"I'll watch out for it," said Dumarest.

"He's got a trick of dropping and slashing at the ankles, too." Wandara took the proffered tunic and threw it over his arm. "Do you really think he killed that woman?"

"Why else did he attack me?"

"I heard about it," said Wandara. "The poor bitch! Don't let him get away with it, Earl." He handed over a machete. "I'll have to take your knife."

Dumarest nodded, handed over the weapon and stopped forward, swinging the machete to get the feel of it. It was too long and clumsy for comfort. At the far side of the ring Heldar was accompanied by the men Dumarest had seen at the bar. They took his tunic and slapped him on the back.

"All right," said Wandara. His voice rose above the babble and brought silence. "This is between these two; anyone interfering can have his chance later." He looked from one side of the ring to the other. "It's all yours. What are you waiting for?"

He ducked away as they advanced, the scuff of their boots loud in the silence.

It was a silence Dumarest had heard before; the bated breath of watchers hungry for the sight of blood and pain, eager to taste the vicarious thrill of hacking a man to death. It hung over the crowd like a miasma, merging with the brooding heat of the sun, adding to the mounting tension so that men clenched their hands until the nails dug into their palms and women chewed orgiastically at their lower lips.

"Earl," said Heldar as he approached. "There's no need for this. What the hell can you gain by killing me?"

Dumarest advanced, poised on the balls of his feet, the machete gripped so as to reflect the sun from the polished blade.

"I've got nothing to lose; I'm dying anyway," whispered Heldar. "Maybe you'll do me a favor by making it quick."

His arm sagged a little, the gleaming blade lowering its point to the dirt, almost as if the weight was too great for his hand. It flashed with reflected sunlight, flashed again and then seemed to disappear.

Dumarest sprang to one side and felt the wind of the blow against his upper left arm. Immediately he slashed, a blow level with the ground at waist height, drawing back the blade in a slice.

He felt the shock and jar of a parrying blade, the rasp of steel racing towards his hand and swung his own blade in a swinging counter-parry. Heldar grinned as he forced continuance of the motion, throwing Dumarest's machete to one side and opening his defense. Sunlight sparkled in rainbow shimmers as his blade hissed through the air, cutting through the spot where Dumarest had stood, snarling at the lack of impact.

Again he rushed to the attack, and again Dumarest saved himself by a quick retreat. Heldar was good, fast and clever with the blade, moving with the unthinking speed of automatic reflex, using the sun itself to disguise the movements of his machete as he caught and lost the blinding reflection. Steel rasped, scraped with a nerve-grating sound and hummed with diminishing vibrations. Dumarest felt something touch his upper arm. He spun, stroked with the blade and saw a gush of red appear at Heldar's side.

The man turned, ran to the far side of the circle and turned with his free hand dabbing at the wound. He advanced again and as he came within range, threw a handful of blood at Dumarest's eyes. At the same moment he dropped and brought the machete around in a whining blur at his ankles.

Dumarest sprang to one side and upwards. The blade passed beneath his feet. Before Heldar could recover, he swept down with his blade. There was a sound as of an ax hitting wood. From the assembled crowd came the hissing intake of breath.

"He's done it!" Wandara yelled as he jumped into the circle. "Cut his head damn near right off! Dumarest wins!"

Dumarest thrust his machete into the ground and stooped over the dead body. From a pocket he took a scrap of rag. Opening it, he stared at five rings, each with a red stone.

"Is that what he killed her for?" Wandara shook his head. "For a handful of lousy rings?"

Dumarest said bleakly, "No, for his life."

He walked to where Brother Glee stood at the edge of the crowd. "Here," he said, and gave him the rings. "Take them, for charity."

Chapter Six

Jocelyn lifted his glass. He said, "A toast, to all who love justice!"

Dumarest touched his lips to the blue wine. Across the table Del Meoud suddenly spluttered, dabbing hastily at his beard. Dumarest caught Adrienne's look of displeasure and her husband's wry grimace. Jellag Haig laughed with amused condescension.

"The factor finds such a toast hard to swallow," he said. "There is little justice on Scar."

"And less mercy!" The factor was sharp. "And who makes it so? There are traders who care nothing how they make their profit, nor how men are turned into beasts in the scrabble for wealth."

Jocelyn waited as a servant refilled the glasses. "You are too hard on Baron Haig," he said quietly. "Is a man to blame for the system? If he is wise, he uses it. If he is foolish, he allows it to use him." He looked at Dumarest. "You fought well," he said. "Would I be wrong if I said that you are no stranger to the arena?"

"I have fought before," said Dumarest.

"Often?" Adrienne leaned forward across the table; her eyes were bright with anticipation. "Tell us about it."

"I fight only when necessary, my lady, when there is food to be earned, my life to protect or a friend to avenge. There is no pleasure in blood for those who fight."

She frowned, disappointed. On Eldfane man fought as a profession, and most of them seemed to enjoy the activity and the rewards. She said so. Dumarest met her eyes.

"You are speaking of entertainment, my lady. Some men may enjoy killing and may even wish to die, but I am not one of them. A fight, to me, is something to be ended quickly. You cannot afford to play with a man who seeks your life."

"But Heldar-"

"Was a fool," he said brusquely. "He depended on tricks to win. When a trick fails there is no defense. He should have relied on skill and speed."

"As you did. You were fast," she admitted. "We could see it all on the scanners. But if you find no pleasure in battle, why seek it? What was Heldar to you?"

"He had murdered a friend," said Dumarest tightly. "He killed for money; but, with respect, my lady, he was not wholly to blame."

She looked at him, waiting.

"He was dying," explained Dumarest. "He knew it. A dying man has nothing to lose. Had he not lost the spin of a coin he would be alive, the woman would be alive and we should not be sitting here drinking to a thing called justice."

"You do not like the word?"

"My lady, I do not. I would prefer to drink to a thing called mercy."

He had gone too far. He could tell it from the tension which had closed around the table, the way Haig refused to meet his eyes, the way the factor fumbled at his beard. A guest should never insult his host. The more so when that host is the ruler of a world. But they were not on Jest. They were sitting in Jocelyn's ship on a free planet and Dumarest had too recent memories: a cropped head turning to hide a scar, staring eyes which could not see, the pressure of a hand, a man made desperate because of a ruler's whim.

There had been blood on the dust and a body lying sprawled in the sun.

Meoud coughed and glanced at his timepiece. "My lord, I crave your indulgence and permission to depart; there are matters to which I should attend without delay."

"You may leave," said Jocelyn. "You also, Baron. We shall talk again later."

"My lord." Jellag Haig rose. "My lady." He bowed to them both. "My thanks for a wonderful meal." He bowed again and followed the factor from the cabin. The sound or their footsteps died as the door closed behind them.