The Winds of Gath

Chapter Seven

It came on a blur of shimmering wings, a thin, finger-long body tipped with triangular jaws strong enough to sheer through metal, to penetrate the toughest hide. It ripped through the plastic of the room, poised for a moment in the corner, then swept toward where the couple sat.

Dumarest saw it barely in time. The Lady Seena was very close, her perfume an enticing scent in his nostrils, the warm, white velvet of her flesh radiating its feminine heat. She was attentive and had a trick of staring into his face as if seeing there something special to herself. Cynicism kept him detached. Such a woman would be sated with empty flattery and the easy conquest of desirous males. She was only amusing herself, unable to resist the challenge of his maleness, playing an age-old game with tired indifference.

So he told himself and managed to negate her charm.

"In your travels," she said softly, "you must have met many women. Tell me of them."

"Is that an order, my lady?"

"No. You will tell?"

"No. I-" He sensed rather than saw the darting shape and reacted by pure instinct. "Down!"

She screamed as he threw himself against her, knocking her from her chair, sending them both to the carpet. There was a thin whine, a faint plop as the thing hit the wall behind them, merging instantly into the background with a chameleon-like change of protective body-tint.

"Guards!" She thought that he had attacked her, that he was intent on rape. He rapped a command.

"Shut up! Listen!"

He rose, crouching, eyes scanning the wall. A patch of color flickered and he flung himself down, throwing his weight hard against the woman, rolling her over the carpet. Again came the thin, spiteful hum, the soft plop of landing. His ears caught the sound and directed his eyes. He reached behind him and groped for a chair. He found one and clamped his fingers around the backrest.

Something flickered on the wall.

He swept up the chair, holding it as a shield as he lunged toward the woman. Something tugged at his hair. He spun, feeling sweat bead his face, eyes searching the wall. He caught a glimpse of a jeweled eye before it vanished into the background. He watched the spot. The thing was fast-too fast for the eye to follow once it was in flight. The only chance was to intercept it before it struck.

"What is it?" Seena half rose from her knees, her initial fear forgotten. "I can't see-"

"Shut up!"

He caught the shift of color and jerked the chair up just in time. The thing hit the seat, drilled through, scored a deep groove across the backrest and caromed off the metal fabric of his shirt. Wings a tattered ruin, it thrashed on the carpet then scuttled forward on multiple legs.

Dumarest crushed it beneath the heel of his boot.

"A phygria," said Melga. The physician was very pale. She had come running at the heels of the guards. "You recognized it?"

"No." Dumarest looked at the chair still in his hand. The scar on the backrest almost touched his skin. He set the chair down and looked at the corner of the room. A hole gaped in the plastic. "I saw something move," he explained. "The rest was instinct."

"You must have very unusual reflexes," said the physician thoughtfully. "The attack speed of a phygria is over fifty miles an hour. That would give you,"-she paused, measuring the room with calculating eyes-"about a third of a second to see it, recognize its danger and take necessary action based on that recognition. You know of them?"

"Yes."

"That would account for your subconscious recognition. You simply didn't have the time for conscious thought." She stooped, picked up the crushed body in a pair of forceps, and examined it through a glass. "A female, gravid, searching for a host." Her lips tightened. "A human is not its natural host. That means-"

"It was primed," said Dumarest harshly. He looked down at his hands; they were trembling a little from reaction. He remembered the tug at his hair, the scar close to his hand. Death had twice come very close. "It was primed," he repeated. "We all know what that means."

He looked at the beauty of the girl and wondered who wanted her dead.

Gloria was tormented by the same thought. A phygria was an assassin's weapon. Primed with the scent of the victim it would unerringly seek out the target to use as its host. Like a bullet it would smash through the skin into the flesh beneath to vomit forth a gush of tiny eggs. Swept by the bloodstream they would scatter throughout the body to hatch and grow there. Too numerous for surgical removal, too tough for chemical destruction, they would bring an inevitable and horrifying end.

The thought of Seena dying, the unwilling host to a thousand hungry larvae, made her want to retch.

"Who?" she snarled at the cyber standing at her side. "Who would want to kill her on this Godforsaken planet?"

It was a stupid question but she was too distraught to realize it. An assassin needed no reason other than his pay but Dyne didn't remind her of that. Instead he countered her question with another.

"Not who, My Lady, but how? The phygria was primed-how did the assassin obtain her scent?"

The old woman snorted her impatience. It was simple enough, a clipping from a nail, a strand of hair, some perspiration, a trace of blood-there were a dozen ways in which a host could be identified. Then she grew thoughtful as his meaning penetrated her anger and fear. Seena was guarded, isolated from common contact. To be effective a scent had to be reasonably fresh. She felt the sudden chill of her blood, the overwhelming weight of despair, but the possibility had to be faced.

"Treason?"

"It is a possibility," he admitted, "but of a very low order of probability. It seems impossible that there could be a traitor in your retinue."

"Seems?"

"No human action can be predicted to one hundred per cent certainty, My Lady. But there is an alternative explanation: the target need not have been the Lady Seena."

"Dumarest?"

"Yes, My Lady. From the evidence it seems that the phygria attacked him, not the Lady Seena. He naturally assumed that she was the target but he could have been wrong. The probability is high that he was. His scent would not have been difficult to obtain."

"From Moidor?"

"Yes, My Lady, or from his discarded clothing." Dyne paused. "We can even guess the motive."

She nodded. It made sense and the Prince of Emmened was known to be a vengeful man. It would be like him to avenge the death of his favorite, and simple if he had the means at hand. And yet it all seemed to fit too neatly. She had long since learned to distrust neat solutions to important problems.

"In my view," said Dyne, "it would be wise to ensure that he never again comes into close contact with the Lady Seena. The risk, if he is the target of an assassin, would be too great."

He echoed her thoughts but, by echoing them, stiffened her earlier resolution. Dumarest had proved his worth and Seena could do with the protection of such a man. And, despite the cyber's logical explanation, she still had doubts. The possibility of treachery could not be overlooked.

A communicator chimed, a fairy-bell in the spice-scented chamber. She threw the switch and Melga stared at her from the screen.

"My Lady," she said, and paused waiting for the Matriarch to speak.

"Well?" The old woman had little use for protocol in times of emergency. "Did you isolate the scent?"

"No, My Lady. It was impossible to distinguish who was the actual target."

It was a disappointment; she had hoped the physician could settle the matter and guide her into appropriate action. Now there was only one thing to be done.

"Nullify them both." She broke the connection and sat brooding over the set. She reached for a button then hesitated. It wouldn't take long for the physician to inject both Dumarest and her ward with scent-masking chemicals but they would have to be guarded until all danger from further attacks was past. Deciding, she pressed the button.

"My Lady?" Elspeth, the captain of her guard, looked from the screen.

"Prepare for departure. We leave in two hours."

"For the north, My Lady?"

"For the north."

The tourist was in a flaming temper. He slammed his hand on the counter hard enough to bruise the flesh. If there was pain he ignored it.

"Listen," he snapped. "I was given to understand that you would look after me. I haven't come all this way to be given the brush-off. If you can't do your job here then your main office ought to know about it and I'm the man to tell them. Now tell me just why I can't hire a plane."

"Because there isn't one on the planet." Piers Quentin fought the jumping of his nerves. For the past two hours, ever since the Matriarch of Kund had left Hightown, his office had resembled a madhouse. "There's no need for them," he explained. "The only place anyone wants to see is the mountains and they aren't far. You could walk it comfortably in a couple of days."

"Walk?" The man purpled. "Walk!"

"Or you could hire a nulgrav raft," said the factor quickly. "I think that there is one left." There wasn't but someone would have to double up. "An appreciation of the scenery is an integral part of the attraction," he continued. "Mechanical noise would disrupt the harmony and ruin that you have come so far to experience. You can hire bearers to carry supplies and to provide motive power, of course. I assure you, sir, it is the normal custom for people like yourself."

The man grumbled but allowed himself to be convinced. He grumbled even louder at the hiring costs. Piers spread his hands at the objections.

"I can't help it, sir. The bearers are free agents who will not work for less. The supplies are on sale or return and there is a deposit on the raft. If you will sign here, sir, and here. Thank you. If you take this slip to the warehouse the quartermaster will attend to your needs."

He relaxed as the man left the office, relaxing still more as he realized that the man was the last. There would still be chaos outside but his staff could handle that. Now he was going to shut the door and take a long, cold drink. Brother Ely smiled at him as he was about to close the panel.

"Alone, brother?"

"I was," said Piers shortly, then relented. "Come in and keep me company. I've had a hell of a time this past few hours." He closed the door after the monk and crossed to the dispenser. "Something to drink? No. Well, you won't mind if I do." He helped himself regardless and downed the drink in two long swallows. "The old woman started it," he said waiting for a refill. "I told them all that she was far too early but they wouldn't listen. Not that it matters, at least they're out of my hair now."

"And, of course," said the monk quietly, "they will use more than normal supplies in order to maintain their bearers and themselves. There is no water by the mountains?"

"No."

"Nor food?"

"No-everything has to be carried." The factor tasted his second drink. "Food, water, tents-everything. The Hightowners ride on rafts which the bearers pull along. It works pretty well."

For himself, naturally, but it went deeper than that. There was a perversity in human nature which gloried at the bestialization of its own kind. There was a romance clinging to the concept of slavery which appealed to the rich. They would like to ride high and move by the muscle-power of desperate men. As the factor well knew those who had started by demanding planes would end by regretting the loss of slaves. Their use gave a sense of personal power lacking in the employment of machines.

Brother Ely knew that only too well. He said one word loaded with contempt. "Pander!"

"What!" The factor jerked so that some of the drink spilled from his glass. "What did you call me?"

The monk repeated it. Quentin set down his glass. He crossed to the door, opened it, pointed outside. His face was white with rage beneath the dark pattern of his beard. "Get out!"

Deliberately the monk looked for a chair, found one, sat down. "Spare me your outraged pride, brother. We both know exactly what I mean by the word. Why did you remove the engines from the rafts? Such craft normally contain their own motive power. Are you trying to add to the attraction of Gath?"

Irritably Quintin slammed the door and returned to his drink. The old monk was shrewd but it would not do him much good. "What would you have me do?" Quentin swallowed the rest of his drink. "The tourists are rich and to travel like that is a novelty which they appreciate. And it gives work to the travelers. Without it they would starve."

"Do they have to lower themselves to the level of beasts of burden in order to live?"

"That is your judgment," snapped Quentin irritably. "Perhaps they do not think the same. A starving man cannot afford the niceties of your ethics. At least," he added spitefully, "they do not beg."

"And we of the Universal Brotherhood do," said the monk gently. He smiled. "I get your point, brother."

Piers was not amused. He had done nothing beyond the scope of his duties and had to answer to no one but his superiors. But the Brotherhood had friends in peculiar places. He stood to lose nothing by caution.

"What's on your mind?" The factor helped himself to another drink. He felt a little sorry for himself. No sooner had he rid himself of the incubus of the storm than this had to happen. "What did you want to talk about?"

"Shall we start with Dumarest?"

"The man who killed the Prince of Emmened's fighter? What of him?"

"Has the wager been paid?"

"The price of a High Passage is in my keeping."

"And if Dumarest should die?" The monk didn't wait for an answer. "He has no one to call you to account. You would keep the money."

Piers didn't answer.

"A quick way to make a tidy sum," mused the old man. "More. If Dumarest should die you would be free of a man you may have reason to fear."

Piers laughed in the monk's face. "Brother, you're crazy! I have no need to kill Dumarest for the reason you mention. He will leave on the first ship. His passage is safe. Why should I want him dead?"

"Greed." Ely was bland as he smiled at the factor. "You are a greedy man, brother. It is a carnal sin and could prove fatal." His lifted hand stilled the other's protest. "I do not threaten but simply point out the obvious. You cannot be certain that Dumarest will leave Gath on a High passage. He is strong and accustomed to traveling Low. He might choose to take others with him. The strongest, naturally-only they could survive. Could you spare so many willing bearers, brother?"

"I'd be glad to see them go. All of them!" Piers gulped at his drink. "The penniless scum! The sooner they go the better!"

"So you keep saying-I don't believe you." The monk grew stern. "Let us not fence with words, brother. You set the fee for their hiring. You put the price on their food. You know that every penny they earn will find its way into your pocket. You may not have initiated the system but you are taking full advantage of it. Brother, I would not have your conscience for the wealth of a world!"

"There is an old saying," said Piers quietly. "The man who rides a tiger finds it hard to dismount."

"He could have help, brother."

"What do you want? Facilities for a church in Hightown? You can have them but what good it will do I don't know. It is hard to preach ethics to those who value nothing but money. A church in Lowtown? You can have that too and I'll put you on the roster for regular food. You may break your heart but you won't starve." Piers finished his drink and put down the empty glass. "You may be able to persuade them to be content with their lot. What else you can do I can't imagine."

"Perhaps you underestimate the power of the Brotherhood," said the monk evenly. "It is not beyond speculation that the travelers might take a hand in their own destiny. Who then would tend the field, clear the path, act as bearers for the tourists who come to Gath?"

"A Union!" The factor made no secret of his disgust. "Are you threatening me with a Union? A man of your calling to deal in a thing so vile!"

"By the pattern on your face I see that you belong to a Guild," said the monk sharply. "What else is that but a union of people engaged in serving their common end?"

He had expected an outburst of rage but the factor surprised him. Quentin could see no relationship between the professional guild of which he was a member and a union of unspecialized types the thought of which aroused only disgust. The professional men had ethics, the others did not. If anything he was amused by the old man's analogy.

Deliberately he helped himself to another drink, taking his time, adjusting alcohol, flavor and ice until it was to his satisfaction.

"An entrepreneur arrived on the same ship as yourself," he said casually. "We get at least one every storm. All get the same idea. They want to organize the travelers into a composite whole and then dictate the terms under which they will allow them to work. Only one has tried to do it."

"And?"

"He accomplished what he set out to do. He had money and could provide food. For a time, at least; then the food grew too expensive. Then came the time of storm and the ships began to arrive. By that time the travelers were very hungry." He paused and took a sip of his drink. His eyes were amused as they stared at the monk over the rim of the glass. "And then guess what?"

"You are telling the story," said the monk evenly.

"I tell it to every entrepreneur who arrives. They invariably see the point. All I did was to go among the travelers and hire twelve of the strongest men. I fed and armed them. I replaced the engines in the rafts. They were able to do all the work that needed to be done. The rest got nothing. After the storm there was no more talk of conditions."

"And you continued to ride your tiger." Brother Ely was thoughtful. The factor was a more complex character than he had guessed. The man was driven as much by fear as by greed. "Tell me, brother, are you so in love with the beast that you cannot bear to be parted?"

Piers looked at his hand. It was trembling with memories of nightmared sleep. The dream was always the same: himself lying crushed and bleeding beneath the boots of a ravening mob. It could happen at any time, more so during the period of storm when nerves jerked to electric tension. And there was nothing between him and the mob but a handful of guards.

"Well, brother?" The monk was patient The factor shook his head.

"No."

"I am glad to hear you say it." The old man's face expressed his joy. "The Brotherhood has always striven for the greatest good for the greatest number while maintaining established rule. Here it would take so little. A simple adjustment of the fees charged the tourists. A system to provide and distribute natural food among the travelers. Some medical care-we are good at such things. We could rid you of your tiger."

And, thought the factor gratefully, provide a barrier between the travelers and himself. Well, why not let them have their way? Let them take charge, wear the face of authority while he remained innocently in the background. They could do it and instill obedience to the Supreme Ethic at the same time.

His life, at least, would be safe.