Zenya dot-11 Read online

  "Change is the way of life, my lord."

  "Spoken from the viewpoint of a man who does not care. Who might even think it is a good thing that the tree which has sheltered this world for so long be cut down to make room for lesser growths." Parect gulped at his wine. "You will understand that I have different feelings on the matter. To me it is a personal thing. I intend to make it yours."

  Dumarest said flatly, "Intend?"

  The sound of a gong echoed the question, soft tones rising to fade against walls and expensive hangings. Aihult Chan Parect set down his goblet. "Dinner," he said. "Good food should not wait on the meaning of a word. I hope you have a good appetite."

  * * *

  There was fish, meat, game of a dozen kinds, served on fragile plates and accompanied by a score of vegetables, a choice of sweets and compotes, attended by relevant wines. Servants glided like shadows, clearing, changing plates, deft as they replenished glasses.

  Parect dominated the assembly. He sat at the head of the board, Lisa to his left, Zenya to his right, his thin, acid voice cutting through the blur of conversation. A dozen others filled the table, all young, all bearing the facial characteristics of the Aihult. At the foot of the board sat a man at whom Dumarest stared with interest.

  He had not expected to see a monk of the Church of Universal Brotherhood in this place.

  Brother Eland was old, his face gaunt with privation, looking, in his brown homespun robe, a little like a sparrow among birds of paradise. He sat quietly, eating in small mouthfuls, chewing long before he swallowed. Physically he was insignificant, a mouse of a man lacking bulk and muscle, but Dumarest knew that the small body contained more courage than the average man could guess. And the eyes betrayed him. Wide, bright, glowing with intelligence and determination. And something else. A thing called faith.

  Dumarest said quietly, "The monk. Is he resident here?"

  "Brother Eland?" At his side Zenya emptied her glass and watched as it was immediately refilled. "No. He arrived a couple of hours ago. While you waited for grandfather. Our people found him on the field."

  "And intend… what?"

  "Nothing." She laughed, teeth white between the parted fullness of her lips. "Just to feed him and listen to him talk. Grandfather is probably amusing himself."

  Dumarest doubted it, but made no comment, concentrating instead on the food, choosing items rich in protein and low in bulk.

  "You eat well, Earl," said Zenya, "I wish I could eat like that. Really enjoy my food, I mean."

  "You could," he said. "If you wanted to."

  "How?"

  "Starve for a week," he said bluntly. "Get out into the fields and work. Take a Low passage-you'd be hungry enough then."

  Again she laughed, reaching for her wine. Like the others, she had merely picked at her food; the assortment of dishes was for titivation, not sustenance. "You amuse me, Earl. I like that. Did grandfather talk to you?"

  "A little."

  "Did he…" She broke off. "Never mind. It can wait."

  From the head of the table Parect said, "And now, brother, tell us why you came to Paiyar."

  The monk set down his fork. "To work, brother, what else? With your permission we would like to set up a church. A small place where those who are in distress could gain ease. We would require very little-a patch of ground outside the gate would serve."

  "We?"

  "Brother Wen is with me. He waits at the field with our possessions."

  The portable church and the benediction light beneath which suppliants were hypnotized, given subjective penance, and then the bread of forgiveness. The wafer of concentrates which alone drew many to the church. But the monks did not object; they regarded it as a fair exchange.

  Parect said, "Let me get this straight. You intend to do… what? Feed the poor? Nurse the sick?"

  "Yes, my lord."

  "Then you have no place here. We have no poor and no sick. There is no poverty on Paiyar."

  "If that is so, my lord, this is a most fortunate world."

  "A logical one. Have you seen a beggar in the city? No, and you never will. Here people are not permitted to beg. They are taken, fed, washed, clothed, healed if they are sick, and then put to work. The Leruk arrange it. Each month they hold an auction. Those who need labor know where to go."

  "And if a man is too ill to work, my lord?"

  "How can he be that? If he can move, sit upright, move a hand or foot, then he can work. If not, then he dies. A bad investment, perhaps, but it happens." Parect dismissed the subject with a curt gesture. "What else do you offer?"

  Hope, understanding, tolerance, a simple creed, which, if accepted, would bring the millennium. There, but for the grace of God, go I. The concept that no man was alone, that all belong to the Corpus Humanite, that all shared the divine spark, and that, if they could only treat others as they would wish to be treated themselves, all problems would be solved.

  Zenya giggled as she listened. "Earl, the man must be insane! Do you realize what he is saying? All men must be treated as equal; but that is absurd. It's obvious they aren't. Why, if I was to follow his teaching, I would dress the hair of my maid instead of taking a whip to her when she fumbled."

  "Do you like to be whipped?"

  "Of course not, Earl."

  Flatly he said, "Neither does she. Think of it the next time you beat her. Imagine the lash tearing your own flesh. Better still, each time you strike her, have her strike you."

  It was a waste of time, and he knew it, as surely must Brother Eland. Some things could not be taught, because they could never be learned. The proud and arrogant would never admit they were anything less than superior. Their position blinded them to reality, but not to potential danger.

  Parect said harshly, "Enough! Your teaching would ruin the structure of this world. Every serf would think himself equal to his master. Your creed holds the seed of rebellion."

  "Not so, brother, it-"

  "Do you dare to argue with me?" Anger suffused the lined face, sent the thin voice soaring high, shrill. "Do you?"

  Dumarest felt Zenya's fingers dig into his arm, heard her whisper, breathless, afraid. "Dear God, don't let it happen again. Don't let him get into one of his rages!"

  He realized the table had fallen silent, that each face bore the stamp of trepidation, realized too what should have been apparent before. Aihult Chan Parect was insane.

  Chapter Three

  The room was a cell. Despite the comfort, the softness of the couch, the tapestries, the items of price set on low tables, the sea-scented air, it was as much a cell as the citadel was a prison. A trap into which he had walked willingly, lured by a promise. And yet, Dumarest knew, he'd had no choice. The Aihult owned the field; guards would have been waiting to take him by force if necessary; following the girl had given him only the pretense of freedom.

  Restlessly he paced the room. The window was an unbroken pane of thick crystal, unbarred but proof against the impact of missiles. Beyond it, as far as he could determine, the wall fell sheer to an inner courtyard. The roof, perhaps, might house a raft, but if so, it would be guarded. As everything in the citadel was guarded. As even this room to which he had been led after the meal must be watched by the order of Aihult Chan Parect.

  He heard the click of a latch and stood, not turning, watching the reflection as Lisa Conenda entered the room and approached him, feet silent on the carpeted floor.

  "You are dreaming, Earl," she said in her deep, almost mannish voice. "Of what, I wonder? The stars? The empty spaces between them? A woman you once had?"

  She still wore the ebony gown, the elfin lines of her face accentuated with skillfully applied cosmetics. Her perfume was of musk and incense, heady, pungent. The fingers which she rested on his arm were long, the nails shaped into needle points.

  "I understand that you are interested in old legends," she continued softly. "And there is one which you must surely know. A creature which spins a web and offers enticing invitations.
It would be amusing, would it not, if the guest so invited should turn the tables and, instead of providing the meal, feasted instead?"

  He said quietly, "Meaning what, my lady?"

  "A thought, Earl, little more. Shall we pursue it?" The long fingers closed on his arm, her voice a bare whisper in his ear. "The house of Aihult is decadent. You have seen Zenya, Zavor, the others. Soon there will be a vacuum of power in which a strong, ruthless, and imaginative man could do well. All he would need would be a little help- some guidance and the support of one who has a legitimate claim to the chair that will soon be empty." The fingers tightened even more. "Are you ambitious, Earl?"

  He said nothing, looking through the window. Others faced him from across the courtyard, some bright with illumination, shadows moving, blurred, oddly shaped by perspective and translucent hangings. Above, the stars shone bright against the sky, colorful motes winking against skeins and curtains of shimmering luminescence. Hot suns ringed with circling worlds.

  "Earth," she said, her voice ironic. "Is that the sum total of your ambition, Earl? To find a dream world, a myth? Do you look at the stars and wonder if it could circle that one… or that one? So many stars, Earl. So many worlds. And even if you found it, what then?"

  A question he would face when it came; for now, the search was enough. Turning, he faced her, catching her expression, a little surprised at what he saw. Not the mockery he had anticipated, but something else. Yearning, perhaps, bitterness.

  "Do you think that others have never dreamed, Earl? As a child I longed to be adult so that I, too, could give orders and have them obeyed. I had a weakness for a fruit compote, chilled, iced, laced with cream. It was a special treat, and I swore that, when I grew big, I would eat it every day. Well, I am big now, and can get as much of the stuff as I want. And now, of course, I don't want it."

  The compote and other things, he thought. Men, perhaps, power, fine gowns, with rich fabrics. Childish longings which turned to dust when attained. And now more ambitions, not childish this time, and far less innocuous. A game in which the loser would pay with life itself.

  A game?

  He looked into her eyes, seeing them change, veiled to hide innermost thoughts. A spoiled, decadent woman seeking amusement at the expense of a stranger? It was possible, the tempting bait dangled, rewards offered, plans made, and then, without warning, the abrupt end. And Chan Parect would not be kind to rebels.

  But it was a game which two could play.

  He said, "Tell me more, my lady. What would I hope to gain if…"

  Her arms lifted, to close around his neck. The softness of her body pressed tight against his chest, warm flesh, succulent, yielding. The touch of her cheek against his own was scented velvet, as, straining upward, she whispered in his ear.

  "Be careful, my darling. In this place, walls have ears. You want to know what you could gain? Myself and what I could bring. A position second only to my own. A seat at my side in Council, estates to rule, men to command. Under our guidance, the serpent would swallow all. The Zham, Elbe, Leruk-all would be ours, their men our serfs, their women our slaves. And our son, Earl. The child of our bodies. To him we would give an entire world as his heritage."

  He sensed her tension, too intense to be contrived, and remembered her hands, the nails now resting lightly against the back of his neck. Remembered too the family to which she belonged, the contamination that was apparent and that the old man had betrayed.

  Carefully he said, "My lady, you offer too much."

  "There is no limit to the aspirations of an ambitious man."

  "Aspirations, perhaps, but execution? How will all this be achieved?"

  He felt her relax, confident that he had been won. Casually he lifted his hands, gripped her own, and lowered them to her side. With his cheek still pressed to her own he whispered, "We must talk again. In a safe place without attendants. If you could obtain the use of a raft… ?"

  "Yes," she breathed. "Oh, yes. In the woods, where there will be none to spy. Earl, my darling, how long have I waited for a man like you. A real man who will give me the strength I need."

  "The raft," he said again. "When?"

  "Soon. I promise. Soon."

  He stepped back a little, releasing her hands, knowing he had done all that was possible for the moment. If she would provide the raft, it could go to the field as easily as anywhere else, and with luck, a ship might be waiting, escape possible before guards could prevent it A thin chance, but, he thought grimly, better than none.

  Wine stood on a table. As she poured and returned with filled glasses, he said casually, "My lady, do you know why I am being kept here?"

  "As a guest, Earl, what else?" Smiling, she handed him a goblet. "And now let us drink to us, to the future, and to a happy life."

  Raising the glass, he touched his lips to the wine, making a pretense of drinking. Beyond the woman stood the window, and he looked at it, seeing a pane on the opposite side of the courtyard suddenly become bright with a ruby glow. Against it a shadow moved, a tall, cowled figure turning, vanishing as draperies were pulled.

  Frowning, he said, "Is the monk also a guest?"

  "Perhaps."

  "Don't you know?"

  "Does it matter?" She was uninterested. "Who can tell what motivates the mind of Chan Parect? Maybe he intends to amuse himself further with the man. And he was amusing, was he not? How can anyone spend their lives dedicated to the service of others? To live unwillingly in such poverty? And those he claims to help, what do they really think of him? Do they laugh behind his back? I think they must. The insane are always objects of mirth."

  "Of pity, my lady."

  "Pity?" She frowned. "That is a form of weakness, Earl. I do not think you are weak."

  "There is strength in compassion."

  "So I have been told." She shrugged, setting down her goblet. "As an intellectual exercise, the concept is intriguing, but in the real world, it can be fatal. A fact of which you must be aware. Only a fool spares the life of an enemy."

  "True," he admitted, "but first define what you mean by an enemy."

  "If they are not with us, they are against us."

  "Which must include a lot of people," he said dryly. "Does Aihult Chan Parect operate on that principle?"

  "Naturally, Earl. What else?"

  There were other ways, and far less dangerous than the one that led to inevitable paranoia. Delusions of grandeur coupled with a persecution complex that led to a total inability to trust a living soul. The reason for Parect's subtle behavior, his deviousness. The cause of his sudden, maniacal rage at the very hint of a threat to his ordered world. And other things, each small, but all adding to the inescapable conclusion.

  Had he sent the woman to him?

  It was possible, and Dumarest had considered it from the first. The blatant suggestion that he should take power, a willing tool to be used in a game of violence, to be tested and trapped, perhaps, revealed for a potential assassin. And yet the woman had held her own motivations, using the order for her own ends, as devious in her own way as her master. A prison, thought Dumarest, not just of walls of stone and watchful guards, but a mental conditioning which held everyone in a mesh of conflicting emotions.

  A deliberate state induced by Chan Parect to ensure his own safety. When none could trust another, rebellion was impossible.

  "Earl!" Lisa Conenda moved toward him, purposeful, her breasts rising prominently beneath the thin fabric of her gown. "Earl!"

  Another test? A man in passion was careless of his tongue, and ambition, once aroused, demanded an outlet. Or was she merely succumbing to the emotion he had sensed, the intensity of natural passion? In this place of madness who could be sure?

  He said quietly, "I think it best that you leave now, my lady."

  "What?" She stared her disbelief.

  "I am being cautious. It would not be wise for us to be so intimate."

  "You are concerned with my reputation?" Her laughter was deep, rich, g
enuine. "Have no fears, Earl. We shall not be disturbed. And I have no jealous lover and no husband who might call you to account. And if they should exist and show hostility, what then? You could take care of them, of that I am sure."

  "Even so…" He broke off as sounds came from beyond the door. A girl's voice, the deeper tones of a man. In three strides he had reached the panel and jerked it open. Zenya Yamaipan stood outside.

  She was not alone. A guard stood beside her, tall, neat in his serpent-blazoned tunic, a dagger at his waist and a staff in his hands. He said plaintively, "My lady, please understand. My orders-"

  "To hell with your orders!" She glared at him, head thrown back, red patches on her cheeks, dusty beneath the bronze of her skin. "How dare you bar my way? Me, a blood noble of the Aihult! How dare you!"

  Dumarest said sharply, "Don't blame the man for obeying his orders. Why are you here?"

  "To see you, Earl." She turned to face him, her anger evaporating. "I must talk to you. That monk, the one who came to dinner, he wants to see you."

  * * *

  Brother Eland sat in a small room Just within the main gate, a bleak place more like a cell than anything else, a place, Dumarest guessed, where uninvited visitors were housed until a decision had been made as to their disposition. He rose as they entered, staggering a little and leaning his weight against a wall.

  To the girl he said, "My lady, you are most kind."

  Dumarest caught the thin arm, forced the monk back to his seat. "What is wrong, brother? Are you hurt?"

  "Bruised, but the ache will pass."

  "What happened?"

  "I ate here, as you know and also, as you heard, was refused a place at the field. On my return, I found desolation. Brother Wen had been attacked by men wearing the symbol of a grasping hand. Others waited."

  "The Leruk," Zenya whispered.

  "They had questioned Brother Wen as to his standing, and accused him of having no place in this society. He had no money and belonged to no clan." The thin hand touched the homespun robe. "They refused to accept this as a sign of our allegiance. They had destroyed all we possessed, and then they beat me with staves. And then they left me."