"No, but I did not cause his death."
"You blame your knife?" From a drawer Chan Parect produced it. The blade was bright, the hilt free of blood. "It was a shrewd throw. The steel was buried in his brain. You could have wounded;, instead, you killed, why?"
"I was given no choice."
"Instinct, perhaps?"
"I had no choice," repeated Dumarest. "And, with respect, my lord, his death was predetermined."
"Fate, Earl? You believe in destiny?"
"In fact Had he been given slowtime, he would not have brooded over his injuries. And the weapon he carried, the laser. Someone had adjusted it for continuous fire. He dropped it and it exploded. A laser would not do that."
"It did."
"Because it was meant to," said Dumarest harshly. "Whoever adjusted it made certain that it would. A fuse set to the trigger to activate the entire charge after a lapse of time. Even had he killed me, Zavor would still have died. Murdered by someone in this citadel."
For a long moment Chan Parect sat without speaking, toying with the knife, his eyes veiled. Then he reached for wine and poured and sat sipping until the glass was empty.
"Murdered," he said at last. "By whom? Lisa Conenda?"
"I don't know."
"But you don't deny the possibility?"
"No."
"I warned you of her and the others. They are all the same. Warped, twisted, mad with ambition. Did she ask you to kill me and to share her seat of power?" Chan Parect leaned forward a little, his eyes intent. "Did she do that?"
"Yes, my lord." It was a time to tread carefully, to be polite. And it was obvious the man knew what had happened in the room. How else could he have known that the knife had been thrown? Monitors, perhaps, or a reported conversation.
"Of course. She would. And you were clever in your answers, Earl. You did not agree, yet you did not refuse her. Instead, you were ambiguous. The trait of a cautious man. Some wine?"
The goblet was of crystal, carved and hued with the tints of a rainbow. The wine held the taste of mint.
"The last time we spoke in this room, I told you of a problem," said Chan Parect. "I also said something else. You remember what it was?"
"You intended to make it mine also."
"You have a good memory. If you had the choice, whom would you marry, Lisa or Zenya? You can be frank."
Dumarest pondered, trying to follow the abrupt shift in conversation, wondering what devious path the man now trod. Wondering too why he was here at all. A question yet to be answered.
"Zenya is the younger," mused Parect. "A little more vivacious, but perhaps the more tiring because of that. Lisa is older, and so more mature. And, as we both know, she has ambition. You wonder why I mention the subject? I will be plain. The house needs new blood. You could provide it. Work with me, do as I say, and you will be rewarded. One of the women as your wife. An estate. The right to wear the serpent. Comfort and a degree of command. All this can be yours if you will willingly do as I say."
"And that is, my lord?"
"I spoke to you of a man who held a dream and who beggared himself looking for it. I said that he died on some lonely world. I lied, in part if not in all. I did know such a man-he is my son. He has beggared himself in the terms we use. But he is not dead. I want you to find him and bring him back to where he belongs."
Dumarest sipped at his wine. Another lie? More deviousness? But why should there be need of lies, and what could deviousness hope to gain?
He said quietly, "Do you know where he is?"
"Yes."
"Then why not just send for him? Tell him of your need?"
"The obvious, Earl, is not always the answer. For example, take yourself. You have a dream of finding a mythical world. You claim to have been there. I know little of such matters, but one thing to me is obvious. What you have seen you always remember. There are men skilled in probing into the deepest recesses of the brain. Submit to them, and who knows what they could find? The coordinates, perhaps? The reading of the instruments on the ship in which you left? A fragment of conversation overheard but not understood because of your youth? The monk who was here could, perhaps, have done it. Yet you are not a member of the church. Beneath their benediction light you could find what you seek. And yet you will not sit beneath it."
Because if he did, he would be instilled with the conditioning imposed by the monks. The command never to kill. It was a handicap Dumarest could not afford.
"I have wondered why, Earl," continued Chan Parect softly. "And I have thought of a reason. Perhaps you carry something else held deep within your mind. Or something not so deep. It doesn't matter. A secret you dare not divulge. You cannot do the one because you fear the other. And so the obvious no longer applies." He poured himself more wine. "My son refuses to answer my summons. He must be taken by force. That requires a very special type of man."
Dumarest said dryly, "One interested in ancient records?"
"In part, yes. Salek has a similar interest. I do not believe in the existence of this planet you call Earth. And neither do I believe in other myths. It was one of the reasons we quarreled and why he left. For years he searched for something he hoped to find. These books,"-he gestured at the walls, the faded maps-"are a part of his collection. There was a legend which intrigued him. Earth, perhaps? I will be honest with you, I cannot be certain. But I do know that he desperately wanted to find the Original People. I think that, perhaps, he found them."
And perhaps not. The whole fabrication could be another lie designed to force him into a particular course of action. Yet it was a chance he could not ignore. And if Chan Parect had a hidden motivation, Dumarest could not guess what it was.
He said, "You just want me to go and bring back your son, my lord. Is that it?"
"On the face of it, a simple matter, Earl, but I will not delude you, it will not be easy. You forget who he is and why he is needed. I am surrounded by enemies who will kill me if they can, and those same enemies will kill my son if allowed the opportunity. And there are other things." Chan Parect paused, his lips moving as if he spoke to himself, the words too secret to be uttered. "I can trust no one," he blurted. "No one!"
"My lord!"
"Hold! Do not move! There are guards watching, and they will kill you if you stir!" Convulsively Chan Parect gripped the knife, locked in the grip of an intense fear. With his free hand he delved into a drawer and produced a vial of tablets. Swallowing two, he sat, waiting, sweat beading his forehead, tiny rivulets running down the graven lines.
Dumarest sat, watching a man at war with himself, sensing the explosive emotion barely held in check. A wrong word, a sudden gesture, and he would bring about his own death. And the paradox baffled him. Chan Parect was unable to trust anyone, yet he was willing to allow a stranger to fetch his son. The thing made no sense, and then, suddenly, it did.
* * *
From behind the desk, Chan Parect sighed, seeming to relax, the muscles of his face sagging, so that he looked suddenly old. It lasted a moment, and then he was himself again, still old, but with the craggy strength of a tree, a weathered mountain. He said abruptly, "You seem disturbed, Earl."
"With reason, my lord."
"You fear me? You should. As I told you, I intend to make this a personal matter as far as you are concerned. In fact, I leave you no choice but to do as I ask. You see, I am plain."
Dumarest doubted if he could ever be that. Quietly he said, "As a matter of interest, what would you do should I refuse?"
"Nothing." Chan Parect was bland. "Of course, there is the matter of the debt you mentioned. Ten thousand cran, which you gave to the monks. And there is the question of payment for the treatment you received. Even when deducting the sum which Zenya and I owe you, there is a residue of fifty thousand cran. Need I remind you of what will happen if you cannot pay?"