E. C. Tubb - Dumarest 05 - The Jester at Scar.pdf

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The Jester at Scar
#5 in the Dumarest series
E.C. Tubb
Chapter One
In the lamplight, the woman's face was drawn, anxious.
"Earl," she said. "Earl, please wake up."
Dumarest opened his eyes, immediately alert. "What is it?"
"Men," she said, "moving outside. I thought I heard noises
from the street, screams and the sound of laughter." The
guttering flame of the lamp threw patches of moving shadow
across her face as she straightened from the side of the bed.
"Cruel laughter, it had an ugly sound."
He frowned, listening and hearing nothing but the normal
violence of the night. "A dream," he suggested. "A trick of the
wind."
"No." She was emphatic. "I've lived on this world too long to
be mistaken. I heard something unnatural, the noise of men
searching, perhaps. But it was there; I didn't imagine it."
Dumarest threw back the covers and rose, the soft lamp light
shining on his hard, white skin and accentuating the thin scars
of old wounds. The interior of the hut was reeking with damp,
the ground soggy beneath his bare feet. He took his clothes from
the couch and quickly dressed in pants, knee-high boots and a
sleeved tunic which fell to mid-thigh. Carefully he fastened the
high collar around his throat. From beneath the pillow he took a
knife and sheathed it in his right boot.
 
"Listen." said the woman urgently. The lamp was a bowl of
translucent plastic containing oil and a floating wick. It shook a
little in her hand. "Listen!"
He tensed, ears straining against the ceaseless drum of rain,
the gusting sough of wind. The wind slackened a little then blew
with redoubled force, sending a fine spray of rain through the
poorly constructed walls of the shack. More rain came through
the sloping, unguttered roof and thin streams puddled the floor.
Among such a medley of sounds it would be easy to imagine
voices.
Relaxing, Dumarest glanced at the woman. She stood tall, the
lamp now steady in her hand. Her eyes were set wide apart, deep
beneath their brows; thick, brown hair had been cropped close
to her rounded skull. Her hands were slim and delicate, but her
figure was concealed by the motley collection of clothing she
wore for warmth and protection. Beyond her a few embers
glowed in an open fireplace built of stone. Dumarest crossed to
it, dropped to his knees beside a box and fed scraps of fuel from
the box to the embers. Flames rose, flickered and illuminated the
woman's home.
It wasn't much. The bed where he'd slept was in one corner of
the single room which was about ten feet by twelve. A curtain,
now drawn back, split the single room in half during times of
rest. The woman's couch rested in the far corner beyond the
curtain. A table, benches and chests, all of rough construction,
completed the furnishings. The walls were of stones bedded in
dirt; uprights supported the sagging roof. Against the dirt and
stone, fragments of brightly colored plastic-sheeting merged
with salvaged wrappings from discarded containers.
Smoke wafted from the burning fuel and made him cough.
"Quiet!" warned the woman. She turned to Dumarest.
"They're coming back," she said. "I can hear them."
He rose, listened and heard the squelch of approaching
footsteps.
They halted, and something hard slammed against the barred
 
door.
"Open!" The voice was flat and harsh. "We are travelers in
need of shelter; open before we drown."
Lamplight glittered from her eyes. "Earl?"
"A moment." Dumarest stepped quietly forward and stood
beside the door. It would open inward and away from where he
stood, giving him a clear field if action should it be necessary.
His hand dipped to his boot and rose bearing nine inches of
razor-sharp steel. "Don't argue with them," he said softly. "Just
open the door and step back a little. Don't look towards me. Hold
the lamp above your head."
She glanced at the knife held sword-fashion in his hand. "And
you?"
"That depends." His face was expressionless. "If they are
genuine travelers seeking accommodation, send them on their
way; or take them in if you prefer their company to mine. If they
are besotted fools looking for something to entertain them, they
will leave when they discover there is nothing for them here. If
not…" He shrugged. "Open the door."
Wind gusted as she swung open the panel, driving in a spray
of rain and the ubiquitous smell of the planet. From outside
grated a voice, harsh against the wind.
"Hold, Brephor. No need to knock again. You there, woman,
your name is Selene?"
"Yes."
"And you sell food and shelter. That, at least, was what we
were told." The voice became impatient. "Step forward and show
yourself; I have no wish to talk to shadows."
Silently she obeyed, moving the lamp so as to let the guttering
light shine on her face; she remained impassive at the sound of
sharply indrawn breath.
 
"Acid," she said evenly. "I was contaminated with parasitical
spores on the face and neck; there was no time to consider my
beauty. It was a matter of burning them away or watching me
die. Sometimes I think they made the wrong decision." The lamp
trembled a little as she fought old memories. "But I forget myself,
gentlemen. You are in need. What is your pleasure?"
"With you? Nothing." Boots squelched in mud as the speaker
turned from the doorway. "Come, Brephor. We waste our time."
"A moment, Hendris You decide too fast." The second voice
was indolent, purring with the sadistic anticipation of a hunting
feline. "The woman has a scarred face, true, but is it essential
that a man look at her face? Such a disfigurement, to some,
could even be attractive. I am sure that you follow my thought,
Hendris. If the face is bad. the rest of her could be most
interesting."
Hendris was sharp. "You scent something, Brephor?"
"Perhaps." His indolence sharpened into something ugly. The
purr became a snarl as Brephor loomed in tho doorway. "Tell me
woman how do you live?"
"I sell food and shelter," she said flatly. "And the monks are
kind."
"The monks? Those beggars of the Church of Universal
Brotherhood?" His laugh was a sneer. "They feed you?"
"They give what they can."
"And that is enough? No," he mused answering himself. "It
cannot be enough; the monks do not give all to one and nothing
to another. You need food and oil, fuel and clothing, medicines
too, perhaps. In order to survive you need more than the monks
can provide." He extended his hand; the back was covered with a
fine down. Steel had been wedded to the fingernails; the metal
was razor-edged and needle-pointed. The tips pricked her skin.
"Speak truthfully, woman, or I will close my hand and tear out
your throat. You need lodgers in order to survive; is that not so?"
 
She swallowed, not answering. Spots of blood shone like tiny
rubies at the points of steel.
"We will assume that it is so," purred Brephor from where he
stood in darkness. "And yet when we, two travelers, come seeking
food and shelter, we are repulsed. You did not invite us in out of
the rain; you did not suggest terms; you were not even curious as
to how we knew both your name and business. But that is
acceptable. You are dependent on publicity and offer a
commission to those who send you clients." The spots of blood
grew, swelling to break and fall in widening streams from the
lacerating claws. "I scent a mystery, woman. You are in business,
but have no time for customers. Perhaps you no longer need to
sell food and shelter. It could be that you have someone now to
provide, someone lurking in the darkness." The purr hardened
and became vicious. "Tell me, woman!"
"Tell him," said Dumarest as he stepped from where he stood
against the wall. The reaction was immediate. Brephor
straightened his arm with a jerk, sending the woman staggering
backwards, the lamp flickering as , she fought to retain her
balance. As she stumbled he sprang through the doorway, landed
and turned to face Dumarest.
"So," he purred. "Our friend who lurks in shadows. The brave
man who stands and watches as his woman is molested. Tell me,
coward, what is your name?"
Silently Dumarest studied the intruder. His eyes were huge
beneath lowering brows, ears slightly pointed, mouth pursed
over prominent canines. His face and neck were covered with the
same fine down as the backs of his hands. Brephor was a
cat-man, a mutated sport from some lonely world, the genes of
his forebears jumbled by radiation. He would be fast and vicious,
a stranger to the concept of mercy, a stranger also to the concept
of obedience.
"I asked you a question, coward," he said. "What is your
name?"
"Dumarest," said Earl, "a traveler like yourself." He lifted his
left hand so as to draw attention away from his right and the
 

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