Dumarest looked at the tall figure limned in the yellow light, knowing that what was to come, seeing no way to avoid it.

"Meaning?"

"A man would fight."

"On equal terms? As one of the Kaldari?"

Zehava settled the matter. "He is my man. He fights for me. Who denies my right?"

Starlight illuminated the plaza, sheening the flags with silver luminescence, frosting the buildings, the trees, the ornamental shrubs. Light augmented by lanterns carried from the tavern and swung aloft to cast their shifting patches of jeweled hues over the scene. One reminiscent of Arpagus, the casino which was its pride, but here the stakes would be the highest a man could wager.

"Be careful, Earl." Zehava whispered tensely in his ear. 'Toibin is a skilled and dirty fighter. Don't underestimate him. If he wins we lose all we own."

To the victor the spoils and the penalty she would pay for having equaled his status. Dumarest had expected nothing less but if he was defeated Zehava would only lose her wealth. He would lose his life.

He inhaled slowly, deeply, forcing himself to relax as he had done so often before. Then there had been a roped ring, brilliant overhead lights, a sea of faces set in rising tiers. The familiar setting of any arena which men fought with naked steel, cutting, stabbing, slicing, maiming. Killing for the sake of money and a transient glory. The memory of it fogged the starlight, turned the glowing lamplight into the semblance of blood, of gold, the febrile gleam of eyes as women bared their breasts and screamed invitations to their bed and body.

That madness would be absent here as would be those who hung around the preparation rooms; the touts, perverts, gamblers, assessors of odds. The fixers with their drugged wine. The liars with their useless pills and potions. The ghouls who gloated over slashed and maimed bodies. Vampires who thrilled at the sight of blood and necrophiliacs who bribed the attendants to let them have their way with the helpless dead. But the faces would be the same. A ring of them, avid, bestial, hungry for the spectacle to come.

"Dumarest!" Toibin called from where he stood at the far end of the circle. "Your customs need not be ours. If you feel the want of religious consolation I permit you to send for a monk."

Mockery which brought a laugh from the crowd, but not all of them. The aunt of Ford remained silent and so did others with her. Not many but enough to form a small knot in the assembly. Dumarest marked its position as he marked the glow of the lanterns, the shadows of the trees. Among them, like ghosts, he saw the dim shape of ganni as they watched events beyond their comprehension.

"Well?" Toibin flaunted his humor. "Do you wish to take advantage of my offer?"

"Yes," said Dumarest. "I would like to see a monk." Pausing he added, "A week from today."

Again came the laughter. True barbarians they could appreciate the jest. They fell silent as the two men closed for combat.

Both were stripped to the waist and both carried naked steel. The knives were not a match as each favored his own. Dumarest's was nine inches of honed and polished metal, the guard scarred, the hilt worn, the rounded pommel a balance for the edged and pointed blade. A tool designed for survival. The weapon carried by Toibin was one fashioned to kill. A slender triangle, ten inches long, double-edged, viciously pointed. The guard was too big, the pommel too large as if intended for use as a club.

"Even money on the captain." The voice came from the back of the crowd. "Fives on the stranger. Why hesitate? A gamble adds spice to blood."

Dumarest slowed as Toibin came nearer. As their knives were different so was the stance they adopted. Habit guided Dumarest into that used in the arena. He stood with legs slightly parted, toes outward, feet firm on the ground, his body inclined a little towards his opponent. The knife was held like a sword, thumb to the blade, the edge inward and the point raised. A stance which enabled him to move quickly, to cut fore and background, to parry and to stab if desirable.

Toibin was accustomed to less formal combat. His left arm was folded across his chest to protect his heart, hand guarding the throat, elbow pressed above his spleen. His knife was held like a sword but the point was in line with his forearm and aimed low. The stance of a man willing to take a wound as long as he could deliver a blow.

One would be enough. The vicious point driving into the intestines, twisting, ripping, the sharp edges severing tendon, muscle, artery and nerve. Releasing a shower of blood and guts as it was drawn upwards and free.

An obvious danger – were there others?

Toibin had intended the challenge from the first but why had he been so willing to accept the woman's conditions? Was he confident because he was certain he would win?

Dumarest stepped aside as the captain attacked, the slender triangle shimmering like ice as it cut the air. A stab which went wide, steel clashing as he parried, testing for strength and agility. The triangle was like a rock, Toibin like a cat as he spun to thrust again, to snarl his anger as Dumarest moved beyond reach.

"I knew you were a coward. But none can run from death."

Words intended to irritate but Dumarest ignored the taunt. Ford's aunt and her supporters were to his left and he moved so as to place them at his back. A small defense but if men had been set to help Toibin it would make things harder for them. As for the rest he could only trust their concept of honor.

"A dancer." Toibin sneered as, after a flurry in which blades had made metallic ringings, Dumarest regained his chosen position. "If you are afraid of combat then yield and I will treat you gently. Admit you lied. Pay for your mistake and live to enjoy the light of another dawn."

An offer which Dumarest pretended to consider. In any fight the object was to win as fast as possible before luck or accident could bring defeat. Toibin was playing to his audience. His reputation was at stake and he wanted to demean his opponent before butchering his path to victory. A weakness which could be used against him.

"Money," said Dumarest. "You'll accept money?" He slowed, allowed the other to come closer, the vicious blade within reach. "You'll let me live if I pay?"

Toibin smiled, nodding then, with sudden ferocity, attacked. He gave no warning, the slender triangle of his blade darting forward to rip into the stomach. A blow Dumarest had anticipated and he twisted from it, feeling the burn as the point ripped at his side. A minor wound risked for the chance to grip the hand holding the knife, halting movement while his own blade slashed upwards to cut the interior of the forearm, severing tendons, veins, grating on bone to release a shower of blood.

"Bastard!" Toibin bared his teeth in a snarl. "You bastard!"

His left hand darted forward, fingers stabbing in a vicious attack. Dumarest struck before they could reach his eyes, slashing the edge of his knife hard against the right side of the captain's throat. Sending the blade to shear through skin, fat, muscle, the pulsing arteries beneath. Releasing a fountain of blood to stain them both before the captain slumped lifeless to the ground.

Chapter Eight

Ivernal wasted no time in coming to the point.

"Earth!" His hand slammed on the table, emphasizing both anger and disgust. "Is the man serious? Does he expect us to give him a ship and crew to go hunting a legend?"

"He isn't asking for charity," said Nadine. "He-"

"If any want to go with him that is their choice." Ozenne was curt in his interruption as he attacked what he considered to be the heart of the matter. "None has the right to deny them."

"That is admitted." Musson shifted restlessly on his chair. "What is the problem? Why is the Council in session? It is simply a matter of business. Does Dumarest have money?"