"Too few marrying too close," he said. "Too much fighting, too many feuds, too much good blood wasted in futile quarrels. And, always, there is the fury from the suns-the Chandorah is rife with dangerous radiation." The tuft of feathers fell from his hand and he turned to look at Dumarest. "We are dying, Earl. The Quelen is dying. Too few children are born to us and of those, too few survive. Once we were strong, now we are weak, decadent." His shrug was expressive. "You have seen those who haunt the Mart."
The product of inbred frailties accentuated by progressive degeneration; moronic, viciously cruel, retarded, sterile, insane.
"New blood is needed," said Vruya. "But the Quelen are proud. They think that to marry outside is to demean their status."
"But not you, my lord."
"A start must be made. Once the children arrive-strong, healthy offspring, the sense will be obvious. A matter of fashion, Earl. Of reeducation." Vruya glanced at the woman's portrait. "Unless it is done and soon the Quelen will cease to exist within five generations." He shook himself as if to fight off a sudden chill. "But enough of that. Pour more wine, Earl, and let us enjoy the moment."
She had the hair, the blood, the saliva gathered when he had dabbed her handkerchief against his wounded mouth. She had skin caught beneath the fine-edged nails of her hand; small flakes of dead epidermis but it was enough. Her skill would provide the rest-and the doll would take little time.
It grew beneath her hands, the puttylike substance formed to an ancient recipe, mixed to the incantation of esoteric spells, fashioned into a male likeness, its body containing the blood, hair, skin and saliva won from the man who had saved her life.
One she was now making her own.
Smoke rose from the ornament of brass and Eunice sucked it deep into her lungs. Pungent fumes scented with strong herbs, blended with selected chemicals, drugs, compounds which aided the direction and detachment of the mind. Already the world had taken on a blurred image, lines and planes distorted as if seen through flawed crystal. On the open tome the skull stared at her with sympathetic amusement.
The doll was finished, the lineaments of face and body carefully detailed with the skill of an artist. One bearing grey garments, hastily made, but good enough to emphasize the similarity.
"Earl," she whispered. "Come to me. Come to me, my darling. Come to me."
A command repeated until it took on the monotonous drone of a chant-conducted to the soft pound of her fist on the floor as, squatting, she yielded to the miasma spreading from her mind.
"Come… come… come to me, Earl. Come… come… come to me, Earl."
A command he must obey for she had his blood, his hair, his skin and saliva. And, as the whole was a sum of its parts, so a part was representative of the whole. Ancient magic culled from the tomes she had studied, applied with studied art, backed by a rigid conviction.
"Come… come… come to me, Earl. Come… come… come to me, Earl."
And he came.
He stood within the door of her chamber looking down at her where she squatted on the floor.
"My lord!" The woman who had guided him was of the Ypsheim-of middle age with a smooth, round, emotionless face. "It is not a good time. Perhaps it would be better for you to leave and return later."
Dumarest said, "Is this common?"
"It happens, my lord."
When the sun was close or the stars in a certain order or the wind from the sea. A madness which struck as a fit would strike and then he saw the doll and recognized the similarity and knew that this madness was a thing as ancient as time.
"Earl!" She rose and stepped toward him, arms extended, the doll lying forgotten on the floor. "Earl!"
A woman with the face of a child, empty now, vacuous, the lips moist with the saliva which had dribbled down her chin. Her eyes held secret torments.
"Please, my lord." The woman who had guided him touched his arm. "It would be best for you to leave."
A maid, an attendant-one who now acted the nurse. Dumarest watched as she moved toward Eunice, her voice low, soothing. A voiceless croon which the other obeyed as, like a rag doll, she allowed herself to be led from the chamber.
Alone Dumarest looked at the dolls, the limpid pool of the mirror, the fuming incense, the ancient tomes. Echoes of the woman who owned them. One soon to be married. To Urich Sheiner-who knew of Earth.
Chapter Six
"Nothing," said Ysanne. "You went crawling and got nothing but the promise to see you later-three days after we've got to meet the repair bills." Her hand rose to touch his mouth. "The gratitude of princes," she said. "Well, at least you got a kiss."
And perhaps more; Dumarest remembered the way Vruya had acted, the way he had spoken. A message without words built of silences, allusions, innuendos. A promise hinted at and probabilities displayed. And then, at the last, the unmistakable direction to visit Eunice.
Did he know she practiced witchcraft?
Did he care?
"A fool," said Ysanne. "He's an old fool. I've been asking around and learning a few things. And he made you a bigger one."
Wrong-Vruya was no fool. Old, yes, a little afraid of what he knew was to come, but far from stupid. And he had made it plain what he hoped for. Good blood-that proved by combat. Fresh seed to revitalize the Quelen using Eunice as a beginning. A woman rejected by others of her kind, willing to marry an outsider for the respect children would give her. The power and prestige she hoped to gain by the practice of esoteric arts.
Urich was a good choice. Old enough to present no problems should he sire sons; he would be past all dynastic ambitions, eager to gain the security Vruya had mentioned, the rewards he had emphasized again and again.
A bribe dangled before a second possible choice?
Gain to be won in blood?
Dumarest said, "We've wasted enough time. The ship has got to be made ready to leave."
"We?" Ysanne pursed her lips. "I'm not so sure about-" She saw his expression and broke off to add, "Andre's working at it. He's trying to find an engineer."
In a tavern shrouded in gloom at a table now used as a desk. The man facing him was small, thin, with furtive eyes. The hand which held his beaker was stained, one finger missing from the second joint.
"I can handle an engine," he insisted. "I rode with Captain Breece and he used to operate near the Rift. An old ship which needed nursing every inch of the way."
Batrun said, "The Brannhan Rift?"
"That's right. I quit maybe a year ago. Fell sick and tried my hand at fishing for a while. The Shendorh left without me and I haven't seen her since. If you know the Rift you can guess why."
"But you know your trade. Papers?"
The man shook his head. "Lost when I fell into the water. That's when I got this." He held up his damaged hand. "But I can do the job."
"If you don't you'll breathe vacuum." In the dim light of the tavern Batrun's hair shone with a soft, silver luminosity, but there was no mistaking the harsh determination of his face. He looked up to where Ysanne and Dumarest stood behind him. "What do you think?"
"It's up to you, Andre." Batrun was the captain and needed to maintain his pride. "Right, Earl?"
"No question as to that," said Dumarest. "But the Erce's a free trader and we all have a stake in what's decided." To the man he said, "Can you handle a Belmonte gauge?"
"Sure."
"And a Vicks-Conway vernier?" As the man hesitated Dumarest said, "Lie again and that's the last drink you'll ever taste. There's no such thing as a Belmonte gauge. Beat it!"
Batrun sighed as the man obeyed. "He was the last of the bunch, Earl. As useless as the rest of them but he helped to advertise our interest."
And had been desperate enough to take a chance on a bluff. One which could have killed them all had he got away with it. Dumarest took a seat and looked up as a girl set down a flagon and thin glasses.