by E. C. Tubb
"Mother Earth," she said. "Erce."
"There are other names we could use and all with the same vague origins. Selene, for example. Now that is assumed to be a goddess and she is worshiped on Marl. Each girl, when reaching puberty, must go into the sacred environs there to submit herself to any who ask. Man or woman, it makes no difference, she has to submit to their demand. They, in turn, make a donation to the priestesses. Of course there are ways to avoid an unwelcome suppliant; the object in question can always become engaged in intense devotion or a handy friend can intervene." Batrun ended, dryly, "Some girls are so devout they spend most of their time at worship."
"They have something similar on Vasudiva," said Ysanne. "But with men, not women. They worship Ap… Apl…"
"Apollo," said Batrun. "They use drugs and electric stimuli and mechanical implants in order to guarantee success. A short life," he mused. "But some would say a happy one. Well, Earl, do we rename the Moira the Erce?"
"No." He had no wish to advertise himself to others. "We'll call it-" he paused, thinking, remembering a certain small bundle of energy. "Well call it the Lucita."
She had fallen and was crying, one hand clutching a skinned knee. A small wound, natural to all children with an active bent, but it caused Su Posta to blanch with the sudden fear of what might have been. A skinned knee but it could have been a ruptured spleen, a burst heart, a sharp branch which penetrated the lungs. Her fear gave birth to anger so that her voice lashed at the governess.
"Fool! Can't you take more care? Watch yourself, woman, or I'll have you flogged!"
Lashed, branded, sent to the mines. Things her mother had done to careless servants and she had done as much herself. To Lucy Hart, to Susan Schoo, to others who had betrayed the friendship she had offered; their disloyalty more hurtful than their actual crimes.
"My lady." As always Venicia was calm. "The hurt is small as is the pain. And Dana is not to blame. The child tripped while chasing a bird."
"You dare to rebuke me?"
"Never that, my lady." The bodyguard bowed, eyes masked to hide the fear within her. When Su Posta was in a rage no one was safe. "Shall I take her to the infirmary?"
"Yes-no!" She remembered the smells and terror of her own childhood. "I'll see to it myself. Bring me water and medicants."
Lucita stood and watched as the old hands dipped a handkerchief into the water and bathed the knee. A spray and the job was done, the wound sterilized and sealed against infection.
"Granny, why are you crying?"
"What, child?" Impatiently Su Posta shook her head. "What nonsense!"
"But I saw you." With the insistence of the very young Lucita pressed the point. "I'm not hurt, Granny. There's no need for you to cry."
"No, my darling! No!" The old woman yielded to temptation, hugging the small shape, feeling its warmth, the pulse of life running through the firm young body. "There!" She forced herself to push the child away. "Go and play now and be more careful!"
"Dear God, be more careful," she whispered to herself as the child raced away. "And live, girl. Live to rule!"
To take her place when she was dead and keep peace on Jourdan. To pick a consort and have a girl of her body to train as the following matriarch. As she had done and those before her since the beginning. A line which had faltered but had managed to continue and yet, now, the link was so weak. That was a mistake she had helped make. Waiting too long to bear a child, losing the first, the second a boy despite the medications, the third a girl and then, after too long, Lucita's mother. But how to know that Sharon would have died as she had? To lie crushed and broken in the wreck of a raft after a picnic in the hills. And how to know that Sonia would have died in turn from an infection the doctors had not been able to cure?
Now, old, only she remained to protect Lucita and her right to rule.
How to keep her safe?
Distance wasn't enough and neither was her own presence. The hint of war on Lomund had sent her racing to safeguard the child and the memory of what had happened on the return voyage was still too painful to dwell on. If it hadn't been for a miracle they would be dust now and Marge Wyeth would be in her place.
Had she murdered Sharon? Infected Sonia? Arranged the sabotage of the ship?
She considered those possibilities as, rising, she restlessly paced the walled garden. The woman was a fool but there could be others behind her and, once in power, they could dispose of her in turn. Mikhail? Vasudeva? Fydor? Men yet they could have women in mind for the matriarchy-but could men have such courage?
"My lady!" The attendant had come on her unheard and now took a step backwards as she saw the fury in the matriarch's face. "An inquiry, my lady," she stammered. "From the treasury. A matter of your giving permission to settle a personal account."
"You intrude on my privacy for such a matter?"
"A formality, my lady. But you did ask to be informed should the matter arise."
Cowards, all of them, the woman quivering from the strain of simply doing her job. Was she such an ogre? Couldn't they see that all she demanded was cooperation? That and obedience, naturally, but people should obey their ruler.
"What is it?"
"This, my lady." The woman extended the scrap of paper. "Your promise to pay. Ysolto Mbushia, the Hausi, has come to collect."
Night on Jourdan was a time of softness. A thin skin of cloud veiled the cold glitter of the stars, turning their blaze into a nacreous glow which touched leaves with silver and turned the things of the day into products of gentle beauty.
Beauty Ysanne could appreciate. Standing at the head of the ramp she inhaled, breasts lifting beneath her fringed and beaded gown, eyes luminous as she turned to look at Dumarest.
"Night, Earl, a time of romance. It reminds me of home when we used to race beneath such a sky at the times of harvest. When the succuchi blooms filled the air with their scent and we'd pluck weed and chew and go traveling to magic places of the mind."
"And change lovers," he said dryly. "And fight."
"For joy, Earl, not because of hate. For the thrill of issuing and accepting a challenge. The pleasure of testing personal courage and skill. To us fighting is a game. A man will challenge another to fight for his woman or she will fight for him and, often, a man will fight a woman to prove he is fit to take what she will offer if he wins. It adds something to life, Earl. A spice. It gives love a deeper meaning."
"Love? You make it sound like rape."
"No, it's-" She broke off, then said, "Don't mock me, Earl. Don't ever do that."
"I wasn't and if you think I was then I apologize." He was sincere. "Each world has its customs and to each their own way. But on most worlds when a man fights a woman to possess her body they don't think it a game."
"But what else is it, Earl? To meet, to love, to enjoy each other?" Then, understanding, she said, "Oh, you're talking about marriage and children. That's different. When a woman decides to breed she picks the best mate she can to father her offspring. The crop can only be as good as the seed. That's really what all the fighting is about."
Badges of merit, token scalps, visible signs of battles won and status gained and, to the victor, the spoils.
As good a way to live as any if the environment permitted it. If greed didn't interfere. If the people could remain content with what they had instead of driving themselves insane with yearning for what they didn't need.
"Earl?"
"I was thinking," he said. "About what Andre told us of legendary worlds which survive unrecognized because of changed names. Like Heaven to Haveen. You must have lived in Paradise."
"No, Earl, Manito."
"What's in a name?"
Nothing that couldn't be forgotten in a woman's arms, the warmth of her kiss. Tonight she wore a different perfume and it filled his nostrils with an intoxicating scent, made him acutely aware of her femininity, the demanding heat of her body beneath the leather gown which felt like skin under his hands. In the soft light her eyes were
pools of midnight, her lips parted, darker than blood, her teeth small glimmers in the open cavern of her mouth.
"Earl!" she whispered. "Earl!" She caught his hand and lifted it to her lips, their softness warm against his flesh, a gentle caress followed by one less than gentle as her teeth nibbled at the skin. A gesture betraying her mounting passion, induced by the mood created by the night. The mood shattered as footsteps echoed from the foot of the ramp. "Damn! Who's that?"
It was Ysolto Mbushia with bad news. He mounted the ramp at Dumarest's invitation, the silver light turning the cicatrices on his cheeks into a gleaming chiaroscuro. In the salon he said, "I'm sorry, Earl, but that note has been rejected."
"For what reason?"
"None was given. I didn't see the matriarch in person, naturally, I dealt with the treasury and saw only an official."
Ysanne snapped, "She could have lied!"
"No. Not to me. I know the woman." Ysolto took a sip of the wine Dumarest had poured for him. "I thought you'd like to know as soon as possible."
"The note?"
"Retained. I had to hand it in for verification. There was no trouble about that. No query as to its not being genuine. They just refused payment."
No money and no note-Dumarest's lips thinned with anger.
"What happens now?"
"About the note?" The Hausi shrugged. "I don't know. Usually the treasury is meticulous about settling accounts and it's obvious the matriarch intervened. At a guess I'd say you've lost out. Maybe you'd best forget it. Su Posta rules on Jourdan and you're hardly in a position to argue."
"Like hell I'm not!"
"As for the rest?" Ysolto Mbushia glanced at Ysanne then back at Dumarest. "The note was backing for the new generator you require. Without it the negotiations will have to be suspended. You realize my position? I cannot pledge myself to meet expenses without strong collateral. Now that the note has been denied you no longer have that. The goods you carry, the other things, they will meet the field charges, supplies and the cost of overhaul. There may be a little over for a certain quantity of fuel."
But there would be no generator and the ship was useless without that.
"The bitch!" Ysanne stormed in anger. "The old hag's doing this deliberately. Getting her own back for your having faced up to her. You saved her life and this is how she thanks you. So much for gratitude!"
"I don't want gratitude," said Dumarest. "I want what I've earned."
But how to get it? How to make a stubborn old woman keep her word? A woman who was the ruler of a world?
CHAPTER TWELVE
Could it have been Fydor? He had been on Jourdan when Sharon had died but so had Mikhail and Vasudeva and most of the others who would have any reason to have instigated her death. A dead end and she glared at the tablets lying on the desk before her, the small squares carrying names and dates and locations. Adjusted, placed in the right order, they should determine who had had the opportunity, the motive, the means.
Eliminate motive-they all had that. The means? She hesitated then decided all could have arranged for the thing to be done. Which left opportunity and that was no help at all because if they had the means their personal presence was unnecessary.
She'd come to a blank wall but stubbornly refused to recognize it. A computer could have handled the problem but then she would have had to confide in the technicians who would program it and they, in turn, could talk and so warn the one person she needed to catch unawares.
Again she manipulated the tablets. Fydor had been on the southern coast when Sharon had crashed and had been busy with a fishing project. Could he be eliminated? If so then Vasudeva was equally innocent and Mikhail had been too young for such devious machinations. Perhaps the accident had been exactly that and she was chasing shadows.
But Sonia?
The infection that had taken her life-could it have been deliberately administered? The suspicion had caused her to send Lucita to Lomund and now it sent her hands flying over the scattered tablets, assembling them in various heaps, the highest of which should yield the answer to her search.
She had played this game as a child but now it held a serious intent Lucita's life could depend on her skill and, with sick realization, Su Posta knew that her skill was not great enough.
"My lady?" Venicia was at her side. "The man Dumarest asks audience."
"Earl Dumarest?"
"From the field, my lady. He refused to be specific as to the nature of his business but hinted at a matter of the greatest delicacy,-which could touch your reputation."
"How?"
Su Posta hid her smile as the woman tried to be both knowledgeable and diplomatic. Any reason she gave would be a guess and it was simple to anticipate what one would be. A tall, strong man confined in a ship with a woman known for her tastes-did Venicia think her such a fool as to form an association with a blabbermouth? And yet even the possibility held a certain flattery, which she savored before putting the woman out of her misery.
"I will see him. The garden-in an hour."
She had always liked the garden with its winding paths and beds of flowers, its scented shrubs and the high walls which trapped the warmth of the sun so that the profusion of blooms which filled the air with their perfume seemed gifted with a special appeal. Here she had walked with her consort, now long dead, and here she, had played with her children when they had been small. A haven of peace and one which held the tender memory of years long past. The residence of ghosts-one of which seemed to have taken form as Dumarest walked toward her.
A trick of the light-it had to be that. An illusion born of shadows and fading gleams but for a moment she thought Donal had come to her as he had so long ago, tall and strong and radiating a firm comfort. Then, as he stepped nearer, she saw the small, telltale signs which set Dumarest apart from all other men she had ever known. The hardness, the almost feral determination, the aura of power, the stubborn independence which had brought him to her as she had guessed it would.
"My lady!" He bowed as, coming close, he halted before her. "You are gracious to have granted me an audience."
"It would have been ungracious to have refused. Your business?"
"A small matter, my lady, yet one of importance to me. The question of a certain promise which-"
"You hinted of damage to my reputation," she interrupted. "Do you dare to threaten the Matriarch of Jourdan?"
"I would be a fool if I did."
"And you are not a fool. I understand your meaning. I still fail to understand your words as reported to me. Just what could you do to hurt my reputation?"
"Nothing." He was blunt in his honesty. "The words were used only to gain your attention. Now that I have it the real nature of my business can be mentioned. The matter of a promise, my lady. One you were kind enough to put in writing."
"The promissory note?"
"Yes, my lady."
"Which as yet I have refused to pay?"
"An oversight, I'm sure. If you will give orders to your treasury the matter could be settled without further delay."
"And if I refuse?" She waited as the question hung in the air. "If I deny payment?"
Dumarest said, coldly, "As you have reminded me, my lady, you are the Matriarch of Jourdan. If you refuse to honor the note there is nothing I can do. Of course the incident will be known and questions may be asked and, later, perhaps, your word will have lost some of its value. You may even feel a sense of-not guilt, for how can a ruler feel guilty?-but, shall we say, regret?"
"For a man you are bold!"
"My lady-would you have me cringe?"
So Donal would have spoken and, for a moment, the illusion returned so that she trembled on the edge of throwing herself into his arms. Then she remembered her age, who he was and why he was here. Not why he had come-though he might think it just for his money, but why she had forced him to appear.
She said, "I delayed payment on that note for a reason. I wanted to see you again."
"My lady,
you had only to command."
"Perhaps. Or you could have been in space by now, but never mind that." Her gesture dismissed the concept. "My Akita are dead. Did you know their prime function was to guard my granddaughter? Well, never mind, they are gone and can be replaced in time but, until then, I have need of dedication and strength to safeguard the heiress. I have decided that you are the most suitable person to undertake the responsibility. Lucita likes and trusts you and you have proved your abilities. Shall we regard the matter as settled?" She frowned as he made no answer. "Well?"
Dumarest said slowly, "You honor me, my lady, but I cannot accept the assignment."
"You cannot?"
"I have a ship, others dependent on what I do, a mission to be accomplished." He saw the expression on the raddled face, the anger glinting in the eyes. A woman rejected-maidservant or matriarch the reaction was the same. Only the threat was different.
"You refuse?" Her rage mounted as he nodded. "How dare you! Who are you to put self above the needs of Jourdan? My granddaughter needs to be protected and I have decided you are the best person to do it."
"No, my lady-you are."
"What?"
Dumarest said, "You are her blood. Her grandmother. Her ruler. If she cannot trust you then who can she turn to? And you, my lady-you hand her life to a stranger!"
He was a fool. One who failed to recognize her power and his own helplessness. One who made no effort to mask his contempt. An idiot who had lost command of his tongue. Not even her late consort would have dared to speak to her like that.
And yet there was something heroic in his folly. Watching him, fighting her anger, she could sense it. So an early ancestor might have stood as he defied the elements; ready to die but unwilling to yield. Displaying a pride she understood only too well.
Then, abruptly, as if she had been looking through a kaleidoscope which had moved to form a new picture from the old, she saw things as they really were. Not an ignorant savage standing in stupid defiance but an intelligent man fighting to gain advantage. One who had deliberately manipulated her emotions so as to create the earlier impression. A gambler who had risked and won.