he had learned of the conditioning-a thing he could do without. If he’d had it he would have died when attacked on the clearing.
Dumarest sipped at his wine, looking at the beauty of the goblet, the table, the furnishing and decoration of the chamber in which they sat. This time it resembled the interior of a tent, one adorned with swathes of shimmering silk and esoteric patterns. Luxury at total variance with the small church he had known in which the monks had helped him win his battle to live. Here was light and the sweet scent of perfume. Then had been the stench of poverty with all that entailed.
“Earl-”
“Yes, I know, you want answers and quickly. So do I. Does it make you a god because you can give or withhold them? That you have the power of life and death? We all have that; the ability to kill or not to kill. Is that your definition of a deity? The concept of a being with awesome power, unpredictable desires, an inflated ego and the ability to pander to any whim regardless of its effect on others? If so you aren’t talking about a god-you’re talking about a megalomaniac.”
“Is that what you think?”
“Do you give a damn what I think?” Dumarest looked at the goblet in his hand then carefully set it on the table. The wine was unexpectedly strong. “Life is a gamble,” he said. “A game of chance. The cards are dealt and each gets a hand. It can be worthless, have potential value, have value of a kind, or be unbeatable. You improve it if you can. Otherwise you just make do.”
“A cynical point of view, Earl. One I would not have expected from a man of action such as yourself. Yet, if you had been indoctrinated to believe that all is foreordained, then there would be no point in trying to improve your situation. If God deals the cards then God must have decided your station. Which proves that God must be omnipotent.”
“Omniscient,” corrected Dumarest. “You don’t need total power to deal out a hand of cards. You just hand them out and let luck take care of the rest. But if you want to fix the deal you need to have knowledge.”
“As you would know.” Shandaha shrugged, “So we have managed to resolve the nature of God. A crooked card-dealer. A novel proposition but one I find hard to accept.”
“I’m not talking about God. I’m talking about luck. Life is a gamble all along the line. Who we are, what we are, all the rest of it. The random products of chance.”
“Perhaps. You have a point but I doubt if the monks would agree. How long did you stay with them?”
“About a year.”
“And then?”
“I moved on. The Church held attraction but it wasn’t for me.”
“You hated wearing the robe, the begging, the need, always, to be humble?”
“Something like that.”
“Their pacifism?”
“That too.” Dumarest looked at his hands, remembering those of the old monk, trying to imagine what it must have been like for him to have suffered the agony of broken joints and torn flesh. Knowing that he could never accept their creed of peace, accepting torment hoping, that by example, they would teach their tormentors the futility of inflicting agony.
Not in a universe where life itself was a continual act of violence.
“And then?”
“Hsi Wei taught me how to survive.”
He had remembered the man when lying in satiated lethargy with Nada before opening the door that had led to his past. Hours ago? Minutes? There was no way to tell. Drugs could alter the apparent passage of time and he could have relived previous experiences at an accelerated rate. Most probably had done but there was nothing he could do about it. Now he simply sat, thinking, assessing Shandaha’s reluctance to accompany him on the pain- wracked journey to the church. His host did not seem to relish pain and Hsi Wei had provided more than enough of that.
“A lesson accompanied with pain is a lesson never to be forgotten.”
His personal credo founded on years of experience and primitive teaching, backed by the generous use of the thin cane looped to his wrist. One he used to emphasize every facet of the information he regarded as essential to the art of personal survival.
“Learn the major areas of maximum sensitivity to physical attack.” A pause as the tip of the cane touched points on an anatomical chart. “The genitals, the throat, the larynx, the eyes, the ears. Boned structures such as the jaw, the temple, the cheek, the neck. Repeat!” The lash of the cane as he was obeyed. “Again! Again!”
Anatomy, circulation, the placement of nerves that, when correctly struck, would result in pain and temporary paralysis. Practice bouts with one student set against another, then against a pair, a trio, more. All to find the art of determining how and if to attack, when, which to strike first.
“In any unavoidable conflict the basic rule is to strike first, fast, and furiously.” The sting of the cane. “Repeat! Repeat!”
Tuition, practice, learning which opened doors he had barely known existed. There were more ways than one to resolve a situation. More subtle methods than direct attacks. Actual physical conflict was to be avoided whenever possible but, when by necessity used, to be short, sharp and final. A dead opponent was harmless, an injured one was not. Mercy was a weakness and warnings a waste of time. Things Dumarest had painfully learned together with the wisdom of masking his actions from official scrutiny.
“You are dwelling on the past,” said Shandaha. “I am not entertained.”
“Join me.”
“I think not.”
“Then I’ll leave.” Dumarest rose, ignoring his wine, remembering the lesson Hsi Wei had beaten into him; never to offer unnecessary offence. “With your permission, naturally.” He added, “I’d appreciate guidance to find the doctor.”
Chagal was in a room fashioned like a conservatory with sheets of crystal curved to form a gleaming structure of light and brightness containing delicately scented air. One furnished with the luxury that seemed normal to Shandaha’s domain. A low table before the doctor held warmed pots of tisane, an assortment of viands wrapped in delicate pastry, wine, goblets, bowls of fruits and trays of succulent dainties. Among them a chessboard seemed an incongruity.
Dumarest looked at the feast, the board with its scattered pieces. “Was this here when you came?” Then, as the doctor nodded, “You’ve had company. Delise?”
“Yes.” Chagal rubbed his cheeks. His face seemed smoother, younger than when Dumarest had seen him last. “She joined me in a game. I beat her but only just. The next time it could be the other way around.” He gestured at the table. “If you’re hungry help yourself.”
“I’m not hungry and I’ve had enough wine. Let’s talk about you. How are you keeping?”
“Fine.” Chagal was curt. He added, “How did you think I’d been keeping? You didn’t bother to find out.”
“I’ve been busy. You?”
“No. Shandaha seems to have lost interest in me. I’ve eaten, drunk, slept and did a few things and-”
“Played chess,” interrupted Dumarest. “I know. You told me. With Delise. How are you getting on?”
“Fine.”
“Let’s start again, doctor. If you think I’ve been avoiding you I’m sorry. I haven’t. I’ve been busy-our host has been having his fun. How long did it take for him to finish with you?” He waited then said, “Not long, I guess. You’ve been too close to suffering and pain. Shandaha doesn’t like such things when they come too close. Among other things I’m wondering what else he doesn’t like. Delise, perhaps?”
“They seem to get on together.”
“And you? With her? Has she come visiting when you’ve been taking your rest?” Then, as Chagal again made no answer, Dumarest snarled in impatient fury, “Snap out of it, man! I’m talking about our survival. Are you just going to roll over because you’ve found a charming companion to share your bed?”
“Are you?”
“With Nada? No. I figure that both she and Delise are bribes. Comforts to keep our minds off the real question. And I’m not too sure about you. You’re looking younger, fitter, like a pampered pet. You could be grateful to Shandaha for that. Willing to tell him everything we talk about. Has Delise persuaded you to do that?”
