She tried to catch his attention, failed, and turned as a hand fell on her knee. The contact was distasteful and she squirmed as she knocked it aside. Montarg, smiling without humor, lifted his voice above the noise.

  "You look disturbed, my cousin. Is your stomach so weak that you cannot stand the sight of a little blood?"

  Coldly she said, "I do not regard the death of men as amusing."

  "But educational, surely? See how the people enjoy it. Listen to them shout. Does not that teach you something about human nature, my dear?" He laughed, soundlessly like a dog, mouth wide to show the redness of his throat, the gleaming whiteness of his teeth. "If you were more of a woman, Veruchia, you would not be so unmoved. Look at Vidda, at Loris, even Nita finds within herself the capability to respond. But you look as if made of ice. Water must flow in your veins. No wonder that when men talk of you they smile."

  "At least they do not spit."

  "Can you be sure of that, cousin?"

  He was baiting her as he always did, as he had done when, as children, they had played in the gardens of the palace. Then she had learned the mistake of displaying anger. He reveled in the fury of the helpless.

  Quietly she said, "You are a sadist, Montarg. But from me you will get little pleasure."

  "A sadist, cousin?"

  "A sadist," she repeated. "And worse, a coward. You watch others die and gain pleasure from their pain. If you are genuinely entranced by the mystique of combat why aren't you in the arena strengthening your skill? Could it be that you are reluctant to put your manhood to the test?"

  He refused to be annoyed. "Unlike yours, my dear, my sex is beyond question. And still you insist on missing the point of the games, as you so willfully insist on missing much that concerns the welfare of Dradea. You have a limited mind, cousin, but that is to be expected. A limited mind in a limited body. A lover, perhaps, could teach you something. You should try one." He paused then added, with deliberate cruelty, "I'm sure you could find someone to share your bed if you really tried. A cripple, perhaps, or a man unable to see."

  He had beaten her as he always did. Eyes smarting, she turned from his smiling face as the crowd roared. An attendant nursed an arm streaming with blood. Belev, Montarg's satellite, grunted his impatience.

  "The fool should have taken better care. And all of them are taking too long."

  Montarg said, lazily, "Then urge them on."

  Belev grinned and moved away. The sharp blast of a trumpet followed his order, imperious, demanding. Down in the arena they heard it and worked harder than before, ringing the crell with nets and tridents, taking wild risks as they forced it back so that others could lift the body of the dead man and carry it away. Lithe boys flung themselves at the stained sand, raking it smooth, burying the soiling blood beneath the golden grains.

  * * *

  In the comparative coolness and gloom of the preparation chamber the note sounded clear and threatening. A medical attendant grunted and said, "They're getting impatient out there. Trust Montarg for that. He believes in getting full value for his money. It's a wonder he didn't have us build a conveyor belt."

  Sadoua scowled; at such times graveyard humor was out of place. Quickly he glanced at the waiting contestants; some had responded with a shrug and a strained smile, a few laughed with forced bravado.

  Dumarest did neither.

  He sat on a bench, relaxed, eyes half-closed and breathing with a deep, controlled rhythm. The bones of his ribs stood clear against his chest, his muscles limned beneath the hard whiteness of his skin. To many he looked as if half-asleep but the fightmaster knew better. This was a man preparing himself for battle, a coiled spring ready to explode into action: a man who had chosen to fight for money accepting the penalty of maiming or death if he failed.

  Sadoua limped towards him. "You're next."

  "Now?"

  "Soon." The fightmaster was a squat man, a scar running over one cheek, more in parallel lines across his naked torso. He was sweating, thick droplets clinging to the hairs of his forked beard. He stepped aside as the men carrying the stretcher trotted past and swore as he looked at the mess it contained. "The fool. I told him to watch the feet. A crell kicks forward, not back. Watch beak and feet, I told him. You all heard me. Why didn't the damned fool listen?"

  Dumarest rose, stretching. "Maybe he forgot."

  "Forgot!" The fightmaster spat. "You only forget once in the arena. He should have known that. He told me that he'd fought before and promised a good show. A child could have done as well." He cocked his head at a roar from the crowd. "Listen to that. They're getting ugly. They paid to see good fighting, sharp, clear action, not a bunch of suicides. Do you think I like to see men walk out and dead meat carried in? Five so far, three more dying and four who'll never be the same again. And not a crell to show for it."

  "You'd like to see one hit the sand?"

  "More than one." Sadoua scowled and spat. "I've no love for those damn things. Don't get me wrong, the arena's my life, but in the old days it was different. Men against men, clubs, armor, that sort of thing. A man could get hurt, sure, but no one ever left his guts spread over the sand. Then things changed. Animals came in, bulls at first and then the big cats." Reflectively he rubbed the scars on his chest. "And then they brought in those damned birds. Even so a man stood a fair chance at first. Then they began to breed for size, weight and viciousness and now—" He broke off, conscious that he was saying too much. The morale of a fighter was important to his survival.

  Gruffly he said, "A crell is just an overgrown bird. You can take it."

  "If I don't it will take me."

  "A good thing to remember." Sadoua glanced down the passage towards the arena. "Like a shot of something before you go? Some figure that it helps."

  Dumarest shook his head.

  "You're wise. I never touched it myself before a bout. After, yes, but never before. No matter what they say it can slow you down a little and that could be fatal." He led the way to where a door opened on the sand, halting at the edge of sunlight. "Don't forget now, watch those feet. A crell moves fast so try and get some sand into its eyes and slow it down. Don't stand facing it too long. Keep moving and—" He broke off as the trumpets blared. "Good luck!"

  It was impossible to look away.

  Veruchia sat on the edge of her seat, despising herself and yet trapped by the moment. The deadly fascination of the games, she thought. The anticipation, the accelerated pounding of the heart, the tension of nerve and sinew as if she herself were down there on the sand. The vicarious pleasure which filled the stands. The druglike euphoria which caused men and women to act like beasts. Yet how could she really blame them? They merely took what was provided, the danger faced by a surrogate, obvious, visible, while they sat safe and secure high above. As she was sitting now.

  She felt the pressure in her lungs as the trumpets died, the sigh rising from thirty thousand throats, the rustle as bodies moved forward, heads craning towards the sand. And all of it was physical, a thing felt deep in bone and muscle, the allure of the arena, the beast of which she was a part.

  Beside her Selkas drew in his breath.

  "I know that man," he whispered incredulously. "I've seen him before, years ago now, but I could never forget."

  She felt the touch of his cheek, as light as a feather, the urgent whisper of his voice in her ear.

  "Veruchia, trust me. This is a golden chance for revenge against Montarg. Take it. Bet all you own on the fighter. It will be a wager you cannot lose."

  Whispering she said, "Why are you so generous?"

  "Why don't I make the bet myself?" His voice echoed his amusement. "A shrewd comment, but I have all the money I need. You need more than money. The taste of revenge is, I assure you, wonderfully sweet. Back the man against the crell and do it quickly before they engage. I doubt if this bout will take long."

  She hesitated, watching the lone figure walking slowly across the sand. Her eyes were good and details were plain: his height, the scarred torso, the hard determination of his face—the face of a man who had long since learned to live outside of the protection of House or Guild, Family or Organization. A loner as, in a sense, was she. Looking at the man she felt a quick affinity. He like herself, faced tremendous odds. Perhaps if she backed him it might, in some unguessable way, help him, give him strength. And she had never had cause to doubt Selkas's good regard.

  "Quickly, Veruchia," he whispered. "Quickly."

  Montarg's voice made her decision. "A thousand on the crell. A kill within three minutes." Belev laughed. "Make it one and you're on."

  "Three," Montarg insisted. "At his rate of progress he'll take all day to get within range." His voice grew hard. "I'll have a word with Sadoua about this. His choice of cattle is too poor to be tolerated." Cattle! To talk so about men!

  Veruchia turned and to Montarg said, "A wager, cousin?"

  "You Veruchia? You want to make a bet?" His surprise was genuine then, recovering, he gave his soundless laugh. "Could it be that the heat of the sun is making you human? Do you thrill to the anticipation of blood?"

  "You have a large mouth, cousin," she said coldly. "And words are cheap. Will you accept my wager?"

  "On the crell?"

  "The man. You will give me odds?"

  He pondered, looking down at the arena, seeing only a trained and vicious crell and a man walking towards his destruction. The bird was from his own hatchery; he knew the strain and had no doubt as to the outcome. Veruchia must be insane—perhaps the atmosphere had turned her brain. In any case it was not a chance to be missed.

  "You have an estate to the north adjoining my own. Against it I will set three times its market value."

  "Only three?" Her shrug was expressive.

  "Five then."

  "You are cautious, Montarg." Already she was beginning to regret her wildness. Aside from a house in town the estate was all she had, apart from some land to the south, barren and of little value. Perhaps, if she pushed the odds high enough, she would force him to refuse the wager. How high? Eight? Ten? "Give me twelve and I will agree."

  "Done." He spoke quickly; the man was getting close to the bird, delay might mean a lost opportunity. And what did the odds matter when the result was a foregone conclusion? "You are a witness, Selkas. And you, Vidda."

  "Be silent," snapped the woman. She was breathing raggedly, her hands clenched. "I am watching the conflict."

  She and all the rest.

  Dumarest could feel their eyes, sense the hunger, the savage desire for blood and action, the straining anticipation he had known so often before. A small ring with men facing each other with naked blades or a luxurious arena with men facing beasts, it was all the same. Aside from scale the audience never differed. All had the same hunger; all made the same demand.

  He ignored them as he walked slowly across the sand, eyes on the crell. He was naked aside from a loincloth, the sun hot on his back and shoulders, burning beneath the soles of his feet. He carried an eight-foot spear as his only weapon and he knew that the length had been carefully judged. He could throw it—once. If he missed or if the blow did not kill he would never get a second chance. He could use it to thrust but that meant shortening the length to allow for holding, and if he used it as a quarterstaff he would have to get within the range of beak and feet.

  He slowed a little, halting as the crell moved. It stood five feet high, the long neck lifting the head another three, a rounded ball of muscle coated with tough feathers, the claws like steel, the beak a living spear. It moved again, hopping to one side, the dry rasp of the furrowed sand oddly loud in the hushed silence. It froze, watching, its eyes close-set, reptilian, hypnotic in their stare.

  It charged.

  It came without warning, one second immobile, the next blasting forward as if shot from a gun, sand pluming from beneath its feet, neck outstretched, feathers bristling on vestigial wings. Dumarest sprang to one side, landing catlike, poised on the balls of his feet, the spear lifted in both hands. There was no time to use the weapon. Barely had he landed than the crell charged again, turning, ripping the sand, one clawed foot slashing at the space in which he had stood.

  Dumarest ran for his life.

  He heard the roar of the crowd as he raced down the arena, savage, angry at being robbed of their spectacle. He saw the gaping mouth of the door leading to the preparation chamber, Sadoua's scarred visage, the men standing on platforms to either side, spears poised to bring him down should he come too close. He leaped to one side, jumping high, turning in the air so that he faced back the way he had come, the spear gripped in both hands, leveling as he landed.

  The crell had not followed. It strutted at the far end beneath the high box, head high, arrogant as it tore at the sand. From the crowd came a storm of jeers at what they regarded as cowardice.

  A girl, young and pretty, her face disfigured with ugly passion, screamed, "Give him the whip! Lash the dog until he bleeds!"

  Others took up the cry. Sadoua shook his head as an attendant touched his arm. "No. Not yet. That man is fighting for his life."

  "But the crowd?"

  "To hell with them! They want blood, not skill. Can't they realize that he was testing the crell to see what it could do? Now shut up and watch!"

  Dumarest thrust the spear into the sand, dropped to one knee and rubbed his hands in the grit, his eyes never leaving the crell. Still it strutted back and forth, beak weaving, shining in the sun. Snakelike it poised as Dumarest rose and hefting the spear began to move slowly towards it.

  Hushed, the crowd waited.

  It was a thing, a beast bred for a certain task, natural attributes accentuated for a desired end. But it was still a beast with a limited brain governed more by instinct than calculated decision. Dumarest concentrated on it as he crossed the sand. There would be a point beyond which he could not pass without being attacked. An invisible line which was the creature's territorial limit. Anything crossing it would be attacked, viciously, without delay or warning. But, unless maddened by the scent of blood, the bird would probably not attack at a greater distance.

  He remembered the girl, her screamed demands that he be whipped until he bled. A man could not hope to escape by staying a safe distance.

  If there were a safe distance. If the crell would be content to stay in one place.

  Looking at the increasing movement of the feet Dumarest knew that it would not. It would strut the length of the arena, its present domain, and inevitably he would get too close.

  Still he advanced.

  He had the spear, his hands and feet, his brain. He could think and calculate, the age-old advantage a man had over a beast. He could anticipate and prepare and act when the moment came. His life depended on his judgment.

  The crell twitched then froze as it had done before. Dumarest took another slow step forward, another, a third. He dropped as the bird charged.

  He fell to his left knee, the sole of his right foot hard against the sand, the leg twisted at right angles to his body. He held the spear low, the butt set into the sand, hard against the side of his right foot. The point slanted upwards, the glimmering tip four feet above the ground and aimed directly at the breast of the charging crell.

  He saw it hit, the glimmering steel burying its length into the feathered breast as the running bird impaled itself on the spear. A blow numbed his foot and he saw wood splinter inches from his face as a clawed foot ripped at the shaft in his hands. He released it, feeling the wetness of jetting blood, rolling frantically to one side as the crell tore at the sand, jumping to his feet as the beak stabbed where he had lain.

  The roar of the crowd was a thunder to match the pulsing of his blood.

  The crell was not dead. Bone had deflected the point from the heart, the pain of the injury driving it into a crazed fury. It saw Dumarest and charged, the butt of the drooping spear hitting the sand and driving the point even deeper. It halted, bewildered, then a clawed foot lifted and tore the spear from its breast.

  Dumarest ran forward. He lunged with the full speed of his body, ignoring the pain from his bruised foot in the desperate need of haste. As the crell readied itself to attack with feet and beak he jumped, caught the slender neck and flung his legs over the rounded shape. Beneath him the bird exploded into savage fury, twisting, jumping, reaching up with one leg so as to claw free the thing on its back.

  The claws could not reach but the beak could. Dumarest ducked as it struck at his face, gripping the neck with both hands, feeling the tense muscle and sinew, the throb of blood in an artery like a rope. His mouth closed over it, his teeth biting through the tough skin, the gristle beneath, the muscle and flesh—biting until he choked on a sudden gush of blood, a ruby fountain which jetted, glistening into the sunlight.

  The rest was a matter of waiting.

  * * *

  It was something she would never forget.

  Veruchia sat, bemused by the sound and fury, the blasting release of tension which had risen and was still rising from the stands: men, red-faced, yelling, flinging coins in glittering showers; women, screaming, tearing the clothes from shoulders and chest, offering their bodies to the victor. Emotion was a tangible cloud.

  Hysteria, she knew, but knowing did not help. She had attended the games before, seen men die and, rarely, win, but never before had she felt as she did now. She had won. The man she had backed with her wager had won. They had won. They?

  She looked at the man on the sand. He was upright, incredibly unhurt, staggering a little as strong arms led him from the arena. He seemed oblivious to the shouts and cheers, the boys collecting the showered offerings, the attendants busy removing the dead crell. How could he know that she had backed him against all logic? How could he guess at the tension which had gripped her stomach as he had fought?

  Selkas spoke quietly in her ear. "Look at Montarg. Have you ever seen him look so bitter?"

  Her eyes remained on the arena. "He has lost. He hates to lose at anything. Will he pay?"