by E. C. Tubb
She nodded, impatient with him for laboring the obvious.
"That is why the site of the execution was chosen so carefully," he murmured. "It was no accident that the man was impaled before the residence of the Lady Moira."
The suggestion was outrageous. Seena both knew and liked the woman. "You say that she would employ an assassin? Ridiculous!"
Dyne remained silent.
"The Lady Moira is rich and powerful," she admitted. "But she is a woman of honor."
"Honor, My Lady, can mean many things to many people."
"But assassination—"
"Is an accepted political instrument. It is feared that the Matriarch is no longer at her prime. There are those who are concerned about the succession. That," he added, "is why I chose the place of execution."
"I know," she said impatiently. "Before the residence of the Lady Moira." Her eyes widened. "Whose house is next to the Halatian Embassy!"
Dyne made no answer, his face bland, his eyes enigmatic, but Seena was no fool. She had lived too long in the hothouse atmosphere of court intrigue not to be able to see the obvious. Kund was wealthy, Halat was not. Many thought that the Lady Moira had a better claim to the throne than the Matriarch. Gloria was old.
But to assassinate her?
"You misunderstand, My Lady," said Dyne in his soft modulation. "The assassination was not aimed at the Matriarch. It was aimed at yourself."
* * *
A bell chimed from an inner room of the complex of inflated plastic which was their temporary home. A curtain swept aside and Gloria, the Matriarch of Kund, stood in the opening. She was very old but as a tree is old, grown tough with age and battle, hard and determined and drawing strength from that determination. Two of her guards attended her, hard-faced, mannish women, dedicated and fantastically loyal. She waved them aside as she moved toward a chair.
"I can manage. I'm not so old that you have to carry me about!"
Her voice, she knew, was too thin, too querulous but it was something that couldn't be helped. Not even the cosmosurgeons could revitalize delicate tissues which had aged too much. But it was a fault which, normally, she managed to control.
"All right," she snapped at the guards as she sat down. "Wait outside—out of earshot." She waited until the curtain had fallen behind them. They would not go far, perhaps not far enough, but she could trust their discretion. She looked at Dyne. "Well, did you tell her?"
"Yes, My Lady."
"And she was scared?" She chuckled as the cyber made no answer. "She was scared. So was I the first time I realized that someone wanted to kill me. That was a long time ago now. A long time ago." She was repeating herself, she realized, another attribute of age. Irritation made her cough.
"My Lady!" Seena swept toward her, hovering at her side. "Can I get you something? A drink? Anything?"
"Relax, girl, and don't fuss." Gloria swallowed, easing her throat. "You can't run away from unpleasant facts by forcing yourself to be busy with trifles. It's time you grew up and faced reality. Someone wanted you dead. Can you guess why?"
"No, My Lady."
"You can't even venture a guess?"
"Not that, My Lady—I don't believe that anyone would want to assassinate me at all."
Then you're a fool!" Irritation made the old woman sharp. 'Take my word for it that they did. Now can you guess as to why?"
"Yes, My Lady." Her eyes were very direct, "To eliminate me from the possibility of succession."
"Good!" Gloria smiled her pleasure. "You're not as stupid as I hope some people think. Now you can get me the pomander."
She sat back, relaxing in the chair as she sniffed the ball of golden filigree stuffed with exotic spices. She had always loved the scent of spice but the pomander held more than that. Liberated by the warmth of her hand microscopic particles of chemical magic rose from the ball to be absorbed by the mucous membranes of nose and mouth. Beneath their influence her body grew fractionally young again. Later she would pay for the demands made on her metabolism. Now it was important that she should not appear a senile old woman with a fogged and aimless mind.
"Tell me," she said gently. "What made you think that you could be considered as my heiress?"
"I don't think it," said the girl. "You asked me to give you a reason why I should be killed. I gave you one— but I don't believe that I was the target of the assassin."
"You were," snapped the old woman. "Later you shall see the proof. Someone, somehow, guessed something they shouldn't and took steps to eliminate what they must have considered to be an obstruction. I would like to have those responsible in my power." Her voice deepened, reflecting something of the cruelty of which she was capable. "Do you know why you are a possible choice?"
Seena nodded, her face pale.
"Do you know what it means to be chosen?"
"Yes, My Lady, I do."
"I wonder." Gloria looked at her ward with probing eyes. She was a beautiful female animal. Perhaps too beautiful—but she would not have had her otherwise. "Listen, girl," she snapped. "And understand. A Matriarch cannot be a slave to the emotional stress stemming from her reproductive organs. There is a cure—but it means the end of natural succession. A Matriarch can never be a mother. You see the problem?"
"Yes, My Lady. Without a natural heir you have to choose your successor. In this you have advice." Seena gestured towards Dyne. "It is a matter of selecting the one best to rule."
How simple the girl made it seem! The scent from the spice filled the room as the old woman lifted the pomander to her nostrils. This was no time for impatient anger.
"Best—for whom? For the great houses that wait like hungry dogs ready to snap up a bone? For the masses who have nothing but faith? For the cabals who seek power?" She shook her head. "The one who takes my place must not be the tool of any such group. She must be without affiliation and misplaced loyalty. Above all she must be strong enough to hold the throne."
"And," reminded Dyne softly, "she must be able to live long enough to collect it."
"Right!" Gloria leaned forward in her chair, her eyes burning at her ward. "Ten times in the past seven years I have seemed to favor a successor. Ten times an assassin has struck." Her lips writhed in sardonic amusement. "I found it a convenient way of disposing of the over-ambitious." She read the girl's expression. "You don't like it? You think that any woman can rule with lily-white hands? Girl, I've held the throne for eighty years and it didn't come as a gift. I've fought for it every minute, pitting one house against another, letting them weaken themselves when to allow them to unite would have meant the end of my rule. I've killed and maneuvered and done things no woman should ever have to do. But Kund is more important than any woman. Remember that!"
She was talking, thought Seena, as if to the next Matriarch.
* * *
The face was a mask of pain, the eyes enormous, the mouth a lipless hole of silent pain. Sweat ran down the deep-graven lines in the tormented face. She could almost smell the rank odor from the masculine body.
"He was conditioned," said Dyne quietly at her side. "In order to overcome the instilled death-directive we had to bypass the nervous system to the heart." His arm was a shadow against the screen, his finger tapping softly on the glass as he pointed to where thick tubes ran from the chest to a squat machine. "The conflict caused a revival of the birth trauma. He wants to die and cannot and so feels psychological pain."
"Must I watch this?"
"It is the Matriarch's order." He did not look at her. In the light from the screen his face was a kaleidoscope of color. "It is important that you understand that you were the target of this assassin."
"Why?"
"That, My Lady, is not for me, to say." He stepped back as the scene diminished, showing the interior of the interrogation laboratory of the palace. "I predicted that there was an eighty-two per cent probability of such an attempt being made. Watch was kept as I advised and the man was captured. His story was obviously false. Warned of
what to expect, the guards prevented his self-murder. Precautions were taken before his interrogation. He admitted that you were his target."
"I don't believe it!" She was shaken by the sight, by the reminder of what went on behind the outwardly innocent facade of rule. "Is this some kind of trick?"
"For what purpose, My Lady?" He waited courteously for her reply and, when none came, reached out and touched a control. The scene blurred, expanded to show the tormented face, the lipless, gaping mouth. This time there was sound, a horrible rasp of breath, a whimpering threnody, a name. Her name.
"Enough!"
The face diminished, the sound died, the screen went blank. A curtain rustled and light poured into the room. Dyne turned from the window.
"It proved impossible to elicit the name of his employer and it is doubtful if he even knew it. There are ways to arrange these things. But I advised steps to be taken so that those probably responsible would know of their failure—and our knowledge of their implication."
"By impaling him!"
"Yes, My Lady."
She shuddered, remembering the tormented face turned toward the sky, the ugly stains on the polished glass, the empty gropings of the hands, the aimless movements of the feet. And the screams—she could not easily forget the screams.
But she no longer blamed the Matriarch.
The room oppressed her with its too recent memory of pain. It was a bare, bleak chamber used by the guards in attendance, empty now but for the cyber and herself. Impulsively she walked across the floor, through hangings of shimmering crystal, through an annex piled deep with rugs and to a narrow door opening on the world outside. She pressed the release and the panel folded to one side, letting in the tropic heat. She stood feeling the glare of the sun on her face, looking out to where the heavy waves of the ocean rolled sluggishly toward the shore. Some men in a crude boat fought the swell.
A rustle and Dyne was beside her. She pointed to the men, tiny in the distance.
"What are they doing?"
"Seeking food, My Lady."
She nodded, uninterested in the problems of others, her mind stained with thoughts of danger and death. Someone had tried to kill her—it was not a comforting thought.
"Why are we here?" She gestured toward the outside world. "Why the sudden journey from Kund, the transshipping, the charter?"
"You were considered to be in grave danger, My Lady. And the engines of our ship were not safe."
"Sabotage?"
"It is possible."
She felt a chill run down her spine. The great houses had wealth and power and their influence could reach far. In the struggle for the succession who could consider themselves safe? Impatiently she shook her head.
"Even so, why are we here? What does the Matriarch hope to find?"
"Perhaps an answer, My Lady." He paused, looking at her, recognizing her beauty as a mathematician would recognize the beauty of an abstract equation. In her, art and science had united with the original germ plasm to produce something exceptional. "You know of Gath?"
"I have heard of it. This is the planet on which you are supposed to be able to hear the music of the spheres." Her laugh was brittle, humorless. "Did we come here to listen to music? If so we have wasted our journey. There are more pleasing sounds on Kund."
"We are not in the right place, My Lady. And this is not the right time. We must wait for the storm."
"And?"
"Prior to the storm we will go north, to a place where the coast swings east toward the cold and dark of the night hemisphere. There stands a tremendous barrier, a mountain range fretted and carved by endless winds, worn by the passage of time. Hard stone remains while soft has been weathered away. Buried deep in the rock are masses of crystal which respond in a wide range of harmonics to pressure and vibration. In effect the range is the greatest sounding board ever imagined. When the winds blow during a storm the results are—interesting."
"You have been here before?"
"No, My Lady."
"Then—?" She broke off the question, knowing the answer. Given a pair of facts Dyne could find a third. Given a set of circumstances, the cyber could extrapolate the most probable course of events. It was enough for him to know what had been experienced by others. But still a question remained.
"Why?"
"Why are we here? What is there about Gath which drew the Matriarch all the way from Kund?" He made no pretense that he didn't grasp her meaning. "I told you, My Lady. It could be that she hopes to find an answer."
Chapter Three
THE BOAT was crude, rough planks lashed with scraps of wire, plastic, plaited vines. It had no sail, no keel, only thwarts for the rowers, a rudder, a pointed prow. An outrigger had been added as an afterthought but even so the vessel was as seaworthy as a coracle.
"Row!"
The skipper, bare feet hard on the bottom, bare chest reflecting the sun, yelled the order. His voice was bigger than it should be… too big when compared with the stark cage of his ribs, the skeletal planes of his face.
"Row, damn you!" he yelled. "Row!"
Dumarest grunted as he threw his weight on his oar. Like the boat itself it was crudely fashioned by men who had scant knowledge and less skill. A boat, to them, was something which floated. They knew nothing of balance, correct ratios, the art which turned dead wood into a thing alive. They had simply built a platform from which to raid the sea.
He grunted again as he tugged at the stubborn pole with the flattened end. Water oozed from between the planks and wet his bare feet. The sun was hot on his naked back. He had won his place because he was big, because he seemed fit, because he could swim. Megan was guarding his clothes.
"There!" The skipper pointed and leaned his weight against the rudder. Something had broken the surface and he headed toward it. "Faster!" he yelled. "Faster!"
They did their best. None of them were strong; strength needs food. None of them were fat; travelers could never be. All were desperate—starvation was too real a threat. So they flung their weight at the oars, gasping in the heat, fevered in their hunting frenzy.
The skipper tensed as they drew close to the spot he had marked. He would get two shares of whatever they caught. Three would go to the owner of the boat safe on shore. The rest would get one share each.
"Steady!" He eased the rudder and dashed sweat from his eyes. He was over-anxious and knew it but it had been too long since he'd made a catch. Small fish, sure, with half of them going back for bait. Skinny, fleshless things of little nutritional value, costing more strength to get than they gave. But whatever had broken the surface had been big. "Carl!" he ordered. "Get set!"
A tall, thin, caricature of a man nodded, dropped his oar, took up his place in the prow. He hefted a harpoon attached to a coil of rope. He looked over his shoulder at the skipper.
"All set, Abe."
"Watch it!" Abe squinted against the sun. The leaden surface of the sea broke, roiled, something hard and gray flashing in the ruby light. "There, Carl! There!"
The harpoon darted forward, the barbs biting deep. Immediately Carl dived for his oar. Dumarest knocked him aside.
"The rope, man! Watch the rope!"
"Get out of my way!" Carl clawed for his oar as the rope ran out. The boat jerked, began to move. Desperately the skipper yelled orders.
"Back! Back for your lives!"
The water threshed as the crude oars lashed the swell. It was like trying to halt the movement of a glacier. The rope thrummed as the prow began to tilt forward. Water streamed over the gunwale.
"The rope!" Dumarest reached out, snatched a knife from the belt of the harpooner, and dragged the edge across the fiber. It parted, the short end lashing back, the prow rising. Beneath them something moved and broke the surface beyond the stern.
"You fool!" Carl snatched back the knife. "You've lost us the rope."
"Better that than our lives." Dumarest looked at the skipper. "Is this how you go fishing?"
"Do you kno
w of a better way?" He was on safe ground. He had fished this sea before, Dumarest hadn't. "Without nets how else do you think we can catch the big ones? We stick them, tire them, drag them to shore. Without a rope how can we do that?"
His anger was justified. The fish had been big, perhaps three days eating for them all and with some left over. He opened his mouth to vent more of his rage then closed it as a man yelled.
"Look, Abe. Blood!"
A thin red film darkened the surface. A thin something trailed across it and Carl shouted his recognition.
"The rope!"
He dived before anyone could stop him. He plunged smoothly beneath the waves and rose swimming, heading toward the thin strand of the rope. He grabbed it, turned, began to swim back to the boat. He reached it, clawed at the gunwale, and began to heave himself aboard. He couldn't make it and clung gasping to the rough wood.
"Help him." Abe searched the sea with anxious eyes. "Hurry!"
Dumarest reached the clinging man, clamped his hands around Carl's upper arms, adjusted his weight for the upward pull.
"Thanks," said Carl. "I guess—" He broke off, a peculiar expression on his face. It lasted for about three seconds; then he began to scream.
Dumarest realized why when he dragged the man into the boat. Both his legs had been severed above the knees.
* * *
The wakening was strange. There was a booming rhythm with a repetitive beat and a liquid, sucking gurgle that he had never heard before. The eddy currents seemed to be working for he could feel heat on his body but his mouth was filled with an alien taste and the gritty sensation beneath his body was something outside of his experience. But the light was the same—too bright. The light was always too bright.
He rolled and was immediately awake. He wasn't in a box. He wasn't in a ship which had just ended its passage. He lay on a beach of gritty sand with the sun a ruby glare over the water which rolled and thundered on the sloping shore.
He rolled again so that he was face downward and rose to all fours. Immediately he was violently sick. He backed like a dog from a suspicious odor and felt wetness beneath his hand. It was a pool of water left by the receding tide and he washed his face and mouth in the saline liquid. Only when he had swallowed a little did he realize that he burned with thirst.