He followed her into the vehicle as Valaban sat upright, shaking his head. It rose as Zucco twitched, climbing as the man rolled over to sit with his face buried in his hands. Figures which dwindled as the craft soared into the sky.
'You did it!' Melome came to sit beside him. 'You got us away.'
'For now.'
'You had it planned,' she said. Her voice was excited; a youngster enjoying a treat. 'You left me asleep to act as bait and then, when they didn't expect it, you attacked. But what if there had been more?'
'Your song would have taken care of them.'
'A weapon,' she said. 'You used it as a weapon. But I wasn't in contact so-' She answered her own question. 'Zucco. You had him helpless. They would have had to obey.' She laughed with pure delight. 'Earl! You're so clever!'
Lucky would have been a better word. Had Zucco not given way to his spite, pandered to his sadism, the plan would have failed. As it could still fail.
Dumarest checked the controls. The raft was moving as it should in the direction indicated on the instrument but he sensed something was wrong. Why had Zucco come for them at all? Why had Valaban come with him? Any crew would have done and the circus had rafts and men to spare.
Questions lost in a sudden blast of pain.
As before it came without warning, a red tide of agony which doubled him over the controls and filled the universe with screaming torment. An eternity which lasted for seconds for when he could see again the raft was still on an even path, the ground below no different from what he remembered.
'Earl?' Melome was beside him. 'Is something wrong?'
'Can you handle a raft?' A stupid question; how could she have learned. 'Listen,' he said urgently, 'if anything happens. If I should fall sick, touch nothing. Understand? Stay away from the controls.'
'Yes, Earl, but-'
The rest was lost as again fire caressed him, acid burned every nerve, vises crushed bones and sinew. A man flayed and set unprotected in the sun. As if smeared with honey and covered with ants. Boiled, broken, seared-all the torments ever devised inflicted in a wave of utter torment.
'Earl!'
Sweating, he reached for the controls. The escape had been an illusion, the trap Shakira had constructed still held him fast. More pain would come and more after that until he was helpless to do more than breathe. And Melome was in the raft, frightened, liable to do anything in her panic.
'Please, Earl, talk to me. What's happening?' She caught at his arm as the raft began to turn. 'What are you doing? Where are we going?'
'To the circus,' he said. 'Back to Shakira.'
He sat in his office of a dozen scents; odors and tangs echoing strange and alien places. Again he wore lavender, this time ornamented with a tracery of black which gave the appearance of somber scales.
'Be seated, Earl.' A hand gestured toward the chair facing the wide desk behind which he sat. 'I'm sure there is no need to warn you of attempted violence. You have had time enough to realize its futility.'
Too much time. Hours during which he had been locked in a cubicle, given food, water, allowed to sleep after bathing. Time enough for Melome to be swallowed into the circus, for Zucco and Valaban to be rescued.
Dumarest said, 'Why did you send them to recover the girl?'
An unexpected question and Shakira paused before replying.
'Someone had to go and they were best suited.'
'An old man and a sadist?'
'Coincidence.'
'No,' said Dumarest. 'Not coincidence but intent. Did you want them both out of the way at the same time? Or did you hope I would do what you seem to lack the courage to do?'
'And that is?'
'Zucco is ambitious. He yearns for power and intends to get it. Resents having to take orders. You are old. Need I say more?'
'You imagine he thinks of killing me and taking over the circus?' Shakira lifted his hands in the sudden, upward gesture. As he lowered them he said, 'Do you really think it would be as simple as that? For a barbarian, perhaps, but we are not barbarians. There are considerations of finance, administration, loyalties, contracts. Those who work for the circus of Chen Wei would not be eager to follow a murderer. Would you?'
'If I had the choice, no.'
'You are bitter,' said Shakira. 'You are thinking of the pain. The agony you had to bear as the price of your disobedience. But why blame me for that? I warned you what could happen and you chose to disregard that warning. Or you thought it a bluff. A mistake-I never bluff. Those who know me would have told you that.'
'Reiza, for example?' Dumarest watched as Shakira made no movement. 'Krystyna? Valaban? Helga, even? Melome? Who knows you, Shakira? Who really knows you? Elagonya? Your tame sensitive. Does she know what you are?'
'Shrewd,' murmured Shakira. 'I sensed it from the first. Shrewd and cunning and with a primeval instinct for survival which operates on an intuitive level. Which is why I was glad when you agreed to work for me.'
'Work,' said Dumarest. 'As yet I've done nothing but walk around and let myself be seen. You didn't want me for that.'
'You are wrong, but there is more.'
'What?'
'You will learn soon enough.' Shakira rose and stepped from his desk. 'But first let me introduce you to Elagonya.'
She sat in a cubicle thick with the fumes of aromatic incense but despite the pungent smoke the air held an acrid stench. One based on corrosive acids, alien exudations and warning odors. A blend which caught at his nostrils and Dumarest wondered why Melome hadn't mentioned it.
Shakira gave the explanation.
'You are a stranger,' he said. 'A hostile intrusion into her environment. For the sake of your life, I warn you not to be violent. Do not even think of extracting revenge. Before you could act you would be dead.'
'A telepath?'
'No, but with you she has a rapport. One built on fragments of your blood, tissue, muscle, bone. A focal point for her directed thought. Sometimes she incorporates it into a doll.'
Small artifacts which Dumarest could see lying around. Crude things with vacuous faces and oddly distorted bodies. The product of unskilled hands or hands so disfigured that they were incapable of normal dexterity.
'I found her on Tomzich, a world in the Bannerheim Cluster. She was living in a cave at the edge of a village living on scraps and hiding from the light of day. A mutant, hated by those from whom she had sprung. At times she cursed them and, at times, those cursed would die. They called her a witch and would have killed her had they been able.' Shakira stepped forward and rested one hand on the rounded hump of a shoulder. 'My dear,' he said gently. 'Have I your permission to reveal your face?'
The masked figure turned to face Dumarest, the covered head seeming to tilt as if to question.
He said evenly, 'As you wish, my lady. Here, at this time, I am at your command.'
Shakira lifted the cloth.
Elagonya was a parody of what a woman should have been. The victim of cruel nature which, tormented by the blasting radiation which had distorted the pattern of genes, had taken a vicious revenge. The face was a jumble of features, one eye higher than the other, the mouth a twisted gash, the chin cleft so that it was forked, the nose the grotesque appendage of a clown. Lank hair hung like worms from a peaked skull and the eyes, muddy brown, flecked with yellow and red, looked like the dusty windows of an empty house.
'No surgery can aid her,' said Shakira. 'No drugs or treatment alleviate her condition.'
It must have been a living hell. Dumarest looked at the warted encrustations on the skin, the puffed cysts marring the lines of the scalp. The gown she wore came high up the throat and covered the arms and legs to touch the floor but he could guess at the condition of the body it covered.
The whisper of her voice was the thin grate of a nail on slate.
'You look at me and do not cringe. Are you so accustomed to horror?'
