Eye of the Zodiac

Dumarest sat upright, looking at a room he barely remembered. Small, the walls of stone, the window heavily barred. A door of wooden planks held the grill of a Judas window. The bed was solid, the mattress firm, the covers of thick, patch-work material. Reds and greens and diamonds of yellow. Blue and amber squares, and triangles of puce, purple and brown.

"We had to clean and cauterize," said the voice. "The infection was deep."

She sat on a chair set hard against the wall, a position beyond the range of his vision until he turned. A woman no longer young, one with blonde hair held by a fillet of metal. The eyes were amber, the face strongly boned.

"I am Zafra Harvey."

"Leon's mother?"

"Once I had a son." Her voice was distant, as if she spoke of another life at another time. "You claimed to have something to tell me. A message."

"It can wait." Dumarest rose higher in the bed. He was naked. "Did you take care of me?"

"Yes, I am skilled in healing."

"A doctor? A nurse? How is Iduna?"

"Your woman is well. She was suffering only from exhaustion. Now that she has eaten and slept, she will be fine."

"She isn't my woman," said Dumarest. He looked at Zafra's face, seeing the mesh of tiny lines at the corners of the eyes, the aging of the lips, the neck. "How long has it been since that photograph was taken?"

"A long time. In happier days."

"Here?" And then, as she made no answer. "In the town? Do you often leave Nerth?"

"Nerth?"

"The valley. Do you?"

"We call it Ayat. No, we never leave."

The name they would use to others-and the woman had lied.

She said, "Please. The message?"

"Later."

"But Leon-"

"Your son?" Dumarest nodded as he caught her faint inclination. "What happened to him? Why did he run?"

"He is dead. We do not talk of him."

A symbolical death perhaps attended by appropriate ceremonies, his name stricken from any records there might be, his very memory erased. A name that should not be mentioned. A custom with which Dumarest was familiar, one with which he had no patience.

But she was a woman, a mother, and he had no reason to hurt her.

"I knew him," he said. "We worked together, traveled together. He told me of this place. He said that you could help me." A lie, but barely. The photograph had told him that and Leon had carried it. He added, gently, "I am sorry to tell you that he is dead."

She sat as if made of stone.

"What happened?" he urged. "Did he fail his test? Run because of shame?"

"The shame was not his. He wore the yellow, but that was understood. But then, when the time came again, he was not to be found."

"He ran," said Dumarest. "But how? With whom?"

"None went with him."

"A raft? A trader?"

She made no answer and he knew he would gain no further information at this time. Rising he stood, fighting a momentary nausea, then moved to a table which stood against a wall. It held his things, the knife, the idol he had carried tucked beneath his tunic, other things, his clothes. They had been cleaned and dipped into something which had left a purple film. He rubbed it, seeing it leave a mark on his thumb.

"Gray is the color worn by ghosts," she explained. "Green, those who are here by right. The purple will save you from embarrassment."

"That's considerate of you." Dumarest picked up the knife and scraped casually at the idol. "Am I under restraint? If so, it will give me an opportunity to work on this."

"You are free to move at will among the houses and immediate fields. No work will be demanded of you. You may eat with the single men and widowers."

"No guards?"

"You will be watched. And now, if you please, give me the message you claim to have brought."

"You've had it, a part of it at least. Leon is dead. I thought you would like to know. He died bravely, a hero to those who knew him." An unqualified lie this time, but one which could do no harm and could give comfort. Dumarest followed it with another. "He died in my arms. He mentioned you and asked me to bring you his love. The rest of what he told me is for other ears than your own."

"Did he mention-" She broke off as if conscious that she was asking too much. That she could be abrogating the authority of others, demanding more than was her due.

"You were saying?"

"Nothing." Rising, she moved towards the door.

"Take care of your wound. If the pain should increase, let me know at once. If you feel fevered or dizzy, the same. It would be wise for you to conserve your strength for the next few days."

Good advice, and he might follow it-if he was allowed to live that long.

* * * * *

It was late afternoon, and Dumarest guessed that the drug he had been given had made him sleep for thirty hours or more. A long rest which he had needed, and now he was hungry.