the rich darkness of her hair. Her face was elfin, the chin sharply pointed, the eyes oval, enigmatic.
'Lisa Conenda,' said Zenya. She did not bother to mention the rest, the three guards who waited like shadows behind the pair. 'My aunt.'
'My lady.' Dumarest inclined his head. 'My lord.'
'At least he is polite.' Her voice was deep, almost mannish. 'Who would have thought that a common fighter would have such delicacy? Zavor, you seemed heated. You should remember to stay cool.'
'As did our guest.' Parect's thin voice held amusement. 'You could learn something from him, boy. In battle, a cool head wins.'
'What battle?' Zavor scowled. 'He refused to fight. The coward ran from each attack.'
'Coward, boy?'
'What else would you call him? What other name can you give to a man who refuses to fight?'
'A cautious one, perhaps.' The thin voice was musing. 'A clever one, even. Are you willing to bet on your skill? Five thousand that he bests you within five minutes. First blood, naked blades, in the gymnasium. Now!'
Zavor sucked in his breath, his eyes cruel. 'If he will accept.'
'He will.' Parect's voice was bland. 'Am I right, Earl? You will accommodate an old man, I am sure. If you win, the money will be yours.'
'And if I lose?'
A smile was the only answer, but Dumarest knew what it was. Death, despite the conditions of the bout. Zavor would not stop at a scratch; he would aim to kill, and he would enjoy what he did. And Dumarest knew that he had no choice in the matter. The baiting, the bout, the entire thing had been arranged, and he could guess why. In this society a man was reckoned by his fighting skill-a relic of the old days, perhaps, when the warrior class was dominant and only the strong could hope to survive. A tradition which had continued despite the lack of necessity.
But why should he be tested? What reason could there be?
Lisa said dispassionately, 'The man is afraid. Why continue this farce? Let him go.'
'He isn't afraid!' Zenya was quick to come to his defense. 'I watched him. He… well, he isn't afraid.'
'Your concern is touching, my dear,' purred the other woman. 'But then, we can all guess why. Your eccentricities are common knowledge, and I will admit, the man has appeal. It would be a pity to see that face disfigured, noseless, eyeless, slashed to the bone. Perhaps Zavor will see to it.'
'We waste time,' snapped Chan Parect. 'Zenya, lead the way.'
The gymnasium was what Dumarest had expected, a roped ring, the floor roughened to provide a good grip for naked feet, chairs set on a surrounding platform, bright lights above. He stripped to shorts, revealing the hard whiteness of his skin, the thin trace of scar tissue on chest and back and shoulders, cicatrices of old wounds. As an attendant came forward bearing a tray on which rested a pair of knives, he shook his head.
'I'd prefer to use my own.'
Parect held out his hand. 'Let me see it.'
Dumarest lifted it from his clothing, a nine-inch blade of razor-sharp steel, the back curved, edged, merging into a needle point. The hilt was worn, the guard scarred.
Lisa said, 'That isn't a practice blade.'
'This is not a practice, my dear Zavor! You object?'
The blade was an inch shorter than the ones the attendant had offered. An advantage he couldn't ignore.
'Let him use it if he wants.' Zavor hefted his own blade. 'How long must I be kept waiting?'
He was keen, too eager to commence, used to the compliance of his usual partners. He should have waited, studying his opponent, looking for the little telltale signs which could mean the difference between victory and defeat. The stance, the position of the feet, the hands, the way in which the knife was held. An amateur, thought Dumarest. A dilettante. A man who had never learned the hard way with the sting of wounds to teach him caution. But, even so, he was skilled.
The blades met, parted, met again as they circled, wary, feet poised to jump forward or back, left to right. Zavor held his left hand extended, a foolish thing to do in any first-blood combat, where a scratch should, technically, end the bout. Dumarest held his own far back, his body turned, the knife held like a sword. In any other situation the bout would now be over, his blade reaching its mark, but he had his own reasons for delay. To win too quickly would not be wise.
And yet to wait would be to invite the one thing no fighter could avoid-the unknown, which would spell defeat.
The blade lunged toward him in a vicious upward slash toward the stomach, withdrew a trifle, and darted toward his face. A clever feint, but he had expected it. As the blade rose, he stepped forward, apparently stumbled, and cut a thin line over the other's chest.
'Finish!' Zenya's voice rose loud and clear. 'The bout is over. Earl has won!'
Zavor snarled, blinded with rage. As Dumarest turned, lowering his knife, he lunged forward, point aimed at the kidneys.
Zenya cried out as Dumarest spun, instinct overriding his calculated caution. His left hand dropped to grip the other's wrist with a meaty slap, fingers clamping like iron as they halted the blade. His own knife rose, light splintering from the edge and point, bright on the surface as it poised over the staring eyes, the contorted features.
'No!' Sweat dewed Zavor's face as he anticipated what was to come. 'Please, no! Dear God, no!'
For a moment Dumarest paused, his face cruel; then, turning the knife, he slammed the pommel hard against the bridge of the other's nose.
* * *
'You should have killed him.' Aihult Chan Parect selected a comfit from a box and chewed thoughtfully as he lounged in his chair behind a wide desk. 'Instead you turned the knife. Why?'
'He is your grandson, my lord.'
'And that is reason enough?'
'While I am a… guest in your house, yes.'
'A wise man. I can appreciate that. But you are more than wise, Earl. Never have I seen anyone move so fast. You could have ended the bout at the first exchange. You could have beaten him in the chamber, yet you did not. Wisdom… or caution?' Parect selected another comfit, a nut coated with sugar and dotted with seeds. 'Well, Zavor has a broken nose, two black eyes, and, we hope, a lesson easily learned. But he will not quickly forget what you did. Your plans?'
'To leave on the next available ship,' said Dumarest He added pointedly, 'The money you promised will buy a High passage.'
'Yes, the money. I had not forgotten.' Parect leaned back, his eyes shadowed. Facing him, Dumarest could only wait.
It seemed he had been waiting a long time. He had bathed and dressed and then been escorted to this chamber, where, after a while, the old man had joined him. Waiting, He had looked around at the shelf of old books, the maps barely legible, star charts depicting far regions of the galaxy.
'You are wondering why I sent for you.' Parect broke the silence. 'It was well done, as I think you will agree. A young girl, alone, what danger could she represent? And a promise, deliberately vague, but one designed to catch a very certain type of man. One who is looking for something. A man who, even though he sensed danger, would take the risk in order to learn something of value.' He paused, then added deliberately, 'A man named Earl Dumarest. A traveler.'
'So?'
'I had to be certain, Earl. Your reputation had preceded you. A fighter, a man with incredibly fast reflexes - how else to prove it than by forcing you into combat? Zavor was eager to undertake the task; now, perhaps, he regrets his impetuosity. And I will admit, until the last, I had doubts. Your speed resolved them.'
'The archives,' said Dumarest. 'The woman said that Zenya had made no inquiries.'
'They were made long ago. A standing order that I should be notified when anyone showed an interest in the ancient records. Some wine?' As he poured, Parect added casually, 'How close are you to finding what you are looking for?'
'Does it matter?'
