The Complete Dumarest, page 123
“What’s the use?” Chom scowled as he rubbed his left arm. “I can’t hit anything and the damn string’s flaying my arm. I’ll stick to a club.”
“It’s a matter of practice,” insisted Daroca. “You have to keep trying. Wrap something around your arm to give protection. Pull the notched arrow back to the point of the chin and use the barb as a foresight Look at what you are aiming at and release without plucking.”
“I’ll still stick to a club,” said Chom firmly. “You learned how to use a bow when you were a boy; I didn’t. I had no time for games. Anyway, what good is a thing like that against Tormyle?”
Harg said, “We won’t be fighting Tormyle; not exactly. We could be up against something like Earl fought. Man-shapes or animal-forms of some kind. All we know is that we are to be tested in some way and have to be ready to meet anything that comes.”
Chom made no further objection. Instead, he squatted and recommenced work on his club. A large stone had been wedged in the split end of a thick branch and lashed tight with strips of material pilfered from his blouse. Now he tied more strips so as to make a loop which could be slipped over the wrist.
To one side Dumarest was making knives.
He sat before a heap of the thin boles he had cut and sliced them at an angle. The edges of the hollow stems made sharp edges and a wicked point. He left the round handles untouched.
Mayenne said, “Will they be any good, Earl?”
“These?” He lifted one of the crude knives. “They can cut and thrust and will kill as surely as a blade of tempered steel. All we need to do is to wrap some thread around the hilts so as to stop the hand slipping along the edges.”
She hadn’t meant that and he knew it, but had deliberately misunderstood. As he reached for another foot of stem, she caught his hand.
“You were a long time at the river, Earl. I tried to join you, but there was a barrier of some kind which prevented me. What did it look like?”
“Tormyle? I told you. Like Lolis.”
“She was very beautiful.”
“So?”
“And you were bathing and naked and—” She broke off. “I’m sorry, Earl. I guess I’m just jealous. But when I think of you and her in the same place where we found happiness, well… forgive me?”
“For being in love?”
“For being a stupid fool. What does one woman more or less matter? And she isn’t a woman, not really. Did you?”
“No.”
“Would you have?”
He was coldly deliberate. “If it would have bought our freedom, yes. But it wouldn’t and I didn’t.”
“I’m glad, Earl.”
He smiled and stroked the edge of his knife down the length of wood. It was not as sharp as normal and he reached for a stone to whet the blade. Over the thin rasping Mayenne said, “When, Earl? Did it say?”
“No.”
“Nor what we could expect?”
“I told you what she said. When she knows what love is, then she will let us go. Not before.”
“She?”
“It, then. Tormyle. What difference does it make?” Cautiously he tested the whetted edge. “Try handling one of these knives. Get used to the feel and heft. Practice sticking one into the ground. When you do hold your thumb over the end and aim for a point about three inches below the surface.” He frowned as she made no move to obey. “Do it, girl. Your life could depend on it.”
Mari called out as Mayenne picked up one of the wooden slivers.
“Teach your woman to use a knife and you buy trouble, Earl. Haven’t you learned anything in life?”
“To dodge,” he said, matching her humor. “To fight when I can’t and run when I can. Have you made that sling yet?”
“All finished.” She held up a thonged pouch. “Can you really use one of these?”
For answer he slipped the knife into his boot, rose and took the sling from her hand. A pebble the size of an egg rested in the dirt. He picked it up, fitted it into the pouch and, holding both thongs, swung the sling about his head.
“That tree,” he said. “The cluster of fruit.”
The sling spun faster, whirring through the air, the stone hurtling as he released one of the thongs. Juice and pulp spattered the bole where the fruit had hung, the sound of the stone a soggy thud.
“I used to hunt with one when a boy,” he said. “Game was small, scarce and agile. A sling was all I could afford.”
“Not even a bow and arrows?”
“They were Daroca’s idea. The Qualish brothers made them.”
“And you don’t think they’ll be of much use?”
“Daroca can use one, but that’s all. It takes a lot of practice to hit what you aim at with a bow. A crossbow would be different, but we can’t make them with what’s at hand.”
Not if they were to have any stopping power, he thought. For that they needed a strong prod, heavy bolts and cord they didn’t possess. And a heavy crossbow was troublesome to load. At close quarters a spear was as good. Closer and a club was better.
Kara came from the base of the ship, the Qualish brothers at his side. The officer looked tired and haggard, his eyes revealing his frustration. Logic told him it would do little good to gain entry into the vessel, but to him it was home and he wanted to be in the familiar surroundings of his command.
“Nothing,” he said to Dumarest’s unspoken question. “We tried to force an entry through the emergency hatch. The whole ship’s sealed solid. Are you sure it has been repaired?”
“So I was told.”
“It could be a lie.” Kara scrubbed at his chin. “But what would be the point in that? If only I could make certain.”
“We’ll try again,” said Sac Qualish. “Later.”
His brother said, “Should we build more weapons, Earl? We could make a catapult of some kind. Or construct an earthwork of sorts. A ditch and sharpened stakes in a ring around the ship.”
“No,” said Dumarest.
“You don’t think it’ll be necessary?”
“There’s no point in tiring ourselves out making something we may not need. I don’t know when this test is going to begin, but we want to be fresh to meet it. You’d better get some food and rest now. You too, Kara. There’s not much more we can do but wait.”
Wait and hope and practice and try to find the answer to a question. What was love?
And how to explain it to an alien intelligence who had no conception of the meaning of the word?
* * *
They had built a fire, a small thing of weak flames and a thread of coiling smoke which rose like a feather in the still air. Mari threw on a handful of dried leaves and set others to bake, coughing a little as the fumes caught her throat. Chom held a fruit speared on a thin wand and roasted it. He lifted the dripping mess, tasted it and spat his disgust.
“Fruit,” he said. “Well, I suppose we could make wine if we had to, but I would give it all for a bite of decent meat.”
Kara muttered in his sleep. “Seleem,” he murmured. “Yes, sir. Full cargo on Ayette. Three riding Low.”
Mayenne began to sing.
It began as a low dirge, tremulous, haunting, a bleak call for help from the midst of snowy wastes and endless deserts, the empty expanse of enormous seas and the barren vault of the skies. It rose a little, a thread of pure sound in which lurked words like ghosts, fragments of half heard, half understood communication, touching buried memories so that the past lived again. Gath and the endless winds, the fretted mountains, the medley of voices, the composite of all the sounds that had ever been or could ever be made. A voice whispering.
“I love you, Earl. I love you!”
Another.
“A thousand years of subjective sleep. A million of dreams.”
A third.
“There will always be a welcome for you on Toy… on Jest… on Hive… on Technos… on Dradea.”
More.
“No, Earl! No!… ten High passages… the Ram, the Bull, the Heavenly Twins… five hundred, ten-inch knives, to the death… I love you, Earl. I love you!”
And another, utterly cold, speaking across the galaxy with frigid determination.
“Find him at all costs. Failure will not be tolerated. The man Dumarest has the secret the Cyclan must repossess. Find him!”
A bell chiming.
“Charity, brother. Remember the credo of the Church. There, but for the grace of God, go I. Charity… charity… charity.”
The song wavered a little, soared almost to a scream, then plunged into a throbbing undertone reminiscent of drums.
Daroca sighed. “Artistry,” he murmured. “Never have I heard a Ghenka sing so well.”
“If I can remain alive,” said Chom with feeling, “and if I can gather the needed wealth, I shall buy a Ghenka for my private pleasure.”
“A recording would be cheaper,” said Harg.
“True, but would it be the same? I think not. No true artist sings exactly the same twice; each performance is unique to itself. And the mood is important—how could any recording guess my thoughts, the way I feel, the adaptions essential to the creation of the moment? No, my friend, I have made my decision.” He speared another fruit and held it over the flames. “Perhaps this one,” he murmured. “At least it may not dissolve into a pulp.”
Mari said, “Earl, look at the ship. Something is happening.”
A light glowed around the supports, a will-o’-the-wisp luminescence bright even against the glare of the sky. It gathered itself into a ball and drifted toward them. It touched the ground a few feet away. Touched—and changed.
An insect, thought Dumarest wildly. Standing upright, winged, haloed with light, the face a mask of perfection.
“An angel,” whispered Mari. “Dear God, an angel!”
A figment of some old religion caught and fashioned from the aroused images of her mind. A fragment of legend brought to solidity by the magic of Tormyle. For a moment it stood resplendent and then it was gone and in its place stood a familiar shape.
“Lolis!” Chom’s fruit fell unheeded into the fire. “My lady!” He rose, bowing, his hands outspread. “I know, of course, that you are not the person we knew by that name. But it will serve. A lovely name for a lovely woman. My lady, I understand that you wish to know the meaning of love. I can teach you. In my travels I have come against it in many forms and have mastered them all. My heart is yours to command.”
She said, “The shape I wore before did not please you. It should have. Why didn’t it?”
“I am a simple man, my lady, and used to simple ways. Not for me the esoterics of mysterious cults. I buy and I sell and do what I can to please. Love, to me, is the desire to serve. To serve, to teach, to guide. To give pleasure and, if in return I gain a little joy, it is the joy of giving. If I could talk to you, my lady, alone, I am sure that we could find matters of mutual interest.”
Mari said, “I don’t trust that man. He’s trying to make a private deal. Doesn’t the fool realize that he’s not talking to a normal woman?”
She had spoken softly but her voice had carried. Daroca glanced at Dumarest, then at Kara. The officer cleared his throat.
“As acting captain I represent these people. Any arrangements should be made through me.”
“Captain?”
“I am in command of the vessel.” Kara was bleary-eyed, freshly woken and unrested by his tormented sleep. He made a vague gesture toward the ship. “Tell me the price for letting us go.”
The girl smiled, young and lovely and as fresh as a spring morning. She moved a little closer to where the fire plumed its thread of smoke. To one side Mayenne slammed her wooden knife viciously into the ground.
“We know the price,” she snapped. “The thing wants the answer to a question. It wants to know what love is. Love!” she repeated bitterly. “How can you teach a planet what that is? How can you love a world?”
“It’s possible,” said Daroca softly. “If the world is home.”
Earth, perhaps; but it wasn’t the same and Dumarest knew it. Daroca was playing with words and this was no time for semantic games. It was no accident, he thought, that Tormyle had chosen to appear in a female guise. It could have copied Gorlyk’s form as easily as that of Lolis. Why had it chosen to appear as a woman? He glanced to where Mayenne stabbed at the ground in symbolic murder. Had she reason for her jealousy?
Aloud he said, “We are not in the mood for games. You have made a decision; tell us what it is.”
“Impatient Earl?”
“We spoke once of cruelty. To keep people in suspense is not kind when their lives depend on your decision.”
“And love is the converse of cruelty. I remember. And you, Earl, could never love a person who is cruel.” She glanced at Chom. “Could you?”
“Love, my lady, knows no limitations. I could love you even while dying in your embrace.”
She raised her arms and reached toward him and he moved toward her as if without a will of his own. His boots trod in the fire and scattered the ashes so that he became wreathed in smoke. In the smoke they embraced, his thick arms clasping the slender figure, her own arms around his plump torso, the hands pressing against his back.
“Love me,” she said, and squeezed.
Chom made a sound like an animal in pain. His muscles bulged, the flesh of his cheeks mottling with a purple effusion of blood, his eyes starting from their sockets. Desperately he fought against the constriction and then, abruptly, relaxed, his face strained as he stared at the girl holding him close.
“Not the same,” she said. “Not the same at all.”
“My lady!” he wheezed. “My lady, please!”
She released him and he staggered back, tearing at the collar of his blouse.
“The problem is one of definition,” she said. “To be genuine love must be strong, this much I have gathered. But love seems to hold many forms, and which is the right one? To discover this I have devised an experiment. It should be conclusive.”
“Wait,” said Harg. He stepped forward, a small man, aged, yet holding a strange dignity. “Listen to me, Lolis… Tormyle, whoever you are. I don’t understand all this talk of love. Maybe I’ve been unlucky in my time, but no woman has ever wanted me for her own and I’ve never felt strongly about anything. Certainly not strongly enough to fight and die for it. And I guess that is what you intend. So let’s cut out all this nonsense and decide things one way or the other. A turn of a card. High card, you win and do with us as you please. Low card, and we win and you let us go. Quick, simple and decisive. You agree?”
“A gamble,” she mused. “A test of the thing called luck. Do you all wish to participate?”
“Yes,” said Dumarest quickly. “We do.”
He caught Chom’s arm as the man opened his mouth to protest and caught Daroca’s look of sudden understanding. It was a wager they couldn’t lose. Harg had framed the terms well; already they were in Tormyle’s power to do with as it wished.
“Harg is in love with the laws of chance,” she said. “For him joy lies in winning, and the touch of cards and dice are equal to a caress. Luck is his mistress and good fortune his deity. A strange thing,” she mused, “that a sentient being could hold such high regard for something so intangible. But the concept is intriguing. Yet the wager is wrong. He stands to lose nothing.”
Dumarest said, “You heard the terms. Do you agree?”
“To the gamble, yes. But not on those terms. Each must risk his own fortune. Harg will be first. If he wins, I will set him down on a safe place. If he loses, then I will take his life.”
“A safe place,” said Harg. “What do you mean?”
“A world on which you could survive. One of your inhabited planets.” She paused. “Ayette? Yes, the world you know as Ayette.”
“You can do that?”
It was possible. To an entity which had snatched the ship across light-years in a second anything was possible. Harg had asked only for reassurance. When it came he produced his cards.
“Wait,” said Dumarest sharply. “It’s your life, man. Remember that.”
“My life,” said Harg. “Such as it is.”
“Don’t be a fool,” said Mari harshly. “Go to the table expecting to lose and you’ll be ruined for sure. As a gambler you know that. Stay with us and you’ve got a chance. Lose and you’ve got none at all.” Her lips tightened as he riffled the deck. “Remember our agreement? Shares in a new house? Don’t do it, Harg.”
He ignored her, riffling the deck. He held them out on the flat of his palm.
“Choose.”
“You first.”
He cut quickly, trusting his life to the luck he had wooed over too many years. The cards made a slight rasping sound and he held his choice low, not looking at it, eyes instead on the young girl as she reached for the pack.
“A lady!” Sweat burst out on his forehead, clung like dew to his upper lip. His laugh was bitter as he turned up his own selection. “A jester! Well, I was always a fool. What now, Tormyle?”
He died.
He did it slowly, horribly, his flesh melting and seeming to run like wax in a flame. His limbs arched, became grotesque and his body puffed so that, as he fell, he looked like some monstrous spider. And, as he fell, he screamed.
Dumarest moved. He was a blur as he reached and snatched a spear, lifted it, thrust it with the full power of arms and shoulders into the shrieking mass. The sharpened point sliced deep, penetrated the heart and brought instant oblivion.
As Harg slumped into a lifeless heap he jerked free the spear and threw it at the smiling face of the girl.
The point, ugly with blood, dissolved into splinters, the shaft lifting to fall to one side.
Quietly she said, “That is twice you have used weapons against me, Earl. Will you never learn?”
“You bitch!” shouted Mari. “You dirty, sadistic bitch! Did you have to do that?”
“He wagered and he lost.” And then, to Dumarest: “You killed him. For love?”
“For mercy—something you could never understand.”
“Because he was in pain? Yet had you left him alone he would not have terminated his existence. I was altering his structure, adapting it to a new form. An experiment to discover how malleable your species is. Now, perhaps, I shall have to use another.” Her arm lifted, pointed at Tek Qualish. “You.”
