The voice sharpened. "What is your name?"
"Earth," said Dumarest. He had been dreaming of his childhood. "Earth… No. My name is Dumarest. Earl Dumarest."
"Good." The man sounded relieved. He was of middle age, his skin smooth, a mesh of tiny lines at the corners of his slanted eyes. "Count my fingers." He held up a hand. "How many do you see?"
"Three."
"What is the last thing you remember?"
"A man," said Dumarest slowly. "A guard, I think. He aimed a staff at me. There was fire, and something hit my head. A bullet?"
"A low-velocity missile which hit you. Just above the right ear. It shattered the bone and impacted the mastoid process. You were rendered immediately unconscious. Tell me again, how many fingers?"
"Two."
"Look to your left. To your right. Raise your eyes. Move the right foot. The left. Lift both arms and flex your fingers. Good. You seem to be in perfect condition."
"Was there any doubt?"
The doctor shrugged. "In cases of head injury, it is always hard to be certain. Fortunately, there was no brain damage. You were burned a little on the back and shoulders, but the protective clothing you wore saved you from extensive injury. The shattered bone has been repaired and the mastoid healed. You have been under slowtime, intravenous feeding and have had regular massage. Please stand up now."
Dumarest sat upright and felt a momentary nausea. He waited until it had passed, then threw his legs over the edge of the bed and stood upright. His body, he noticed, was thin, the fat vanished, leaving only hard skin and muscle.
"How long?"
"Under slowtime? Thirty hours. That's about fifty days actual." The doctor added, "Healing time, naturally. Can you walk?"
Dumarest stepped across the room. It was pastel green, windowless, the door set with a judas grille. Aside from hunger he felt normal. A high-protein diet coupled with exercise, and he would be as good as before. It was hard to realize that almost two months of his life had been spent in the cot, his metabolism speeded so that he had lived forty times the normal rate. A long time for wounds to heal when aided by hormone activators.
"There was no hurry," said the doctor when he mentioned it. "Chan Parect ordered a complete recovery, and I thought it advisable to taper off the drugs. Your clothes have been repaired. There is basic in that container. Please dress and eat." He glanced at the watch on his wrist. "We haven't much time."
"Time for what?"
"You will see. Now, please do as I say."
Fresh gray plastic covered the protective mesh, and the basic was as he remembered. A thick liquid laced with vitamins, tart with citric acid, almost solid protein. Standard fare on spaceships, where a cup would supply enough energy for a day. He drank a pint, slowly, ignoring the growing agitation of the doctor. He wanted to be in condition for anything which might come, and an empty stomach was a poor ally.
"Are you ready?" The doctor moved toward the door, not waiting for an answer. "Open," he said through the grille, and then added, to Dumarest, "The men outside will take you to where you are to go."
There were eight of them, unarmed but strong, more than a match for anyone just risen from a sickbed. They led him down passages and up stairs to a room he remembered. A chamber graced with old books and faded maps. From behind his desk Aihult Chan Parect gestured toward a chair.
"Sit, Earl. Relax. You are well, I hope?"
"Thank you, yes."
"A most distressing incident Zavor was a fool and has paid for his folly. The guard, too, the one who shot you, he has been disciplined."
Dumarest said dryly, "For almost missing?"
"For shooting at all. He claimed that his thumb tensed on the button-you know how it is. Fire, a man lying dead, another he thought was about to attack. Even so, he made a mistake and has paid for it. Debts, as I am sure you will agree, must be paid."
"Yes," said Dumarest. "Debts must be paid. The five thousand cran you owe me, for example. And then there is the question of damages. An attack on my life by your grandson. As the head of the house you are naturally responsible for the actions of your people." He added formally, "I am sure you will admit that, my lord."
Chan Parect laughed, the sound rising thin in the chamber, and Dumarest felt the prickling of caution. The man was not normal; never must he forget that. His grandson had been killed, and no matter what his personal feelings as head of the house, his duty was plain. To avenge the death and maintain his honor. Instead, he laughed; it was an ugly sound.
"You amuse me, Earl. I find it most entertaining to talk with you. You sit there with the blood of my grandson on your hands and you talk of moneys owing for the inconvenience. You do not deny killing him?"
"No, but I did not cause his death."
"You blame your knife?" From a drawer Chan Parect produced it. The blade was bright, the hilt free of blood. "It was a shrewd throw. The steel was buried in his brain. You could have wounded;, instead, you killed, why?"
"I was given no choice."
"Instinct, perhaps?"
"I had no choice," repeated Dumarest. "And, with respect, my lord, his death was predetermined."
"Fate, Earl? You believe in destiny?"
"In fact Had he been given slowtime, he would not have brooded over his injuries. And the weapon he carried, the laser. Someone had adjusted it for continuous fire. He dropped it and it exploded. A laser would not do that."
"It did."
"Because it was meant to," said Dumarest harshly. "Whoever adjusted it made certain that it would. A fuse set to the trigger to activate the entire charge after a lapse of time. Even had he killed me, Zavor would still have died. Murdered by someone in this citadel."
For a long moment Chan Parect sat without speaking, toying with the knife, his eyes veiled. Then he reached for wine and poured and sat sipping until the glass was empty.
"Murdered," he said at last. "By whom? Lisa Conenda?"
"I don't know."
"But you don't deny the possibility?"
"No."
"I warned you of her and the others. They are all the same. Warped, twisted, mad with ambition. Did she ask you to kill me and to share her seat of power?" Chan Parect leaned forward a little, his eyes intent. "Did she do that?"
"Yes, my lord." It was a time to tread carefully, to be polite. And it was obvious the man knew what had happened in the room. How else could he have known that the knife had been thrown? Monitors, perhaps, or a reported conversation.
"Of course. She would. And you were clever in your answers, Earl. You did not agree, yet you did not refuse her. Instead, you were ambiguous. The trait of a cautious man. Some wine?"
The goblet was of crystal, carved and hued with the tints of a rainbow. The wine held the taste of mint.
"The last time we spoke in this room, I told you of a problem," said Chan Parect. "I also said something else. You remember what it was?"
"You intended to make it mine also."