E.C Tubb
Melome
(Dumarest of Terra – 28)
CHAPTER ONE
Dumarest heard the scream of a tortured child and turned, eyes searching, relaxing as it came again and he recognized the source. A hundred yards to his right, raised high above the decorated surface of the boulevard, a painted crone lolled on a gilded throne standing on a platform of massive timbers supported by a dozen stalwarts. They, in turn, stood on another platform, larger, borne by twice their number. Overseers lashed them on with whips which left carmine streaks on naked, sweating flesh.
A show as false as the screams; a mature beauty lay beneath the masking paint and the massive timbers were thin cladding over buoyant rafts. Props for the actors demonstrating their skills; the grimaces, the fatigue, the grunts of pain. The whips were thin tubes containing dye but the men wielding them were clever as was the woman with her screams.
She shrieked again as Dumarest watched, the cry now accompanied by the clash of beaten metal, the harsh tintinnabulation prolonged by the chime of tiny bells. A score of girls ran from the shelter of the lower platform, weaving among the spectators, one coming to a halt before Dumarest.
'My lord-do I please you?' She was young, lithe, radiating unabashed femininity. Bells circled her ankles and wrists, more caressing the column of her throat, the narrow cincture of her waist. The long skirt, slit to the hip, displayed naked, slender legs, the hint of unclothed loins. Paint accentuated the luster of her eyes, the soft fullness of her lips. Curled hair the color of gold held the glint of metal and gems. 'My lord?'
A girl demanding his attention as the screams of the crone had caught it. The girl smiled as he nodded, chiming as she moved, the bound of unfettered breasts an enticing invitation.
'You are gracious, my lord.' Her eyes were frank in their appraisal. 'It would pleasure me to serve you. At the circus of Chen Wei. A spectacle of marvels culled from a thousand worlds. Things which will amaze you, amuse you, puzzle you, fill you with rapture. A feast for the eye and ear and mind and one not to be missed. The circus of Chen Wei. And, if you should be in a mind for dalliance-' Her face became lewd with unspoken promise. 'My name is Helga. Ask for Helga.'
A smile and she was gone leaving nothing but the scent of perfume and the fading tinkle of bells. Things which belonged on Baatz, and Dumarest took a deep breath as he looked at the sky, the hills, the boulevard on which he stood. It ran arrow-straight from the landing field to the market, the surface tessellated in abstract designs, curlicues, broken rainbows. Triple-tiered buildings edged the wide road, dwellings, shops, businesses, the verandas gaudy with bright hangings, the roofs with bloated lanterns. On the flanking hills the mansions of the rich and influential rested like a scatter of gems.
A good world, one of balm, of warmth and gentle breezes, of golden sunlight and rounded hills. A place of tranquility; the exudations of massed vegetation filling the air with subtle vapors which took the edge off violence and aggression and induced a tolerant lethargy.
A danger he recognized but could do nothing about and it was good to relax, to enjoy the sun, to become one with the crowd. To feel wide expanses around him instead of the cramping confines of a hull. And Baatz, with its transient population, was as good a place as any for him to be.
But caution remained and before he moved on, Dumarest made sure that none had lingered for no apparent reason, that he wasn't the object of covert interest. All seemed innocuous, most had followed the spectacle advertising the circus, others were intent on their own affairs, the rest headed toward the market, the sights, sounds and smells it contained.
'My lord!' A woman dressed in the barbaric apparel of a warrior-amazon gestured with an imperious arm. 'Fine weaves from Kirek, strands as tough as steel and as soft as silk-nothing can beat spider-webs for utility. I have fifteen bales of it-you offer?'
A scowl marred the mannish face as Dumarest moved on, the voice yielding to another.
'High quality grain proof against bacterial molds and virus infestation. Strains from the biolabs of Lengue and Femarre. Fifteen kobolds a measure. Buy! Buy! Buy!'
A man stepped forward, another catching at his arm.
'Wait, Krasse. It could be cheaper deeper in the market.'
'And less trustworthy. I've dealt with Chamile before and I don't trust you among the stalls. Best to buy here and now and get back to the farm before you've spent all we have.'
Brothers or partners-they fell behind as Dumarest moved on. Booths and stalls stretched on all sides, some bearing a profusion of items, some only a few. Many held examples of goods housed in the holds of the vessels which had carried them. Others showed goods yet to arrive or dealt in future harvests, the samples on display examples of earlier yields. Stalls bearing gems of price were set next to those heaped with the cheap glitter of rubbish.
Businessmen, traders, thieves, entrepreneurs-the market of Baatz catered to all.
The jangle of a bell and the echo of a gong announced an operation in progress and Dumarest halted at the booth of a transient healer. The man was old, his robe not as spotless as it could have been, but he was deft and practice had augmented his skill. The patient was seated, eyes wide, the milky orbs already anesthetized. A woman in middle age attended by a young girl who watched with horror as the needle was applied. Within seconds it had been done, the cataracts removed and the eyes bandaged. The assistant had been generous with the prophylactic spray.
'Here, my dear.' The healer handed the girl a phial. 'All done and nothing to worry about. Give your mother this draught as soon as you get her home.'
A strong sedative with a touch of slowtime; the woman would sleep while her accelerated metabolism speeded the healing process. She would wake rested, hungry-and cured.
Another booth housed a dentist, another a dealer in charms, yet another a man who promised a cure for all the afflictions of the heart.
A fortune teller sat staring into a bowl of sand, the fine grains spurting in a random pattern of plumes.
A man swallowed flame.
A boy lay screaming on the ground, held by four men while, over his naked chest crawled the insect whose bite would cure him of the epilepsy which controlled him.
'Earl!' Evan Luftman waved from where he stood chewing at a mouthful of meat. 'Enjoying the sights?'
'Just looking around.'
'Baatz holds everything a man could need.' Luftman wiped his mouth and looked at the skewer he held. On it fragments of meat lay beside succulent vegetables, the whole flavored with spice. 'Good food, amiable women, diversions of all kinds. Going to the circus?'
'Maybe.'
'They say it's good. Something special.' Luftman licked at his skewer. 'If those girls are anything to go by they weren't lying.'
Dumarest made no comment. Luftman had been a fellow passenger on the journey to Baatz. They'd killed time over the card table and the man had talked more than he had wanted to listen. A roving entrepreneur dealing in what came to hand. A man past middle age with a face creased and blotched by the passage of time and dissipation. The meeting was one he could have done without.
'I've finished my business,' said Luftman. 'A quick profit, small but a man can't be too greedy. Now I'm looking for a couple of healers willing to travel to Jardis. They have a lot of eye trouble in the mines and it costs money to ship in regular doctors. Working on a profit-sharing basis I figure three months should make us all a comfortable
