spice to the combat. To know that you are without a defense. That your skill is useless and it is only a matter of time before you are reduced to a whimpering parody of a man. Here, in this arena, you've met your master.'
A telepath.
Zucco's special skill which Shakira had mentioned. A man who could read thought and intention and act before they had been turned into movement. A fighter against whom there could be no calculated defense.
Dumarest inched forward, accelerated into a lunge, darted to one side, feinted again, heard the clash of metal and felt the burn of steel. A cut on his upper arm, shallow, harmless, but a demonstration of Zucco's power. Another followed, the point aimed at an eye missing to nick an ear, Zucco following the blow to cut again as Dumarest turned.
'Soon,' he promised. 'Then the game will be over. I shall cut deep and hard-try to guess where and when.'
Thoughts Zucco could read and so direct his attack. A man facing a threat could avoid it in only so many ways but before action there had to be thought and Zucco would know the decision. As he would be able to anticipate the nature of any offensive.
'Come,' he urged. 'Why delay? The crowd are for you. They want you to win. Don't disappoint them. Even a whining coward would have the guts to try.'
Taunts followed by others all of which Dumarest ignored. An old trick aimed at blinding him with rage but he had met it too often for it to have effect.
Why did Zucco want him to attack?
'Come,' he said again. 'It's time you made up your mind.'
Time?
Dumarest stooped, snatched up a handful of sand, flung it at the other's face as he darted forward. A blinding shower rendered harmless as Zucco moved aside. Moving again as Dumarest followed the grit with a handful of blood. Then he was within reach, his knife a shimmering blur, cutting, slashing, a thin, high ringing filling the air as the blades clashed, parting to strike again in a fury of action.
Action too fast for thought, born of the reactive instinct honed by numberless combats and augmented by Dumarest's natural speed. The speed was too fast for Zucco to follow and he backed across the ring toward the tunnel where Valaban stood, Reiza at his side, Shakira a shadowy figure behind.
'No!' Zucco backed faster, face distorted with terror as he read the grim, unrelenting purpose in Dumarest's mind. 'No!'
Steel clashed as he parried, a thin red line marring the smoothness of his torso, another gaping just below the throat to add its carmine stream to the smears staining the chest and stomach. Blood stained the shorts and laced the oiled flesh.
'No!' Zucco screamed as again he felt the ice-burn of shearing metal. A shallow cut to join the rest but the wound to his self-confidence was far deeper. 'Dear, God-no!'
A man facing death, knowing it, feeling the terror he had so often induced in others. His nerve broke as again Dumarest sent his blade to cut a furrow in the oiled skin.
He would be flayed, crippled, maimed, blinded-things Zucco could read in Dumarest's mind. A mind without mercy, cold in its determination, maintaining a single red image as his body moved on an instinctive level, robbing Zucco of his advantage.
Turning he ran toward the mouth of the tunnel, screaming as Dumarest reached him, gripped his hair, turned him to stand, face tilted upward, the point of his knife at the straining throat.
'Talk,' snarled Dumarest. 'Talk!'
Before he sent the blade upward, the point slicing through skin and fat and tissue. Driving up through the lower jaw, through the tongue, up into the palate, the sinus cavities, the brain itself.
A slow and lingering way to end.
'No,' said Zucco. 'Don't.' He was helpless, his own knife lying where he had thrown it on the sand, already, in imagination, feeling the slow thrust of the threatening blade. 'No,' he said again. 'It's not what you think. I-'
He broke off, rearing, eyes wide, the sudden convulsion racking his body causing his spine to arch in a bow, which snapped forward to send his head down, driving his throat hard against the needle point of Dumarest's knife.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Reiza said, 'You murdered him! Murdered him-you bastard!' She faced Dumarest in the tunnel, radiating her fury. An emotion which distorted her face and made it ugly. 'He was unarmed, helpless, at your mercy. Begging, even, I saw his face. And you killed him. Butchered him!'
'No,' said Valaban. 'He committed suicide. Shoved his own throat against the blade.'
'Liar!'
'If you say so.' Valaban shrugged. 'What does it matter? The right man died.'
'You filth! Jac was murdered!'
'Yes,' said Dumarest. 'He was. But not by me.' He held out his clenched left hand, turning it, opening it to show the dart resting on his palm. A sliver of wood tufted at one end the point dark with blood. 'This did it. I took it from his body.'
Outside there was noise as the crowd, the entertainment over, moved back to work. Already Zucco's body had been removed, attendants raking the sand and hiding the soil of combat. But in the tunnel it was quiet, a silence broken only by the restless padding of the feline Valaban had treated. Recovered now from the gas and sensing the tension.
Dumarest allowed that tension to grow as he stood, saying nothing, the dart on his palm. Reiza had backed away to stand beside Valaban. Dim gleams from the shadows revealed where Shakira stood, watching. Aside from them the area was deserted.
Then Valaban gave a curt laugh. 'So someone put a dart in him. I'd say, Earl, you had a friend in the crowd.'
'A handy thing to have. But why did he wait so long?'
'Who knows? Maybe Zucco was moving too fast. Or you were figured to win. Or-hell, pick your own reason.'
'I have.' Dumarest tossed the dart into the air and watched as it fell to the floor. 'Zucco wasn't hit earlier because he was too difficult a target. Whoever fired that dart had to wait until he came close. Almost here to the tunnel, in fact.'
'But that's crazy! You had him at your mercy-why should anyone want to hit him then? You didn't need any help.'
Moving forward Shakira said, 'What you're saying, Earl, is that someone here fired that dart.'
'Yes.'
'Who?' Reiza was loud in her demand. 'Who killed Jac? What kind of filth would murder a helpless man?'
'You, perhaps.'
'Me?'
'A woman scorned,' said Dumarest. 'You turned against me because you thought I'd been with Melome. Maybe you heard what Jac told me in the ring or maybe he'd told you earlier. To him you were nothing. You could have realized that and remembered what happened to Hayter and why. Or perhaps you were promised more than he could offer.'
'I'm no harlot!'
'You helped him. You took me to Krystyna for the reading after he'd told her what to say. Things he'd learned in the sump when he amused himself with that wand.' Dumarest's voice thickened with anger at the memory. 'He acted too bold for him to be wholly what he seemed. Knew too much for a man in his position. In the ring, after I discovered the truth about him, things fell into place. But something didn't fit. There was no need for Krystyna to die.'
'She was old,' said Reiza. 'It was a natural death.'
'She was poisoned.' Dumarest was blunt. 'Someone gave her a snack with an added content. A generous
