Web of Sand

A man stood in the pit with the body. He looked up, scowling, snapping orders as a pair of assistants made an appearance.

'Hurry, damn you! Time's money. Get this mess cleared up. Never mind washing down the walls; that can wait. Get some fresh sand for the floor.' As they jumped to obey he sprang, caught the edge of the pit and hauled himself upright. To Dumarest he said, 'Did you see it?'

'No.'

'Heard it, then? What a scream. I didn't think she'd let go like that. The damned fool!' His face glowered and one hand clenched into a fist. 'I warned her she was attempting too much but she wouldn't listen. Drugged, I guess, floating, riding high. Greedy to beat the clock. Well, they never learn.'

'The clock?'

'Sure.' The man glanced at Kemmer. 'The prize is a thousand and they lose ten for every second. A score of rats is set against them-a skilled fighter can clear them in just over a minute. They use scents and oils to attract the beasts and catch them as they spring. If they put up a good show they get extra from the crowd. Bets are made on how long they take.' He waved a hand at the dead woman now bundled in a sling. 'She used to be good. Well, there'll always be others.'

Flesh and blood driven by greed and pride to make a target for rodents. A human creature driven by hunger and desperation to fight and kill, to race the clock, to suffer the sting and burn of bites. To listen to the jeers of watching men, the shouts, the fall of coins tossed as largesse to a beggar.

And yet was he so different?

Dumarest stood, looking down, seeing another ring, a wider expanse. The arena in which he had fought so often, armed with naked steel, facing another equally armed, both intent on murder.

To listen to the roar of the crowd, to smell the fear and sweat and oil, to taste the stink of blood, to know the burn of wounds. A man or a rat-what was the difference? A fighter intent on killing or rodents fighting in blind panic to survive? To enter the ring from choice for the sake of reward or to be driven in with flame and goads?

Was he any better than a beast?

'Earl?' Kemmer was staring at him, his face creased, anxious. 'Earl, is something wrong?'

The world, the way of civilization, the universe. Would men ever live as brothers? Some hoped they might but on Harge the monks of the Church of Universal Brotherhood were not allowed. The charity they extended was despised by the Cinque, the creed they preached regarded with suspicion and fear. The belief that all men were brothers and the pain of one was the pain of all. That if all could but look and accept the basic truth and recognize that there, but for the grace of God, go I, the millennium would have arrived.

And there, in the pit, but for the grace of God, he could be lying!

'The poor bitch,' rumbled Santis. 'There are better things for a woman to do.' He watched as the bundle was carted away, blood still dripping from the ravaged throat. 'The clock,' he said bitterly. 'If she earned a few hundred kren she'd be lucky. And for that she had to risk her life.'

Again and again until, inevitably, the gamble would be lost. And yet what else could she have done?

What else could he do?

Dumarest said, 'Let's get on with it. Maurice, you handle the money and place the bets. Get the best odds you can. Carl, you'll be my manager. Remember, I'm dull, stupid, slow and a nuisance. You want to be rid of me.'

'Will they be interested?'

'Why not? Cheap prey and an easy win. Ask for Matpius.' A name won from the crone. 'He lacks any compunction. Maurice, take the money.'

All of it-but Dumarest was gambling more than cash. If he lost, the others would be ruined but he would be dead.

And Matpius was willing to see him die.

He was a smooth, round, scented man with delicate hands heavily adorned with rings. His hair was dressed in elaborate ringlets which fell over his ears and clustered at the nape of his neck. His clothing matched the image, the tunic pleated, the sleeves slashed to reveal inner streaks of vivid hue. A wide belt supported the jewelled hilt of a dagger. He carried a pomander which he lifted to his nostrils before he spoke.

'A fighter? That?'

'A creature of misfortune, my lord.' Santis, accustomed to dealing with the rich and influential, bowed. 'A trained man of my old company who served me well and to whom I am obligated. And yet, you understand, an obligation can prove onerous. His mind is not as it was and he tends to become too great a liability. My honor, of course, will not let me see him starve and yet-' He broke off, shrugging. 'We are both men of experience, my lord. I am sure you appreciate the situation.'

Matpius sniffed at his pomander, eyes shrewd as he studied Dumarest who stood, eyes blank, shoulders stooped, hands dangling loosely at his sides. A fine, well-made man, tall and with a face the women would find appealing. A pity he lacked intelligence or, no, just as well he did not. Using him would create no problems.

'He carries a knife-why?'

'Habit, my lord. As a soldier he grew used to the weight of arms. I let him keep it.' Santis leaned forward and drew the knife from Dumarest's boot, displaying the artfully dulled blade, the stained and apparently blunt edge. 'You can accommodate me?'

'Perhaps.' It was in the man's nature to keep others in suspense. Again Matpius sniffed at his pomander, calculating, thinking. Against a man this creature would stand little chance and those who came to the arena expected more than mere butchery. And yet drugs could stimulate him and drive him to a killing frenzy. In such a case the results might be interesting. 'You are concerned as to his welfare?'

'My lord, I am a realist. Use him as you will. The fee-'

'A thousand kren.' Matpius waved the pomander. 'Take it or leave it.'

'It is little, my lord.'

'But can be increased with an intelligent wager. Need I say more?' Matpius let the silence grow, one which spoke its own language. 'Take him to the pens. Ask for Delman. Here.' He scribbled a note. 'Give him this and he will hand over the money.' And then, as Santis turned toward Dumarest: 'Don't bother to return for your friend-it would be a waste of time.'

In the shadows a man was crying, 'My arm! Dear, God, my arm!'

It had been slashed, cut to the bone, muscle and tendon severed from the vicious stroke of a blade. A cut which had won his opponent the bout and sent him circling the arena, smiling at the plaudits of the crowd. The man, now, was crippled and would remain so unless expensive surgery could be obtained to repair the damage. The skill was available- Dumarest knew the money was not.

He relaxed in the dimness, letting muscle and sinew unwind as he leaned back against the wall. For hours he had waited, acting the part of a dull, insensitive clod and the strain was beginning to tell. A normal man would have risen, walked about, done some limbering up exercises, at least had been curious as to what waited him, but he had been forced to do nothing but sit where he had been led and wait. Waiting he had listened. Listening he had learned.

Matpius, as he had guessed, was an animal wearing human shape. A dealer in flesh and blood to whom blood and pain came second to his reputation. A pander to the Cinque and those who could afford the best seats. His helpers were little better; sadists who enjoyed what they did. The bouts, as yet, had been normal enough; several for third-blood, some to the death, a couple for first-blood only. They had been for the benefit of those who prided themselves on admiring skill and not execution, the lovers of the quick parry, the lightning cut and thrust. An appreciation too fine for the majority who wanted to see more bloody action and who acclaimed as victor the man who could score three hits first. And even they paled against the feral demands of those who wanted nothing but a fight to the death.

Dumarest could hear them from where he sat; a screaming, shrieking ululation as if a horde of animals had scented prey. Men and women, shouting, yelling, eyes wide with blood-lust, nostrils flaring, hands clenched or tearing at their garments. The disgusting, the degenerate, the depraved.

Closing his eyes he could see them as he had so often before. See too the glitter of steel, the man holding the knife. The faces all looked the same; the visage of a beast lusting to kill, who had to kill in order to prevent being destroyed. The face of a creature intent on survival and revealing the primitive animal buried beneath the veneer of civilization.