"He will have no choice. A wager made before witnesses, before Chorzel himself, how can he refuse?" Selkas chuckled with soft amusement. "You should look at him, Veruchia, and enjoy your revenge."

  She gave him one glance, seeing the fury, the scowl, then turned away before he could meet her eyes. It was not in her nature to gloat.

  "Twelve to one," murmured Selkas. "You played him well. He will be strained to find the money." He chuckled again. "I told you that you could not lose."

  "How could you be so certain?"

  "I know the man, I told you that. It was on a world whose name I have forgotten, years ago, a little thing but it stuck in my mind. I was bored. A fight had been arranged and I went to see what was offered. It was the usual thing, men set against each other with knives, others gambling on the outcome, a means to pass the time, no more. One of the contestants was young and a little nervous. A handler passed him a knife and, as he reached for it, let it fall. It was caught before it touched the ground." Selkas shrugged. "It is an old trick, one designed to weaken the opposition, a thing arranged so as to reveal a false speed. But this time the accident was genuine. The man was amazingly fast."

  She looked at the figure at the far end of the arena. He had almost reached the door; soon he would have vanished from her sight. "That man?"

  "The same. I have seen many fighters, so many that their faces are blurred and their skill forgotten, but him I shall never forget. He was young then, new to the ring, far from skilled with a blade, but he was fast. Incredibly so. A matter of reflexes, no doubt, but he was a joy to watch. You noticed how he mounted the crell?"

  She nodded.

  "That took speed. Speed of decision and action. A fraction of a seconds delay and the beast would have turned and torn out his stomach. A lesser man would have hesitated and paid for it with his life. And the rest? Surely you noticed that?"

  The racing fury, the charges, the leaping frenzy as the bird died. And even when dead it had continued to thresh about the sand, giant muscles spurred by ungoverned reflexes. Yes, she had noticed.

  "I knew that he would win," said Selkas. "A fighter who had managed to survive so long, a man so fast, how could he possibly lose?"

  He had gone now, swallowed by the door and, somehow, the arena seemed empty despite the crowd and the men still working on the sand. Veruchia rose, unwilling to watch another bout, knowing that it could only be an anticlimax to what had gone before. And there was no need for her to stay. She had attended the games, Chorzel had seen her; if he protested at her early departure she would plead a sudden indisposition.

  She glanced to where he sat, still apparently tense in his chair, his hands clamped on the arms. She sensed an oddity, frowning as she turned, taking three steps before halting to look again. Sweat no longer dewed his face. In a moment she was at his side.

  "Quickly," she snapped at the attendants. "Bring something to shade the Owner. Hurry!"

  The soggy fabric around his throat resisted her attempts to loosen it and with impatient strength she ripped open the blouse. Beneath he wore a shirt of protective mail and she wondered at his lunacy, sitting in the open sun with such a weight of metal. No wonder he had been so hot.

  As the garment yielded to her fingers she snapped, "Summon medical help. Send for his personal physician and bring some ice and water."

  Beneath the mail the naked flesh was damp and clammy to her touch, unnaturally cold. Stooping she listened for the heart, at first thinking it had ceased to beat and then catching a faint, turgid echo. She rose and found herself ringed with faces.

  Montarg thrust himself forward. "What is wrong?"

  "Chorzel is ill."

  "The Owner? Ill?" Vidda's voice was a strained flutter. "Will he be all right?"

  "A stroke, perhaps?" Belev sucked at his teeth. "He was warned against undue excitement."

  "Let me see." Izard craned his head. He was echoed by another.

  "And me."

  "Is he dying?"

  They pressed close, predators eager to be in at the kill, still beneath the influence of the arena. Odd, she thought with strange detachment, if the games he had instigated should be the cause of his death.

  * * *

  Sadoua was jubilant. "You did it." he crowed. "You won! Man, I'm proud of you!"

  Dumarest straightened. The coolness of the chamber was refreshing after the baking heat outside. He sucked air, filling his chest with deep breaths, oxygenating his blood. A boy came forward with a cup of wine. The fightmaster dashed it from his hand.

  "For the winner nothing but the best," he roared. "Bring the iced champagne in the special glasses." He grinned as, his arm heavy around his shoulders, he led Dumarest to a couch. "You'll drink," he said. "And you'll rest. And I'll have the best masseur rub every ache and strain from every inch of your body. Do you know what you've done?"

  He snatched the glasses from the boy, handed one to Dumarest and drained his own in a gulp. "You've shown the way to beat the damned birds, that's what. I was watching every second of the time and I can tell when a man calculates his moves and when he's hoping for luck. You knew what you were doing every inch of the way. I guessed it when you made your run and I was sure of it when you moved back. Did you hear the crowd? I thought my ears would burst. Boy! More wine!"

  It was cold and sweet and almost evaporated in the mouth.

  Dumarest lowered his glass and, as Sadoua refilled it, said, "The money?"

  "You'll get it, the tribute too, every coin of it. The boys are collecting it now and they know that I'll have the fingers of any man trying to steal." He lowered his voice a little. "And you can have your choice of a woman too if you want. There isn't a girl or matron out there who wouldn't be proud to take you to her bed. Pay you too. Nothing is too good for a victor."

  For a victor, but what if he had lost? Dumarest shrugged. "I can do without the women."

  "How about that bitch who yelled for the whip?" urged Sadoua. "You could teach her a lesson. Take a whip to her back and let her know just how it feels. No? Well, have some more wine."

  He poured and sat down, his heavy weight depressing the soft padding of the couch.

  "You've hunted," he said. "You know how the mind of a beast works. That was a good trick you did with the spear but you aimed a little high. Six inches lower and you'd have speared the heart. You'll know better the next time."

  "There won't be a next time."

  "No?"

  "I was lucky," said Dumarest. "Those spears are too short. If you want to see more men walk from the arena add another foot. And train them. Rig up a dummy crell and teach them how to drop and hold the shaft. And give them a knife." He touched his lips, his teeth. "With a knife I could have sliced that thing's head right off."

  "I don't make the rules." Sadoua finished his wine. "But I'll tell you one thing. You'll be back. If you stay on this world you'll have no choice. How else are you going to earn money? And you're good," he complained. "Too good to waste. And it can be a good life. A few fights, money, all the women you can use. A victor gets taken around."

  "Like a pet?"

  "What's the difference? You'll eat well and live soft. Think about it, huh?"

  Dumarest nodded.

  "You're always welcome here any time you want a bout." Sadoua lifted his voice. "Larcol come and do your work."

  Dumarest relaxed as the masseur began to rub his limbs. The oil was warm, the man skilled, his probing fingers easing the strain from muscle and sinew. He took his time and Dumarest was almost asleep when he felt the hands leave his body.

  "My name is Selkas," said a voice. "Your own, I have been told, is Dumarest. Earl Dumarest. I would like to talk to you."

  "Later."

  "Now. The matter is of some importance." Dumarest sighed and opened his eyes. The man was tall and smooth, dressed in rich fabrics, a jeweled chain hanging from his neck. He smiled as Dumarest sat upright and extended his hand, palm flat and upturned.

  "A custom of this world," he explained. "I am showing you that I hold no weapon. You are supposed to touch my hand with the palm of your own. It is a gesture of friendship."

  "And your other hand?"

  "That also." Selkas extended it. "Usually both hands are only displayed to intimates or declared foes if seeking a parley. One in trust, the other to instill confidence. You find the custom amusing?"

  "Strange." Dumarest touched the extended hands. The skin was smooth, without trace of thickening, the fingers long and tapered: the hands of an artist, certainly those of a man who had never known physical labor. "And a little pointless."

  "Perhaps, but it is very old. Are you interested in ancient things?"

  "At times, yes."

  "But not at the moment," said Selkas. "Now you want to know why I am here." He glanced around. The couch stood in a secluded corner of the preparation room, the masseur had withdrawn. They stood in a small area of isolation. From outside came a roar and the distant snarl of Sadoua's voice as he cursed the fool who had just spilled his blood on the sand. "The last bout of the day," he mused. "And for someone the last battle of his life. What are your intentions?"

  "To take my money and go," said Dumarest.

  "To leave this world?" Selkas shrugged. "It could be done—your pay and tribute would just about buy a High passage—but then what? Arriving destitute on another world? Not a pleasant future, my friend." He reached out and touched the ribs showing clear against Dumarest's chest. "And it would not be wise for you to travel Low. Dangerous, to do it again so soon. You have lost your body-fat and from Dradea journeys are long. It seems that you have little choice but to fight again."

  To face the sand, the sun and the savage crell; to hear the roar of the crowd and to pit himself against a beast, trusting always to his own speed and skill. Some thought it a good life but Dumarest knew better. So many things could go wrong: his foot could slip on a patch of buried sand, the shaft of the spear could break, a crell might not blindly follow the expected pattern. On Dradea the odds against the fighters were too high.

  Bleakly he said, "There is always an alternative."

  "On a strange world with unknown opportunities?" Selkas shrugged. "Perhaps, but I think you know better. You did not fight wholly from choice; necessity must have played its part." Abruptly he said, "I come to offer you employment."

  Dumarest had expected it. "Such as?"

  "There is a woman who is dear to me for reasons you need not know. A person whom I hold in high regard. I want you to protect her."

  "A bodyguard?"

  "More than that. I spoke of protection in a wider sense than shielding her from physical attack. She is alone and almost friendless. There are those who have reason to denigrate her and it is important at this time that she appear strong. She needs someone to bolster her courage and determination, a strong man who will be more than a servant. I think you could be that man. Agree and you will have no cause to regret it."

  Dumarest said, "Who is this woman?"

  "You will see her tonight. I am inviting her to dinner with a few others. You will attend. I shall send for you after dark." Selkas paused and added, "One other thing. I do not want you to let her know I have employed you. You will be invited as a friend. But you will stay close to her, accompany her, insist if she objects. I leave it to you how best to overcome any protest she may make. Do you understand?"

  "I think so."

  "And you agree?"

  "I will tell you that," said Dumarest, "after I have seen the woman."

  Chapter Three

  She came running up the stairs, long-legged, lithe, a cloak streaming from her narrow shoulders. At first sight she could have been taken for a boy, a young man still to reach maturity—then Dumarest saw the lips firm yet full, the deep-set eyes of icy blueness, the softness of cheek and throat. He saw too the delicate pattern of ebon over the whiteness beneath, an intricate tracing of darkness as if she had been tattooed in an intricate design. It reached from the collar of her blouse to the roots of her hair, streaks of silver barring the liquid jet which fell rippling like a waterfall almost to her waist.

  A wild mutation, the melanine of her skin was concentrated instead of being evenly dispersed. It must spread all over her body so that, naked, she would look as if encased in a spider's web. He saw nothing repulsive about it—the suns of space caused greater distortions than the one she bore—but it was a thing to set any woman apart in a normal society. No wonder the deep-set eyes held the bruised look of someone always on guard.

  "Selkas!" She reached out as she came to the head of the stairs, both arms extended, palms uppermost. "How good of you to invite me."

  "You honor my house," he said formally, the palms of his hands touching her own. "Veruchia, allow me to present Earl Dumarest."

  "My lady." He repeated Selkas's gesture and caught the expression in her eyes at the unexpected familiarity. A touch of red rose to her cheeks as she dropped her hands. Even her flush was extreme.

  She was conscious of it, hating the betraying blood, alarmed at the lack of self-control. The touch of a man's hands, no more, and yet she was reacting like a stupid girl. Vaguely she was aware of Selkas talking as he stood to one side.

  "You two have met before," he was saying. "Though I do not expect Earl to remember it. At the time he had other things on his mind. You should thank him, Veruchia, for having won you so much."

  So this was the man she had backed in the arena. She stared at him, wondering why recognition had been so long-delayed. The face was somehow different, more relaxed, the hard lines of determination softened a little. And the angle had been deceptive; he was taller than she had guessed, topping her by a head and she by no means short.

  "My lady." Dumarest held out his arm. "Is it your wish that I escort you to dinner?"

  Again the familiarity. She looked for Selkas but he had gone ahead as if expecting the man to attend her. Well, why not? At least it would be a novel experience. She took the proffered arm and again felt the sudden acceleration of her heart. A biological reaction caused by the proximity of a male, she thought bleakly. How childish can I get?

  "You are new to Dradea?" At least she could make polite conversation.

  "Yes, my lady."

  "My name is Veruchia. We do not use titles here. Only the Owner. On this world all tenants are equal."

  "And the rest, my lady?"

  "Veruchia. You mean the landless ones? They too, but there are certain privileges they are denied. Have you fought often?"

  "This was the first time."

  "On Dradea, of course, I understand." She was pleased that he did not boast or volunteer detail. A lesser man would have bored and sickened her with tales of violence. A lesser man? Why did she set him so high?

  Selkas had picked his guests with care. She nodded to Nebka, old and fussing as he took his place. To Wolin and Pezia. Shamar she could have done without and she had no great love for Jebele, but both women held influence. Dumarest, she noticed, had been placed at her side.

  "To the Owner!" Selkas lifted his glass in the ritual toast.

  "The Owner!"

  They drank and the meal commenced, a succession of dishes, spiced, bland, savory, sweet, meat and fish and vegetables cooked and sauced to perfection. Conversation hung like a cloud: the state of the crops, the proposed new harbor, the increase of rent to pay for the games. Nebka spluttered over his wine.

  "A waste. A wanton destruction of assets. Oh, yes, I've heard all the arguments and reasons of those who back the arena, but I still say that there must be some other way. You cannot restore the vitality of a race by subjecting it to such disgusting spectacles. Right, Veruchia?"

  "You know my feelings on the matter, Nebka."

  "The same as mine. Wolin?"

  "Are we having a vote?" Wolin touched a napkin to his mouth. "I think we all agree that the cost of the games is far too high. The expense incurred in breeding crells, for example, is increasing all the time. The birds are nonproductive and a continual drag on the economy. If the intention is to stiffen moral fiber why can't men fight against men?"

  "Why fight at all?" Shamar leaned across the table, upthrust breasts gleaming above the low neck of her gown. "Personally I find our men virile enough as it is."

  "You should know," snapped Jebele spitefully. "You have enough of them."

  "Please, ladies." Pezia shook his head then added his contribution. "We must look at the basic claim that we are weak. First, is it true? If it is, what is best done about it? Now I do not personally think that it is true. Weakness is relative and depends much on the prevailing social culture. Any race will have peaks and valleys of achievement and no one is arguing that we are at present in a valley. The birth rate is falling and development has slowed but this state of affairs will not last. It is, if you like, a breathing space. A natural pause. Time will present its own cure without wild experiments such as the games. They are wasteful and, I think, degrading. As I have said often enough before, and all of you have heard me, we should tackle the problem in a more efficient manner."

  "Yes," agreed Jebele acidly. "As you say we have heard you often."

  "Truth is not diminished by repetition."

  "What is truth?" Wolin leaned back in his chair, smiling. "You say one thing, Pezia, the Owner says another. The difference between you is that he has acted while you have not. I agree that the games are wasteful, but what alternative do we offer? Work and build, you say, but how to provide the energy, the will? Our race is sleeping and perhaps Montarg and the others are right. Blood may awaken it and restore its vigor."

  Veruchia shook her head. "No."

  "How can you be sure?"

  "I sense it. People come to the games to watch, not to participate. They want to see violence, not share in it. Not really share." She fell silent, remembering her own recent emotions. Had she simply watched? Or had she been, in part, down on the sand with Dumarest?

  She glanced to where he sat beside her and, as if at a clue, Selkas cleared his throat.

  "I think we can throw new light on this discussion. We have an expert among us, someone with far greater experience than any of us. What do you think, Earl? You have heard the talk. Do you agree with the contention that blood combat will reenergize the race?"