Derai, p.1
Derai, page 1
Tubb E. C.
Derai
E. C. Tubb
Derai
#2 in the Dumarest series
E.C. Tubb
Chapter One
DUMAREST WAS at practice when the skybeast came. He stood poised on the balls of his feet, a short bar of lead in his hand, parrying and dodging the vicious slashes and thrusts of a yard of steel. Sweat dripped from his face and naked torso; Nada wasn't playing and she was strong enough to send the steel rod whining through the turgid air. She was also sadist enough to enjoy it."All right," she said finally. "That's enough." She stepped back and threw aside the rod. Her blouse, taut over her breasts, was dark with perspiration. Her long, dark hair clung to her neck and cheeks. Her skin, in the dull lighting of the tent, was faintly olive. "You're fast," she said admiringly. "Fast."
"I am?" He looked down at his body. A ragged, shallow gash ran over his ribs. A deeper cut marked his left side, two others his left forearm. The wounds were almost healed beneath a layer of transparent plastic.
"You were green then," she said. "Still groggy from traveling Low. And they were lucky," she added. "Those who managed to hit you, I mean. Lucky enough to make a score but not lucky enough to win." She stepped close and stood before him. Her head came just below the level of his own. "You're good, Earl," she said. "Real good."
"I'm hot."
"Then wash." She didn't mistake his meaning. "I've put a bucket outside."
It was a five gallon drum, the top removed, almost full of tepid water. He plunged in his arms, laving his torso, then ducked his head. When he stood up he heard the mournful booming. High above, drifting among the scattered clouds, a beast was dying.
Already most of the auxiliary pods had been punctured and hung like ragged ribbons of mist at the edge of the great, hemispherical body. Even as he watched, a swarm of the local skylife darted from the clouds to tear at the intruder: rats worrying a dog. It fought back with the fringe of tentacles hanging from beneath its body, seizing its tormentors, sending them plummeting with ruptured gas-sacs. Others of their own kind ate them before they could hit the ground. Still others continued the attack.
"It hasn't got a chance," said Nada. "Not one." Her voice was thick with anticipation.
Abruptly the creature vomited in a desperate effort to gain height. A cloud of water vapor and ingested food sprayed in a kaleidoscope of colored smoke. It rose a little, booming with terror and alarm, almost helpless here over flat country away from the strong thermals of its mountainous browsing grounds. High and to one side the keepers who had driven it to the city with air-blast and electric probe watched from the safety of their floating platforms.
"Soon," gloated Nada. "Soon!"
The attackers darted in for the kill. They tore at the lashing tentacles, at the soft underparts, at the tough skin of the main gas-sac. The creature vomited again and then, as natural hydrogen spurted from its punctured hide, spored.
Its death-scream echoed over the city as a cloud of glittering fragments sparkled in the air.
"Nice." Nada stared thoughtfully at the falling remnants of the creature. Around it the attackers were busy feeding. Little if any of it would reach the ground. "They're bringing in another for the finale," she said. "I was talking to the keepers. It's a real big one. They're going to burn it," she added. "At night."
Dumarest plunged his head again into the water. He rose, squeezing his hair. Droplets clung to his naked flesh like colored dew. "Do they always do that?"
"Burn one? Sure. It makes a good spectacle," she explained. "Something to give the tourists a big charge. A highlight, sort of." She smiled at her own joke. "This your first time on Kyle?"
Dumarest nodded.
"Well be moving on soon," said the girl. "The Festival's almost over. Elgar's the next stop. Know it?"
"No."
"A lousy dump," she said dispassionately. "Then Gerath, then Segelt, then Folgone. That's a weird one," she mused. "Real weird. You coming with us?"
"No." Dumarest reached for a towel. She handed it to him.
"You could do worse," she suggested. "Aiken likes you. And," she added meaningfully, "so do I."
Dumarest busied himself with the towel.
"We'd make a fine couple," she said. "I'm all the woman you could ever use and you're all the man I'll ever want. We'd get along fine." She caught the towel he threw toward her and watched him dress. "What do you say, Earl?"
"It wouldn't work," he said. "I like to keep moving."
"Why?" she demanded. "You're looking for something," she decided. "That or you're running away from something. Which is it, Earl?"
"Neither," he said.
"Then-?"
"No," he said. And left her standing alone.
* * *
Aiken lived in a blocked-off portion at the rear of the tent, living, eating and sleeping on the premises of his concession. The proprietor was a small, round, pudgy man with a tendency to sweat. He looked up from the upended crate he used as a desk and hastily slammed the lid of a cash box. "Earl!" He twisted his face into a smile. "It's good to see you, boy. Something on your mind?""My share," said Dumarest. "I want it."
"Sure." Aiken began to sweat. "Your share."
"That's right." Dumarest stood to one side of the rough desk looking down at the little man. "You've had time to count it out," he said. "If you haven't I know just how much it should be. Want me to tell you?"
"No need for that," said Aiken. "I didn't think you'd be in so much of a hurry," he explained. "We've got a few days yet before the end of the Festival. How about settling up then?"
Dumarest shook his head. "Look," he said gently, "I want that money. I fought for it. I earned it. Now I want it."
"That's natural." Aiken produced a handkerchief and mopped his face and neck. "A man likes to handle the money he's earned, spend a little of it maybe. A man that's a fool, that is. But, Earl, you're no fool."
Dumarest stood, waiting.
"That money," said Aiken. "It's yours-that I'm not arguing about-but why not invest it while you've got the chance? Listen," he urged. "This is a nice little setup. We've got Nada as a flash to con in the goops. A couple of steadies who bleed fast and a comic who's good for a laugh. With you in the ring we can't lose. We can offer odds of ten-to-one on first blood and still clean up. Better yet, we can take on the private fights. You know, ten inch knives and no quarter. Big money, Earl. Big money."
"No," said Dumarest.
"You're letting slip the chance of a lifetime."
"Maybe. Where's my share?"
"You seen Nada? She wants to talk to you."
"I've seen her." Dumarest leaned forward, his face hard. "What's the matter, Aiken? Don't you want to pay me?"
"Sure I do," said the proprietor. His eyes were darting, furtive. "Sure I do," he repeated, "only-" He broke off, swallowing. "Look, Earl," he said desperately. "I'll give it to you straight. Things haven't been going so good. The concession cost more than I figured and the goops have been staying away. What I'm trying to say is that I'm practically broke. I owe the others. I've got to find freight and passage money to the next stop on the circuit. There are bills due in town. With your share I can just about make it."
"And without?"
"I'm beaten," admitted Aiken. "I'll be stranded. Finished."
"Too bad," said Dumarest. "Pay me."
"But-"
Dumarest reached out and caught the other man by the shoulder. Gently he tightened his fingers. "I worked for that money," he said quietly. "I chanced getting myself killed to earn it. Now do you give it to me or do I help myself?"
Outside the tent he counted the money. It was barely enough for a single High passage on a ship that wasn't traveling too far. Thoughtfully he walked down the midway section of the carnival. Concessions stood to either side, some open, most waiting for night, when the square mile set aside for the Festival games really came to life. An amplified voice yelled to him from a tent:
"Hey, you there! Want to know what it's like to be burned to death? Full-sense feelies give you the thrill of a lifetime! Genuine recordings of impalement, live-burial, flaying, dismemberment and many more. Sixteen different types of torture! You feel it, sense it, know what it's like. Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!"
The male voice fell silent A female voice whispered from lower down the line:
"Hello, handsome! Want to share my wedding night? Find out just how the little woman feels. Adapt your technique. Get the reputation of a man who knows what it's all about. Please the ladies. Step right up for a new experience!"
A third voice, quieter, without amplification: "Alms, brother?"
A monk of the Universal Brotherhood stood by the gate in the perimeter fence. He had a pale, thin face framed by the cowl of his homespun robe. He held out his chipped plastic begging bowl as Dumarest halted. "Of your charity, brother," he said. "Remember the poor."
"How could I forget them?" Dumarest threw coins into the bowl. "How could anyone? You have much work on Kyle, Brother."
"You speak truth," said the monk. He looked at the coins in his bowl. Dumarest had been generous. "Your name, brother?"
"So that I shall be mentioned in your prayers?" Dumarest smiled but gave the information. The monk stepped closer.
"There is a man who seeks you," he said quietly. "A man of influence and power. It would be to your advantage to attend him."
"Thank you, Brother." The monks, Dumarest knew, had friends in high places and an information network that spread across the galaxy. The Universal Brotherhood, for all the humbleness, was a very rea l power. "His name?"
"Moto Shamaski. A factor in the city. You will attend?"
"Yes," said Dumarest. "Keep well, Brother."
"Keep well."
* * *
The factor had gray hair, gray eyes, a gray beard shaved in the pattern of his Guild. His skin was a faded saffron, creped with wrinkles, pouched beneath slanting eyes. He rose as Dumarest entered the office and inclined his head in greeting. "You have not kept me waiting," he said. His voice was thin, precise. "It is appreciated. You will accept refreshment?""Thank you, no." Dumarest glanced around the office before taking the proffered chair. It was a soft, luxurious place, the carpet thick underfoot, the ceiling a mesh of sound-trapping fiber. A few simple designs ornamented the paneled walls, delicate embroideries of intricate construction, rare and valuable examples of Sha' Tung art. Moto Shamaski was a rich and cultured man.
"It is good of you to attend me," he said. "I trust that you have suffered no inconvenience?"
"None." Dumarest wasn't deluded as to his own importance: men such as the factor were always polite. "I received word that you wanted to see me," he said. "Apparently you do. May I ask why?"
The factor smiled with his lips, not his eyes-they were busy searching the visitor. Dumarest recognized the ritual: let the silence grow and it would, perhaps, reveal something of interest, impatience, arrogance, servility or simply an overriding need to talk.
Impassively he leaned back, letting his eyes drift from the factor to where a sheet of unbroken crystal occupied the major part of one wall. It gave a clear view of the sky and the famous Clouds of Kyle.
"Beautiful, are they not?" The factor leaned forward, looking at the colored shadows brushing the face of his visitor. It was a strong face, hard, determined. The face of a man who learned to live without the protection of Guild, House or Organization. "I have been thirty years on Kyle," he said quietly. "Never do I tire of watching the sky."
Dumarest made no comment.
"Such tiny organisms to create such splendor," mused the factor. "Living, breeding, dying in their great swarms high above the ground. Food for others who share their aerial environment. A thing unique to Kyle and for which the planet has cause to be grateful."
"The Festival," said Dumarest. He turned from the window to face the man across the desk. "The time when the skybeasts turn from their browsing to fight in the fury of mating. That," he said dryly, "and other things."
It was the factor's turn to make no comment. Shamaski was an old man, a lover of beauty who preferred not to dwell on the other aspects of the Festival, the games and wild lusts, the perversions and pandering to bestiality which wiled away the long nights for the impatient tourists who brought their wealth to Kyle. Instead he gestured toward a tray standing on a small table to one side of the room. "Are you sure that you require nothing? Some tea, perhaps?"
Dumarest shook his head, his eyes thoughtful. The man had sent for him; why did he delay?
"You are impatient," said the factor shrewdly. "And, no doubt, a little curious. They are natural attributes but you mask them well." He pressed a button at the edge of his desk. A panel glowed on the flat surface, the brightness marked with lines of script, "Earl Dumarest," read Shamaski. "A traveler. You arrived here from Gleece traveling Low. Before Gleece you were on Pren, before that on Exon, Aime, Stulgar. Before Stulgar you were the guest of the Matriarch of Kund. You traveled with her retinue from Gath where, I assume, you were able to be of some service." He looked up from the desk. "Is the information correct?"
"It is," said Dumarest. He wondered at the factor's resources to have been able to learn so much in so short a time. The monks, perhaps? Or could he be the subject of disseminated news? The thought was disturbing. "On arrival here," continued the factor, "you entered into an arrangement with a concessionaire specializing in the staging of hand-combats. You have had moderate success. However, the Festival is almost over and further opportunities for making money are limited. Again, do you agree?" he darkened the panel at Dumarest's nod. "You are shrewd, capable and experienced," summed up the factor. "Young enough to be resourceful and old enough to be discreet. A happy combination."
"You want to employ me," said Dumarest abruptly. The factor agreed. "Would you accept a commission from my hands?"
"It depends," said Dumarest, "on just what it is." The factor rose, crossed to the tray, returned bearing cups of scented tea. "It is really quite simple," he explained. "I want you to escort a young person to Hive. You know it?"
Dumarest was cautious. "No."
"A remote world some distance from here and relatively unimportant. The planet is managed by a syndicate of Houses and the person you are to escort is a member of one of them." The factor sipped, savoring his tea. "Such houses," he hinted, "are not ungenerous."
"Perhaps not," said Dumarest. "But is it ever wise to trust to the gratitude of princes?"
"No," admitted Shamaski. He sipped more tea. "I will give you the cost of three High passages. You accept?"
Dumarest hesitated. "You say that Hive is a remote world," he pointed out. "I will probably have to wait for a ship and then I will have to pay my passage. How am I expected to make a profit?"
"You did not intend going to Hive?"
"No," lied Dumarest.
"Very well," decided the factor. "I will give you the cost of two High passages. Clear," he added. "I shall pay the expenses of the outward journey. Is that satisfactory?"
Dumarest slowly finished his tea and set down the cup. The factor had been a little too eager to raise his offer. Idly he dipped a finger in the dregs and ran it around the edge. A thin, high ringing filled the office, a note of absolute purity. "A question," he said, lifting his finger. "You say that this person is a member of an established House. Why do they not send an escort of their own?"
The factor was patient. "It is a question of time. It is quicker to send the person concerned than to send a message and wait for an escort."
It was true enough but the answer was revealing. The person, then, was of some importance. Dumarest probed a little deeper. "There is need for haste?"
"There is no reason for delay," said the factor. He was, Dumarest guessed, becoming a little irritated. 'Soon the ships will be leaving Kyle. Delay now may necessitate special charter. Will you take the commission? Subject, of course, to your being accepted by the person concerned. "That," he added, "is an essential part of the contract."
"Naturally." Dumarest made up his mind. He had pressed the factor as far as he would go-more and he would lose the opportunity. "I accept," he said. "When do I meet my charge?"
"At once." Shamaski pressed a button and a panel slid open in the wall. "Permit me to introduce the Lady Derai of the House of Caldor. My lady, this is Earl Dumarest, who, with your permission, will be your guide and protector." He extended his hand to help her step into the office.
She was tall, as slender as a reed, with hair so silver it was almost colorless. Achild, thought Dumarest. A scared and frightened child. Then he saw her eyes, enormous in the bone-white pallor of her face. Not a child, he corrected himself. A young woman, nubile at least, but still scared, still afraid. But of what?
"My lady." He stood, very tall, as the factor left her side.
"You look surprised," said Shamaski softly. "I cannot blame you." He moved toward the tray, poured tea, spoke quietly across the cup. "She came to me a few weeks ago in an extreme state of shock and panic. A monk had found her down at the landing field. I took her under my protection. I am a factor," he explained. "A man of business. Her House has power and is not without influence. I have had dealings with them in the past and hope to have more in the future. The Brother know of my interest and she sought my aid."
"Why?"
"She trusted me. I was the only one she felt she could trust."
"I didn't mean that," said Dumarest impatiently. "Why did she seek your aid? For what?"
"For sanctuary. For somewhere safe to rest. For protection."
"The member of an established House?" Dumarest frowned; the thing was illogical. Surely she would have traveled with her own retinue? "It doesn't make sense," he pointed out. "Why didn't she appeal to those of her own kind? What was she doing here anyway?"
