E. C. Tubb - Dumarest 11 - Zenya

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Zenya

#11 in the Dumarest series

E.C. Tubb

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?"

"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 member 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

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E. C. Tubb - Dumarest 11 - Zenya

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