"A lot of things happen," said Axilia. "And the thing which happens most is meeting up with liars. That's what brought me to this damned world and I guess it brought you here too. The only difference is that you met up with a bigger liar than I did." He looked at Dumarest. "What about you, Earl? Were you the victim of a liar too?"

  Perhaps, but if so the man would never lie again.

  Zalman said, quickly, "Have none of you ever been to Elysius before? No? I thought not. If you had there would be no stupid talk of shearing sheep. Those who have goods know how to protect them and those who aren't interested in defending their property have nothing to steal. What you can do is work."

  "You can do that anywhere." Quail refilled his glass with ruby wine. "That's not why I came to this world."

  "So you want to sit and dream, is that it? Set yourself up with all the comforts and take it easy for the rest of your life." Zalman shrugged. "Well, why not? It's as good an ambition as any. How about you?" He looked at Ochen and Tocsaw. "The same. But not you, Sven, eh?"

  "I came to find work. A man just can't sit and do nothing. Anyway, I need to build a stake. A big one." A hand rose to touch his ruined face. "What I need doesn't come cheap." Cosmetic surgery to make him whole again but the scar on his mind could never be healed. A memory which sent his hand to the decanter, to pour, to freeze as he set it down. "The bitch!" His tone rose with dazed incredulity. "The stinking bitch—here!"

  She stood just within the open door, illuminated with dancing light from the swirling lanterns, swaths of color altering the hue of hair and eyes and giving her skin a luminous quality. A figure which a man dulled by drink could take for another. One which could be taken for the cause of pain and the target for revenge.

  "Ieko!" The name was a shout as Axilia reared to his feet, dishes rattling, a glass smashing as it hit the floor. "Ieko—you whore!"

  A name and insult which shocked the room to silence. In the doorway the woman turned, frowning, to see the scarred miner jump the table and come running toward her, his glass in his hand. A glass which shattered as he stooped to dash it against the floor, to become a ringed ugliness of pointed shards which caught the light and gleamed with the color of blood.

  "At last!" His voice held gloating. "Remember when last we met? The gift you gave me?" His head thrust toward her in a snake-like gesture. "See? Note how pretty it is. How well it would look on you." The glass rose, threatening, turning in his hand. Multiple daggers to rip at skin and flesh, to sever the nose, the lips, to blind the eyes.

  "No!" Zalman caught Dumarest's arm. "Earl, don't!"

  A private quarrel and the extraction of revenge. The woman could have earned it and the miner be in the right according to his customs but Dumarest could not sit and watch it done. Axilia, more drunk than he'd seemed, was blood-crazed, an animal now bereft of all judgment. How long ago had the woman thrown acid into his face? What were the odds of them meeting again here?

  "Ieko!" He had jumped between her and the door, barring her escape, and now stood, crouching, relishing his moment. "Fate is good, you bitch! How often have I prayed we should meet again? How many times have I searched to find you? On Quand. On Helbrish. On a dozen worlds where you could have been waiting. Now, at last, we meet."

  "No!" She backed, one hand lifted, eyes wide with terror. "You're mad! Mad!"

  "Just as you made me, my dear." A step and the miner was closer, the broken glass lifted, aimed, poised inches from her eyes. "Pray, Ieko! Pray!"

  The glass smashed in his hand, the plate Dumarest had thrown spinning on to shatter as it glanced from a man standing at the bar. Axilia turned, snarling, the broken stem falling as he plunged a hand beneath his tunic. Steel shone as he drew a knife; ten inches of honed and pointed metal. A glow doubled as Dumarest lifted his own blade from his boot.

  "Sven, you fool, listen to me!"

  "Pimp! Stinking, dirty pimp! I'll see your guts, you bastard!"

  A man crazed, lost in time, hate and anger boiling to give him a maniacal strength. His eyes were suffused with blood, froth edging the corners of his mouth, sweat dewing his skin. Already he was deaf and blind to reality, locked in a berserker frenzy. A machine, armed, primed to explode and Dumarest had made himself the target.

  He backed, dodged, backed again and felt the impact of a table against his back. A barrier which held him as the blades touched, parted to touch again, filling the air with a thin, vicious ringing. Axilia was more dangerous than any opponent he had met in the arena; a man willing to expend his total energy in a wild burst of fury. Wounds wouldn't stop him. Cuts would be ignored. Only death could bring him down.

  And he displayed an unexpected talent.

  The table slid to one side as Dumarest threw his weight against it, toppled with a crash as he darted to one side, speed alone saving his face, the blinding slash aimed at his eyes whining through the air. An ordinary man would have been exposed then, thrown off balance by the force of his uninterrupted cut, but Axilia moved with it, using the momentum to spin and lower his arm to cut again.

  Dumarest parried, moved back, weaved as he came forward, not wasting time on trying to delude the man or make cunning feints. It was enough for him, now, simply to survive.

  "Scum!" Axilia had bitten his lip and blood masked mouth and chin. "Lousy pimp! Fight you stinking coward!"

  Miner's talk and a change for the better. The initial fury was passing, vented on the air, and now he was slipping into a more cautious mold. For a time it would make him even more dangerous; a fighter's cunning added to the previous maniacal rage, and the knife he was using was evidence of experience. A ten-inch blade—the customary length for professionals.

  It slashed, vanished to slash again, the blade turning so as to catch and reflect the light, turned again to lose its shine and become relatively invisible. A trick Dumarest had anticipated and his own blade, shorter by an inch, slammed hard against the other's wrist with numbing force. A blow with the flat aimed to disarm Axilia but failing in its intent. Slabbed muscle and tough sinew took and absorbed the blow, a boot rising in return to kick at a knee. Dumarest moved, felt the jar of it against his thigh and pressed forward to slam the weight of his clenched fist into the miner's face.

  Blood from the broken nose mingled with that from the mouth.

  "Bastard!" Axilia spat a carmine stream. "You dirty—"

  The blades met as he attacked, the thin, spiteful ringing filling the chamber with the brittle music of combat. It merged with their panting, the scrape and thud of boots, the shift of bodies. Axilia was in trouble. The broken nose limited his breathing and the blood made gurgling noises as he sucked air. Also he was slowing, the insane pace he'd set impossible to maintain. As if realizing it he made a sudden, supreme effort.

  "Earl!" Zalman was shouting. "Earl!"

  Dumarest ignored the man. Axilia was close, teeth bared, stained with blood, more blood dappling his tunic. He flung out his left arm willing to take a cut in order to clear the path of his own attack. One which came in a splinter of light as he made the knife an extension of his arm, a claw ripping at Dumarest's throat.

  He ducked, rose almost immediately, feeling the jar as the forearm hit his shoulder and then was in, aiming, striking, the pommel of his knife a hammer beating at the other's temple, the walls of his consciousness.

  Axilia fell as though shot.

  "Earl!" Zalman came running. "Are you hurt? There's blood on your face. A cut?"

  "It's nothing." Dumarest looked at the fallen man. "Take care of him. Get the others to help. Wash his face and make sure he can breathe."

  Only then did he look for the woman.

  Chapter Six

  He found her in the room outside, a small chamber fitted with soft furnishings and bathed with yellow light. A clear illumination which showed her as she really was. A woman in her fourth decade, the russet of her hair cut to form a helmet which framed a wide-boned face. The mouth was wide, the lips generous, the jaw round and determined. Her eyes, deep-set beneath winged brows, were blue, penetrating.

  She said, "I am Isobel Boulaye. I thank you for saving my life."

  "He didn't intend to kill you."

  "But he did intend to maim." A hand rose to touch her cheek, the fingers drifting over the smoothly rounded skin. A gesture more revealing than she guessed; to some women the loss of beauty was more terrible than death. "But why? What reason could he have?"

  "He thought you were someone else. A girl who had hurt him."

  "I've never seen him before in my life."

  "No." Dumarest wondered at her calm, knowing just how great the shock must have been, the fear. "The light confused him and he had been drinking."

  As the woman had been. He watched as a girl refilled her glass and handed him another. Brandy. He took a sip and savored its warmth. The woman swallowed hers at a gulp.

  "I needed that." She drew in her breath and he saw the stir and lift of her breasts beneath the shimmering fabric of her gown. Feminine attributes augmented by the narrow waist, the swell of hips and thighs. Her perfume was a spiced astringency. "Another?"

  "I've enough." Dumarest took another sip. "A nasty experience, my lady, but, at least, you've suffered no lasting injury. Now if you will excuse me?"

  "You're leaving?"

  "I need to wash." The blood was drying on his face and the wound needed to be stanched. And he could use a shower.

  She said, "Use my room. I can take care of the wound if you want, I've had some experience. Medicines too— please, you can't refuse!"

  An obligation and one it would be kind to relieve her of. Also it was convenient. Dumarest nodded.

  "Good!" Her pleasure was genuine. "I'll order some wine. It's room 9."

  One smaller than that he shared with Zalman but with softer touches. The bed was wide, soft, bright with a woven cover. The window looked to the other side of the house and the carpet was soft beneath his feet. A bowl and faucet stood behind a painted screen.

  Comfort—but the little signs were present in this room as the other. The hint of decay, the taint of neglect.

  "Sit here, Earl." She smiled as he looked at her. "Yes, I know your name as I do the others. Anna gave them to me. I was coming to talk with you when that beast attacked. If you hadn't defended me—" She shuddered. "You could have killed him. You should have killed him—instead you told the others to take care of him. Why?"

  "He was crazed, drunk, unknowing."

  "Reasons for sparing his life? What if he comes after you seeking revenge?"

  "He won't."

  "But if he does you will kill him." She frowned, trying to understand. "Because then it would be a personal matter? Is that it? What he threatened to do to me wasn't really your concern and so you had no right to interfere. But you couldn't bear to see me hurt."

  An explanation which seemed to satisfy her. He said, dryly, "No one else seemed interested in saving you."

  "Those at the bar? The tables? No, why should they be." Wine had accompanied them and she poured and handed him a glass. "They are different. I—well, never mind. Your health, Earl, and my gratitude."

  "And the use of your bowl?"

  "Of course, you need to wash. Stay seated, I'll do it."

  "No." It would be easier to do it himself. "With your permission?"

  He stripped off his tunic without waiting for an answer and plunged his head into the filled bowl. The water stung, turned red, vanished as he pulled the plug and let it run down the drain. More followed, now a pale pink, and she handed him a towel when he rose, dripping.

  "Now sit." Her tone brooked no argument. "Let me see that wound."

  Her fingers were deft, probing, and he heard the hiss of indrawn breath as she parted his hair.

  "Close, Earl. The scalp is slashed but if the cut had been deeper he could have exposed bone."

  And deeper still the brain. Dumarest said, "Can you stanch it?"

  "Easily. Just stay as you are."

  He heard the rustle of her gown as she moved away, a click, the rustle again then a sharp sting which immediately faded.

  "There! I've sealed it firm. In a few days the coating will vanish and you'll be as good as new." She hesitated, her tone changing, gaining added intensity. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

  "Please, some more wine?"

  He watched as she poured, noting the flush now staining her cheeks, the elusive but unmistakable signals emitted by a woman yearning for a male. Signals which she needn't even be aware of but which he recognized as an animal could scent a spoor.

  As she handed him the glass he said, "You were coming to talk to us. Why?"

  "To offer you work. To ask you to help me. I've a mine which—" She broke off as he smiled. "Something amuses you?"

  "The man who attacked you is a miner. He's been looking for somewhere to work."

  "He needn't waste his time!"

  A natural reaction. Dumarest rose and crossed to the window. The days on Elysius were short and already it was dark. Even so it was early yet, few lights shone in the town. An oddity to add to others. Why had no one tried to help the woman? Why the neglect? What had made the Hausi mention colors in the sky? He could see none, merely traces of wispy cloud, a veil for the glow of blossoming starlight.

  Where was the man Zalman had promised?

  He said, "Were you born here?"

  "No. My home world is Ascelius. I came here with my husband to work the mine. That was a long time ago it seems." She added, quickly, "He's dead now. Dead and buried."

  An explanation for her need. Dumarest caught the odor of her perfume as she came closer, the nearing heat of her body against his naked torso. He turned to face her, feeling the touch of her fingers as they traced the line of scars marking his chest.

  "A fighter," she mused. "I should have guessed it. No one else could have fought as well." Her hands lingered as they moved over his ribs, the sharply defined muscles, moving toward his back as if with a life of their own.

  "Earl!"

  "You know the people here?" He made no attempt to step away. "You could tell me about them?"

  "People!" She drew in her breath and then, abruptly, dropped her hands and stepped to where she had placed the wine. He watched the pulse of her throat as she drank. "I suppose I know them. Who are you looking for? A girl? Someone young and lovely?"

  "A man. Probably old. Possibly a scholar of some kind. One who could be fond of books and antiquities." He sensed her surprise. "I doubt if he's a native but he could be. A man who could live alone and is probably laughed at. Someone who believes in the truth of legends."

  She said nothing, pouring wine, drinking to pour again. A woman gaining time or one striving to achieve emotional control? Zalman could have read her but he could only guess.

  Dumarest urged, "Please—to me it is important. It's possible you know of such a person."

  "His name?"

  "I don't know it." A secret Zalman retained. "I don't know where he lives." Another. "Nor what he looks like." A situation he'd had to accept but which must shortly change.

  He looked at the glass she handed to him, the wine it contained. She said, "A toast, Earl—to lost causes! I'm sorry, but I can't help you. I know of none who would fit your description." As if sensing his disbelief she added, "I live in an isolated house and work an isolated mine. I have no visitors, no friends, few acquaintances. The only times I come to town are to collect supplies, deliver a shipment, and to try to gain labor from any new arrivals. I don't socialize. I've no interest in anyone on this damned world and no one has any interest in me. No one!"

  Dumarest heard the words and caught the pain they contained, the bleak, aching loneliness. He remained silent, the tension in the room was as brittle as the glass in his hand. The glass she held which shattered as she let it fall to come toward him, to hold him, to offer herself in abject surrender.

  "Earl! For God's sake—Earl!"

  It was dawn when he woke and he lay looking at the pattern of light thrown in pale colors on the ceiling from the uncurtained window. Beside him Isobel lay like a relaxed child, her face smoothed, eased of tensions, young again and revealing the beauty she had been so terrified to lose. A woman who had found a sudden happiness and who had grasped at it without question as to its possible duration. One who had reacted to the pressure of her need.

  One he had shared, responding to it, engulfed by it, tensions induced by combat and fear exploding in a mutual release.

  "Earl?" She moved, one hand questing, coming to rest as it touched his shoulder. "I love you, my darling. I love you."

  Words born of a need, released by his proximity, her reaction to his maleness. A woman who had been alone too long. Gently he moved her hand and slipped from the bed. To wake her would be to add to the pain of parting. Later, if they met, she would have only pleasant memories.

  The house was silent as he closed the door. A narrow passage led to the room he shared with Zalman and he moved quietly along it. Axilia had been put in a cubicle next door and he stepped into it to look at the man on the bed. He was asleep, his temple bearing an ugly bruise, his nose swollen, puffed over the thin tubes inserted into his nostrils. Dumarest checked them and the bone beneath the bruise. If it was cracked that was the worst. The man would live to work and fight another day. In their own room Zalman was asleep. He lay on one side, one hand close to his mouth, his breath disturbing the fine hairs on the backs of the fingers and palm. His clothing lay beside him and Dumarest reached toward it, freezing as the man stirred.

  "Wha… ?" Zalman moved, eyes closed, a man moving in his sleep but his hand darted like a snake up and beneath his pillow. Dumarest clamped it in his fingers, feeling the flesh, the bone, the metal of a laser. It was small, expensive, deadly at short range. "Earl!" Zalman ceased to struggle. "What the hell are you playing at?"

  "Read me!"

  "Don't play games. What time is it?" He blinked at the glowing windows fighting to free his hand. "All right if that's the way you want it. You grabbed me because you wanted to be sure I didn't shoot you by mistake. That I'd take you for an intruder. Well, I'm awake now and you can let me go."