"E. C. Tubb - Dumarest 09 - Mayenne" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tubb E. C)

Mayenne
#9 in the Dumarest series
E.C Tubb




Chapter One


Dumarest heard the sound as he left his cabin, a thin, penetrating wail, almost a
scream, then he relaxed as he remembered the Ghenka who had joined the ship at
Frell. She was in the salon, entertaining the company with her undulating song,
accompanying herself with the crystalline tintinnabulation of tiny bells. She wore the
full Ghenka costume, her body covered, her face a mask of paint, the curlicues of
gold and silver, ruby and jet set with artfully placed gems which caught and reflected
the light in splinters of darting brilliance so that her features seemed to be alive with
jeweled and crawling insects.

She was, he assumed, no longer young. No Ghenka in her prime would be found
on a vessel plying this far from the center of the galaxy; rich worlds and wealthy
patrons were too far apart. Someone on the decline, he guessed, unable or unwilling
to meet rising competition, going to where she would be both novel and entrancing.
Not that it mattered. Whatever her age there was no denying the trained magic of her
voice.

He leaned back against the wall and allowed the hypnotic cadences to wash over
his conscious mind, dulling reality and triggering sequences of unrelated imagery. A
wide ocean beneath an emerald sky. A slender girl seated on a rock, her hair a ripple
of purest silver as it streamed in the wind, the lines of her body the epitome of grace.
A fire and a ring of intent faces, leaping flames and the distant keening of mourning
women. Ice glittering as it fell in splintered shards, ringing in crystal destruction.
Goblets shattering and spilling blood-red wine, the chime of chandeliers, the hiss of
meeting blades, harsh, feral, the turgid chill of riding Low.

"Fascinating." The low voice at his side broke his reverie. Chom Roma held
unsuspected depths of artistic appreciation. The plump hand he raised to stroke his
jowl, matted with hair and gaudy with rings, trembled a little. "Fascinating," he
repeated. "And dangerous. Such a song can lead a man into memories he would
prefer to forget. For a moment there I was young again, a slim boy flushed with the
triumph of his first sale. And there was a girl with lambent eyes and skin the hue of a
pearl." He fell silent, brooding, then shook his head. "No, Earl, such dreams are not
for men like us."

Dumarest made no comment; softly as the entrepreneur had spoken his voice had
been a jarring irritation. There would be time for talk later, but now the spell was too
strong and, he agreed, too dangerous. A man should not become enamored of
mental imagery. The past was dead, to resurrect it, even by song-induced
stimulation, was unwise.