Eye of the Zodiac

"We were together on Huek. It is a strange world containing odd forms of life, most of them utterly vicious. The natives are little better, regressed savages who have forgotten any culture they might have owned. We paid tribute, but it wasn't enough. A party caught Jalch when I was away. When we found him-" She broke off, and he heard the sharp inhalations, sensed the remembered hurt.

"And?"

"They had-hurt him. His eyes, his hands, the things done to his flesh. Horrible! At first I thought he was dead, even hoped that he had died, but life still remained. It took a long time for him to recover-regrowths, slowtime, amniotic tanks, the best skills which money could buy. But his mind was never the same."

"And now he wants revenge," said Dumarest. "Is that it? If the Kheld are what he thinks, they could do what he cannot. Kill and destroy those who had hurt him. Is that why he wants to trap them?"

"I don't know."

"I think that you do." His voice was flat, hard. "A waste, Iduna. You shouldn't spend your life nursing the delusions of a sick mind."

"It's my life, Earl."

"Your life, your time, your money," he agreed. "When will the food be ready?"

"Soon. You'll eat with us?"

"No. I'm going to look around."

It was dark when he returned, stars scattered thinly in the sky, the crescent of a moon hanging low on the horizon. A large moon, silver as Leon had said. But this world wasn't Earth despite the moon, the limited stars.

The fire had died to a red glow and he squatted beside it, scooping some of what the pot contained into a bowl, eating with a spoon.

It was good food, rich in nourishment, tastily spiced. Chaque joined him as he reached for a second helping.

"What do you think, Earl?"

"About what?"

"This." Chaque's gesture embraced the tents, the raft, the darkness beyond. "Jalch Moore's crazy. He had me in his tent for hours, going over maps which almost fell apart as you touched them. I tried to tell him that the deep interior is anyone's guess, but he wanted facts and figures which can't be supplied. Tomorrow he wants to head into the Marasill Gap."

"And that is?"

"A fissure split between two mountains. You'll see it soon enough. A bad place for any raft. We'll have to fly high and pick our time." Leaning forward, he touched the rifle Dumarest had set down at his side. "There was no need for this. We're safe enough here."

"And later?"

"We could need the guns." Agus Chaque was grim. "There are some predators I'd rather not run up against, and the valleys could hold other kinds of danger. We don't know much about them, there's no need. We just let well enough alone. A few hunters gather skins and furs and some traders try to earn a living, but that's about all. On Shajok, the ulumen is the main crop and there is plenty of room in the plains."

Dumarest leaned back, watching the face limned in the dull glow of the fire, the lines, the shrewd eyes.

"You're a guide, Agus. You must know the area. Have you heard of a place called Nerth?"

"No, but that means nothing." Chaque threw a dried twig on the embers, blew it until it flared into a glow of flickering brilliance. "You're thinking of the boy," he said. "I heard about it. A youngster, right?"

"Yes."

"Too young, maybe, to have been fully initiated into his tribe. It happens. These valleys are closed and have their own ways. They use special names, even a special language at times. That name, Nerth, it could have been the one used before initiation. Once he'd passed the test, he would have been told more." Chaque threw another twig on the fire. "Have you anything else to go on?"

Dumarest handed him the photograph.

"Not the Zelumini," said Chaque immediately. "Their women are all dark. Nor the Branesch, they never wear green." He hunched closer to the fire, squinting. "She couldn't belong to the Candarish because none of their women ever dress like, that."

"The symbol on the wall," said Dumarest. "A fish. Do you know any commune who uses a decoration like that?"

"A fish? No." Chaque handed back the photograph. "Sorry, Earl, it seems I can't help."

Another dead end, but at least a little had been learned. Leon had been young-he would have been much younger when he had left home. A few years spelled the difference between a child and a man. The name-Chaque could be right. Had the fear of initiation sent the boy running from his people? The photograph, one taken by a wandering trader, perhaps? A caravan he had chased and joined?

Dumarest rose, turning, the rifle in his hands as the night was broken by a sobbing cry. A sound which rose to a scream, a frenzied shrieking.

"No! No! Dear God, no!"

Jalch Moore was tormented by nightmares. The flap of Iduna's tent opened and the woman, dressed in brief underwear, ran to comfort her brother. Her voice, oddly gentle, soothed the yammering cries.

"Did you see that?" Chaque drew in his breath. "Who would have guessed that under the clothes she wears lies such perfection? A woman who-"