and Dren Ford.'
A trap and she had fallen into it. Now it was his word against hers and the crowd was on his side. Ford's aunt edged forward, steel glimmering as she lifted the dagger from its sheath. Others, seeing the gesture, rumbled their approval.
'Were you caught?' mused Toibin. 'Questioned? Did you buy your life? Have you returned with accusations so as to minimize your guilt? Is there none to challenge your assertions?'
'I challenge them!' The woman with the dagger lifted it high. 'If she's lying I'll cut her guts out! Well, bitch? Shall we put it to the test?'
The rough justice of the barbarian in which might equaled right. It was a part of Zehava's culture and she was prepared to face it. Dumarest saw the determined set of her jaw, the tension of arms and shoulders, the hand which fell to her belt, the knife it carried. Guns were too impersonal, too dangerous to use in a crowd even if tradition wasn't against them. She would fight and she would die. She had drunk too deeply and lacked the savage hate of the other woman.
Dumarest said loudly, 'Zehava didn't lie. I was there. I know.'
'You were with her?!' Toibin reared back a little as afraid of contamination. A theatrical gesture which caused the yellow light to shimmer on his clothing, the dark mass of his hair. 'On the field? In the warehouse?'
'I was there but she wasn't with me then. A stone damned near smashed her skull. I ran to tell you she was hurt but couldn't get close. By the time I'd made it into the warehouse you were getting ready to leave. God knows why you had nothing to be afraid of.'
Dumarest paused for effect, looking at Toibin, the assembled crowd.
Deliberately he said, 'You had destroyed the towers, killed the guards, blown open the warehouse and hit the town. You had the inhabitants at your mercy and they knew it. Even if they had wanted to resist, it would have taken too long to assemble men and find missiles, get them into place, aim and fire them and do it all without being spotted. You had time to do anything you wanted. Instead you ran like a scared rat. You didn't even check what you'd taken. And you left Dren Ford to die.'
The woman said, quickly, 'Did you see it?'
'No.' A necessary lie. Dumarest compounded it with another. 'I heard he put up a good fight. Two men died before they shot him down.'
'I knew it had to be like that.' The blade she'd drawn vanished into its sheath. 'Dren had guts and was no petty thief. His captain should have known that.'
Toibin snapped, harshly, 'Watch your mouth, woman!'
'My nephew -'
'Is dead. Had he done as he should he would be with us now. But he died bravely – if you choose to believe a stranger.' Toibin lifted his hand to point at Dumarest as he raised his voice. 'Who is he? What is he doing here? A man who claims to have penetrated my guards, to have remained undetected in the warehouse, to be close enough to the authorities to know what happened to Dren Ford? Can you believe him? Can you trust him? Take his word against mine?'
A clever man acting a part and doing it well. No man could have achieved Toibin's status by the use of brawn alone. Within the rounded skull rested a shrewd and calculating intelligence. One cunning enough to have picked the time and place for his confrontation with Zehava and her discontent. Now he was appealing to the loyalty of the crowd. A tried and trusted member of the community setting himself against a stranger. There could be no doubt as to the outcome.
Dumarest said, 'Are you calling me a liar?'
'You?' Toibin shrugged. 'I call you nothing for that is what you are. A toy hired to satisfy a harlot's lust.'
'You bastard!' Zehava rose, quivering with anger. Snatching Dumarest's goblet she lifted it to hurl its contents into Toibin's face. 'No one calls me that!'
Dumarest lunged towards her, hands extended, fingers striking her wrist to send a shower of wine spraying to one side. Rage had blinded her to danger. On Kaldar no distinction was made between the sexes.
'Sit.' He felt her tremble beneath his hands as he forced her back into her chair. 'Don't play into his hands. He's baiting you. Give him an excuse and he'll kill you.'
'How touching.' Toibin rocked back on his heels. 'See how he comforts her. He does it well. A pity he is a liar. A betrayer. A coward. Something less than a man.'
Dumarest looked at the tall figure limned in the yellow light, knowing that what was to come, seeing no way to avoid it.
'Meaning?'
'A man would fight.'
'On equal terms? As one of the Kaldari?'
Zehava settled the matter. 'He is my man. He fights for me. Who denies my right?'
Starlight illuminated the plaza, sheening the flags with silver luminescence, frosting the buildings, the trees, the ornamental shrubs. Light augmented by lanterns carried from the tavern and swung aloft to cast their shifting patches of jeweled hues over the scene. One reminiscent of Arpagus, the casino which was its pride, but here the stakes would be the highest a man could wager.
'Be careful, Earl.' Zehava whispered tensely in his ear. 'Toibin is a skilled and dirty fighter. Don't underestimate him. If he wins we lose all we own.'
To the victor the spoils and the penalty she would pay for having equaled his status. Dumarest had expected nothing less but if he was defeated Zehava would only lose her wealth. He would lose his life.
He inhaled slowly, deeply, forcing himself to relax as he had done so often before. Then there had been a roped ring, brilliant overhead lights, a sea of faces set in rising tiers. The familiar setting of any arena which men fought with naked steel, cutting, stabbing, slicing, maiming. Killing for the sake of money and a transient glory. The memory of it fogged the starlight, turned the glowing lamplight into the semblance of blood, of gold, the febrile gleam of eyes as women bared their breasts and screamed invitations to their bed and body.
That madness would be absent here as would be those who hung around the preparation rooms; the touts, perverts, gamblers, assessors of odds. The fixers with their drugged wine. The liars with their useless pills and potions. The ghouls who gloated over slashed and maimed bodies. Vampires who thrilled at the sight of blood and necrophiliacs who bribed the attendants to let them have their way with the helpless dead. But the faces would be the same. A ring of them, avid, bestial, hungry for the spectacle to come.
'Dumarest!' Toibin called from where he stood at the far end of the circle. 'Your customs need not be ours. If you feel the want of religious consolation I permit you to send for a monk.'
Mockery which brought a laugh from the crowd, but not all of them. The aunt of Ford remained silent and so did others with her. Not many but enough to form a small knot in the assembly. Dumarest marked its position as he marked the glow of the lanterns, the shadows of the trees. Among them, like ghosts, he saw the dim shape of ganni as they watched events beyond their comprehension.
'Well?' Toibin flaunted his humor. 'Do you wish to take advantage of my offer?'
'Yes,' said Dumarest. 'I would like to see a monk.' Pausing he added, 'A week from today.'
Again came the laughter. True barbarians they could appreciate the jest. They fell silent as the two men closed for combat.
Both were stripped to the waist and both carried naked steel. The knives were not a match as each favored his own. Dumarest's was nine inches of honed and polished metal, the guard scarred, the hilt worn, the rounded pommel a balance for the edged and pointed blade. A tool designed for survival. The weapon carried by Toibin was one fashioned to kill. A slender triangle, ten inches long, double-edged, viciously pointed. The guard was too big, the pommel too large as if intended for use as a club.
'Even money on the captain.' The voice came from the back of the crowd. 'Fives on the stranger. Why hesitate? A gamble adds spice to blood.'
Dumarest slowed as Toibin came nearer. As their knives were different so was the stance they adopted. Habit guided Dumarest into that used in the arena. He stood with legs slightly parted, toes outward, feet firm on the ground, his body inclined a little towards his opponent. The knife was held like a sword, thumb to the blade, the edge inward and the point raised. A stance which enabled him to move quickly, to cut fore and background, to parry and to stab if desirable.
Toibin was accustomed to less formal combat. His left arm was folded across his chest to protect his heart,
