Dumarest 33 - Child of Earth (14 page)

“Maybe.” His companion wasn’t as certain. “What were you doing here, anyway?” he said to Dumarest. “Where were you going?”

“I was looking. Someone told me there was a place where I could get something to eat and stay the night.”

“And this guy offered to take you there? Is that it?” The guard grunted as Dumarest nodded. “I’d say you’ve been lucky. You hurt bad?”

“Bruises. I can manage.”

“You got a home? Family? No?” The guard turned away the beam of his flashlight. His companion was examining the dead man. “Anything?”

“Maybe. What are we going to do about the kid?”

“We should take him in, make out a report, get him checked for injuries.”

“He says he’s only bruised.” Leaving the sprawled corpse the guard leaned towards Dumarest. “That’s right, isn’t it boy? Just a few bruises?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So you don’t need medical attention and a lot of questions. We can all do without trouble, right? If you need shelter and food there’s a place down that street over there.” He pointed. “They’re monks. They belong to a church.”

“How far is it?”

“Not far. You should make it in fifteen minutes.”

It took over an hour.

A
long time,” mused Shandaha. “When you are hurt and in pain and unsure as to your destination. Yet luck, it seems, was with you. No further attacks,” he explained. “Another predator would have found you easy prey.”

“As you would know,” said Dumarest.

“As I surmise.”

“Surmise?” Dumarest was sharp. “I don’t understand. You were with me, riding my memories, living my life. Every step I took you took also.”

Steps of agony as shattered bone grated against bone, lacerating internal tissues, tearing at his lungs, filling his mouth with blood. The boots the thug had worn had been tipped with metal and had created internal damage which turned his legs to water, filled his vision with swirling mists and flashing darts of pain. Every motion had needed greater effort, each step become a greater challenge. At times the desire to simply stop and sink to the ground had become almost overwhelming.

“The guards were obviously intent on robbing the dead man and you were an inconvenience.” Shandaha poured wine into goblets, shimmering purple into twisted skeins of convoluted crystal. “You must have guessed that and so masked your true condition. Had you not done so they would probably have killed you. Another victim of local violence—who would have cared?”

Dumarest lifted his goblet and looked at the wine. The surface shimmered with eye-catching brilliance, the innate glow accentuated by the transmitted motion of his hand. He sipped and tasted a sweet succulence carrying the hint of delicate spices and, abruptly, was again lurching an agonized path down a deserted street towards an unknown destination. A memory, nota relived incident, and he carefully set down the goblet on a table made of gold and amber.

He said, “You were with me. You sent me back!”

“And so should have felt everything you suffered, everything you felt.” Shandaha sipped at his wine, savoring it, smiling over the ornamented rim of the goblet. “I could have done that and would have done had it been desirable. I chose to do otherwise.”

“Why? Would you care to enlighten me?”

“Chagal has given you the answer. Did the good doctor not liken himself to a book? His mind, your mind, something to be read? And if you grow bored with a book do you not turn the pages?”

“Skip the boring parts? Close the volume?”

“Exactly. A minute of agony is enough—what more is to be learned or enjoyed by extending the suffering?”

“What point in leaving me to experience it alone?”

“An oversight. One I regret, but let us not linger over trivial detail.” Shandaha set down his goblet. “I am curious as to the actions of your late engineer. The situation he revealed to you of which you had no suspicion. Yet exactly how much
do you know? Did the captain and the others really die? Was your vessel destroyed? Are you convinced the Cyclan were, in some way, involved with what happened?”

“You were with me. You know.”

“Only what you learned from Zander. He could have told you anything, made up any story he chose. You can’t even be certain he died.”

Dumarest made no comment, remembering the pyre, the searing light of destruction, the events which had followed. Looking at Shandaha he was reminded of the clump of vegetation behind which he had hidden. Like his host it had resembled ebony fashioned in intricate array but there the likeness ceased for where it had stood bare and vulnerable in the open Shandaha was far from that.

“Earl?”

“If you cannot trust my memories then why bother reliving them?”

“For amusement as you are aware. But I have already proved that some of your memories are suspect. Let us continue. After your journey, which obviously ended in success, what happened?”

Things Shandaha would have known had he continued to share in the relived life. Instead he had withdrawn leaving Dumarest to suffer the anguish alone. Pain, fear and agony he would have preferred to forget.

“I reached the church and the monks took me in. Without their help I would have died.”

Even with it he almost had. He sat, remembering, seeing again the crumbling building that formed the local church, the robed monks who had dedicated their lives to an ideal. Men who lived in poverty, wearing rough homespun and sandals, bearing chipped bowls as they begged for alms. They had eased his pain, kept him warm and fed and nursed him back to health. He had given them what he had and,
when fit, had worked as best he could in order to repay their kindness.

“Charity,” said Shandaha. “From those dealing in superstition. How did you escape contamination?”

“There was neither contamination or superstition. The Church of Universal Brotherhood is a potent force for good throughout the galaxy. The monks have dedicated their lives to giving help and easing the torment of those in need.”

“So they would have you believe.”

“So I have seen.” Dumarest studied his host wondering ifhis attitude was genuine or a pretence. Another ploy leading to some conclusion that would reveal his failure in the realm of logic. A continuation of the elaborate game of which he seemed to be a part. “The universe is rotten with poverty and disease. The monks offer counsel, advice, medical aid and what goods and comfort they can provide.”

“In return for an unquestioning belief in their deity. For total obedience to their dictates.”

“The monks make no demands. There is no ritualized worship. Just the basic teaching that if all could be brought to recognize the truth of the credo—there, but for the grace of God, go I—the millennium will have arrived.”

“God?”

“Fate. Destiny. Luck. Chance—call it what you choose,” snapped Dumarest. “Maybe there is a supreme being somewhere in the universe, the original creator and, for convenience, we call it God.”

“And you?”

Dumarest made no answer, sitting, remembering a tall gaunt figure in a shabby homespun robe, sandals on callused feet, scarred hands twisted with arthritis and torments endured when he was young. Brother Edom, a kind and gentle man. One who maintained a warmth and depth of compassion which Dumarest had found hard to understand.

“Think of God as a concept,” he had said. “As a word symbolizing a whole. A total of goodness, perhaps. Of tolerance. Of kindness. Of compassion. Or as a friend, an elder brother or a trusted companion. As a protector or a loving, forgiving, father. Or simply as someone or something always better than we are, for all of us fall into error. Or sin if you prefer to call it that. Acts done with deliberate intent or from unthinking ignorance. Deeds that cause hurt to others yielding physical, mental or emotional distress. Sometimes the guilt of doing such deeds is too much to bear and so the perpetrator seeks forgiveness. Absolution.”

Hence the lamp held in a small compartment. The Benediction Light beneath which a supplicant knelt and confessed his sins to the attendant monk who listened and soothed and gave comfort together with the hypnotic command never to kill.

Dumarest had never knelt before the Benediction Light.

Lying in a semi-coma on a cot close to the inner sanctum he had heard the babble of the supplicants and the measured response of the attendant monks. The comfort they gave and how they gave it. Things he had learned as he had learned of the conditioning—a thing he could do without. If he’d had it he would have died when attacked on the clearing.

Dumarest sipped at his wine, looking at the beauty of the goblet, the table, the furnishing and decoration of the chamber in which they sat. This time it resembled the interior of a tent, one adorned with swathes of shimmering silk and esoteric patterns. Luxury at total variance with the small church he had known in which the monks had helped him win his battle to live. Here was light and the sweet scent of perfume. Then had been the stench of poverty with all that entailed.

“Earl—”

“Yes, I know, you want answers and quickly. So do I. Does it make you a god because you can give or withhold them? That you have the power of life and death? We all have that; the ability to kill or not to kill. Is that your definition of a deity? The concept of a being with awesome power, unpredictable desires, an inflated ego and the ability to pander to any whim regardless of its effect on others? If so you aren’t talking about a god—you’re talking about a megalomaniac.”

“Is that what you think?”

“Do you give a damn what I think?” Dumarest looked at the goblet in his hand then carefully set it on the table. The wine was unexpectedly strong. “Life is a gamble,” he said. “A game of chance. The cards are dealt and each gets a hand. It can be worthless, have potential value, have value of a kind, or be unbeatable. You improve it if you can. Otherwise you just make do.”

“A cynical point of view, Earl. One I would not have expected from a man of action such as yourself. Yet, if you had been indoctrinated to believe that all is foreordained, then there would be no point in trying to improve your situation. If God deals the cards then God must have decided your station. Which proves that God must be omnipotent.”

“Omniscient,” corrected Dumarest. “You don’t need total power to deal out a hand of cards. You just hand them out and let luck take care of the rest. But if you want to fix the deal you need to have knowledge.”

“As you would know.” Shandaha shrugged, “So we have managed to resolve the nature of God. A crooked card-dealer. A novel proposition but one I find hard to accept.”

“I’m not talking about God. I’m talking about luck. Life is a gamble all along the line. Who we are, what we are, all the rest of it. The random products of chance.”

“Perhaps. You have a point but I doubt if the monks would agree. How long did you stay with them?”

“About a year.”

“And then?”

“I moved on. The Church held attraction but it wasn’t for me.”

“You hated wearing the robe, the begging, the need, always, to be humble?”

“Something like that.”

“Their pacifism?”

“That too.” Dumarest looked at his hands, remembering those of the old monk, trying to imagine what it must have been like for him to have suffered the agony of broken joints and torn flesh. Knowing that he could never accept their creed of peace, accepting torment hoping, that by example, they would teach their tormentors the futility of inflicting agony.

Not in a universe where life itself was a continual act of violence.

“And then?”

“Hsi Wei taught me how to survive.”

He had remembered the man when lying in satiated lethargy with Nada before opening the door that had led to his past. Hours ago? Minutes? There was no way to tell. Drugs could alter the apparent passage of time and he could have relived previous experiences at an accelerated rate. Most probably had done but there was nothing he could do about it. Now he simply sat, thinking, assessing Shandaha’s reluctance to accompany him on the pain-wracked journey to the church. His host did not seem to relish pain and Hsi Wei had provided more than enough of that.

“A lesson accompanied with pain is a lesson never to be forgotten.”

His personal credo founded on years of experience and primitive teaching, backed by the generous use of the thin cane looped to his wrist. One he used to emphasize every facet of the information he regarded as essential to the art of personal survival.

“Learn the major areas of maximum sensitivity to physical attack.” A pause as the tip of the cane touched points on an anatomical chart. “The genitals, the throat, the larynx, the eyes, the ears. Boned structures such as the jaw, the temple, the cheek, the neck. Repeat!” The lash of the cane as he was obeyed. “Again! Again!”

Anatomy, circulation, the placement of nerves that, when correctly struck, would result in pain and temporary paralysis. Practice bouts with one student set against another, then against a pair, a trio, more. All to find the art of determining how and if to attack, when, which to strike first.

“In any unavoidable conflict the basic rule is to strike first, fast, and furiously.” The sting of the cane. “Repeat! Repeat!”