The food was poor, as cheap as they could find, as everything they had eaten since leaving Lowtown had been cheap. As had the wine, the accommodation, yet still the money dwindled away. Cost was relative; what would keep a man a week in Lowtown would barely buy a snack on the plaza, yet to return to the sprawling slum was to commit suicide. Gengiz had had a brother who had sworn revenge.
Things Angado thought of as he spooned the redolent stew into his mouth. He wasn't hungry but Dumarest had insisted that he eat; good advice from a man who too often had never been sure when he would be able to eat again. A trait nurtured by poverty as were so many others and Angado wondered if he would ever be able to master the basic techniques of survival. Not the ability to maintain life in the wild, that was a matter of learning how to best use available resources, but to master this new and frightening environment. How would he have managed without Dumarest? His money would have been squandered, thrown away on gaudy trifles, on food which gave bulk but little nourishment, on high-priced comfort which, compared to his normal life style, would have been hardship.
It would have been better to have died as Perotto had intended. Perotto! At the thought his hand tightened on the spoon.
Dumarest, watching, said, 'Relax. He can wait.'
'Can you read my mind?'
Just his hands, his face, the lack of focus in his eyes. Signals he had learned to read when facing gamblers in the salons of a hundred ships. As he had learned to read other signals, more important, those worn by men intent on taking his life.
Tables or the arena. Money or blood. It was all the same.
Neary, the captain of the
To Dumarest he said, 'I've been expecting you. Vargas said you might be along. Got the money?'
'We've money.'
'Then sit. Have some wine. A cake.' The captain hammered on the table and snapped at the girl who answered the summons. 'Bring wine, girl. A flagon of your best for me and my friends.' He looked at Dumarest. 'He'll pay.'
'Like hell he-' Angado fell silent as Dumarest gripped his arm.
'He'll what?' Neary had caught the objection. 'You don't want to buy the wine? Is that it?' His head thrust forward like that of a snake. 'Well?'
'I meant that I'll pay, not him.' Angado swallowed his anger, realizing the mistake he'd made. One born of ignorance-never before had he needed to beg favors from a captain. 'Get the wine, girl. A big flagon and your best.'
It arrived as drums began to pulse and a dancer spun on the cleared space before the tables. One artificially young, paint masking her face, the lines meshing her eyes. Her body needed no artifice, mature, full-breasted, hips and belly rotating in an age-old enticement. The clash of metal merged with the sonorous beat of the drum; coins hanging from her costume more suspended from her ears, her throat, her wrists and ankles. Twinkling discs which caught and reflected the light so as to bathe her in shimmering brilliance.
As she froze to a sudden, abrupt immobility at the end of her performance those watching yelled their appreciation and flung coins at her feet.
'Nice,' said the captain, pouring the wine. 'But I've seen better. On Elmer and Hakim especially. They start them young on those worlds.' He drank and pursed his lips. 'Did Vargas tell you what our cargo is?'
Dumarest nodded.
'They'll need feeding,' said Neary. 'If they don't they'll go comatose and sporifulate. If that happens they won't be worth the atoms used to move them. Lost profit always makes me angry. Need I say more?'
'I get the picture.'
'And your friend?' Neary grunted as Angado nodded.
'Good enough. It'll cost you two hundred.' He paused for a moment then added, 'Each.'
'We don't have to dodge the gate.'
'So?'
'So we can afford to haggle.' Dumarest reached for the flagon and poured all goblets full. 'How many mikha are you carrying? A full load? I thought so. You know how much blood they're going to need? I see you do.' He lifted his goblet. 'Your health, Captain. Now let's start talking sense.'
The drum began to pulse again as they left the tavern, the deal made, the wine finished. Angado staggered a little as he stepped into the open air; with Dumarest doing the talking he'd had nothing to do but sit and drink. Now he halted and stared at the field.
'Why not go aboard now, Earl? Neary wouldn't mind.'
'We've things to do.' Dumarest led the way back into town. 'We need plasma,' he explained. 'It'll eke out our blood. Some frozen whole-blood too. We can get it at the infirmary.'
'Why couldn't Neary?'
'He'd have to pay,' said Dumarest, patiently. 'This way he gets paid.'
Together with free labor to handle the cargo. Angado smiled as he thought about it then lost the smile as he tripped and almost fell. Standing beside Dumarest, motionless, he heard a soft scrape of boots.
'Earl-'
'Be quiet!'
Dumarest had heard it too; the grate of soles on the grit deposited by the wind. It came again from a point behind and was echoed from a point ahead. The sounds of wayfarers making their way home or crewmen heading for the field and their vessels. But few roamed the streets of Yuanka at night and crewmen had no reason to creep through the darkness.
'Thieves,' whispered Angado. 'At least two of them. Waiting for us, Earl?'
If so they wouldn't wait for long and there would be more than two. Dumarest sniffed at the air and caught the scent of sweat and wine coupled with another, unmistakable odor.
The stink of Lowtown and, smelling it, he knew the danger they were in.
'Move.' He touched Angado on the arm. 'Slowly. Stagger and make noise. Pretend we're together. If anyone comes at you don't hesitate. Hit out and run.'
Dumarest crossed the street as Angado began to sing, the noise covering the rasp of his own boots. Shadows swallowed him as, staggering, the younger man lurched down the street talking as if to a companion.
'Good wine, eh? And that dancer was really good. I'd like to know her better. Have her dance just for me.' A pause then, 'Why not? My money's good. I bet she'd agree if I asked. Damn it, Earl, let's go back and put it to the test. Five hundred. I'll give her five hundred if-' A rattle as Angado walked into a garbage can. 'What the hell is that?' And then, louder, 'Who the hell are you?'
They came running from either end of the street, four shadows which solidified into men. Shapes which carried lengths of pipe which whistled as they cut through the air.
As the bottle Angado had snatched from the garbage whistled to land with a soggy impact on the pale oval of a face.
Dumarest was running before he hit the ground, his hand moving, the knife it held giving it heft and weight, the pommel smashing against a temple to send a second attacker down. A third followed, screaming, hands clutching his groin and Dumarest turned to hear the gong-sound of beaten metal as the pipe the remaining man held slammed against the garbage can Angado had lifted to use as a shield. One blow and then the pipe fell and the man was running to vanish in the darkness.
'Come on!' Dumarest ran, halting as a whistle broke the silence, turning to head back in the opposite direction. 'Quick!'
The four would not have been alone. Others would have been placed as lookouts, the whistle a signal from one of them. Hunting packs followed a pattern the same if animal or human. To surround, to run down, to attack, to kill and then to feed.
Dumarest slowed as he reached the mouth of an alley, speeded as he found it innocent, slowing again as he neared the end of the street. Another crossed it forming a junction restricting his choice to a right or left turn.
As the whistle came again from behind, louder, more imperious, he headed toward the left, Angado
