E.C Tubb - Spectrum of a Forgotten Sun

Dumarest remembered the massive stone walls, the towers and crenelations. It had been no accident that the house had adopted the features of both farm and fortress. "Why aren't they hunted?"

"They are. Their heads provide the trophies." Small beasts relatively easy to kill yet each destroyed made the flock that much less of a hazard. A necessity incorporated into the social structure and used for a double purpose. A triple purpose when it came to deciding the fitness of those aspiring to rule.

The women, of course, would be helped and even given kills to call their own. Then Dumarest remembered Dephine, her savage determination, her almost feral heat in anger and love. Such a woman would scorn such aid and she could not be alone. Here the females were equal to their men. "And the Shrine?"

It lay behind the chapel, an echoing chamber flagged with blocks of red and yellow, lights glowing like stars on the marble walls, small points gathered thickly before the arched opening and the inner chamber. Within it rested a slab of polished obsidian the surface cluttered with a variety of objects; a book, some instruments, a chronometer, the injector of an engine, the plastic leaves of a record-file, a spool of thread, a jeweled toy, a dozen other items.

"From the First Families," said Navalok reverently. "Each placed here some object of personal value and, by these things, they are remembered. Each House, of course, has its Shrine, for all hold the Firsts in veneration. As we hold those of us who sit in the Hall of Dreams."

Ancestor-worship coupled with a primitive rite of puberty added to the rigid traditions and codes of a ritualised way of existence. Once of value for the culture to survive, perhaps now a lead weight dragging it to oblivion.

"You sit in the chapel," said Dumarest. "And you pray for strength, the ability to be like those you respect and admire. The heroes whose weapons you guard and whose exploits you remember. Yes?"

"Of course, Earl."

"Why?"

Navalok frowned. "I don't understand. I am weak and you must have noticed the way I drag my foot. An accident when I was a child, but it has left me deformed. How can I hope to gain a trophy without the help of those best suited to give it?"

"They are dead, Navalok." Dumarest was patient, the conditioning of a lifetime could not be eliminated by a few words. And to deride would be to arouse a reactive antagonism. "They are dead," he said again. "All of them."

"But they gained their triumph."

"And died doing it. Is that much of a success? Wouldn't the achievement be greater had they returned unscathed to hurl their trophies before the Shrine?" Dumarest smiled as he posed the question, his voice deliberately casual. "In my experience the man who remains unscarred after a fight is the one to be feared, not the one displaying his lack of skill."

For a moment, watching the play of emotion over the young face, he thought that he had gone too far too fast. Only a fool could have missed the implication and no one likes to be told that his heroes were stupid rather than brave. Then, as Navalok opened his mouth to reply the air shook to the deep and solemn note of a bell.

"The curfew," he explained. "The gates are now closed and the House sealed for the night. Soon it will be time for dinner, Earl. It would be best for us to part now and get ready."

* * * * *

Dinner was held in the great hall and was obviously the high point of the day. Dumarest joined the throng of guests standing before the tall, double-doors, his grey tunic in sharp contrast to the others adorned as they were with a plentitude of badges. Even the women wore similar symbols, stars fixed to sashes draped over one shoulder and, like the men, they were armed.

"Earl!" Hendaza came bustling through the assembly two others at his heels. "Allow me to introduce you to those whom I mentioned. Earl Dumarest, Lekhard de Monterale. Lekhard, this is-"

"I know who he is." The man smiled with a twist of his thin lips. Young, arrogant, he radiated an aura of self-assurance. His tunic was a blaze of ornamented badges. "We both know, eh, Kanjuk?"

Hendaza said, stiffly, "I take offense at your attitude, Lekhard."

"So you take offense." The man shrugged. "If you want satisfaction it can be arranged. The usual place when the bell tolls at dawn?"

"No." His companion, a tall man with a smooth face and enigmatic eyes, rested a gemmed hand on the other's sleeve. Like Hendaza he was of middle-age. "This is no cause for a quarrel, Lekhard. You were rude to interrupt and Hendaza was right to remind you of your lack of manners. We do not want our guest to think we are barbarians."

"Does it matter what a stranger thinks?" Lekhard's eyes roved over Dumarest's plain tunic, halted at his weaponless belt, dropped to stare at the hilt of the knife thrust into his boot.

"Yes, my friend, Dumarest is armed." Kanjuk smiled as if at a private jest. "You were slow to notice that. Now that you can accept him as an equal we can act like civilized men. You have visited many worlds, Earl?"

"I have."

"And seen many cultures, no doubt. Have you met other societies like our own?"

"As yet I have seen little of it."

"And so have no evidence on which to judge. Well, time will cure that. I would like-" He broke off as trumpets sounded from the doors which now swung open. "It is time we went in to dinner. Later I would appreciate the chance of resuming this conversation. Lekhard! To me!"

Kanjuk raised a hand as he moved off into the throng now streaming through the opened doors. At his side Hendaza said, "Head for the upper tables, Earl. You sit next to Dephine. As her champion it is your right."

She smiled as he took his place, reaching across the space between them to touch his arm, gemmed fire winking from her fingers. She was resplendent in a gown of embroidered fabric, the sash draped over her shoulder bright with badges, the pistol at her belt resting in a holster of gilded leather.

"You are happy, Earl?"

"I am here. Just what I am supposed to be doing is something else."

"You are my champion." Her fingers gently scratched the back of his hand. "With all that implies. But don't let appearances deceive you. On Emijar men can smile as they murder and murder as they smile."

Dumarest shrugged away his hand from beneath her nails, not bothering to probe her meaning. Instead he studied the great hall and the assembly it contained. All the Family, it seemed, had come to welcome Dephine. They sat at long, narrow tables set on the stone floor, each loaded with a variety of foods and wines. At the lower end of the hall, separated a little from the others, were the tables occupied by those who had yet to win their trophy. Social inferiors not as yet regarded as having the right to an opinion.

Navalok was among them, his face sombre as he picked at his food.

Dumarest reached for a fruit with a golden rind and lifted it from where it rested on a mat of leaves. The skin broke beneath his fingers to release a flood of sickly sweet juice. The flesh was tart, slightly acid, dissolving to a chewable mass of fiber.

At his side a man said, "So far no challenges, but there is time yet before the final bell."

"You expect one?"

"I? No, but who can tell what is in other minds?" The man sipped a little wine. "If any should come Alorcene will do his best to negate them. Dephine was always his favorite."

"Alorcene?"

"Keeper of the Scrolls." The man gestured towards the highest table. "Ah, there he is. I thought he wouldn't leave it much longer."

The sharp note of a bell sounded above the hum of conversation and, as silence fell, an old man lifted his hand.

"According to ancient tradition and with the will of those who guide the destiny of this noble House let all listen and pay heed. To this place has returned the Lady Dephine de Monterale Keturah. Of those present do any deny her right to remain? To rejoin the Family? To resume her rightful place among us? If so speak that all may hear."

Dumarest reached for another fruit. The episode was a ritual at one with the rest and a part of the ceremony he had been warned to expect. The public announcement, the avowal of intent, the opportunity for those who held old grievances to have them aired. Nothing would come of it, or so Dephine had sworn. His very presence would take care of that.

Again the ring of the bell, the solemn intonation.

From a table lower down the hall a woman rose and said, clearly, "I deny her right. She left under a cloud. There was a suspicion of theft."

"Full reparation has been made. Thrice the sum involved has been returned to the injured party. Forgiveness has been granted and no animosity is now borne. Do you wish to challenge?"

"If reparation has been made-no."

The bell sounded again as the woman sat, the third and last time for any present to object.

Dumarest narrowed his eyes at a flurry from the far end of the hall. From the doors a man strode with an arrogant impatience towards the upper table. A tall man, his scarred face edged with a ruff of beard. One who wore a tunic heavy with badges. One who had timed his entrance well.

Halting he shouted, "I am Galbrene de Allivarre Keturah. I accuse this woman of theft, of lies, of harlotry. Of breaking her word and of ignoring her promise. I say she is a disgrace to the Family. A vileness which should be erased. I challenge her!"

Chapter Ten

The room was flanked with alcoves each containing a sculptured form; the cold eyes of depicted men and women staring blindly at the group around the table. In its center rested a lamp of glowing crystal, streamers of red and yellow, blue and emerald, azure and dusky violet painting shifting hues on the stone, the faces and clothes of those gathered.

"Galbrene," said Dephine bitterly. "The fool. Who would have thought he'd nursed a grudge for so long?"

"His pride-"

"To hell with his pride!" She glared at Hendaza, cutting him short, careless of any affront. "Why wasn't he stopped? I had your word there would be no trouble and now this. A public challenge and one that can't be settled privately. Or can it? Lekhard?"

"Even if he would agree it would be difficult," he said, flatly. "And it is unthinkable that he will agree. A public challenge must be met and be seen to be met. If not his own honor will carry the taint and suspicion of cowardice."

"Kanjuk?"

"My dear, what can we do?" The man spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. "Galbrene will not be denied. And it isn't a matter of a personal insult which could be settled with due regard to form yet without real danger to life. He has claimed you insulted the House and, I must tell you, there are many who agree with him. An unfortunate occurrence, but one which cannot be either ignored or dismissed."

Dumarest said, "Why not?"

It was the first time he had spoken since the dinner had ended and those present had gathered in the room. Beyond the doors men and women milled in anticipation, the air filled with the hum of speculation. A hum which held a feral sound, a savagery he had heard before.

One underlying the rasp of naked steel, the harsh panting, the thud of feet in the ring where men faced each other with bared knives and fought to the death. Blood and pain to titillate a watching crowd. Wounds and death to provide a spectacle for the jaded and bored. Dumarest remembered the burn of edged steel, the warmth of spilled blood, the shock of pain, the stench of fear. Remembered too the sudden expression in the eyes of an opponent as his own blade had driven home. The stunned, incredible realization that, for him, life had ended.