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