Prison of Night

Chapter Eleven

In the infirmary a man was sobbing, "God help me. Please help me. Someone help me." On and on, a plea without end in a voice which sounded as if it had come from a broken machine.

A good analogy, thought Lavinia, but one she wished she didn't have to make. Too many human machines lay broken in the room now crowded with beds. Too many voices muttered and mumbled in droning susurations, sometimes crying out, sometimes falling into a low, animal-like moaning.

Why did they need to suffer?

She knew the answer to that; slow-time was expensive and in short supply. Other drugs were also in unusual demand. Injured men were doped and bandaged and left to heal in full awareness of their condition. Heroes faced with their folly-no, she was being unfair. They had fought for her and to mock them was to be cruel. They had the right to look to her for aid. The right to demand that she give it.

"My lady?" A woman, old, her face seamed and withered like the skin of a dried fruit, had caught her by the arm. "Are you ill?"

"No."

"You look pale. This place is not a good one for you to remain in. And it is bad for the-" She broke off, swallowing, realizing to whom she spoke. Women had a common function but not all of them enjoyed being reminded of it. "You must be careful, my lady," she ended. "Why not leave this to me and the others?"

The old and the young and those with the stomach to stand the cries and sights of pain. The injuries. The burns and sears and torn and ruptured tissue. The ruin of what had once been men.

And would be again, she told herself. Nothing must be spared, money, pride, nothing.

But what sacrifice could she make to equal theirs?

She forced herself to stand upright, to throw back her shoulders and smile, to move slowly along the line of beds, touching those who were awake, talking to those who could hear, resting her hands firmly on those who could not see.

And, even while she walked and talked and smiled she wondered. Had the old woman recognized her condition? Some, she knew, had the reputation of being able to spot pregnancy in its early stages before any signs were clearly visible. An intuition, a sixth-sense, something which they could read and understand. How else to account for the warning? The unfinished sentence which caution had broken short?

Were unborn babies affected by external stimuli? Would the atmosphere of the place affect her child?

Science told her that was impossible, but was science always right? Or did she want an excuse to stay away and her own hopes and imagination were hard at work to find one?

Outside the door she took a deep breath. Inside the air was clean and scented with pungent spices and sprayed essences of pine and roses but, even so, that outside seemed better, more wholesome, more pure. More imagination or had she a greater sensitivity than she had guessed?

Idle speculation and of no immediate importance but one matter required her immediate attention.

Roland looked dubious when she asked him to accompany her.

"Ride, Lavinia? Is it safe?"

"Safe? What has that to do with it? I must inspect the herd and select stock for breeding and for sale. It should have been done before." Would have been done if it hadn't been for Chelhar. "Well, are you coming with me or not?"

He insisted on caution, riding slowly, keeping armed retainers close, sending out scouts to check the terrain ahead. A caution which would once have irritated her but now she had lost the desire to gallop and it was good to amble along and enjoy the warmth of the suns and the touch of a cooling breeze.

Warned, the herdsmen were waiting. They had assembled the beasts and urged them past her in line so she could make her selections. Yenne, the master-herder, sat on his mount close to her side, brand-gun in hand ready to shoot colored dyes at her signal.

"That, one!" she pointed. "That and that and that…" She glanced at him as he fired a blotch of ebon on the shoulder of a beast without her signal. "Why cull that one?"

"Weak in the legs, my lady. I've been keeping an eye on her. I'd hoped that her foal would be free of the weakness but it must be a dominant gene."

"The foal?"

His shrug gave the answer. Dead, of course, culled as soon as the fault was recognized. The mother, now caught in the general sweep, would shortly follow, bones, meat, hair and hide all put to good purpose.

The way of nature-only the fit and strong could be allowed to survive.

And the herd must be kept in prime condition.

As the animals passed and she continued to select the beasts Lavinia studied the old man. Later they would pick over the selection together for his final approval. It would be given discreetly, of course, sometimes by no more than the lift of an eyebrow, but he would not permit her to make expensive or stupid errors. But her attention had nothing to do with his skill or her determination to match it.

He was married, she knew, and had sired children. Would he have culled his own offspring?

Would Dumarest?

If the child she was now certain reposed in her womb proved defective in any way would he permit it to survive?

Small, yes, size was a variable. The color of hair and eyes was not important. The shade of skin would be determined by their ancestry. But if it were blind, or deaf or with a grotesque and swollen skull? If it had a split spline or misplaced features or internal organs wrongly placed? If it were a freak like some she had heard about which were displayed on barbaric worlds for the enjoyment of those with money to spend?

Dumarest would kill it.

He would do it with speed and love and mercy but the mite would die and so be spared the lifetime of agony and humiliation, the knowledge of inadequacy and the burden of handicap which had been its heritage.

He would spare it that, she was sure of it, as sure that she sat on her mount and watched beasts pass before her eyes. His face-she had seen it when he had killed. The face of a trait, not of a man, the naked determination to survive.

Would he condemn anyone to a life of hell?

She remembered the rumors of him having killed a wounded and dying man to give him peace. Would he deny that peace to his own child?

"Lavinia!" Roland was at her side, his hand touching her arm. "Here!"

She took the bottle he gave her and tilted it and felt the touch and burn of brandy in her mouth and down her throat. It helped ease the chill which had gripped her despite the warmth of the suns but did nothing to ease the turmoil of her mind.

A traveler, moving through the varied radiations of space, one who had spent years traversing the void and who had spent time beneath violent suns. A man who more than most had been exposed to the conditions favoring mutations.

What were the chances of his siring a normal child?

"Lavinia!" Roland's hand closed on her arm. "You shouldn't be out here. You're tired and worried. Dismount and rest for a while. Yenne can handle the selection."

"No." She took another swallow of brandy. "I'm all right."

"You looked distant."

"I was thinking."

Of Dumarest and his child and the moment which would come when she would show it to him and watch and wait-did all pregnant women feel this way? She would have to find out.

It was late when she returned and she was aching with weariness but when she saw the converted raft lying in the courtyard she went directly to the room which Dumarest used as his office. He was alone, seated at a desk littered with papers; maps, overlays, projections, lists. As he saw her he rose and, taking her hands, sat her in a chair.

"You're a fool," he said, gently. "A good soldier knowns when to rest. If you overdo things you'll fall sick and we'll have another casualty."

"Don't humor me, Earl! Success?" She frowned as she listened to his report. "They knew you were coming, they must have!"

"It's obvious!"

"It could have been coincidence, that isn't important, what is, is why they left?"

"To save themselves, of course!" She was annoyed at his apparent inability to recognize the obvious., "A simple matter of the need to survive you keep preaching at the men. The wisdom of knowing when to hide and run so as to fight another day. The doctrine of cowardice, I think it's called, at least that's what my ancestors would have called it. They believed in meeting their enemies face to face."

He said, sharply, "Who told you that?"

"About my ancestors? It's a matter of record."

"No, the other, the part about men being cowards if they develop a regard for their lives. Who!"

"I don't know." She was startled by his sudden anger. "Some talk, perhaps when I was in town, a rumor-you know how these things happen. But does it matter?"

"It matters. It's a question of morale. Make a man feel bad and you've half-won the battle. Make him feel foolish and a coward to take care of himself and you've gained an easy target. Was it Roland?" He watched her eyes. "Suchong? Navalok? Taiyuah? A trader?"

"I don't know." She felt her own irritation begin to flower into rage. "Someone, somewhere, that's all I can say."

"Do you believe it?"

"That to be careful is to be a coward?" She remembered the infirmary. "No." Then, to change the subject. "Where's Kars?"

"We went into town and I left him there."

"After news?"

"Yes. Now you'd better get into your bath."

"Later. I'm not a child, Earl." She looked at the clutter of papers. "And this is my war too, you know."

"Are you enjoying it?"

"I hate it. I want it to end. That's why I wish you had succeeded last night. Earl, where did they go?"

A question he had been working to answer. From the heap he took a map, an aerial survey, the heights yellow, the depths green, ravines and crevasses made red slashes, deserts ocher smears. Stark against the shades of color were uncompromising black flecks.

"The stop-overs," said Lavinia as he touched them. "Are you sure?"

"Not certain but I'd put money on it." Dumarest used dividers to step out distances. "See?"

"See what?" She didn't apologize for her ignorance. "Tell me, Earl."

"It was late afternoon when they pulled out," he explained. "They headed north. That could have been a diversion, but I don't think so. They didn't have time to waste. We can estimate the speed of the rafts. They were heavily loaded but there was a south wind which would have helped them along. Say they ran until an hour before dark. Not long enough to reach a castle but long enough to put them in this area."

She looked at the circle his finger made. "In the stopovers. Of course."

They were thick-walled, barn-like constructions set at irregular intervals in the empty places. Buildings provided with food and water and emergency medicines for the use of those who may have been forced to land and had been trapped by the night. A relic of the old days when much travel had been by animal or foot. They could be sealed and lit with lamps burning oil. Their maintenance was the responsibility of the Family owning the land.

"They couldn't have all got into one," said Dumarest. "But they wouldn't have wanted to separate too far. That puts them here if my guess is right. It's the only place they could have reached where the stop-overs are close."

"On the edge of Taiyuah's land," she mused. "His grandfather tried breeding a herd there and built those huts for his men. Later, when he abandoned the idea, he turned them into stop-overs. That's it, then, Earl. We have them. Now you know where they are you can send a force against them."

He smiled at her enthusiasm but she had the naivete of a child when it came to war.

"I'm not certain they are there," he said, patiently. "As yet it's only a guess. But assume they are. If we attack on foot they would spot us and catch us in a crossfire. If we rafted in they would blast us out of the sky with their launchers. And look at the terrain." His fingers illustrated his words, moving from shaded patches of yellow to red. "The place is ringed with hills. They'll have spotters on the summits and attack groups in the crevasses. Surprise is out and the rest would be slaughter. They're professionals. Experienced mercenaries. All we can send against them is barely trained retainers."

"They can kill, Earl."

"And have," he agreed. "But a lot of them got hurt doing it."

To be expected when men, flushed by the desire to be heroes, took too many chances. Wounded they would learn. Dead any lesson came too late.

"So what do we do? You can't just leave that force out there."

"Why not?" He shrugged at her expression. "Because they might attack or move? They can do that anyway. We can't stop them. All we can do is to keep them under what observation we can. If they're there we'll know it. If they make a move we'll know that too. But we can't do a thing without information."

And Tomir's had been good. Was there intent behind the move and, if so, what? An attack on Belamosk? Launchers could reduce the castle to rubble given time and assuming their crews would remain unmolested. But no commander could hope for that. A feint? Was he setting a trap? And the sudden pulling out, the luck Gartok had cursed. Luck or something else? A day earlier-but they hadn't known where to strike until the prisoner had been questioned. Tomir would have learned of his capture and guessed he would talk. Had the knowledge triggered the move? But why? Night attacks were unknown on this world. Who could have predicted one would be tried?

Cybers were masters of prediction-had one come to Zakym?

Ardoch stood in the open doorway of a chamber and watched a man play at the childish game of war. The room was old, the walls crusted with mineral deposits which seeping damp had piled on the stone, the floor uneven as the ground beneath had settled over the centuries. A place buried deep beneath Castle Prabang which now held the man who had made it his.

Tomir Embris who carried a false name and claimed a false identity. A clever fool-but one the cyber could handle.

"Ardoch?" Tomir lifted his head from the desk at which he sat. "I didn't hear you. Come and join me."

A board stood on the table, chessmen set in their squares, locked now in one of the surrogate battles which the man loved to play. He was large for his height, his body stocky, muscled like a bull. His head was almost a perfect round, the nose prominent, the eyes piercing. The greatest resemblance to his father was in his mouth and chin. From his mother he had inherited his thin mass of too-fine hair.

"Chess," he said as the scarlet robe of the cyber came near. "A game which should suit you. A matter of sheer prediction. Your color?"

Ardoch yielded the opening and, within six moves, knew how the game would end. Tomir lacked subtlety, seeking to crush and weaken rather than concentrating on the finer nuances of the play. A betrayal of a desire to destroy than merely to conquer yet never would he be able to admit to it as a weakness. A barbarian who would have been in his element leading a blood-crazed horde.

"You've beaten me!" He glared at the board. "In two moves-how do you do it?"

"A knack, my lord."

"As you warned me of the night attack? Was that another knack?" Tomir smiled and shook his head. "Of course not. You are trained to look ahead and to make the future plain. What was the prediction again? There would be an attack and the probability was in the order of eighty-one percent it would come when it did. And," he frowned, "what was the other?"

"The prediction that the attack would be made was ninety-one percent, my lord. The time was a greater variable."

"And the uncertainty was high." Tomir laughed with a harsh, barking sound. "I remember you saying that. High! But then you are never satisfied. Always you search for absolute certainty."

A mistake, no cyber would waste time reaching for the logically unattainable. Nothing was or could be wholly certain, always the unknown factor had to be taken into account remote as it might be. As the corroded wire in the generator of the ship which had carried him from Fralde and which, breaking, had caused delay. An incident which had led him to offer his services to the young conquerer who had snatched at the opportunity.

All that remained now was to capture Dumarest.

"Another game?" Tomir set up the pieces. "Let us look at this board as the field. Now, my troops are here and here. The enemy is there-a rabble hiding in a fortress. I can destroy it with missiles but will that win me the game?"

"The threat of destruction is effective only while it remains a threat, my lord."

"As is the threat of death. But what is the real objective? To conquer? To have the rulers of this world acknowledge me as supreme? Yes, I think so. Now how best to achieve that aim?" He paused as if expecting a reply. "You remain silent, aren't our interests the same?"

"My lord, in return for my help you promised me the man Dumarest."

"He's yours."

"Unharmed."

"How can I promise that? He insists on defying me. If he continues-what is the prediction that the Council will turn against me?"

"Ninety-six percent, my lord."

"So high?" Tomir frowned. "By my bribes and promises-surely they will continue to hold them back?"

For a fool the man had been clever but he had failed to look far enough ahead. Patiently the cyber explained.

"They were united in a common dislike of Dumarest as a stranger who threatened the status quo. That is why they were so eager to accept your claims. Dumarest was willing to sell and, had you been patient, there would have been no war."

"Why should I pay for what is mine?"

"You were not asked to pay but, had you been wise, you would have backed a loan."

"I didn't."

"And so the conflict. Dumarest knew you would attack but was confident he would receive support. He has been patient but that will not last. He will force the Council to give their support."

Tomir laughed. "How? What can he do?"

"He could, for example, dress his men in captured clothing and send them, armed and armored as mercenaries, to burn and pillage. You will get the blame."

"And they will give him-what? Raw retainers and a few inferior weapons." Tomir stared at the board and moved a piece. It landed with a small clicking sound. "Would he really do that?"

"Yes. The prediction-"

"Is high. I know. When? Soon?" Tomir moved another piece, as the cyber nodded. "Even untrained men can be a nuisance," he murmured. "Guards must be maintained and the effective fighting strength diminished. And they could even hire an opposing force. Then we would really have a war."

Together with the waste and misapplication of resources which it would bring. A matter of small concern to the cyber but Dumarest would be involved and how to safeguard a man in the midst of a war?

"My lord, it would be unwise to permit the escalation of this conflict. The expense would be prohibitive and your reputation would suffer."

He was a commander who had failed to win a minor battle against servants armed with primitive weapons when armed with modern equipment and served by trained soldiers. The cyber was right; unless he won and soon his hoped for career as a leader was ended.

Thinking he set up the pieces on the board. How to win? How to force a surrender? There had to be a way and playing the game with its symbolic figures would help him to find it.

"It's your move, Cyber."

"No, my lord, yours."

And, unless he moved correctly, his life would be over.