E. C. Tubb - Dumarest 09 - Mayenne.pdf

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Mayenne
#9 in the Dumarest series
E.C Tubb
Chapter One
Dumarest heard the sound as he left his cabin, a thin, penetrating wail, almost a
scream, then he relaxed as he remembered the Ghenka who had joined the ship at
Frell. She was in the salon, entertaining the company with her undulating song,
accompanying herself with the crystalline tintinnabulation of tiny bells. She wore the
full Ghenka costume, her body covered, her face a mask of paint, the curlicues of
gold and silver, ruby and jet set with artfully placed gems which caught and reflected
the light in splinters of darting brilliance so that her features seemed to be alive with
jeweled and crawling insects.
She was, he assumed, no longer young. No Ghenka in her prime would be found
on a vessel plying this far from the center of the galaxy; rich worlds and wealthy
patrons were too far apart. Someone on the decline, he guessed, unable or unwilling
to meet rising competition, going to where she would be both novel and entrancing.
Not that it mattered. Whatever her age there was no denying the trained magic of her
voice.
He leaned back against the wall and allowed the hypnotic cadences to wash over
his conscious mind, dulling reality and triggering sequences of unrelated imagery. A
wide ocean beneath an emerald sky. A slender girl seated on a rock, her hair a ripple
of purest silver as it streamed in the wind, the lines of her body the epitome of grace.
A fire and a ring of intent faces, leaping flames and the distant keening of mourning
women. Ice glittering as it fell in splintered shards, ringing in crystal destruction.
Goblets shattering and spilling blood-red wine, the chime of chandeliers, the hiss of
meeting blades, harsh, feral, the turgid chill of riding Low.
"Fascinating." The low voice at his side broke his reverie. Chom Roma held
unsuspected depths of artistic appreciation. The plump hand he raised to stroke his
jowl, matted with hair and gaudy with rings, trembled a little. "Fascinating," he
 
repeated. "And dangerous. Such a song can lead a man into memories he would
prefer to forget. For a moment there I was young again, a slim boy flushed with the
triumph of his first sale. And there was a girl with lambent eyes and skin the hue of a
pearl." He fell silent, brooding, then shook his head. "No, Earl, such dreams are not
for men like us."
Dumarest made no comment; softly as the entrepreneur had spoken his voice had
been a jarring irritation. There would be time for talk later, but now the spell was too
strong and, he agreed, too dangerous. A man should not become enamored of
mental imagery. The past was dead, to resurrect it, even by song-induced
stimulation, was unwise.
Ignoring the Ghenka he concentrated instead on the salon and the company it
contained. Both were familiar from countless repetitions; a low room fitted with
tables and chairs, dispensers against a wall, the floor scarred with usage and time.
The assembly a collection of men and women with money enough to afford a High
passage, their metabolism slowed by the magic of quick-time so that an hour became
a minute, months shortened into days. Yet even so the journey was tedious; in this
part of the galaxy worlds were none too close, and entertainment, because of that,
the more highly appreciated.
The song ended and he heard a ragged sigh as the bells fell silent, the company
blinking a little, silent as they regretted lost imagery, then breaking the tension with a
storm of applause. A shower of coins fell at the Ghenka's feet and she stooped,
gathering them up, bowing as she left the salon. Dumarest caught her eyes as she
passed close to where he stood, deep pits of smoldering jet flecked with scarlet. Her
perfume was sharp, almost acrid, and yet not unpleasant.
Quietly he said, "Thank you, my lady, for the display of your skill. A truly
remarkable performance. The company is honored."
"You are most gracious, my lord." Even when speaking her voice held a wailing
lilt, "I have other songs if you would care to hear them. If you would prefer a private
session it could be arranged."
"I will consider it." Dumarest added more coins to the heap clutched in her hand.
"In the meantime again receive my thanks."
It was dismissal, but she did not leave. "You go to Selegal, my lord?"
"Yes."
"I also. It may be that we shall meet again. If so it would be my pleasure."
"And mine," said Dumarest.
 
Still she lingered. "You will pardon me if I cause offense, my lord, but, as you
probably know, I travel alone. To one in my profession such a thing is not wise.
Also, on Selegal, I will be unfamiliar with the local ways. I am not suited to the
arrangement of business ventures. Perhaps, if you would consider it, something
could be arranged."
Dumarest caught the note of appeal, the desperate need that broke through the
stilted formality which was a part of her professional training. A woman alone, most
likely afraid, doing her best to survive in a region foreign to her experience. Yet he
had no intention of getting involved.
Before he could refuse she said, "You will consider it, my lord? At least your
advice would be of value. Perhaps we could meet later—in my cabin?"
"Perhaps," said Dumarest.
Chom Roma drew in his breath as the woman moved on to her quarters. "A
conquest, Earl. The woman finds you pleasing and a man could do worse than take
her under his protection. Had she made me such an offer I would not have
hesitated." Envy thickened his voice a little. "But then I am not tall and strong and
with a face that commands respect I am only old Chom who buys and sells and
makes a profit where he can. A stranger to courts and the places where the rich and
high-born gather. A woman can tell these things."
"Some women do not regard that as important."
"True, but the Ghenka is not one of them." Chom glanced down the corridor to
the closing door of her cabin. "She lives for her art and herself like all her kind.
Could you imagine such a woman living in a hut? Tilling fields or working in a
factory? She needs someone to stand between her and the harshness of life. A
strong protector and someone to take care of unpleasant details. I wonder what
happened to her manager. Perhaps he tried to sell her and she had other ideas. A
knife in the dark, a drop of poison, who can tell? These things happen." He
shrugged, thick shoulders heaving beneath the ornamented fabric of his blouse.
"Well, Earl, such is life. What now? Shall we try our luck?"
Dumarest glanced to where the gambler sat at his table ringed by a handful of
players. Harg Branst was a thin man with prominent ears, his features vulpine and
touched by advancing years. A true professional, he wore no rings and his nails were
neatly trimmed. He rode on a profit-sharing basis, as much a part of the ship's
furnishings as the steward and cabins. He looked up from his cards, met Dumarest's
eyes, and made a slight gesture of invitation for him to join the game.
Chom spoke in a whisper. "Have you noticed his good fortune? Never does he
seem to lose. Now, to me, that is against all the laws of chance."
 
"So?"
"Perhaps something could be arranged between us? I have a little skill, and you
are no stranger to the gaming table. It would be a kindness to teach him a lesson."
Dumarest said, dryly, "At a profit, naturally."
"All men must pay to learn," said Chom blandly. "Some do it with their lives. We
need not be so harsh. It will be enough, I think, to trim his wings a little. Working
together it could easily be done—a matter of distraction at a critical moment. You
understand?"
The palming of cards, the switch, the squeeze when, convinced that he could not
lose, the gambler would allow greed to dull his caution. It could be done, granted the
basic skill, but unless the man was a fool the odds were against it. And no man who
earned his living at the tables could be that much of a fool.
"The cost of the journey," urged Chom. "A High passage safe in our pockets
when we land. Insurance in case of need. You agree?" He scowled at the lack of
response. "A golden opportunity, Earl. Almost a gift I cannot understand why you
refuse. We—" He broke off as if knowing it was useless to argue. "Well, what else
to kill the time? Daroca has some wine. Come, let us test his generosity."
Dumarest frowned, the man was beginning to annoy him. A shipboard
acquaintance, met when he had joined the ship at Zelleth, the entrepreneur was
becoming a nuisance. Deliberately he looked away, studying the others in the salon.
Two dour men, brothers, Sac and Tek Qualish, consultant engineers now intent on
their cards. Mari Analoch, hard, old, with eyes like those of a bird of prey, a
procuress seeking to open a new establishment. A squat amazon, Hera Phollen with
her charge the Lady Lolis Egas, young, spoiled, eager for excitement and adulation.
Vekta Gorlyk, who played like a machine. Ilgazt Bitola, who played like a fool. The
man who waited with his wine.
"Earl?" Chom was insistent.
"No."
"You have something better to do? More study, perhaps?" Chom smiled as
Dumarest turned to stare into his eyes. "The steward was careless and failed to close
the door of your cabin. I saw the papers you had been working on. Such dedication!
But I am not after charity, Earl. Daroca wants to meet you and I think it would profit
you to meet him." He paused and added, softly: "It is possible that he might be able
to tell you something of Earth."
* * *
 
Eisach Daroca was a slight man, tall, dressed in somber fabrics of expensive
weave, the starkness relieved only by the jeweled chain hanging around his neck, the
wide bracelets on his wrists. He wore a single ring on the third finger of his left hand,
a seal intricately engraved and mounted on a thick band. His face was smooth, soft,
the skin like crepe around the eyes. His hair was clubbed and thickly touched with
silver. A dilettante, Dumarest had decided. A man with wealth enough to follow his
whims, perhaps jaded, perhaps a genuine seeker after knowledge. An eternal student.
Such men were to be found in unexpected places.
He rose as they approached, smiling, extending his hand. "My dear Chom, I'm so
glad that you managed to persuade your friend to join us. You will join me in wine,
Earl? I may call you that? Please be seated."
The wine was an emerald perfume, delicate to the nose, tart and refreshing to the
tongue. Daroca served it in goblets of iron-glass, thin as a membrane, decorated with
abstract designs, expensive and virtually indestructible. A part of his baggage,
Dumarest knew, as was the wine, the choice foods he ate. Not for him the usual
basic, the spigot-served fluid laced with vitamins, sharp with citrus, sickly with
glucose, which formed the normal diet of those traveling High. Everything about the
man spoke of wealth and culture, but what was he doing on a vessel like this? Bluntly
he asked the question.
"A man must travel as he can," said Daroca. "And it amuses me to venture down
the byways of space. To visit the lesser worlds untouched by the larger ships. And
yet I do not believe there is virtue to be gained by suffering hardship. There is no
intrinsic merit in pain and, surely, discomfort is a minor agony to be avoided
whenever possible. You agree?"
"At least it is an interesting philosophy."
"I like my comforts," said Chom. He lowered his empty glass. "The trouble is in
being able to afford them. More often than not it isn't easy."
Daroca refilled his glass. "And you, Earl? Do you also enjoy comfort?"
"He's had too much of the rough not to enjoy the smooth," said Chom before
Dumarest could answer. "I can tell these things. There is a look about a man who
has lived hard, a set of the lips, the jaw, an expression in the eyes. The way he walks
and stands, little things, but betraying. As there is with a woman," he continued,
musingly. "You can tell the one who is willing and the one who is not. The one who
is seeking and the one who has found." He took a mouthful of wine. "What did you
think of the Ghenka?"
"She has skill." Daroca glanced at Dumarest, "More wine?"
 

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