"Let me see!" Montarg snatched the paper. "Are they the same?" Both men concentrated on the scrawled symbols.

  It was the moment Dumarest had waited for. He surged, the soles of his feet hard against the floor, the muscles of loins and back cracking as he fought to straighten against the cramping bulk of the chair. Wood shattered, weakened by the previous blows, the chair disintegrating into its various parts.

  As the acolyte grabbed at him Dumarest's hand rose, the stylo resting against his palm, the point shearing into the eye and the brain beneath.

  "No!" Surat jumped before Montarg as he clawed at the laser in his sleeve. If Dumarest should be killed his life was ended, his future, the reward of being assimilated into central intelligence.

  "Stand aside, you fool!" Montarg had the gun out, the barrel leveling as Dumarest tore free the hampering strap. "Stand aside!"

  He swore as the cyber still blocked his aim and ran to where Veruchia sagged against her bonds. Dumarest lunged towards him. He saw the gun steady its aim, the whiteness of Montarg's knuckle as he pressed the trigger.

  The first shot missed. The second burned a groove on the slope of his shoulder and then he was on the man, his left hand flashing out to grip the weapon, to raise and turn it as Montarg fired again. He heard the hiss of seared flesh and twisted, seeing Surat fall, a charred hole in the shaven expanse of his skull.

  Dumarest dropped his free hand to the dagger in its ornate sheath, lifted it, held it so the light shone on the blade.

  "No! Please, no!"

  "For Veruchia, Montarg," said Dumarest.

  And slammed the dagger into his heart.

  * * *

  The city was celebrating. Lights shone on every building and the streets were full of people, men and women dancing to the tune of wandering musicians, wine and food free at every intersection. Riding high above the noise and confusion Veruchia could hardly believe that it was all for her.

  "An old tradition," said Selkas. "Each new Owner is expected to squander some rent in providing a feast. When Chorzel inherited he offered land to every man who could run to the Ulam Depression and back in a day. Three managed to do it." He fell silent, thinking. "That was before he instigated the games."

  "What made him do it, Selkas?"

  "Send men to die in the arena? You've heard all the reasons many times."

  Dumarest said, "He was guided by the Cyclan. You need no better reason than that."

  He sat beside the canopy, not looking at the others, not wanting to be with them, but Veruchia had insisted. She had been Owner for a day and had still to learn that rule carried responsibility. And she had still to realize the danger which lurked and would always lurk, waiting to trap the unwary.

  "Surat gave him bad advice," said Selkas. "Is that what you mean?"

  "I mean that the Cyclan deliberately tried to ruin this world and they've almost done it. Had Montarg inherited they would have succeeded. You don't need me to tell you that. You have a civilized culture here and it has been contaminated by barbaric influences. You've traveled, Selkas, you know. It takes little to veer the course of a planet's progress. Without commerce, ships don't call and without ships there is an inevitable indrawing and stagnation. It's your job, Veruchia, to alter the trend. Shut the arena or, better, let it be for honest sport. Real games, not festivals of blood."

  Dumarest thought of Sadoua. His life was the arena. Well, life was a constant struggle. He would survive.

  "But why?" asked Veruchia. "What possible reason could the Cyclan have for wanting this world to become so isolated?"

  Dumarest looked at the stars; they were dimmed by the brilliance from below. But the question had started a train of thought. The Cyclan did nothing without reason. Their iron logic dictated that everything they did moved to a determined end and he knew how devious they could be.

  He said, slowly, "This is a theory, nothing more. What happens when a world progresses? Commerce increases, the population grows, ships are plentiful and, if there are suitable worlds nearby, they too will share in the expansion. It could be that the Cyclan didn't want Dradea to become viable to prevent that very thing."

  Which meant the organization did not want this sector of space to become too well-traversed. Did they have something to hide? A sector they wished to keep isolated? A world which had to remain untouched?

  Earth, perhaps?

  He sat brooding as the raft sloped across the sky to settle at the edge of the city before familiar walls.

  "Home," said Veruchia. "My home."

  Not the palace: that was too large, too overwhelming as yet, and for reasons of her own she wanted the privacy of familiar surroundings. Selkas knew what was in her mind and was smoothly diplomatic.

  "I'll call for you tomorrow," he said. "There's a lot to be done and you'll have to move into the palace in order to do it. Then there is the Council to meet and decisions to be made. I'll see you too, Earl. There are certain matters to be settled."

  Money, his pay and, perhaps, other things.

  "We can do it now," said Dumarest. "I'll come with you."

  "Tomorrow will do. Tonight Veruchia needs you."

  Dumarest looked at the girl where she stood before the open door of her house. She turned, smiling before passing inside. Around the walls inconspicuous men stood quietly on watch. There was no longer any need for him to guard against assassins. The Owner of a world did not lack bodyguards.

  "She loves you," said Selkas evenly. "Surely you know that. And she needs strength and reassurance if she is to rule this world and guide it the way it must go. You can give her that strength, Earl. You must."

  "Must?"

  "Have you never been in love, Earl? Don't you know what it is to have one person fill your world? To think of your future always with that one person in mind?" Selkas caught Dumarest's expression and was suddenly contrite. "I'm sorry. I've wakened hurtful memories. You must forgive me."

  Dumarest looked at the house, the canopy, the hard lines of his reflection. The dead should not be able to hurt so much—not when they had loved so deep.

  "When Lisa died I thought I would go mad," whispered Selkas. "I couldn't believe that I would never see her again. Always she was around the next corner, in the next room, but she never was. And always, always, she haunts my dreams. I don't want that to happen to Veruchia. Not now, not yet, not ever if it can be avoided. In her life she has known too much sorrow. Don't add to it, Earl. Go to her. She needs you."

  She was singing as he entered the house, a Kiting melody reflecting her happiness. She called out as he closed the door and stood leaning against it, looking at the hall. The blood had gone, the broken chair, the bodies he had left lying. Only a seared patch on a wall and another on the polished floor told of the violence this place had known.

  "Earl? Is that you, my darling?"

  "Yes, Veruchia."

  "So formal! Has Selkas gone?"

  "Yes."

  He moved into the study and helped himself to brandy, warming the goblet as he looked at the ranked books and the ancient maps. One, more modem, was that of Dradea, and he stood looking at it as he sipped the brandy. The desert of Wend, the glacier of Cosne, the broad expanse of the Elgish Sea where they both had nearly died—where he had died.

  He drank, more deeply this time, not wanting to remember the pain, the growing darkness, the last wash of oblivion. Was death really like that? Would it come again as it had before? Or would it come quick and fast, unsuspected and merciful in lack of anticipation?

  The goblet was empty. He refilled it and again studied the map. Dradea was a fair world with great potential. A city could be built there. Another at the foot of those hills. A port could fit into that natural harbor and space-fields could stretch in a dozen places.

  "It's a beautiful planet, Earl. And it's all ours."

  "Yours, Veruchia."

  "Ours, darling. Yours and mine."

  She had changed and was wearing a thin robe of gossamer, laced down the front, open at the shoulders, the black lace merging with the natural adornment of her flesh so that it was hard to see where the one ended and the other began. Her hair streamed loose and silken, silver against jet, comet trails against a midnight sky. Her eyes were luminous. Her lips were full and faintly moist. It seemed incredible that he had ever likened her to a boy.

  "Yours and mine," she repeated. "We share it. There was a bargain, remember?"

  One made after a night of love when she had been desperate for his help. But at least she had remembered. She was a woman who would never forget anything.

  "No," he said. "Shared responsibility never works and what would I do with half a planet? You keep it. You won it and it's yours."

  She didn't argue, knowing as he did the dissension which would arise, the cabals formed by those jealous of a stranger. And Montarg's son would provide a nucleus for rebellion.

  "Then I'll make you a High Tenant with land enough to make you independent and money enough so that you can do as you please."

  It was good to have power, to make decisions and to give rewards. She watched as Dumarest poured brandy into a glass, taking it as he lifted his own.

  "A toast, Veruchia. To the most beautiful Owner this world has ever known. The most beautiful it could ever have."

  She felt herself grow hot with pleasure and was suddenly conscious of the thing which had set her apart. He caught the hand which lifted, unconsciously, to her face.

  "No, Veruchia, I want to see you while I have the chance. Within a week every woman on this planet will have copied your markings. The price of fame, my dear. They will all want to look like the Owner. But only the Owner will be unique."

  "Earl! My darling!"

  The goblet fell as she moved into his arms, the brandy spilling unheeded on the floor. She wound her arms around his neck and pressed against him with mounting demand. He responded and happiness suffused her like a flood.

  He would stay.

  For a while, at least, he would stay.

  He would forget his dream of finding Earth, of returning home. Home was where the heart resided and soon he would accept that.

  "Earl?"

  "Darling?"

  "You'll never leave me?"

  She felt the sudden tension, the reluctance to answer and closed his lips with her own before he could reply. He had traveled all his life and it was a habit hard to break. The time would come when he would yearn to be on his way again, looking, searching, moving from world to world. He might even go, it was a chance she had to take. A bigger chance that, if he did, he would return.

  But he wouldn't go tonight.

  He wouldn't go tomorrow.

  He might never go at all. He wouldn't be the first man who had lost a world for the love of a woman.

 

 

  Unknown, Tubb, EC - Dumarest 08 - Veruchia (HTML)_hbf.html

 

 

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