Dumarest 33 - Child of Earth (13 page)

But the price would include more than the product; silence gained and anonymity provided. Dumarest wondered at the need. Before he could ask the steward snarled his impatience.

“Look at that rubbish.” He gestured at the assembled containers. “Did you believe what he told you?”

“About the eyes and ears?”

“They are fungi and galls. The rest a collection of seeds, pods, roots, fruits, twigs—hell, you name it. Stuff the ignorant believe will bring health and cure their ills.”

“Like those leeches?” Dumarest pointed to a jar in which slender shapes drifted in a murky fluid. “Those maggots?”

Both, he had learned, of worth in the treatment of wounds and a variety of ailments. Despite appearances the apothecary had a knowledge of medicine. Dorph must have known that. But why had he chosen to deal with such a man?

A question unanswered as he returned bearing a parcel.

Dorph checked the contents. Money changed hands. Bolts grated as the door slammed shut behind them.

“Here.” Dorph handed Dumarest the package. “Let’s get back to the ship.”

Night had fallen, clouds shielding the stars, the sky a pattern of reflected light from the distant smelters. On all sides patches of brilliance illuminated the shuttered buildings, lanterns set behind panes of glass glowing in a broad spectrum of color. Shapes moved across them, the figures of pedestrians, cloaked, hooded, some masked against the acrid wind. Coughs merged with the rasp of boots, the tapping of canes.

“Be careful.” Dorph slowed as they neared the glow of illumination from the field, head moving as his eyes quested the dimness. “There could be thieves. We don’t want to be robbed. Killed, even.”

“So close to the field?”

“What’s to stop them?”

“The guards—”

“Are tough when in the company of their own kind. Alone they watch their skin, but you never see them alone.” The steward halted. “This is close enough. You can make
your own way from here. Go down that street, turn right at the end, left at the next turn and the field will lie directly ahead. Get to the ship and hand over the parcel. If the others aren’t there Raistar will manage.”

“What about you?”

“That’s my business.”

“You’re the steward,” said Dumarest. “You should conduct any medication. It isn’t Raistar’s job.”

Dorph said, thickly, “Listen, boy! I’ve had enough of your mouth. Just remember who you are and do as you’re told.”

He added, as Dumarest drew in his breath, “If you want to keep riding with us just do as I say. Deliver the parcel. I’ve other things to do.”

He vanished into the writhing mist and Dumarest resisted the urge to follow him. The man had never been a friend and now he’d shown his true colors. Later he would decide what to do about it. Now he had the drugs to deliver and a life to save.

A shadow loomed before him as he neared the gate. A thick arm clamped his chest and a hand rose to cover his mouth.

“Don’t move! Don’t make a noise!”

Zander. Dumarest froze in obedience. A hand tore the cap from his head.

“Earl? Where’s Dorph?” The engineer snarled as Dumarest told him. “Walked away? Threatened you? Took off while he was safe. The bastard! He won’t be safe for long!”

“What’s happening? Zander! Tell me!”

“Something you won’t like hearing.” The engineer loosened his grasp and Dumarest turned to face him. The man’s face was drawn, marred by an ugly bruise on the left cheek. A trail of blood ran from the corner of his mouth.

“What’s happened? You’ve been in a fight.”

“Did you see the cyber?”

“Yes. On the way out.”

“With Dorph.” Zander’s voice thickened. “The bastard! It all adds up. He was in a hurry, right? Eager to go about his own business?”

“Yes.”

“He would be. Damn him! He—” The engineer snarled his impatience as a pair of guards sauntered towards them. “This is no place to talk. Let’s find somewhere private.”

A tavern with a low roof and thick, acrid, smoke-filled air. A rough place with furniture to match. One catering to field-workers, transients, those with too much time and too little money. A slattern bought wine and stained beakers. She waited to be paid, studying them both before moving away to serve others.

“Here!” Zander poured wine and pushed a beaker towards Dumarest. “Pick it up. Pretend to drink. That slut is still watching.” As Dumarest obeyed, the engineer continued, “Things have turned bad. The captain’s dead, Raistar too. I left them both, after you’d gone and tried to find Jesso. I heard talk and—”

“The captain is dead?”

“As I told you.” Zander gulped some of his wine. “Bazan, Raistar and from what I heard you can add Jesso to the list. They caught up with us. Someone helped them to do it.”

Dumarest thought of the captain and felt an aching sense of loss.

“How?” he said. “Why?”

“Listen,” said Zander, “and try to understand. When you found us we were somewhere we shouldn’t have been. We’d taken a gamble on making a quick profit and lost. It was a mistake. Now we are paying for it.”

Dumarest said, “You stole the ship?”

“You could call it that.” Zander drank more wine. “We decided to operate as a free-trader and managed to scrape a living by carrying cheap cargos for low profit. We were living on borrowed time.” Again he gulped at the wine. “Taste the stuff,” he urged. “That bitch is still watching. I don’t want her to get too curious.”

The wine was rough, raw, thick with floating particles. Dumarest spat the little he had taken back into the beaker.

“Now the owners have caught up?”

“Someone has. After I’d heard about Jesso I returned to the ship. A stranger was waiting. He tried to kill me.” Zander touched his cheek, coughed, looked at the blood staining his hand. “He had taken care of the captain and Raistar, maybe Jesso too. The entire crew gone aside from me and Dorph.”

“And me?”

“No, Earl, not you. You were never crew Never listed as such. Stay clear and you’ll be safe.”

“Dorph knows.”

“Too much. I think he betrayed us. That’s why he insisted you wear a cap matching his own. You dress alike and are much the same size. It would be easy to take you for him. Kill you instead of him.” He coughed again and fought for breath. “Did you get the drugs you were after?”

“You’re hurt, Zander. Let me get help.”

“Forget it. Just give me what you collected from the apothecary.” The engineer studied the items. “Antibiotics, sedatives, salves, inhalants, pain-killers, slowtime—” He lifted the small containers and shook a half-dozen painkillers into his palm. Swallowing them he said, “This should hold me. I’ll keep the slowtime. Take the rest. They might be worth something.” Abruptly he added, “Goodbye, Earl.”

“Goodbye?”

“We’re parting company. I’ve something to do and I don’t want you involved. Don’t return to the field. Don’t even
ask about the ship. Just go and keep going. Here.” Zander put coins on the table. “It isn’t much but it’s all I have. Now go and keep moving.”

Dumarest said, “Don’t talk rubbish! If you’re hurt I want to help.”

“You can’t.” The engineer’s face twisted in pain. “I’m bleeding inside. Dying. You’re on your own. Now get the hell away from me.” Zander rose and staggered and clutched at the table for support. A moment which betrayed his weakness, then he straightened and raised the phial of slowtime to his lips.

“Take care, Earl. Now I’m going to fix Dorph and then take care of the captain. Move, boy! Move!”

The night had turned savage with sharp winds carrying the bite of stinging vapor and noxious gasses. Things ignored as he moved down the streets away from the field, obeying Zander’s instructions because he could think of no better alternative. Overwhelmed by the sudden realisation that the comfort and security he had enjoyed was over, that those he had known as family and friends had gone, vanished as the engineer had vanished when he had taken the slowtime. But Zander hadn’t died. He had simply jerked into an accelerated state of existence in which, for him, time had slowed so that minutes became hours and he could walk safe and unseen through lurking dangers. To find the man who had betrayed them. To kill him. To close his mouth before he could do more damage and then to destroy the ship and the dead it contained.

To create a pyre in which he also would perish.

It blossomed as he reached an intersection; wide avenues crossing to create an open circular area ringed with the glow of accumulated lanterns casting an assortment of vibrant hues embracing the entire spectrum of the universe.

Glows which faded in the sudden burst of searing brilliance from the field to become smears set against drab stone and stained concrete, moldering bricks and cracked flags. In the brilliance scattered figures stood out in sharp relief and clumps of vegetation dotting the central area took on the visage of carved ebony in intricate array.

As the searing brilliance died the gusting wind carried more than the rustle of stirring leaves.

“There! I saw him! There facing Eastlane! Let’s get him!”

The voice of a predator scenting an easy prey. One accompanied by the thud of racing boots and, hearing them, Dumarest ran across the intersection, aiming for a patch of scrub that marred the smooth contours of the area. Reaching it he halted, crouching so as to hide in its shadow. Listening he heard only the sough of the wind.

He had seen guards in the glare of the pyre but to call for their aid would be to invite attention and, if they chose to ignore him, he would have betrayed his position. If he froze, waiting, those after him might tire of the hunt. Or, knowing the area better than he, they might even now be creeping forward to take him unawares.

He reached out, hands flat, fingers and palms searching for stones. He found nothing but grit and loam. He gathered a handful of each and crouched, staring at the hues now again staining the buildings, watching for a silhouette to break their pattern.

Too late he heard the crunch of dirt beneath a boot.

“Well, now, what have we here?” The voice held the purr of a sadistic beast. “A smart little runner—but not smart enough. On your feet, scum! Stand so we can see you!”

The impact of a boot emphasized the command. It slammed into his side with brutal force, turning him to
sprawl on his back, arms spread, legs bent at the knees. Above him a figure stood with shadowed menace.

“Up, I said! On your feet! Move!”

Again the boot, the flare of agony from his side, the sick feeling of helplessness, the mounting terror. He was a victim, the prey of a sadistic psychopath. A bully who took pleasure in tormenting the helpless.

Dumarest moved, rolling, shifting his legs so as to gain mobility, his hands emptying, pressing against the ground as he used the muscles of back and shoulders to lift his weight. Pain made it hard and he guessed at broken ribs.

He cried out as the boot lifted and swung towards him.

“No! Don’t!”

“So you’ve got a voice. That’s nice. Let us hear more of it.” The boot again this time slamming into his side. “Talk, scum! Talk!”

Talk and be kicked to death for a joke, a momentary thrill, or stay silent and receive the same treatment. Either way he couldn’t win. Yet if he didn’t win he would die.

“I’ve got stuff,” he panted. “Drugs. Kick and you’ll break the containers. You want them you can have them.”

“Drugs?”

“That’s right. Enough for you both.” Dumarest looked to see if his assailant was alone. He’d given the impression that he had company but, like the threats and intimidation, that could have been a part of the ritual. “Here!” He swung back to rest on his heels as he delved into his tunic.

“Not so fast! What you got in there? A gun? A knife?”

“Nothing. Just these—” He broke off as the boot swung towards his face, catching it at toe and heel, twisting it outwards from the body, rising as the man cursed then, thrown off-balance, fell backwards.

And screamed as Dumarest slammed his own boot into his groin. Screamed again at a second kick then fell silent as his larynx pulped beneath a third blow.

“Hold it!” A harsh voice rapped the command from beyond the vegetation. “Halt or I shoot!”

“Save your breath.” His companion hawked and spat. “We’ll get him another time. Let’s see what he was up to.”

Dumarest dropped before the two men came into sight. Guards from their equipment and uniforms. Flashlights illuminated the scene focusing on Dumarest as he groaned.

“What the hell’s been going on here?” One stooped over the limp figure of the predator lying to one side. “Dead. Throat-blow by the look of it. Did you do it?” He glared at Dumarest. “Come on, talk, was it you?”

“No.” Dumarest blinked in the glow of the flashlight. “I’m not too sure what happened. I was with him,” he pointed at the sprawled figure. “We were talking. Then a man came along and hit me. I think he ran away.”

“The one we heard,” said the other guard. “He must have been lurking in the bushes waiting for someone to pass by. This one couldn’t have done it. Hell, he’s only a kid. So the man who ran was on the prowl or knew the dead man. He knocked hell out of the kid then when the dead man tried to protect him he went berserk.”