Dumarest had become a familiar part of life.
As had the screams of adulation, the acid comments of the connoisseurs, the wanton displays of passion, the invitations to join in combat in the arena of the bedroom. To match other foes in the shape of jaded women, dissolute men, using the weapons of the body instead of ones of edged and pointed steel.
Things he dismissed as he did the piercing stare of the gamblers, the distracting shrieks and calculated movements of those wanting him to lose. To fall with blood streaming across his torso. Another wound to add to the rest. A scar to further enhance his status and to advertise his profession.
Dangers he avoided as he dodged the blade which, in this bout, had yet to touch him. Scarlet shone on the flesh of his opponent, a pair of ruby slashes marring his chest. The permitted area in this particular form of combat. The upper part of the body from the shoulders to the waist, the chest, back and sides. A hit on the arms would bring instant disqualification. The neck, face and legs the same. Those areas were reserved for the more lethal bouts ending in crippling injuries or death.
But though he had hit and scored twice the third cut, if his opponent could deliver it, would cost Dumarest the prize and maybe his life. Certainly it would not please Sardia who had bet heavily on his victory.
He moved, weaving, metal glinting in his right hand. Ten inches of steel, razor-edged and with a vicious point, a handle and a simple guard to protect the fingers. His opponent moved also, his knife blurred in a sudden slam, a feint Dumarest had anticipated and he backed, fast, metal ringing as the blades met. Music the crowd greeted with cheers and ribald comments.
Things both men ignored. Dumarest’s opponent was older, heavier, sweat mingling with the oil and blood coating his torso. His breathing was too fast, his eyes too wild. A single hit would win him the prize and the money a satisfied crowd would throw into the arena. His choice of the offers of sexual dalliance sure to follow.
Too much to lose and the reason for the scoring system used to determine the winner of a third-blood combat. Mounting desperation would lead to a greater show of blood and an equal determination would lengthen the contest.
Sardia had driven home the dangers and Dumarest had taken them to heart. Now, as they circled each other, each hungry for the final blow, he restrained his impulse to attack in turn. To repeat a manoeuvre he had used twice with success but which any fighter worthy of his salt would recognise and be prepared for. Instead he feinted, swung to one side, then spun with all the speed he could summon to dart within the other’s guard, his blade an extension of his arm, the tip drawing blood.
A shallow cut but it was enough. Enough to make him the winner, to receive the plaudits of the crowd, the items of worth they had thrown on the floor of the arena. He smiled as he refused other proffered gifts but was careful to cause no hurt or resentment. Such gifts were a double-edged sword and tantamount to self-destruction. Any fighter, especially the young, if accepting them could fall victim to the jealously of the rejected. He certainly would fall prey to the inevitable dissipation, the sycophancy of false friends, the leeching of his stamina and strength.
When a fighter began to believe himself invulnerable he was as good as dead.
“Earl!” A woman stepped towards him as he headed toward the showers. “My congratulations. You fought well. Your promoter should be proud of you.”
“I hope she is.” Dumarest recognised Yanya Delletare. Plump, soft, rounded, her age masked by the heavy cosmetics she wore. Rich scents enveloped her in a curtain of perfume. Politely he added, “I trust you enjoyed the entertainment, my Lady.”
“Need you ask?” Her expression changed a little as her eyes roved over the nudity of his body. “Youth, strength, beauty-what woman could hope for more? But I find it a little odd that the lady Sardia Del Marthe was not present to witness your success. Her success too,” she pointed out. “As you fought on her behalf.”
“She is busy on other matters, my Lady.”
“Which could concern you, my friend.” Her hand reached out to touch his shoulder, the fingers lingering on his flesh. “I hope I may call you that, Earl. Dare I confess that I have a touch of envy when I see you and Sardia together?”
At impromptu dinners Sardia had thrown for a few friends and acquaintances. At other times when, together, they had visited the markets and outdoor entertainments. Casual things, light-hearted gatherings, the talk mostly gossip and mild speculation. A pleasant way to pass the time. Now, he realised, more than it seemed.
He responded to the warning prickle of danger.
“My lady!” His smile was warm, genuine. “You are more than gracious. You grant me too much honour.”
“Earl?” Her fingers tightened before releasing their grip and falling to her side. “I don’t understand. Honor?”
“To have taken me into your confidence.” He closed the space between them and rested his lips against her ear. “You mentioned the Lady Sardia,” he reminded, “and expressed some concern as to my welfare. You also confided in me as to the odd feeling you experience at times. That is an expression of trust. I will not betray it, my Lady. I promise you that.”
A promise easy to keep but one mentioned as bait to gain further information. A game he was learning to play but she was an expert in the field of dalliance and deception.
It was her turn to move, backing so as to restore the space between them, breaking the intimacy it had provided.
“We have lingered long enough, my friend.” Again she touched his naked flesh, the impact turning into a caress, one immediately ended. “I just wanted to give you a hint. The Lady Sardia has many friends and many enterprises. Many investments, also. You are one of them. She could be thinking of making changes. One of them could be to negotiate your sale. If it should come to that-”
“I will remember you, my Lady.”
Her smile widened into an unspoken invitation, one echoed by the subtle message of her eyes.
“Yes, Earl. Be sure you do that.” Again she touched his naked torso. “And please don’t keep me waiting too long.”
An odd encounter and one he tried to unravel as he stood beneath the cleansing shower. Her interest in him was plain but he sensed there was more to it than an invitation to a sexual adventure. The poaching of prodigies was not unknown and he had gained a good reputation beneath Sardia’s tutelage. Yanya could be envious of their relationship both personal and professional and be attempting to take over. Her hint as to the possibility of him being sold to another promoter could have been a warning as well as an incentive. One buttressed by her strong hint of support should he need it.
The spray of water changed to a blast of heated air. Dried, dressed, Dumarest headed to the office to collect his prize and the gifts showered by his supporters. Outside the arena he paused still thinking of the encounter.
It was true that Sardia knew many people. True, also, that in a sense he was her property and would be until he had cleared his debt. She could be thinking of utilising her assets as Yanya had suggested and would be within her rights to do so. He touched the money belt strapped beneath his waist and hidden by his jacket. He had cash, not enough to settle his debt, but as a down payment should Sardia agree. If they were to part he wanted to remain her friend.
Yanya’s hint had illustrated the need to talk to her in order to clear the air.
He stepped towards her building taking a path which wound through a market lined with stalls, raucous with a medley of voices as the vendors lauded their wares. The stalls widened yielding to a row of lockable booths, open now, a variety of goods on display.
Dumarest halted, attracted by swathes of vivid hues from colored fabrics, gowns, veils scarves, bolts of silks, sashes, fabrics of a dozen kinds to make a hundred garments of an attractive nature. He was young and was tempted but Sardia had more experience and better taste and would not take kindly to such garish and flamboyant material.
He moved on, ignoring the stands displaying perfumes, jewellery, confectionery and other assorted items most girls would have found desirable. But nothing suitable as a gift.
He halted again as an elderly man standing on a low platform lifted both hand and voice.
“A moment!” he yelled. “Give me a moment.”
A grafter, collecting a crowd, about to make his pitch.
He waved his hand which held a knife, the blade glittering in the strong light of the sun. He wore garments more suited to a hunter than an inhabitant of a city. He was not alone. To one side reared a barrier of wood higher
