by E. C. Tubb
"My lady?" Her maid was at her side, her eyes betraying her concern. "Is anything wrong, my lady?"
"Yes. No. Bring me a drink. Something strong." Then, as the girl hesitated. "Hurry, damn you!"
The brandy helped, the stinging astringents helped still more, and the phial of pungent vapors which she inhaled finally drove the fuzziness from her brain. Did all women feel this way, she wondered, when their bodies became the receptacle of a new life? Her hands lifted to touch her breasts, fell to caress her stomach. And yet how could she be sure? There were tests which would answer the question one way or the other and yet she was reluctant to use them. It was an added joy to guess, to wonder if her missed periods were the result of love or physical disturbance, a baby growing in her womb or a metabolic upset caused by the fulfillment of desire. Such things happened to others so why not to her?
And who could be normal in time of war?
Bleakly she looked into the mirror as the girl dressed her hair, remembering, thinking of the wounded carried back into the castle, the dead cremated in heaps where they had fallen. Too many wounded and too many dead. Drugs and surgery could help the injured but how to replace the fallen?
War-a time of much sadness. Who had said that? Charles? No, he was the confirmed cynic. Roland? Perhaps when they had walked the upper promenade and he had touched her hand and mused on the workings of the universe. How long ago now? A year? A decade? A lifetime?
"My lady?" The girl had stepped back, her task accomplished, the mane of hair lifted and crested to show its bar of silver to best advantage. A crown for the smooth perfection of her face; shimmering, beautiful in its ebon profusion.
Would her daughter have such hair?
"It pleases you, my lady?" The girl was anxious, of late her mistress had been the victim of strange moods and sudden violences. "A touch more perfume, perhaps?"
"No." The girl had an animal-like instinct for preservation. The offer, rejected, had broken Lavinia's introspection by giving her the opportunity to make a decision.
Now she made another. "The ruby necklace and pendant earrings. The matching tiara and a ring. A large one."
Gens to adorn living flesh then, studying herself, she felt a sudden revulsion at her choice. Rubies-was she mad? At a time like this to wear the color of blood?
"Take these away." The jewels made hard, rattling noises as she threw them down. "Bring me pearls-no!" Pearls were tears of pain. What then? What? "The crystals," she finally decided. "Bring me the crystals."
Faceted stones backed by metallic films graven with lines to form a diffraction grating which reflected the light in glowing spectrums. An inexpensive novelty bought when she was little more than a child when bright and shining things had held a peculiar attraction.
As war seemed to hold a terrible fascination for men.
Madness, of course, a destructive urge which caused them to volunteer and to go out and face injury and death. Would women be so insane?
Her reflection told her the answer. Fight, she had demanded. Protect what is ours. Kill if it comes to that but stand against those who would rob us. Words-when translated into reality what did they mean? The answer lay in the infirmary whimpering in pain. Rose on columns of black smoke to the sky. Was in the red eyes of bereft women, the wondering gaze of deprived children.
When would it end? For the love of God, when would it end?
"My lady?" The girl was patiently waiting. "Is there anything else?"
"No." There was nothing else. Just a thing which had to be done because, once started, there was no choice. "You can go. No-a moment." Lavinia looked at the face reflected in the mirror, that of the girl's looking, it seemed, over her shoulder. "Do you have anyone in uniform?"
"No, my lady."
"No one? Not a young man?"
"Certainly not." The girl was offended. "That would be foolish, my lady. He could be killed."
"Yes," said Lavinia. "How right you are, girl."
Dressed, perfumed, adorned she made her way downstairs to find all her preparations wasted. Dumarest was not to be seen. Roland sat alone at the table crumbling bread into little balls with the fingers of one hand.
"Earl?" He shrugged at the question. "He's busy somewhere. Did you know they brought in a prisoner? They're questioning him, I think. Lavinia-?"
But she was gone and, again, he sat alone.
The room was small, bleak, lit with a somber light from suspended lanterns. A place with a bare, ugly floor, a table, a chair on which a man sat his body held by ropes.
He seemed little more than a boy then she saw his eyes, the way they roved over her body, and Lavinia knew this was no boy but a man slow to age with a cynical disregard for others and a selfish pandering to his own whims. Dumarest glanced at her as she entered the chamber.
"Leave."
"Earl? Who is he?"'
He said, again, "Leave."
"Please, my lady." Gartok was more discreet. "There is something which must be done and it may not be pleasant."
"Torture?" She looked at the man tied to the chair. "You intend to torture him?"
He was leaning back, smiling, his hair cropped and his nose uptilted a little. His clothing bore stains and the fabric over one thigh was red with blood. His lips were sensuous and his teeth even and white. Time would harden his features and rob him of the spurious youth-if he was given time.
"Earl?"
"I asked you to leave."
"And I asked a question." Then, as he made no answer, she added, bitterly, "Has it come to this, Earl? Are we to lose the very last scrap of decency? To torture a wounded man!"
"He has a choice. He could talk but refuses to do so."
"But he will talk," said Gartok. "He and I are in the same business and I know a man when I see one. He's made his protest and acted the part but now its over. Now he will talk. Right, my friend?"
"Go to hell!"
"You see, my lady, how stubborn he is? Looking at that face you would never guess that he gouged the eyes from a helpless man and laughed while he did it. Nor that he shot an unarmed boy in both knees and left him to crawl over rocks as sharp as broken glass. I know him. I saw it done. And there was a woman-but I'd better not mention her. And he will talk, that I promise. Now let me get to work."
"Outside, Lavinia."
"You too, Earl." Gartok was blunt. "If I get nothing else out of this war I'm going to have this. Don't try to stop me. Just take your lady and go."
Lavinia was silent as Dumarest led her to the great hall. She remained silent as Roland rose, sat again as he was ignored to toy with more bread. A servant deftly served the first course. Irritably she pushed aside the plate.
"How can I be expected to eat?"
"And how can you expect men to be other than what they are?" Dumarest was harsh. "I told you once that when you hire men to kill you don't expect to get monks. Well, Kars is a killer and lives by his own code."
"He will kill that man?"
"Yes."
"And you allow it? Earl, what has come over you? Why are you so different?"
"Different to what? Did you ever know me when I too had to kill? Can I stop Kars? Do I want to? That man would be dead now if I hadn't saved him. I did it so he would talk. Well, he's going to talk and what he says might win us this war. Or would you prefer others to die in his place? Your maid, for example. Roland. Me."
"Not you, Earl!" Her cry was from the heart and Roland sensed it. Watching, Dumarest saw his hand close on the bread he was crumbling, tighten to mash it into a ball.
"Lavinia, calm yourself, my dear. Earl, what did you mean when you said there was a chance you could end the war?"
"It's a secret."
"From me?" Roland smiled. "Surely you trust me?"
"I trust no one. Lavinia, can we have some food?"
Protocol dictated that unless she ate no food was served. With an effort she mastered her distaste and the servants continued with the meal. Gartok appeared before it was ended. His hand
s, Lavinia noticed, had been freshly washed and his eyes held the satiation of a man who has found an excess.
"Kars?" Dumarest relaxed as Gartok nodded. "So you got it. Good. You'd better eat now. We'll leave in an hour."
"Leave?" Roland shook his head. "You can't, Earl, and you know it. The castle is sealed until dawn."
"Seals can be broken."
"But the Sungari-no!" Lavinia was firm. "No, Earl."
"We leave."
"But you can't." Her plate moved to fall from the table as she pushed it with her arms; a gesture demonstrating her agitation. "You know the Sungari are real. You know how dangerous they are. We were caught outside at night, remember?"
"And lived." Dumarest rose from the table. "And we'll live again. Join me when you're ready, Kars. I'll be at the raft."
Beneath the lights it looked something like an elongated bubble, the opaque canopy fitted to the vehicle providing a covered space in which to operate the controls. Discs of transparency pierced it and apparatus had been fastened to the outside; grabs and rams and pincers which could be operated from within.
Dumarest had checked it by the time Gartok appeared.
"We'll lock in, open the doors and fly out," he said. "Where do we hit?"
"There's a place on the Prabang estate. A collection of huts used to train some men-you know it?"
"Yes," Dumarest glanced around the chamber. The inner doors were all sealed, aside from the two of them the area was deserted, the outer doors which had been hastily constructed were held by a single bolt which could be thrown by remote control. "Let's go!"
The lights died as the doors slid open and the converted raft edged into the courtyard. There would, Dumarest knew, be a short period of grace and he had the raft up and moving high above the ground before closing all but one of the transparent ports.
"Why do that?" Gartok grunted his displeasure. "I wanted to look outside."
"It wouldn't be wise."
"Why not?"
"Just take my word for it." Madness waited in the night but how to explain? Trapped energies from the suns swirling in mind-disturbing vortexes? Some radiation emitted by the Sungari? Imagination and hallucination running wild?
"Like I did about the Sungari? They're as odd as the ghosts but, at least, the ghosts don't kill. Maybe the Sungari don't either? Nothing's happened yet."
"Give it time," said Dumarest. "Give it time."
He had lifted the raft high and sent it at top speed to their destination, sending it like an arrow hurtling through the night but, as fast as he was, the Sungari were faster. Something touched the canopy with a brittle rasping sound. It came again, then a shower of things which scraped at the thick plastic, rattling like hail, like thrown spears.
"What the hell is that?" Gartok reached for one of the ports. "Something is out there."
"The Sungari. Don't touch the port!"
"I want to see."
"Don't touch it!" The one Dumarest had used was now closed, the raft flying blind. "If you look out they can look in."
"The Sungari?"
Or the things they had sent. The last time they had been winged missiles constructed of chitin and tissue, barbed darts moving too fast to see, living machines programmed to attack, anything in the shape of a man. This time they could be different but Dumarest doubted it. A good design was worth keeping and the creatures had proved their worth. But did they have abilities he didn't guess?
"Don't talk," he said as Gartok made to speak. "Don't move. Vibration could attract them."
"The engine-"
"Is a regular sound pattern, unusual but different from a living organism. Words are something else. We can do without them."
Remaining silent as the raft hurtled on its way, the rasping of alien bodies gone now, the shape tested and passed as a lifeless thing and not a deliberate breaking of the Pact. A chance Dumarest had taken, a gamble he hoped would succeed.
Before dawn, he thought. The journey should take them long enough to arrive a couple of hours before dawn. A good time, there was no need to wait longer than they had to and enough would remain of the night. Reaching for the controls he slowed the craft, mentally reviewing the terrain below. There would be hills, gorges, flat places, ravines a range of mountains which they should pass to the right.
Should pass, but if they had been diverted by the shower of impacts or a vagrant gust of wind they could hit and plunge to ruin.
Height would save them but the raft was small, the engine weak and the canopy had loaded the vehicle to capacity.
Cautiously he unsealed the port. Starlight shone like liquid silver on the ground below, shadows filling crevasses and distorting perspective. Turning he stared to one side and saw the loom of darkness against the blaze of stars. The mountains were too close. The raft veered as he adjusted the controls and, immediately, it shuddered to the impact of a rain of glancing blows.
"They're back!" Gartok's whisper was louder than a shout. "Earl, they're back!"
A gleam from the port, his face, a familiar silhouette- how to tell? The movement of the raft even, inert matter did not move in such a fashion. And yet still they could not be sure. Animals roamed unmolested as the Sungari gathered the night-mist but they were familiar. The raft was not. But attacked it had not retaliated and was therefore harmless.
The human method of thinking but the Sungari were alien and who could tell what motivations drove them? They shared this world with men and that was all anyone knew. A Pact had been made based on mutual noninterference but who had made it and how it had been made was forgotten.
Dumarest nodded, dozing, resting like an animal with one part of him alert while the others rested. Then, checking the instruments, he knew they must be close.
"Kars?" He heard the man grunt. "Are you awake?"
"I'm awake." The man edged his way forward. "Have we arrived?"
"We're close. Better get into the armor now. You first."
Plates of metal which fitted close, articulated joints, helmets to protect face and skull. Normal protection for mercenaries engaged in close-quarter fighting and now it would be an added protection.
Again Dumarest opened the sealed port. The raft was still riding high and for a moment he was completely disoriented then he saw a crevass, a desert naked in the starlight, a formation he had seen before.
"We're going down," he said. "Brace yourself."
He dropped fast, slowing at the last moment, moving forward to halt, to turn, to dart ahead again as he found the huts. They were set in line backed by the cookhouse and stores all now tightly sealed. The raft landed between them.
"Now!"
Gartok was already at the handles of the external apparatus. A pincher moved out, closed, tightened.
"Up!"
A ripping as a section of the roof gave way. Down to fasten a grab, to rise again, to jerk one end out of the hut and expose the interior.
To move on and repeat the move lower down.
To slam the tough canopy of the raft against a wall.
To see emptiness and to taste the sourness of failure.
"They're gone!" Gartok swore as, in the starlight, he saw nothing but empty cots. "The damned huts are empty!"
"Could he have lied?"
"No." Gartok slammed his hand against the canopy. "No, Earl, no! He didn't lie. He told what he thought was the truth. He told me!"
Urged with pain, dazed, craving release-could he still have lied? Did it matter?
The raft jerked as something smashed against the port, glass splintering, showering inwards. The hole widened, plastic shredding, yielding to the things outside. Gartok yelled as a winged shape ripped past his visor, yelled again as it turned to slam with numbing force against his chest. Unarmored he would have died.
"Earl!"
"Out!" Dumarest dropped the raft with a jar. The vehicle was a marked target. "Head for the storeroom. Follow me!"
He staggered as he jumped through the opened door, falling to roll, rising under t
he savage impact of blows which filled his mouth with the taste of blood. The door of the storeroom flew open beneath the drive of his heel, light splintering from a lantern, the door slamming shut as Gartok followed Dumarest into the hut. It was heaped with empty crates and the air held the scent of oil and sickness.
On a cot a man reared upright snatching at a gun.
"Hold it!" Dumarest took a step forward. "Don't make me kill you!"
"You're human!" The man sagged with relief then broke into a fit of coughing, blood staining his lips and chin. He dabbed at it with a hand, looked at the smears, then dug beneath his pillow for a rag. "When you burst in here I thought-how come you made it through the night?"
"We were lucky."
"More than some. Three men tried it the first night here. Five more the following week and we lost two the day before yesterday. They went out and didn't come back." The man coughed again, "Just vanished. We didn't even find a bone."
"Where is everyone?"
"Gone." The man leaned back against the wall. His cheeks were sunken, his eyes bright with fever, the whites tinged with the blue stigmata of the disease which rotted his lungs. "They pulled out yesterday afternoon. I was too sick to go with them so they left me behind."
Dying, with a gun, to protect an empty store.
"Moved? Where?" Gartok snarled as the man made no reply. "Talk, damn you!"
"Or what?" The man shrugged. "You want to kill me then go ahead-you think I like being like this?" He coughed again and almost choked on the fretted tissue which rose from his chest. Dumarest found water, held it to the carmined lips, supported the man while he drank. "Thanks, mister," he whispered. "You going to kill me?"
"No."
"Just leave me here?"
"You've got food, water and a gun." Dumarest eased the man's head back to the pillow. "Which way did they go? North? East? South?" He watched the subtle shift of the eyes. "Any heavy equipment? Rocket launchers? Field-lasers? How about supplies? How many rafts? Did they get much warning?"
The man said nothing but his eyes spoke against his will, minute flickers, little tensions, signs which Dumarest had learned to read when facing players over countless gambling tables.
Gartok looked up from where he sat on a crate at the far end of the hut when, finally, Dumarest allowed the man to sink into an exhausted sleep.
