Zenya

and low in bulk.

'You eat well, Earl,' said Zenya, 'I wish I could eat like that. Really enjoy my food, I mean.'

'You could,' he said. 'If you wanted to.'

'How?'

'Starve for a week,' he said bluntly. 'Get out into the fields and work. Take a Low passage-you'd be hungry enough then.'

Again she laughed, reaching for her wine. Like the others, she had merely picked at her food; the assortment of dishes was for titivation, not sustenance. 'You amuse me, Earl. I like that. Did grandfather talk to you?'

'A little.'

'Did he…' She broke off. 'Never mind. It can wait.'

From the head of the table Parect said, 'And now, brother, tell us why you came to Paiyar.'

The monk set down his fork. 'To work, brother, what else? With your permission we would like to set up a church. A small place where those who are in distress could gain ease. We would require very little-a patch of ground outside the gate would serve.'

'We?'

'Brother Wen is with me. He waits at the field with our possessions.'

The portable church and the benediction light beneath which suppliants were hypnotized, given subjective penance, and then the bread of forgiveness. The wafer of concentrates which alone drew many to the church. But the monks did not object; they regarded it as a fair exchange.

Parect said, 'Let me get this straight. You intend to do… what? Feed the poor? Nurse the sick?'

'Yes, my lord.'

'Then you have no place here. We have no poor and no sick. There is no poverty on Paiyar.'

'If that is so, my lord, this is a most fortunate world.'

'A logical one. Have you seen a beggar in the city? No, and you never will. Here people are not permitted to beg. They are taken, fed, washed, clothed, healed if they are sick, and then put to work. The Leruk arrange it. Each month they hold an auction. Those who need labor know where to go.'

'And if a man is too ill to work, my lord?'

'How can he be that? If he can move, sit upright, move a hand or foot, then he can work. If not, then he dies. A bad investment, perhaps, but it happens.' Parect dismissed the subject with a curt gesture. 'What else do you offer?'

Hope, understanding, tolerance, a simple creed, which, if accepted, would bring the millennium. There, but for the grace of God, go I. The concept that no man was alone, that all belong to the Corpus Humanite, that all shared the divine spark, and that, if they could only treat others as they would wish to be treated themselves, all problems would be solved.

Zenya giggled as she listened. 'Earl, the man must be insane! Do you realize what he is saying? All men must be treated as equal; but that is absurd. It's obvious they aren't. Why, if I was to follow his teaching, I would dress the hair of my maid instead of taking a whip to her when she fumbled.'

'Do you like to be whipped?'

'Of course not, Earl.'

Flatly he said, 'Neither does she. Think of it the next time you beat her. Imagine the lash tearing your own flesh. Better still, each time you strike her, have her strike you.'

It was a waste of time, and he knew it, as surely must Brother Eland. Some things could not be taught, because they could never be learned. The proud and arrogant would never admit they were anything less than superior. Their position blinded them to reality, but not to potential danger.

Parect said harshly, 'Enough! Your teaching would ruin the structure of this world. Every serf would think himself equal to his master. Your creed holds the seed of rebellion.'

'Not so, brother, it-'

'Do you dare to argue with me?' Anger suffused the lined face, sent the thin voice soaring high, shrill. 'Do you?'

Dumarest felt Zenya's fingers dig into his arm, heard her whisper, breathless, afraid. 'Dear God, don't let it happen again. Don't let him get into one of his rages!'

He realized the table had fallen silent, that each face bore the stamp of trepidation, realized too what should have been apparent before. Aihult Chan Parect was insane.

Chapter Three

The room was a cell. Despite the comfort, the softness of the couch, the tapestries, the items of price set on low tables, the sea-scented air, it was as much a cell as the citadel was a prison. A trap into which he had walked willingly, lured by a promise. And yet, Dumarest knew, he'd had no choice. The Aihult owned the field; guards would have been waiting to take him by force if necessary; following the girl had given him only the pretense of freedom.

Restlessly he paced the room. The window was an unbroken pane of thick crystal, unbarred but proof against the impact of missiles. Beyond it, as far as he could determine, the wall fell sheer to an inner courtyard. The roof, perhaps, might house a raft, but if so, it would be guarded. As everything in the citadel was guarded. As even this room to which he had been led after the meal must be watched by the order of Aihult Chan Parect.

He heard the click of a latch and stood, not turning, watching the reflection as Lisa Conenda entered the room and approached him, feet silent on the carpeted floor.

'You are dreaming, Earl,' she said in her deep, almost mannish voice. 'Of what, I wonder? The stars? The empty spaces between them? A woman you once had?'

She still wore the ebony gown, the elfin lines of her face accentuated with skillfully applied cosmetics. Her perfume was of musk and incense, heady, pungent. The fingers which she rested on his arm were long, the nails shaped into needle points.

'I understand that you are interested in old legends,' she continued softly. 'And there is one which you must surely know. A creature which spins a web and offers enticing invitations. It would be amusing, would it not, if the guest so invited should turn the tables and, instead of providing the meal, feasted instead?'

He said quietly, 'Meaning what, my lady?'

'A thought, Earl, little more. Shall we pursue it?' The long fingers closed on his arm, her voice a bare whisper in his ear. 'The house of Aihult is decadent. You have seen Zenya, Zavor, the others. Soon there will be a vacuum of power in which a strong, ruthless, and imaginative man could do well. All he would need would be a little help- some guidance and the support of one who has a legitimate claim to the chair that will soon be empty.' The fingers tightened even more. 'Are you ambitious, Earl?'

He said nothing, looking through the window. Others faced him from across the courtyard, some bright with illumination, shadows moving, blurred, oddly shaped by perspective and translucent hangings. Above, the stars shone bright against the sky, colorful motes winking against skeins and curtains of shimmering luminescence. Hot suns ringed with circling worlds.

'Earth,' she said, her voice ironic. 'Is that the sum total of your ambition, Earl? To find a dream world, a myth? Do you look at the stars and wonder if it could circle that one… or that one? So many stars, Earl. So many worlds. And even if you found it, what then?'

A question he would face when it came; for now, the search was enough. Turning, he faced her, catching her expression, a little surprised at what he saw. Not the mockery he had anticipated, but something else. Yearning, perhaps, bitterness.

'Do you think that others have never dreamed, Earl? As a child I longed to be adult so that I, too, could give orders and have them obeyed. I had a weakness for a fruit compote, chilled, iced, laced with cream. It was a special treat, and I swore that, when I grew big, I would eat it every day. Well, I am big now, and can get as much of the stuff as I want. And now, of course, I don't want it.'

The compote and other things, he thought. Men, perhaps, power, fine gowns, with rich fabrics. Childish longings which turned to dust when attained. And now more ambitions, not childish this time, and far less innocuous. A game in which the loser would pay with life itself.

A game?