The Coming Event

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Ysolto Mbushia looked at the paper and thoughtfully pursed his lips, one hand lifting, the fingers tracing the pattern of ritual scars which stood livid on his cheeks.

"Well, now," he said. "I'm not sure."

"Why the doubt? The signature's good, isn't it?"

"How would I know?" The Hausi looked at Dumarest and lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "The Matriarch Su Posta could have written this or someone could have done it for her. Signed it too. You see the difficulty?"

"The signature's been countersigned." Dumarest pointed. "And thumbprinted. And witnessed by a monk. Brother Vezey. He was with the matriarch's retinue."

"So?"

"You don't know the monk's handwriting either. Nor the thumbprint. I understand. But I'm not asking you to give me cash over the counter. Just hold it, verify it and collect. Pay me only when it's been cleared." Then, as the Hausi continued to hesitate, Dumarest added, "Naturally there'll be a commission. Ten percent?"

"The usual is twenty."

"Fifteen and you can handle our supplies and repairs. A deal?"

The Hausi nodded and smiled. "A deal, my friend. To be sealed in wine! Here, on Jourdan, we have our traditions. A moment if you please while I fetch the bottle."

"And a copy of the promissory note," reminded Dumarest.

"Together with your receipt and statement as to the agreed commission."

"You don't trust me?"

"Yes," said Dumarest. A Hausi did not lie. "I trust you but I have partners and they don't trust me. What about that wine?"

It was sweet, cool, tasting of mint and honey and he savored it as he leaned with his back against the counter. Through the open door of the agency he could see the field, the bulk of the Moira together with other vessels. A busy field and an economically viable world if the ranked warehouses were anything to go by. Even as he watched, a line of carts appeared, low trailers drawn by sweating men each loaded with bulging sacks.

"Choum," said the Hausi. "A high-protein food destined for the mines on Calvardopolis. A short run and little profit but better than nothing if your ship's lying idle. If you're interested I could arrange the load."

Dumarest shook his head; the Moira was grounded until it could be repaired. He watched as the men dragged their loads closer to the warehouse. The whips of overseers made spiteful, cracking sounds.

"Vagrants," said Mbushia. "Debtors and petty criminals working off their sentences on work gangs." He sipped at his wine. "Forgers lose their hands."

"Thinking of that note?" Dumarest finished his wine and set down the glass. "Forget it if it bothers you. I'll try somewhere else. Maybe the palace itself. The journey's worth ten percent."

"We agreed on fifteen."

"So we did." Dumarest met the agent's eyes. "And it's genuine. Maybe I should see a doctor." He joined the other's laughter, then, "How long?"

"A little while. The matriarch isn't a quick payer and it might be best to discount the note. How low will you go?"

"Face value or nothing-I'm not that stupid. Not yet."

Outside Dumarest looked up at the sky and felt the warmth of the sun. It felt good, as did the touch of wind on his face, the grit of dirt beneath his boots. Space was too cold, too hostile. There was nowhere to hide and nothing soft to see. Nothing green like the leaf he pulled from a shrub to crush and lift to his nostrils and smell. No water like that which came gushing from a fountain to fill the air with musical tinklings. Ships were traps from which there could be no escape and space was an all-enveloping enemy.

Fantasies but he was glad the journey was over. It had taken too long and would have been impossible without the fuel salvaged from the Galya. Only that and Batrun's skill had enabled them to use the currents and nurse the generator until finally settling on solid ground. The generator was ruined and would have to be replaced-the matriarch's reward would cover it.

She had gone together with her retinue; the small child, the governess, the bodyguard, the attendants, the monk. The man who had looked like a trader had been an advocate and he had gone too. So had Craig, hunting a new generator. Olga had gone with him and Shandhar had left to see about supplies. Only Ysanne and Batrun remained.

"Earl!" She waved to him as he entered the salon. Batrun was with her, papers spread between them, and Dumarest caught a glimpse of navigational symbols; lines, zones, waves, the tools of her trade. "Come and sit with us. Andre's been telling me some of the things he learned as a boy working the Chelham Ridge. You know it? It's an area where if you spit you'd splash a dozen worlds. Full of opposed gravities, magnetic fluxes, the works. You can head for one place and wind up at another. Turn almost a full circle. Right, Andre?"

He nodded, looking at Dumarest.

"Like a maze," she said. "Like threading a needle through a head of cabbage. It goes in but you don't know where the hell it's coming out. Fun, eh? Good fun, Earl. Damned good fun. Right?"

She talked too fast and her eyes were too bright and he guessed she'd been drinking but wasn't yet wholly drunk. Just enough for tensions to have eased and emotion to be vented in a flurry of words. A compensation too, perhaps, for Batrun's having shown her how relatively inexperienced she really was.

"I'll get some coffee, Earl," he said, rising. "I think Ysanne may have celebrated our landing with a little too much enthusiasm."

"I can't drink," she said. "Is that what you're saying? Nobody from Manito can drink. We've more sense than to rot our guts with poison. When we want kicks we chew weed or change lovers or have a fight. You know, Earl, that's an idea. Maybe we should have a fight. Winner take all, right? Winner takes all."

"What have we got? A broken down ship, some supplies, some cargo still to be turned into cash."

"And a promise, Earl. That old bag should be grateful."

"Maybe." Dumarest looked up as Batrun returned. He carried a steaming pot and a vial of tablets. "Sobup pills," he explained. "She must have got the wine from Shandhar. Here." He offered her two with a cup of coffee. "Take these and you'll soon feel better."

A promise fulfilled as she set down her empty cup and sat blinking at the scattered papers.

"A little wine," she said, "and your brains take wings. Now I know why we don't drink back home. How the hell do you manage it, Earl?"

"Practice." He looked at the papers. "Apart from the lesson what's been happening?"

"We talked," she said. "I suggested changing the name of the ship. I don't like the Moira. It was Pendance's choice and I want to forget that bastard." Glancing at Batrun she said, "Why not the Galya?"

"No!" He softened the rejection. "No, I'd rather not. For me there could only ever be one Galya. But, in view of our search, why not the Erce?"

"Erce?" Ysanne thought about it. "An odd name but why not? Earl?"

He said, "Where did you hear it, Andre?"

"Does it matter?" Ysanne was impatient. "It's a name. Erce." She shook her head. "One you wouldn't forget in a hurry. What does it mean?"

"Earth," said Batrun. "It's another name for Earth. You couldn't call a ship that, could you? Not Earth. And not Terra either. Strange how old names lose their meaning. Earth is ground or dirt and we still use it in that connection. As we do terra-terrain. But Erce?"

Dumarest said, again, "Andre-where did you hear it?"

"From a book, I think. Yes, it had to be that." He saw Dumarest's expression and continued. "Most of a captain's job is to wait. To stand watch and do nothing but wait and fight boredom. Some do it with drugs, others with symbiotes; I used books-old ones, mostly, dealing with legends and myths. Did you know that Bonanza actually exists? That Eden was a real world and you can visit Heaven any time you want? They call it Haveen now but it has to be the same planet. But to be more specific. Erce was a term used in a wider sense than a name. Think of it not as meaning just Earth but as Mother Earth-you see the difference?"

"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?