'Here!' She offered one to Dumarest. 'You take it, bite it, swallow it down. The results could be- interesting.'
An aphrodisiac or some form of hallucinogenic. From her tone the thing could be either or it could be just a harmless sweetmeat. Or something not so harmless-a drug to induce impotence; who knew what she carried beneath her nails?
Dumarest said, 'Thank you, my lady, but I must refuse.'
'What I offer?'
'Just the comfit.' His smile brought warmth to her eyes. 'Will you join me in the water?'
A chance to touch, to caress, to leave no doubt as to her extended invitation. An opportunity she used to the full. To win him from Fiona would be a sweet revenge for earlier rejection.
'Earl!' A tall, red-headed girl waved to him from where she stood at the edge of the pool. 'Come and join us! We need your advice!'
Men had clustered in a group behind her, youngsters with faces usually masked with boredom now creased in a febrile interest.
'Chargel's man told me of the trick,' said one. 'He saw it done at a private fight on Emoolt. You feint-so! Then recovering you cut-so! If it hits, you gain a point. If you miss you backslash and thrust-so!' His hand made appropriate gestures, the knife he held glittering as it reflected the light from the ruby sun. 'The man who used it had never been beaten.'
'Or so he said.' Shelia Fairfax, the tall girl with flaming hair, laughed her scorn. 'Tell them, Earl. Put the fool wise.'
Her tone held familiarity as did the hand she placed on his arm. Instant friendship gained in a matter of a few hours-or what passed for it in this too closely knit culture. Fiona had introduced him to the party-had left him at the pool while attending to a private matter. Lynne had been only one of the women to show more than a casual interest.
The man with the knife said, 'Fool, Shelia? Care to back your judgment?'
'A week's allowance,' she said. 'No, make it a month's.'
'That I can't score on Earl?'
'That's right.' Her laughter was brittle. 'You and your theories, Ivor! What chance would you have if faced with a real man?'
Dumarest saw the flush which rose to stain the sallow cheeks, the tension revealed in the hand gripping the knife. A young man, a minor son of some Orres family, trying to show off a little. A youth eager to command attention and to gain a little respect. The girl had been too spiteful, too cruel.
'May I see the knife?' Dumarest held out his hand, saw the other's hesitation, smiled as, finally, Ivor placed it in his fingers. It was what he had expected; a practice blade, the point and edges protruding a fraction of an inch from masking steel. Heavy, able to deliver bruising blows and shallow scratches, but relatively harmless. 'A gift?'
'Not exactly. I'm interested in such things. At home I've a collection of knives each of which has killed a man,' A boast quickly amended. 'At least that's what I have been given to understand. They were part of an inheritance.'
From whom was unimportant if the story was true. Dumarest hefted the blade, examined the edges and point, handed it back to the young man.
'Have you another?' He added, 'Or do you want me to face you empty-handed?'
'You'll fight?'
'No, but we can try out that trick of yours.' Dumarest looked at the girl. 'A month's allowance, you said. And no blame on me if I should lose?'
'A month's allowance, Earl-and you won't lose!'
A confidence echoed by others as they made bets on the outcome. Dumarest took the second practice knife, hefted it, poised on the balls of his naked feet and adopted a fighter's stance, though he quickly rectified it as he saw the young man's awkward posture.
'Now,' he said. 'Come at me!'
The youth was too clumsy, too slow. He left himself wide open to a killing thrust or a crippling slash had the knives been true blades. Dumarest backed, matching the other's clumsiness, steel ringing as the blades touched, parted to touch again. Music to mask the farce the combat had become as his own movements gave the youth's a grace they lacked. The attack, when it came, was pathetic.
'A hit!' Dumarest stepped back, hand to his side, smears of red on the palm when he displayed it to those watching. 'He scored!'
A tiny scratch and a drop of blood-a small price to pay to save another's pride. Watching, Fiona guessed what had happened, came close as Shelia, stunned, tried to get the victor to cancel the bet.
'You were a fool, Earl. He could have hurt you.'
'No.'
'Maybe not, but why go to that trouble anyway?'
'Why bring me to this party?'
'To show off,' she said. 'To boast. Does that satisfy you?' The truth, covered as she added, 'They wanted to see you. To refuse them that pleasure would have been to make enemies.'
And, on Sacaweena, that was far from wise. Dumarest looked at the inquisitive faces, the calculating eyes. At a small distance a youth slapped Ivor on the back as he tried to gain a promise they would practice together. Another pleaded to be taught the trick. A girl pushed Shelia aside as she thrust herself at the victor.
'A friend,' mused Fiona. 'If nothing else he owes you a favor. You learn fast, Earl. He, his father, his entire family will be grateful you didn't make him look small. Not that they can do you much good-Bulem is on his way out. If the present trend continues he'll be finished within a few days. Crazy! What harm could he be to others? What could anyone gain by grabbing what he's got?'
'Which is?'
'Some undersea holdings which have lost their crop of weed because of undercurrents from seismic activity. A sector to the west and a few holdings scattered to the north and east. Nothing of any real value.' She shrugged, bored with the subject. 'Shall we swim?'
She wore a robe of shimmering scarlet, one hand lifted to the clasp on its shoulder, ready to let it fall from her naked body at his nod. Instead he said, 'I'd rather go to the church.'
'The church?'
'To see Vardoon. Will you take me?'
'Forget him, Earl. I can't see why you bothered about him in the first place. He was shot, as good as dead; let him go and what you'd find would all be yours. Why did you bring him back?'
'We were partners.'
'So?'
She couldn't understand. To her partnerships were transient and used for personal gain. Allies were those on whom one was forced to make an agreement. Loyalty was a word without meaning. Dumarest said, 'I want to see Vardoon.'
He sat upright in a bed set with its head against a wall, a wide, low table set to either side, a pouch of eggs resting in his lap. The table to his right bore a tray dotted with glowing, golden pearls. The one to his left bore a litter of discarded membranes. As Dumarest watched he took an egg from the pouch, delicately slit it open with a sliver of razor-edged steel, skinned it from the yoke which he set carefully beside the others.
'Ardeel,' he said. 'A fortune, Earl. A fortune!'
He was thin, emaciated, body fat lost while under the influence of slow-time. The drug had accelerated his metabolism, turning hours into subjective days, days crawling past as if they had been months. A time spent under induced unconsciousness and intravenous feeding as the body healed. For Dumarest it had been a subjective week for Vardoon it had been much longer.
'How do you feel?'
'Weak.' Vardoon lifted another egg, slit it, placed the precious yoke on the tray with the others. Even as he set it down it began to harden into a sphere. 'Weak and hungry but I guess I'm lucky to be either. From what they tell me my guts were shot full of holes. I owe the monks a lot.'
