The Complete Dumarest, page 239
Into the space they’d taken he heaved his limp and unconscious body.
The effort almost killed him so that, for a long time, he leaned against the crate, gasping, fighting for breath, feeling as if his heart had burst and had drenched his guts with blood. Drugs helped, lessening the pain as he fired them into his throat, more followed to give a brief span of false energy for which he would pay later.
But it was almost over.
He studied the crate when it was sealed. No trace could be seen of it ever having been opened. No one would have reason to look.
No one—now that the cyber was dead.
And now, at last, he could rest. To go to his cabin, to lie on the bunk, to watch as the ceiling dimmed and to drift into an endless sea of confused memories all shattered as Fatshan came bursting into the cabin.
He had a cup of basic in his hand, the thick liquid laced with brandy and, as Dumarest sipped, he talked.
“The craziest thing. Gone—the lot of them. Not a trace. Not even of the acolyte. The Old Man and me went Middle and searched the ship all over. Nothing.”
Dumarest said, “Slow down. What are you talking about?” He frowned as the engineer explained. “Vanished? You mean they’ve all vanished?”
“Yes.”
“But how? An emergency sac?”
“None are missing and, anyway, who in their right mind would bale out unless they had to?” Fatshan rubbed at his scalp. “I’ve been in space over thirty years and I’ve never bumped into anything like this. I can’t see how it could have happened. I just can’t.”
“But it did?”
“It did.” The engineer shook his head. “I’m not joking, but it’s crazy.”
“A fight,” said Dumarest. “The prisoner, Dumarest, could have broken free somehow and killed the cyber. He could have been dragging him to the port when the acolyte found him. They had a fight and, somehow, all went through the port.”
“You believe that?”
“Maybe the acolyte killed Dumarest and was evicted as a punishment. Then the cyber, unable to admit failure, followed.” Then, as the engineer dubiously shook his head, he snapped, “How the hell do I know what happened? I’m guessing, I’ll admit it, but do you have a better explanation?”
“No,” admitted Fatshan. “And neither does the captain.”
He was in the salon, pacing the floor, frowning, kicking at the table as he passed. His frown deepened as he saw Dumarest enter with the engineer. Deliberately he sniffed at the air.
“Brandy. I’ve told you before about drinking on duty.”
“I didn’t think I was on duty,” said Dumarest. “The cyber had taken over. You and he didn’t need me—or so I understood. Anyway, what’s the harm in a drink?”
“He needs it, Captain.” The engineer coughed. “His trouble, you know. It’s been bad lately.”
Erylin grunted. He was more honest than the engineer. A navigator was of use only while he could navigate.
“You know what’s happened?” He grunted again as Dumarest nodded. “You saw nothing? No, I thought not. They must have switched to Middle. I’ve checked the medical kit and drugs are missing.”
“I know.” Dumarest met the captain’s glare. “I took them.”
“All of them?”
“Some pain killers. Something to help me get to sleep.”
“And I was in the control room. Which leaves you, Fatshan.”
“I saw nothing,” said the engineer. “Nothing at all.”
“Which means they must have left the ship from an upper port. Well, to hell with it. They’re gone. The thing now is what are we going to do about it?” Erylin looked at them, waiting. “Well?”
“A cyber and his acolyte,” said Fatshan slowly. “The Cyclan won’t like it.”
“That helps a lot,” sneered the captain. “Chagney?”
“If we report it they’ll hold us for questioning. They’ll take the ship apart and us with it. They’ll never believe we had nothing to do with those men vanishing. I can’t believe it myself.”
“So?”
Dumarest shrugged. “You’re the boss, Captain. But if it was me I’d just keep quiet about it.”
“Say nothing?” Fatshan scrubbed at his scalp. “Can we get away with it?”
“We don’t know what happened so there’s nothing we can tell anyone. We could even be blamed. We certainly aren’t going to get paid. A long, wasted journey with nothing but trouble at the end of it. What trader in his right mind wants that?” Dumarest glanced from one to the other knowing he had won. But the decision had to be the captain’s. He added, “I’m only making a suggestion, but there’s something else to think of. We’re carrying cargo. If we hope to stay in business we’d better deliver it. Later, if you want, we can report what’s happened.”
“The cargo!” Erylin snapped his fingers, relieved at having found the excuse he needed. “That’s right. We have a duty to the shippers. We can’t be blamed for fulfilling our contract but we’ll be taken for pirates if we don’t. We’ll have to alter course back to Zakym.”
And a load would be waiting for transport to another world and from there another and then still more. He would never report the disappearances and neither would the engineer. Even if questioned they could only say that three men had vanished into space and it was doubtful if they would ever be found.
Dumarest felt his knees sag and he stumbled and almost fell against the table. His wound had begun to burn and throb, a wound he would have to disguise until the end. But, to do it, he needed help. Erylin frowned as, straightening, he made his way to the store and drew out a bottle.
“Keep a clear head,” he snapped. “I want you to plot the course-correction.”
The computer would help and the change must be simple. The captain could handle it and Dumarest knew enough about the workings of ships to make a good pretense. Drink and pain, drugs and the ravages of disease would account for the errors he would make.
Now he had something to celebrate.
Lifting the bottle he jerked free the cork and filled his mouth with brandy. He felt the burn of neat spirit against his mouth, the fire which spread down his throat to catch at his lungs and, within seconds, doubled in a paroxysm which tore at his lungs.
“You’re mad,” said Erylin coldly when Dumarest finally straightened from the bout of coughing. “You can’t take that kind of punishment.”
“I need it.”
“The brandy? You fool! It will kill you!”
“I know.” Dumarest looked at the ravaged face reflected in the curved glass. “I know.”
Chapter Ten
The wind that morning was from the north, a strong, refreshing breeze which caught at the mane of her hair and lifted it, sending it streaming like an ebon flag barred with silver. A proud sight, thought Roland as he watched her ride from the courtyard. Proud and stubborn and more than a little willful. Any other would long ago have made her choice, uniting the Family with another, extending the joint holdings and content to do little else but breed children.
Perhaps, if she had been less unusual, he would have been a happier man.
Beyond the gate the road ran straight and clear, a line which ran towards the town to the south and Ellman’s Rest to the north. She headed into the wind, reveling in the blast of it against her face, the tug of it at her hair. The day had broken well but the suns were merging in the sky and, when she came in sight of the mound of shattered stone surmounted by the gnarled and twisted tree, she was not surprised to see a figure standing at its foot, another swinging from the topmost branches.
He had died when she’d been a child and had seen him on a morning ride. Her nurse had hurried her away and, later, she had listened to the gossip and learned the story. A herdsman, obviously insane, had taken his life with the aid of a belt looped around his throat. A thwarted lover, so the gossips whispered, who had stolen so as to buy what was denied. Caught, he had escaped before due punishment could be administered and, trapped by approaching darkness, had ended his existence.
It could have been the truth—now she could find out.
Agius Keturlan smiled at her as she dismounted. His face was as wrinkled as ever, as sere as it had been when he had died, but his eyes twinkled as they had done when he had carried her whooping on his shoulders.
“Lavinia, my dear. You are looking well.”
“And you, Agius.” Her eyes lifted to the swinging shape. “Better than he does.”
“An unfortunate.”
“A coward.”
Gently he shook his head. “Don’t be too harsh, my dear. Not all of us can be as strong as you are. How can we tell what torments assailed him? Have you never yearned for love?”
Her blush was answer enough and she turned to adjust her saddle, unwilling to betray more. When she turned again the dangling figure was gone, only the sough of wind stirring the branches.
Only Keturlan remained and she wondered why Charles had not appeared. Why, when she needed him, he remained absent.
The old man said, abruptly, “You are worried, Lavinia. Don’t trouble to deny it. It is in your face, the way you stand, the way you walk. Are things not going well?” He grew solemn as she told him of her fears. “Gydapen is a good man in many respects. You could do worse.”
“But to be forced?”
“Can any of us be truly free?” His hand lifted before she could answer, a finger pointing towards the swaying branches. “Was that poor fool free? Did he have a choice? Or was he nothing more than the victim of circumstance? We shall never know. But some things we have learned and among them is the realization that not always can we dictate the path we must follow. Can your mount decide? Does it tug, at times, at the rein? Is it a coward because it obeys?”
“Then you advise me to marry Gydapen?” He smiled and made no answer and, irritated, she looked away towards the loom of the Iron Mountains. Charles would have given her an answer. He would have laughed and joked and made light of the whole thing and she would have been eased and free of the necessity of making a choice.
Was that why he hadn’t come?
The animal snorted and pawed the dirt and, after she had soothed it, the old man had gone.
Glancing at the sky she decided against continuing the ride. The day was against it, better to stay at home and settle outstanding details or, better still, to go into town. There could be fresh news of the ship if nothing else. It was overdue—surely now it must arrive soon?
Roland came towards her as she dismounted. His face was anxious.
“Lavinia! Is anything wrong?”
“No. I decided against riding.”
“I’m glad.” His relief was obvious. “You ride too much alone.”
“There is nothing to fear.”
“Perhaps.” He knew better than to remind her of past escapes. “But the day is against it.”
As it was against everything. Shadowy figures stood in secluded corners, vanishing as if made of smoke when approached; old retainers of little interest to any other than their kindred. The place was full of them, men and women who had worked and served and died and were now nothing but vague memories.
Irritably Lavinia shook her head. A hot bath would help and it would follow her usual custom to wash away the grime of riding, but now it was a duty and not a pleasure. But, as she dried herself, welcome news came. “The ship? At last?”
“It landed a short while ago, my lady.” The maid was pleased to deliver the information. “The agent reported your cargo among its load.” Her reserve broke a little, familiarity verging on contempt for ancient traditions. “Will there be new gowns? New gems? French perfumes? My lady, if—”
“Enough!”
“My lady!” The girl’s eyes lowered in respect, but she could not be blamed. New garments meant the old ones discarded and, for her, a chance to wear expensive finery. “My lady?”
It would be cruel to keep her in suspense. “I didn’t order new gowns,” said Lavinia mildly. “Instead there will be a variety of fabrics together with a host of patterns. We shall make our own gowns in the future, and in time, develop our own fashions.”
A new industry, perhaps, and certainly a new interest, but if she had expected the girl to display pleasure at the news she was disappointed. Later Roland explained why.
“She hoped for gifts and you offered her work instead. Why should she be pleased?”
“Why not? I’m giving her the opportunity to create.”
“To work,” he insisted. “That is the way she regards it. She has no interest in sewing endless stitches or sealing endless seams. It may be a creative enterprise to you but to her, and those who will have to produce the finished product, it is work. You disappointed her. She wanted the result without the effort.”
“Laziness!”
“No, Lavinia, a natural desire to obtain the greatest reward for the smallest effort. Some call it the basis of all invention.”
“Perhaps.” The subject was of no importance and less interest. “When did you think to collect our delivery?”
“Tomorrow.” He glanced at the sky. “We could make it before dark but then would have to stay the night. Or we could visit Khaya Taiyuah and move on at dawn.” He smiled at the quick, negative jerk of her head. “No?”
“I’ve no desire to be bored to death. Either Khaya talks about worms or he doesn’t talk at all.”
“He could have news.”
“Of Gydapen? I doubt it. Suspicions, yes, but we have gone into that. The Council made its position clear.”
And, at the same time, had shown her her own. A night she remembered as she did the helpless feeling of frustrated rage during which she had bitten her pillow until her teeth had ripped the fabric to shreds.
But Gydapen had since been strangely quiet. He hadn’t called as she’d expected and as a persistent suitor would have done. There had been little news as to his activities. For a while she and the other members of the Council had remained tense and poised as if to ward off an expected blow. None had come and the tension had eased a little.
Alcorus, she knew, thought they had called Gydapen’s bluff. Navolok that they had met and defeated his challenge. But neither could really conceive of the Pact ever being broken.
And, she thought, neither really could she.
It had been a fact too long. An integral part of the way of life on Zakym. As concrete as the twin suns which hung in the sky. As real as her flesh and blood and bone. They too were a part of this world.
Yet, they too could be broken.
As she, too, could die.
As that man she had seen swinging in the tree at Ellman’s Rest. As Charles had died and Keturlan and so many others she had known. All passing on to wait on the far side of the barrier. To return during the periods of delusia. To talk. To warn. To advise.
But, in the end, it was the living who had to make the decisions.
“Tomorrow,” she said. “We’ll pick up the delivery tomorrow.”
But Howich Suchong arrived as they were about to leave with news of odd rumors coming from Gydapen’s estate.
Like Taiyuah he was old, like him suspicious, but he had no all-consuming interest in the breeding of new strains, cultivating instead, a wide circle of friendly informants.
“It’s odd,” he said when, seated in a cool chamber, wine and small cakes set before him, he finally mentioned what had worried him. “You know Gydapen’s lands? The arid region to the west?”
“Scrub and sand and little else. Some beasts graze there and there are predators.”
Suchong nodded, “But no villages, no arable land, no real reason why a hundred men should have been set to work building hutments.”
“No,” admitted Roland. “Hutments, you say?”
“Yes.”
“A work camp, perhaps?” Lavinia glanced from one to the other. “Something to do with his proposed mining operations?”
“That is what worried me.” Suchong took a cake, ate it, wiped crumbs from his lips and delicately sipped at his wine. “The area is beyond that granted by the Sungari. I’d hoped that Gydapen had thought better of his madness but the facts seem to be against it.”
“Facts?” She shook her head. “What facts, Howich? Some men building a few shelters—what of it? They could be preparing for a hunt or for herdsmen to take up residence to guard the beasts. I think you worry too much.”
“Perhaps.” He sipped again at his wine. “But what of the other men who drill at the edge of the desert? And what of the cargo the ship brought here consigned to him?”
“I too have a delivery of goods.”
“Most of us had something,” he admitted. “But what use could Gydapen have for so much? Large crates and heavy—I saw them when I collected my goods yesterday.”
Roland said, “Mining machinery?”
“It could be.”
“But you have no proof,” said Lavinia. “Only suspicions.”
“That is so.” Suchong set down his goblet. “But it occurred to me that Gydapen might have said something to you. Confided in you, perhaps?”
“And if he had?”
Suchong sat, his face impassive, an idol carved from weathered stone.
“He has said nothing.” Her voice rose a little as he made no comment. “I haven’t seen him since the meeting.”
He didn’t believe her, she knew it, and the knowledge warmed the anger she already felt at his assumption that she would act the spy.
As the silence dragged Roland said, “If Gydapen has been busy as you claim, Howich, he would have had little time for social graces. And he was never a regular visitor here as you know.”
“But things have changed since the meeting, surely?”
It was her turn to gain a victory. “Have they, Howich Suchong? Courtesies were exchanged, that is true, and a meal shared—small evidence on which to build vast assumptions. I think that, perhaps, you concern yourself too deeply in the affairs of others.”
