close to the ring. Enjoying the combat, the near misses, the cuts, the hits and scores, the deaths while comforted by the knowledge that he would remain unharmed.
Dumarest said, 'Make sure the odds are right. I'll stumble when entering the ring, look vague, act stupid. Easy meat to anyone who knows his stuff. I might even take a cut. Give me a couple of minutes to decide then make the bets.'
'You're good,' said Angado. 'You have to be. And fast, I know that. But I still don't like it.'
'Do your part and I'll do mine.'
'Yes, but-' Angado broke off as someone screamed from the medical bench. A hoarse, animal-like sound of sheer agony. 'God!'
The scream came again, the doctor's voice rising above it, harsh, commanding.
'Help me, someone! Hold this man still! Hold him, damn you!'
Angado gripped sweat-slimed shoulders, fighting the explosion of muscles as he forced them back on the bench as others gripped threshing arms and legs. The man was young, face contorted with pain, intestines bulging through the slit abdomen. Blueish, greasy coils stained with blood and lymph, one slashed to show a gaping mouth.
'Keep him still!' Air blasted as the doctor used a hypogun to drive anesthetic into the bloodstream directly through the skin. He'd aimed at the throat and the effect was immediate. As the patient slumped into merciful unconsciousness the doctor sewed the slashed intestine, coated it, sprayed it, thrust it and the others back into place. More sewing, spraying and sealing and the job was done. 'Next?'
'Will he live?' Angado lingered as a couple of porters carried the man away.
'He should.' The doctor was middle-aged, hard, coldly proficient. 'Thanks for your help. You running a contender?'
'Yes.'
'Tell him not to be heroic. It's better to drop and grandstand than to end up cut all to hell. Cheaper too.' The doctor raised his voice. 'Who's next?'
A man with a slashed face, an eye gone, the nose and lips slit. He was followed by another clutching at the ripped fabric of his shorts, thick streams of blood running between his fingers and staining his thighs. A third had a small hole on his torso and coughed and spat blood from a punctured lung.
A winner-in the clash and flurry of edged and pointed steel the one who stayed longest on his feet gained the prize. But even winners could be hurt.
Angado moved back to Dumarest, his facade cracking, sweat dewing his face. The smells were making him gag and the cold indifference of others to pain made him feel alien and vulnerable. In this madness Dumarest was a consolation. A rock of security.
One who seemed asleep.
He leaned back against the wall, muscles relaxed, eyes closed, his breathing deep and even. A man devoid of tension, sitting easily, resting so as to conserve his energy. To Angado it seemed incredible, then he realized that Dumarest was not asleep at all but had deliberately thrown himself into a trance-like state of detachment. One which suited the pose he had adopted, that of a moronic intelligence unable to imagine the consequences of failure and willing to be guided by a sharper mind.
'It won't be long now.' The promoter paused, taking time during the interval to check on the next events. Known contenders were safe enough but ring-fodder sometimes grew apprehensive and needed encouragement. 'I've picked an easy one-old, slow, too gentle for his own good. Abo hates to see a man hurt. A fault, but one in your favor.' He glanced at Dumarest. 'He need anything? A pill, maybe?'
'I can handle it.'
'See that you do.' The promoter jerked his head as a roar came from the crowd. Naked women, fighting with clubs, had given rise to yelled appreciation. 'Better get him ready.'
He bustled away and Dumarest rose, stretching. As always he felt the tension, the anticipation which crawled over his skin like multi-legged insects. Warnings of danger which even the shower could not wash away. Cleaned, oiled to prevent a grasping hand gaining a hold, he donned shorts and reached for his knife.
'Not that one!' An attendant called from where he stood before the passage leading to the ring. 'We provide the weapons. Hurry up if you're ready!'
Sound exploded from the crowd as they reached the passage, a shrill, yammering roar which caused the partition to quiver.
'That was a killing!' The attendant sucked in his cheeks. 'The crowd always like to see a man go down. Right. You're next!'
'The money.' Angado was insistent. 'I get paid or he doesn't show.'
'It's here.' The attendant handed over the cash. 'Happy now?' He didn't bother to hide his contempt. 'Damned leech!' Then, to Dumarest, 'Right, friend. Off you go.'
To the head of the passage, the open space, the watching crowd, the ring, the man who waited to kill him.
* * *
Dumarest tripped as he entered the auditorium, clumsy as he climbed into the ring to stand beneath the glare of overhead lights, the knife they had given him hanging loosely in his hand. One an inch longer than his own, not as well honed, not as well balanced, but the ten inches of edged and pointed metal could do its job. It glittered as it caught and reflected the light, a flash which caught the eye and attention of a woman in the third row. One aging beneath her paint, her costume designed to accentuate her charms. The jewels she wore were no harder than her eyes.
'That man,' she said. 'What do you know about him?'
'Nothing.' Her companion was indifferent. 'Just fodder for the ring. Forget him.'
A thing not easy for her to do. Narrowly she watched as Dumarest moved, noting his build, the scars, the lean suppleness of his body. A man who was more than he seemed to be and her own experience doubted his artifice. Too often she had acted the innocent in order to gain an advantage and such maneuvers were not restricted to women.
'A thousand,' she said. 'I want to back him for a thousand.'
'To win?'
'Please don't be tiresome. Just do as I ask.'
'No.' He was definite. 'It would be a waste of money. Abo isn't due to go down yet. Another few bouts and then, when his reputation is at its peak, the odds will be right for a killing.'
'You could make one now. That man will win.'
'He won't be given the chance.' The man ended all argument. 'Here's Abo now.'
He bounced into the ring, the idol of the crowd, a winner who seemed set to go on winning. He smiled with a flash of white teeth, brown skin oiled, glistening beneath the lights.
The tight mat of his hair was thick against his skull, the arms long, corded with muscle. He moved like a cat, restless, poised and balanced on the balls of his feet. An animal, fast, quick, dangerous, he basked in the shouted adulation of women, their screamed invitations.
Promises of their beds and bodies if he would only kill… kill… kill!
And kill he would despite the rules which stated that a man down should be left alone and given the chance to yield.
'Attention!' The voice over the speakers was flat, emotionless. 'A fight to the finish between the defender Abo and the challenger Earl. To your corners.' A pause during which tension mounted. 'Ready?' Another long, dragging wait then, like a cracking whip, 'Go!'
And the third man entered the ring.
He was always there, always waiting, an invisible shape dressed in sere habiliments with bony hands ready to collect his due. Death who could never be avoided, now present by invitation.
A presence Dumarest ignored as he did the crowd, the lights, the ring itself. They blurred into a background framing the object of his concentration. The tall, lithe, man before him. One armed with a knife. One intending to kill.
