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Zenya
#11 in the Dumarest series
E.C. Tubb
Chapter One
She was tall, with a mass of golden hair raised and crested in
an aureole above her head. Thick strands ran from her temples,
cut and shaped into upcurving points which accentuated the
high bones and slight concavity of her cheeks. Her jaw was
round, with a determined hardness, and her lips were full, the
lower pouting in betraying sensuosity. Her eyes were deep-set,
glowing amber, wide-spaced beneath arching brows, their
upward slant giving her the appearance of a watchful cat.
She had, Dumarest realized, been studying him with unusual
interest.
Slowly he turned the page of the ancient volume lying before
him on the reading desk, not looking at the crabbed text beneath
its transparent coating, but concentrating on the girl.
She wore a dress of luminous gold, rich fabric falling from
throat to knee, cinctured at the waist, and tight against the
contours of her body. Her arms were bare, coiled bracelets in the
 
design of serpents rising from wrists to elbows, gems bright
against the precious metal. Her fingers were long, tapering,
devoid of rings, the nails painted to match her dress. Her skin
was a lustrous bronze.
She was young, obviously wealthy, and completely out of
place. Such a woman would not haunt the musty confines of the
Archives of Paiyar. Her type would be found at the stadium, at
fashion shows, at parties, at the auctions where debtors were
sold into bondage, at the market where merchants offered jewels
and rare fabrics, perfumes from a dozen worlds, unguents, and
titivating lotions. Not even the lowest of courtesans would waste
her time in such a place.
Dumarest turned another page. The volume was the log of
some old vessel, boring in its listing of minutiae, devoid of the
information he sought. He closed it, added it to a pile of others,
and took the entire heap to a desk where a woman checked them
against a card.
Smiling, she said, "Did you find what you were looking for?"
"No."
"I'm sorry." Her voice held genuine regret. I'm afraid they are
the oldest logs we possess. There is another, that of the Merle —a
trading vessel which touched on several worlds. It is of interest
because the ship encountered an electronic storm which threw it
far from its designated path. Perhaps… ?"
"Thank you, but no." Dumarest returned the smile. "What I
am looking for is something much earlier. A log made at the
time when navigational tables were not as they are now. Or a set
of tables as used before the present system became established.
Apparently you have nothing like that."
"No," she admitted reluctantly, "we haven't. But would such
tables exist? I know little about spacial navigation, but surely the
tables used now are the same as they have always been?"
"Perhaps, but I was hoping…" Dumarest broke off, shrugging.
"Well, it doesn't matter. It was a thin hope at best."
 
But one which had to be investigated. Old logs read and
records searched, as he had done before on too many worlds.
Books, microfilms, all examined and crosschecked, to be finally
discarded as valueless to his search. And yet, somewhere, had to
be the answer.
The woman said, "I have no wish to be curious, but if you
could tell me just what it is you are looking for, I might be able
to help."
"A place. A world," said Dumarest. He added bleakly, "You
would call it a legend."
"Legendary worlds?" She frowned, thinking. "I'm sure that we
have something in that field. A volume compiled by an old
scholar. His name is… ?" The frown deepened. "Sazy… Dazym
Negaso! That's the one! He spent a lifetime correlating old
myths. I'm sure the book would contain the information you are
looking for. I could find it if you would care to wait."
"No, thank you."
"Tomorrow, then?"
"No," he said again. "I've read the book. It was interesting,
but of no real value. A collection of rumor and wild speculation."
And another hope gone, but he was used to that.
"That will be all, then?"
Dumarest nodded, and as the woman busied herself assessing
the charge, turned to examine the gallery. At one of the tables a
thin-faced man scowled as he made copious notes. At another a
matron snuffled as she searched through a pile of recent
publications. A young couple whispered from behind the shelter
of reproductions of rare and valuable Sha' Tung art. An old man
dozed in a remote corner. The girl in the golden dress was
nowhere to be seen.
Her absence was disturbing. Dumarest did not like to be an
object of interest, especially on a world that could contain hated
 
enemies. It was, he decided, time to be moving on.
"Will you be back tomorrow?" The attendant was hopeful. Old
though she was, she could still dream, and the tall man had
touched something within her. It wasn't just his clothes—the
tunic high about the throat and falling to mid-thigh, the pants,
and high boots, all in somber gray. Rather it was the hard lines
of his face, which spoke of privation, the haunting something in
his eyes, the mouth which, she guessed, could so easily become
cruel. This man, she knew, had traveled, had seen other worlds,
other suns, and something of what he had experienced rode with
him. So she added, almost pleadingly, "I could take another look
at the file. Maybe there is something which has been overlooked.
A scrap of information which could be of value."
Caution dictated a lie. "I'll be back," he said. "But don't bother
looking for anything just yet. I'll think about it and let you
know." He counted out money, the cost of the charge. Casually he
added, "There was a girl here a short while ago. Tall, blond,
wearing a golden dress. Did you see her?"
For a moment she hesitated, and then said curtly, "Yes, I saw
her."
"Do you know who she is?"
"Her name, no. I've never seen her before. But she belongs to
the Aihult. She wore serpents," she explained. "It is their device."
"A powerful house?"
"One of the most powerful on Paiyar." She glanced down at
the symbol she wore on her blouse, the interlocked rings of the
civil authority, and Dumarest could sense her resentment. Like
himself, she lacked the protection of house, guild, or clan, but at
least she did belong to an organization. She was not wholly alone.
He said, "Did she ask about me? The books I asked for?"
"No. She merely came in and watched you." The attendant
thinned her lips. "I didn't see her leave."
 
* * *
She was waiting outside in a long, musty corridor thick with
shadows, the odor of wood merging with that of dust and
hanging like a miasma in the air. Without preamble she took his
arm, the scent of her perfume strong in his nostrils, replacing the
odor of ancient things with that of summer blooms. The aureole
of her hair came a little below his eyes.
She said, "I am Aihult Zenya Yamaipan. You are Earl
Dumarest. My grandfather wants to talk to you."
"Do I want to talk to him?"
"Does that really matter?" Her eyes were cool, faintly
mocking. Her voice was a rich contralto, each word clearly
enunciated. "When the master calls, the servant obeys; and in
this world, my friend, I assure you, Aihult Chan Parect is very
much a master. Shall we go?"
Dumarest resisted the tug at his arm. Flatly he said, "Let us
get one thing clear. Your grandfather is not my master, and I am
not his servant. Also, I have more important things to do."
"Nothing is as important as talking to my grandfather."
"That is a matter of opinion."
"Yours or his?" Abruptly she laughed, mellow echoes ringing
from the paneled walls, the low ceiling. "You know, there isn't a
person on Paiyar who wouldn't fall over themselves to answer
such a directive. To be summoned to talk to the head of the
house of Aihult! They would run barefoot over broken glass to be
there on time. And yet you refuse! Refuse!"
Dryly he said, "You find that amusing?"
"Incredible, rather, but refreshing. I like a man who knows his
own mind and who doesn't jump because he is told to do just
that. Tell me, have you ever fought in the stadium?"
He said formally, "Why do you ask that, my lady?"
 

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