"Please, brother!"
The monk sagged a little. One or more ribs, if not broken, had been cracked, and it was painful to breathe. His stomach throbbed and his kidneys burned from the impact of savage blows. Bruises mottled his skin, and it was hard to stand. A harsh world, he thought, but he was used to harshness, as he was accustomed to deprivation. Even the pain he suffered was not new; he had known pain before, as he had known other things. Disappointment, abuse, scorn, indifference-all these things were an integral part of the life he had chosen. But the church must not be allowed to wither on Paiyar. Not if an appeal could save it. And no monk could afford the luxury of pride.
"Please, brother," he said again. "I realize that you cannot help Brother Wen. He will be sold, and he will do what he can. As I will, should I be taken in turn."
Dumarest said, "Zenya. How can they be helped?"
"What do you mean, Earl?"
"This is a world of clans. How large must a clan be before it is recognized? Ten men? Five? Two? How many?"
"I don't know." She looked baffled. "I've never thought about it. Everyone wants to join an existing house, not set up on their own. Even those who work for the civil authority are always eager to change."
"We studied the customs of this world before coming here," said the monk. "There are no regulations as to what constitutes a clan. However, any group must be self-supporting and strong enough to resist aggression." He added bleakly, "Also, by definition, a clan is a group of more than one person. At this moment I am alone."
"But not for long," said Dumarest. "Zenya, how much would Brother Wen fetch on the block?"
"Not much, I would think. A monk can't be of high value."
An error Dumarest hoped others would make. Every monk was trained in medical skill and the basic necessities of survival. They could take a desert and cause it to bloom, use a cunning balance of ecology to change hostile environments, teach a dozen crafts.
He said, "Zenya, you owe me five hundred cran, your grandfather five thousand. I want it."
"I haven't got it, Earl."
"You have jewelry. Get it. Sign a witnessed deposition that you freely give it to the monk, Brother Eland. Hurry!"
She was stubborn. "No, Earl. I can give you the five hundred, and that's all. Chan Parect owes you the rest."
"And he will pay it." His eyes met hers, cold, hard. "If he doesn't, I will. I ask you for a loan, no more. The jewelry can be redeemed. Now, do as I say."
As she left he said to the monk, "You will take the money and buy your companion. And then, if you've any sense at all, you'll get off Paiyar as fast as you can. If the girl is right there will be enough left for Low passage, or maybe a captain will let you ride High for the sake of charity."
"Thank you, brother."
"There's one other thing. Are there any other monks on this world?"
"None. Brother Wen and I were alone."
"I see." Dumarest turned as the girl entered the room. She carried a signed paper and had stripped the serpents from both arms.
"Take these to the shop of Kren Sulimer," she said. "You'll find it close to the field-a small place with the symbol of a sword. Don't sell them. Borrow ten thousand and leave the pledge at the gate. Don't fail to do this."
Brother Eland said quietly, "My lady, you have my word."
"I've arranged for an escort to accompany you, and our doctor will attend to your injuries."
"Thank you, my lady."
"For what? I've done nothing." Zenya shrugged, divorcing herself from the incident. To Dumarest she said, "The debt is yours, Earl. You realize that?"
"Yes."
"Good. Then we can leave now." She shivered, looking at the bleak walls. "I've done as you asked. Now amuse me."
* * *
Amusement was the sharing of wine, the playing of a game, dice rattling, falling, counters moved to an intricate pattern. A game he could play but had never enjoyed. And there had been conversation, innuendos, hints of knowledge he should have, motivations he should have understood. It had been a relief to get away.
Back in his room he killed the lights and sat before the window. The air held the scent of Lisa's perfume, the memory of her body, as if she were still present, waiting, demanding. Beyond the window the wall opposite was mostly dark, the pane he remembered a glimmer of starlight. Above, the stars wheeled in their courses as he sat silent, watchful.
Something pressed against the door.
It was a small sound, barely heard, metal moving as the knob was turned. Lisa Conenda returning for more intrigue, to seal the bargain in the only way she knew? Zenya, perhaps, restless and bored and eager for novelty?
Dumarest rose and stood against the wall to the side of the window, away from the betraying rectangle of light. The door swung open, light from the passage haloing the shape in the opening. It was not that of a woman. As it moved into the room, glimmers shone from a naked blade held in the right hand.
Dumarest moved, stepping silently along the wall, memory serving to dodge obstacles as he eased toward the door. He saw the man step toward the bed, the grunt of surprise at finding it empty, then he had lunged forward, slamming the panel and snapping on the lights.
Zavor glared at him from purpled eyes, the slick sheen of a transparent bandage covering his nose and forehead.
"You!" He sucked in his breath. "You should have been asleep, satiated with the passion of my dear aunt, but perhaps it's better this way." He lifted the knife. "You were lucky once. It won't happen again."
"We fought," said Dumarest coldly. "I won. What are you complaining about?"
"You marred me. Made me a mock before the others."
"I let you live."
"And I should be grateful for that?" Zavor lifted his left hand and touched his bruised face, letting it fall again quickly to his side. "Do you know what I intended? Had you been asleep, I would have smashed in your face with this." He gestured with the knife, the heavy pommel. "Then I would have cut it to the bone and left you a thing of horror. I saw them smile when you defeated me with that cunning trick. Chan Parect was most amused. I wonder if he will smile when next he sees you?"
Dumarest said flatly, "He's insane. Are you?"
"Me? Insane?" Zavor's laugh was a titter. "Now, why should you say that? Because I have pride and want revenge? Because I have reason to hate a stranger who made me look a fool? A common fighter who belongs in the arena like the animal he is?"
"You're hurt," said Dumarest. "You should be resting under slowtime. Do it now, and by morning you will be as before."
"A brave man should not run from the pain of wounds."
"A brave man doesn't come creeping into a room to wreak vengeance."
"Are you calling me a coward?"
Dumarest sighed. The man had been drinking, or worse. The eyes were too bright in their purpled sockets, his tones too high. Drugs to kill pain and to speed his metabolism, others to give him courage or to numb his fears. And yet he was not wholly a fool. He had waited until it was late; had his victim been asleep, it would have taken only one quick blow. And he was a scion of the house, an accident of birth which had served to save him once and was doing so again.
He said again, "Answer me, you scum! Are you calling me a coward?"
"I'm calling you a fool. Get out of here before you get hurt."
"A challenge? Will you use that knife in your boot?" Zavor edged forward. "Then reach for it. Drop your hand. Do it, damn you! Do it now!"
He was too confident, which meant that he was better armed than it appeared. A laser, perhaps, or a missile weapon held in or carried close to the left hand, which he kept at his side.
Dumarest said, "You want to kill me, but you don't want to suffer because of it. If you can claim self-defense, you might be believed. Do you consider your grandfather to be such a fool?"