'Just that?' Her tone made it plain what she thought. 'A harlot?'
'A woman who is dead now.'
'Dead?' She smiled then grew serious. 'Like the others, Earl? The ones you see at delusia? Kalin and Derai and the one you thought I was? Lallia? You remember? All the women who come to talk to you and smile and warn you against me, perhaps. Is that what they do, Earl? Laugh at me? Deride me for loving you!'
'Stop it!'
'Yes.' She looked at her hands and made an effort to hold them still. Light caught her nails and was reflected in trembling shimmers. 'I am the Lady Lavinia Del Belamosk. A member of the Council of Zakym. I should not be jealous.'
'No,' he said, flatly. 'You shouldn't.'
'But, Earl-' She rose and stepped toward him, hands extended for comfort, wanting him to tell her that no other woman had meant anything to him, that only now, with her, had he found love. 'Earl, please!'
He said, quietly, 'Did life only begin for you, Lavinia, when we met? Am I the only man you have ever known?'
For a moment she made no answer then, drawing in her breath, lowered her hands and managed to smile.
'I'm sorry, Earl. I was being foolish. Before you came to me you didn't exist and nothing you had done could matter. The women you knew-none of them are real to me. They live only in your memory. It was just that I was afraid, thinking of you getting hurt, of dying, even.'
'Death is a risk of war.'
'Do we have to fight?'
'No.' The answer surprised her and he smiled at her expression. 'We could yield to all demands made by Gydapen's heir.'
'The false heir.'
'True or false makes no difference. He is coming with the power to make his claim real. Once he is accepted who will argue as to whose son he really is? Tomir Embris will do as well as any. He will rule. Zakym will become his world. His father will supply the arms and men he needs. There will be a dozen others who would be eager to share in the operation and every unemployed mercenary on Ilyard will hurry to join the feast. If I yield the lands-'
'If?' Her voice carried her shock at the suggestion. 'Earl, you can't! You mustn't!'
'Why not?'
'You haven't been paid! Our child must inherit!'
The first reason was enough; a bargain made was a bargain which should be kept and money was necessary for continuing the search for Earth. The second?
Dumarest looked at the woman. Was she pregnant or was the claim a woman's wile? A lie designed to weaken his resolve to hunt for the planet of his birth, to keep him at her side? It was possible, as possible as the claimed pregnancy if his seed was still viable after so many years spent exposed to the radiations of space.
'Our lands, Earl,' she said, urgently. 'Those of Belamosk and Prabang. Together they will make the largest holding on Zakym. We could absorb others, expand, break and cultivate new ground. Grow, Earl. Grow!'
Building chains to hold him, new responsibilities which would claim his attention, a net of need in which to hold him fast. Looking at him Lavinia realized she was going too fast too far. Little by little, step by step, to catch such a man needed care.
'The child you speak of.' He was blunt. 'Are you pregnant?'
'You doubt me, Earl?'
'I asked a question.'
'And received an answer. We of Belamosk do not lie.'
And neither did they tell the whole of the truth. No answer had been given and she must know it. Then why the reluctance? Fear of losing him on the first vessel? Fear of his reaction? Fear that what was yet in doubt could turn out to be a false hope?
A trap baited with honey-and what could be sweeter than a baby's need?
'Earl?' She came to him, all warmth and invitation, perfume rising from the mane of her hair, the subtle scents of her body augmenting the selected odor. 'Earl, will you fight?'
For Earth. For the money to find it. For the pride of holding what was his own. For the woman and the child she could be carrying and the security both would need.
'Yes,' he said, 'I'll fight.'
Chapter Nine
Castle Belamosk changed. The gentle air of unhurried indolence vanished to be replaced by a fevered sense of urgency with women kept busy sewing uniforms of strong fabric reenforced with leather, with artisans making heavy boots, edged weapons, belts, canteens. Others furbished old weapons; sporting rifles and pistols used in formal duels, even crossbows made to designs supplied by Dumarest.
He shrugged when Lavinia pointed out the primitive nature of the weapons.
'A bolt can kill as surely as a bullet if well-aimed. It would be nice to equip the men with lasers but we haven't got them.'
'But crossbows?'
'Are easy to make and simple to use. The bolts they use can be recovered and used again and again. The weapon itself will get them used to the weight of arms.' Patiently he ended, 'Leave it to me, Lavinia. I know what I'm doing.'
Arming and teaching men to be soldiers, to march and drill and to kill when given the order. But, as the days passed, she realized that to train men wasn't as simple as she had thought.
'It's a matter of cultural conditioning,' explained Roland when she spoke of it one day after watching a group of young boys try and fail to perform a simple maneuver. 'Our retainers have never had to think for themselves in their entire lives. They know what to do and how it should be done and have never had the need to think of alternative methods. Now they are being asked to change their social pattern into something strange and a little frightening. To perform acts without apparent purpose. To obey without apparent need. March, turn, halt, drop, aim, fire-words new to their vocabulary. But don't worry, my dear, Earl knows what he is doing.'
Bran Welos wasn't so sure.
At first it had been a game and he had been eager to thrust himself forward for, as his dead father had advised during delusia, the one who was among the first would be the one to gain rapid advancement. And Gelda had been pleased and given him the reward of her body that same night after curfew when the castle had been sealed against the dark. Even at dawn when he has assembled with the others it hadn't seemed too hard. The initial marching had become tiresome and the drills were stupid but there were watching faces to smile at and familiar things to see.
Then Kars Gartok had struck him and knocked him down and swore at him as he lay with blood running from his nose.
'Pay attention you fool! Left is left not right! March, don't slouch, and take that silly grin off your face. You're a man, not a clown. Head up, shoulders squared, stomach in, chest out, back straight, eyes ahead-now on your feet and march! March! March!'
March until his legs grew weak with fatigue, his feet sore with blisters, his eyes burning with glare and dust. March and obey until he had become a machine without sense or feeling. Then the long, long journey out into the arid lands without water or food and with the crossbow he had been given a dragging weight at his shoulder.
'Keep in step there!' Dumarest was in charge of the party. 'Left! Left! Left, right, left! Don't drag your feet! Left! Left!'
Welos spat and muttered something. Dumarest heard it but paid no attention. Anger was a good stimulus and if a man trained to be deferential all his life could have found the courage to vent his displeasure then it was a sign the training was having some effect.
A man stumbled, fell, lay in the dust. He turned to face the sky, his cracked lips parting.
'Water I must have water!'
