by E. C. Tubb
The girl said, "Be careful, Zavor!"
"Of what?" He drank more of his wine. "Since when have the Aihult had to watch their words? A man is what he is. Some can stand the sight of blood, and others cannot. But this world was not tamed by weaklings, and our society has no place for strangers who come to sneer. A man can fight and lose and still command respect. How can we respect a man who refuses to fight at all?"
Dumarest set down his goblet and stared around the chamber, conscious of watching eyes. He could see nothing, but scanners could be relaying the scene elsewhere, and there would be guards; of that he was certain. As certain as the fact that he was being baited for some reason. Zavor wasn't drunk, the wine wasn't responsible for his taunts, nor for his previous lies. No manager of a stadium would stage such spectacles as he had described, if only because it was too wasteful, too expensive, and offered too little sport.
And the girl, too-why had she been so insistent that he was a fighter?
How was it they knew so much about him?
He said, "My lord, my lady, with your permission, I wish to leave."
"Permission denied." Zavor was curt, his tone that he would have used toward a serf. The girl was more gentle.
"You can't go yet, Earl. Not until you have spoken to Chan Parect."
Again he tested the jaws of the trap which now he was convinced held him close. "I have changed my mind. I am not interested in anything he may have to say. In any case, I have no intention of waiting here to be baited by a fool."
"A fool?" Zavor stepped forward, his voice a feral purr. "You would hardly call my sister that, so the insult must be directed at myself. A strange word from a guest. A stranger one still when spoken by a coward. Perhaps I should have you taught a lesson."
"As you say," said Dumarest flatly. "I am a guest. As such, I have an obligation. I recognize it if you do not."
"You compound the insult!"
"I did not expect to be faced with a tavern brawl in the citadel of the house of Aihult."
The girl said sharply, "Zavor! Don't!"
He was beyond any warning, suffused with a rage that Dumarest realized verged on the maniacal. He stepped back as the young man advanced, noting the stance, the hands extended, the palms stiffened, the fingers clamped together to form spears. A man trained in unarmed combat ready to use feet and hands against his opponent. A devotee of the ring, with, perhaps, a private box at the stadium.
Dumarest tensed as he retreated. The man was dangerous, not because of his skill, but because of the house to which he belonged. To kill him would be to commit suicide. To injure him in body or in pride would be to invite the attention of assassins-men who would strike him down and leave him maimed, crippled, blinded perhaps, if not dead.
And yet, somehow, he had to be stopped.
Dumarest dodged as he lunged, dodged again as a foot swept toward his side, the tips of fingers stabbing at his eyes. He blocked a chop with his left arm, another with his right, twisted to avoid a knee thrust at his groin, backed as Zavor moved to the attack. For a moment the room was filled with the flurry of motion, the sound of harsh breathing, as the young man did his best to break the defense.
"Fight!" he panted. "Fight, you coward! Fight!"
A masochist desiring pain? Dumarest didn't think so. The man was more a sadist confident of his prowess, the skill he imagined he possessed that had been tested on serfs terrified to hurt their master. Serfs and others like himself, scions of great houses, fighting for pleasure, not profit, and always careful to avoid the danger of serious injury.
He attacked again, stooping, rising to kick, to chop, the top of his head aimed at Dumarest's face. He met only wind, and stood, baffled.
"Enough!" said the girl. "Zavor! That's enough!"
From the open door a thin, acid voice said, "No, my dear. I don't think it is." Aihult Chan Parect stepped into the chamber.
Chapter Two
He did not seem old. A grandfather, perhaps, but he carried himself upright, and his shoulders bulked solid beneath his tunic. His hair was grizzled, cut short over a rounded skull, deep lines scoring his face from nose to mouth. Thick brows sheltered slanted eyes, the whites flecked with motes of brown. His hands were broad, the fingers thick and strong.
To the girl he said, "Introduce me to our guest."
As Zenya obeyed, Dumarest looked at the rest of the party. Chan Parect was not alone. At his side a woman stood, tall, regal, in a gown of ebony velvet cinctured with a golden serpent. The paleness of her skin accentuated the rich darkness of her hair. Her face was elfin, the chin sharply pointed, the eyes oval, enigmatic.
"Lisa Conenda," said Zenya. She did not bother to mention the rest, the three guards who waited like shadows behind the pair. "My aunt."
"My lady." Dumarest inclined his head. "My lord."
"At least he is polite." Her voice was deep, almost mannish. "Who would have thought that a common fighter would have such delicacy? Zavor, you seemed heated. You should remember to stay cool."
"As did our guest." Parect's thin voice held amusement. "You could learn something from him, boy. In battle, a cool head wins."
"What battle?" Zavor scowled. "He refused to fight. The coward ran from each attack."
"Coward, boy?"
"What else would you call him? What other name can you give to a man who refuses to fight?"
"A cautious one, perhaps." The thin voice was musing. "A clever one, even. Are you willing to bet on your skill? Five thousand that he bests you within five minutes. First blood, naked blades, in the gymnasium. Now!"
Zavor sucked in his breath, his eyes cruel. "If he will accept."
"He will." Parect's voice was bland. "Am I right, Earl? You will accommodate an old man, I am sure. If you win, the money will be yours."
"And if I lose?"
A smile was the only answer, but Dumarest knew what it was. Death, despite the conditions of the bout. Zavor would not stop at a scratch; he would aim to kill, and he would enjoy what he did. And Dumarest knew that he had no choice in the matter. The baiting, the bout, the entire thing had been arranged, and he could guess why. In this society a man was reckoned by his fighting skill-a relic of the old days, perhaps, when the warrior class was dominant and only the strong could hope to survive. A tradition which had continued despite the lack of necessity.
But why should he be tested? What reason could there be?
Lisa said dispassionately, "The man is afraid. Why continue this farce? Let him go."
"He isn't afraid!" Zenya was quick to come to his defense. "I watched him. He… well, he isn't afraid."
"Your concern is touching, my dear," purred the other woman. "But then, we can all guess why. Your eccentricities are common knowledge, and I will admit, the man has appeal. It would be a pity to see that face disfigured, noseless, eyeless, slashed to the bone. Perhaps Zavor will see to it."
"We waste time," snapped Chan Parect. "Zenya, lead the way."
The gymnasium was what Dumarest had expected, a roped ring, the floor roughened to provide a good grip for naked feet, chairs set on a surrounding platform, bright lights above. He stripped to shorts, revealing the hard whiteness of his skin, the thin trace of scar tissue on chest and back and shoulders, cicatrices of old wounds. As an attendant came forward bearing a tray on which rested a pair of knives, he shook his head.
"I'd prefer to use my own."
Parect held out his hand. "Let me see it."
Dumarest lifted it from his clothing, a nine-inch blade of razor-sharp steel, the back curved, edged, merging into a needle point. The hilt was worn, the guard scarred.
Lisa said, "That isn't a practice blade."
"This is not a practice, my dear Zavor! You object?"
The blade was an inch shorter than the ones the attendant had offered. An advantage he couldn't ignore.
"Let him use it if he wants." Zavor hefted his own blade. "How long must I be kept waiting?"
He was keen, too eager to commence, used t
o the compliance of his usual partners. He should have waited, studying his opponent, looking for the little telltale signs which could mean the difference between victory and defeat. The stance, the position of the feet, the hands, the way in which the knife was held. An amateur, thought Dumarest. A dilettante. A man who had never learned the hard way with the sting of wounds to teach him caution. But, even so, he was skilled.
The blades met, parted, met again as they circled, wary, feet poised to jump forward or back, left to right. Zavor held his left hand extended, a foolish thing to do in any first-blood combat, where a scratch should, technically, end the bout. Dumarest held his own far back, his body turned, the knife held like a sword. In any other situation the bout would now be over, his blade reaching its mark, but he had his own reasons for delay. To win too quickly would not be wise.
And yet to wait would be to invite the one thing no fighter could avoid-the unknown, which would spell defeat.
The blade lunged toward him in a vicious upward slash toward the stomach, withdrew a trifle, and darted toward his face. A clever feint, but he had expected it. As the blade rose, he stepped forward, apparently stumbled, and cut a thin line over the other's chest.
"Finish!" Zenya's voice rose loud and clear. "The bout is over. Earl has won!"
Zavor snarled, blinded with rage. As Dumarest turned, lowering his knife, he lunged forward, point aimed at the kidneys.
Zenya cried out as Dumarest spun, instinct overriding his calculated caution. His left hand dropped to grip the other's wrist with a meaty slap, fingers clamping like iron as they halted the blade. His own knife rose, light splintering from the edge and point, bright on the surface as it poised over the staring eyes, the contorted features.
"No!" Sweat dewed Zavor's face as he anticipated what was to come. "Please, no! Dear God, no!"
For a moment Dumarest paused, his face cruel; then, turning the knife, he slammed the pommel hard against the bridge of the other's nose.
* * *
"You should have killed him." Aihult Chan Parect selected a comfit from a box and chewed thoughtfully as he lounged in his chair behind a wide desk. "Instead you turned the knife. Why?"
"He is your grandson, my lord."
"And that is reason enough?"
"While I am a… guest in your house, yes."
"A wise man. I can appreciate that. But you are more than wise, Earl. Never have I seen anyone move so fast. You could have ended the bout at the first exchange. You could have beaten him in the chamber, yet you did not. Wisdom… or caution?" Parect selected another comfit, a nut coated with sugar and dotted with seeds. "Well, Zavor has a broken nose, two black eyes, and, we hope, a lesson easily learned. But he will not quickly forget what you did. Your plans?"
"To leave on the next available ship," said Dumarest He added pointedly, "The money you promised will buy a High passage."
"Yes, the money. I had not forgotten." Parect leaned back, his eyes shadowed. Facing him, Dumarest could only wait.
It seemed he had been waiting a long time. He had bathed and dressed and then been escorted to this chamber, where, after a while, the old man had joined him. Waiting, He had looked around at the shelf of old books, the maps barely legible, star charts depicting far regions of the galaxy.
"You are wondering why I sent for you." Parect broke the silence. "It was well done, as I think you will agree. A young girl, alone, what danger could she represent? And a promise, deliberately vague, but one designed to catch a very certain type of man. One who is looking for something. A man who, even though he sensed danger, would take the risk in order to learn something of value." He paused, then added deliberately, "A man named Earl Dumarest. A traveler."
"So?"
"I had to be certain, Earl. Your reputation had preceded you. A fighter, a man with incredibly fast reflexes -how else to prove it than by forcing you into combat? Zavor was eager to undertake the task; now, perhaps, he regrets his impetuosity. And I will admit, until the last, I had doubts. Your speed resolved them."
"The archives," said Dumarest. "The woman said that Zenya had made no inquiries."
"They were made long ago. A standing order that I should be notified when anyone showed an interest in the ancient records. Some wine?" As he poured, Parect added casually, "How close are you to finding what you are looking for?"
"Does it matter?"
"To you I think it does. In fact, I am sure of it. A planet?"
"Yes." Dumarest looked at his wine, red and thick as blood. "Earth."
"Earth?" Parect frowned, then shrugged. "An odd name for a world. You might as well call it dirt or soil or ground."
"It has another name," said Dumarest. "Terra. Have you heard of it?"
"I think… one moment," Parect rose and moved to a shelf, returning with a thick volume. "I believe that Dazym Negaso mentions it in his book. If I-"
"I have read the book," interrupted Dumarest. "It contains nothing of value."
"You have read a book supposedly written by Dazym Negaso," corrected the old man. "I have seen it, and as you say, it is valueless. But this is an earlier edition, and surprisingly rare. Let me see, now…" He riffled the pages. "Terra," he read. "A legendary world which is held by some, particularly the cult known as the Original People, to be the birthplace of mankind. An obvious impossibility when the divergences of race together with the number of inhabited worlds is considered. The most likely reason for the name is to be found in a portion of the creed maintained by the Original People. Quote 'From Terra they fled in pain and despair.' Unquote. It is clear that Terra' should read terror,' in which case, no mystery remains."
Dumarest said, "What does he say about Earth?"
Reading, Parect said, "Earth. A generic name for planets which held mythical paradises. A region unknown and supposedly representing an ideal. Heaven, as an abstract concept, falls into the same category. The legend of a Utopian world is present throughout the galaxy, and, while the name changes, the concept is the same. See Jackpot, Bonanza, El Dorado, Gusher, and Garden."
"He is wrong," said Dumarest. "Earth exists. I know. I was born there."
"Born there?" Parect frowned. "But surely, in that case, it would be simple to find your way back. The coordinates-"
"Are lost." Dumarest looked at his hand. It was clamped tight around the goblet, the knuckles white with strain. To talk might be to say too much, but, always, was the chance that this man, once convinced, might remember some clue, a scrap of information to add to the rest, so painfully acquired.
"Earth is no paradise," he continued bleakly. "It is an old world torn and scarred by ancient wars. Life is hard there. I was a boy when I left, half-starved, frightened, stowing away on a ship. The captain was more than kind. He should have evicted me; instead, he let me work my passage. He was old and had no son, and for a time we traveled together. Then he died."
Leaving him alone to drift from world to world, always heading deeper into the galaxy where the suns were close and planets thick. A region in which the very name of Earth had become a legend and its whereabouts totally lost.
"And so you travel," said Parect quietly. "Looking, always searching, examining old records, asking questions, following clues that lead to what? Failure, as they must. Tell me, in all your travels, have you ever met anyone from your home world?"
"No."
"Nor anyone who has ever heard of it?" He took Dumarest's silence for assent. "Once I knew a man who held a dream. He was convinced that, somewhere, was to be found a secret so vast that its possession would make him the master of the universe. He was a rich man, but beggared himself looking for it. He followed a dozen leads, undertook a score of expeditions. He died on a barren world on the very edge of the galaxy, and now even his grave is lost. He was my cousin."
"So?"
"If an intelligent man can cling to fantasy, then why not a boy? A lonely, scared, frightened boy who, somewhere, picked up a name and by some means associated it with his home world. All of us tend to
enhance our station. A pauper will dream he is a baron and invent lies to bolster his illusion. After a while they cease to be lies, to him at least. Do you understand what I am saying?"
Too well, and Dumarest wondered at his motive. To convince him that what he knew to be real was, in fact, a fantasy? Or did he have some subtle reason not obviously apparent? Chan Parect was a devious man, working in unobtrusive ways to gain his own ends. A skilled manipulator of men, applying pressure here to cause a desired result there, or seeming to move to the left when in reality edging toward the right. But Dumarest was in no mood for games.
He said, "My lord, you owe me five thousand cran. As a man of honor, you will wish to pay it. Give me the money and allow me to leave."
"Leave, Earl? And where will you go? To another world to follow a fruitless search?"
To a dozen if it was necessary, riding High when he could, Low when he couldn't. Money would buy comfort and the magic of quicktime, the drug which slowed the metabolism and turned hours into minutes, months into days. Five thousand cran would buy a High passage. A tenth of that sum would buy a Low, riding in a casket meant for the transportation of animals, doped, frozen, ninety-percent dead, risking the fifteen-percent death rate for the sake of cheap travel. He had done it before, and he could do it again.
Slowly Chan Parect poured more wine. Lifting his goblet, talking to it rather than to his guest, he said, "There is no need for you to leave. Work with the house of Aihult, and you can live in comfort for the rest of your life."
"Are you offering me employment?"
"Let us say, rather, an opportunity. What did you think of Zenya?"
The change of subject was disturbing. Dumarest said cautiously, "She seems a pleasant girl."
"She is warped, as is Lisa Conenda, Zavor, all the younger members of my house. Inbreeding-need I say more? The original stock weakened and spoiled by luxury and subtle mutations. When I die there will be a scramble to fill my seat. It is what the Zham are waiting for. The Zham, the Deai, the Leruk, a dozen clans. There will be war, and it is one we shall not win. You appreciate the problem?"
