The Complete Dumarest, page 248
Dumarest turned and looked over the inner wall of the parapet into the courtyard below. Retainers stood in the open space, some moving, talking as they walked, their faces animated as they watched and listen to people he could not see. Others, equally engrossed, spoke to relations long dead or to lovers and friends, companions and, even the children of their flesh who had succumbed.
Glancing at the sky he judged the position of the suns. This period of delusia had been strong but already the orbs were moving apart and soon it would be over.
“Earl!” Another woman but this time real. The Lady Lavinia Del Belamosk, tall, her hair a rippling waterfall of liquid midnight barred with silver, breasts prominent beneath the taut fabric of her blouse came toward him along the promenade. “Darling, I was worried. You have been sitting up here for so long.”
“I was thinking.”
“Of Earth?” Her smile was that of a mother to a child. “Your world. The planet of legend. Yes, I know,” she said quickly as he frowned, “It is real. You are sure of that because you were born on it and all the rest of us have forgotten where it is to be found. As you have forgotten.”
“No,” he said. “I didn’t forget. I never knew.”
“Of course—what could a runaway boy know of spacial coordinates. And for years now you’ve been trying to find the way back. But, my darling, why should you bother now? You have me. You have what I own. And you have land of your own.”
“No.”
“Yes,” she insisted. “The Council voted it. You can’t refuse.”
Land which was almost worthless in the sense that it couldn’t be sold. And it took time to breed animals for fur and hides, to plant and harvest crops, to sift the upper layers for decorative stones and diluted minerals. The upper surface—below that the Sungari ruled. As they ruled at night. Sharing the world with men who owned the surface and the day.
Turning he again saw Dephine, tall, her eyes mocking, metallic glints reflected from the metal tipping her fingers. The attribute of a harlot and yet she had been a member of a family cursed with pride. Perhaps he had offered her an escape from the iron bonds of ancient tradition. Or it could have been simply that he had been prey for her predator-like instinct.
It didn’t matter now. Dephine was dead. Only on Zakym did she return to haunt him with her enigmatic smile and memories of what might have been. But the threat of the Cyclan remained. The reason why he had run from Harald. The reason why he was here, in this castle, with this woman, on this peculiar world.
“Earl?” Lavinia was concerned. “Earl, are you well?”
He stared at her, wondering for a moment if she were real or merely another delusion. Wondering too why she appeared to be unaffected by the delusia and why he seemed to be more susceptible of late. Was instinct urging him to escape while he had the chance? Primitive caution overriding logical consideration and striving for attention by this peculiar distortion of his senses?
“Earl?”
“It’s nothing.”
Stepping forward she lifted her hand and gently ran her fingers through his hair. Beneath their tips she could feel the line of freshly healed tissue running over the scalp. Gydapen’s last, wild shot had found a target, the beam of the laser searing almost to the bone. Could such a wound have unexpected aftereffects?
Guessing her thoughts he said, impatiently, “I’m all right, Lavinia. There’s nothing wrong with me.”
Then why did he turn and thrash in his sleep? Even when lying in her arms she was conscious of his tension, his inner turmoil. A product of the jungle, she thought, looking at him. Not the place of trees and underbrush, or the hunted and hunters to be found in tropic places but the harsher, bleaker jungle to be found among the stars where it was a matter of each man for himself and mercy was, like charity, a meaningless word.
How often had he killed? Did he now, at times of delusia, see again those faces he had known betraying the shock of death finally realized. Did enemies come to taunt and foes to plead? In his lonely vigils on the promenade did he talk again to those he had loved and who had loved him?
Only the dead returned at such times and it was foolish to be jealous of the dead but, at times, Lavinia wished she could see them, talk with them, warn them to stay clear of her man.
As Charles stayed clear. As Bertram. As Hulong and others she had loved and who had known her body. Now, for her, for always, there could be only one man in her life. One potential father of her children.
“Earl!”
He was looking over the parapet to where a dark fleck showed as a deeper mote against the sky. A raft which came closer, taking shape and form, revealing the figures riding in the open body of the vehicle. They were too far to distinguish but Lavinia had no doubt as to their identity.
“Our friends, Earl. Coming from town. I told you I had invited them to dinner.”
They had left it late. As the raft came in to settle in the courtyard the sky was deepening to a rich purple, the horizon barely tinged with the fading glow of sunset.
“We’d best go down, darling.” Lavania slipped her hand through the curve of Dumarest’s arm. “Soon it will be curfew.”
* * *
It sounded as he lay soaking in a bath of steaming water the deep, sonorous throbbing giving rise to sympathetic tintinnabulations so that the vases with their contents of scented crystals, the carved ornaments of stone, the suspended cascades of engraved glass all became chiming bells. Dumarest ducked, feeling water close his ears, waiting until his chest ached with the need of air, rising to blow and to hear the final throb of curfew as it sent echoes resonating from the walls, the very structure of the castle.
Already the building would have been sealed. Covers closed the air-shafts, the doors leading into the open were locked and guarded, the courtyard would be deserted. Only within the building itself would there be signs of life and all movement would be through connecting chambers or tunnels gouged from the upper regions of the soil. In town it would be the same. In every building now in darkness the curfew would have sounded and the Pact obeyed.
From sunset to sunrise the Sungari ruled without question.
Water splashed as Dumarest rose from the bath, running in little rivulets over his shoulders, the hard planes of torso and stomach, the columns of his thighs. The flesh of his upper body was traced with the thin lines of old scars; wounds delivered with a naked blade which he had taken when young and when to fight in the ring was the only way in which to earn a living. Standing, remembering, he heard again the roar of the watching crowd, the animal-like baying as men and women leaned forward avid for the sight of blood and pain and wounds and death.
“Earl?”
He ignored the call, looking into a mirror, nostrils filled with the odor of perfumes. Now it was that of flowers and rare spices, then it had been the raw taint of oil and sweat and fear, the sickly sweetness of blood, the stench of vomit and excreta voided at the approach of death.
Here, now, there was none of that. In this place was softness and comfort and servile retainers to do his bidding. There was good food and wine and scented baths. There was a woman who loved him and a life which many would envy. A good exchange, perhaps, for a life of endless movement. Of privation and danger and the constant threat of conflict. Even the sacrifice of his search for Earth was a small price to pay for the comfort he now enjoyed. He had found a refuge, a haven, and if it was one of darkness well, what of that? A man could learn to do without sight of the stars. He could learn to live only for the day and to yield the night to another race.
“Earl!” Lavania called again, her voice impatient. “Hurry, darling. Our guests will be waiting.”
“Let them wait.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
To quarrel would be foolish and what reason did he have for irritation? The figures which had come to him on the upper promenade, perhaps? The dead who had returned to smile and talk and to waken old memories. To rip the protective scabs from old wounds. And Chagney—always there was Chagney and, always, there was the sound of the thin, remote crying.
The crying.
The endless crying!
“Earl—”
He felt the touch on his shoulder and moved, springing to one side, one hand snatching up a tall, slender container of astringent liquid, sending it to smash against the wall, the jagged remains lifting like a dagger as his free hand swung like a blunted sword.
He saw the face before it landed, the eyes wide with shock, the parted lips, the dawn of terror and pulled back the stiffened palm so that only the tips of the fingers caught the fabric of her robe. It ripped, ripped again as the jagged glass, diverted, fretted the material from shoulder to waist.
“Earl! For God’s sake!”
Lavinia recoiled, one hand rising to her mouth, the fingers trembling, betraying her fear. A foot, as bare as the body which showed through the ruined garment, slipped on a wet patch and she staggered and almost fell. Would have fallen had not Dumarest caught her arm.
“No! Don’t! You—are you mad?”
Releasing her he watched as she stepped back against the wall. Fear had blanched her cheeks and robbed her lungs of air so that now she gasped, the proud breasts rising, the mane of hair darker by contrast.
Then, as he made no move toward her, she said, “Why, Earl? Why?”
“You touched me. I was thinking and, well, you startled me.”
“And for that you would have killed me?”
“No.”
“Don’t lie! I saw it in your face, your eyes. They belonged to an animal. You were a creature determined to kill.”
“Not you, Lavinia.”
“Who else was here?”
Memories, a reminder, a peril which always threatened. The robe she wore was the color of flame. He had caught a glimpse of scarlet, a hint of motion, had felt the touch and had reacted without conscious thought. But how to explain?
“You were wearing red,” he said. “I’m sensitive to that color. It has certain unpleasant associations.”
“I’ll burn everything red I own!”
“No, the color suits you.” He smiled and, reaching out, lifted a portion of the garment and let it slip through his fingers. “I’m just trying to make you understand. I meant you no harm—surely you know that? It was just that I was thinking and you touched me and old habits took over.”
“Old?” Lavinia shook her head. “Not old, Earl. Time blunts the speed of reflexes and your’s are the fastest I’ve ever seen. You would have killed me if you hadn’t recognized me in time. An ordinary man would have been unable to stop. An assassin would be dead. How could anyone stand against you?” She looked down at her ruined garment and then, with eyes still lowered, said, quietly, “Who did I remind you of, Earl?”
“No one.” The truth—the enemy wore no particular face. “It was an accident, Lavinia. Let’s forget it.”
“Something is worrying you. I’ve felt it for some time now. But what, my darling? You are safe here. No enemy can reach you. My retainers will protect you in case of need. Earl—trust me!”
She was a woman and her intuition was strong but to trust her was to put a knife in her hand to hold against his throat.
He said, “Forget it, Lavinia. Please.”
“But—”
“Please!”
He closed the distance between them and took her in his arms, holding her close, feeling the warm softness of her flesh against his own, the soft yielding of her breasts, the firm curves of hips and thighs. A good way to distract a woman and she was a creature made for love.
“Earl!”
She stirred in his arms, straining, her perfume filling his nostrils with the scent of expensive distillations, the odor mingling with her natural exudations; the subtle smells of her hair, the animal-scent of her femininity. Triggers which stimulated his maleness and worked their ancient, biological magic.
“Darling!” His proximity, his need, fired her response. She threw back her head, face misted with passion, hands rising to clasp his neck. The heat of her body matched the color of her robe. “Earl, my darling! My love! My love!”
* * *
Dinner was late that evening but, once started, progressed as usual when guests were present at Castle Belemosk. A succession of dishes accompanied by appropriate wines together with compotes, nuts, fruits, sweetmeats, comfits—items to titivate the palate and to stretch the occasion as did the entertainers. Dumarest crushed a nut between his palms and watched as a trio of young girls danced with lithe grace, making up in natural beauty what they lacked in trained skill. Before them an old man had chanted a saga, before him a juggler had kept glittering balls dancing through the air. He had followed a harpist and the girls would be followed by a man skilled on a flute.
“Lavinia, my dear, always your hospitality is superb!” Fhard Erason, hard, blocky, a member of the Council of Zakym, leaned back in his chair as a servant refilled his goblet. His face was flushed a little and his eyes held a glitter but he was far from drunk. “At times I envy you and, always, I envy the man at your side.”
A little more and there would have been grounds for a quarrel, for weapons at dawn and injury or death waiting one or both. Crushing another nut Dumarest wondered if the baiting had been deliberate but the man had ended in time and left the comment as a compliment. And yet, if he had added ‘no matter who he might be’ what then?
“A fine chef, skilled entertainers, a magnificent selection of wines—what more could any man want?” Alacorus, gruffly polite yet a little clumsy in his choice of words. He, like Howich Suchong, like Navalok, like the Lord Roland Acrae also belonged to the Council. An accident that so many should have gathered at this time?
A triple beat signaled the ending of the dancers’ performance. It was followed by a scatter of applause and the ringing jingle of thrown coins. Flushing the girls picked up their reward and ran with a flash of silken limbs from the platform. The flutist, tall, thin, his hands like those of a woman, took his place, coughed, waited a moment then began to play.
From his place at Lavinia’s left hand Roland said, “Lavinia, my dear, you are looking positively radiant.”
Her smile was enigmatic.
“You have blossomed since Dumarest came.” The glass he held was of fragile glass fitted with a delicate stem. He looked down at it, now snapped, a thin smear of blood on one finger. “I—. My apologies, Lavinia, how did that happen?”
“An accident, as you say.” Imperiously she gestured to a servant to provide a replacement. “Your hand?”
“It is nothing.” He sucked at the minor wound, his eyes searching her face, the mane of her hair now held in a silver mesh sparkling with gems. “Are you happy, my dear?”
“Roland—how can you doubt?” She turned to him, lips moistly parted, the gleam of white teeth showing between the scarlet. “I never thought I would ever know such fulfillment. Earl is a man! With him at my side—”
“If he stays, my dear.”
“If he stays,” she admitted, and a shadow misted her eyes. It lasted a moment then was gone. “He will stay,” she said. “And together we shall rule. His lands and mine together.” She saw his momentary frown. “Roland? Is something wrong?”
“Later, my dear. It is nothing but—well, later. We have plenty of time.”
The entire night if necessary—once trapped by the darkness none could leave. Until dawn each would do as he wished to beguile the tedium. There would be talk, more wine, sweetmeats, mutual entertainments and, finally, sleep. And, at dawn, freed of the prison of the night, life would begin again.
The flutist finished his piece, offered to play another, was refused and stalked from the hall. The table was cleared, the servants making a final survey before they left to enjoy their own repast and, within minutes, Lavinia and her guests were alone.
“A good meal.” Navalok rose and stretched and took a few steps to where a fire glowed in a heap of embers on a dulled platform of stone. He held his hands to it for a moment, enjoying the sight, the comfort of the flame, then turned. “The dish of broiled meat dusted with nuts and spiced with that pungent sauce. The one adorned with the head of a stallion in pastry.”
“You want the recipe?” Lavinia smiled at his nod. “You shall have it if I have to torment the cook to obtain it. A friend like yourself can be denied nothing.”
An offer with qualifications unnecessary to stipulate as he knew. And yet, if he had been younger, perhaps…
As if reading his mind Roland said, quietly, “Think of your youth, Navalok. If you had been the consort of such a woman would you have been gentle to those who hoped to gain what you held?”
“No.”
“Then—”
“Spare me your warnings, Roland. I am not wholly a fool.” Navalok glanced to where Dumarest stood beyond the table. In the somber glow he looked ghost-like in the plainness of his clothing. A man who wore no gems and who scorned the slightest decoration.
Was there a reason?
Navalok studied the clothing. The tunic was high around the throat, the sleeves long and snug at the wrists, the hem falling to mid-thigh. Pants of the same material were thrust into knee-high boots and the hilt of a knife rose above the right. A man who looked what he was, he decided. A traveler, a fighter, a man who walked alone.
“Gray,” mused Navalok. “Why does he wear gray?”
“Camouflage, perhaps?” Roland ventured a guess. “Bright colors could offend as well as attract possibly unwelcome attention. Habit? A cultural conditioning? There could be many explanations but I think the obvious is the answer. We tend to forget that, for some, clothing is a matter of functional necessity and not of stylish fashion. For a man on the move, needing to carry little, his garments must be both tough and efficient.”
“But now that he is living here in the castle?” Navalok glanced to where Lavinia was deep in conversation with Suchong. “Why now?”
“Habit.”
“But surely, now he’s with Lavinia—”
“Habit,” said Roland again, quickly. The man was treading on dangerous ground. As a relative of the woman’s he would be forced to demand an apology if a slur was made and this was no time to create discord. “Let us join the others,” he suggested. “We don’t want to appear indifferent.”
