Her tone left no doubt as to her meaning. Dumarest smiled and said, 'Thank you, my lady.'
'So formal!' Her smile was dazzling. 'Call me Jussara- who needs more than one name? Until later then, Earl. I shall anticipate our next meeting.' Her eyes moved on to search the crowd. 'Ceram! How nice to see you, darling! Be an angel and get me a drink. How is Toris this evening?'
She moved off and Myra helped herself to a drink, downing it at a gulp, wondering at her irritation. Jussara was a troublesome bitch who loved to deal in scandal and would throw herself at Dumarest for no other reason than that he was her companion. Would it matter if she did? If his taste was so crude she was welcome to him.
She saw his eyes as she reached for a second drink.
'You object?'
'Have I the right?'
'No man has that!' The sudden blaze of fury startled her and she gulped at the wine, feeling the sweetness of it, the after-sharpness which constricted her throat. An illogical reaction to a harmless question, the question itself a product of her own stupidity. Why ask if none had the right? 'I'm sorry. That bitch always manages to upset me. Do you like her?'
'Does it matter?' Dumarest took the empty glass from her hand. 'What did she mean about you having resolved your difficulties?'
'An adjustment which needed to be made. University business. A matter of balancing classes and courses and student enrollments. Sometimes it isn't easy but it's all done now.' She looked to where couples moved in complex gyrations. 'Do you want to dance?'
'No. Where are the people we came to meet?'
'Later, Earl. Let's enjoy the party first.'
He had waited long enough, forcing himself to be patient until this time, going through the pretense she had determined, playing things her way for lack of a better alternative. He was learning about the woman who had been so quick with her invitation.
It was a matter of cultural mores, perhaps; she had mentioned that the forming of intimate relationships was a common pastime, but had it been simply because she had been alone and bored and needing physical release?
Dumarest had begun to doubt it. There was a calculated deliberation in everything she did and even her passion was the result more of applied stimulus than released inhibitions. It was as if she followed the dictates of a manual, seeking reaction and not response, assessing instead of experiencing as if she were a programmed robot set to perform a routine task.
Now, again, the talk of delay.
He said flatly, 'If you won't introduce me I'll manage on my own.'
'A threat, Earl?' Anger blossomed again to burn in her stomach, to drive the nails of her fingers into her palms. 'That's all you want, isn't it? Those damned introductions and to get them you'd lie in your teeth. Lie and pretend to love me and to use me as if you were doing me a favor. You bastard! If you were a woman you'd be a whore!'
Her anger shattered to leave a bleak chill as she suddenly became aware of the circle of watching faces, the silence which, too quickly, broke into a jumble of sound. Her coldness emphasized the realization that, to Dumarest, the insult had been devoid of meaning. In the world he knew the main ethic was to survive and to do so at any cost. And all were entitled to their pride; the woman who sold her flesh as much as the man who fought to entertain.
Different worlds, she thought dully, and how could she hope to understand his? Dumarest had killed, she was certain of it as she was in the manner it had been done. How had it felt to stand in a ring facing an armed man, nostrils clogged with the stench of oil and sweat and blood? She would never know, could never know; her knowledge stemmed from books and not from the acid of living experience.
'Myra?' A man was at her side. 'Trouble?'
Moultrie, big and tall and comforting in his strength, hovered now beside her in protective concern. They had glided together and he was proud of his physique, the body which gave him the confidence to glare at Dumarest, to attack him if she gave the word.
'No trouble, Roy. Just a little difference of opinion.' She smiled as she touched his arm and wondered at her hesitation. Had she wanted them to fight? For Dumarest to be humiliated? If so the moment belonged to the past. 'No trouble,' she said again. 'But thank you for your concern, Roy.'
'If you're sure?'
'I'm sure.' She smiled again. 'Everything's fine.'
He accepted the statement with obvious reluctance, and Dumarest guessed that Moultrie had wanted to press the matter. For his own aggrandizement? To gain Myra's respect? Or had someone put him up to it?
'I'll take your word for it, Myra. But you-' he glared at Dumarest. 'I suggest you watch your tongue. A guest should have better manners.'
If he hoped for an answer he was disappointed.
'Roy!' Jussara called from the far side of the room. 'Bring Myra over here-I've a drink waiting.'
'Coming!'
He led her away before she could object, leaving Dumarest standing alone.
The music changed; turning into a susurration of thrumming chords which faded to return like the pulse of waves on a shore. The stroboscopic flashes died to be replaced by a nacreous glow in which decorations shone with sickly fluorescence; leprous greens and purples beside scabrous reds and blues. The colors of blood and pus and gangrene. Of hurt and decay and disease.
Dumarest wondered at the motivation of the man who had created the setting.
'Madness,' said a voice. 'Insanity and spite and an infantile desire to shock. It's getting rather tedious.' The speaker was small, round, his sparse hair combed in a fan over a balding head. He held a drink in each hand and, smiling, offered one to Dumarest. 'It's safe,' he said. 'From a private stock. Only a fool would trust what Levercherk provides at one of his parties.'
Dumarest accepted the drink.
'I'm not a telepath,' said the man. 'I can't read your thoughts so you don't have to worry. It's just that your expression was obvious.' He narrowed his eyes. 'Did I offend you?'
'No.' Dumarest took a cautious sip of his drink. It was fine brandy. 'Are you a reader?'
'What?' The man frowned then smiled as he gathered Dumarest's meaning. 'No. I lack that talent. To read a person from body signals and muscular alterations is a rare ability. But it required no genius to guess what you must have thought of this stupidity. Bones,' he snorted. 'Skulls. Masks and the rest of it. Is life so boring we yearn for its termination? Only the young can afford such mockery.' He drained his glass. 'Ragin,' he said. 'Carl Ragin. I teach at dyne.'
'Then you know Myra Favre?'
'Of course. And I know about you, Earl. A fighter, right? A teacher of the subtle means of destruction. A man who hopes to start a class in martial arts. You will forgive my bluntness, but I wonder at Myra even entertaining the idea.'
'She's crazed,' said a newcomer. 'As mad as Levercherk but in a different way. Love, perhaps? It is known to steal away the intelligence.' He stared at Dumarest. 'Are you the cause?'
Ragin said, quietly, 'Steady Dorf.'
'If so she is to be pitied.' Dorf, young, aggressive, confident of the power his status gave him, ignored the older man. 'She could have given Moultrie his head. Well, if he cannot cleanse this place of the scum which has somehow crawled in to soil it, then I can.'
'Dorf!'
'You side with him, Carl?' The young man made no attempt to mask his contempt. 'Such strange company for a man of academic standing to keep.' Then, to Dumarest. 'I assume you will be leaving now.'
Dumarest looked at the glass in his hand, the brandy it contained. A weapon as was the knife in his boot but to use either would be to make a mistake. These people would have nothing but contempt for a man who argued with his muscles. Moultrie would have been forgiven both for his status and his protection to a member of the faculty had it come to physical combat. Now, if he should accept Dorf's challenge, he could destroy any chance he
