Dumarest glanced at Veruchia, remembering his instructions, the need to build an affinity between them. But he did not have to pretend.

  "No, I do not."

  "Would you care to elaborate?" Pezia helped himself to wine. "After all, you have a vested interest in the arena. It seems odd to hear a man decry the means by which he earns a living. Could you give us a little more detail?"

  "Go into the arena," said Dumarest tightly. "Fight for your life. Listen to the roar of the crowd and watch as cultured women offer their bodies to a stranger. Smell the stink of blood. That's detail enough. The games breed barbarians."

  "But you fight."

  "From necessity, not from choice."

  Jebele said, "Barbarians. But surely a barbaric culture is a viable one?"

  Sellcas spoke from where he sat at the head of the table. "For a true barbarian, perhaps, but for civilized people to play at being barbarians is decadence. And a civilized culture plumbs depths of depravity unknown to a genuine primitive. You agree, Earl?"

  "Yes, I agree."

  Pezia smiled. "You hear that, Wolin? How often have I said it? We are trying to be what we are not. In that lies danger."

  "Yet surely there must be something to the mystique of combat?" Shamar displayed a little more of her breasts as she smiled at Dumarest. "You of all people should appreciate that. The spiritual uplift gained by those who watch. The psychological cleansing by the satiation of hidden urges. The wakening of slumbering energies. And it must apply even more to those who actually participate. Don't you feel a rebirth after a bout? A tremendous release? A new determination?"

  "No, my lady. I am simply glad that it is over."

  "You tease me," she said. "I wish Montarg were here. He could explain it all so much better than I can."

  "Has he fought in the arena?"

  "Montarg? No, but—"

  "Then, with respect, my lady, he is hardly an expert."

  She was sharp. "And you are?"

  "He is alive," said Selkas quietly. "What more proof do you need?"

  * * *

  The dishes were cleared away and replaced by decanters of spirits, liqueurs and a variety of tisanes together with tiny cakes crusted with seeds. Dumarest chose a tisane which carried the scent of flowers and held the taste of honey. He sipped it, leaning back, half-listening to the blur of conversation. Casual words tossed back and forth across the table: Montarg, Chorzel and his indisposition, the interplay of opposed factions.

  Reaching for one of the tiny cakes he felt the touch of softness as his hand struck another. Like her face it was skeined in black.

  "Allow me." He proffered the dish of cakes and looked directly into her eyes.

  "Thank you." She made her selection, finding it difficult to look away. Intently she searched his face looking for the old, familiar signs, the tension, the forced politeness, the subtle veil which masked repulsion. They were absent. Incredibly it seemed that this man could look on her as a woman and not as a peculiar monstrosity. For the sake of something to say she said, "You have traveled far?"

  "Yes."

  "And for long?"

  Too long. A forgotten number of worlds and endless reaches of space. Riding High when he could, the magic of quick-time slowing his metabolism so that hours became seconds and months days. "Yes."

  "Selkas also." She glanced to the head of the table. "He was away for years when he was young and again after I was born. I think he was bored. Is that why you travel? Because you are bored?"

  Deliberately he was casual. "No, Veruchia. I am looking for something. A planet called Earth."

  "Earth?" She frowned. "Could a world have such a name? Earth is ground or dirt or soil. It must be a very odd place."

  "Not odd. It is old and worn and scarred by ancient wars, but the sky is blue and there is a great, silver moon." He paused and added, "I was born there."

  Immediately she understood. "And you want to go back home. That is why you fought in the arena, to gain money for your passage. Well, you won't have to fight again. I won a great deal and some of it is yours. The next time a ship lands we will arrange for it to take you home."

  She had the impulsive generosity of a child.

  "It isn't that simple, Veruchia." For the first time he used her name. "No one seems to know where Earth lies. They do not have the spatial coordinates."

  "But you came from there, you said. Surely you must know the way back."

  "I left when I was a boy, scared, stowing away on a strange vessel. The captain was more than kind. He could have evicted me. Instead he allowed me to work my passage. Later he died and I moved on."

  Always moving towards the center of the galaxy where suns hung close and worlds were plentiful. Probing deep into regions where the skies were full of glistening sheets and curtains of light. Years of moving until the very name of Earth was a thing unknown.

  "You're lost," she said with quick sympathy. "You can't find your way back. But someone must know where Earth lies. Selkas, perhaps? I'll ask him."

  Her voice was clear, sharp as it rose over the blur of conversation. A silence followed the question and Dumarest felt himself tense. He looked down at his hand where it gripped the cup of tisane. His knuckles were white and deliberately he eased his grip. It was stupid to hope and yet hope never died. Perhaps, this time, someone would be able to tell him what he had to know.

  "Earth?" Selkas brooded, his eyes sharp beneath his brows. "No, Veruchia, I don't know where it is. I've never been there. But the name is oddly familiar. Earth," he mused. "Earth."

  "It has another name," said Dumarest. "Terra. And it lies in this region of the galaxy." That much, at least, he had learned.

  "And lost, you say?" Pezia smiled. "How can such a thing be possible? I think, my friend, that you hunt for a legend."

  Selkas lifted his head. "A legend! Now I have it! The Original People. They claim to have come from Earth." He smiled. "They claim even more. They state that all men originated on one single world."

  "Ridiculous!" Nebka spluttered over his liqueur. "The thing is beyond reason. How could all the varied races of mankind have possibly been accommodated on one small planet? I've heard of these people, Selkas. I traveled a little when young and the salon of every ship is a hotbed of rumor and speculation. It is a means of passing the time. Earth is a myth exactly like El Dorado, Jackpot, Bonanza, Eden, a dozen others. Dreams spun out of nothingness."

  "Perhaps not," Selkas was thoughtful. "Every legend holds a grain of fact, a fragment of truth which has become overlaid and buried by a mass of elaboration. It is barely possible that mankind did originate from one point in space. Not a single planet, of course, but a compact region." He stilled the rumble of protest. "Let me illustrate."

  His hands moved, tipping the little cakes from their dishes, scattering them thickly towards the center of the table, sparsely towards where he sat.

  "Now imagine, for the sake of argument, that mankind originated in an area like this." He pointed to where the cakes were few. "They invented space travel. Yes, I know that it is a thing we have always had with us, but imagine a time when it was new. Mankind headed from their home worlds and where would they have headed? Not towards each other. Certainly not towards the thin edges of the galaxy. They would have aimed their vessels to where worlds without number waited to be exploited." His finger rapped the table where the cakes clustered thickly. "Towards the center."

  "And because the planets were close they would have continued to press deeper into the galaxy." Fazia nodded. "You make a good case, Selkas."

  Jebele shrugged. "Speculation without proof. An amusing theory, no more."

  "But interesting." Wolin frowned at the scattered cakes. "It wouldn't have happened all at once, of course. There would have been a succession of waves as the original worlds revitalized their energies. Diminishing waves, perhaps, until those left lacked the means or will to follow. And time erases memories. The home worlds could have been forgotten or become the fabric of legend." He smiled. "We have one of our own, remember? The First Ship."

  "That is no legend!" Veruchia was sharp.

  "So you say."

  "As I know and so do you all." She stared around the table. "The ship is real, it exists and we know roughly where it is to be found. It is a crime that while fortunes are being wasted it is neglected."

  "Calm down, Veruchia." Shamar smiled like a cat as she reached for one of the little cakes. Her teeth gleamed as they bit into it. "What does an old ship matter even assuming that it could ever be found? It's a part of history and, as Wolin says, more a legend than anything else. Something built out of a supposed wreck and a wild hope. Personally I think it a waste of time to dream of the past. You can have it. The present is good enough for me."

  Her smile, as she looked at Dumarest, was a naked invitation.

  "You claim too much, Veruchia," said Wolin. "We have no proof as to the whereabouts of the ship, assuming that it exists at all. One rumor puts it among the Frenderha Hills, another in the great glacier of Cosne, a third at the bottom of the Elgish Sea."

  "Forget the ship," said Shamar. "I'm bored with all this talk of the dead past, old bones and stupid legends. The present is good enough for me. What are your intentions, Earl? Will you fight again or are you interested in other employment? If so it is possible that I may be able to help you to find it." The tip of her tongue wetted the ripe fullness of her lower lip. "Very possible. There is always room in my household for a man with your attributes."

  Veruchia said quickly, "He is already engaged."

  "Really?" Shamar raised her eyebrows. "In what capacity, my dear?"

  Trust the bitch to hit where it hurt! The implication was plain and Veruchia felt herself blush as she invented a duty, praying that Dumarest would not show her up for the fool that she was. And why had she spoken at all? Did it really matter if he took Shamar to bed?

  "As my agent. I want him to check the potential of my southern lands."

  "And you will pay him well, no doubt." Shamar's smile was loaded with venom. "For your sake, Veruchia, I hope that he does not disappoint you."

  "No, my lady," said Dumarest flatly. "I promise that I will not do that."

  Veruchia sat back in her chair, relief making her weak. He had not let her down and, more, had played along with the blatant innuendo. At least he had saved her pride.

  A servant had entered the chamber during the exchange with a note for Selkas. She saw him read it, dismiss the man with a gesture and rise as the doors closed behind him.

  His tone was grave. "Veruchia, we must go to the palace at once. Chorzel is very ill."

  * * *

  He looked dwarfed in the great bed, his giant frame small against the expanse of sheets, defiled by the snaking tubes and mechanisms of the life-support apparatus. Around him the medical attendants stood like green-clad ghosts, silent, waiting. Hamane, white hair awry, face tense, looked up from where he checked a bank of dials. The old doctor was curt: a sure sign of his anxiety.

  "He's low, Veruchia. Very low. I doubt if he'll last the night."

  "When?"

  "He had a relapse a couple of hours ago. The idiot should never have gone to the stadium, I'd warned him often enough to take things easy. He had a minor stroke, nothing too serious in itself, but bad enough for anyone, let alone a man in his condition." Overweight, of course; Chorzel was known for his love of good food and wine. Hamane shook his head. "I got him comfortable and then this happened. It shouldn't and I'm going to find out why. But it did and there's an end to it."

  "Is there no hope?"

  "None. The brain is affected by massive hemorrhage and he is almost completely paralyzed. He would be dead now but for the mechanisms." His voice softened. "I'm sorry, Veruchia, but these things happen. All things come to an end."

  An end to more than a single life. Veruchia crossed to the side of the bed and stood looking down at the helpless shape. It was hard now to imagine him as he had once been: tall and strong and radiating a fierce vitality. She remembered how he had picked her up and thrown her high into the air, grinning at her screams, catching her in his big arms; how he had played with her on too-rare occasions, acting the father she had never known.

  But all that had been long ago when she had been a child, before she had grown and they had drifted apart, she into a protective shell and he down odd paths as he pursued misguided theories. Now he was dying and an era was about to end.

  She stooped over the bed as she caught the glint of his eyes in the puffed creases of his face. He seemed to want to say something but could only manage a thin drone. She turned away as a nurse wiped the drooling mouth. It was not good to see him so helpless when once he had been so strong.

  Selkas had been talking quietly to the doctor. He stepped away to join her, standing before her, his voice low.

  "There is nothing more we can do here, Veruchia. Chorzel is as good as dead. He will never speak again and never move. Hamane is certain of it though he will continue monitoring until the last moment."

  "Does Montarg know?"

  "He was informed but hasn't bothered to attend. I doubt if he will bother and we can both guess why. Already he must be busy making arrangements. Well, we can make our own but we have little time to waste."

  "Why bother." The somber atmosphere of the chamber had depressed her. "We know what will happen. Montarg will be accepted and my own claim dismissed."

  "Giving up, Veruchia?"

  "No." She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. At least she would make a fight of it. "When are you proposing to summon the Council?"

  "At noon tomorrow. Chorzel cannot possibly last that long and so there will be no excuse for delay." His hand tightened on her arm. "This is no time to be weak, girl."

  "More advice, Selkas?"

  "Was the last so bad?"

  "No, but why are you so concerned? You have never shown any great interest before."

  "I don't like Montarg. I think he would be bad for this world and that is reason enough for anyone to show concern. It is a time to take sides, Veruchia, and I am taking yours." He urged her from the chamber. "You had better go home now. Dumarest is waiting below, he will attend you."

  "I don't need him. I can manage alone."

  "Perhaps so, but he needs you, my dear. You employed him, remember?"

  She had almost forgotten the stupid gesture. Now, it seemed, she was stuck with it.

  "All right," she surrendered. "He can take me home."

  * * *

  She lived in a small house at the edge of the city, a snug place with thick walls and a single floor. The door opened beneath her hand; before she could swing it wide Dumarest had stepped before her, stepping ahead as the door closed behind her. Lights bloomed automatically as they entered the hall and he halted, looking at it. It was warm with carpets on the polished wood of the floor, bright with flowers set in vases of hammered metal.

  "You must be tired," she said as he slipped the cloak from her shoulders. "If you're not then I am. It's been a trying day."

  He made no motion to leave.

  "You have a lovely house, Veruchia. May I look at it?" Without waiting for permission he moved from room to room, walking silently, acting with a deft precision.

  She watched him for a moment then entered her study. It was her favorite room, the walls paneled in glowing woods, old maps neatly framed, books lined in neat array. When he joined her she was pouring drinks, golden fluid in goblets of decorated glass.

  Handing him one she said, "Well, are you satisfied?"

  "With the house?"

  "That there is no one lurking in the shadows waiting to attack me."

  "If there is I didn't see him." Dumarest sipped at the brandy. "Did you think someone might be?"

  "Of course not."

  "May I ask how you can be so certain?"

  "Dradea is not that kind of a world. Don't judge us by the arena. That is an artificial growth planted by bad advice. The people here are gentle and unused to violence. Chorzel hoped to change that which is why he instigated the games. But you know all this, you heard the talk at dinner and you must have looked around. No, I do not fear personal attack." Her voice became bitter. "And I am hardly in danger of rape."

  He knew better than to make the obvious comment. The conviction of a lifetime could not be overcome with a word. Instead he said, casually. "Call it a habit. I like to know my surroundings. I see that you are interested in ancient things."

  "The maps? It is a hobby and something more. I have a vested interest in the past." She gestured to a chair. "You may as well finish your drink in comfort. Have you anywhere to stay? Tomorrow I will arrange for money to be given you. If you haven't enough for tonight something can be arranged."

  "I thought it already had. As your agent surely I must remain in your house."

  "Impossible! I live alone!"

  She caught his smile and realized that she was being stupid, reacting like a scared young girl to imagined dangers. And the reaction had been too strong, too defensive, and she was too intelligent not to know why.

  I'm in love with him, she thought bleakly. In love or falling in love and I can't resist it. She fumbled with her brandy, remembering how it had happened before, the young man who had attracted her and who had seemed to find her pleasant—toying with her, holding out the bait of his affection as he would dangle meat before a dog. Then the dreadful realization as he had looked at her and laughed.

  She had been fifteen and had never dared to feel tenderness for anyone since that time.

  A long time, she thought drearily. Too long. And now it was happening again.

  "Veruchia." She felt him close to her and turned to meet his eyes, seeing the strength, the understanding, looking for the pity she dreaded to find. But there was no pity, she was thankful for that. "Veruchia, is anything wrong?"