Spectrum of a Forgotten Sun

Ancestor-worship coupled with a primitive rite of puberty added to the rigid traditions and codes of a ritualised way of existence. Once of value for the culture to survive, perhaps now a lead weight dragging it to oblivion.

"You sit in the chapel," said Dumarest. "And you pray for strength, the ability to be like those you respect and admire. The heroes whose weapons you guard and whose exploits you remember. Yes?"

"Of course, Earl."

"Why?"

Navalok frowned. "I don't understand. I am weak and you must have noticed the way I drag my foot. An accident when I was a child, but it has left me deformed. How can I hope to gain a trophy without the help of those best suited to give it?"

"They are dead, Navalok." Dumarest was patient, the conditioning of a lifetime could not be eliminated by a few words. And to deride would be to arouse a reactive antagonism. "They are dead," he said again. "All of them."

"But they gained their triumph."

"And died doing it. Is that much of a success? Wouldn't the achievement be greater had they returned unscathed to hurl their trophies before the Shrine?" Dumarest smiled as he posed the question, his voice deliberately casual. "In my experience the man who remains unscarred after a fight is the one to be feared, not the one displaying his lack of skill."

For a moment, watching the play of emotion over the young face, he thought that he had gone too far too fast. Only a fool could have missed the implication and no one likes to be told that his heroes were stupid rather than brave. Then, as Navalok opened his mouth to reply the air shook to the deep and solemn note of a bell.

"The curfew," he explained. "The gates are now closed and the House sealed for the night. Soon it will be time for dinner, Earl. It would be best for us to part now and get ready."

* * * * *

Dinner was held in the great hall and was obviously the high point of the day. Dumarest joined the throng of guests standing before the tall, double-doors, his grey tunic in sharp contrast to the others adorned as they were with a plentitude of badges. Even the women wore similar symbols, stars fixed to sashes draped over one shoulder and, like the men, they were armed.

"Earl!" Hendaza came bustling through the assembly two others at his heels. "Allow me to introduce you to those whom I mentioned. Earl Dumarest, Lekhard de Monterale. Lekhard, this is-"

"I know who he is." The man smiled with a twist of his thin lips. Young, arrogant, he radiated an aura of self-assurance. His tunic was a blaze of ornamented badges. "We both know, eh, Kanjuk?"

Hendaza said, stiffly, "I take offense at your attitude, Lekhard."

"So you take offense." The man shrugged. "If you want satisfaction it can be arranged. The usual place when the bell tolls at dawn?"

"No." His companion, a tall man with a smooth face and enigmatic eyes, rested a gemmed hand on the other's sleeve. Like Hendaza he was of middle-age. "This is no cause for a quarrel, Lekhard. You were rude to interrupt and Hendaza was right to remind you of your lack of manners. We do not want our guest to think we are barbarians."

"Does it matter what a stranger thinks?" Lekhard's eyes roved over Dumarest's plain tunic, halted at his weaponless belt, dropped to stare at the hilt of the knife thrust into his boot.

"Yes, my friend, Dumarest is armed." Kanjuk smiled as if at a private jest. "You were slow to notice that. Now that you can accept him as an equal we can act like civilized men. You have visited many worlds, Earl?"

"I have."

"And seen many cultures, no doubt. Have you met other societies like our own?"

"As yet I have seen little of it."

"And so have no evidence on which to judge. Well, time will cure that. I would like-" He broke off as trumpets sounded from the doors which now swung open. "It is time we went in to dinner. Later I would appreciate the chance of resuming this conversation. Lekhard! To me!"

Kanjuk raised a hand as he moved off into the throng now streaming through the opened doors. At his side Hendaza said, "Head for the upper tables, Earl. You sit next to Dephine. As her champion it is your right."

She smiled as he took his place, reaching across the space between them to touch his arm, gemmed fire winking from her fingers. She was resplendent in a gown of embroidered fabric, the sash draped over her shoulder bright with badges, the pistol at her belt resting in a holster of gilded leather.

"You are happy, Earl?"

"I am here. Just what I am supposed to be doing is something else."

"You are my champion." Her fingers gently scratched the back of his hand. "With all that implies. But don't let appearances deceive you. On Emijar men can smile as they murder and murder as they smile."