And might succeed, given time; using her charm, her femininity, spinning a web with the lure of her body as women had done since the beginning of time. The old, age-old magic which so rarely failed. The love which, once instilled, made a man helpless to refuse.
Perhaps, as yet, she hadn't thought of that, but it would come if Cornelius continued to be stubborn. No one who had not learned how to apply the charm of her sex could have risen so high and she had been at the top of her profession. And no one who lacked determination could have gained such fame. That same determination had brought her to Ath and it would not be denied. She would win the artist; one way or another she would win, and if she did, would he mind?
Dumarest looked at her, sensing her nearness, her warmth, remembering the times of close proximity on Juba and in the ship. The times of passion. The words which had been spoken. The promises she had made.
And yet did anything ever last forever? And how could he blame her when he was doing the same?
"Earl?" She frowned, conscious that something had come between them, a chill not born of the cold decor of the room, the blue and silver so symbolic of ice and snow. "Is something wrong?"
"No. I was thinking of how to handle Tuvey." Of the need for passage and the greater need to learn more from Ursula as to the whereabouts of Earth. But he didn't mention that. Instead, he said, "Don't worry about it now. Just concentrate on Cornelius. Will he cooperate?"
"He'll let me handle his work, Earl. I'm certain as to that. As for the rest-" She shrugged. "Well, I've met stubborn men before. But we're up against time. If we aren't ready when Tuvey decides to leave then we'll be stuck until he returns. Months at least."
Time in which enemies could smell out his trail. Time for the Cyclan to set a trap from which, this time, it would be impossible to escape.
Dinner was served in an adjacent room, one lit with diffused lighting, shadows thick against the carved panels of the ceiling, bright glows of warm color cast in patches over the central area. The table formed the three sides of an open square with the guests all sitting to face the space so formed. In it, a swirling mass of tinged mist, writhed a cloud of scented vapor which adopted new and peculiar shapes without end. A kaleidoscope of form and color, enticing, hypnotic.
"Debayo constructed it," said Ursula. "Before he grew interested in contacting the dead. Now he does little but squat before Hury waiting for revelations. Do you believe the dead can walk and talk as they did when alive, Earl?"
"On some worlds, perhaps."
"Do you know of one?" She shrugged, not waiting for him to answer. "The thing is ridiculous. Once dead, life is ended. All that can possibly remain is the residue of the electrical energy of the brain. A fragment of decaying energy spreading like the ripples on a pool into which a stone has been thrown."
"And yet, Ursula, if that energy could be isolated, trapped and amplified, what then?" A man sitting farther down the table twisted so as to face her. "Debayo has cause for his belief but I am certain he is trying the wrong approach. The method of using paraphysical energy was denounced in… in…" His eyes went blank. "In the fifty-eighth year after First Landing when Wendis Cormagh demonstrated by impeccable logic that it is impossible to utilize a form of energy we can neither sense nor devise instruments to measure. To us, that energy, even if it exists, must be and forever remain nonexistent. His analogy was that of a blind man searching a darkened room for a black animal which was not present." He blinked.
"Karg's Ultimate, Corbey." A man called from where he sat at another leg of the table. "Sometimes known as the ultimate in absurdity and old before Wendis was born."
"But if Debayo should succeed?" Corbey paused and looked at the assembled guests. "Remember, contacting the dead would be only the beginning. Once that secret is learned then the dead will no longer be divorced from us. They will, in a sense, continue to exist. And that which does not die is immortal. That is what Debayo is after. Not words spoken to ghosts but the secret which, will banish death forever."
An ambitious project but one in which Dumarest had no immediate interest. As talk flowed around and across the central mass of swirling vapor he leaned back and looked around. The guests were more soberly dressed now but still bizarre to one who had known the strict formality of High Families and ruling courts. No two gowns were alike and even the men wore clothing strictly to their personal taste. Blouses in a variety of colors, slashed, puffed, bound, ornamented, graced with fine tassels, decorated with intricate piping. Hair was streaked and blotched in rainbow hues, faces painted, eyes tinted, enlarged, enhanced with shaven brows and applied cosmetics. Among them he looked a drab fowl among peacocks. Even Sardia in her best gown of shimmering silk touched with ruffs of contrasting brilliance looked dull.
She looked at him and smiled then turned as a servant poured wine into her glass.
They had made an appearance for the first time and Dumarest watched them with interest. Small, delicately made, dressed in somber blue the color of lead, they drifted like wraiths, emotionless, soundless, unobtrusive.
Girls, he decided, or young boys, it was impossible to tell which. But they were nothing like the woman he had seen in the shadows on the path. Nor did they resemble the shapes he had seen lurking in the greenery. A different breed? The result of genetic selection which aimed at smallness and lack of sexual characteristics? A deliberate policy which ensured a supply of tamed and timid servitors?
One touched his arm as he moved and he felt thinness and fragile bone and saw wide, empty eyes which glanced at him once then lowered as if confused. A girl, he was sure. It had to be a girl, the contact had been female and the structure of the facial bone, the manner of walking due to a widening of the pelvis-it had to be a girl.
Or something which had been surgically achieved and which now had no sexual definition at all in the accepted sense.
Would they have done that?
He glanced at Ursula, leaning back in her chair, breasts prominent, mouth open to reveal the flash of teeth as she smiled. A lovely woman-but never had beauty been a guarantee of gentle behavior. Cornelius? No, he was too much an artist to subject flesh to such distortion, and yet cities had been burned in the name of art and men and babies set to die screaming for a musical accompaniment. How to tell? How ever to be sure?
"Your wine, Earl." Ursula was looking at him. "Is it to your taste?"
He hadn't touched it and she had noticed. A breach of etiquette in any such gathering. Now, lifting the goblet, he tasted sweetness and a cloying something which stung his tongue with acrid prickles. It vanished when he ate a cake containing tart fruits and a savory paste.
Meats followed, a variety of vegetables, compotes of fruit and nuts, wafers of spiced bread, cakes containing savory delights, sweets which stung and pastes which tantalized.
Then, the tables cleared of dishes, came the entertainment.
It was new to Dumarest's experience.
No performers made their entry and no musicians provided accompaniment. Instead, a man rose from where he sat, stepped into the writhing mist and began to sing in a cracked voice. Another followed him and jumped and twisted in a series of involved acrobatics, hands and feet vanishing into the mist which now had lowered to spread like an insubstantial carpet over the floor. A woman shrilled like a captive bird, another played an instrument like a guitar and harp combined.
Two men played at war.
Sardia laughed as they faced each other with blades carefully blunted. Knives which would have required an effort to cut butter and lacked the edge even to sever string. Mock blades used for practice, clashing as they met, ringing, cutting through the air as the men crouched and emulated fighters.