The Coming Event dot-26

by E. C. Tubb

  She wondered if he guessed how close he had come to losing all.

  Watching, waiting his moment, Dumarest said, "My lady, why do we argue when your granddaughter is in such danger? The Galya was sabotaged as you must know and the target included both you and Lucita."

  "Which is why I want her protected!"

  "No one man can do that. You must have the loyalty of guards and attendants-don't try to abrogate your responsibility."

  She said tightly, "Say that again and you'll regret it. Lucita is my life. Yes, I know you saved her and you'll be paid for it, that I promise. The note will be met the next time it is presented-but to hell with the money. I want the girl to be safe!"

  And, desperate, she had turned to the one man she thought could insure that. Held him by stopping payment of a just debt, forcing him to come to her, exerting a pressure he had withstood and turned against her. Showing her, too, that she had been wrong. No single guard could give total protection. Not a thousand if the enemy was strong and determined and had ambition enough and wealth enough to achieve the desired end.

  And Lucita, dear God, was so small!

  "Think, my lady," said Dumarest. "Don't let emotions rule your head. You must have enemies-who are they? Someone knew of your journey to collect Lucita. Someone must have wanted you both dead. A person who had the motive, means and opportunity. One or-" He broke off, looking at her face, the expression it bore. "My lady?"

  "Nothing." She had been thinking of the tablets cluttering the desk in her office. How strange that he had followed her own line of reasoning. "Go on."

  "One or more who could have conspired to act against you. Maybe someone of your party was responsible and could try again unless stopped."

  "Who?" She glared her impatience. "Give me the name!"

  "I can't," admitted Dumarest. "I don't know it. But you could have the information to find it. Who rode with you to collect Lucita and did not return with you on the Galya? Someone who could have pleaded urgent business to take care of or who'd fallen sick just before departure?" He saw the change of expression on her face. "There was someone?"

  Tammi Canoyan-the bitch!

  "The handler was contaminated," said Dumarest. "A virus affected the brain and caused a mental breakdown. He killed the navigator and two others. Then he rushed into the engine room and tried to open the generator. It blew in his face. My lady?"

  He stepped closer in his concern, but she waved him back and plumped on a bench, face mottled as she fought for breath. Fought too the rage which threatened to overwhelm her.

  Sonia had died of an infection-had Canoyan been close? She remembered the tablets and, in her mind, picked and adjusted, setting each in its place to build a pile which told its story. The woman had had the means and opportunity, and the motive was obvious. With both herself and Lucita dead the direct line would be ended and the way open for her to claim the throne.

  Canoyan, she was sure of it-but how to find the proof?

  Dumarest had left at noon and now it was long after dusk with stars shining like beckoning lanterns in the dark immensity of space. Ysanne wondered what had brought such a poetic fantasy to mind. The lights were stars and stars were nothing but suns burning with fading energy until they finally collapsed to form white dwarfs or, if they had been large enough to begin with, black holes or red giants or even to explode in ravening fury as novas. These facts of the universe she knew the way she knew that the touch of the night wind held a chill not born of the weather alone, or that the silver sheen of the sky was not wholly due to distant stars.

  Standing at the head of the ramp she shivered and tried not to think of another night when the sky had been like enveloping mother-of-pearl and the wind warm and Dumarest close. Remembered too the way she had felt and then found the pain of his absence was a knife in her heart.

  "Ysanne?" Andre Batrun had come to stand beside her, his hair reflecting the silver sheen which gave it added luster. He looked tired, shoulders stooped beneath his uniform, the insignia of his rank as bright as his hair. "You're worrying," he said. "Don't. It's a waste of energy."

  "So tell me how."

  "To stop worrying?" He smiled and reached for his snuff, snapping open the lid of the ornate box and taking a pinch of the powder to stand holding it between thumb and forefinger. "One way is to keep so busy you have no time for anything else."

  "Is that why you've been working so hard?" She waited until he had taken the snuff. "Is it?"

  "Certain things needed to be done."

  "I know. Instruments to check for the dozenth time. Supplies to examine, the structure to test, even the cabin doors to be renumbered. Make-work, Andre, and we both know it. The Lucita's as ready as it will ever be."

  The new name blazoned on the hull, stores stacked and the ship trimmed for journeying. Space was waiting-as soon as they got a generator.

  "Ysolta was talking about the possibility of a cargo," said Batrun. "Staples to the mines then ore to the refinery on Myrtha. Little profit but it'll pay our way and we could haul ingots to Hago or Stave. Passengers too, and beasts-Craig's checked out the caskets. We'll take anything that comes."

  And they'd go anywhere a profit was to be made. That was the philosophy of a free-trader, but the Lucita wasn't the Galya and, while Batrun was the captain, Dumarest was in command.

  A fact she mentioned with unnecessary vehemence.

  "I hadn't forgotten," said Batrun. "But a ship has to earn its keep. And while we're going where we're going it makes sense to get paid for the journey." He added dryly, "Especially as we don't know just where we are going."

  "To Earth."

  "Of course. To Earth. And have you plotted the course? Is it a five-stage flight pattern? A seven? Do we head above the plane of the galactic ecliptic or below? Which band? Which radial unit?" He saw her expression. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be sarcastic."

  "Then why try?"

  "A mistake. I'm not good at it."

  He was trying to placate her and she smiled to show he was forgiven. "Don't fool yourself, Andre-you're damned good at it."

  At irony and psychology both; his induced anger had channeled her thoughts in new directions and dampened the nagging concern.

  "Earth," she said. "We'll find it. It's just a matter of looking. Earl has clues. He mentioned them and will tell us more once we're on our way. Damn it, Andre, a world just can't get lost."

  "No."

  "No?" She had caught his tone and recognized the flat intonation as the question it was. "You think it could?"

  "What if the name was changed?" He took snuff as she thought about it. "Suppose someone was looking for the Moira. Standing out there on the field at this very moment and searching for a vessel they knew existed. Would they find it?"

  "The name," she said slowly. "Earl knows his world as one thing and others call it another. Andre! Is it possible?"

  "It could be the answer. Why else isn't it listed in the almanacs? But that isn't really the important thing. Have you ever considered the possibility that, to Earl, the search is more important than the finding?"

  He had read too much and dreamed too often sitting in the dim womb of his control room embraced by the placenta of his chair. The seclusion had affected his mind and given birth to strange fantasies. This explanation she knew to be false but she clung to it because the alternative was something she didn't want to think about.

  Sound from below brought a welcome distraction; an officer with attendant guards who halted to stare up at the couple limned against the bulk of the vessel.

  "Captain Batrun?"

  "Here!" He looked at the military bearing of the contingent. "Trouble, officer?"

  "No. Name me your entire complement." She nodded as Batrun obeyed. "It checks. Have everyone stand by for attendance at the palace at midnight. A special ball is being held to celebrate the escape of the matriarch and her party from death in the void. You are all invited to attend."

  "All?"

  "Your entire co
mplement without exception."

  Ysanne said anxiously, "And Dumarest?"

  "Is already at the palace." The woman's tone was reassuring. "Don't worry about him. The matriarch just wants to express her private gratitude to her benefactor." She added, "The guards will remain to escort you at midnight."

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Once, when a girl, her mother had taken her to see a forger lose her hands. The girl had been young and well-made but too ambitious for her own good. Trying to gain quick advantage she had forged bills of lading, using her body to seduce a willing trader, sharing the gains and hoping to build a quick fortune. A trick discovered after a hint from an associate. The sentence had been automatic.

  Su Posta stirred in her high-backed chair, seeing again the slim wrists held hard against the block. The gleam of the blade as it had lifted to hang poised for long moments so as to increase the punishment. Then the sudden flash, the dull thud as the curved edge had bitten through skin and fat and flesh and bone to bury itself in the wood. The blood had gushed like fountains from the slashed arteries, splashing the attendants who had run to stanch the flow. Only when she had tried to move her hair back had the girl realized what had truly happened. Only then had she begun to scream.

  The scream had echoed down the years, reflected in a thousand such punishments; scenes of scourgings and brandings and ceremonial maimings. The fruit of long-established tradition born in the early days when life was hard and incarceration a luxury they couldn't afford.

  A scream she intended to hear again.

  "My lady?" Dana had come to her as was her custom. "Lucita is ready for bed now."

  "A moment." She needed the time to prepare herself for a ritual she would no longer willingly forgo. Her own children had suffered from the neglect necessitated by the pressure of office but now, no matter what the cost, she would bid her granddaughter good night, give her a kiss, be warmed by her smile. Only when something is almost lost, she thought bleakly, do we really treasure it. "Is she alone?"

  "No, my lady. Dumarest is with her." He stood in a room furnished with a profusion of toys, legs apart, arms extended, hands hooked to grip the wrists of the girl who threw herself at him to be caught and swung and set down then raced again into his grasp, with gurgles of laughter and squeals of pretended fright.

  "Granny!" She had seen the matriarch and the shape of the hovering governess. "Dana! Watch me swing!" This time the squeals were louder.

  A minx, thought Su Posta. Already learning to act, to attract attention and hold it. A useful trait for any ruler and one she must encourage even while disciplining the wild spirit the small body contained. Yet it was hard to halt her play and she waited until, breathless, Lucita screamed for mercy.

  "That's enough!" Her tone brooked no argument. "Time for bed now, my poppet. Make your farewells to Dumarest and go with Dana to get your bath."

  She came to him, wide-eyed and very serious, small hands on his as she said, "Thank you for playing with me, Earl. When I am older I'll take you for my consort. That's a promise."

  "She could do worse," said the matriarch as the girl was led away. "A damned sight worse. I suppose you haven't changed your mind?"

  "No, my lady."

  "Stubborn," she said. "And a fool. You could have a good life here, instead you want to go off voyaging among the stars. What can you hope to find better than what I offer?" Change, she thought as he made no answer. Adventure and what the poets called romance. Danger and excitement and the novelty which was supposed to hold such enticement. For her as for any sensible woman such things were the stuff of foolish dreams. Adolescent yearnings quickly eroded by time. "You should have children," she said abruptly. "Take some advice-get them before it's too late. The wasted years can never be regained."

  Advice given from the heart as he knew but he made no comment as she touched a fluffy toy, caressed a nodding doll which made thin, piping sounds. A parody of laughter which she found disturbing-how many laughed in such a manner as they mocked her behind her back? Too many, but they had to be tolerated as so many other irritations had to be borne-but tonight would see the end of one.

  "My lady!" Venicia was at her side, her face smooth but her eyes revealing her concern. "You should rest. A warm bath and a few hours' sleep will help you to look your best for the ball."

  "I can manage."

  "Yes, my lady."

  "You worry," said the matriarch. "But without cause. I'm not an invalid tottering on the edge of collapse and neither am I senile." That point she followed by a reluctant admission. "But perhaps a warm bath would stimulate me. Earl!"

  She took the arm he proffered, leaning on it, as Venicia led the way to her private apartments. A strong arm; she could feel the hard firmness beneath the sleeve of his tunic and again she chafed at his refusal to obey her wish to guard Lucita.

  "Stubborn," she said. "I sensed it from the first. Strong and, in my world, a strong man is not to be tolerated for long. Is that why I resented you?"

  "A conflict of personalities, my lady," said Dumarest. "It often happens." He looked down into the face lifted toward his own, old, raddled, yet still revealing an iron determination. "No one likes to be dependent or beholden-and you are the ruler of a world."

  "And you are a diplomat." She straightened as they reached her door. "Leave me now. I will see you at the ball."

  It was a flamboyant affair with strident music and fancy dress and streamers, together with drifting balloons which emitted pungent odors when pricked, just as the food held surprises and the wine.

  "Ugh!" Ysanne pursed her lips as tart astringency stung her mouth. "Stay away from this stuff, Andre. God knows what's been put in it."

  Spices, she guessed, and herbs together with subtle flavorings and compounds which could loosen tongues and release inhibitions. Turning, she looked over the great hall. The tables were set on a raised platform which ran around the entire perimeter enclosing the dancers in a contained space over which they jerked in stilted movements.

  Like robots, she thought, or mechanical dolls. Dressed and painted and following mathematically precise steps to the pattern set by the pulse of drums and shrilling pipes. Music not to her liking though the instruments were familiar. On her own world they would follow a different rhythm, catching at the heart and accelerating its beat with quickening tempo, the pipes a scream of released emotion echoed by the natural sound of those reaching orgasmic climaxes.

  "Try this." Batrun handed her a goblet filled with a rich, dark ruby. "It seems to be normal wine." He sipped at his own then warned, "Be careful. You know you can't hold very much."

  He stepped back as she nodded to allow a couple to pass close, the man wearing the costume of a bandit, the woman the plumage of a bird. Against this splendor his uniform seemed dull, despite the added touches of braid.

  She said, "Can you see anything of Earl?"

  "No, nor the others. Can you?"

  Ysanne shook her head, braids flying. She had dressed them with ribbons and tufts of feathers and had painted her face with streaks of vermilion and orange, ochre and white. Decoration which, with her beaded leather, made her one of the costumed rest. Olga had worn only her faded uniform, Craig doing little more than mask his ravaged face, but Shandhar, more adventuresome, had adopted the garb of a trader in charms; hat, cloak and tunic covered in small metal symbols reputed to bring luck and ward off disease, guarantee success in love, war and the hunt and to enhance the chances of extended life.

  "My lady?" A man no taller than herself looked at her with frank appraisal. "Will you dance?"

  To refuse would have been impolite and she stepped down from the raised platform to the dancing area there to stand and move and respond to the stilted gestures of her partner in the artificial measure of the dance.

  "You're a stranger," he said as it ended. "I can tell. That's why I approached you-you have a charm our local women lack. My name is Gergio Yate. And you are?" He frowned at the answer. "Ysanne? Just that?"

&
nbsp; "Isn't it enough?"

  "For the purpose, yes, but it tells me so little. Nothing about your family, for example. I could be talking later to your brother and never know it. Or to your partner. You have one?"

  "If you mean a husband, no."

  "I was thinking of a consort. Or perhaps a-" He broke off, wary of treading on dangerous ground. "Another dance?"

  Again she suffered the mechanical tedium wondering what pleasure anyone could gain from the stilted posturing. As the music ended Gergio led her to a table where he began to select a variety of morsels for her to eat.

  "Try this." It was a combination of nuts and sour milk blended with a spice which tingled her tongue. "And this." A paste of honey and flower petals bound with flour. "What do you think of this?" Something which crunched as she bit it and made her think of chiton and spindled legs. "And this one really is unusual." He looked hurt as she rejected it. "No?"

  "No."

  "Well, at least have one of these. They say they are the matriarch's favorite biscuit."

  It was small and round with a spongy center which yielded a flavor of fruit and spice. A subtle burn which filled her mouth with perfume and exotic tinglings.

  Refusing another, she said, "Do you know her?"

  "The matriarch? Not personally, but I know her by sight, of course. You want me to point her out?" He looked around the hall. "I can't see her but she's sure to put in an appearance soon. But there's Maria Hutch!" He pointed to a woman who glittered in a web of spun crystal flaring with gems. "She owns most of the land fringing the Ferrado Lake and has shares in the mines on Calvardopolis. A horrible place. And there's Joan Gruber. She's almost as rich as Maria but far younger. Even her consort wears clothing more extravagant than that worn by the matriarch's late consort. A lucky man but unless he's careful she'll replace him with another. Joan has no patience with illness and he's been sick twice since they came back from Hoorde." Gergio selected another morsel and, after he had chewed and swallowed, said, "If you're getting bored we could do something else."