The Complete Dumarest, page 224
“She had no choice, Earl. Glabana slapped her face in public. She could have drawn and fired then and the act would have been justified but she adhered to the code.”
And died defending a brittle honor. Dumarest looked at the young face wreathed in twisted curls, the lissome lines of the lush figure and his lips thinned at the waste.
Watching him Navalok said, “You don’t approve, do you? Is that why you’re not wearing Galbrene’s badges?”
“There would be no point.”
“But—”
“What will happen to her now? The dead girl, I mean.”
“She will be cleansed and prepared as Galbrene was prepared. After she has lain in the chapel she will be treated before taking her place in the Hall of Dreams.” He glanced to where the old man stirred the fluid in the open vat. “It will take several days.”
Time enough for the chemicals to penetrate the tissue, to harden soft fibers and dissolve points of potential corruption. To seal the flesh in a film of plastic, perhaps, or to petrify it, to protect the body against the ravages of time.
To produce monuments to the dead.
They rested in the great hall of the adjoining chamber, massed ranks of them, men and women placed to either side of a central aisle. They faced the external doors, now closed, empty space stretching before them, the plain stone floor fitted with benches to take the anticipated burdens. The bodies of those who would, inevitably, die.
“The Hall of Dreams,” whispered Navalok. “Each of them gained his or her trophy which is why there are no children. All died honorably, some of age, most of wounds, but none ever disgraced the Family. Here they sit and dream for eternity.”
Lifelike figures who sat and stared with open eyes, the flicker of lights dancing and giving them the appearance of life. Eyes which seemed to follow Dumarest and his guide as he stepped forward between the benches to stand in the central aisle. Curiously he studied the figures to either side.
A man, one elbow resting on his knee, his hands gnarled, the fingers curled, the gleam of a ring bright against the withered flesh.
“A victor,” whispered Navalok. “One who later died of his wounds.”
Another who leaned back, head a little turned as if listening to a voice from behind. A third who looked as if he might be coughing. A fourth who, with lifted hand, tugged at an ear.
And the women were similar in their staged actions; one smoothing her gown, another picking at a thread, a third who, with pursed lips, gave the appearance of blowing a kiss.
Hundreds of them, thousands, the vastness of the hall was packed with mummified figures.
Dust rose beneath Dumarest’s boots as he walked towards the shadowed rear of the hall. The stone of the walls changed its nature, became striated with minerals, grained and mottled with time. The air too held an acrid scent, one of dust and stagnation. Reaching out he touched a figure, caught it as it fell. It was surprisingly light. The clothing it wore crumpled to powder beneath his hand.
“Earl! Be careful!”
Dumarest ignored the admonitory whisper from his companion. He looked from the back of the hall to the figures seated lower down towards the doors. Their clothing had altered little, a static culture froze fashion as it did everything eke, but some differences were obvious.
As it was obvious that those who had been placed in the far end of the chamber were old. Old with the crawl of centuries, of millennia.
Navalok gestured to where a small group occupied a raised platform. “The Elders of the First,” he whispered. “They are of those who first came to Emijar.”
It was natural to whisper, the ranks of silent bodies seemed to be listening, and the atmosphere of the place held a brooding solemnity. Dumarest strode to the platform, stepped onto it, leaned forward with narrowed eyes to study the figures it contained.
The light was bad, dim from suspended globes and dulled with accumulated dust, but it was enough for him to distinguish the motive each wore on their garments; a disc surrounded by tapering spikes.
“What is this?”
Navalok craned his head and followed the finger pointing at the yellow fabric.
“I don’t know, Earl. It had something to do with their religion, I think. That device was worn by the Guardians of the Sun.”
The sun?
The sun!
Had they known only one?
Dumarest looked at the silent figures, the contours of their faces, the shape of their heads. Compared with Navalok the differences were slight but unmistakable. If priests they may not have married and their genes would have been lost to the common pool. A select group, then, guarding an esoteric secret?
He said, “In your studies, Navalok, did you learn from where the original settlers came?”
“From another planet, Earl. Where else?”
“Its name?”
“I don’t know. The records were lost in a fire shortly after the First Families made Emijar their home. In fact nothing is left of them aside from the things in the Shrine and those—”
He broke off as if conscious of having said too much, a fact Dumarest noticed but ignored. Later, if at all, would be the time to press.
“The Shrine, boy,” he said. “Take me to the Shrine.”
The journey was not long but each step had been taken before many times in other places and, always, such journeys had led to disappointment. A quest which seemed to have no end. A mystery which had yet to be solved. A world lost as if it had never been and yet he knew that it existed and was to be found. Would be found given time and the essential clue. The one fact which would supply the coordinates and guide him back home.
Would fate, this time, be kind?
“Earl?” Navalok was worried at his silence, his expression. “Have I offended you?”
“No.”
“If I have it was without intent. No insult was implied in anything I may have done or said. If for any reason you have cause to feel offense then I apologies, humbly and without reservation. Please, Earl. You must believe that.”
“I believe it.” Dumarest turned to look at the anxious face and smiled. “How could you insult me? We’re friends, aren’t we?”
“Friends?” Navalok blinked.
“Of course.” Dumarest dropped a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Didn’t you want for us to be friends?”
“Yes,” Navalok stammered. “Oh, yes, Earl. I—I’d like that very much.”
A smile and a few words, cheap to give but what seed could bear a richer harvest? Those who took a perverse pleasure in deriding the unfortunate lost more than they knew and risked more than they imagined. No human being, no matter how insignificant, can safely be demeaned. Always there is present the danger of restraints snapping, of self-control giving way beneath the impact of one insult too many. Of pride and the need to be an individual bursting out in a tide of relentless fury.
A thing Dumarest had learned early in life but which Lekhard had not.
He straightened from where he leaned against a wall his voice, like his face, holding a sneer.
“Well, Earl, as I guessed, you find our little freak entertaining. There is, of course, no accounting for tastes, but surely there are others more suited to your whims?” His gesture made his meaning plain. His laughter, devoid of humor, made it obscene.
Dumarest felt the boy tense at his side, the sound of his sharp inhalation, and cursed the unfortunate meeting. To maintain the newly formed friendship he would have to act in a manner which the boy expected which, in this society, meant only one thing.
He said, curtly, “What do you want, Lekhard?”
“I? Nothing, not from you or from any man.” Lekhard stressed the gender. “But Dephine was anxious and asked me to look for you. It would be best if you hurried back to your mistress.”
Another insult to add to the rest. Dumarest studied the man, saw the way he stood, the way in which his hand rested near the butt of his gun, the expression in his eyes. One he had seen before across countless rings. The look of a man enamored with the desire to kill.
Quietly he said, “Navalok, instruct me. How do I challenge this man?”
“Earl! You carry no gun!”
“Answer my question.”
“He has.” Lekhard moved from where he stood and halted a few feet from the couple. “Until you have proved yourself you have no right to issue a challenge. The killing of Galbrene makes no difference. It was the act of an animal and I’ve no intention of following his example and meeting you or any man with bare hands. If you want to challenge me then earn the right to carry a gun. Until then remember your place.”
“And that is?”
“In the dirt, scum! In the filth where you belong!”
Dumarest snarled, “I am armed. My knife against your gun. Give the word, boy.”
“No, Earl! You—”
“Give it!”
He moved as the youth shouted, wasting no time on snatching the knife from his boot, darting forward and to one side as Lekhard clawed at his gun, closing the distance between them before the weapon lifted free of its holster. His left hand clamped on the wrist, twisting as his right sent fingers to close on the other’s throat.
As the gun fell from the nerveless fingers to clatter on the stone of the floor Lekhard sagged, his face mottling, only the hand at his neck preventing him from crumpling to the stone.
Dumarest held him, counting seconds, then threw him to land sprawling against the wall.
“You—” Lekhard rose, coughing, rubbing at his throat. “I’ll kill you! My gun—”
“I’ll take care of it.” Dumarest picked it up and held it casually in his hand. “You can collect it later from the Lady Dephine. I’ll tell her you loaned it to me for examination.” He added, bleakly, “Or you can tell her the truth as to how I obtained it. Her and everyone else of the Family. The choice is yours.”
A choice which was none at all—Lekhard would not want to be shamed by the truth. As he left the chamber Dumarest turned to Navalok and threw him the weapon.
“Here. Take it. Does it make you feel more of a man?”
A mistake which he recognized as the boy caught the pistol. For him to own a gun was to be a man, but it had to come in a certain way, one hallowed by tradition.
“I can’t take it, Earl. It isn’t mine.” Reluctantly he handed back the weapon. “But, Earl, the way you faced him! To best him with your bare hands.”
A performance which had mainly been for the boy’s benefit.
Dumarest said, curtly, “Let’s get to the Shrine.”
Chapter Twelve
A century earlier and there would have been armed men standing in honor, a guard carefully chosen and each man jealous of the privilege. A generation ago and older men would have tended the sacred place, sitting and dreaming of past glories, of the strength and vitality of their youth. Now there was only a crippled boy to tend the lights and to sweep the dust and venerate the past.
He said, “Earl, this is where the trophies are thrown when the hunters return after having made their kills.”
Dumarest looked down at the floor, the place at which he pointed. It lay before the opening of the Shrine, the stone slightly concave with repeated washings. In imagination he tried to visualize the severed heads and the crowd who had watched the ancient heroes. Now there would be no crowd, only an official of some kind to record the achievement. Alorcene, perhaps, or an assistant. And even he would probably have to be summoned.
“Word is sent from the Watcher,” explained Navalok when he mentioned it. “Always there are men stationed in the highest tower. They see the immediate surroundings and, of course, word would also be sent from the raft-enclosure.”
“And?”
“Men will come to witness the trophy. The notation is made in the records and, later at dinner, the gun is given in ceremony.”
A standard weapon each identical aside from personal adornment to the one he had taken from Lekhard. Dumarest examined it, a primitive thing with a revolving chamber holding five cartridges. The caliber was large, the charge, he guessed, small. The bullet would have high impact-shock but low penetration—to be expected in a weapon intended for use in a crowd.
“Earl, would—” Navalok broke off as Dumarest met his eyes.
“What?”
“Nothing.” The boy gestured towards the opening. “You wanted to inspect the Shrine.”
Not the Shrine but the items it held. Dumarest strode to the slab of polished stone and looked at them. Rubbish for the most part, bits and pieces, some seeming to belong to other, larger artifacts, all showing signs of the ravages of time. Of use and time, the leaves of the plastic file were scuffed a little as well as faded and the metal of the chronometer held a dull patina which covered a worn inscription.
Dumarest rubbed at it with his thumb and held it closer to the light. Narrowing his eyes he read…OTA.F TE..A. The few discernible letters were followed by a disc surrounded with tapering spines—the symbolic image of a sun.
Dumarest lowered the instrument. The words could spell out the name of the ship and place of origin, the symbol would be a general identification device such as even now was used on the multiple commercial space lines. The Songkia-Kwei used the symbol of an open flower—the lotus. The Aihun Line a twisted helix.
Something, a name of—where?
He examined the instrument again, tilting it so as to throw the letters into prominence.
TE A
TELLA—No, TERRA?
TERRA!
An alternative name for Earth.
Navalok had been watching. He said, anxiously, “Earl, is anything wrong?”
“No.” Dumarest took a deep breath and set down the chronometer. He could be reading too much into too little. The almost obliterated words could have meant something entirely different and, even assuming the last would have been the planet of origin, it need not have been Terra. And yet the chance existed and could not be ignored. “Do you have any more items like these?”
“Not here, Earl. There are Shrines in other Houses as I told you, but they are much the same.”
And impossible to visit or examine. Dumarest knew of the jealous pride each Family maintained, the almost fanatical isolation they kept from each other. With time and money, perhaps, it could be done, but he had neither. And it might not be necessary. He remembered the boy’s previous hesitation, his obvious reluctance to reveal information. A secret he could be hiding and one Dumarest had to know.
“A pity,” he said, casually. “I’m interested in old things. It would be nice to find more of them somewhere. Are you interested in the past?”
Navalok blinked at the suddenness of the question.
“I—yes, Earl. I am.”
“The old days,” mused Dumarest. “When men landed to settle new worlds. Think of the challenges they had to face. The dangers they had to overcome. Each item of their equipment is a thing of veneration. Every scrap could tell us something new. If you knew where there were more of these things you could become an authority, Navalok. Your fame would spread and learned men come to consult you on their problems.”
The wrong approach, the boy was not interested in academic distinction. Dumarest recognized it and said, “The House would be proud of you and you would earn the respect of the entire Family. Women would beg you to father their sons as they did the heroes of old.” A shrewd guess but, Dumarest felt, a right one. He ended with a shrug. “Well, it would be nice, but unless such things can be found it must remain only a dream.”
To press more would be to press too much, to arouse an antagonism or to wither their new-found friendship. For too long the boy had been rejected, used with cynical contempt, ignored. He had built up a layer of defense and, to threaten it, would be to turn trust into suspicion.
And the information, if he had it, would be a closely held secret.
Dumarest strolled from the opening, his face bland, a man who had seen all there was to see of any interest. As if by accident the gun fell from his pocket to clatter on the floor. He picked it up, turning it, bouncing it on his palm, conscious of the boy watching, the hunger in his eyes.
As he put the weapon out of sight Navalok blurted, “Earl, there is such a place. I know where more of these things are to be found.”
Dumarest was deliberately obtuse. “A museum?”
“No. It’s in the hills. I found it one day when my father took me out in a raft. I think he was looking for game. We landed and later I went exploring on the slope. I found a cave. The light was bad but I saw things like those.” He gestured towards the objects littering the polished slab of the Shrine.
“And?”
“My father said it was an important discovery. He was going to report it but on the way back something went wrong. The raft crashed and he was killed and I—” He looked at his twisted foot. “I didn’t say anything.”
A child, hurt, bewildered, keeping the discovery to himself for reasons he couldn’t have consciously known.
And now?
“I’ll guide you if you promise to help me, Earl,” he said in a rush. “If you’ll teach me how to kill an olcept. If you’ll help me to gain my trophy.”
* * *
Dephine said, her voice edged with anger, “Earl, you’re mad! Insane! The thing is ridiculous!”
He said nothing, watching as she paced the room with long strides, her hair a tumbled mane, her skin glistening with a moist warmth. She had just bathed and, as she walked, each step revealed the long, flowing line of her thighs through the slits in her robe.
“You can’t do it, Earl!” She halted before him and he could smell the perfume she wore, the slightly sweet odor of decaying blooms. “You can’t!”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s dangerous, you fool, that’s why. Men get killed hunting an olcept, women too, my own sister—well, never mind. But I don’t want you hurt or killed, Earl. You mean too much to me for that.”
He said, dryly, “Is that why you killed Galbrene?”
“Killed Galbrene?” She frowned. “I didn’t kill him, Earl. He fell beneath your hands. Everyone saw it.”
“They saw him fall,” he corrected. “But I didn’t kill him and we both know it. He was dazed when I made the final attack, dying where he stood. Didn’t you think I could manage him?”
