Zenya dot-11

by E. C. Tubb

  An old man, without resources or known friends, hurt and alone. Dumarest drew in his breath.

  "Why?"

  "The Leruk," said the girl, as if that explained everything. "It is their task. Beggars are not allowed; you heard my grandfather talking. Without money, what else could the monk be?"

  Without looking at her, Dumarest said, "What will happen to him?"

  "He will be sold at auction. If he has skills, he will get a good price. If not, then he will end as a worker in the fields or in a factory." She added wonderingly, "I can't understand why they let this man go free. Logically, they should have taken him also."

  Dumarest could guess why they hadn't. To the monk he said, "You asked for me, brother. How can I help?"

  "You are a traveler, brother, and known to the church. As I said, all we possessed has been destroyed. The church is nothing, poles and thin coverings, easily replaced, but the benediction light is another matter. That we cannot replace. If you would carry word to another world, we would be grateful. Just relay the message to any monk you may happen to meet. Tell him what has happened here; he will do the rest."

  Using the hybeam radio concealed in every benediction light to pass on the word. Dumarest knew of the secret, knew too of the close-knit mesh of communications binding all monks together and to the great seminary on Hope, the heart and center of the Universal Brotherhood.

  "Please, brother!"

  The monk sagged a little. One or more ribs, if not broken, had been cracked, and it was painful to breathe. His stomach throbbed and his kidneys burned from the impact of savage blows. Bruises mottled his skin, and it was hard to stand. A harsh world, he thought, but he was used to harshness, as he was accustomed to deprivation. Even the pain he suffered was not new; he had known pain before, as he had known other things. Disappointment, abuse, scorn, indifference-all these things were an integral part of the life he had chosen. But the church must not be allowed to wither on Paiyar. Not if an appeal could save it. And no monk could afford the luxury of pride.

  "Please, brother," he said again. "I realize that you cannot help Brother Wen. He will be sold, and he will do what he can. As I will, should I be taken in turn."

  Dumarest said, "Zenya. How can they be helped?"

  "What do you mean, Earl?"

  "This is a world of clans. How large must a clan be before it is recognized? Ten men? Five? Two? How many?"

  "I don't know." She looked baffled. "I've never thought about it. Everyone wants to join an existing house, not set up on their own. Even those who work for the civil authority are always eager to change."

  "We studied the customs of this world before coming here," said the monk. "There are no regulations as to what constitutes a clan. However, any group must be self-supporting and strong enough to resist aggression." He added bleakly, "Also, by definition, a clan is a group of more than one person. At this moment I am alone."

  "But not for long," said Dumarest. "Zenya, how much would Brother Wen fetch on the block?"

  "Not much, I would think. A monk can't be of high value."

  An error Dumarest hoped others would make. Every monk was trained in medical skill and the basic necessities of survival. They could take a desert and cause it to bloom, use a cunning balance of ecology to change hostile environments, teach a dozen crafts.

  He said, "Zenya, you owe me five hundred cran, your grandfather five thousand. I want it."

  "I haven't got it, Earl."

  "You have jewelry. Get it. Sign a witnessed deposition that you freely give it to the monk, Brother Eland. Hurry!"

  She was stubborn. "No, Earl. I can give you the five hundred, and that's all. Chan Parect owes you the rest."

  "And he will pay it." His eyes met hers, cold, hard. "If he doesn't, I will. I ask you for a loan, no more. The jewelry can be redeemed. Now, do as I say."

  As she left he said to the monk, "You will take the money and buy your companion. And then, if you've any sense at all, you'll get off Paiyar as fast as you can. If the girl is right there will be enough left for Low passage, or maybe a captain will let you ride High for the sake of charity."

  "Thank you, brother."

  "There's one other thing. Are there any other monks on this world?"

  "None. Brother Wen and I were alone."

  "I see." Dumarest turned as the girl entered the room. She carried a signed paper and had stripped the serpents from both arms.

  "Take these to the shop of Kren Sulimer," she said. "You'll find it close to the field-a small place with the symbol of a sword. Don't sell them. Borrow ten thousand and leave the pledge at the gate. Don't fail to do this."

  Brother Eland said quietly, "My lady, you have my word."

  "I've arranged for an escort to accompany you, and our doctor will attend to your injuries."

  "Thank you, my lady."

  "For what? I've done nothing." Zenya shrugged, divorcing herself from the incident. To Dumarest she said, "The debt is yours, Earl. You realize that?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. Then we can leave now." She shivered, looking at the bleak walls. "I've done as you asked. Now amuse me."

  * * *

  Amusement was the sharing of wine, the playing of a game, dice rattling, falling, counters moved to an intricate pattern. A game he could play but had never enjoyed. And there had been conversation, innuendos, hints of knowledge he should have, motivations he should have understood. It had been a relief to get away.

  Back in his room he killed the lights and sat before the window. The air held the scent of Lisa's perfume, the memory of her body, as if she were still present, waiting, demanding. Beyond the window the wall opposite was mostly dark, the pane he remembered a glimmer of starlight. Above, the stars wheeled in their courses as he sat silent, watchful.

  Something pressed against the door.

  It was a small sound, barely heard, metal moving as the knob was turned. Lisa Conenda returning for more intrigue, to seal the bargain in the only way she knew? Zenya, perhaps, restless and bored and eager for novelty?

  Dumarest rose and stood against the wall to the side of the window, away from the betraying rectangle of light. The door swung open, light from the passage haloing the shape in the opening. It was not that of a woman. As it moved into the room, glimmers shone from a naked blade held in the right hand.

  Dumarest moved, stepping silently along the wall, memory serving to dodge obstacles as he eased toward the door. He saw the man step toward the bed, the grunt of surprise at finding it empty, then he had lunged forward, slamming the panel and snapping on the lights.

  Zavor glared at him from purpled eyes, the slick sheen of a transparent bandage covering his nose and forehead.

  "You!" He sucked in his breath. "You should have been asleep, satiated with the passion of my dear aunt, but perhaps it's better this way." He lifted the knife. "You were lucky once. It won't happen again."

  "We fought," said Dumarest coldly. "I won. What are you complaining about?"

  "You marred me. Made me a mock before the others."

  "I let you live."

  "And I should be grateful for that?" Zavor lifted his left hand and touched his bruised face, letting it fall again quickly to his side. "Do you know what I intended? Had you been asleep, I would have smashed in your face with this." He gestured with the knife, the heavy pommel. "Then I would have cut it to the bone and left you a thing of horror. I saw them smile when you defeated me with that cunning trick. Chan Parect was most amused. I wonder if he will smile when next he sees you?"

  Dumarest said flatly, "He's insane. Are you?"

  "Me? Insane?" Zavor's laugh was a titter. "Now, why should you say that? Because I have pride and want revenge? Because I have reason to hate a stranger who made me look a fool? A common fighter who belongs in the arena like the animal he is?"

  "You're hurt," said Dumarest. "You should be resting under slowtime. Do it now, and by morning you will be as before."

  "A brave man should not run from the
pain of wounds."

  "A brave man doesn't come creeping into a room to wreak vengeance."

  "Are you calling me a coward?"

  Dumarest sighed. The man had been drinking, or worse. The eyes were too bright in their purpled sockets, his tones too high. Drugs to kill pain and to speed his metabolism, others to give him courage or to numb his fears. And yet he was not wholly a fool. He had waited until it was late; had his victim been asleep, it would have taken only one quick blow. And he was a scion of the house, an accident of birth which had served to save him once and was doing so again.

  He said again, "Answer me, you scum! Are you calling me a coward?"

  "I'm calling you a fool. Get out of here before you get hurt."

  "A challenge? Will you use that knife in your boot?" Zavor edged forward. "Then reach for it. Drop your hand. Do it, damn you! Do it now!"

  He was too confident, which meant that he was better armed than it appeared. A laser, perhaps, or a missile weapon held in or carried close to the left hand, which he kept at his side.

  Dumarest said, "You want to kill me, but you don't want to suffer because of it. If you can claim self-defense, you might be believed. Do you consider your grandfather to be such a fool?"

  Zavor smiled, a distortion of his mouth devoid of humor. "My insane grandfather will believe that you are an assassin that I confronted and killed to save his precious hide. And you don't have to reach for that knife. I can place it in your hand when you are dead."

  "Get out of here!"

  Dumarest stepped forward, watching the knife, the left arm, alert for the tiny movements that would herald explosive action. The knife would be used, thrown perhaps as the left hand rose, a diversion to gain a clear field for whatever weapon Zavor carried at his side. And it would be done soon. He was giving the man no chance. He would have to act or retreat.

  "Back!" Zavor sprang to the bed, stood wide-legged on the mattress. He sprang again, right hand lifting, the knife a spinning blur as it left his hand.

  Dumarest ducked, saw it pass harmlessly overhead, watched as the left hand rose with the expected weapon. A laser adjusted for continuous fire, venting its full charge in a ruby-guided beam of searing destruction, which swept like a scythe toward him.

  Flame burst from the carpet, the wall, touching his shoulder, burning the plastic from the protective metal mesh beneath, passing, to hit the door, another wall. Zavor was too eager, using the laser like a cane to slash as a boy would cut air with a stick, moving too fast for careful aim. As he swept the beam backward, Dumarest acted.

  There was no time to think; his hand dropped to his boot, rose with his knife, hand and arm sweeping back as the beam moved toward his face, muscles like springs sending the steel forward, to arc through the air, to end at one of the eyes, the hilt jarring against the bone of cheek and forehead.

  Zavor fell, twisting, the laser falling, still active, to hit and roll off the edge of the bed and explode in a gush of blasting energy which filled the room with smoke and flame.

  Dumarest turned as it fell, catching the blast on his back, feeling the burn of heat, the stench of charred hair as he lunged toward the door. It opened before he reached it, and he saw the startled face of a guard, a staff lifted, aimed, a gout of flame.

  Something smashed against the side of his head, and he fell into an endless darkness.

  Chapter Four

  It was cold, with a thin wind blowing from the north over scrub and barren rock, biting savagely at his near-naked body, the bite reflected by the hunger gnawing at his stomach. High above, against a swollen moon, a shape wheeled, circling, wide wings soundless in the air. The sling was of plaited leather, the pouch made supple by endless chewing, the stone it contained carefully selected as to weight, shape, and size. He rose, the sling circling, whining a little as it cut the air, thong flying as he released the stone at precisely the right moment. Above, the bird jerked and fell, wings fluttering, a mournful cry marking its passage. He caught it as it fell, wringing its neck, sending sharp teeth to bite into skin and sinew to the flesh beneath.

  The blood warmed him, the meat filled his stomach, and he stared upward, triumphant. Food was life, and now he would live until it was time to kill again. And kill… and kill… and kill.

  The moon splintered into fragments, which became a face.

  "I am Dr. Leon Glosarah. Head physician to the house of Aihult. How do you feel?"

  Dumarest stared, not answering.

  The voice sharpened. "What is your name?"

  "Earth," said Dumarest. He had been dreaming of his childhood. "Earth… No. My name is Dumarest. Earl Dumarest."

  "Good." The man sounded relieved. He was of middle age, his skin smooth, a mesh of tiny lines at the corners of his slanted eyes. "Count my fingers." He held up a hand. "How many do you see?"

  "Three."

  "What is the last thing you remember?"

  "A man," said Dumarest slowly. "A guard, I think. He aimed a staff at me. There was fire, and something hit my head. A bullet?"

  "A low-velocity missile which hit you. Just above the right ear. It shattered the bone and impacted the mastoid process. You were rendered immediately unconscious. Tell me again, how many fingers?"

  "Two."

  "Look to your left. To your right. Raise your eyes. Move the right foot. The left. Lift both arms and flex your fingers. Good. You seem to be in perfect condition."

  "Was there any doubt?"

  The doctor shrugged. "In cases of head injury, it is always hard to be certain. Fortunately, there was no brain damage. You were burned a little on the back and shoulders, but the protective clothing you wore saved you from extensive injury. The shattered bone has been repaired and the mastoid healed. You have been under slowtime, intravenous feeding and have had regular massage. Please stand up now."

  Dumarest sat upright and felt a momentary nausea. He waited until it had passed, then threw his legs over the edge of the bed and stood upright. His body, he noticed, was thin, the fat vanished, leaving only hard skin and muscle.

  "How long?"

  "Under slowtime? Thirty hours. That's about fifty days actual." The doctor added, "Healing time, naturally. Can you walk?"

  Dumarest stepped across the room. It was pastel green, windowless, the door set with a judas grille. Aside from hunger he felt normal. A high-protein diet coupled with exercise, and he would be as good as before. It was hard to realize that almost two months of his life had been spent in the cot, his metabolism speeded so that he had lived forty times the normal rate. A long time for wounds to heal when aided by hormone activators.

  "There was no hurry," said the doctor when he mentioned it. "Chan Parect ordered a complete recovery, and I thought it advisable to taper off the drugs. Your clothes have been repaired. There is basic in that container. Please dress and eat." He glanced at the watch on his wrist. "We haven't much time."

  "Time for what?"

  "You will see. Now, please do as I say."

  Fresh gray plastic covered the protective mesh, and the basic was as he remembered. A thick liquid laced with vitamins, tart with citric acid, almost solid protein. Standard fare on spaceships, where a cup would supply enough energy for a day. He drank a pint, slowly, ignoring the growing agitation of the doctor. He wanted to be in condition for anything which might come, and an empty stomach was a poor ally.

  "Are you ready?" The doctor moved toward the door, not waiting for an answer. "Open," he said through the grille, and then added, to Dumarest, "The men outside will take you to where you are to go."

  There were eight of them, unarmed but strong, more than a match for anyone just risen from a sickbed. They led him down passages and up stairs to a room he remembered. A chamber graced with old books and faded maps. From behind his desk Aihult Chan Parect gestured toward a chair.

  "Sit, Earl. Relax. You are well, I hope?"

  "Thank you, yes."

  "A most distressing incident Zavor was a fool and has paid for his folly. The guard
, too, the one who shot you, he has been disciplined."

  Dumarest said dryly, "For almost missing?"

  "For shooting at all. He claimed that his thumb tensed on the button-you know how it is. Fire, a man lying dead, another he thought was about to attack. Even so, he made a mistake and has paid for it. Debts, as I am sure you will agree, must be paid."

  "Yes," said Dumarest. "Debts must be paid. The five thousand cran you owe me, for example. And then there is the question of damages. An attack on my life by your grandson. As the head of the house you are naturally responsible for the actions of your people." He added formally, "I am sure you will admit that, my lord."

  Chan Parect laughed, the sound rising thin in the chamber, and Dumarest felt the prickling of caution. The man was not normal; never must he forget that. His grandson had been killed, and no matter what his personal feelings as head of the house, his duty was plain. To avenge the death and maintain his honor. Instead, he laughed; it was an ugly sound.

  "You amuse me, Earl. I find it most entertaining to talk with you. You sit there with the blood of my grandson on your hands and you talk of moneys owing for the inconvenience. You do not deny killing him?"

  "No, but I did not cause his death."

  "You blame your knife?" From a drawer Chan Parect produced it. The blade was bright, the hilt free of blood. "It was a shrewd throw. The steel was buried in his brain. You could have wounded;, instead, you killed, why?"

  "I was given no choice."

  "Instinct, perhaps?"

  "I had no choice," repeated Dumarest. "And, with respect, my lord, his death was predetermined."

  "Fate, Earl? You believe in destiny?"

  "In fact Had he been given slowtime, he would not have brooded over his injuries. And the weapon he carried, the laser. Someone had adjusted it for continuous fire. He dropped it and it exploded. A laser would not do that."

  "It did."

  "Because it was meant to," said Dumarest harshly. "Whoever adjusted it made certain that it would. A fuse set to the trigger to activate the entire charge after a lapse of time. Even had he killed me, Zavor would still have died. Murdered by someone in this citadel."