Prison of Night Page 3

  "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.

  "Grey," mused Navalok. "Why does he wear grey?"

  "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."

  Dumarest watched as they moved over the tessellated floor. Navalok was old, Roland younger but still far Lavinia's senior. A curse with which he had to live as did all men born out of their time. From the first Dumarest had recognized the affection the man held for the woman, the hopeless yearning which he had learned to master and conceal. Yet there were times when he betrayed himself as when he had broken the glass.

  A small thing, but had others noticed? And would it matter if they had?

  Did anything really matter on this strange world where the dead walked when the suns were close and aliens ruled the night?

  Lavinia smiled as she came toward him, resting one hand lightly on his arm, the fingers closing with a trace of possession.

  "Earl, darling, you seem a little detached. Come and join the company. Alcorus has news."

  He was talking about another member of the Council-gossip, not news, but on Zakym the two were often confused.

  "I tried to bring Khaya along but you know how he is. That's why we were late. We did out best but he simply wasn't interested. Too busy with his worms, I imagine, and you know how much he hates to be disturbed."

  "Worms!" Lavinia shook her head, laughing. "I've known Khaya Taiyuah all my life and still I don't understand him. What pleasure can he possibly find in such an odd hobby?"

  "It isn't exactly a hobby," protested Roland. "He's trying to breed a new strain of silkworm. It could have wide commercial application if he succeeds."

  "If!" Lavinia shrugged. "A small word with a big meaning. If we had wings we could fly. If sand was gold we'd all be rich. What do you think, Alcorus?"

  She wasn't interested, Dumarest knew, but was doing a good job of lightening the atmosphere. Alcorus didn't help.

  "I have no opinion."

  "Howich?"

  Suchong grunted as he sipped his wine. "The man is too old. He could be growing senile. I know we have no right to scorn his interest, but it is more than that. How often does he attend Council? And he forgets his manners. Why, when we visited, he didn't even greet us. All we were given was a message that he was not to be disturbed. How could we argue? A man is master in his own house."

  If the man happened to be a lord of Zakym and not a servant or artisan or a visitor from another world.

  Dumarest tasted bitterness and lifted a goblet from where it stood among others, filling it with wine from a decanter, swallowing the liquid and feeling warmth spread from it down his throat and into his stomach.

  It didn't help.

  He needed money, not wine. He needed the coordinates of Earth and a ship to carry him across the void. He wanted to get back home.

  Chapter Three

  The talk was a fountain; words kept spinning as the juggler had maintained his gilded orbs in the air without apparent effort. An attribute of those who were accustomed to the long, leisurely discussions of the night, but beneath the talk of weather, or crops and herds, of relationships and recipes, entertainers, exchanges, there was an undertone of something else. Navalok edged toward it.

  "This should be a good season for you, Lavinia, I saw your herd in the Iron Mountains a few days ago. They look prime beasts in every way. Good, strong foals which should interest the buyers when they arrive."

  "One already has." Suchong leaned forward in his chair to better inhale the plume of scented smoke rising in an amber thread from a container of gemmed silver. "I met him in town. A buyer from beyond the Rift coming early so as to make a good selection. I wonder he hasn't contacted you."

  "He will if he's interested in mounts," she said. "From where? Beyond the Rift, I know, but which world?"

  "Tyumen, I think. Or was it Tyrahmen?" Suchong lifted his head. His face, wreathed by the smoke, was almost saffron and his eyes held a peculiar glitter. "His name is Mbom Chelhar and he seems to have money. The best chamber at the hotel, the best foods and wines. He wears jewels on each finger and smells of riches. An agent, I think, for some wealthy ruler or a combine. We talked about my freshendi and, if the crop is as good as I think it will be, then I shall be a happy man."

  "And if not?" Fhard Erason answered his own question. "We plant again and hope and wait again and, while we wait, try not to envy others. But you, Lavinia, have nothing to worry you. As Navalok mentioned your herd is a certain source of revenue. If my lands grew the herbs they need I too would breed such animals." And then he added, with apparent casualness, "Gydapen was a fool not to have diversified more than he did. The desert could have been put to better use."

  Lavinia said, sharply, "Gydapen is dead."

  "But his son is not." Alcorus looked from one to the other. "Yes, he had a s
on, a boy born to a woman he married while traveling off-world. A secret he kept from all but a few. The lad would be grown now and there is talk of his claiming his inheritance."

  "What inheritance?" Lavinia looked at Suchong, at Navalok. "The lands were taken and voted to Earl. It was a Council decision."

  "And perhaps a wrong one." Navalok was blunt. "We were confused, disturbed, unsure of our facts and you were pressing. The land needed an owner-retainers must be aware of a firm hand, but we could have made a mistake. And, naturally, we knew nothing of Gydapen's son."

  "If he is his son."

  "The facts are attested."

  "But-" She broke off, aware of her position. Gydapen had promised her marriage and, even for reasons of his own, would have fulfilled the pledge had she permitted it. The previous marriage meant nothing-her own would have taken precedence and her children would have been the undoubted heirs. But to mention it. To remind those present that she had believed everything he told her. To admit that she had been little better than a gullible fool!

  Dumarest said, "This talk of Gydapen's early marriage. When did it begin?"

  "Recently. Why?"

  "Who mentioned it? Who spread the rumor?" He looked at the blank faces. "Roland?"

  "I don't know, Earl," he confessed. "I heard it from Jmombota. He claimed nothing for it but said that it was common knowledge. I think he wanted me to relay the news. There was no need. Three others asked me about it within two days and then-" He broke off, shoulders lifting in a helpless gesture. "Perhaps we should talk about it."

  "About what?" Lavinia blazed her anger. "Gydapen was a dangerous man. If it hadn't been for Earl all of you would now be paying him homage. Is this how you thank the man who saved you?"