Angado

Chapter Twelve

Edelman Pryor was seventy years old and looked it. He wore drab garments and walked with a shuffle but still had a sharp mind and intelligence. His home matched the man, old, decaying, full of dust and forgotten corners yet retaining a staid dignity-demonstrated by the decanter, the wine, the courtesy with which it was served.

"Your health!" He lifted his glass to Dumarest. "And my thanks for what you did. If I had money you could take it all. The girl is precious to me." He sipped and added, "We are not related in blood, you understand, but she is kind enough to call me her grandfather. When young she used to stay here with her mother."

"Her father?"

"At the time was busy on other worlds. Now he is home where he belongs. Why didn't you want him to know what happened?"

"Would it help if he did?"

"No. He would give you his thanks and anything you might ask but-"

"It would be a memory he can do without." Dumarest tasted his wine not surprised to find it thin and acid. "The governess will say nothing for her own protection and the girl is wise beyond her years. Even her mother needn't be told."

"The dress?"

"Only the sash was damaged. An accident." Dumarest shrugged. "To the young such things happen all the time."

But the incident had been of value, giving him an introduction to the old man, one arranged by the governess who had been too relieved to argue. Now, sitting in the dim chamber, sipping the weak and acid wine, Dumarest waited for the courtesies to end.

"You're a friend of young Angado," said Pryor. "I heard of his return. I hope for his sake he has learned caution during his travels. Are you close?"

"We traveled together."

"And are staying with him?" Pryor sipped his wine as Dumarest nodded. "Well, he could do worse. And your own reason for coming to Lychen?" He blinked when he heard it. "An interest in antiquities? Books, maps, old logs? What appeal could such things have for a man like you?"

"The same as they have for yourself." Dumarest set down his glass. "I learned something today and saw items of interest. A drawing of a moon and a symbol I recognized. Things which could have been seen here in your house. Perhaps in the books you keep locked away."

"From a curious little child who was into everything she saw." Pryor chuckled and finished his wine. "There's no mystery about it. I collected the books for a client and the things you mention could be found within them. One at least held symbols and pictures and charts of some kind. I must confess they held little appeal but they did represent a profit. As did the maps and logs and other items I bought for later resale. As a dealer, you understand, specializing in the abstruse and rare. In fact one of my acquisitions is to be seen in the museum; a plaque inscribed with what must be a hymn of praise to an ancient god. One called Apollo. You have heard the name?"

"No."

"A pity." Pryor was disappointed. "I loaned it to the museum for the duration of my life but I expect it'll stay there for as long as they want it. Or until someone is willing to pay the demanded price. But if you are really interested in ancient things then I may have something which could interest you." Rising, he went to a corner and rummaged in a cabinet, returning with an object in his hand. "Here."

It was squat, grotesque, a female figure with swollen belly and huge, sagging breasts. The face was blurred, the nose a rounded knob, the eyes deep-set pits of blankness. Three inches high the depiction was wholly engrossed with female sexual attributes.

"I've had it for most of my life," said Pryor. "It's very old and must have been an object of veneration at one time. Some say it is a fertility symbol but I'm certain it must be more than that. The representation is that of the mother-figure and so could have associations with the very source of human life. If so it is an ideal depicted in stone. Primitive, crude, but unmistakable."

And to him of high value-why else should he have kept it so long? Dumarest studied the figurine, sensing the raw power of it. A woman. A mother. A female born to breed. Naked, unashamed of the attributes which made her what she was. The epitome of every male consumed with the desire to gain the only immortality he could ever know-the children which would carry his genes.

"Erce," whispered Pryor. "Once a man told me she was called Erce."

Mother Earth, a name Dumarest had heard before. One appropriate to the figure; turned, it would be Earth Mother.

Earth Mother?

"The man who told me that told me more," Pryor reached for his glass, found it empty, refilled it with a hand which created small chimes from the impact of the decanter with the rim. A quiver which sent ripples over the surface of the wine. "It's nonsense, of course, as anyone can see, but an interesting concept in its way. You may have heard of it. Some profess to believe that all life originated on one planet. All the divergent races on one small world. Logic is against it. The numbers are of no importance, natural increase would account for that, but how to account for the diversity of color? How, under one sun, could people be white, black, brown, yellow and all the shades between? They would be affected by the same climatic conditions, the same radiation, water, air, food. How to account for the different germ plasm?" He drank and wiped droplets from his lips. "As I said it's just an interesting concept. The image itself yields a certain tactile pleasure which you may enjoy. The story, of course, is nothing. An exercise in logic, you might say. No intelligent man would give it a moment's credence."

And only a fool would have mentioned something he took such pains to deny.

Pryor was old but no fool and the figure meant more to him than he admitted despite his protestations. A gift for a service rendered, the most he could offer, and yet one it hurt to lose. The talk had been a cover for his emotions, the code by which he lived enforcing the gift as a matter of honor. As it would regard rejection as an insult. Dumarest must accept it or make an enemy and, on Lychen, he had only one friend.

Quietly he said, "I am honored. I have seen an object like this once before. On a far world in a commune of those who claimed a common heritage and held a belief close to that you spoke of. They call themselves the Original People." He saw the clenching of a thin hand, the sudden spatter of spilled wine. Without pause he continued, "To them the figure was sacred. They kept it in a shrine."

"So?"

"I think it a pleasant custom." The hand and the spilled wine had been enough but if Pryor knew of the Original People or subscribed to their beliefs the secrecy shrouding them would block his tongue. A thing Dumarest knew and accepted. "I receive this figure from you as a valued gift," he said. "But gifts should be shared and I return it into your keeping. To be guarded until such time as I choose to send for it. It is agreed?"

"I don't understand." Pryor frowned, cheeks flushing with a dawning anger. "Are you refusing-"

"No!" Dumarest was sharp. "That is the last thing I intend. Let me explain. The plaque in the museum is yours, agreed? They are displaying it for you. Safeguarding it. I am asking that you do the same with my figure. I have reason for the request which I am sure you will appreciate." His voice deepened, took on the echo of drums as he said, "From terror they fled to find new places on which to expiate their sins. Only when cleansed will the race of Man be again united."

The creed of the Original People and Pryor gulped, his eyes startled, veiling as he stared at Dumarest's enigmatic face.

"I see," he said. "I-yes, we understand each other. It will be an honor to do as you ask. But I feel at a loss. It is not right that you should leave this house without some token of my appreciation." Pryor gestured with a thin hand. "Look around. Choose. Anything you wish will be yours."

"This." Dumarest rose and picked up his wine. "I choose what this glass contains." He drank and added, "The wine- and the name of the man for whom you collected old books."

It was late when Dumarest returned to Angado's cavelike home and the apartment was deserted aside from servants who remained discreetly invisible. One answered his summons, a man who stood with quiet deference, eyes widening as Dumarest asked his question.

"A study, sir?"

"Something like that. A room with books and maps. Surely there are maps?"

"I can't be certain, sir. There was a clearance when the old owner died and the present master has been long absent. Also changes have been made." A lift of his hands emphasized his inability to be precise. "But if maps are present, sir, they could be in the desk."

"And that is where?"

In a room barren of windows lit by lamps shielded by decorated plates of tinted transparency. One with a soft carpet on the floor and erotic paintings on the ceiling to match those writhing on the walls. A library of a kind but one which would have held a bed rather than books. Now it held neither- just a chair, a display cabinet holding small artifacts, a desk which dominated the room with its massively carved and ornamented bulk. The top remained closed beneath Dumarest's hands, the maps it may have contained beyond his reach.

A small irritation and one he ignored as he returned to the main salon and stood before the wide window watching the play of colored illumination streaming upward from the mist at the foot of the waterfall. In it the curtain of water became an artist's palette alive with vibrant hues; reds and greens, blues, oranges, dusty browns and limpid violets, shards of gold and streamers of silver, changing, blending, forming transient images which dissolved as soon as recognized. A magic reflected by the rock wall facing him across the chasm, the stone taking on a strangely disturbing aspect as if the stubborn material had softened and become the door to new and alien dimensions.

From behind him a woman said, "It's beautiful, isn't it, Earl?"

She was tall, slim, wide shoulders adding to the hint of masculinity accentuated by the close-cropped silver hair which framed a broad face and deep-set eyes of vivid blue. A woman who moved with a boyish grace, no longer a girl, the maturity of near middle-age giving her a calm assurance. Her mouth, wide, the upper lip thin, curved into a smile, revealed neat and even teeth. She wore a masculine garb of pants and blouse, her femininity displayed in the fine weave, the intricate pattern of complex embroidery. Her voice was deep, resonant and Dumarest thought of the sound of fuming water.

"My lady?"

"So formal," she said. "So cautiously polite. Lhank said you were that."

"Lhank?"

"Lord Hedren Angado Nossak Karroum. When there are so many names it helps to use initials." Her laughter rose in genuine amusement. "Don't look so startled. I have a key, see?" She lifted it swinging from her fingers. "You were busy when I arrived. What did you think of the den? Lhank Five had some peculiar attributes and had a liking for the bizarre. Lhank Six was something of a prude and Lhank Seven-well, you know about him."

"And nothing about you."

"Nothing? He didn't mention me? His old and trusted friend?" Again her laughter drowned the murmur of the waterfall. "Wynne Tewson. At times I like to think that he left Lychen because of unrequited love. Now he has returned and with a new friend. A hero." Her eyes narrowed, became appraising. "There are many who will envy him."

Dumarest said, "The key you have in your hand-will it fit the desk?"

"What?" She frowned as he explained. "The desk in the den? What the hell is it doing there? Now if it was a bed maybe we could use it. Did you know that as the lights change color the paintings take on new and various forms? Speed the illumination and you get a kind of stroboscopic effect; one minute the walls are full of coupling shapes, the next a crowd of goggling voyeurs. Old Lhank certainly had imagination."

"The desk?"

"Is just that, a desk. Put in the den to get it out of the way. I can't open it but even if I could it holds nothing of value. Why are you so interested." She blinked as he told her. "Maps? You are interested in maps?"

"Just of this area. This world. I like to know where I am."

"Yes," she said. "That I can imagine. But there are other ways to find out aside from maps. How about a personally conducted tour? I've a raft waiting and we could take a ride. Go to the Steaming Hills or look at the Pearls of Toria. If you're really interested in old maps we could even pay a visit to Chenault."

The name Pryor had given him, the same as that Shakira had mentioned back in the circus of Chen Wei. The man Dumarest needed to find-but without leaving a trail others could follow.

Casually he said, "Is that why you are here? To take me on a conducted tour?"

"No. I came to bring you a message. Lhank wants you to join him."

"Do you always do what Angado wants?"

"Angado?" She smiled with a secret amusement. "Is that what you call him? How touching. Such a sweet name."

"He chose it."

"Of course. He would. His mentor called him that when he was young. The monk-did he tell you about Brother Lyndom? He had a great influence on his charge and it would have been better for Angado to have joined the Church. That or the Cyclan, but he lacked the application for that. For either, if the truth be known, an inherent weakness of character-why else should he have run away? Would you have done it, Earl? Given up the leadership of a great House and gone roving?"

"Perhaps, if the reason were strong enough."

"Such as?"

Dumarest said, meeting her eyes, "Unrequited love?"

"No!" She was emphatic in her denial. "Never that! You'd abduct the girl, fight for her, rape her, even, but never leave her."

"I was talking about love," he said. "Not lust."

"And love is sacrifice? Is that what you mean?" She thought about it for a moment then said, "You should be right. Maybe I misjudged Angado. Certainly he seems different now, more adult, more confident. He tries to hide it but it's there."

She had noticed, had others? Dumarest said, "He wants me to join him, you said. Why and where?"

"To give him moral courage, perhaps." The small mounds of her breasts lifted beneath her blouse as she shrugged. "Or to show you off to his friends-the hero with whom he battled against incredible odds and managed to survive. Give it a week and it will be you whose life he saved. Give it another and the whole thing will be forgotten. No novelty lasts long on Lychen." Her eyes moved past him to settle on the shifting lights beyond the window. "Boredom, Earl. Why are we always so bored?"

"You know the answer to that."

"Too idle, too rich, too spoiled. The cure?"

"You know the answer to that too."

"Work. Fill every minute of every hour with unremittent effort. But what if you can't work? Or don't want to work? Or there is no work to do?"

Dumarest said, "Some people are fat. They are fat because they eat too much. It's as simple as that."

"And we're bored because we're lazy-it's as simple as that. Or is it?"

"Lazy," said Dumarest. "Or afraid. No matter what reason you choose to blame, the cure lies within yourself."

"As it does with those who are too fat." She looked down at her slender figure. "Would you like me if I were fat, Earl? Great bulges here and here and here." Her hands moved to breasts, belly and buttocks. "Masses of flesh, quivering, bouncing, sagging, grotesque. The thought is disgusting. I'll never grow fat." She sucked in her stomach the action making her even more like a man. "Let's get out of here."

"To where?"

"Didn't I tell you? To the party, of course. But first we take a ride."

The raft was a work of art, small, gilded, the controls and body shielded by a transparent canopy which could be rolled back into the sides of the vehicle. Wynne handled it with skillful ease, rising with a velocity which sent air gusting in a muted roar as the hotel complex beside the head of the waterfall fell away to become a model touched with silver light.

"Scared?" Turning she shouted above the wind. "Or do you like the taste of danger?"

"No."

"No what? You're not scared or-"

"I don't like the taste of danger and, yes, I am scared." His hands closed on her own, his strength mastering hers as he adjusted the controls. The raft slowed in its climb, steadied, began to drift toward the east. "If you're trying to prove something you've made your point."

"Which was?"

"To show me how well you can handle a raft, perhaps." His hands moved a little and she gasped as the vehicle veered and, suddenly, began to fall. As it leveled Dumarest added, "We can both handle a raft."

"And we both can be scared."

"Which makes us human."

"And honest." She looked at him, starlight touching her hair, adding a sheen to its silver smoothness so that from where he sat she seemed to be haloed in a nacreous luminescence. "Are you honest, Earl?"

"As much as you, my lady."

"My name is Wynne. I would like you to use it." As he remained silent she said, "Please."

"Wynne." He smiled as he repeated the name. "Wynne. I would guess, my lady, that the name is appropriate."

"Don't be so damned formal!"

"Am I right?"

"Yes, I guess you are." She smiled in turn, the quick anger forgotten. "I usually get what I want in the end." She looked over the edge of the raft at the waterfall to one side and far below. "Spoiled," she said. "Old Lhank must have been mad to have tried to improve on nature. It's too smooth, too pretty. Like a painted harlot skilled in deception." Her eyes moved to Dumarest as if inviting comment then, as he remained silent, she said, "To hell with it. Let's find something more amusing."

The raft lifted with a sudden savage velocity, darting forward to throw Dumarest back, wind blasting at his face and hair. In it the woman's silver crop took on a life of its own, each hair seeming to stand out with individual vibrancy. A fuzz which dominated her face, enlarging her head so that, for a moment, she seemed grotesque.

Then, as she touched a control, the transparent canopy rose to a halfway position, forming a windscreen which protected them from the blast. Above the droning, organlike note from above, her laughter rose high, brittle-edged.

"Do you like it, Earl?"

A child enamored by a toy and demanding praise. He studied her profile in the starlight, recognizing her willfulness, her need to hold attention.

"Earl?"

"A souped-up raft," he said. "I've seen them before. Helped clear away their wreckage too. Overstrain the antigrav units and they can fail. Sometimes the generator can fuse. There are better ways to commit suicide."

"Old man's advice," she sneered. "You're too young to give it and I'm too young to take it. Hold on!"

The speed increased, auxiliary burners flaring to add their thrust, turning the raft into a rocket which lanced on a tail of flame across the sky. One which ended over the loom of hills shrouded in luminous smoke.

"The Steaming Hills," she said. The canopy lowered and Dumarest caught the scent of acrid vapors. "By day they look like bones hiding in drifting mists. At sunset and dawn the mist becomes a sea of blazing hues, but at night the trapped energies are released and they are what you see now."

A place of enchantment and drifting glows. Light and shadow in which bizarre shapes took form to change and vanish and reappear in a different guise. A moving, living chiaroscuro of incredible complexity and stunning beauty.

"There is a game the courageous sometimes play," she said. "Couples take their rafts to a certain height then cut lift and make love. The trick is to finish before the raft hits the ground." Her eyes were brooding as she stared at the luminous smoke. "Sometimes I think that those who don't return are the lucky ones."

Dumarest said nothing but moved closer to the controls.

"Think of it," she breathed. "The rush, the urgency, the race against time-all sauce to add piquancy to the experience. Have you ever done anything like that, Earl? Would you dare to try?

"No."

"Why not? Afraid? Or don't I appeal to you enough?" She faced him, eyes direct as they searched his own. "Would you be willing if I were other than what I am? Bloated? Broad hipped? A breeding machine for children? Or would you rather-"

"No!" he said again, his tone sharp. "Leave it at that."

"But-"

"Love isn't something to be timed. If it's worth having at all then, while it lasts, time has no meaning. And I'm too old to play childish games."

"And too young to need such stimulation." She smiled and reached for the controls. "Let me show you the Pearls of Toria."

They stretched across the plain round lakes of limpid brightness, a cluster which formed a giant necklace of pendants and ropes edged with a soft vegetation and gentle banks. The result of an ancient meteor strike which had created a host of isolated aquatic worlds.

Landing, Wynne jumped from the raft and ran to the edge of a pool shot with streaks of varied color. Stripping, she stood naked, slim, lithe, a column of nacreous whiteness, then dived into the pool to leave a widening circle of ripples.

Before they reached the shore Dumarest had joined her.

The water was cool, refreshing, the luminous trails made by darting fish disturbing drifting organisms. Tiny motes which blazed with light to the impact of larger bodies. Like an eel the woman twisted, swam, glided through the water to touch him, to dart away, to return with extended hands. A game in which he joined feeling the smooth sleekness of her, the muscle beneath the skin, the hard, tautness of her body.

One which lay beside him when, exhausted, they had climbed on the bank to sprawl on the sweet scented grass.

"Earl!"

He turned to look at her, seeing the silver sheen of her hair, the direct stare of her eyes, the message they held. One repeated by her body as she moved, small breasts signaling her femininity, narrow hips and waist belying it, the slender column of her thighs parting to leave no doubt as to her sex and her need.

"Earl! Earl, for God's sake!"

Then she was on him, straddling him, engulfing him, lips seeking his, closing on them, teeth nibbling as her nails raked his flesh. Moving with a fevered determination to drain him and, her own need satisfied, to slump against him.

"A man," she murmured. "My God, but you're a man!"

She caressed him until again time ceased to have meaning and she lay against him warm and sleek, the silver crop of her hair against his shoulder, the nails of her fingers scratching like kitten claws over his torso.

"Happy, Earl?"

"You've made me so."

"That's nice." She snuggled closer to him then, turning over, looked at the stars. "I hate them, Earl. All those bright points. Those suns with all those worlds. Every time I look at them I'm reminded of the fact I'm a failure. Scared to move away from the familiar into the strange. Living a more and more constricted life… At least Angado had guts. He took a chance and-" She turned her head to look at Dumarest. "No," she said. "He didn't take much of a chance. Paid to stay away-for him it was just a holiday. But he came back and he brought you with him. For that I thank him if for nothing else."

"I thank him too."

"For me?"

"Yes, Wynne." Dumarest made the name sound like music. "For you."

"Darling!"

In the pool a fish jumped in mating frenzy, the trail of its passage a golden streak of flame.