Zenya

backwoods village. A place where children could grow safe in the knowledge they were loved, where old men could sit and dream of past achievements. There would be festivals and occasional trips to the city. Transient merchants would drop from the sky in silent rafts. Life there must have been an easy thing.

Now it was gone. The place was deserted, the houses empty, shattered glass ugly in the streets, black timbers standing gaunt against the sky where a house had burned, doors scarred with the impact of savage blows.

Dumarest said, 'Tell me what happened.'

'We can't be sure. A message was received in the city-a garbled thing barely making sense. Something about monsters. When we got here-'

'We?'

'A party from the city. I was among them. Before I became a soldier, I was a field supervisor on duty at the reception center.'

'Good. Continue.'

'When we got here, everything was a shambles. The Ayutha must have hit all over the place at the same time. Men were lying cut and bleeding, women ripped open, children torn apart, babies with their heads smashed against doorposts. That building was on fire. Those savage swine didn't leave a thing.'

'You are talking of the Ayutha?'

'What else?'

Dumarest said flatly, 'I am not interested at this time in your opinions. Did any resident of this place say they were responsible? Think now, did they?'

'The few that were still alive were dazed, dying. They muttered something about monsters, about being attacked.'

'But did not, specifically, mention the Ayutha?' Dumarest continued at the reluctant nod. 'Then we have no actual proof that they were responsible for what happened here. Was much damage caused to the equipment? No? Was anything taken? No? Then apparently some force of which we can't be certain attacked and killed for no apparent reason. Do you agree?'

'Does a savage need a reason to kill?'

'Yes. His reason might not be immediately apparent, but it is always present. Hunger, hate, fear, the conviction that he cannot become a man unless he does, a stranger who must be disposed of-always there is a reason. How long did it take you to get here after you received the message?'

'A few hours. We had to find rafts, gather and arm men.'

'And there were no survivors?'

'None, not even a baby. Damnit, whose side are you on? If you'd seen what I did. The blood, the mess, heard them screaming…' The officer caught himself, forced a measure of control into his voice. 'I'm sorry, but it hit me hard. There was a girl I knew… I wish I hadn't found her.'

Dumarest said, 'Let's look around.'

* * *

It was dark when he returned, the city bright with flecks of light from street lanterns, windows, drifting rafts, and moving cars. A busy, bustling place, a violent contrast to the village he had left, the place where a community had died. Zenya was absent, and he looked at the things she had left. The golden dress, the serpents that had graced her arms, a litter of cosmetics. Quickly, careless of who might be watching, he searched them all, letting the fabric slide through his fingers, taking care over the jewelry, the pots of unguents, paints, and powders.

He found nothing. If the girl carried a device to activate what was within his body, it must be buried within her flesh. He had checked on the ship; what he did now was for confirmation. And it was highly possible that she didn't carry the trigger at all.

Aihult Chan Parect, he remembered, trusted no one.

The phone rang. On the screen Colonel Paran looked anxious. 'I heard you were back, Earl. Have you arrived at a decision?'

'Not yet. I must correlate my findings.'

'Later, then?'

'Later.'

A bottle of wine stood on a table, and he poured a glass, sitting facing the window with it in his hand. He felt tired, uneasy. There were too many problems and too few solutions. Parect's threat, the false position he was in, the girl. Even now she could be babbling, betraying him, and to a people at war, such a betrayal could have unpleasant consequences.

He leaned back, sipping the wine, recalling what he had seen. The dusty streets littered with debris, the empty houses, the pathetic remains of dolls, toys, a wooden animal on rockers, a carefully embroidered shawl ugly with stains of blood. And marks on doors, walls, the sills of windows. Even the toys had been crushed, cut, hammered with savage violence. And there had been other marks, bullet holes, the seared patches of laser burns. Some of the farmers would have owned guns, less the more expensive lasers. All would have possessed knives, machetes for cutting the crop, axes, hammers. They had been found, and all of them had been used.

He shrugged, impatient, emptying the glass in a single swallow. The war was not his problem; he had conducted the examination simply to maintain his assumed character. His immediate need was to find the son of Chan Parect. To finish his assignment before the threat made could be put into effect. And that would not be easy. Why would a lord of Samalle be interested in such a man?

He wouldn't, but perhaps Branchard would. A free trader could drift around, ask questions, make contacts, and use bribes, all with relative impunity. And he would be a willing ally if the price was right.

Dumarest rose, and without looking at the phone, moved toward the door. Outside, the corridor was empty but for a pair of men standing with exaggerated casualness. Guards? Men set to watch his movements? One of them came forward, recorder in hand.

'My lord, a few words for the media? We are all interested in what you have to say.'

'The situation, while serious, must not be inflated beyond its real proportions,' said Dumarest. 'There is danger and a threat of escalation, but nothing which cannot be handled without undue interference with normal life. While brave men are willing to fight, Chard has nothing to fear.'

Empty words, but what they wanted. One said, 'Will you be taking an active part in the struggle?'

'That depends on your military authorities.'

'But you are willing?'

'Again, that depends. Now, if you will excuse me?'

He wandered a random mile before using a phone. Twenty minutes later he phoned again. Branchard was waiting.

He blinked as he listened. 'Sure, Earl, I can do it. Have you got anything I can work with aside from a name?'

'A photograph and physical details-Lammarre System. I'll send you a copy. The money-'

'Can wait. Give me a little time.'

The suite was still empty when he returned. He drank more wine and studied the details he had sent to Branchard. The face was younger than it would be now, but the physical details would never change. If Salek had ever received medical treatment on this world, or had fallen into the hands of the police, even if he had ever volunteered to give blood, he would be recorded. And there were other checks; the captain would know them all.

The phone rang. A man's face, smooth, bland. 'The Lady Zenya?'

'She is not available. Who are you? What do you want?'

'Zerm Trish, my lord. A creative photographer. I am attached to the house of Jarl, the most exclusive fashion establishment on Chard. I wondered if your lady would condescend to pose for me in a variety of creations, which, of course, would remain her property.'

Dumarest said harshly, 'The wife of a lord of Samalle does not cheapen herself. Do not call again.'

From behind him Zenya said, 'A pity, Earl. They have some wonderful gowns, and all terribly expensive.' She had entered the suite while he had been on the phone.

Quickly she added, 'But of course, the suggestion was unthinkable. At home he would never have dared to make it.'