Jondelle

Book 0: DUMAREST SAGA

by E.C. Tubb

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Space Opera

Synopsis

'Earth is real,' Dumarest insisted. 'A world old and scarred by ancient wars. The stars are few and there is a great single moon which hangs like a pale sun in the night sky.' In the quest for his legendary birthplace, Earl Dumarest has traversed galaxies. Now, at least, he reaches Ourelle, a planet close to Earth - out along a far arm of the Milky Way. There he finds Jondelle, a boy who may hold the key to Earl's search. But then Jondelle is kidnapped. And Dumarest's pursuit of the imperilled boy leads him to a city of paranoiac killers - madmen whose terrible violence is always on a hair-trigger! (First published 1973)

Release date: September 29, 2011

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 155

Sample

Akon Batik was an old man with a seamed face and slanting eyes flecked with motes of amber. His lobeless ears were set close
to his rounded skull and his thin mouth curved downward as if he had tasted the universe and found it not to his liking. He
wore an embroidered robe of black and yellow, the wide sleeves falling low over his hands. A round cap of matching color was
adorned by a single jewel which caught the light and reflected it in splinters of lambent ruby. Casually he stirred the heap
of crystals lying before him on the solid desk of inlaid woods. His finger was thin, hooked, the nail long and sharply pointed.
At its touch the crystals made a dry rustling as they shifted over the sheet of paper on which they lay.


“From Estale?”

“Yes,” said Dumarest. “From Estale.”

“A hard world,” mused the jeweler. “A bleak place with little to commend it aside from the workings which produce its wealth.
A single vein of lerad in which are to be found the chorismite crystals.” He touched them again, watching as they turned,
his eyes remote. “I understood the company mining them was jealous of its monopoly.”


“It is.”

“And yet you have a score of them.”

It was more of a question than a statement but one which Dumarest had no intention of answering. He leaned back in his chair
looking again at the paneled walls, the painted ceiling, the rugs of price which lay scattered on the floor. Light shone in
a yellow flood from recessed lanterns, soft, gentle, lulling with implied warmth and comfort. It was hard to remember that
this room lay within a fortress of stone, harder still to bear in mind that not all the defenses were outside. There would
be men, perhaps, watching, electronic devices certainly, means to protect and to kill if the need arose. Akon Batik had not
grown old in his trade by neglecting elementary precautions.


He said, “Why did you bring them to me?”


“You have a reputation,” said Dumarest. “You will buy what is offered. Of course, if you are not interested in the crystals
I will waste no more of your time.”


“Did I say that?” Again the long nail touched the little heap. “But it is in my nature to be curious. I wonder how a man could
manage to elude the guards and the inspection at the field on Estale. A man working the vein could no doubt manage to retain
a few crystals—but to leave with them?”


“They are genuine.”

“I believe you, but my eyes are not as young as they were and it would be well to make certain.” The jeweler switched on a
lamp and bathed the surface of his desk with invisible ultraviolet. The crystals blazed with a shimmering kaleidoscope of
color, rainbows painting the seamed cheeks, the slanted eyes, glowing from the dark wood of the paneled walls. For a long
moment he stared at them, then switched off the lamp. “Chorismite,” he said. “There can be no doubt.”


Dumarest said, “You will buy them?”

The crux of the matter, but Akon Batik was not to be hurried. He leaned back, eyes thoughtful as he studied his visitor. A
hard man, he decided, tall, lean, somber in his clothing. Pants tucked into high boots, the hilt of a knife riding above the
right. A tunic with long sleeves caught at the wrists and high about the throat. Clothing of a neutral gray and all of it
showing the marks of hard usage, the plastic scratched and scuffed with minor attritions. His eyes lifted to the face, studying
the deep-set eyes, the determined set of the jaw, the firm mouth which could easily become cruel. The face of a man who had
early learned to survive without the protection of House or Guild or Organization.


A traveler. A man who moved from world to world in search of something, or perhaps because he was unable to rest. A wanderer
who had seen a hundred worlds and found none he could call his own.


Quietly he said, “Estate is a bad world and not one a traveler should visit. There would be little opportunity for such a
man to work and collect the price of a passage. You agree?”


There were many such, dead-end planets, end-of-the-line worlds devoid of industry, poverty-stricken cultures in which a stranded traveler stood no chance of making an escape. Dumarest had seen too many of them. Bleakly he nodded.


“On Estale you work in the mine or you do not work,” continued the jeweler. “And, once you sign the contract, escape is rare.
The pay is low, prices high, a worker remains constantly in debt. Yet a shrewd man could beat the system. A man who saved every
coin, who indulged in no pleasures, and who wasted no opportunity in order to build his stake. A man who would bide his time,
work out his contract, and leave without suspicion.” He paused and added, softly, “And who would suspect that a man riding
Low would have a fortune hidden within his person.”


And his visitor had ridden Low; the signs were plain. No body fat, a drawn appearance about the eyes, the hands thinner than
nature intended. The result of riding doped, frozen, and ninety percent dead in caskets designed for the transportation of
beasts. Risking the fifteen percent death rate for the sake of cheap travel.


“Will you buy the crystals?”

“I will give you one thousand stergals for them,” said Akon Batik flatly, and translated the sum into more recognizable terms.
“That is the cost of two High passages.”


Dumarest frowned. “They are worth more.”

“Far more,” agreed the jeweler. “But commissions will have to be paid and you are selling, not buying. My profit will be little
more than what I pay you—but you need have no fears once you leave my house. A thousand stergals. You agree?”


He smiled as Dumarest nodded, a quirk of the lips, more a grimace than an expression of amusement. Yet his voice held satisfaction
as he said, “The money will be given to you as you leave. And now, a glass of wine to seal the bargain. You have no objection?”


It was tradition, Dumarest guessed, a ritual which politeness dictated he should share. And, perhaps, things could be learned
over the wine.


It was dark, thick, and heavy with a cloying sweetness, pungent with the scent of spice which warmed throat and stomach. Cautiously
he sipped and then said, casually, “You have lived long and are wise. Tell me: have you ever heard of a planet called Earth?”


“Earth?” Akon Batik stared thoughtfully at his wine. “An odd name for a world, but no, I have not. A place you seek?”


“A world I intend to find.”

“May good fortune attend you. Do you intend to remain long on Ourelle?”

“I don’t know,” said Dumarest cautiously. “It depends.”

“On whether or not you find things to attract you?” The jeweler sipped at his wine. “I asked because it is barely possible
that I may be able to find you suitable employment. Men who can acquire chorismite are rare. It could be that I will have
a proposition to make you at some later time. Naturally, it will be of a profitable kind. You would not be averse?”


“I would be interested,” said Dumarest flatly. He sipped again at his wine, wondering at the other’s interest. A man like
Akon Batik would not have a need for men to do his bidding; certainly he would not have to rely on strangers no matter how
skillful they appeared to be. Setting down the goblet, he said, “I thank you for the wine and your courtesy. And now, the
money?”


“It’s waiting for you at the door.” The jeweler pursed his thin mouth. “You are a stranger on Ourelle, am I correct?”

“Yes.”

“It is a strange world and perhaps I could save you misfortune. If you are tempted to seek games of chance, do not play in
the Stewpot, the Pavilion of Many Delights, or the Purple Flower. You may win, but you will not live to count your gains.
The House of the Gong is as fair as any and you will be safe from violence.”


Dumarest said, “You own it?”

“Naturally, and if you are eager to lose your money, I may as well regain what I have paid. Another thing: Ourelle is not
as other worlds. If you remain in the city, that need not concern you; but if you wish to explore, take nothing for granted.
You have plans?”


“To look around. To see that is to be seen. You have a museum? A scientific institute?”

The jeweler blinked his surprise. “We have a House of Knowledge. The Kladour. You will recognize it by the fluted spire. It
is the pride of Sargone. And now, if you would care for more wine? No? Then our business is completed. If the need arises,
I shall contact you. In the meantime, good fortune attend each step you take.”


“And may your life be full of gladness,” responded Dumarest, and knew by the sudden shift of light in the slanted eyes that
he had enhanced his standing in the jeweler’s estimation. A man who insisted on wine to complete a transaction would be sensitive
to such courtesies.


A moving arrow of dull green guided him through a labyrinth of passages to the outer door where a squat man handed him a bag
of coins, waiting phlegmatically as Dumarest counted them. The money safe in his pocket, he stepped into the street, blinking
at the comparative brilliance of the late afternoon. An emerald sun hung low in the sky, painting the blank facades of the
buildings with a dozen shades of green; dark in shuttered windows and enigmatic doors, bright and pale on parapets and trailing
vines heavy with blossoms of blue, gold, and scarlet. Above the roofs, seemingly close, he could see a peculiar spire twisting
as it rose to terminate in a delicate shaft topped by a gilded ball. The Kladour, he guessed, and made his way toward it.


In Sargone no street could be called straight. Every alley, avenue, road, and byway was curved, a crescent, the part of circle,
the twist of a spiral, all wending in baffling contradiction as if designed by the undulations of a gigantic serpent. A guide
had taken him to the jeweler’s house, another would have taken him to the Kladour, but the street had been empty and the spire
deceptively close. Dumarest had trusted to his own ability and soon found that he was completely lost.


He halted, trying to orient himself. The sun was where it should be, the spire too, but it was more distant now and the street
in which he stood wended in the wrong direction. Traffic was light and pedestrians few. An alley gave onto a more populous
street which irritatingly sent him away from his objective.


A man rubbed his chin, his eyes sharp as Dumarest asked directions.

“The Kladour? Hell, man, you won’t find nothing there. You want the Narn. Everything to satisfy a man in the Narn. Girls,
wine, gambling, sensitapes, analogues—you name it and it’s to be had. Fights too. You like to watch a good fight? Ten-inch
blades and to the death. Tell you what—you hire me and I’ll take you to where you want to go.”


A tout eager to make a commission. Dumarest said, “Forget it. I want the Kladour.”


“First right, second right, first left, third left, straight ahead. If you change your mind and hit the Narn, ask for Jarge
Venrush. If you want action, I can show you all you can use. Remember the name. You’ll find me in the Disaphar.”


Dumarest nodded and moved on. The second on the right was a narrow alley thick with emerald shadows, a gash cut between high
buildings and prematurely dark. He trod softly, keeping to the center, ears strained with instinctive caution. Something rattled
ahead and he tensed as a shape darted from behind a can. A small animal seeking its prey; lambent eyes glowed as he passed
where it crouched, feeding. Beyond it, the left-hand turn showed an opening little wider than the alley.


He slowed as he neared it, his skin prickling with primitive warning. It was too dark, too convenient for any who might choose
to lie in wait, and the tout could have sent him into a trap. Sargone was a city no better than any other. It had its dark
corners and own species of savage life. Men who lived on helpless prey. Robbers and those who would find it more convenient
to kill from a distance.


Dumarest halted, then turned to retrace his steps, halting again as he heard the cry.

It was high, shrill, more of a scream than a shout, and it came from the opening behind. He spun, one hand dropping to the
knife in his boot, the nine-inch blade glowing emerald as he lifted it from its sheath, faded sunlight bright on needle point
and razor edge. Two steps and he had reached the opening, was racing down the alley as the cry came again. A woman, he thought,
a girl, then corrected the impression as he saw the tableau ahead. Not a girl, a child, a small boy pressed tight against
a wall.


He wasn’t alone. Beside him stood a man, thickset, his hair a tangled darkness, his face drawn and reflecting his fear. His
hands were clenched in baffled helplessness as he faced the three standing close. They were decked and masked, glittering
tunics bright with a variety of symbols, the masks grotesque with beak and horn. Camouflage or protection—it was impossible
to see what lay beneath the masks, but Dumarest had no doubt as to what they intended. Robbers, armed with knives, willing and perhaps eager to use them against defenseless victims. To cut and stab and
slash in a fury of blood-lust. To kill the man and perhaps the boy. Degenerates out for a little fun. The scum inevitable
in any civilization.


One turned as he approached. Dumarest saw the mask, the glitter of eyes, the sweep of the blade held like a sword in a gloved
hand. It lanced forward in an upswinging thrust which would have disemboweled an unprotected belly. Dumarest jumped to one
side, his own blade whining as it cut through the air, the edge hitting, biting, breaking free as it slashed through the hand
just behind the fingers. Fingers and knife fell in a fountain of blood, the blade swinging up again in a return slash at the
lower edge of the mask, the tip finding and severing the soft tissues of the throat.


Without pause, he sprang at the nearest of the other two, left arm blocking the defending blade, his own point lifting to
aim at an eye, to thrust, twist, and emerge dripping with fresh blood.


“Hold it!” The third man had retreated, dropping his knife, his hand now heavy with the weight of a gun. “You fool,” he said.
“You interfered. No one asked you to do that. All we wanted was the kid. You could have walked past and forgotten what you’d
seen. Instead you had to act the hero. Well, now you’re going to pay for it.” He poised the weapon. “In the belly,” he said.
“A hole burned right through your guts. You’ll take a long time to die and scream every minute of it. Damn you! Here it comes!”


Dumarest moved, leaping to one side, his arm reaching back, than forward, the knife spinning from his hand. He saw the mask,
the gun, the ruby guide-beam of the laser, and caught the stench of seared plastic and metal. Pain tore at his side and then
the beam had gone, the gun swinging upward, the mask, the hilt of the knife protruding like an ugly growth from the flesh
beneath.


Then pain became a consuming nightmare.

He looked to be six pushing seven, a stocky lad with a mane of yellow hair and eyes deep-set and vividly blue. His back and
shoulders were straight, his stomach still rotund from early fat, his hands dimpled, his mouth a soft rose. He stood beside
the bed, very solemn, his words very precise.


“My name is Jondelle. I must thank you for having saved me when we were attacked in the city.”

Big words for a small boy, thought Dumarest, but, equally solemn, he said, “It was my pleasure to be of service. Can you tell
me what happened?”


“After you were shot?”

“Ye. . .