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?'
