Another test? If so Dumarest passed it. His host nodded as he listened, added his own comments as Dumarest fell silent.
'The mother world from which all men originated-a ridiculous concept when it is remembered how many divergent races inhabit the galaxy. Yellow, white, brown, black-how could one world produce so many different types? We are all one basic race, true, the ability to interbreed proves that, but-'
'We evolved on widely scattered worlds from the impact of space-borne sperm? Seeds driven by the pressure of light to settle on a multitude of planets? Spores which all produced the same basic type?' Dumarest shrugged and sipped at his wine. 'I find the one-world concept easier to swallow.'
'As a concept, perhaps, but is it the answer?' Ishikari shook his head in doubt. 'What to believe? How to unravel the one thread which will guide us through the maze of legend and myth?'
'I thought you had the answer. Karlene said-'
'She told you that I would help you and I will. Follow me.'
He led the way into another chamber, one with a high, vaulted roof set with lambent panes now filled with the dying light of day. Tinted squares which threw a dusty shadow over racks of spools, shelves of moldering volumes, oddly fashioned artifacts. Stray beams glinted on metal, crystal, plastic; things which could have been vases or toys or illustrations of tormented mathematical systems. At the far end rested the screen and controls of a computer.
'It is voice-activated,' said Ishikari. 'I want you to sit at it and tell it all you know about Earth. Everything, each tiny detail, every small item. That and more. All you have learned in your traveling among the worlds.' He added, 'It will join other information already in the data banks. The machine will correlate the information, find associations and meaningful relationships. Determine probabilities and yield valuable conclusions.'
'The coordinates?'
'Perhaps. It's a possibility.'
But not good enough. Dumarest looked around the room, guessing at the guards who must be watching, the weapons which had him as their target. A man of Ishikari's position would never risk his life as he appeared to be doing. Was this pretense to gain trust? To lull suspicions? Yet where was the point; if he was in a trap it could be sprung at any moment.
Casually he moved through the room to a table which stood against a wall. A convoluted abstract stood at one end. On the other rested Loffredo's volume and the enhancement he'd had made.
'You doubt my good faith.' Ishikari came to join him. 'I took the liberty of copying your papers, and the computer is assessing the detail they contained for anything of relative value. Not proof of my intentions, I admit, but one thing is. Look.' He lifted the sheet bearing the quatrain. 'Now this.'
He lifted a book from where it rested in the shadow of the abstract. It was old, thick, stained with mold and wear. The pages were fretted beneath their protective covering of transparent plastic. Dimmed illuminations shone with the ghosts of silver and gold, ruby and emerald. The script, once thick and black, now sprawled like the gray and tangled web of spiders.
'Look,' said Ishikari again, and touched something on the abstract sculpture. Light shone over the book from some source within the convolutions; electronic magic which thickened the script and brightened the hues as if defeating time. 'The quatrain. See?' The tip of his finger traced the words. 'And here. The word 'Earth' as before.' Pages rustled. 'Here again, you notice?'
Dumarest said, 'What is it?'
'The book? A collection of verse containing pertinent philosophical concepts regarding life and reality.' Ishikari riffled the pages. 'Life, death and reality. The verse in the book you found shows that. Odd how an itinerant trader could have come by it.'
'He could have seen that book.' Dumarest gestured to it. 'Or one like it.'
'A remote possibility. It's more likely he saw it written somewhere. On a wall, perhaps? If so, why?'
Dumarest sensed that he was being led down a path the other had followed before. Spurred to reach a matching conclusion.
'A wall,' he said. 'But who would write such a verse on a wall unless it was a special place? As a warning? As a concept to bear in mind? A creed, perhaps, or the part of a creed?'
'In which case it surely would have been carved, not written.' Ishikari put down the book. 'Where would you find such a thing carved on a wall?' He paused, waiting. 'A special place,' he urged. 'You've already mentioned that.'
A special place, a carving, a creed. Verses dealing with life, death and reality. Words cut deep into adamantine stone so as to carry their message endlessly through time.
'A church?'
'A temple,' corrected Ishikari. 'The temple of Cerevox.' He add quietly, 'I believe it holds the answer we both are seeking.'
* * *
At dusk Driest became alive with a brash and raucous vitality. Barely had the sun lowered beneath the horizon than lanterns were lit, casting lurid pools of lambent color on pavement and road, the sides of buildings, those thronging the streets and market. Men and women, drinking, laughing, selling produce, skills and, failing all else, themselves.
A crowd in which Dumarest wandered. He had had no trouble in leaving the palace though he was aware of the two men following him at a discreet distance. Guards like ghosts more sensed than seen and he wondered at Ishikari's caution. The bait the man had set was stronger than bars.
'My lords! Ladies! I beg your attention!'
A grating voice accompanied by the clash of metal and Dumarest halted to stare at a peculiar figure. One who wore red, blue, yellow, green-a plethora of vivid hues forming the bizarre depiction of a face. A ragged shape which capered and chanted to the rattle of a sistrum he held in one hand.
'I can dress wounds, treat minor ills, alter a garment. I am adept at massage. I can sing and relate stories to while away the tedium of monotonous hours. I have served as a valet, cook, guard, tutor. I can handle a raft. Hire me and have no regrets.'
Next to him stood a vibrant thing which keened; an alien creature from some distant world. It's owner jerked at its leash and, as it reared, snarling, displaying fangs and claws, yelled of its value as a watchdog.
Beyond, a cripple lifted the stump of an arm.
'Lost in the Zhenganian conflict. Supply a prosthesis and I will serve you for a year.'
A woman, veiled, silent, the card on her breast telling all she was a bountiful nurse.
Another, young and lissom, who smiled at Dumarest with frank admiration. 'My lord? I am trained in the dressing of hair. A seamstress. Hire me for your lady and she will thank you.'
He said, 'I have no lady.'
'Then, perhaps, the greater need of my services. Who else to tend your clothing and give you equanimity of mind?' She stepped a little closer. 'Hire me for a month. Test my abilities. A week? A day?' She sighed as he shook his head. 'Remember me should you have need.'
Dumarest moved on to a plaza where stalls sold refreshments and beggars lay in wait.
'My lord! Give of your charity!'
A man with a face raw with oozing pustules, the orbs of his eyes white with a nacreous film. His bowl remained empty; there were a dozen ways of counterfeiting such sores and the membrane of an egg would emulate true blindness. Another, legless, had better luck. A monk better still.
He stood, his bowl of chipped plastic in his hand, tall and gaunt in the brown homespun of his robe. His feet were bare but for sandals. His hair, cropped, surmounted a face too old for his years. One with cheeks sunken in deprivation, eyes which stared with compassion at the universe.
'Thank you, brother.' He looked at the coins Dumarest had dropped into his begging bowl. 'You are generous.'
'Your name?'
'Fassar.'
'Are you in charge of the Church here?'
