The boy shifted on the bed, sweat shining on his face, his voice deepening, taking on the pulse of drums.
'From terror they fled to find new places on which to expiate their sins. Only when cleansed will the race of Man be united again.'
The creed of the Original People. Dumarest rose, staring down at the bed, the figure it contained. A boy, too young to know what he was saying, or someone primed for just such an eventuality. The drug he'd used was primitive-any biological technician could have provided conditioning against it, primed the youngster with intriguing answers to appropriate questions.
Any information he could give would be valueless, and already he was convinced the boy had lied.
A knock and he spun as the door swung open.
'What-?' The woman was middle-aged, dowdy, her face seamed, relieved only by the luminosity of her eyes. Wide now as they stared at Dumarest's face, the glitter of the naked blade in his hand.
He spoke before she could scream. 'What do you want?'
'The boy-I heard that he was ill. I wondered if I could help?'
'Are you a nurse?' Dumarest sheathed the knife.
'Yes, in a way. I work at the hospital and try to help others in my spare time. Chell Arlept, you know of him?'
'The dying man? Yes.'
'I call sometimes. There's not much I can do, but at least I can help him to sleep. I wondered-'
'What I was doing with a knife in my hand?' Dumarest smiled, casually at ease. 'You startled me, that's all.'
'The boy?'
'Has been taken care of. All he needs now is to rest. Perhaps you could look in tomorrow?'
'I'm in no hurry.' She moved towards the bed, smoothed back the hair from the pale face. 'I could sit with him for a while.' She added meaningfully, 'I'm sure that you have other things to do.'
To go downstairs, to find the woman who ran the hotel, to give her money for Leon's keep, more money to be given him when he woke. The cost of a Low passage which he would be a fool to use too soon, but Dumarest couldn't leave him stranded.
* * * * *
There was trouble at the field. Dumarest sensed it as he approached the gate, slowing as he studied the men standing around. Too many men and too many of them without apparent duties. Hard men with blank faces who needed no uniforms to betray their profession. Guards and agents, watchful and alert.
They stood in patches of shadow, scarcely moving, rigid with the patience which was part of their trade. A pair of them stepped forward as a man neared the gate, a tall figure wearing gray, the material scuffed, his feet unsteady.
'You there!' One of the guards shone a flashlight into a flushed and blinking face. 'Name?'
'Connors. Why?'
'Just answer. You from the workings?'
'Say, what the hell is this all about?'
'Just answer. Rawf?'
'It could be,' said his companion. 'He fits the rough description. Mister, you'd better come with us.'
'Me? What for? Like hell I will!'
'Suit yourself,' said the first man. 'You want it hard, you get it hard. Rawf!'
The sap made a flat, dull sound as it landed against the man's temple, knocking him into an unconscious heap.
Thoughtfully Dumarest turned away. The field sealed, a cyber landed-he felt the closing jaws of a trap. Soon the hospitals would be checked, the doctors, it wouldn't take long for Hsi to connect isolated incidents. Connect them and extrapolate and predict exactly where he was to be found. And, on Tradum, places were few in which he could hide. The city, the workings, the areas beyond the mountains impossible to reach on foot. Even the Hyead couldn't live off the land here, between the mountains and the sea. And any attempt to hire transport would leave a trail.
The field-it had to be the field and the first ship to leave. But, already, he had left it too late.
'Man Dumarest!'
The voice came from the shadows, a slight figure in the darkness making a formless blur. One which became a stunted shape, horned, a hand extended for candy.
'Word, man Dumarest. One in scarlet has landed. You promised a high reward.'
To a creature at the workings-another proof of the rudimentary telepathic ability Dumarest suspected the Hyead possessed.
'You are late with the word,' he said gently. 'But the reward will be given. Can you help me more?'
'How, man Dumarest?'
'I want to get on the field unseen. Can it be done?'
'By us, no.'
'By others?'
'It is possible. The one known as Kiasong could help. He is to be found-'
'Thank you,' said Dumarest. 'I know where he is to be found.'
Ayantel was closing down when he arrived, saying nothing as he took the heavy shutters from her hands, watching as he set them into position. The interior of the stall was hot, the air scented with spice and roasted meats. A single lamp threw a cone of brilliance over the counter and cooking apparatus, shadows clustering in the corners. Among them the Hyead bustled, cleaning, polishing skewers, setting cooked food to one side, piling the rest into containers of lambent fluid.
'I'm glad you came back,' she said when the stall was sealed. 'You know my name, what's yours?'
He told her, watching her eyes. If she recognized it she gave no sign.
'Earl,' she mused. 'Earl Dumarest. I like it, it has a good sound. I'm glad that you didn't lie.'
'You would have known?'
'I knew that you were coming.' Her hand lifted, gestured at the Hyead. 'Kiasong told me. Don't ask me how he knew-sometimes I think they can pick up voices from the wind. He said you needed help. Is that right?'
'Yes. I-'
'Later.' Turning she said, 'Kiasong, that'll be all for now. Take the cooked food and give half to the monk. You've got the key?'
'Yes, woman Ayantel.'
'Then get on your way.'
'Wait.' Dumarest handed the creature a coin. 'For candy-and for silence.'
'It is understood, man Dumarest.'
'Odd,' she said as Kiasong left. 'They creep about like ghosts, work for scraps, and yet at times they make me feel like an ignorant savage. Why is that, Earl?'
'A different culture, Ayantel. A different set of values. As far as we are concerned, they have no ambition. They live for the moment-or perhaps they live in the past. Or, again, they could regard this life as merely a stepping stone to another.'
'Or, maybe they're just practical,' she said. 'We all have to die so why fight against the inevitable? Why wear yourself out trying to get rich when the worms will win in the end anyway?'
'You're a philosopher.'
'No, just a woman who thinks too much at times.'
'And generous.'
'Because I give Kiasong a few scraps and a place to sleep? No, I'm practical. The food will go to waste anyway, and with him sleeping in here I've got a cheap watchman.' Shrugging she added, 'To hell with that. Let's talk about you. You need help-trouble?'
'Yes.'
'I figured it might be something like that. What did you do, kill a man?'
'A pilferer called Brad. I don't know his other name but he had friends.'
