Nectar of Heaven

Chapter Eleven

Between low ridges of agate the water was a pool of emerald held in tiled walls decorated with grotesque fish and writhing creatures, the floor itself a pattern of shells and weed laced in suggestive designs. Dumarest followed it, swimming low, traversing the length of the enclosure before rising, droplets flying as he jerked the hair from his eyes, more cascading as he gripped the wall and reared from the water to sit on the edge.

"You swim well, Earl." Lynne Oldrant stared at him with unabashed admiration. "Fiona is to be envied."

"Her holdings?"

"You."

A flat answer to a deliberate misunderstanding and one Dumarest had expected. The woman had made no secret of her desire, the bait she had offered in her body and eyes, her lips and her smile. A mature woman with generous proportions and a mouth too soft and eyes too wanton. Jaded, as they all were, bored, eager for the stimulation a stranger could bring.

Or one bribed to pretend just that.

Now she turned and gestured a serving girl to her side, taking her time as she studied the dainties offered on the tray, selecting with care two comfits formed of twisted sugar dusted with a powder of spices.

"Here!" She offered one to Dumarest. "You take it, bite it, swallow it down. The results could be-interesting."

An aphrodisiac or some form of hallucinogenic. From her tone the thing could be either or it could be just a harmless sweetmeat. Or something not so harmless-a drug to induce impotence; who knew what she carried beneath her nails?

Dumarest said, "Thank you, my lady, but I must refuse."

"What I offer?"

"Just the comfit." His smile brought warmth to her eyes. "Will you join me in the water?"

A chance to touch, to caress, to leave no doubt as to her extended invitation. An opportunity she used to the full. To win him from Fiona would be a sweet revenge for earlier rejection.

"Earl!" A tall, red-headed girl waved to him from where she stood at the edge of the pool. "Come and join us! We need your advice!"

Men had clustered in a group behind her, youngsters with faces usually masked with boredom now creased in a febrile interest.

"Chargel's man told me of the trick," said one. "He saw it done at a private fight on Emoolt. You feint-so! Then recovering you cut-so! If it hits, you gain a point. If you miss you backslash and thrust-so!" His hand made appropriate gestures, the knife he held glittering as it reflected the light from the ruby sun. "The man who used it had never been beaten."

"Or so he said." Shelia Fairfax, the tall girl with flaming hair, laughed her scorn. "Tell them, Earl. Put the fool wise."

Her tone held familiarity as did the hand she placed on his arm. Instant friendship gained in a matter of a few hours-or what passed for it in this too closely knit culture. Fiona had introduced him to the party-had left him at the pool while attending to a private matter. Lynne had been only one of the women to show more than a casual interest.

The man with the knife said, "Fool, Shelia? Care to back your judgment?"

"A week's allowance," she said. "No, make it a month's."

"That I can't score on Earl?"

"That's right." Her laughter was brittle. "You and your theories, Ivor! What chance would you have if faced with a real man?"

Dumarest saw the flush which rose to stain the sallow cheeks, the tension revealed in the hand gripping the knife. A young man, a minor son of some Orres family, trying to show off a little. A youth eager to command attention and to gain a little respect. The girl had been too spiteful, too cruel.

"May I see the knife?" Dumarest held out his hand, saw the other's hesitation, smiled as, finally, Ivor placed it in his fingers. It was what he had expected; a practice blade, the point and edges protruding a fraction of an inch from masking steel. Heavy, able to deliver bruising blows and shallow scratches, but relatively harmless. "A gift?"

"Not exactly. I'm interested in such things. At home I've a collection of knives each of which has killed a man," A boast quickly amended. "At least that's what I have been given to understand. They were part of an inheritance."

From whom was unimportant if the story was true. Dumarest hefted the blade, examined the edges and point, handed it back to the young man.

"Have you another?" He added, "Or do you want me to face you empty-handed?"

"You'll fight?"

"No, but we can try out that trick of yours." Dumarest looked at the girl. "A month's allowance, you said. And no blame on me if I should lose?"

"A month's allowance, Earl-and you won't lose!"

A confidence echoed by others as they made bets on the outcome. Dumarest took the second practice knife, hefted it, poised on the balls of his naked feet and adopted a fighter's stance, though he quickly rectified it as he saw the young man's awkward posture.

"Now," he said. "Come at me!"

The youth was too clumsy, too slow. He left himself wide open to a killing thrust or a crippling slash had the knives been true blades. Dumarest backed, matching the other's clumsiness, steel ringing as the blades touched, parted to touch again. Music to mask the farce the combat had become as his own movements gave the youth's a grace they lacked. The attack, when it came, was pathetic.

"A hit!" Dumarest stepped back, hand to his side, smears of red on the palm when he displayed it to those watching. "He scored!"

A tiny scratch and a drop of blood-a small price to pay to save another's pride. Watching, Fiona guessed what had happened, came close as Shelia, stunned, tried to get the victor to cancel the bet.

"You were a fool, Earl. He could have hurt you."

"No."

"Maybe not, but why go to that trouble anyway?"

"Why bring me to this party?"

"To show off," she said. "To boast. Does that satisfy you?" The truth, covered as she added, "They wanted to see you. To refuse them that pleasure would have been to make enemies."

And, on Sacaweena, that was far from wise. Dumarest looked at the inquisitive faces, the calculating eyes. At a small distance a youth slapped Ivor on the back as he tried to gain a promise they would practice together. Another pleaded to be taught the trick. A girl pushed Shelia aside as she thrust herself at the victor.

"A friend," mused Fiona. "If nothing else he owes you a favor. You learn fast, Earl. He, his father, his entire family will be grateful you didn't make him look small. Not that they can do you much good-Bulem is on his way out. If the present trend continues he'll be finished within a few days. Crazy! What harm could he be to others? What could anyone gain by grabbing what he's got?"

"Which is?"

"Some undersea holdings which have lost their crop of weed because of undercurrents from seismic activity. A sector to the west and a few holdings scattered to the north and east. Nothing of any real value." She shrugged, bored with the subject. "Shall we swim?"

She wore a robe of shimmering scarlet, one hand lifted to the clasp on its shoulder, ready to let it fall from her naked body at his nod. Instead he said, "I'd rather go to the church."

"The church?"

"To see Vardoon. Will you take me?"

"Forget him, Earl. I can't see why you bothered about him in the first place. He was shot, as good as dead; let him go and what you'd find would all be yours. Why did you bring him back?"

"We were partners."

"So?"

She couldn't understand. To her partnerships were transient and used for personal gain. Allies were those on whom one was forced to make an agreement. Loyalty was a word without meaning. Dumarest said, "I want to see Vardoon."

He sat upright in a bed set with its head against a wall, a wide, low table set to either side, a pouch of eggs resting in his lap. The table to his right bore a tray dotted with glowing, golden pearls. The one to his left bore a litter of discarded membranes. As Dumarest watched he took an egg from the pouch, delicately slit it open with a sliver of razor-edged steel, skinned it from the yoke which he set carefully beside the others.

"Ardeel," he said. "A fortune, Earl. A fortune!"

He was thin, emaciated, body fat lost while under the influence of slow-time. The drug had accelerated his metabolism, turning hours into subjective days, days crawling past as if they had been months. A time spent under induced unconsciousness and intravenous feeding as the body healed. For Dumarest it had been a subjective week for Vardoon it had been much longer.

"How do you feel?"

"Weak." Vardoon lifted another egg, slit it, placed the precious yoke on the tray with the others. Even as he set it down it began to harden into a sphere. "Weak and hungry but I guess I'm lucky to be either. From what they tell me my guts were shot full of holes. I owe the monks a lot."

"You'll pay it."

"And you, Earl? I owe you my life. How do I pay for that?"

"When I know I'll tell you." Dumarest looked around the room. It was small but neat and comfortable despite the lack of windows, the polished stone of the floor. A rack of instruments stood against the wall flanking the door, another of drugs on the matching side. Soft light from an overhead globe threw a diffused luminescence in which the pearls gleamed as if alive. "Is that all?"

"About half. Tobol has the rest. I asked him to keep them safe for me. He could handle their sale if you want. Whom else could you trust?"

"A Hausi?"

"None on this planet. Nothing for them to do with trade so limited and what there is all tied up by interested parties. The agent at the field works for the holder who takes his cut from everything coming in and going out. No place for a free agent, free enterprise or damn all else."

"So the field's valuable to the one who owns it?"

"Yes."

"Who does?"

"Usually the Maximus. Sometimes it can belong to another holder but it's damned hard to hang onto." Vardoon looked up from the egg he was slitting. "Why the interest? You thinking of staying? If so, forget it. This is one game you can't join." The egg burst in his fingers to leave a smear of yellow. "Damn! Look at that! A Low passage down the drain!"

"You're trying too hard," said Dumarest. "Give it a rest for now. What did you mean when you said this was one game I couldn't win?"

"Join, Earl, not win. No one can ever do that. Not for keeps."

"So?"

"You aren't of the Orres. Even if you were born here you have to be of the Orres. They are the only ones who can own anything on this world. Every inch of land and sea, what's in it, on it or under it-the whole damned works. Didn't I explain all that?"

"What about the utilities? Water? Power?"

"All owned by a holder. Good returns and so highly valued. Sometimes they change hands but not often." Vardoon stooped, lifted a jug from the floor and poured himself a cup of thick liquid. Basic-the essential food of a spaceman, sickly with glucose, tart with citrus, laced with vitamins. A high-protein substance, each cup holding enough energy to last a normal man for a day. "A lousy system," he said after drinking. "Holders are limited so only the heads of Families can operate. That creates jealousies. Boredom too for those left out despite their allowances. Sometimes a holder resigns when too old, sometimes assassinated, sometimes quits if losing too much too often, but usually they hang on until they die of natural causes."

"Can they buy in?"

"The numbers are limited. If they fall too low and a vacancy arises then an outsider can challenge a holder for entry. Usually those wanting in are set one against the other until only one is left. Even then whoever wins has to be admissable. That means of the Orres."

A nice, neat, closed system which made sure that those who had continued to hold and those outside remained that way. A society with ingrained weaknesses and one sure to shatter given time; the pressure of heirs denied a part in the economy would ensure that. But, for now, he had to work with the culture as he found it.

Dumarest said, "So whoever owns the field can deny anyone passage if he wants."

"That's right." Vardoon drank more basic. "But why should they?"

"We stole those eggs, remember? The owner doesn't like it. He might intend to get them back and freezing us could be one way to do it."

"Trouble," said Vardoon. "Well, nothing comes easy, but who would have expected this? I just figured to go in, grab what was going and then out again. No one hurt. Nobody really robbed, just a little poaching, a little collecting and that was all. I still can't understand why those goons came after us the way they did. That shooting-" He broke off, shaking his head. "I'd better get up. I'm no use lying flat on my back. Any friends, Earl?"

"One," said Dumarest. "You might know her. You said you were with her brother when he died."

He had left her with the monks and found her seated with Tobol, a chessboard between them, men scattered in bright touches of gold and jet on squares of scarlet and silver. She played the game well, he noted, moving the pieces with a sure deftness, covering each attack and retreating when threatened. Skill refined over the years and sharpened when Carmodyne had died.

As the old monk acknowledged defeat and set the board for another game she said, "How is your friend?"

"Alive and impatient to be on his feet."

"And to be gone?"

"That too."

"As you are?"

He had no place here and she must know it but to admit to a desire to leave was to betray his indifference. An attitude any woman would take as an insult and she more than most.

"This is a pleasant world," he said. "One I have hardly had time to see. Now, with money, perhaps I shall enjoy it."

"Perhaps?"

"A doubt you could resolve, my lady. Turn from me and what has this planet to offer?"

An answer which pleased her even though she knew it for the flattery it was. One which salved her pride and reassured her that it would be she and not Dumarest who would end their relationship. But not yet; not when she enjoyed his company so much, not when others envied her so openly.

Tobol sighed as, again, she demonstrated her prowess on the board.

"You are too skilled for me, my lady. I must beg you to allow an old man to retain his pride. Perhaps a younger opponent?" He looked up to where Dumarest stood beside the board. "Will you take my place?"

"Can you play?" Fiona was direct.

"I know the moves."

"But can you play?" She gave him no time to answer. "You understand the object of the game? To move and force selected responses from your opponent. To trap the enemy king and so to win. A miniature game of war," she mused. "Combat reduced to the dimensions of a board and yet holding all the cunning and strategy of actual battle. Sit, Earl, fight with me, and for a wager?" She looked at him, the smile on her lips not matched by her eyes. "Double what you owe me if I win, the usual fees canceled if I am beaten."

"Fees?"

"As I explained; resident's, utilities, protection. All quite normal." She added softly, "And one-tenth of your treasure-mine by right as the holder of this sector. Shall we begin?"

Dumarest glanced at the monk and saw the almost imperceptible lift of the shoulders, the nod signifying she had the right. Above the vaulted roof reflected small sounds from the partitioned area outside the room in which they played; a scuff of shoes, a cough, the rustle of garments. Tiny murmurs drowned by the sharp rap of pieces on the board as she set them out for the new game. "Earl?"

"A game of war," he said. "Do I have it correctly? A game we play to win."

"With what you owe me as the fee-double or nothing." She extended both hands toward him, the fingers clenched, the pawns she held hidden by her flesh. "Your choice, Earl. Gold has first move." She smiled at his selection and opened her hand to reveal jet. "You lose, I win. An omen, perhaps?"

"If you are superstitious."

"Are you?"

"I hold certain beliefs."

"Such as?" She shrugged, again giving him no chance to answer. "We'll talk about such things later but for now let us concentrate on the game. My first move, Earl." She shifted her king's pawn two squares forward. "There!"

Dumarest followed her move.

Without hesitation she moved a cowled piece to a position four squares above its fellow. She smiled as, again, he followed her move, confident that, after the next, she would have him. Her smile vanished as, deliberately, he swept pieces from the board to leave it bare but for her checkmated king.

"My game, I think."

"You cheated!" She rose, quivering with anger. "A child's trick! Earl, I never expected it of you! Can't you bear to lose?"

"I won."

"No! You-" She appealed to the monk. "You saw what happened. He couldn't win and so ruined the game."

"A game of war," said Dumarest. "I asked and you agreed. A game we play to win. Well, my lady, that's what I have done."

"No! The rules!-"

"In war there are no rules!" His tone was harshly bitter. "There is only one aim-to win. To win no matter how. That is what I have done. Perhaps that is what you should remember to do."

A lesson she ignored as, eyes bright with anger, she pushed past him and from the room. As he picked up the scattered pieces Tobol shook his head.

"You play a dangerous game, Earl. She is not a woman to forgive a slight." He added quietly, "Does the money mean so much to you?"

"As much to me as to her."

"You could have won."

"No."

"Yet you have so much it seems unwise to risk losing all for the sake of a part." So unwise Tobol wondered if Dumarest had hidden motives. Setting the last recovered piece on the board he said, "You are under stress, something Fiona may have forgotten. And she tends to a certain willfulness."

A selfish disregard-but when had the rich been otherwise?

Dumarest said, "Doesn't it irk you having to live under sufferance?"

"Can you name a single world where men do not?" A rhetorical question and Tobol illuminated it. "Those who established this culture tried to make the best of an unhappy system. They used commercial strife in place of real war with its blood and pain and destruction. To avoid stasis and what it would bring they instituted rules enabling holdings to be gained and changed and set in new combinations. To avoid too great a measure of confusion they limited the number of holders yet insisted that the number not get too small."

"A game," said Dumarest. "But how limit the players? Can't anyone buy in?" He knew the answer. "Only the Orres, of course, the privileged. But they tend to concentrate."

"To gain maximum power. It is all so beautifully simple. The entire world split into holdings; counters to be used on a planetary board. Advantage gained by revenues and exploitation. Safeguards established against cabals and monopolies by the incentive offered to a single winner."

The Maximus. A form of stabilizing influence to prevent outright anarchy. A governor to slow down wildness yet always to stimulate ambition. The target for others to attack, themselves to be attacked in turn if they grew too strong or posed too great a threat. Selfish interest married to the overall welfare, for to neglect a holding was to diminish its value.

"It cannot survive," said Tobol. "No such system can. But what culture can guarantee anything more? How to wed bloodless violence with the stimulus of personal gain? The common good with a growing economy? To avoid stasis while maintaining stability? Yet the Orres did as well as most." He looked at the pieces neatly set on the board. "Don't blame her-Fiona Velen is a product of her society."

He found her standing before a carving depicting a distorted figure.

She did not turn as Dumarest approached, the sound of his steps a susurrating whisper which rose to be amplified by the groined roof, to fade in echoing murmurs. The day was ending, ruby beams streaming through the clerestory to make wide swaths and blotches on the opposing wall. On the floor shadows gathered, broken into fragments by reflected light, darkness which held the glow of colors, the golden cascade of her hair.

"Carmodyne," she said as Dumarest halted at her side. "I cried when he died."

"Fiona-"

"I know. I was being stupid and greedy and acted the fool. A family trait," she added bitterly. "Always we seem to act the fool. My father who took one chance too many, my brother who drowned, my mother who took her own life- did any of them think of me?"

Dumarest touched her shoulder, felt the small tremors running through her body, the emotion which roiled on the edge of eruption.

"Carmodyne took care of me," she said. "Did I tell you that? He was a father to me, a brother, a friend. He made me his heir. I think he gave me his love. Look at him, Earl. Do you think he was capable of love?"

The artist had been a genius, beneath the comic exterior Dumarest could see pathos. Had he yearned for the mother of the woman at his side? The brother he had lost? How often did laughter hide sorrow?

"Love," she said, turning to face him. "A word-what does it mean?"

"Caring, Fiona. Sharing. Doubling pleasure as it decreases pain."

"And who will share my pain? Who gives a damn about me? Earl! I-Earl!"

His arms closed around her as she pressed against him, the touch of her hair silken on his cheek. Beneath his hands he could feel the jerking movement of unleashed tears, of the venting of stemmed emotion. A time in which he did nothing but hold her within the protection of his arms. Then, as the dying sunlight crept with carmine glows over the wall, rising to the roof as the primary set, she sucked in her breath and straightened a little.

He said, "What is wrong, Fiona?"

"Nothing. I-"

"What is wrong!"

"A message," she said dully. "Delivered by someone while you were at the pool. A warning from someone who owed me a favor. Kalova wants to ruin me. He intends to push me down and then out. Out of any holding, out of position, out of any pretense at pride. To crush me-and he can do it. Earl! I'm so afraid!"