E.C Tubb - Spectrum of a Forgotten Sun

Dumarest saw the eyes move to the broken weapons, the lights, the thing they represented. Strength and courage and the visible proof of manhood. He remembered Hendaza's sneer. The boy must gain his trophy soon or be relegated to the lower strata there to be scorned and treated with disdain never to take his high position.

A problem, but not his.

"The preparation rooms," he said. "Where Galbrene is lying. Could I see him?"

An unusual request, he could tell it from the sudden shift of the eyes, the abrupt look of wonder. A man defeated was, by his victor, a man forgotten.

"Yes, Earl, if you want."

"I do. Is it far?"

* * * * *

It was where he should have known it would be, set close to the House, forming an integral part of the structure and now overlaid by a maze of rooms and chambers. The great doors were clear and it was obvious the walls had been extended and would be again in order to accommodate what rested within.

Dumarest followed Navalok as the boy guided him to a room which stank of chemicals. A dimly lit place containing stone slabs set on a stone floor, runnels channelling the flags and leading to a drain. A second chamber held a great vat of noxious liquid in which naked bodies like flensed beasts floated beneath the surface, held down by broad straps weighted with lead.

An old man, armed with a long wooden paddle, stirred the liquid and held up a hand to cup an ear as the boy shouted at him.

"Who? Galbrene? He isn't ready yet."

"I know. Where is he?"

"Waiting presentation. In the annex." The man thrust his paddle irritably into the liquid. "Hasn't a man enough to do without young fools asking stupid questions? Get on your way, now. Move before I splash you!"

Galbrene lay in a smaller room, one scented with floral perfumes and lit by the gentle glow of yellow lamps. He rested supine on a wooden table, a decorated cloth covering his body, his hands crossed over his chest. In the soft lighting he seemed to be asleep.

"Earl?"

"Leave me," said Dumarest.

"But-"

"There is something I must do." And then, with quick invention, "A homage I must make to ease myself of the burden of his anger. It is a custom of my people."

And explanation enough to anyone born into a culture obsessed by tradition and ritual.

As Navalok padded from the room Dumarest leaned forward and studied the body. The damage to the eye had been masked and the nose set straight. The blood, sweat and ofl had been washed away and, aside from a slight puffiness of the lips and the dark mottle of bruises on the throat the man looked unharmed.

A jerk and the covering fell away to leave the dead man naked.

Slowly Dumarest inspected him, turning over the body and lifting the arms. He found it beneath the left shoulder-blade, a small, dark-edged puncture, one which could have been made with a heavy bodkin. He leaned close and sniffed at it, pressed the surrounding flesh with his thumbs and sniffed again. A wound too small to have attracted attention and those who had washed and prepared him had no reason to search for anything unusual. Even if they had spotted it it would have meant nothing to them.

Navalok was waiting in the room containing the stone couches. One was occupied now by the body of a young woman, the soft flesh marred by wounds in the stomach and chest.

"The Lady Sepranene," explained Navalok. "They've just brought her in. She challenged the Lady Glabana and wouldn't listen to good advice. She insisted it should be without armor and she had the right."

"To die?"

"To insist. Glabana, so she claimed, was making advances to her lover. The act wasn't denied and after she had publicly accused the woman a challenge was inevitable."

Dumarest said, dryly, "Of course."

Navalok caught the tone and was quick to defend the dead girl.

"She had no choice, Earl. Glabana slapped her face in public. She could have drawn and fired then and the act would have been justified but she adhered to the code."

And died defending a brittle honor. Dumarest looked at the young face wreathed in twisted curls, the lissom lines of the lush figure and his lips thinned at the waste.

Watching him Navalok said, "You don't approve, do you? Is that why you're not wearing Galbrene's badges?"

"There would be no point."

"But-"

"What will happen to her now? The dead girl, I mean."

"She will be cleansed and prepared as Galbrene was prepared. After she has lain in the chapel she will be treated before taking her place in the Hall of Dreams." He glanced to where the old man stirred the fluid in the open vat. "It will take several days."

Time enough for the chemicals to penetrate the tissue, to harden soft fibers and dissolve points of potential corruption. To seal the flesh in a film of plastic, perhaps, or to petrify it, to protect the body against the ravages of time.

To produce monuments to the dead.

They rested in the great hall of the adjoining chamber, massed ranks of them, men and women placed to either side of a central aisle. They faced the external doors, now closed, empty space stretching before them, the plain stone floor fitted with benches to take the anticipated burdens. The bodies of those who would, inevitably, die.

"The Hall of Dreams," whispered Navalok. "Each of them gained his or her trophy which is why there are no children. All died honorably, some of age, most of wounds, but none ever disgraced the Family. Here they sit and dream for eternity."

Lifelike figures who sat and stared with open eyes, the flicker of lights dancing and giving them the appearance of life. Eyes which seemed to follow Dumarest and his guide as he stepped forward between the benches to stand in the central aisle. Curiously he studied the figures to either side.

A man, one elbow resting on his knee, his hands gnarled, the fingers curled, the gleam of a ring bright against the withered flesh.

"A victor," whispered Navalok. "One who later died of his wounds."

Another who leaned back, head a little turned as if listening to a voice from behind. A third who looked as if he might be coughing. A fourth who, with lifted hand, tugged at an ear.

And the women were similar in their staged actions; one smoothing her gown, another picking at a thread, a third who, with pursed lips, gave the appearance of blowing a kiss.

Hundreds of them, thousands, the vastness of the hall was packed with mummified figures.

Dust rose beneath Dumarest's boots as he walked towards the shadowed rear of the hall. The stone of the walls changed its nature, became striated with minerals, grained and mottled with time. The air too held an acrid scent, one of dust and stagnation. Reaching out he touched a figure, caught it as it fell. It was surprisingly light. The clothing it wore crumpled to powder beneath his hand.

"Earl! Be careful!"

Dumarest ignored the admonitory whisper from his companion. He looked from the back of the hall to the figures seated lower down towards the doors. Their clothing had altered little, a static culture froze fashion as it did everything eke, but some differences were obvious.

As it was obvious that those who had been placed in the far end of the chamber were old. Old with the crawl of centuries, of millennia.

Navalok gestured to where a small group occupied a raised platform. "The Elders of the First," he whispered. "They are of those who first came to Emijar."

It was natural to whisper, the ranks of silent bodies seemed to be listening, and the atmosphere of the place held a brooding solemnity. Dumarest strode to the platform, stepped onto it, leaned forward with narrowed eyes to study the figures it contained.

The light was bad, dim from suspended globes and dulled with accumulated dust, but it was enough for him to distinguish the motive each wore on their garments; a disc surrounded by tapering spikes.