by E. C. Tubb
Zenya
( Dumarest of Terra - 11 )
E.C Tubb
E.C Tubb
Zenya
(Dumarest of Terra – 11)
Chapter One
She was tall, with a mass of golden hair raised and crested in an aureole above her head. Thick strands ran from her temples, cut and shaped into upcurving points which accentuated the high bones and slight concavity of her cheeks. Her jaw was round, with a determined hardness, and her lips were full, the lower pouting in betraying sensuosity. Her eyes were deep-set, glowing amber, wide-spaced beneath arching brows, their upward slant giving her the appearance of a watchful cat.
She had, Dumarest realized, been studying him with unusual interest.
Slowly he turned the page of the ancient volume lying before him on the reading desk, not looking at the crabbed text beneath its transparent coating, but concentrating on the girl.
She wore a dress of luminous gold, rich fabric falling from throat to knee, cinctured at the waist, and tight against the contours of her body. Her arms were bare, coiled bracelets in the design of serpents rising from wrists to elbows, gems bright against the precious metal. Her fingers were long, tapering, devoid of rings, the nails painted to match her dress. Her skin was a lustrous bronze.
She was young, obviously wealthy, and completely out of place. Such a woman would not haunt the musty confines of the Archives of Paiyar. Her type would be found at the stadium, at fashion shows, at parties, at the auctions where debtors were sold into bondage, at the market where merchants offered jewels and rare fabrics, perfumes from a dozen worlds, unguents, and titivating lotions. Not even the lowest of courtesans would waste her time in such a place.
Dumarest turned another page. The volume was the log of some old vessel, boring in its listing of minutiae, devoid of the information he sought. He closed it, added it to a pile of others, and took the entire heap to a desk where a woman checked them against a card.
Smiling, she said, "Did you find what you were looking for?"
"No."
"I'm sorry." Her voice held genuine regret. I'm afraid they are the oldest logs we possess. There is another, that of the Merle-a trading vessel which touched on several worlds. It is of interest because the ship encountered an electronic storm which threw it far from its designated path. Perhaps…?"
"Thank you, but no." Dumarest returned the smile. "What I am looking for is something much earlier. A log made at the time when navigational tables were not as they are now. Or a set of tables as used before the present system became established. Apparently you have nothing like that."
"No," she admitted reluctantly, "we haven't. But would such tables exist? I know little about spacial navigation, but surely the tables used now are the same as they have always been?"
"Perhaps, but I was hoping…" Dumarest broke off, shrugging. "Well, it doesn't matter. It was a thin hope at best."
But one which had to be investigated. Old logs read and records searched, as he had done before on too many worlds. Books, microfilms, all examined and crosschecked, to be finally discarded as valueless to his search. And yet, somewhere, had to be the answer.
The woman said, "I have no wish to be curious, but if you could tell me just what it is you are looking for, I might be able to help."
"A place. A world," said Dumarest. He added bleakly, "You would call it a legend."
"Legendary worlds?" She frowned, thinking. "I'm sure that we have something in that field. A volume compiled by an old scholar. His name is… ?" The frown deepened. "Sazy… Dazym Negaso! That's the one! He spent a lifetime correlating old myths. I'm sure the book would contain the information you are looking for. I could find it if you would care to wait."
"No, thank you."
"Tomorrow, then?"
"No," he said again. "I've read the book. It was interesting, but of no real value. A collection of rumor and wild speculation."
And another hope gone, but he was used to that.
"That will be all, then?"
Dumarest nodded, and as the woman busied herself assessing the charge, turned to examine the gallery. At one of the tables a thin-faced man scowled as he made copious notes. At another a matron snuffled as she searched through a pile of recent publications. A young couple whispered from behind the shelter of reproductions of rare and valuable Sha' Tung art. An old man dozed in a remote corner. The girl in the golden dress was nowhere to be seen.
Her absence was disturbing. Dumarest did not like to be an object of interest, especially on a world that could contain hated enemies. It was, he decided, time to be moving on.
"Will you be back tomorrow?" The attendant was hopeful. Old though she was, she could still dream, and the tall man had touched something within her. It wasn't just his clothes-the tunic high about the throat and falling to mid-thigh, the pants, and high boots, all in somber gray. Rather it was the hard lines of his face, which spoke of privation, the haunting something in his eyes, the mouth which, she guessed, could so easily become cruel. This man, she knew, had traveled, had seen other worlds, other suns, and something of what he had experienced rode with him. So she added, almost pleadingly, "I could take another look at the file. Maybe there is something which has been overlooked. A scrap of information which could be of value."
Caution dictated a lie. "I'll be back," he said. "But don't bother looking for anything just yet. I'll think about it and let you know." He counted out money, the cost of the charge. Casually he added, "There was a girl here a short while ago. Tall, blond, wearing a golden dress. Did you see her?"
For a moment she hesitated, and then said curtly, "Yes, I saw her."
"Do you know who she is?"
"Her name, no. I've never seen her before. But she belongs to the Aihult. She wore serpents," she explained. "It is their device."
"A powerful house?"
"One of the most powerful on Paiyar." She glanced down at the symbol she wore on her blouse, the interlocked rings of the civil authority, and Dumarest could sense her resentment. Like himself, she lacked the protection of house, guild, or clan, but at least she did belong to an organization. She was not wholly alone.
He said, "Did she ask about me? The books I asked for?"
"No. She merely came in and watched you." The attendant thinned her lips. "I didn't see her leave."
* * *
She was waiting outside in a long, musty corridor thick with shadows, the odor of wood merging with that of dust and hanging like a miasma in the air. Without preamble she took his arm, the scent of her perfume strong in his nostrils, replacing the odor of ancient things with that of summer blooms. The aureole of her hair came a little below his eyes.
She said, "I am Aihult Zenya Yamaipan. You are Earl Dumarest. My grandfather wants to talk to you."
"Do I want to talk to him?"
"Does that really matter?" Her eyes were cool, faintly mocking. Her voice was a rich contralto, each word clearly enunciated. "When the master calls, the servant obeys; and in this world, my friend, I assure you, Aihult Chan Parect is very much a master. Shall we go?"
Dumarest resisted the tug at his arm. Flatly he said, "Let us get one thing clear. Your grandfather is not my master, and I am not his servant. Also, I have more important things to do."
"Nothing is as important as talking to my grandfather."
"That is a matter of opinion."
"Yours or his?" Abruptly she laughed, mellow echoes ringing from the paneled walls, the low ceiling. "You know, there isn't a person on Paiyar who wouldn't fall over themselves to answer such a directive. To be summoned to talk to the head of the house of Aihult! They would run barefoot over broken glass to be there on time. And yet you refuse! Refuse!"
Dryly he said, "You find that amusing?"
&nb
sp; "Incredible, rather, but refreshing. I like a man who knows his own mind and who doesn't jump because he is told to do just that. Tell me, have you ever fought in the stadium?"
He said formally, "Why do you ask that, my lady?"
"Friends call me Zenya. Are you a friend?"
"That rather depends on you, my lady."
"Zenya. Have you?" She didn't wait for his answer. "Of course you have, it's obvious. Do you know how I can tell? You have the look of someone who has faced the necessity of having to win or die. The way you walk, the way you look-I've seen it before."
"In your other friends?"
"Some." She met his eyes, her stare direct. As she faced him, head tilted, he could see the smooth column of her throat the tiny pulse beneath the skin. "Would you fight for me if I asked you to? One bout, naked blades, to the death?"
"No."
"Just like that, Earl? No qualification, just a flat refusal?"
"That's right."
"Why not, Earl? Afraid?"
He said flatly, "Of dying, yes. Who isn't?"
The full lips pouted like those of a spoiled child. And that's what she was, he thought. Rich and spoiled, and, perhaps, jaded. On the surface, at least, but there could be more, far less apparent. Why had she sought him out? Why was she apparently alone? The rich and pampered daughter of a powerful house did not seek out strangers, and it was incredible that she should be unattended. There would be guards somewhere, men within call, force ready to be used in case of need.
And force directed by whom? Dumarest had the uneasy feeling that he was within the jaws of a closing trap.
"You disappoint me, Earl," she whispered. "You shouldn't have said that. A fighter never admits to being afraid of anything, even death. And I don't think you meant it. Tell me the real reason why you wouldn't fight for me."
"You talk like a child," he said harshly. "Fighting isn't a game. That's real blood you see in the ring. Real wounds and real pain. For you it might be the thrill of a moment, but for those taking part, it's a matter of life or death. It's ugly, vile and…"
He broke off, remembering. The crowd, the ring of avid faces, the roar as they anticipated blood. The stink of sweat and fear, the savagery, primitive emotion unleashed, yelling men and shrieking women, and, always, the chance that this time he would not be able to walk away. So many little things could do it. A slip, a momentary indecision, an accident, a snapped blade, the running out of luck, anything.
She said softly, "Yes, Earl? And…?"
"Nothing." He recognized the expression in her eyes, the look of an emotional vampire eager to feed on tales of blood and violence. He had seen it before, too often, on the faces staring down from the expensive seats, those who thronged the dressing rooms, finding in sweat and wounds an aphrodisiac for jaded appetites. Some fighters were tempted to cater to such women. Those who did failed to live long.
"Please, Earl!"
Flatly he said, "Somehow, my lady, we seem to have left the subject. If you will excuse me?"
She caught up to him as he strode down the corridor, slim fingers digging into his arm.
"My grandfather?"
"I'm sure that he will survive without the pleasure of my company."
"Perhaps, but will I?"
He paused and turned to look into the slanted amber of her eyes. "You must have many friends, my lady. And I am sure that you must know many who would be willing to fight for you. Fight… and cater to your requirements in other ways. You will understand why I have no intention of joining their number."
"Did I ask you to do that?" She laughed and shook her head. "A test, Earl. For an hour I watched you in the gallery and wondered what kind of man you were. You were so intent on those moldering old books, and yet the last thing you seem to be is a scholar. And you misunderstood me. I can live without you, yes. My grandfather will survive without your company, agreed. But should I return without you, he will not be amused. In fact, he will be very annoyed. The Aihult are not gentle with those who fail. Need I say more?"
"No, my lady, but-"
"Zenya," she interrupted. "Don't be so formal. My name, to you, is Zenya."
"But, Zenya, that is your problem, not mine."
"You're hard," she said. "The hardest and most stubborn man I've ever met. Why won't you come and talk to Chan Parect?"
"Why should I?"
"To extend a little courtesy to an old man."
Dumarest shrugged. "I don't know him. I owe him nothing. And I see no need to cater to a rich man's whim. Also, as I told you, I have other things to do."
"Such as?"
He moved on, not answering, passing through an anteroom and into the street. Outside, it was late afternoon, the sun a crimson haze in the sky, eye-bright after the gloom of the archives. The city was alive with pedestrians, wheeled traffic gliding silently in the roads, rafts drifting overhead like wingless birds.
And everywhere-on buildings, cars, tunics, the windows of shops, the jewelry of women-blazed the symbols of the great houses of Paiyar. The serpent, orb, square, cone, lion, bird, star-a score of devices that advertised the ownership and allegiance of all.
At his side the girl said quietly, "Paiyar is an unusual world, Earl. A stranger doesn't really stand much of a chance. He doesn't belong. Did you know that my grandfather is one of the richest and most powerful men on the planet?"
Dumarest nodded, waiting.
"I want you to talk to him, Earl. If you won't do it because you have been summoned, then do it for money. Five hundred cran-the cost of a Low passage. You see? I translate it into terms you can understand. Five hundred. Yours for a little conversation."
"You can get a cab here," said Dumarest. "Or perhaps you have your own transport waiting. Good-bye, my lady."
"Wait!" Her voice was sharp, a little desperate. "Don't go. Not yet. There is something else you should understand."
"And that is?"
"I was sent to get you, Earl. Just that, and no more, but I'm not stupid, and I've a pretty good idea why my grandfather wants to talk to you. You'd be a fool not to listen to what he has to say. Maybe he's got the answer to what you have been looking for. What you have been searching the Archives to find out."
He said slowly, "And that is?"
"I think you know, Earl." She smiled, confident in her victory. "Shall we go now?"
* * *
A raft carried them over the city, riding high above massive fortresses of stone, a grim reminder of the time when life on Paiyar had been hard and death lurked on every side. The jungles had been tamed now, the natural predators destroyed, but always there were potential enemies. Men who wore a different symbol, houses touchy of their honor and pride.
The citadel of Aihult rested on a low hill, twisting serpents carved in the solid granite, a pair gracing the portals. Above the lintel the stone was fused, blotched in an irregular pattern, fragments of silica catching the crimson sunlight and shimmering like rubies.
"A laser," said the girl casually. "It happened before I was born. A difference of opinion with the Zham-they wear a skull. Fifty men died on both sides before it was resolved. Their tower still bears the scar of our weapons."
Inside it was cool, the air scented with brine, a sea smell both clean and refreshing. Guards were not apparent, but slots could have held weapons and watchful eyes. Attendants, neat in tunics blazoned with serpents, guided them to an upper chamber.
"Zenya!" A man stepped forward as they entered. His eyes glanced at Dumarest, then returned to the girl. "My congratulations! Your success has won me a thousand cran."
"Lisa?"
"Who else? She was certain that your charms would fail and you would return alone. I was as certain that you would not. What man could resist you? Chan Parect chose well." To Dumarest he said, "You will take wine while you wait?"
"Wait? For how long?"
"For as long as is necessary." The man had a smooth face and the girl's slanting eyes. A brother, perhaps, or a relative, certainly a mem
ber of the Aihult. He wore fine silks, and his hands were heavy with rings. Casually he added, "An hour, a day, what does it matter?"
Quickly the girl said, "Zavor, pour the wine, and don't talk such rubbish."
"Rubbish?" He shrugged and handed Dumarest a goblet of crystal, finely cut and with tiny gems embedded in the glass. The wine was a deep blue and held the scent of burning wood. "My dear, you know as well as I that our honored grandparent has a dual appreciation of time. His summons must be answered immediately; his attention is another matter." Lifting his own goblet, he added, "To the serpent."
The girl responded, "May it swallow all."
A ritual toast, thought Dumarest, waiting unto the others drank before sipping the wine. It chilled lips and tongue, ran like fire down his throat, to expand in sudden warmth in his stomach.
As he lowered his glass, Zavor said, "I was at the stadium today. Haitcel really put on a splendid performance. Fifteen couples and five teams of seven aside. The teams weren't much, scum sold for fodder, cheap material off the block, and promised a clean slate if they won. I suppose about eight of them managed to survive, but the couples! Zenya, you should have seen them! Haitcel had a novel idea. He staked one foot to the ground so they couldn't run, and armed them with twenty-inch blades. It was good, clean, fast action all the time. I won a couple of thousand on a fighter from the Banarah province. He was clever. He didn't mess about, but put everything into the telling blow." He laughed. "After all, if a man hasn't got a hand to hold a knife, he can't be any real challenge, can he? And that's what he did. Lopped off the hand and then aimed at the throat. Two cuts and finish!" He made a chopping motion with the stiffened edge of his palm. "A joy to watch an expert. You agree, Earl?"
Dumarest sipped his wine, not answering.
"Earl doesn't like fighting," said the girl.
"No?" Zavor narrowed his eyes. "A pity. We could have had a bout while waiting. Practice blades, of course, and no real chance of getting hurt. But I suppose, to a coward, even that is a terrifying prospect."
