"I left when I was very young," Dumarest explained. "I stowed away on a vessel and the captain was kinder than I had reason to deserve. He could have evicted me, instead he allowed me to join his crew. From there I went on and on, visiting many worlds, penetrating to the Center."
To where stars hung thick in the sky and the nights were brilliant with sheets and curtains, streamers and halos of colored brilliance. To where the very name of Earth was unknown and the coordinates unmarked. Deftly she refilled his glass. "And?"
"Now I'm trying to find my way back," he said. "That is all. A simple story of a runaway boy who became lost in the vastness of the galaxy. You must have heard its like a thousand times."
"Perhaps." She touched the rim of her glass to his own, her eyes bright as they met his across the goblets. "I give you a toast. To success in all you endeavor!"
"To success!"
They drank and Dumarest set aside his empty glass. He would need a clear head at dawn, when it would be safe to walk through the city, to go to the landing field and take passage away from Clovis. And there was still unfinished business to be settled. He reached into a pocket and produced money, the thick, triangular coins of the local currency. Taking the woman's hand he filled her palm with precious metal.
"For your trouble," he said. "For what you have done and have yet to do. Is it enough?"
Gold shimmered as she bent her head, counting the coins. "The price of a High passage," she whispered. "My lord, you are generous."
"You are satisfied?"
"Almost." She raised her head, eyes bright, teeth shining against the full redness of her lips. "For sanctuary and the disposal of the dead this is more than enough. But for the rest-there is a price only you can pay."
The coins flashed as she thrust them beneath the pillow; fingernails gleaming she reached for the candle, the glitter dying with the flame.
And then there was only warmth and softness, the scent of perfume and the incredible, demanding heat of her magnificent body.
Chapter Two
THE WIND that morning was from the north with the sky clear and without promise of rain, which meant, thought Quendis Lemain grimly, a bad time to come in the near future. He turned from the meteorological instruments, a thickset, burly man of late middle age, once hard muscle now running to fat, his gray eyes narrowed as he looked over his lands.
They were good lands, rich dirt filled with ripe humus, well drained, stocked with beneficial bacteria and showing the devoted care of generations. To east and west the ranked trees of orchards marched toward the horizon, the deep green leaves lustrous in the light of the rising sun, the branches heavy with swelling fruit. To the south sprawled acres of grain, brassicas and vines. To the north stretched the root crops interspersed with succulents and gourds.
There the danger would strike first, the drifting-spore-like seeds riding the wind to settle, to germinate, to sprout in vicious, horrible growth. A hundred men would have to keep continual watch, tearing out the thin tendrils as they appeared, hoeing and turning the soil until it was again clean. And then, inevitably, they would have to do it all over again.
For how long, he wondered? Already a good square mile had been lost from the northern borders of the farm, good, fertile soil lost to production, covered now by the vile growth which threatened their very existence. And each foot lost meant that much less food, that much more danger.
"Grower Lemain!" The girl was one of the house-servants, her simple dress of brown fiber taut over the lush curves of her body. She came toward him eyes bright with health, the mane of her hair hanging loose over her shoulders. "My lady sent me to tell you, Grower. Your meal is served and is waiting your pleasure."
Trust Susan to think of routine, thought Quendis. The wind from the north, no sign of rain, and she could still think of food. Yet she was right to do so. Doubling the worry would not halve the danger and to minimize it was to strengthen the morale of the workers. He drew a deep breath, inflating his chest,
"I'm coming, Nyalla."
"Grower?"
"What is it, child?"
"I am old enough for marriage, Grower. Will I have your permission to attend the mating dance at the harvest festival?"
Quendis hesitated, then accepted the inevitable. Permission or not she would seek a mate, and it was best that he agree. But a house would have to be provided, rations put by, money spent on the customary gift. And it would not be Nyalla alone. From his own knowledge, there would be a score of weddings following the dance, and all would expect the normal disbursements: Expect them and receive them. He would not be the first to break old tradition.
"Grower?"
He caught the note of anxiety and knew that he had stood brooding too long. Time to the young moved at a different pace than for the old. Looking at her, he smiled.
"I was playing a game," he said. "Trying to guess who is the lucky man. Hemrod?"
"No, Grower, Ilsham." Her eyes held no trace of embarrassment. "I parted from Hemrod when he tried to take more than I was willing to give. I have your permission?"
"Yes, my child, of course."
"Thank you, Grower!" Her teeth flashed white against the olive of her skin. "We shall bring you many children to tend your land. This I promise!"
He lost his smile as she flounced away. His brows knitted as he walked slowly toward the door of the house. More children soon to come. Strong young bodies to tend the land, to give it strength and to gain strength in return from the rich, black soil. So it had been since the beginning, but for how much longer could that natural relationship last? Already there were growers without land, workers without a home farm, forced to offer their labor in return for food.
If it had not been for the tribute, starvation would have been a common sight. No, he corrected himself, not starvation, they still had a long way to go before that. Short rations, a limited choice, but not actual starvation.
God grant it never came to that.
* * *
The meal was one of Susan's specialties: heaped plates of delicious concoctions, pancakes, cream, syrup, eggs and meats, butter and crisp bread together with pots of tisane. A wonderful repast for a man who had been up and about since before dawn, but Quendis could touch little of it. Moodily he sipped at his cup of tisane half listening to the interplay of conversation from others at the table. It was the usual chatter; what the new fashions were, Grower Melton's new project for damming a river and flooding an infested area, the discontent of the workers on Grower Ekton's land. It fell silent as he rapped for attention.
"The wind is from the north," he said in the following silence. "Hykos, you take a hundred men and stand watch. Neeld, you gather the children and do the same further to the south. Thorn, how soon can we commence harvesting the area?"
The foreman blinked, knowing the question was rhetorical.' Quendis knew the exact state of every crop on every inch of land, but the secret of successful cooperation lay in the respect given to others. It was like him to ask and not demand.
"It could do with a few more days, Grower," said Thorn after due consideration. "A week if possible. I'd like to make the most of this sunshine."
"Commence as soon as you think fit." Quendis rose, ending the meal and signaling dismissal. The hum of conversation rose again as they filed out; his three daughters and four of his sons, his foreman, his wife, the chief stockman and his assistant together with their wives, the agronomist, others. A full score sat down to every formal meal in the house. Of the regulars only Cleon was absent. Quendis felt the pain rise again as he thought of his eldest son. Firmly he quashed it. Some things simply had to be.