passion which now controlled her should last. Then, after it had died, she would go home, satiated, a little disturbed, swearing, perhaps, never to witness another fight, but the vow would be broken and the ritual again experienced.
Like an addictive drug the spectacle of blood and pain was hard to relinquish.
Dumarest rose as the shouting died. Dropping to the sunken level surrounding the ring he made his way to the dressing rooms. There were small, cubicles holding the personal effects of those who fought, a few private chambers for the prime contenders, an open area fitted with a bloodstained table on which the hurt were given crude first aid. To one side rested the boxes for the dead.
Benny sat on the pile of coffins. He held a pomander in one hand and sniffed it as he looked at the screaming wretch now on the table. As Dumarest touched his arm he turned with a cat-like swiftness.
'What-oh, it's you! What do you want?'
'A chance at Galbrio.'
'You want to fight him?' Benny began to shake his head, halting the gesture as he ran his eyes over Dumarest's face. 'Hell, you made it. But why? The man's good. The best. He'd butcher you inside three minutes.'
'Maybe.'
'He would. I know him. Do you?'
His type only, but it was enough. Cold, ruthless, devoid of mercy, the way a good fighter should be. But he had a streak of cruelty, a sadistic pleasure in inflicting pain. The young man had been maimed with savage deliberation. The wounds had cut too deep and had been wrongly placed simply to please the crowd. There had been a spiteful intent behind the act and, as Dumarest knew, the man's days were numbered.
'I'll make it simple,' he said. 'First blood or third; to the death or a timed end; a split purse or winner take all.' He let his voice falter a little. 'I don't care. I just don't care.'
'You in trouble?' Benny guessed the answer. 'Need cash bad, uh? Is that why you come here?' He beamed at Dumarest's silence. 'I can fit you in but the purse will be small. Hell, what else do you expect? An unknown.'
'Set a purse,' said Dumarest. 'Winner take all. And I'll back myself against Galbrio.'
'Galbrio? Maybe he won't want to know.'
But he did as Dumarest had known he would. An apparent novice willing to put himself at the mercy of his blade. Another victim to throw to the crowd, more cash and jewelry thrown into the ring, an easy victory and a cheap enhancing of his reputation. No man with his inclinations could miss the opportunity.
Only when they stripped did he sense that, perhaps, he had made a mistake.
'You've fought before,' he said, looking at the thin lines of old scars on Dumarest's chest and forearms. 'Often?'
'Only when I had to.'
'To the death?'
'Only when I had to.'
'Well, this isn't one of those times. Third blood and there's no need for either of us to get hurt. Keep the blade light, just scratches, you understand, and we'll both have something to show for it. One fifth to the loser, right?'
A change but Dumarest wasn't deluded into thinking the man was genuine. He would kill or cripple so badly that death would be a mercy. The talk was to gain an added advantage, to pander to his warped nature. He would gain extra pleasure in the deception should it work.
'Knives!' An attendant came towards them, a pair of blades in his hands. Ten-inches of naked steel, hilts of heavy brass, points like needles. But they were badly balanced, awkward to the hand.
'I'll use my own,' said Dumarest.
'It's an inch shorter.'
'So I'll give an advantage.' He held out his hand towards Galbrio. 'Let me see your knife.'
'Why not?' The man handed it over. 'Now let me check yours.'
Both were looking for the same thing, the minute hole which would reveal a secret mechanism; a dart projector which could spit a missile coated with a numbing poison or a gas projector which would spray a noxious vapor into an opponent's eyes. Such devices gave one chance only but, correctly used, they would ensure victory.
Both knives were clean, and taking his, Dumarest led the way into the ring. A scatter of applause greeted him. It rose to a thunder as Galbrio appeared, bowing, smirking at the crowd.
'Kill him, Galbrio!' yelled a man. 'Kill him!'
The fighter answered with a smile.
Dumarest did not smile. He stood, waiting, poised in the little circle, knife in hand and every muscle tense.
Now, as always, he was conscious of the fact that this could be his last fight. That here, in this ring, he could end both his search and his life.
Chapter Four
The announcements were brief; the sound of a bell and it began. Above the massed lights threw down a savage brilliance, their heat bringing sweat to dew the skin, thinning the film of oil which most fighters used to numb the pain of cuts and to prevent an opponent gaining a grip with his free hand. Beneath his naked feet Dumarest could feel the rough surface of the taut plastic covering the platform. Around him he could sense the impact of watching eyes.
The air stank of blood-lust and the feral anticipation of pain.
Dumarest ignored it as he did the watching eyes. Here, in this little circular universe, only one thing was of importance: the man who faced him and who intended to take his life-who would take it unless he was beaten first.
Dumarest thought of the young man he had seen carried from the ring after falling to Galbrio's blade. He had been lying on the table, screaming, one eye gone, his left arm useless, intestines oozing from a slashed stomach, his body traced with deep gashes showing the white points of severed tendons.
A moment, then even that memory was dissolved and all became concentrated in the man facing him, his eyes, his feet and hands, the glimmer of his knife.
A glimmer which flashed into sparkles as he twisted the blade, using it as a mirror to send dazzling brilliance into Dumarest's eyes.
An old trick and one he had expected but he backed a little, blinking, obviously thrown off balance. Galbrio swallowed the bait and came in, dancing, crouched, his knife slashing to halt, to sweep back in a vicious reverse cut, to lance upwards in a cutting stab towards the stomach.
A blow which would have slit the abdomen had it landed, spilling guts and blood in a mess of pipes and vital fluids. One which, instead, clashed against Dumarest's protecting blade which then moved as he attacked in turn, the edge dipping, biting, dragging free with a shower of carmine rain.
'He's hit!' The crowd yelled as Galbrio backed, scowling, the gaping ruby mouth on his left bicep dripping blood.
A blow which had almost reached the bone and could have been sent against the corded throat had Dumarest wished. But it was not his intention to kill the man.
He moved as Galbrio turned, careful of the blood now dappling the floor, knowing that a careless step could turn victory into defeat. Always, in any fight, there was the danger of the unknown. Blood, oil, grease, a trifling misjudgment and balance could be lost and the fight with it.
Again the blades met, ringing, parting to meet again in a flurry of steel. A second wound joined the first, across the torso this time, as deep as those Galbrio had given earlier. A third, and he backed, eyes wide, fear distorting his scarred face.
'Fast,' he said. 'God, you're fast! I quit. I don't stand a chance. Here.'
He lifted his knife as if to throw it down, to send the point into the platform in the signal of surrender. A move never completed for, as his arm moved downwards, it changed direction, developed power, sent the naked steel spinning through the air towards Dumarest A gambler's trick, should it fail the man would be left unarmed and
