E.C Tubb - Zenya

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!"