Melome

questions?'

'One.' It was time to get to the point; the gesture had held connotations of dismissal and he was tired of the fencing. Dumarest said, flatly, 'How much for Melome?'

'So we come to it-the girl.'

'As you've known all along. I want her.'

'So it would seem.' Shakira's thin lips formed a smile. 'Enough to break into my circus, hurt one of my people, threaten another, kill a third-'

'In self-defense.'

'True, and Ruval deserved all that happened to him. But the rest?'

'I came for Melome.'

'You say that as if it gives you justification for all you did,' mused Shakira. 'Had you forgotten she is mine?'

'No.'

'But it didn't matter, is that it? You would have willingly stolen the girl.'

'I wanted what I had paid for. A deal had been arranged and money paid in advance as a token of good faith.'

'Fifty kobolds,' agreed Shakira. 'It was that which decided my agent to act. Too often things of value are lost because of delay and he knew I would not be gentle had he failed. Kalama cheated you. Be thankful it was not for more.'

'To hell with the money!' Dumarest fought to remain calm. He found it hard. The air held the traces of too many distant worlds, Shakira himself too like a serpent in his subtle deviations.

A man enjoying the situation. Yet here he was the master and he had the girl. 'How much for Melome?'

'Would you be willing to pay a hundred thousand kobolds?' Shakira lifted his hands as Dumarest made no answer. 'A ridiculous sum, I agree, but you don't really want to buy the girl. Think of the problems owning her would create. Let us decide on a price, then, for your original agreement.'

'That was done.'

'But I own the girl now and my values are not the same as Kalama's. There are only two things you could give me which I don't already own. One is your skill. The other is the knowledge you carry in your brain. The skill can be purchased but the knowledge must be freely given.' Shakira's voice hardened a little. 'Why do want to use the girl?'

'You know what she does.'

'Of course, but few willingly seek the terror she induces. Some men will do it once for an act of bravado but rarely twice. Yet you wanted more and more of her song. The action of a desperate man or a stupid one as was your later pursuit. I do not think you to be stupid and am curious as to why you are so desperate. So willing to risk your life to get the girl.'

'There is something I want and she can help me to find it.' It was not enough and Dumarest knew it. Bluntly he added more. 'She can help me find my way home to Earth.'

'Earth?' A veil filmed Shakira's eyes. 'You believe in legends?'

'Earth is no legend.'

'And you claim it as your home world. I find that interesting. We must discuss it in greater detail.' Shakira rose from his chair. He was taller than Dumarest had estimated, the golden arabesque of his blouse continued over the pants of matching color, the garments blending so that he seemed to be a creature of lavender laced with gold. 'But later. Now we must settle the question of price.'

'I offer to share my knowledge.'

'Which will be valuable, true, but it isn't enough. You could learn nothing and how would I profit? I want your skill. You must agree to work for me.' Shakira added, 'If you want the girl, my friend, you have no choice.'

CHAPTER SIX

Melome had changed. The waif of the market with the dirt and thinness and ghastly pallor had gone as had the ragged clothing, the belt holding the reeled spools, the lank straggle of the hair. Instead Dumarest looked at a pubescent girl dressed in a neatly belted gown, the long hair braided and set in shimmering coils, the nails trimmed and polished. When she smiled she held the glow of inner health.

A miracle wrought with expensive and intensive therapy, but some of the earlier traces remained; the almost luminous waxen appearance of the skin, the bruised and haunted eyes. Windows which held secrets, unchanging as she lifted her hands, a strand of woven metal between them, as bright and coldly gleaming as her hair.

'Touch it,' said Shakira. 'Sit and hold the metal.'

The contact which would open the door to the past.

Dumarest sat, cross-legged, the metal pliant and cool in his hands. The strand was long, reaching in a double line halfway across the chamber to where Melome now stood against a wall. At Shakira's touch an instrument came to life filling the air with the wail of pipes and the throb of a drum.

Music recorded, refined, filling the room with a relentless pulsing. Closing around Dumarest, enfolding him in a web of silence broken only by the throbbing beat, the nerve-scratching wail, rising, demanding-

The ship!

He must concentrate on the ship. The cabin. The precious book.

The book!

Melome began to sing.

Sound which dominated, directed, engrossed-and became a scream of rage.

'You bastard! You've been stealing again!'

'No!' Dumarest cringed, backing away, sick with the terror which knotted his stomach. Vomiting the scrap of food he'd taken from the pot, the first in two days. 'No! Please, no!'

The lash of a belt and pain to add to his fear. Another and the heavy buckle tore at flesh, breaking the skin, sending blood to mingle with the dirt coating his buttocks and legs. The single garment he wore ripped as a hand snatched at his shoulder, the belt lashing at his nakedness, beating him down to the tamped dirt of the floor, sending him in a fetal huddle.

A child of eight years terrified for his life.

'Bastard!' The man, drunk, gloated in his sadistic pleasure. 'You no-good bastard! Eat without asking my permission, eh? Stuffing your guts without getting my say-so. I'll teach you. By, God, I'll teach you!'

With the belt, his hands, boots, charred sticks from the fire. Augmenting the hell of normal existence into a dimension of screaming terror. Standing now, beating, beating, beating until his arm grew tired. Staggering away at last to gulp raw liquor from a bottle, spitting a mouthful into the fire. In the sudden flame his shadow loomed against a wall like a grotesque creature from nightmare.

One which blurred to become a girl with braided, silver hair.

'Earl?' Shakira was at his side. 'Here.'

The wine was rich, pungent, held in a goblet of hammered brass. A warmth which eased his throat and comforted his stomach. Dumarest swallowed it all; if Shakira intended harm he'd had time enough to have done it by now.

Sitting, he looked at the metallic strand, now lying in a loop before him. The goblet held decorations of men and beasts chasing each other in an eternal circle. The carpet was woven from fine materials in a blend of barred and chevron designs. The light came from an overhead dome as if from a luminous pearl.

Things noted with a strange detachment while, deep inside of him, terror remained.

Keil, the man had been Keil, one of a succession who had governed his formative years. Beasts shaped like men lacking any generosity, charity or understanding. Using him for the labor he could provide. Working him like an animal as they worked their women. Lusting in violence and the dealing of pain.

'Earl?' Shakira again, his face close, eyes bright and questing. 'Tell me, quickly before the impression fades. Was it stronger than before?'

Too strong-such terror should remain buried.

'Her talent is unimpaired.' Shakira beamed at Dumarest's nod. 'I had fears it might have diminished. Too often sensitives seem only to work their best when subjected to physical hardship but this does not seem to be the case