might be, his very memory erased. A name that should not be mentioned. A custom with which Dumarest was familiar, one with which he had no patience.
But she was a woman, a mother, and he had no reason to hurt her.
'I knew him,' he said. 'We worked together, traveled together. He told me of this place. He said that you could help me.' A lie, but barely. The photograph had told him that and Leon had carried it. He added, gently, 'I am sorry to tell you that he is dead.'
She sat as if made of stone.
'What happened?' he urged. 'Did he fail his test? Run because of shame?'
'The shame was not his. He wore the yellow, but that was understood. But then, when the time came again, he was not to be found.'
'He ran,' said Dumarest. 'But how? With whom?'
'None went with him.'
'A raft? A trader?'
She made no answer and he knew he would gain no further information at this time. Rising he stood, fighting a momentary nausea, then moved to a table which stood against a wall. It held his things, the knife, the idol he had carried tucked beneath his tunic, other things, his clothes. They had been cleaned and dipped into something which had left a purple film. He rubbed it, seeing it leave a mark on his thumb.
'Gray is the color worn by ghosts,' she explained. 'Green, those who are here by right. The purple will save you from embarrassment.'
'That's considerate of you.' Dumarest picked up the knife and scraped casually at the idol. 'Am I under restraint? If so, it will give me an opportunity to work on this.'
'You are free to move at will among the houses and immediate fields. No work will be demanded of you. You may eat with the single men and widowers.'
'No guards?'
'You will be watched. And now, if you please, give me the message you claim to have brought.'
'You've had it, a part of it at least. Leon is dead. I thought you would like to know. He died bravely, a hero to those who knew him.' An unqualified lie this time, but one which could do no harm and could give comfort. Dumarest followed it with another. 'He died in my arms. He mentioned you and asked me to bring you his love. The rest of what he told me is for other ears than your own.'
'Did he mention-' She broke off as if conscious that she was asking too much. That she could be abrogating the authority of others, demanding more than was her due.
'You were saying?'
'Nothing.' Rising, she moved towards the door.
'Take care of your wound. If the pain should increase, let me know at once. If you feel fevered or dizzy, the same. It would be wise for you to conserve your strength for the next few days.'
Good advice, and he might follow it-if he was allowed to live that long.
* * * * *
It was late afternoon, and Dumarest guessed that the drug he had been given had made him sleep for thirty hours or more. A long rest which he had needed, and now he was hungry.
He ate in a hut with a score of others, men who watched but said nothing. Not even the youngsters who, at least, must have been curious. The food was good, a steamed mass of beans and meat flavored with herbs. A pudding of nuts and honey, dark with small, crushed bodies. Insects perhaps, or seeds, or even maggots bred to give added protein. Dumarest ate without worrying about the nature of the food.
The meal ended with a mug of tisane, hot water which had been steeped with acrid herbs. A crude, medicinal compound, but one which apparently worked. The men he could see looked healthy as had the boys, the guards. He nodded at a familiar face.
'Hello. Are you one of my watchers?'
Varg Eidhal grunted, hesitated for a moment, then moved to plump down on the bench at Dumarest's side.
'You ate well,' he commented. 'That is good. A fighting man needs to build his strength.'
'The boys, how many failed?'
'Three.' Eidhal was grim. 'Two who vanished and one who will be a ghost.'
'Three-is it always that high?'
'Sometimes more, rarely less. Never is there a time when all return.'
'And you don't mind?'
'It is the rule.'
The rule, the law, the custom which governed their lives. One of a skein of such regulations, and Dumarest could only guess at what they were.
He said, 'If you are to watch me, you had better stay close. You can show me around.'
A guide in more senses than one and, perhaps, an ally in case of need. A small hope, the conditioning of a lifetime would not be thrown aside in a moment, but Dumarest could not afford to neglect any opportunity.
The houses were interesting, strongly built, solid, patterned on those he had seen in the town. All carried some form of decoration, a bow, a bull, the design of a crab, others. From a smithy came the sound of hammering, a brawny man nodding as Eidhal halted in the open doorway.
'The spear-heads will be ready soon, Varg. Now I must fashion knives for the new men.'
'Couldn't they wait?'
The smith grinned as he swung his hammer. 'Remember your own time, Varg. Could you?'
A knife, the badge of manhood, edged and pointed steel worn proudly in the belt for all to see. Dumarest had wondered why he had been allowed to retain his own weapon. Now he knew.
They moved on, past houses closed and snug, others with open fronts in which women sat spinning, turning pottery, grinding grain into flour with the help of men who sweated as they turned the heavy millstones. A busy, active community in which all shared the labor and the reward.
Dumarest looked thoughtfully at a long, low, heavily-shuttered building which stood apart from the others.
'What is that?'
'The Alphanian Chamber.'
'And that is?'
'The special place where ceremonies are conducted. Where the past is remembered.'
Where records would be kept, and items rendered sacred by rarity and time would be housed. Alphanian… alpha… a word Dumarest knew meant the beginning.
'Varg, what do you people call yourselves?'
'We are of Ayat.'
'And?' Dumarest pressed the question as the man remained silent. 'Are you the Original People?'
'I-let me show you the fields.'
Not an admission, but admission enough. And yet, a mystery remained. The name, Ayat, a cover perhaps. But why had Leon claimed he came from Nerth?
The fields were well kept, the rows of beans clear of weeds. Others held ripening grain, root crops, bushes yielding nuts and fruit. Domestic animals would be kept at the lower end of the valley. Dumarest watched as boys and young girls shooed away birds. Only when older, and puberty exercised its demands, would they be kept apart.
Eidhal paused as a man came shambling down the path. He was tall, big, shoulders wide beneath the drab gray of his smock. His face was vacuous, the eyes empty of intelligence, his mouth wet with spittle. The lips twisted into an inane grin as he halted before Dumarest.
'Give… you give…'
'He wants something sweet,' said Eidhal. He rummaged in a pocket and found a dried fruit. 'Give him this.'
A splayed hand snatched the morsel and thrust it into the slavering mouth.
'That's all, Odo,' said Eidhal as the hand reached out again. 'Get back to your work.'
