E. C. Tubb - Dumarest 14 - Jack of Swords.pdf - E. C. Tubb - margozap

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Jack of Swords

#14 in the Dumarest series

E.C. Tubb

Chapter One

At sunset the sky of Teralde was painted with vibrant swaths

of brilliant color; minute crystals of air-borne dust refracting the

light so that the entire bowl of the firmament looked as if some

cosmic artist had spilled his palette in a profusion of inspired

genius. An eye-catching spectacle but one which, for Dumarest,

had long ceased to hold charm.

He walked through the streets gilded with dying light, past

tall houses fashioned of stone, the windows small, the doors thick

and tightly barred. Even the shops were like small fortresses,

their wares jealously guarded, reluctantly displayed. The field, as

usual, was empty, the barren dirt devoid of the weight of a single

vessel. The gate set into the perimeter fence was unmanned, a

sure sign that no ship was expected.

"Nothing." The agent, a Hausi, leaned back in his chair. His

ebony face, scarred with the caste marks of his guild, was bland.

"Ships will arrive eventually, of course, but Teralde is not a

commercial world. Only when the beasts have been processed

and shipments are available will the traders come. Until then all

we can hope for is some tourists."

Luxury vessels carrying jaded dilettantes, the rich and curious

with money to burn and time to waste. But Dumarest had no

time—unless a ship arrived soon he would be stranded.

He said, "I need work."

"Work?" The Hausi shrugged. "My friend, on Teralde the

desire is not enough. You need to own special skills. Your

profession?"

"I can do most things which need to be done."

"Of course. Do I reveal doubt?" Yethan Ctonat selected a

comfit from an ornamented box and crushed the candied morsel

between strong teeth. "But, you understand, I represent my

guild. To place a man who cannot perform the skills he claims to

own would reflect on my reputation. And demand is small. Are

you a master of genetic manipulation? A physician? A

veterinarian? I tell you frankly, we have no need of gamblers."

"Do I look a gambler?"

"A man who travels is always that," said the agent smoothly.

'To drift from world to world, never certain of what he will find,

what else can such a man be? Especially if he travels Low. The

fifteen-percent death rate is a risk none but a gambler would

take. And you have traveled Low, have you not?"

To often, riding doped, frozen, and ninety percent dead in

caskets designed for the transportation of animals. Cheap

travel—all that could be said for it.

"I will not deceive you," said Yethan Ctonat. "As you must

have discovered, there is no hope of normal employment on this

world. You work for the Owners or for those they tolerate or you

do not work at all. And for every vacancy there is a host of

applicants." He added, casually, "For a man like you there is only

one way to survive on Teralde."

Dumarest was curt. "To fight?"

"You have guessed it. Blood has a universal appeal. If you are

interested—" The agent broke off, reaching for another comfit.

"It's all I can offer."

And all Dumarest had expected, but the attempt had had to

be made. The colors in the sky were fading as he walked through

the city and toward the wilderness at the edge of which sprawled

the slums. Lowtowns were always the same and in his time he

had seen too many of them. Sometimes they were huddles of

shacks, tents, and shelters crudely fashioned from whatever

materials were at hand; at others as on Teralde, they were simple

boxes built of stone and set in neat array. But shacks or

buildings the atmosphere was identical.

A miasma compounded of despair and poverty, the reek of a

world which held no pride, no hope, nothing but the bleak

concentration of the moment, the need to survive yet one more

day, one more hour. The refuge of those without work or money.

Had they been slaves they would have been fed and clothed, a

responsibility to their owners. As it was they formed a pool of

cheap labor which cost nothing, the only expense being the

warren in which they lived and bred and died.

"Earl!" A man came running toward Dumarest as he entered

one of the buildings. "Earl, have you decided?"

Cran Elem was small, thin, his cheeks sunken, the bones

prominent. Beneath the rags he wore his wasted flesh and bone

gave him the fragility of a child.

Dumarest made no answer, climbing the stairs to the flat roof

there to stand and look at the sky. Dusk was thickening and

would soon yield to night, the darkness heralded by the glitter of

early stars.

Stars like the eyes he had seen too often in the shadows

surrounding a ring. The avid, hungry eyes of those eager for the

sight of blood and pain. Their coldness was the chill of naked

steel, their gleam that of razored edge and point. To fight, to kill

and maim, to win the price of a meal so as to live to fight again.

He had done it before and would again if all else failed, but there

could be a better way.

To Cran he said, "Assemble and warn the men. We leave in an

hour."

* * *

The storm broke at midnight with a sudden flurry of lightning

followed by thunder and a driving rain. Crouched beneath the

fronds of stunted vegetation Dumarest felt its impact on his

head, the deluge filling his mouth and nostrils so that he had to

bend his face in order to breathe. On all sides the gritty soil

turned into an oozing, alluvial mud.

"Earl!" From the darkness Cran edged close, his voice

strained, echoing his despair. "Earl! It's a bust!"

"Wait!"

"It's useless. We tried but this is hopeless. We'd best get back

to town."

A flash illuminated him, thunder crashing as Dumarest

reached out and caught an arm. Beneath his fingers he could feel

the stringy muscle, the stick of bone. In his grip the man was

helpless.

"Wait," he said again. "This storm could help us."

"Help?" Cran almost sobbed in his disappointment. "With

mud up to our ankles and rain in our eyes? The storm will have

unsettled the beasts and they're bad enough at the best of times."

His voice rose to the edge of hysteria. "I thought we'd have a

chance but the luck is against us. Damn the luck. Damn it all to

hell!"

He cried out as Dumarest's hand slapped his cheek.

"Earl!"

"Control yourself." Dumarest freed the arm. "Get the others."

"You're going back?"

"Just do as I say."

They came like ghosts, revealed in stark detail by the

intermittent flashes, the dirt which had stained faces and hands

gone now, washed away by the rain. Like Cran they wore rags,

torn and discarded garments salvaged from garbage, broken

shoes and naked feet wrapped in layers of rotting cloth. Their

hair, plastered close, accentuated their skull-like appearance.

Starving men who would be dead soon unless they obtained food.

Among them Dumarest looked solid, reassuring, his clothing

scuffed but whole, the gray plastic of tunic, pants and boots

gleaming with a wet slickness.

He said, "Cran, how far to the compound?"

"A mile, maybe less, but—"

"This storm will help us. The guards will remain in shelter and

the lightning will be blamed for anything affecting the electronic

system. The animals will be together and easy to take. Before

dawn you'll all have bellies full of meat."

"Or be dead," said a man bleakly.

"Today, tomorrow, what's the difference?" said another. "I'm

willing to take a chance if Earl will lead us."

"I'll lead you," said Dumarest. "And there'll be no quitting. If

any man tries to leave I'll cut him down. Understand?" He

paused as thunder rolled and, as it faded, said, "We've no choice

and the storm will make it easy. Just keep down and merge with

the ground. Freeze if a light shines your way. Work as a unit and

we can't go wrong."

Words to stiffen their resolve, but a man had a question.

"When we reach the compound who goes in?"

"I will," said Dumarest. "Ready? Let's get on with it."

Cran led the way and Dumarest followed him close as they left

E. C. Tubb - Dumarest 14 - Jack of Swords.pdf

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