena was thick with sand, tiny motes of silica catching and reflecting the light so that it seemed to watch with a host of dispassionate eyes. Facing him was another gate; a black mouth which yawned with hidden menace.
"Right." Chonllen handed him a spear and a net. "You go out there. You wait. When something comes at you you kill it. Do that and you win the prize. Five thousand on the clock but you lose ten kren for every second you delay." He pointed to where a wide-faced clock with thick, black hands rested against the far wall. "When the dial turns green the countdown starts. Luck!"
Dumarest moved forward into the arena, fumbling the net and spear, apparently clumsy and accentuating his poor coordination. An act to increase the odds against him and time for Kemmer to place his bets. Time too for him to gain the distance and examine his weapons.
The spear was broad-bladed, eighteen inches of edged and pointed steel set on a seven-foot shaft of polished wood. The net was of coarse mesh weighted at the edges with leaden pellets. A thing requiring skill to handle and Dumarest held it like a whip in his left hand, the spear poised in his right.
Beneath his boots the sand rasped like small clinkers, grains rubbing, edges honing one the other, the small sound more felt than heard.
Still the clock showed a white face.
Time, he knew, drawn out to increase the tension, to sharpen the anticipation of the crowd. Time too for him to assess the odds. To win anything at all he would have to kill whatever was sent against him within a few minutes. After eight he would be fighting for nothing except the chance to save his life. A desperate man would rush in, staking everything on the initial attack, trusting to surprise and speed to defeat his adversary. The net would be used to snare and hold, the spear to thrust-and the roar of the crowd would acclaim a classic victory. But such a man would be a fool.